Heart Shaped Blush
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The next morning, a gray mist covered the hills. The sky was overcast and the air felt damp and heavy in her lungs. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She hadn’t slept well either. It had been impossible to get comfortable lying on the hard bed while listening to a man snoring away.
She’d finally drifted off around three o’clock this morning only to wake up again just before dawn when he’d roused himself with another loud snort. After his first attempt at conversation, she decided to keep her mouth shut. Instead of talking, she stared out the window trying to figure out how long it would take him to get there.
She didn’t want to see him, but she couldn’t avoid the inevitable. If things went badly, he could ruin any chance of getting into Stanford’s class because they had no relationship. At best, all they would have is an acquaintance. He might even be able to find a way to make the incident seem like a threat against herself or her family.
It occurred to her that if she wanted to protect herself, she should leave right now. That way she wouldn’t waste time being embarrassed by some fool who couldn’t accept the fact that women could do more than cook and clean. But then what would she tell Professor Stanton?
How would she explain that she had left without saying goodbye after spending the night in a strange house? Even though she hadn’t been alone with the ranch hand, she wasn’t about to let anyone else know. Not even her sister. It was too embarrassing, especially with all the men in town gossiping about everything from her new wardrobe to what she had done with the stranger.
But she was not going back. This was the last straw. She couldn’t risk it anymore. There was no reason for her to suffer through one more lecture from Stanton.
“I’m ready,” she said aloud as soon as the door opened. “I’ve waited long enough.”
As expected, his face lit up with pleasure when he saw her. “Oh good!”
He closed the door behind him and turned toward her. As usual, he wore a wide-brimmed hat to shield his face from the sun. His blue jeans were tucked neatly inside tall boots that were tied tightly at the ankle. A faded brown shirt hung loosely below a pair of suspenders. She wondered if there would be anything beneath those clothes besides his naked chest. Maybe it was better that way.
They walked down the path to the front porch where they stopped beside a large wooden rocker. For a moment they just stood silently staring at each other. The silence gave her plenty of time to think about why she was doing this.
Her mind was made up. The thought of seeing him again made her stomach churn with fear, but it also gave her a sense of pride for fighting back. All week she had been thinking of a hundred ways to turn things around and convince him that he needed her help. No longer would she hide away in her room. No longer would she feel guilty or ashamed of what she could do to help others.
When the door opened again, it startled both of them.
“You’re early,” he said.
She nodded and took a deep breath. “I came alone, so we can go in together.”
She watched as he removed his hat and set it beside the rocking chair, then stepped aside to give her access to the doorway. He smiled broadly as she walked past him into the foyer.
She glanced around at the polished oak floors, high ceilings, and wide staircase. The house was beautiful but lacked personality. It looked like every other house in the neighborhood—just another place with people living their lives. The only unusual thing in the entryway was the large painting hanging near the fireplace.
“What is that?” she asked, pointing at the artwork.
“Oh,” he said, glancing at the painting for the first time. “That’s my great-grandfather, Frank Stokes. I used to come here as a boy when visiting my grandparents.”
“Do you still come often?”
“No, not very often, but my grandfather always told me about Grandpa Stokes and all the things he did to help people out of need.” He shrugged, his dark eyes looking sad. “There are fewer reasons to help these days, unfortunately.”
“Is your grandmother around?”
“Yes, she’s upstairs sleeping. Don’t worry; she won’t hear us.”
“Why is that?”
“Because we don’t bother her anymore. She stays up late and sleeps until noon. She’s gotten old and frail since Grandpa died. We’re lucky to get any conversation from her at all.”
A twinge of sympathy tugged on her heartstrings. He probably cared for her grandmother far more than anyone ever realized. But then, she knew how hard it must be for him to see his beloved family suffering, knowing there was little he could do to ease their pain. They all felt responsible for his mother’s death, yet there was nothing they could do to change the outcome.
“Does she remember much about Grandpa?”
“Not much. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s for years before he passed away. He was an amazing man, and Grandma never forgave herself for what happened to him. She blames herself, which makes it worse.”
She followed him up the stairs while trying to ignore her growing concern over his mother’s condition. Her own parents suffered from dementia, but it had not progressed to the point where their minds were slipping from reality.
At the second-floor landing, they turned toward the left. The hall appeared empty at first glance until they entered a small sitting room to the right of the stairs. There was a single table and two chairs where they sat. They both remained silent during the short walk across the hallway. Then she glanced at him while they waited in silence for his grandmother to appear.
“How is your family?” she finally asked. “I mean, have you lost any lately?”
The expression on his face changed from sadness to relief. “We’ve lost some, but they’re buried in the cemetery over yonder.”
She followed his gaze. “Over yonder? Do you mean the hillside cemetery?”
He nodded and pointed to a stone wall that was part of the hillside. She hadn’t noticed it before because it was covered by a tall stand of trees. A narrow dirt path led to a series of flat gravestones that stretched to a distance beyond her vision.
“That’s a long way,” she remarked, noting the uneven ground as well as a few ruts from the occasional tractor or vehicle.
He shook his head and continued to point. “My grandfather bought the land from the county years ago. He didn’t want our family to be forgotten, so he built his grave here instead of burying him in town. He loved his country and wanted everyone to know that.”
Their conversation trailed off after that because his grandmother finally appeared in the doorway. She wore her black hair up and wrapped tightly around her head like a crown. Black crepe fabric hung down the side of her face, hiding her wrinkled skin. The wrinkles gave her a stern look as if she were judging someone who dared trespass on her home.
Her grandmother’s eyes widened at the sight of the young woman entering her home, and she frowned as though she recognized the intruder. She stepped back into the sitting room.
Morgan glanced at her grandmother, wondering what she thought about this unexpected visitor. The older lady stood in front of them, unmoving. Morgan wondered how the woman could possibly recognize her given that it was such a rare occasion for anyone to enter the house.
His grandmother’s eyes fluttered closed as if she were trying to recall something, but when they opened again, there was no trace of recognition in her gaze. She turned around and returned to the sitting room.
“You can take whatever you want,” she called from inside the room. “There’s plenty to go around.”
She turned back to Morgan and extended her hand. She wore a plain gold band around her ring finger and looked as fragile as glass. Her gray eyes stared straight ahead with none of the sparkle of youth and life. She looked old enough to be Morgan’s mother, and she had a kind smile, almost as if she were welcoming a weary traveler home after many miles on the road.
Then Morgan realized that it was just that. She had traveled too far from her homeland, and now she needed her grandson’s help to return home.
***
Morgan handed her the small sack of food items and watched her place several cans on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the older woman, who seemed lost without even realizing it.
“Did you bring your husband?” she suddenly asked.
“No, I’m divorced.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. O’Neill,” he said politely. “My name is Morgan.”
“Yes, I can tell you’re related, although we don’t get much company here.”
His grandmother moved closer to him, staring directly at him. The lines on her face deepened, and she blinked repeatedly as if trying to focus.
“What is your wife’s name?” she finally asked in a low voice.
“My ex-wife has remarried and lives out west,” he replied softly. “This is my grandmother.”
“Is she sick?”
He hesitated. Was that the reason his grandmother came all the way home? It would explain why the doctor wasn’t here today. “Yes, she’s very ill.”
“Are you going to bury her here?”
Morgan glanced at the door and then back at his grandmother. She still appeared confused about everything in general, which was understandable since she’d been gone for so long. “I guess so.”
His grandmother looked surprised at his response. She slowly smiled at him, and then she reached into her purse and removed an envelope that contained a folded letter. She offered it to him with a trembling hand. “Can I read it? You know, to remind me that it’s important.”
When he refused the offer, she took the envelope anyway and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. She then picked up the sack of food and placed the can of vegetables on the table. “Do you need anything else?”
Morgan nodded and watched her as she headed back toward the sitting room. As she entered, he saw a framed portrait of his father hanging on one wall. He hadn’t seen the photograph before, and the man in the picture looked nothing like Morgan or his grandmother.
The painting was done by the same artist that had painted his family crest on the dining room table. He was tall and muscular, dressed in a dark suit and tie. His hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and parted sharply on the left side of his face.
He had a strong jawline, piercing blue eyes, and thick eyebrows. The likeness was uncanny; only the mustache and beard were missing. If not for the fact that Morgan could recognize his own face, he wouldn’t have guessed it belonged to any other person than himself.
“That’s my son,” his grandmother explained as she entered the living room carrying two cups of tea. “It must be very painful for you to lose your wife.”
He didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes actually watered. The emotion was overwhelming. She sat down next to him and sipped from her cup.
“Why did you come home?”
“I wanted to be with my family. It seems so lonely here without my children.”
“Children? What are your daughters doing?”
“They died.”
A strange sadness washed over Morgan, and he felt as if he should say something comforting. But what could he say that would really ease her pain? Nothing except that she’d see them again soon. He knew that God loved his mother more than anyone else, and when His time came to reunite with her, all suffering would end. That thought comforted Morgan in some odd way.
“You’re very young,” she remarked. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-four this spring.”
She raised her eyebrow with surprise and then shook her head and smiled. “Don’t let me get started talking about myself because I won’t stop until tomorrow afternoon.” Then she laughed lightly.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such a sad life, Grandma.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Morgan.”
“There’s no need to apologize.”
She took another sip of her tea. “You look a lot like your father.”
Morgan couldn’t imagine how his father would take to his new granddaughter—especially with the way she resembled his dead wife. He was probably still reeling from the recent loss of their oldest daughter.
Morgan wondered whether his father had ever remarried or if he spent his days alone with his memories. Did he feel guilty for not having the courage to go on after losing his wife? Or did he blame himself for the tragedy?
The thought saddened him. There wasn’t much he could do now unless he wanted to leave home permanently, but he wasn’t sure that would help his father or his grandmother either. Perhaps it would be better just to accept that their lives were over and live each day to its fullest, hoping that God granted them eternal rest someday.
He glanced around the living room as his grandmother spoke again. “Your mother used to love this house.” She paused and then continued, “I can understand why she chose to stay here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it reminds me of my childhood and I remember spending most of my summer vacations here. Of course, she always had her maids with her, too.” Her voice grew louder, “We had fun playing together, and we even got to ride horses once in a while.”
“But your family lived in Chicago.”
“Yes, but I was born and raised here.”
Morgan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Didn’t you live there first?”
“No, I was born here and have lived in this house ever since. Why is my son so curious about the past? I think he wants to know more about me.”
He was surprised when he realized she meant him. “I don’t know. Maybe he thinks you might be able to answer some questions—”
“Questions? About me? What kind of questions?”
“Oh…” He hesitated and then told her what had happened. When he finished speaking, she seemed pleased. “That’s wonderful. I think you will make a fine detective.”
“Maybe,” he mused aloud as he glanced at her.
His grandmother looked up at him with bright, twinkling eyes and smiled warmly. “My, you’ve changed your hair since yesterday.”
Morgan reached up and touched it with his fingers; he found the ends surprisingly soft. “It grows fast,” he muttered as he ran his hand through it to straighten out some of the kinks. He hadn’t worn it like this in years, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to control the curl.
“Does the other boy like it?”
“Yeah, but he says he’s allergic.”
“Do you want me to fix it for you?”
He nodded his head yes.
“Are you getting along well with your brothers?”
“They aren’t so bad.”
“Good! And your little sister?”
“Is very sweet.”
She sighed deeply and then said, “It looks like you have a good life here.”
He frowned and shook his head. “I wish things were different.”
“So do I. But they are what they are, and sometimes we must work with what we have.”
“What if we can change our lives?”
“You can pray to God to grant you whatever you ask. But sometimes He grants us only part of our request.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes it means others lose their place.”
Morgan thought about that for a moment. He remembered reading stories in which God often asked His people to sacrifice their own sons and daughters instead of Him sacrificing his only Son. How could that possibly be fair? The Bible never mentioned whether it was God’s will that these children die. It just went on and on about sacrifices made for the sins of the people.
And yet, God accepted these offerings without complaint. That bothered him. Was it because He didn’t mind being killed? Or perhaps His sacrifice was meant to show mercy to those who had sinned. If that were the case, then why did He accept the blood of innocent children, too?
Then she said something that caught his attention. “Have you read the book of Revelation?”
“Not exactly. Is it important?”
“Very.”
“Okay… So I should read it?”
“Of course. You’ll find answers there.”
Morgan knew he’d eventually have to learn everything his grandmother said. “I’m afraid I won’t get much time to read it. We’re going on vacation soon.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made arrangements to send someone ahead to pack all your clothes.”
He stared at her as he considered how easily she took care of such a task. “Where are we going?”
“To Denver.”
“Why? Are you expecting company?”
“Yes. Your grandfather and his wife will be visiting for a few days while he visits his doctor in Denver.”
“Will they be staying here?”
“No, we’ll put them in the guest room next door—your brother has taken up with that young woman in San Francisco and isn’t coming back until late summer.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Now come outside and watch me cook over the fire.”
“Okay.” Morgan rose from the chair and followed her to the door. As they stepped out into the yard, he felt an intense sense of peace and warmth. A gentle breeze ruffled the grassy lawn as if in greeting.
He gazed around at the lush green hills and thought he heard a distant crow cawing at one of its neighbors. The sight was breathtaking and brought home to him how lucky he was to be alive, free, and living under a roof of solid gold. He had a beautiful family, a comfortable place to live, and plenty of money.
His grandmother walked toward a large, open grill and set down several sticks of wood on top of it. She added more sticks to the fire and then grabbed another stick. “How’s the weather today?” she asked as she held it near the coals and waited for it to catch flame.
“Fine,” he replied absently as his gaze moved across the landscape again. He turned toward her; she had already picked up a pan and was holding it out to him. “We need eggs—”
“I know. We don’t have any. Did you bring any?”
“No, I forgot.”
“Oh no!” She glanced toward the chicken house, which was on a lower level behind the house. “Didn’t you check there?”
“Nope.”
“Well hurry! Don’t tell your mother. Just take care of it now before we have breakfast.”
Morgan hurried over to the chicken house and quickly gathered six or seven of the birds that were roaming around inside. He ran back to his grandmother and handed her two of them.
“Thank you!” She opened the cage and let the chickens loose, then turned back to the grill and started cracking eggs into the pan.
Morgan watched the way she handled the egg as he placed the chickens in front of her. His heart sank when he saw her crack the first shell. It spilled its contents all over her hands. The second one came apart as well and dropped into the pan. The third one fell on his shoe, making a loud popping sound.
He knelt down beside her and brushed some of the soiled dirt off her hands. “There you go. Let me wash my hands for you…”
She smiled. “No, I’ll do it myself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please stay with me and keep busy. This might take a while.”
They sat there for hours. They broke more eggs, but each time they cracked one, it seemed as if half of the white slipped out of its shell and landed on the floor. Finally, after three or four eggs, they managed to scramble the rest of them in the pan.
“Here you go.” His grandmother handed him a plate of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.
Morgan took the food to his chair and sat down next to his mother. “It’s not very good.”
“You just wait,” she said. “I’ll fix your biscuits like you like them.”
When he tried a bite, he could barely swallow it because his mouth was still tingly from the hot oil. His grandmother had cooked too many in a row to stop. When she’d finally stopped frying them, he found his mouth full of scorching grease. He pushed his plate aside and reached for another biscuit. “Maybe I should try them later—”
“Go ahead.” Her attention returned to her book. “Try one.”
“All right.” He pulled the biscuit toward him and bit into it. Hot melted cheese poured onto his tongue, and the bread was so thick it stuck to his teeth. He chewed slowly and swallowed the lump of dough in his throat. “They’re awful! What happened to yours?”
“That’s mine!” His mother stood up. “What did you do to mine?”
“Nothing. It just…well…”
“Just what?”
“It just didn’t taste right.”
“What do you mean?” His mother looked at him suspiciously. “Have you been dipping it in hot grease? Did you add something?”
“No! I swear.” He stared at his plate and realized he hadn’t even bothered to eat his biscuits. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’ll learn fast enough why this is better than eating out.” She picked up her own plate of food, which included fried tomatoes and cucumbers. “Now, how are things going with your work?”
Morgan took a sip of water from the glass on the table and answered, “Fine.”
“Do you plan on working there much longer?”
“Probably not.” He couldn’t help staring at his mother. “I think I want to move back home.”
“Why?”
“Well, I can get more work where I’m living now. And I can use the money to make repairs.”
“Repairs?”
“The ranch needs some fixing up. There’s nothing wrong with the house itself, but I don’t think we should stay here long-term.” He paused. “We need to start looking for our own place.”
His mother nodded absently and went back to reading. Morgan glanced toward the barns and saw that only a few horses were tied outside. He remembered seeing several more in the corral. “Where’re all the other animals?”
“Most of them are down at the river.”
“How come?”
“I guess we don’t need so many animals anymore. The cows are giving us plenty of milk—”
“But the horse herd—what about that?” He looked at her curiously.
“Oh, that.” She smiled. “It’s yours.”
The End