The 10-Year Reunion

by Susan Wiggs

  As she took off, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The geraniums in the window boxes were blooming, but one of the second-story shutters hung crooked. The contrast between the beautiful flowers and the run-down house was not funky; it was simply pathetic. Maybe she should get a small apartment in town where she wouldn’t have to worry about upkeep on a big place. Then she thought of Brian, racing with Shep across the yard or climbing the rope-swing tree, and she dismissed the idea. She wanted her son to be raised in a family home, even if the family consisted of only a mismatched and troubled mother-and-daughter set.

  As they approached Lost Springs, Brian sat forward, his narrow chest straining against the seat belt as he stared out the window. His tongue worried the loose tooth.

  “So what do you think, sport?” she asked. “This is a nice place, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.” A split-rail fence lined one side of the road. In the distance, a herd of horses grazed placidly through tufts of mint-green meadow grass that grew in the shade of a clump of oak trees. Dust dervishes swirled across the sun-yellowed pastures. Summer had come early to Wyoming this year, and on the slope behind the main building, wildflowers bloomed, a snowfall of avalanche lilies, goldenrod, Indian paintbrush, purple heliotrope and long green fronds of high grass.

  “This is where Sammy Crowe lives,” Brian said with a reverent hush in his voice. “The boys who live here are orphans.”

  “Some of them are, yes.” Twyla didn’t know a lot about the ranch, though it had been a fixture in the area for many years. Sammy, the boy in Brian’s class, rode the bus in to school every day. One of the first-grade mothers had whispered that the boy’s mother was doing time in the state women’s detention unit. “Some of them are here because their parents can’t take care of them.”

  “Like my dad couldn’t take care of us?”

  Twyla forced herself to stare straight ahead, keeping her face expressionless. With Jake, it hadn’t been a case of “couldn’t” but “wouldn’t,” though she’d never tell Brian that. “Not exactly,” she said carefully. “You have Grammy and me to take care of you.”

  “But who takes care of you and Grammy?”

  She glanced sideways. “We take care of ourselves, kiddo. And we’re doing all right.”

  “All right’s good enough for us, Mom.”

  She grinned, turning her gaze back to the road. It was hard to believe how quickly Brian was growing and changing. How wise he seemed sometimes, for his age. She wondered if that old-soul streak of maturity came from being raised without a father. Some nights she lay awake, racked by doubt. She was raising a wonderful boy, but she couldn’t help fretting about the idea that there were things a father could give him that a mother and grandmother could not. They were the intangibles—that unique chemistry between dads and kids. She’d felt that magic with her own father. He’d had his faults, but his love had enriched her life beyond compare. How would she have turned out without it?

  She worried sometimes that Brian would always be missing a small, settled corner of his heart that should be filled by a father’s love. Like a quilt with one of the squares missing, he would be fine but somehow incomplete.

  She shook away the thought, feeling guilty. She would only admit to herself that single parenthood was a lot harder on her than on Brian.

  Trolling for a parking space, she pulled into a spot adjacent to the ball fields. The lot was filling up fast with vehicles from all over. Amazing, to think so many people were interested in this strange fund-raiser. She spotted a number of rental cars and vehicles with out-of-state plates. Plenty of these were sleek and expensive late models. The organizers of the auction—ranch owner Lindsay Duncan and director Rex Trowbridge—must be well connected.

  Or maybe the brochure didn’t exaggerate the success of the various bachelors. But really—an auction?

  A couple of news vans had set up, bundled cords snaking along the ground toward the arena where the auction would take place. Some of the bachelors had celebrity status, attracting local and national media. It was the fantasy angle they were after, she supposed. The idea that women were about to make a spectacle of themselves by competing—publicly—for a date with one of these guys.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised when someone shoved a microphone under her chin and demanded her name as soon as she stepped out of the truck. But she was so taken aback that she blurted, “I’m Twyla McCabe.”

  “What do you hope to find here today, Miss McCabe?” the reporter asked, his voice an aggressive, rapid-fire staccato.

  “Men,” she said ironically. “Lots of men.”

  “Would that be for a weekend fling, or are you husband-hunting?”

  “What?” Lord, did he really think she was serious?

  “Think you’ll find husband material here?”

  She couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. “Oh, sure. I’m going to snag a millionaire. Or at least a hunky cowboy, one with great pecs and a tight butt.”

  “Then what words would you use to describe the mood today—excited, romantic, hopeful?”

  Finding her composure at last, she pushed the microphone away. “You could use them, but you’d be wrong.” With a wink, she added, “Try bold and lusty.”

  The busy, sweating reporter gave up and scurried away in search of a more promising scoop.

  “Who was that guy, Mom?” Brian asked, getting out of the truck.

  “I have no idea, but I’d better wind up on the editing room floor.” She opened the tailgate of the old pickup. “Okay, sport, you can help carry.” She handed him the raffle box and took the quilt, carefully wrapped in a dry cleaner’s bag. It was the best work ever done by the Converse County Quilt Quorum. Made of soft, worn, hand-me-down cottons in a rainbow of colors, it was sure to fetch a handsome number of raffle entries.

  She set the quilt on the tailgate and got out the folded card table. Awkwardly, she took the table under one arm and the quilt under the other and started toward the covered pavilion. “Brian, watch where you’re going,” she called to him as a black SUV with rental plates nosed into the parking lot.

  The metal leg of the card table scraped her shin and she set her jaw to keep from cursing. It was hot, she was perspiring, she hadn’t made it to the arena, and she was already getting cranky.

  “Can I help you carry something?”

  She stopped walking and turned to see a tall man getting out of the vehicle. For a second, a dazzle of sunlight striking the windshield made her squint painfully. Then he came toward her and her grateful smile froze on her face.

  It was him. The guy from the brochure. And not just any guy, but the one in the tux with the long-stemmed rose.

  He wasn’t wearing a tux and carrying a rose at the moment, though. He managed to look immaculate, casual and foolishly expensive in khaki slacks and a navy shirt. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist. He had black hair, white teeth and the sort of unbelievably handsome face you saw on prime-time TV.

  “Um, yes, thanks. Maybe you could get this table?”

  His cool, dry hand brushed her hot and sweaty one as he took the folded table from her. Brian watched, shading his eyes and staring unabashedly up at the man.

  “I’m Brian. Brian McCabe. I have a loose tooth.”

  “Congratulations,” the man said. “Rob Carter. Pleased to meet you, Brian. You too, ma’am.”

  Twyla knew his name perfectly well. Robert Carter, M.D. He was a Leo whose favorite song was “Wishlist” and whose ideal woman was Grace Kelly—a dead actress-princess. His idea of a great time was kiteboarding at the Columbia Gorge.

  “Twyla McCabe,” she said, falling in step with him. “And don’t call me ma’am. I’m too young to be a ma’am.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “I call you ma’am when I’m in trouble,” Brian pointed out.

  “Does that mean I’m not in trouble?” Rob asked.

  “Guess not.”

  “Hot dog.”

  Brian laughed, c
learly intrigued. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “I’ll mind my manners.” He was taller than he’d appeared in the brochure, with the long, lanky build of a college basketball player. And Lord, so obscenely good-looking she had to force herself not to stare. The haircut alone would run about a hundred dollars in the city. His cologne was probably something she couldn’t pronounce or afford. It was like being in the presence of an alien life-form.

  “Twyla,” he said, trying out her name. “I’ve never met anyone called Twyla before.”

  “My granddad named her,” Brian explained helpfully. Though he’d never known his grandfather, Gwen told him family stories each night as she stitched her quilts in her little sitting room. The stories always depicted a dreamer—and they always ended happily. Brian was too young for the truth.

  Robert Carter, M.D., had a dazzling smile on his face as he looked down at her. “You don’t say.”

  “I just said so!” Brian objected.

  “A figure of speech.” Carter’s laugh was smooth, gentle, infectious.

  Yet Twyla didn’t feel like laughing. He made her conscious that her truck’s air conditioner hadn’t worked in three years, that her cotton sundress was plastered to her back by sweat, and that she hadn’t bothered with perfume after her shower today.

  Intimidating, that’s what he was. And too…everything. Too handsome, too smoothly friendly, too glib, too perfectly put-together, too male.

  A pavilion had been set up for the barbecue. The smoky smells of sizzling ribs, chicken and beef filled the air. A PA system blared a sentimental country-and-western song. The young residents of Lost Springs raced around, playing chase with the visiting children.

  “Hey, there’s Sammy,” Brian exclaimed, pointing at a dark-haired kid climbing a tree in the playground. “Can I go, Mom? Can I?”

  She nodded. “I’ll come find you when it’s time for the picnic supper.”

  “See ya,” Carter said as Brian handed him the raffle box and sped away.

  “We can set these down here,” Twyla said, indicating the spreading shade tree by the rodeo arena. Another volunteer had strung up the hospital guild banner: Converse County Hospital—35 Years Of Sharing And Caring.

  “You work at a hospital?” Carter asked her, laying the table down and prying up each metal leg.

  “Just as a volunteer once a week.” She considered offering him an opening to tell her what a big, important city doctor he was, but decided against it. He was too perfect as it was. He certainly didn’t need any prompting from her. “I do hair for a living,” she said, almost defiantly.

  He set the table on its legs and jimmied it back and forth until it stopped wobbling. Then he looked up at her, hands braced on the table, the nodding boughs of the tree framing his broad shoulders. “Twyla’s Tweezers,” he said softly. “Now I remember where I’ve seen that name before.”

  “It’s the Tease ‘n’ Tweeze,” she corrected him.

  “Why the Tease ‘n’ Tweeze?”

  “Because that’s pretty much what we do.”

  “And people pay you for this?”

  “That’s right.” A flush stung her cheeks. Just for a moment, she wished she could say, “I sculpt male nudes for a living,” or “I’m a district attorney,” but the truth was she was a hairdresser and Brian’s mom, and she could do a lot worse than that.

  He made no comment, but she thought perhaps his smile got a little hard around the edges. Probably so. Men generally didn’t find much in common with hairdressers.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said, unwrapping the quilt.

  “No problem.” With a casual wave of his hand, Robert Carter, M.D., walked toward the pavilion, putting on a pair of aviator shades.

  She taped the raffle ticket sign to the edge of the table. Then she unfolded the quilt and took out some clothespins, stepping back and eyeing one of the tree branches.

  She should have asked him to help her hang the quilt. His height would have been a convenience, but now she’d have to reach the branch without him. Standing on tiptoe on the metal raffle box, she pegged a corner of the quilt around the branch.

  The second corner was more of a challenge. She reached out, stretching, and too late felt the metal box tip. “Whoa,” she said, grabbing the tree limb as the box tumbled away. Dangling absurdly from the branch, she wished she hadn’t worn her high-heeled sandals today. Dropping even the short distance to the ground would probably sprain her ankle. Just what she needed—a fat doctor’s bill and time away from work.

  Grumbling under her breath, she hoped no one could see her predicament. She had her back to the crowd, so she couldn’t tell. She was about to let go of the branch, bracing herself in case her ankle snapped like kindling, when a pair of hands grasped her from behind and lifted her down.

  “She teases, she tweezes, she swings through trees with the greatest of ease,” said Robert Carter, M.D., affecting a newsreader’s voice.

  “Very funny.” Twyla pulled her dress back into place.

  “Much as I liked the view,” he said, “I wasn’t too sure about watching you fall out of a tree.”

  Twyla leaned her forehead against the rough tree trunk. “This is pretty much the most humiliating thing that’s happened to me since Mrs. Spinelli’s hair turned out lime green.”

  “Yeah?” That easy laugh again. He picked up a clothespin and pegged the quilt in place. “I guess that must’ve been pretty embarrassing.”

  “You have no idea.” She glanced ruefully at the toppled metal box. “Actually, now you probably do.”

  He handed her a sweating plastic cup of iced lemonade from the table. “I thought you might be thirsty, so I went and got this.”

  “Bless you.” She took a gulp and sent him a grateful smile. “This is awfully good of you.”

  “You say that with some surprise.”

  “Do I?”

  “Uh-huh. Does it surprise you when a strange man does something nice?”

  She laughed. “It surprises me when any man does something nice.”

  He took off his sunglasses. “I hope you’re kidding.”

  “Beauty parlor humor,” she confessed with a wry smile, and finished her lemonade.

  Carter studied the quilt for a minute. “So this is what you’re selling?”

  “Raffle tickets. This is what the winner gets.” She fingered the edge of it. “The ladies who make these do wonderful work.” She truly loved quilts. Each one was a small, homey miracle in its own unique way. “I think it’s amazing how old, tattered pieces of hand-me-down fabric can be stitched together into something so beautiful.” She ran her hand over a square. “This could have been some old man’s work shirt. This flowered one looks like a grandmother’s apron, probably full of holes or burn marks from the oven. Each one on its own was a rag, not worth keeping. But when you take a small piece of this one and a small piece of that one, and stitch them together with care, you get the most magnificent pattern and design, something that will keep you warm for a lifetime.”

  “Wow,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and taking out a slim leather wallet, “that’s some sales pitch.”

  She laughed incredulously as he held out a hundred-dollar bill. “I don’t have change for that.”

  “I don’t want change. I want a hundred raffle tickets.”

  She mouthed “a hundred” even as her stomach lurched with gleeful greed. The hospital guild was usually lucky to pull in seventy-five dollars on a quilt raffle. “Whatever you say,” she replied, taking the money. She counted out a hundred tickets from the long, printed roll in the metal box, tearing the strip apart in the middle.

  “You hang on to these, and listen for your number when we do the drawing.”

  He shook his head. “You keep them. I’ll check in later. Today might be my lucky day.”

  “But—”

  “I trust you.”

  “That’s what my best customers say.”

  He put the sunglasses back on. “I’d bette
r go. I think they’re getting ready to start.”

  “Start?” she asked stupidly. This guy was too perfect, and she was pretty certain that all the staring she was doing at him had caused her IQ to drop.

  “The auction.” He stuck his thumb in his belt, studying her. “Think you’ll be bidding on a date, Twyla?”

  He sounded like that reporter had earlier. A blush spread over her neck like a rash. “Do I look like the sort who has to buy a date from a stranger?”

  “You never know.” He indicated the quilt. “Do I look like the sort who has to buy a blanket from a hairdresser?”

  “Quilt,” she said. “It’s a quilt.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE ENCOUNTER WITH Twyla McCabe preoccupied Rob when he should have been trying to have a good time meeting guys he hadn’t seen in years, discovering how they’d turned out, visiting with teachers he’d had and counselors from the ranch. He felt a little self-conscious sitting at a long picnic table with a few of the guys, because women kept walking past, checking them out, whispering and giggling like schoolgirls.

  Hanging out with some of the guys made him wonder about others, the ones he didn’t see here today—those who hadn’t made it through to the other end of the tunnel.

  A tunnel was the image he thought of when he remembered the past. His early childhood had been a sunny, idyllic time he recalled only in bright, cartoon-colored flashes. His mother had been fun. That was what he remembered about her—laughter, playfulness, tenderness and forgetfulness. She’d let him stay up late and miss the school bus. Her friends and her music were loud, and meals all came in disposable containers. From the perspective of adulthood, he realized she had been impossibly young, uneducated, careless—and ultimately irresponsible.

  Then came the tunnel, the long, dark years he had spent struggling through a sense that he had been abandoned due to some fault of his own.