Wild Raspberries

by Connie Chappell

  Wild Raspberries

  Connie Chappell

  Copyright Connie Chappell 2016

  Published by Black Rose Writing

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  © 2016 by Connie Chappell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  Second digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-512-3

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  For Dick and his enduring love...

  If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Acknowledgements

  Writing quietly entered my life eight years ago. The process of writing is such a unique and fascinating metamorphosis that it takes friends with similar qualities to support a writer.

  LaDonna Lowe’s highly tuned insight guided me toward nearby Antioch Writers’ Workshop. She pointed me toward building blocks. Of course, she did.

  Both mysteriously and miraculously, Robin Wilson reentered my life. This warm and humorous fellow writer waited in the workshop’s meeting room to receive me. Her encouragement never wavered.

  Angela Ward, talented and creative, actually tricked me into producing short videos for the government-access channel. And don’t you know, imagining a scene playing out on video enhanced that same concept when I put the words together that bring characters to life.

  Then the whirlwind that is Kathie Giorgio bolted forward with the full force of AllWriters’ Workplace and Workshop behind her. She added challenge and unyielding belief.

  I must not forget one more fine and worthy friend. Writing is my friend. We are inseparable.

  My thanks to all of you for everything.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Unraveled

  No Small Measure

  Moonlight

  Peace Summit

  Conflicting Opinions

  Image of Someone Else

  Honesty Pledge

  Hum of Paradise

  Meddler Extraordinaire

  Ground Rules

  Acceptance

  Secrets and Lies

  Family Connections

  A Woman Such As You

  Life Dreams

  Gospel of Jack

  Old Promises

  Peacekeeper

  Hollowed-Out Dream

  Face in the Window

  Storm

  Tiny Twist of Truth

  Ragged Shreds

  The Godfrey’s Caper

  Al Fresco

  Final Caucus

  One Black Glove and A White Lace Hanky

  Black Rose Writing 20% off Coupon

  Unraveled

  Callie MacCallum looked up a split second before a black sedan, careening out of control, plowed through her street-side flowerbed. The front radial squashed daylilies flat and the bumper mowed plumed prairie grass down before the car stopped. A woman jumped out. She left the door open and the car running. It was Arnett Oldstone Sebring. When Jack Sebring, Callie’s lover for twenty-two years, died eighteen months ago, it seemed reasonable to assume Callie was done with his wife. But she was there, red-faced, and charging across her front lawn. Instinctively, Callie tightened her grip on the banded newspaper she stepped out of the house to retrieve.

  “Hey! What is this?” She thrust a fistful of quilt forward. “More handiwork from the Scottish Tart?”

  Clearly, nothing about the older woman changed. Arnett hadn’t missed the driveway; she never intended to use it. This was not the time to admit it, but Callie found Arnett’s nickname for her clever and amusing. In a combo title, Arnett referred to Callie and Jack as the Tart and Tartan.

  “First, you ruin my marriage,” Arnett said. The curls arranged in her coarse gray hair shook with her voice. “Now, your fingerprints are all over my son’s death. Why can’t you stay the hell out of my life?”

  “Dan? Those were Dan’s clothes?” Callie was the quilt maker; no point in denying that. The quilt Arnett held was one of a pair, actually. Her revelation meant the clothing used to complete both belonged to Dan Sebring, Jack’s younger son.

  Weeks ago, Callie cut squares from half a dozen Hawaiian shirts, a stained football jersey, and a collection of worn jeans where the color supplied came from paint splatter. The squares were patched into a simple quilt pattern of six rows with six squares each. Its size would cover lap and legs. All of Callie’s quilts were sewed anonymously for those who grieved the loss of a loved one; each was constructed from clothes the dear departed wore in life.

  Callie’s first quilt was sewed with Jack’s clothes. Tears and pain competed fiercely with each other when she lost him to cancer; the pain went far beyond anything tears could ever hope to drown out. Callie was a golf professional by trade, not a quilter, but quilting supplied purpose to her life and got her through sleepless nights.

  The incredulity Callie showed Arnett was genuine. She would not have recognized Dan’s clothing. Jack’s last three years were lived in Callie’s house, but his two sons never accepted her in their father’s life. The seething woman in the beige pantsuit hadn’t allowed it. Three months ago, Callie was shocked to read Dan Sebring’s obituary. Had Jack been living, his son’s death would have destroyed him.

  “Honest, Arnett,” Callie said, her tone sympathetic, “I didn’t know.”

  “Honest,” Arnett repeated haughtily. “That’s a laugh.”

  “How did you figure out I was the quilter?” Callie said, suddenly baffled.

  Her new friend, Beebe Walker, worked as a grief counselor and was the motivation behind the therapeutic quilting. She and Beebe formulated a plan to maintain the privacy practiced in Beebe’s counseling classes. Beebe reached out to certain class members with the idea of a quilt, but never mentioned Callie’s name as quilt maker. This plan collapsed rather soundly in the hour since Beebe picked up the twin quilts for delivery.

  “The pictures. The pictures in that album Lizbeth’s counselor showed me.” Arnett drew herself up to full height, a fearsome five-three. “I know my husband’s clothing when I see it.”

  Callie’s memory flashed on the day Beebe came to the house with her camera. Just as Arnett described, Beebe wanted photographs depicting the detail sewn into Jack’s quilt for the purpose of showing future prospects.

  Out on the street, Arnett’s trailing entourage arrived. Callie closed her eyes, trying to blot out the sight of Beebe’s car pulling to a quick stop behind a silver Tahoe. Callie never confessed that the man she lived with
and told Beebe stories about, the man she loved so completely, never divorced his wife.

  What did it matter that her lost love was someone else’s husband? What mattered was that Beebe realized the quality of Callie’s love for Jack was equal to the depth of her grief. Now Callie feared the belated truth would ruin their friendship.

  Lizbeth Sebring stepped out of the SUV and jogged across the drive. The tall brunette was Dan’s widow. Behind her, Beebe sidled up to Arnett’s car, turned off the engine, and closed the door. Beebe was forty-six to Callie’s forty-four, brunette to Callie’s blonde, brown-eyed to Callie’s blue, and rather doughy compared to Callie’s streamlined build.

  “Arnett,” Lizbeth breathed through clenched teeth when she was close enough. “What’s wrong with you, coming over here like this?”

  “Why do you even need to ask that?” Arnett said accusingly, then a thought registered on her face. “You were in on this, you and that woman!” She pointed in the general direction of an approaching Beebe.

  Callie’s moment of confusion cleared when she remembered a tidbit of information Beebe shared when she placed the twin quilt order: The dear departed’s widow attended sessions; his mother adamantly declined.

  “I didn’t know Callie would sew the quilts,” Lizbeth complained. “I didn’t know Beebe even knew her. I didn’t know any of it until I looked at the album to see what caused you to race out of Beebe’s office. I was just trying to do something nice. I thought you’d appreciate a quilt when I saw the finished one Beebe showed during class. I never saw that album.”

  Despite her daughter-in-law’s denial, Arnett shook her head. “Makes no difference. I will not have this thing in my house. I never want to see it again.” Arnett winged the quilt at Lizbeth.

  Callie watched Lizbeth fumble it. The quilt’s bottom corner, where Callie’s hand-embroidered raspberry logo was stitched, nearly scraped the ground.

  “Lizbeth? Callie?” Beebe said, squinting up at them. “I don’t understand.”

  Callie’s face was hot when she and Beebe finally made eye contact. A scathing exposure of Callie’s carefully tended secrets came next.

  “Let me explain it to you,” Arnett said to Beebe. “This woman and my husband screwed around for nineteen years before they screwed up and I kicked John out.”

  “Callie and John?” Beebe said, emphasizing the man’s name.

  “The son-of-a-bitch who was John to me was Jack to her.” To Callie, Arnett said, “I’ve dreamed of this opportunity a long time. It’s the minimum you deserve.”

  Lizbeth, quick and agile, caught Arnett’s hand before it struck Callie’s cheek and, in one motion, whirled her mother-in-law around to face her. “No. Not anymore.” Lizbeth drilled the words.

  Her grip surely hurt Arnett’s arm, but neither woman broke off her glare. Finally, Arnett pushed the taller woman back with her captured arm, then twisted it free. Lips pressed tight, she turned on her heel. The other three women watched as she shifted the sedan into reverse. With dirt and sod flying, she whipped the car around and gunned it up the street.

  After Arnett disappeared from view, Lizbeth sighed audibly. “I’m so sorry about this, Callie, but I need to go after her. We’ve got to talk.”

  Beebe touched her arm. “Should I go with you?”

  Lizbeth shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll handle it, and fill you in tomorrow.” She strode purposefully away, folding the quilt as she went.

  Before Lizbeth reached her vehicle, Callie turned her back, eager to escape the public arena. From a shady garage across the street, three neighborhood men seated in lawn chairs stared, transfixed.

  Inside, she stopped short. Two paper grocery bags greeted her. They were stuffed with articles of clothing for her next quilt. Beebe dropped them off earlier when she collected the Sebring quilts. Callie tossed the newspaper on the foyer table, wound past the staircase, and ducked through the first doorway.

  She was leaning against the dining room table, her palms flat on the floral cloth that covered it, reliving the nightmare, when she heard Beebe’s shuffle stop behind her. She imagined the look of betrayal etched into Beebe’s face.

  At long last, Beebe’s voice invaded the silence. “That was an ugly scene. Are you all right?”

  Shoulders hunched, Callie nodded.

  The quiet swelled and was again punctured by Beebe. “Are we going to talk, or do you want me to leave?”

  Callie folded her arms as if to ward off a chill. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I bet not.”

  Callie never heard Beebe speak in this superior tone. She spun, her arms falling to her sides, her blue eyes latching onto the other woman. The rationale behind her deception spewed from her mouth. “I couldn’t tell you, Beebe. I couldn’t. No one would want to hear my story about Jack if they knew he was married, and not to me. If I told that, who would want to help? I was hurting when I came to you. I still am. But I’m not asking for forgiveness. I loved him. Jack and I protected that part of our lives. After he moved in with me, sure, people knew. They saw us together. But after he died, my instinct switched over to protection mode again. That’s where I am,” Callie said, patting her heart. “That’s where I’ll always be.”

  Beebe listened without releasing a glimmer of understanding, then her eyes narrowed. “How could you do that?”

  Callie looked away under the weight of Beebe’s condemnation.

  Beebe moved a step closer. “No,” she said. “Not how, on a moral level? How, on a survival level? What a deep love. Where did you find that kind of strength?”

  The question surprised Callie. She stumbled around for an answer. “In Jack, I guess. In loving Jack.”

  Beebe’s head shook the response away. “That kind of strength doesn’t come from another person. I’m a bit envious of that quality in you, of its sheer concentration.”

  Callie absorbed Beebe’s comment while her friend moved closer still.

  “Let’s go talk about Jack. I’d like to hear how he came into your life, again.” Beebe winked. “Now that I know the full story.”

  Beebe’s unflagging insight spoke to Callie’s needs at this moment. The string that unraveled her secret about Jack now dangled. Another jerk, and it would be free.

  . . .

  Callie’s twenty-four year love affair with Jack Sebring mimicked a three-act play. She and Jack successfully hid their affair for nineteen years; they lived together for three after he was diagnosed and while his illness progressed; during the last eighteen months, Callie coped with his death.

  The two women filed through Callie’s kitchen to the rear deck of her Cassel, Maryland, home. By late afternoon, the deck with its oval table and four cushioned chairs stood in solid shade created by the two-story house. Her secluded patch of yard was wedged between an unattached garage, its opposing raspberry arbor, and the woods that separated her home from Chesterfield Park Country Club. She worked at the club, managing the pro shop and hiring out for golf lessons.

  Jack also kept an office at Chesterfield. He was the consummate overachiever, completely at home with larger-than-life projects. He poured his talent and creativity into golf course design.

  Beebe pulled the nearest chair away from the glass-topped table, then angled it for a view of the wooded border. She brushed a brittle leaf from the cushion and sat.

  Callie looked up to the wide August sky where birds chased sunshine and shadows, then walked to the wooden banister where Noodle’s treat tin sat on the flat top rail. Noodle, her neighbor’s English setter, routinely begged biscuits. In a cedar at the woods’ edge, she watched a pair of bluebirds hop from branch to branch in a follow-the-leader game. Next to the cedar, a wide path ente
red the woods. Her golf cart was parked behind the garage, only its rear bumper visible. Callie’s mode of transport to and from the country club was a winding cart ride through the woods.

  Many said Callie was born to golf. Her greatest weapon was an assurance form-fitted to her skill. Out on the links, her focus closed around the shape of the fairway and the slope of the green. Yet it had been so easy to lay her life open to Jack: A glance said he read her thoughts; his touch absorbed her feelings. Every day, she ached to feel him touching her again.

  Callie turned around when Beebe jump-started the story.

  “I remember you met Jack during your junior year at Duke when you came home to play in a golf tournament.” Beebe crossed her legs. “April, right?”

  “Good memory, Beebe. It was the club’s charity tournament. In the two prior classics, Mark and I were partners.” Callie said, speaking of her older brother and propping a hip on the railing. “But that year, I pulled into the driveway to another surprise. This house was posted for sale.”

  “This house?” A surprised Beebe pointed a finger toward the decking. “Another detail I didn’t know. You lived here as a child?”

  Callie nodded. “This was my parents’ house. Mark was being transferred. I got that news in January. His house over in Bremerton sold, so his company moved everything up. When I arrived home, Mark, Cheryl, and the kids were gone. My parents decided to follow Mark later that summer.”

  “I forget. Where did Mark move?”

  “Macon.”

  “That’s right. Then club officials substituted Jack.”

  Callie nodded. At the time, Mark told the former golf pro, Bill Franks, about his change in plans, but she always suspected Bill asked Mark not to tell her. Bill didn’t want her to back out. She was the draw for the event. Having more members coming out meant more money pledged for the children’s home. The club’s roster of members knew she owned quite a few wins in junior tournaments and was ranked first at Duke. Around town, she was considered Chesterfield’s protégé.