Hope Takes Flight Read online

  He turned off the asphalt highway onto the narrow dirt road that wound through the hills and the valleys surrounding her old home. Somehow the closer Lylah got to the place where she had been born, the more nervous she became. For one thing, she was not at all certain of her welcome, for her professional status as an actress had not been accepted, at least by her stepmother. And even her father had been leery of it.

  Suddenly they crested the hill overlooking the valley where Lylah had grown up, and she cried out, “Stop, Donald! Stop the car!”

  He slammed on the brakes and the idle clacking motor jarred the silence of the morning air. He cast her an anxious glance. “Something wrong, Lylah?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I–I just wanted to look for a moment. I haven’t seen the place in such a long time.” The house sat among a stand of hickory trees, with pecan trees out back. She’d gathered those pecans a thousand times during her youth. She thought of the pies and cakes and cookies her mother had made from them. She saw that a new barn had been built and a new pasture added. There were cattle with white faces grazing out there now instead of the wild scrub cows she remembered.

  The tire swing—it’s still there! Logan fell out of it on Easter morning and broke his arm. I was so mad I wanted to cut it down and burn the rope! Lylah smiled, letting her eyes run over the farm, every inch a receptacle for some memory from her childhood. She recalled the barn where she’d hidden her collection of racy novels and that she’d used as a shield when smoking corn-silk cigarettes. I wonder if the younger kids tried out things like that? An ancient milky-colored horse ambled across the pasture, and Lylah said, “Look, Don! Old Bing is still alive!”

  “Remember the time he kicked you in the stomach, Lylah?” Satterfield smiled. “It was the first time I ever heard you cuss.”

  Lylah laughed and put her hand on his. “I gave you a hard time, didn’t I, Donald?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t all that bad.” He was acutely aware of her hand pressing on his, and added, “You just weren’t meant for life in the hills, I guess.”

  Something in her face changed, and she murmured, “Sometimes I wish I’d never left this farm.” Then she blinked and said almost brusquely, “Let’s go, Donald.”

  He revved up the engine and drove quickly along the rutted dirt road, pulling up at last in front of the house.

  Before they even reached the door, the yard was flooded with the family coming out. As soon as Donald helped her down, Lylah was surrounded by her brothers and sisters. She was shocked at how old they seemed. In her mind, they had been mere children—but now they were all grown. They pulled at her, anxious to touch her, to hug her, and she went around hugging each one, speaking to them.

  “Logan! Why, you good-looking thing! I can’t believe you’ve gotten so old. How old are you now?”

  Logan Stuart, twenty-nine and the oldest of the boys still at home, hugged her. “Good to see you, Sis.” Logan grinned. “Never mind how old I am. You look great.”

  Lylah turned to face Lenora. “How pretty you are! Let me look at you!” She held the girl at arm’s length, admiring the ash blond hair, the hazel eyes. “My, you are lovely! How old are you now? Twenty-four?” She shook her head. “And not married. What’s the matter with the young men around here?”

  “They don’t have any sense, that’s what’s the matter.” Gavin, twenty-two, shoved past Lenora and stood in front of Lylah. He had dark hair and eyes, much like his father’s mother. “About time you got home, Sis,” he said. “We thought you’d forgotten us.”

  “Not likely. Where’s Christie?”

  “Right here.” Christie Stuart, age eighteen, pushed her way through the crowd and collected her hug from Lylah. With her very blond hair and dark blue eyes she was extremely pretty. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re home, Lylah. We’ve waited so long for you to come.”

  They talked rapidly, babbling, everyone trying to catch Lylah’s attention, and then as she lifted her head and saw her father come to stand on the porch, she quickly went to him.

  “Hello, Pa,” she said as he stepped down. He hesitated, then he put out his arms, and she went into them as she had when she was a little girl. He held her and she clung to him. When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes. “You look fine, Pa,” she whispered. “Real fine.”

  But in truth, William Stuart did not look at all well, and she was shocked at the changes in him. Instead of the muscular, athletic man she remembered, her father was bent and gaunt, and there were wrinkles around his eyes. His chestnut hair still had reddish glints, but it was streaked with gray with the familiar white streak running from front to back on the left side where a minie ball had plowed through his scalp at the Battle of Five Forks, the last battle of the Civil War. He had been only twelve when he had joined up after his own father had been killed at the Battle of Nashville.

  “It’s good to see you, Daughter,” Will said quietly. He tried to smile, but she could see that he was deeply affected by the meeting. “Come on in the house and tell us what all you been doing.”

  He led the way in and the other children followed. When they were inside, Lylah saw her stepmother standing in the door that led to the kitchen.

  She walked over to greet the woman. “Hello, Agnes. It’s good to see you again.”

  Agnes Barr Stuart made no move to welcome Lylah—no handshake, no hug. Agnes had been one of William Stuart’s “lady friends” and had trapped him after his first wife had died. Agnes was still an attractive woman with lustrous sable hair, but her lush figure was beginning to run to fat, and there was an icy light in the green eyes. She had been a loose woman. Still was, according to gossip in the valley. What concerned Lylah most, though, was her treatment of the children. From their expressions, it was easy to see that they despised their stepmother.

  She nodded slightly. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “Oh, that would be nice,” Lylah said. “I really am hungry.” Then she thought, “Oh, we left Donald out in the car! I forgot!” She ran to the door and called, “Donald, come in.”

  Donald got out of the Ford and ambled up to the porch, putting one foot on the bottom step. “No, I’ve got to be getting back, Lylah,” he said with a warm smile. He shook his head when Will and the others insisted, saying, “No, this is a family reunion. But if you need any preaching done before it’s over, give me a call.” He grinned as he added, “I’ll be sure to take up a collection after I get through.”

  Donald turned and went back to the car. Racing the engine, he waved and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  “That’s a good young man,” Will Stuart said. He glanced at his daughter and grinned, “You coulda had him, Lylah, if you’d wanted him.”

  Lylah grinned right back. She had been very close to her father and felt so even now. “And wouldn’t I have been a bird as a preacher’s wife, Pa!” She laughed freely, and the others joined in.

  “Well, let’s get some food on the table,” Will said when the laughter had died down, “and start this here celebration!”

  The babble of voices grew, and all the children began hustling around to put the meal on the table. But Lylah grabbed her father by the arm and said, “While they’re putting it on the table, let’s you and me walk down to the creek, Pa. I want to find out what you’ve been doing.”

  As they walked away, she caught a glimpse of Agnes’s narrowed gaze and thought, That woman has ground Pa to bits. I wish she’d drown in the creek!

  But she said nothing of her feelings to her father as the two of them strolled outside and down the shady lane, Lylah chattering happily and Will smiling fondly at his prodigal daughter.

  That night, Lylah slept with her sisters, Lenora and Christie, although “sleeping” is not actually what went on. They shared a small bed in a tiny room up in the loft and the two girls kept her awake for most of the night, urging her to tell more stories about her travels, about her life on the road in the theater.

  Final
ly, when she lapsed into unconsciousness, the girls gave up. She didn’t know a thing until she heard a voice saying, “C’mon, Lylah, you’ve got to get up. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  “Wha—what is it?” Lylah opened her eyes to see Christie bending over her, her blond hair hanging around her shoulders.

  “C’mon,” she urged. “It’s late.”

  “What time is it?” Lylah mumbled.

  “Why, it’s ’most six o’clock,” Christie said. “Day’s half gone. C’mon, now. Let’s get down and eat breakfast. Amos’ll be here pretty soon.”

  Lylah groaned, then crawled out of bed and began dressing. She brushed her hair as best she could and then went into the bathroom she and Amos had sent the money to add, only four years ago. Until then, there had been only washbasins and cold spring water. The hot water had been saved for her, she was glad to see, and she was able to take a quick bath, put on her makeup, and fix her hair.

  When she came out, she heard Gavin shouting from the front yard. “They’re comin’! They’re comin’! Amos is comin’!”

  Again there was a mad stampede with all the young people running out, and this time Lylah joined them. A large, copper-brown touring car pulled into the front yard, and there was Amos at the wheel, waving his hat and yelling as he slammed on the brakes. She ran out with the rest to meet him, and Amos got out of the car and fought his way through all of his siblings.

  When he reached Lylah, he gave her a big hug. “Lylah! I haven’t seen you in…how many years?”

  “Too many!” Lylah cried and pulled his head down and kissed him full on the lips. He had always been her favorite, and now she said in mock anger, “I hate you, Amos Stuart. You don’t look a day older than the last time I met you…and I’m an old woman now.”

  Amos grinned at her. At thirty-five, his five-foot-ten-inch frame still carried only one hundred and sixty pounds, very trim and athletic. He looked so much like their mother that it made Lylah want to weep. He had the same ash blond hair and startlingly dark blue eyes, the same oval face and determined features. In truth, he did not look one day older than when she had seen him five years before.

  “You’re just like all those other actresses, Sis, always putting a fellow on!” Amos complained. “Come see my family.”

  He scurried around and helped Rose to the ground, and Lylah saw that the woman was as striking as ever. At thirty-five, Rose’s coal-black hair still had not a single trace of gray in it—the legacy of her Spanish mother. Her light bluish-green eyes still sparkled when she smiled.

  Rose threw her arms around Lylah and greeted her emotionally as she always did. Then she turned and said, “Look at these two kids of ours, Lylah. I bet you wouldn’t know them, would you?”

  Lylah stared at the two. She had pictured them as small children, and now they were almost as tall as she was. “Is this Jerry?” she asked, walking up to the boy. “I can’t believe it! Last time I saw you, you were begging for a sucker.”

  Jerry Stuart was a very handsome lad at fifteen. He had his mother’s black hair and pale green eyes. He grinned and said, “I didn’t get one, either, so you owe me one this time, don’t you, Aunt Lylah?”

  Lylah laughed. “You’ll get it, and something better than that. And this is Maury? Look at that beautiful red hair! Have you got a temper to go with it?”

  Maury, a year younger, glared at her brother, who laughed and said, “Yes, she has. If you don’t believe it, just cross her.”

  Maury shook her head. “I do not! Well, not unless somebody makes me mad, anyhow.”

  Lylah laughed and hugged her niece. “I’m exactly the same way, people tell me.”

  “Well, Pa,” Amos said, as his father came forward, “here I am. The bad penny turns up again.”

  Will Stuart shook his hand firmly. “Good to see you, Amos. I’ve missed you.” He eyed this well-dressed son of his, scarcely able to believe he had fathered such a successful son.

  Amos Stuart had risen rapidly in his newspaper career until he was now the star reporter for William Randolph Hearst’s New York Journal, the biggest newspaper in the United States. Self-educated, Amos had achieved this position through sheer tenacity and determination. Now his name was mentioned along with the top newsmen of the country.

  “I read that last story you wrote about the war,” Will told him. “It was good, son.” His eyes twinkled. “Why, I couldn’t have done no better myself!”

  Amos laughed and threw an arm around his father’s thin shoulders. “Sure you could, Pa. You always had a way with words.”

  They moved into the house where Amos and his family were greeted by Agnes in a rather cold fashion. For the rest of the morning, the house rang with talk. Everyone ate cookies, cake, and pies and drank gallons of coffee and sweet milk. The sweets had been baked by the girls for dessert, but they had been unsuccessful at keeping the men out of them.

  Just before lunch, Lylah had time to get Amos off to one side. Down by the creek where she had fished and caught thumping bluegills as a girl, the two of them sat down and talked. Lylah was hungry for news of her brother. She was fiercely proud of him, as was the rest of the family, and she pried out of him the facts about his close communion with the famous people of the world, including Theodore Roosevelt!

  Amos himself did not speak of this unless pressed. But he kept Lylah amused for a long time with his stories. Finally, they heard someone calling from the house, and Amos got to his feet.

  “Hey…there’s a car coming. I wonder if it could be Owen.”

  The two hurried back to the house to find their younger brother, Owen, and his wife, Allie, descending from their car. The ancient vehicle seemed to have barely made it there.

  Lylah stood back, watching Owen and Allie as the others rushed forward. She admired her tall, strong brother tremendously. He was almost six feet tall and very strong. She finally forced her way through the milling group, grabbed Owen, and pulled his head down for her welcoming kiss. He held her and she felt the tremendous strength of his arms. When he lifted his head, she saw he was smiling at her in the same old way he used to, and memories flooded through her.

  Then she turned to Allie and the two women embraced. Allie, at twenty-five, had the same dark blue eyes, the same honey-colored hair, and the same square, determined chin that Lylah remembered. As always she was very glad to see Lylah. They had always gotten along well on the few occasions they were together.

  For just a moment, the three of them stood looking at each other—Amos, the oldest son of the Stuart clan; Lylah, the oldest daughter; and Owen, the largest and strongest of them all. We are strangers here, Lylah thought. The others have stayed, but we’ve gone out into the world. She said with a roguish grin, “Well…the three prodigals are back again!”

  Amos shook his head. “No…two prodigals. You and me, Lylah.” He turned and smiled at his brother. “At least this one here isn’t as worldly as you and I.”

  Owen broke the momentary silence that followed his older brother’s declaration. A smile crossed his broad lips, and he glanced around at his younger brothers and sisters, then at his father, who had just stepped up to join the group. “Well, Pa, prodigals or not, we’re all home.” He looked around the valley and up to the mountains and said, “This place is good, isn’t it?” And Amos knew what he meant.

  Suddenly, both of them were glad to be back in the hills of Arkansas again. To be with their own flesh and blood. To see their family. To smell the fresh mountain air.

  It was Lylah who said gently, “Yes, Owen, it is good to be home.”

  2

  COUNTY FAIR

  The younger Stuarts begged their visitors to spend the night, offering to sleep on pallets or out in the barn, but Amos vetoed that idea. “No, we wouldn’t want to put you out like that, and we city folks are too soft for that kind of living. We’ll just go into Fort Smith to a hotel.”

  A noisy chorus of protests broke forth, but in the end, the visitors piled in the cars and drove into town,
where they got accommodations at the Palace Hotel. After a good night’s rest, they got up very early to meet in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Over ham and eggs and pancakes, they reminisced about the early days.

  Amos grinned at Lylah. “Sis, do you remember the day you left to go to Bible school?”

  Lylah swallowed a sip of her coffee and nodded, recalling the incident well. “I sure do.” She laughed quietly. “You caught me out behind the barn, smoking a cigarette.”

  Owen almost choked on a big bite of biscuit at the memory, then joined in the laughter. “Now wasn’t that the way to leave home for Bible school? Smoking cigarettes out behind the barn!” He shook his head. “You made your mark on that place, sure enough. When I got there a few years later, they were still talking about your escapades.”

  Lylah nursed her cup, and a wry smile tugged at her lips. “I hated those days. I hated everything about that school, I guess—the chapels, the Bible studies, the professors, and the ministerial students. Talk about somebody being in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

  Amos gave her a sidelong glance. “I always felt sorry for Don Satterfield,” he said. “The way you went on that trip to Little Rock with the other students…and just disappeared.” He blinked then, sorry he’d said anything. He hadn’t intended to bring up unpleasant memories.

  The reference caused Lylah’s brow to furrow, and she fell silent. She remembered those days, when she had made a trip to a Baptist State Convention in Little Rock. While she was there, she had encountered an actor, James K. Hackett. Fascinated by her first trip to a big city, Lylah had been wandering the streets when Hackett had noticed her outside the theater and invited her to see the play. But that, Lylah thought, as she sat, only half-listening to her brothers’ conversation, was the end of everything…in some ways…for me.

  She had left town that night with the troupe after scribbling Don a brief note. Since then, she had spent ten years as an actress. During the first years, she’d had high hopes and had found glamour and excitement in the world of the theater. But her beauty and verve and wit had not been enough to take her to the very thin air at the top. She had never gotten her one big break. Now, as she sat listening to the quiet hum of her brothers’ voices, she knew that the restless spirit that had driven her from the rocky farm had not been stilled. Perhaps she would never find the peace she had begun to long for. The thought frightened her, for she was no longer a girl of eighteen, but was approaching her mid-thirties—an old age, in a way, for an actress.