Beebe snapped Callie’s trance. “Didn’t misunderstandings like that make it easier for Jack? If he wanted you for his wife, why didn’t he divorce Arnett? Why didn’t you insist?”
Callie spent untold hours in self-analysis, delving into the answer to that question. The truth was, she always had mixed emotions about what divorce would do to their relationship, how it would change things. But change things, it would. That scared her. What if, after the hotly contested divorce, Jack and Callie were only good at the type of relationship they nurtured for so long?
. . .
Up ahead at a break in the trees, Beebe saw a low sign staked to the ground. It read: heatherwood. The professionally carved letters were embedded in a rectangular wood plank and inlaid with goldenrod paint. A vine with the season’s last red raspberry gripped the sign’s top edge. Callie eased the SUV onto a gravel drive that widened to a parking pad.
Once past the initial border of trees, the property opened up. What Beebe saw wiped away the cozy-cabin image she allowed to form in her mind. A magazine spread reporting on tempting vacation spots would print a phrase like “ultrachic backwoods rich” under a picture of Heatherwood. It had been constructed with the same rough-hewn materials as the office. A wraparound porch encased a structure that was ten times larger than expected.
“You’re thinking upscale, aren’t you?” Callie said.
“Higher-end upscale. Almost rambling. Not quite the Ponderosa.” Beebe looked at Callie. “Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Back when Sarah rented the cabins, groups of hunters would come—groups who were ready for all the comforts at the end of the day. When Jack came looking, he was in a rush to find something close to the golf site. This place was. It really worked out. He stayed for months. He had room for an office, and he could spread out and review large topography plans. In fact, Jack named one of the bedrooms the map room.” Callie shifted the SUV into park. “After that, it was home.”
Callie’s and Jack’s home away from home fronted onto a grassy clearing. The lawn rolled out and down to a small dock overlooking the rippling Cheat River. On either side of the yard and across the water, evergreen and deciduous trees created one of nature’s thick privacy fences. Once inside its perimeter, Heatherwood was the perfect place to hide a love affair.
Beebe climbed out of the Santa Fe and met Callie at the front bumper. The Tahoe’s engine shut down. A door slammed, then Arnett’s voice pierced Heatherwood’s stillness.
“John took money away from his family to purchase this place.” She stood in front of Callie.
“He earned the money. He did with it what he pleased. I’m not going to feel guilty, Arnett. You’d lost him long before he met me. If that’s not what’s eating you, it should be.”
“This cabin should have been included in his estate.”
Lizbeth joined them. “You mean, you should have inherited the property. Like you would have ever stayed here.”
Mother-in-law glared at daughter-in-law. “I could have sold it,” Arnett returned. “Or burned it down.”
Beebe knew the next few seconds were given to each woman visualizing identical fiery scenes. “Ladies, let’s stop sniping at each other and get moved in.” Beebe stared at each woman until they felt her gaze and returned it. “Then I have something to say—to all of you.” She hoped her statement carried the deeply ominous sound of an immense Chinese gong.
Having retrieved their suitcases and groceries, Beebe, Lizbeth, and Arnett followed Callie up wooden porch steps. A vase of welcoming zinnias waited on an outside table. A gift from Sarah and Nadia, Beebe thought. Inside, the great room was airy and fresh. Windows sashes were raised, a service gracious condo-living provided.
Beebe took in the great room. It housed living room, fireplace, dining area, and kitchen. A subdued Callie reported the cabin had no landline and no cable or dish. The TV on the stand was merely a receiver for the DVD player. The radio on the kitchen counter worked most of the time.
With that lead-in, Lizbeth whipped out her cell phone. “I don’t have a signal. What if something happens to Chad and I need to be reached?”
“I’ll give you Sarah’s office number in a minute,” Callie responded. “If Debbie calls, either Sarah or Nadia will deliver a message.”
It seemed the only option available, yet Beebe understood Lizbeth was less than satisfied with her lack of outside-world communication. Callie continued the tour, assigning bedrooms as she went. There were four. No sharing, except for bathrooms. The Sebrings were teamed together in the bedrooms and bath closest to the kitchen. Beebe suspected at one time, those were the office and map room.
Beebe and Callie took their things into the rooms near another porch entrance. Beebe could see a hot tub through a screened window. She didn’t want to be around when Arnett learned of that amenity and its implied intimacy for Jack and Callie.
Beebe found her room comfortable in size and adequately furnished. The full-sized bed was spread with a floral coverlet over an eyelet skirt. She pushed a hand against the firm mattress. She stood at the foot of the bed, unpacking, when Callie appeared. She came through an internal door in the back corner. Beebe correctly assumed their rooms adjoined via the bathroom. Callie asked permission to shower before the group gathered for opening remarks. Beebe granted her request, praying she’d emerge with a fresh attitude.
Thirty minutes later, Beebe called everyone to the two honey-and-toast-tweed couches that faced off over an oaken coffee table. A square area rug in spruce green defined the cabin’s living room. Arnett sat on Beebe’s left, Lizbeth and Callie on the opposing couch.
Beebe got directly to business. “What’s not going to work is for any new rules to be spouted out on a whim.”
Lizbeth’s raised hands and lowered eyes acknowledged her guilt when she, rather spontaneously at the depot, required Arnett to ride with Callie.
“If any of you feel the rules should be expanded or relaxed, please come to me first,” Beebe said. “But in my opinion, this week feels too short to spend much time legislating rules anyway. The Golden Rule really ought to suffice as we interact daily. We’re here to be honest with each other, to reach new levels of understanding because there are important decisions to be made.” Beebe looked at the faces around her. “Life is complicated, and while family can make it more complicated, family can also be a huge comfort. We’ve all experienced how loss of family feels.
“Each of you has issues, inroads into this peace summit. Come to me. We’ll consult privately before topics are presented to the others. Once presented, everyone will be given an opportunity to respond.” She lifted a palm. “And I don’t propose immediate responses. We should give our responses due consideration. Let’s caucus twice daily. That may seem a little too sterile, too organized. I guess I’m thinking about my grief groups at home. But since we’ve got each other’s attention every day, all day, we should take advantage of that. Is this all good so far?”
Her audience nodded. Beebe allowed her gaze to linger on Lizbeth. “The tact I took in the parking lot—”
“The song-and-dance routine?”
“Yes, I’m the amateur I proved to be.” Beebe smiled, countering Lizbeth’s heavy delivery. “But that was a version of compromise we all need to embrace if this week is to yield any success. We’ll achieve nothing without compromise.”
Lizbeth stiffened. “You can’t decide compromise. I don’t want compromise. I set the terms. Arnett must comply.”
Arnett exhibited great restraint, only muttering under her breath.
“Ultimately, at week’s end, yes, you decide,” Beebe said. “Chad is your son. Until we get there, my counsel won’t shy away from compromise.” Beebe laced her fingers. “Now that y
ou heard what I have to say, it’s best that we sleep on it. We’ll be better prepared for tomorrow.” Beebe closed one eye in quick thought. “To summarize, matters directly related should not be discussed in groups of two unless I’m one of the participants. This week has got to be managed for a viable, successful outcome. That’s my job. Manager, or facilitator, or moderator, foreman, Indian chief, gypsy fortuneteller—” Beebe stopped as if breathless and smiled. “The title makes very little difference. There’s no point in bringing up volatile issues outside group and without my knowledge.”
“I don’t believe it.” Lizbeth straightened her shoulders. “You’re actually taking Arnett’s side at the outset.”
“No, Lizbeth, I’m not,” Beebe said calmly. “I’m taking a stand for the process. We can’t attack each other. We need to speak rationally—”
“For lack of a better word,” Lizbeth inserted blithely while studying her cuticles, then popped an eye over to Arnett.
Beebe patted Arnett’s leg sympathetically. “I can’t stress enough,” Beebe went on, “that we take time to formulate a response. Ten minutes, thirty, then come back.”
“When you say, it will be presented in group, that means you, you’re the presenter?”
“Yes, I think the initial subject matter should be funneled through me. I’ll introduce it, perhaps limiting the context. I don’t know. But we’ll all have our chance to comment. The discussion cannot escalate to unmanageable, nor to anger. At all cost, we want to steer away from non-productive. We must show respect for each other’s feelings. This is not going to be an easy process. The week will be wearing at best. All of us will feel picked on, our insides gutted, our bodies deboned.” The faces around Beebe grimaced. “Sorry. I can’t help the fishing references. When I get close to lakes or streams, my terminology shifts.”
Lizbeth was not amused, and like a length of Spiderwire snagged on a runaway carp, Beebe could not unhook Lizbeth from her line of sight. Out on the turnpike, while Arnett was learning civility and maturity in Callie’s company, Beebe heard about Lizbeth’s added requirement that Arnett display the quilt. A protracted discussion resulted and prompted Beebe’s preview of caucus procedure. Beebe’s position choked Lizbeth the first time around in the Tahoe, as a fat horse pill would. Beebe knew it gagged her still.
“No one will be forced to respond.” Beebe got back on track. “But I hope we don’t renege on group interaction. This week must involve give and take if we’re going to derive the necessary benefit.”
Arnett cleared her throat. “I’d like to respond.”
Beebe shifted in her seat. “Respond to what I’ve said?”
“Yes. In my opinion—and I feel I must speak for myself; I don’t particularly want to be represented by you,” Arnett said, her hands primly folded in her lap.
Wisely, Beebe let that hot potato fly by in readiness for the salvo lobbed behind it.
“I feel the way I was treated by Lizbeth at the depot was tantamount to bullying. She’s adopted an imperious attitude of late, not to mention her snide remarks.”
“I think a good night’s sleep will allow all of us to come back with fresh attitudes. Lizbeth and I spoke about this in the car. Tomorrow, she will begin anew. Right, Lizbeth?” Lizbeth crossed her heart. “I promise.”
“All well and good,” Arnett said, still haughty, her dark eyes on Beebe, “but can you be critical of Callie when need be? Are you capable of conquering your favoritism there?”
“You have my word, Arnett. I will offer my counsel equally and without favoritism.”
“Then what about this? What about what Callie said in the car?” She raised her eyebrows at Callie, as if telegraphing her thoughts, willing Callie to speak. Lizbeth’s and Beebe’s heads turned. Callie wore a puzzled expression. “Well, I guess if Callie’s not going to mention it, then in all honesty, I will. She wanted to go behind your back, and Lizbeth’s, to set up a pact between us. I, of course, told her no. I just thought you should know she wanted to circumvent the process at the first opportunity we were alone. Typical, really.”
“In the car?” Beebe repeated. “At that point, I hadn’t established any rules.”
“So, you will show favoritism?”
“I don’t know what you want me to do. There were no rules then. The rules are set now. Callie, you understand no two-person conversations from here on, no pacts, nothing?”
“Yes, Beebe, I understand.” To Arnett: “Why would I bring up, now, a nonexistent agreement? And if we’d reached agreement, which was solely in your benefit, I might add—“
“It was not,” Arnett snapped, but Callie talked over her.
“I would certainly have set it aside. You’re crying foul when none was committed. And, you’d better not reopen Jack’s estate and take Heatherwood through the courts.”
“Just watch me.”
“I’ll fight it. Just watch me.”
“Ladies, please.”
“No, Beebe. Because of her, I got dragged into this. I agreed with Lizbeth and you to sit with a bitter—”
Gesturing toward Arnett, Callie struggled with words. Beebe thought she would finish the sentence with “old woman,” which would have set off more sparks, but she didn’t point out their age difference. She placed them on a common battleground.
“—with a bitter enemy for the benefit of a child. An innocent four-year old. Jack’s grandson.” Her voice caught and weakened. “And now I get this from his grandmother. I guess I should have expected it.” Callie shot up. She hurried toward her purse and keys on the table near the front door.
“Callie, wait.”
She ignored Beebe and reached for the door handle. Before Beebe could skirt the coffee table, Arnett jumped up. Lizbeth followed on her heels. They bunched through the screen door. Callie pounded toward the porch steps. “I’ll be back.” Her words effectively stalled those in pursuit.
Arnett, who stood out front, called after her. “You know, I get the act: You’re supposed to be John in all this. This is just what he’d do. You’re playing him perfectly. If I did the least little thing that cantered his precious world, he found an excuse and took off for hours. John was never home.”
Callie spun and came back, eyeball to eyeball with Arnett. “Maybe you’d better think about that. Why do you run everyone away? You know, that’s why we’re here, to keep you,” she poked Arnett’s arm, “from losing Chad.” Callie’s gaze popped over Arnett’s shoulder to Lizbeth and Beebe. “Gotta go,” she said. Her faux chirpiness died off into a solemn summary for Arnett. “It seems most people can only take you in small doses.”
Lizbeth looked from Callie’s retreat to Beebe. “This isn’t fair. She gets to leave. She knows her way around. I want to find a phone,” she whined. “And she didn’t leave the office number.”
Weariness more than maturity, Beebe thought, kept her from stamping a foot.
A half-second later, the tires on Callie’s Santa Fe were spitting the driveway’s crushed stones.
Beebe expelled a long breath. She considered the heated encounter better than a brooding, vengeful silence. After their first trying day together, Beebe would log into her journal that the line of communication was so well-oiled, she would discourage any one of them from attempting a high-wire act. The slightest loss of footing would result in a whistling descent.
Alternately, she wondered about the impact of her orientation. The minute Callie pushed off the couch, Arnett and Lizbeth fell neatly back into character. Arnett revived her criticisms of Jack, and Lizbeth reiterated her desire to phone home. She promised her son they’d talk before bedtime. A mother’s promise was one to be kept. Arnett, too, would benefit from chatting with the child, so Beebe herded them back ins
ide for purses and sweaters.
Acceptance
Strains of Modest Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain wafted through a speaker system Lucius Dameron built into the Bullwhip Road cabin he and Willie Thorne owned. The piece, magnificently performed by Boston Pops Orchestra, was such a favorite, he had the CD player set on repeat. The volume was turned low now. Twenty minutes earlier, he received a call from his beloved. The news Willie shared seemed fated to Lucius. Not to Willie. He was a man not blessed with a morsel of spontaneity.
Willie received an offer from an older couple to buy their house in Cassel, Maryland. The couple simply knocked on the door and asked if Willie was willing to sell. The gentleman caller was wheelchair-bound. Their Maryland home was one story with easy passage from driveway to walkway to a wide front entrance. The layout inside was more of the same. Willie reported the man had no difficulty negotiating the patio doors out to the deck—straight out, straight back in. Lucius recessed the sliding-door track.
Two years ago when Willie and Lucius sat down and planned this phase of their life, August had been the month they planned to list the house. The Bullwhip cabin would be ninety percent done. Lucius looked around. It was currently pushing a strong eighty. By the time the sale was completed, the cabin with its expanded living area would be completed as well.
“Looks like I designed a house for our old-age and didn’t know it. Maybe I should reconsider what I’m doing here.” From his viewpoint, Lucius counted three levels. Three more existed beyond that. Five feet from the front door, the cabin’s floor stepped down to the living and dining rooms. He was currently using that step as a seat.
Willie panicked. “Don’t you dare rip out and start over.”
Lucius smiled at Willie’s reaction. “We shouldn’t disregard the offer out of hand, should we?”
“Where would I live? We’d be getting into a long lease or mortgage.”
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