Gwen nodded. For as long as she could remember, Sandy had been head over heels in love with John Fiderlein, who had loved her right back. Quite frankly, it would’ve been a shock to the whole town if the two of them hadn’t ended up together. Gwen had gotten an invitation to their wedding in the mail, along with a three-page letter Sandy had written detailing her excitement. Because of examinations, Gwen hadn’t been able to attend, a fact that nearly broke her heart.
“But that’s not all,” Meredith continued. “She’s pregnant.”
“Sandy’s going to have a baby?!” Gwen shouted; Kent and her father both glanced at the backseat before returning to their conversation.
“Eight months along now,” her mother said. “She’s as round as a ball and tired, but excited to bring her and John’s child into the world.”
Gwen was speechless. On the one hand, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. On the other, it was hard to believe that her friend was about to become a mother. In a way, it made Gwen feel melancholy; it saddened her that she and Sandy, who’d once been as close as sisters, had drifted apart.
“What happened over there?” Kent suddenly asked.
Gwen looked where he was pointing and saw the charred remains of a house; all that was left were a few blackened bits of wood still pointing toward the overcast sky. Debris littered the property. Even most of the grass in the front lawn had been singed away.
“Poor old Stan Nunn’s place burned to the ground the night before last,” Warren explained. “Stan and his dog made it out, but by the time the fire department showed up, there wasn’t much left to save. Heck, with as hard as it was rainin’ that night, Mother Nature did most of the work for ’em.”
Once they’d driven past the wrecked house, Gwen turned to watch it fade away through the rear window. Something about it spoke to the writer in her. She wanted to put together what had happened, how the fire had started, what Stan Nunn would do now as he began rebuilding his life. In a way, Gwen thought she might understand how Stan now felt; having somewhere to come home to was much better than having no home at all.
As familiar as the rest of Buckton had been, it paled in comparison to how Gwen felt when she saw her parents’ house. After Warren pulled into the drive, she got out and stood in the grass, looking up at the gray two-story Queen Anne, largely unchanged in the time she’d been away: the steep shingled roof was broken on one side by the chimney; tall windows opened onto the street, the curtains stirring in the steady breeze; a long porch wrapped around the southwest corner with a couple of wicker chairs set out to enjoy the view; and a pair of viburnum shrubs grew beside the walk, their flowers a brilliant white tinged with purple. While it was less opulent than the estate where her mother had been brought up, it was also much more so than the run-down shack in which her father’s family had lived. It was perfect for them, another meeting in the middle.
Once again, Gwen wondered what Kent thought. His father’s mansion had so many rooms that he’d once said he hadn’t been in all of them; Gwen hadn’t known whether he was joking. But for the second time, he surprised her.
“You have a beautiful home,” he said.
“That’s kind of you to say,” Meredith answered. “We certainly adore it, even if it’s a far cry from some of the fancy houses in Chicago.”
Kent flashed his warmest, most genuine smile. “Maybe so,” he agreed, “but there are plenty of ways in which living in Buckton might be better.”
“Now this I gotta hear,” Warren said.
“For example,” Kent began, “you don’t have to fight through crowded sidewalks or elevated platforms just so you can go a couple of blocks.”
“That’s true,” Meredith admitted.
“You also don’t have to worry about neighbors, car horns, police sirens, or any number of other things that can keep you awake well into the night,” he continued. “This is to say nothing about the smells…”
“Maybe we got it better here than I thought.” Warren chuckled.
Just then, the deep rumble of thunder shook the late afternoon. The sky, which had grown darker and more menacing since they’d left the depot, finally let loose. Fat droplets of rain began pounding the ground. Laughing, Kent snatched up their bags and they all ran for the porch. They were quick, but not fast enough to keep from getting plenty wet, water dripping from their hair and clothes.
“I’m startin’ to wonder if it’s ever gonna stop rainin’,” Warren said.
Inside the front door was a small foyer; to the left was the living room, to the right the dining room, and down a short hallway was the kitchen. A staircase rose to the second floor. But all Gwen noticed was the little things: the lace doily draped across the fireplace mantel, knitted long ago by her grandmother; the gold picture frame she’d given her mother for Christmas the year she’d turned ten; the end of the banister, the wood worn smooth by countless hands over dozens of years. It was these things that made the house feel like home.
Suddenly, Gwen stifled a yawn.
Her mother noticed. “Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a while,” she said. “There’s plenty of time before dinner.”
Gwen shook her head. “I’m fine,” she answered, though she doubted she would be awake for more than a minute after her head touched the pillow.
“Go on, Gwennie,” her father insisted.
She looked at Kent. Gwen assumed that he wouldn’t be pleased to be left alone with her parents so soon after arriving in Buckton. But he gently touched her cheek and smiled. “It’s fine,” he told her. “You should rest.”
“But I slept most of the way here.”
“By the look of that yawn, you must need a little more. Don’t worry,” Kent said, glancing at both Meredith and Warren. “We have lots to talk about.”
Reluctantly, her fatigue growing by the minute, Gwen gave in. Halfway up the stairs, she glanced back to find Kent laughing at something her father had said. He looked perfectly at ease.
Gwen sighed. She was worried about nothing.
Everything was just right.
Gwen sat up with a start, her heart pounding, a hand rising to her chest as the deep rumble of thunder rolled over the house. Lying in bed, she turned to look out the window in time to see a crooked fork of lightning blaze across the dark sky; seconds later, there was another tremendous boom. A strong gust of wind lashed against the glass, rattling the panes. The storm raged.
Now that she was awake, Gwen stretched before getting up to look at herself in the mirror above her dresser. The young woman who stared back at her appeared more than a little groggy, so she ran a hand through her dark hair. There wasn’t a clock in her bedroom, so Gwen couldn’t know what time it was, but she was sure she hadn’t overslept dinner, convinced that her mother would have come to wake her. She noticed her suitcase lying just inside the door; someone had brought it in without disturbing her.
Back downstairs, Gwen entered the dining room just as her mother left the kitchen, a platter of steaming carrots in her hands.
“There you are,” Meredith said. “You’re just in time to eat.”
“How long did I sleep?” Gwen asked.
“More than an hour. You must’ve been more tired than you thought.”
“Can I help?”
“Put this on the table for me,” her mother said, handing her the dish. “I’ll be right back with the bread.”
The Fosters’ large, rectangular table seemed to be overflowing with food; dishes of roast beef, potatoes, and peas were nestled in among her mother’s finest china, shining silverware, and crystal glasses. Two long, tapered candles flickered away at either end. As Gwen was finding a place for the carrots, she noticed something. There was a fifth setting. Someone was joining them for dinner.
But then, before Gwen could go ask her mother about their unexpected guest, laughter interrupted her.
“It came outta the oven black as a lump of coal!” Warren said with a snort, clapping Kent’s shoulder as if they were
old friends. The young lawyer’s head was tipped back, and he was laughing like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.
Gwen smiled. Things were going better than she could ever have hoped.
Meredith joined them, putting the last dish on the table. “Sit down, everyone,” she said. “Let’s eat while it’s still hot.”
Gwen chose the seat across from her mother, beside Kent. He leaned close, put his hand on hers beneath the table, and gave it a squeeze. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear.
“Much,” she answered. “Were you all right with my parents?”
“I had a wonderful time,” Kent answered. “As a matter of fact, I think you’re about to find out just how nicely it went.”
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked.
Kent only winked in answer.
Her father said grace, but then, just as Gwen realized that she hadn’t asked who was joining them for dinner, Warren rose from his seat, cleared his throat, and lifted his glass. Outside, thunder rumbled.
“I’ve never been much for talkin’, but with all that’s happened here today,” he began, looking at Kent, his eyes dancing, “I couldn’t let this occasion pass without sayin’ something.”
“Don’t you think we should wait a while longer?” Meredith asked, nodding toward the empty setting at the table.
“Nope,” Warren replied. “I can’t hold it a second longer.”
Gwen glanced around the table. Seeing how everyone was smiling, she understood that she was the only one of them who had no idea what her father was talking about.
“Gwennie has always been the apple of my eye,” Warren continued. “Since the day she was born, I’ve only wanted what was best for her. That’s why Meredith and I worked so hard to send her to that fancy school. Figured all that learnin’ would do her good. I couldn’t be more proud of her.”
Listening to her father, Gwen wondered where all of this was going. An odd feeling of unease rose inside her.
“Thinkin’ ’bout Gwennie growin’ up reminds me of the time she was helpin’ me make rolls at the bakery. She couldn’t have been more than ten, but—”
“Warren…” Meredith interrupted, touching his arm and silencing him as only a wife can do to her husband.
“I reckon I’ve talked enough,” he said with a chuckle. “Besides, I’m not the one who’s got somethin’ important to say.”
As if on cue, Kent turned to face Gwen. He took both of her hands in his and flashed his brightest smile.
“What’s…what’s this about?” she asked.
“This,” he told her, “is about you and me getting married.”
Chapter Three
THE CAR WAS going fast…too fast…nearly out of control…
The dark road looked like it was swimming before his eyes, racing up and down hills, curving left and then right so sharply that the tires screeched, never straight, never where he thought it would be. His window was down, the spring wind raising gooseflesh on his bare arm, though he didn’t notice the cold. High above, a fat, full moon darted among the treetops, as if it was watching, waiting for what was about to happen.
He took a hand off the steering wheel and groped around on the seat beside him, between his legs, and finally down to the floorboard until he found what he was looking for. Bringing the nearly empty bottle of whiskey to his lips, he drank heavily, only vaguely aware that some of it was spilling down his shirt.
On the road ahead, he noticed a pinprick of light. As he watched, it began to slowly spread apart; it took him a moment to understand that he was seeing the headlights of another car. He felt himself drifting toward it, hypnotized, like a moth to a flame and just as dangerous. At the last second, he yanked the steering wheel away, the other vehicle whizzing by just outside his window. He laughed.
A woman sang faintly on the radio, a melody that he knew well, so he mumbled along, slurring his words, messing up the lyrics.
But that wasn’t the only sound he could hear…
“Stop! Stop the car! You’re gonna get us killed!”
Pete sat in the passenger seat. He was seventeen years old. Most days, he was a handsome, confident boy, quick to smile. But not now. Now, he cowered against the door, his eyes wide as saucers, frightened more than half out of his wits.
For an answer, he shouted something at Pete, the words as messed up as his singing. Whatever it was, it worked; Pete shrank farther into the door and closed his eyes, looking like he was trying to convince himself it was all a bad dream.
But it wasn’t. It was as real as it got.
Satisfied he wasn’t going to hear any more backtalk, he gave the horn a long honk, as if crowing in triumph.
Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, everything spun out of control.
He didn’t know what caused it: a deer or some other animal darting into the road, forcing him to reflexively turn the wheel to keep from hitting it; too sharp of a turn; or maybe he fell asleep. But the next thing he knew, Pete was screaming, the whiskey had been ripped out of his hand, and the road had vanished somewhere behind them. The steering wheel bucked like an animal, trying to break free.
At one blink of his watery, bloodshot eyes, there was nothing in front of them; at the next, a tree loomed large.
Amazingly, the next few seconds passed slowly, like they were frozen in time, as if he and Pete were posing for a picture. Then, in a rush, everything sped up. There was a horrific sound, deafening, like the world was cracking open, the last instant punctuated by a scream. Before he could wonder if he was the one making it, pain tore through him, biting down hard, trying to rip him in two.
Then everything went silent. It went black.
Hank Ellis woke with a start, his heart speeding faster than the car in his dream. He was drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin. Outside the window at the rear of his workroom, a storm raged; lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, a symphony of nature. Angrily, he flung off his thin blanket. He had only lain down for a quick nap, but it had been long enough for his mind to play a familiar trick.
It had happened again.
It was the same dream that had haunted Hank for months. It felt vividly real, so much so that he expected to be covered in cuts and bruises. These dreams were lies mixed with the truth, as much fiction as fact. Details changed, such as the weather and the song playing on the radio, but the end was always the same.
Every time, the car crashed.
As another clap of thunder shook the windows, Hank went to wash up at the workshop’s sink. He splashed his face with cold water, trying to clear his head. When he turned on the bare bulb, he winced at the sudden bright light. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he barely recognized the man who stared back.
At twenty-three years old, Hank felt like the last year of his life had aged him twenty more. His sandy-blond hair was a bit longer than was the fashion and was mussed from sleep. Eyes the color of an afternoon sky in springtime were hooded in shadow. Stubble peppered his cheeks and the curve of his strong jaw. In the harsh glare of the bulb, he looked drawn, exhausted, as white as a ghost. Once upon a time, he’d turned plenty of pretty girls’ heads, but because of all that had happened, with the toll it had taken on him, he couldn’t imagine catching someone’s fancy. Not now. Frustrated by feelings he would have struggled to explain, Hank peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, revealing a lean, muscular torso. He grabbed a clean shirt off the back of a nearby chair and slipped it on.
He took one last glance at the mirror.
“You look like hell,” he muttered before turning off the light.
Hank’s workshop was a converted garage that sat back from the home he shared with his father. Projects in various stages of completion were arranged around the room: tables, a dresser, a child’s rocking horse, and a bench that Sarah Enabnit wanted to put near her pond so she could sit and watch the ducks glide down for a swim. Wood was stacked in piles along the far wall: red cedar, black walnut, ash, several ty
pes of oak, whatever would be needed for a particular piece. The floor was littered with shavings. Tools hung on the walls: saws, chisels, shaves, files, hammers, planes, rasps, in all different shapes and sizes. His lathe, so old that some might consider it an antique, stood at the ready.
He turned on the radio, hoping he might catch the last few innings of the Reds game, but it had been rained out. Instead, he settled for the station out of Claxton, jazz that sounded scratchy because of the storm.
For weeks, Hank had been trying to finish a project. Now, hoping to quiet the turmoil in his head, he went back to it. He had been hired by a wealthy woman from Mansfield who’d already commissioned three other expensive pieces; she was the type who wanted only the best, no matter what it cost. The chair was to have an intricate design, with small flowers circling the outer spindles, rising to a full bouquet decorating the headboard. He’d done this sort of carving before, but this time, no matter how much Hank worked the wood, something wasn’t quite right. Wiping sweat from his brow, he picked up his chisel and mallet and set to it, making a tiny mark here, a small correction there, but it wasn’t long before he faltered.
“Damn it,” he swore, tossing down his tools in frustration.
Usually, working with his hands allowed his mind to drift, to forget his troubles. Lost in his craft, Hank could spend hours at peace.
But not tonight.
After his dream, he couldn’t stop thinking about Pete.
For as long as Hank could remember, Pete had been his shadow. He tagged along to the movies, laughing at the Marx Brothers, marveling at the ray guns in Flash Gordon, and squinting through his fingers while watching Frankenstein. He followed to the watering hole, shucking off his shirt, pants, and shoes to swing on the old tire, letting go and plunging into the water. He shagged the baseballs that Hank and his friends hit, chasing them into the twilight with only fireflies to light the way.
He was always there. That’s how little brothers were.
Sunday Kind of Love Page 3