“Are you angry? A little depressed?”
Beebe closed one lid and eyeballed Callie. “Ah, the student becomes the teacher. You think I’m grieving.”
Fear, anger, and depression were grief’s second-stage hurdles. Callie hadn’t mentioned fear. In truth, that hurdle was handled quickly. Now, anger and depression were behind her.
Beebe scuffed down the short hallway that joined her cozily cluttered living room. She was ready to meet her day—well, ready to meet the coffeemaker anyway. She angled past an occasional table and lamp. Her gaze traveled to the piled desk, and she gathered speed. The telephone console’s red message light winked through a stray sheet of paper tented over the device. A picture of Lizbeth lunged forward in her mind. Had she missed a call while the shower or hair dryer ran?
At the desk, she swept a newspaper renewal notice aside and punched the button that brought the voicemail attendant to life. She recited the date and time associated with one stored message. The call came in last evening before her return from Callie’s.
“Beebe, where are you?” the message began. The voice belonged to Beebe’s long-lost, ex-fiancé Vincent Bostick. “The decision’s been made. The assistant’s job is officially yours. The employment contract will come out of Ron Smith’s office. He’s an attorney and one of my board members. Monday after next is the start date as planned.” Beebe winced and sat down hard in the desk chair. “Call me between twelve and one tomorrow. Other than that, my schedule’s full. Anyway, congratulations. I’m just as happy as you are. Can’t wait to talk.”
By the time Vincent Bostick signed off, Beebe stared openmouthed at the ceiling.
Vincent’s message would have served her well as the conversation-starter needed for the last two months. Her new job would soon have a contract to solidify it, and she’d yet to find the words to tell Callie what Vincent spit out so easily—not as eloquently as Beebe would have liked—but oh so easily. The new job was not in Maryland, but several states away in Michigan.
Until the doo-doo hit the fan and Arnett hightailed it out of her office, Beebe’s “fadeout” plan made good progress. The two Sebring quilts were completed with time to spare. Beebe definitely wanted them delivered before she turned her group sessions over to a new counselor, who would also tend to the delivery of Callie’s next quilt.
The bushwhacking of her fadeout plan took place in Callie’s front yard. Today, her sense of urgency was somewhat calmed by Callie’s reluctant agreement to offer Heatherwood as a counseling retreat. That represented an expedient resolution to her dwindling time frame.
“Less than two weeks,” Beebe said to herself. She lowered her chin and spoke to the desktop cactus in its terra cotta pot. “Maybe I’ll call Callie over, replay the message, and let Vincent spit out the plan. Then I’ll invite Lizbeth and do the same.”
Several seasons back, God came to earth in the form of Vincent Bostick. He rang her doorbell and invited her to come home. He hadn’t meant the heavenly ascent. He meant Larkspur, Michigan, where she was raised.
Beebe gazed back at the tall, kind, scholarly man on her porch that frosty morning with the Maryland sun rising over his shoulder and knew somewhere, a large stone was rolled away from a tomb. Most of the time, his glasses rode on top of his head, easily lost in the beautiful crop of chestnut hair Beebe envied since high school.
Vincent acted as an activities director of sorts for a hospice (slash) bingo hall (slash) homeless shelter (slash) senior center in their one-size-fits-all hometown. He ran the menagerie enthusiastically and pretty much single-handedly. On the other hand, Beebe’s confidence was shaken after her separation from the church. With her spirit-filled bosom drained, she declined his offer, but he hadn’t given up. He pestered her good-naturedly in the weeks that followed. Soon, she was considering the move.
During the tussle in Callie MacCallum’s front yard, something astounding happened. She felt a slow return of faith, an itching at the corners of her soul. It came with a sort of premonition. An odd foreboding might better describe it.
She watched Arnett Sebring raise her hand to slap Callie, and for the first time in months, she prayed. It was reflex, training, shock, definitely a plea for help. She prayed for God’s intervention. But His intervention, she now realized, came when He led her into employment as a grief counselor. God put her in the company of these three women, and with a grief quilt folded into the mix because there was something to learn from this entangled situation.
She went to lie down on her afghan-covered couch, to indulge in some personal analytical exploration. In other words, self-counseling. She gave the requisite fifty minutes. Her head and pillow were propped against one armrest while she focused on her pink clogs laid open in a V on the distant armrest.
When the session ended, Beebe rose to erase Vincent’s recorded message. The symbolic measure meant Beebe would not reveal her relocation plans to Callie nor Lizbeth quite so soon. The dilemma between Arnett and Lizbeth concerning the child must be resolved first. Only when Lizbeth’s future rested on a solid foundation would Beebe share her need to return to Michigan—where she hoped to reconnect with her father.
. . .
Since she agreed to meet Callie shortly after twelve and she abhorred tardiness, especially in herself, Beebe had no choice but to don her Bluetooth and return Vincent’s call from the car. He answered promptly.
“Vincent, hi.” Beebe steered onto country club property and past the sign dating Chesterfield Park’s origins back to 1919. The rolling front lawn was cut by a winding tree-lined entrance road.
“Beebs,” Vincent said in a comfortable way that made her relish old times. “Perfect timing. I just hung up from Ron. He expects to have the employment agreement ready to mail Monday, but he’d rather email it.”
Beebe remembered Ron Smith as the community center’s board member and legal counsel. “Vincent, maybe we should back up a minute.”
“Back up? You mean you’re not taking the job.” Vincent sounded nervous. In her mind, she pictured his rather large Adam’s apple bobbing.
“No, I mean, back up to: Good afternoon, Beebs. How’s your day? Busy, Vincent. How’s yours?”
His laughter warmed her. “Okay, okay,” he said. “It’s just that I’m excited you’re coming home to work in this crazy world of mine. How about you?”
“I was thrilled to get the news.”
“It still seems right?”
“It does. The center’s work. Back home. All good.” A beat passed. “So how’s my father?”
“I sat with Cliff at church Sunday. He’s fine.”
“And you, Vincent. My manners lesson aside, how are you?”
“Much better now that I know you’re coming. Worried a bit. Knowing about your mother, and keeping what I know from Cliff. It’s going to hit him hard when we tell him, but you’ll be here, back in town to stay. That’ll help.”
Clifford Walker, Beebe’s father, stepped into the role of single parent when mother and wife deserted him and his daughter the year Beebe turned sixteen. To support his family, he split his time between the local hardware store and caring for the cemetery on the outskirts of Larkspur. In exchange for his devotion to the latter, his family lived rent-free in the caretaker’s house next door. Beebe knew her father as a steady, hard worker and a good friend to Vincent. She trained herself not to think of her mother at all. Doing so now created a twist of tension, so she was glad when Vincent moved the conversation to smoother waters.
“Can I have Ron email the employment agreement? The board wants your signature before the start date.”
“Hmm. My two weeks off have just filled up with a…counseling emergency.”
“A counseling emergency?”
“Hard to explain, what with confidentiality and all.”
“Still, email ought to work Monday, right?”
“Sure. Go ahead and email it,” Beebe said, giving Vincent the easy response. Monday was too far away and the situation with the three women too jumbled to make a prediction. She would figure out the logistics later.
Peace Summit
Callie sat on the bench near the pro shop. She watched Beebe’s car wind around the oval of evergreen trees, yellow mums, and cardinal red geraniums that shielded the country club’s main entrance from the parking lot. Beebe angled the sedan into a parking space, and Callie went out to meet her. Beebe got out, dropping Bluetooth, ignition key, and cell phone into a sagging leather purse.
“Good news,” Callie said. “The chef has your chicken salad on the menu.”
“Raisins, nuts, and grapes?”
“Raisins, nuts, and grapes.”
“I’d like to give that man a smooch before I leave.”
“I’ll happily lead you to him.”
Beebe’s gaze hung on Callie a split second too long. No doubt she spied the dark circles under Callie’s puffy eyes. Overnight, sleep evaded her. A deep, sorrowful longing for Jack took its place. For hours, the tears flowed.
The two women strolled into the concourse between the pro shop and clubhouse, both built of large, dark rectangular stones. A perpetual breeze lived between the two buildings. It swept up from the course and swirled their hair.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Callie said. “We might as well eat on the terrace.”
The terrace adjoined the club’s dining room. The land’s natural contours placed the terrace on a level above the course. Either inside or out, diners could survey the beauty that was Chesterfield Park.
The women were heading toward the terrace’s outside stairs when a ringing emitted from Beebe’s shoulder bag. She retrieved and answered her phone. “Yes, Lizbeth?”
Callie eagerly listened to Beebe’s truncated conversation.
“No. No, you shouldn’t—we’ll talk—” Beebe rolled her eyes. “Lizbeth—Lizbeth! Go straight to my office. I’ll meet you there. I’m fifteen minutes away.” Ending the call, she turned to Callie. “I’ll have to kiss the chef another day.”
“What happened?”
“Lizbeth’s talk with Arnett was an abysmal failure. I was worried about that. Now, she’s tossed everything over the side. She says she’s going to pack up essentials and move to Florida.”
Callie straightened. “Florida!”
“She apparently has family there.”
“It’s too soon after Dan’s death to make a decision like that.”
“What you and I know has still eluded Lizbeth. She’s got anger issues out the wazoo.” Beebe touched Callie’s arm. “Listen, I’ve got to run.”
“Call me. Let me know.”
“Give it a few hours. I believe I’ll be drilling through one rock-solid head.” With that, Beebe hustled toward the asphalt lot.
Callie watched Beebe’s exodus, then wandered over to the bench, her thoughts awhirl. With Lizbeth’s family counseling idea a failure, the possibility that Callie might travel alone to Heatherwood on Saturday should have brightened her outlook. But damn that Beebe, she planted the notion that Callie could and should speak vicariously for Jack. It surprised her how quickly the concept sprouted roots in her heart.
She let herself drift with memories of Jack. She was a bird with a wounded wing when they dropped the pretense in the shelter of her back yard. He opened his arms. Something in her chest rose and took flight. She walked willingly into his embrace, and their commitment sealed around them.
In the beginning, though, love could not dissuade certain doubt. She looked up one day to find him watching, the difference in their ages heavy on his mind. “When I walk into a room,” he asked, “is it your father that you see?”
Her father? Never her father. There was no comparison. Her father raised a son and left a daughter wanting.
On another occasion, Jack turned a light moment serious with a whisper close to her ear. “There’s no cure for me, you know.”
Before she drew her next breath, she realized it was heartbreak that he feared. He imagined her bolting one day, telling him she simply changed her mind. Left alone, he would never get over loving her. For that, she loved him more.
Another memory welled, and she was bent over his bed, quietly asking for a kiss. Their last kiss. Within hours, he was comatose. Hers were the last eyes he ever saw.
Nearby, car doors closed. Club members and their guests arrived for lunch. Callie realized her face, contorted by grief, was on public display. Jumping up, she fled from the bustling parking lot. She reached the pitted concrete path that curled around to the back of the pro shop and stopped in a patch of shade. Her arms dropped to her sides. Face raised to the overhanging branches of basswood trees, she saw glimpses of blue sky through the leaves. She pulled in long calming breaths. Soon, the song of the birds replaced the rushing in her ears, and she was back in motion.
. . .
A few minutes before two-thirty, Callie stood on the patio between the clubhouse and pro shop, having just closed Chef Gillis Jones’s back kitchen door. She’d eaten a serving of his famous chicken salad at her desk and just returned the dish and fork. Her cell phone rang. She dug the device out of her skirt pocket. The caller was Beebe.
“How’d it go with Lizbeth?” No matter which task Callie attempted to complete during the intervening two hours, each was sabotaged by thoughts of the other three women recently crowded into her life.
“She’s ratcheted up the stakes concerning her mother-in-law and the quilt,” Beebe said, “but I moved her back to the position of peace summit—her name for the West Virginia trip. Despite that, she’s still holding Florida out as her alternative if Arnett is uncooperative. Lizbeth wants things her way. She says she’s tired of Arnett’s heavy-handed rule over the family.”
Considering what Callie knew about the Sebring family, the weight of Arnett’s rule was probably an apt description. “What’s next?” she asked.
“She went to pick up Chad from her brother’s house. She thinks if she lets Arnett stew long enough over Florida, she’ll consent to the peace summit.”
“You think she’s serious about Florida?” Callie wandered slowly alongside the clubhouse, her eyes on the patio’s irregular flagstones.
“I think Lizbeth is exhibiting nothing less than coercion tactics to dethrone her mother-in-law’s heavy-handed rule, to borrow her words.”
Callie pulled to an abrupt stop, surprised by Beebe’s defense of Arnett Oldstone Sebring.
Beebe went on. “Of greater concern is that Lizbeth seems married to both of her tactical strategies: Arnett’s turnaround, and the Florida proposition. She’s completely satisfied to let Arnett decide the next major step in her life. She did build in a delay for professional consultation. But she’s is so damn angry. Mostly with Arnett. After the last few hours, possibly with me.” Beebe’s voice softened. “She hurts, Callie. She won’t let time pass so she can heal. She wants to do something.”
“She’s fighting. That’s good.”
“Some women have been known to roll over and follow their husbands into the grave,” Beebe said matter-of-factly.
“She can’t. She’s got Chad.”
“Exactly. She left Arnett with an ultimatum: She wants Arnett to attend the peace summit. After her abominable behavior yesterday—again, I borrow Lizbeth’s words—she must agree to accept the quilt as an outward expression of true change. Only then will Lizbeth share Chad and allow the Arnett Sebring grandsitting tradition to continue.”
Beebe took a breath. “What do you think?”
Grinning, Callie said, “I’m still hung up on the picture of Arnett stewing and some chant about toil and trouble.”
“A serious answer, please.”
“Sounds like Lizbeth has spread her newly found confidence over a layer of second-stage anger straight out of the grief sufferer’s textbook.”
“Thank you,” Beebe said emphatically. “And by the way, A-plus.” She promised to call if another salvo was launched from either side.
Callie put her phone away and went inside. Chesterfield Park’s pro shop was built in the late nineteen-twenties. Seventeen years ago, Chesterfield’s executive board financed a renovation, more than doubling the building’s footprint. Callie walked under the wide archway that joined the original section with expanded retail space. She cut between tables displaying a new line of wind jackets and proceeded under a second archway that led to a hallway and her office. She stopped short. The weird route her life was taking turned her around. She knew what she needed. She needed a closer connection to Jack.
Back outside, she let herself in the clubhouse’s side door. She traversed the interior concourse until she reached the mouth to an intersecting passage that was just deep enough for light from the main aisle way to bleed off into shadow at Jack’s office door. It wasn’t locked. Hallway light zipped into the room ahead of her, swirling the air inside. She inhaled a reminiscent whiff of Jack’s musky cologne with paralyzing effect.
She wanted to reach for the light switch, but found she couldn’t turn loose of the brass doorknob. She used it as an anchor against a thousand memories rushing past her. She just wanted to stand in the room and absorb him again. She didn’t expect memories to seep in and around all the cracks in her emotions. When the moment weakened, she closed the door and flipped the switch.
The short-weave carpeting that spread to the corners of the roomy office masked Callie’s footsteps. The large topography maps and paintings depicting unnamed golf courses hung on three walls and brought the high ceiling down. Venetian blinds shuttered two windows on the fourth. Beyond the blinds lay a breathtaking eighteen-hole course.
Wild Raspberries Page 4