Love Mercy by Earlene Fowler Page A

that ever happened to them,” August had stated bluntly after hearing what happened at Tommy’s funeral. They’d wanted to come, but Polly had been recovering from a hysterectomy. “Tommy didn’t look close enough at what kind of history he was taking on.”
    There were a thousand things Love longed to ask Rett about so she could fill in the gaps of the last fourteen years. But how and when should she do that?
    First things first. She turned away from the window and picked up the telephone. Polly and August would never forgive her if she didn’t tell them about Rett right away. Gossip flew around this town faster than a sea otter. She should have called the minute Magnolia told her about Rett.
    She’d dialed the first three numbers, when the guest room door flew open. She set the phone back down.
    “All settled in?” she asked, walking toward Rett.
    Rett stood in the bedroom’s doorway, her cheeks flushed a dark pink; a stricken expression covered her face. Behind her, the contents of her backpack were strewn across the Ocean Waves quilt, a Christmas present from Polly ten years ago.
    Love’s mother instincts kicked in. “Are you all right?”
    Rett’s eyes blinked rapidly. “I . . . I . . . it’s . . .” The stutter caused her to clamp her lips tightly. She took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “I guess I didn’t realize what time of the month . . . Is there a drugstore . . . ?”
    “Oh.” Love let out a sigh of relief. The girl had started her period. That crisis was one Love could handle. “The drugstore is over by the highway. I can drive there in five minutes. Any certain brand?”
    Rett shook her head, her face still red. “Any is fine. Tampons, that is.”
    “I’m sorry I don’t have any here. It’s been years since I’ve had to worry about that.”
    Rett let out a small huff of air. “Lucky.”
    Love shrugged. “There’s good and bad with both, like most things. Make yourself at home. There’s food and drinks in the kitchen. I’ve got cable, more channels than I’ll watch in a lifetime. I don’t know how to find most of them, but I’m sure you can figure it out. How about steak for dinner? I have a couple in the freezer.” She brought a hand up to her cheek. “If you’re vegetarian, I can always make macaroni and cheese. Or if you don’t eat dairy . . .” Why was fixing someone dinner so hard anymore?
    Rett held up her hand. “I’m not a vegan. Steak is fine.”
    “Then, I’ll be off. Like I said, make yourself at home.”
    Rett hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
     
     
     
     
     
    At Goody’s Drug Supermart, Love wandered up and down the womAen’s personal care aisle, not certain what brand to buy. The tinny sound of Christmas Muzak—“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town”—played over the store’s PA system. At fifty-eight, it had been years since she’d bought these products. She paused in front of a display of brightly colored boxes, the brand a familiar name. Someone had placed a small, neatly written flag under the flowery boxes. Great Stocking Stuffer!
    Who in the world would consider a box of tampons a stocking stuffer? Was that a joke? She chose a box that had a young-looking design, hoping it would be the right one. She already had every kind of pain medication at home if Rett had cramps. What else did one need at that time of month? A hot water bottle? No, that was old-fashioned, something her mother used to do back in Kentucky, before pharmaceuticals rescued them all. Still, when she walked down another aisle, she saw a display of hot water bottles and bought one on a whim. It came with a pink flannel cover decorated with little red hearts. She added a navy blue sweatshirt, size small, with a discreet Morro Bay, California, embroidered on the chest in light blue thread. Maybe Rett had a thing about borrowing clothes. Maybe she’d think anything that Love had would be too old ladyish, even though she bought most of her clothes from Columbia and L.L. Bean.