Wicked Charm(42)

He props a pillow against the headboard and leans into it. Then eats the  rest of his food until there's only a tiny bit of paste at the bottom.

"Thanks for coming," he says, setting the bowl on the nightstand.

"It was this or spend my Sunday in the swamp drawing birds with my  parents. Which, as it turns out, isn't as boring as I had originally  thought."

I pause, knowing it can't be easy for Beau to hear about family when  he's lost so much of his. I take his hand gently. He tucks a strand of  hair behind my ear and grins wickedly. Though he looks every bit the boy  my gran warned me about, I now know better. He has a softer side. He  can be honest and sweet.

"Speaking of family. How are you doing?"         

     



 

"Not great." He doesn't sugarcoat a thing. "Charlotte and I are taking  Grandpa's ashes into the swamp tomorrow. She's not sure if I'm ready for  a boat ride yet with my injury, but I'd like to see her keep me away."

I love his determination to honor his grandpa's last wishes. There's  something beautiful about his grandpa staying in the place he never  meant to leave.

"Do you want company?" I ask.

He shifts closer to me, a rustle of sheets and bedding.

"I think it's something Charlotte and I need to do alone, if you don't mind."

It seems only right that they take him to his final resting place.

"I completely understand. I'll come check on you later tomorrow if you  want. I can bring a movie. Text me if you want company. If you need  time, I'll understand that, too."

He kisses me again. "Have I ever told you that you're perfect?"

"With your riddles, a person might not know if you mean it or not."

He laughs loudly. Then winces and gingerly touches his stomach.

"So, what movie do you want me to bring tomorrow?" I ask.

"Maybe I don't want a movie. Maybe I want you to bring only yourself. Your company is enough."

I bite back a smile.

"Or I could make food for the two of us," I offer.

"Or you could kiss me and never stop."

His words are playful, but his eyes drop to my lips.

"I could bring Gran's famous sweet tea."

"Well, I can't say no to that," he replies. "Matter of fact, you should  get a glass now. Or maybe I can come by with you? Do you ever think your  gran will invite me inside?"

This time, it's my turn to laugh loudly. "Let's not get crazy now."

Beau looks as though he honestly believes in the possibility.

"One day, mark my words, I'll walk in that house of my own free will and your gran will welcome me."

"You seem mighty sure of yourself."

He dips his forehead to mine. Speaks so close that our lips nearly touch.

"I'm not going anywhere, Willow. Eventually your gran will see that I  mean what I say, and she'll have no choice but to accept that I'm  planning to stay. I'll keep coming around until she gives in."

I'm glad he's changed his mind about keeping his distance.

"That might be never," I warn. "She's pretty strong-willed, you know."

He grins. "I like a good challenge."





42


Beau

The boat glides through a mess of tangled marsh grass, floating atop a  swamp as clear as watered-down tea. The smell of algae and vegetation  fills the air, heavier than normal thanks to last night's rain.  Charlotte rows gently, taking her time. I am in no rush to leave the  final pieces of my grandpa behind.

Charlotte stares into the trees, eyeing a nest of blue jays. If I didn't  know better, I'd say she looked close to crying, but it's hard to tell  based on how many times she blinks.

I push just a little farther, to an opening where the sun breaks through  and shines abundantly, bleaching the sky. It's the perfect spot, fish  swimming below, a gator warming itself on the bank, and the two of us in  the middle of it all.

We couldn't have asked for better weather, as much as I hate what the  day means for Charlotte and me. I stop rowing, letting the gentle  current take us the rest of the way.

"It's what he wanted," I say to my sister, breaking the silence that has stretched since we left.

"Doesn't make it any easier," she replies.

"Never said it did." I take the wooden urn decorated with simple swirls  carved into it out from under the seat. I hold it for a moment, needing  these last few seconds with Grandpa before he's free to swim with the  gators forever.

"We should say something about him." Charlotte eyes the urn.

She clears her throat, stretches out her hand, and waits for the ashes.  I'm surprised by her display, but I don't hesitate to hand them over.

"Grandpa." She traces the swirls with shaky fingers. "I love that you  took us in when Dad and Mom passed. You gave me a great life. I owe you  everything. You made the most delicious mac 'n' cheese."

She pauses, swipes under her eyes, and continues.

"You were crazy in the best way. Remember the time when we were little  and you convinced us that Bigfoot was real? We looked for his footprints  everywhere."

She laughs. It sounds to me the way dark chocolate tastes: bittersweet.

"You always won when we played cards. I'll never look at another  crossword puzzle the same way again. Who's going to read the paper on  Sundays now? I don't know my life without you in it. But I guess … maybe  you don't have to be gone completely?"         

     



 

A tear falls. It's the first time I've seen Charlotte cry in years. I  have the urge to reach out to her, but I sense that she's not done with  her respects.

"I loved cooking breakfast for you. I'll miss that." She sniffles. "But  I'll miss you even more. I'm sorry you had to go. But I'm so thankful  you'll still, in a way, stay. I promise to look for you in everything  here. The trees. The creatures. The swamp water itself."

She pours ashes into her hand and lets loose a sob.

"Bye for now, Grandpa."

She gives the urn to me-half of the ashes left-and opens her hand. His  remains catch a ride on the wind and then sink into the water. I pour  the remaining bit into my hand, thinking it feels a lot like the dirt we  used to bring into the house on our clothes as kids. Grandpa would  sweep it up, grumbling about messes while smiling all the same.

"Grandpa," I say. "I hate that you're leaving us, but before you go, you  should know a few things. For instance, I left the whiskey cap open  last night, just so I could wake up and smell it first thing. I could  almost pretend you were still there, drinking at an ungodly hour, as you  sometimes did. And I ate the plate of breakfast food Charlotte made for  you, because it only seemed right."

Grandpa will somehow always be in the things I do, in the person I am.

"I loved how we'd collapse on the couch most nights. We'd start out  watching television but somehow end up in a conversation about anything  and everything. Your voice is the one I hear in my head when I make  decisions. You raised me with a strong spirit."

It takes a few breaths before I can continue past the grief that weighs me down.

"I hope you know how much you meant, and still mean to me. I wish we had  time for one more boat ride, another laugh, a seat by the fire in  winter, our noses in steaming mugs of tea. But mostly I'll miss your  presence. It's like Charlotte said, though. You're still close."

He'll always be there in the choices I make. Only this time, I'll be  better than I was before. I'll be considerate of others and fight the  fear of opening myself up. His death-and the girls passing, too- is a  new life for me.

I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. "You made me promise. So here it goes."

I hesitate, but only the slightest bit.

"You're free."

I don't open my hand. Instead, I stick it underwater and let the current  drag every last ash particle from my skin until there are no more and  Grandpa is the swamp.

"And by the way," I say. "I'll be telling Old Lady Bell what you asked  me to, one way or another. Can't guarantee she'll be okay with me  crossing the line, but I'll do it. For you."

I pull my hand from the water and swallow the emotion that clogs my throat.

"I'll miss you."

It's the last thing I say to Grandpa, but it feels right. This. Him. The swamp.

He's gone. And yet, he's home.





43


Willow

The sun rises, splashing the sky with pinks and yellows and dusky grays.  Charlotte hums a tune next to me, her stare fixed on the swamp. The  property dividing line zigzags drunkenly to the left of us, the cabin on  our other side.

"Beau will be out in a minute," she says. "He's showering."

I imagine bathing is especially hard to do with a wound that's still healing. At least his stitches have finally been removed.

"I want to say thank you before he comes out," Charlotte says.

"For what?" I ask. "You're the one who tried to save me."

It's been two days since they spread their grandpa's ashes. Jorie is  gone, too. The scar from Charlotte's staples lingers. This perfectly  beautiful girl now has a mark, and she doesn't seem to give one damn  about it. She's alive. That's what matters.