“What do you mean, Mama?”
“He’s too dark to be American.”
“Of course he’s American. His father was English, and his mother’s from Mexico.”
That’s when the bomb exploded. My pure-blooded Swedish mother cried, “You are carrying the child of a Mexican? Vonnie! How could you disgrace yourself, your family in this way?”
“Mama, I love him. He’s my husband. Don’t you understand?” But my parents couldn’t understand. The next day, the Monday before Christmas, I’d boarded a bus and headed for the Los Angeles home of Maria Jewel, Joseph’s Mexican mother.
Maria was wonderful. She was shorter than me, and I stand all of five foot two. She welcomed me into her home and treated me like one of her own daughters. She taught me how to make warm corn tortillas and mouth-watering tamales, still one of my most sought-after specialties.
But as my belly grew, I longed for my mother. Even though I wrote her a steady stream of letters, they came back to me marked “Return to Sender.”
I had quite the lifestyle change that spring. I had given up my nursing career to live on the poor east side of L.A. But I didn’t mind a bit. I was in love and waiting for my baby’s father—my husband—to return from war, all the while living the incredible stories of warmth and laughter, the stories Joe had told me on our walks on the hill.
I, with a tummy swollen to full-term, was no longer able to work at the nearby dry cleaner’s shop. That’s why I happened to be home the day the United States army chaplain stopped by. When his black Ford LTD pulled into our driveway, I raced to Maria. Together we’d opened the door at the chaplain’s knock. “Mrs. Jewel?” he’d asked, another man standing by his side.
We both stared. “Yes?” we answered in unison.
Maria and I leaned on each other for support.
The officer continued. “I’m Chaplain Rodger Walters from the U.S. army,” he said, showing us his credentials. First he looked at me as he handed me a telegram. “I’m sorry to inform you that your husband,” then he turned to the elder Mrs. Jewel, “and your son, Joseph Ray Jewel, has been killed . . .”
I never heard the rest of his announcement. A blood-curdling scream filled the air. The scream and the others that followed seemed to belong to someone other than me. I fell to the ground, twisting in agony. The last thing I remember was Maria bending over me, calling my name, pressing a cold cloth to my forehead. Then I felt the wetness. My water had broken. My time had come.
The difficult labor lasted forty-six hours. During those hours, I slipped in and out of consciousness. There were times I couldn’t tell if my screams were from the pain of giving birth or the pain of my broken heart. Finally, it was all too much. My mind gave way to blackness, and I remember nothing more.
It was another two full days before I awoke. Maria was gone. In her place was my own mother, who gently patted my hand. “Vonnie. Vonnie, dear?”
I opened my eyes.
Mom’s face leaned over me. “Dear, you’re better off,” she whispered.
My head pounded. My voice croaked through parched lips. “Mama? What do you mean?”
“The baby.” Mother stroked my hair. “The baby’s gone. But don’t worry, dear, it’s all for the best. Now you can come home.”
When Chucky suddenly jumped into my lap, I realized I was back in my recliner, holding—okay, gripping—baby Amanda Jewel to my chest. Well, a couple of teardrops probably won’t ruin her gown. Even so, I had no business rehashing the past. It’s between me and God, and no one else needs to know. Even my dear Fred’s never dreamed I’ve been married before, much less had a baby, albeit stillborn.
I wish I could have seen my child, or at least had the opportunity to say good-bye. But I was still sleeping when they laid him to rest. Mother said he’d been a boy with dark curls, like his dad. How precious. At least I know that Joe and his son are together, and that brings me a bit of peace.
But baby Joe’s birth had deeper consequences. Some time after I married Fred, my gynecologist in Denver said the birth had caused too much trauma to my uterus. “Yvonne,” he said as he stared at the latest diagnostic report, “I hate to say this, but I don’t think you’ll ever conceive again. That is unless you believe in miracles.”
I did believe. I just knew God would heal my womb. For he was a God of love, and he alone knew just how much I wanted to be a mom. But my miracle never came. My baby would never be.
Eventually I had a hysterectomy, and that was that. It’s all quite sad, I suppose. But life does go on.
When I left California, Mom talked me into breaking ties with Maria Jewel and her family and heading back to Cherry Creek College to finish my RN. I’m sorry to say, I walked away from the Jewels and never looked back. My mother even invented a cover story to explain my time in California. She told all our friends I had temporarily transferred to Berkeley until I got homesick. After graduation from Cherry Creek, I worked in Denver for a while, then headed right back to Summit View, just like a homing pigeon. Evie and Ruth Ann were already enjoying life as best friends, and I didn’t want to be a third wheel. I was the odd man out. At least in those days.
I lived at home and worked for Doctor Billings, our town’s only M.D. In fact, that’s how I reconnected with Fred. Being an auto mechanic, he came in to see the doc after he broke his finger when it got caught in a tire jack. It was sort of a fortunate accident—the injury healed beautifully, plus it got the two of us back together. If there were ever two people who needed each other, it was Fred and me.
Fred loves me; I know that. He’s loved me since grade school. He stole his first kiss from me in second grade. And though I’ve never felt passionately in love with him, I appreciate him more each day. It’s hard to believe we’ve been together for thirty-five years. But I must confess, though Fred has been a good husband, faithful, and a good provider, he’ll never hold a candle to my Joe.
Mom always liked Fred. He’s a medium-built Swede with bright blue eyes and a fine crop of platinum hair; that is, when he had hair. And after all these years, he’s still not a bad-looking man, though he’s a bit on the paunchy side. But that’s only because he so loves my tamales. It breaks my heart to think I never made him a dad. He’d have been a good one. He’d have taught our children about God, the secret life of car engines, and how to fish. In fact, fishing is one of Fred’s favorite pastimes. Lately he’s been going out with Lisa Leann’s husband, Henry.
All in all, Fred’s and my time together has been pleasant and sweet. However, I’ve always wondered: if Fred knew of my past, how would he react? Would he feel angry or hurt or even prejudiced against Joe—like my mother? To even think of it causes me to feel a bit lightheaded. I’ve betrayed him all these years with my secret love for another man. And as a consequence, my previous marriage stole our ability to have children. If Fred found out the reason or that I never confided in him about my past . . . I can’t even imagine.
I looked down at my watch. Goodness, look at the time. It was almost noon, and all I had to show for it was a few tearstains on my favorite doll. Let’s see, I promised Lisa Leann I’d make some dish for the Potluck. My famous fruit salad? Probably. I’ve already picked up the ingredients for that.
I walked to the kitchen with Chucky at my heels. That dog follows me everywhere, just like a little white shadow. I pulled out the bread for a sandwich and trimmed the crust. As was our routine, Chucky sat at attention while I tossed him bread bits. That dog’s amazing. He could catch those bits in midair, unless they bounced off his nose. Then he goes sliding across the slick linoleum to chase them down. I always get a chuckle out of that.
The phone rang, and my caller ID announced Evangeline Benson. Evie was probably calling to make sure I was cooking something for the Potluck. Now, don’t get me wrong; I love Evie, I really do. She relies on me for everything. But I suspect she thinks I’m not capable of brushing my teeth unless she directs the event. Evie hasn’t always been so bossy, however. Why, back in college, she was so consumed wi
th her failed “romance” to Vernon, not to mention her studies, she never noticed how love had turned my usually grounded self into a woman whose feet never touched the ground.
Once, after I floated in late from one of my secret dates, she gave me a strange look. I merely explained that I had been studying at the library, though I never said what or whom I was studying. And Evie, being all about honesty and practicality, believed me.
We really weren’t close back then. I wasn’t her best friend. That title still belonged to Ruth Ann, who had headed for the Great Lakes naval base with her new husband, Arnold. However, Evie found that I was a comfortable second choice, not to mention a first-rate sorority sister. Even so, Evie and I didn’t become best friends until decades later, some time after Ruth Ann’s passing. And in truth, Evie’s never quite gotten over Ruthie’s death. How could she? Without Ruth Ann, she had no one. Well, except for me. I think the thing that makes us so close now is that we share a bond so secret even Evie doesn’t know—we share the bond of loss.
We may be best friends today, but sometimes Evie drives me batty. It seems to me that her number-one goal has been to organize my life. She thinks she’s pretty accomplished at it too. But that’s okay. I keep my secrets, and I stand up to Evie whenever necessary. A feat I’ve accomplished on several occasions, especially when it comes to her treatment of Donna Vesey.
Amazingly, whenever I make my stand on the subject of Donna, Evie straightens up. She’s never been mean-spirited, only bitterly alone. Despite her hard side, in many ways, she’s still that lost little girl wondering how Doreen Roberts stole her boyfriend with just a kiss.
I picked up the phone. “Hi, Evie. How’s it going with Leigh?” “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl. She’s planning to come to the Potluck Club.”
“And?”
“I don’t think I can bear any more questions about her condition.”
I chuckled. “Evie, just like Lisa Leann says, this is no secret.”
I could hear an exasperated huff on Evie’s end of the line. “What else did Lisa Leann say?”
“She said she’s bringing her brisket and something about throwing ‘you all’ a baby shower.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t dare.”
“She would, and she’d have the entire populace of Summit View there with gifts in hand.”
“Well, she’s got to be stopped!”
“Don’t worry, Evie, you’ll find a way.”
“Yes, of course. If push comes to shove, we just won’t go, that’s what.”
I laughed. “Be tactful, now, Evie. Tactful.”
Evie huffed again, then added, “Oh, I almost forgot why I called. What are you bringing to the Potluck?”
“My famous fruit salad?”
“No, that won’t do. I’m bringing a peach cobbler. That’s too much fruit.”
“My baked beans?”
“No, beans make me bloat.”
“Corn bread?”
“Perfect. Yes, do your cheesy corn bread. Glad that’s settled. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
We hung up. Settled for her, maybe, but now I had to figure out what in heaven’s name I’d done with Mom’s recipe. Before I could start thumbing through my stack of cards, the phone rang again. This time it was Donna.
“Hey, Vonnie, the Potluck still on for tomorrow?”
“You bet. You’ll be able to come, won’t you?”
“Yeah, I have to work tonight, though. Got a hunch as to what I should bring?”
“Well, so far, we’ve got cobbler, brisket, and corn bread.”
“Salad. I’ll pick up the makings at the grocery.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at noon.”
I hung up and looked at Chucky, who wagged his tail.
“We’re going to see our girl,” I told him.
I’d swear that dog understands every word I say, and with that bit of news, Chucky seemed to smile with his whole body. But he’s always had a liking for Donna. Why wouldn’t he? It was Donna who united the two of us in the first place.
Donna had been on duty when I called her to see if she could investigate the mystery of my disappearing picnic lunch. I’d been in the process of laying out a beautiful spread of sandwiches, iced tea, and apple pie for Fred and me. But every time I went back to my kitchen, the food I’d placed on the picnic table would disappear.
Fred was in the house reading the paper when I said, “Something here isn’t right.”
He looked at me with his eyes a-twinkle and said, “Sounds like a case for Donna. It’ll give her an excuse to join us for lunch.”
So I called her cell phone.
Moments later, Donna showed up in her sheriff’s Bronco, siren off, but lights a-blazing. She came in all official, and even before I could finish describing the crime, she pulled out this frizzy-haired stray from beneath my back porch.
“Mystery solved,” she said. “Are you inviting me to lunch?”
“Only if you turn off the light show in front of the house,” I said. “What will the neighbors think?”
She grinned. “Sure thing. Gotta rope so I can tie this mutt while we eat? I hate for him to stink up my truck.”
But when we tied that pooch to the porch railing, the dog began to whimper and squeal, just like a brokenhearted woman. I just couldn’t stand it. He looked at me with those big, brown eyes of his as if to say, “Save me!”
“You know,” I said to Fred, “that dog looks like Chucky, the baby doll Evie bought me on her trip to Durango.”
Fred stopped chewing and stared at me. “Vonnie, you want that dog?”
I turned to Donna. “Do you suppose it would be okay?”
“Well, he doesn’t have any tags. But tell you what, why don’t you keep him and if anyone shows up looking for him, I’ll let you know. He probably ran off from the campground, and I’m guessing his folks are long gone. It happens a lot.”
“You mean I can keep him?”
“Sure. But why don’t you take him over to Doc Ivy’s to be checked out.”
So that’s how Chucky became mine. And after a good bath and a brushing and a checkup at the vet’s, that terribly matted dog turned into my fluffy, beautiful Chucky.
Aha! I picked up a tattered note card. Here’s the recipe I’m looking for. Now, let me check for the ingredients.
The phone rang. This time, the ID announced Kevin Moore, the pastor from Grace.
I picked up. “Hello?”
“Vonnie, it’s Jan.”
“Jan, it’s nice of you to call.”
“Vonnie, isn’t your Potluck Club meeting tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ve got a prayer request for you.”
I grabbed a pad and pencil to take notes. “Anything for you, Jan. What is it?”
Her voice sounded brave. “I haven’t been feeling well, have been losing weight. So I finally got over to see Doc Billings. Vonnie, he gave me a bad report this morning.” She sighed from deep within before going on. “I’ve got cancer. Doc Billings says it’s inoperable.”
I sat down hard on the kitchen chair.
“Jan, no. Are you sure?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m calling. I don’t want this to go beyond the Potluck Club until Kevin can announce it on Sunday. But please ask the girls to pray. Ask them not to tell anyone else just yet. I still have friends and family I need to tell in person.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll let the girls know. But, Jan, what exactly does Doc say? You know I used to be his nurse, so you can tell me . . .”
“Doc Billings says it’ll take a miracle.”
My heart stopped at the words.
Miracles never happen. At least not to me.
17
That’s her, a mother
without children . . .
Clay sat hunched over a cup of coffee at the café and flipped through his ever-growing notebook of PLC facts.
Vonnie Westbrook. Who is she apart from her do
ll collection? He mused. The city of Summit View should make that house some sort of museum.
Impressive . . . but a bit unusual.
Well, anyway, he had a soft spot where Vonnie Westbrook was concerned. In a way, she’d been like a second mother to him, always bringing him leftovers. He glanced down at his belly. Not like I need them.
Still, he’d always wondered why a loving woman such as Mrs. Westbrook hadn’t had her own children. Not that it was any of his business, he’d just wondered.
18
Dirty Dishes
I hung up the phone in the kitchen not two seconds after I’d said hello.
“Who was that, Aunt Evie?” Leigh asked from the kitchen table, where she was folding the linen napkins I bring out only for the PLC meetings.
My palms pressed the front of the new slacks Leigh insisted I buy when we’d gone shopping for nursery items a few days earlier. “That was Vonnie. She’s going to be a tad late.”
Leigh nodded, continuing in her work. “Something wrong?”
I shook my head no. “I don’t think so. Though to tell you the truth, she didn’t sound just right.”
I stepped from the kitchen into the dining room, where the table was all set and ready for the girls to arrive. We typically keep the food on the kitchen table and eat buffet style. I know I could just leave all the dishes in the kitchen for everyone to pick up and then serve themselves, but I like the looks of a formally set table, and so that’s what I do. I set the table. I took a moment to walk around it, making certain all the little flowers on my mother’s china pattern were facing forward, and they were. Of course they were; I’d set the table myself.
Leigh walked in with the napkins arranged on a silver tray, nicely folded into a little pattern she told me she’d learned to do when she was waiting tables at some restaurant back home. “See?” she said, holding up the tray. “We’ll set these in the center along with a little teapot filled with the flowers I bought yesterday, and we’re all set.”
The Potluck Club Page 11