She recognizes faces, of course. That’s the easy part for her. And she gets picked up and toted by just about everybody in Pie Town; so the good thing is that she’s not afraid of anybody. I guess that’s a good thing. ‘Course, I’ll have to keep a close eye on her if we ever go to a big city or something. She could easily crawl into the arms of the wrong person with that trusting nature of hers.
Frank and I still work together and we’re still eating our lunch together every day. We don’t say a lot about you and the accident. I think talking about it makes him nervous. And when he’s nervous, he just walks out of the garage, heading north. I never know if he’s coming back and I should wait on him or if I should just finish what I’m doing, close the garage, and go home. I told him one time just to let me know when he was leaving but it’s like he just all of a sudden gets a queer thought in his head and has to get out in the hills. I had an uncle like that too but he’d been locked up for a long time. I think he just needed to make good use of his freedom. I don’t know about Frank. I guess he just finds more comfort being with the animals, away from the people, than he does sharing his company with the folks from town. I do know he worries about you even though he never lets on as such.
I’m real glad he approves of the two of us together. I don’t usually care what most people think of me; but I care what Frank thinks. Him and Roger, Malene, Francine, Christine, Fred and Bea, I feel like I have a family here. I feel like I’m a part of something I’ve never had and I guess that means I care how they think I’m doing.
They all love you, that’s for sure. I mean, I knew it when you left for boot camp. I heard all the stuff they said about you joining the army and everything but since they all heard about you getting hurt, everybody has to stop and tell me and Frank how much you mean to them and how they’re all praying for you. It’s a nice thing, Raymond. I hope you know what you mean to the folks here.
Father George asked me the other day how I fell in love with you. I told him about our talks and how nice you’ve always been to me, how it never seemed to bother you that I was pregnant. But he seemed so curious about how we could be as close as we are when we haven’t really spent that much time together. I told him that I thought we had a lot in common, that we seemed to see the world kind of alike. I also told him that I wasn’t trying so hard to impress you, to be something I’m not and that you seemed just fine with that. I told him that can make a girl fall in love more than anything. And then I asked him why he wanted to know so much and whether he was thinking about leaving the priesthood and hooking up with Bea’s niece from Socorro who has started coming to church quite a bit. He blushed when I asked him the question and it was the funniest thing. We were eating dinner together at the diner and he ran out of there so fast he forgot to pay his bill. I tell him that he still owes me for that dinner. And I get a big kick out of that for sure.
I called a travel agent last week in Albuquerque to find out how much it would cost for me to come to Germany. It was a whole lot of money. I know I could ask everybody to chip in and help me buy the ticket but I don’t know if you even want me to visit you. I know that when I feel bad I’m not really interested in entertaining company, not that you’d have to entertain me, but still, you know what I mean. So, I’m just going to wait and let you tell me if you want me to come or not. I got a Visa card when I went to work with Frank; so I can just charge the ticket if you want me to come. Just let me know.
I can’t stand not hearing from you every day like I used to. I hate not knowing what you’re thinking, how bad you’re hurting and what you feel like. I guess I’ve gotten accustomed to having you a part of my every day; and even when we’re not talking, I still think of myself as coming home to you, that you’re waiting for me, waiting to tell me something about those crazy guys you run with and the way it is over there. I still have all these stories I want to tell you about Alexandria, about the new thing I learned about a V–8 engine or a European-made motor, the crazy joke Oris told. You’ve become such a part of my life, Raymond, I can’t imagine not having you in it. So, you get better, you hear me? You get better and come home. Me and Alexandria need you.
Okay, that’s enough. I’m going to try and get Christine to take a good picture of me this evening before I mail the box. So that means I’ve got to go take a shower, wash my hair, and put on something decent. I don’t want you to hang some photograph of me wearing my coveralls and looking like a boy. Then what would your buddies think?
I love you, Raymond. Please come home soon.
Trina
Read on for a sneak peek at Lynne Hinton’s upcoming novel,
WELCOME BACK TO PIE TOWN
On sale July 2012
From William Morrow Paperbacks
Chapter Four
FATHER GEORGE MORRIS was reading scripture when the power went out. The tea kettle was whistling, and he had put his Bible down and was preparing to get up from his desk and walk into the kitchen to have a cup of tea.
“Ah, Lord, the storms of summertime.” He sighed. He reached into one of the desk drawers, found a flashlight, turned it on, and made his way into the kitchen. After pouring himself a cup of tea, he began feeling his way through the cabinets for the candles he knew were kept above the stove.
He found a few votive candles and placed them on small plates, lighting them with the matches he had collected from his desk drawer. He set the candles around the front room of the rectory and sat back down at his desk, the cup of tea beside his Bible. He thought about the scripture he was reading, the Gospel of Mark, and particularly the story of Jesus walking on the water, the story of high winds and fear, a storm experienced by the disciples. He thought of the irony of his reading about a storm, considering what was happening all around him, and had to smile. He opened his Bible to read more but then, realizing that he would not be able to read with so little light, closed the book and considered just going to bed, even though he wasn’t actually sleepy.
He thought of the events of the day, the meeting of the education committee and the decision to start a nursery for the worship hour on Sunday mornings. He thought about his visit to the parish in Quemado and his conversation with Father Quy, the priest serving the two other churches in the vicinity. He recalled the man’s cynical comment that Father George had a cushy job serving only the Holy Family Church in Pie Town, not being responsible to the diocese in Gallup, and how it seemed that Father George had taken to radical ways by not wearing his collar and allowing Protestants to share in regular worship.
George had chosen not to engage with the other priest once he made those remarks. He knew that the other parish priests in New Mexico and the entire Southwest thought the arrangement in Pie Town with the diocese in Gallup was inappropriate and out of line. He knew that Holy Family Church was a kind of renegade organization that even seemed close to breaking ties with the Catholic Church. He understood that once he and the citizens of Pie Town chose to build their own church, without supervision or assistance from the diocese in Gallup, he and the Church were moving into uncharted territory. Father George still referred to himself as a Catholic priest, but he was not in full standing with the Church. It was a unique and precarious relationship, and many other priests were not happy about it.
George had tried to build a friendship with the new priest in Catron County when he arrived, but the orthodox young man, trained in his home country of Vietnam, could never understand the role of the priest in Pie Town. George had decided after this last visit that he would make no further attempts at being friends. He was, after all, deeply involved in the lives of his parishioners, in the events of the community, and happily, he noted to himself, had more than enough friends. If Father Quy wanted to make a connection with George, he knew how to contact him. Pie Town wasn’t that far from Quemado.
George looked at his watch, trying to make out the time, and took a sip of tea. He thought about his afternoon, his visit to Frank Twinhorse’s garage. He had taken in the station wagon he h
ad been driving for the entire time he had been in Catron County. It had not been a reliable vehicle when it was given to him by the Monsignor in Gallup, and now it was simply falling apart.
That afternoon, George had taken his car in because the brakes were squealing. Since he didn’t know a drum from a pedal, and since he needed his car the rest of the week, he was hoping that Trina or Frank would be able to tighten something or oil a part and take care of the problem quickly. He was hopeful that he wouldn’t have to leave it with them for any length of time.
Trina, the young woman who had arrived in Pie Town at the same time that Father George had, was working at the garage. She was good at what she did, loved working on engines, and had learned a lot about auto mechanics while serving an apprenticeship with Frank. She had, in fact, replaced more parts in the station wagon than George could count and had practically rebuilt the transmission earlier in the year. She was quite skilled at her work and very happy in her new job.
When he arrived at the garage, Trina and Frank were nowhere to be found. He called out for them, walked around the bays and into the office, but neither of them answered or showed up. Finally, just as he was getting into the station wagon to leave, Frank pulled up in his tow truck, explaining briefly that Trina was home with Raymond and that she had called Frank over to handle a situation.
Father George knew that Raymond, Frank’s son and Trina’s boyfriend, had been in Pie Town for only about five weeks. The church had thrown a big “welcome home” party for the wounded soldier when he was released from the Veterans Hospital in Albuquerque, and even though the young man seemed a bit uncomfortable with the attention from his hometown, he acted like he enjoyed the gathering. He was quiet but did not seem troubled, shy but not necessarily withdrawn.
George had visited Raymond while he was hospitalized and had seen the physical wounds of war. The young soldier had been in a vehicle that exploded because of a roadside bomb. He was the only one who had survived. His left knee was shattered. Both lungs were punctured. There was significant hearing loss, a fractured skull, brain trauma, and more than eight or nine other broken bones. Raymond had come through numerous surgeries and had been sent home after lengthy stays at medical clinics and hospitals in Afghanistan, Germany, North Carolina, and finally Albuquerque.
Father George had concluded, even though there had been no real cause for his suspicions, that Raymond had suffered as much, if not more, emotionally as physically during his short time of service in war, and after his visit in Albuquerque he had suggested to Trina and Frank that the young man might benefit from support services offered to returning veterans. Both the boy’s father and his girlfriend had explained that they mentioned this to Raymond, but that he seemed unwilling to consider talking about his experience with anyone.
Once Raymond had been home a few weeks, he became increasingly withdrawn, and Father George started paying closer attention. He checked on the young man every couple of days, and even though Raymond wouldn’t look George in the eye and seemed unable to sit still for any length of time, the priest thought everything was going as well as could be expected. He had not seen signs of real trauma for the soldier.
“What kind of situation?” George remembered asking Frank.
The father wouldn’t answer any questions about his son. He had checked the station wagon and announced that the priest would need new brake liners on the rear wheels. He could leave the car at the garage until the parts arrived and were installed, he was informed, or it was probably safe to drive around town if he wanted to return later in the week. George had decided just to keep the car until the parts were delivered.
“Would it help if I visited?” he had asked Frank before driving off. He knew where Trina and Raymond lived. He knew they had moved out of the little garage apartment and into Roger’s house, since the sheriff had moved in with Malene once they got married. “I can drop by, offer to talk to Raymond, offer to drive him to Albuquerque to talk to someone there.”
And George, sipping some more of his tea, recalled how Frank appeared when the offer was made. He had looked away and then turned back, shaking his head from side to side. He had taken a long breath before answering, wiping his hands on the rag hanging from his pocket.
“I like you, Father George. I have since you built the church and did what you did for this little town. I respect your work.” He stepped away from the car. “You have a good heart.”
George glanced away.
And then Frank had hesitated before finishing. He shook his head again. “But you can’t help my son.” He then slid his hand across the back of his neck. “I’m not sure what or who can help him now.” And with that, Frank had turned away and walked into the office. George had waited, thinking he might return, but when he didn’t, George had simply driven off.
Father George considered that perhaps he should have gone over to Trina’s. He didn’t need a reason to visit; the young couple knew the priest often stopped by to see parishioners or community members. They both knew he sometimes dropped in on folks without calling ahead. But George had chosen not to meddle, not that time. He told himself he would wait until he gained permission from Trina or Raymond to step in and offer help.
He had decided that the most he could do at the time, the best he had to offer, was to simply say his prayers. And so, there in the meek light of small candles, that’s what he did. Father George dropped his face, closed his eyes, and folded his hands. Cloaked in darkness, he prayed.
Home Sweet Home
CANDIS TERRY
Dedication
This is dedicated to the men, women, and families of the Idaho Army National Guard at Gowen Field and the Mountain Home Air Force Base. Please accept my heartfelt thanks for your service and dedication. You keep us safe. You make us proud. God bless.
Chapter One
WHEN YOU GREW up in a town the size of a flea circus anonymity was impossible.
There hadn’t been a chance in hell he could have slipped back in unnoticed. As an Army Ranger, Lieutenant Aiden Marshall had been to some of the most hellish corners on earth and no one had been the wiser. Except for maybe the enemy. Yet the moment he’d cranked the key in the ignition of his old pickup, it seemed the entire population of Sweet, Texas, had heard the engine catch.
Today he’d traded his fatigues for an old T-shirt and Levi’s, but the dog tags pressed against his heart verified he’d be a soldier until the day they put him in the earth.
He was damned lucky he wasn’t already there.
As he drove the winding road through pastures where longhorns grazed, he did not take for granted the faded yellow ribbons hugging the trunks of the large oaks that bordered the road. Those ribbons had been placed there for him and two of his best buddies. They’d all enlisted the same day. Survived boot camp and Ranger training together. Hit the sands of Afghanistan as one. Fought side-by-side.
He’d been the only one to make it home.
In the trenches they’d added one more friend to their unit. One more who’d proven faithful and trustworthy. One who’d offered comfort on dark nights and lonely days.
One more Aiden had to leave behind.
The pressure in his chest tightened as he lifted his hand in a wave to the group of seniors in jogging shoes waiting to cross the road. On the way to his destination, he could not ignore the joy on the faces of those who waved or shouted “welcome back” as he passed by. Those in his community knew none of the anguish that kept him awake night after night. They were just happy he had made it home.
His hometown had been hit hard by the loss of two upstanding soldiers, men who’d been his brothers-in-arms. Men he’d been honored to serve with. As a survivor, he felt none of the joy and all of the guilt. The hardest thing he’d had to face upon his return was the visits he’d paid to those heroes’ families. Looking them in the eye and expressing his sorrow for their loss when so much of it had been caused by his own miscalculations. Yet they’d taken him into their arms, offering him c
onsolation he did not deserve. The thought still took his breath away.
On Main Street, beneath the old water tower where local businesses displayed patriotic signs and the flagpole in Town Square flew a pristine Stars and Stripes, Aiden eased his truck into the gravel lot beside Bud’s Nothing Finer Diner. Over the years the good people of Sweet had tried their best to make the town appeal to tourists. The apple orchards—like the one his family owned—had blossomed into bed-and-breakfasts, art galleries, antique shops, and wine rooms. Judging by the near-empty streets, the place still had a long way to go.
In a space near the door he cut the truck’s engine, leaned back in the seat, and inhaled the aroma of chicken-fried steak that floated in through the window on the warm summer breeze. Bud’s Diner was little more than a yellow concrete box, but since the day Aiden had been old enough to sit at the counter, he’d enjoyed extra thick milkshakes and homemade eats that made his mouth water. Even when he’d been halfway across the world. Bud’s was the first place the townsfolk gathered to mourn, celebrate, or discuss local politics.
He snatched the keys from the ignition and opened the door. Through six tours and countless missions in the Middle East, his mouth had watered for a slice of home. He was about to get his wish.
The bell above the door announced his arrival to the farmers and community members who huddled inside around tables nicked and scarred by years of diners with eager appetites. Marv Woodrow, a World War II vet, stood on feeble legs and gave him a salute. Bill McBride, a Vietnam vet, stood and gave him a one-armed hug and a fist bump. The rest also welcomed him home as he made his way to the counter. He graciously accepted their warm reception, though the soldier and friend inside of him rebelled.
For Love and Honor Page 9