He chuckled. “Maybe. I guess. I just don’t want her to scare you off.”
“Why would she scare me off?”
“She can be a little…much. Let’s just put it that way.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I assured him with a smile. “You never know, I might scare her away.”
“Never,” he replied sweetly, reaching to open the truck door and slide out.
He was waiting for me at the front of the truck. Casually, he reached down and took my fingers in his then led me up the short walk. His hand was big and warm and his palm was a little rough from all the time he spent working and playing outdoors. It was like being held by heaven itself.
He opened the front door and indicated for me to precede him into the small, vividly decorated foyer. I had no sooner finished taking in the garish red and gold wall paper when a high-pitched squeal startled me, pulling my gaze further into the house.
Directly in front of me stood a tall, beautiful blonde woman who didn’t look at day over thirty, not nearly old enough to be Trace’s mother. She was dressed like a gypsy with a long flowing bright red skirt, bare feet and a scarf tied around her head. She was covering her mouth with her red-tipped fingers and her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Flinging her arms out wide, she rushed to where I stood, wrapped her arms around me and nearly squeezed the breath out of me in the tightest hug I’d ever experienced. She smelled of incense and coconut and she was much stronger than her thin frame hinted at.
When finally she released me, she slid her hands down my arms and grabbed mine, pulling them out and away from my body.
“You must be Peyton. You’re just as beautiful as Trace said.”
Although I felt the slow burn of blood filling my cheeks, she couldn’t have said anything to make me happier. Trace had not only told his mother about me, he’d told her I was beautiful.
“And you blush!” she said excitedly. She looked at Trace and grinned, repeating in a hushed voice, “She blushes, Tracey.”
“I know, Mom.”
Trace just smiled, tolerating his mother’s eccentricities—things like calling him Tracey for instance—with admirable aplomb. I would never have imagined that there would be so much more of Trace to love, so many more facets of his personality and his life to love. It seemed they were innumerable, and yet there was obviously a lot about him I didn’t know.
“Why don’t you fix us all something to drink, Tracey, and I’ll show the lovely Peyton to the den.”
With that, Trace gave me a wry grin and a look that said
whadaya do
and then turned to disappear into another area of the house. His mother took my hand in hers and tucked it up under her arm, pulling me in close to her like we were the best of friends.
“Now, you can call me Rebekah, with a k,” she said, pulling me down a short hall, “and you can ask me anything you want to know about Tracey, all right?” She looked over at me and smiled broadly, waggling her eyebrows as if we were going to be sharing delicious secrets.
“Okay,” I agreed, smiling in return. How could anyone not like a woman like Rebekah? Although they didn’t really look anything alike, I could see where Trace got his personality from. Sort of. If likability was hereditary, that is.
We had just settled into the deep cushions of the gold velvet couch when Trace came in carrying three glasses of what looked like tea.
“I hope you like sweet tea,” he said, handing me a glass first. “We lived in the south for a while and Mom really liked the way they made tea there. She’s made it that way ever since.”
I smiled and took the cool glass from him. “I haven’t tried it, but I’m sure I’ll love it.”
Trace handed his mother a glass and then sat in the chair facing the couch. Neither of them drank, but watched me. I realized they wanted me to taste it and give my opinion, so it was with both of them watching me that I took my first sip of sweet tea. And fell in love immediately.
“Oh my gosh, that is delicious!” And it was. I wasn’t even trying to be nice. It really was one of the most delectable drinks I’d ever tasted. “Is there lemon in this? I love lemon.”
“Tracey, she’s a keeper,” Rebekah loud-whispered to Trace garnering an eye-roll from him and a blush from me. “Yes, darlin’, it has lemon in it.”
The South had obviously stayed with Trace’s mother more than it had with him. Her speech showed definite signs of having lived there and her taste buds apparently still favored some things particular to Southern cuisine.
“There’s a good chance she might
let us
keep her if you don’t show her a bunch of embarrassing baby pictures.”
Rebekah gasped. “I have some of the most adorable pictures of Tracey as a baby. Wanna see?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Her reaction, one that ran contrary to what he’d been suggesting, was exactly as Trace had predicted. He had her figured out. No doubt about it.
“Of course,” I said, giving her a conspiratorial wink.
“Be right back,” she said, hopping up and rushing out of the room.
When she was long gone from earshot, Trace leaned forward in his chair and grinned at me. “What’d I tell you?”
“You definitely know your mother. No doubt.”
“Be prepared to see some truly grotesque photographs. I apologize in advance for all the baby butt cleavage you’re about to be exposed to.”
Rebekah returned with a photo album that was literally bulging with pictures. When she reclaimed her seat beside me, the top cover popped open as soon as she relaxed her hold on it. Loose photos came tumbling out and I reached to stop them before they fell into the floor.
Gathering the two dozen or so pictures, I stacked them neatly and held them up and asked Rebekah, “Do you mind?”
“Um, I can put them back in here so you can go through them all together.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind. This way I can study them more closely,” I said teasingly, grinning at Trace.
“O-okay.”
There were a variety of ages represented in the stack of photos I held. The one consistent thing was that Trace was adorable in every one. From pictures of him in his bath as a baby to his first little league baseball game to his first school dance, all the pictures showed a handsome, confident boy.
Trace’s father was present in some of the pictures. In one, he was holding Trace as he gripped what looked like a basketball trophy. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. His father was young and looked more like Trace than I had imagined he might. The resemblance was amazing.
In one of the photos, Rebekah was standing in the background as a muddy Trace held up a frog for the camera. Rebekah’s face looked blurry, but not really out of focus. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but the fuzziness didn’t go away. Absently, I swiped my thumb over her face in the picture, but it made no difference. There just seemed to be an odd haze over it.
The more pictures I shuffled, the heavier my head became. My hands, too. I felt the same way I did when I took an antihistamine—sluggish and drowsy.
When I’d finished with the stack of photos, I handed them to Rebekah. Within seconds, I began to feel a bit more lucid. Remembering my goal, I cleared my throat. Immediately, I saw Trace perk up as he took note of my signal.
“Hey, how ‘bout some popcorn for the movie? Will you help me eat some, Peyton?”
“Sure. I love popcorn.”
With that, Trace exited the room, leaving me alone with his mother for a few minutes.
She dropped the photos I’d given her back into the front of the album and flipped open the first page. Before she could speak, I slid in my first question.
In a hushed voice, as if afraid Trace might overhear, I asked gently, “Do you mind me asking what happened to Trace’s father? He never talks about him very much.”
I injected as much sweet innocence into my voice and my expression as I could muster. I wanted her to feel completely comfortable spilling her guts to me.
“He wouldn’t, I’m sure. He blames himself for what happened. It was a hunting accident, you see. Tracey was young. Wanted to take his first hunting trip. His father wanted to wait a few more days into the season, but Tracey wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to go that day. Shawn was shot that evening, Tracey’s first time in the woods. Tracey blames himself for being so adamant about going that day. He also thinks he should’ve been able to do something to save Shawn, like CPR or something. There’s nothing he could’ve done, though, and I’ve told him that for years, but it never makes a difference. He’s always shouldered his father’s death, thinks it was all his fault.”
“So Trace saw him get shot?”
“Unfortunately he did. He was devastated. For months afterward he barely ate, barely slept, got in lots of fights. It’s one of the reasons we moved around so much. He had a hard time pulling himself together after the funeral.”
Absently, Rebekah turned to the back of the book. There was a page that contained nothing except three photos of the funeral. One showed a young, somberly-dressed Trace standing between his mother and a man I didn’t recognize. Again, Rebekah’s face was blurry, but in this instance, so was the man’s.
The second picture was of the casket, covered with a beautiful spray of various white flowers. The third picture was of the headstone. I could clearly make out the epitaph,
Beloved Father, Husband and Friend.
The name and life span, however, were hazy looking. I could still make out Shawn Ephraim Kramer, but it looked smudged, just as many other images I’d seen looked. I wondered if Rebekah didn’t realize there was something wrong with her camera.
The sounds of Trace returning prompted Rebekah to hurriedly flip back to the front of the book.
“Wasn’t he such a cute kid?” she said, loudly enough for Trace to hear. “And look at that butt.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle when I heard Trace groan as he walked into the room. The smell of popcorn wafted over to tickle my nose and I looked up at him. He winked at me and grinned, making my stomach flip over happily.
“Have you humiliated me enough? Can we start the movie? Or are there more embarrassing pictures you two would like to giggle over?”
“Oh, stop your fussin’,” Rebekah chastised gently. “They’re just baby pictures. It’s not like they’re from last week.”
“Ew! Mom, come on,” Trace began, giving her a disgusted look. “That sounds terrible.”
“Oh,” she said, dismissing his mock concerns with a wave of her hand. “Peyton knew what I meant. Didn’t you, Peyton?”
She looked to me expectantly. “Of course.”
“Told ya,” she said, sticking her tongue out at Trace. When he simply stood staring down at her, palming a large bowl full of steaming popcorn, she cleared her throat and closed the photo album. “Well, I suppose you two would like to watch your movie. I’ve got some supper dishes to clean up anyway.”
With that, Rebekah scooted off the couch and moved aside so Trace could slide into the seat beside me. She left without another word and for a few moments, I sensed an uneasy tension between her and her son. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, so I said nothing.
Trace picked up a piece of popcorn, tossed it into the air and caught it in his mouth. With a sigh, he looked over at me and smiled, offering me the bowl. Uncertain of what had happened or how I should act, I grabbed a piece and munched as I watched him.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, grinning sheepishly. “I guess it would help if I put the movie in, huh?”
Setting the bowl in my lap, he got up and walked to the cabinet upon which the television sat. He glanced over his shoulder a couple of times, as if making sure his mother hadn’t come back into the room. When he finally regained his seat beside me, he leaned in close, as if to take more popcorn, and whispered in my ear.