Hope Takes Flight (2 page)

“I don't think you would be able to go, would you, Donald? I mean, we don't have many preachers in the audience. Most ministers think stage plays are of the devil.”

Satterfield turned and gave her a smile. “I…I'd go to see you no matter
what
the congregation thought,” he declared firmly. “Nothing you would do would be really wrong.”

Lylah fell silent, disturbed by his words, and as Satterfield chattered on, she thought about some of the plays she had appeared in. Some were not fit to be seen because they were of poor artistic quality. Others glorified a lifestyle she herself did not fully agree with. She thought also of some of the shabby affairs she had had, mostly with actors, during the ten years she had been in the theater. She was glad that Donald did not know any of this, for she remembered him warmly, as part of a past that she was no longer in, but which she somehow treasured.

Lylah herself was a warmhearted, loving woman, but her desire to escape the poverty and the monotony of the Arkansas farm had been too much for her, and when the opportunity had come to join a traveling road show, she had grabbed it.

The years had been good to her financially. She had been in several good plays and had gained a reputation as a fine actress, though never had she achieved top billing. But now, as they traveled through the hills that were bursting with green, she knew that deep down, she'd missed this part of life. She felt a surge of longing for the serenity, the peace, the lack of pressure that went with living in this world.

Lylah removed her hat and let the warm morning breeze caress her hair. She listened as Donald spoke of the things that filled his life—Sunday school, revival meetings, church suppers—all the little details that made up the life of a small-town preacher.

He turned off the asphalt highway onto the narrow dirt road that wound through the hills and the valleys surrounding her old home. Somehow the closer Lylah got to the place where she had been born, the more nervous she became. For one thing, she was not at all certain of her welcome, for her professional status as an actress had not been accepted, at least by her stepmother. And even her father had been leery of it.

Suddenly they crested the hill overlooking the valley where Lylah had grown up, and she cried out, “Stop, Donald! Stop the car!”

He slammed on the brakes and the idle clacking motor jarred the silence of the morning air. He cast her an anxious glance. “Something wrong, Lylah?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I–I just wanted to look for a moment. I haven't seen the place in such a long time.” The house sat among a stand of hickory trees, with pecan trees out back. She'd gathered those pecans a thousand times during her youth. She thought of the pies and cakes and cookies her mother had made from them. She saw that a new barn had been built and a new pasture added. There were cattle with white faces grazing out there now instead of the wild scrub cows she remembered.

The tire swing—it's still there! Logan fell out of it on Easter morning and broke his arm. I was so mad I wanted to cut it down and burn the rope!
Lylah smiled, letting her eyes run over the farm, every inch a receptacle for some memory from her childhood. She recalled the barn where she'd hidden her collection of racy novels and that she'd used as a shield when smoking corn-silk cigarettes.
I wonder if the younger kids tried out things like that?
An ancient milky-colored horse ambled across the pasture, and Lylah said, “Look, Don! Old Bing is still alive!”

“Remember the time he kicked you in the stomach, Lylah?” Satterfield smiled. “It was the first time I ever heard you cuss.”

Lylah laughed and put her hand on his. “I gave you a hard time, didn't I, Donald?”

“No,” he said quietly. “It wasn't all that bad.” He was acutely aware of her hand pressing on his, and added, “You just weren't meant for life in the hills, I guess.”

Something in her face changed, and she murmured, “Sometimes I wish I'd never left this farm.” Then she blinked and said almost brusquely, “Let's go, Donald.”

He revved up the engine and drove quickly along the rutted dirt road, pulling up at last in front of the house.

Before they even reached the door, the yard was flooded with the family coming out. As soon as Donald helped her down, Lylah was surrounded by her brothers and sisters. She was shocked at how old they seemed. In her mind, they had been mere children—but now they were all grown. They pulled at her, anxious to touch her, to hug her, and she went around hugging each one, speaking to them.

“Logan! Why, you good-looking thing! I can't believe you've gotten so old. How old are you now?”

Logan Stuart, twenty-nine and the oldest of the boys still at home, hugged her. “Good to see you, Sis.” Logan grinned. “Never mind how old I am. You look great.”

Lylah turned to face Lenora. “How pretty you are! Let me look at you!” She held the girl at arm's length, admiring the ash blond hair, the hazel eyes. “My, you are lovely! How old are you now? Twenty-four?” She shook her head. “And not married. What's the matter with the young men around here?”

“They don't have any sense, that's what's the matter.” Gavin, twenty-two, shoved past Lenora and stood in front of Lylah. He had dark hair and eyes, much like his father's mother. “About time you got home, Sis,” he said. “We thought you'd forgotten us.”

“Not likely. Where's Christie?”

“Right here.” Christie Stuart, age eighteen, pushed her way through the crowd and collected her hug from Lylah. With her very blond hair and dark blue eyes she was extremely pretty. “Oh, I'm so glad you're home, Lylah. We've waited so long for you to come.”

They talked rapidly, babbling, everyone trying to catch Lylah's attention, and then as she lifted her head and saw her father come to stand on the porch, she quickly went to him.

“Hello, Pa,” she said as he stepped down. He hesitated, then he put out his arms, and she went into them as she had when she was a little girl. He held her and she clung to him. When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes. “You look fine, Pa,” she whispered. “Real fine.”

But in truth, William Stuart did not look at all well, and she was shocked at the changes in him. Instead of the muscular, athletic man she remembered, her father was bent and gaunt, and there were wrinkles around his eyes. His chestnut hair still had reddish glints, but it was streaked with gray with the familiar white streak running from front to back on the left side where a minie ball had plowed through his scalp at the Battle of Five Forks, the last battle of the Civil War. He had been only twelve when he had joined up after his own father had been killed at the Battle of Nashville.

“It's good to see you, Daughter,” Will said quietly. He tried to smile, but she could see that he was deeply affected by the meeting. “Come on in the house and tell us what all you been doing.”

He led the way in and the other children followed. When they were inside, Lylah saw her stepmother standing in the door that led to the kitchen.

She walked over to greet the woman. “Hello, Agnes. It's good to see you again.”

Agnes Barr Stuart made no move to welcome Lylah—no handshake, no hug. Agnes had been one of William Stuart's “lady friends” and had trapped him after his first wife had died. Agnes was still an attractive woman with lustrous sable hair, but her lush figure was beginning to run to fat, and there was an icy light in the green eyes. She had been a loose woman. Still was, according to gossip in the valley. What concerned Lylah most, though, was her treatment of the children. From their expressions, it was easy to see that they despised their stepmother.

She nodded slightly. “I'll fix you something to eat.”

“Oh, that would be nice,” Lylah said. “I really am hungry.” Then she thought, “Oh, we left Donald out in the car! I forgot!” She ran to the door and called, “Donald, come in.”

Donald got out of the Ford and ambled up to the porch, putting one foot on the bottom step. “No, I've got to be getting back, Lylah,” he said with a warm smile. He shook his head when Will and the others insisted, saying, “No, this is a
family
reunion. But if you need any preaching done before it's over, give me a call.” He grinned as he added, “I'll be sure to take up a collection after I get through.”

Donald turned and went back to the car. Racing the engine, he waved and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“That's a good young man,” Will Stuart said. He glanced at his daughter and grinned, “You coulda had him, Lylah, if you'd wanted him.”

Lylah grinned right back. She had been very close to her father and felt so even now. “And wouldn't I have been a bird as a preacher's wife, Pa!” She laughed freely, and the others joined in.

“Well, let's get some food on the table,” Will said when the laughter had died down, “and start this here celebration!”

The babble of voices grew, and all the children began hustling around to put the meal on the table. But Lylah grabbed her father by the arm and said, “While they're putting it on the table, let's you and me walk down to the creek, Pa. I want to find out what you've been doing.”

As they walked away, she caught a glimpse of Agnes's narrowed gaze and thought,
That woman has ground Pa to bits. I wish she'd drown in the creek!

But she said nothing of her feelings to her father as the two of them strolled outside and down the shady lane, Lylah chattering happily and Will smiling fondly at his prodigal daughter.

That night, Lylah slept with her sisters, Lenora and Christie, although “sleeping” is not actually what went on. They shared a small bed in a tiny room up in the loft and the two girls kept her awake for most of the night, urging her to tell more stories about her travels, about her life on the road in the theater.

Finally, when she lapsed into unconsciousness, the girls gave up. She didn't know a thing until she heard a voice saying, “C'mon, Lylah, you've got to get up. Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Wha—what is it?” Lylah opened her eyes to see Christie bending over her, her blond hair hanging around her shoulders.

“C'mon,” she urged. “It's late.”

“What time is it?” Lylah mumbled.

“Why, it's 'most six o'clock,” Christie said. “Day's half gone. C'mon, now. Let's get down and eat breakfast. Amos'll be here pretty soon.”

Lylah groaned, then crawled out of bed and began dressing. She brushed her hair as best she could and then went into the bathroom she and Amos had sent the money to add, only four years ago. Until then, there had been only washbasins and cold spring water. The hot water had been saved for her, she was glad to see, and she was able to take a quick bath, put on her makeup, and fix her hair.

When she came out, she heard Gavin shouting from the front yard. “They're comin'! They're comin'! Amos is comin'!”

Again there was a mad stampede with all the young people running out, and this time Lylah joined them. A large, copper-brown touring car pulled into the front yard, and there was Amos at the wheel, waving his hat and yelling as he slammed on the brakes. She ran out with the rest to meet him, and Amos got out of the car and fought his way through all of his siblings.

When he reached Lylah, he gave her a big hug. “Lylah! I haven't seen you in…how many years?”

“Too many!” Lylah cried and pulled his head down and kissed him full on the lips. He had always been her favorite, and now she said in mock anger, “I
hate
you, Amos Stuart. You don't look a day older than the last time I met you…and I'm an old woman now.”

Amos grinned at her. At thirty-five, his five-foot-ten-inch frame still carried only one hundred and sixty pounds, very trim and athletic. He looked so much like their mother that it made Lylah want to weep. He had the same ash blond hair and startlingly dark blue eyes, the same oval face and determined features. In truth, he did not look one day older than when she had seen him five years before.

“You're just like all those other actresses, Sis, always putting a fellow on!” Amos complained. “Come see my family.”

He scurried around and helped Rose to the ground, and Lylah saw that the woman was as striking as ever. At thirty-five, Rose's coal-black hair still had not a single trace of gray in it—the legacy of her Spanish mother. Her light bluish-green eyes still sparkled when she smiled.

Rose threw her arms around Lylah and greeted her emotionally as she always did. Then she turned and said, “Look at these two kids of ours, Lylah. I bet you wouldn't know them, would you?”

Lylah stared at the two. She had pictured them as small children, and now they were almost as tall as she was. “Is this Jerry?” she asked, walking up to the boy. “I can't believe it! Last time I saw you, you were begging for a sucker.”

Jerry Stuart was a very handsome lad at fifteen. He had his mother's black hair and pale green eyes. He grinned and said, “I didn't get one, either, so you owe me one this time, don't you, Aunt Lylah?”

Lylah laughed. “You'll get it, and something better than that. And this is Maury? Look at that beautiful red hair! Have you got a temper to go with it?”

Maury, a year younger, glared at her brother, who laughed and said, “Yes, she has. If you don't believe it, just cross her.”

Maury shook her head. “I do
not!
Well, not unless somebody makes me mad, anyhow.”

Lylah laughed and hugged her niece. “I'm exactly the same way, people tell me.”

“Well, Pa,” Amos said, as his father came forward, “here I am. The bad penny turns up again.”

Will Stuart shook his hand firmly. “Good to see you, Amos. I've missed you.” He eyed this well-dressed son of his, scarcely able to believe he had fathered such a successful son.