Free Old Wounds by Vicki Lane Page A

left over from the grown-ups’ Sunday lunch, and hid them away in the recycling box just inside the barn door. Pa began to button up his shirt and Uncle Wade retrieved his T-shirt and pulled it hastily over his head.
    Who is it, Rosie? he whispered, with the sly look that meant he was getting ready to tease her. Is it the sheriff coming to get me for jaywalking in Ransom? No! He’ll never take me! Promise you won’t let him
—
    Hello the house! The old woman’s voice rang out just as she and the young man came into sight. Elizabeth moved to meet them, smiling broadly.
    Hello to you. The house isn’t finished yet and we’re camping out in the barn. Were you—?
    The woman, a plump little person in a printed cotton dress and worn tennis shoes, beamed at them all. So you uns is the Florida people Dessie was telling me about! Now, you must be Lizzie Beth, and I reckon this young un to be Rosie. Bright eyes
darted from Sam to Wade and back again. Law, look at that red hair! But which one of you fellers is Sam and which one is his brother? I don’t believe I can make it out.
    The young man who had accompanied her hung back, looking at the ground and tracing circles in the dirt with his stick. Rosie studied him carefully. He was a grown-up—a dark shadow along his jawline told her that. But something about him was different. At last, seeming to feel her gaze, he looked up and his limpid blue eyes met hers with the sweet innocence of a baby. He smiled shyly and ducked his head again.
    Ay law, where’s my manners? I know who you uns is but I ain’t yet named who it is come disturbin your Sunday rest. I’m Birdie Gentry and this here’s my boy, Cletus. We live down the branch in that little log house nigh the church. Me and Cletus took us a notion to go a-visitin after dinner and Dessie said you was a friendly set of somebodies and you’d not care for us coming up here.
    The little woman turned to her son. Cletus, give Miz Goodweather that berry basket.
    Slowly, carefully, Cletus lifted the odd bark cylinder with its long vine carrying-strap from around his neck and held it out to Elizabeth. Raspberries, he said. Me and Mommy picked em for you uns. And I made the berry basket.
    Please, said Elizabeth, you all come get a seat in the shade. She waved them toward the shed. Oh, Sam, Wade—just look at the beautiful black raspberries! Thank you so much, Cletus. Thank you, Miz Gentry. These look wonderful!
    Now, honey, you just call me Miss Birdie like ever one does. Even my man, Luther, calls me Miss Birdie, and we’ve been wed these forty-four years. Luther would of come too but his arthuritis is painin him bad today. He made it to the church house this mornin for preachin but he ’lowed he’d just stay home this evening and leave the loaferin to me and Cletus.
    Rosemary watched as her mother led the two visitors into the shade and insisted that they rest themselves in the rocking chairs. Rosie! her father called. Take the pitcher, please, and go get us some cold water at the spring.
    She set the blue-striped crockery pitcher on the flat rock below the pipe where the icy pure water poured out in a thin but steady stream. As the pitcher filled, she considered. This Miss Birdie sounded a lot like Dessie but talked faster. They both used strange words that she didn’t know but could guess at. Miss Birdie said that she and Cletus were loaferin around. Was that something to do with bread? Or shoes? No, probably it was like when Pa said he had to quit loafing and get to work on the house if they wanted to be in before winter. Nothing whatsoever to do with bread or shoes.
    The pitcher overflowed and she picked it up, using both hands, and walked carefully back to the barn. Mum had glasses ready and had put the raspberries into a bowl and set out a plate of cookies. The talk had wakened Laurel, who now sat in Miss Birdie’s lap, blinking up at her.
    Well, if hit ain’t the purtiest thing! The little woman twisted a red lock of