Flying Lessons

by Peggy Webb

Suddenly the stop sign on the corner of Robins and Jefferson springs out at me, and I slam on my brakes. Good Lord, if I don’t do something about Elizabeth I’m fixing to be a traffic statistic.

  That would serve her right.

  The thing is, I don’t want to serve her right. I want her back home in my bed where she belongs. Not just back in my bed: back in my life. She was the Fourth of July sparkler that put sizzle in my drab, ho-hum existence.

  There’s one major problem with reigniting my fizzled-out firecracker: I still don’t have the faintest idea how to get her back. But I’m going to work on it. By George, I’m not letting her get away without a fight.

  Pulling into the library’s parking lot I scan through my cell phone’s list and punch in Dr. Paulk’s number.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Good grief, Dorothy, you’re no longer in Kansas.”

  —Kate

  I love the smell of fabric stores, the look and feel of the different types of cloth, the endless possibilities presented by bolts stacked in businesslike fashion along shelves that reach higher than my head. While I’m browsing through batiste and endless varieties of lace, Bonnie is sitting at my feet “reading” The Velveteen Rabbit upside down.

  “See ’ou ’ater al’gator,” she says, before turning the page and running her finger along the lines, making up words as she goes.

  She’s missing Mom and can’t understand why Nana can’t pop over anymore. Maybe we’ll take a road trip to Ocean Springs. I’d love to talk to her in person. I’d love to say, “Mom, you were right, after all.”

  She’s just an ordinary woman coping. I guess we all are. The trick is not to settle. She has said that over and over—in her letter to Dad, in her phone conversations, in her actions.

  Now I know exactly how Mom felt when she left—scared, exhilarated and free.

  I hold up two swatches of fabric, one pale pink, the other blue.

  “What do you think, Bonnie?”

  “Can I hab it?”

  “Later. I’m going to make a beautiful dress and I’ll let you have the scraps.”

  She claps her dimpled little hands. “Goodie.”

  I wish I could please everybody that easily. Wait a minute. It’s not my job to please everybody. That’s how I lost myself in the first place.

  A weight lifts from my shoulders as I head to the checkout counter. Afterward, I dial Dad to ask if he needs me to pick up anything while I’m in town.

  “No, Kate. I’m fine. I picked up my cleaning on the way to work and I’ll stop by Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way home.”

  He sounds much better than he did on the Fourth. Perkier, somehow, and that’s a good thing. Now that he’s not so needy, I can use my energies to carve out a new path for myself.

  “Have you heard from Mom?”

  “No. I’m giving her some time, Kate. And maybe I needed some, myself.”

  Back home again, I create a play corner for Bonnie in the sewing room and set to work, stopping only long enough to make sandwiches for lunch.

  When I hear the front door open and Rick’s footsteps going from the downstairs hall to the kitchen, I resist the knee-jerk urge to race downstairs.

  “Kate?”

  “Up here.”

  “I’m home.”

  “I know. Come up here.”

  There’s this big silence, but I don’t rush to the door and stick my head out. Let him be the one to wonder, for a change. Finally he plods up the stairs. I know that walk. It says, I’m tired because I’ve spent all day earning the living. Everybody should pay attention to me and toe the line.

  Starting today, I’m blurring the lines.

  Rick’s in the doorway with his mouth hanging open. Normally this house is so orderly you could have a reception for Martha Stewart and not have to clean a thing. Now there are fabric scraps and bits of lace on the floor, my designs are spread all over the cutting table, and Bonnie is sitting astride the yardstick, pretending it’s a horse.

  “What’s going on?” His voice is careful, controlled.

  “I’m designing children’s clothes.” I hold up a partially finished dress. “My goal is to debut the Kate’s for Kids designs at Celebration Village in October.”

  Rick’s thunderstruck. Even the mention of his office’s favorite charity doesn’t move him.

  Celebration Village is an annual fund-raising event for Hospice House featuring upscale merchandise displayed in festive booths. The timing and the venue feel right, and I like to think that my first act of business will benefit a good cause.

  Finally Rick says, “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “I do. I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

  He stares at me across the room, no doubt seeing wreckage, while all I see is opportunity and growth.

  “Is this a deal breaker, Kate?”

  Am I ready to risk everything for my dream? Mom did, but nobody knows how that’s going to turn out. Still, I have the electrifying sensation of a woman coming out of a coma.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s a deal breaker.”

  “All right, then.” He’s quiet for a while, and I don’t breathe. “I’ll take you and Bonnie to dinner and we’ll discuss ways we can make it work.”

  “Okay. Let me just change our clothes first.”

  “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  When he turns to leave I expel a long breath. His footsteps going down tell a different story—compromise.

  “That was victory, Bonnie.” I pick up my daughter and give her a big hug. “Look and learn.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Lust strikes again.”

  —Beth

  Is three days long enough to put out a bush fire? Pun absolutely intended.

  Adam wanted to come over the day after my picnic but I said I had a few maintenance chores to take care of first—polishing my toenails, renewing my hair dye, mud packing my wrinkles, doing a hundred crunches a day. Maintenance is tougher after fifty.

  I wish somebody would invent a mirror that leaves out the details and shows the stuff that really matters. If that were true, instead of being aghast at the vertical bulldozer tracks above my lips and the eye pouches big enough to pack and carry to Kansas, I would see compassion and kindness and spirituality.

  Of course, in addition to being an older woman worrying about how she looks to a younger man, I don’t want to rush into anything. I know that sounds ridiculous from a woman who spent twenty years composing one symphony, but Adam is music of a different kind. He’s the cha-cha, the rumba, the tango. Not the kind of dance you dabble with but the kind you plunge headlong into and then find yourself the center of attention on the dance floor.

  Ocean Springs is a small town. People will talk. Word would get back home. Kate and Howard would do more than talk.

  There’s a lot at stake here.

  Now Adam says, “I think we can make this work.”

  Well…for a minute I think he’s reading my mind. But he’s talking about the arrangement we’re doing on “Lonesome Blues.” We’re sitting on my front porch with our shoes kicked off, scoring the song for his band while Rufus snoozes underneath the porch swing.

  “I have a really strong trumpet section,” he adds. “This song will be great for them.”

  “Oh, I’d love to hear it.”

  This is not a ploy. In the quiet of this cottage by the sea I’ve learned to move into stillness, to feel every emotion, to listen to my instincts, which is really listening to the universe whispering truth in my ear. One of those truths is that I was never more alive than when I worked with the junior high band.

  “Summer band camp starts tomorrow. Why don’t you come to the high school? Maybe you could give us a few pointers.”

  “That would be great.”

  We both reach for the music at the same time and our hands collide. Adam takes mine and I feel the stirrings of something lovely, of femininity and passion, not merely passion for life but a lusty, physical need that heats up my skin.

>   “Beth?”

  The physical passion is too wonderful too soon. I jump up and smooth down my shorts.

  “It’s getting dark. Let me turn on the light.”

  I flood the porch with light and then sit down a deliberate distance from him. We’re almost finished here. I could invite him to supper, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough willpower to resist if he wants to do more than hold my hand.

  And by George, I will not go from one safe harbor to the next. I moved quickly from the overprotective harbor of Aunt Bonnie Kathleen to the steady port of Howard. I’m determined not to jump onto the exciting dock of Adam Price without ever putting my feet in the water, let alone plunging in to see if I can swim without a life jacket.

  “I should be going,” he says.

  If I stand he might try to kiss me, so I don’t.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The football field is exactly as I remember, the band spread out in precise formation, brass instruments gleaming in the sun, the air filled with the scent of youth and excitement and possibility.

  Adam sees me and hurries over.

  “I’m glad you came, Beth. I’m eager to try out ‘Lonesome Blues.’”

  “I’m nervous. This is like sending a child off for a first day at school.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Adam sounds like Howard. That has always been his constant reassurance to me, and as I sit on the sidelines and watch the band prepare to play my music, I wonder what my husband is doing now and whether he’s sitting in the sunshine somewhere in Tupelo admiring the way a younger woman smiles at him.

  This is not the fantasy of a jealous wife; it’s a real possibility. Howard may not look like George Clooney, but he has two things many women want: a prestigious address and a big bank account.

  Of all times to be thinking about Howard! The band is warming up and I need to concentrate on how my music sounds. This is a big moment for me, hearing someone else perform my song.

  Adam lifts his baton and the music gets underway. This is the band’s first time, and they’re shaky. Still, I feel the passion of the music, the haunting beauty, the absolute rightness of this song.

  “Did you like it?”

  Adam’s standing in front of me, and I’m still trans-fixed, even though the band stopped playing a minute ago. Emerging slowly, I look across the sea of young faces and find nothing but smiles.

  “Oh, Adam…” That’s all I can say because tears are streaming down my cheeks.

  He touches one tear, then leaves to dismiss the band for a fifteen-minute break. While the field empties of clamoring musicians, he strolls back and sits beside me on the bench.

  “That was really great, Beth. You have quite a gift.”

  I can only nod. With great gifts comes great joy…and great responsibility. How am I going to use this talent? Certainly not by putting the blues songs on the closet shelf for twenty years.

  Adam’s hand is on my cheek, and when he leans down I know he’s going to kiss me…and I know it will be wonderful. The sun warms my back and his lips warm my heart and suddenly I’m a woman with options.

  I pull back and look at him, drink in this up-close-and-personal view of his vibrancy and goodness and youth.

  “Adam, I can’t do this.”

  “I know you’re separated, Beth.”

  “I’m still married, and to women of my generation that means something.”

  “I can wait.”

  “No…don’t. I’m not going to dangle you while I make up my mind what to do about Howard. You’re too fine, and I love and respect your grandparents too much.”

  “Does this mean my band can’t play your music?”

  “Indeed not! I want your band to debut ‘Lonesome Blues.’ I want to be in the front seat applauding.”

  “How about at the podium with roses?”

  “That’ll do, too.” When I lean over to kiss his cheek I feel a contentment I haven’t felt in a very long time. “Take care of yourself, Adam Price.”

  “You, too, Beth.”

  I can feel him watching as I walk away. There’s a satisfaction in knowing he wants me that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being a woman, complete.

  When I get home I make a nice chicken salad with pecans and grapes, a standard favorite from my Junior League days, and then go onto the front porch with Rufus.

  “I have a lot of decisions to make here, old boy.” He thumps his tail and I reach down to pat his big head. “It’s nice to have a man who agrees with everything I say.”

  While I eat I watch a new moon rise in the deepening sky. This is a beautiful place. I wish I could share it with my family. I miss them. I miss Howard.

  It doesn’t seem right that we haven’t talked. It’s as if he and I have been on a luxury cruise for thirty years, and when the ship finally sank we jumped into separate lifeboats and drifted off in different directions. Why didn’t one of us throw the other a lifeline?

  After all these years you’d think at least one of us would take the initiative.

  The frothing of waves against the shore look like the edges of a white eyelet petticoat, and their lovely phosphorescence draws me toward the water with Rufus at my heels. Kicking off my sandals I wade along the shoreline and watch as the waves wash away my footprints.

  The pull of the moon is strong, not only on the tides, but on me, and I find a perch on a small dune then lift my face toward the heavens. It’s a clear night, and the sky is brilliant with stars.

  Howard and I used to stargaze when we were courting. One evening he surprised me by saying, “Did you know that the stars are actually different colors?”

  “They all look the same from here, and I guess I just took for granted that they were.”

  “A really good telescope shows stars that are a gem-quality blue and red. There are orange and yellow ones, too. The yellow dwarf stars have a life span of ten thousand million years, but the hotter, more brilliant ones live only a hundred million years.”

  I’m just a little blip on the cosmic radar. No matter what happens in my life, the moon, the sun and the myriad galaxies will endure.

  I wonder if Howard is looking at the stars tonight, and if he’s feeling the same thing I am: fleeting and impermanent. Compared to a star, we have an extremely short life span. Knowing that, wouldn’t you think we’d try to get it right?

  I dust the beach sand off my shorts, put on my sandals and walk back to the cottage with Rufus at my side.

  Starting tomorrow, I’m going to try to get it right.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Can a stick-in-the-mud become a man of mystery?”

  —Howard

  Here I am going after Beth again. Wouldn’t you think a man would have to do this only once in his lifetime? If I keep thinking along those lines, I’ll work myself into another deep depression—I’ve been doing that a lot lately—and then I’ll never know if Beth and I could have made it.

  The fact is, I went off half-cocked in Pensacola and she was right to leave again. Nothing changed when we got home except the color of our bedroom walls. I’ll have to admit that dark pinkish color is not bad. At least you notice it. First thing I see when I wake up every morning is the way those walls look like the sunrise, the kind that’s soft and pinkish and leaves you feeling as if you’ve jump-started a good day.

  Well, actually it’s the second thing I see. The first is Elizabeth’s empty pillow.

  The gas gauge on my car shows half-empty, so when I see an Exxon station on the outskirts of Meridian I pull in to fill up. One of the differences between Elizabeth and me is that I always drive off the top of the tank and she drives off the bottom.

  I used to think it was cute, even when she got stranded that Christmas Eve at the mall and I had to rush out with a gas can so she could get to a service station. Then my fond amusement switched to irritation. And now… I don’t know. I’m leaning more toward acceptance than anything.


  While I’m still standing by my car with the gas nozzle in the tank, my cell phone goes off. Well, let it ring. I’ve got my hands full. Both literally and figuratively. Besides, it can’t be all that important. It won’t be Elizabeth because she hasn’t called since she left, and Lucille knows to call me only in a dire emergency. And if it’s Kate she’ll call back.

  Anyhow, I don’t want to talk to her right now. I don’t want her to know what I’m doing until I have something to report.

  Maybe I’ll call tomorrow afternoon. By then I should know the lay of the land in Ocean Springs. Or, knowing Elizabeth, maybe I won’t. Unpredictability is one of her most maddening qualities…and one of her greatest charms.

  When I go in to pay for the gas I encounter one of those chatty people behind the checkout counter, a burly man with Ralph embroidered on his shirt pocket.

  “You pullin’ a big load, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mighty big, from the looks of it.”

  He’s fishing, hoping I’ll tell him what’s in the trailer behind my car, but I’m not in the business of airing my family’s laundry in public. Unlike Elizabeth who can spend ten minutes in a public restroom with a perfect stranger and share her entire family history. Furthermore, she comes out knowing everything about the person from sixth grade on. Often Elizabeth ends up dragging her home for a hot meal and a bath and some free psychiatric advice. From me, naturally.

  I press my credit card in Ralph’s hand and he stands there awhile, hoping I’ll open up, but when I don’t he goes on and does his job. Thank the good Lord.

  On the way to the car the stars catch me unaware, and I stand in the middle of the parking lot staring like an old fool. Here’s the crazy thing about stars: they always remind me of Elizabeth.

  Life is excruciatingly dull without her.

  Feeling misty-eyed, I get back in the car then have to sit behind the wheel awhile before my vision clears.

  Back on Highway 45 South I turn on the radio for company. They’re playing some kind of country song with guitars and tear-jerking lyrics sung in a twangy voice. Elizabeth always sings along. She has a clear, true voice that’s better than some of the recording artists. She could have been famous if she’d pursued a career in entertainment, and I used to marvel that she chose plain, simple me instead of bright lights and big cities.