The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  “When do you leave for Florida?” She ran her hand over his leg. If she didn’t stop he was going to jump from his skin. It was her innocence that baffled and excited him. She’d been a married woman. Didn’t she realize certain things, well, lit a man’s fuse?

  “By the end of the month.”

  “I’m proud of you.” Her words, her smile, was worth all the tension and heartache. “Your dad will be, too, when he thinks about it.”

  “We made a truce, but he’s not pleased.” Don took her hand. “Are you proud enough to go with me?”

  A low, echoing thunder hovered over the house and muffled her soft, “Go with you?”

  “It’s a small beach town outside of Jacksonville. Fernandina Beach. I’ve seen pictures. It’s beautiful, Ev. It’s a chance to start over, leave the pain behind.”

  She pulled away from him, gathering their coffee cups and cake plates.

  Don met her at the kitchen sink. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  “But we . . . we barely know each other.”

  “We know enough and I love you. We can make a go of it.”

  “You’re asking me to leave Waco? It’s my home. I’ve never lived anywhere but here. And what will Mama do? Besides, Don, what’s for me in Fernando, Florida?”

  “Fernandina Beach. And I’d like to think I’m there for you.”

  “Don, sweet Don, you are the best thing—” She turned away from him. Well, that was it. He’d leaped too soon. Too far. “But my life is here. Mama needs me.”

  “What if I need you?” He hurried into the living room for the box he left in his jacket pocket. “Everleigh Novak Applegate . . .” He bent to one knee, raising the box. “Will you—”

  “Stop.” She cupped her hand over his, covering the ring box, her eyes brimming. “Don’t make me answer.”

  Slowly he stood, tucking the ring in his pocket, feeling the heat of her sweet rejection. “I thought we had something—”

  “I’m sorry, I am. I do adore you. But listen to yourself, Don. You want to marry me? You can’t mean it. You’ve not even given the beautiful Florida women a chance. I’m sure there’s one waiting for you who is not as burdened and encumbered as I.”

  He searched her face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life than this moment. Call me crazy, but I think you love me too. I can’t replace what you had with Rhett, but I can give you the things he promised. A home. Children. Security.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “All my love.”

  “I suppose I didn’t make it clear when I told you my story, but, Don, I am the memory vault for Rhett and the Applegates. That’s my lot in life. To make sure they are never forgotten.”

  “I’m not asking you to wipe them from your life. I can’t see how staying put here, working at Reed’s and living with your mama, is preserving their legacy.”

  “Don’t you see? I’m the living memorial because I allow nothing to override it.”

  “Well then, I’m sorry for you. And me. Because that sounds like a death sentence for someone so young and beautiful. You’re only thirty, Everleigh. Life is long. Don’t live with one foot in the grave.”

  “Perhaps you should go.” Her soft command barely penetrated the hot, stale air of the kitchen.

  So, that was it then. He grabbed his hat and let himself out, pausing in the doorway, glancing back at Everleigh, who stood at the sink with her back to him.

  “Everleigh?”

  She raised her head and without a word, turned around, snapped off the radio and the kitchen light before disappearing from view.

  * * *

  Everleigh

  “Ev?” Mama was at her bedroom door. “Was that Don?”

  “You know it was, Mama. Don’t pretend you weren’t listening.”

  The house was quiet, too quiet now that the storm had moved on.

  “Your daddy always said we built the walls of this house too thin. Did he propose?”

  “I stopped him before he made a formal request.” She changed from her pumps into her sneakers and snatched up her handbag from the dressing table.

  “I know it’s hard, but it’s for the best,” Mama said. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.” She moved down the hall, each step churning the disturbance in her belly.

  “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Everyone is asleep save for the honky-tonks. Everleigh—”

  She removed the car keys from the hook by the door. “I’m just going for a drive. To clear my head.”

  When she slipped behind the Studebaker’s wheel, she let her tears go.

  She thought she’d changed because she dyed and styled her hair? Because she bought a few new dresses? Because she purchased a red convertible on a whim?

  But nothing had changed. Nor would it ever. Not where it mattered, in her heart and mind. She was still the scared twenty-three-year-old pressed against a cold cellar wall waiting to be rescued.

  So why had she refused Don? Tonight he opened the cellar door and extended a hand. He offered her love and a chance to come up out of the dark.

  But she clung to the headlights of the trucks delivering her husband’s dead body, and Don’s offer only reminded her of what she’d lost.

  While she claimed to be a living memorial to the lives of the Applegates, she was really nothing more than a weak body of flesh who wore her tragedy like a badge of honor.

  And she was terrified it would happen to her again.

  God, I cannot. I cannot.

  Disasters had lasting effects. Ripples that ran through a person’s soul and mind, leaving marks no one could see. Fears. Worries. A life locked down.

  Lifting her head, she dried her face with the back of her hand and backed out of the garage, letting her heart set her course.

  The rain started up again as she crossed Lake Waco and Everleigh snapped on the wipers.

  With each mile, the road became her lullaby, and she followed the headlights as they swept over the curves and bends in the road.

  Just as the wipers swished away thick raindrops, the lights flashed over a familiar crossbar and swinging sign.

  The Circle A. Home.

  Yes, here’s where her memories remained. On this barren ranch and in her barren heart.

  Everleigh swerved right and careened under the wrought-iron-and-beam signpost, the only remains of the ranch. Mr. Cartwright had found the Circle A sign about a mile away a few days after the storm. He rehung it the day of the funeral.

  So far, the banks let it be.

  The Studebaker dipped and rose in the ruts of the long, overgrown driveway. The car slid over a patch of thick wet grass and fishtailed. Downshifting, Everleigh tried to drive forward, but the tires spun without traction.

  “Come on.” She shifted into first and tried again, but the spinning tires only dug a new rut in the neglected path.

  She squinted through the wet windshield as she leaned for the glove box to retrieve the flashlight. Opening her door, she stepped out just as the clouds twisted, wringing out another sheet of rain.

  “What do You want from me, huh?” God and His storms.

  Everleigh stepped toward the back of the car to see what was going on with the tires when her foot slipped, tossing her down a small incline and into a wet puddle.

  She pushed herself up, wiping her front. But she’d lost her flashlight in the fall, and without the aid of her headlights, the night was completely black.

  “Is this funny, God? Watch ol’ Everleigh fall in the mud? Did You send Don to propose? What was Your intention? I won’t forget Rhett.” She balled her hands at her side, her shoes providing no support as the wet earth gave way. “I won’t.”

  A gust of wind drove the rain into her, soaking her hair and her skirt.

  “Heaven, please, help me.” Without a coat, she began to shiver. The car was still running so as long as she had gas, she could hover in the front seat.

  Leaning into the side of the car, she inched along toward the door, but she slipped agai
n and toppled down the incline.

  Shoving up, her hands submerged in water and mud, she wept as the rain drove down. “Why didn’t You let me die with Rhett?”

  Wouldn’t it have been easier? But no, she’d had him in her belly. Their son. A gift from God. A beacon of hope. But what did she do? Give it away.

  Everleigh crumpled forward, touching her face to the mud and rocks, curling her fist around the watery, grainy mixture. “I deserve nothing.”

  Water ran down her hair and collected around her lips, slinking down her chin. The chill rattled her bones.

  Her memories weren’t here, on this wasted land. And year by year, her memories of Rhett faded in the light of time.

  “God, please, help me.”

  She startled when a hand touched her shoulder. When a strong arm lifted her up. Don. Dear Don.

  “The memories, they aren’t here, Don. They aren’t here.”

  “Everleigh, shhh, everything is going to be all right.”

  chapter twenty-three

  Beck

  When she entered Bruno’s office, he was on the phone. He waved her over to an old, overstuffed club chair.

  Situating Beetle on her lap, she examined the space while he paced. It was small but serviceable, probably once the offices or even living quarters of the store below.

  The hardwoods needed redoing and the large pane window a wash, but he had a desk and a credenza bearing a row of books, awards, and an amazing number of old cell phones.

  “You’ve got a player there at Western Michigan I’d love to visit,” he said, staring out the window. “All right. Yeah, Florida is my stomping grounds but—That’s a good point.” He turned, making a face at Beck. She laughed. “Thanks anyway.”

  When he hung up, he sat at his desk with a groan and ran his hand through his dark, thick hair. “You’d think I’d never done this job before.”

  “Dead ends?” She casually stroked Beetle’s ears, finding the silky touch comforting.

  She’d been turning over Hunter and Gaynor’s proposition for two days and she really wanted to talk to someone. She was glad when Bruno called asking her to meet him for lunch.

  Since his downtown office was close, she walked over.

  “Three years ago these college-pro liaisons were calling me.”

  When his phone rang, he picked up. “Mark, how’re you doing? Thanks for calling me back. Your kid Wylie Jones—Did he? Then good luck to him. Can’t say enough good about the guys at Sports World.”

  Beck walked over to the credenza and picked up one of the phones. When Bruno ended his call she said, “Pretty impressive pile of junk. What is this?”

  Bruno swiveled around. “Weird hobby. I used to jail break them for friends. Then people started giving me their old phones so I could fix them up, give them to charities. When some of them became collector’s items, I held on to them. Mom found that one for me the other day.” He pointed to an ancient car phone.

  “Ever find juicy messages on any of them?”

  “Mostly business stuff. ‘Bill, it’s Tom. Did you get the 84XJY forms? We need them for the conference call.’”

  Beck laughed. “So glad I’m not in that world.”

  “I had one really sad one, though. A girl called her boyfriend after he’d broke up with her and man, she was so, so sad, crying, reminding him of everything they’d promised each other. That one stuck with me for a long time.”

  He reached again for his ringing phone, mumbling something she couldn’t make out as he answered.

  She examined the awards propped on the credenza’s top shelf. Watershed Rookie of the Year. Something called A Sporty Award. And an impressive one. Sports Agent Million Dollar Club.

  “I’ve been working on it, Coach. But these things take time. Sure I called him. Didn’t he tell you? Yeah, I’ll be in touch.”

  He dropped his phone to his desk. “That guy is driving me nuts.”

  “Who?”

  “Coach Brown, Tyvis’s coach. The JUCO kid I told you about when we met Calvin. They’re friends.”

  Beck listened as he ranted about his reputation, and how, sure, he felt sorry for the kid who’d worked so hard, but how many times did he have to say it? No NFL franchise would touch him. And why was he the only agent Coach Brown kept calling?

  “Maybe because he sees you have something the other agents don’t. Maybe he knows you’re the only one who can make some NFL team consider Tyvis. Isn’t that what makes you a good agent? Anyone can sell a Calvin Blue. But only the best of the best can sell a Tyvis Powell.”

  He got up from his chair and came around the desk.

  “That would be akin to selling snow to an Eskimo.”

  “And the best salesman convinces him it’s sunshine.”

  He laughed, then drew her to him, kissing her without hesitating or checking her eyes for permission. Like his lips belonged on hers. So she tasted of his soul and drank from the well he offered.

  Beetle grumbled and snipped until Bruno backed away, hand over his new Sweat Equity shirt pocket.

  She stepped back, touching her finger to her lips, feeling woozy. “R-ready for lunch?”

  Bruno trapped her between his arms as he rested his hands on the front of the credenza. “I’m falling for you.”

  “Bruno, can we just . . . not do this now? I really wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Oh, but she wanted what he was offering. His love. His heart. His affection. Something she craved now that her hunger had been awakened.

  But there was the proposition. And Baby Girl.

  “Yeah, sure.” He sounded disappointed as he grabbed his phone and keys. “Where do you want to eat?”

  “First,” she said, tapping his arm. “Give that JUCO kid what he wants and needs. Don’t make him feel like a nothing. Be generous. If I’ve learned anything on the job, people can be selfish and stingy for no reason. Or out of fear or greed. What does it hurt to just give freely? When there’s nothing in it for you?”

  “Free? I’d have to pay for his training and living expenses. About thirty grand.”

  “So? This kid Tyvis has no one in his corner but his coach. Do you respect this coach? Does he know what he’s talking about? Why can’t you give him a chance?”

  “I’m a one-man shop, Beck. I’ve got fifty set aside for Calvin, and about twenty for travel for the year, which believe me is nothing.”

  “Then I’ll pay for him.”

  “What?” he scoffed. “You’ll pay for Tyvis?”

  “Everleigh left me money. I want to do something good with it.” Baby Girl kicked, agreeing with Beck’s decision. “Let me help. Please.”

  “You don’t even know this kid.”

  “But I know you.” She did. Not with her mind and memories but with her heart. “You can sell him. I know you can.”

  “You’re too much.” He drew her to him with a hungry kiss. She eased down to the chair beside his desk as he made a call. “Scott Fuller, Bruno Endicott. I need a favor for a JUCO kid. Can you work him into your Pro Day tryouts?”

  Then he called Tyvis and put him on speaker. She teared up when Bruno gave him the news. Let a trickle run down her cheek when Tyvis broke down, unable to talk.

  She loved Bruno’s sports-agent swagger as he filled Tyvis in on what to expect in the days ahead.

  “You’ve got a Pro Day at UCF. End of March. You’ll only get a quick look from the coaches and scouts who show up, but it’s something. I’ll start calling some front offices, see if we can get you an on-site visit. Maybe the Buccaneers or the Jaguars. Give me a few days to arrange your training. Do what you have to do on your end to get down here. Welcome to Sweat Equity, Tyvis.”

  When he hung up, he kissed her again. And she let him, caught up in the celebration and letting herself feel without raising barriers. If only for a moment. “Now that felt good. Really good.”

  “The kiss or calling Tyvis?”

  “Both, but I think the call might be in first place for now.�
�� He grabbed her for another kiss. “Nope, now that kiss is in first place.”

  “You’re too easy, Endicott.”

  He laughed and asked if Jo’s 2nd Street Bistro sounded good.

  “Can we talk about something first?”

  “Sure.” He sat on the edge of his desk, giving her his full attention, a dancing light in his eyes. “I feel like a million bucks. I’ll pay you back, Beck.”

  “Let this be my investment in Sports Equity. The money was a gift to me. I’m more than happy to make it a gift to you. Please.”

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t stop kissing her. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

  “Hunter was here. The baby’s father.” She realized she’d been carrying Beetle this whole time, so she set him on the floor. He hobbled over to the big window and peered out, barking. “With his wife.”

  “Whoa.” He leaned back. “How was that?”

  “Weird. She’s forgiven me. Us. Then they asked if they could raise her, Bruno. Baby Girl. Gaynor wants to be her mother.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. At first I thought they were crazy, but the more she talked, the more I thought she would be a great mom. She’s beautiful, well-educated.”

  “So are you.”

  “She has memories of her childhood.”

  “So, you’ll get yours back one day.” Bruno slid off the desk and reached around for his desk chair. “I feel it just like you feel I can do something with Tyvis. But memories don’t make a woman a mom. I watch you with that dog and I know you have everything it takes to be a brilliant mother.”

  “It’s not the memories, it’s the family history and tradition. Bruno, if they raise her she goes immediately into a two-parent home with a dad and a mom. Gaynor’s family has money, so Baby Girl will want for nothing. I know they’ll love her. They’ve never had children of their own and—” Beck glanced toward the window where Beetle looked down on Centre Street. “Wouldn’t it be such an amazing gift? I feel half like Gaynor deserves it for what I did.”