“I heard you pull up,” he said quietly. His skin was that sallow color, as usual, but he looked tired.
“Hello, Reverend Sullivan,” I said dejectedly.
“Hi, Daddy,” Jamie said happily a second later. “I wish you could have come tonight. It was wonderful.”
“I’m so glad for you.” He seemed to gather himself then and cleared his throat. “I’ll give you a bit to say good night. I’ll leave the door open for you.”
He turned around and went back into the living room. From where he sat down, I knew he could still see us. He pretended to be reading, though I couldn’t see what was in his hands.
“I had a wonderful time tonight, Landon,” Jamie said.
“So did I,” I answered, feeling Hegbert’s eyes on me. I wondered if he knew I’d been holding her hand during the car ride home.
“What time should I come over tomorrow?” she asked.
Hegbert’s eyebrow raised just a little.
“I’ll come over to get you. Is five o’clock okay?”
She looked over her shoulder. “Daddy, would you mind if I visited with Landon and his parents tomorrow?”
Hegbert brought his hand to his eyes and started rubbing them. He sighed.
“If it’s important to you, you can,” he said.
Not the most stirring vote of confidence I’d ever heard, but it was good enough for me.
“What should I bring?” she asked. In the South it was tradition to always ask that question.
“You don’t need to bring anything,” I answered. “I’ll pick you up at a quarter to five.”
We stood there for a moment without saying anything else, and I could tell Hegbert was growing a little impatient. He hadn’t turned a page of the book since we’d been standing there.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said finally.
“Okay,” I said.
She glanced down at her feet for a moment, then back up at me. “Thank you for driving me home,” she said.
With that, she turned around and walked inside. I could barely see the slight smile playing gently across her lips as she peeked around the door, just as it was about to close.
The next day I picked her up right on schedule and was pleased to see that her hair was down once more. She was wearing the sweater I’d given her, just like she’d promised.
Both my mom and dad were a little surprised when I’d asked if it would be all right if Jamie came by for dinner. It wasn’t a big deal—whenever my dad was around, my mom would have Helen, our cook, make enough food for a small army.
I guess I didn’t mention that earlier, about the cook, I mean. In our house we had a maid and a cook, not only because my family could afford them, but also because my mom wasn’t the greatest homemaker in the world. She was all right at making sandwiches for my lunch now and then, but there’d been times when the mustard would stain her nails, and it would take her at least three or four days to get over it. Without Helen I would have grown up eating burned mashed potatoes and crunchy steak. My father, luckily, had realized this as soon as they married, and both the cook and the maid had been with us since before I was born.
Though our house was larger than most, it wasn’t a palace or anything, and neither the cook nor the maid lived with us because we didn’t have separate living quarters or anything like that. My father had bought the home because of its historical value. Though it wasn’t the house where Blackbeard had once lived, which would have been more interesting to someone like me, it had been owned by Richard Dobbs Spaight, who’d signed the Constitution. Spaight had also owned a farm outside of New Bern, which was about forty miles up the road, and that was where he was buried. Our house might not have been as famous as the one where Dobbs Spaight was buried, but it still afforded my father some bragging rights in the halls of Congress, and whenever he walked around the garden, I could see him dreaming about the legacy he wanted to leave. In a way it made me sad, because no matter what he did, he’d never top old Richard Dobbs Spaight. Historical events like signing the Constitution come along only once every few hundred years, and no matter how you sliced it, debating farm subsidies for tobacco farmers or talking about the “Red influence” was never going to cut it. Even someone like me knew that.
The house was in the National Historic Register—still is, I suppose—and though Jamie had been there once before, she was still kind of awed when she walked inside. My mother and father were both dressed very nicely, as was I, and my mother kissed Jamie hello on the cheek. My mother, I couldn’t help but think as I watched her do it, had scored before I did.
We had a nice dinner, fairly formal with four courses, though it wasn’t stuffy or anything like that. My parents and Jamie carried on the most marvelous conversation—think Miss Garber here—and though I tried to inject my own brand of humor, it didn’t really go over too well, at least as far as my parents were concerned. Jamie, however, would laugh, and I took that as a good sign.
After dinner I invited Jamie to walk around the garden, even though it was winter and nothing was in bloom. After putting on our coats, we stepped outside into the chilled winter air. I could see our breaths coming out in little puffs.
“Your parents are wonderful people,” she said to me. I guess she hadn’t taken Hegbert’s sermons to heart.
“They’re nice,” I responded, “in their own way. My mom’s especially sweet.” I said this not only because it was true, but also because it was the same thing that kids said about Jamie. I hoped she would get the hint.