resting on your shoulders.”
“The whole town?” Lily echoed, alarmed. Was the situation in Bygones truly that dire?
“Oh, not you personally,” Gayla said with a contrived little wave. “Besides, I hear that everyone has great hopes for this scheme.” She quickly changed the subject then, almost as full of questions as Isabella, though she managed to be a bit more subtle than Isabella had been.
Everyone exclaimed about Isabella’s berry tea, which they all drank while eating heaping helpings of Ginny Bronson’s flag cake, a confection topped with whipped cream, strawberries and blueberries. The Fourth of July, Peter Bronson joked, was always a “berry good time.”
After the cake they all trouped outside, carrying folding lawn chairs, and up to the crest of a low hill behind the house overlooking a pond, where a space had been cleared. Peter opened a box, and the fun began with Tate and Bud, who were obviously good friends, setting off the fireworks. Jay sat in his grandfather’s lap, while Isabella sat in her grandmother’s, oohing and aahing over every bang and bright splash of color. By the time the last starburst drifted into the dark mirror of the pond, Jay snored on his grandpa’s shoulder and Isabella’s eyelids drooped, though how either could entertain the notion of sleep with all the noise was beyond Lily’s understanding.
As the party walked back to the house, Peter talked about his forebears. “This was all part of the original homestead of Saul Bronson,” he said. “He came to the state in 1870 from St. Louis.”
“Isabella said something about a disagreement over a girlfriend,” Lily ventured warily.
“Mmm-hmm. Sarabeth DeMonde. Both Paul and Saul courted her, but she chose Paul, prompting Saul to head west and lose himself out here on the prairie. Within a few months, though, Paul realized that Sarabeth was not worth losing his brother and only family over. He followed Saul to Kansas, and together the brothers founded the town, calling it Bygones in keeping with Saul’s decision to forgive and forget. The brothers enjoyed a sizable inheritance from their parents, who were in shipping, and converted it into land. Eventually both married. Saul and his wife lived in town. Paul and his family preferred the country. Guess we take after Paul.”
“I can see why,” she said, inhaling deeply, enjoying the relative quiet. A bird called in the distance, the sound haunting and strangely poignant. “What is that?”
“Whip-poor-will,” Tate answered. “I sit out here sometimes at night and listen to them for hours. Don’t know which I love more, them or the doves.”
“It’s that old owl around here that I love to hear,” Ginny said. “I go to sleep listening to that ‘hoo-hoo-hoo.’”
“I’ve got a sleepy baby bird right here,” Bud said, cradling his son against his chest.
“We’d better get back to the house and get him down for the night,” Gayla said.
“We’ll be along shortly,” Peter told them as they moved off toward their vehicle.
“Mom,” Tate said, “could you stay and get Isabella to bed while I run Lily back into town?”
“Of course, son. Your dad can ride on home with Gayla and Bud.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Isabella hugged Lily, saying a sleepy “G’night.”
“Good night, sweetie, and thank you for all the help today and the yummy tea and the invitation. I had a berry good time.”
Isabella giggled and went with her grandparents into the house. “It was nice to meet you, Lily,” Ginny called as she passed through the door held open by her husband.
“You, too. Good night.”
Tate walked her into the dark garage and opened the truck door for her again, handing her up into the passenger seat of the cab with exquisite care. Lily read that as accurately as a letter.
Dear Lily, I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. Please do not mistake it for anything more than common courtesy. Sincerely, Tate Bronson.
She thought of
“The whole town?” Lily echoed, alarmed. Was the situation in Bygones truly that dire?
“Oh, not you personally,” Gayla said with a contrived little wave. “Besides, I hear that everyone has great hopes for this scheme.” She quickly changed the subject then, almost as full of questions as Isabella, though she managed to be a bit more subtle than Isabella had been.
Everyone exclaimed about Isabella’s berry tea, which they all drank while eating heaping helpings of Ginny Bronson’s flag cake, a confection topped with whipped cream, strawberries and blueberries. The Fourth of July, Peter Bronson joked, was always a “berry good time.”
After the cake they all trouped outside, carrying folding lawn chairs, and up to the crest of a low hill behind the house overlooking a pond, where a space had been cleared. Peter opened a box, and the fun began with Tate and Bud, who were obviously good friends, setting off the fireworks. Jay sat in his grandfather’s lap, while Isabella sat in her grandmother’s, oohing and aahing over every bang and bright splash of color. By the time the last starburst drifted into the dark mirror of the pond, Jay snored on his grandpa’s shoulder and Isabella’s eyelids drooped, though how either could entertain the notion of sleep with all the noise was beyond Lily’s understanding.
As the party walked back to the house, Peter talked about his forebears. “This was all part of the original homestead of Saul Bronson,” he said. “He came to the state in 1870 from St. Louis.”
“Isabella said something about a disagreement over a girlfriend,” Lily ventured warily.
“Mmm-hmm. Sarabeth DeMonde. Both Paul and Saul courted her, but she chose Paul, prompting Saul to head west and lose himself out here on the prairie. Within a few months, though, Paul realized that Sarabeth was not worth losing his brother and only family over. He followed Saul to Kansas, and together the brothers founded the town, calling it Bygones in keeping with Saul’s decision to forgive and forget. The brothers enjoyed a sizable inheritance from their parents, who were in shipping, and converted it into land. Eventually both married. Saul and his wife lived in town. Paul and his family preferred the country. Guess we take after Paul.”
“I can see why,” she said, inhaling deeply, enjoying the relative quiet. A bird called in the distance, the sound haunting and strangely poignant. “What is that?”
“Whip-poor-will,” Tate answered. “I sit out here sometimes at night and listen to them for hours. Don’t know which I love more, them or the doves.”
“It’s that old owl around here that I love to hear,” Ginny said. “I go to sleep listening to that ‘hoo-hoo-hoo.’”
“I’ve got a sleepy baby bird right here,” Bud said, cradling his son against his chest.
“We’d better get back to the house and get him down for the night,” Gayla said.
“We’ll be along shortly,” Peter told them as they moved off toward their vehicle.
“Mom,” Tate said, “could you stay and get Isabella to bed while I run Lily back into town?”
“Of course, son. Your dad can ride on home with Gayla and Bud.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Isabella hugged Lily, saying a sleepy “G’night.”
“Good night, sweetie, and thank you for all the help today and the yummy tea and the invitation. I had a berry good time.”
Isabella giggled and went with her grandparents into the house. “It was nice to meet you, Lily,” Ginny called as she passed through the door held open by her husband.
“You, too. Good night.”
Tate walked her into the dark garage and opened the truck door for her again, handing her up into the passenger seat of the cab with exquisite care. Lily read that as accurately as a letter.
Dear Lily, I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. Please do not mistake it for anything more than common courtesy. Sincerely, Tate Bronson.
She thought of
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