of her teenage sons, Harry and Chas, as well as her husband, Hank.
Looking at the bunch, she thought there could be no doubt who the boys’ father was. Not that she and Hank looked all that different from each other. The boys both had their parents’ blond hair and bright blue eyes. Harry, at seventeen, had the Blakely height and slender build, while it looked as though Chas would be shorter and more muscular, like Hank. Though at fifteen, he might sprout another few inches and be taller than his father.
Hank’s neatly cropped blond head emerged from behind the Post and Courier. “We won’t believe what?”
“That was Mama June. You’ll never guess who’s home!”
“Morgan,” answered Hank with little enthusiasm, returning his attention to the newspaper.
Nan felt a flutter of disappointment that his quick answer stole the thunder from her announcement. She rallied. “Yes! That doesn’t surprise you?”
“Not really. Your father is in the hospital. It’s only fitting he’d come home.”
“What’s the big deal?” Chas asked sullenly, disappointed in the news.
“Yeah, who cares?” added Harry. “We barely know who he is.”
Her pale brows furrowed with displeasure at their lackluster reaction as she cut the heat on the stove with a quick twist of her wrist. “Well, it took me by surprise.”
Sometimes it was just plain hard living with a bunch of males, she thought. They just didn’t get it. Matters of family didn’t register. She was sick to death of listening to their endless sports reports or excruciating details about cars. Sometimes she felt as though she were talking to herself throughout the meal, desperately trying to engage them in conversation while they ignored her and shoveled food.
Nan looked at her sons. Despite their outwardly good looks, they sometimes struck her as spiritless. She didn’t detect the spark of drive or ambition or dreams that gave even ordinary-looking boys such appeal. She brushed aside her disappointment and told herself they were just going through a phase.
With practiced efficiency she gave the rice a final lift and poured the mass into a brightly colored serving bowl that coordinated with the dinner china. Then with a quick grab of serving spoons, she carried the rice and a bowl of buttered beans to the table of waiting men. She sat in her chair and they all bowed their heads and said the blessing.
“It’s a sorry state of affairs that y’all feel so blasé about your only uncle being in town.” Nan handed Harry the bowl of rice to pass.
“He’s not our only uncle,” corrected Harry, taking hold of the serving spoons and helping himself. “We’ve got Uncle Phillip and Uncle Joe living right close. We see them all the time.”
“On my side, I meant. In the Blakely family, there’s just me and Morgan.”
Hank relinquished his newspaper to take his turn with the rice. “I don’t know where you get this me and him stuff,” he argued. “Seems to me your brother is a me only kind of guy. In all the years I’ve known him, Morgan’s made it pretty clear how he feels about family. How long have we been married? We’ve seen him, what? Two or three times? It’s his own fault that his nephews don’t know who he is.”
“I know, I know,” Nan released in a moan, bringing the country-fried steak on a matching serving platter closer. Still, the criticism seemed to her unfair. “Morgan has a lot of history to deal with, don’t forget.”
Her hands rested on the platter as she paused and looked around the table. It was moments like this, seeing her family gathered together, that she treasured most. “I’m truly blessed to have you and the boys,” she said, gifting each of them with a loving look. “Morgan has nothing or no one. It’s just so sad, is all.”
“Uh, Mama…” Harry lifted his brows, his gaze intent on the meat.
“Oh.” The moment was gone. She reached out her hand with alacrity to pass the platter of meat around, followed by the beans. One by one the plates were topped with enormous mounds of rice, thick slices of fried steak and scoops of beans.
“Pass the gravy, Chas,” Harry demanded.
Nan rose to carry the serving dishes to the sideboard. The boys were growing faster than cotton in July and she never seemed able to fill the bottomless pits they called their stomachs. She sighed as she watched them dive into their plates. The thought that it would be polite to wait for their mother to be seated at the table before eating never even crossed their minds. She looked at Hank for support, but he was ladling gravy on his rice, oblivious to the poor manners of his sons.
“Boys…” she muttered as she reached for her glass and poured herself a liberal glass of wine. When she took her seat at the opposite head of the table, no one so much as lifted a head. Nan sipped her wine, shoving her plate aside.
At least they were eating together as a family, she told herself, tamping down the disappointment she always felt at mealtime. Mama June had always maintained lively discussions at the dinner table, encouraging each of her children to join in. Nan remembered heated debates and merciless teasing and, always, laughter.
At least until Hamlin died. Her brother had been so alive! A natural storyteller with a joke or a quip always dangling at his tongue. Everything had changed after he was gone. To this day, she mourned.
When Nan married, she’d tried to restore the vitality in her own family that she’d felt was lost in the Blakelys after the tragedy of her brother’s death had torn the family apart. At the very least, she was keeping the family dinner tradition alive.
Suddenly, she remembered something else.
“Oh, yes! Mama June wants us all to come for Sunday dinner.”
This announcement was met with rolled eyes and groans from the boys.
“You just stop that, hear? You haven’t been to see your grandmother in so long, she’s taken to asking after you. Don’t you realize how lonely she is with Granddaddy in the hospital? You two boys are the apples of her eye and it’s a scandal how seldom you pay her visits. I should take your car privileges away.” It was a feeble threat and everyone knew it. Still, she felt compelled to assert some semblance of authority. “You are going to Sunday dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they muttered, sullenly appealing to their father with their eyes.
Hank polished his glasses with his napkin, a habit she’d come to recognize as a preface to a lecture. “Morgan’s being here will just complicate things, you realize.”
“I don’t see how. He’s here to see Daddy. I don’t expect he’ll stay long.”
“Not if he’s true to form, he won’t. But you know your mama’s been real uneasy about leaving Sweetgrass, no matter how we’ve tried to reason with her.”
“I don’t expect his visit will make a difference one way or the other. More’s the pity. Mama June could use the support of her family now. I wish he would take an interest.”
“Are you so sure? We haven’t seen the will and he is the only remaining Blakely.”
She swirled her wine and replied dryly, “Last I
