Falling into Forever

by Phyllis Bourne

  He turned to Sandra, but his words were directed at his boss. “If I’d known your lovely daughter would be visiting today, I would have brought flowers.”

  Give me a break, Sandra thought, and then listened to make sure she hadn’t accidentally uttered the words aloud.

  “Nice seeing you, Dale,” she said, as both a hello and a goodbye, before he could try asking her out again.

  “Dad.” Her gaze flicked to the Chevelle. “Don’t put too much elbow grease into a wax job, because after I win your girlfriend on Thanksgiving, I’m thinking of painting her pink.”

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when Isaiah got back to his parents’ house Thursday night. With the exception of driving his father down to Boston, he’d spent every waking hour of the past three days planning, painting and constructing the Martine’s Fine Furnishings’ sponsored Halloween fun house.

  A large white frame tent had been erected in the parking lot behind the recreation center. It currently boasted a striped effect thanks to the efforts of employee volunteers from Martine’s armed with spools of orange reflective tape. The inside had been sectioned off into three areas, one for the caterers to set up the free concessions and stainless-steel washtubs brimming with candy, a middle section for the makeshift fun house’s attractions and a third for a few animals coming from a nearby farm.

  Isaiah had spent the majority of his time on the attractions, throwing himself into their redesign. As he worked, all afternoon and well into the evening, his thoughts had drifted to spending the next two years at the Royal Academy of Arts in London, immersed in sketching, painting and most of all creating.

  But at night his dreams went rogue.

  Rolling his stiff shoulders, he stifled a yawn with his fist. There were still some finishing touches to do, such as transforming the cheap flexible mirrors he’d picked up into reflection-distorting fun house mirrors with a little bending and foam board.

  They’d have to wait until tomorrow. He yawned again and hoped his exhaustion would lead to a dreamless, Sandra Woolcott–free sleep. The first since seeing her at The Quarterdeck Monday night.

  Isaiah unlocked the back door to find his mother still awake. A plate of cookies had been placed on the kitchen table. She wore a placid maternal smile and the flannel robe covered in pink hearts he’d given her for her birthday when he was ten.

  “Good, you’re home.” She retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator.

  In any other house, with any other mother, it would be a heartwarming scene reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell portrait. In this house, with his mother, it was a strategic maneuver.

  A four-star admiral had nothing on Cecily Martine Jacobs, Isaiah thought.

  “I’m not hungry, Mom.”

  Like a combatant who knew he didn’t stand a chance, the best thing for him tonight was a quick retreat. “I’m beat and I smell like paint. I just want to shower and turn in.”

  His mom poured the milk into glasses as if she hadn’t heard him. “You’ve been occupied with preparations for the Halloween party all week,” she said. “Surely you can spare a few minutes for a midnight snack with your mother.”

  She’d fired her first salvo, and it had been a direct hit.

  Guilt—undefeated.

  Isaiah sighed. “Of course I can.”

  He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and took a seat at the table. He plucked a cookie off the plate. Peanut butter, his favorite.

  “Thanks for the cookies,” he said, popping it into his mouth.

  “The rest of the bag is hidden in the laundry room, where your father won’t find it,” his mother said. “Keeping him on this diet has been challenging, to say the least.”

  “So are you looking forward to spending Halloween in Salem?” Isaiah asked.

  According to his father, she’d also worried that a day of playing tourist would exhaust him, but had finally agreed to go last night.

  Cecily nodded. A hint of a smile touched her lips. “He threatened to go without me,” she said. “Somebody has to keep an eye on him.”

  Isaiah washed a second cookie down with a gulp of milk.

  “Besides, you’re here to keep an eye on things at Martine’s now.”

  Here we go, Isaiah thought. The real reason behind the cozy motherly scene he’d walked into. Not that his mom didn’t love him. She did. However, she’d never served him milk and cookies after school as a boy.

  Raised to be self-sufficient, he’d always got his own snack. By the time he was twelve, he’d cooked dinner on nights his parents were held up at the office.

  “I’m representing our family for one evening as a favor to Dad,” he said firmly. “Since I’ll be there anyway, I thought I’d make a few improvements so it would be more fun for the kids.”

  His mother looked up from the cookie she was nibbling on. “Word around the office is you’ve turned it into quite the event. My head of sales was out today, because he’d volunteered to hang ghost piñatas at that tent of yours. Meanwhile, my assistant was more interested in securing a cotton candy machine and a clown costume than working this afternoon,” she said. “And did I hear right? Is there actually going to be a petting zoo?”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Nothing that elaborate. Just a few animals from a farm in North Andover.”

  Cecily put the half-eaten cookie back on the plate. She stared across the table at him, rubbing her index finger across her chin.

  “Still, I can’t help thinking that if you infused Martine’s with your youth, ideas and energy, put that economics degree you earned at the naval academy to good—”

  “Stop,” Isaiah interrupted. He reached out and placed his hand over hers. “You know that’s not going to happen. I don’t want to work at Martine’s. I’ve never wanted to work at Martine’s.”

  Cecily pulled her hand back. “Do you think I did? Do you really think furniture was my dream career?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a response.

  She pushed away from the table. Standing, she began to pace the kitchen.

  Now this was the mother he knew, Isaiah thought. The only thing missing was the business suit and staccato click of her heels against the hardwood floors.

  “I did it. I do it, because I’ve got Martine blood running through my veins.” She stopped and pointed a finger at him. “Just like you.”

  Returning to her chair, she put her hand over his. “Don’t you see, Isaiah?” Her eyes implored him to understand. “I’m there because it’s my duty and my legacy, and now it’s yours, too.”

  A shrewd businesswoman, his mother presented a convincing argument. It might have swayed him, if ten years ago he hadn’t allowed the same argument to change the course of his life.

  Duty, tradition and legacy were the words his father had used when Isaiah had come to him his senior year of high school with an acceptance letter to the prestigious School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

  The letter had described the portfolio of his drawings and paintings as outstanding. He’d hoped the enthusiastic response from the world-renowned institution would finally prove to his father that art was more than a hobby for Isaiah.

  It was his passion.

  He had been devastated when his father shut down the idea. In Ben’s mind, his son’s future had been decided before he was even born. He wouldn’t hear of him doing anything but following in his footsteps through the doors of the U.S. Naval Academy.

  “Duty and legacy, son.” Cecily repeated the words, breaking into his thoughts. She squeezed his hand.

  This time, Isaiah was the one to pull away. He’d let those words control him once, but he wasn’t an eighteen-year-old kid anymore. He’d done his duty by being a good sailor. He’d upheld the legacy of both the Martine and Jacobs names by being a good son.

  In doing so, he�
��d given up his own dreams and hurt the girl he used to love more than life itself.

  He’d gone from his parents’ rules to the navy’s rules. Isaiah had earned the right to finally live by his own.

  “No,” he said, a single word that left no room for misinterpretation, compromise or argument. “I leave for London the day after Thanksgiving. I’ve been accepted at an art school there, and I’m taking a few weeks to settle in and find studio space to rent before the semester starts in January.”

  His heart clenched as he watched the hopeful look on his mother’s face slide away. Suddenly, she looked tired, and older than her years.

  Cecily rose from the table, but paused on her way out of the kitchen. “You’ve wanted to be an artist ever since you could hold a crayon in your little fist. I thought your father had put an end to it years ago when he ripped up the letter from that big school in Chicago,” she said softly.

  No man wanted to disappoint his mother, but he wouldn’t live his life for her, either.

  “It didn’t,” Isaiah said. “All he did was postpone the inevitable.”

  Chapter 5

  A second consultation with Octavia Hall on Friday had run longer than Sandra expected.

  Her client had quickly reviewed the proposed designs and selected one within minutes. She’d also agreed with Sandra’s choice of fabric. Unfortunately, she’d spent nearly two hours sounding off on the latest humiliation suffered at the hands of her soon-to-be ex-husband and his much younger girlfriend.

  Apparently, the girlfriend was riding around Wintersage in a brand-new Lexus courtesy of Mr. Hall.

  Finally home, Sandra quickly donned her Halloween costume and swept her hair into a high ponytail. Her date would be arriving to pick her up soon. It had been a long week, and she was looking forward to a well-deserved night out.

  She was tying her hair with a red ribbon when she heard a familiar ringtone coming from the direction of her purse. Unearthing the phone from her bag, she glanced at her date’s number on the screen.

  “I’m running a little behind, but I’m almost ready,” she said into the cell.

  Sandra listened as her date, en route and only a few minutes away from her place, explained he’d been called back into the office by the senior partner at his law firm. The rest of what he had to say faded into background noise.

  Blah, blah. Apology. Blah, blah. Rain check.

  The result was she was all dressed up and now had no place to go.

  Sandra started to toss the phone back into her purse, but changed her mind. Instead, she swiped her fingertips across the small screen. Two rings later, Vicki answered.

  “I thought you were going to a Halloween party down in Boston with some lawyer?” her friend asked.

  “He had to cancel.” Sandra fidgeted with the hem of her short skirt with her free hand. “I don’t want to waste a perfectly good costume, and wondered if you wanted to meet up at The Quarterdeck? I’ll treat you to one of those pumpkin martinis.”

  But none for me, she thought, remembering the sweet cocktail had packed quite a wallop. Two drinks had left her hallucinating and conjuring up images of her teenage boyfriend, all grown up and looking good enough to eat.

  She heard her friend’s weary sigh on the other end of the phone. Vicki had also put in extralong hours all week playing catch-up at work.

  “I’m beat,” she said. “In fact, I’m already in my pajamas nursing a glass of white wine.”

  Sandra pulled the phone away from her ear just long enough to double-check the time. “In your pj’s at seven o’clock on a Friday night?”

  “Exactly. Now I’m trying to figure out a way to put an end to my spending Friday and Saturday nights alone.”

  “Slipping into a smoking-hot outfit and coming out with me would be a start.” Sandra heard the sound of paper rustling in the background.

  “That’s part of my problem. I don’t own any hot outfits. Never mind the fact that I’d just be sitting around watching men ogle you.”

  “Vicki Ahlfors, you know good and well I’d never abandon you to run off with some guy.”

  “Not intentionally,” her friend said. “But with Janelle married and you usually out on a date most weekend nights, I either have to figure out what to do with myself, or buy a cat for company like other lonely single women.”

  Sandra plopped down on her sofa, knowing there was little chance of her convincing her to join her tonight. “Oh, come on. You’re gorgeous. It’s just a matter of time before your Mr. Right comes along.”

  She could almost see Vicki shrugging.

  “If he did, he’d probably walk right past me.”

  Sandra heard the rustling sound again. “I’m not following you.”

  “What I’m trying to say is it’s about time I stopped hoping and waiting for the perfect man, and did something about attracting him,” Vicki said. “I stopped by the newsstand on the way home and picked up a stack of hairstyle and fashion magazines.”

  Sandra sat upright, her mouth hanging open in surprise. “You’re thinking about getting rid of your Little House on the Prairie schoolmarm bun?” she asked, unable to imagine her friend without her long hair pulled back in the style she’d worn for years.

  “It’s not a bun. It’s a chignon,” Vicki argued. “And—”

  “It’s both functional and elegant,” Sandra interrupted. She’d heard Vicki say the words enough times to know them by heart. “Anyway, if you need any help in the fashion department, we can schedule a big shopping trip when Janelle returns from her honeymoon.”

  “Whatever I decide to do, I need to do it on my own. So it reflects my personal style, not yours or Janelle’s.”

  Sandra opened her mouth to say she understood, when the doorbell rang. “Somebody’s at my door,” she said instead.

  “Maybe your date can make it, after all.”

  “It’s probably just some trick-or-treaters.”

  “Doubt it. Every kid in town is over at the rec center party.”

  Sandra agreed, and her hopes lifted at the possibility that Vicki was right, and she might not have to sit at home alone dressed in full Halloween regalia, after all.

  The doorbell rang again, followed by a pounding on the door.

  “Well, I’m going back to my magazines. Talk to you later,” Vicki said, ending the call.

  Sandra peered through the peephole and smiled when she saw a little body all decked out in a miniature Patriots uniform. She unlocked the door and threw it wide-open. An ocean breeze, unseasonably warm for the end of October, ushered her nephew and brother inside.

  “Hey, you!” She immediately lifted the baby from Jordan’s arms and covered his chubby cheeks in kisses. “How’s my little Super Bowl champ doing tonight?”

  Mason rewarded her with giggles and drool.

  Sandra looked over her nephew’s head at his father. Weariness had etched fine lines in the dark circles under Jordan’s eyes, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in ages. Taking in her outfit, her brother closed his red-rimmed eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose before gazing at her again.

  “Of course, you already have plans this evening. It’s Friday night.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to her.

  “Good to see you, too.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that Allison was a no-show,” he muttered, pacing the small entryway. “And Mom and Dad have plans.”

  “Jordan.”

  He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. “I was supposed to be at the Windom campaign headquarters hours ago. All the polls show him running ahead of Darren Howerton, but this is the last weekend before the election, on Tuesday. We need to give it one last push. There’s so much to do.”

  “Jordan.” Sandra tried again.

  “
I tried working from home, but Mason woke up from his nap and started getting into everything.”

  “Jordan,” Sandra repeated louder.

  Her nephew made a squawking sound in an attempt to mimic her that finally got her brother’s attention.

  She reached out and touched Jordan’s arm. “I’ll babysit.”

  “But you’re obviously dressed for a Halloween party.”

  Sandra adjusted her nephew on her hip. “You’re getting heavy,” she told the toddler, then turned to her brother. “My date canceled at the last minute, so I’m free tonight.”

  Jordan heaved a sigh, and she could almost see the pressure lift from his shoulders. “Are you sure?” he asked, already draping Mason’s diaper bag over her free arm. “I owe you one.”

  She smiled. “Um...Jordan, seeing as how this favor officially puts you in my debt, I was thinking you...”

  Her brother was already shaking his head. “No way,” he said. “Anything but that.”

  “But—” Sandra began.

  “Dad already told me all about the big Thanksgiving wager, and I don’t want any part of your trial run experiments. Neither does my son.”

  “No!” Mason declared.

  Jordon rubbed his son’s head. “Smart boy.”

  “Come on, if I win the Chevelle, I promise to let you borrow it,” she bargained.

  Her brother appeared to think it over. In all these years, no one had ever been allowed behind the wheel of the classic muscle car but their father.

  Finally, Jordan shook his head. “Not worth the risk to my stomach.”

  “But I’m doing you a favor tonight,” Sandra argued.

  “And I’m paying you back with a little advice,” her brother said. “You have a lot of great qualities, but cooking isn’t one of them. You can’t win. Back out of this bet.”

  “I can’t do that,” Sandra said.

  “Then I suggest you start thinking about where you’re going to take ass-kissing Dale on those dates.” Jordan turned to walk to his car.

  “That’s not going to happen,” she called out to his retreating back.