Your Dream and Mine

by Susan Kirby

  As she coasted toward sleep, Winny and Pauly tiptoed to mind. Would they still be going with her in the morning to sing with the other children? Uncertain what to expect, Thomasina prayed for God’s guidance and awoke the next morning with bridge mending in mind. Knowing what time Antoinette arrived home from work, she phoned her house early in hopes of catching her before she went to bed. There was no answer.

  Thomasina mixed up a breakfast casserole, dressed for church while it baked, then tried Antoinette’s number again. There was still no answer. The doorbell rang. Thomasina dried her hands on a dish towel, hopes stirring. But it was Ricky, returning her car. She invited him in.

  “Smells good, but I better not,” said Ricky. He scuffed his purple sneakers against the threshold plate. “Trace is waiting over at the house. He seems to think he can make a carpenter out of me.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  Ricky grinned and turned away with his shoulders squared and an eagerness in his step that said just how much he liked the idea of working with Trace.

  Thomasina closed the door and tried Antoinette’s number once more without success. Could she be at her father’s house with the children? She wrapped the sausage-egg casserole and drove past Antoinette’s house first. Her car wasn’t there. Following the paper boy’s directions, she found Antoinette’s father’s house. The widow’s car was parked in front of the modest white bungalow. But her hopes of Antoinette and the children attending church with her were dashed when Winny answered the door. She was still dressed in her pajamas.

  “Thoma!” She stood on tiptoe, eye caught by the foilwrapped baking dish. “Whatcha got?”

  “It’s a welcome-home-from-the-hospital breakfast for your grandpa to share with you,” said Thomasina. “Is your mom here?”

  “Yeah, but she’s asleep,” said Winny. “Pauly, too.”

  “Is your grandpa up?” asked Thomasina.

  “Uh-huh. I’m helping him shave. See?” Winny giggled at the shaving cream on her chin. “You want me to get him?”

  “Maybe I could just set this on the table. You can tell him I hope he’s feeling better.”

  “Who is it, pet?” called a gravely voice.

  “It’s Thomasina, Grandpa. She’s got food.”

  Winny giggled and licked her lips as a thin middle-aged man with shaving cream on his face and a razor in hand came to the door. Thomasina introduced herself and explained she was a friend and neighbor of Antoinette’s.

  “I was sorry to hear of your hospital stay. I didn’t know how else to help except to fix something to eat,” she said.

  Registering surprise, he introduced himself as Dan Orbis. He thanked her for her thoughtfulness as he took the dish and repeated what Winny had said about Antoinette napping. “But I’ll tell her you were here.”

  Thomasina hugged Winny goodbye, and left without mentioning the program. Already she was running late if she was to make it to services in Bloomington. Her enthusiasm for it had dwindled, now that Antoinette and the children weren’t going. Maybe she’d save herself the drive, and attend services here in town instead.

  With the news of Milt’s farm coming up for auction, Trace had changed his mind about turning his latest acquisition into a two-story apartment dwelling. His intent now was to make it weathertight and ready for occupancy. He would have to sell his property in order to be prepared for the auction in November. If he won the bid on the farm, he’d move into Milt and Mary’s house. If he didn’t, he could move into this house until another piece of land came along.

  He and Ricky were up on the roof, nailing on shingles when Thomasina parked in the drive below. He waved as she climbed out of the car. The summer breeze teased the gauzy fabric of her dress, blowing it about her legs.

  “I thought you were going to church in Bloomington,” he called to her from the roof.

  “I thought so, too,” she replied. “But Winny and Pauly weren’t ready, so I decided to come here instead.”

  Trace slipped his hammer into his tool belt and tipped his cap back. “Antoinette still on her high horse, is she?”

  “I didn’t see her,” she said. “She was asleep.”

  “You did your best then, didn’t you?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  But her smile lacked its usual radiance. She took off her sunglasses and folded them into her pocketbook. Even the luster of her eyes seemed dimmed by disappointment.

  “So how are you two coming along with your shingling?” she asked.

  “We’re doing okay. Though we wouldn’t turn away good help, would we, Ricky?” said Trace, trying to chase away the shadows.

  “She’s no help, she don’t like heights,” said Ricky, grinning.

  “She’s ladder shy.” Trace walked to the edge of the roof. “She does just fine once she gets her feet off the ground. Don’t you, Tommy?” He made a U-turn in his banter, diverting her from kids to carriage house kisses with a wiggly eyebrow and a provocative grin.

  A rosy glow swept over Thomasina’s face. She turned toward the sound of organ music floating through the open windows of the church half a block away. “There’s the prelude. I’ve got to go.”

  “What? No doughnuts?” Trace called after her.

  She pivoted and shaded her eyes. “It isn’t my turn.”

  “Must be Ricky’s, then,” said Trace. “

  “Me?” Ricky yelped, and thumped one big purple shoe on the roof. “Nobody said anything to me about doughnuts.”

  “He’s got a lot to learn,” said Trace. He sighed and shook his head. “Pray for him, Tommy.”

  “I always do.” Thomasina’s smile included both of them. But her eyes met and held Trace’s alone before she turned away.

  Trace heard the music change as she disappeared inside. “I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses.” The congregation fondled each word of the old familiar hymn. The words brought to Trace’s mind Mary’s garden, and the flowers in Thomasina’s arms as she went still in the glare of his truck lights a dozen days ago. “Oh the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.”

  Some wordless notion stirred within, beguiling and fragrant like those dew-drenched flowers. Tangled up in it was a pang of sympathy over Thomasina’s disappointment in Antoinette, and her regret on behalf of the children. There was something else, too. He’d glimpsed it in her eyes as she turned away, a silent longing that struck flint and made fire. Passion? If so, it was of a nobler vein. Purified by the same force that sent her scurrying down the walk as if answering a dinner bell.

  Trace unfastened his nail apron and dropped it to the roof. He took off his cap and combed his fingers through his hair.

  Ricky swung around. “Where you going?”

  “To church.”

  “Dressed like that?” asked Ricky.

  Trace looked down at his jeans and chambray shirt and almost changed his mind. But no. The tug was stronger than formalities. It was the lure of Thomasina, and something more. Something that whispered through the song like smoke through a screen. He moved toward the ladder, then turned and looked back at Ricky.

  “She’s a stranger to most everyone in there,” he said as if he needed to justify his actions. “You want to come with me?”

  Ricky hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I guess.”

  In the hush of the opening prayer, Thomasina stirred to see who had joined her in the pew. Her glance began at the floor and traveled from scuffed boots up a stretch of denim to a pair of wide-open blue eyes. The vibrancy in them struck a responsive chord that kicked. She tucked her chin, closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, only to get her elbow bumped.

  “Scoot over,” whispered Trace.

  Thomasina looked up and saw Ricky thumping his foot in the aisle. Before she could slide, he climbed over Trace’s feet, then hers, and sat down on her left.

  “Hi, again,” she whispered.

  “Shh,” said Ricky, and closed his eyes, so pious, she smiled. />
  Trace smiled, too, as if enjoying her reaction. Thomasina thanked God for them both, and tried not to let Trace’s denim-clad leg snug against hers distract her from worship. The hour flew by. With Ricky in tow, they stopped on their way out the door, and shook hands with Pastor O’Conley and his wife.

  “Trace!” cried Deidre, hurrying to overtake them. “I didn’t see you come in.” She cocked her head like a little goldfinch, fanning them all with her smile. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Dee. Nice to be here,” said Trace.

  Reverend and Mrs. O’Conley’s words of greeting were eclipsed by a wave of angst as Thomasina looked from Deidre to Trace and back again while Trace made introductions. Deidre acknowledged her with a girlish grace.

  “You were here last week, weren’t you?” Deidre asked. “And at the soup supper, too, if I’m not mistaken. I’m no good at names, but I remember your face.”

  Deidre reached for Ricky’s hand next. “And you’re Ricky! It’s good to see you again. Bring your buddies with you next time.”

  “She’s nice,” said Ricky a minute later as they ambled beneath a clouding sky toward Trace’s rental house.

  “‘Nice’ has always been Deidre’s long suit,” said Trace.

  Thomasina supposed he was right, and that she was without excuse for letting gossip linking Deidre to Trace influence her attitude. More than gossip, actually. She’d seen them embrace in broad daylight only yards from where they now strolled. Too clearly, she remembered Trace polished and shined to go out with Deidre. And recalled the scent of perfume when he returned that night. It was disquieting. Yet she crowded it out when he reached for her hand and made her heart tip with his smile.

  Trace covered the unshingled portion of his roof before setting off for the air show. Thomasina took along her camera in hopes it wouldn’t rain and her umbrella in case it did. They dropped Ricky off at his home, then drove across town to the airport and wandered the grounds hand in hand, looking over the planes and getting stiff necks, watching the endless aerobatics overhead.

  Trace laughed at Thomasina for covering her eyes when a jet dropped out of the sky like a swallow skimming supper over the meadow, barnstorming the airport’s back lot. She hid them again when a jet-fueled semitractor screamed down the runway, belching flames in a dead heat with a skyborne World War II fighter plane and yet again during a too-real-for-comfort reenactment of a World War I dogfight.

  “You keep hiding your face, and no one’s going to be lieve you’ve been here,” Trace teased.

  “That’s why I brought the camera.” Thomasina snapped a shot of a fleet of jet fighters from a nearby air base going over in formation.

  Later in the afternoon, the heavens provided an unrehearsed show. Thunder rumbled. Heavy clouds rolled in and the wind kicked up. The rains caught Thomasina and Trace on foot midway between the airport and the truck, a good distance away. It was a hard-driven rain. The freshmown field used for overflow parking couldn’t soak up the deluge fast enough. A gust of wind ripped Thomasina’s umbrella away. She stopped so abruptly, the man behind her stepped on the heel of her canvas shoe.

  “Let it go!” cried Trace, grabbing her hand. He took the camera from her and shoved it under his shirt. They raced on to the truck and flung themselves in out of the rain, laughing and shaking the rain from their faces.

  “Trace! Cut that out!” Thomasina squealed as Trace snapped her picture.

  “Finally! Something she’s willing to cut.” Trace surrendered the camera to her outstretched hand, and prodded her muddy foot with the toe of his damp sneaker. “Where’s your shoe?”

  “I tried to tell you!” Thomasina cried as she propped the camera on the dashboard. “I ran right out of it, and you wouldn’t let me go back.”

  “Is that what you were after? I thought you were set on chasing down your inside-out umbrella.”

  “My favorite one, too,” Thomasina lamented.

  “I’ll buy you another one. Cotton or flannel?”

  “Umbrella or shoe?” said Thomasina, confused.

  “No. Shirt,” he said, and reached behind the seat.

  “Oh! Flannel. I apologize for ever doubting you knew what you were doing, using your truck for a dirty clothes hamper.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll get even.”

  Thomasina laughed and leaned forward in the seat to wrap the flannel shirt around her dripping hair. Trace stripped out of his wet shirt and quickly donned a shortsleeved burgundy uniform shirt. He then handed her another one just like it. “I’ll turn my back if you want to change.”

  Thomasina peeked at him from the corner of one eye as she rubbed her hair with the shirt. “You’re a real sport.”

  “Just trying to please.”

  “Yes, but who?”

  Trace chuckled at having turned up the flame on her cheeks. “Do you want to go home? Or shall we wait around and see if they resume the show?”

  “What’ll we miss if we go?”

  “The stealth bomber fly-by.”

  “I’d like to take a picture for Flo and Nathan. There’s a plaque marked Phantom Stealth at the air museum in the desert near their home. But there’s nothing there.”

  “Desert humor.” Trace chuckled. “Are you hungry? We could get a bite to eat while we wait to see if the weather’s going to cooperate.”

  “I could eat. But I don’t think we want to go into a restaurant, looking like this, do we?”

  Trace couldn’t see a thing to complain about when it came to her looks. She looked like a million dollars to him, whether she was fluffed and dried or soaking wet. Keeping that thought to himself, he said, “We’ll get sandwiches to go, and eat in the truck while we wait.”

  It was a short drive to a nearby fast-food restaurant. The rain had stopped by the time they arrived. Thomasina took a dry uniform shirt Trace had provided and ducked into the rest room, leaving him to order the sandwiches. She styled her hair in a single braid, tied it with a piece of twine from Trace’s glove box, and dried her polyester shorts beneath the hot air hand dryer. Her T-shirt, a royal blue one, was made of a more absorbent knit and would take too long to dry. She slipped out of it and into Trace’s shirt.

  Trace was waiting with the food. Thomasina helped him with the drinks as they returned to the truck. According to the local radio station, the stealth was still scheduled to make an east-to-west fly-by within the hour.

  “We could get a pretty good look from the mall parking lot without fighting the air-show traffic,” said Trace. “What do you think?”

  Dry and comfortable and reluctant to see the date end, Thomasina agreed with the plan. Trace drove to the mall just east of the airport and parked on the outskirts. They made short work of the sandwiches, fries and milkshakes, and talked while they waited for the plane to fly over. Thomasina learned that Trace’s family had camped out in nearly all the national parks in the country one time or another.

  “My dad spent forty-eight weeks of the year behind a counter, cutting meat. But every summer, we packed up the camper and spent the remaining four visiting seashores, deserts, mountains—you name it.”

  Thomasina smiled at his memories. “Those were good times?”

  “You bet. Get him outdoors, and Dad was a different man. He could take lost matches, rain-soaked bedding, charred potatoes—just about anything without growling.” A grin shaped Trace’s mouth. “I remember one time we hiked down into the Grand Canyon to camp overnight. Tootsie ran down the flashlight batteries reading scary stories. In the wee hours, nature called. She wasn’t gone more than a minute or two when here she came screaming back, so scared she couldn’t find the tent flap. She collapsed the whole works trying to outrun a sheet caught in a tree.”

  “Of course you weren’t frightened at all,” inserted Thomasina.

  “Who do you think was under the. sheet?”

  Thomasina laughed. “Poor Tootsie. You’re awful.”

  “So what’re you doing here?” he asked with
a crooked grin.

  “I’d leave, but it’s a long walk home on one shoe,” she quipped.

  Trace punched up the radio volume as their easy laughter gave way to a companionable silence. He leaned back in the seat, hands resting on the steering wheel. His lashes came down, a gold-tipped fringe curling toward the cinnamon toast ridge of his cheeks.

  Thomasina mulled the seed from which his dream had sprung to the harmony of wiper blades and pattering rain and a love song playing on the radio. The words were so tender and selfless and honest, it took her breath away when Trace’s eyes sought hers. As the fading strains whispered between them, the thought of Milt’s farm surfaced like a cloud skipping over the skies of contentment. What if she outbid him? Could their budding feelings for one another survive?

  Softly she asked, “What’ll you do if you don’t get it?”

  “Get what?” he asked.

  “The farm.”

  He shrugged. “It’s too early to worry.”

  Or too late.

  “I am, though,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

  “Upset? Over what?”

  “The bidding,” said Thomasina.

  “Why would I be unless…?” Trace chuckled as if it were cute of her to think she might actually outbid him. “The shirt off my back is one thing, Tommy. But Milt’s farm? You’ll have to fight me for that.”

  She flushed, his dry wit hitting a nerve. Or was it just his way of warning her off the subject? She looked into his eyes for verification. It was like reaching for a step that wasn’t there. He didn’t know. How could he not? She had told him plainly. With planes droning overhead. She froze. Could he have missed the most critical part of last night’s explanation?

  “Thomasina?” His tone flared like a match in a dark room. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m bidding on the farm, too.” She pushed the words out before courage failed.

  “Milt’s farm?” Trace gaped at her from the other side of the seat. “You’re serious? But what could you possibly want with it? Unless…the camp!” He answered his own question. The windows of his soul flew down with a bang, clarifying where it was that she stood in his list of priorities.