Sunday Kind of Love

by Dorothy Garlock

  “I suppose you think you know what’s best for me,” he said, his words tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

  “In this case, absolutely,” Gwen answered, refusing to back down, wanting him to understand, to agree with her. “Look at my parents. Think about all the terrible things they’ve said about you. When you risked your life to save mine, when you brought me home to them, my father ended up throwing you out of the house, all because of what he believed to be true! How many other people in town wrongly feel the same? None of them know you like I do, but until you fight to clear your name, until you declare your innocence, nothing will change.”

  For the first time, Gwen thought she might be reaching Hank. There was something in his eyes, a glimmer of hope, maybe, but he refused to let go of his pessimism. “People won’t believe what you’ve written.”

  “Some won’t,” she agreed, “but others will. It will take time, a lot longer than you’ve spent living this lie. But in the months and years to come, I bet most people will look at you the way Freddie Holland does.”

  Hank paused. “I’m still mad at you.”

  “I can understand why.”

  “This is that important to you?” he asked, his eyes searching her face, his tone softening.

  “Yes, it is,” Gwen replied.

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “You really don’t know?”

  Hank shook his head.

  “Can I make a confession to you?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t go see your father just for you,” she admitted. “I also went for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to build a life with you, so I started to wonder whether I wouldn’t be judged guilty by association,” Gwen explained. “What if when I went to the department store I had to listen to people whispering about me, saying things like ‘There goes that woman whose husband killed his brother’? What about our children? Would they be burdened by your decision, too?” In a way, it was hard to tell him about her hopes for their future, to confess to what she wanted, but she pushed forward. “You may not like it, but I had to do something. I respect you wanting to protect your father. A part of me admires you for it. But you aren’t responsible for Pete’s death. It’s past time the truth came out.”

  Gwen had spoken with Hank’s father, had written her article and presented it to Sid Keaton for publication, all because she loved him. She wanted a future with him, wanted it badly, but in order for it to come to pass, Hank’s slate needed to be wiped clean. His well-intentioned lie had to be destroyed and the foundation of his life rebuilt. It reminded her of his workshop; sure, it was wrecked now, but something would rise from the ashes, better than ever.

  For a long while, Hank was silent, mulling over what she’d told him. Finally he said, “You’re right. I wouldn’t want you or the family we might one day have to be punished for what I’ve done.” Hearing him talk about a future together, the same things she had, made Gwen’s heart beat faster. “But I don’t want my father to be hurt, either. Even though he and his drinking have caused all sorts of trouble, I still love him. I don’t like the idea of people treating him badly, even if it’s deserved.”

  “Myron knows what he’s doing,” she said. “Trust me.”

  Hank nodded and the matter was settled. Suddenly, even though darkness had fallen, the future looked brighter than ever.

  “Why don’t we go see your dad?” Gwen suggested. “The two of you should talk before tomorrow’s paper is published.”

  “Okay,” Hank said, “but there’s something I want to do first.”

  He took her by the elbow and pulled her close. Gwen felt as if she had floated into his embrace. Heat radiated from the smoldering fire, insects called out in the darkness, and the moon shone brightly above, surrounded by thousands of twinkling stars, but the only thing she was aware of was Hank. She knew what he wanted because she wanted it, too. As he lowered his mouth to hers, Gwen closed her eyes and surrendered to the moment. Seconds later, she found that it was everything she’d hoped it would be.

  They went to the hospital. Visiting hours had long since ended and the two of them looked quite the sight—sweaty, bandaged, and bruised—but no one was around, so they let themselves in. Hank sat on the edge of his father’s bed and asked questions. Some were about how Myron was feeling, but he mostly wanted to know whether his father was really fine with everyone in Buckton knowing the truth about Pete’s death.

  “I’m tired of hidin’ it,” Myron answered. “Lyin’ ain’t doin’ either of us any good nohow. This way, you can get on with your life.”

  “I don’t like the idea of people thinking you’re a murderer,” Hank said.

  “But that’s what I am,” he said, placing his hand over his son’s. “If folks want to hate, let it be aimed at me, where it belongs. Not you.”

  “All I wanted was to protect you.”

  “I know,” Myron replied with a weak smile. “No father, not even a bum like me, could ever wish for more.”

  Listening to them talk, Gwen noticed a change in Myron. He seemed more alert than when they’d spoken that morning, as if his head had cleared. Maybe it had something to do with not having anything to drink. She wondered whether he was capable of breaking the hold liquor had on him, or if it would drag him back down. For all of their sakes, but especially Hank’s, she hoped that Myron would find the strength to stop.

  Before they left, Hank’s father looked at Gwen and said, “Thank you for what you done. I reckon the next couple of days are gonna be a mess, but sometimes you gotta break things to put ’em right again.” He turned to Hank and added, “Hold on to her, son, and don’t let go.”

  Outside, few cars drove Buckton’s streets beneath the starry sky. Gwen didn’t need to look at a clock to know it was late. She could only imagine what her parents were thinking. After the unpleasant scene she’d caused that morning with Kent, as well as their disapproval of her spending time with Hank, they were probably beside themselves with worry. Tomorrow, once they’d read her article, things would hopefully get better.

  But that still left tonight.

  “I should get you home,” Hank said.

  When they pulled up to the curb, every light in the house was on. Gwen frowned; it wasn’t a good sign. She wondered if Hank would stay or if he’d want to get some much-needed rest. She would have understood. After all he’d just been through, the last thing he’d want was another confrontation with her folks. But he pleasantly surprised her by getting out and walking with her toward the porch.

  She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  Before they reached the stairs, her mother stepped out the front door. Meredith must have heard the truck. She looked harried, a bit out of sorts from her normal reserved self. Gwen braced for a barrage of questions, but instead her mother rushed down the steps and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Oh, Gwendolyn! You’re all right!”

  “I’m fine,” she said, confused by her mother’s tone of relief. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’d been gone so long that we grew worried,” Meredith explained. “Especially your father.”

  Gwen remembered how Warren had reacted the first time she’d gone to visit Hank, ambushing her just inside the front door when she’d returned, peppering her with questions.

  “This time he got so worked up that he called the police department,” her mother continued. “One of the officers said that he’d seen you out at Hank’s. He also told us about the fire and the arrests that had been made. The next thing I knew, Warren left to pick up Samantha and the two of them went looking for you. I stayed behind in case you returned.”

  Likely, when she and Hank had gone to visit Myron at the hospital, they’d passed her father and aunt somewhere along the way.

  “Let me take a look at you.”

  Meredith’s words weren’t directed at her daughter, but at Hank. Gently, she placed her hands on either side of his face, turning it on
e way and then the other, examining his wounds in the sparse light. Her expression showed concern; Gwen wondered if her mother wasn’t looking deeper than Hank’s cuts and bruises and reevaluating the man on the inside.

  “You should see the other guys,” Hank joked.

  “Let’s go inside,” Meredith said. “I’ll get you properly cleaned up.”

  But before they’d gone far, Warren and Samantha returned. The car zipped into the drive, then skidded to a stop. Gwen’s father hurried across the yard, his sister right behind him. He hugged his daughter tightly, just as his wife had done. “Thank the stars above, Gwennie!” he exclaimed. “I about worried myself sick.”

  “When you weren’t at Hank’s, we went to the hospital,” Samantha explained. “Myron told us that we’d just missed you.”

  Gwen glanced at Hank. Where before he had willingly allowed her mother to inspect his injuries, now that Warren was here, he’d stepped back, not standing too close, as if he was anxious about what might happen. She turned to her father; he was eyeing Hank in return, his expression hard to read.

  Then Gwen noticed something in his hand.

  “What are those?” she asked, pointing to several formerly crumpled pieces of paper, though she thought she recognized them.

  “I found these and a bunch more like ’em in the trash basket in my office,” Warren answered. “I smoothed a couple out and read ’em.”

  Even though the pages were ones Gwen had rejected for her article, they contained much of the same information as those she’d submitted to Sid Keaton. If her father had indeed read them as he had said, then he knew that Hank wasn’t responsible for his brother’s death. He knew the truth.

  Looking at Hank, Warren said, “When we were at the hospital, I asked your father ’bout what’s in these pages. Myron said you didn’t have nothin’ to do with what happened to Pete. He said you were lookin’ out for him.”

  Hank nodded. “That’s right.”

  Warren walked over and stood before the other man, his expression grim. As much as she was hopeful, Gwen couldn’t help but be nervous.

  “My father wasn’t the smartest fella in the world,” Warren began. “He struggled to make ends meet, scroungin’ and savin’ for all he had. He never opened a bank account in his life ’cause he never had anythin’ to put in it. But one thing he taught me when I was growin’ up is worth more than its weight in gold. He said that whenever a man knows he’s wrong, the best thing he can do is admit to it, no beatin’ ’round the bush.” Warren stuck out his hand. “I was wrong ’bout you. For that, and especially for how I reacted when you brought my daughter back to me safe and sound, I’m mighty sorry.”

  Gwen held her breath as Hank stared at Warren. She wondered if he would refuse her father’s apology, leaving his offered hand unshaken. She could understand why he might; after all, Warren had said many hurtful things to him. Forgiving such insults would likely be easier said than done.

  But in the end, that’s just what Hank did.

  “Apology accepted,” he said, soundly shaking Warren’s hand.

  Gwen’s eyes filled with tears. This was what she’d wanted, for Hank to be given a second chance. She knew it wouldn’t take long for her family to see the same things she had, for them to realize that the woodcarver was someone to love and cherish, not despise. She was also aware that it had been her words that brought about this change.

  She might be a writer after all.

  “Let’s go inside so I can tend to Hank’s injuries,” Meredith said.

  “I’m gonna fix up the couch,” Warren offered. “With the fire and all, it makes sense for him to sleep here tonight. In the mornin’, we’ll drive out, look over the damage, and decide what comes next.”

  “I’ll make something to eat,” Samantha added, not wanting to be left out. “After all they’ve been through, they must be hungry.”

  Gwen and Hank watched as her family hurried into the house and left them alone, which was likely their intent.

  “Am I dreaming?” Hank asked, touching her cheek.

  “Maybe we both are,” she replied. “Maybe we’re still asleep on the cot in the workshop.”

  “If that were the case, at least all my things wouldn’t have burned to a crisp.”

  They both laughed, finding some humor in it after all.

  “I can’t believe all that’s happened since this morning,” Hank said. “You saw my dad at the hospital, wrote an article about Pete’s death for the paper, and broke things off with Kent.”

  “Even though you thought I was leaving you to go back to him.”

  Hank smiled sheepishly. “I’d like to forget that part.”

  “I bet,” she told him.

  “As for me,” he continued, “I got in a brawl with Jed Ringer, had my workshop and most of my belongings destroyed, and then your father apologized to me.” Hank shook his head. “I still can’t believe that last one.”

  “But that’s not all!” Gwen suddenly exclaimed.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Sandy Pedersen, I mean Fiderlein, had her baby! A little girl named Kelly! Oh, and I got hired down at the Bulletin!” she added. “I can’t believe it, but in all the excitement, I guess I forgot.”

  “How about tomorrow we take it easy?” Hank suggested.

  “No promises,” Gwen replied.

  Hank pulled her close. She looked up into his eyes, hardly noticing the stars beyond, and knew happiness. “This might sound strange,” he said, “but I’m glad you fell in the river.”

  “You are?” Gwen replied, raising her eyebrows. “I could have drowned.”

  He shook his head. “But you didn’t.”

  “Only because you were there to save me.”

  “In the end,” Hank said, leaning close, “we saved each other.” Then he kissed her, the perfect exclamation point.

  As a writer, Gwen was always searching for a story. They were everywhere she looked: in train depots and burning buildings; in Chicago and Buckton; in selfish acts that claimed lives and selfless acts that saved them; in the relationships that ended and the ones that added a new member to the family; in the past and the present.

  Hers and Hank’s was only just beginning.

  Epilogue

  Buckton, Indiana

  May 1956

  THIS IS PRETTY good.”

  Gwen smiled. Her desk in the Bulletin’s office was neat, with everything just the way she wanted it: a small box to hold her pens and pencils; a stapler; the lamp she’d brought from home to use when she worked late; a pile of notebooks; a framed photograph of her and Hank standing beside the Sawyer River, smiling at both the camera and the irony; a potted plant; and of course, her typewriter. Sid Keaton sat on one corner, reading the pages she had written.

  “Myrna collected oil lamps?” the publisher asked.

  “She had dozens of them, in almost every room,” Gwen explained. “If they were all lit, her house would’ve been the brightest in town.”

  “With her bad eyesight, it’s a miracle she never caught the place on fire.”

  “I thought the same thing myself.”

  Just as Sid had told her, when Gwen accepted his job offer she’d started at the bottom of the ladder. For the first couple of months, her days had consisted of editing the other reporters’ articles, making phone calls and going door-to-door drumming up advertising, and generally learning the ropes of the business. But whatever it was that she’d been asked to do, Gwen threw herself at it with enthusiasm. Eventually there’d been more and more responsibility given, until she landed her current position, writing obituaries.

  Gwen hadn’t shied from this slightly morbid task, but had embraced it. With most obituaries she’d read, the writeup in the newspaper was little more than basic information: where the deceased was born, the names of family members, and what he or she had done for a living. But to Gwen, that didn’t seem enough. So when she heard that someone had passed, she visited their home and talked with those who had known
them, all in an attempt to learn who that person had actually been. She wanted each obituary to be personal. For Myrna Portnoy, she’d included the fact that the old woman had a collection of lamps. Sid often praised her work, appreciating the details she added; the job had been his a long time ago.

  Her dream of becoming a writer was coming true, one obituary at a time.

  Gwen knew there would be more opportunities as time passed. She was patient. Maybe someday she’d even end up replacing Sid as the Bulletin’s publisher.

  Who knew what the future held?

  “You’d better get a move on or you’re gonna be late for your lunch date,” Sid said, nodding at the clock. “Don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Outside, the day was perfect, one of those late-spring afternoons without a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers, and the sun was warm on her skin. As she started down the sidewalk, Gwen couldn’t believe that not even a year ago, she’d still been living in Chicago, daydreaming about becoming a writer, imagining a future with Kent.

  The last time she had seen the successful lawyer had been when he’d walked away from her toward the depot. Since then, Kent hadn’t called. He’d never written any letters. When Gwen and her parents had traveled to Chicago to gather her things from her apartment, she had found a box just inside the door. Kent must’ve passed it to the building supervisor. In it were all the Christmas and birthday presents Gwen had given him, their love letters, and even some clothes she’d left at his place. At the bottom of the box she had found the photograph she’d framed for him, the one that had sat on his desk at the law firm. Kent had smashed the glass, causing cracks to radiate in every direction, as broken as their relationship had become. Gwen threw it all away.