by Patti Berg
Fern laughed. “Obviously you’ve forgotten that you said yes to just about everyone needing volunteers when we first got married. If someone needed help building a deck, you were there. When my dad broke his leg, you drove him to his doctor appointments, you built a ramp so he didn’t have to climb the stairs getting in and out of the house and—”
“That was a long time ago. Our lives have changed since then.”
“My life has changed,” Fern said. “I know that’s had a big impact on you, but you’ve given up too much of your own life to take care of me.”
“Someone has to do it.”
Fern twisted around on the sofa. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightened, and he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing.
“You know, James, there’s always the possibility that I could do more if you didn’t jump in and do things like cook and clean and do the grocery shopping before I’ve had the chance to try it on my own.”
James pushed up off the sofa and walked across the room, holding his hands in front of the fire burning on the hearth. They weren’t cold, but he needed a moment to let Fern’s comment register. Never before had she even hinted that he was getting in the way, that his help was an annoyance, that it was hindering her ability to do things on her own.
Running a hand through his hair, James faced his wife. “So what is it you want me to stop doing?”
“It’s not so much that I want you to stop doing things, just give me the opportunity to do them first and if I fail, then you can take over.”
“What if you fall? What if—”
“If I fall I figure out how to get back up or stay on the floor until someone comes along who can help me get up. If I have trouble chopping vegetables, I’ll find new recipes that are easier to make.”
James walked across the room and sat on the cluttered coffee table where he could face her and see what emotions played across her face. Did she really mean what she was saying?
“Have I complained about helping?” he asked. “Is that what this is all about?”
“You don’t complain about much of anything. You don’t even complain about my complaining.”
“You’re my wife. Seeing the agony in your face when you’re in pain nearly kills me. I don’t want you getting overly tired or—”
“Or nothing. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life bored to tears or moping around because I hurt or I’m afraid of looking stupid. And I don’t want you giving up your life and the things you used to enjoy before I got sick.”
“I haven’t given up all that much.”
“You used to spend more time with Nelson and Gideon.”
“They understand.”
“I’m sure they do, but that doesn’t make it any easier. They want their dad to hang out with them once in a while and…Nelson really wants you to be his scoutmaster.”
“I just don’t have time—”
“If you want to do it, you’ll find the time.” Fern reached out, caressing his cheek with the palm of her hand. “I’m not going to tell you that you should take on the job. That’s a decision only you can make, but don’t use me as an excuse to get out of it if it’s the thought of camping trips and spiders crawling into your sleeping bag that’s turning you off.”
“I hadn’t given spiders in my sleeping bag much thought,” James said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of the pocket in his jacket. He unfolded it slowly. “I suppose I should add that to the con side.”
“Let me see that list.” Fern snatched it out of his hands. She stared at the two columns. “This is looking a little lopsided.”
“You know me. Mr. Analytical, looking at both sides of the argument and trying to make the right decision.”
“Mind if I make a suggestion?” Fern smiled softly, a look he’d fallen in love with over twenty years ago. “Quit thinking so hard about this and listen to your heart.”
Chapter Thirteen
ELENA AND CESAR SAT ACROSS FROM EACH OTHER IN a cozy booth at Baldomero’s, an authentic Mexican restaurant in downtown Deerford owned by Elena’s mother Camila Baldomero. A Luis Miguel CD played in the background, mixed with a little mariachi and some boleros, the music romantic at times, lively at others.
Elena was out of her scrubs for a change, wearing jeans, a red turtleneck sweater, and a pair of simple diamond stud earrings Cesar had given her for Christmas several years back. Cesar was on his dinner break, still in uniform, looking handsome as always. Someday their schedules might mesh, making it easier to spend long, leisurely hours together.
“I think the chef has added a few extra spices to the pollo en mole recipe.” Elena took a bite of the tender chicken in a spicy, chili, nut and Mexican chocolate sauce.
“You don’t like it?” Cesar stuffed a steaming flour tortilla with carne asada and rolled it up like a small burrito before taking a bite.
“I do, but I’ve always thought the recipes my mother gave me were perfect, handed down from generation to generation of women who loved to cook.” Elena reached across the table and took a small forkful of Cesar’s carne asada. “Is this as good as mine?”
Cesar’s dark brown eyes sparkled in the glittering candlelight. “It’s okay, but nothing like yours. And sitting here, even with you, is nothing like eating at home, just family, with all of us making a mess in the kitchen and not worrying about fancy tablecloths, candlelight and music.”
“I never expected you to be a homebody when we got married.”
“You were nineteen and I wasn’t much older. Fast food was a good meal back then.”
Cesar dug his fork into a mound of garlicky white rice and mixed it with his refried beans. “How did your meeting go?” He’d asked the same question when he picked her up at Holy Trinity, but her answer had been interrupted when a car skidded off the road in front of them, and he’d stopped to make sure everything was okay, then called for a tow truck.
Too many of their conversations were interrupted by one thing or another.
Elena picked a chip out of the basket between them and dipped it into a bowl of salsa. “I was afraid the meeting would go on for hours, especially when I saw the long list of questions each of the pastors had, but we were prepared, especially Quintessa. She had charts and graphs, and she wowed everyone with the numbers of donors she and her friends have lined up and the quality of the auction items.” Elena bit off a corner of her tortilla chip. “It’s all pretty amazing.”
“You make it sound like she did the whole thing.”
“I did my share.” Elena smiled. “I gave a presentation on the Web site I’ve been creating with the help of Hope Haven’s webmaster. Then, of course, we had to talk about all the mundane logistics. Tables and chairs for exhibitors, the layout for the festival and the use of Good Shepherd’s kitchen facilities, gym and their grounds and play areas.”
“That’s it?”
Elena took a sip of cherry cola. “Everything else is even more mundane.”
Cesar rolled another carne asada burrito. “You didn’t volunteer for anything extra, did you?”
She’d expected that question to come up, and even though she hated to see the face he was going to make, Elena looked her husband straight in the eye. “I’m going to make a few costumes for the Harvest Festival.”
Cesar glared up at the ceiling. His jaw tightened. “How much more can you put on your plate, Elena?”
“It’s just a few costumes. I’m already making one for Izzy and something for me. It’s not that much more work to design and sew a few extras.”
“You’re already cutting short the number of hours you sleep at night.”
“I’ve never needed a lot of sleep. You know that.”
“I also know how tight your neck muscles have been getting when you sit at the sewing machine for hours on end.”
“I love to sew as much as you love to play basketball.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head, frustration getting the best of him. “I don’t want to argue about this.”
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“We’re not arguing. We’re getting this thing that’s been coming between us out in the open.”
“I could write a mile-long list of things that are coming between us.”
“I don’t need it in writing. Why don’t you tell me right now and let’s talk about all these things of mine that are bothering you.”
“All right.” He pushed his plate off to the side and folded his arms on the tabletop, leaning toward Elena. “When we got married, we said that Sunday would always be our family day, that the only thing we’d let come between us doing things together, like going for a picnic or boating or to a ball game—something recreational where we could get away from home—would be our jobs. And now—”
Cesar stopped, but she knew what he’d been planning to say. “I go to church on Sunday.”
“That’s right. You go to two church services on Sunday mornings, and in between them, you help out in the nursery or make coffee for the other parishioners, and you spend Saturday making banana bread or muffins or some kind of cookies for everyone to eat.”
Elena smiled, reaching across the table to place her hand on top of Cesar’s. “I make banana bread and muffins for you too.”
“That’s not the problem, Elena.”
“Then what is?”
“I’m losing you.”
Elena frowned as a lump formed in her throat. “That’s crazy. I’d drop everything if you needed me.”
“Maybe, but the truth is, Elena, you’ve stopped needing me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. There was a time when we used to sit on the couch together and talk about our day, or talk about the future or what was bothering us. Now you do that with your Bible study friends or your pastor. And sometimes I hear you talking to God, telling Him what’s bothering you, and I realize that you haven’t shared those things with me.”
Elena stared down at her plate, pushing black beans around with her fork. Had she really stopped talking with Cesar? Had she shut him out of a big part of her life?
“I don’t fit in any longer, Elena,” Cesar said. “I’ve heard you praying, asking God to bring me back to the church, to restore my faith. And then I think: Am I not good enough just the way I am?”
Elena fought her tears, but they slipped down her cheeks anyway. She tried to wipe them away with her napkin, but they continued to come. “I didn’t realize I was making you feel that way, but you should know that nothing could ever come between us.”
“How could I know when you make a point of filling your life with anything and everything to keep us apart? To keep us from having the time to talk like we used to?”
“What do you want me to do? Give up going to church? Give up my volunteering?”
“That’s not my decision to make.” Cesar put his hand over Elena’s. “I want you to be happy, Elena, but I don’t want to lose you in the process.”
Elena stood in the chilly night air just outside Holy Trinity’s chapel, waiting for Ginger Murphy to arrive. Why, of all nights, was it absolutely necessary that she attend Bible study tonight? It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, that she didn’t want to introduce Ginger to her friends, it was just that—she sighed, her breath forming a foggy cloud in front of her face—she wanted to be sitting inside Cesar’s patrol car, riding around with him, talking if they could. Or at home, trying to figure out where she’d gone wrong.
Digging her cell phone out of the oversized purse carrying her Bible and a study guide, she dialed Cesar’s number, hoping he wasn’t out of the car. It rang and rang and just as she was about to hang up, Cesar answered. “Hi, hon. What’s up?”
He sounded so normal, as if everything were right in their world.
“I forgot to ask what time you’ll be home.”
“Ten. Ten thirty. Shouldn’t be any later than that.”
She could hear his radio in the background, knowing that he could get a call at any time, that a thief or a drunk or a street fight could drastically alter the time he’d arrive home. But somehow or other, they had to make time to be together, even if they were just watching a movie.
And then an idea sprang into her mind. “I was thinking, why don’t you stop at the video store and pick up a movie? If you have time.”
Cesar was silent a moment. He was either listening to a call on the radio or trying to figure out what she was up to.
“Do you want a movie for me or for you?”
“For both of us. For tonight—when you get home. I thought I’d make the pistachio flan that you like and—”
“Hold on, hon.”
As happened all too often, their conversation was cut short. Elena heard him talking on the radio and wondered if he’d forget she was on the cell phone, but a moment later she heard his voice in her ear, the tender voice she’d fallen in love with so many years ago. “Flan sounds good, hon. See you later.”
Elena smiled as she closed her phone and dropped it back in her purse. A movie and flan wasn’t the greatest start to mending her marriage, but it was the best she’d been able to come up with on the spur of the moment. Tomorrow, if she could find a few extra moments in her busy day, she’d figure out how she could weed out her to-do list.
She didn’t have a clue what she could give up, but she’d start crossing off things immediately.
Wrapping her arms around her chest to ward off the cold, Elena was beginning to think that Ginger wasn’t going to show up. It was already five after seven and the other women in her Bible study group had shown up and gone into the classroom at least fifteen minutes ago.
Another few minutes flew by and Elena was just turning to go into the church when an older, dark blue Chevy Suburban pulled into the parking lot. Even in the dim light from the streetlamps, Elena recognized Ginger’s wild red hair. Waving, she walked toward the vehicle, glad that Ginger had come.
When the driver’s door opened, a very pregnant Ginger slid out, dressed in a dark teal maternity tunic, black stretch pants and, Elena laughed, fuzzy green house slippers.
“Let me guess,” Elena said. “Your feet are swollen.”
“I tried squeezing them into real shoes, but only the slippers fit, and I so wanted to come tonight.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too, of course, I hadn’t planned to be so late,” Ginger said, tugging her coat from the back seat and throwing it on over her tunic, “but I must have left the eggs or soda out of the first batch of muffins I made and they refused to rise, so I had to whip up another batch. There was no way I was going to come tonight without bringing a little gift.”
“You didn’t have to, but—”
“Oh, it was nothing.” Ginger reached into the car again and pulled out the loveliest basket, its handle decorated with ribbons and bows in varying shades of orange, and an orange and white gingham cloth tucked beneath a pile of scrumptious-looking muffins.
“I’ve discovered this wonderful new recipe that uses Friendship Batter for its base,” Ginger said, as Elena took the basket from her and they headed toward the wing of classrooms at the back of the church. “If you’ve never had a starter of Friendship Batter, I’ll give you a jar. It’s absolutely the best and these muffins—oh my!—they’re terribly fattening, but they’re also chock-full of nuts and fruit and oatmeal, and I throw in just a bit of peanut butter.”
Elena could smell the aroma of cinnamon and sugar. She didn’t have to bite into one of the muffins to know she’d be indulging in manna from heaven.
“Our group will love these,” Elena said, slowing down when she realized Ginger was having trouble keeping up. “And let me give you fair warning, the ladies have a tendency to cater to pregnant women. Be prepared to be treated like a queen.”
“As long as I can put my feet up I’ll be happy. Hopefully that’ll make the baby happy as well. This little one of mine has been kicking up a storm for hours now. I believe she’s a bit unhappy with me for some reason.”
“Maybe you were standin
g on your feet too long. I know you wanted to make the muffins, but—”
“My mama told me long ago that you never go to a party empty-handed, that it’s absolutely imperative that you take a little something to your hostess, so I had to make the muffins, even if it meant standing when I should have been sitting. Of course, it could be all the broccoli I’ve been nibbling on that’s making her do somersaults. Steve’s positive our baby’s going to be green.”
Ginger chatted all the way to the meeting room, her voice filled with laughter, her smile never leaving her face.
Elena introduced Ginger to everyone—seven ladies tonight—and they swarmed around her, making her at home, setting her down in the comfiest chair and finding a stool to put beneath her feet.
Helen Mitchell served coffee, Belinda Boyd passed out napkins as she passed around the basket of muffins and each woman shared a quick story about herself before begging Ginger to divulge all her secrets.
“There’s very little to tell, really, other than the fact that I was born and raised on a farm in Kansas. We had our own chickens and cows and a huge vegetable garden. My mother, who’s a miracle worker in the kitchen, says I started baking and making crafts before I could walk. Not that that’s true, of course. I think I was around three when that started.”
Elena told the group about Ginger’s teddy bears, raving about the costumes Ginger had made for them, and took a moment to promote the Harvest Festival and remind everyone that all the proceeds would be going toward furniture for three Habitat for Humanity homes.
Judy Clemente, a longtime member of Holy Trinity and the leader of their prayer group, walked across the room, sipping from a fresh cup of coffee before sitting. “Are you new to Deerford?” she asked Ginger.
“We’ve been here since the first of the year. Steve and I were in Orlando, Florida, which I dearly loved the five years we were there, except for the heat and the never-ending humidity and, of course, there was always the threat of snakes and gators. And then, well—”