Sweetgrass

Hours later, Morgan was applying the last coat of Charleston Green paint to the kitchen house front door when he heard a car pulling up to the house followed by Blackjack’s gruff bark of alarm. The dog’s arthritic legs strained under the effort of rising. Feeling like an old dog himself after a long morning of painting, he slowly straightened with one hand anchoring the small of his back. His gaze followed Blackjack’s rush toward the sound of crunching gravel.

From around the house, a tall, lean woman dressed in bleached jean lowriders and a cuffed white shirt walked toward him with a straight-backed, confident, hip-swaying gait. Her oversize, scuffed brown leather purse banged against her slender hip in steady, seductive rhythm. Morgan watched her, squinting in the noonday sun. Against the glare, her long, wildly curly hair seemed an aura around her head that captured and held the golden light.

“Hi there,” she called out as she approached. Her voice lilted at the end, like a song.

“Hello,” he responded with more reserve as she breezily sauntered near. “Can I help you?”

Up close, the force of her personality dominated his first impression. The young woman vibrated with life. It sparked out from her bright blue eyes and shone from her very white, no-holds-barred smile.

“I hope so,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes. “I’m looking for the Blakely residence.”

“Well, you found it.”

“Good! The directions said to turn in at the Sweetgrass gate and you’re the only house I’ve found.” She put out her hand. “I’m Kristina Hays. The agency sent me.”

He blinked again. “You’re the new aide?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile faltering. “I hope you’re expecting me.”

Morgan quickly recouped. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m Morgan. Morgan Blakely.”

She took his hand and he was impressed by the strength of her handshake.

“You seem surprised to see me,” she said.

“It’s just…well, you’re different than I expected.” He didn’t quite know what he expected, exactly. “Younger,” he added lamely.

“I don’t believe in age. But don’t worry, I’m old enough. And I’ve been doing this for years, though not in South Carolina. I only moved here a few months ago. From California,” she added, as though this fact alone qualified her for the job.

Blackjack, who had been circling anxiously, finally could bear it no longer and nosed closer, boldly began sniffing her feet.

“Hey there, big fella!” she exclaimed warmly. “Are we ignoring you? What’s your name?” She dropped her bag and bent to warmly pat his head and flop his ears.

Rather than be suspicious of the stranger, Blackjack whined happily at her attention, rudely pawing her legs.

“Blackjack!” Morgan called. “Back off!”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, still stroking the black fur. “Dogs like me. Blackjack, huh? Good name.”

He lifted his chin toward the house. “Here comes my mother now.”

He felt a boyish pride and affection at the sight of his mother striding along the path from the main house to the kitchen house. She was simply dressed in a dark skirt, floral blouse and sensible shoes. Her hair was a snowy-white mass twisted into a bun at the back of her head. Signs of the beauty she once was added charm to the graciousness and fresh, scrubbed appeal of her open, smiling face.

“Miss Hays? I’m Mary June Blakely. Welcome to Sweetgrass.”

Kristina’s warmth matched his mother’s as she reached out to take her offered hand. The two women’s eyes met and measured; Morgan could feel the tacit approval in the air.

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