It must have shown.
“Hey, Mom, it’s okay,” said Andrew. “You have a good time. If that Leon bozo steps out of line, I’ll sic Lundquist on him.”
That broke the tension. Joan laughed, and Rebecca looked confused.
“Who?” she said.
“Mom’s cop. You know, the one who got all the credit. He’s not so bad.” Emptying the skillet, Andrew slathered butter on the last of the cornbread.
“I like him, Rebecca,” Joan said. “Maybe while you’re here, we could invite him over.” Rebecca’s going to think I have all kinds of social life I don’t.
“If you want to. I’ll be in and out.” It wasn’t exactly gracious, but it was a start.
Joan leaned forward. “Tell me about Carolyn Ryrie. You and she seemed to hit it off.”
Rebecca brightened. “We just got started, but I’m going to visit her—maybe on the weekend.”
“Is there any chance you and Andrew would go to church with me on Sunday?” The words were out before Joan knew she was going to say them.
“Church?” Andrew said. “Mom, you haven’t gone to church once since we came to Oliver. Why now?”
“It might do her good after Leon,” said Rebecca. “Honestly, Andrew, wait till you meet this guy. But I don’t know about going. Maybe.”
Why now, indeed? Joan knew enough not to expect the preacher to be another Ken. Or the congregation to cut through her loneliness. Back home—after months in Oliver she still thought of Michigan as home—she had found comfort, if not inspiration, in her somewhat sporadic attendance after Ken’s death. His old congregation had felt like her extended family. But in Oliver she hadn’t forced herself to walk into a church where no one would even know who she was.
“I guess I feel more like a family with both of you here,” she said. “And it might not be so bad. We never sat with Dad in church.”
Tears glinted in Rebecca’s eyes. “Only on vacations,” she said. “He used to play hangman with me.”
When the red sports car pulled up on Saturday, Andrew was posted at the front door.
Upstairs, Joan was in an uncharacteristic dither about what to wear. This is silly, she thought. I’m not even interested in the man.
Peeking out the window, she saw that Leon Ellett’s “best bib and tucker” was a crimson sports coat, not a dinner jacket. Good. Her long-sleeved blue wool would be fine. She finished buttoning it to the throat.
She smoothed back the wisps of front hair that were already escaping from the French roll she’d shaped for the occasion. Then she slipped on her pumps, picked up her bag, and went down to him.
Sitting in her biggest chair with his back to her, Leon was already deep in conversation with Rebecca. Joan wondered how he had managed that. Rebecca enlightened her.
“Hi, Mom. Mr. Ellett is telling me all about banking. It’s really fascinating.” Rebecca batted her eyelashes at him. “Did you know that you could make a killing in real estate just by taking advantage of the time it takes banks to process their checks?”
Leon jumped to his feet as Joan descended the stairs. He answered Rebecca with a chuckle.
“I wouldn’t say that, little lady. But I’ve turned some nice little profits in my day. It’s all in understanding how the system works.”
Rebecca radiated wide-eyed innocence. Leon turned his smile on Joan.
“I hope you don’t mind my talking to your daughter. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw her—I would have sworn you couldn’t have a grown child.”
“Two of them,” Joan said dryly. “You’ve met Rebecca. And this is my son. Andrew, Mr. Leon Ellett.”
Leon pumped Andrew’s hand.
“Don’t worry about your lovely mother, son. I’ll bring her home safe and sound.”
“Yes, sir,” said Andrew, pumping back. “Thank you, sir. We do worry if she’s out too late.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes, but Andrew’s face was almost wooden. For the second time in Leon’s presence, Joan had to stifle the urge to giggle. He was hard enough to take seriously without those two.
Andrew opened the door for them.
The cold of a spring evening hit her face, and a brisk wind attacked her hair. At the curb, Leon gripped her elbow—a useless and uncomfortable gesture, Joan thought, and one that made her feel at least thirty years older. Then he handed her into the little red two-seater, and they roared off.
By the end of an excellent steak dinner at the Elks Club, Joan was sorry she had come. Leon flirted with the waitress, ate, and talked nonstop—about Leon. Flashing an outsize diamond pinky ring, he went from his big real estate developments to his cash-flow problems.
Must be a zircon, Joan thought.
He led her onto the dance floor, where his guiding arm was as strong as his steps were graceful. But the subject didn’t change.
“My mother’s estate will make the difference,” he said at last. “But time means nothing to lawyers. It could take months. Meanwhile, I’m sitting on an option to some choice property that will … well, never mind. I don’t want to bore you.”
Joan knew she was supposed to say, “You’re not boring me at all,” but truthfulness and optimism stopped her from encouraging him.
“I’m glad I knew your mother,” she said instead. “I’m only sorry I came along too late to know her better.” Or in her prime, she thought.
As if he’d heard her, Leon said, “You remind me of her when she was young and pretty. She was gentle with us—but strong enough to make me toe the line. Little as she was, she didn’t put up with any nonsense.”
“Did you test her?”
He grinned down at her, and she saw the teddy bear again.
“Every way a boy could. Once—I was about eight—she had us all spiffed up for a company dinner, with orders to entertain the company’s children while the grown-ups visited. So I took their two little boys down to play king of the mountain in the coal bin.”
Joan laughed out loud—and missed a step.
“What happened?”
“We came when she called us for dinner. She took one look, marched us upstairs, stripped us, and had us in a hot tub before we could blink. Then she laid out some of my outgrown clothes for them and told me that if I wanted any dinner, I’d better scrub those boys as clean as I’d gotten them dirty.”
He grinned again. “The food was stone cold by the time we came down to eat. But it was worth it.”
The music stopped, Leon twirled her, and they went back to their table for coffee. When the check came, he paid with plastic and signed with a flourish.
Outside, the cold had strengthened. Joan shivered and welcomed his warm arm around her shoulders. At her door, though, she was relieved that he didn’t invite himself in. But why would he? she thought. He’s already met my chaperones.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said.
She stuck out her right hand and smiled. “Thank you, Leon,” she said. “It was a lovely dinner.”
Holding her hand, he stooped and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“Good night, little Joan,” he said, and brushed wisps of hair back off her face. “See you in church.”
You just might, she thought. I wonder which of us would be more surprised.
From the doorway she watched Leon slide down into the little car. He revved up the engine and beeped “Shave and a haircut, two bits.”
He’s a big kid, she thought. The world is his oyster, even if he’s going broke. I wonder what it would take to get him down.
She found Rebecca and Andrew stretched out on the living room floor, talking.
“Have a good time?” asked Andrew.
“Sure,” Joan said.
“Well?” asked Rebecca. But Joan had no desire to dissect Leon with Rebecca. Nor with anyone else she could think of.
“Good night, you two,” she said, and went upstairs.
Their voices murmured her to sleep.
Basket of Lilies
Jo
an woke to Bartók. Was “Saint Paul Sunday Morning” featuring Hungarians? She rolled over, luxuriating in weekend freedom. Then she smelled the coffee. And popovers. Popovers?
“You ready for church, Mom?” Andrew called up the stairs.
“Are you kidding?” Her tongue was still thick with sleep.
“We’ve decided to go. If you want to come, you have ten minutes for a shower before breakfast.”
Would wonders never cease? Her feet hit the floor.
She twisted her hair out of harm’s way, turned the shower on hot, and felt tepid needles sting her skin. Bad enough to follow Andrew—this morning she was probably third in line. Hurrying, she got out before the old hot-water tank went completely cold.
The open window dispelled the bathroom fog and gave her goose bumps. Still cool enough for the blue wool. She dried off, put her clothes on, and went downstairs.
“Take a seat, Mom,” Andrew said from the stove. Joan obeyed, accepting the juice and coffee Rebecca poured out, and then Andrew’s popovers. The woods-honey jar was on the table.
Too bad Fred’s not here, she thought, remembering the September day he had taken popovers out of her oven. But memories of grim death crowded in—he’d been called away to investigate the murder of the orchestra’s first flutist, and with the taste of the popovers still in her mouth, she, too, had landed in the flutist’s once-cozy kitchen. She shivered.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t made them since.
“Mom?” said Rebecca. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and bit into a beautifully browned popover, savoring its egginess and enjoying the crisp outside and slippery inside. “Mmmm. Andrew, what is it about you and eggs?”
“Good, aren’t they? You never told me these things were so simple. I finally got hungry enough for them to read the book.”
They walked to church.
Sitting in a strange pew between Andrew and Rebecca, Joan returned the smiles on a few familiar faces. It figured—gray hair predominated here, and most of the people she knew best were over sixty. No one pushed me to come, though, she thought gratefully. Did they know they were being kind? Or am I wrong? Would it have been kinder if they had pushed?
After the Bach prelude announced in the order of worship, the organist meandered on until a balding man in his thirties entered the chancel and sat down. Then she struck up “Cwm Rhondda.” The stirring Welsh hymn tune raised the hairs on the back of Joan’s neck.
“Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour,” she sang from memory. Andrew, ignoring the staid harmony printed in the hymnbook, echoed “of this hour” in the old tradition. He grinned at her. A couple of stanzas later, she exchanged smiles with her daughter when Rebecca’s alto rang out on “rich in things and poor in soul.”
Worth coming for.
The sermon text was the story of the prodigal son, but the young minister began with Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, and Emily’s discovery on returning from the grave to relive her sixteenth birthday.
“It’s true, you know,” he said. “Emily and the prodigal both learned it the hard way. When things are going well, we don’t notice what is most precious to us. The sameness of everyday routine blinds us. Our lives fly by faster with every passing year.
“But death tore young Emily from the family she didn’t know how to cherish. The prodigal son treasured the love that had surrounded him only after he had rejected it—and was separated from it by his own foolish decisions. We, too, often recognize our true riches only when we have been separated from them in prisons of our own making, as he was—or by walls of pain, loneliness, fear, or despair.
“Then, as Emily did—as Goethe’s Faust did—we cry out at last to the moment: Stay, you are so beautiful.”
Joan’s mind wandered to the walls she felt around her. Loneliness, yes. Fear?
And she thought of others. What must the prison of Edna Ellett’s last weeks have been like, for her, and for Kitty? And what kept Rebecca at such a distance? Who had put those walls up? Were they weakening?
The minister had moved to the power of messages from prisons. He dwelled for a time on Saint Paul. Then he returned to the twentieth century and a name Joan knew well.
“Dietrich Bonhoeffer may have put it best even before he was imprisoned. While heading an illegal seminary in Nazi Germany, he wrote: ‘It is true, of course, that what is an unspeakable gift of God for the lonely individual is easily disregarded and trodden underfoot by those who have the gift every day.’ In his own isolation, Bonhoeffer saw the gift of community as extraordinary, as grace. He called it the ‘roses and lilies’ of the Christian life.”
Yes, Joan thought. Lost again in her own thoughts, she missed the rest of his words.
They sang “Blessed Be the Tie That Binds” and went out.
Quickly, the buzz of community overwhelmed the postlude.
“Let’s check out the coffee hour,” said Andrew. As a child, he’d always been first to raid the cookies baked to welcome visitors. Since then his capacity had expanded. An hour after eating a dozen popovers, he was ready to dive in again.
“Okay,” said Rebecca. “Do you mind, Mom?”
Mind? Joan was inhaling roses and lilies. Now Margaret Duffy was coming over. Farther down the hall, she saw Alvin Hannauer swimming upstream to greet them.
“I’d love to. But will you stand still for a couple of introductions? Here come my old teacher and a man who worked with your grandfather before you were born. They’ve both been good to me.”
They didn’t need to stand still. The crowd swept them all into a room where the noise was subdued by carpeting. Andrew spotted the refreshment table in seconds. So did Alvin. He herded them over to coffee, lemonade, and an astonishing variety of beautiful cookies.
“You picked a good day to come,” Alvin said. “Catherine’s stuff beats all.”
“Catherine?” Joan asked.
“Catherine Turner. She owns Catherine’s Catering,” said Margaret. And, turning to the attractive woman behind the coffeepot, “But you do this for love, don’t you, Catherine? Have you met Joan Spencer yet? And Andrew and Rebecca?”
“I don’t think so,” said Joan. But she’d seen that red hair somewhere recently.
Catherine looked through her.
“I think we’re out of coffee,” she said. She picked up the pot and marched off to the kitchen.
So much for community, Joan thought. What was that about?
Margaret made no excuses for Catherine. Margaret wouldn’t. Alvin looked awkward, but Andrew ignored the whole thing and dug into the Mexican wedding-cake cookies.
“Try one of these, Mom,” he said. “They’re terrific.”
“No, thanks,” said Joan. “I’m ready to go home. Okay, Rebecca?” She nodded to Alvin, squeezed Margaret’s hand, and left.
They threaded their way through knots of churchgoers to the sidewalk. The noon sun beat down on Joan’s face and back. She was wilting fast.
“What was eating that woman?” Rebecca demanded once they were free of the crowd.
Andrew finished a last mouthful. “I’ll bet she’s the one Lundquist bakes for.”
Rebecca was blank for only a moment.
“The cop?”
“Yeah. Remember, Mom? That day he was at our house, he’d been baking bread for some friend with a catering service.” Then he looked at her face. “Woops. Sorry.”
Good thing I don’t have to drive, Joan thought. I’d probably hit someone.
Swarm of Bees
On Tuesday Joan walked from work to the police station. Climbing worn limestone steps to a desk that almost reached her chin, she felt like a child again and half-expected her old librarian to scold her for leaving chocolate thumbprints on a book.
But the young man behind the glass looked more like Andrew. She smiled up at him.
“I’m Joan Spencer,” she said into the grille. “Fred Lundquist has a key for me.”
He picked up a phone and
spoke into it so softly that she couldn’t hear what he was saying about her.
“Wait there, please, ma’am,” he said, pointing to a wooden bench along the wall.
Joan took a hard seat at one end and looked around. Not much to see. Two men in sports coats chatting at the vending machines down the hall, doors marked MEN and WOMEN, a flight of steps where the hall turned left.
Stale butts threatened to overflow the ashtrays at both ends of the bench. She slid to the middle, but the bench was too short to help her nose.
It was quieter than she’d expected. The words of the men at the vending machines didn’t reach her ears. From behind the desk came occasional computer beeps and unintelligible bursts from the police radio, the volume lower than she’d ever heard it.
Maybe that’s because they’re right on top of it here, she thought. Nothing like when they’re outside.
Then Fred came trotting down the stairs, pulling on a jacket and smoothing his remaining blond hair. Older, but a hunk, Carolyn What’s-her-name had said, and Joan had been sure she meant Fred.
She went to meet him.
“Fred, I’m awfully glad to see you.” (Where have you been all winter?) “But I’m sorry to put you out like this.”
“It’s no trouble.” He took the hand she offered and smiled down at her, crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. “You may not even need the key. They’re still hard at it. Come on, I’ll walk you over.”
He waved a forefinger at the desk as they went by, held the door for her, and strolled across the street with her to the Sagamore Inn. No small talk.
Outside, he inhaled deeply. No wonder, Joan thought, glad to be back in air worth breathing.
Up close, the racket coming from the inn’s unscreened windows left no doubt that, at half past five, “they” were indeed hard at something.
“Oh, Fred, you’re right,” she said ruefully. “It is still open. I should have checked for myself.”
“I need to look in anyway, check on the kids.”
“Kids?”
“A couple of kids spend the night with the quilts. Sometimes more than a couple—it gets to be a revolving slumber party. We’re on call if there’s trouble.”
Buried in Quilts Page 6