Double Wedding Ring

by Peg Sutherland

  “Good morning, Mr. Hutchins. You’re looking well today.”

  He chuckled, something he rarely did. The deep, pleasant sound ended abruptly as he turned his eyes back to the woman behind the wheel.

  “Thought you deserved fair warning,” he said, his voice matching the coldness in his eyes. “I’m going to see Susan again. Now that I know...where things stand with her.”

  A thrill of uncertainty traveled up Malorie’s spine. What was it he’d said? See Susan again? How odd that no one had told her.

  Mostly, though, she loved the way he was speaking to Betsy Foster. As if daring her to be her usual cranky self. Malorie shoved her hands into the folds of her loose gauze dress and clenched them tightly, waiting for Betsy’s reaction.

  “You’ll do no such thing, Eugene Hutchins. You’ve set her back already.”

  Malorie opened her mouth to protest, but had no opportunity to speak.

  “She’s a grown woman now, Betsy. You can’t stop me.”

  “She’s barely competent. You don’t want a thing to do with her.”

  The words cut Malorie, and she could see Tag flinch at them, as well. “You leave that to me to decide.”

  He turned to leave, but Betsy Foster wasn’t finished. She twisted and called after him in a shrill voice Malorie had never heard her use. “I will not abide trouble from you, Eugene. Stay away from my house or I’ll have the law on you. You hear me?”

  Tag’s only response was to swing into the seat of his bike, bring the engine to a deafening roar and wheel around in a U-turn. He exited Mimosa Lane in a flurry of noise that made Cody whimper and Betsy flush an angry red. Malorie tried to unclench her fists but couldn’t quite manage to relax.

  As she gave one more sideways glance in the direction of Tag’s grand exit, Malorie noticed Bump Finley and his young nephew and niece, Krissy, all dressed for church, standing on the corner, also staring after Tag. Malorie almost smiled again, knowing how much her grandmother would hate having an audience to such a disorderly little scene.

  Betsy rolled up her car window and backed out as if nothing had happened. “Stop whining, Cody. It’s just a big noise and nothing for you to be afraid of.”

  Malorie pursed her lips and realized her nails were cutting into her palms. As the Cadillac purred up Mimosa Lane, she tried to swallow the questions she knew would not be welcome. Halfway to church, she discovered a small pocket of courage deep inside her that said she didn’t care whether her questions needled her grandmother or not.

  “What have you got against Mr. Hutchins?”

  “What I think about that man is none of your affair.”

  Malorie felt a knot of apprehension growing within her. She plunged forward, before her courage was overcome completely. “Why don’t you want him to see Mother?”

  “I know what’s best for Susan. I’ll thank you not to question that.”

  Anger shot through Malorie with a force that surprised her. Frightened at what the unexpected anger might produce, Malorie decided she’d better keep quiet until it was gone. She forced herself not to think about the ugly way her grandmother had characterized her mother as mentally incompetent. She forced herself not to think about the way Betsy Foster thought she had the God-given right to make the rules in everyone’s life.

  She definitely wouldn’t think about times she had let her grandmother call the shots in her own life. At the time, she had assumed her grandmother was right, that Betsy Foster had only Malorie’s best interests at heart. Now she wondered. Now that it was too late to turn back.

  She didn’t protest when her grandmother insisted on leaving Cody in the church nursery, although Malorie had hoped to hold the little boy on her lap, taking comfort in his warm, plump body and his unwavering affection. She simply listened to the sermon and sang along with the hymns. After the service, her grandmother took her by the elbow and maneuvered her through the clumps of people gathering in the churchyard.

  “We’ll fetch Cody in a minute,” Betsy said. “I see someone I want you to meet.”

  I don’t want to meet anyone. Malorie protested loud and clear in her own mind. But as everyone had always done with Betsy Foster, she kept her mouth shut. Betsy stopped beside two women, a smiling auburn-haired woman named Rose who had once been her mother’s best friend, and an ebony-skinned woman with an abundance of braids and bright-colored clothes with an ethnic flair.

  “Maxine Hammond.” Betsy interrupted the two women without hesitation. “This is my granddaughter, Malorie. I’d like her to help you with that Christmas charity project of yours.”

  Maxine arched a brow at Betsy, directed a regal smile at Malorie and said, “But does your granddaughter wish to assist in our project?”

  Malorie sighed. “Hi. I’m Malorie. I’d be glad to help.”

  “Would you, indeed?” Maxine exchanged a look with the other woman. “What do you think, Rose? Do we have need of such an eager young recruit?”

  “I think we can use all the help we can get if some of the kids in this county are going to have a merry Christmas.” The calm assurance that Rose Finley McKenzie emanated made Malorie instantly envious. “Why, Betsy, I’ll bet you’re planning to write a big old check to see to it we can get a few more gifts from Santa, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Uh-oh.” Rose gestured over Betsy’s shoulder. “My Uncle Bump’s headed this way and he’s looking awful grouchy. You didn’t do anything to set him off this morning, did you, Betsy?”

  Betsy frowned and glanced around. Sure enough, Bump Finley was headed in their direction. Malorie had met him only briefly, at a wedding years ago and once or twice when he’d brought Rose’s son over to play with Cody. With his flyaway white hair and colorful suspenders, he had always struck Malorie as funny and grandfatherly. But right now, as Rose had noticed, he looked very determined and very displeased.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Betsy said. “Jacob Finley and I have nothing to say to each other.”

  Bump Finley obviously had other opinions on the matter. He walked right up to Betsy, favoring a bad right knee, and took her by the elbow. “You and me’s got a bone to pick, woman.”

  “Jacob Finley, I suggest you let go of my arm right now and—”

  “And I suggest you hush your mouth and come along or I’ll speak my piece right here in front of God and ever’body.” His watery green eyes shifted in Malorie’s direction.

  With a heavy sigh, Betsy Foster said, “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, it appears Jacob intends to do what he does best—behave unpleasantly. I will spare you all the scene.”

  Although Rose and Maxine chuckled as the two walked away, Malorie heard the sharp exchange between the pair.

  “You have gone too far this time for sure, Jacob!” Betsy Foster hissed.

  “Just because you do it with ever’body else, don’t think you can steamroll all over this old coot, too,” Bump replied, not bothering to lower his voice. “I saw the way you were acting this morning, and I aim to tell you what I think about the way you try to run the whole goldanged world.”

  Malorie felt her face growing warm and wished she could slink away. Whatever must these people think?

  She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked up into Maxine’s warm eyes. “Pay them no mind. None of us do. They have bickered for years.”

  “They have?”

  Rose laughed, a throaty, delightful sound. “The way I heard it from my mama, they bickered the whole time they were sweethearts. Breaking up didn’t even slow ‘em down.”

  “Sweethearts? Grandmother?”

  Both the women, who looked about the age of Malorie’s mother, laughed.

  “We were all young once, my dear,” Maxine said. “Now, if you are indeed willing to help us provide Christmas for needy children in our area, we would be most appreciative of the help. In fact, we have our first meeting in—” she glanced at her watch “—about ten minutes.”

  Finding she was grateful for an excuse no
t to accompany her grandmother home, Malorie agreed to stay for the volunteer committee meeting. Betsy picked up Cody, and Malorie followed Maxine and Rose into the Fellowship Hall in the basement of the church. In minutes she felt at ease with Rose and Maxine and was soon laughing along with their humor, which was alternately sharp and wry.

  “So you see,” Rose said, finishing a story about her twice-a-week commute to the University of Alabama, where she was working on a degree, “I had to tell that uppity young’un that he might be the graduate assistant and I might be a freshman, but I just happened to be full grown when Vietnam was going on, while he was likely still in diapers. So if he was as smart as he pretended to be, he’d better be listening to me.”

  Laughter died on Malorie’s lips when she caught sight of Sam Roberts lounging against the table in the center of the room, talking to the group of six others who had already congregated for the meeting. Out of the uniform he wore each day when he worked with Susan, he looked more disconcertingly human than usual. His smile looked warm, and not just professionally encouraging. His eyes were bright, his fair hair rakish with his casual tweedy slacks and collarless shirt.

  She wished she hadn’t been reminded quite so unexpectedly that Sam Roberts was not just a physical therapist. He was also a man.

  She almost turned and left the room. But Maxine was looking at her quizzically. And, worst of all, Sam had turned at the sound of their laughter. He had seen her, too. She didn’t like the welcoming look in his eyes.

  “Ah,” Maxine said as she saw where Malorie’s gaze had landed. “I see you know at least one of our volunteers. This is excellent. Sam will be glad to take you under his wing, will you not, Sam?”

  Sam smiled and pulled an empty chair away from the table and offered it to Malorie. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Malorie had no choice but to sit next to Sam. The chairs, she discovered, were crammed too close together around the unsteady folding table. Sam’s sport coat was draped over the back of his chair and his crisp white sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms. She noticed, as she had before, the strength in those arms. She told herself she noticed only because she was grateful to know her mother was in such capable hands.

  Malorie pulled her own arms closely against her body and waited for the prickly sensations to leave her.

  “They’re all nice people here,” Sam whispered as the others scraped chairs on the linoleum floor and took their seats. “They’ll like you.”

  Malorie frowned and turned to retort that she wasn’t worried about not being liked by this roomful of small-town strangers. But as she looked into Sam’s eyes, she found herself drawn deeply into their dark depths, and she couldn’t quite mouth the flippant words. She found she didn’t mind that he seemed to see her fear.

  She smiled at him and nodded. But she didn’t relax her arms. She didn’t loosen her hold on all she’d bottled up inside.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME MAXINE Hammond had outlined plans for the church’s Christmas charity project, Sam had pretty much decided he had fallen in love.

  Falling in love with the daughter of one of his patients gave him a few moments of uneasiness. But Sam figured he had waited a long time to fall in love—not that there hadn’t been plenty of other women along the way—and he had no intention of letting anything interfere now that he’d found the magic that kept so much of the world in turmoil.

  At twenty-seven, Sam welcomed a little cockeyed thinking, and he had a hunch Malorie Hovis would provide just that.

  He followed her out of the Fellowship Hall, up the steps and out into the autumn sunshine. He knew she knew he followed her, but she continued to ignore him, just as she had ignored him for the past hour, when she also knew his eyes were on her.

  She hadn’t fidgeted, although nervousness sparked off her like noon sunshine off a tin roof. Instead, she had wrapped her arms tightly around her and stayed perfectly still. As if she might be overlooked if she remained motionless.

  Sam didn’t see how it was possible that anyone wouldn’t notice her, wouldn’t be captivated by her presence.

  Malorie Hovis struck him as a sprite, a fidgety, flyaway sprite who might be easily startled away from the blossom where she perched. By a sound. A movement. A touch.

  Yes, certainly by a touch.

  But the aura of intensity that clung to her skin like a faint perfume was the only thing about her that spoke of rigidity. Her hair was a tumble of unruly curls. The freckles that hadn’t faded with the passing of summer said she couldn’t be bothered with makeup. Her only jewelry was loose silver bangles on her left wrist, but she was so still they hadn’t made a single sound for the entire hour. And her dress—a gauzy, flowered, flowing thing—said she didn’t care whether men looked twice at her or whether the proper Baptist women approved of what she wore to church.

  Even her legs, he had noticed as he walked up the steps from the basement, were bare, her feet tucked into little slippers that tied around her ankles with some kind of ribbon.

  Sam assumed those little ribbons binding her ankles were designed to set men thinking about loosening them, and loosening whatever else might naturally follow. He hoped that was the intention, for that would make them mighty successful. He wanted to set her bangles ajingle, too.

  Sam knew that meant he was in trouble, for he thought he’d never seen a woman less likely to want someone to loosen her ribbons or jingle her bangles.

  “Would those shoes fall off if someone untied the ribbons?” he asked after watching her slender feet pick their way carefully through the clutter of fallen leaves littering the church grounds.

  He would have sworn she didn’t even crunch a leaf as she made her way to the street.

  She paused but didn’t turn to look at him. “I’d trip over them, that’s all.”

  He caught up with her then and walked beside her, although he felt distinctly uninvited. “I could catch you.”

  She kept her eyes straight ahead; nothing about her faltered. “I think I’ll keep them tied if it’s all the same to you. Then I won’t need catching.”

  “Won’t you?”

  Her crocheted purse hung across her body, the way women learned to wear them in cities like Atlanta, and she clutched it tightly to her with one arm. He wondered what she was really afraid of losing.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

  “It’s just a few blocks,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know a better way,” he said.

  She looked up then. “You do?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life. You doubt me?” He smiled, and was rewarded with a flash of the impish smile he often saw when she came in from work, full of stories to share with her mother.

  “What’s it like? Living here forever?”

  He turned off Main Street, toward the park. The long way home. He hadn’t said it was shorter. Just better. And it was. Especially now.

  “Peaceful,” he said. “Reassuring.”

  She pursed her lips and eyed him speculatively. “Don’t you think that’s putting your head in the sand? With so many cities in turmoil, aren’t you just hiding away from all the problems?”

  He shrugged, stopping at the foot of the sliding board. “Maybe if we all turned away from the turmoil, maybe if we all went searching for a little personal serenity, we’d look around one day and discover that a lot of the turmoil had simply disappeared. Maybe if we don’t feed it, it’ll starve to death.”

  He climbed to the top of the metal slide and hoisted himself into position.

  “A nice thought.” But he heard the doubt in her voice, despite being several feet above her.

  “It’s worked for me.” Until now.

  He shoved off then. The metal popped and rumbled under his weight. His Sunday best shoes landed in the sand at the foot of the slide. He looked around for her, prepared to coax her onto the slide, and realized she was already perched at the top, skirt tucked around her knees, waiting for him to clear the way
.

  Pleased, he stood and watched as she sailed down, the autumn breeze lifting her hair to the sun and bringing a glow to her cheeks. She closed her eyes, head raised to the sky as she came down.

  When she stood, she looked sorry the ride was over.

  “Has it worked for you? No turmoil for Sam Roberts? No unhappiness or tragedy or trauma?”

  “Well...”

  “I thought so.”

  “I lost my father in Vietnam. That was right after I was born, though. I never knew what it was like to hurt over it.” Walking to the edge of the park, where a narrow path led to Jasmine Court, the road parallel to Main Street, Sam hesitated. He knew from Susan’s records that Malorie’s father had died less than a year ago. “Not like you.”

  She looked displeased that he even knew, much less that he might sympathize. “He’d been sick awhile. It was a blessing when it finally happened. Where does this lead?”

  Since she was following him, Sam saw no urgent need to answer her. “That doesn’t always make it hurt less, does it?”

  Now she was the one to shrug. “He was a good father. He always...stood by me.”

  “When did he stand by you?”

  “Whenever I needed him to,” she said, looking around as the path opened onto Jasmine Court. “Why, look! It’s Wonderland.”

  “Oz.”

  “Never-never land.”

  She whirled around, taking in the block-long street that was Sweetbranch’s oldest neighborhood. Most of the rest of the town had been settled and built up between the world wars. But Jasmine Court had been settled during the Victorian era by displaced coal magnates hoping to get away from the grime in their mines to the south. The two-and three-story houses laced with gingerbread and crowned by turrets were almost incongruous in the working-class town Sweetbranch had become.

  “They need work,” Sam said, almost apologetically.

  But he could see from Malorie’s reaction that she didn’t need his apologies. Like Sam, Malorie could see the possibilities in the white houses with their peeling paint, broken porch spindles and crooked shutters.