“Mmm . . .” Her half-smile slackened as the lure of sleep overtook her.
Frustrated, he lifted and straightened her shoulders to get a good look at her glassy eyes. “You wanna wait?” It was the last thing he wanted.
“No . . . it’s our wedding night.” But she toppled back on the bed, her arms flailing at her sides like the disjointed limbs of a discarded marionette.
Irritated and disappointed, he popped the champagne and chugged a glass. Maybe more subtle persuasion would put her in the mood. He crawled across the bed and planted a kiss on the back of her neck. He worked his way down along her shoulders, determined to rouse her enough to seal the deal, so to speak. Except it felt as if a heavy weight tugged his eyelids shut despite his buzzing head. Had he drunk so much they couldn’t consummate their marriage on their wedding night? No way.
He wriggled out of his pants, and, stripped to his boxer shorts, scooted closer on the bed. Throwing his leg over hers, he wrapped himself around his bride and kissed her.
Finally, she moaned, and her obvious pleasure sparked his own interest. He groped her clumsily, his coordination still lacking. She moaned again, but this sounded of pain rather than pleasure. Jamie jerked out of his arms and scrambled for the bathroom.
The overpriced wedding cake with the icky berry filling made a second appearance. With the unpleasant memory near to overpowering the savory smells from the kitchen, Alan refocused on the present. On Jamie.
Her shoulders lifted then fell beneath her shimmery dark green blouse, as if she were sighing. Then she reached for the frame holding their picture and set it face down on the mantle.
A pang of sadness pricked him, intensified by her solemn appearance as she turned and faced him. Her straight red hair hung to her shoulders, tucked behind her ears on both sides. A few freckles stood out on her nose and cheeks, freckles he liked to trace with his thumb when she propped her head on his chest. He longed to go home, to hold her in bed at night, to feel whole again—loved and wanted.
“I had to come in.” She must’ve heard him enter, because she didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find him standing there. “Your dad was right behind me when I turned onto their street. Coming back from the grocery store with extra turkey broth.”
He sunk his hands into his pockets. “What’d you tell them?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “That we rode separately. You were coming with Chris and Rebecca.” Irritation shone in her sky-blue eyes. “I’m not going to lie, Alan.”
He raised his hands in a defensive posture. “I didn’t ask you to. I’d just rather not . . .” He glanced toward the kitchen. No one was paying attention, but he lowered his voice anyway. “They don’t need to know all our business.”
Her lips, coated in shiny pink gloss that he knew tasted like watermelon, twisted in a frown. “I’m not gonna spill details about our farce of a marriage, if that’s what you’re worried about, but the fact we’re not living under the same roof is a pretty big deal.”
Farce? Was it truly that bad? He hadn’t thought so. They were experiencing a rough patch was all. Every marriage had those, right? “We can fix that. I’m ready to come home.” She had no idea how ready. The mush factor at Chris and Rebecca’s house bordered on nauseating.
He stepped closer and pulled his hands from his pockets. “Let’s sit down and talk this through. You never even told me what it is—”
She huffed and brushed past him, headed toward the window overlooking the front yard.
He followed. “Seriously, Jamie. I need to hear what’s wrong, and what we can do to fix it.” He slid his hand across her back, the shimmery fabric of her blouse catching on the rough skin of his fingertips. “I love you. Talk to me.”
She spun to face him. “Talk to you? All I’ve done is talk to you. Or maybe at you. You don’t listen, Alan. You hear the words, you make the right response, but it never reaches here.” She tapped her temple. “Or here.” Her hand slid over her heart. “It’s like you bide your time until I’m done flapping my gums, and then you just go on about whatever it is you want to say.” Her hand waved aimlessly.
He massaged the tension from his neck. Was she right? Had he really not listened to her? His intention had never been to ignore her, but maybe he’d failed to recognize the importance of what she’d been telling him. When she’d told him time and again she wanted him to let her talk without trying to fix all of her problems, he’d taken her at her word. He let her talk, get it all out, and didn’t bother so much with the details. Now she was angry he hadn’t taken the details to heart.
“I’m sorry, Jamie. All the more reason for us—”
“Alan, Jamie, what can I get you to drink?” Dad sauntered in from the kitchen, ticking off the beverage options with his fingers. “A glass of wine, cider, ginger ale, Coke . . .”
Jamie’s gaze flicked past Alan to his dad, her tone all sweetness. “I’d love some hot cider.”
“Cider it is.” Dad waited for Alan’s answer.
“Uh, just a Coke. Thanks.” He turned to Jamie, hoping to finish their conversation, but she’d already sashayed to the opposite end of the room where she hugged Rebecca and admired her growing baby bump.
The afternoon proceeded smoothly, and his parents gave no indication that they suspected any dissension between him and Jamie. Before dinner, they each took turns naming something they were thankful for this year. Chris and Rebecca, of course, said their marriage and the baby. Mom said everyone’s good health, and Dad made some kind of cryptic remark about God’s patience, which was weird because God wasn’t a frequent guest at their table.
Jamie shot him a panicked glance then said she was grateful she still had her job after a companywide layoff.
Taking an uncalculated risk, Alan went with his heart. “I’m grateful for my wife.” He turned in his seat so he could face Jamie, draping his arm over her seatback. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with the awareness of his family members staring at him. Based on his past performances, they probably awaited the punch line. He had none. The only punch was the one to his gut when he thought of Jamie never welcoming him back to their home and their life together. “Whether I’ve had a crap day at work or made a giant sale, she’s the one I want to come home to.” He glanced up and caught Rebecca’s tender expression before she batted her eyes and dipped her gaze. Then he turned his focus solely to Jamie. “Always and forever.”
Jamie’s features softened, and he may have been mistaken, but it seemed as if her eyes grew watery too. She bit her lower lip.
He thought he’d say something more, for her ears only, about how much he missed her, but as a forkful of steaming stuffing reached his Mom’s lips, Chris launched into a prayer and the moment passed.
Enough conversation, laughter, and delicious food filled the room that Alan almost believed life had returned to normal. Especially when after she’d served him a slice of Rebecca’s apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, Jamie sat and slipped her hand into his beneath the table.
He and Jamie lingered over their desserts so long that everyone else had begun bussing the table, packing up leftovers, and arranging dishes in the dishwasher.
Jamie licked her fork clean, set it atop her plate, and pushed it forward. “Alan . . .”
He swallowed the hunk of crust in his mouth then reached for a glass of water, hoping to dislodge the lump in his throat. Looking at her expectantly, hope bloomed in his chest. “Yeah?”
“You’re right. I—I think maybe I haven’t communicated well with you. We do need to talk.” She pinched a lock of hair between her thumb and finger and twisted it. “I want to tell you what’s been bugging me all these months. I shouldn’t . . . I shouldn’t act like you can read my mind. Obviously, I need to be very plain.”
He let a little grin slip. “I may not be as smart as I let on. Blunt is probably best with me.”
She grinned back, and, for a second, everything in the world was right. “I know exactly how smart you
are. You’re right. Blunt is best.” She jabbed him in the side with her elbow. “So, I’ve got something in the morning, but why don’t you come home tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll—”
“On my way to Virginia tomorrow, remember? The Dave Matthews Band concert?” By the look on her face, she’d forgotten. And his reminder was not welcome. “The tickets, they’re in the fifth row, they’re all paid for and—”
She pushed out of the chair so fast and with such force that the blond wheat back chair nearly toppled.
Alan steadied it as he jumped to his feet. “I’ll be back Sunday and—”
Her hair swayed back and forth, her head shaking from side to side and her cheeks reddening to match her hair. “Just forget it.” She bolted for the front closet and shoved coats out of the way until she found her black duffle coat. “If you’d rather hang out with thousands of dopeheads seeing the same concert for the hundredth time—”
He grabbed her arm, conscious that the conversation from the kitchen had petered out but not caring. “Will you wait? You can come with me and—”
“I am not coming with you. Let’s just forget about it. You know what you can do to fix this, as you said?” Anger flushed her cheeks as she shoved her arms into her jacket.
Alan stood by, helpless, wanting to lift the sleeve over her shoulder but not wanting her to leave. “Don’t do this, Jamie. Please.”
A sheen of moisture glazed her blue eyes, and a tear escaped. She brushed it away with a rough jab of her hand. “Grow up, Alan. It’s that simple. Grow. Up.” She turned the corner and shouted her thanks and goodbyes, then tore out of the house, the door slamming behind her.
A blast of cold air emphasized the heat in Alan’s cheeks and ears. He let his head loll backward and groaned, deflated. Not only had the gulf between him and Jamie widened, but it had all gone down in front of his family. He ran a hand through his hair and dragged himself to the kitchen, where his parents stood alongside the kitchen island snapping shut Tupperware lids. Chris picked through a bowl of after-dinner mints, and Rebecca transferred the remaining slice of her pie to a smaller plate.
“Sorry.” It was the only thing he knew to say. He’d likely ruined everyone’s Thanksgiving, bringing the light conversation and easy family camaraderie to a grinding halt.
Dad stacked one container on top of another, wiped his hands on a striped yellow dishcloth and whispered something in Mom’s ear. She nodded, and then Dad came at him, that Ward Cleaver, paternal look in his eye. “I’ll take out the garbage. Alan, would you grab the recyclables bin?”
“Yes, sir.” And just like that, Alan was twelve years old again, caught playing his Game Boy under the covers. His stomach knotted, anticipating the lecture he knew awaited him outside.
9
True Reflections
Megan depressed the pedal on the garbage can and scraped the remnants of her restaurant takeout Thanksgiving dinner into the trash. Dry turkey and congealed cranberries dropped like chunks of lead atop crumpled napkins. Yuck.
Before the miasma of cast-off food could make her stomach turn, she shifted her gaze to the dining room. Tim, her mom, and her mom’s sister, Trudy, sat sipping coffee and awaiting a slice of the pumpkin pie Megan had picked up at the grocery store. Tim said something she couldn’t quite hear, and Mom and Aunt Trudy laughed. Everyone was so darn . . . happy. Why did that disgust her?
Tim had always been a glass-half-full kind of guy, but he’d been downright chipper all day. More troublesome than his obnoxious joyful veneer was the change in his . . . well, him. His edge had been dulled. A glimmer of compassion tempered his sarcasm. His presence held a gravity she hadn’t recognized before. He’d hugged her when she’d come to the door. Not a bear hug that squeezed her ribs until she begged for mercy. Not a back-slapping hug meant to knock the wind out of her. Not even a meaningless side hug meant to suffice as an obligatory holiday greeting. A real hug—intentional, affectionate, warm, and protective—topped with a kiss to her temple.
Had he undergone rehab or a lobotomy?
The hug had just been a prelude to the real kicker, which came before dinner.
Tim had cleared his throat and tapped the stem of his glass with the end of his spoon.
Megan stopped, mid-sip, and turned her attention to him, clueless as to what important announcement he had to make. Maybe he wanted to thank them for their support while he was in rehab. Or maybe he had news about his recent job interview.
He extended a hand to her and to Aunt Trudy, on his opposite side. He breathed deeply, almost as if he were nervous, and squeezed Megan’s fingers. A quick glance at his jittery knee and forced smile confirmed her suspicion. What would make him so anxious?
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to, uh, do something different this year. I-I’d like to lead us in prayer.”
Megan felt her eyes grow wide as saucers. It’s not as if she were an atheist or anything, she mostly just didn’t care. She didn’t do religion. Her family didn’t do religion. At least they hadn’t. Before now.
Aunt Trudy’s expression betrayed nothing, and Mom appeared unflustered, as if they prayed before meals all the time. “Go ahead, Tim,” she said.
The prayer consisted of what to Megan’s mind were Evangelical buzz words: praise, glory, worship, blah, blah, blah. Mercifully, it was quick. Now she only feared that once the pie was consumed, Tim would be emboldened to proceed with an altar call.
She removed the pumpkin pie from its box, sliced it into even pieces, then grabbed a tub of whipped topping from the refrigerator and carried it to the table. The first slice fell apart as she lifted it onto the plate, but knowing Tim wouldn’t care, she piled it high with a giant-sized dollop of whipped topping.
“Thanks. Looks good. Where’d you get it?” Tim examined the pie, dipping his fork into the topping and mashing the pumpkin filling.
“Rieser’s Market.” The old, family-owned grocery store was out of her way, but it did have the best bakery and butcher shop around. Plus, she knew the store and its layout better than any other, giving her the ability to get in and out in a flash. She’d visited all hours of the day and night for as long as Chris had been employed there, which had been longer than she’d expected.
She met Tim’s gaze as she handed pie to her mom and aunt. His knowing look held more pity than smugness. She preferred the smugness to what she imagined was running through his mind. Poor Megan, still pining over a man—a married man—who never gave her a second look. Haunting all the places he frequented. She averted her gaze and slid a plate in front of her own seat.
Megan tuned out of the conversation, which from the few words she’d heard, seemed to revolve around the fifty-some acres of farmland down the road that were destined to become another strip mall. Didn’t they have plenty already? Tomorrow would be a mess, Black Friday shoppers everywhere. Hopefully by the time she met Jamie for coffee, it wouldn’t be so crazy.
Guilt niggled her conscience. Jamie . . . had she and Alan spoken? Did she know he’d accompanied her home? Or that Megan had messed with him a little by trying to pull him onto the bed with her?
“Megan. Are you listening?” Tim’s voice reached her a millisecond before the bit of pumpkin filling flung from his fork.
“Hey! Watch it.” She snatched a paper napkin from the center of the table and dabbed at the little glob of pumpkin staining her placemat.
His devilish grin almost made her smile. Almost. “Had to get your attention somehow.” His grin faded as he fidgeted with his glass, twirling it aimlessly. “This is important.”
What now? The afternoon had consisted of successive disappointments beginning with the lack of wine, in deference to Tim, followed by the bland meal, and she feared it would culminate in whatever Tim was about to share.
“First, I want to thank you all for your support . . . with the rehab. Maybe you don’t think it was necessary . . .” His gaze homed in on Megan. “I needed it. I’m a better man. Or at least I’m trying to be.” He let out
a breath and rested his hands in his lap, a smile spreading across his face, lighting his eyes.
Megan fidgeted under his gaze. As far as she was concerned, the rehab was a waste of time, and this girl he’d mentioned, she seemed to be the impetus for it. Trying to make him into something he wasn’t. He didn’t need fixing—
“There’re more changes coming, and I hope you’ll support those too.” Again, his piercing gaze landed on Megan.
She bristled, sensing she wouldn’t like what he was going to say.
“I’m moving. Not far or anything, just Lancaster.” He rested his folded arms on the table.
Lancaster? What—he was turning Amish now? He couldn’t even grow a decent beard, as evidenced by the scruff on his face more than three weeks into No-Shave November.
“Moving?” Mom’s eyes widened, and she reached for Tim’s hand and squeezed his fingers. “Why?”
He shrugged. “A fresh start? I need a new environment. I don’t want to fall into old patterns and habits. Besides . . .” He squared his shoulders and gave them a confident smile. His eyes held a peaceful look that Megan hadn’t seen there before. “It’s time for a change.”
Mom sipped her coffee and nodded.
Aunt Trudy bobbed her head too. “I think that’s a smart idea.” She scraped the remains of her pie onto her fork. “And it’s not far at all.”
They could play nice about it all they wanted. Megan wasn’t buying it. A suspicion creep-crawled up her spine, and her eyes narrowed.
“It’s her, isn’t it? This girl. The one that dragged you off to rehab as if you were a drunk. The one that’s filled your head with all this religious hooey.” Megan shoved away her remaining pie, her appetite gone.
“Megan . . .” Mom’s tone said she didn’t want an argument.
Tough. Someone had to give Tim the truth, and it might as well be Megan. “No, Mom. Are you hearing this? She’s forcing him—”
“No one forces me to do anything.” Tim’s strident voice matched her own. “Yes, Holly factored into my decision, but it’s my own. And I was a drunk. Not a falling down, sloppy drunk, but, yeah, drunk. A lot.” His gaze shifted to Mom and Aunt Trudy. “I didn’t want to get into all this.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I’m moving a half-hour away. It’s not like I’m shipping off to Zimbabwe or something.”
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