Sunday Kind of Love

by Dorothy Garlock

  Without waiting for a reply, she stood up, tossed her napkin on her plate, and stalked out of the room. She didn’t look back, but from the way everyone had fallen silent, she was sure they were all staring after her.

  But Gwen didn’t care.

  She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.

  Out on the porch, Gwen shivered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to ward off the evening’s chill. Rain continued to fall, though not as heavily as before, pitter-pattering on the porch roof, a steady drumming. Water rushed down the gutters, gathered in broad puddles on the sidewalk, and glistened in the grass, reflecting light from the street lamps. The rumble of thunder could still occasionally be heard, but the sound grew fainter, the storm finally moving away.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Gwen turned as Kent pulled the door shut behind him. Before it closed, she could hear that everyone was already back at it, discussing the wedding.

  “What did you tell my family?” she asked.

  “That you wanted some air,” Kent answered. “I said that I’d offered to keep you company. From the sound of things, they’ll be all right without us.”

  Gwen frowned. “Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking?”

  “What are you talking about?” he replied. From the look on Kent’s face, Gwen had to wonder whether he was actually clueless. Then again, as successful an attorney as he was, with every courtroom victory hinging on convincing a jury that he was sincere, Gwen thought he might be trying to snow her, too.

  “You announced we were getting married! You never even asked me if that was what I wanted! You never proposed!”

  “I just assumed—”

  “How could you assume something as important as that?!”

  “You’re right,” Kent said, holding his hands up, palms out. “I got ahead of myself. But after spending time with your father, asking him for your hand, I suppose I got caught up in the moment.”

  Gwen’s eyes went wide. “You…you asked him for permission…?”

  “Of course,” he answered with a chuckle. “That’s the main reason I agreed to come with you to Buckton. I’ve had it planned for months. It wasn’t like I was going to call him on the telephone or write him a letter.”

  It was then that Gwen understood why Kent had been so insistent that she go upstairs and take a nap, why he hadn’t been the least bit put out to spend time alone with her parents. It had all been part of his plan. While she slept, Kent had asked Warren for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

  “Did I make a mistake?” Kent prodded. “Should I not have asked?”

  Gwen shook her head. “It’s not that…not exactly…”

  “Then what is it?”

  She didn’t know how to answer.

  Kent smiled in the faint light. “Maybe I should have done it the old-fashioned way.” He stepped closer, then lowered himself down on one knee. He reached up and took her hand in his own. “My dearest Gwen,” he began. But before Kent could say more, Gwen yanked herself free and stepped back. She was so shocked by how she had reacted that she started to tremble.

  “Don’t…” she said. “Just don’t…”

  A frown creased Kent’s face, and his eyes were touched with concern as he rose back to his feet.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you acting like this? I thought you loved me. I thought that you wanted us to get married.”

  “I do, on both counts,” Gwen answered, her gaze finding his, imploring him to believe her. “I want to accept, but I…I just…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Then why don’t you?”

  For a moment, Gwen considered shaking her head, giving a little self-conscious laugh, and saying that he was right, that she was being silly, that she’d be honored to become his wife. It would undoubtedly be easier. After all, Gwen did love him. In almost every way, Kent would be the perfect husband. But deep down, Gwen knew that if she gave in, she’d spend the rest of her life questioning her decision, wondering about what might have been.

  So instead, she said, “It’s about my writing…”

  “That’s why you’re so bothered?” Kent replied with a deep exhalation. “What a relief. I thought it was something serious.”

  Gwen’s anger flared. Kent’s dismissive reaction was precisely why she hadn’t accepted his proposal. That he couldn’t understand how important becoming a writer was to her showed that their problems might lie even deeper than she thought.

  “How can you say that?” Gwen asked. “Writing is important to me.”

  Kent’s expression softened. He looked as if he was trying to talk to a child, patiently explaining himself to someone who didn’t know better.

  “We’ve been over this time and time again, sweetheart,” he told her. “Between the money I make at the firm and what I stand to inherit from my father, you don’t need to work. I can buy you whatever your heart desires.”

  “This isn’t about the money. It’s about me. Becoming a writer is something I want to do.”

  “What’s wrong with being a mother and taking care of a home?”

  “I want those things, too,” Gwen said with a gentle smile. She stepped closer, reached out, and took his hand, trying hard to convince him. “But they aren’t enough. I want to write.”

  “They were enough for my mother,” Kent said, looking away.

  Gwen knew she’d struck a nerve. Giving his hand a soft squeeze, she asked, “When did you know that you wanted to be a lawyer?”

  Kent’s expression brightened. “When I was little. The other kids used to ask me to settle their disputes: who crossed the finish line first, which kite flew the highest, whether someone cheated at jacks, that sort of thing. Most of the time, I was paid in gum balls. Once or twice, I was even enlisted to argue cases before parents.” He chuckled. “It was so exciting. I knew there was nothing else I wanted to do.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt when I began to write!” Gwen exclaimed. “We aren’t that different.”

  He frowned. “It’s not the same.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Kent shook his head. “What I do is important. Every time I step into a courtroom, I perform an essential duty to the community.”

  “Without writers, how would anyone know what was happening?” she asked, warming to her defense. “Newspapers and magazines expose all that’s wrong with the world and champion what’s right.”

  “Gwen, you don’t—”

  But now that she’d started, Gwen couldn’t stop pleading her case, a lawyer in her own right. “What about books, plays, and poems, even the scripts for radio and television? A good writer can make their audience laugh or cry, make them angry or afraid, every emotion imaginable.” Giving his hand another squeeze, she said, “That’s what I want to experience. I want to touch people’s lives, make them feel something. I need you to understand this. With you by my side, if you believe in me, I know there’s nothing I can’t do.”

  From the way Kent looked at her, his expression softening, Gwen began to hope he was about to agree with her. If he could just accept how important writing was to her, that all she wanted was a chance to prove herself, she would accept his proposal, become his wife, and they could live together in happiness for the rest of their days.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “I just don’t understand why you’d want to scratch things down on a notepad or tap away on a typewriter if no one is going to read them.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gwen demanded, her voice rising. From his tone, it sounded like Kent was insinuating she wasn’t a good writer.

  But it was worse than that.

  “Any newspaper or book publisher that would hire a woman to write for them couldn’t possibly have much of a circulation.”

  Bluntly, brutally, Gwen knew the truth. It was because she was a woman. Since she wasn’t a man, she couldn’t possibly participate in the greater world. Her place was at home
, cooking, cleaning, taking care of the children, smiling prettily for her husband, thankful for everything she was given. From the beginning of their courtship, Gwen had known that Kent was old-fashioned, even a bit chauvinistic.

  But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  One thing was painfully clear to her: if she wanted to keep their relationship from ending, to prevent her love for him from dying, she had to leave.

  Immediately.

  Letting go of Kent’s hand, Gwen brushed past him, went down the stairs into the lightly falling rain, and headed toward the street.

  “Wait!” Kent nearly shouted. “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk,” she answered without looking back.

  He chuckled weakly. “You can’t be serious.”

  Gwen didn’t so much as slow; she figured that was a good enough reply.

  “What am I supposed to tell your parents?” Kent asked.

  “You’re the one who has all the answers,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ll think of something.”

  Kent leaned against the porch railing, watching Gwen pass beneath a streetlight without glancing back, striding purposefully down the sidewalk in the rain. He had given up yelling after her; she’d started to ignore him after a while.

  Why does she have to be so darn stubborn?

  When she’d first gone down the stairs, Kent had considered following, trying to talk some sense into her. He loved Gwen, dearly, and hated to see her upset. However, with her as worked up as she was, he’d known that the only thing he would’ve accomplished by going after her was that they would both have ended up wet. In his experience, when a woman got an idea in her head, it was next to impossible to convince her otherwise.

  It was one of the reasons they were the weaker sex.

  No, what Gwen needed was some time to cool off. Eventually she’d realize that she had been in the wrong, come back, and accept his proposal.

  He was sure of it.

  Kent knew he needed to go back inside and talk with Gwen’s parents, but he lingered on the porch. The Fosters were good people, and their hearts were undoubtedly in the right place, but they were still a far cry from the cultured circles he moved among back in Chicago, although Meredith showed a measure of refinement. He shook his head. He couldn’t be too hard on them. After all, they had raised an intelligent and beautiful—if somewhat obstinate—daughter.

  Now what am I going to say to explain Gwen’s absence?

  Kent shrugged. It would be just like standing in front of a jury.

  He’d think of something.

  Chapter Five

  GWEN STOPPED ABRUPTLY, her feet sliding on the wet sidewalk, and turned toward her parents’ house. She was at the far end of the block beneath a street lamp. The porch where she and Kent had just argued was shrouded in shadows, dark save for the faint light coming from inside the home. She couldn’t tell if Kent was still there watching her, or if he’d gone back to her parents, spinning some excuse for her absence, talking so convincingly that they had no choice but to believe him.

  A gust of wind sent shivers racing across her bare skin. Gwen looked up. Though the sky was clearing and a smattering of stars peeked through the clouds, lightning flashed to the east and rain still fell intermittently. She wished she’d had the sense to grab her coat before going onto the porch, but she hadn’t known that she and Kent would argue, that she’d become angry enough to stomp off into the storm. Now it was too late to go back. If she returned, Kent would see it as a victory, that she’d come crawling back to him.

  And her pride wouldn’t allow that.

  So instead, Gwen kept walking. Even in the gloom of night, everything felt familiar: the way Donald Camden’s porch sagged on one side; how Louise Detwiler kept every last light in her house turned on; the incessant barking of Eugene Martin’s dog following her down the street. Unexpectedly, Gwen took a measure of comfort in her surroundings, as if Buckton was a warm blanket staving off a winter afternoon’s chill.

  Gwen reached into her pocket and pulled out her notebook. It was worn, the edges frayed and the cover slightly bent, but holding it made her feel better. She flipped through the pages, the scratching of words coming into clearer focus when she passed beneath a lamppost. In the notebook, she had recorded hundreds of observations. It was full of jottings about the brilliant colors of a March sun setting over Lake Michigan, the way a woman’s head bobbed as she listened to music, the almost joyful growl a man made when he took his first spoon of soup at a diner counter. It was full of anything and everything that caught her eye. It held stories, fictional and factual, just waiting to be told.

  But if she became a housewife, if she chose to give up her dream, they would remain silent, forever…

  Gwen walked as if in a trance. When she stepped onto Main Street, deserted because of the weather and the hour, she felt confused and conflicted. Absently, she wandered to her father’s storefront, BUCKTON BAKERY painted on the glass. Gwen placed her fingers against the words, just as she’d done countless times before. She remembered the look on her parents’ faces at the dinner table, how excited they’d seemed at the idea of her and Kent getting married, then wondered what Meredith and Warren would say if they could see her now. Would they think she was being unreasonable, that she was a fool for not rushing to accept Kent’s sort-of proposal? Or would they stand by her, wanting her to chase her dreams?

  Unfortunately, Gwen didn’t know the answer.

  “What am I going to do?” she muttered to her reflection.

  Still flipping through her notebook, Gwen left the center of town and headed toward the river. High above, the sky continued to clear; the moon, nearly full, peeked through the fast-moving clouds, then once again disappeared, like a child playing hide-and-seek. Growing up, Gwen had spent countless hours along the banks of the Sawyer River, pulling the sticky, puffy seeds from milkweed pods and tossing them into the water and watching them gently drift away, a parade of white. But tonight, the river was almost unrecognizable. It moved swiftly, swollen with rain, a dark, turbulent rush. Still, like the rest of town, it gave her a sense of solace as she struggled with the dilemma before her.

  Suddenly, a strong gust of wind raced along the river, snatched at Gwen’s skirt, spun through her hair, and yanked the notebook from her hands. It fluttered before her for an instant, its pages spread open like a butterfly’s wings, before landing with a plop in the water.

  “Oh, no!” Gwen shouted, running after it.

  Fortunately, it hadn’t gone far. The notebook lay on the water’s surface, a couple of feet from the bank, in a small eddy undisturbed by the current. Gwen knew that she had to act quickly. Even if the river didn’t steal it away, the paper would soon be ruined and all her writings lost.

  So without hesitation, she stepped into the shallow water. It was chillier than expected, but Gwen bit down on her lip and inched forward. The water rose from her ankles to her calves, then to her knees. Her every instinct shouted that she was in danger, that she should get out of the river, but she paid them no mind. Her notebook was so tantalizingly close, yet still just out of reach.

  But then, unexpectedly, the notebook began to race away from her, as if someone was pulling it on a string. Gwen lunged for it. Immediately, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. One moment, the river’s muddy bottom was beneath her foot; the next, it was gone, leaving behind a dark nothingness for her to fall into. Unable to stop herself, Gwen plunged beneath the water, soaking every inch of her. The powerful, insistent river grabbed her, just as it had the notebook, dragging Gwen away from the bank. Terrified, she fought with all her might, struggling to break free, but she was caught, completely at the river’s mercy.

  “Help! Somebody help me!”

  Even as she shouted, Gwen knew that no one would hear her. All the while she’d been walking, she hadn’t seen another person.

  No one was coming to her rescue.

  She was all alone.

  Hank steered down t
he dark, windswept roads just outside Buckton, his pickup truck’s windshield wipers sweeping away what little rain continued to fall. Lightning flashed occasionally, but the storm was moving off. His window was down, his arm draped over the door frame, the breeze tugging at his shirt. Tony Bennett’s silky voice sang in the cab.

  His hope had been that some time away from his workshop, far from his father and his drinking, would clear his head, but Hank couldn’t stop thinking about Pete. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of his brother: the pond tucked among the evergreens off Route 32, where they used to swim in summertime; the steep hill on Caleb Ellroy’s land they’d sled down in winter; and the ball diamond Roger Auster’s dad cut into an abandoned wheat field so the boys would have a place to play baseball.

  There was no escape from his memories.

  Hank drove for miles, twisting and turning down the narrow, tree-lined roads. Finally he stopped at an intersection, the way branching in opposite directions. With the engine idling loudly, he peered out the rain-streaked windshield at the hill that rose to his right, a route that led away from Buckton and toward home. Hank’s heart thundered like the storm, his mouth as dry as cotton. The accident that had claimed Pete’s life happened on that road, on a stormy night a lot like this one, at about the same time…

  “Damn it,” he muttered, squeezing the steering wheel.

  Pressing down hard on the accelerator, Hank turned left, his tires skidding as he headed toward the river. He hadn’t gone the other way since his brother had died.

  “Look at that poor man. Isn’t he the one whose oldest boy killed his brother in that car accident a couple months back…”

  His father’s words rolled around in his head. Even though Hank spent plenty of time alone, holed up in his workshop, he knew that to many in Buckton, he was a murderer. Undoubtedly some wished he was behind bars; luckily for him, the county attorney had chosen not to press charges, figuring that living with what had happened was punishment enough. Regardless, Hank was still a prisoner of the past. On his few trips to town, he’d heard plenty, some comments whispered, others spoken right to his face.