How Sweet It Is by Alice Wisler Read Free Book Online Page B

road—the one with no guardrails and no room for any large vehicle.” I thought I was heading over the cliff yesterday.
    His eyes are brown and deep-set, and his hair is auburn streaked with wisps of gray. He has the widest mouth I’ve ever seen. When he smiles, I see what appear to be hundreds of teeth stretching for yards. “You’re Ernest’s granddaughter,” he says. “His granddaughter.”
    That part he has right. “Yes.”
    “Yes siree. Regena Lorraine told me about you.” He shuffles his shoes, looks at them, and then peers again at me.
    “Oh?” I imagine my aunt sitting down with this man and spilling out my recent past, fretting over my romance-gone-bad as she encourages him to drink a cup of sassafras tea.
    If she’s told him all about me, why did she forget to tell me about him?
    With a grin, he says, “Told me you’re from Atlanta. Yes, yes, siree.” His tone has a halting quality about it, almost as though he is reading his words from a script he isn’t fully comfortable with.
    “I’m Deena.”
    His large, calloused, warm hand grips mine. “I’m Jonas.
    I’m here to fix the pipes.”
    “Is something wrong with the pipes?” I have visions of water leaking while I sleep and waking to find my bed being carried by torrents out of the cabin, over the cliffs, down to Fontana Lake.
    He winks. Few people can pull off a wink without looking corny. He is one of the few. “You can never be too sure. Never too sure.” With that, he enters the cabin, his heavy work boots crushing the hardwood. He seems harmless and a little different.
    He sees I’ve been unpacking. I watch his eyes rove among the boxes sitting on the sofa, the countertops, the dining room floor.
    “Don’t let me bother you, Deirdre. You go right on doing what you need to do.” He swings his wrench a little too swiftly for my comfort. “Yes siree. I’ll be checking.”
    This time when he smiles, I think part of his mouth has stretched clear to Tennessee.

nine

    M iriam runs The Center at the Nantahala Presbyterian Church in Bryson City. I suppose her title would be Director. She’s part Cherokee and part Swiss, she tells me. Her eyes are the kind of blue that makes me think of an autumn sky, and her skin is creamy brown. Her hair is shiny, like the coat of a seal. Immediately, I am surprised to see that although she is dressed in Ann Taylor’s newest spring line—a scoop-neck aqua satin blouse and black skirt—on her feet are grass-green tennis shoes.
    She tells me that my grandfather was a big supporter of The Center and of her desire to establish a 501(c)(3) organization to keep kids off the streets after school and during the summer months. I am learning new things about my grandpa every day. It’s like Christmas, opening all of these surprising revelations. I used to think all he cared about was food and travel.
    We stand in Miriam’s office, a tiny compartment to the left of the hallway in an annexed section of the church. I wonder why a director doesn’t wear heels. She tells me how the younger kids in the preschool program at the church enjoyed having my grandfather read books to them. “Dr. Seuss was never the same for me after your grandfather read Oh, the Places You’ll Go . We all miss him here.” Her smile is warm; her eyes sparkle.
    I am glad to know my grandpa was thought of so fondly, but I’m not sure I can recall Oh, the Places You’ll Go . I make a mental note to brush up on my Dr. Seuss and then have a fleeting thought that maybe Grandpa gave my sister and me Green Eggs and Ham one Christmas. As children of pig farmers, we were used to getting books, cards, and comments about pigs, ham, bacon, tenderloin, and pork chops.
    When I was small, my grandparents still lived in Pennsylvania, where Dad was born. Dad moved to Georgia in his twenties after attending business school. I recall him telling me that as a child, kinfolk would comment that Edna, his mother, must have forgotten which town she was in