Central Park Rendezvous

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She’d done something different with her hair—pulled it up so it formed a smooth sweep from her slender neck to the crown of her head. Soft curls spilled toward her forehead. Her cheeks sported soft pink, and the color also graced her full lips. The deep blue of her two-piece, well-fitted suit brought out the bright blue of her eyes. She was beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.

  The three younger Wolfe siblings placed their offerings on the table and settled into chairs with a noisy scraping of legs against the wood floor. Lois took the chair next to Bernie, and Henry and Carl sat side by side across the table, leaving the seat at the head for Helen. She wiped the back of her hand daintily across her perspiration-dotted brow and sent Bernie, who stood stupidly behind his chair staring at her, a shy smile. “Welcome to our home, Bernie. Won’t you be seated?”

  Bernie darted to her chair and pulled it out. “Ladies first.”

  Henry coughed into his hand, and Carl smirked. Bernie chose to ignore the boys and kept his focus on Helen. Her cheeks deepened—a natural blush much more appealing than the powder she wore—and she slipped into the chair, her head low.

  “Thank you, Bernie.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She smoothed her skirt over her knees and lifted her face slightly. “You already met Lois, and of course you know Henry. Please meet our other brother, Carl.”

  The freckle-faced boy grinned at Bernie. “Hi, Mr. O’Day. Nice to meet’cha.”

  Bernie stifled a chuckle at the boy’s lack of formality. He gave a quick nod in reply then returned to his chair, feeling clumsy compared to Helen’s swanlike motions. As soon as he sat, Carl reached for the nearest bowl—green beans—and started to serve himself.

  Automatically, Bernie cleared his throat. “Would you like me to say grace?”

  Carl’s hands froze on the serving spoon.

  Bernie wished he could kick himself. He was a guest—he had no business inflicting his belief system on this family. But how could they sit down to such a fine feast and not offer thanks? He flicked a glance at Helen. She wasn’t smiling, but neither was she frowning. Her sweet face wore a pensive expression Bernie wished he could translate.

  After a few tense seconds of silence, Helen folded her hands. “Please do so.”

  Everyone folded their hands and bowed their heads, and Bernie delivered a short prayer of gratitude for the food and the hands that had prepared it. He finished, “Thank You, our Father, for Your bountiful blessings. May we be ever mindful of Your presence in our lives. Amen.”

  Helen swallowed the lump that filled her throat at the sweetness in Bernie’s tone as he talked to the God he called Father. Dad had spoken to God with the same ease and familiarity, and as a child she’d experienced such security while listening to her father pray. Bernie’s prayer sent a spiral of warmth around her, as comforting as a cozy quilt on a winter day, but at the same time a chill whisked through her heart. The emptiness that had plagued her since her parents’ deaths and Richard’s departure returned, coupled with an aching realization: the emptiness was due to more than burying her parents and her dreams of a future with Richard; it was due to her decision to refuse God any part of her life.

  Her hands shook as she carved the turkey and placed succulent slices on each plate. But no one seemed to notice her turmoil. Her brothers and sister passed the bowls and dove into the hearty meal. While they ate, they chatted with each other. And with Bernie. Carl and Lois seemed as at ease with this newcomer as if he’d visited a dozen times. Bernie, too, appeared completely comfortable after his initial shyness. He teased Lois, talked to Henry like a peer, and drilled Carl on baseball facts. Helen found she needed to contribute nothing to the conversation, which suited her—she couldn’t think of a thing to say—yet also left her feeling left out. Her topsy-turvy emotions confused her, and the food that she had so anticipated lost its appeal.

  When they’d nearly emptied the bowls and consumed a good quarter of the turkey, the boys clamored for pie. Helen brought out the sweet potato and pecan pie made from Mom’s recipe and cut it into six equal portions. Conversation ceased while they ate dessert. Helen wasn’t sure if they’d all run out of words or if they were just too full to speak, but in the silence that fell—only the clink of forks on plates and satisfied sighs creating a soft backdrop—she grew more and more unsettled. If only she could make sense of her tumbling emotions!

  As soon as the boys were finished eating, they staggered to their bedroom to change out of their church clothes, which Helen had insisted they wear for the dinner. Lois yawned widely and asked to be excused. Looking into the child’s dark-rimmed eyes, Helen decided not to insist Lois help with cleanup. Lois scuffed around the corner, and Helen and Bernie were left alone at a messy table with chairs all askew.

  Bernie sat back and patted his stomach. “That was delicious, Miss Wolfe. Thank you so much for including me.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Helen’s voice sounded unnaturally high. She cleared her throat and tried again. “After your kindness toward Henry, it’s the least we could do.” She hadn’t intended to intimate she’d invited him out of obligation, but she realized her statement could offer that meaning. She scrambled for a way of rephrasing, but before she could think of anything, Bernie spoke.

  “Henry gives as much as he gets. He’s proved himself invaluable.”

  Relieved that he hadn’t seemed to take offense, Helen rose and began stacking dirty plates. “He loves his job, and—truthfully—his income is very helpful.”

  Bernie gathered silverware, filling both fists with forks, spoons, and knives. “I’d like to keep him on until he’s finished with school. But after that…”

  Helen gestured for Bernie to put the silverware into the empty green bean bowl. When he’d released the handfuls of clattering silverware, she put the bowl on top of the plates and lifted the stack. “After that… what?”

  Bernie sent her a serious look. “I’d like to see him quit working for me and go on to college. He’s a bright boy. He oughta aim higher than being the helper in a pawnshop.”

  Although he’d paid her brother a compliment, his words stung. Mom and Dad had wanted college for Henry. But how would she provide it? Forcing a laugh to hide the hurt his comment had inflicted, Helen turned toward the kitchen. “Well, if Henry’s to attend college, my gift elf will need to leave more than school supplies and woolen socks on the porch. We’ll need a bag of gold.”

  Bernie scurried after her. “Your gift elf?” Humor and interest tinged his tone.

  Helen placed the dirty dishes on the counter then faced her guest. “Have you ever heard the story about the elves and the shoemaker?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Apparently we have our own version. Someone…” It had to be Richard, trying to butter her up. Helen’s stomach churned. “… has left items on our porch once or twice a week for the past couple months. It reminds me of the little elves seeing to the needs of the shoemaker when he isn’t looking.”

  A smile twitched on Bernie’s clean-shaven cheeks. He smelled of bay rum, too. He must’ve cleaned up and shaved right before coming over to look so fresh. Helen hurried to the dining room before the temptation to run her fingers along his smooth cheek overcame her.

  He followed. “That story always reminded me of a Bible story—the one about a pitcher of oil that never ran dry. God made sure the widow and her son’s needs were met.”

  Helen paused in gathering the dessert plates. She shifted slowly to look at Bernie. His open, honest gaze met hers. “Do you really believe God meets our needs?”

  Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, Bernie nodded emphatically. “I believe that with all my heart. He might not meet them the way we think He ought to do it, but He gives us exactly what we need.”

  The past months of worry, frustration, and heartache rose up in one mighty tidal wave of emotion and spilled from Helen’s mouth before she could stop it. “What I need most is a helpmate, and if God puts him on my front p
orch, maybe I’ll finally believe He really does care about me.”

  Bernie stared at her, openmouthed and red faced. Embarrassed, Helen spun away from him. She reached for the last dessert plate, but as her fingers closed around it, a loud knocking sounded on the front door. “Excuse me,” she muttered and bustled through the parlor.

  The knocking came again—harsh and impatient. Helen called, “I’m coming!” She threw open the door then stumbled backward in shock.

  Richard Mason swept his hat from his head and gave a dapper bow. “Happy Thanksgiving, Helen!” His gaze roved from her head to her toes and up again. A knowing grin climbed his cheek. “You’re just as pretty as you always were.” He held out his arms. “How about a hug, honey?”

  Chapter 7

  Bernie strode around the corner from the dining room in time to see a well-dressed young man with a dark mustache step into the house and wrap his arms around Helen. Helen stood within the circle of his embrace with her arms dangling, as if she’d suddenly turned into a giant rag doll. The clatter of footsteps intruded as Henry, Carl, and Lois thundered into the room. The man released Helen and turned his broad grin on the children.

  “Well, lookit here, if it ain’t the whole gang! How you doin', Hank? Looks like you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last.” He punched Henry’s shoulder then whirled on the younger two. “Carl! Little Lois!” He rubbed his hand over Carl’s head, further tousling the boy’s unruly hair, then swooped Lois in the air. The moment he released her, she scooted behind Henry. The three stared at the man, unsmiling. But his wide smile never dimmed. “Good to see you all.” Finally his gaze found Bernie, and a scowl quickly marred his brow. He pointed. “Who’s that?”

  Henry answered. “My boss, Bernie O’Day. We invited him for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  The man’s lips formed a smile, but his eyes remained narrowed slits of distrust. “That so? Well, nice to meet you, Mr. O’Day. I’m Richard Mason, Helen’s fiancé.”

  Helen delicately cleared her throat. “My former fiancé.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Children, would you please finish clearing the table for me?” She raised her brows at the trio, and they trooped past Bernie. Still holding her arms in the defensive position, Helen faced Richard Mason. “Richard, I wondered when you’d finally show your face.”

  From her tone, Bernie couldn’t determine whether she was pleased, apprehensive, or controlling herself for his sake. He knew he should leave—he had no place here—but his feet seemed mired in concrete.

  Richard tossed his hat onto the sofa and leaned his shoulder on the doorjamb, his easy smile pinned directly on Helen’s face. “Aw, you know how busy stage life can be, doll. Hardly a minute to spare. But I couldn’t let the holiday go by without at least popping in and saying hello.”

  Helen inched backward, her fingers holding tight to her elbows. “Well, I suppose I should thank you for the gifts you left on the porch.”

  Mason smoothed his finger over his mustache. “Gifts?”

  Helen’s curls bounced with her nod. “I know they’re from you. Who else could have known that spiced peaches are Lois’s favorite, or that Carl loves baseball cards?”

  Bernie nearly bit through the end of his tongue, trying to hold back the truth. Helen needed to hear it from Mason rather than him. He waited for Mason to admit he had no idea about the gifts.

  Mason cleared his throat, his head ducked low as if modesty held him captive. “Yes, well, spiced peaches are a delightful treat. And of course what boy doesn’t like baseball cards, hmm?”

  Bernie found the ability to move. He stormed forward, his elbow brushing against Mason’s sleeve as he went. “Thanks again for the invitation to dinner, Miss Wolfe. I enjoyed my time with your family.” Aware of Mason’s steely glare on him, he paused long enough to give Helen a soft smile. “You and the children enjoy the rest of the holiday. I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.” Without waiting for a response, he charged out of the house and down the street, his strides wide and arms pumping.

  He was halfway home before his chilly ears reminded him he’d left his hat behind. With a disgruntled huff, he slowed his pace. Should he go back and get it? Part of him itched to turn around. To check on Helen and make sure that weasel Mason—because he was certain the man was a weasel—was behaving himself. But in the end he let out a sigh of resignation. His breath formed a cloud of condensation in the evening dusk then dissipated. Watching the puff disappear, Bernie wished he could make his feelings for Miss Helen Wolfe float away so easily. It hurt more than he cared to admit to think of her taking up with Richard Mason again. Especially if what Henry said was true and the man callously tossed her aside when she gave up her dream of singing in lieu of caring for her siblings. A woman who acted so unselfishly deserved a man who would cherish her.

  Lord, what’s Your will for Helen… and me? The prayer whispered from his heart. I want to show her Your love in action, but would it be all right if I let her see my love in action, too? Can I be the helpmeet she’s seeking?

  Bernie didn’t receive an answer, but he felt better having asked the question. In time, God would answer. He trusted his Father to lead him when the time was right. He set his feet in motion again, determined to leave Helen and her needs in God’s hands, where they belonged.

  Sunday morning as Helen dressed for church, her thoughts drifted back to Thanksgiving Day. Bernie’s prayer and the emotions it had stirred contrasted with the surprise of the visit from Richard. He’d stayed well past bedtime and had apologized repeatedly for his hasty exit from her life. She still wasn’t completely sure she wanted him back—not in the way he wanted to be back—but she couldn’t honestly say she was ready to permanently sever her ties with him. They’d known each other since they were youngsters, and they shared a common goal of singing on the stage. Surely they’d be able to build a life together if only she could learn to trust him not to abandon her again.

  Carl’s and Henry’s voices drifted to her ears—fighting over first turn for the washroom. She should go break up the argument before it turned into fisticuffs, but she stood behind Lois at the mirror and shaped her sister’s naturally curly hair into fat rolls instead. While brushing, she idly asked, “Lois, would you like it if Richard moved in here with us and became part of our family?”

  “Richard?” Lois wrinkled her nose at her reflection. “He’s a dandy.”

  Helen snorted out a laugh. “Where did you learn a word like that?”

  “From Henry. He called Richard a dandy, and I think Henry’s right. Richard smiles funny—like he doesn’t really mean it—and he’s afraid to get his hands dirty. He wouldn’t even help you with the dishes the other night. He laughs too loud, and sometimes he laughs when you don’t mean to be funny, which I think is mean.”

  Helen supposed she should scold Lois for speaking ill of Richard. But she couldn’t make herself condemn her sister for her honesty. The things Lois mentioned were things that bothered Helen, too, yet Richard also had good qualities. He was very talented and already had a good paying job with the opera company as their lead singer. He’d claimed he could easily get her hired into the troupe, as well, allowing her to live out her long-held dreams. When she’d asked about the children, he’d said, somewhat disparagingly, “Well, this isn’t a traveling troupe, doll.” She took his comment to infer she’d be available to them.

  Lois stepped away from the hairbrush and sucked in a big breath. “None of us are very fond of Richard, Helen. He’s hardly the cat’s meow.”

  Helen clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  Her hand on her hip, Lois tossed her hair. “But if you like him, then…” She flounced out of the room in a perfect Mae West imitation.

  Helen sank onto the edge of the bed, shaking her head. She’d have to forbid Carl from taking Lois to the picture show if her sister was going to pick up such habits. But she had to admit, Lois’s antics were amusing. And her depiction of Richard far too accurate. Helen sighe
d. She wished her parents were there to advise her concerning making a commitment to Richard. Without warning, her mother’s voice echoed through her memory: “You should pray before making any decision, Helen, and ask for God’s guidance.”

  Helen whispered, “But I don’t pray anymore.” She waited, her head tipped, expectant and hopeful. But her mother’s voice didn’t return. With another sigh, she pushed off from the bed and retrieved her black pumps from the closet. She’d be late getting the children to church if she didn’t hurry.

  As she buttered slices of toast for a simple breakfast, another thought crossed her mind, carried with the remembrance of Bernie’s easy prayer at their Thanksgiving table. Helen no longer prayed, but Bernie did. And Bernie obviously cared about Henry’s future, which meant he’d want the best for her brother. If she asked Bernie to seek God’s guidance about allowing Richard back into their lives, she had no doubt he’d do it.

  Helen desperately needed answers. She could send a message with Henry tomorrow to give to Bernie, and he’d probably send a reply on Tuesday. But she really wanted him to begin praying now. She needed financial help now. She needed an emotional helpmate in her life now. She didn’t want to prolong seeking an answer.

  Setting aside the butter knife, she dashed to the hallway and called, “Henry?”

  Her brother poked his head out of the washroom. “What?”

  “Which church does Mr. O’Day attend?”

  “The big brick one on the corner of Fourth and Applewood.”

  Helen nearly groaned. The church was huge! How would they locate Bernie in that massive sanctuary? She tapped her chin, thinking. If they sat in the back, they could scoot out the doors quickly at the end and watch every parishioner leaving. If they were lucky, they’d spot Bernie in the crowd.