“Fine,” Cliff said. He took a few hesitant steps, then turned. Since Beebe’s call the night before, he accomplished every task he undertook in the shadow of his daughter standing beside him. His sense of her was stronger in Hal’s presence because she and Hal were schoolmates.
“Something else?”
“I got a call from Beebe last night.”
“Really?”
Cliff thought Hal’s response came in the form of a question because most people thought he and Beebe were an enigma where the definition of a family was concerned. “Yeah. She’s talking about coming home. I don’t think her plans are firm yet about when. She said early August.”
“Wow. That’ll be nice. I’m glad. I’m glad for you and for her.”
Hal’s genuineness registered. Of course, the small block building was overcrowded now. It wasn’t Hal’s sincerity that did it. It was the big white elephant neither man acknowledged. The trunked beast represented Beebe’s mother, her departure during Beebe’s high school years, and the memories Beebe must deal with upon her return. In the second and a half Hal and Cliff used to make room for the elephant, Cliff thought Hal reached the same conclusion: Surely, Beebe’s thought this through.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Cliff said to Hal’s good wishes.
He made his way to the door, turned the knob, then held the door open somewhat longer than necessary for the elephant to squeeze through. The feeling that he drew everyone’s eyes would walk with him into the foreseeable future.
Cliff followed the path made of square concrete stones back to the asphalt road. The stones did not abut each other.
As grassy strips broke up the pathway, snippets of Beebe’s words over the phone, last night, cut into Cliff’s thoughts. “Test the waters. Don’t want to intrude. Your privacy. Stepping on each other’s toes.”
Beebe spoke as if the size of the house were the problem. It was not. Dancing around the problem was the issue. In reality, he didn’t think he could dance with his daughter, nor she with him. They would attempt it, no doubt. But how soon, he wondered, would sore feet inflame their unavoidable past?
The jinx seemed to be in for Cliff. First Rosemary, then Beebe.
Putting off a relationship with Rosemary was purposefully done to keep his life exactly the way he lived it for twenty-five years, since Beebe went off to pastor her first church and rarely returned.
* * *
The next day after the lunch crowd vanished from the diner, Cliff stood on the sidewalk out front of the hardware store. He looked down the street with longing. The diner seemed to beckon. Hands in his pockets, he rattled loose change. His mind told his feet to walk the familiar path to the corner, but his feet resisted the order. Between mind and feet, his heart and stomach held their own conversation. His heart went out to Rosemary; his stomach wanted to yank it back, but the damage was done.
He didn’t like being at odds with Rosemary. Their parting Sunday was amicable, but he allowed time to pass. More than he should have. Now a sheen of awkwardness glistened.
Finally, with a few jerky steps, he set off, then his gait smoothed out.
He pushed through the diner door. Rosemary stacked coffee cups. Her sole employee, Larry, nodded a silent greeting. With a wet cloth, he wiped crumbs from a table into his hand. Rosemary turned and saw Cliff. He watched her expression go bland. The internal banter started up again: mind and feet, heart and stomach. Then there was the damage. But it was the plea he felt his eyes convey that overrode them all and brought Rosemary over to the booth he slid into. She arrived with two cups of coffee and sat down across from him.
“Well,” she said, “you couldn’t avoid me forever. That’s good to know.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“Yes, you were.”
“All right, I was, but…”
“But nothing. We’ve been solid friends for ten years.”
“Let’s not rehash ancient history. The recent past is where the problem lies.”
“Fine. Have you thought about what I said at all?”
“Of course, I have.”
“But the answer’s still the same, right? We can’t have a personal relationship outside this diner, outside church, outside the occasional movie, all of which are accomplished in separate cars. The ride to Omar’s being the exception, but more likely than not, Vincent will make a threesome.”
“You want to date, Rosemary, and I’m married.”
“Oh, Cliff. You’re not married. You haven’t been for umpteen years.”
“I never divorced her.”
“It’s a bold new world, Cliff. Do people even remember?”
“Sure they do. They’ll talk.”
Quietly, she said, “I don’t care if they talk. We’re good for each other. We could make this work. Our lives would be better. No one gets hurt. In fact, a smidgeon of the hurt might go away.” She reached for his hand.
“But there’s a new wrinkle.”
“What?” Her hand pulled back.
“Beebe. She called Tuesday. She’s had some changes in her life. I didn’t get all the details, but what I heard sounded significant, and it’s caused her to want to return home. She wants to live at the house. Timeline on that is up in the air.” Before he pushed through the restaurant’s door, he decided he would not project any disharmony between father and daughter, although he felt it. His daughter was no longer a minister. Not knowing the story made him think it was an embarrassing one. How would he explain it when people asked? His question was followed by Rosemary’s.
“And you said?”
His mouth opened to respond, but Rosemary’s hands rose to erase her question.
“Of course, you said yes to her living at home. You had to.”
“I wanted to. Well,” he paused, “honestly, not at first. But in the last two days, I found I got used to the idea.”
“So there’s no room for me. No,” she blurted quickly. “That’s self-centered. What’s wrong with me? Good, Cliff, I’m happy for you, especially if you’re looking forward to it. I want it to work out. Better lives and all that. That’s my wish for you and your daughter.”
“Nice speech. But you have every right to think about yourself and your feelings. I’ve been thinking about them, too. I can’t say that I wouldn’t like the idea of a woman, you, close. Like now, closer. And you’re going to think this is just another excuse,” he said, shifting noisily on the vinyl seat, “but I wonder what Beebe will think of me dating. And if she learns we got together just two days after she called, asking if her old room was available, she might take it as an obvious attempt to tamper with the success of our reunion. Was I trying to make her feel like a cog in the wheel?” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Quite frankly, I’ve heard that adult children can be worse with handling their parents’ divorce than younger kids. Not that the divorce card is in play, but Beebe is an adult child. That’s the connection.” His mouth was open to say more when Rosemary cut him off.
“Oh, for the love of God, Cliff, will you listen to yourself? Beebe is an adult. I doubt she’ll work collusion into the fact that our first date took place the weekend after she called. How would she even find out? It’s a date, Cliff. Dinner. A movie. Nothing X-rated. I promise.”
Cliff tried to interrupt several times, but Rosemary rode roughshod over him. Finally, she took a breath. She clamped her lips together, as if to stem the heated flow, and sent her gaze out the window. This Rosemary was a stranger to Cliff. He suspected it was better that he sat quietly. So he did.
She let a few seconds pass. When she brought her eyes back, her voice held more patience. “I get that you’re
worried. Nervous. About Beebe’s return. About me. About us. I’ll give you time, and in that time,” she said, the stranger wagging a stern finger at him, “believe me, Cliff Walker, I’ll be evaluating Beebe’s proclivity to accept that her father might want to have a fully above-board relationship with a woman. All I’m asking for is step one: Date night. I’ll give you time. A small amount of time. Don’t waste it. Because if you do, I’ll approach Beebe myself.”
The small amount of time equaled about an inch and a half of space between Rosemary’s thumb and finger. Cliff thought it best not to ask for an equivalency factor.
* * *
Vincent Bostick’s eyes snapped open. It was dark in the one-room living quarters he occupied at Crossroads. He lay in a twin bed. Somewhere in the nether reaches of his mind while he slept, a fantastic idea burst into being. He threw back the sheet, flung his legs over the bed, and crammed his feet into slippers, all in one motion. The illuminated clock on the nightstand read 3:16.
Somehow lost in slumber, an obvious connection was made. More than a connection, he thought. He stood over at the door now, flipping on the overhead light. He married Beebe’s return with the needs of seniors in Larkspur—not just those who were members of Crossroads and attended the center’s activities, but all the seniors across Stryker County.
Beebe needed a job, and she matched perfectly with the coordinator position Vincent had open for the new programming. Would she accept, given their backgrounds? The time span involved stretched from their brief engagement after college to the unresolved “Abigail Walker, alias Terri Miller” situation with her father.
Wanting to believe she would accept, Vincent grabbed his working papers and laptop from the small round table in the corner. He scuffed down a long hallway and into the agency’s main room. The path through the tables and chairs was lit well enough by the outside streetlight eking through the solid-paned storefront window. He found the electrical switch on the kitchen wall and suffered the glare of fluorescent lighting because he desperately needed coffee.
Backed by a firmly defined purpose, he picked up where he left off last evening. His fingers typed program specifications as his mind pictured Beebe performing the associated duties.
Months ago, the organization applied for, qualified, and received grant funding from the Michigan state government for enhanced senior programming. Crossroads overcame its first hurdle when local matching funds, necessary to obtain the state dollars, were identified through a foundation set up by a wealthy Larkspurian. The only drawback there was the duplicate reporting feature.
Vincent thought the grant sustained itself. It provided the funding needed to purchase upgraded computer software to meet state reporting requirements and the salary for the coordinator overseeing the programming. That’s where Beebe fit in.
At six o’clock, he slipped off the stool at the bar that separated the kitchen from the main room. He went to start another pot of coffee. The fresh pot waited for him after his shower and shave. Vincent decided to live, work, and sleep at Crossroads after Carolyn’s death. The house where his love for his wife overflowed became the old Victorian prison he wandered, hopelessly lost, during the weeks after the brain tumor took her.
Vincent worked off and on throughout the day, rereading and fine-tuning the program specifics. His deadline struck mid-afternoon when Ron Smith and Mona Gabriel, two of Crossroads’ board members, arrived for a prearranged committee meeting.
They sat around the table in Vincent’s office, one door down from his living quarters. The table was large enough for four. A scratched-up credenza he purchased at an auction sat against the wall inside the door. Earlier, Vincent carried in a tray with a pitcher of water, a carafe of coffee, the associated additives, glasses, and cups.
Ron and Mona listened throughout his summarization of the programming enhancements. While the programming was designed to benefit seniors in all reaches of the county, it was Rev. Mosie Razzell’s brush with Vincent’s front fender that ran through his mind, making Razzell’s presence the honorary fourth in attendance at the table. Vincent left his outline for the senior watch program for last. This provided a natural transition to his proposal to offer Beebe a position with Crossroads.
Ron, clad in a suit and tie, practiced law in Larkspur and acted as Crossroads’ legal counsel. “You say she’s the ideal person to coordinate these programs,” he said, playing with the onyx ring on his little finger.
“Beebe and I went to high school and college together. She’s moving back to town. I haven’t approached her yet. Before I do, I want to write the job description.” Vincent sent his proposal to Mona.
She was dressed for an evening out with her husband and announced such when she swept into the meeting room twenty minutes earlier. When wheels turned behind Mona’s large mocha-colored eyes, Vincent thought she would comment on hiring Beebe for the new post, but Mona bypassed that discussion to place herself in the spotlight instead. “I’ll take on the task of contacting each board member individually about the new programs.”
Vincent worked with Mona Gabriel long enough that he wasn’t surprised in the least by how adeptly she formulated a plan to claim this step-up in programming as her triumph. Board members would associate her with their first introduction to Crossroads’ new role.
Still in spotlight mode, she went on. “I’ll check everyone’s pulse—”
“Hold up, Mona.” Ron cut her off at the medical term. Dark strands of hair fell and caught on Ron’s long eyelashes. His hand whisked the strands away and Mona’s plan with them.
She sat away from the table, one knee crossed over the other. Vincent thought she tried to maintain composure, but her jiggling foot told of her annoyance over Ron’s interruption. Mona was married to Dr. Hershel Gabriel and, therefore, felt herself qualified to pepper her speech with medical jargon. Dr. Gabriel was a geriatrician, and a man Vincent respected and approached confidentially, several months ago, about being on call for Crossroads. His gratis services were never fully defined. The doctor was still “tossing the proposal around.” Vincent hesitated to push.
“I want to review Vincent’s documentation thoroughly first, since we’re setting off on a new course—”
“Not new, just expanded.”
Tit for tat. Vincent groaned to himself. Mona treated Ron to a break in his dialogue. Vincent maintained a neutral expression, but knew this as Mona’s game of one-upmanship.
A tolerant smile curled at the corners of Ron’s mouth, then he picked up his thought. “Either way, we’ll be better off without any false starts.”
“But why wait? I’ve got time this weekend. I can prepare everyone for the programming when the summaries are ready.”
“Mona, please.” His tolerance stretched now. “Leave me the weekend to get the wording finalized. Then Vincent can ship the files to everyone’s inbox Monday.”
“There are going to be some naysayers. I know exactly who. Why not make our pitch first, then follow up with the paperwork?”
“I’d rather make a coordinated effort after a full review, then present. You can have the telephone marketing job if you think it’s necessary.”
“I do.”
“Fine. Just wait a few days.”
Vincent failed in his effort not to sigh. This was like watching Mommy and Daddy fight.
After a few more jabs between them, Mona Gabriel—Gabby, the behind-her-back nickname used by those who knew her well—finally relented. She would delay in contacting the remaining nine board members. Vincent doubted she’d hear anything negative about the programming ideas identified. If there was any dissention or whining, she would bully said dissenter or whiner into submission in order to effectually pave her way to success. A successful day in Vincent’s mind was t
he day she no longer sat on this board.
Ron, able to keep a handful of organizational points simultaneously alive in his head, pulled the conversation back to Beebe. “Reduce your recommendation of Beebe to writing, Vincent. Not all of the members know her. Even those who do will need her curriculum vitae.”
Ron and Mona headed up the group not acquainted with Beebe. They both came to town after Beebe’s work with the church began.
In answer to Ron’s question, Vincent said he planned an August 1 start date for Beebe, then realized he jumped ahead. He had her actually accepting his employment offer before he made the pitch. He would make that contact yet today.
Above all, concern for Cliff and Beebe Walker rode high on Vincent’s list. Their wellbeing was primary. Still, he agonized over breaking his word to Abigail Walker, who begged to remain anonymous under the name, Terri Miller.
“I think we’ve covered all the bases,” Ron said.
That adjourned the meeting. Vincent stood, his antsy feeling sinking into his legs. He filed out of his small office behind the other two.
Old Ways in
Good Repair
Vincent returned to his office. He checked his watch. It read 4:20. He called Beebe, praying she’d be free.
She picked up on the second ring. With very little preamble, he gave her the executive summary on the assistant’s position and the grant that drove the programming. He left his worries out of it. The excitement that infused his voice didn’t seem to catch in Beebe’s.
“I’m coming, no matter what, Vincent. You didn’t need to do that.”
“But you’ll need a job, and I’ve got one.”
“I suppose so.”
There was a thread of enthusiasm in her tenor that overturned his rising disappointment. “Does that mean I can tell my members you came on board with very little fuss?”
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