“Afraid so. I want to get this reframed for her birthday next week.”
Christi nodded. “Great idea.”
“So, what do you think?” I asked, holding up my selections thus far.
Christi looked at my assortment, then suggested, “I’m thinking the wooden frames look best. I could mat it for you too. That would cost a little extra, but it would look really great.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “This wooden carved frame comes with a blue mat, and that looks pretty nice. I think I’ll just go with that and do it myself.”
“Good choice.”
Christi carefully wrapped the frame with tissue paper and put it in the bag for me, along with the receipt.
I felt pleased with myself as I headed my Bronco toward Dad’s house. It was our weekly night to get together, and I couldn’t wait to show him the old photograph and catch him up on today’s Potluck adventures. He loved a good story, though he always seemed a little too interested in any story that pertained to Evangeline Benson, no matter how nerdy I tried to make her sound.
Perched in the back seat was a grocery sack filled with everything I would need to create a chicken marsala dinner. I’d printed out the recipe from an e-recipe book called Great Chicken Recipes, which I’d downloaded from RecipeCoach.com. I smiled. This was just the kind of dish Dad would love. We usually ordered pizza, but tonight was to be special because I was celebrating the fact that my rotating schedule had finally returned to the day shift.
I pulled into the driveway. Dad’s alpine bungalow was covered in cedar and stained aqua trimmed with gray. I had spent my entire growing-up years here. But since I’d moved out, Dad had turned my old bedroom into his office, filling it with a secondhand desk and chair, along with an old filing cabinet the department had discarded. The walls were bare except for my old Barbie clock, which still kept good time.
I let myself into the house with my key and set my bags down in the kitchen. I then switched on the light and looked around. Over the years, all traces of a woman’s touch had somehow evaporated. Dad’s kitchen was a case in point. It was neat but painted stark white with no hint of imagination. The living room wasn’t much better. Again, Dad had painted the walls white, while his sofa was vinyl brown leather, as was his easy chair. The focal point of the living room was nothing less than Dad’s new big-screen TV. His old console was pushed to the side and now housed his twenty-year collection of On Patrol magazine.
As I began to prepare dinner, I first pounded the chicken breasts with a meat cleaver I’d found shoved in the back of his utensil drawer. After I sautéed the green onions and mushrooms in butter, I set them aside and browned the chicken. I added the chicken broth and marsala and stirred in the mushrooms and green onions. I let the mixture bubble until it thickened.
As for the side dishes, I had a large plastic tub of store-made potato salad complete with a can of freshly opened green beans. This would be some feast.
I had just set the table when Dad pulled in the driveway. He was already unbuckling his gun belt when he walked in the door.
“Hey, Donna, what smells so good?” He gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Chicken marsala,” I announced.
“Sounds good.” He put his gun belt on top of the refrigerator, just as he had when I was a toddler.
“Heard there was some excitement over at the Westbrooks’ today,” he chuckled. “Clay told me all about it after his interview with Vonnie and Evie.”
“He interviewed Evie?”
Dad and I sat down and began to shovel the food on our plates. Dad continued, “Clay asked me which Potlucker I recommended as a good interviewee. I suggested you naturally, but he said he needed a fresh face. That’s when I thought of Evie.” Dad chuckled again. “Clay told me she bent his ear for an hour and a half.”
I smiled and tried not to roll my eyes. “You don’t say.”
Dad grinned. “What I’d really like to hear is your version of this tale.”
As we enjoyed the meal, I repeated the story, pausing for questions and laughter.
Later, after we cleared the table and washed the dishes, I pulled out the old framed photograph and sat down at the kitchen table. “Dad, take a look at this.”
Dad sat down across from me and handed me a steaming mug of coffee, then took a sip of his. “Say, is this you and Vonnie Westbrook?” He laughed. “Why, just look at you two, fast friends since the beginning of time.”
I pulled the oak frame, carved with forget-me-nots, from the Christi’s bag and said, “I thought I’d reframe it for her birthday. What do you think?”
“Good idea.” He turned the picture over, then slid the cardboard backing out of the old frame. “There’s another photograph under here.”
He pulled out what appeared to be an old wedding photograph and handed it to me. “What do you make of this?”
The yellowed photo showed a couple, a handsome Latino man dressed in a sky-blue suit smiling down at a petite blue-eyed blond who was holding a bouquet of tiger lilies. “That looks like a very young Vonnie,” I said.
Dad nodded. “But the groom doesn’t look a thing like Fred.”
My chest constricted. “No, Dad, and as a matter of fact, the groom looks like a fellow I just met, a guy named David Harris.” “Harris?”
I slowly turned over the photograph. “Some Californian claiming to be searching for his birth mother, a Jewel something or other, said to be living in Summit View.”
I looked at the back of the photograph and read the carefully printed words. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph and Yvonne Jewel.
The picture slipped from my fingers and floated to the floor.
“Let me see that,” Dad said as he reached over and picked up the photo. He studied it for a moment, then looked back up at me. “If this doesn’t beat anything.”
I nodded.
“Somehow, Donna, I think you’ve just found David Harris’s mother.” He studied me for a minute. “So, what are you going to do?”
I was almost too stunned to answer. I slowly shook my head. “Honestly? I don’t have a clue.”
All I did know was that the only woman I had called my friend had betrayed me with a past she had failed to share. As I stared at the picture of the happy couple, my shock turned into anger. Could Vonnie be living a lie? Had she run out on her first husband after putting her baby, her own flesh and blood, up for adoption? That meant she was no better than my own mother. To abandon your baby . . . well, it couldn’t get much lower than that.
Vonnie, to think that I admired you, loved you like a mother, thought you were special. Instead, you’re the worst liar I know.
29
What secrets doesn’t
that girl know . . .
At least every other day, Clay drove from Higher Grounds to the courthouse before making his way to the newspaper office. He checked on recent arrests and various other unsavory Summit View activities.
Not that there was much, but it gave him an excuse to stay on top of things. To catch the more male-oriented gossip. To check on Donna, most of all.
He entered the door nearest booking, skimmed over the names scrawled in a large black leather book, noted that no one had been brought in over the past forty-eight, and then sauntered to the side of the building where Sheriff Vesey typically kept himself.
A quick glance to the left as he entered the room told him that Donna was not at her desk. Sheriff Vesey, however, was sitting at his, staring at the monitor of his computer, scribbling frantically on a yellow legal pad.
“Sheriff,” Clay greeted, stepping into his office.
Vernon’s head jerked up and he dropped his pen, laying his arm across the pad and his notes. Clay was quick enough to catch a word or two:
Harris.
California.
He narrowed his eyes at the sheriff. “Whatcha got going there?” he asked. Did Donna and her dad know something about Harris?
Vernon flipped the pad over. “Police business,” he said
, turning the monitor off.
Clay had missed his chance to read the screen by milliseconds. But his curiosity had been piqued, and for a reporter, that was everything.
30
Marriage on Toast
It’s another day, Lord, I prayed from my usual place at the kitchen table. Another day of getting up early to talk to you, waiting for the annoying sound of my husband coming down the hallway of our home. Another day of hearing him say “Goldie, you got breakfast started?” about two seconds after he turns on Fox and Friends. And another day of pretending I don’t know what’s going on with him and Char–lene Hopefield . . . of holding on to a marriage that’s not really worth holding on to.
Somehow, on the day I’d gotten the phone call from Lucy, the day I’d found the photograph of Jack and Charlene, the day Olivia had called wanting some stupid recipe for Lord-only-knows-what and come rushing over, my daughter had managed to talk me into staying with Jack.
“I’m leaving your father,” I’d told her as soon as we were in the living room. I will admit I was dramatic about it, but in a subdued sort of way. I was sort of like Gloria Swanson coming down that long staircase at the end of Sunset Boulevard. I had no idea where I was going, but this was my defining moment. Every minute since the day I’d received my first piece of jewelry from Jack (other than my wedding rings, of course) had led to this one moment in my life. “Mom, no,” she’d said, plopping her slender frame down on the sofa opposite the chair where I was sitting. “Please think about this. For me, Mom,” she pleaded. “And for Brook. Brook needs for his grandparents to be together.”
I stood and moved away from her and into my bedroom; her entreaty was too much for me to be able to hear at the time.
She was fast on my heels. “Mom,” she said, “I know this has been awful for you.” I turned to look at her, noticing that her green eyes had welled up with tears and that it looked as though she hadn’t even taken the time to brush the short curls of her red hair before coming over. I ridiculously wondered if she’d taken my grandson to preschool with her hair in such a tussle. “It’s awful for me too. My gosh, my whole life I’ve known the truth about Dad,” she confided.
“You have?” It was my turn to plop, and I did so on the bed. “I’m so sorry, Olivia. I should’ve left him a long time ago. I should’ve spared you all this pain.”
Olivia crossed the room and knelt at my feet. “No, Mom. Don’t apologize for his wrongdoings.”
“And I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. After all, he’s still your father.”
“Don’t apologize for that, either, Mom.”
I threw my hands up and let them drop back down. “Then what are you saying, Olivia? This is where I am right now. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”
“Have you talked to Dad about going into some kind of therapy?”
I laughed. “Here in Summit View? Where are we going to find a counselor in Summit View?”
Olivia fell back on her haunches. “Well, maybe not here in Summit View, but what about in Denver or even Vail?”
“Do you honestly think your father would drive hours to have someone tell him to stop sleeping with half of the state? Like that would make all the difference in the world?”
“Don’t, Mom. Don’t be so crude. What about the pastor? Counseling with someone like that?”
“Olivia, your father is an active church member. I can hardly imagine him sitting across from Pastor Kevin’s office desk, talking about his adventures in adultery.”
“Don’t be so negative, Mom.”
I stood, sidestepped her, and moved back out of the room and back into the living room. “Don’t, don’t, don’t. Do you have any advice you can call proactive?” I called behind me, knowing she’d soon follow.
And she did. “I’m going to assume you’ve prayed about this.”
I spun around. “Of course I have prayed about this!”
Olivia paused, crossing her thin arms. “Mom, I know you love the Lord . . .” She paused again for good measure. “I know you do. But sometimes when you pray—and I know because I’ve heard you—you do more whining to God than getting specific with him about what you need.”
“Olivia Brook Dippel, I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”
“Just think about it, Mom. Just think about it . . . and while you’re thinking about it, think about holding on to your vows with Dad, okay?”
“What about his holding on to the vows he made with me? What is it they say? Cling only unto each other?”
Olivia looked at me with a furrowed brow. “That’s cleave, Mom.”
“Cleave?”
“Cleave . . . not cling.”
I sighed. “Well, what in the world does that mean?”
She paused, thinking. “It means . . .” she said, bringing her hands together and lacing her fingers. “It means . . . well, I guess it means to cling.”
“Well, your father has been clinging or cleaving or whatever you want to call it with someone else, and I’m sick of it.”
“I know, Mom, just . . . please, don’t do anything rash.”
I promised her that I wouldn’t, then—just as soon as she left—went back to Jack’s office to look up cleave in the dictionary, only to discover it had two meanings. One was as an intransitive verb—to adhere firmly and closely or loyally and unwaveringly. The other was as a verb—to divide by or as if by a cutting blow. There was so much irony in the difference that I had to laugh out loud.
Do I whine, Lord? I prayed later. Do I? Is that what I’ve been doing all this time? If I have, I certainly haven’t meant to. I only
wanted you to hear what my heart has been crying for such a very long time.
Well, maybe I have been whining. So let me get real specific with you. I need a miracle here. I ask you with all the reverence I have to bring Jack Dippel to his knees and back into our marriage the way he ought to be. Make it so he can’t stand to look at another woman again. Make it so he wants to look at me the way I’m sure he looks at Charlene Hopefield.
The only thing I could do after that was wait. Of course, the news about Jan Moore made my problems seem trivial, giving me something to think about other than my life and the mess I’d made of it. It also gave Jack something he could actually discuss with me besides the stats from the Gold Diggers’ football team. How horribly sad is that?
I heard the sound of Fox and Friends before I’d realized Jack had made it in to the living room. “Breakfast about ready, Goldie?” he called.
I closed my Bible quickly, picking it up and carrying it over to the kitchen counter. “Shortly,” I called back. I heard a quiver in my voice, and I mentally kicked myself for it. All right, Lord, I offered up one last plea before I served the breakfast casserole (I’d just found the recipe in one of Lizzie Prattle’s discarded women’s mags). It’s been days and days since I asked you for changes, and not a thing in this world has changed. In fact, I’m not so sure that it hasn’t gotten worse. But I’ll trust you a little longer.
I walked over to the oven and retrieved the casserole that had been warming there for the past half hour. I set it atop the stove, then methodically reached in the nearby cabinet for a plate. Jack entered the room just as I was pouring his coffee into a mug at the kitchen table. I glanced up at him momentarily, then returned my attention to pouring. “Morning,” I said as politely as I knew how.
Jack was dressed in a dark blue sweat suit and warm socks, his standard fare for chilly mornings on the football field with his team. His silver hair was still unkempt, and he looked pale. For a fleeting moment I wondered what Charlene saw in him. Then again, perhaps she’d never seen him so early in the morning. “Morning,” he returned, sitting at his place at the table.
I returned the coffeepot to the coffeemaker all the while thinking, Well, of course she’s never seen him first thing in the morning. He’s always come home, hasn’t he? Not once had he not returned.
I heard Jack’s fork drop. “What
is this?”
I turned from the counter. “What is what?”
He pointed to the casserole on his plate. “This. What is this?” I stepped over to the table, to the opposite side of where he was, and clutched the back of a chair. “It’s a breakfast casserole I read about in a magazine. It looks good.” I tried to keep my voice upbeat. “Did you try it?”
“No, I didn’t try it. It looks like eggs and cheese and some kind of meat product all mushed together.”
I placed my fists on my hips. “Isn’t that what a casserole is?” I asked. “A bunch of foods mushed together?”
“I like a basic breakfast, Goldie. You know that.” He looked down again, then back at me. “Well?”
“Well what?” I shifted my weight slightly.
“Well, make me something I can eat. If I’m going to work every day to support you, the least you can do is make me a breakfast I like.”
“Is that what you think? You think I’m just here to make you food so you can . . . what did you say? Support me? You don’t support me, Jack.”
Jack stood, grabbed the mug by its handle, and then banged it down on the table like a judge’s gavel. Black coffee went everywhere, pooling along the tabletop and running in fat streams off the sides and down to the floor. “Now look what you made me do,” he said. “Hurry up and clean this mess, Goldie.”
I turned and grabbed a dish towel, then slung it at him. “You clean it up,” I said, then turned on my heel and left the room.
“Now just hold up there, Goldie,” Jack ordered, following behind me, leaving the spilled coffee to clean itself. “Look around you, why don’t you, and don’t you dare talk to me like that. Have you been watching Oprah or something?”
I burst out laughing in spite of my anger. Or, perhaps, because of it.
“That’s it. You’ve been watching Oprah. She’s been telling you to stand up to your husband, is that it? Well, I’ll tell you what; when you make the kind of money that woman is making, you can throw dish towels at me all morning long if you want to.” He slapped himself on the forehead. “Oh, but what am I saying? When was the last time you worked? Huh? Oh . . . let me think. You’ve never worked. Not a day in your life, at least not since you’ve married me and had me to take care of you.”
The Potluck Club Page 18