A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “Today went well, I thought,” he said, peeling off his socks.

  “M-hmm. Did you think it wouldn’t?”

  “Um—no, not really. It’s just—you know—Meredith. Sometimes she hasn’t exactly approved of me, and I wondered how things would go this time.”

  “Oh, she’s over all that nonsense. She’s grown up now.”

  “Ah-h. Glad to hear it. Why d’you reckon she and Dirk don’t have any kids yet—has she said?”

  Trish gave him a raised-eyebrow smile. “She hasn’t, and I’m not asking. Not my business. Merrie’s always been very private about things.”

  “If it’s not your business, it sure as heck isn’t any of mine. I just wondered, because she’s so good with our kids and seems crazy about them.”

  “They adore her, too. I could probably get jealous. If she were around all the time, I’d be constantly upstaged.”

  “If she were always available, she’d probably lose some of her appeal. I mean, it’s one thing to swoop in occasionally and spoil everybody for a few days, but that’d be a hard act to maintain full-time.”

  “I expect that’s true.”

  He got into bed, and Trish sat on her side, rubbing some lotion onto her legs.

  “Did I do okay with your mom and dad? No embarrassing nicknames or anything?”

  Trish turned toward him. “Jimmy, I could have bit my tongue soon as I’d said that to you on the phone. I’m so sorry, honey. I love it when you call me ‘babe,’ and I don’t know why I was worried what my mom would think. I guess I was just a little nervous about how things would go, too—though I don’t know why.”

  He pulled her to him and spoke against her fragrant hair. “Your folks are terrific people. Maybe they’re so wonderful that they seem a little—well, hard to live up to.”

  “They wouldn’t mean to seem that way.”

  “Nope. They wouldn’t. They’re just striving toward perfection like the rest of us—only they’re probably a lot closer than most, and it’s intimidating—at least to galoots like me.”

  “I love galoots like you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who are these galoots? I’ll beat ’em up.”

  “You’re my one and only galoot.”

  “Okay, then. So, does Meredith color her hair, or are her streaks natural?”

  Trish pulled back and looked at him quizzically.

  He shrugged and grinned. “Just wondered. It was something Mary Lynn said, about never asking a lady her real hair color.”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know. She says she plays a lot of golf and tennis, so all that sun could have an effect. She always had the lightest hair of all of us. It was almost like Mallory’s when she was little. She takes after Dad.”

  “Mm. Well, I’m glad you took after your mom that way. I love your shiny dark hair. Wouldn’t trade it.”

  “So not all gentlemen prefer blondes?”

  “I ain’t no gentleman. I’m a galoot. And the only blondes I prefer are my daughters.”

  “I guess I’ll share you with them. But not right now. Let’s get some rest.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  “ . . . and so my needs are great”

  It was Tuesday evening, and the bishop was in his office, as was his custom. He could have opted out this week, he admitted, with Trish’s folks in town, but he told himself that this was a chance for them to visit as a family without the constraining presence of a son- and brother-in-law. They could talk freely about whatever they wanted. They could talk about—well, about him, if they chose. Trish would be loyal and take up for him if need be.

  “So, are you self-centered enough to think you’d be their topic of choice, or just insecure?” he muttered to himself, reaching for the evening’s schedule of appointments prepared by Brother McMillan. Lisa Lou Pope was first. “Bringing dinner” was printed neatly beside her name. Apparently it was Sister Pope’s turn to furnish dinner for the bishopric, and she was sending it along with her daughter, whose follow-up appointment was at 5:30. At 6:15, Brother McMillan had listed Buddy Osborne, a fifteen-year-old who had spent his life bouncing back and forth between his divorced parents and their various relatives. And at 6:45, Rand Rivenbark was scheduled. He had never met Rand, a young man who was just home from his first year at the University of Alabama. At 7:30, Sister Reams had claim on fifteen minutes of his time, and after her, Sister Glenna Darke was listed for a temple recommend interview. There was a break from 8:00 to 8:30, and then he would meet with the Young Women presidency to discuss some concerns about Girls Camp. He sighed. Maybe dinner with the Langham in-laws would have been preferable after all.

  * * *

  “Hello there, Sister Lisa Lou. How’ve you been?”

  “Just fine, Bishop, and Mama says she hopes ya’ll like chicken and rice bake. She fretted over whether to put pine apple and bananas in her cabbage salad or to make it with horseradish and cream like slaw, but she figured that’d go better with fried fish and hushpuppies than chicken, so she did the pineapple.”

  “Um—I’m sure whatever your mother sent will be absolutely delicious. Please tell her we’re very grateful. Don’t know what we brethren would do without the Relief Society to take such good care of us.”

  Lisa Lou flounced a little in her chair, settling herself as if she wore a ruffled dress instead of the jeans and T-shirt that seemed to be regulation uniform for the girls these days as well as the boys. “Well, like Daddy says, reckon ya’ll would just call out for pizza or send out for hamburgers, but Mama said you work hard and need a good home-cooked meal. ’Course, if it was me, I’d rather have the pizza than chicken-rice bake.”

  He chuckled. “I expect my kids would agree with you.”

  She nodded. “Your daughter Tiffani’s getting real cute. All the guys are noticing her.”

  “They are?”

  “When she gets her braces off, she’ll be a hottie.”

  “Hmm—thanks.” He wondered if the orthodontist could be bribed to leave the hardware on for a while—say ten years or so.

  “So okay, Bishop, I tried to do what you said,” Lisa Lou continued. “You know, like you told me to find out about Ricky Smedley and all? So I go up and ask him all about what he wants out of life, and he looks at me funny and he’s all, ‘How come you want to know?’ and of course I can’t say it’s because I like him! I mean, I’d die—so I say it’s for an assignment for church, which it is, right? So then I reckon he thinks we’re going to spotlight him at some youth activity or something, ’cause he makes up some dumb answers, like his fondest dream is to catch the biggest catfish in the river and barbecue it over hot coals and eat it all himself. So then I try to get him to be serious, and I’m like, ‘Where do you want to go on your mission?’ and he goes, ‘Disneyland.’ And I go, ‘Well, what do you want to do for your career?’ and you know what he says? ‘I want to be on the pit crew for a Nascar driver. Maybe Mark Martin.’”

  The bishop nodded. That ambition had occasionally crossed his mind, too. “So you don’t feel he took your questions very seriously?”

  “Oh, please. As if! But you know what, Bishop? It really doesn’t matter, because now I know I wasn’t really in love with Ricky.”

  “Is that right?”

  “He’s just way too immature, and you know they say girls grow up a lot faster than guys, so I figure it’d like take him forever to catch up with me, you know what I mean? So I thought about it, and I decided I should look at guys who are older’n me, because then we’d be more—you know—matched?”

  “Ahh. I see. And have you found an older man?”

  “Well, for a while I had the biggest crush on Elder Kornegay—you know the missionary with the red hair? He’s such a hottie—I mean, he would be, if missionaries could be—but you know how Sister Castleberry goes around whispering real loud, ‘Arm’s length, girls, arm’s length’ any time we try to talk to the missionaries. It’s so embarrassing!”

  Good for Sister Ca
stleberry, he thought, smiling inwardly.

  “So one day, she snuck up and whispered that at us, and he like backed off and cut off our talk we were having, and the next week I heard he’d been transferred. It about broke my heart. The elder who took his place is nowhere near as cute.”

  “It must be hard for you girls to have these fine young men come into the ward and not be able to socialize with them the way you’d like—and probably the way they’d like, too. But we’ve got to realize that this is a dedicated time in their lives—they’re not their own—they belong to the Lord for these two years, and we all need to be supportive of that.”

  She sighed, ducking her head. “I know. That’s why I’m not going to like any more missionaries. Besides, I’ve already started liking someone else.”

  His eyebrows raised. Dare he ask?

  She looked up, and her expression grew beatific but solemn. For some reason, he thought of Joan of Arc.

  “It’s Rand Rivenbark,” she said softly, as if she were uttering a prayer.

  “I haven’t met Rand yet,” he commented. “But as a matter of fact, I’m seeing him later tonight.”

  “Are you? Wow. He’s like totally cool. He’s so . . . noble.”

  “Noble. Really.”

  She nodded. “He’s way intelligent, and mature. And so cool-looking. He really is, in spite of . . . everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Well, you know. His handicap.”

  “Ah.” He wanted to ask what kind of handicap, but somehow felt it unfair to the young man to be discussing his problems with Lisa Lou before even meeting him.

  “Well, Lisa Lou—it—um—seems that you’ve been doing some growing toward maturity, all right. Now, let’s talk for a minute about what you’ve discovered about yourself. What do you see yourself doing two years from now?”

  She closed her eyes. “Getting ready to go to the temple with Rand. Picking out my wedding dress.”

  “And in five years?”

  “Being Rand’s wife. Devoting myself to his care.”

  “Hmm. And in twenty years?”

  “The same. We’ll get old together, reading and listening to music and all the stuff he likes.”

  “What about the things you like?”

  “I’m willing to sacrifice them for him. He’s worth it.”

  “Okay, just for a moment, let’s leave Rand out of the picture, all right? Let’s just say that for some reason you and he decide not to get married. Let’s say it’s five or six years from now and you’re not married to anyone.”

  He almost laughed at the look of horror in her eyes, but controlled himself with an effort. “You’ll be what—twenty-one, twenty-two? What do you see yourself doing then, if you’re not married?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I just . . . can’t imagine it.”

  He clasped his hands on his desk. “Lisa Lou, I’m going to tell you something straight. It’s very important, and I want you to listen carefully, and remember it, all right?”

  She nodded again, looking scared.

  “It’s true that marriage is a wonderful thing, and worth striving for. It’s part of our eternal plan, and necessary for exaltation in the highest degree of the celestial kingdom. But . . . how can I put this? You’re a daughter of God, a real person, all by yourself. You do not need a husband or a boyfriend to make you a real or valid or valuable and happy person. What you do need is to develop yourself into a young lady with her own interests and accomplishments, her own relationship with the Lord, and her own strong testimony of the gospel, so that when you do meet a fine, righteous young man who’s right for you, you’ll have something to bring to the marriage.”

  Warming to his topic, he leaned forward. “You know, in olden days, girls were expected to have a dowry to bring to a marriage—money or property or household goods to make them more attractive as marriage partners, sort of like a business partner. Today, a girl may have a hope chest, or a car, or a few belongings to bring to the marriage, but it’s more important that she have some real preparation to be an interesting companion, a knowledgeable homemaker, a good mother, and a valuable servant in the Lord’s kingdom. A woman needs these things in her own right—she can’t just depend on her husband to know everything and be everything and do everything.” He studied the girl’s face. She looked confused and on the verge of tears. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” he asked gently.

  “I reckon you’re just saying I’m not fit to be a good wife.”

  He sighed. “I think one day you’ll make somebody a fine wife. But certainly right now, I don’t think you are ready to consider marriage—and not just you, but any other young lady your age who I know. I think you’ll meet and be attracted to lots of different young men before you’re ready to settle down—and if you’re careful, you can have a lot of fun along the way and learn a lot about getting along with people. But all I’m saying, Lisa Lou, is don’t try to skip the preparation stage. Be working on you—creating the best Lisa Lou there could possibly be! Learn skills, work hard in school, learn to love and understand the scriptures, be healthy and strong, give service to others whenever you have the chance. Then when the time comes, the guys’ll be beating the door down, because you’ll not only be pretty enough to stop ’em in their tracks, but you’ll have a wonderful dowry to offer, as well.”

  It was her turn to sigh. “Okay. Reckon I’ll try. What do I do first?”

  “Why don’t you look in your Personal Progress book and set some goals with your Young Women leaders? Next time we visit, bring that book with you, and we’ll go over some things together. Okay?”

  She looked dubious, but she agreed, leaving his office considerably more subdued than when she came in. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands, going over their conversation. Had she understood what he’d tried to convey? He prayed that she would be able to comprehend what was needed. She scared him.

  * * *

  The chicken and rice bake was excellent, its delicate flavor putting him in mind of a similar dish of his mother’s that he had loved, growing up. She had always taken it to potluck suppers. He could even picture the blue pottery baking dish she used, and how she would tape waxed paper over it for a cover, because the lid had fallen in their driveway one day and broken. Funny, he thought, how flavors and fragrances can trigger memories so suddenly and strongly. Must be why women like to wear perfume. He set his plate aside, wiped his hands and mouth, took a long swig of ice water from the mug he always brought with him to the office, and went to open the door to Buddy Osborne.

  Buddy, a small, slender boy with dark hair and prominent blue eyes, looked worried.

  “Hi, Buddy. How’re you doing?” he asked, shaking the slim, cold hand and motioning the boy to a chair. He seated himself casually nearby, rather than behind the desk.

  “Fine,” came the inevitable answer. The voice was low—had apparently already changed—and seemed bigger than its owner.

  “What’s been happening? I haven’t seen you around much, since they put me in this position.”

  “Yeah, I been with my mom for the last nine months or so, and she don’t come to church much. She’s got a new, uh, boyfriend, and he likes to go and do other stuff on Sunday.”

  “I see. And they like you to go with them?”

  “Well, no—but I don’t have a ride when I’m over there, and it’s fourteen miles. But now I’m back with my dad for the summer, so I’ll prob’ly come more. He’s okay with me coming, and I can ride my bike.”

  “Got any fun plans for summer?”

  Buddy shrugged. “Deddy wants to go up in the mountains, camp, do some fishing. Stuff like that.”

  “You enjoy that kind of thing?” He tried to remember if Buddy had ever gone on any Scout camp-outs a few years earlier, when he had been assistant Scoutmaster. He didn’t think so.

  Buddy shrugged again. “Not ’specially. S’okay.”

  “What would you rather do?”

 
“What difference does it make?”

  He looked at the boy closely. No, he wasn’t being rude. He truly felt it made no difference what he wanted to do with his summer. Maybe it didn’t.

  “Well, if you had your druthers, what would you like to do?”

  Buddy considered for a long time. “I’d like to see the Southwest, where the Indians lived—Mesa Verde, places like that. Find some petroglyphs. Maybe paint some pictures of places there. See the Painted Desert. Petrified Forest. Stuff like that. I like rocks, and I like to paint.”

  “Do you? That’s really cool. I’d like to see your paintings sometime.”

  Buddy shrugged again. “I don’t really paint much.”

  “What else do you do, in your spare time?”

  “Watch TV. Do stuff on the computer, when I’m at my dad’s. Mom don’t have one.”

  “I see. Man, I’ve gotta tell you, I don’t understand much about computers.”

  Buddy shrugged. “They’re easy.”

  “Well, maybe you can show me how to use mine sometime.”

  “Guess I could.”

  “We’ll plan on it. Let’s see now—you’re a deacon, aren’t you, Buddy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Would you like to be ordained a teacher?”

  “What would I have to do?”

  The bishop leaned forward and outlined the requirements and duties of a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. Buddy considered for a moment.

  “Be okay, I reckon. Long as I can get it done before I go back with my mom, in September.”

  “I believe we can do that, if you’ll come to church and quorum meeting every Sunday you’re in town this summer.”

  Buddy nodded. He didn’t look overly enthusiastic, but his bishop had begun to wonder if anything at all could elicit enthusiasm from this boy. He seemed defeated, even when talking about his desires to paint and visit the Southwest. Perhaps he saw no hope in any avenue of his life. The indifferent shrug that preceded so many of his answers seemed a telltale sign.