Page 29 of Faith Notes
There must be a hundred people here, and at the front of them all, Mrs. Adams, the town’s nosy busybody, and her old lady gang stand with a banner that reads, “Congratulations, Grayson and Georgia.”
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The sight in front of me is nothing short of a miracle.
My husband is standing in the middle of a crowd—smiling. It’s not even his forced, professional smile, either. It’s real, and that causes such happiness to sit inside my chest that I’m not sure what to do with it.
“That boy looks happy, doesn’t he,” Mrs. Adams says, sitting down beside me.
I cock my head, studying Grayson.
“Yeah, he does,” I say, not turning to look at her because I can feel her eyes burning a hole in the side of my head, and I’ve found that it can sometimes be dangerous when this old lady turns her attention to you.
“And what about you, Georgia girl? Are you happy?”
I don’t have to hesitate a moment before answering her. “Happier than I’ve been in a very long time.”
Her wrinkled hand reaches out and finds mine, squeezing my fingers in support when I finally look up at her, her green eyes sparkling with tears.
“Good. You deserve that.”
After Nate died, I hardly left the house. I struggled under the weight of everyone’s concern. I know they had good intentions, but good intentions or not—sometimes they made it harder.
But until this moment, I don’t think I understood their side of Nate’s death. Because that look, Mrs. Adams is giving me right now can only be described as relief.
Pure and simple relief.
I hadn’t realized how much everyone had been holding their breath, waiting for me to get better.
It’s a different kind of feeling to know that you are loved that deeply.
Mrs. Adams clears her throat. She might have a heart of gold, but the woman would rather chew off her own arm than let it show.
“Well, good,” she says, standing and clapping her hands together. “Now that that’s settled, we have one more thing we need to do before this party can come to a close.”
I furrow my brow, confused. We played the games and opened the presents; now everyone is just mingling. What else could there be?
But she claps a little louder before I can ask her, getting the rest of the group’s attention. The crowd quietens, turning toward us, and Mrs. Adams preens under the attention.
“Grayson, could you come up here with your beautiful wife?”
My husband works his jaw, embarrassed to have all eyes on him, but he does as she asks anyway. Once he stands beside me, the others in the old lady gang walk up and join Mrs. Adams. Each of them wears a sneaky smirk on their face. Grayson’s hand twitches.
The nerves are back.
His hand hangs beside his leg, and I reach for it, subtly grabbing it so no one else notices.
He squeezes mine, and without a word, I know he’s thanking me.
“Grayson,” Mrs. Adams says, drawing his gaze to her, “I don’t think we have to tell you that Georgia is important to this town. You understand that and love her all the more for it. But I think what we have to tell you is that you are also important to this town. I know we’ve had a funny way of showing it in the past, but we want to make it clear now.”
Mrs. Carlton, another member of Mrs. Adams’s gang, steps forward, taking over where Mrs. Adams left off. “We got something for you, and we hope that you will accept it, as well as our apology for our behavior in the past.”
A box is passed down the line of older women until Grayson has to let go of my hand to grab it. I move my hand to his arm, watching him closely. His face is blank, but his Adam’s Apple keeps bobbing as he swallows over and over. He slides his hand underneath the wrapping paper, and his hands shake as he pulls it off.
I hold my breath, waiting to see what’s inside, and I think the rest of the room does, too.
Anticipation turns to confusion when he pulls out a piece of paper with a drawing on it.
