Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  Ellie’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath. “I’m going to miss you too.”

  As they ate, Ellie watched Will’s jaw move up and down. She liked the way it connected underneath the skin just behind his cheekbone… that, and almost everything else about him. She hoped Jackson Jenkins didn’t have the wrong idea. Ellie appreciated his recommendation—immensely. In a very real sense, he had given her the chance of a lifetime. Even René Schay hadn’t been able to get her an audition on Broadway. But every time she talked to Jackson—he’d called twice now—she got an eerie feeling. Maybe eerie wasn’t the word, because he didn’t scare her at all. It was just a feeling that he might expect more to come out of their association than business dealings with Heinrichs Haus and an audition for the theater. A feeling that he was interested in her. Hoping she was wrong, she hadn’t shared that feeling with anybody. Not Katherine, Audrey, or Beecher, and certainly not Will.

  “Ellie?”

  Will’s voice startled her out of her reverie.

  “Did you ever finish your great-great-grandmother’s diary? You haven’t said much about it in a while.”

  Ellie set down her fork. “I did.” “Well, how did it end?”

  “It was horrible. I guess that’s why I haven’t talked about it. I hated the ending.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me about it.”

  “Did you like that?” Ellie pointed to his empty bowl.

  “It was delicious. You can try out new recipes on me anytime.” Ellie smiled, plopping down from her barstool.

  Will followed, clearing the bar and going to the kitchen to stack their dishes in the sink. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No thanks, but you can come and sit by me.”

  They walked together over to the red couch and sat down. Will sank into the end, and Ellie scooted close to him, taking his arm and placing it around her shoulders. He smiled at the gesture.

  “Her father—my great-great-great-grandpa—died in a rail accident that involved the Baldknobbers.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes. And then the diary is sketchy on details, but it seems she was forced to marry Richard Heinrichs.”

  “Your great-great-grandfather.” “Yes.”

  “Why was she forced?” Will’s eyes were penetrating with interest.

  “Well, it raises all kinds of feminist issues with me, but I think she felt she had no other choice. Her nearest male relative, her uncle Robert, probably would have taken them in, as he was rich.”

  “He’s the one she was visiting in Branson, with the mill.”

  “Right. But the mill burned.”

  “Whoa. Baldknobbers?” Will raised his eyebrows.

  “The diary didn’t say, so I don’t know.”

  “But it wiped him out financially.”

  “Yes. Her father had just died, and then that happened. They were three destitute women—her mother, sister, Heidi, and Elise—and along came Richard Heinrichs with a marriage offer.”

  “Hmm. Do you feel like he took advantage of her situation?”

  Ellie shook her head. “There’s nothing in the diary to indicate that. He was clearly interested before William Howard ever came into her life, and as far as I can tell, he may have never known that William existed.”

  “So he truly loved her.”

  “I think so. And I believe taking care of her mother and sister was simply an expression of that.”

  “He sounds like a good man.”

  “I believe he was. But that didn’t make him the right man for her.”

  “It must have been so hard for her to make that choice.”

  “In the diary she seems suicidal.”

  “Wow.” Will let that sink in before he asked, “And what about William? Is there anything to indicate what happened to him?”

  “He told her he would wait—he would come back for her. But I assume he never heard from her again.”

  “Man, that is sad.”

  “Yeah, I know. Makes me sick to think about it.”

  She leaned over on his shoulder, and Will rubbed her arm. “Well, at least we know one good thing that came out of all of it.”

  “What’s that?” Ellie turned her face toward him.

  “You.”

  * * * * *

  That night after Will left, Ellie called Audrey to make arrangements. They didn’t talk long, since she knew Audrey was busy. She’d gotten a text from Beecher while he was at the Guggenheim, and Audrey sent her a picture of them together on the steps of the Museum of Modern Art, where a Matisse exhibit was in town. Apparently they’d also been to an early performance at the Philharmonic and were now out to dinner at Tavern on the Green. When Ellie told her what time she was flying in to New York, Audrey said she’d just stay at the airport after she went in with Beecher to see him off on Saturday.

  “There’s some big new to-do at Delta La Guardia Terminal D. I’ve been reading about it in the Times. Something like thirteen new posh eateries are setting up shop.”

  “Oh yeah, I saw that too. Dom DeMarco, Jr., is going out there, and Jason Denton and Pat La Frieda.”

  “And Lee Hanson and Riad Nasr. They’re opening a new French Bistro.”

  “So you don’t mind waiting around there for me? That’s a two-hour difference.”

  “I’ll have French food and a good book. What more could one need?”

  “Just another Heinrichs invasion, I guess.”

  “Gotta love that.”

  “Okay, see you Saturday then. Tell Beecher I love him.”

  “She said she loves you,” Ellie heard Audrey say to Beecher.

  “I love her too,” Beecher’s voice replied. Faint jazz was in the background.

  “We both love you too, Eliminator.”

  “Ellie-minator?”

  “Sorry. That was a bad one.”

  “You’re slipping.” Ellie thought of something better. “How about Ellie-gant?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  When Beecher awoke the next morning, the first thing he did was check his hooked toes. The trained eye still might detect a faint stain of hot pink, as there was a tiny bit of residue Audrey’s acetone had left behind, but more or less the evidence of her previous vandalism was gone, and no new defamation had occurred—as of yet—in its place. The wolf in sheep’s clothing who had done the damage to his toes was in the kitchen with her back to him as she stared into the refrigerator. Her dark ringlets were a tangled mess stuffed into a clippie at the back of her head, and she wore purple polka-dot satin pajamas that covered every inch of her skin. She was singing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” from The Lion King, a Broadway production she planned to drag him to on this—his last night in New York City.

  “I’m feeling some love this morning.” Beecher stood and stretched, his back a little achy.

  Audrey placed the milk and a carton of eggs on the counter beside the fridge, keeping her back to him. “Poor Beechy. I told you I would sleep on the couch last night, but you always have to be so chivalrous.”

  He padded into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Omelets. Does that sound good?” She shut the refrigerator with her foot, her hands full of butter, cheese, and a carton of mushrooms. Her black-framed glasses were askew.

  “Sounds great. But can you help me pop my back first?”

  “Sure.”

  Audrey set down the items and followed him back over to the rug, where he lay down on his belly. Coming alongside him on her knees, she said, “Ready?”

  “Yep.”

  She straddled his back and then fell forward, arms tucked in front of her, with all of her weight.

  “Humpf.”

  “I didn’t hear any pop.” “Do it again.”

  This time Audrey fell on him with considerably more force, and his spine cracked like so many knuckles. She lay there on top of him, squirming.

  “That’s awesome.” Beecher turned his face to the side. “Now scratch.”

&n
bsp; Audrey climbed off his back and sat beside him, scratching his back over his T-shirt with her squarely filed nails. “You will never find a wife to put up with you,” she declared.

  “Why not?”

  “Because your mother and sister have spoiled you rotten.”

  Beecher rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “Let’s not forget about you.”

  “And here I sit carrying on the tradition.” Audrey began karate-chop action on his back.

  “What’s with your pajamas?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She chopped a little harder.

  “I mean, they’re pretty, but aren’t you hot?”

  “No. I’m cold-natured.” She stopped chopping altogether.

  Beecher did a push-up and held himself suspended in the air. Their faces were almost touching. “You don’t have to sleep in a burqa, you know.” He tweaked her glasses with his nose.

  Audrey crossed her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, it’s summer. Why are you wearing those long-sleeved, long-legged pajamas?” He did another push-up.

  Audrey pelted herself against him, knocking him over. She started to tickle him and, amidst his protests of laughter, said, “I’ll wear what I want to wear. You got that, buster?”

  He grabbed her wrists. “Whatcha going to do now?”

  She kicked at him with her feet.

  “Come on, tough girl. Is that all you’ve got?”

  “Let me go, Beaster.”

  “Beaster?”

  “That’s right. You’re a beast.”

  He let go of her wrists. “Get into that kitchen and cook us some breakfast, then, little woman.”

  “Oh. If I was big enough, I’d show you a thing or two.” Audrey punched him in the gut, drawing back her fist and rubbing it.

  “But you’re not. You and Ellie both think you’re so big, but you’ll always be my little sisters.” Beecher jumped to his feet and held out his hand to pull her up.

  She took it, grudgingly.

  * * * * *

  While Audrey cooked, Beecher took a quick shower and got dressed in black cargo shorts and two layered T-shirts, black under gray. He decided to wear tennis shoes since they would probably do lots of walking. During their breakfast of garden omelets and cracked wheat toast, he and Audrey planned their day.

  “What do you want to do, Beecher?”

  “After all of those museums yesterday, nothing intellectual. I want to see your soup kitchen, sit on a bench at your park, buy pastries at your bakery, and eat at your Southern-fried restaurant.”

  “Those are all good answers.”

  “Oh yes, and I long to see The Lion King on Broadway so I can truly feel the love tonight.”

  “I’ll have you know that those tickets sell out in advance, and you’re lucky I had the forethought to get some for the time you are here.”

  “A great relief it is.” Beecher toasted her with his orange juice. “In your debt I will remain.”

  “You sound like Yoda.” Audrey slid off her barstool and took her dishes to the sink, starting to clean up.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” Beecher offered. “You go get ready.”

  In thirty minutes Audrey was back in white long shorts and a romantic pink top. The top was actually a set—a cardigan with a sleeveless shell of cotton and rayon. Fastening with a hook and eye, it had chiffon rosettes and rhinestone details all down the front. Her hair, a thick sheet of black satin, looked like it had been ironed. The smell of ripe strawberries was in the air.

  “How’d you get your hair straight like that?” Beecher looked up from the magazine he was reading in her cube-shaped chair.

  Audrey rolled her eyes. “It’s called a straightener.”

  “Oh, well, it looks nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like it curly too, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  He extricated himself from the chair. “Ready to go?”

  “You betcha.”

  They climbed down the stairs that led them out of the building.

  “Where to first?”

  “The soup kitchen, I think. We need to get there before lunch unless you want to work it.”

  “I’m game for whatever.”

  “Let’s just go by there. And I can show you my school.”

  “Cool.”

  They walked down Charles Street till it came to Greenwich, then turned up it and walked to Greenwich Square.

  Chuck Filson was already at the soup kitchen, poring over recipes, and he waved Audrey in when he saw her at the door. “Miz Audrey! Great to see you!”

  “Hi, Chuck.”

  They walked over to where he was sitting at one of the cafeteria-style tables.

  “I wanted to introduce you to my friend, Beecher Heinrichs.”

  Beecher stuck out his hand, and Chuck shook it firmly.

  “Pleased to meet you. Chuck Filson.”

  “This is quite a place you have here.”

  “Thank you. We’re a part of Manna Ministries. Audrey can tell you—we feed about two hundred people a day.”

  “Wow.”

  “What’s on the menu for lunch?” Audrey asked him.

  “I’m looking at some good ol’ chicken noodle.” Chuck grinned, and his black eyes glinted.

  “That sounds good.” Beecher smiled back.

  “Have you got plenty of help?”

  “I think so today, Miz Audrey. ’Course, you are always welcome.”

  “No, if you don’t need us, we’re going to do some things in the city. I’ll be back before too long, though.”

  “Thanks for coming by.”

  “It was nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Beecher.”

  They left Greenwich Square and traveled back down Greenwich till they reached the Avenue of the Americas. Then they walked down it till it crossed Third Street, which would take them to NYU.

  “Don’t you love urban walking?”

  “I do,” said Audrey.

  “I practically walk or ride my bike everywhere in Munich.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes, but I leave it parked all of the time, unless I’m going to the airport or driving somewhere else out of town.”

  They arrived at NYU, which was a mass of beautiful and stately buildings. Audrey took him to the Bobst library, and Beecher was impressed.

  “I can’t believe you’d want to drop out of such a school,” he whispered as they passed the front desk.

  “My heart is in the soup kitchen.”

  “But what about your head?”

  * * * * *

  After NYU, they took the subway to Brooklyn for lunch at the infamous Pies ’N’ Thighs, where Beecher met Caroline, the waitress Audrey had told him about who had a “great story.”

  Then it was back to the area near NYU and Audrey’s apartment for a rest on the benches of Washington Square Park.

  Audrey showed Beecher her favorite spot, which was near the small lake with the black swans. She led him to the bench where she liked to sit and think, and they sat on it together.

  “You didn’t tell me much about your meeting Wednesday.”

  “There’s not much to tell.” Beecher stretched his legs out in front of him. “It was with a partner in our firm who runs the New York office. I talked to her about possibly relocating here.”

  Audrey gasped. “Not much to tell? That’s not much to tell?”

  Beecher laughed.

  “What did she say?”

  “She was interested. We’ve actually been talking about it back and forth for a while.”

  “Does Ellie know?”

  “Not really—I didn’t want to get my family’s hopes up till I decided.”

  “And have you?”

  “It’s looking that way.”

  “What made up your mind?”

  “I don’t know, really. It’s just this growing feeling I’ve had of home-sickness. I don’t want to go all the way to Herma
nn, at least not yet, but I’m ready to come back to the States.”

  “I see.” Audrey looked out at the water. “Well, that’s great. Your mom, Opa, Ellie—everybody will be so happy.”

  Beecher folded his hands in his lap. “That’s part of it right there. Opa.”

  “I heard he’s not feeling well.”

  “He’s not getting any younger, and I hate to be so far away.” Audrey nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  “Did you know Ellie got baptized?”

  “Yeah. She told me. I think it’s great.” She crossed her legs, clasping her hands together around her knee.

  “Me too.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? You think I’m a heathen?” Beecher grinned.

  “No, but we’ve never talked much about spiritual things.”

  “Except when you tried to proselytize me.”

  Audrey made a face. “That didn’t go over too well.”

  “Nope.” Beecher laughed.

  “At least I cared about your immortal soul.”

  “That’s something.”

  “Then you went through that phase of quoting Richard Dawkins and watching Religulous.”

  “I still like it, and Christopher Hitchens.”

  “But you’re a Christian.”

  “Yep. When it comes down to it, my philosophy is more along the lines of Tim Allen’s Santa Clause.”

  Audrey stared at him like he was crazy. “You’ve got to be joking. I hate those movies.”

  “Hate them? How can you hate them?”

  “They are mindless trash. I hate them with bloody passion.”

  “Such violent speech. And seemingly ironic from the lips of someone who likes Disney musicals.” Beecher grinned.

  “That is a different matter entirely. The Santa Clause is nowhere in the realm of The Lion King.”

  “Touché.”

  “So, what on earth are you talking about with the whole Santa Claus thing? I object. I’ll have you know that faith in God is a lot more than some mushy, feel-good fairy tale. It takes guts.” Audrey kicked at the ground with her toe.

  “Precisely. That’s what Opa said too, after he took me to see The Santa Clause.”

  “Will you quit talking in riddles?”

  Beecher laughed. “I know the movie is corny, but I was a little kid. Anyway, there’s this line I’ll never forget. A little boy is trying to explain to a psychologist why he believes in Santa Claus. The man says you shouldn’t believe in someone you can’t see—that ‘seeing is believing.’ And the little boy says, ‘No. That’s where you’re wrong. Believing is seeing.’”