The Sweet Taste of Muscadines by Pamela Terry

Author:Pamela Terry [Terry, Pamela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2021-03-16T00:00:00+00:00

The dewy air outside hung wetly on every palm and palmetto. The sand stuck to the soles of our shoes like damp salt. Henry and I followed along in Dot’s great plaid wake till we emerged from the sticky cloud of pine trees into the unfiltered glare of the sun. It shone on the emerald-green marsh grass like unmeltable ice, almost painful to the eye. Trails of dark water snaked through the marsh, old roadways well traveled by sea trout and alligator. They call this land the Low Country, a region that sits serenely in the palm of the earth’s hand, so close to the sea that grasses and salt water intertwine like tapestry threads.

“This is really a beautiful place,” I said, my voice no louder than a whisper.

“Yes, nowhere on earth quite like it,” Dot said. “I was born here, and I tell you, when I’m away from this place, it feels like my heart won’t beat properly. These marshes get into your bloodstream. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. I kind of think your uncle feels the same way now.”

“He must,” I said. “He’s been down here a long, long time.”

“I suppose it’s you we have to thank for how well he’s doing,” Henry said. I felt the shame of irresponsibility creeping up my spine and could hear the same in his voice. “We should have checked on him more often.”

“No, now, don’t you two beat yourselves up about that. He’s been just fine. It’s only recently that his memory’s been a bit sketchy. Like I said, I’ve talked to your mother about it. And I know you two live a good ways off. Of course, Audie would have a fit if he knew I’d ever called her. The only time I’ve seen that man lose his temper was when I mentioned her name. And if you’ll forgive my candor, your mother wasn’t a great deal of help. She didn’t seem to want to talk about him at all herself.” The old lady stood facing the water, but I could see her eyes blazing in profile.

Henry was staring out to the blue-green line where the marsh melted into the sky. Almost to himself he whispered, “He thinks I’m his brother. He thinks I’m Daddy.”

“Yes, I noticed that.” Dot spoke softly and motioned to a swath of thick grass that carpeted this side of the house. “Come on, there’s some shade over here.” We followed her to a cluster of lawn chairs that were grouped beneath the spreading limbs of a gargantuan live oak. Slightly nauseous from the rich breakfast I was so unused to eating, I sat down gratefully with my back to the kitchen window beyond which my uncle was washing the dishes. A salt-flavored breeze brushed my cheek.

“So,” said Dot as she eased herself into her chair. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Henry rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Our mother’s died,” he said. “A few days ago. And we found some letters that she’d kept hidden for years.

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