The House on Sugar Plum Lane

by Judy Duarte

  In fact, she’d taken the kids back to Fairbrook as soon as she could. She’d needed to keep them away from the embarrassing limelight and give them time to forget.

  As much as she’d like to keep the conversation away from talk about her ex, about the heartache he’d dumped on her and the kids, she couldn’t help asking, “Did Danny tell you about his dad?”

  “Not really. He just said that he doesn’t live here. And that he doesn’t see him very often.”

  “My ex-husband is in prison,” Maria admitted.

  Had the news shocked him? Or had she only imagined seeing the twitch in his eye, the tension in his jaw?

  “I had no idea,” he finally said. “When I mentioned the ball team and the kids at risk, I was just throwing an idea out there. I wasn’t even sure if the league rules would allow him to play in the games, although I figured he could at least practice with them.”

  “Unfortunately, Danny qualifies to play.” Her voice came out soft, resigned.

  “I’m sorry,” Eddie said. “Having a family member in prison is tough on everyone.”

  “It’s just one of those things, something we’ve learned to live with. I was hoping Danny had pulled out of it, that he’d put it all behind him, but now I’m not so sure that he has.”

  “Then maybe playing with the team would help.”

  “It might make it worse. If he didn’t mention anything to you, he might prefer to keep his ugly family secret to himself.”

  “I could talk to him. Maybe take him to watch the kids practice.”

  She wasn’t sure how to voice her objections, her concerns. But maybe it would be best to level with him.

  “Truthfully?” she said. “I’d rather see him run around with normal kids, those who have two parents in the home. I think it would be best if he was able to see examples of happy families.”

  “Before you make a decision, maybe you and Danny ought to come out to Mulberry Park and watch the kids play. My brother runs a tight ship. I think you’ll be surprised to see how good he is with those boys. And at how they look up to him.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.” She’d also have to find someone to sit with Ellie and the younger kids.

  Hilda and Walter weren’t due back from their cruise for another ten days, so they wouldn’t be around.

  When someone tugged on her shirt, she glanced down to see Sara standing at her side.

  “When are we going to make the tortillas?”

  “Right now, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you making them yourself?” Eddie asked.

  Maria nodded. “There’s nothing like warm, homemade tortillas.”

  “You’ve got that right.” A smile lit his face, and she found it difficult to tear her gaze away from his.

  But she’d promised to take the girls in the house. And she had to check on Ellie. There was no telling what the poor old woman might get into or where she might wander.

  Sadly, Ellie Rucker wasn’t the same dear neighbor that she’d once been.

  Inside the Rucker house, in one of the spare bedrooms, Amy knelt beside the open closet door, where she’d found a small blue plastic storage container filled with paid bills, canceled checks, and tax returns. She’d only taken a cursory glance at them, assuming that Ellie’s family would have to go through them and decide which to keep and which to shred.

  Since the contents were already packed, she pulled out the entire container, got to her feet, and carried it to the area in the living room where she’d been stacking the other boxes she’d packed.

  Then she returned to the closet, wondering how Ellie could have managed to fill such a small space to the brim with so many odds and ends. Someone had built shelves along the back wall, each of which was loaded with things the woman had accumulated over the years.

  Amy’s gaze lit on a large red carrying case adorned with hand-painted white roses. She unlatched the metal clips and opened it. Inside, she spotted a keyboard and realized it was a musical instrument of some kind.

  An accordion? she wondered. She’d never seen one up close before.

  Had her great-grandmother been a musician?

  Apparently so.

  Rather than set the instrument aside, she pulled it out of the case, unhooked the sides, and allowed it to expand. Then she slipped her arms into the straps. She didn’t have a clue what to do next, but she’d had piano lessons as a child and knew her way around a keyboard. Before long, she’d gotten comfortable with the feel, with the sound, and was playing a melody by heart.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, fiddling with the instrument and trying her hand at a simple tune. She wasn’t a talented pianist as her mother had been, but she did okay. She’d never stopped to think that she and her mom might have inherited their musical skill from the family they’d never known.

  After twenty minutes or so, Amy closed up the accordion and returned it to its case. Then she took it to the living room and left it with the growing stack of items that had belonged to Ellie.

  When she reentered the upstairs bedroom, which she’d begun to think of as the yellow room because of the sunny color of the walls and the old-style bedspread with a daffodil print, she spotted an interesting painting on the wall. It was a watercolor of children playing at a park on a summer day.

  She hadn’t paid much attention to any of the framed artwork that decorated the house, but this particular painting called to her, and she drew close enough to note that it was an original and not a print. It was also very good. She looked at the bottom corner for the name of the artist. It was painted by E. Rucker.

  Ellie had been quite a woman, Amy realized, regretting that they’d never met.

  But standing around bemoaning the fact wasn’t doing her any good, so she returned to the closet, removed the items off the shelves, and carefully placed them in the boxes she’d brought. When she ran across a book, a journal of some kind, she stopped to open the blue floral cover and scan the pages.

  To Eleanor Kathleen Gordon on her birthday—

  From her loving mother

  May the thoughts and dreams you write upon these pages always be happy and bright. And may all your wishes come true.

  Unable to stifle her curiosity, Amy carried the journal to the bed, took a seat on the edge of the mattress, and began reading.

  April 24, 1941

  Today was my eighteenth birthday, and what a lovely day it was. The sun was warm, yet there was a refreshing breeze that blew in from the ocean. That, I think, is one of the nicest things about living in Fairbrook: being so close to the beach and enjoying a temperate climate all year round.

  Of course, the best and nicest thing of all is having met Harold and becoming his friend.

  After a birthday dinner, in which Grandma and Grand pa Carlson took part, Mother presented me with this journal in which to write my thoughts. She and Daddy also gave me an easel and watercolors. We had pot roast for dinner, my favorite meal, and a seven-layer chocolate fudge cake for dessert. What a treat!

  The best surprise of all was when Harold stopped by the house to see me and asked if I’d go for a walk with him. I, of course, said, “Yes!”

  Two days before, Mother had advised me to take things slow. “Don’t make it too easy on that young man,” she’d said. But Daddy had disagreed with her. “Girls who play hard to get sometimes don’t get caught, Emma.” So I took Daddy’s words to heart. I can’t imagine chasing Harold Rucker away by pretending to be coy.

  So this afternoon, as he and I strode down Sugar Plum Lane, away from my house, his arm brushed mine several times. I wanted so badly to take the initiative, but when ever he comes near me, I get a swarm of butterflies in my tummy.

  Finally, he reached for my hand, and even a flock of sparrows in the treetops seemed to sing out with joy.

  As we strolled along Canyon Drive, we chatted about everything and nothing at all. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be with than Harold.

  And you’ll never guess w
hat happened when he brought me home.

  He kissed me, and it was magic!

  Amy read several more entries, getting a feel for the vivacious young woman who was a lot like some of her friends had been right after high school graduation.

  Her friends?

  What about herself?

  At one time, Amy had been so sure about her feelings for Brandon, so confident that their marriage would last forever, that she hadn’t been able to imagine them being anything other than happy.

  Their kisses had been magical, too. But whatever they’d shared had been fleeting.

  As she continued to read, she learned that Harold, along with a couple of his buddies, had joined the Army shortly after December 7, 1941. Ellie had been both proud of his courage and scared to death that something would happen to him.

  They’d married on the tenth of December, and they’d spent their honeymoon in a cabin on Palomar Mountain. One of Harold’s letters had said as much.

  Needless to say, Ellie didn’t go into any detail, other than to say she was blissfully happy to be Harold’s wife and that she was painfully sad to know he would be shipping out soon.

  February 10, 1942

  When Harold gets home, he’ll be happy to know that I’ve been saving as much money as I can so that we can buy our very own house someday. The only expenses I have are the costs of a daily RC Cola and a postage stamp. Harold doesn’t write very often, but I keep his letters under my pillow, tied together with the satin ribbon from my bridal bouquet.

  It seems the perfect way to keep them, don’t you think?

  As Amy continued to read, Ellie became so real to her that she couldn’t help thinking that if they’d been the same age and if their paths had somehow been able to cross, they might have become good friends.

  March 16, 1942

  I went to the doctor today, and my suspicions proved true. Harold and I are going to have a baby at the end of September. I’m both scared and excited. I can’t wait to tell him. I know he will be thrilled to know that he’s going to be a father. As soon as I finish this entry in my journal, I’m going to write and tell him the good news.

  I hope and pray that the war will be over soon, and that Harold will return home. Then we’ll buy a little house in Fairbrook, where we’ll raise a family. I love children, and I hope that we can have as many as we’re able to afford.

  Had Harold ever learned that Ellie was pregnant?

  The letters Amy read yesterday suggested that he’d thought about the possibility yet didn’t know for sure. Had Ellie’s news reached him before he died?

  Amy read on, but long before the pages in the journal were filled, Ellie’s entries came to an abrupt stop.

  June 13, 1942—

  Harold—

  My sweet Harold—

  They say he was a hero, but—

  I won’t be writing for a while.

  Tears welled in Amy’s eyes and emotion clogged her throat. Harold and Ellie’s relationship was the kind a couple dreamed of having, but it had ended before it had a chance to grow. And at eighteen, Ellie had been left a widow.

  Amy held the journal to her chest and grieved for the young mother who would have to bear her child alone. Who’d held her hand when she’d given birth?

  Probably her mother, Amy thought. When she’d been in labor with Callie, her mom had been a godsend. But it hadn’t been her mother she’d wanted; it had been Brandon.

  As the day had worn on, and as each contraction came on the heels of the last, she’d begun to wonder if he would even show up at the hospital. Her mom had taken her there, and Brandon was supposed to meet her as soon as he’d gotten out of court.

  He’d been late, of course—as usual.

  But at least she hadn’t been completely alone. She supposed she should take comfort in that, but her disappointment had been palpable.

  She took one last look at the journal, at the empty pages. According to the notes her mother had made during her search to find her birth family, Barbara Rucker had been born on September 19, 1942.

  Amy hoped the baby girl had grown up to bring her mother joy, and that the two had been close.

  Chapter 7

  It was nearly noon when Barbara drove her white Jaguar into Fairbrook and turned down Main, one of the three tree-lined streets that bordered Mulberry Park. She scanned along the curb, looking for a parking space, only to find each of them taken.

  She heaved a heavy sigh and drove around the block one more time, waiting for something to open up. She hadn’t expected it to be this busy, but the lunch crowd was probably out in full force, getting a bite to eat at one of several trendy cafés that provided outdoor dining or shopping at one of the specialty stores that drew people from miles around.

  Of all the days for her to try and squeeze in a visit to her mom, she couldn’t believe she’d chosen this one. She and her husband had an important dinner party that evening with one of his political supporters, and she needed to stop at her favorite dress shop in Del Mar to pick up the new St. John Knit she was having altered. She also had a hair appointment later this afternoon.

  She glanced at her wristwatch, the Rolex Joseph had given her last Christmas. She didn’t have time for any of this, but due to the setback Joey had suffered last Wednesday, it had been two weeks since she’d last checked on her mother. She probably should feel guilty about neglecting her daughterly duty, but she’d called Maria periodically to ask about her, to ask whether she needed anything. At least her mom wasn’t locked away in some cold, sterile convalescent hospital. Instead, she was in a private home and receiving quality care.

  Besides, her mother rarely recognized anyone anymore.

  As a white minivan backed out into the street, Barbara hit her brakes and uttered, “Thank goodness.” Then she snagged the vacated space in front of Specks Appeal, a shop that sold designer eyeglasses.

  She got out of the car, locked the door, and walked past several storefronts until she reached Petals and Stems, with its red-and-white striped awning and the colorful window display of gerbera daisies and hydrangea.

  A middle-age man dressed in blue coveralls was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the building with a push broom. He glanced up when she approached, stopped working long enough for her to reach the door, and smiled, revealing a gap where one of his teeth used to be.

  “Good morning,” she said, making eye contact yet avoiding a full-on gaze.

  “It certainly is.”

  A bell attached to a chain on the door tinkled as she entered the shop, with its colorful displays of plants and flowers and cool, fresh floral scents. She didn’t have time to dawdle, so she made her way to the refrigerator display case, opened the glass door, and made a quick and appropriate decision: a bud vase filled with three pink roses and a couple of sprigs of baby’s breath.

  “Hello there.” A woman with salt-and-pepper-colored hair made her way to the counter, smiling and wiping her hands upon a green full-length apron. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Barbara carried the vase to the counter. “I’d like to purchase this.”

  As the woman rang up the sale, Barbara lifted her Louis Vuitton purse, set it on the countertop next to the vase, and searched for the matching wallet that held her cash and credit cards.

  The man who’d been sweeping out front returned to the shop. His lips parted as if he intended to say something to the woman at the cash register, then he clamped his mouth shut.

  “That’ll be twenty-one dollars and fifty-three cents,” the woman said.

  As Barbara pulled out two twenties from her wallet, the man raked his fingers through his thinning gray hair.

  “Chuck,” the woman at the register said, “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  While waiting for her change, Barbara lifted the bud vase to her nose and sniffed the flowers that lacked the fragrance she was used to.

  “They’re pretty,” the woman said, “aren’t they?”

  “Yes, although I
’m spoiled. My mother used to have a green thumb, and her roses consistently won blue ribbons at the Del Mar Fair. She raised the most beautiful and lush rosebushes in the county, if not the state. But she got arthritis in her back and had to give up gardening a few years ago.”

  The man—Chuck—took a couple of steps toward Barbara. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Barbara drew her purse closer to her chest as she slowly turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Are you Ellie Rucker’s daughter?”

  “Do you know my mother?”

  “I met her at the soup kitchen that’s run by the church across the street. She used to come in regularly, especially at the end of the month, when she was trying to stretch her Social Security check.”

  Barbara’s cheeks warmed, and her jaw ground shut. Her mother hadn’t said anything about struggling to make ends meet. If she had, Barbara certainly would have stepped in to help. In fact, whenever she’d asked her mom how she was doing, she’d been told that everything was fine, that the Lord provided for all her needs.

  Hating to have either the man or the florist think she’d been remiss, that she’d somehow failed her elderly mother, Barbara said, “She never mentioned anything about going to the soup kitchen. If she had…”

  “Ellie wasn’t one to complain. But then I don’t have to tell you that.” The man chuckled. “She was your mom. You know her better than any of us.”

  Barbara forced a smile. In truth, their mother/daughter relationship hadn’t been good in ages, and while Barbara wasn’t happy that they’d never buried the hatchet over the disagreement they’d had more than forty years ago—had it been that long?—she’d been too proud to admit it, too angry to completely forgive her.

  “When you see Ellie,” the man added, “give her my best. Tell her that Chuck Masterson said hello, and that he’s praying for her.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Chuck turned to the woman behind the counter. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you while I’m here, Suzette?”