Falling for You Again

by Catherine Palmer

  “That’s what you get for snoozing in the middle of the day,” her mother would have said. Esther’s mother had never believed in naps. She’d always been so busy tending to the kitchen, the yard, the house, the children. “Essie,” she would say, “get yourself off that sofa this instant. Get busy, Essie!”

  Smiling at the memory of her fussy mother, Esther thought of her own children. Once again, the Thanksgiving dinner table would seat only her and Charlie, all by themselves. Oh, the kids would call, of course. Charles Jr. would hand his phone to each family member in turn until they’d all wished Gramma and Gramps a happy holiday.

  No doubt Ellie wouldn’t even remember her parents until late in the day, after she and the other church members had finished making rounds of the various homeless shelters in the area. She would call—out of breath and flustered—and pour out everything about her life in one long, uninterrupted sentence. All her activities would flow through the receiver, and then she would say good-bye and hang up. Ellie had changed so much in the past few years, but she still forgot to talk about anyone but herself.

  As Esther pondered her children, she saw Charlie’s golf cart pull up under the carport. Boofer bounded down from the porch and scurried over to greet his master. Charlie bent and stroked the dog’s head for a moment, rubbed behind his ears, patted his back. Then he straightened and stepped to the porch.

  “Hey there, sugar bear,” he called as he climbed the steps. “You look like the queen of Sheba—sitting there on your throne and surveying your territory. Mmm, so pretty I can’t resist a little kiss.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek.

  Esther smiled. “I’ve been thinking about Charles Jr. and Ellie. They’re so absorbed in their own affairs, aren’t they? Charles is caught up in the doings of the onion factory. In his free time, he’s so busy with family activities. Seems like the grandkids are involved in everything. And Ellie can hardly take a breath with all her church business. I sure do wish they’d come home for Thanksgiving, don’t you? We could buy a great big turkey and feed the whole bunch. What about giving them a call?”

  Charlie settled into the chair across from her and took off his hat. “Thanksgiving is just around the corner, Esther. They won’t have time to change their plans. We’ll go to California at Christmas like we planned.”

  “Did we plan that?”

  “We talked about it.”

  “Do you ever wonder why Charles Jr. and Ellie chose to move as far away from us and each other as they could? One in California and the other in Florida. Maybe they were glad to escape us. Do you think we were bad parents, Charlie?”

  “No! God took them down separate paths, that’s all. Charles got that great scholarship to USC, and then he fell in love with a California girl. And Ellie … well, you know how she ended up in Miami.”

  “The rehabilitation center. What was it—the third or fourth one we’d tried?”

  “Third. But that wasn’t our fault. Ellie had her own mind the moment she was born. She was a stubborn little gal. Still is.”

  “Do you ever miss those years when the children were little? The birthday parties and Thanksgivings and Christmases? We did have a lot of fun, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did. All you have to do is open a photo album to remember the good old days.”

  Charlie fell silent. Esther watched the sun sinking over the lake. Across the road at the Finleys’ house, Derek Finley’s mother was beginning her daily yoga exercises. The chill evening air had led Miranda to dress in a black leotard and sometimes a sweater. Thank goodness. Esther had gotten a little tired of Charlie gawking at the woman—all the while pretending to be busy sorting beads or reading the newspaper.

  Men! The poor creatures. Always driven by their hormones. Fighting wars. Conquering nations. Building great machines. Discovering new lands. So powerful, yet so easily seduced by the flutter of a woman’s eyelashes or the coy pout of a pair of lips.

  Esther was thankful that she had always been stalwart. People thought of her as flighty, and she did enjoy her own moments of silliness. But life had been a serious business all in all. Despite her occasional doubts about herself, she felt she had done a pretty good job of things. She had been dependable. Stable. Loyal.

  Looking at Charlie, she felt a measure of pride. Marriage wasn’t an easy undertaking, and they’d worked hard at making theirs successful. Lately, things had gotten a little difficult—as they did now and then. Esther had been finding Charlie annoying. But she had determined to do something about it. She had tackled her own bad attitude and was working hard to focus on the good in the man. There was a lot of good. Charlie had always been such a gentle, placid sort of man. All his life, he had worked hard, treated Esther fairly, and now and then even remembered her with a special gift. Once in a while, Charlie would walk in the door with a bouquet of roses. Or buy Esther a necklace and earrings set.

  Yes, she was glad she’d made an effort to focus on Charlie’s positive traits again and made sure to tell him often how much she loved him.

  As Miranda posed in various awkward positions on the deck, Esther leaned back in her chair and sighed in contentment. Charlie would always be there for her, she knew—even if she didn’t do yoga.

  “Esther,” he said, his attention trained on the dog in his lap, “I want to ask you a question.”

  She had to smile at how hard he was working not to stare at Miranda. “All right, honeypot, what is it? If you’re wondering when I’ll take up yoga, the answer is never. I don’t care if osteo-whatever-it-is makes every bone in my body crumble. I’m not going to do anything as silly as that.”

  Instead of cracking a grin, as he usually did, Charlie ran his fingers through Boofer’s thick, dark fur. “No, Esther. This is serious now.”

  He looked up at her, and Esther could see the strain on his face.

  “What is it, Charlie? You know I’ve already agreed to get my artery augured out. What else can be troubling you?”

  “George Snyder. There, I’ve said it. If you want to talk about the old days, Esther, let’s talk about him. I want to know why George Snyder sketched that picture of you. And more important, I want you to tell me why he wrote on the bottom that he would always love you.”

  At first, Esther could only sit in stunned silence. Where on earth had that question come from? She had thought they were looking at Miranda Finley, discussing Thanksgiving, relaxing from the day’s labors, and watching the sun go down as they reminisced about their children. Now this?

  “I told you why he sketched me,” she said, her irritation rising in spite of herself. “George is an artist. He draws and paints with watercolors and oils. And he pens ink illustrations. That’s what he does.”

  “What he does? ” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Esther, why are you talking about that man as though he still lived in an apartment down the hall from us? We haven’t seen George Snyder for nearly fifty years. At least I haven’t. Have you?”

  “Of course not. He moved to New York.” She tried to think of a way to change the subject, but her arm was still bothering her and she couldn’t concentrate.

  “What did he mean when he wrote that he would always love you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? A sentence like that doesn’t need translation.”

  “It does if it’s written about another man’s wife.” By now, Charlie had crossed his arms and was positively glaring at her. “You didn’t meet George Snyder until after we were married, Esther. I’d like to know when that man had the time to sketch you.”

  “Sketching was all he ever did. He didn’t have a regular job. You know that. George was taking art lessons. He worked on his paintings and illustrations day and night.”

  “Did he come over to our apartment other than that one time? Was he with you more often than the evening I found the two of you sitting together on our sofa with him mopping up your tears?”

  “Oh, Charlie, what are you getting at? George was my friend. He came occasionally. We visited bac
k and forth.”

  “Back and forth? You went into his apartment?”

  “Well, sure. He always wanted to show me his latest project. He’s quite a talented artist, I’ll have you know. I could see that from the very start.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you and this … this … man …” Charlie’s face had turned bright red as he tried to sputter out the words. “That the two of you …”

  “George Snyder was my best friend back then, Charlie. I won’t have you making something ugly out of it! I loved him, and he loved me, too. But not in the way you’re thinking. He visited me and brought me little gifts. I admired his work. We enjoyed chatting. That was all there was to it.”

  “That was not all!” Charlie stood and paced down the porch and then back toward Esther. “He drew you in a way I’ve never seen you. He made you look … different … in that sketch. And he wrote that he would always love you. While I was out pounding the streets delivering mail and earning our keep, you and George Snyder were dallying around! Am I wrong?”

  Pursing her lips, Esther pushed herself up with her one good arm and headed for the house. “I’m not going to have all the neighbors hearing you yell at me, Charlie Moore. If you want to discuss this, you’d better come inside. And lower your voice while you’re at it.”

  Esther made her way down the hall to their bedroom. She was so tired, even after her nap, and now Charlie was shouting and wagging his finger at her as though she were a misbehaving dog. Oh, this was no way to end a difficult day!

  “Did you have a love affair with George Snyder?” Still barking, Charlie stepped into the room and set his hands on his hips as Esther lay down on the bed. “You’d better tell me the truth, woman. I want to know every detail.”

  Esther crooked her arm over her eyes and let out a breath. She wanted to be angry. But she couldn’t even summon the energy for that. It was a terrible thing to grow old and run out of steam. “Open the bottom drawer, Charlie. Take everything out and spread it all here on the bed beside me. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve seen it all.”

  She could feel tears building as she heard the wooden drawer scraping and felt the weight of the objects—always so private, so dear to her—tossed onto the bedspread. Charlie was muttering, as he usually did.

  “There,” he said. “Now you’d better start talking, Esther, because I have the sickest feeling in my stomach I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, relax,” she told him. “There’s not a thing to get worked up about. Open that folder. The one tied with pink ribbon. Those are the sketches and little paintings George gave me. They’re worth a small fortune now, by the way.”

  Her head on the pillow, she watched as Charlie sorted through the sheets of heavy art paper. “There’s our apartment building,” she told him. “That’s the bed of tulips just outside the front door, remember? He used watercolor. George never thought he was good with watercolor, but he was. I kept telling him that until finally he believed it too. There’s another sketch of me. And another. George drew whatever was in front of him. He couldn’t keep his fingers still. He would draw on a paper napkin if he didn’t have his sketch pad.”

  “He was in love with you.” Charlie’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a barrel. “That man was in love with my wife.”

  “Oh, he was not. He never touched me or said anything inappropriate.”

  “He wrote that he would always love you!”

  “And I’ve always loved him. There’s nothing wrong with loving a dear friend, is there? Untie those letters. The bigger pile.”

  “They’re from him.”

  “Do you think I would have kept this correspondence if George and I had done anything wrong? You can read the letters yourself. You’ll see what sort of friends we were. He wrote to me from New York. At first his letters came often. You must have seen them. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up.”

  “He writes to you? Here?”

  At the growl in her husband’s voice, Esther suddenly feared Charlie might have a heart attack over this. She pushed herself up and took hold of his arm.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped. “We stopped corresponding ages ago. Stop being so foolish. I’ve told you over and over that George and I were only friends. Nothing more. He’s been working in New York all these years, and I’m sure he’s forgotten me by now. He became a famous illustrator, just the way he dreamed. Look at the magazines there by my bed. I’ve collected nearly everything he’s done over the years. I’m proud of George for following his ambition and making a success of himself, and I will not apologize for being the man’s friend years ago when we were both young and lonesome. So just calm yourself and get down off your high horse. You’re making a big fuss over nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Charlie buried his face in his hands.

  For a moment he didn’t speak, and Esther began to worry in earnest. She hadn’t expected her husband to remember George Snyder. And she’d convinced herself that even if he found the letters, he wouldn’t be upset. They were all so innocent. Just friendly wishes for a happy life. The magazines had meant a lot to her, but she knew someone would toss them out one day. Probably no one would even realize what they had meant to her.

  But now Charlie was terribly agitated. He might even be crying. What had she done that was so wrong? Surely he could understand how a woman might want to have keepsakes of a friend.

  “Charlie?” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Secrets.” He shook his head and rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “Esther, you kept that man a secret from me all these years. You never told me about your friendship. When we were young, you didn’t say a word about him. Through the years, you never mentioned his letters. Our whole marriage—every second of every minute—you’ve known about him. You’ve cared about another man, and he’s been a part of your life. And you never even told me.”

  Esther could hear the pain in Charlie’s words. She moved her hand down his arm, but he shrugged away from her.

  “Keeping a secret is the same as telling a lie,” he said through clenched teeth. “Living a lie. You hid this from me because you knew how I would feel. You knew I wouldn’t like it, and I don’t. It’s not right. I should be the only man in your life. I’m the man you married, and I’m all you should ever have needed.”

  “Well, you weren’t,” she blurted out, hurt by his unfair accusations. “In the beginning, you were rude and crude and demanding, and it took me years to soften you into a nice person. George was nice from the very start. He knew how to give gifts, and you still can’t think of anything better than that old snow globe! When we moved into our first apartment, I was lonely and scared and terribly afraid I’d made a big mistake in marrying you. But George was always there, calming me down and drying my tears. When he went off to New York, I was pregnant, and it just about devastated me to lose his companionship. But then Charles Jr. was born, and life began to have meaning again. Things made sense to me. I understood what my purpose was. I finally knew who I was and what I wanted out of life. And I began to figure out how to truly love you. George and I stayed in touch for a while because we cared about each other. But it wasn’t love. Not like us. You and I are husband and wife, Charlie. I’ve always been faithful to you.”

  “How can you say you were faithful to me when you had a secret boyfriend? You kept his letters and gifts, and you bought and saved every magazine that ever published his work. That’s not commitment. That’s adultery!”

  “Adultery? It is not!” Esther squared her shoulders in defiance. “I never touched George or kissed him or anything. I didn’t commit adultery! How dare you say such a thing? I never got drunk and went into a strip club. You did! You’ve always kept one eye on pretty girls passing by. You’ve looked at catalogs with ladies in their underwear. I know you have. And you look at Miranda Finley doing yoga in her bathing suit too! Do you suppose I don’t notice those things? Well, I do. You’ve hurt me plenty o
f times with your wandering eye, Charlie, and don’t think you haven’t. I was friends with George Snyder, and so what? It’s no more wrong than you going into a strip club.”

  “I did that once, and I apologized,” Charlie shot back at her. “I knew what I did was wrong. I admitted it, and I never did it again. But you’ve had feelings for that man for nearly fifty years! You never said a word about it. You kept it a little secret. A private thing between the two of you. That’s wrong, Esther! Dead wrong!”

  She swallowed down her hurt. “But I wasn’t in love with George Snyder.”

  “Then why did you hide him from me?”

  “I knew you’d be mad—and you are. You don’t understand.”

  “Tell me this, Esther. Would you like it if I had visited back and forth with a woman every day at work while you were home with the kids? How would you feel if she gave me little presents and wrote me letters? Don’t you know how awful you’d think it was if you learned that I’d saved her letters and notes and presents for fifty years?”

  Esther hung her head. “I wouldn’t like it. But you don’t understand how it was with George and me.”

  “I don’t have to understand. It was wrong for you to carry on a friendship with another man! It was wrong for you to have him over to our apartment and for you to go over to his! These letters were wrong!” He scooped up the letters and hurled them against the far wall, scattering them on the floor. “All of it, Esther. All of it was wrong, and you know it or you would have told me!”

  At that, he stood, walked over to the stack of magazines, and gave them a kick. As they exploded into the air like a flock of chickens, he stomped out the door and slammed it behind him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Charlie pressed the end of a strip of tape into the gray mudding compound and ran it down the seam between two sheets of drywall. Once he and Brad started this phase of the room addition, the kid had stopped spitting tobacco on the floor. Charlie was grateful. He’d begun to think if he heard another splat, he was going to wrench the kid’s head off and drop-kick it into the lake.