Pulling Home (That Second Chance)

by Campisi, Mary

“He’s just trying to make it easier for you.” Joe blew out a long, thin line of smoke from the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to be smoking.

  “What are we going to do?” Her voice slipped and cracked open. “I don’t think I can get through this again.” The softness of his T-shirt muffled her words. “It’s too much.”

  Joe threw his cigarette on the ground and pulled her close. “I know.”

  “Why did it have to be him?” Pain thrummed in her soul. “He was kind, and good, and oh, God, why did it have to be him?”

  “I don’t know.” He pulled her closer and stroked her hair.

  “I talked to him three days ago. Think of that. Three days ago he was alive. And I was snippy with him because he was cutting his trip short a day to get back for a research project. I told him he never spent extra time here and two times a year was nothing.” She clutched his arm and wiped her face against his sleeve. “I said he had a responsibility to let us know our granddaughter. Oh, Joe, what did I do? How can I live with that?”

  “It’s okay. The boy knew you loved him. We all loved him.”

  “He was the best part of all of us and I never told him that. I never forgave him for marrying her and leaving us and now, it’s too late.”

  ***

  Audra sat in the burgundy cushioned chair positioned discreetly to the left of the coffin, far enough away to remove her from the immediate onslaught of visitors who had come to pay their respects, a steady stream of sound and movement, inching toward her, threatening to suck the air from her lungs, suffocate her with their sympathy. We’re so sorry...to be taken so young...an aneurysm we heard...so sorry...the poor child, Kara, isn’t it?

  Peter had wanted to come and help her through this but she’d told him, no. She owed Christian this much, for everything he’d given her.

  Christian’s Aunt Virginia sat next to her, a frosty white-haired woman with three strands of faux pearls draped around her neck and a clump of tiny ones clipped to her ears. Aunt Virginia was Joe Wheyton’s oldest sister, the matriarch of the Wheyton family, a duty passed on to her with the death of Annabelle, Virginia and Joe’s mother, twelve years before. Aunt Virginia was a retired English teacher who treated her family like her students. If there was a lesson to be learned in any given situation, then the good Lord willing, Miss Virginia Wheyton was going to teach it, not from practical experience, mind you, but from the books she’d read and the ideas she’d formulated from those books on how things should be, how life should be.

  Christian had told Audra all about his Aunt Virginia, how she’d never married, never left Holly Springs except to see Jack receive his medical degree and once, to have a breast biopsy that turned out negative. She still lived in the same house she grew up in, three blocks from St. Peter’s, the parochial school where she’d taught for four decades before retiring seven years ago.

  “No mother should have to see her child in a coffin,” Aunt Virginia whispered none too quietly. “It’s not natural.”

  Audra stared at the edge of the coffin. The golden blond of Christian’s hair spilled out in smooth waves from the crown of his head. Would it still be soft, or had death stripped the texture, drained the shafts and left them stiff and coarse? She hadn’t been able to touch his hair, hadn’t been able to touch him, not in the casket, lying there, so unnatural, eyes closed, hands folded over his stomach. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. Anyone who knew him knew he couldn’t sleep unless he was on his stomach or curled on his side with a pillow partially covering his head. That was Christian sleeping. This straight back, stiff hands folded thing, this was Christian looking uncomfortable, unnatural. Dead.

  “There’s Pastor Richot, nice looking man he is, and a true saint if ever there was one.” Aunt Virginia sighed and nodded toward the man clasping Alice Wheyton’s hand. Tall, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, his features were kind, his demeanor approachable, as befitting a man of faith. “Too bad he’s Lutheran,” she said under her breath. “Even so, Father Benedict could learn a thing or two about humility and suffering from that man.”

  Audra remembered Father Bartholomew Benedict and his insistence that no one stand in the back of the church during Mass. More than once, he’d halted his sermon mid-sentence to summon the offenders by name to a pew. She’d never cared for the man but Grandma Lenore believed a priest stood on the right hand of God, next to good and righteousness.

  “Father will come by soon enough.” Virginia Wheyton grabbed Audra’s hand and stuffed a rosary in the middle of her palm. “Pray for your husband’s parents. They’re the ones who need the prayers, not the dead, their fate is already decided.”

  Why did he have to die? Why did everyone she loved always have to die? Not the dead...not the dead...The woman’s words droned in her head, sucked her back to the childhood she’d fought so hard to overcome...

  Growing up Audra Valentine hadn’t been easy. She’d been conceived in the back seat of a beat-up Chevy and dumped on her arthritic grandmother’s lap while her own mother primped and plied herself with rum and coke, or sometimes, gin, and other men’s flattery. It had all ended badly, with Corrine Valentine overdosing on valium ten days before her thirty-first birthday.

  “Audra? Audra!” Aunt Virginia’s high-pitched voice pierced her brain, pulled her back. “Did you not hear a word I said?”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, pull yourself together and go say hello to your brother-in-law. I know it’s been years since you’ve seen Jack but give him a hug before people start thinking you hate us all.” She lifted a bony finger and pointed. “He’s the good looking one in the doorway. And the woman with him, that’s his future fiancé.”

  Audra had prepared for this moment for days—no years. She knew she would eventually have to face Jack Wheyton again. But why now, when she was weak and vulnerable and in such pain? The truth slid out—nothing short of death would have put her in the same room with him.

  She glanced up and a rush of nausea pounded her stomach. Good grief, she was going to throw up! She sipped tiny gasps of air, easing herself back to normal. She would do this for Christian. Jack Whetyon stood in profile, accepting condolences from an elderly gentleman as the voluptuous brunette Aunt Virginia classified as ‘future fiancé’ clung to his arm.

  “They make a darn good looking couple, don’t they?” Aunt Virginia whispered.

  “Yes,” Audra managed, her gaze saturated with nine years worth of Jack Wheyton. Taller, darker, moodier than his brother, his once shaggy hair was short, his body lean and well-muscled, his clothing GQ expensive. He could make a woman—any woman—look twice.

  He turned and spotted her. Anger and something else—hatred?—flashed across his face when he saw her and then it was gone. Did his step falter a half second before he moved, freezing her with eyes that had once possessed the ability to strip her of all pretense? Audra sucked in rapid breaths, preparing for the rush of air that would escape the second he spoke her name. You can do this. She squeezed the rosary Aunt Virginia had thrust in her hand minutes ago. Do this for Christian. She wet her lips and waited.

  Aunt Virginia wobbled to a standing position, her black orthopedics holding her upright. “Jack, dear boy, come here.” She swooped him against her Heaven Scented bosom and crooned, “Dear sweet boy, what are we going to do now?”

  Chapter 5

  “Time for wedding bells and babies.”—Virginia Wheyton

  Jack hugged his aunt, relieved for the few extra seconds before he had to confront his brother’s wife. When the Heaven Scent threatened to send him into a sneeze attack, he eased from his aunt’s grasp and pecked her cheek. “I know, Aunt Ginny, I know.” Then he straightened and faced her.

  She wasn’t nineteen anymore, that was damn sure. Her breasts filled the pink sweater and he could guess at the tell-tale signs of ample cleavage rimming her bra, despite the absence of a neckline. His eyes were trained in female body parts which had nothing to do with h
is medical expertise. Jack knew women’s bodies, knew how to please them, knew how to drive them wild.

  He’d known how to do both to her. Seven weeks of pure lust. He’d never told a soul about it. Had she? He glanced down which proved another fatal mistake as he caught a glimpse of thigh. Were her legs still strong and toned—like they were when she used to wrap them around his back?

  “Jack,” Aunt Virgina interrupted his less than brotherly thoughts, “this is Audra Valentine.” She paused. “Christian’s wife.”

  There it was, thrown right back in her face. Audra Valentine, the girl from the wrong side of town. In his family’s eyes, she would always be a Valentine first, a Wheyton, second. Jack lifted his gaze and met hers. Huge mistake. Horrible. Disastrous. She still had the most entrancing eyes, like whiskey burning his throat all the way to the lining of his gut. Right now those eyes were staring at him and through him. “Audra.” Somehow he managed to slide her name through his lips without heaving. “I’m very sorry.” Sorry I had to see you again. Sorry I ever touched you in the first place. Sorry I compare every woman I’m with to you.

  “Thank you.”

  The huskiness of her voice sent a thousand jolts of electricity through him. Damn her. Damn him. This was his brother’s wife, for Chrissake. But she’d been Jack’s lover first. Or had she been sleeping with both of them at the same time? That was one torture that never left him. He’d find out before she flew back to California, even if he had to pull every beautiful strand of mahogany hair from her head to do it.

  She brushed her gaze past him with a coolness that surprised him. The old Audra Valentine wouldn’t have been able to dismiss him so easily. But this one pushed him aside as though he were day-old coffee. Christ, it was going to be a long few days.

  “Audra.” Leslie sliced through his thoughts. “Leslie Richot. We never officially met but I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  Jack cleared his throat. And none of it good. You’re the one who stole the man she was going to marry. He knew that’s what Leslie was thinking, knew that’s what the whole room was thinking.

  Audra’s lips pulled at the ends. “I’m sure you have.”

  “Leslie’s Jack’s fiancé.” Aunt Virginia clutched Jack’s hand and squeezed.

  “Aunt Ginny, that’s not exactly correct.” He snatched a glance at Leslie who watched him with open curiosity.

  “Why not? You’ve been seeing this girl for two years, haven’t you? And you’re thirty-five, my boy. Time for wedding bells and babies. No more dilly dallying.” She plumped out her thin lips and nodded. “It’s your duty.”

  Heat crept up Jack’s neck, smothered his cheeks and chin. He was thirty-five years old but right now he felt sixteen. “This really isn’t a good time, Aunt Ginny.”

  “No,” she agreed, yanking out a crumpled tissue and swiping her nose. “It’s not.” She hiccoughed and the tears escaped, streaking her rouged cheeks.

  “Oh, Virginia,” Leslie patted her arm. “I know.” She lowered her voice to a sympathy pitch. “I know.”

  Audra glanced at him one last time before he moved toward the casket. He didn’t want to look at his brother. He’d just faced Christian’s wife and he’d certainly not wanted to do that. But this? He swallowed and cleared his throat. This was his little brother, shrouded in cream silk and roses, his lips an unnatural pink, his skin drenched in pancake makeup. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair and it didn’t matter that Jack was a doctor and knew life and death had nothing to do with right and fair.

  Two days ago he’d stood beside his mother as she stroked Christian’s cold cheek and told him about the cherry pie she’d baked for him and how she’d bought his favorite horseradish cheese at the deli. Jack’s father grew pastier with each recount and by the time his wife started on about the stuffed pork chops she’d planned for Christian’s welcome home dinner, the old man let out a groan and half limped, half ran from the room.

  Jack stood before the casket now but refused to look at his brother’s face. His gaze fell to the hands, clasped together, graceful fingers laced over one another, the gold wedding band glinting love and commitment. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. I’m sorry, Christian. Sorry I ever touched her. Forgive me. God, forgive me.

  ***

  Audra slipped through the side door of Gilcrest Funeral Home and leaned against the white-washed brick building, heaving in gulps of humid air. The summer heat swallowed her with its hot breath making her half wish she’d stayed inside the air conditioned building. But Christian was in there. Her beautiful, dead, husband. And he was in there, too. She’d face hell before she’d spend one extra second in the same room with Jack Wheyton.

  “My heavens, you look like your mother!”

  Audra jumped and swung around. A smallish woman with dark hair stacked six inches high peered back at her from pale, gray eyes. Her lips were painted red, her cheeks a fainter rose which matched the shirtwaist dress hanging from her tiny frame. The dress appeared two sizes too big, and gaped at the neck, as though she’d lost weight. Or borrowed the dress. Audra decided on the latter, judging from the white tennis shoes and ankle socks.

  “You’re Corrine’s daughter,” the woman said. “You look just like her.”

  It was not a compliment to look like the town whore. “I’m her daughter.”

  “I know you are.” The woman’s lips slipped into a wide smile. “Audra Valentine,” she said, nodding her bird’s-nest head.

  “Actually, it’s Audra Wheyton.”

  “’course it is.” She eyed Audra closely. “Damn awful shame about your husband. He was a good boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I always had a soft spot for the other one. He’d make your blood boil up, don’t you think?”

  “No,” she blurted out, and then, “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Personal tastes, I guess.” The woman tapped a mauve-chipped nail against her chin. “Smoke?” She reached into a side pocket and pulled out a pack of Salems.

  “No thanks.”

  The woman tapped out a cigarette, filched a lighter from her other pocket and cupped her hands in a way that reminded Audra of a bird pecking at dinner. She drew a few puffs, blew the smoke in the air and nodded. This went on another thirty seconds or so, puffing, nodding, puffing, nodding.

  “You were a friend of my mother’s?”

  A nod. A puff. Another nod. “You look just like her.” The woman squinted and added, “She used to have the same brown hair, too, before she went and peroxided it like Marilyn Monroe.”

  Before she became the town whore. “I see.”

  “I don’t think so, Audra Valentine. I don’t think you see at all.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think you knew her?”

  “As well as any fifteen year old knows her mother.” Especially a mother who sleeps around with her daughter’s high school history teacher, and the town mayor, and just about any other man with a heartbeat and a jolt of testosterone.

  “I can tell by the way you talk, you don’t know a thing about her. Neither does this despicable town.” Puff. Nod. “Bunch of hypocrites. They destroyed her.”

  “Who are you?” Audra wished she’d listened to Christian’s stories about the town when he returned from Holly Springs each year. There was always gossip, though she’d wanted to hear none of it for fear she’d be part of it.

  “Name’s Doris O’Brien. Corrine and I were best friends.”

  “Doris!”

  “Cy.” Doris O’Brien pressed her thin body against the bricks of Gilcrest Funeral Home as Cyrus Gilcrest slammed out the side door to tower over her.

  “Don’t you think Mrs. Wheyton has enough troubles without you stirring up more?”

  “I was only—”

  “If you’re here to pay respects to Mrs. Wheyton’s husband, do so, and be gone. You know Doc Angelino doesn’t like you roaming the streets.” His voice mellowed as he gripped the woman’s bony shoulder. “Why don’t you go on hom
e now?”

  Doris O’Brien deflated in a blush of mauve and smoke. “I will.” She handed him her half-smoked cigarette stained with red lipstick. When she turned to Audra, her gray eyes misted. “Good-bye, Corrine.”

  Chapter 6

  “Who the heck is Uncle Peter?”—Jack Wheyton

  August Richot had delivered his sermons in the stain-glassed confines of Our Savior Lutheran Church for the past thirty-one years. The oak pews which seated the good pastor’s congregation for the weekly twenty-two minute sermon were scratched and worn. Generations of families flocked to Pastor Richot’s steps to partake in not only the weekly liturgy, but baptisms, marriages, and funerals—a one-stop shop for the faithful. Even the most devout Catholics, like Alice Wheyton, summoned Pastor Richot for counsel, prayer, and good common sense, the latter of which wasn’t always readily available from their own religious leader.

  Holly Springs considered Pastor August Richot a human testimony to the strength of God’s will in unfortunate times. What man but a supremely holy one would care for a young wife afflicted with multiple sclerosis? And then to lose her in his early forties and never so much as glance at another woman? Not that females in Holly Springs and the surrounding communities hadn’t tried tempting his palate with their beef stroganoff dishes and chardonnays. When that failed to entice, they’d resorted to cloying perfumes and low-neck sweaters. Alas, nothing resulted but a pat on the hand and a promise to add their name to Sunday’s worship list.

  The man possessed a communal strength of body and soul, coupled with endless compassion and a desire to help the less fortunate of mind and spirit. In other words, the man was a saint.

  The same could not be said for Bartholomew Benedict who believed in sacrifice and martyrdom. On Sundays, he preached to the congregation of St. Peter’s about the evils of sloth, gluttony, and pride. He’d been pastor of the church for twenty-eight years with a seven year hiatus to St. Eva’s in the Dominican Republic early on, and though it was uncommon for priests to stay in the same parish for so many years, Father Benedict remained, as solid and constant as the statues which still inhabited the old fashioned church.