Wild Raspberries

by Connie Chappell

  “Why are you so upset over this?” Beebe asked. “Callie and Arnett will probably never see each other again. You should tell Arnett you understand and forgive her, just go on from here. Consider this a fluke.”

  “This was a blatant reminder that Arnett will not change unless she’s coerced into it. She didn’t need to charge across town, drive through the flowers, and attempt assault and battery.” Callie heard Lizbeth’s bracelets bangle and pictured her animation. “If Arnett was handling things well, she would have expressed herself calmly in your office. She could have politely declined the quilt, explained her reasons, got in her car, and drove home. But she didn’t. This is what I worry about. What if Chad sees something like this? In my opinion, she’s overly influenced by Gary and Stella, her son and sister-in-law. Grandsitting was different with the other grandsons: John was living. Bless him, he had a way with her.”

  Callie smiled at Lizbeth’s expressed affection for Jack. Her words confirmed what Callie suspected was true concerning his abilities and the need to control Arnett.

  “I think you’re trying too hard to change something that will settle down in a week. And if you can’t afford daycare…”

  “I want to improve the situation.”

  “With threats?”

  “With whatever it takes.”

  Conversation stopped, and so did Callie’s breathing. Callie imagined two sets of eyes locked on each other across the dining room table. She heard silverware rattled against china, then Lizbeth broke the silence.

  “Okay,” she acquiesced. “I planned to manipulate the grandsitting situation with Chad to get her into counseling.”

  Callie stiffened. Chad, again.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, you don’t have any control there if you can’t afford daycare. If you threaten to take Chad away and Arnett doesn’t agree to counseling, then you have to run back with your tail between your legs for her free daycare—which I understand is feeling less and less free.” Beebe sighed. “I’m sorry. There’s just no teeth in that plan.”

  From out in the kitchen, a muffled version of the 1812 Overture began to play. The ringtone pushed Callie free of her eavesdropping position and into the doorway.

  Lizbeth quickly slipped off her chair. “That’s my brother. Where’s my purse?”

  “Window seat in the kitchen,” Callie said, pointing and stepping back so Lizbeth could pass. She jogged away.

  Once Callie reclaimed her place at the table, she looked at Beebe inquiringly. “Handful?”

  “She’s not giving me specifics, but she seems fixated on using counseling to win some war with Arnett. She’s worried about family members getting in the way. She sat there and let everything come down on her.”

  “That experience didn’t just happen here.”

  “What?” Beebe expressed surprise.

  “Remember out front when she grabbed Arnett’s arm. She said, ‘No. Not anymore.’ She blurted that out. No pause for thought.”

  “You think subconsciously, Lizbeth’s been building with something before today?”

  “I heard what you told her, but this situation is not the first. And Lizbeth’s right about family influence.”

  Beebe closed one eye. “How long were you listening?”

  Callie’s raised hands said guilty as charged. “This time, Arnett’s actions were heated and spontaneous. But she goes out of her way; she plans. She found out the date Jack was taking a chemo treatment and knew I’d be sitting with him. She came to the hospital with Stella for the sole purpose of picking a fight with me. She grabbed the TV remote off the bed table and made moves to hit me with it. Stella waited until the last minute, then pulled her away. Jack was helpless with tubes in his arm. I was not going to show aggression; I asked her to back off. Then after Jack moved in, she came over with an armload of his clothes.”

  Beebe’s worried frown appeared.

  “It was early one morning. She hung the clothes in the tree.” Callie pointed out the window at the dogwood. “And, I never told you that on the anniversary of his death, she called to harass me. There’d been other calls. In the background, I heard what I’m sure was Stella’s voice of encouragement.”

  “Hmm. Well? So today was not isolated. What about Gary?”

  “I have no details there, but if Lizbeth’s casting a shadow, perhaps it’s justified. Gary never did anything but give me dirty looks.” Callie fiddled with her dinner napkin. “I’m concerned she’s putting Chad in the middle. I will never forget one of the things Jack said when he found out the cancer had returned. He was so sad that he wouldn’t see Chad grow up, that he’d miss that.” Callie remembered Jack’s troubled eyes turned toward her from the deck chair, the way he took her hand and held it tight. “I feel a duty to do something. I should help. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s no one’s fault. This is grief. Dan’s death is not your fault.”

  “The affair was my fault. And I’m worried about Chad.”

  Beebe pulled folded hands up to her mouth and exhaled long and deep. “I guess my first concern is Lizbeth. Helping her helps the boy. I see her letting this fester. She wants to get Arnett into personalized counseling. I’ve got to move quick on that. My hiatus is this week and next. If Gary and Stella are hindrances, then we’ll get away. A hotel, I suppose. No, a state park would be nice. Serene. The bigger ones have lodges, if it’s not too late in the season to get reservations. But that would be an expense for Lizbeth.”

  Callie turned her head toward the room’s bay window. Buttons of light flickered on and off as fireflies danced through the night. She thought how Beebe’s description of her ideal counseling location felt eerily close to sounding like her getaway cabin in the mountains.

  “Wow. You just disappeared from view. Where’d you go?”

  Callie blinked back at Beebe. She answered honestly. “I was thinking about Heatherwood. I leave Saturday.”

  “You made the arrangements. That’s great. I’m pleased.” In the next second, the eeriness Callie experienced showed up on Beebe’s face. She cleared her throat. “Boy, I hate asking this, but could we use the cabin?”

  “Arnett at Heatherwood? I don’t think so.”

  Moonlight

  Lizbeth breezed into the dining room on the heels of Callie’s declaration removing Heatherwood from consideration as a counseling retreat.

  “Heatherwood? What’s that?” Lizbeth asked casually.

  Callie froze. Her second nature took over. She was debating wildly, wondering how best to protect the secret world she and Jack shared in Baron, when Beebe leaped in front, turning the conversation to let Callie breathe.

  “Everything good with Chad?” Beebe’s tone was upbeat.

  “Brushed his teeth without complaint—which he never does for me—hopped in bed on command, and will see me in the morning.” Lizbeth reclaimed her seat. “So, where were we before my brother called?” As soon as the question was out, she stiffened, sensing the dome of strain hovering above the table. Her eyes slid from one woman to the other. “I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”

  She started to get up, but Callie waved a hand. “No. Stay. We’re good.”

  And initially, Callie thought they were.

  Beebe shifted in her seat to face Lizbeth. She thoughtfully tapped a finger to her lips. “Was it Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance that was all about duty, or was it H.M.S. Pinafore?”

  “If memory serves, all of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas are about duty.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What brought that up?” Lizbeth wanted to know.

  “Callie was just talking about duty
.”

  Throughout, Callie’s focus remained pinned to Beebe. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lizbeth’s look of confusion pass from Beebe to her. Beebe’s expression said she was mildly pleased with the covert challenge she’d levied. Callie responded with a stony-faced glare, despite the fact that inside her head, bold music played. Clipped phrases from the operas mentioned sang out. Yes, they struck chords of duty, loyalty to a cause. She wondered, given the circumstances, what would Jack do in this situation, to what lengths would he go for Chad? She thought how Beebe had never given her bad advice in the past. She was tempted to accept Beebe’s challenge, but strong feelings of betrayal to Jack about Heatherwood snatched the temptation away.

  Beebe smiled at Lizbeth. With one finger, she looped several chin-length strands of hair behind an ear. “What if we established some kind of truce with Arnett? Would you be satisfied if she could sit in a room for counseling with Callie—”

  Callie jerked to attention. “Sit in a room with me!” Beebe took her from merely providing the boxing ring to sparring inside the ropes.

  Beebe ignored Callie and went on conversing with Lizbeth. “Would you be satisfied if Arnett could sit there and not reach down Callie’s throat and rip out her heart? Well, maybe she’d want to, but she’d restrain herself. Would you be satisfied with that?”

  While a speechless Callie gaped at Beebe, Lizbeth gave a hapless shrug. “Yes, probably. But what are we talking about?”

  “I think Arnett needs to step up to counseling, show she wants to change, and is hopefully willing to do the work. Counseling gives her tools to use, something to reach back for on difficult days. You’re right, Lizbeth, Chad should not see what we saw in Callie’s front yard. If Jack were here, I’m sure he’d agree, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes.” Lizbeth’s words stumbled out.

  “Arnett could easily be counseled right here, right now, in Cassel,” Callie argued. “You wouldn’t need to wait until Saturday.”

  Beebe shook her head. “No, I definitely want to set up a separation from family members. We need to get Arnett away from those certain Sebrings who might impede our progress. Lizbeth wants to see true change on Arnett’s part. That’s where the quilt comes in, and you. Arnett accepts the quilt—

  Lizbeth interrupted. “Wait. Away where?”

  Beebe didn’t wait. She kept Callie in her crosshairs. “Lizbeth knows progress is made when Arnett accepts the quilt, and you come home without a scratch.”

  “Well, that sentiment is not exactly swaying me,” Callie said on a breath of bitter laughter. “And why would I do this? It feels like there’s a carrot and stick involved in your scenario. Both losing propositions for me. I either get beaten up or eaten.” Callie folded her arms. “Arnett will never agree because—“

  “Oh, I think she will. She’ll work hard to regain Chad. At week’s end, you’re the test, her interaction with you.”

  “And the reason she’ll never agree is, this cabin, Heatherwood,” Callie nodded toward Lizbeth, finally nailing down an answer to her repeated question, “is where Jack and I met for long weekends. Arnett’s bound to remember Jack spent a lot of time designing two West Virginia courses. She’ll never consent if she knows, and she’d have to be told. That’s the first hump. Hump number two: I own Heatherwood. It was a gift from Jack.”

  Lizbeth leaned forward. “This plan, this cabin sounds great. Please, Callie, let me try to convince her.”

  Callie was startled. She just explained why use of the cabin was inappropriate, but Lizbeth forged ahead eagerly.

  “I’ll get her over these humps. It’s quick, I know—” Suddenly, Lizbeth frowned; her face clouded over. Her voice came back burdened. “It’s quick like Dan’s death. Some days, I think the rest of my life will be filled with snap decisions.” She looked up. “I need to have this little bit of confidence restored in Arnett. It feels like I’ve slipped a few rungs today. Then there’s the job uncertainty. I have so much to decide, and I don’t know the possibilities at Heatherwood.” She swallowed. “Please, Callie, would you consider playing a part in this?”

  Beebe followed on the heels of Lizbeth’s appeal. “This can be the way you help, Callie. I’ll be there. You’ll have support. More importantly, you’ll be support. If family members undo a day’s work, then that’s detrimental to our cause. Getting away will set the stage for the best possible outcome, and that’s a good first step.” Her hands rested on the table edge. “I can imagine what Heatherwood means. I recognize the strength it takes just to decide to return, let alone make the trip without Jack. But imagine that Arnett agrees; you and she are there.”

  Beebe, a compelling speaker, caused that very picture to materialize in Callie’s head. It was vivid, despite the shiver prickling her spine.

  “What’s your role?” Beebe continued. “More than a carrot, or a test. You’ll speak for Jack, as Lizbeth will speak for Dan. This dynamic feels vital to me.”

  Callie groaned and sat back in the chair.

  “Their voices shouldn’t be missing from these discussions. Jack’s grandson deserves a grandmother and mother without tension between them. Grief’s a tough battle; you’ve made progress. Arranging to visit Heatherwood is proof. Can we count on your help? Because, Callie, this is something that matters.”

  That last sentence, Callie’s own words, dismantled her stacked defenses.

  . . .

  Callie closed the door behind Beebe and Lizbeth. She switched off the foyer light and switched on the small lamp she burned as a night light. Its blush fell across the corner of the sofa where Jack’s folded quilt lay. The golf course emblems she’d cut from his golf shirts were distinctive. They were stitched alongside other squares so uniquely Jack. He had a love for pockets. All kinds. Worked into the design were hip pockets, flapped pockets, buttoned and snapped pockets, riveted, watch, and cargo pockets.

  Her gaze slid to a small hand-embroidery. Along the edge of the quilt where an artist would sign a painting, Callie stitched two raspberries growing from a curved vine with just-sprouted yellow leaves. Between the two berries, the connecting vine formed a heart. She added this detail to each of her quilts.

  Feeling restless and reminiscent, she wandered out back. The yard was bathed in the champagne glow of moonlight. She smiled at Noodle’s treat tin sitting on the deck rail.

  Whenever Jack witnessed her feeding the setter, he made the same comment, usually spoken from his favorite chair on the deck: “You like spoiling that dog.”

  Studying his tanned face and that wayward curl of sandy hair perpetually pitched forward on his forehead, she offered her standard reply: “One treat a day doesn’t spoil. Besides, you like spoiling me.”

  By then, they’d have linked pinkie fingers. With his unique blend of tease and sincerity, he replied, “None of this would be worth it if I couldn’t spoil you.”

  How many times had she heard those words, brushed back that stray curl? How many times had his loving eyes watched her with intimate familiarity?

  Memories drew her down the deck steps. She crossed the yard to reach the small seventeen-year old arbor. The two wild raspberry bushes that grew hip-high on either side of an arched boardwalk-styled bridge thrived. Their yield earlier that summer was particularly prolific.

  She stepped up onto the bridge and allowed a leafy sprig to rest in her palm. Callie’s love for Jack lived seven years the summer he planted the bushes. They were a touchstone. Hence, her signature on the quilts.

  On her way into the house, she passed his chair. Her hand skimmed the top of the cushion. She paused to crook her little finger.

  . . .

  The next morning, Beebe slipped her wide feet into comfortable pink clogs. Earlier, she pulled on a str
iped shirt and lightweight slacks. On her bed lay the sage-green no-waist dress and matching jacket she intended to wear for her luncheon engagement with Callie at Chesterfield Park. Their plans were made a week ago.

  Beebe’s thoughts traipsed farther back. They arrived at the day she met Callie. Beebe stood looking out the window of her new office at Trydestone Lutheran. She watched the church’s custodian kneeling on the lawn in front of a stone-and-glass monument sign. He was posting her name in white letters with the title: Interim pastor. Out in the street, a SUV slowed. Like Beebe, the driver studied the custodian’s work. Brake lights flashed the driver’s indecision, then the SUV pulled into the church’s lot.

  Misery and grief over Jack’s loss forced Callie inside the church that day. From their one-on-one sessions, a friendship grew. When Beebe didn’t get the nod for full pastorship, she gravitated toward grief counseling.

  “How do you feel about being passed over by the board of deacons?” Callie asked at the time.

  “Honestly, I think those boys were struck with divine inspiration. On high, there must have been a rushed effort to get me the hell out of that church because God was about to recall me as a minister.” Eyes wide, Beebe rattled on. “Like after my ordination, a defect was observed in my spiritual inner workings, like numbers somewhere along the line had been transposed, and I was not the one actually chosen.”

  Callie laughed. “Oh, Beebe, none of that is true. But were you passed over because you’re a woman?”

  Beebe thought her reference to the deacons as “those boys” struck Callie as suspicious. She cocked her hands toward the quite-large chest she thrust out. “Look at these puppies. I’m obviously a woman. Seriously,” she said, “I’d like to think I was given equal consideration.”