Stephanie Bond - Baby, I'm Yours

They’d shared sad times, too. They’d both lost their mothers to illness while in high school. Going through something so traumatic together created a special bond that outsiders couldn’t understand. But as he drove, Emory mostly replayed in his head the sweeter memories they’d made together—going to football games, swinging out over the swimming hole at Timber Creek, shooting off fireworks in the parking lot of her father’s store—and before he knew it, he was putting on his turn signal to exit the interstate to the climbing state road that would meander and twist and eventually dead end into Sweetness.

At the change in speed, Porter roused from his nap and stretched his arms high in a yawn. “Are we there yet?”

“It won’t be long.” Emory gestured to the sky, where the clouds had taken on a greenish hue. “What do you make of that?”

Porter squinted. “I don’t know—something in the atmosphere…pollen maybe? Looks like we’re in for a good old-fashioned thunderstorm.”

“It’s eerie. Do you think it’s a bad omen?”

“What do you mean?”

Emory shifted in his seat. “Like, maybe today isn’t such a good day to propose?”

“Man, no day is a good day to propose.”

Emory laughed. “Mark my words, Porter. You’re going to meet a woman someday who will bring you to your knees.”

“Never,” Porter said, shaking his head emphatically.

The men parried back and forth with the familiar ease of boys who’d grown up side by side. As the SUV climbed higher and higher, the landscape became more recognizable—and rugged. Here in the mountains, the trees were taller and sturdier, and black soil gave way to rocky red clay. But a hardy environment produced a hardy crop of people.

They passed a Christmas tree farm and the picturesque covered bridge over Trimble Creek, then at the top of a rise that leveled into a long road ahead of them, a sign announced “Sweetness, Georgia, population 952.”

“Guess the Haywoods had twins,” Porter said with a laugh.

It was a joke because, in truth, the town’s population had been declining for the last couple of decades as new generations had turned away from farming and left to seek careers in outlying areas, especially Atlanta. Every time Emory came back to his hometown, it seemed as if another business or plant had closed its doors and more homes and farms were for sale.

All the more reason to get Shelby out of Sweetness, no matter how much they both loved growing up here. After his overseas stint ended, he planned to start college classes part-time. Even if he opted not to make the military a career, he didn’t foresee being able to make a living in Sweetness…unless he wanted to work for Shelby’s father at the grocery.

Emory shuddered.

“You okay, man?”

“It’s just coming back here, you know? Mixed feelings.”

“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t wait to get away from this place, but something always pulls me back.”

Emory nodded. He understood completely.

Watching over the town was a tall white water tower in the shape of a vertical capsule, with the greeting, Welcome to Sweetness. Someone had spray painted “I love Pam” in large red letters. Emory smiled—he’d graffitied his own sentiments about Shelby a time or two, as had many boys in town about the object of their affection if they were reckless enough to make that climb. Once a year, the mayor would send up painters to restore the surface to white and reletter the town’s name. And the process would start all over again.

If they continued driving straight, the road would take them into the center of town, but Emory veered off onto a more narrow road to higher ground, to Clover Ridge where they’d grown up. The ridge was mostly farmland, with an occasional home business here and there—Dottie’s Hair Salon and Mike’s Car Repair. Here the lay of the land was as familiar as his hand…he knew every pothole, every broken fence board, every barking dog.

A few minutes later, he pulled to a stop in front of the Armstrong home, and Porter jumped out. After grabbing his duffel from the back seat, Porter grinned through the open window.

“So, let me hear what you came up with for the proposal.”

Emory frowned. “I got nothin’.”

Porter laughed. “Well, hopefully you’ll think of something when the time comes.” He extended his hand and they shook. “Thanks for the ride, man. Good luck.”

Emory watched his friend bound up the front steps of his home and smiled to himself. Porter was a good man, as were his brothers. He was lucky to have grown up next to them. He didn’t have siblings, so he’d spent as much time at the Armstrongs’ place as his own.

When he approached the home he’d grown up in, he slowed for a fond look. His dad had painted the siding and planted a new fruit tree next to the gate. Emory would stop at the older Maxwell’s office in town later to say hello, after a little detour.

He drove further out on the ridge and pulled off onto the side of the road next to the Clover Ridge cemetery. He reached into the backseat for a bouquet of flowers he’d bought when he stopped to get gas, then walked through the arched gate. Emory made his way through the well-tended graveyard to the Maxwell family plot. His mother’s tombstone read Belinda Maxwell, Beloved Wife and Mother. So true.

He removed his hat and placed the bouquet of flowers on her grave, remembering her sweet face. He’d often come here to talk to her when he still lived in Sweetness. “I’m home, Mom. Just for a few days, but it’s nice to have a break.” He smiled. “The house looks good, Dad is keeping it up. You’d like the color he painted the shutters.” He twisted the hat in his hands. “I came home to ask Shelby to marry me, Mom. Wish me luck. I love you.” He patted her headstone, then put his hat on and walked back to his SUV.

The wind had picked up, was tossing leaves and twigs across the cemetery. Emory held on to his cap and glanced up at the sky, which still looked ominous.

A foreboding sense of trouble settled over Emory, the same feeling he’d gotten once on a field assignment just before an ambush. But he dismissed it as nerves and turned his vehicle toward town. And toward Shelby.

One way or another, he’d have his answer soon.

“Shelby to the produce department, Shelby to produce.”

At the summons over the PA system, Shelby Moon paused a split second from checking out Mrs. Cafferty’s groceries to consider what calamity awaited her in the fruits and vegetables aisle. An unripe cantaloupe? Bruised tomatoes?

She smiled at Mrs. Cafferty. “That’ll be thirty-one dollars and twenty-two cents.”

Mrs. Cafferty, dressed in a voluminous flowered dress that hung on her frail frame, squinted and put a hand behind her ear. “What did you say, dear?”

Shelby leaned forward to enunciate more loudly. “Your total is thirty-one dollars and twenty-two cents.”

The elderly woman frowned. “Did you deduct my coupons?”

“Do you have coupons?”

“What did you say, dear?”

“Do you have coupons?”

“Oh, yes, didn’t I give them to you?”

Shelby smiled and shook her head, then waited while the woman opened her old-lady purse and proceeded to remove every item—Bible, packet of tissues, powder compact, mini photo album—in her search for the coupons.

“I have a new picture of my great-granddaughter,” Mrs. Cafferty said, opening the photo album to show the toddler’s photo to Shelby and to the people in line behind her.

“She’s a doll,” Shelby confirmed, trying to tamp down her impatience.

Mrs. Cafferty’s eyes twinkled. “How’s that good-looking soldier of yours, dear?”