Brave Enough(45)

No answer, so I go peek in her bedroom door to see if she’s sleeping. It’s empty. If she’s not there, she’s out on the porch. It’s one of her favorite places, too.

I find her knitting a blanket that she’s been working on for a year, it seems. She’s humming to herself and I notice that her color looks pretty good today. Less . . . yellowed. My heart twists a little in my chest.

I went on dozens of missions, did things that will haunt me to my dying day, but watching my mother die a slow death in front of me is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, ever had to see. Although her color looks better today, her end will still be the same. It will come, and it will come painfully. And it kills me that there’s nothing I can do to change that. That’s why, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make sure she can at least spend her last days in the only home she’s known for half her life.

“You have to be the slowest knitter in the history of the world,” I tease, bending to kiss her cheek before I take the rocking chair beside hers.

“This is a labor of love. It can’t be rushed.”

“A labor of love? Who’s it for?”

She reaches over to pat my cheek. “Who else but my boy?”

I eye the soft pastel colors. “You do realize that I’m twenty-seven, not seven, right?”

“Maybe you won’t be the one using it.”

“Well, if you’re making it for me, who else would be using it?”

“Maybe you’ll have a baby to wrap it around one day.”

An image of Weatherly rubbing a belly rounded with the child she’s carrying—my child—rolls swiftly through my mind and I smile.

“Okay, I can see that.”

Mom puts down her knitting and fixes her pale blue eyes on me. “Is it Weatherly?”

“Is what Weatherly?”

“The one you just imagined.”

“Who says I imag—”

“Ah-ta-ta. Answer me.”

She always knew when I was lying.

“What if it is?” I ask good-naturedly.

I thought we were still playing until she reaches over and curls her fingers urgently around mine. She squeezes them so tightly, her hand trembles.

“Don’t you make decisions that will affect the rest of your life because of me. Don’t marry her just to get this place.”

“How do you know—”

“I know you tried to buy this place. I know he turned you down. Now I see you running around with Weatherly, and I’m hearing things. I can put two and two together.”

I frown. “That doesn’t mean—”

“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but I know you, son. I know how you love—with your whole heart. You won’t listen to reason. Won’t let anything stop you. Won’t let anyone get in your way. But I don’t want you doing things like that for me. If you marry that girl, marry her because you love her, not because you love me.”

I take her thin, cool hand in mine, wondering briefly if it was ever this frail before. It seems that I could crush the bones if I squeezed even a tiny bit tighter. “This is your home, Mom. No one will ever force you out of your home just because you’re sick.”

“This place was my home, but it was also my job. You can’t expect them to keep me around out of the goodness of their heart. When I’m no longer useful, they’ll find someone who is. I knew it all along. But that’s life, son. That’s business. This is still just a place. I can make a home anywhere. As long as you come by and see me from time to time . . .”

“But this is where you lived with Dad. It’s where all of my childhood memories are. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from you.”

“Tag, I’m telling you,” she says warningly. “Don’t do this for me. Don’t. Please.”

I give her my brightest smile and gently pat her hand. “Why don’t you worry about finishing that blanket before the second coming and let me worry about the rest? I’ve got this, Mom. I’ve got this.”





TWENTY-ONE


Weatherly

Twenty-one days. It’s been twenty-one days since Tag put a beautiful ring that probably cost him his whole life savings on my finger and asked me to marry him. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t been certain that I’m insane, that I haven’t been certain that he’s insane. But neither has a day gone by that I haven’t been, at least when I’m in his arms, the happiest that I’ve ever been.

The more I learn about him, the more compatible we become. We have so much in common in some ways—our love of the land and the grapes, our bond to family whether good or bad, our connection to Chiara—but in other ways, we are very different. He’s a risk-taker. I’m not. He’s a free spirit. I’m not. He’s willing to give up his life to help his mother. I feel like I’ve given enough to help my father. Our differences, however, seem to bring us even closer. It’s hard for me to find anything that I don’t like about him. Or even love. The way his eyes sparkle when he watches me walk toward him, the way he reaches for my hand like it’s automatic, the way he kisses me so often like he’s drawn to me without realizing it. The way his laugh seems to rumble in my chest, like he’s actually becoming a part of me.