That Certain Summer: A Novel

by Irene Hannon

  Val squinted at her. “Why do I have a feeling you were the one who made the sacrifices to keep your home life as normal as possible?”

  “Because you have great instincts?”

  Val lifted her cup in mock salute. “All accolades graciously accepted.”

  “That wasn’t an empty compliment. You nailed it.” Karen stared down into her cup. Why not spill it all? Who knew what Margaret had passed on already, anyway—and what sort of spin she’d put on it? This way she could give Val her side of the sordid mess. “Things hadn’t been good between us for quite a while. I knew Michael was restless and unhappy, but I couldn’t understand why. I thought I was the model wife. I deferred to his opinions. I didn’t take offense at his condescending manner or bad moods. I overlooked his patronizing attitude about my faith.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “I guess I thought acquiescence was the secret to winning his approval—and his love. I made that mistake with Mom too. In the end, though, people lose respect for doormats. Even Kristen noticed. She says I let them both walk all over me.”

  “You can change that.”

  “What’s that cliché about an old dog?”

  “You aren’t old.”

  “I am next to Stephanie.”

  “No.” Val touched Karen’s hand as if to emphasize her point. “You’re mature, not old. And don’t ever forget that. Besides, it’s not as if you want Michael back.”

  Karen dropped her gaze and busied herself wiping up the messy drips from her caramel latte. This was getting sticky—both the drink and the conversation.

  Maybe Val would move on.

  Narrowing her eyes, her sister leaned forward. “You don’t, do you?”

  So much for that hope.

  Taking a deep breath, she wadded the napkin into a tight ball. “Not for myself. But Kristen misses him so much, and I want her to be happy. If he’s breaking up with Stephanie, maybe . . .”

  Val gripped Karen’s hand. Hard. “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Making decisions to please someone else.”

  “But I love Kristen, and she’s been miserable since Michael and I split. It breaks my heart to see her this unhappy.”

  “And breaking yours will fix everything? Don’t be a martyr, Karen. Not for this cause. Kristen is old enough to understand that sometimes it’s better if two people don’t stay together. Have you talked to her about the problems you and Michael had?”

  “No. I thought she was too young at the time.”

  “She’s not anymore.”

  “She’ll think anything negative I say is sour grapes.”

  “That might be true at first, but she’ll come to recognize the truth. Taking Michael back won’t make you happy, and Kristen is older now. She’ll see through the pretense. You won’t be doing anyone any favors in the end.”

  Her sister’s reasoning was sound—and on a rational level she accepted it. But when it came to Kristen’s happiness, her heart usually trumped logic.

  “Karen?”

  At Val’s prompt, she dropped the wadded-up napkin onto the table. “I guess you’re right.”

  Once more, Val squeezed her fingers. “Promise me one thing. Before you make any rash decisions, call and we’ll have coffee.”

  “I’m not going to do anything rash.”

  “Promise.”

  The passion in her sister’s voice, and the concern etched in her features, tightened Karen’s throat. Strange. After years of hardly speaking, years when Val had been more stranger than sister, they were finally beginning to connect—all because of a stroke.

  The old adage was true—God often worked in mysterious ways.

  “Okay.” The word came out scratchy.

  “Good.” Val glanced at her watch. “Now we’d better rescue that chicken or it will cook in the car.” She took the last swallow of her latte and started to rise.

  On impulse, Karen reached out and laid her hand on her sister’s arm. “For the record, Val—I’m glad you came home.”

  “Of course you are. I saved you from the dragon lady.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Val’s wry smile softened. “I know. I feel the same way.” She hesitated, but only for a moment. “And since we’re in true-confessions mode today, I want you to know I appreciate how you’ve dealt with all the Mom-related issues through the years. I know it wasn’t fair to dump all that on you, but I couldn’t stay here—for a lot of reasons.”

  Such as?

  The unspoken question hung between them—but instead of answering it, her sister rose, gathered up their cups and napkins, and crossed to the trash can near the door.

  As she followed more slowly, Karen considered Val’s comment. Had there been more to her reasons for abdicating family responsibilities than mere selfishness, after all? Was it possible Val’s motives for leaving were less career-related than she’d always thought?

  Val wasn’t going to answer those questions today—but the whole summer stretched ahead . . . with a lot more trips to the coffee shop. A lot more one-on-one conversations. A lot more opportunities to exchange confidences.

  And before her sister returned to her life in Chicago, maybe she’d open up enough to share the real reason she’d left Washington behind nearly two decades ago.

  6

  “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” Val peered into Karen’s house through the screen in the open window.

  Kristen looked up from the video she was watching. “Hi, Aunt Val.” She rose awkwardly to her feet, tucked her crutches under her arms, and thumped across the room to open the door.

  “Sorry to make you get up.” Val stepped inside. “How come your air isn’t on?”

  “The repair guy’s working on it now. And don’t worry about making me get up. I need the exercise. I’m starting to feel like a slug. I’ll be back to square one with my gymnastic training when this stupid thing comes off.” She grimaced and banged her cast with the edge of the crutch.

  “Can I cheer you up with some strawberry trifle?” Val held up a glass bowl.

  Her niece’s expression brightened at once. “Awesome! I bet it’s healthy too.”

  “As healthy as possible for a dessert.”

  Kristen led the way to the kitchen. “How did you escape from Grandma?”

  “She’s napping.”

  “What do you guys do all day, anyway?”

  “She reads a lot, and watches her soaps. I help her with her exercises twice a day, and once in a while we go for a drive. Sometimes she has company.”

  Kristen pulled two bowls out of the cabinet and set them on the counter. “I guess I ought to visit her more.”

  “She’d like that.”

  “Yeah. That’s what Mom keeps telling me. But I see her every Sunday, when we pick her up for church. Besides, she’s not a lot of fun to be around, you know? She criticizes everything. My hair, my clothes, my boyfriend, my fingernail polish. You name it.”

  While Val scooped generous servings of the trifle into two dishes, she found herself echoing what her father had always told her. “That’s just how she is.”

  “How did you and Mom stand it all those years?” Kristen rummaged through the utensil drawer for spoons. “I mean, she drives me nuts after an hour. You guys had to live in the same house with her.” She followed Val to the table, settled into a chair, and dug into her dessert.

  “People can get used to almost anything.”

  Almost.

  “Yeah?” Kristen sent her a skeptical look, then turned her attention back to her dessert. “You didn’t hang around Washington once you were old enough to go to college, though. Mom should have left too.”

  “If she’d done that, you wouldn’t have been born.”

  “So?” Kristen’s face darkened as she jabbed at a strawberry. “Life stinks, anyway.”

  Val took a bite of her dessert. “Divorce is a nasty thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But in some situati
ons it’s better than the alternative.”

  The stubborn set of Kristen’s jaw conveyed her reaction even before she spoke. “Not in ours. We were a family.”

  “Were you?”

  “What do you mean?” Kristen sent her a wary look.

  “How exactly were you a family?” Val kept her tone conversational. “Other than the fact you lived in the same house, I mean.”

  “We did stuff together.”

  “Oh, like picnics and vacations and going to church? Those kinds of things?”

  Kristen chased a piece of angel food cake around her bowl. “No. Dad was always busy at work. He didn’t have time for that kind of stuff.”

  “Hmm. I guess you guys watched movies together or barbecued in the backyard. That’s nice too.”

  “We didn’t do a lot of that, either.” Kristen fidgeted in her seat, and twin creases appeared on her brow. “Dad said barbecuing made his clothes smelly. But Mom and I did all that stuff while Dad was working at night or on the weekends.”

  “It sounds like he missed a lot.”

  “Some. He tried to come to most of my school stuff, though.”

  “And I bet he did his best to spend time with your mom too. Took her out to dinner, or sat around and talked with her over a soda at the end of the day.”

  The creases on Kristen’s forehead deepened. “He didn’t talk to Mom a lot, and when he did, he always sounded kind of . . . annoyed. Like she was bothering him.” She jabbed at a strawberry. “I think it made her sad.”

  “Is she happier now?”

  “I guess. But . . . it’s like with Grandma. Mom always lets herself be pushed around. She let Dad do that to her too. If she’d stood up for herself, maybe Dad wouldn’t have left and maybe Grandma wouldn’t be so bossy.” Kristen sighed, settled her elbow on the table, and propped her chin in her palm. “I wish Mom had been more like you. You don’t let Grandma bully you. And I bet you wouldn’t let any man push you around, either.”

  Val forced down her last bite of trifle. “Sometimes it takes a long time for people to learn to stick up for themselves.” She rose and picked up Kristen’s empty bowl. “I think my dessert was a hit.”

  “Yeah. It was great. Would you give Mom the recipe?”

  “Sure.”

  “She’s been trying some of those other recipes you gave her too. We had that chicken stir-fry last night. It was awesome.”

  Silence fell as Val rinsed the dishes. A dog barked, the hall clock chimed, a faint train whistle sounded in the distance. The ordinary sounds of an ordinary day.

  There was a certain comfort in that. Ordinary was very underrated.

  When Kristen spoke again, her voice was more subdued. “Aunt Val, do you think Mom is happier without Dad?”

  She picked up a dish towel and dried her hands. “What do you think?”

  “Maybe.” Kristen tapped a hot-pink nail on the table. “I guess he wasn’t around much, anyway. And he wasn’t always real nice to her. But I still miss him.”

  “That’s understandable. Why don’t you try to see him more often?”

  “He’s always busy.”

  “You know how you said your mom should have stood up for herself? Why don’t you do the same thing? If you tell your dad you miss him, he might visit more often.”

  “I guess I could try.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.” Val hung up the dish towel. “I left some dessert for your mom in the fridge.”

  Kristen propped her chin back in her hand, her expression pensive. “Okay.”

  “I’ll let myself out.”

  As Val dug through her purse for her keys, she felt Kristen watching her.

  “I’ll try and come see Grandma this week. And I’ll think about calling Dad.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you later.”

  “Yeah.”

  When she reached the threshold, Val glanced back. Kristen remained at the table, lost in thought.

  With a satisfied nod, Val turned to go.

  Mission accomplished.

  So that was Dorothy Walker’s son.

  As the departing choir director introduced the midthirtyish man who was standing off to one side of the sanctuary, Karen leaned sideways in her seat to get a better view of him. He was nice looking in a brooding sort of way, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair and dark eyes. On the tall side at six, six-one, with a lean, muscular physique. Nicely dressed too, in pressed khaki slacks and a blue oxford shirt.

  But he didn’t exactly ooze warmth. As soon as possible after the introduction, he moved back to his seat in the shadows.

  Karen gave him another discreet scan. Odd. Dorothy had said he’d had a traumatic accident, yet there was no evidence of physical injury.

  Perhaps the invisible scars his mother had mentioned were the bigger problem.

  During the remainder of the rehearsal she focused on her music, but afterwards she joined the group of choir members waiting their turn to welcome Scott. Interesting how the man was there, yet not there. He replied to their comments. Shook their hands. Smiled in the appropriate places.

  But the smile never reached his eyes. They remained dark and distant and bleak.

  After adding her own words of welcome, she headed for her car. Their exchange had been polite, nothing more. She’d gleaned no more insights about him, learned nothing new. Yet she felt reasonably certain about one thing.

  He might have accepted the job. And he might have shown up at the rehearsal.

  But he absolutely did not want to be there.

  “Daddy, I have tangles.”

  David continued to stir the pot of oatmeal on the stove. “I’ll help you in a minute, sweetie.”

  “Okay.” Victoria set the brush and a barrette on the table and climbed onto a kitchen chair. “Do I have to go to day care today?”

  It was the same question she asked every weekday morning. And he gave the same answer. “Yes, sweetheart. Daddy has to go to work. But I’ll come get you at three-thirty, like I do every day, and we’ll have the whole rest of the day together.”

  What would he do if he didn’t have that kind of flexibility in his work? His career choice had served him well on that score—though who could have known shift work would be such a blessing?

  Another example of Jeremiah 29:11 in action.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go.” Victoria fiddled with the barrette, shoulders hunched.

  A pang echoed in his heart. So did he. But there was no alternative.

  He finished stirring the oatmeal, scooped it into a bowl, and added brown sugar and cinnamon. After pouring a glass of juice, he set both in front of her. “Eat up while I fix your hair.”

  She handed him the brush. “Don’t make ouches.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  He eased the brush through her thick, wavy hair. Natalie’s had been similar, until she’d had it cut into a short, chic, easy-care style better suited to her busy lifestyle. “You have beautiful hair, sweetie. Just like your mommy.”

  “Mommy was pretty, wasn’t she?”

  Her wistful tone tightened his throat. “Very.”

  “I wish I could remember her better.”

  “You were very little when she went to live in heaven.”

  “Did she love me?”

  “Very much.”

  “I wish I had a mommy now.”

  “I do too.” David set the brush aside and secured the barrette. “Okay. All done. Now finish your oatmeal.”

  After shaking some dry cereal into a bowl for himself, he joined Victoria at the table. “What do you say we go on a picnic this weekend?”

  Her eyes lit up. “That would be fun!”

  “Okay. We’ll come home after church, change clothes, pack a lunch, and go exploring. We’ll have an adventure.”

  “What’s an adventure?”

  “It’s going somewhere new or doing something you’ve never done before.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Like coming to Washington?”

 
“Sort of.”

  No response.

  He tried again. “This will be fun. I promise.”

  Still no response.

  Time to change the subject.

  “When we get home today, why don’t I put up that swing we bought for the backyard?” He added some more milk to his cereal, which seemed drier than usual today.

  She gave a disinterested shrug.

  Spoon poised over his bowl, David studied her. What had happened to her initial excitement about the project? “I thought you were looking forward to having your very own swing in our yard?”

  “I was.” She poked at her oatmeal. “But swinging all by yourself isn’t very much fun.”

  Appetite fleeing, David pushed his cereal aside. Victoria was right.

  About swinging.

  And about life.

  “I don’t understand why Val has to run back to Chicago tomorrow. She’s only been here for three weeks.” Margaret dropped the piece of newspaper she’d been reading, letting it fall to the floor.

  Karen tuned her out as she continued to try and balance her mother’s checkbook. It had been challenging enough years ago. Now that Margaret had grown more lackadaisical about keeping up with her entries, it was downright difficult.

  “Mom, there’s a notation here for sixty dollars, but no check number and no indication who it was for.”

  Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh. “Let me see.”

  As she handed over the checkbook, Karen noted the improved dexterity in her mother’s left hand. The physical therapy program—and Val’s diligence in seeing that their mother did her exercises—were paying off.

  Margaret lifted her chin and peered at the entry through her bifocals. “Oh. That was for trimming the tree out in front.”

  “Who was it made out to?”

  “The man who came by and offered to trim the tree.” Impatience nipped at her words. “He said if I didn’t have it done, it might fall on the roof in a storm.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember.”