A Heart Divided (12 page)

Redford House was like Tara, only bigger. And behind locked gates.

With a tasteful bouquet nestled on the seat next to me, I turned my Saturn onto Redford House’s private road. Jack’s directions had been: Follow the road to the electric gate and announce yourself over the intercom. When the gate opens, stay on the twisty driveway up to the house.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Because Jack was leaning against the open gate, waiting for me. I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. He stuck out a thumb. “Hitch a lift, lady?”

“Depends. What are your intentions?”

“Bad.”

“Good. Get in.”

It was so much easier to enter the double front doors holding his hand. We had just stepped into a majestic foyer
when Jack’s mother seemed to float in from nowhere. Sally Redford was pretty, in a beige dress that fell just below the knee, real pearls, and chin-length hair sprayed into submission. Though I knew she was about the same age as my mom, she seemed older. My mother didn’t own a tasteful beige below-the-knee dress. Or hair spray. And Jensen Pride would sooner get a navel ring than wear pearls. Apparently, the only thing our mothers had in common was childbirth.

Mrs. Redford took my hand in hers. “You must be Kate.”

“I must be.” My cheeks burned as I instantly realized how snotty that must have sounded; I hadn’t meant to be. Was my hand sweating? I thrust the flowers at her and surreptitiously wiped my palms on my jeans.

“Flowers. Lovely.” She smiled Jack’s smile and spoke with the same soft drawl. “Jackson has talked so much about you, Kate.”

She went to get a vase, and Jack led me into a formal living room. The furniture was mahogany, substantial-looking, and very old. Probably worth a mint. Not a Barcalounger in sight. I noticed a cigarette burn on a side table and a long, coppery stain on one of the tapestry carpets.

Jack excused himself to go help his mother. I looked around. One wall was covered with locked display cases. Some held daggers, muskets, or rifles; others contained uniforms and medals. The opposite wall featured oil
paintings of men in uniform. I drifted over to read the brass plaques beneath the ornate frames. They were portraits of Jack’s ancestors. The oldest one was General Eustis Redford of the Continental Army. Born London, England, 1731; died Yorktown, Virginia, 1781. Next to him was Major General Jackson Redford. Born Charleston, South Carolina, 1819; United States Army, 1839-1849, Army of Tennessee (Redford’s Division, Cheatham’s Corps) 1861-1863; died Battle of Redford, Redford, Tennessee, 1863.

I shuddered. If I fast-forwarded Jack twenty-five years and gave him a long beard, he’d be a dead ringer for Major General Redford.

Mrs. Redford returned with the flowers in a crystal vase. Jack followed with a tray of cheese and crackers and a pitcher of fruit tea. “That’s our wall of service,” Mrs. Redford said as she placed the vase on a side table.

“A lot of soldiers.” I winced inwardly at my vapid comment. Gee, Kate, I guess that’s why she called it a
wall of service.

She smiled fondly at her son. “Our family has a proud military tradition. Jack’s father was a fighter pilot. He was lost on a mission ten years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I’d wondered how Jack’s father had died but hadn’t wanted to bring it up.

“Mom,” Jack protested, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t even had a chance to tell Kate about that yet.”

“It’s nothing to hide, Jackson. I know you’re as proud of your father as I am.” She turned to me. “My son is the last of the Redford men. Until he has a son of his own one day.”

What could I possibly say to that? I almost offered to jump Jack on the dining room table so she’d have a Redford heir.

“My family’s story is kind of Shakespearean,” Jack said, his voice tight.

“Please, sit.” Mrs. Redford gestured for me to have a seat on the couch. Jack joined me. His mother chose a wing chair. “I noticed you looking at the rug before, Kate,” she said, indicating the rust-colored oblong stain. “That’s where General Redford’s men laid him after he was wounded. They carried him home from the field of battle; he died right there.”

No flipping way. That was a
bloodstain?
Who
keeps
a rug like that?

We sipped fruit tea and she asked the usual questions about my family. Though she smiled throughout my answers, I could tell she was less than impressed with my parents’ degrees from Rutgers University and my New Jersey roots.

“So, Kate, did your father serve?” she asked.

“Yes, he did,” I assured her.

“Oh really?” She eagerly awaited my elaboration.

“Absolutely. He was a waiter in college.” I meant this as a joke—that seemed pretty obvious to me—but no one laughed. “Kidding,” I added lamely.

Mrs. Redford smiled thinly, as if I’d just farted but she was too well-bred to point it out. Then she suggested that it might be a good time for us to eat dinner. She led us to a formal dining room, where the table was lavishly set, with a floral centerpiece that put my offering to shame.

“We don’t eat in here every night,” Jack said, winking at me. “Just when we want to impress someone special.”

In the dining room, too, the walls were adorned with history: the Redford family tree, the Tennessee state constitution, and the charter for the town of Redford. “The constitution and charter are original documents,” Mrs. Redford said as Jack pulled out her chair, then mine. “We’re very fortunate to have them.”

A gray-haired African American woman in a starched uniform brought out serving dishes from the kitchen. Wilted spinach salad was followed by leg of lamb. Jack was funny and sweet, smoothing over any rough spots, doing his best to buff me into his mother’s good graces. He got her to talk about her volunteer work, a subject she loved. From how she described it, it was more than a full-time job. In addition to being chair of the Redford Historical Preservation Society and on the boards of various Nashville charities, she did many hands-on things, like helping the teenagers maintain vegetable and flower gardens behind the Peace Inn. She was also one of the founders of Redford Women United, whose mission was to help single mothers get off welfare. There, Mrs. Redford and her staff provided
job training, child care, and transportation for these women in their new lives.

Frankly, I was impressed. My mother’s volunteer work consisted of volunteering to tell me how to live my life.

“Excuse me, Mom,” Jack cut in when Mrs. Redford finally took a breath. “I haven’t had a chance to introduce Kate to Dora.” He turned to the maid, who stood silently by the kitchen. “Dora, this is my friend Kate Pride. Kate, Dora.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Pride,” Dora said dutifully
.

“You too,” I said, feeling awkward.

“Dora made dinner. She’s been with us for years. Wonderful cook,” Mrs. Redford added, smiling as the older woman put out homemade apple cobbler. “Jackson? Diana Fife told me that your school has scheduled the vote on the flag. Is that so?”

He nodded. His mother patted her lips with her monogrammed napkin. “Interesting. Redford certainly is changing.”

She didn’t sound at all upset. I was pleasantly surprised by her attitude. “I think it’s important for everyone to feel welcome in Redford, no matter how long their family has been here,” I offered.

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Redford agreed.

“The flag is so divisive,” I said. “That’s why we signed the petition.”

Sally Redford regarded her son. “Jackson?”

“What?” His voice was pinched.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to sign,” she said calmly.

“I changed my mind.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard from Olivia Martin.”

Jack’s eyes went cold. “If Chaz’s mom already told you, then why did you ask?”

“I was curious as to when you’d get around to informing me that you’d signed our name.”

“I signed
my
name.” Jack got up and began to clear dishes, so I stood to help him.

“Dora will get that,” his mother objected.

“No,” Jack said. “I’ll do it.”

He took the dessert plates from my hands and pivoted toward the kitchen without making eye contact with me. I sat back down. Okay, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. But I was so confused. If Jack’s mother already knew he’d signed, why hadn’t they discussed it before now? Besides, how could a woman who devoted so much of her life to helping people support a flag that represented the oppression of the ancestors of some of the very people she helped?

I knew I should say something to his mother. But what? Clearly the battle flag was off-limits. Maybe I could try: “Who did that to your hair?” I chose “Dinner was delicious” instead.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” She tapped one elegant finger on the tablecloth. “Kate, you seem like a lovely girl…”

There was
so
a “but” coming. I waited for her other pump to drop.

“And I know that at the moment Jackson is infatuated with you,” she continued. “You’re a very attractive young lady. Exotic, even, from Jack’s point of view. I completely understand why he feels as he feels about you.”

Huh. I’d certainly never been called exotic before. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. I smiled at her. “Thank you,” I said.

“Why, when I was fourteen, I was madly in love with my riding instructor from Argentina! Can you imagine?” She laughed at the silly girl she’d been.

I felt like such an idiot, sitting there with a smile frozen on my face.

“I would be remiss as a mother, Kate, if I didn’t warn you that there’s no future in your relationship with my son. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

I was speechless; my jaw flapping like an airborne fish sucking wind. The doorbell chimed and Mrs. Redford excused herself to get it. Jack came back and pulled me toward him for a hug. I yanked away from him.

He looked bewildered. “What?”

“Your mother…” I couldn’t get the words out.

“What did she say to you?”

“Well, look who’s here!” Mrs. Redford sang out as she sailed back into the room. Standing with her was a lovely, slender, auburn-haired woman. Next to the woman was her lovely, slender, red-haired daughter.

“Hey, Sara,” Jack said awkwardly.

“Hey.” She cut her eyes at me. “Kate.” Sara Fife spit my name out like a curse, eyeing me as if I was roadkill.

Ever the gentleman, Jack introduced me to Mrs. Fife, then added, “I didn’t know you were coming, Sara.”

“Evidently not,” she sniffed.

“Good to see you Mrs. Fife, Sara,” Jack said, taking my arm. “Excuse us.”

“Good to see you, too, Jackson,” Mrs. Fife said as if I didn’t exist. “We miss seeing you. Stop by soon.”

I mustered every bit of politeness I could. “Thank you so much for a lovely dinner, Mrs. Redford.” My oppositional subtext: Curl up and die, you witch.

We went out to my car. It had turned chilly, but not nearly as cold as it was inside. Jack wrapped his arms around me to warm me up.

“Your mom hates me.”

“What’d she say to you?”

“Basically, that I’m a Yankee dirtbag who isn’t good enough for you.”

“My mother never said anything like that in her life.”

“You’re right. She’s Southern. She said it in a way that made me want to say thank you.”

He kissed my temple. “If you hadn’t mentioned that I signed the—”

“But she already knew, Jack! She said so.”

“Then there was no point in your bringing it up.”

“Okay, I am totally confused,” I admitted. “She already knew, and you
knew
she knew—”

“No, I guessed. She and Chaz’s mother are friends. If she hadn’t heard it from Olivia Martin, she’d have heard it from Crystal’s mom, or Terry’s mom, or—”

“So why didn’t you just talk it over with her?”

“Kate. Did it seem to you like that conversation we just had in there was helpful?”

I bristled; it was if he was speaking to a child. “So, what, you play games with her instead of just getting things out in the open?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I call it not standing up for yourself,” I said, my voice rising.

“Can we just drop it?”

“No. How long do you plan to hide who you really are?” I demanded. “Long enough to live out your mother’s dreams? Go to The Citadel? Marry Sara?”

“I don’t know, okay?” He was yelling now.

“No, it’s not okay!”

We stared at each other across an abyss. For a long moment, the only sound was the last of the summer’s crickets, the ones too hopeful or stubborn to die. But winter would come no matter what they did. Everything had a season. Nothing lasted forever; not even love. I thought about losing him and couldn’t breathe.

“I’m not going to pretend I understand about you and your mom,” I began, struggling to find the right words.

“But I shouldn’t have told her you signed the petition without asking you first—even if she did already know about it,” I admitted, my voice low. “It just kind of … came out. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He let his head fall back against the headrest and pulled me close.

“I wanted her to like me. I really, really did.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.” He stroked my hair. “She can’t tell me who to love.”

Love. It was the first time he’d used the word.

“You told me once that you didn’t know what the word love’ meant,” I reminded him.

“That was then. This is now.” Then he kissed me, and the rest of the world, including Sally Redford, didn’t matter at all. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized: Jack had introduced me to Dora, a woman old enough to be my grandmother, only by her first name.

was over. After all, she got what she wanted: a vote on the flag. Turned out her campaign had only started. It was no longer about getting a vote; now it was about convincing students
how
to vote. She hoped to use McSorley’s month-long delay to rally people to the “right” side. Every day, she and her supporters set up a campaign table outside the cafeteria.
JUST SAY NO
buttons adorned jean jackets and backpacks. Meanwhile, quite a few people sported Confederate battle flag pins. With surprising magnanimity, McSorley permitted it, so long as everyone remained civil. He said we were learning to use the democratic process.