“Chicago is unmistakable, Lizzie.”
“It’s Chicago.”
“What’s the song? Do you know?”
I listened a bit more intently, then frowned. “‘Will You Still Love Me,’” I answered her.
“Hmmm,” she said. “I’ll pray.” And then we ended our call.
I slipped off the bed, crossed the room, and then closed my bedroom door, attempting in the process not to make too much noise. I returned to the bed, sitting as I had before, and dialed another number. This one with a 225 area code.
“Hello,” my daughter-in-law answered.
“Samantha?”
There was a deep sigh from the other end. “Hi, Mom.”
Well, at least she was still calling me Mom. For a moment I pictured her standing at the kitchen counter—where she always seemed to be, cooking up this recipe or baking that recipe—wearing tall-girl jeans with a basic T-shirt, her long, dark hair scooped up in a ponytail. My daughter-in-law had looked like a Barbie doll in her youth, and she continued to do so even now. “Are you okay?” I asked her.
She began to cry, something I hadn’t expected, though I’m not sure what I thought I was going to get. Seemed to me that a woman who wasn’t happy in her marriage would be glad for the break.
“Oh, Samantha …” I let my voice trail off as my shoulders slumped. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You haven’t. I just … thank you for thinking enough of me to call.”
I sat ramrod straight. “Of course I think a lot of you. Samantha, you’re my daughter-in-law … the mother of my precious grand children.”
“I know,” she whispered through her sobs.
“What can I do, Samantha? Tell me, other than pray, what can I do?”
“Just pray.”
I heard a door open and close from downstairs. Most likely it was Samuel coming in from the patio. “You know I will.” I paused. “Samantha, is there any chance … I mean … I have to ask … you don’t think this is going to end in divorce, do you?”
“What did Tim tell you?” she asked.
I didn’t want to betray my son, but if it would help in any way … “Nothing much, really.” I certainly wasn’t going to get into the part about their sex life, at least not yet. “Dad asked him about counseling but …”
“Tim said no, right? Yeah, I know.” A certain sarcasm filled her voice. “I’ve been saying counseling for months now, and I’ve gotten nowhere. Be sure to let me know if you do.”
“You’ve suggested counseling?”
“Yeah. Wait a minute. What did he tell you?”
“Only that he didn’t want to air his dirty laundry.”
She scoffed at my words. “Oh, is that what he said? Mom, what else did he tell you?”
“That he was home for two weeks to think.”
“Mom, he’s quit his job already, okay? He’s home for more than you’re thinking. He’s—”
Samantha was interrupted when from the background I heard my grandson, six-year-old Brent, saying something to his mother. “No, baby. It’s not Daddy. It’s MeMa. Want to talk with her for a second?”
My heart tore in two and fell to my stomach. Those precious children.
“Hey, MeMa!”
“Well, hello! Did you go to school today?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did some math problems, and guess what?”
“What?”
“I have a wiggly tooth.”
“You do?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Yeah. And my best friend is Trey, and I gotta go now, okay, MeMa? Bye,” he said in one breath.
“Mom?” Samantha was back on the line. “Look, I’ve got to go now too. I can’t talk in front of the kids, but … well, I have a feeling things aren’t being portrayed to you and Dad as they really are. So, you pray … and I’ll call you back soon, okay?”
“Of course.” From beyond the closed door I could hear Samuel’s steady footsteps ascending the stairs.
“And, Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
I heard her choke a bit before she continued. “Don’t say anything about him quitting his job, okay? Just tell Tim I do still love him, okay?”
I slumped again. “But, if you love him—”
“Just tell him, Mom. Good-bye.”
I returned the phone just as Samuel opened our bedroom door then leaned against the door frame. “Who was that?” he asked, frowning.
I gave him a wry smile. Samuel hated it when I talked to others about our personal lives. “Samantha,” I answered quickly. “And from the sound of things, I think you and I need to talk.”
5
Clay’s “one Thing”
Clay suspected most people thought he spent too much time at Higher Grounds Café. But, the truth of the matter was, it was the hotbed of Summit View. Located at the center of Main Street, it offered him plenty of viewing privileges. Not a whole lot went on without Main Street being involved, and he had the best seat in the house.
There was, of course, an unwritten rule about anyone sitting in his chair … at his table. This gave him both the inner and outer observation he needed as an ace reporter. But it also meant he had to keep his eyes opened, his ears alert, and his attention peeled to the things that really mattered.
Being so keenly trained at his job came in handy, especially when he saw Lizzie Prattle driving past the café too early in the day for her to be going home from her job at the high school. But, when he saw what appeared to be her son driving right behind her, he was a little more than intrigued.
What was Tim Prattle doing in Summit View?
He took out his pad and began to jot down a few notes.
“Thanksgiving?”
That was more than a week away.
“Samantha?”
Now there was a hot potato if there ever was one. He remembered the hushed gossip when those two “had” to get married after they’d gone off to college.
Not that he didn’t like Lizzie and her husband, Samuel. They were good people. But sometimes churched people, they could get a little uppity. Like they could do no wrong and no wrong could be done to them. Tim and Samantha’s marriage had put a real kink in that theory … though it was certainly a long time ago. Being a man, Clay didn’t hold anything against Tim.
But, he wondered … maybe Tim had come home because … because he and Samantha were having some problems? Clay sighed. That would mean one more single man back in Summit View. One more contender for Donna’s heart.
“Donna,” he wrote.
Yeah, all things came back to her.
6
Juicy love letters
It was the first time I’d allowed myself to hope that things would get back to normal.
The news that I’d been married before had come as quite a shock to my chubby Swede husband of thirty-five years. But when the son I thought had died at birth arrived in Summit View, the door to my secret past flew open. Stunned by the revelations, Fred had spent the last several weeks brooding in silence.
The atmosphere was tense. After each wordless meal, Fred would slink into the recliner to watch monster truck reruns on cable before retiring to his side of the bed. Then last night, over one of his favorite dishes, upside-down hamburger casserole, he’d said, “Vonnie, this hasn’t been easy for me.”
I suspended my fork in midair, bracing myself for the rebuke he’d surely been rehearsing. Instead, he asked, “Why, Vonnie?”
I put down my fork. “I was young and …”
Fred’s platinum eyebrows arched into his wrinkled brow. Portly and bald or not, he still looked like the handsome man I married. He continued, “No, what I want to know is why didn’t you tell me?”
I twisted the paper napkin in my lap. “I don’t know. Mom said you’d think less of me because Joe was half Mexican. She said that if you thought I’d been with what she called trash, you’d leave me.” I managed to look up. “Was Mom right about you?”
His br
ight blue eyes were intense. “Joe’s heritage has nothing to do with this. The way I see it, you buried a man you loved. Now he’s gone.”
I nodded and replied quietly. “Yes, Joe’s gone.”
He hesitated. “But I’m here, and you love me. Right?”
I leaped from my chair and threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Fred. Of course I love you. I’m sorry I never told you about Joe and the baby, but Mom said—”
He interrupted. “Are you two speaking again?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much to say to her lately,” I admitted, sitting back down in my chair. “I need time.”
Fred reached over and patted my hand. “Be patient, Von. We all do.”
That conversation had been a good start to rebuilding what was left of our broken relationship. That night, for the first time since he’d learned of my past, Fred had pulled me to him to spoon into our favorite sleep position. As I had cuddled in his arms, a feeling of warmth enveloped me. Yes, there was hope.
The morning was getting past me. After my call from Lizzie yesterday afternoon, I’d spent a little more time this morning praying about that son of hers who’d apparently come home to relive his boyhood. My extended prayers had gotten me a bit behind on my morning chores.
As I rose from the dark blue padded chair perched by the side of the bed, an old Sunday school song, “I’ve Got Peace Like a River,” hummed through me. I stopped and pulled up the light yellow bedspread covered in blue roses and tucked it around the pillows. With the nights turning colder, it was time to pull out the pink flannel blanket I kept in the chest at the end of the bed. The chest was topped with one of my many baby dolls, Joe-Joe, who looked so adorable dressed in blue pj’s as he curled into sleep with his hands tucked under his cheeks. “Sorry to disturb you, little one,” I said as I carefully lifted him and moved him to the edge of the bed.
I turned to dig into the wooden chest; the scent of cedar tickled my nose. My hand touched a box buried deep inside. I pulled out the blankets and set them next to the doll, then reached back for the box. Carefully, I pulled it out and stared. Thirty-five years earlier I had scrawled the words feminine napkins across the lid and tucked it into the bottom of my old hope chest. The label had been my only defense from Fred’s prying eyes. It was a ruse that so far had worked well. Even I hadn’t cracked open the box in decades.
My hands trembled. Dare I disturb the past?
I looked at my dog, a king kong bichon, who shadowed my every step. “What do you think, Chucky?” I asked.
Chucky simply wagged his tail and followed me to the living room, where I nestled into my recliner, still caressing the box. I reached up and clicked on the floor lamp that hovered above my chair while Chucky stretched and curled onto his dog blanket.
With trembling fingers, I carefully untied the twine, then lifted the yellowed lid.
My past swam before my watering eyes.
I reached into the box and pulled out two white crocheted baby booties. These were the shoes I had crocheted for baby David. The ones he never wore.
Gently, I placed them on my lap and reached for a large sealed manila envelope simply labeled “J J,” my personal code for “Joseph Jewel.”
I tore it open, and the contents spilled onto my lap. Our gold wedding bands hit the floor and rolled toward Chucky. He raised his sleepy head and blinked.
“Good dog,” I said, reaching to give him a pat as I scooped up my past. The process caused the letters on my lap to slide to the floor. I pulled at the recliner’s side lever and kicked down the leg stand and stood up. Gathering my lost treasures, I took them to the kitchen table, where I carefully arranged the letters into two piles: Joseph’s letters to me and my letters to Joseph, which had somehow been returned to me by the United States Army following Joe’s death before I left L.A.
I pulled out a piece of plain white stationery from an envelope addressed to Mrs. Vonnie Jewel.
Dear Vonnie,
What I would give to be back on our honeymoon at the Boulderado Hotel. I often picture you as you slept entwined in my arms. It’s as if I can still feel your silky, golden hair. I remember how I gently stroked it as I kissed you awake. Your smile invited me to continue the ecstasy of our lovemaking.
I wonder, of the passionate moments we shared, which was the moment that saw the creation of new life, the life of our now hidden child?
I wish I could see you as our baby grows in your womb.
Though I can imagine it.
It is that picture of you, of the two of you, that I carry in my heart as I turn my face to this terrible war.
My love, you are in my every waking thought. Someday Vietnam will be behind us. How I long for the moment where once again we will lie entwined in passion—
The ring of the phone shrilled from the wall. I stood up abruptly, almost knocking down my chair. I reached for the receiver, breathless.
“Hello?”
“Vonnie, is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
I tried to steady my voice. “Donna? Yes, dear. I was just … just carrying a load of laundry up those basement stairs.”
“It sounds as if you’ve been crying.”
My hand reached up to wipe the dampness from my cheeks. “No, dear, just winded is all.”
I looked up at the gold and white clock on my pale yellow kitchen wall. Was it noon already? Fred had promised to come home on his lunch break. I heard an engine and looked past the tumbling stained glass babies that hung in my kitchen window. “It’s Fred!”
“Home for lunch?”
“Yes.” I turned on the oven, then opened the refrigerator and pulled out my leftover upside-down hamburger casserole. When I set the dish next to the oven, I saw Joe’s letters still on the kitchen table. “Oh dear.”
“Sounds like this is a bad time. Let me call you later. I mainly just wanted to confirm that the potluck is next Saturday.”
I stuffed the booties and gold rings into my apron pocket, then swooped up a handful of love letters and stuffed them into the box.
I interrupted. “Yes, dear. Can I call you back?”
“Yes and—”
“Bye now.” I hung up as Fred walked up the front steps and stopped to check the mail in the box outside the front door. I ran to the bedroom and dumped my past into the cedar chest. I slammed the lid shut just as Fred stepped into the bedroom.
“There you are!” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “What’s for lunch?”
I turned and gave him a hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fallen letter lying on the rug in front of the bed. In my mad dash, it must have fluttered from the box.
While still locked in my hug, I slid the letter beneath the bed with my foot.
“Frisky today, are we?” Fred said as he gave me a more serious kiss.
“Not now, dear, I’ve got to put our lunch in the oven.”
He followed me out of the bedroom. I scurried to the kitchen while he walked over to the recliner. “I think I’ll stretch out for a moment and watch the news.”
“Sounds good,” I said as I set the casserole in the oven. “Lunch will be ready in ten minutes.”
“Have you seen the remote?” he asked.
“Try my chair.” I turned to see him stretched out in my recliner, reaching down beneath the cushions. “What’s this?” he asked as he pulled out one of my old letters to Joe.
“Oh, I …” I ran to his side to retrieve the envelope before he could open it.
I was too late. “This is your handwriting, Von.” He began to read aloud, “To my dearest Joe.”
He stopped and looked up at me. I froze but managed to stammer, “Dear, let me take that.” He continued to read.
I felt the baby move today, and I was so filled with joy that I wept. How I love carrying your child.
Life with your family in L.A. has been rich and wonderful. Did you know your mother taught me how to make tamales with little Nina’s help? Oh how that sist
er of yours misses you. But we all miss you, me especially, and especially when I crawl into my bed at night. Sometimes, I bunch up the pillows and pretend you’re next to me, holding me tight.
Oh Joe, I’ve never felt so passionate and alive until you. To remember the sweetness of your touch makes me long to lie with you, to feel the warmth of your strong body, to feel your kisses along my neck, to—
Fred stopped reading. His face registered shock.
“Fred,” I pleaded, “give me the letter.”
As he was too stunned to protest, I easily pulled it from his fingertips.
He looked up at me, his eyes glistening. “How can this be? Vonnie, I was there for you. I was always there. You and I were high school sweethearts, remember? When you went to college, I was at home, waiting for you. I never dreamed you’d found passion in the arms of another man, much less carried his baby.”
“Fred, I … I’m so sorry. I …”
“Suddenly, this seems so real. You were in love with another man.”
I knelt down and reached for Fred’s hand. He pulled it away.
“Vonnie, I thought I knew you. You were the love of my life; I thought I was the love of yours. But now I see, compared to your memories of Joe, I’m only a distant second.”
I stood up and walked back to the kitchen and looked out the window. I turned. “Fred, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you saw that. Yes, I loved Joe. Yes, he was my husband, for three whole days before he left for Vietnam. But as you say, that was the past. Joe is gone. You’ve been my husband for thirty-five years. How can that compare?”
Fred leveled the recliner down and stood up. “After reading those words you wrote, I can see Joe is not gone.”
“But Fred—”
“Joe is still alive and living in your heart. You are in love with another man.”
With that, Fred grabbed the keys to the truck and left. I felt my shoulders quake as I stood at the window, watching his Ford pickup pull out of the driveway. The hope I felt completely vanished, and I gave in to anguish for both my marriage and the husband I had lost.
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