Page 8 of The Wedding Favor

The jar remained silent like the excellent friend it was.

Off in the not-too-far distance, I could see the turn-off to our house. There lay salvation. A shower, a bowl of chocolate ripple ice cream, and The Philadelphia Story were calling me.

“Almost there.”

With a sigh, I turned down our gravel driveway and almost sobbed in relief. The sight of our modest forty-year-old double-wide trailer and the air conditioning that awaited had never looked more beautiful.

“Welcome home,” I said.

To the pickles.

THREE

“I decided I wanted to be famous in the second grade when my teacher, Mrs. Pool, told me that all of us girls would grow up to be very good wives. My whole life has been about proving her wrong. I am very petty.”

—excerpt from the unpublished memoir,

Darling, I Must Say by Gloria Hayes

Grumpy Kevin, the cat who basically owned our house, sneered when I opened the door.

“And thank you for your birthday wishes, Kev.”

He pranced past me and out the door to do his business. Kevin was once Mae’s cat and, before that, our grandmother’s cat. Just like this trailer had been, too. Grammie hadn’t had much but she’d always had a place for Mom and us girls. As the story goes, my father left just before I was born and, months later, still hadn’t returned, although he did clean out their bank account one last time. He didn’t meet me until I was almost two.

With two kids, no money, a minimum wage job, and a missing husband, Mom’s options were limited. Exhausted, she’d scrounged up enough gas money to drive to her mother’s home in Two Harts. Grammie hadn’t even hesitated; she’d made up the beds in the guest rooms and that was that.

Grammie had always been like that. I don’t think I ever heard her say, “I told you so,” and I’m sure we all gave her reason to say that many times over. I’d spent a lot of time with her when I was small since Mom worked so much. She’d known me best of all, more than Mae or my mother. I was in high school when she passed away after a battle with cancer; I missed her.

I dropped my keys in the small ceramic bowl with bunnies painted around the edges—Grammie had had a thing for rabbits—and placed the pickle jar gently on the kitchen counter. After a long shower, I settled on the couch with a bowl of ice cream to watch The Philadelphia Story, the one from the forties with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn.

Mom came home an hour later, carrying what I hoped was leftover cake. She set it down on the counter and plopped next to me on the couch. “I saw your car.”

I paused the movie. “Would you believe it’s a new parking spot?”

“Kinda far away.”

“I’m trying to get my steps in. For heart health.”

“What is it this time? Is it making that clanging noise again?”

“Just a little smoke.” I waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“Of course you will,” she said under her breath.

I narrowed my eyes. “What was that?”

She shot me a radiant, lopsided smile. Seven years ago, I’d come home from school to find her sprawled on the bathroom floor, unable to talk or move. It had been the most terrifying moment of my life. The stroke had affected her left side and brought with it weakness in her left arm and leg and a slight droop to her mouth. With hours of therapy and time, she was almost back to where she’d been before. Except for her smile, which seemed permanently crooked. But I didn’t mind that. That smile was a reminder that I’d almost lost her and to appreciate every single one she gave me.

It had only been in the last year when she’d gone back to work fulltime as the receptionist at a dental office in town. Before the stroke, she’d been a nursing assistant, but with her physical limitations, it wasn’t feasible anymore.

“So, you survived another birthday,” she said, changing the subject.

“Barely.”

“Poor baby.” She laughed softly and patted my leg. “Everyone wants to be nice to you on your birthday, and you can’t stand it.”

“I know. It’s the worst.” I shoved a spoonful of ice cream in my mouth.