by Lisa Samson
“I’m sorry. I know it’s my fault.”
“No, Mom. It’s not all—”
“Yes, it is, Paise. I’m the mother.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t respond well. I know I wasn’t an easy kid to raise. I’ve met some real corkers the past few days at work.”
“Was it about Robbie, at all?”
“Sometimes. But not always. Not at first. And let’s face it, Mother, Rob’s a really easy guy to love.”
“Yeah. Oh, Paisley, I wish you’d come back home.”
“Mother, I can’t. I’ve got to figure things out for myself now.”
“But you’ve always been so independent.”
“Not really. I spent the first half of my life trying to be just like you. I asked for art classes, had my hair cut short and permed when I was twelve. And then, I spent the next half trying to be the exact opposite.”
What could I say?
Paisley squeezed my hand. “My whole life has revolved around you in one way or the other, Mother. Now I have to find out what’s good for me, just me.”
I put my arms around my daughter. “I’m proud of you.”
Paisley only endured the embrace for a few seconds, then pulled back. She rose to her feet, kissed me goodnight, and went to her room.
Just after lunch a few days later we packed up the car to head back to Mount Oak. A motorcycle pulled up next to the Subaru and a young man dismounted.
Muscled arms pulled off the helmet to reveal the face of Jason Harkens.
Chris, thankfully, still lingered inside.
“I came to apologize to you, Mrs. Fraser.”
“What for, Jason?”
“For breaking our trust. I promised you I’d take care of him, and I failed.” He held his helmet in his hand and looked into its dark foam recess.
“It was not your fault, Jason.”
“I wasn’t there on hell night. There was an emergency at work, and I had to go in. I would’ve never let him go off with that idiot Ed.”
“Well, he’s getting his.”
“I heard. He was taking his belongings out of the house this morning.”
“Was he mad?”
“Oh yeah. Threatening a lawsuit and everything.”
I exhaled forcefully. “I’d like to see him try.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Listen, Jason. Are you coming back to Mount Oak at all this summer?”
“Just for a week.”
“Come over and see us, okay?”
He nodded.
“You should stick around for a minute. Mrs. Knight will be right out.”
So he did. And Chris hugged him tightly and told him she knew that he had done all that he could because, well, Chrissy was like that.
Twenty-seven
Duncan had sharpened all of my Prismacolor pencils and had cleaned out my brushes so that they appeared practically new. Paint spots had been wiped clean from the handles, and he’d even refinished some of my older ones.
“I know I could have bought new ones, but you’ve been using some of those since before the kids were born,” he said when he showed me into the studio and displayed his handiwork.
Gone only a week, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw everything beautifully organized on new shelving. The walls had been given a fresh coat of paint, and he’d installed bigger windows to the north and the south.
“And”—he opened a new door—“Ira and I were working long into the night to get this done.”
I looked through the door as Duncan turned on the light. There on a blue-tiled floor sat a toilet. Bright white with a gold, old-fashioned looking handle.
“I got white because I though you might want to decorate it yourself with porcelain paints.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Then I put my arms around him. Paisley was right. He did like the fact that I was an artist. “Thank you.”
I kissed his lips.
“I never know what to do for you, Poppy. But when this idea came to mind, I knew it was a good one.”
“So Ira helped you with the addition?”
“Yes. And Miss Poole even went with us down to the hardware store to pick out the commode.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No. The funny thing is, she knew her way around that store like she worked there.”
“Maybe she owns it.”
Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Now there’s a thought.”
“Any more Boston cream pie ingredients on the big window?” I asked.
“Nope. Betty the don confessed to her pastor that her grandson did it, and he told me.”
“No way!”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? People getting that mad over a Boston cream pie sale?”
I flipped off the light. “Where’s Robbie?”
“Studying at the library. He’s got an algebra test on Monday. We day tripped to Williamsburg yesterday and bought him a kilt at The Scottish Store.”
“You didn’t!”
“Yep. St. Andrews is definite now, Popp.”
It came as no surprise. He’d been whistling “Scotland Forever” for the past month.
“He’s leaving at the beginning of September. He decided for sure while you were gone.” He put his arm around me. “Just you and me and Angus after Labor Day.”
He sounded so sure, I thought. But with Robbie gone … well, I had one less excuse to stick around Mount Oak. All my excuses were drifting away, one by one by one.
Thing was, I wouldn’t have this kind of studio if I went out on my own. Especially not in New York City, for pity’s sake. I couldn’t get an apartment the size of my studio shed for under fifteen hundred a month. And Duncan had been so wonderful to do this, had been thinking of me, Poppy, the inside-my-brain-Poppy that Mother birthed all those years ago.
We walked into the kitchen, a very clean and tidy kitchen, where a fresh pot of coffee awaited. Duncan took down two mugs.
“I did a wedding last night. A quickie.”
“Anybody I know?”
“No. Just two locals who wanted something private. They had decided to get married the day before.”
“Wow. You mean you didn’t make them do any counseling?”
Duncan shrugged. “You know, Popp, the way I saw it with these two was this. They weren’t parishioners, and they would have just gone down to the courthouse. At least this way, they’re doing it in a church, and there’s something noble in and of itself in that.”
“Especially these days.” I opened the refrigerator door and got out the half and half for Duncan.
“But you’ll never guess what the bride did.” He took the container and poured a healthy amount into his cup.
I took a sip of my coffee, longing for a cup made from the coffee Paisley had tucked in my suitcase. “First of all, you’ve got to tell me what the dress looked like.”
“Ivory, babe.” He shook his head. “It was ivory and very plain. Just above the ankles. All that netting stuff poofing out.”
“Ballerina length. Love that. Did it have any decoration on it? Like just a little lace or some seed pearls?”
“No. But it did have one of those little jackets. The short kind with the long sleeves. I can’t remember what they’re called.”
“A bolero jacket?”
“I guess that’s it. Can I finish the story?”
“Almost. Pumps or sandals?”
“Pumps.”
“High heeled or low?”
“Poppy!”
“Well? Come on, Duncan. A woman has got to be able to picture the bride to get the full impact of the story.”
“Okay. Her heels looked to be about the same height as your navy blue church pumps.”
I nodded. “Okay, you can go on then.”
“Well, I got to the part where I say, ‘Do you promise—’ ”
“Wait! What about the headpiece?”
“Just a sprig of those lacy little flowers at the back. Her hair was pulled back into a bun
, just in case you were wondering.”
“Of course I was.”
“So anyway, I said, ‘Do you promise to love, honor, and obey him?’ And right away she said, ‘I will not obey him.’ ”
“No way! What did you do?”
He laughed. “I’ve never had that happen to me before.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“I just looked at the groom and said, ‘Is that all right with you?’ And he nodded and said, ‘I guess so.’ So I turned to the congregation and said something like ‘Let the record show, the bride will not obey her husband.’ ”
“As if there’s some wedding court reporter there or something!”
“I know. Honestly, Popp, I don’t know if I did the right thing or not, but I just freaked.”
“I give that one two years. Tops.”
“Although I hate to say it … me, too.”
I took out my wedding album that night. It had been years since I’d flipped those heavy pages lined in gold tone strips.
I had longer hair then. It looked nice curled like that. Seventies-ish. But that was okay. It wasn’t overly dated. A decade earlier it might have been a beehive, so it could have been a lot worse.
Angus bounded up onto the couch, blankie at the ready. “What are these?”
“It’s Daddy’s and my wedding album.”
“Stellar. Can I see?”
“Uh-huh. And don’t even ask if you were around then because you know you weren’t.”
“Okay.” Silky edge of blankie under his nose, he snuggled in close.
I flipped through the album four times that night. Once with myself. Once with Angus. Then Robbie came in and wanted to look.
Chris looked great in the yellow bridesmaid dress. But, if I were truthful, I looked every bit as good. There Gary stood, stiffer than a coat of mail and smiling like crazy from the line of groomsmen. And Duncan. He had this smug grin on his face. Yeah, I got her for good.
For keeps.
And finally, I took the volume into the bedroom, propped it up on my lap as I sat back against some pillows and looked at it with Duncan.
“Would you do it all over again?” he asked.
At that moment in time, I would. “Yes,” I said in all honesty.
“Me, too. There’s not a thing I would change about the past twenty-four years.”
I wished I could say the same, but I wasn’t about to spoil the moment. “We were a nice looking bride and groom.”
“You’re still pretty, Poppy. Just as pretty now.”
I laid the book on my lap and looked at him. “Really? You still think I’m pretty?”
He smiled and took off his glasses. “I do.”
When I knocked on the door of the farmhouse the next morning, Mildred LaRue, swallowed almost whole in the tentlike recesses of a rajah looking nightgown and robe, tied her eyebrows in a knot. “A little warning by way of the telephone might have been nice, Penelope.”
“I’ve never really thought of myself as an overly nice person, Miss Mildred.”
Mildred pushed open the screen door. “Come on in. I’d offer you fresh coffee, but I see you’ve brought your own.”
“I was out on my walk and decided to make it a nice long one and come see you. Wow, Miss Mildred, look at your hair!”
The darkened hair buzzed about her head like a million bees. Every small movement of her head shook the frizzy strands.
“Now that is going too far. You can barge in here at six-thirty in the morning, but that automatically means you leave any comments about my person right at the door. You understanding me?”
I nodded. “Sit down, Miss Mildred. I’ll fix you some breakfast.”
“I’m not sure whether that would be a favor or not.”
“It’s just eggs. If you’ve got some.”
“Well, all right then.” Mildred pulled out a kitchen chair and groaned as she sat down. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the green-and-white checked tablecloth. “Saundra will be over in a bit. We got a doctor’s appointment this morning. Eight o’clock.”
“Really? Who you taking her to?”
“Dr. Wheelock.”
“He goes to our church.”
“I know. I hear he’s a good man.”
“So Saundra is pregnant?” I pulled a frying pan out of the cabinet beneath the cooktop.
“Yes. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
“No kidding! No wonder she was so emotional.”
“You got that right.”
I turned the stove dial to number nine and placed the heavy frying pan onto the burner. This was going to be fun. Har. Why on earth did I think cooking for a cook like Miss Mildred was a good idea? “You got any cayenne?”
“Baby, now what do you think?”
“Where is it?”
“Spice cabinet’s right over your head.”
“So how’s Saundra feeling?”
“Good. No nausea yet.”
“That’s good.” I slid a dim yellow cardboard carton of eggs out of Miss Mildred’s Stone Age Frigidaire. “So when’s she due?”
“January.”
“Has she been over here much then?”
Mildred reached behind her and began pulling out silverware from the drawer. “Yes. I’ll tell you what, Penelope, Saundra’s a wonderful girl. She really was just hiding behind all that finery. She’s asked me to help her with the women’s Sunday school class. Said she really didn’t know what in the world she was doing teaching it in the first place other than that her husband kept saying, ‘But the last pastor’s wife taught it!’ ”
“She should be coming to our prayer meetings, don’t you think?”
“I’ll ask her. It sure would do her a world of good to know she’s not alone in her trials.”
I cracked four eggs into the hot pan. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled.”
“Me, too. Mind if I make myself some?”
“Go ahead. But Herman’s going to be over soon, and with the way that man eats, you might want to make the entire dozen.”
I cracked the rest of the eggs. Great. The pan was way too small. Maybe Miss Mildred wouldn’t notice.
“We got together for prayer while you were in Baltimore,” Mildred said. “Would you bring me that coffeepot, Penelope?”
I did. “How did it go?”
“Good. I just can’t get a read on that Joanna woman.”
“Me, either.”
“I’m not feeling the spiritual connection.”
“I don’t feel it either.” I stirred so carefully my throat constricted. But I refused to spill egg onto the burner because I’d never hear the end of it. A healthy dose of cayenne dove straight down from the half-moon slot in the spice can right into the middle of the eggs. Hmm, looked pretty. Sunrise in a pan. “I wonder why she comes?”
Mildred shrugged. “I think she wants to be a good preacher’s wife. Like it’s a job or something. She’s coming for pointers.”
“You really think so?”
“I do. I’m surprised she doesn’t take notes!”
“Want some toast?”
“That’ll do.”
I turned the broil knob above the oven to high.
“You pretty much do everything on high heat, don’t you, Penelope?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I stirred the eggs. “So what did I miss at the last church ladies’ prayer meeting?”
“Well, we talked a lot about Crazy Days.” Mildred shook her head, her large brown eyes heavy with regret. “We been fighting in this town for decades, Penelope. The Mount Zions stealing people from the Pentecostals, Presbyterians taking on disenchanted Episcopals, Episcopals taking on Catholics. I’ve never liked it, but it seems there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
“It finally went too far.” I scraped a cookie sheet from a stack of like pans on top of the refrigerator.
“Do you remember Jesus praying, ‘Father I pray that they would be one even as We are one?’ ”
“It was important to Him, Penelope. Unity is found all through the Bible, but we’ve divided ourselves, dissected every moving part, separating ourselves to the point of exclusiveness not only with the world but with each other. Pastors refusing to sit next to Christians who don’t believe like they do. People fighting over minute doctrinal points. It’s heartbreaking.”
“We forget we’re just branches, Miss Mildred. We forget about the Vine we’re attached to, focusing all our vision on the other branches and not the Source of life. I wish I knew what the answer was.”
“Well, I can tell you, not that I’m always good at following it myself. But I always think of Jesus, and I think of Him washing the disciples’ feet and cooking them fish, and I remember that He showed us that above all we are servants.”
Servants.
I felt tears begin. “Miss Mildred, I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not a worthy servant at all. I’m just as guilty as anybody. I accuse people at Highland of having agendas but never once have I opened myself up and said, ‘Here I am, Lord, send me.’ ”
“It’s a big step, Penelope. One that needs the Holy Spirit right there beside you, guiding you and comforting you.”
“I’ve always told myself it’s just my husband’s job.”
“It may be his job, but you have a choice whether or not to deny yourself and take up the cross, Penelope.”
“But aren’t there lots of pastors’ wives who just sit in the pew on Sunday, and have other jobs and do their own thing?”
“There are.”
“Are they wrong?”
“The comparison game is one you’ll always lose, Penelope. The fact is, you’re miserable doing things the way you’ve been doing. Trust and obey, baby.”
I turned my back, opened the bread box, and laid several slices on the pan.
Mildred took a gentle slurp of her hot coffee. “So Miss Joanna says she recommended the churches have their own function next year.”
“That’s right. Put all the bad kids in the corner together.”
“Mmn, hmn.”
“Then we’ll do nothing. Ever again.”
“I know, baby.”
“We deserve it.”
“I know that, too.”
I opened the oven door. Figures. I forgot to move the oven rack up to the highest slot! “Where are your oven mitts?”