course. Does she get her hair from the father?” he says, turning to Billie. And then, to me, “You got your dad’s hair?”
Billie is enjoying herself immensely.
“I love that you think she looks like me too! The more I look at her, the more I see it. Oh, yes! She has her dad’s hair. It was just like hers. Only shorter, of course.”
Dad doesn’t have red hair. He has white hair.
“Hey, Betty Sue,” Connie calls to the other waitress, who is setting a table across the room. “Ain’t that what happened to Mary Lynn? Got knocked up by a married guy, had a kid. Didn’t her sister raise it?”
“Sure did,” Betty Sue calls back.
“No one in your family could take her, huh?”
Billie is busy mopping the gravy up with what’s left of her biscuit. I suspect she’s pretending not to hear the question. Poor Billie. Why should she be judged by these strangers in a highway diner?
“Oh, Billie did the right thing,” I step in quickly. “I’ve had a wonderful upbringing. A wonderful life.”
“And now you’re back home.” Connie has tears in her eyes. “Well, c’mere.” I’m made to stand up. Connie’s mighty arms pull me to her ample bosom and hold me there.
We eat for free on the road to Georgia.
Chapter Eighteen
B ILLIE’S CABIN ON B UCK M OUNTAIN , Georgia, is twenty miles from the nearest shop. You get to the sitting room through the deck, from which you can look out over the mountains and a huge front lawn that has seen better days.
Billie tells me that my grandfather saw the land from the air one day, while flying one of his little planes, and fell in love with it. After building himself a log cabin, which he calls his “getaway place,” he built this house for Billie right next to it. Billie says it was his way of giving her some of his money before he died and “it all got into the hands of my greedy stepmother.”
It’s a wild but peaceful spot. I spend most of the evening sitting in a large bamboo chair on Billie’s deck, with Heathcliffe on my chest purring loudly. The air is cool, sweetened by the flowers growing wild in the uncut grass. The evening light fades to a soft orange and yellow, while Billie chats away about our genetic ancestors and the fact that creative talent is in the genes.
“Honey!!!” Billie’s voice wakes me suddenly at eight o’clock the next morning. “It’s time to meet your grandfather! Hurry! He’s here!”
I leap out of bed, throw on a dress and my Marks and Spencer cardigan, and run out to the deck. A silver Lincoln purrs up the narrow white drive and stops next to the creek. Out comes a tall old man wearing buckled boots, black pants, a black suede jacket with long tassels, and a big black cowboy hat that hides his face. He moves slowly toward the house. Halfway up the steps to the sitting room, he lifts the hat and looks up at me. His face is old and white and his eyes are startlingly blue, and full of laughter.
“Hallo, Granddaughter,” he says. “How’s the queen today?” He speaks slowly. His voice is resonant and southern and I feel like I’ve heard it before.
“Well,” I say, “last time I spoke to her she had a bunion.”
He stops walking.
“And where is this bunion?” he asks, poker-faced.
“On her left foot,” I say solemnly. “But it’s doing better now. I’ll tell the queen you asked after her.”
He walks up the last three steps. Then he holds out his arms and I walk into them. His jacket feels rough against my skin and smells of tobacco. I feel comfortable in his arms.
“How are you?” I say.
“Well, I’ve only got another three weeks or so to live, but apart from that, I’m fine.”
I start to laugh.
“Well, who’d have thought it. My long-lost-grandbaby’s got a million-dollar smile,” he says, laughing with me.
We walk into the sitting room, arm in arm, my grandfather, Earl Joe Stanford, and I, both of us direct descendents of Governor McKay of Georgia and proud of it. We sit down on
Billie is enjoying herself immensely.
“I love that you think she looks like me too! The more I look at her, the more I see it. Oh, yes! She has her dad’s hair. It was just like hers. Only shorter, of course.”
Dad doesn’t have red hair. He has white hair.
“Hey, Betty Sue,” Connie calls to the other waitress, who is setting a table across the room. “Ain’t that what happened to Mary Lynn? Got knocked up by a married guy, had a kid. Didn’t her sister raise it?”
“Sure did,” Betty Sue calls back.
“No one in your family could take her, huh?”
Billie is busy mopping the gravy up with what’s left of her biscuit. I suspect she’s pretending not to hear the question. Poor Billie. Why should she be judged by these strangers in a highway diner?
“Oh, Billie did the right thing,” I step in quickly. “I’ve had a wonderful upbringing. A wonderful life.”
“And now you’re back home.” Connie has tears in her eyes. “Well, c’mere.” I’m made to stand up. Connie’s mighty arms pull me to her ample bosom and hold me there.
We eat for free on the road to Georgia.
Chapter Eighteen
B ILLIE’S CABIN ON B UCK M OUNTAIN , Georgia, is twenty miles from the nearest shop. You get to the sitting room through the deck, from which you can look out over the mountains and a huge front lawn that has seen better days.
Billie tells me that my grandfather saw the land from the air one day, while flying one of his little planes, and fell in love with it. After building himself a log cabin, which he calls his “getaway place,” he built this house for Billie right next to it. Billie says it was his way of giving her some of his money before he died and “it all got into the hands of my greedy stepmother.”
It’s a wild but peaceful spot. I spend most of the evening sitting in a large bamboo chair on Billie’s deck, with Heathcliffe on my chest purring loudly. The air is cool, sweetened by the flowers growing wild in the uncut grass. The evening light fades to a soft orange and yellow, while Billie chats away about our genetic ancestors and the fact that creative talent is in the genes.
“Honey!!!” Billie’s voice wakes me suddenly at eight o’clock the next morning. “It’s time to meet your grandfather! Hurry! He’s here!”
I leap out of bed, throw on a dress and my Marks and Spencer cardigan, and run out to the deck. A silver Lincoln purrs up the narrow white drive and stops next to the creek. Out comes a tall old man wearing buckled boots, black pants, a black suede jacket with long tassels, and a big black cowboy hat that hides his face. He moves slowly toward the house. Halfway up the steps to the sitting room, he lifts the hat and looks up at me. His face is old and white and his eyes are startlingly blue, and full of laughter.
“Hallo, Granddaughter,” he says. “How’s the queen today?” He speaks slowly. His voice is resonant and southern and I feel like I’ve heard it before.
“Well,” I say, “last time I spoke to her she had a bunion.”
He stops walking.
“And where is this bunion?” he asks, poker-faced.
“On her left foot,” I say solemnly. “But it’s doing better now. I’ll tell the queen you asked after her.”
He walks up the last three steps. Then he holds out his arms and I walk into them. His jacket feels rough against my skin and smells of tobacco. I feel comfortable in his arms.
“How are you?” I say.
“Well, I’ve only got another three weeks or so to live, but apart from that, I’m fine.”
I start to laugh.
“Well, who’d have thought it. My long-lost-grandbaby’s got a million-dollar smile,” he says, laughing with me.
We walk into the sitting room, arm in arm, my grandfather, Earl Joe Stanford, and I, both of us direct descendents of Governor McKay of Georgia and proud of it. We sit down on
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