Adam’s face hardened. “Only too busy for the things that matter.” Just as swiftly, the shadow passed, and he smiled again. “What do you think about me being Robby’s Big Brother? I mean, not officially, through the organization, just informally.”
The suggestion was so totally unexpected that Megan didn’t know what to say. “Well—”
Adam held up his palms. “I have no ulterior motives, I swear,” he said. “You can check me out if you want. All teachers at my school are investigated before they’re hired, and I’m sure Big Brothers would be willing to provide an evaluation.”
“It’s not that,” Megan said. “I … I just … ” She studied him quizzically. “Would you really want to?”
“Sure. Robby’s a great kid. We had a ball at the Halloween party.” He took her hand again. “How about this: The three of us can go out together, and if we’re getting along well and you agree, I’ll ask Robby if he wants to do something the next weekend. If he says no, we’ll forget the whole thing.”
Megan considered the idea. As difficult as it was to admit it, she couldn’t be everything to Robby, and a good friend, someone outside of the family, could become the confidant he needed. She had watched Robby and Adam together at the Halloween party and had reflected on how well they got along. They could try it, she decided. If it didn’t work out, she would call it off.
“If you’re sure,” Megan said. “Yes. Let’s see what we can do.”
Adam squeezed her hand, smiling. “It’ll work out. You’ll see.”
Something in her heart told Megan she could believe him.
The Saturday before Thanksgiving, Donna was in the basement excavating her cartons of holiday decorations. This year, since Brandon would be coming for dinner, Donna intended to outdo herself. She knew she had a cornucopia basket down there somewhere, and with a bit of cleaning and some embellishment, it would make a lovely centerpiece. The night before, she had completed one of her longtime UFOs, a table runner for the sideboard, in the Pine Burr pattern. The new decorations and her best table linens would show Brandon the Jorgensons were eager to welcome him into the family.
She had spent the morning poring over her favorite cookbook and leafing through the recipes she had collected from her online quilting buddies over the past several months. When she suggested to Becca and Paul that they try a completely different menu this Thanksgiving, they exchanged unhappy glances.
Surprised, Donna said, “After all these years of teasing me for serving the same thing every Thanksgiving, when I finally suggest a change, you’re turning me down?”
Becca fidgeted and said, “The regular stuff is nice.” Paul only nodded, but Donna understood their unspoken plea: When so much about their family was changing, the comfort of familiar traditions was more important than ever. So Donna agreed to keep the menu the same—that would be easier, anyway—and settled for the new table runner and centerpiece to accompany their traditional table decoration, a pair of brass candlesticks that had once belonged to Paul’s mother.
She found the cornucopia basket and dug it out of its box. She was eager to see Lindsay, who for weeks had been too busy to come home. As for Brandon, he was so abrupt on the phone whenever he called for Lindsay that Donna feared he had detected—and resented—her misgivings about the wedding. She intended to make it up to him over the holiday, for Lindsay’s sake.
The phone sounded faintly from upstairs. Donna blew dust off the basket and listened, but when Becca didn’t shout for her, she decided the call was for someone else. She had thought it might be Julia, who in the past few weeks had taken to calling almost every other day for quilting advice. It wasn’t easy to continue their lessons over the phone, but from what Julia said, if she didn’t improve soon, she could lose her movie role altogether. Donna didn’t understand why any director in his right mind would cut an actress as talented and popular as Julia, but as Lindsay had told her, acting was a difficult, uncertain profession. Donna was glad Lindsay had chosen to pursue directing rather than acting—although it remained to be seen whether she would continue to pursue any career after graduation.
At least Lindsay was involved in the university’s fall production; she had almost bowed out, but after persistent pleading from her friends in drama club and at least two professors, she had agreed to direct again. She was enjoying herself so much that Donna was certain she’d participate in the spring semester play, too. Donna would volunteer to handle the details of the wedding preparations if Lindsay thought she would be too busy to do both.
Just then, Donna heard footsteps coming down the basement stairs. “Mom?” Becca said. “That was Lindsay on the phone.”
“Oh, good.” Donna carefully maneuvered through the stacks of cartons, the cornucopia in her hands. “Did you two have a nice chat?”
“Not really.” As Donna continued toward the stairs, Becca added, “Don’t bother. She already hung up.”
Donna halted. “Already?” She hesitated, surprised and a little hurt. “She didn’t want to talk to me?”
“She said she was too busy, and not to call her back, because she’s going out.” Becca winced as if she’d rather not say anything more. “Mom, I have some bad news.”
“What?”
“They’re not coming for Thanksgiving.”
“You mean only Lindsay is coming?”
“No, I mean they’re both not coming.”
Donna felt a weariness come over her. “Oh.” She sat down heavily on a stack of dusty boxes. “Are they going to Brandon’s parents’ home instead?”
“I think they’re staying at the apartment.”
“Why?”
Becca shrugged, and only then did Donna see the anger in her face. “Lindsay says Brandon has a major project due before the end of the semester, and she has to work on the play.”
“Can’t they come just for the day?”
“Brandon says it’s too far to drive.”
“But it’s only an hour there and an hour back.”
“That’s what I said. Lindsay never thought it was too long before.” Becca’s gaze was beseeching. “Mom, do you think you can talk her out of it?”
“I can try,” Donna said, but somehow she knew she wouldn’t succeed.
Sure enough, when she went upstairs and dialed Lindsay’s number, the phone rang and rang. Becca leaned on the kitchen counter, watching her mother expectantly. The answering machine eventually picked up, and Donna forced herself to leave a cheerful message.
“She won’t come,” Becca said. “I hate Brandon.”
“Becca—”
“I mean it, Mom. I know this is his fault. Lindsay never missed Thanksgiving before, not because of a play, not for anything.” Scowling, she stormed out of the kitchen, adding, “I’d never let some guy control me like that.”
“He’s not some guy. He’s her fiancé, and …” Abruptly Donna fell silent, stopped short by Becca’s last words, unable to defend him. Brandon did seem somewhat domineering, and even Paul had called him bossy. But Lindsay was a strong person, too, and surely she would never do anything she didn’t want to do simply because Brandon said so.
Perhaps Donna, Paul, and Becca had to accept the possibility that Lindsay preferred to be alone with Brandon. As much as it hurt Donna to think that her daughter didn’t want to spend the holiday with the family, she couldn’t ignore that this was, in a sense, the couple’s first Thanksgiving together. Surely they wouldn’t need to be alone every holiday, but maybe this first one was special. Besides, Christmas wasn’t too far away, and it would come after the play and the semester had ended. Surely Lindsay would come home for Christmas, with or without Brandon.
Just then Donna realized she still held the dusty cornucopia. She studied it for a few moments, turning it over and over in her hands, then carried it back downstairs and packed it away.
On Thanksgiving Grace drove for the first time in four months, as a favor to her sister. Helen usually took Mother to holiday church services, but o
n Tuesday she had phoned and begged Grace to take her instead. Helen’s son needed to be picked up from college on Wednesday, and although Helen’s husband had intended to make the trip, at the last minute he could not get the day off from work. Driving all day would put Helen so far behind schedule that she’d need all of Wednesday night and Thursday morning to get ready for the more than forty relatives who would gather at her home to celebrate Thanksgiving.
“You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d let us each bring something,” Grace teased. Helen was notoriously finicky about the holidays and insisted on preparing the entire meal herself.
“Thanks for volunteering. You can make the rolls,” Helen countered, then hung up before Grace could protest.
So on Wednesday, Grace baked two kinds of rolls, sourdough and rye, then made a pumpkin pie for good measure, until the whole loft was filled with the spicy fragrances of baking. On Thursday she packed the rolls and the pie carefully in two baskets, summoned up her courage, and went to her building’s underground garage. She expected to find cobwebs clinging to the rearview mirror and an engine choked with dust, but the car looked no different than the last time she had driven it, and it started up immediately as if that had been only days ago. At first Grace felt uncomfortable and nervous behind the wheel, but soon she relaxed. Traffic was light, the day was bright and sunny, and she had been feeling well for weeks, so well that she had even begun sketching a new quilt. If not for the occasional pins-and-needles sensations in her hands, she could almost believe the doctor had misdiagnosed her.
“Don’t get overconfident,” Dr. Steiner cautioned her at her last visit, when she told him how remarkably healthy she felt. “You still need to take it easy. If you overdo, you could have a relapse.”
Grace knew he was right, but his warning only slightly diminished her optimism. Spontaneous remissions occurred in other, even more serious diseases; there was no reason why she couldn’t hope for one in her case. “Hope never hurt anyone,” she told the doctor, and he agreed but said that while she was hoping, she should err on the side of caution and be sure to take care of herself.
Dr. Steiner’s warnings were never far from her thoughts, but it was a sign of just how good she felt that she was driving that day. The doctor had never forbidden her to drive; that prohibition had been her own, born of the fear that had haunted her since her accident. Even if she had felt only half as well, however, she still might have agreed. Mother had to get to church, and Grace couldn’t picture convincing Helen that her fears about driving were realistic. And Grace couldn’t ask Justine to drive them, because for all Grace knew, Gabriel might be with her.
Mother still lived in the home where Grace and her sisters had grown up. She was waiting in the front room, neatly attired in a wine-red suit and a pillbox hat with a short veil that did not quite reach her eyes.
“There’s my baby girl,” she said when Grace entered, and hugged her. Then she held Grace at arm’s length for inspection. “You look well.”
“I feel great. Never better.”
Mother nodded, satisfied, and picked up her purse from the credenza near the door. She also retrieved a covered casserole dish and gestured to two plastic pie carriers beside it. “Will you take those for me?”
“I hope one of these is your sweet potato pie,” Grace said as they left the house.
“Of course. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without it. The other one is apple, and this is my green bean casserole. Helen said to bring just the pies, but you know your sister. She won’t ever admit when she needs help.” She gave Grace a sidelong glance as Grace helped her into the car. “Must run in the family.”
“It skipped Mary, then,” Grace replied, ignoring the obvious reference to her own stubborn independence, and shut her mother’s door.
“Mary’s more like your grandmother,” Mother conceded when Grace entered the car on the driver’s side. “She’d rather ask for help than try something on her own.”
“I’m going to tell her you said that.”
“Go right ahead. She knows it’s true.”
Grace laughed and started the car. As they drove to church, Mother updated Grace on all the news from the neighborhood—who had died, who had moved away, who had gotten married, and who had welcomed new babies into their families. Several of Mother’s friends had asked about Grace, and Grace grew tense until her mother assured her that no one knew of her MS. “They’re just being friendly,” her mother said. Grace had never known her mother to lie, but she couldn’t help wondering if Mother had inadvertently let clues fall, not only by what she told her friends, but by what she didn’t say.
The church was full, as it usually was on Thanksgiving, mostly with older couples Mother’s age, some accompanied by grandchildren. Grace listened to the preacher’s words of forgiveness and gratitude and reflected ruefully on how well they applied to her that day, as if the preacher knew about her impending reunion with Gabriel and had written the sermon especially for her. In the spirit of the day, she promised herself that she would be civil to him.
Afterward, as Grace and her mother drove to Helen’s home, Grace said, “Did Helen tell you Gabriel will be joining us?”
“Yes, she did, although I think she wishes he wasn’t,” Mother said. “She wouldn’t have allowed it, except that I told her if you didn’t object, neither should we. That’s very Christian of you, Grace, to allow him to come. Forgiveness is never easy, and he’s done much to be forgiven for.”
Grace was silent. “I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him,” she finally admitted. “Justine grew up without a father, and nothing he does now can change that. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for that.”
Mother patted her on the arm. “You’re willing to try. That’s a step in the right direction.”
Her voice was reassuring and kind, so Grace didn’t have the heart to tell her she had only reluctantly allowed Justine to invite Gabriel, and then only because she didn’t want to ruin Joshua’s holiday. That, and because she couldn’t bear to let Justine think she was keeping him away out of jealousy.
When they reached Helen’s home, the driveway was already full of cars and others were parked along the street in front of the house. When they opened the front door, they were greeted by hugs from aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as the delicious aromas of roasting turkey, dressing, and other tempting dishes. Grace and her mother brought their contributions to the meal into the kitchen. Before she could slip away to search for Justine, Helen tossed her an apron and put her to work. Sometime later Justine entered, carrying Joshua on her hip. “Tell Grandma ‘Happy Thanksgiving,’” she coached as she held him out for Grace to take. Joshua obediently obliged as best he could, and Grace laughed and hugged him.
“You’re my good boy,” she said, kissing him on the top of the head. She set him down, and as he toddled off to the living room in search of his cousins, her eyes met Justine’s. “Is he here?”
“He’s in the other room. Last I saw him, he was talking to Uncle Steve. I think I’ll join them.”
Justine left, and Grace was about to resume mashing the potatoes when Helen took the masher from her and said, “You might as well get it over with.” She gave Grace a knowing look and tilted her head in the direction Justine had taken.
Grace nodded and untied her apron. Helen was right; it would be better to face Gabriel for the first time now rather than across the supper table. She went into the crowded family room, stopping to chat or exchange hugs as she worked her way across the room. She spotted her mother and Justine in the crowd, but Gabriel was not with either of them.
In the living room, Gabriel was seated on the sofa beside Grace’s sister Mary, with Joshua on his lap. His back was to her, so only Mary saw Grace enter. “Um, I just remembered,” she said, rising. “I told Helen I’d help set the table.”
Gabriel must have seen Mary’s gaze wander, for he turned and spotted her. “Grace. Hi.” He set Joshua down in Mary’s place and stood. He smiled, hesitan
tly, and extended his hand.
She had to force herself to shake it. “Hello, Gabriel.” Her voice sounded calm and even, which astonished her. Somehow, after so much time, she had expected not to recognize him. He was thinner, and the mustache was gone, and there was a slump to his shoulders that she had not seen before, but except for the gray in his hair, little else about him had changed.
He flashed a nervous smile. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you.” Only then did she realize that one by one, the other family members had slipped out of the room, except for Joshua, who sat quietly playing with an Oscar the Grouch doll. Grace picked up her grandson and sat down on the sofa, placing him in her lap. “I see you’ve met Joshua.”
Gabriel took that as his cue to sit beside her. “Yes, we’re getting to be good friends. Aren’t we, Josh?” In reply, Joshua grinned up at his grandfather.
What a shame you missed his first two years, Grace thought. What a shame he had missed most of Justine’s life. Justine had been just as beautiful a child. “So, are you back in town for good, or just passing through?”
“My passing through days are over, Grace,” he said quietly, as if she had rebuked him. “I’m working as an adjunct professor at the city college.”
“That’s right. Justine said you were teaching again.”
“Just nights. During the days I work as a drug and alcohol abuse counselor.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Really.”
“You’re thinking, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ I’ve been sober for ten years.”
It angered her that he assumed he still knew her well enough to guess her thoughts. It flustered her that he had guessed correctly. “I’m happy for you.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I made it.” He reached out and stroked Joshua’s head. “Not soon enough, I’m afraid. I missed out on so much.”
More than you’ll ever know, Grace wanted to snap at him, but she was too angry to speak.
“I wish that I could make it up to you.” He rested his elbows on his knees, unable to meet her eyes. “I can’t say I know what you went through, but I can imagine. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Grace. For Justine. I wish things had been different. I can’t change them now, but I would if I could. I’m sorry.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 80