by Rachel Hauck
She carried him downstairs and settled him on the sofa while she fixed her plate. Just as she stuffed the first delicious bite in her mouth, two texts rolled in.
The first was from the doctor’s office, reminding her of the appointment on the third. She should consider going to this one since she blew off the last two.
The second was from Lieutenant Ingram.
When you get here, my office.
Beck sighed, tossing her phone to the other end of the couch, the creamy, rich goodness of beef stroganoff turning sour in her mouth. It was going to be a long night.
Meanwhile, Flynn was perched in his chair, wearing his favorite Ohio State sweats, cheering for the men in scarlet and gray.
“Can you watch the dog while I’m at work?” Beck said. “Please?”
“Touchdown!” Flynn tossed his hands in the air, flinging a small noodle across the room. “I’ll get Wyatt to look in on him.”
“Then remind him. He’s sixteen and rather self-absorbed.” Her much-younger baby brother was charming, lost in his own world of being a popular athlete who was the “desire of the lay-dies.” His words, not hers.
“As I recall, you were self-absorbed at that age.” Flynn retrieved the noodle, dabbing his napkin against the spot on the hardwood.
“At sixteen I’d lost my dad and any childhood memories associated with him. My mom was absent, working, grieving. Then she brought home a stepfather and gifted me with a bratty little brother. So yeah, maybe I was a bit lost in myself.”
Flynn shifted his attention from the game. “Was it really so horrible?”
She grinned, taking a bite of food. “Wyatt’s not so bad.”
Her stepfather chuckled. “Well, that’s good to know.” Then he shouted at the TV. “Throw the flag, ref.”
Beck had just finished her plate and was contemplating seconds when the game gave way to a commercial.
Flynn carried his dishes and empty beer bottle to the kitchen. “Did your mom tell you about the registered letter?”
“Oh, yeah, she did.” Beck set her things in the dishwasher, deciding to forego seconds so she could have a donut on her way to work. She’d been craving a Brooklyn Blackout from the Doughnut Planet for a couple of days.
Finding the letter on the hall table, Beck glanced up at Flynn as he passed with another heaping mound of stroganoff. “Do we know people in Fernandina Beach, Florida?”
“You used to vacation there when you were a kid. When your dad was alive.” Eyes fixed on the TV, Flynn sat with his food in his lap, then threw his napkin at the screen. “Come on, ref, let the boys play ball.”
Beck stared at the envelope. So legal looking. Mom had once talked of how the two of them spent Beck’s summer vacation in Florida. About six weeks, was it? Then Dad joined them for the last three.
But Mom rarely, if ever talked about the past or strolled glassy-eyed down the memory lane of her life, or Beck’s, before 9/11.
Beck drew a breath and tore open the envelope, unfolding the long document. “This is the will of Mrs. Everleigh Callahan.”
“What?” Flynn shot her a fast glance, then turned back to the game. “Everett who?”
“Everleigh, you goofball. Watch your game. It says . . .” The words caught in her throat. “I-I’m her sole beneficiary.” She reviewed the envelope and the letterhead one more time. Yes, it was addressed to her. “This has to be a joke.”
A commercial came on, and Flynn reached for the document. “I’m not a lawyer, but it looks legit. You inherited her house at 7 Memory Lane, Fernandina Beach, Florida.” He made a face. “And her possessions, including her financial accounts.” He handed the notice back to her as he went to the kitchen. “Guess you’d better talk to your mom about this. Who in the world is Everleigh Callahan, and why did she leave you everything?”
“Good question, Flynn. I was wondering the same thing.”
chapter four
Everleigh
May 1953
Waco, Texas
Marriage suited her. A notion she had never doubted. It filled her with joy and light. Yes, so much light.
Eight months ago Everleigh Novak walked the aisle of the First Baptist Church to her rancher cowboy and became his wife.
Tonight she would expand their fairy tale. “Rhett, darling, I’m pregnant.”
Her pregnancy was confirmed by the doctor this morning when she’d already planned a romantic dinner with her man. They’d actually have the Applegate ranch house all to themselves. Her in-laws, the formidable Mama Applegate and congenial Daddy Applegate, queen and king of the Circle A, were dining with friends in town.
Everleigh pressed her hand to her still-flat belly as she gazed through the brilliant afternoon sunlight flooding Waco’s downtown streets.
God smiled on her the day Rhett invited her to the dance. Miss Everleigh Novak, of all people, caught the eye of one of Baylor’s most sought-after men. And Rhett chose her above all the beautiful girls vying for his attention.
And now her womb carried his offspring. Perhaps a son, the next heir to the Applegate ranching family. Or a daughter, who, in these modern times, may very well take over the ranch one day.
Their son, a future star fullback at Baylor University. Like his father.
Their daughter, unlike her mother, a future homecoming queen. Though make no mistake, as a rancher’s daughter she’d be one part princess and one part tomboy. Sugar and spice.
Everleigh half decided she’d spoil their son and leave the daughter’s indulgences to Rhett. Yet when all was said and done, this child and any future children would be loved. So very loved.
She frowned as rebel clouds gathered beyond her window, obscuring the sunlight and casting a thick shadow over the town, over her drawing table.
Everleigh glanced down at her work, the latest ad for Kestner’s Family Department Store. If she didn’t get these proofs to her boss by the end of the day . . .
Ink pen in hand, she returned to shading. She couldn’t afford to lose her job as an ad artist just yet. She and Rhett were saving for their own home.
They’d tucked her earnings into a savings account while living with Rhett’s parents. In his boyhood bedroom.
“I never thought I’d have a girl in here,” he said to her on their first night back from the honeymoon.
“Well, I’m glad to be the one and only.” Then she kissed him as if for the first time.
Everleigh laughed softly at the memory. He’d been so funny when they returned from their honeymoon, locking the door before crawling into bed, then climbing out again to wedge the small desk chair under the knob.
“This is Mama’s house. If she wants to come in, believe you me, she’s coming in.”
Everleigh inked in the boot heel with vigor as another memory drifted across her mind.
Rhett had come home for lunch one afternoon, and seeing that Mama Applegate had gone into town, he thought the coast was clear to carry his new bride up to their room for a bit of afternoon ravishing.
Caught up in the moment, he didn’t bother to bolt the door, and well . . .
Four months later, Everleigh bristled if Rhett showed her the slightest affection in front of his parents. Especially his mother.
“Everleigh, Mr. McCann wants to know if you’ve finished those boots.” Betty Jo handed Everleigh a mock-up for next week’s newspaper display ad. She was grateful for the distraction from the embarrassing memory. “He said to make sure you have the right dimensions. Your drawing last week bled into the gutter.” The woman grabbed Everleigh’s ring hand. “You know, I thought that boy of yours was all hat and no brains, but he sure brought it home when he gave you this ring. It’s stunning.”
“He saved for a long time.” Everleigh drew her hand away and examined the mock-up for the Tribune-Herald.
“Know what my husband gave me for our engagement? A kid.” Betty Jo propped herself against the drawing table, smacking her gum. In her early forties, she was a Southern spitfire with Marily
n Monroe hair and red lips. Her skirts were so tight she had to fall into her chair, and her blouse, well, let’s just say the cut of the neck exposed what shouldn’t be given away for free.
“A kid?” Everleigh set the mock-up aside and reached for her pica ruler. She had set the ad’s border six points too long. “Like a goat?”
“A goat? Please!” Betty Jo cackled and patted her belly. “He gave me a kid-kid. That’s why we got married. It was a rough start, but we’ve survived. That kid, or goat as you called him, is almost twenty and a sophomore in college.” She took a cigarette from the snap case she carried. “A goat? Heavens to Betsy. Do I need to review the birds and the bees with you?”
“I’m well versed in the birds and the bees. But we were far from having a kid at our wedding.”
“Then you’re a better woman than I.” Betty Jo sighed, examining her lacquered fingernails. “I know you’re happy now, still in the newlywed stage. What’s it been? Six months?”
“Eight.”
“Well, just you wait.”
“Wait for what?” Everleigh laid the ruler against the bottom of the ad and with her X-Acto knife, sliced off a half pica. “Rhett and I are in love. We’re going to stay in love and have a perfect life.”
“Perfect? Oh my goodness. Please, Pollyanna, take off your rose-colored glasses.” Betty Jo blew smoke in Everleigh’s face. “The young ones are such dreamers. Darling, all brides think their marriage is going to be candy and flowers, tender kisses and weekend honeymoons. That he’ll help with the dishes and the kids, and tend to every household chore whistling a tune. Then little by little, like a frog boiling a pot, ten years have passed and your man comes home tired and grumpy, kicks off his stinky boots, and asks, ‘What’s for dinner?’ He barely kisses you hello. On the cheek if you’re lucky. And while you finish cooking, setting the table, yelling at the kids to come in and wash up, he’s sitting on the john reading the paper until his legs go numb—”
“Betty Jo!” A glob of ink dropped from the end of Everleigh’s pen smack in the middle of the drawing. “Don’t rain on my parade just because there’s no sunshine on yours.” She reached for a cloth to wipe away the ink. But it stained. She’d just have to make it part of the boot.
“Suit yourself. But when you come to me begging for ol’ Betty Jo’s advice, I promise not to say, ‘I told you so.’” She winked at Everleigh, dropping her cigarette to the old wood floor and smashing it out under her shoe. “At least not too many times.”
With that, she left, the dark, heavy oak door closing behind her while her cackle lingered in the art room.
“What does she know? ‘Know what my husband gave me? A kid.’” Everleigh pictured Betty Jo’s man, Jeb. She winced at the image of him on the toilet. Have mercy but that woman could paint a verbal picture.
Everleigh liked Jeb, a hardworking oil-field man who spoke more in deed than word. Betty Jo may have her issues with him, but Everleigh was charting a different course with Rhett.
Since their first date, they all but finished each other’s sentences. They spent hours and hours talking. When they weren’t together, they talked on the phone. Right before their wedding, Rhett started mailing her short, sweet notes.
Thinking of you. Two more months! Always, Rhett.
No, the day would never be when Rhett came home tired and grumpy, barely kissing her hello before kicking off his boots on his way to the bathroom, where he’d sit until his legs were numb.
“Never going to happen, Betty Jo.”
Everleigh propped her elbows on the drawing table, studying the boots. How long would she have to wait before bragging to Betty Jo that Rhett kissed her smack on the lips every night?
In the meantime, what was she going to do with this ink stain? She didn’t have time to start the drawing over. She’d just decided to paste white paper over the stain when a broad pair of rancher hands slipped about her waist.
“Hello, beautiful.” Rhett pressed his warm lips against her neck.
Everleigh turned, gazing into his august face. How did he still take her breath away? “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a man visit his wife at work?”
“Not when it’s the middle of the afternoon. Not when he’s supposed to be mending fences in the south pasture.”
“I took the afternoon off to tend to something else.”
“What kind of something else?” She searched his eyes for a hint of his secret. Good? Bad? “What? Tell me?” He wore his second-best Sunday shirt under a casual sport coat. “But listen here, mister.” Everleigh linked her arm through his. “No matter how long we are married, I want a proper hello kiss when you come home at night. And no sitting on the commode reading the paper until your legs fall asleep. And a house . . . Oh, Rhett, I wasn’t going to say anything because I know we’ve been saving, but I really want our own home. Can’t we—”
“Hey, hey, sweetheart, what’s all this?” He raised her chin and kissed her.
“Betty Jo was saying how—”
Rhett laughed against her hair. “Ol’ Betty Jo. What’s she been saying now?”
Everleigh inhaled Rhett’s scent of sweet hay and sunshine. “The usual. All boo-hoo about marriage.” She looked up at her husband and combed the front of his hair with her fingers. “She claims the honeymoon will end and one day, like a frog in a boiling pot, you’ll come home tired and grumpy, forget to kiss me, kick off your stinky boots, and ask what’s for dinner, then read the paper on the toilet.”
Rhett pinned her against him with his arms. “Honey, I promise you a proper kiss in the evening no matter what, and sitting on the toilet reading the newspaper is my father, not me.” He crossed his heart while his blue-blue eyes searched hers. “Believe me?”
“With all that I am.”
He kissed her cheek, then whispered in her ear, his warm breath giving her chills. “You know I can’t stop thinking about you.” He nuzzled her neck again, then found her lips. “You’re a distraction. Dad keeps assigning me chores, and I forget to do them because I daydream of you.”
Everleigh searched his eyes, feeling in her belly the love she saw there. Forever she’d remember this moment. “How did I get so lucky to marry you?”
“I’m the lucky one. But will you do me a favor? Stop listening to Betty Jo, please.”
“Done. But you can’t blame me when you forget to do your chores.”
Rhett laughed. “Deal. But it’s true. You’re all I can think about.” The glint in his eye sparkled and teased, and raised her desire for him. “Doesn’t seem like the honeymoon is over yet, does it?”
“Not by a long shot, Mr. Applegate.” She raised up to kiss him, grateful for the solitude of the square, empty room.
She loved her power over him, but there was no denying Rhett’s sway and charm over her. She’d walk to the ends of Texas for him. Barefoot. Or, as it were, endure life in his mother’s house.
She’d chored-up, doing whatever asked without complaint. When Mama Applegate spoke as if Everleigh were a guest rather than a family member, she embraced it with grace.
Because at the end of the day, she was Rhett’s wife. She alone shared his dreams, his heart, his life.
And at night, when she couldn’t sleep, his soft breathing was her lullaby.
“Darling, I have to get back to work or I won’t make it home in time for our dinner.” She tugged at his shirt collar. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“I was going to wait until tonight, but I got so excited . . .” Rhett stepped over to the desk in front of Everleigh’s and held up a long white canister. “Here. Open it. I feel like a kid at Christmas.”
“Rhett, what have you done?” She pried away the cap and slipped out a set of drawings.
“Here, let me.” Rhett unrolled a rendering of a cozy house with a wraparound porch nestled between two cottonwoods. “Our house, Ev. I took those sketches you made after we were married and gave them to the architect. What do you think?”
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br /> “Th-this is our house?” She wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning against his thick arm as she studied the drawing.
“It’s our house, darling.”
It was just like she imagined. “Are you sure?” She gazed up at her husband. “I didn’t think we’d saved enough money.”
“We’ve saved every penny of your salary, and I finally sold the stud bull to Jacob Marshall. He’s been after me for a year . . .” Rhett held her with one hand while flipping through the drawing with the other. “I bought the ten acres by the stream. You know, the one with the trees we loved. Dad wanted to give it to us, but I said no strings. I wanted to buy it so he can’t hold it over me. Not that he would, but family business can get tricky.”
Everleigh leaned to see the name of the road. Memory Lane. “Darling, the section right off Memory Lane? The spot I wanted?”
Rhett’s grandmother named the dirt road years ago, when she imagined a large family with lots of grandkids running around. She envisioned an Applegate community.
But her sons, Melvin and Earl, went to war. Only Earl—nicknamed Spike—returned home the fall of 1918. He inherited the ranch, married Mama Applegate, and fathered Rhett, an only child.
Grandma’s two daughters married and moved away.
“Your granny would be proud, darling,” Everleigh said. “We’re beginning her dream.”
“Sh-she would.” Rhett cleared his throat, pressing his fist over his cough. “So, w-what do you think?” He flipped to the page showing the first-floor layout. “Here’s the back porch with a screen. We can watch the pink sunset over the water without the mosquitos.” He took a pencil from the holder on her table and pointed out the lines of the porch. “Here’s the living room, dining room, and kitchen. I told the architect to give you a big kitchen with all the latest appliances so you can bake and cook to your heart’s content. I know Mama is a bit stingy with her kitchen.”
“Oh, Rhett, I’ve never seen anything so grand.”