seeing the tears running down her face; then, seeing the stoplight had changed in his favor, he crossed, moving in a rickety fashion down the gray pavement, slowing up beside the station wagon, knocking gently on the driver’s-side window twice.
When she looked up, Lucy Hale did not appear to be anything other than stunning, even with the tears and mascara streaked along her cheeks. There was something about this woman that made you wish for courage or ignorance—either one, or both. Lucy smiled, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a balled-up tissue, and rolled down the window.
“Wouldn’t it be my luck to have to run into you today,” she said, stuffing the tissue into her shoulder bag. “Here I am, not even dressed and carrying on like an absolute idiot.”
“Lucy,” Jim muttered, for the word seemed to sum up all he felt at that moment, a kind of tenderness, a shared sense of the widower’s and widow’s grief, and an out-and-out roused-up pleasure in seeing the shape of her crying face.
“Of course you of all people would have to catch me crying like this.”
“I was passing down the street and saw your car there.”
She edged a finger along her eye again, catching a final, solemn tear, and then she exhaled deeply, her sizable chest heaving slightly. “Well, Jim, I finally did it. I finally did it.”
“Did what?”
“I put it up for sale. I didn’t know what else to do. I talked to the lawyer, I talked to my brother, I even talked to my dad. And they all told me the same thing: if you can’t run it, there’s no sense in hanging on to it.”
Jim pulled the brim of his hat down to block some sun that had begun to make the wrinkles near his eyes ache.
“So I finally decided to do it. It’s been two years, and I’ve tried. God knows I have. I feel like such a traitor, Jim. I do. He worked so hard for everything we had, and he tried to make that place a palace. But I don’t know the first thing about raising sheep, and try as I might, it just doesn’t come natural to me. I’m fifty-three years old, Jim. I am. No matter what anybody tries to tell you. I never married that man when I was fourteen. I was young but not that young. And here I am, fifty-three, having to start all over again. I don’t know the first thing about sheep. I tried to learn but I’m just too old, I guess.”
“I don’t know anybody in town that would ever use that word to describe you. There are some folks I know who don’t even think you’ve turned forty.”
“Well, that’s because they only see me in town. I’ve got a face, Jim, the kind you put on. It takes all kinds of makeup and smiling when you don’t feel like smiling. When I’m at home, I’m a mess. Who am I kidding? I’m a mess now. I’ve been one since Burt died on me.”
“I’m sure some of us, Jim Wall or Jim Dooley, we could lend you a hand. If you were still interested in running the place.”
“I appreciate that, Jim, I do. You fellas, all of you, Jim Dooley and the Walls, all of you have been awful kind to me. But I just can’t keep it up anymore. To be honest, I never much cared for sheep. When they cry, it sounds like a child crying. They’re just too ghoulish to have to hear every night when you’re trying to get to sleep.”
“Well, you did your best. And nobody can fault you for that.”
“I know one person who could.”
“Who?”
“Burt.”
“He wouldn’t fault you. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t know how he built that place, Jim. Out of nothing. Absolutely nothing. My father gave him a pair of sheep as a dowry. He had an acre maybe and worked it all the way up to what we got now. He’d be up in the morning before me and wouldn’t get to bed until after I was already asleep. He loved it, Jim, that place. He loved it the way you love another person. It’s our family, that place.”
Jim nodded, knowing there was nothing more to be said. He glanced down at her hands, saw them busy fumbling for
When she looked up, Lucy Hale did not appear to be anything other than stunning, even with the tears and mascara streaked along her cheeks. There was something about this woman that made you wish for courage or ignorance—either one, or both. Lucy smiled, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a balled-up tissue, and rolled down the window.
“Wouldn’t it be my luck to have to run into you today,” she said, stuffing the tissue into her shoulder bag. “Here I am, not even dressed and carrying on like an absolute idiot.”
“Lucy,” Jim muttered, for the word seemed to sum up all he felt at that moment, a kind of tenderness, a shared sense of the widower’s and widow’s grief, and an out-and-out roused-up pleasure in seeing the shape of her crying face.
“Of course you of all people would have to catch me crying like this.”
“I was passing down the street and saw your car there.”
She edged a finger along her eye again, catching a final, solemn tear, and then she exhaled deeply, her sizable chest heaving slightly. “Well, Jim, I finally did it. I finally did it.”
“Did what?”
“I put it up for sale. I didn’t know what else to do. I talked to the lawyer, I talked to my brother, I even talked to my dad. And they all told me the same thing: if you can’t run it, there’s no sense in hanging on to it.”
Jim pulled the brim of his hat down to block some sun that had begun to make the wrinkles near his eyes ache.
“So I finally decided to do it. It’s been two years, and I’ve tried. God knows I have. I feel like such a traitor, Jim. I do. He worked so hard for everything we had, and he tried to make that place a palace. But I don’t know the first thing about raising sheep, and try as I might, it just doesn’t come natural to me. I’m fifty-three years old, Jim. I am. No matter what anybody tries to tell you. I never married that man when I was fourteen. I was young but not that young. And here I am, fifty-three, having to start all over again. I don’t know the first thing about sheep. I tried to learn but I’m just too old, I guess.”
“I don’t know anybody in town that would ever use that word to describe you. There are some folks I know who don’t even think you’ve turned forty.”
“Well, that’s because they only see me in town. I’ve got a face, Jim, the kind you put on. It takes all kinds of makeup and smiling when you don’t feel like smiling. When I’m at home, I’m a mess. Who am I kidding? I’m a mess now. I’ve been one since Burt died on me.”
“I’m sure some of us, Jim Wall or Jim Dooley, we could lend you a hand. If you were still interested in running the place.”
“I appreciate that, Jim, I do. You fellas, all of you, Jim Dooley and the Walls, all of you have been awful kind to me. But I just can’t keep it up anymore. To be honest, I never much cared for sheep. When they cry, it sounds like a child crying. They’re just too ghoulish to have to hear every night when you’re trying to get to sleep.”
“Well, you did your best. And nobody can fault you for that.”
“I know one person who could.”
“Who?”
“Burt.”
“He wouldn’t fault you. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t know how he built that place, Jim. Out of nothing. Absolutely nothing. My father gave him a pair of sheep as a dowry. He had an acre maybe and worked it all the way up to what we got now. He’d be up in the morning before me and wouldn’t get to bed until after I was already asleep. He loved it, Jim, that place. He loved it the way you love another person. It’s our family, that place.”
Jim nodded, knowing there was nothing more to be said. He glanced down at her hands, saw them busy fumbling for
Similar Books
