Read Online When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) by Kay Chandler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kay Chandler
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widened. A little chuckle slipped out. Then her eyes met mine and we burst into full blown, side-splitting laughter.
We couldn’t stop, though I’m not sure either of us understood why.
I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I wish I could quit laughing.”
She caught her breath. “Did . . . did I say something funny?”
“I’m not sure . . . what did you say?” My response seemed to ignite the giggles all over again and we laughed until our eyes ran water.
She held her hand over her mouth. “I simply asked if you like pecans.”
“Oh!” I took another deep breath, and the laughter died down. “Yeah, I reckon everybody likes pecans.”
“What about pecan pie?”
I nodded. “Yep! I reckon it’s about my favorite of all desserts. Mama makes a really good pecan pie.”
“Well, there’s a pecan orchard across the road from the parsonage and Daddy asked me to gather some nuts before supper. Mother always bakes pecan pies at Christmas. Why don’t you come with me, and you can pick up a sack full to take home to your mama.”
My head dropped. I needed time to think. Mama would be thrilled to get a bag of pecans, but suppose Zann’s folks walked over to check me out. What if her daddy took one look and said, “Isn’t this the boy the parishioners say lives with his unwed mama in Rooster Run?” Would Zann be shocked? Or did she know already? She wasn’t one to pry. At first I’d been glad she hadn’t asked many questions about my home life. Now, I worried. I figured the only reason she wouldn’t be curious would be because she had all the answers. I couldn’t decide which of the two scenarios could be worse.
Zann pulled me by the hand. “Come on, let’s go get those pecans.”
I had no desire to get close to the preacher’s house. The idea of a showdown with her father made me shudder, and if the scenario went as I pictured in my head, it wouldn’t be pretty. Yet, I let her lead me down the road. When she smiled, my insides waffled. It would’ve been easier for me to stack greasy chinaberries than to say ‘no’ to Zann Pruitt.
Though it was 55 degrees, I broke a sweat, as I considered what I might be letting myself in for. I figured her parents would have plenty of questions for me, and I was confident they wouldn’t like my answers.
I offered to wait in the pecan orchard while Zann ran across the road to the parsonage, to get a couple of sacks for the nuts.
I leaned against a tree, hoping to fade into the background whenever I heard a jalopy chugging down the dirt road. Apparently, I wasn’t as well hid as I’d hoped, for the car stopped, and a man yelled, “Hello, there.”
When he stepped out of the car and headed toward me, I didn’t have to be told who he was. Pastor Pruitt. He was a big man, at least six feet three and I guessed his weight to be in the 200-225 pound range. His black hair had grayed around the temples, giving him a most distinguished look. Dressed in a black suit, starched white shirt and black string tie, he carried himself with an air of reserve, much like I imagined an Army General, although I’d never personally met a real live General. But I’d seen pictures and read books on the Civil War. If the parson grew a beard, in a few years with a little more gray, he could pass for General Robert E. Lee.
He thrust his hand toward me. “Hezekiah Grave?”
I swallowed hard, hearing him call my name. He had a gentle voice, yet I had the distinct impression, if given cause, the same voice could raise the rafters off a barn. I shook in my brogans and nodded. “Yessir, I’m Hezekiah Grave.” Heat rose from my stomach to my face whenever I took his hand. With a firm grip, he squeezed my sweaty palm, gave a hard pump and let go.
A frightful curiosity churned in my belly as he gazed at me and stroked his chin. I assumed he was sizing me up. If his opinion wasn’t favorable, at least he was too courteous to let it show.
He grinned. “So you’re the young
We couldn’t stop, though I’m not sure either of us understood why.
I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I wish I could quit laughing.”
She caught her breath. “Did . . . did I say something funny?”
“I’m not sure . . . what did you say?” My response seemed to ignite the giggles all over again and we laughed until our eyes ran water.
She held her hand over her mouth. “I simply asked if you like pecans.”
“Oh!” I took another deep breath, and the laughter died down. “Yeah, I reckon everybody likes pecans.”
“What about pecan pie?”
I nodded. “Yep! I reckon it’s about my favorite of all desserts. Mama makes a really good pecan pie.”
“Well, there’s a pecan orchard across the road from the parsonage and Daddy asked me to gather some nuts before supper. Mother always bakes pecan pies at Christmas. Why don’t you come with me, and you can pick up a sack full to take home to your mama.”
My head dropped. I needed time to think. Mama would be thrilled to get a bag of pecans, but suppose Zann’s folks walked over to check me out. What if her daddy took one look and said, “Isn’t this the boy the parishioners say lives with his unwed mama in Rooster Run?” Would Zann be shocked? Or did she know already? She wasn’t one to pry. At first I’d been glad she hadn’t asked many questions about my home life. Now, I worried. I figured the only reason she wouldn’t be curious would be because she had all the answers. I couldn’t decide which of the two scenarios could be worse.
Zann pulled me by the hand. “Come on, let’s go get those pecans.”
I had no desire to get close to the preacher’s house. The idea of a showdown with her father made me shudder, and if the scenario went as I pictured in my head, it wouldn’t be pretty. Yet, I let her lead me down the road. When she smiled, my insides waffled. It would’ve been easier for me to stack greasy chinaberries than to say ‘no’ to Zann Pruitt.
Though it was 55 degrees, I broke a sweat, as I considered what I might be letting myself in for. I figured her parents would have plenty of questions for me, and I was confident they wouldn’t like my answers.
I offered to wait in the pecan orchard while Zann ran across the road to the parsonage, to get a couple of sacks for the nuts.
I leaned against a tree, hoping to fade into the background whenever I heard a jalopy chugging down the dirt road. Apparently, I wasn’t as well hid as I’d hoped, for the car stopped, and a man yelled, “Hello, there.”
When he stepped out of the car and headed toward me, I didn’t have to be told who he was. Pastor Pruitt. He was a big man, at least six feet three and I guessed his weight to be in the 200-225 pound range. His black hair had grayed around the temples, giving him a most distinguished look. Dressed in a black suit, starched white shirt and black string tie, he carried himself with an air of reserve, much like I imagined an Army General, although I’d never personally met a real live General. But I’d seen pictures and read books on the Civil War. If the parson grew a beard, in a few years with a little more gray, he could pass for General Robert E. Lee.
He thrust his hand toward me. “Hezekiah Grave?”
I swallowed hard, hearing him call my name. He had a gentle voice, yet I had the distinct impression, if given cause, the same voice could raise the rafters off a barn. I shook in my brogans and nodded. “Yessir, I’m Hezekiah Grave.” Heat rose from my stomach to my face whenever I took his hand. With a firm grip, he squeezed my sweaty palm, gave a hard pump and let go.
A frightful curiosity churned in my belly as he gazed at me and stroked his chin. I assumed he was sizing me up. If his opinion wasn’t favorable, at least he was too courteous to let it show.
He grinned. “So you’re the young
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