Creola's Moonbeam (24 page)

There was something in her tone that concerned me.

We settled into chaise lounges on the condo’s balcony, cupping mugs of decaf coffee in our hands. Anyone seeing us from a distance — our shapes, our hair color, and mannerisms — could tell our obvious kinship. In the past, people occasionally mistook us for twins. Only recently had the well-earned lines on Mary Pearle’s face given away our age difference. Mary Pearle’s painful divorce, four years prior, had left its mark.

“Honey, I don’t want you to get all in an uproar about this, but I
have
met someone.”

I screamed, spilling decaf all over my lap and onto the chaise. The hot liquid splashed on her, too. We jumped up and ran inside for cold water and ice.

“Quick, the aloe plant.”

We broke open a long stem and squeezed the healing gel onto my legs and her arm.

“That was some reaction, Royal Princess Honeybee.”

“I’m sorry, are you all right?”

“The coffee hardly got on
me
, but how about
you
?”

“Your news was much more of a shock to my system than was the decaf. Now, please tell me every single detail.”

“His name’s Stuart. He is smart and handsome enough, and very, very funny. And, by the way, he is ten years younger than me. We met on the Internet.”

“The Internet! Mary Pearle, what are you thinking? Is this some kind of middle-age crisis?”

“It’s the Internet factor that troubles you, isn’t it?”

“For starters. The age difference got my attention, too. Mary Pearle, you have always had more sense than me. You were the one who made the best grades, who was class president, who got the great job right out of college.”

“Lest you forget, I also married Edgar, who cheated on me from day one, and who, at almost sixty years of age, married
Bambi
.”

“Her name is Bambi?”

“No, that’s just what I’m currently calling the trashy teenage tart. She could be Bertha, for all I care.”

“I didn’t mean to go there, but please, please, let’s just talk. You go first. I’ve got to get my head screwed back on. Begin with Stuart. I’d really like to know more about this man. Oh, Mary Pearle, you do know how much I love you and care about what happens to you?”

She hugged me. We sat back down on the lounges, and she began to talk. The moon drifted across the sky, reflecting into the sparkling Gulf waters and, it seemed, directly into Mary Pearle’s eyes. The last years had been an especially long and painful journey for her, and I couldn’t help but be concerned that she might be making another mistake.

The years of deceit, disappointment, and divorce had robbed Mary Pearle of every ounce of hope, joy, and confidence she once had in herself. On this night, however, her spunk and enthusiasm appeared to flow back into her as she spoke of her new man.

“Stuart has been like a balm for me. It’s as if this man’s love and attention have healed my wounds.”

“He must be quite a guy. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came down to tell me about him in person.”

“Stuart’s suggestion.”

“Two points for Stuart.”

Mary Pearle filled me in on her impressive boyfriend; he was a widower with one grown son, an engineer. She and Stuart shared a passion for gardening, for golf, and, it would seem, for one another. The Internet-meeting part disturbed me, but the world had changed since my courting days. I’d have to adjust to that. For a while, it felt as if Mary Pearle and I were teenagers again, snuggled down in our twin beds in our parent’s home, sharing secrets about boys.

Even so, the whole thing felt bizarre to me on several fronts. Beau and I had been uneasy about Mary Pearle and about her two daughters for a long time. We’d hoped that Mary Pearle’s life would come together in the best possible way, but an Internet romance had never entered into our thoughts.

“You’re being mighty quiet. Are you upset?”

“No, of course not, I’m still digesting.”

“Dinner or my news?”

“Both.”

Were I being honest with myself, I was disappointed that a chance meeting on the Internet had proven to be the magic potion for Mary Pearle. I was the bratty little sister, yes, but one who so much wanted to come up with the perfect man for her. I’d envisioned us as a quartet of friends, Beau, me, Mary Pearle and Mr. Wonderful. The only missing member was a boyfriend for Mary Pearle.

Maybe Stuart might become that man. Give him a chance
.

“Creola?”

Mary Pearle peered at me. “Did you say something, Honey?”

“No, not really.”

“Are you sure your leg isn’t badly burned?”

“No, it’s fine, truly it is. The aloe, you know. I’m still in shock, that’s all. So, when do we meet Prince Charming?”

“As soon as you like. We’re getting married next month.”

“
Mary Pearle
, have you gone completely insane?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“
What
?”

“Just kidding. You remember, I had a hysterectomy.”

“Very funny. Wait a second, while I get my heart started. Now, what do the girls think about this?”

“As you’d know, our daddy’s girl, Katy, holds out hope that her father will come to his senses and put her family back together. Her sister, my clone, Susan, adores Stuart and plans to ‘give me away’ at the ceremony.”

I flopped back on the lounge chair, nearly speechless.

Life goes on
, Creola whispered.

We talked on and on
through the night. By the end, I was cautiously optimistic about my sister’s astonishing announcement. Mary Pearle settled back on her lounge in happy silence. I changed the subject so we could both take a breather.

As every mother understands, I love to talk about my children. That I did. Aunt Mary Pearle was duly impressed. Of course, I was also all too happy to talk about my book, too. As I went into detail, my sister was equally elated.

“
Creola’s Moonbeam
is
a story worth writing, Honey.”

“It’s our story, too. Yours and mine. Mother’s and Daddy’s, as well. I don’t think I could have written this while Creola was alive. She would have fought it every word of the way. Never liked being in the spotlight, did our Crellie.”

“True.”

“Even so, I wish she were here to enjoy it.”

“Me, too.”

I got up, went to my desk and returned with a stack of pages. “Here. Read this.”

“What is it?”

“The story of Crellie’s funeral.”

by Honey Newberry

I thought back to the day of Creola’s funeral. She’d died peacefully, in her sleep. Mary Pearle rode to the church with Beau and me while her kids and ours, Creola’s four “grandchildren,” followed behind in Butlar’s car.

In an attempt to brighten my mood, Beau suggested that our beloved nanny might have kept herself alive until after Mary Pearle’s divorce was final. “I expect Creola wanted to know for sure that her oldest baby was finally free of ‘Edgar the Tomcat!’”

“You could be right, dear. I just hope Crellie will come back to haunt him!”

“Good Lord, Honey, can you imagine that?” said Mary Pearle. “I can see our Crellie now, her angel wings fluttering as she floats across the ceiling over that jerk and his mistress. Why, the sight of her ghost might give him a heart attack!”

“Mary Pearle! That’s awful,” I said, feigning horror and fanning myself with a hankie. “I’m certainly relieved that our four innocent children are riding in a separate car and not listening to your ravings!”

“You started it.”

“Beau did.”

“Now, now, Butlar girls,” joked Beau, “please try to control yourselves.”

“Yes,
Daddy
.”

“Seriously, ladies, we’re almost there.”

The instant of frivolity plunged like a boulder into a river when we parked in the gravel lot beside Creola’s church. I spotted the open pit of a freshly dug grave. Oh, God. It hit me that Mary Pearle and I had come to say goodbye to our second mother. First Daddy, then we’d lost Mother, now Creola.

It began to drizzle. Like my own heart, the air felt unbearably heavy. Everyone, every
thing
surrounding me was in mourning. We walked slowly inside. The seven of us — Mary Pearle, Beau, Mary Catherine, Butlar, Susan, Katy, and I — sat together, filling the pew in the tiny wooden hall of worship. Voices whispered. We were the only whites there.

“Those be Creola’s people,” someone whispered behind us. We met, for the first time, Creola’s extended family. Her parents were long gone, but there were several cousins with older children and their own young.

The old darling had provided specific funeral instructions for her service. She insisted that the Butlar girls and their families be seated right up front near her “favorite” cousins, who knew well who we were.

“Look here,” a cousin told us, handing me Creola’s handwritten notes. She’d amended her original wishes as soon as I informed her about Mary Pearle’s divorce. Sure enough, Creola’s new funeral-seating instructions no longer included the line, “
with the exclusion of that devil Edgar that my Mary Pearle so unfortunately, and against my advice, married
.”

I got up and went to her coffin, reaching in to gently caress her snow-white hair. I slipped the ring with two hearts — the one she’d presented me as a little girl, the ring I wore for so long on a chain — I slipped it into the pocket of her soft, lavender-flowered dress.

“I’m returning your ring, my dear Crellie. Be sure to have it on your finger when your beau of so long ago greets you by Heaven’s gate. Perhaps he’ll take you fishing in that place where death cannot separate God’s good people.” I struggled to quiet my emotions. “Cut a rug, Crellie, cut a rug.”

The preacher eulogized this fine, gentle woman of enduring faith as the congregation again and again echoed a resounding “Amen.” We clapped as he called upon the saints in heaven to welcome her home.

“Amen.”

We raised our hands in praise for her long, hard, and generous life.

“Amen.”

It seemed as if Creola were being carried straight to Heaven as the choir’s singing of “Blessed Redeemer” and “Amazing Grace” all but lifted the tin roof right off the tiny church.

Broken-hearted, I sobbed into my husband’s shoulder throughout the service.

After the burial, I walked among the other graves. Mystically drawn to an old tombstone, I was stunned to read the name.

Lukus “Fish” Jones.

“She’s on her way,” I whispered. “You’ll know her, Lukus. Creola is young, she’s beautiful, she’s dancing toward you, and she’s wearing your ring.”

Creola left personal notes to Mary Pearle and to me. A cousin slipped mine into my purse as we hugged goodbye. She wrote words of love and encouragement and concluded with a poignant message:

 
“My Moonbeam, one day, I pray will be many, many years from now, you will find me in Heaven. I will be the strong pecan tree, planted right next to the Pearly Gates. Look for my leaves for they will be the many colors of autumn.