Page 85 of The Hermit on the Hill

Voices rose around me, and they must have thanked me, but I had a brief existential crisis as I realized I didn't hate these people. I wasn't sure I'd ever forgive them, but I didn't hate them. Maybe I even understood their point of view in a tiny way.

My grandmother had always been larger than life to me. I'd one hundred percent believed she possessed real magic, and I'd believed nothing could fell her. Even when she was at her sickest and I was terrified, I still believed she'd pull through. I believed she'd rouse and chant a few words and hop up perfectly healthy.

The folks in town should have known better, but I could believe they'd truly seen my grandmother as capable of saving herself.

I tuned back into the group when a woman, white-haired and wrinkled, but dressed in jeans and a top that wouldn't look out of place on a twenty-year-old, stopped in front of me and placed a hand on my shoulder to get my attention. She was short enough and I was tall enough that I could look her in the eye from my seat.

"Hello, Sam. My name is Martha Ingram. I'm so sorry I didn't do more for your grandmother and for you."

"Thank you." I expected that to be the end of it, but she didn't move.

"You're right, you know. The others are right, too. We believed your grandmother was tough as nails and could survive anything, but we didn't accept her fully into our community. Folks talked about you and your sister looking too thin, or wearing worn clothes, and we knew your grandmother didn't have enough to care for you properly, but your grandmother was too proud to ask for help and we were too selfish and self-righteous to offer."

"You thought you were better than her?"

She nodded slowly, like it took work to agree. It probably did. It was never easy to admit your faults or your mistakes. "We did. I did. And we thought she ought to move to town and get a proper job, comport herself like everyone else, maybe find herself a husband. It was wrong." She pressed her hands to her chest. "You aren't the first person to point this out to us, you know. Carrie Harrison, um, Reynolds now, she helped the children of a local man the rest of us here in town hadn't bothered to help, because he was a bit rough and addicted to drugs, not a good worker or an upstanding citizen by our measure. I've tried to do better. Many of us here in town have tried to do better. I want you to stay, Sam. Your grandmother would have wanted you to stay, and convincing you to do what she would have wanted is the only kindness I have left to do for her." She swiped at her damp eyes.

Whatever anger I'd had left faded. I wasn't perfect myself, and I couldn't yell at an elderly woman who was crying in front of me. I had no idea what to say.

"Yes, Sam," the woman next to me, obviously having overheard Martha, said. "You should stay. You belong to this town."

Others around us joined in until the entire circle had heard and agreed. My damn throat got tight, and I swallowed down the tears. The resident grump couldn't be caught crying.

Brittany rescued me once again. "I don't remember my Nana much. Could y'all tell us what you remember about her?"

Silence reigned for a long moment, and then everyone tried to talk at once. In a few more moments, they'd agreed to go in order around the circle.

The first woman credited Nana with giving her a love potion that made her best friend fall in love with her. Thirty years later, they're still married. The next woman told a story about Nana saving her baby from a terrible fever.

The stories continued, most of them happy, some of them sad, but my favorites were the ones that revealed something more personal about Nana.

Everyone agreed her apple pie was the best they'd ever had. She would bring one to new parents, to newlyweds, and to mourners. She claimed a good apple pie could make anyone's day sweeter.

Several people remembered Nana had a comforting way about her. Like a superhero, she would walk into a room and there was no room for worry or fear. Many people remembered Nana's gentle hands and the soft lullabies she sang to sick children.

They also remembered her sense of humor. Apparently, she had a dry humor that many people missed if they weren't paying attention.

Brittany and I shared what we remembered of Nana as the only real mother we'd ever had. Before I realized it, three hours had gone by and folks had started leaving, heading out to family dinners or back to their jobs or home to rest.

Soon, Brittany, Nora Reynolds, and I were the only people left in the room. I didn't like the way Nora was eying me like she had something to say, her smile sweet, but her gaze steely.

Just as I'd been thinking maybe I could stick around for a while, my heart sank. If Nora hated me and wanted me out of town, staying would only make Jenna's relationship with her mother more difficult. I didn't want to cause Jenna more trouble.

"Sam," Nora said, hands on hips. "I don't know what happened between you and my daughter, but I want you to know that you will always be welcome at my table. You are the father of my grandson and I want to get to know you."

"I think that's up to Jenna."

Nora frowned. "Jenna has politely asked me to butt out of her life, but the relationship I build with you has nothing to do with her. If you stay in town, you will have a place in my grandson's life. I want you to know you can always come to me."

"So you can monitor me?"

She raised her chin. "You are a brutish man, Sam. No sense of tact or propriety at all."

"Nope. I prefer the truth to tact and propriety."

She crossed her arms over her chest, the giant purse on her arm jutting out between us. "I suppose I can respect that. Yes, I want to have a relationship with you, so I'm not shut out from the choices you make with my grandson."

"I can appreciate that. I'm willing to keep you updated about what happens when he's with me, but I won't have a relationship with you behind Jenna's back and I won't have a relationship with you if it in any way upsets her."

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