Sweetgrass

Sweetgrass
Mary Alice Monroe

A poignant novel of hope, acceptance, forgiveness and the heartbreaking compromises people make in the name of love.The Blakelys are broken. The family shattered as matriarch Mary June refused to face the truth of her past and a legacy of tragedy. She and her husband Preston have paid the price for years of unspoken emotions – one son is lost forever, another, Morgan, has not been home in over a decade.But now as they could be forced to sell the one thing precious to their disintegrating family – Sweetgrass, home to the Blakely family for eight generations – unless they confront the secrets that kept them apart. Old hurts and one tragic event have driven the Blakelys to destruction and now fate could be dealing them the final blow. But could this loss be their redemption?‘I was hooked from chapter one… It’s a good old-fashioned love-story…’ Red magazine Reader Panel

Sweetgrass

Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

For my family—

Markus, Margaretta, Zachary,

Claire, John, and Jack.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

1

“Until fairly recently, the coastal region of islands, marshes, placid rivers and oak-shaded roads had seen relatively little change—but now change is widespread, often overwhelming and sometimes devastating.”

—The National Trust for Historic Preservation

MARCH IS A MOODY TIME of year in the Lowcountry. On any given day, seemingly by whim, the weather is balmy and sweet-smelling and can lure reluctant smiles from the hopeful who dream of cool, tart drinks on steamy afternoons, creamy white magnolia blossoms and scented offshore breezes. Then overnight, everything can change. With a sudden gust of cold wind, winter will reach out with its icy grip to draw a foggy curtain over the gray marsh.

Mama June Blakely had hoped for an early spring, but she was well seasoned and had learned to keep an eye on the sky for dark clouds. A leaden mist hovered close to the water, so thick that Mama June could barely make out Blakely’s Bluff, which stretched out into the gray-green Atlantic Ocean like a defiant fist. A bittersweet smile eased across her lips. She’d always thought it a fitting symbol of her family’s turbulent history with the sea.

Perched high on the bluff was a weather-beaten house that had been in the Blakely family for generations. Bluff House had withstood countless hurricanes and storms to remain the bastion of family gatherings long after most of the old Charleston family’s land holdings were sold off. Each time Mama June looked at the battered house, waves of memories crashed against her stony composure. And when the wind gusted across the marshes, as it did now, she thought the mist swirled like ghosts dancing on the tips of cordgrass.

Thunder rumbled, low and threatening. She tugged her sweater closer to her neck and shifted her gaze to the lowering skies. Weather moved quickly over the South Carolina coastline, and a front like that could bring a quick cloudburst and sudden winds. Worry tugged at her mouth as she turned on her heel and made her way across the polished floors of her home, through the large, airy kitchen, the stocked butler’s pantry, the formal dining room with glistening crystal and mirrors, the front parlor appointed with ancestral furniture and straight out to the front veranda. Gripping the porch railing, she leaned far forward, squinting as she searched the length of ancient roadbed bordered by centuries-old oaks.

Her frown lifted when she spotted a broad, snowy-headed figure walking up the drive, a lanky black dog at his heels. Mama June leaned against the porch pillar, sighing in relief. At that pace, she figured Preston would beat the storm. How many years had she watched and waited for her husband to come in from the fields? Goodness, could it really be nearing fifty years?

Preston Blakely wasn’t a large man physically, but his manner and personality made him imposing to anyone who knew him. People called him formidable in polite company, bull-headed in familiar—and she couldn’t argue. He was walking with a single-minded purpose, heels digging in the soft roadbed and arms swinging. His square chin jutted out, cutting the wind like the mast of a ship.

Lord, what bee was in that man’s britches this time? she thought with a sorry shake of her head.

On reaching the house, Preston sent the dog to the back with a jerk of his index finger. “Go on, now. Settle, Blackjack,” he ordered. Then, raising his head, he caught Mama June’s gaze.

“Hellfire,” he grumbled louder than the thunder, raising his arm and shaking a fistful of crumpled papers in the air. “They’ve gone and done it this time.”

Mama June’s hands tightened on the railing as her husband came up the porch stairs. “Done what?”

“They done got me by the short hairs,” he said on reaching the porch.

“Who got you, dear?”

“The banks!” he roared. “The taxes. The whole cussed economy, that’s who!”

“Sit down a spell, Press, before you pop a valve. Look at you. You’re sweating under that slicker. It’s too hot for such a fuss and, I swanny—” she waved her small hand in the air “—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Taxes and banks and short hairs…”

“I’m talking about this place!”