Page 9 of Friends are Forever (Teton Mountain #6)

T he crush of humanity inside Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport always made Reva feel like she was in the middle of a marching band parade—minus the music and charm.

She navigated through the terminal in stilettos that clicked too loud on the tile, her roller bag nipping at her heels like an impatient toddler.

Outside, the thick Southern air hit her like a slap, clinging to her skin and puffing up her hair within seconds.

Lord have mercy, she didn’t miss this part.

The Wyoming mountains had their quirks—blizzards, wild bears, earthquakes of late—but at least you could breathe without feeling like you were being smothered in a damp quilt.

She picked up the rental car, a nondescript sedan that smelled like air freshener and old coffee, and merged onto the freeway, the skyline rising ahead like a glittering wall of steel and glass.

Traffic thickened, a familiar snarl of brake lights and honking.

As she eased into the chaos, her thoughts tangled with emotion.

She wasn’t just heading to see her sick Grand Memaw.

She was heading home—and that word had never felt so complicated.

The hospital lobby was a swirl of artificial calm—floor-to-ceiling windows tried to let in light, but the overhead fluorescents fought back.

Potted plants stood like sentries in the corners, and the air smelled of antiseptic and overworked HVAC.

Nurses bustled past with clipboards and coffee cups.

A television mounted on the wall broadcast a muted talk show no one was watching.

Reva stepped up to the front desk, smoothing her blouse, suddenly wishing she’d thought to reapply her lipstick. “Hi, could you tell me which room Rosetta Nygard is in?”

Before the young woman behind the counter could respond, a voice behind her wrapped around Reva like a velvet ribbon.

“There you are.”

Reva turned.

Her mother, Nadine Nygard, swept through the automatic doors like royalty returning to court.

Her stride was graceful but determined, her spine arrow straight.

She wore a navy sheath dress with pearl buttons, cream heels that never seemed to scuff, and a coordinating pillbox hat perched just so atop her meticulously pressed black curls.

A faint whiff of gardenia trailed in her wake, and she carried a monogrammed leather handbag that had likely cost more than Reva’s first car.

Her makeup was flawless, of course—lipstick precisely drawn, lashes lifted, brows arched like question marks. But her eyes—those deep, mahogany eyes Reva had inherited—were lined with fatigue and something heavier beneath.

Her mama gathered her into a light, ladylike hug that smelled of home. “Ree-Ree, you finally made it.”

Reva held onto the hug a beat longer than she meant to. Her mother’s embrace had always been more composed than comforting—more about appearances than affection—but today, it felt different. Tighter. Real.

“She’s been askin’ for you,” her mama said softly, pulling back but keeping a hand on Reva’s arm as if grounding them both.

“How is she?” Reva asked, her voice catching before she could steady it.

Her mama’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, then firmed.

“Stubborn as ever. But tired. She’s been holding court in that room like it’s her parlor.

Still wants her lipstick, still critiques the nurses like they’re contestants in a pageant.

” A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“But it’s…different now. She’s not bouncing back like she used to.

She had a horrible episode. The doctors are saying it’s her heart.

I suppose at age ninety-two, it’s just getting tired and giving out. ”

Reva nodded, throat tight. “I should’ve come sooner.”

“Baby, you came when it mattered,” her mama said, pressing a hand to her cheek. “Now come on. Let’s get you upstairs. They’re all waiting.”

They stepped into the elevator, the doors closing with a quiet whoosh. Reva watched the numbers light up above the door as they ascended, her reflection in the brushed metal warped and tired. She tugged at the hems of her sleeves, suddenly self-conscious in her travel-wrinkled blouse.

The elevator dinged on the third floor, and they stepped into a hallway lined with cheerful art and bulletin boards announcing flu shots and prayer meetings. The hum of machines and muffled voices drifted from the rooms, punctuated by the occasional nurse’s laugh or the beeping of a monitor.

Outside room 312, her brother Quincy stood, tall and broad-shouldered in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

His tie hung loose around his neck like he’d tried to look presentable and gave up halfway through.

Next to him, Scarlett, his wife, clutched a quilted purse and offered a weak smile when she saw Reva.

“There she is,” Quincy said, his voice rough as he pulled Reva into a one-armed hug that felt both strong and sagging with fatigue.

Her older brother, Mason, nodded. “Memaw’s been askin’ for you every ten minutes. You’d think we were chopped liver.”

Scarlett reached for Reva’s hand. “We’re so glad you’re here. It means a lot to her. To all of us.”

Reva swallowed hard, heart pounding in her chest like a drumbeat she couldn’t slow. Behind the door, the woman who raised them all—who made sweet tea strong enough to cure anything and never let a soul leave her house hungry—was waiting.

Her mama stepped forward, smoothing the front of her dress. “Let’s go on in. But fair warning—despite her frailty, she’s in rare form. Told the doctor this morning she didn’t care for his handshake.”

Reva smiled faintly, her nerves settling into something else. Something like reverence.

The door creaked softly as Reva stepped into the hospital room.

The blinds had been drawn to soften the harsh light, and a bouquet of fresh flowers—garden roses and lilies, likely brought by Scarlett—sat in a glass vase near the window.

The scent didn’t quite cover the underlying sterility of antiseptic and plastic tubing.

A television murmured quietly in the corner, tuned to a game show Grand Memaw would’ve normally hollered answers at. But not today.

Reva’s breath caught in her throat.

Rosetta Nygard, the indomitable matriarch of the family, looked impossibly small against the starch-white hospital sheets.

Her skin had thinned to parchment, stretched loosely over fragile bones.

Her once-luxurious gray hair—always curled and coiffed—lay flat against the pillow, like cotton left in the rain.

A nasal cannula fed oxygen to her with soft hissing breaths, and her hands, those same hands that had stirred cornbread batter and snapped green beans by the bushel, now trembled as they rested against her quilted lap blanket.

But her eyes—still a sharp, soulful brown—lit up when they found Reva.

“Well, would you look what the wind blew in,” Grand Memaw said, her voice surprisingly steady, though her lips moved slowly, like every syllable had to be coaxed out of her. “My girl from the mountains.”

Reva stepped closer, trying not to betray her shock. She leaned down, kissing her grandmother’s cheek, which felt too warm and too thin all at once. “Hey, Memaw.”

“Mmm,” the old woman murmured, her eyes drifting to the others who’d followed Reva into the room. “I got just enough left in me for one more private talk.”

Reva’s mama raised a brow. “Grand Memaw, don’t go stirrin’ up emotions. Ree-Ree just got here.”

“I ain’t stirrin’ nothin’ but my soul, child,” Grand Memaw said, waving a frail hand toward the door. “Now hush and give us a minute. Quincy, Scarlett—you too. I love y’all, but I need to talk to my Reva.”

Her voice, once like a church bell ringing over a Sunday picnic, began to thin—trailing off like smoke from an evening fire. Reva could almost hear it slipping away with the next breath.

Reva’s mama hesitated, smoothing a crease in her skirt before nodding at her daughter. “We’ll be just outside. Don’t wear her out.”

When the door closed behind them, the room felt suddenly hushed. As if time had paused, just for the two of them.

Reva pulled the nearby chair close and took Grand Memaw’s hand, careful not to press too hard. “I’m here, Memaw. I’m right here.”

Her grandmother’s eyes glistened, but her mouth curled faintly with a private smile.

“I know you are,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a thread now. “That’s why I waited.”

Grand Memaw’s breath rattled slightly as she adjusted her head on the pillow. Her hand, soft as linen but shaking now, reached for Reva’s and didn’t let go.

“I reckon it won’t be long now,” she murmured, eyes fixed on something past the ceiling, as if she could already see beyond it. “Your granddaddy’s been gone near twenty years. Your daddy, too. And I feel them callin’ me home.”

Reva blinked back tears, her throat tight.

“But before I go,” Grand Memaw whispered, her voice barely more than a hush of wind across cotton fields. “There are things I need to settle.”

She turned her gaze to Reva, and suddenly, her grip tightened with surprising strength. “Sunnyside Acres.”

Reva’s heart stilled.

Grand Memaw’s eyes shone—clear, urgent. “That land... it ain’t just soil and trees.

It’s blood. My daddy—your great-granddaddy, Jeremiah Shelby—he carved it out with his own two hands.

Just a boy when freedom came. No shoes, no money, not even a last name.

He got to choose. But he worked. First for sharecroppers, then for himself.

Bought forty acres from a white man who thought the soil was too poor to grow anything worthwhile. But your great-granddaddy saw promise.”

She paused, catching her breath. Reva leaned in, letting the words soak through her like gospel.

“Pecans don’t come easy,” Grand Memaw went on, her voice growing raspy. “Takes patience. Years ’fore a tree yields anything worth shellin’. But Jeremiah planted anyway. Said he was planting for grandchildren he hadn’t met yet. Said we had to make something that would outlive us.”

Her lips trembled, then firmed.

“I watched my daddy build that farm. Watched your daddy sweat on that land, sunup to sundown, never complainin’. And I kept it goin’ long as I could.”

Tears slid silently down Reva’s cheeks.

“I heard Quincy talkin’ to that real estate man,” Grand Memaw said, her voice breaking now. “He’s gon’ sell it. Turn it into vacation rentals or—Lord knows what.” She shook her head, eyes burning. “He don’t see it the way we do.”

She squeezed Reva’s hand again, more fiercely this time.

“You do. I know you do. That land remembers who we are. It made us who we are.”

Reva opened her mouth, but no words came.

“I need you to come home,” Grand Memaw whispered, as her voice dimmed. “Run Sunnyside. Keep the legacy alive. For me.”

Reva sat frozen, the weight of generations settling across her shoulders, heavy and unrelenting.

She had a life in Thunder Mountain. A job. A husband. A son. And…friends.

But this…this was her bloodline asking for one final promise.

Reva sat still, Grand Memaw’s frail fingers wrapped tight around hers, as the words echoed in the quiet room.

Come home. Run Sunnyside. For me.

Her thoughts flitted unbidden to Thunder Mountain—Kellen’s strong hands fixing breakfast on sleepy Saturday mornings, the way Lucan’s laughter filled every empty space in their home.

Her precious boy. She pictured him scampering through the orchards at Sunnyside, his small hands stretching toward branches bowed with pecans—darting between trees planted by men he’d never meet, but whose sweat still lingered in the soil, their labor a quiet gift to his future.

Her sweet boy, full of light and promise, raised by love and the roots of something deeper than time. Lucan hadn’t come to them by birth, but by divine design—placed in their arms through grace, not chance.

Maybe it wasn’t just about honoring the past. Maybe it was about securing the future. Lucan’s future.

Yes, it would be a sacrifice. But how much had this old woman sacrificed for her family?

How could she possibly turn down Grand Memaw’s request? A family legacy meant something—didn’t it?

She looked down at their joined hands—her own steady and strong, her grandmother’s fragile, trembling like the last autumn leaf hanging on a branch.

Reva bent closer, her voice barely more than a breath.

“Yes,” she whispered against the tightness in her throat. “Don’t worry. I’ll come home.”

Grand Memaw exhaled, a slow, shivering sound that seemed to carry a lifetime of relief.

And for the first time since Reva had stepped into the room, the old woman smiled with her whole face.