June (44 page)

They’d planned on a small holiday, just the three of them. Nick thought it would be a riot to use the old silver, so they’d polished for a week—candelabras and platters, pitchers and utensils. Cassie just wanted to get a rotisserie chicken, but Nick and Lindie insisted on the turkey and the stuffing, the mashed potatoes two different ways (with and without skins), the green bean casserole with those crunchy onions on top. Lindie and Nick wanted split pants and leftovers for weeks. Cassie tolerated their desires because they were something like family now, and because Nick ran to her in the doorway and lifted her up and swathed her neck in a million kisses and begged for a proper feast until she relented, eyes flashing, cheeks aflame.

She was taking pictures of everything now, of the filigreed hinges on the doors, and Nick’s eyelashes, and Lindie’s hand upon the banister. And although Cassie knew it didn’t make logical sense—there was no way a house could lean into a touch—it seemed as though Two Oaks was doing just that, like an old dog getting a scritch from the human who knew just where he needed it. The foyer was brighter these days, seemingly lit from within, the water once again running clear from the faucets, and the ants were gone.

In bed at night, after they made love, Nick and Cassie whispered about their plans for St. Jude. Already, some of Jack’s money had come through. They’d start small, with the Two Oaks bedrooms. Then the empty buildings downtown. Artists, she whispered. Painters, musicians, writers. A place for them to come and make. A way to breathe life back into a town that believed it was dying.

“I told Elda I want to share Jack’s money,” Cassie said. “With her. And with Tate.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Nick replied, pulling away.

She put her hand on his chest and felt his pulse return to normal. “I know,” she said, kissing him. “But it’s the right thing to do. What June would want. What I want.”

And Two Oaks could hardly believe its luck. Lindie was back. She was startlingly old, yes, but absolutely recognizable in the sure and enthusiastic manner with which she invigorated the stairs with her lively step. Cassie and Nick filled the bedroom with their human hopes and pleasures, and watched movies together on the yellow couch, and even, sometimes, made love on the dining room table—something that had not occurred since the succulent, early days of Lemon and Apatha’s marriage.

Did all this togetherness mean the sisters would return? When would the artists arrive? Would there be children? The house didn’t want to be greedy, but it hoped the human joy it felt heralded the promise of so much more.

Thanksgiving morning, they were in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Cassie dropped the
Joy of Cooking
on the kitchen table with a relieved “I’ll get it,” and Nick and Lindie exchanged an exasperated look.

The doorbell rang again, a proper ring; she’d had that fixed as soon as the first bit of Jack’s money arrived.

Before Cassie even opened the door, she sensed that a troop of people had gathered out there. She wondered, for a moment, if she was dreaming, especially as she opened the door and found Elda standing before her, a pumpkin pie in hand. But these people on her porch were loud and unruly as the dream people had never been. They swarmed her. Enfolded into Elda’s bosom, she realized that they were Elda’s people, her brood, her babies, and that they had brought Thanksgiving.

Boys scrambled up the porch railing, men and women air-kissed and high-fived and strode into the house. “Richie, get down from there pronto,” Elda bellowed. She took Cassie in with a long, careful look. “Next year, you come to me.”

They came inside, all of them. Twenty? Twenty-five? They didn’t hold still long enough for Lindie to get a number. Little boys jumped on the furniture. Wives took over the kitchen. Elda’s sons clapped Cassie on the back and called her “cuz.” They’d flown into Columbus the night before. They’d rented a party bus. They’d hired a caterer who’d be here within the hour.

“I found us a copy of
Erie Canal
!” Elda told her, as one of the sons brought in a projector and a folding screen. “I know football isn’t Nick’s thing.”

It was a good move, the sneak attack, a real feat to pull it off, and Nick and Lindie and Cassie appreciated the many sacrifices, small and large, that had been made in order to bring this unwieldy crew all the way to rural Ohio. Cassie accepted wine. She sat on the yellow couch. Two Oaks was finally like the Two Oaks of her dreams—bustling, alive, full.

Eventually, they sat. Adult table, children’s table, food for miles. Elda offered an Apache blessing, and reminded the crew of the smallpox blankets, because, as much as she loved the holiday, it’s important to remember our history. A Catholic prayer was uttered in Spanish. Cassie stood and tinked her glass and thanked them all for coming. She looked out over everyone gathered in that nut brown room with its chocolate tapestries, and thought: this is my family. Nick. Lindie. The grand Hernandez hurricane. She was filled, first, with gratitude, and then with sorrow. So many hadn’t made it: Her mother. Her father. June. Jack. Arthur. Diane.

Tate. Yes, even Tate.

And then, before she could sit again, the doorbell.

They, all of them, lifted their heads. They watched her go, through the foyer, toward the light.

She opened the door.

Tate. Tate Montgomery herself, nervous and taut. She held a painting in her hand. The painting, Cassie saw, was of her grandmother. Impossibly young, flawed and true, looking out at them as though she could see them there, together, on her porch; as though she had been waiting for many years to witness this moment.

“Elda invited me.” Tate’s voice shook as her hand lifted the painting. “And this was in his things.”

Cassie saw that Tate feared, even suspected, she might be turned away; she had risked that possibility by coming. But she had come.

Cassie took the painting. She held the door open with her strong and sturdy back. A rattling of leaves scuttled across the wide, old porch. One after the other, the women went inside.

There was a real Lemon Gray Neely. He was my grandmother’s great-uncle, a wildcatter who built a beautiful yellow brick mansion in the middle of small-town Ohio in 1895. But that’s where he and the character I’ve named after him diverge. I’d like to thank Mr. Neely posthumously for allowing me to borrow his moniker, a few of the facts about him, and imagine everything else.

There is no St. Jude, but the town was inspired by a real place, the one in which my grandmother was born in 1906. On my research trip for this novel, my mother and I were welcomed with open arms by the infinitely kind Brenda and Craig McDermitt and their daughters, especially Malika and Marketa; they live in, and are in the process of restoring, Mr. Neely’s home, which I tried to capture on paper as best I could. These lovely people seemed to think nothing of welcoming a stranger—armed with a tape measure and a camera—into their home for days on end; it goes without saying this book would never have been written without their immense generosity.

I received a great deal of historical insight into Auglaize County from my cousin Kathy Schwartz, who grew up very close to where I imagined St. Jude to be; local historian and font of knowledge George Neargarder, who welcomed me into his home to share his remarkable personal archives; the well-informed librarians at the St. Marys Community Public Library; and Kalvin Schanz, who spied me taking a picture of Mr. Neely’s home in 2010, and subsequently welcomed my extended family for a daylong tour of the town, whetting my appetite to tell this story. Liz Silver was incredibly helpful with legal advice about inheritance in the state of California. Mark Wynns at TCM handed me
Raintree County
on a platter, which proved to be an apt production model for
Erie Canal.
Charlie Malloy at Fastest Labs of Columbus schemed DNA outcomes and percentages with me so I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. Any errors or embellishments in the spots where this work of fiction intersects with real life are mine alone.

Emily Raboteau is the best writing partner (and bosom friend) I could ask for; without our biweekly meetings—and her consistent, careful feedback—this book simply would not have been written. Jennifer Cayer read with her perennially keen, kind eye. Elisa Albert, Dan Blank, Julia Fierro, Tammy Greenwood, Brian Gresko, Nicole C. Kear, Victor LaValle, Caroline Leavitt, Kimberly McCreight, and Amy Shearn are just a few of the literary friends to whom I regularly turn for companionship and inspiration.

Anne Hawkins is an extraordinary, wise true north who has never steered me wrong. Christine Kopprasch has remained a steadfast booster of, and believer in, this project, even as she’s gone on to sparkle elsewhere.

Lindsay Sagnette championed this book from the start; I’m proud to call such a powerful, smart editrix my partner. Rebecca Welbourn, Kayleigh George, and Rachel Rokicki raise the bar on a daily basis; they’re a remarkable team who believes in my work more than I do. And I’m infinitely grateful to Maya Mavjee and Molly Stern for giving me a literary home.

Rose Fox and Hilary Teeman have proven themselves invaluable; this final draft would not have been achieved without them. The work of Susan Brown, Christine Tanigawa, and Heather Williamson is meticulous and vital. Lauren Dong and Elena Giavaldi have made this book more beautiful than I ever imagined. And the whole team at Crown, from foreign rights to the sales team—and everyone in between—has my deepest thanks and admiration.

Amy March opened her exquisite home and cared for my child for days on end. Those others who cared for him over the course of this writing—too many to name—are my heroes. As are the many friends I’m blessed to call family, who’ve helped in immeasurable ways (you know who you are).

The family I’m blessed to call family is, well, the best. Kai Beverly-Whittemore read and cheered and is ever my closest friend; thanks to her, I’m now lucky to call Rubidium Wu my kin. Robert D. Whittemore is a lodestar of support and belief. David Lobenstine is my rock and my companion. Quentin Lobenstine is my bright sun, who has taught me more about storytelling than I ever knew before. And I can’t imagine writing a book without Elizabeth Beverly, who schemes, travels, measures, brainstorms, troubleshoots, researches, asks, drives, reads, listens, welcomes, houses, feeds, distracts, counsels, and believes like no other person I know. She’s the one who said, “The name Lemon Gray Neely has always sounded, to me, like a character in a book.” Well, thanks to you, now he is.