Creola's Moonbeam (25 page)

I love you most dearly, Creola”

Now, I finally shared
the note with Mary Pearle. My sister wept.

“I always keep it in my purse,” I told her. I want to have Crellie’s words with me wherever I go. It’s like carrying a prayer card. For me, it’s a blessed talisman, one I can touch it for courage and strength.”

Mary Pearle and I hugged.

The next morning, we sat in the living room on a cozy, rattan sofa as I talked more about my new book. I explained that
Creola’s Moonbeam
would chronicle events about the Butlar family and share a few of Creola’s own stories. “It’ll include tales of ghosts, funny anecdotes, and fables that she make up to teach us about life. I’ll also fashion fictional accounts of Creola’s family, as seen through the imaginations of us sisters.”

Mary Pearle nodded. “I really love your idea, Honey. I’m so proud of you! Truly I am, but I also must confess, there’ve been times when I was jealous of your writing.”

“You were jealous of
me
? I was always jealous of
you
, especially the fact that you were older. It infuriated me to realize I’d never be able to catch up. You got to go to camp first. Have boyfriends first. Get your driver’s license first.”

“But now, our two-year difference turns out to be a good thing for you, wrinkle-wise.”

“You’re not looking close enough. But, Miss Mary Pearle, we both realize
you
got the best name.”

“Yep, I know that. Poor Aunt Mary Pearle, though. She ended up going off the deep end. Didn’t Mother ever tell you?”

“No, she didn’t!”

Living up in New York and totally absorbed in her career, Aunt Mary Pearle had completely lost touch with her Southern roots, including touch with her brother and his family, even with her namesake, my sister.

Mary Pearle leaned closer, as if we still had to be discreet. “Well, you do understand how our mother felt. She always opted to take the high road when it came to family gossip.”

“Even so, I have a right to find out what happened. Aunt Mary Pearle ‘went off the deep end’? What on earth does that mean?”

“Mary Pearle Butlar Armstrong joined a commune!”

“A commune!” My brain was about to explode. I’d had entirely too many surprises for one twelve hour period of time.

“Seriously. Our aunt, the career woman extraordinaire, got involved with one of those wacko religious movements. Having retired early from her clothing company, she was looking for something interesting to occupy herself. She certainly found it! Aunt Mary Pearle met her ‘guru’ at a cocktail party, and before she knew what hit her, she’d signed over her apartment to him and moved into a group home with fifty or sixty of his disciples.”

“I couldn’t write a book this weird. Nobody would believe such a tale.”

Mary Pearle went on to explain that our aunt had simply dropped off the planet. After many attempts to reach his sister, our father finally received a short letter from her. In it, Mary Pearle Armstrong made amends, saying she’d found her inner peace and would write again. Sadly, she never did. Not long after, our parents began facing their own battles with failing health.

The link vanished.

“It’s tragic when a family simply fades away. Maybe —”

I hesitated. I must have looked especially forlorn. Mary Pearle eyed me worriedly. “Okay, lady, what are you thinking?”

“Nothing really, I’m just sad to find out about Aunt Mary Pearle. Wonder if she’s still alive?”

“Honey Newberry, I can see what you are doing. Stop! Leave well enough alone!”

“All right, big sister, for now I will. Fact is, I’ve already got way too much on my plate, anyway. Plate? Say, let’s go out and get some breakfast. Seems you and I have talked the sun up.”

“Are you sure we can eat again after all that food last night?”

“You know we can.”

My waffle
was practically floating in maple syrup.

“Aunt Mary Pearle gave away everything she had and moved into a commune,” I said, shaking my head. “My sister is getting married to a younger man she met on the Internet.”

“Actually, it was through a
dating
service on the Internet.”

“Attention, everyone, my sister
is
officially crazy, just like our, eerrrr,
her
aunt! Tell me, Mary Pearle, what would Crellie be saying to you about your new boyfriend, emphasis on the ‘boy’?”

“I think she’s rejoicing. She’s not as narrow-minded as you, and likely approves of Stuart’s youth!”

“Whoops, sorry about that. You nailed me good.”

“You’re forgiven. Can I have a bite of your waffle?”

“Sure.” I mimicked Creola’s sweet, soft voice, “Priceless Pearlie, you are being guided in many ways. Best be paying mind, because someone could be calling to you on this very day. The spirit could be calling to you from deep inside ... deep down inside your laptop computer! The Angel of the Internet speaks her wisdom.”

“Blasphemy, Honey, you know Creola wasn’t high tech, she would only come to us in a dream.”

“Mary Pearle, you just might be surprised at the many ways Crellie can communicate!”

I couldn’t wait
to tell Beau the news. First, there was silence. Then his laughter. “Sounds like a plot for one of your books, Honey. You know, you’d introduce two brand new characters, ‘the Mary Pearles.’ You could call it, ‘The Batty Bats in the Butlar Bell Tower!’”

“Good one, Beau.”

“Pretty clever, if I do say so myself.”

“Okay, okay, let’s not allow this to go to your head. In all seriousness, I must tell you that it’s been years since I’ve seen Mary Pearle this jubilant. Of course, I’m uneasy, but I’m also very happy for her.”

“You don’t think she’s lonely, desperate even?”

“You sound like me, at first. No, I don’t. She and I talked all night long. I’m afraid she’s not only convinced herself, but she’s convinced me, as well. In fact, she’s bringing Stuart down to the condo in two weeks.”

“I’ll be there, Honey, in my role as big brother-in-law.”

“I was counting on that.”

I am well aware of my husband’s keen ability to size up people. So often I make an acquaintance, introduce that person to Beau, and he’ll warn me to be careful. He rarely makes a mistake. Somehow, knowing that weekend was coming, I relaxed and enjoyed the last days of Mary Pearle’s visit.

Her secret revealed, Mary Pearle settled down, too. We were able to devote our attention to the Creola book.

It is always amazing to me that two people can remember things that happen in opposite ways. Identical event, same family, totally different version of same; it boggles my mind.

Mary Pearle and I delighted in the memory of a most special tea party, one which Creola orchestrated when we were around seven and nine years old.
My
memory included homemade cookies and a bus ride to the park with Creola hauling a child’s folding table and three chairs to the shade of a big oak tree. I vividly recalled carrying a two-handled picnic basket filled with the cookies, paper cups and linen napkins, and lemonade in a thermos.

“No, that wasn’t it at all,” argued Mary Pearle. “The awful bus ride was to get the cookies at a fancy bakery. The tea party was in our own backyard. I can’t believe you forgot. It was about the only time we didn’t help Creola bake the cookies. Don’t you remember, neither of us realized that you could actually buy cookies at a store?”

“The party was in our yard?” I was astounded. “The setting seemed so much more magical than our yard.”

“That’s because Creola hung Mother’s prettiest sheets on the clothes line — pink ones, some yellow with flowers. Remember, you and I had to find our way through the billowy fairyland to ‘Creola’s Magic Garden Tea Room.’”

“Yes!” I admitted, “You’re right. And she brought those funny old hats from her home!”

“Hats?”

“Hats. Mine was white with a gigantic gardenia.”

“You’re right! Creola wanted you to look like the moon; you know, Creola’s little Moonbeam. What was mine?”

“Yours, hmmm? Wait, I know! Priceless Pearlie wore purple. All ‘P’s!’ It was a big, floppy hat with a lavender band covered in tiny seed pearls for ‘Pearlie.’ No detail was left undone.”

“How could I forget something like that? See, little sister, we need
both
of our memories to write Creola’s book. How I would love a picture of us with her on that day.”

“How I would relish having
any
picture of Creola for this book. But then, maybe not. A memory can certainly be more mystical and intriguing than any ordinary snapshot.”

In the end, Mary Pearle and I concurred on the details of the afternoon. Years melted like sugar cubes in the party’s hot tea. To us, the most endearing feature of the occasion was our darling Creola’s imagination, her sense of fun, and her love and devotion for us. We sisters knew our parents adored us, but it was Creola who was our Fairy Godmother.

I decided to dedicate my novel to Creola and Mary Pearle. I would give my sister her own acknowledgement for the story’s writing, but that would remain a secret until its publication.

As we packed Mary Pearle’s things the night before she was to leave, I exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mary Pearle, I almost forgot to ask you the most important question. What is your new last name going to be? One does need to know her own sister’s new married name.”

“Honeycutt. I will become Mrs. Stuart Honeycutt. Nice name, don’t you agree,
Honey
?”

I laughed. “Your sister’s named Honey and you marry a Honeycutt. Yes, a good sign. We’ll be Honeycutt and Newberry. You and I will sound like something that’s spread on hot English muffins!”

“It could be worse, lady. What if
you
were marrying Stuart? You would be known as Honey Honeycutt.”

“Dreadful. Or what if you were Priceless Pearlie Newberry? It’s a good thing you’re leaving for home, today. I’m being consumed by silliness.”

“You are so right, Honey. We each have an advanced case of the giggles.”

“One more time, Mary Pearle. I can’t resist. Your boobs.” I chuckled. “Are they getting
bigger
?”

“No,
longer
.”

We laughed like teenagers. “Longer” would always remain our favorite punch line.

I handed her the first draft of the Creola manuscript to take along. I pointed out the dedication:

This, the story of our beloved nanny, is dedicated to her — Creola Moon — and to Mary Pearle, my big sister and my dearest friend, who shared Creola’s magic.

Honored, surprised, and truly moved, my sister burst into tears. No words of gratitude needed to be said. Mary Pearle embraced me. We clung together for an eternity. We cried for what was past and for what was on the horizon. For our sisterhood. For family. For marriages. For four precious children. For deaths, divorce. Books. A wedding. A
new
book. Another wedding. We cried because we were sisters. We cried because we missed our parents and because we missed our Creola. Mostly, we cried because we felt so blessed to have one another.

The next morning,
I could hardly say good-bye to Mary Pearle. As my sister drove away, I went inside to tidy up the condo. I tossed my sister’s towels and sheets into the washing machine but quickly retrieved them. I wanted to inhale the scent of her perfume one last time. It was sad for me to look where she had posed for a picture. The indentation of her body was still on the living room couch.