Free On Blue Falls Pond by Susan Crandall Page B

that; time with her grandmother had stabilized her, just as she’d known it would.
    Of course, Glory had carefully avoided Laurel Creek Road.
That
she wasn’t ready for.
    The gray clouds boiled overhead, fueled by the summer heat. The wind rose, sending dust skittering across the street and the occasional breeze-filled Wal-Mart bag sailing by. It would have been much smarter to stay home, or at least wait out the storm.
    But home had hazards of its own. She didn’t want to spend the entire day examining her unwarranted aversion to an innocent little boy.
    She cruised slowly up and down the streets in the six-block area that was downtown Dawson. As much as she felt that she herself had changed, it seemed odd to see that the town had remained much the same as the day she’d driven away.
    Dawson was off the well-beaten tourist path, so it hadn’t experienced the proliferation of gift and trinket shops, motels and pancake houses, condos and time shares that catered to those passing through to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. And even though she’d run from the place, Glory was suddenly glad of its constancy. Having lived in several places, she could see it so clearly; urban people, in their quest for a rural experience, had brought with them all of the congestion and growth of suburbia—the very thing they were running from. Dawson remained an island of independence. The town council had debated for years over the advisability of attracting tourism.
    Granny had often said that if the tourists came in—she was getting out. Glory had thought it tough talk; after all, Granny had lived in Cold Springs Hollow her entire life. But the reality was, if there was a steady stream of hikers parking on the road and parading back to Blue Falls Pond, the hollow wouldn’t be the same.
    She prayed for Granny’s sake it wouldn’t come to that. She couldn’t see Granny living anywhere else on God’s green earth. Granny—who might someday have trouble seeing the rainbow in the spray at Blue Falls, who might very soon have a hole in her sight that would affect so much of what she loved.
    As Glory drove the streets thinking of Granny’s visual clock ticking away, she passed the Dixie Bee Flower Shop and got an idea. She parked the car and went inside.
    No one was at the counter, so she browsed the displays as she waited. Plenty of grandkids came to Granny with fistfuls of wildflowers, but a real flower delivery . . . Glory couldn’t recall Granny getting a single one. Gran’s own garden was filled with day lilies and snapdragons, so those wouldn’t do. It had to be special.
    Roses? Everyone sent roses. She wanted something that said, Tula Baker.
    “May I help you?”
    Glory had been so deep in thought, the voice startled her. She turned from a refrigerator case and looked at the woman behind the counter. She recognized Mrs. Landry, Jill Wilson’s mother and Scott’s grandmother. Mrs. Landry was an older version of her daughters—willowy, fair, classic wholesome beauty. Jill’s younger sister Jennifer had been in Glory’s class—prom queen as a matter of fact.
    “I’m looking for something original, for a home delivery.” Glory wasn’t really ready for a trip down memory lane; with any luck at all, Mrs. Landry wouldn’t remember her.
    There was a chilly edge to the woman’s smile. Glory attributed it to the fact that Mrs. Landry had come from up north and always held herself slightly apart, as if she’d had a more
refined
upbringing. “Planter or cut flowers?”
    “Flowers,” Glory said. “Something simple and . . . strong.”
    “Let’s see.” Mrs. Landry stepped around the counter to the cooler. Leaning close to the glass, she said, “We have bird-of-paradise, here.”
    “I don’t think that’s quite right.” Glory had never liked those orange-headed, long-beaked bird-looking flowers; they gave her the creeps.
    Mrs. Landry said, “Let me think . . . strong . . .” She tapped her chin with one