The Wedding Tree - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Before she became a USA Today bestselling author, Robin Wells was an advertising and public relations executive, but she always dreamed of writing novels—a dream inspired by a grandmother who told “hot tales” and parents who were both librarians. Her books have won the RWA Golden Heart, two National Readers' Choice Awards, the Holt Medallion and numerous other awards. She now lives in Texas with her husband, but will always be a Louisiana girl at heart.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

raves for the novels of robin wells

title page

copyright

dedication

acknowledgments

1: adelaide

2: hope

3: hope

4: matt

5: adelaide

6: hope

7: adelaide

8: adelaide

9: adelaide

10: hope

11: matt

12: hope

13: adelaide

14: hope

15: adelaide

16: hope

17: adelaide

18: matt

19: hope

20: adelaide

21: matt

22: adelaide

23: adelaide

24: hope

25: adelaide

26: adelaide

27: matt

28: adelaide

29: matt

30: hope

31: matt

32: adelaide

33: adelaide

34: matt

35: hope

36: adelaide

37: hope

38: hope

39: matt

40: hope

41: adelaide

42: hope

43: adelaide

44: matt

45: adelaide

46: matt

47: hope

48: matt

49: matt

50: hope

51: hope

52: hope

53: adelaide

54: hope

55: hope

56: hope

57: matt

58: hope

59: adelaide

readers guide

1

adelaide

Funny, how you keep telling yourself, someday. Someday I’ll get organized. Someday I’ll get everything sorted out. Someday I’ll tackle the tasks I’ve been dreading all these years.

I kept waiting until I had a big block of time. A few free days, I thought. And, of course, they never came. No day is ever really free. And the truth is, if I’m entirely honest—and I haven’t been on this topic, I admit it now—I didn’t want to sort through my belongings. Sorting through meant looking back, and looking back meant confronting things I’d spent most of my life trying to avoid.

So I put it off and put it off, and then, just when I worked up my resolve and finally got started, this happened.

I’m foggy on what exactly it was this is—I can’t remember how I ended up here—but here I am all the same, hovering over my own body in a hospital room. I’m pretty sure it’s the hospital in my hometown of Wedding Tree, Louisiana, because I’ve visited lots of friends over the years and I recognize that awful gray linoleum flooring. When you’re visiting someone who’s really bad off, you spend a lot of time gazing down so you don’t have to look at their pain.

Anyway, here I am, floating against the ugly acoustical tile ceiling, looking down at an old woman with tubes snaking out of her nose and her arm veins. Apparently I’m not dead yet, because the old woman’s chest is falling and rising, and a machine wired up to her is steadily beeping—so hard to believe that ghastly-looking old gal is me! But if I’m up here watching the goings-on, I must be on the way out.

Which means it’s too late to make good on my intentions to sort everything out and do what I should have done sixty-something years ago.

“Never put off till tomorrow what you should do today.”

I turn my head at the familiar voice. “Mother?”

She’s floating beside me. At least, her head is—and her shoulders, too. The rest of her seems to trail off into vapor, but maybe my soul has poor eyesight. Mother’s hair is pinned up prim and proper, with neat waves on the sides, just the way she always kept it, and she’s wearing the dress with the starched lace collar that she was buried in forty-something years ago.

“Did I—did I just die?” I ask.

“Not yet, although if I were you, I’d die of shame, looking like that in a public place.” She looks down at the woman on the bed and clucks her tongue. Mother always had the highest standards for appearance and comportment, and clearly the woman on the bed was violating all of them. Her—no, my—hair is an unruly tangle of gray, far too long to be age appropriate. My skin is a blotchy testament to the fact I hadn’t stayed out of the sun as Mother had warned, and my mouth gapes open in a most undignified fashion.

Still, a hospital room isn’t exactly a public place, and—

“Don’t you sass me, young lady.”

I was hardly young—on what planet was ninety-one young? Besides, I didn’t think I’d spoken aloud.

“Thoughts, words—they’re all the same,” Mother says. “It’s all energy. There are no barriers on this side.”

Oh my.

“Oh my, indeed.”

“What happened?”

“You fell and hit your head. You’re unconscious, and you’re having an out-of-body experience.”

“So I can’t possibly help how I look.”

“A lady always manages to look her best for visitors.”

Oh—I had visitors! My view widens, like a zoom lens being reversed, to see three people gathered around my bed. I can only view the tops of their heads, but I’m sure the stocky man with the bald patch standing at the foot of the bed is my son, Eddie, and I think the tall, auburn-haired man beside him is his partner, Ralph.

I’ve always known Eddie is the way he is—they call it gay now, although in my day, that meant happy, and Eddie was always a sad, tentative, nervous boy. The word for Eddie’s kind, a word I only heard whispered when I was young, was queer. I never thought badly of him for it. The way I figured it, Eddie liked men, just like I did, and he can’t help it any more than I could. If someone told me to start liking women that way, I don’t reckon I could, so it stands to reason that Eddie couldn’t, either.

I tried to explain that to Eddie’s father, but he wasn’t having any of it. Charlie thought it was a character flaw and a choice. He took it personally, as if it were something Eddie was doing to annoy him—which couldn’t be further from the truth, because all poor Eddie ever wanted was to please his daddy.

But he couldn’t, and he couldn’t change the narrow minds of other townsfolk, and in a town as small as Wedding Tree, where everybody knew everybody else’s business, well, it was no wonder Eddie went to college in California and never moved back. How old is he now? Fifty- or sixty-something? So odd to think that my baby is that old. The top of his head, all bald like that, looks a lot like it did the day he was born. The sight makes me want to cry. Oh, how I wish I could see Eddie’s face!

Click.

All of a sudden, Eddie is framed in a portrait lens.

Oh, my—my soul is a camera! Well, that makes sense. It’s been an extension of my body throughout my life. I’ve been taking pictures for so long that I tend to frame things, to look at them and move my right finger, as if I’m pressing the shutter. This moment—freeze it, capture it, make it live forever. And this moment. And this one. And this one here.

“She pressed my hand,” a young woman says.

My view twirls as if my head were on a swivel mount. Click. Oh, there’s my granddaughter, Hope, sitting on my right, holding my hand. Such a lovely girl . . . So beautiful, with her wavy light brown hair and eyes the color of iced tea—so much like my late daughter, Rebecca.

The thought sends a stab of pain through me. “Is Becky with you?” I ask Mother.

“She’s on this side, but they wouldn’t let her come with me. Said you don’t get to see her until you clean up the mess you’ve made down there.”

“You mean . . . I’m going to get...