by Beverly Farr
She’d known he was upset. She shouldn’t have tried to reason with him until he’d calmed down. She should have let him work it out by himself, instead of jumping in, trying to make everything all right.
She was his fiancé, not his mother, and she should have trusted that he would eventually do the right thing. He was a good man.
But he didn’t call.
He didn’t come by.
She didn’t see him or the Suburban, and there weren’t any lights on at his house during the evenings. He must have gone somewhere with the children.
She didn’t know if she should call him or text, or if that would just make the situation worse.
Two days after their argument, there was a “for sale” sign in his front yard.
At that point, she realized that Michael’s desire for privacy was greater than she’d realized.
And greater than his love for her.
Olivia went through the daily obligations of her life: taking care of her cats, cleaning her house, applying for jobs. But as she worked, she thought of Michael and his children.
She couldn’t take back the things she’d said. Her timing had been poor, but she’d meant every word. As much as she loved him and wanted to be part of his family, she didn’t want to live with a bitter, angry person.
It broke her heart to think that Michael was still so angry about Mary Ellen leaving. She wished he could find a way to forgive his ex-wife. Even if he couldn’t forgive her completely, Olivia wished that he could at least be at peace.
As simple as it sounded, she found that the grace of God could smooth all sorrows, all injustices, all anger. She trusted that ultimately God would make everything right. If not in this life, in the next.
That didn’t mean that she didn’t grieve or get upset, but that she could have peace in the midst of the pain.
But she couldn’t hand Michael peace. He had to find that on his own.
After a week of silence, she accepted the job in Portland.
#
Michael walked out to the garage where his dad was repairing a dresser. One of the runners for a drawer had broken, and he was fashioning a new one. He set aside his wood working tools as Michael joined him. “How’s it going?” he asked.
Michael sat on a bench. “Mom’s feeding the kids.”
His dad nodded. “Your mother is thrilled to have the kids for a few days, but you can’t stay here forever.”
His dad didn’t waste time in small talk. “I know. I just don’t know where to go.”
“How about back to Dallas?”
Michael was silent.
“What’s going to happen at your work?”
“I don’t know.” He thought about the projects that were still on his desk. How long could he be gone before they were reassigned to someone else? “I took personal leave. I didn’t think. I just reacted. I wanted the kids to be safe.”
“Were they in danger?”
Michael thought for a minute. There had only been a few reporters, not a mob. “You think I overreacted?”
“What does Olivia think?”
Michael frowned. “She thinks I’m a jerk. She thinks I should try to work with Mary Ellen.”
“What do you think?”
Michael didn’t answer. His dad had a talent for asking tough questions, and then when he didn’t know the answer, suggesting that he ask the Man Upstairs.
Michael believed in God; he always had; but other than a routine, “please bless me and my family” type prayer at night, he rarely turned to Him. He tended to stumble through life, trying to work through problems on his own until they reached a crisis and there was no way out. Once again, he’d found himself in a situation that couldn’t be solved by sheer determination and effort.
Deep in his heart, he knew that by coming to Colorado he was running away.
But he didn’t want to hear any analogies to Jonah, so he stood. “I’m going to take a run. Can you and Mom take care of the kids for an hour?”
“Of course.”
He made sure the kids were settled happily with his mother before he stepped outside. It had snowed the day before, but the sky was sunny. He ran around his old high school track, his breath making clouds of white. The cold air was like a knife in his chest, but it felt good.
After three miles, he took a break and sat on the bleachers.
He thought of high school, when he was on the basketball team and Mary Ellen was busy with choir and the school musical.
So much had changed. It was difficult to remember the person Mary Ellen had been back then: young, sweet, and completely infatuated with him.
Singing had always been important to her, but he’d thought it was just a hobby, like his building things or reading science fiction. When they were married, they budgeted money for voice lessons, and eventually she got a part time job working at a karaoke bar. That had been the beginning of the end.
Maybe he could have done something more, something different to keep their marriage from imploding.
But it was too late now.
If he was smart, he’d do something to repair his relationship with Olivia.
And he couldn’t do that if he didn’t deal with Mary Ellen first.
And even if he did talk with Mary Ellen, there was no guarantee that Olivia would take him back.
Their love was so new, so fragile, and he’d shut her out.
Michael rested his head in his gloved hands and prayed. “Oh God,” he said quietly. “I’ve screwed up again.”
#
APRIL
Michael wasn’t sure how much the paparazzi were following Mary Ellen, so he decided to err on the side of caution. He flew out to California, where Super was filmed and booked a conference room in an office building. He wanted to keep as low a profile as possible.
Mary Ellen agreed to meet him after lunch.
She waltzed in half an hour late. “The traffic was terrible,” she said lightly. She wore skin tight jeans and a brightly colored jacket over a white silk shirt. She was thinner than he remembered and he didn’t like her bleached hair or her heavy make-up. But she was still a beautiful woman.
He was glad that he could see her without the surge of anger that had tainted all the divorce proceedings. He no longer hated her, but he didn’t trust her. “Hello Mary Ellen.”
“Marielle,” she corrected.
There was no point in aggravating her. “Marielle.”
She smiled. “Thank you for coming out to California.”
At least they were both trying to be civil. “And thank you for being willing to meet privately, without getting lawyers involved.”
“Hopefully they won’t be needed.”
Was that a threat? Michael folded his arms across his chest, fearing what her demands were going to be. “Well?” he prompted. “You’re the one that wanted to talk.”
Marielle sighed. “The news story about the quints could not have come at a worse time. I am so busy with the Super competition. I have to prepare this week’s song. I don’t have time for all the drama.”
“I thought all publicity was good publicity.”
“That was before the Internet. Do you think I want everyone in the world to see me as a fat cow?”
“You weren’t f--”
“I was huge, pasty, and my hair -- well, the less said about it the better. But now, in every interview for the rest of my life, some idiot is going to dredge up that video clip for comparison or a human interest angle. I wish we’d never done that interview.”
Michael didn’t remind her that she had been thrilled with the attention at the time. He asked, “What do you want?”
“I want everyone to pay attention to my singing -- not the fact that I happened to give birth to quintuplets. It’s infuriating.”
“It’s too good of a story.”
“I wish it would go away.”
“It won’t.”
“Then at least I need some better pictures, so they won’t use the cow ones.
”
Now for the specifics. “What exactly do you want?”
“I want a few minutes of film and some pictures twice a year.”
He’d been afraid she’d want more. “Is that it?”
Marielle laughed. “Don’t worry -- I haven’t had a brain transplant. I’m not going to turn into Suzie Homemaker. All I want is damage control. Everyone’s heard about the quints. I need a few cute pictures before they get too big.”
Michael frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Babies are like kittens and puppies. Cute when they’re small, but less appealing as they age.”
Michael had forgotten how blunt Mary Ellen could be.
She continued, “I’m already starting my singing career late. I’m almost thirty, and I need to preserve the illusion of youth as long as possible. The last thing I want is photos of me surrounded by a group of dumpy pre-teens when I’m forty. So I don’t want them showing up at concerts or award ceremonies.”
Marielle was entirely focused on her career, but he knew that already. “You don’t want the children to be a part of your life?”
“No. As far as I’m concerned, they’re completely yours, not mine.”
That was a relief. He said carefully, “I’m okay with some pictures. And film footage -- brief. But I want to keep their names out of the media. And I don’t want you to make up cute stories about them, implying a relationship that isn’t there. It’s not fair to the kids.”
There was a flash of annoyance in her eyes. “You and your rules,” she said, but didn’t elaborate.
He continued, “I want you to say something like, ‘my ex-husband and I are determined to preserve our children’s privacy.’ If you say it often enough, people will eventually accept it.”
“All right,” she said finally. “But I have a few conditions, too.”
Michael held his breath.
“My career looks like it is finally going to take off, but there’s no guarantee of success. I don’t know if I’ll make millions, but whatever I make, it’s mine.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Do you still drive that old truck?” she asked pointedly.
Michael refused to take offense. He did not want to get trapped into an argument with her. Marielle had never understood the classic appeal of something old, and nothing he said would change her mind.
She added, “I won’t be paying for anything like orthodontics or trips to Europe. Or college.”
“Fine. I plan to take care of the children completely by myself.”
She looked slightly uncomfortable, as if she had a sudden twinge of conscience. “I never agreed to five in the first place,” she said, justifying her position. “Our deal was for one baby.”
He wondered if she still had the diamond ring. “I know. And I will always appreciate the sacrifice you made to give birth to all five of them.”
“You’re welcome.” She smoothed the denim fabric over her flat stomach, and noticed him watching her. She said briskly, “I think we’re about done, don’t you? I have to get back to the studio.”
“When do you want to schedule photographs with the children? It will have to be in Dallas.”
“Not until Super is over. I guess that depends on whether I get kicked off -- or not.”
Now that they had resolved some of the issues, Michael could afford to be generous. “I think you’ll win.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
Michael watched as she stood and straightened her jacket collar. He handed her a manila envelope.
She flinched. “What’s this?” No doubt she feared it was some legal document.
“A photo you can use.”
She opened it and took out a large 8 by 10 photograph. She was surprised. “This is good.”
“It was taken on their first birthday.”
“Do you have a digital copy?”
He hesitated for a second, knowing that this photo was going to be all over the Internet. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll send it to you.”
She peered at it closely. “I can tell which one is Amelia, obviously, but tell me the rest of them. Who’s who?”
#
Two days later, Michael returned to Dallas. Miss Kate was glad to see them and the kids seemed to be happy to be back in familiar surroundings with familiar toys and books. Michael had wanted to contact Olivia before, but he remembered how she preferred face-to-face communication. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
He walked over to her house and knocked on the back door.
No answer.
He peered through the window, trying to see Watson or Crick.
The house looked empty.
“What are you doing?” a stern female voice demanded.
He turned and saw Mrs. Shuman walking up the driveway with a militant expression.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Claiborne,” the elderly woman said pleasantly as she recognized him. “How are you doing? Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Yes,” he said cautiously. He’d heard the rumors that she was the neighborhood busybody, but other than the time she brought a housewarming gift, he’d never spoken with her.
“We’ve been enjoying some of the news about you and your family,” she said. “I guess things have been exciting lately.”
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to encourage her, but ultimately, he didn’t need to comment, for she continued, “You’re our second celebrity now, after the opera singer. Mr. Jay - I can’t pronounce his name.”
Michael frowned. What was she talking about? He wasn’t a celebrity, his ex-wife was, and even that had calmed down. The birthday picture of the quints was available on the Internet, and it wasn’t getting the attention the initial news had gotten. Everyone who cared seemed to have moved onto the latest scandal -- a judge on a different reality show taking bribes.
“Are you looking for Olivia?” Mrs. Shuman asked.
Maybe she could help him. “Yes.”
“She’s moved,” she announced. “She took a new job.”
Michael felt as if he had been hit by a two by four. “Where?”
“West coast. I think it was Portland.”
“So far away?” he said weakly, then tried to mask his gut-level emotional reaction by adding, “Now she’ll be even farther away from her family.”
How was he going to reach her? Presumably she’d keep the same cell phone number.
Mrs. Shuman interrupted his rapid thoughts. “She never told you?”
“Told me what?”
“Her family’s dead.”
“What?”
“They died in a house fire.”
Michael was stunned. “That’s terrible. When -- recently?” If they’d died while he was gone, he’d never forg--
“No. When she was in college.”
Michael drew his breath in sharply. Suddenly so many things about Olivia made sense: her house full of older furniture, her fear of clothes dryers, her melancholy. “All her family?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
Michael didn’t feel right gossiping about Olivia’s heartache. “Thank you for telling me she moved. I’ll know how to reach her now.” He turned to walk back to his house, deep in thought.
“Are you going to get married?” Mrs. Shuman persisted.
Apparently there were no secrets on this street.
Michael pretended he didn’t hear her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Olivia received a text from Michael while she was working at her new job. I’m sorry. Can we talk?
She was so happy and relieved to hear from him that she almost called him back immediately, but she restrained herself.
She remembered her mother’s advice about not chasing men, and wondered what she should do now. For their entire romantic history, she had been too easy, too convenient. She was the girl next door, for heaven’s sake. All he had to do was walk across her driveway, say, “I like you” and she fell into his arms.
Until
their argument over Mary Ellen, she had never given him a moment’s challenge. And when she disagreed with him, he ignored her for nearly two weeks.
That was not the kind of relationship she wanted.
If he wanted to be back in her life, he was going to have to make an effort.
If he didn’t, he wouldn’t appreciate her.
Also, she was afraid she was setting herself up to be a doormat. She’d been so lonely for so long, that she questioned her judgment. Did Michael love her? Would he treat her as an equal and be there for her? Would he sacrifice for her?
Dear Lord, help me to be wise. You know the desires of my heart.
She waited until evening to respond to his text with her own: Yes. Face-to-face. She sent him her new address.
He responded ten minutes later. I’ll be there Saturday. I love you.
#
Olivia couldn’t sit still. She’d been up since early morning, cleaning her already clean apartment. She curled her hair, then felt that might look like she was trying to impress him, so she washed her hair again and pulled it back in a braid. Then she felt foolish for having a braid that might still be wet when he arrived.
She was worrying too much.
To distract herself, she popped a DVD of Jane Austen’s Emma in her DVD player. She didn’t have a quilt project yet, so she decided to iron her pillowcases. She usually put them on her pillows straight out of the dryer and didn’t worry about wrinkles. Today as she worked, she admired the intricate embroidered needlework done by her grandmother and her mother. They had busy lives, and yet they’d managed to create useful items that now beautified her life. She breathed deep, enjoying the smell of the warm cotton under her steam iron.
She listened as Emma, good intentioned, but clueless, gradually fell in love with Mr. Knightly, her best friend who lived next door.
Jane Austen was always soothing. Somehow in her world, imperfect women found happiness with imperfect men.
There was a knock at the door, so she paused the movie to answer it.