“My dress will be fine,” I said to her. I took her hand. “Peter and I need to leave soon. I’m going to toss the bouquet. Thought you might like a shot at catching it.”
The old woman of the crossroads laughed. “Girl, the last thing Jilo needin’ is another man to take care of. She done had more than her fair share, so you keep those flowers of yo’s good and far away from Mother.” She scanned the park, taking in the dappled light, the lingering crowd, and the last few strains of music. She drew a deep breath and sighed it back out. “You gonna be all right now, girl,” she said and shuddered. Her eyes glazed over; her hand went limp in mine.
FORTY-TWO
Out of all the stories people tell about Savannah, the one that truly embodies the spirit of the place is this: Sometime around 1800 a fire broke out during a Christmas party at the home of Josiah Tattnall. By the time the servants discovered the fire, Josiah realized it was too late to save the house, so he took his guests outside to continue the party by the fire’s glow. To me, the moral is that even though life will take the things and the people you love from you, you should never, ever stop celebrating that you are alive. Josiah’s guests toasted life and each other and shattered their glasses against a large tree to show that they planned to move on and not hold on to a past that was gone.
The place where Josiah’s house once stood is now part of Bonaventure Cemetery, where stones mark my grandparents’ final resting place as well as the newly dug grave where Tucker lay. The morning had been spent memorializing Ellen’s lost love. Now, a mere spitting distance from the plot where he rested diagonally across from my birth mother’s empty grave, we Taylors, Tierneys, and a sole Cook gathered to honor the memory of Mother Jilo Wills.
Jilo’s actual burial had been a Wills family–only event held out on Sapelo Island. I’d wanted to attend, but after decades of rancor, her people hadn’t quite been able to wrap their heads around the way she and the Taylor family had bonded at the last hour. Martell had promised to say a prayer at the service on my behalf.
Oliver had a picnic basket filled with champagne flutes, and he set it down as we neared the part of the cemetery that had been laid out in a pattern representing the All-Seeing Eye. He opened it and handed a glass to each of us. Peter followed behind him, filling everyone’s glasses but mine with champagne. He paused before me and fixed his eyes on mine. My soul leaned in and touched his strength. His soul touched back, and then he moved on. Adam opened a bottle of cider for me and filled my flute.