Page 20 of Where the Rivers Merge

Climate change refers to long-term shifts in temperatures and weather patterns globally over seasons, years, and decades. Since the 1800s, human activities have been the main driver of climate change, primarily due to the burning of fossil fuels (like coal, oil, and gas) which produce heat-trapping gases.

1988

I paused in my story, feeling the sweetness of the memory sweep through my body. The faces of Norah, Mariama, and Savannah were staring back at me in a dreamy fashion.

“Grandma Eliza, that’s such a romantic story,”

said Savannah, slipping her chin in her palm and leaning against the dining table. “That Hugh sounds like such a babe.”

I couldn’t stop the laugh that came from my lips. “A babe? Well, yes, I suppose he was.”

“Whatever happened to him?”

Savannah continued. “I thought you two were perfect for each other.”

“I thought we were too,”

I said softly.

“Did you love him?”

asked Savannah.

Savannah seemed bent on digging out the details of the love story, as girls her age were prone to do. Norah’s face was expectant, as well. In this moment, with the grace of time, thinking of Hugh did not cause the stab of pain it usually did, even after so many years. As I was telling this story, reliving the memories, surrounded by the support of these women, the days had returned to mind with a tenderness that softened my stone heart.

“Yes, I did love him,”

I replied. “He was my first love. I suppose I love him still.”

I readied myself for the question I knew was coming.

“Then why didn’t you marry him?”

I exhaled, feeling the weight of my coming reply. “That, my dear, is another story.”

I put my palms on the table and moved to a slow stand. Every muscle felt weary from the stirring events of the day. “It’s been a long day, and I need to turn in for the night. Let’s meet here in the morning, shall we? Oh, and Savannah,”

I said. “Do be sure to call your parents and let them know where you are, hear? I suppose they have figured it out but best to get in touch with them so they know you’re safe and sound.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The women bade me good evening, and I took the stairs to my room slowly, feeling my bones creak with the effort. The staircase was narrow and steep, not befitting a grand house. James and I had meant to change it, consulted architects, but the project would have demanded more major remodeling of the original house than I was prepared to do. So, it remained.

The sky was deepening, and my bedroom was cool and welcoming. All the windows were shuttered against the heat, casting lines of shadows across my four-poster bed. I slipped off my black Ferragamo flats. They were ancient but had served me well over many years. Still of some use. Like myself, I thought with a chuckle.

The day’s events fluttered through my mind as I undid rows of buttons, a zipper on my skirt, undergarments. Filled with a strange lethargy, I tossed them to a nearby chair, feeling I was pitching away the memories of the morning’s shareholders meeting along with them. That horrid affair was only this morning, I thought with wonder.

I walked to the adjoining bathroom. Over the sink hung a large ornate Venetian mirror, a gift from James that I’d always adored. I ran a brush through my thinning gray hair and idly looked at my aged reflection. How did I ever manage to reach eighty-eight years? Tolerably pretty, my mother had described me. I paused and a winsome smile bloomed. Hugh had called me beautiful.

Hugh. . . . I ran my fingertips over my lips and remembered again my first kiss. Over the years, important memories like that kiss had slipped from my mind. Or I’d deliberately tucked them away. But they were never forgotten. The memories lay dormant until an event, like today’s telling of the story, ushered them forth again—vibrant, evocative, treasured—to release a renewed flood of sensations.

I moved my hand to my fluttering heart. What was the matter with me? I was awash in an odd languor from the stories.

“Hello, you,”

I said, looking into the mirror and feeling a sudden affection for the heavily lined, sagging face. It was the face of a daughter, a wife, a mother, a widow, a CEO, a matriarch. It was the face of a young girl who loved to sleep in the hollow of a tree.

* * *

The following morning, chatty birds outside my window woke me up. I’d slept blissfully as the evening breezes washed over me from the open window. I found Savannah and Norah already in the dining room eating breakfast. I gazed at my granddaughter. Savannah had always been a go-getter, a bit of a nonconformist. In that way, she was a bit like me, I thought, pleased at the notion. Her decision to buck her parents and come to Mayfield not only caught me by surprise but presented me with an opportunity.

I’d not been the best grandmother. I loved my granddaughters—gave gifts at appropriate times, included them generously in my will. Yet, all these years I’d put my work first and missed graduations and birthdays and celebrations. I had a strong work ethic and was compelled to succeed to protect my family and Mayfield by earning money. All noble, I supposed. But now, an old woman, I at last understood how time was my most precious commodity. And one that I had precious little of. Now was the time for me to let Savannah in.

I hardly remembered my own grandmother Bissette. She was an elegant though distant woman we visited from time to time. I knew she cared about me, as she did all Sloane’s children. But she could be quite judgmental and harsh—and she was not affectionate. I couldn’t remember her saying I love you or giving a compliment. I didn’t want that to be how Savannah remembered me.

I joined the young women at the table. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,”

replied Norah. “It’s so peaceful here. I live in Philadelphia, so I’m accustomed to city noises. But I visit my parents in Cheyney as often as I can. It’s a small town, pretty rural with farmland and rolling hills.”

“That’s where Cheyney University is?”

I asked. “Isn’t your father a professor there?”

“He is, though he’s about to retire. He wants to raise vegetables and tend chickens,”

Norah said with a fond laugh.

“Well, he’s Covey’s son, after all.”

Then to Savannah I said, “Chey-ney University is the oldest Black university in the United States. Covey was very proud that her son taught there.”

I looked again at Norah. “She must have been very proud of you.”

“I like to think she was. I spent a lot of time with my grandmother coming up. It was Granny Covey who inspired me to study environmental science. She used to show me interesting plants in the garden and teach me about them and asked me to draw them. She insisted I learn both Latin and the common names. Did you know she taught master gardening classes after she retired?”

I nodded. “Covey always loved plants and trees. She was always sketching them. She was really quite a proficient artist. When we were children, we used to play school. Covey was always the teacher. She could be bossy.”

“Yes!”

Norah laughed. “We always knew where we stood with Granny. But as demanding as she was, she was even more encouraging. She always told us that we could be anything we wanted to be. My grandmother was my role model. I wanted to be like her.”

“You seem very much like her.”

I pointed to her intriguing eye color. “For one thing, you have her eyes.”

“I’ve always been proud to have her eye color.”

I turned to Savannah. “And you have your grandfather’s eyes.”

She bobbed her head up. “I do?”

I looked at Savannah’s round blue orbs fringed with eyelashes so pale that without mascara, they were almost invisible behind her eyeglasses. “I look at you and see Tripp,”

I replied. “And that’s a compliment.”

Then I turned back to Norah. I was curious about the grandniece I’d never met before. “But you didn’t want to be a teacher like Covey . . . and your father?”

Norah shook her head. “Nope. The classroom was never for me. My passion is the environment.”

“You mean climate change?”

asked Savannah.

“Yes. These are important times, and frankly, I know too much about things like water issues, ecosystems, habitat protection, land management, conservation, not to be worried about what will happen to all this,”

she said, her hand indicating the land outside the window. “After I received my PhD in environmental engineering, sustainability, and science, I was offered a position at the Nature Conservancy in Pennsylvania.”

“And now, here you are,”

I said. “Back where it all began. Full circle.”

“Is it?”

Norah pursed her lips. “To be honest, Aunt Eliza, as pretty as the landscape is, my family history here isn’t all that great. I . . . I wasn’t sure I wanted to come. My father . . . He won’t.”

“I don’t blame him,”

I said, feeling the sting of shame.

“Still, when I heard about the creation of the ACE Basin Project and your part in it . . .”

Norah shook her head with disbelief. “We’re all watching in awe at what you’re trying to achieve here. It’s galvanizing to see individual landowners come together to put this ecologically important land into conservation. When my father told me about the shareholders meeting, I knew I’d have a chance to meet you. I had to come.”

My heart filled with affection for the woman. I reached out to put my hand on hers. “I’m glad you did.”

“I had to come too,”

piped in Savannah.

I looked at her, unsure of what she meant.

“I kind of wanted to come to Mayfield, because you asked me, but you know how Daddy reacted so I just . . .”

Savannah raised her brows, whether indicating indifference or resignation, I wasn’t sure which. “. . . I caved. But that was my first shareholders meeting, now that I’m legally an adult. I’ve only ever seen you as my grandmother. Someone I loved though was a little afraid of. But in that meeting . . . I didn’t know that fierce woman. It made me want to get to know you better.”

I looked at the two young faces, awash with gratitude. “And I’m very glad you came too. You both make me optimistic about the future. And it’s my hope that in hearing these stories of the past, you’ll be inspired to preserve and protect all that I love about this place.”

I took a sip of my coffee then leaned back in my chair. “Now, about those stories. If I recall, we left off with us heading to Charleston for my high school years. When I changed from a country mouse to a city mouse.”

I took a deep breath. “When I grew up. Despite all my fears and worries, they were surprisingly happy years, especially given how adamant I was about wanting to stay at Mayfield,”

I said. “I was young and in love. Mama was in her element and so much more cheerful and obliging. In Charleston, I began to understand how hard it had been for her to live so far away from a city she loved. Those years in Charleston were easier in many ways. My grandparents had installed electricity in the house and indoor plumbing, which for us was a wonder. One click, and a room was filled with light! And we never had to carry buckets of water from the well to bathe.”

I shook my head in memory. “Such a luxury.”

“Were you homesick for Mayfield?”

asked Savannah.

“I missed Capitano very much. I longed to return to Mayfield, especially at the beginning. Yet my family and friends were with me and life was busy. The young can be quite good at adapting to change, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,”

Savannah replied with a wisp of a grin.

Though the golden boys lived at the Porter Military Academy, they were frequent visitors at East Bay Street. Hugh was accepted as a suitor by my mother and was granted, even encouraged, to call at the house. I thrived at Ashley Hall. It was a far cry from the stifling schoolroom of Mr. Coxwold. An all-girls school shaped not only my academics but also my confidence. We were challenged as women and individuals. Such a concept! I was encouraged to make my own decisions rather than depend on male influence. Remember, women couldn’t vote yet. At this point in history, women began challenging the social norms. It was an exciting time to be in Charleston. For someone like me, it was like lighting a flame to tinder.

“I was at the top of my class,”

I added proudly. “Not that it was enough for Mama. I was her pet project. She had me signed up for every class imaginable that might refine her wild child.”

I lifted my hand and began counting off. “Cotillion, etiquette, and the social graces. There was fashion, fine arts, French, and, of course, domestic skills. To be fair, I don’t think she ever got over that horse race. Or what she liked to call our public humiliation.”

“What about Granny Covey?”

asked Norah.

“Oh goodness, Covey was a cyclone between her school activities and social work in the city. She was rarely at home. I remember how she’d breeze in for meals and a harried discussion of what she’d been involved in. I’d never seen her so engaged. Though of course I was happy for her, I admit I missed her company.”

I dabbed my mouth with my napkin and adjusted my seat in my chair. What was coming next would shift the mood from the cheery days of childhood to the approaching darkness that came from overseas. The repercussions of the sequence of events I was about to tell had rocked the foundations of the Rivers family.