“Now, that I would’ve liked to see.”
Once again, Kent laughed good-naturedly, then he lifted his briefcase into his lap and undid the clasps. Seeing it made Gwen frown.
“You said you weren’t going to bring work with you,” she told him, trying to hold back the worry teasing at the edges of her thoughts.
Kent paused, the lid only half-open. He turned to her.
“I know I did,” he said. “But Caruthers came into my office just as I was getting ready to leave last night and dropped the Atwood case in my lap. He said that Burns wasn’t making any headway with it and that now it was my turn. They’re such important clients for the firm that I couldn’t turn it down. This is my big chance to grab the partners’ attention, sweetheart! If I win this one, it might not be long before my name is on the masthead. I was up half the night working on it and overslept. That’s why I had to run to catch the train.”
Just then, the engine gave a short, loud toot of its whistle. With a jolt, they began to leave the station. Gwen glanced out the window, watching the crowds slowly fall from view; a man ran alongside the platform, fervently waving his hand, his good-bye lasting until he could no longer keep up.
She looked back at Kent, trying to smile, but from his expression, she knew that she’d done a poor job of hiding her disappointment.
He reached over and took her hand. “How about if I agree to work only while we’re on the train?” he asked. “When we get to Buckton, I’ll put everything away and won’t touch it again until we leave.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Would that make you happy?”
Gwen nodded, but her heart wasn’t in it. She’d heard these promises before. They were a lot like his vows to arrive on time.
He rarely kept them.
From the moment Gwen met Kent Brookings, she’d been captivated by him. While it didn’t hurt that she found him devastatingly handsome, she was surprised to also find him to be polite, well-mannered, and easy to talk to. He seemed to know something about everything, whether it be politics, music, books, the popular fashions, or even subjects she knew next to nothing about, like sports cars or wine. That he’d shown an interest in her was, to Gwen, the biggest surprise of all.
So when he asked her to dinner, she didn’t hesitate to accept.
It didn’t take long for Gwen to see that for all Kent’s many attributes, he was fiercely driven to succeed. He was the son of Thomas Brookings, a wealthy industrialist, but rather than coast along on his father’s coattails, Kent desperately wanted to make his own way. After earning his law degree and passing the bar exam, he’d joined the firm of Woodrell, Hamilton, Carr & Wilkinson, one of the most successful, prestigious outfits in all of Chicago. Soon Kent was working impossible hours, burning the candle at both ends, doing whatever was asked of him in order to make a strong impression.
Through it all, Gwen had tried to remain supportive. Every time she got stood up for dinner, was left standing alone outside a movie theater, or felt a bit lonely because of his absence, she tried to put it all in perspective. Besides, it wasn’t as if they did nothing together: they attended the lavish parties thrown by Kent’s firm, where Gwen wore pretty dresses and strings of pearls; they boated on Lake Michigan with his friends; and they drove through the city in his Oldsmobile 98 Starfire, fresh off the assembly line.
Kent was aware of her hurt feelings. Often, when he was forced to work late, he would apologize by sending a bouquet of flowers or by writing the sweetest letters. Gwen knew that he truly cared for her, that he loved her; Kent Brookings was the first and only man who had spoken those three magical words to her. But Gwen still couldn’t help but wonder what came first in his life, her or his career. Sometimes she suspected that she didn’t really want to know the answer.
But his wasn’t the only career causing problems between them.
When Gwen had started taking classes at Worthington, she’d liked most of her subjects, math and piano lessons notwithstanding. But writing had been her absolute favorite from her very first attempt at telling a story. Gwen had marveled at how easily she could make her characters fall in love, lie through their teeth, fight for what they believed in, even live or die. She agonized over getting each word just right; sometimes she couldn’t sleep until everything was exactly how she wanted it.
From the beginning, Gwen had had encouragement. Her English teacher, Dwight Wirtz, was a balding man with a bright red beard and a habit of quoting Shakespeare in a deep, theatrical voice. He pushed Gwen to get better with a word of praise here, a criticism there. During her second year in his class, Mr. Wirtz suggested that she submit a short story to a magazine.
“I…I can’t…” she’d replied with a shake of her head. “What if I’m rejected?”
Mr. Wirtz had taken off his glasses and given her a patient smile. “Then you try again, my dear. Success in life rarely comes without a measure of failure.”
Incredibly, Gwen’s work had been accepted; seeing her story in print had been one of the greatest moments of her life. When she’d told her parents about her accomplishment, they had gushed with pride, even if, as their daughter suspected, they couldn’t quite understand her love of the written word.
As the years passed, writing had become her passion. Everywhere Gwen went, she saw a story just waiting to be told. It was in the sights, sounds, and even smells of a busy city street. It was in the clink of glasses and silverware in a restaurant. It could be found in the conversations she overheard; that was one of the reasons she’d been so interested in the businessman back in the train station. Writing about events as they actually happened, the type of investigative journalism found in a newspaper, appealed to her every bit as much as spinning tales of make-believe. Words were all around her all the time, ready to be put down on paper. Gwen could no more deny her urge to write than she could ignore the sun in the sky.
The problem was Kent.
When Gwen had first told him of her interest in becoming a writer, she’d hoped he would be supportive, that he might even have some suggestions about how she might make a living doing the thing she loved. At the least, Gwen wished for a reaction not unlike her parents’.
Instead, he had left her speechless.
“Why would you ever want to do that?” he’d asked, putting down his fork and staring at her across their table at the restaurant.
Seeing her fallen face, Kent had apologized for his bluntness, but had proceeded to tell her all the reasons he thought it was a bad idea: that it would be next to impossible to find someone willing to hire her; that the writers he knew worked like dogs, day and night, and brought home little money; and, most importantly, that she was a woman.
For all his many interests, for all his knowledge, Kent could be stubbornly old-fashioned. He expected the woman he married to take on a more traditional role, just as his own mother had done. His wife would stay at home and raise their children while he went off to work and provided for them. In exchange, he would give his spouse whatever her heart desired, be it expensive furniture, a closet full of clothes, vacations to faraway places—all so long as she stayed in her place and upheld her end of the deal.
That night, Gwen had sat in the restaurant and listened to Kent run down her dream. She’d wanted to cry, to scream, to run away, but had instead remained silent, too stunned to react. Later, she’d felt determined to change his mind, to make him understand just how important becoming a writer was to her. But every time she mentioned it, Kent grew dismissive, repeating many of the same arguments. Lately, she’d heard annoyance in his voice, displeasure that she wasn’t seeing things his way, that she wasn’t letting the matter go.
But she would never let it go. She couldn’t.
Despite all that, Gwen was in love with him. Kent Brookings was smart, funny, and thoughtful. He worked hard; she had no doubt that he would someday be made a partner at his firm. He was the type of man most women dreamed of meeting. She wanted to build a life with him, to one day marry and have a family, t
o grow old and gray together. But for that to happen, she knew that something needed to change.
Unfortunately for Gwen, she had no idea what that was.
“Wake up, sweetheart. We’re here.”
Gwen blinked her eyes, swimming up out of a pleasant dream, the memory of which was already fading. Outside her rain-streaked window, houses slowly drifted past; it took her a moment to recognize that she was in Buckton. Inside the train car, passengers were gathering their things as the engine slowed.
Kent looked at her with a gentle smile.
“How long have I been sleeping?” she asked, then stifled a yawn.
“For a while,” he answered. “You drifted off just outside Indianapolis. It looked like you needed some rest, so I tried not to bother you.”
Gwen ran a hand through her hair, her head clearing. “Sorry I left you without someone to talk to.”
“I was fine. I had plenty to keep me busy.”
Though still not fully awake, Gwen understood that Kent was talking about the pile of papers he was now putting back in his briefcase.
She must have frowned because he said, “Now, now, let’s not start that argument back up again. I told you I wouldn’t work while we were here and I meant it. Nothing’s going to get in the way of us enjoying our time with your family.”
Kent said it with such honesty that Gwen found herself wanting to believe him. She saw her mother and father so rarely, came back to Buckton so infrequently, that this time, she wanted everything to be perfect.
Silently, she vowed to make the most of this trip. They both would.
“Are you coming?” Kent asked from the aisle, holding out his hand for her.
Gwen took a deep breath. She was ready.
She was home.
Chapter Two
OH, MY DEAR Gwendolyn…”
Meredith Foster hurried across Buckton’s small depot, her eyes misty with tears, and pulled her daughter into her arms, embracing her tightly. Gwen returned her mother’s hug, her own eyes growing wet as she smiled, overwhelmed with happiness at being with her again.
Five months had passed since Gwen had last seen her parents; they’d come to visit in February for her birthday, taking her to the top of the Chicago Board of Trade Building, the tallest in the city, marveling at the view. Meredith called as often as she could, while Warren wrote letters, but their get-togethers were rare; it took almost all of her parents’ money to send Gwen to a prestigious school like Worthington, leaving little for travel.
This was the first time she’d been back to Buckton in years.
Holding Gwen by the hands, Meredith stepped back and, beaming with pride, said, “Let me take a look at you.”
Gwen did the same, noticing a few small changes in her mother: wisps of gray streaked her otherwise black hair; a few wrinkles tugged at the corners of her smile, though they did nothing to dampen its intensity; but her green eyes were unchanged and still twinkled like stars. Meredith was dressed simply yet elegantly in a long-sleeved white blouse and a blue skirt. Her favorite opal necklace, a piece that had once belonged to her grandmother, hung around her neck.
To her daughter, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.
“You’ve gotten prettier since the last time I saw you,” Meredith proclaimed.
“Mother…” Gwen replied, a little embarrassed.
“Let me brag!” her mother said with a smile. “Remember, you’re the only person I have to gush over.”
“What am I, chopped liver?”
At the familiar sound of her father’s voice, Gwen left her mother and went to him. Warren Foster stood with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, beaming from ear to ear. He was a short, portly man; his big belly was the product of years spent sampling the breads, rolls, and pastries he made at the bakery, the business he’d run since just after Gwen was born. Even now, he had handprints of flour on his trousers and shirt, so when his daughter held out her arms to hug him, he warned, “Careful, sweetheart. I’m still wearin’ this afternoon’s work.”
“I’m used to it,” she replied, not caring a whit that her clothes might get dirty.
Holding him tight, Gwen was amazed by how familiar it felt: stretching to get her arms around his neck because of his ample midsection, the scratch of his whiskers on her cheek, and the way he smelled, a mix of all the delicious things he spent his day baking.
“I’ve missed you, Gwennie,” he told her.
Gwen had always liked that her parents each had their own special way of addressing her, her mother’s being more formal, while her father’s was as casual as could be. Each said something about the person. Meredith came from money in Pennsylvania and had grown up with maids, cooks, and a chauffeur, her dressers and closets full of fine clothes. Warren’s family had struggled to make ends meet, going without food when they had no choice, mending clothes until they practically fell apart, all while living in a home that was little more than a shack.
But somehow, even though they came from very different backgrounds, from what many would consider different worlds, Meredith and Warren had fallen in love. Together, through good times and bad, they’d built themselves a home, a business, a family, a future. Choosing Warren had cost her mother her pampered life. Her parents had been so disappointed in her pick of husband that she’d been disinherited. But Gwen had always known that Meredith had no regrets; it could be seen in the way she smiled at Warren, the way she laughed at his outdated jokes, and how she helped at the bakery, praising the quality of his bread to anyone who walked through the door.
Gwen could only hope her own love would be so strong, so pure.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Foster,” Kent said, choosing the perfect moment to insert himself into the conversation without interrupting their reunion. He stepped over and shook Gwen’s father’s hand, smiling warmly.
“Glad you could make it, son,” Warren replied.
“I hope you’ll find Buckton to your liking,” Meredith said. Glancing around the small depot, she added, “I know it’s a far cry from the big city.”
While Gwen and Kent had been in a relationship for more than a year, this was the first time that he’d come home with her to Indiana. They had made plans in the past, had even bought train tickets for Thanksgiving, but something always seemed to come up with his work. So though he had met Gwen’s parents when they visited Chicago, charming them both during a long meal he’d paid for at the ritzy Via Lago Café, he’d never seen where she was born, where she grew up, where she had lived before attending Worthington. Much like her mother, Gwen had wondered what his reaction would be.
“It’s perfect,” Kent answered. Putting his arm around Gwen, pulling her close, he said, “Any place that could produce such a wonderful young woman would have to be.”
“Wait’ll you see all the hubbub on Main Street,” Warren said with a wink. “We better get a move on if we want to beat the traffic.”
When her father made to grab their bags, Kent interrupted him.
“Please, let me,” he said, snatching them up.
“You sure?” Warren asked.
Kent nodded. “After being cooped up on that train for so long, it will do me good to stretch a bit.”
Gwen couldn’t help but smile at seeing Kent trying to make a good impression with her parents, though it wasn’t all that far from who he was most of the time. From the smile on her father’s face, his charm was working.
“Well, come on, then,” Warren said with a chuckle, leading the way out of the depot. “Let’s give you your first look at Buckton.”
“…and that there’s the shoe store Frank Holter’s run since his father, Nigel, passed away from influenza during the outbreak in 1919. His cousin, Margaret, is married to Dick Epting, and together they own…”
Gwen sat in the backseat of her parents’ car listening to her father ramble, explaining the history of what seemed like every other business and building they passed. Warren grew excited as he spoke, h
is hand darting out the open window to point at one thing or another. Kent sat up front beside him, smiling and nodding along, occasionally asking questions, while Meredith was next to her daughter. During a brief lull in her father’s tour, Gwen caught Kent’s eye, trying to express her sympathy for his having to listen to such boring talk, but he gave her a quick wink before laughing at one of Warren’s infamously stale jokes.
Driving down Main Street, Gwen took a tour of her own, looking at the familiar sights: there was the lamppost in front of Mott’s Drug Store where she used to lean her bike before going inside to have a soda at the counter; the tall stone steps of the library, where she would sit whiling away a sunny summer afternoon with an open book on her lap; and the street corner across from the movie theater where, at thirteen, Paul French had given Gwen her first kiss, leaning in unexpectedly to plant a chaste peck on her lips before running away, laughing with his friends.
Surprisingly, seeing these places again made Gwen feel nostalgic, a wave of happiness for something she hadn’t even known she missed.
“It’s nice to be home, isn’t it?” Meredith asked, as if she’d been reading her daughter’s mind.
Gwen nodded, still looking out the window. “Everything’s the same. It’s like all the years I’ve been gone, nothing’s changed.”
“Things are more different than you might think.”
Meredith pointed out the window as they drove past Pedersen’s Barber Shop, a place Gwen knew well. It was owned by Clark Pedersen, whose daughter, Sandy, had been Gwen’s best friend growing up. The two girls had spent countless hours spinning around in the swivel seats, reading on the floor while Sandy’s father cut someone’s hair, and standing under the awning during thunderstorms, listening to the rain drum against the fabric above their heads.
“You know that Sandy got married.”
Sunday Kind of Love Page 2