Almost Home

by Macomber, Debbie; Duarte, Judy; Lamb, Cathy; Mary Carter

  Marc wondered if she was reflecting on her own situation. Was she implying that she’d hooked up with the wrong guy for the wrong reason? Was she in a lonely place?

  She certainly didn’t seem unhappy, but she wasn’t nearly as effervescent as she’d once been.

  As Marc continued to read, he found the next letter interesting, too.

  Dear Diana,

  Six months ago, I went through a midlife crisis and left my wife of nearly thirty-seven years, thinking that I deserved to find happiness. But being single isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ve come to realize I’ve made a big mistake.

  Trouble is, now my wife is having a midlife crisis of her own, and she doesn’t seem to be as miserable as I am. The other day I stopped by the house and told her I wanted to come home. But she said she wasn’t so sure she wanted a husband anymore.

  What can I do to convince her to give our marriage—and me—one more chance?

  Kicking Myself

  Thirty-seven years was a long time to be married. Marc couldn’t understand how a guy could leave on a whim and wondered what Jenn’s advice would be.

  Dear Kicking,

  Your wife may still love you. It’s also possible that what she’s really saying is that she just doesn’t want to be married to the husband you became over the years.

  Marriages take work, and so do apologies. Start by asking her out to dinner—and make sure she knows that it’s a date. If she agrees to go, take her someplace nice and romantic. Treat her the way you did when the two of you were starry-eyed and in love. Let her know she’s special and that you’re sorry for letting her go. Then, if you truly mean it, tell her you’re willing to give 150 percent to make your relationship better than it ever was before.

  There are no guarantees in life. But maybe, by reading your letter, other married couples will feel compelled to climb out of their own ruts and to re-create the romance they once shared with their spouses. Good luck.

  Not bad, Marc thought. She didn’t give the guy false hope, nor did she make him feel like a jerk for leaving.

  The last letter was from a woman who hadn’t spoken to anyone in her family for more than ten years because her parents and siblings hadn’t approved of the man she’d married. But she’d just learned that her only sister was diagnosed with breast cancer.

  The woman wrote: I called my sister two days ago to let her know how sorry I was, but she didn’t answer. I left a message, of course, but she hasn’t called me back. I must admit that I had refused the olive branch she offered me a couple of years ago. So how do I go about mending fences now?

  Jenn, or rather Diana, had responded: Unfortunately, it sometimes takes a tragedy for us to count our blessings and to place the proper value on the time we spend with those we love. Send your sister a handwritten note telling her that you love her and are hoping or praying that all goes well for her. Then do it again the next day. And the next. With each note, share one of your memories with her and let her know why she’s always been special to you.

  Please let me know what happens. I’ll pray for you both.

  Marc wondered if she really meant what she said about praying or if she’d merely written that for the sake of other readers. She certainly seemed sincere.

  He poured the rest of his coffee into the sink, rinsed his cup, then headed back to his bedroom to slip on a pair of socks and shoes. But as he neared the den, his steps slowed. At the open doorway, he peered into the room and looked at his computer. And while he did, an idea sparked.

  On a whim, he stepped inside and took a seat at his desk. Then he signed on to the Internet and, using one of his Gmail accounts that didn’t have an identifying moniker, addressed an e-mail to Diana@TheFairbrookTimes.net.

  He didn’t have any real problems to write about. At least, nothing he couldn’t handle.

  Of course, that hadn’t been the case ten years ago, when he’d had more than his share of teenage angst. Back then, he could have written for advice nearly every day of the week.

  As he pondered his words, a second idea evolved from the first.

  Taking on the persona of a teenage geek enamored with the head cheerleader, he typed Dear Diana.

  The rest of the words flowed easily, and he wrote from the heart.

  What kind of advice would a grown-up Jenn give now? What insight would she have on her feelings back then? Would she have done anything different if she had it all to do over again?

  Had she changed?

  Was she being honest?

  Without giving what he was about to do any more thought, he hit Send, and his letter hurtled into cyberspace.

  Then he signed off the computer and prepared to leave for work.

  And to see Jenn again.

  Balancing the demands of two jobs, as well as those of being a single parent, wasn’t an easy task. So Jenn had set the alarm for five in the morning to allow her time to answer the most recent e-mails for Diana and to create her column for tomorrow.

  Three hours later, she was ready to sign out when a new e-mail popped up. She really ought to leave it until another time, but she wasn’t completely happy with the layout of the column she’d created so far and clicked open the new e-mail.

  Dear Diana,

  I’m in love with the hottest and most popular girl at my high school, but she doesn’t even know I’m alive. I guess you could call us Beauty and the Geek.

  For a while, I was tutoring her in math, and it seemed to help her. She was struggling to maintain a low D in the class, and now, with my help, she’s pulled it up to a high C. The other day, she gave me a hug. I know it was in appreciation, but when she wrapped her arms around me and I caught a whiff of her perfume and felt the warmth of her embrace, I couldn’t help thinking that I stood a chance with her.

  But I blew it. I asked her out, and she turned me down. I can understand that, but now she treats me as though I have leprosy. How do I turn things back to the way they were? At least being ignored was better than getting the cold shoulder.

  The Geek

  The poor kid’s problem sounded familiar. Marcos Taylor had tutored Jenn in algebra, and he’d gone on to ask her out. Of course, that was ten years ago. Apparently, the situation wasn’t uncommon.

  As Jenn pondered the poor kid’s plight, she tried to imagine the pain of being attracted to someone who clearly didn’t share the same feelings. As a teenager, she’d been the head cheerleader, as well as homecoming queen, and had never lacked for a date. In fact, there hadn’t been enough days in the week to go out with every adolescent male who asked her out. Nor had she wanted to.

  She’d tried to turn each of them down nicely, although some of them remained more hopeful than they should have.

  When she’d feared a guy might continue to pursue her, she would ignore him until he realized there was no chance of romance. At the time, it had seemed like the most humane way to handle it, but as she pondered the angst in Geek’s letter, she realized her method had been a lot more hurtful than she’d realized.

  “Mommy?” Caitlyn said as she entered the living room and approached Jenn’s desk.

  “Yes, honey?” Jenn turned away from the screen and, while still seated in her desk chair, gave her daughter her undivided attention.

  Caitlyn placed her hands on Jenn’s knees and looked at her with puppy-dog eyes. “Can we go the library for story time today?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I have to go to the office.”

  “Again?” Caitlyn had been used to having her home all the time, but after the divorce, Jenn had been forced to go to work. Fortunately, the child hadn’t complained too much and had been fairly understanding about the quiet time Jenn needed to work on her column.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. But we can talk to Grandma about going to the library. And maybe she can bring you to the park at lunchtime again.”

  Caitlyn brightened. “Promise?”

  “I promise to talk to Grandma. We’ll have to see what she says.” Jenn gave her d
aughter a hug. “Now go and get your things. It’s time for me to leave.”

  As Caitlyn dashed off, Jenn took one last peek in the bathroom mirror, checking her hair and adding a bit of lipstick.

  Then, after dropping Caitlyn off with her mom and scheduling another lunch date at the park after story time at the library, Jenn headed for work at the nicest professional building in town.

  How weird was that? She felt as though she’d made something out of her life after all. She had a real job in an impressive office. She also had a handsome boss who turned her heart on end.

  It was hard to ignore the irony, though.

  At one time, she’d been at the top of the pecking order at Fairbrook High. But now? The tables had turned.

  Jenn felt like the Geek compared to Marc’s Beauty.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, Geek’s letter and Diana’s response ran in the morning edition of the Fairbrook Times.

  Jenn was always concerned about the feelings of those who had written in, but she was even more so today. Geek was young, brokenhearted, and undoubtedly vulnerable. So for that reason, she’d hoped to offer him comfort, although she feared her words might not be enough. And if not, maybe he would contact her again.

  Some of the readers who’d written with a problem had responded to her advice—usually favorably, and sometimes with further questions or explanations. She rarely answered those second letters in the newspaper again, but she did e-mail or write back privately. And in this case, she hoped Geek would reach out to her again. She would hate to have him continue to suffer in silence.

  Of course, since she had his e-mail address, she could always touch base with him later and ask how he was doing. His letter and his plight had touched her and made her hope she’d never inadvertently hurt anyone like that.

  But Jenn hadn’t been the only one moved by the unpopular teenager’s plight.

  While at the dry cleaners, she overheard a heavyset woman talking about the subject with the owner, a small, slender man in his fifties.

  “Poor kid,” the woman said. “Some of my worst memories were in gym class. You have no idea how awful it felt to be thirty pounds overweight and have a locker next to one belonging to Angela Williamson, who went on to be crowned Miss Fairbrook the very next year. Talk about having a poor self-image.”

  “Tell me about it.” The owner took the woman’s dirty clothes and placed them in a blue mesh bag. “It seemed as though I was always the one who was the butt of a practical joke or the target in a cafeteria food fight. In fact, once a couple of football players put me head first in a trash can. I had to finish the rest of the school day smelling like rotten milk and wearing a pair of glasses with a cracked lens.”

  The woman sighed. “You know, those high-school days remind me of a book we had to read in sophomore English—A Tale of Two Cities.”

  “How is that?” the owner asked.

  “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’”

  As Jenn waited her turn to pick up her clothes, she pondered the comments she’d overheard, yet kept her thoughts to herself. She hadn’t realized how many kids had high-school experiences that weren’t as fun and upbeat as hers had been.

  After leaving her own clothes to be cleaned, she drove to the office, arriving early enough to stop by Mug Shots for some hot green tea. She carried her cup to the counter that provided cream and sugar and other condiments. While reaching for a packet of sweetener and a stir stick, she overheard two women seated at one of the café-style tables.

  “Diana’s column sure struck a chord with me today,” the redhead said. “The teen years were downright miserable for a lot of us.”

  As Jenn added the sweetener to her tea, she tried to focus on her drink and to ignore the women’s conversation. For the past few months, she’d downplayed her role as an advice columnist. Sometimes she’d even been embarrassed by it. She’d meant it to be a stepping stone to bigger and better things, but now she wasn’t so sure. For some reason, she felt as though she owed something to someone, that she was a spokeswoman for geeks everywhere.

  Odd, she thought. Was there a need for a full column devoted to the struggles of the kids who lacked the happy high-school experience she’d had?

  As she carried her tea into the elevator and up to the eighth floor, she decided to call her mom and cancel lunch plans at the park. Instead, she could meet her mom and daughter at Chuck E. Cheese’s after work, which would allow her time to check her Dear Diana e-mail while eating a sandwich at her desk. Sometimes, when readers were impressed with her advice—or when they disagreed wholeheartedly—they wrote in. And she suspected this column might be one that would touch the memories of a lot of people.

  “Good morning,” Jenn said, as she entered the office.

  Elena, who held a cup of coffee in one hand, set down the newspaper she’d been reading. “You’re here early.”

  “So are you.”

  Elena smiled. “I had a doctor’s appointment at eight this morning and didn’t get a chance to read the paper, so I brought it with me. And I’m glad I did. It was pretty good today.”

  “The newspaper in general?” Jenn had only taken time to read her own column.

  “Yes, but I was actually talking about Dear Diana. Do you ever read it?”

  Jenn stiffened. For a moment, she wanted to skirt the truth, but Marc already knew she was Diana, and Elena was his aunt. It was just a matter of time before her secret was out.

  “Actually,” she admitted, “I write that column.”

  “You’re Diana?”

  “I have been for the past six months or so.”

  Elena chuckled. “Well, then I won’t offer to let you read it.”

  Jenn took a sip of her tea and smiled. “Which of the letters interested you the most?”

  “The one from…” Elena paused as though thinking it through. “The letter from the man having a midlife crisis.”

  “What did you think about my advice?”

  “I thought it was great. And realistic. But to be honest, his wife might not want to take him back, and if she does, I hope she makes him wine and dine her for a while. Marriages take work, and romance needs to be cultivated.”

  “You’re right,” Jenn said. “I always hate to suggest divorce as an option. And that probably sounds ironic since I’m a divorcee.”

  “Was the separation your idea?” Elena asked.

  Jenn nodded. “My ex had a gambling addiction and refused help or counseling.”

  “That’s too bad. Divorces aren’t easy. And while the split is often for the best, there are always a lot of adjustments that need to be made.”

  “Are you divorced?” Jenn asked, making the assumption.

  “No, I was widowed. My husband was killed in a car accident while we were living in Mexico, so I understand dealing with the loss, with living alone, with coming to grips with all the changes that need to be made. And in my case, the grief. After Fernando died, I thought the pain would never go away.”

  “Did it?” Jenn asked. “Ever get better, I mean.”

  “Yes, with time.” Elena’s hand lifted to her chest, and she fingered the gold cross she wore around her neck. “I’m confident that he’s in Heaven and that we’ll be together again one day.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “It’ll be thirty-four years this coming April.”

  Before she’d taken in Marc, Jenn realized. “I’m sorry to hear that you lost your husband, but it’s nice to know that some people have found their soul mates. I’m afraid that after my parents split up a few months ago, I’ve grown a lot more skeptical of people truly being happily married.”

  “How long were your parents married?” Elena asked.

  “Over thirty years.”

  “And they have a daughter and a grandchild?”

  Jenn nodded.

  “They certainly have a good reason to work things out.”

  But should they? They hadn’t b
een happy in ages.

  “I’m afraid I’ve become jaded,” Jenn admitted. “You have no idea how many letters I receive from people who are either divorced or teetering on the edge of one.”

  “I’m sure you do. But don’t forget that the happy couples aren’t writing you letters. They don’t need help. It’s just the ones who are struggling and miserable who ask for advice, so you’re getting a skewed sample.”

  She had a point. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Elena smiled and took a sip of her coffee.

  “Well,” Jenn said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’d better get to work.”

  “Me, too.” Elena reached for a pen and a steno pad. “What are your parents’ names?”

  “Susan and Brad. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m going to pray for them. I have a feeling things are going to work out.”

  Jenn arched a brow. “The divorce will be final in a couple of weeks.”

  “Don’t ever limit the power of prayer.”

  Jenn thought about “the gift” Marc had said that Elena had, but not for long. Her parents’ relationship was too far gone to be helped, and besides, her dad hadn’t even stopped by the house in months.

  Before Jenn could take two steps toward her office, the door swung open and Marc walked into the reception area. His hair was damp and stylishly mussed, and he wore a day-old beard that gave him a dark and dangerous edge, something she hadn’t noticed before. Something she hadn’t expected now.

  He must be wearing clothes—slacks or a dress shirt, she supposed. But she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from his face long enough to look.

  Was it possible for a man to grow even more attractive overnight?

  Marc was the first to look away, and the disconnection left her a bit unbalanced.

  “Can you please call a plumber?” he asked Elena. “See if you can get one out to my place as soon as possible. There’s something wrong with the hot-water heater, and I’d like to have it fixed before I get home tonight.”

  “It’s a new house,” Elena said. “Shouldn’t there be some kind of warranty?”