Their days developed a pattern, and there was nothing to separate that particular morning two weeks after Jane had come to stay on Heartache Mountain from any of the others. She fed Annie her breakfast, did some chores, and took a walk. Just after she got back, a particularly bouncy tune from Mariah Carey came on VH-1, and she made Lynn stop ironing the curtains she’d washed so they could dance. Then she relaxed on the porch. By the time the lunch dishes were put away, she was ready to work in the garden.
The muscles in her arms ached as she tilled the soil between the garden rows, using a hoe to uproot the weeds that threatened her precious bean plants. The day was warm, and it would have been smarter to do this in the morning, but schedules had lost their allure for her. In the morning she had been too busy lying on the chaise growing her baby.
She straightened to rest her back and propped her palm on the handle of the hoe. The breeze caught the skirt of the old-fashioned calico print housedress she wore and whipped it against her knees. It was soft and threadbare from many washings. Annie said it had once been her favorite.
Maybe she’d get Ethan or Kevin to unload her computer if either came to visit today. Or maybe she wouldn’t. What if she started to work and Rod Stewart came on the radio? She might miss a chance to dance. Or what if, while she lost herself in equations, a new crop of weeds grew up near her bean plants and threatened them with suffocation?
No. Work was not a good idea, even though Jerry Miles was almost certainly plotting behind the scenes to finish off her career. Work was definitely not a good idea when she had beans to weed, a baby to grow. Although the Theory of Everything beckoned her, she’d lost the stomach for bureaucracy. Instead, she gazed at the mountain sky and pretended it marked the boundary of her life.
That was how Cal found her. In the garden, with her palm curled over the handle of a hoe and her face lifted to the sky.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her standing against the sun in a faded calico housedress. Her French braid was coming undone so that blond wisps formed a corona about her head. She looked as if she were part of the sky and the earth, a joining of the elements.
Sweat and the breeze had molded the dress to her body, displaying, as clearly as if she were naked, the shape of her breasts and the hard round belly where his baby grew. She’d unfastened two of the buttons at the top of the dress’s scoopy neck, and the sides fell apart in a V over a damp, dusty chest.
She was brown as a berry: her arms and legs, her dirt-smudged face, that moist V of skin that pointed to her breasts. She looked like a mountain woman, one of those strong, stoic creatures who had eked a living out of this unforgiving soil during the depression.
With her face still lifted to the sky, she wiped the back of her arm across her forehead, leaving a dirty streak in its place. His mouth went dry as the fabric stretched tight over those small high breasts and caught just beneath her rounding belly. She had never been so beautiful to him as she was at that moment, standing without any cosmetics in his grandmother’s garden and looking every one of her thirty-four years.
The tabloid newspaper rustled against his thigh, and Annie’s voice rang out from behind him. “You get off my land, Calvin. Nobody invited you here!”
Jane’s eyes flew open, and she dropped the hoe.
He turned in time to see his father charging around the side of the house. “Put that shotgun down, you crazy old coot!”
His mother appeared on the back porch and stopped behind Annie. “Well, now, aren’t we just a picture of Psychology Today’s Family of the Year.”
His mother. Although he’d spoken to her over the phone, she’d ducked his dinner invitations, and he hadn’t seen her in weeks. What had happened to her? She never used sarcasm, but her voice fairly dripped with it. Shocked, he took in the other changes.
Instead of one of her expensive casual outfits, she wore a pair of black jeans unevenly cut off at mid-thigh, along with a green knit top that he seemed to remember having last seen on his wife, although there hadn’t been a dirt smudge on it at the time. Like Jane, she wore no makeup. Her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it, and untidy, with threads of gray showing up that he hadn’t known were there.
He felt a flash of panic. She looked like an earth mother, not like his mother.
Jane, in the meantime, had dropped the hoe and marched across the yard toward the steps. Her bare feet were tucked into dirty white Keds with slits in the sides and no shoelaces. As he watched, she silently took her place on the porch with the other women.
Annie remained in the middle with the shotgun still aimed at his gut, his mother stood on one side of her, Jane on the other. Despite the fact that none of them were exceptionally large, he felt as if he were staring at a trio of Amazons.