“No, you’re fine. It hardly shows.” Amanda hid a smile.
Pam heaved a sigh and set the blotter down. “It’s a gift from my daughter in Chitapee,” she explained. “Works at the high school over there. Voted teacher of the year. That’s hard to do, you know.”
“It must be nice to have family close.” Amanda salted her rice pilaf, which held all the flavor of shredded cardboard. “Your daughter enjoys your company, I bet.”
She’d ached for her own family, even as she gave her mother assurances she was fine. Lasting only minutes on the line with her daddy before breaking down, his gruff voice telling her he loved her. She missed them, flaws and all, with a palpable longing.
Almost as much as she missed Grace. Her little flutters. Even the sickness, the sleepiness.
“Sometimes,” Pam agreed. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m so proud of my daughter I could burst-she’s got two young-uns …” She pulled a well-worn photo of chubby toddlers from her voluminous purse. “They drive me bananas, but they’re my heart. Strange, that your heart can run around outside your body like that, on two legs.”
“I know what you mean.” Whispers of hurt, the petals stirred inside Amanda.
She missed her pregnancy dreams, the ones where she could almost see her little girl’s face.
Amanda woke some mornings, even after the miscarriage, with the words aching on her lips. Turn around, Grace. Please turn around and let me see you.
But Grace never did. And now Amanda didn’t even have the dreams anymore. Still, she wondered what Grace would have looked like, dancing and running outside her heart.
“Anyway,” Pam chattered on, “it’s good to have a little distance. Oh”-she interrupted herself and shot out of her chair-“game time!”
Chair legs thumped against the industrial carpet as the ladies rearranged themselves into small groups.
“Amanda!” After an excruciating game involving pillowcases and stockinged feet, Courtney grabbed Amanda’s upper arm in the exact spot she hated most to be touched. The woman pulled her near enough that Amanda smelled Courtney’s coffee from dessert.
“I’m Courtney! Ladies’ Guild president,” she added, as if Amanda possibly needed further clarification on that point. “I teach at the elementary, Mark probably told you?”
“No.” Mark hadn’t said much about Courtney Williams at all. Taking in the woman’s good looks, and obvious familiarity with her husband, Amanda wondered why. An unpleasant sensation reverberated in the back of her neck.
“That stinker!” Courtney shook her head.
Our own precious Mark Reynolds…
“Then you probably don’t know I’m also an independent beauty consultant for LeFleur Cosmetics. And you, Amanda, are in danger of premature aging.”
Amanda refused to flinch.
“I’m not kidding. Your kind of fair skin ages the worst in our climate. The worst! The dry heat, the wind. You’ll be shriveled up like a raisin before you know it!”
How was it that the prospect of Amanda’s withering skin made Courtney even cheerier? Amanda fought the urge to pull away, or at least back up from the coffee-breath zone. Space invasion of the multitiered marketing kind.
“You have to guess how old I am. Come on, just guess.” Courtney released her grip on Amanda’s arm to frame her golden face with her hands, dramatic director style.
Looking over Courtney’s fitted sleeve, Amanda eyed the departing women with envy. Some carried the luncheon centerpieces out with them, colorful house-shaped planters with ivy cascades down the side. She hoped to snag one, but the odds diminished by the moment.
“Oh, I really couldn’t say,” she murmured.
Undaunted, Courtney rushed forth with her pitch. “I’m telling you, these products are amazing. You won’t believe what they’ll do for you. Even with those freckles.”
In incredible detail, Courtney outlined the benefits of utilizing a multifaceted skin care regime, starting with exfoliation and ending with skin moisturizing illuminators. “I’d be happy to schedule a makeover and skin diagnosis appointment.” She whipped out a Day-Timer and flipped it open to a full page of highlighted appointments.
“I’ll let you know. We’re just getting settled,” Amanda stalled. “I should get home to Mark.”
“Oh, I gotcha.” Courtney winked. “Newlyweds.” She pressed a wad of brochures and some samples encased in Pepto-Bismol-pink plastic into Amanda’s hands. “Just think about it. You could host a beauty party and win free LeFleur products!”
“Maybe.”
“Well, you don’t have to decide right this minute. I’ll call you. ’Kay?”
Don’t call me anything. “Sure, that’d be great.”
At home, Amanda tossed the handouts in her white wicker bathroom trash can and examined herself in the mirror. A newlywed. An aging newlywed. From the inside out.
Splash stains from Mark’s shaving blurred her reflection in little circles. She got out the ammonia and wiped the streaks away.
CHAPTER 15
more mashing
The three of them sat around the dinner table. A dying mum bouquet served as the centerpiece. Mark had brought the orange and yellow flowers home for Amanda last week. Their decay cast a slightly musty smell.
He’d throw the flowers away for her later. Buy her some new ones. As many as it took, for putting up with his mother.
“That was an excellent meal, Amanda. Wonderful. The potatoes could have used a little more mashing… perhaps a tad more butter… but other than that, outstanding.” Marianne Reynolds dabbed the corners of her mouth. “Don’t you agree, Mark?”
Amanda twisted her fork in a small mountain of potatoes, eyes downcast at her half-eaten meal.
Mark slid his chair back and patted his stomach, full in Friday-evening flannel. “You did a good job, hon. On all of it.” He tilted his empty plate as evidence and she quit the twirling, her shoulders easing a bit.
With a weak smile, Amanda stood and collected plates from the heavy wood table, a recent purchase from Barry’s Fine Furniture.
They’d ordered it from one of Barry’s specialty catalogs and the financing had gone through “like poop through a goose,” according to Barry.
The salesman had informed the choir all about it and showed them the pictures. Now several other ladies had the same table on order, each hoping to match the Reynolds with their big-city tastes in time for Christmas.
Barry declared business had never been so good, and put a rush delivery on Mark and Amanda’s table for free.
Mark was just thankful it arrived before his mother’s visit, so she’d have one less thing to criticize.
“Oh, we’ll get those dishes.” Marianne fluttered from the table and shooed Amanda like a fly. “I know you’ve been tired lately.”
“I’m fine.” Amanda’s soft voice slid through the clinking plates.
“We-e-11,” Marianne drawled, “I couldn’t help but notice all the naps you’ve been taking.”
“Today, I guess, but it’s not like …” Amanda set the stack on the counter and smoothed a wild curl behind her ear. She looked to Mark.
He shook his head. Don’t worry.
His mother missed the silent exchange. In the three days since her visit started, they’d done an excellent job of conducting entire conversations with body language and eyebrow movement. The small house and reverberating hardwoods didn’t allow for more verbal discussions.
“I’m doing this, and that’s final.” Marianne shifted the plates closer to the sink and opened a drawer for a dishrag. “You go put your feet up, Amanda.” She cast a sweet gaze at her son. “Even though Mark’s worked hard at the church all day, I’m sure he can muster up some energy to help.”
Mark shrugged. “Sure. We’ve got it, Mandy.”
“Besides,” Marianne added over her shoulder, “it’s not like there’s much to wash, with just those two side dishes.”
“You still hungry? There’s plenty more.” Mark star
ed out the kitchen window at the dark fall sky and wished his mother would quit smiling as she stabbed his wife.
“You know I like to keep my figure.” Marianne tapped a slender hip.
Mark guessed she’d been the same size forever. Same size, same conservative dress, same hair.
“You can’t let things slide, no matter how comfortable you get. Oh!” A guilty hand flew to her mouth. “No offense, Amanda.”
Same cutting remarks.
Amanda hadn’t lost all the weight from the pregnancy, and her thickened waist had caused more than one weepy morning. Her shoulders stiffened ramrod straight, and Mark thought for an instant her old fire might have returned. That she’d give his mother what-for.
Instead, her eyes filled, a familiar sight. Mark left his post at the counter. He gathered her to him and stroked her side.
You look good to me, his hand whispered. Your body is mine and you are beautiful and my mother is a crazy witch.
She rubbed her forehead against his shoulder. Thank you, her warmth answered back.
Marianne started the hot-water tap. “Where’s your scrubby brush, Amanda? I find a good stiff brush is essential for dishwashing. Do you have one?” Without waiting for a response, she dug under the cabinet. “My goodness, this is an older home. There’s some water damage under here, Mark. You might have some of the church workers take a look at it.”
He wondered if her entire body would fit into the cabinet if he gave her a quick shove.
“Here’s a sponge, I guess this will have to do.” She pivoted triumphantly, waving the yellow cleaner. “Go on now,” she ordered Amanda. “We can take care of this.”
“You sure?” Amanda spoke low to Mark.
“You could use the break.” He rubbed the small of her back. “Go get some quiet. I’ll keep her busy.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes later, he heard the water running in the bathroom. He hoped she’d take her time and soak the stress of his mother’s visit away. Watching her wring her hands under the table during dinner made him want to start his mother’s Buick and send her back to Lubbock.
“You know, if you used a little no-stick spray on your cookware, it’d clean easier.” Marianne’s elbow pumped back and forth as she scrubbed.
“Just soak it. I can finish in the morning.” He’d get up early and do the housework before anyone stirred. He found peace then, in the quiet. Thinking as his wife slept that today would be the day she would rise with a smile, one that would last. He prayed for it each dawn as he tidied their home, as if the work of his hands might make the difference.
“Oh. Do you think Amanda will still be tired then? In the morning too?”
“She’s fine, Mom. It’s been a hard move.”
“Have you thought of other reasons she might be fatigued?”
“She’s not pregnant.” His words came out harsher than he intended. Defensive at his mother’s prying. “It’s too soon.” It might be never.
“Humph. I never said she was and I wouldn’t dream of asking. That’s much too personal. You don’t owe me that kind of information.”
“It’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean-” she insisted.
“Forget it.” He counted to five. Then ten. “It’s okay. It’s been tough for Mandy to be away from her family, her friends. But she’s adjusting.”
“Yes, I can see that. Why, I think she might have put away that stack of laundry I washed two days ago.”
“Cut it out, Mom.” He could only play nice for so long. And he found as the days passed, his patience with his mother grew shorter.
“I’m sorry. I just had different ideas for you. For who your wife would be-”
“I know, and I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard plenty.”
“One of the girls from seminary,” Marianne continued.
Not listening. She never listened.
“Or even our home church. I know of at least two myself who still burn a candle for you.”
Burn a candle? Who says that? “I think you overestimate my appeal, Mom. Regardless, I love my wife.”
“I love Amanda too. You know I do. She certainly had a … a certain spark when you were dating. Darling girl.” Marianne pulled a dripping pan from the steamy sink and wiped it with a towel. Handwashing.
Mr. Chesters crunched his premium-brand cat food in the kitchen’s corner, glaring warily at Mark.
Finished for the moment, the cat thrust his white paws forward, arched his back and yowled. Mark understood the command. He opened the kitchen door and watched Mr. Chesters slink off into the night.
Cool air washed over him. He smelled a fire burning. On the porch next door, Mrs. Zimmerman called softly to Princess, and her television poured noise and flickering glare into the empty night. Another cat meowed a greeting, or a warning, to Mr. Chesters. Mark left the animal to fend for himself, and went back inside.
Marianne cocked her small head sideways, contemplating. “Does she support you, honey?” Her soft brown eyes searched his, her expression pleading. “In your profession, I mean? This church, your opportunities here. You could go so far, be anything you want to be.” She shook her short brown curls. “Imagine, you’ll have your own church before long. Think of it.”
Penny loafers clicked against the linoleum as she moved to put the pan away. No stacking in a pile for Marianne Reynolds. You wash, you dry, you put away. Relentless in her busyness.
“But without a helpmate to stand beside you, it just can’t be done.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll never be greater than an associate pastor without a more visible wife.”
“I’ll be as great as God allows, Mother. And whether or not my wife needs some transition time shouldn’t have much effect on a life’s calling.” He stepped on his anger before it ran away from him.
“Besides”-he breathed the tension out-“she’ll find her legs here. Get friends. She just needs a niche, is all. She might be in a slump right now, but with more time, everything’s going to be better.”
“Of course it will. Yes, you’re right. If you say so, then it must be the truth.”
She had the gall to tap him on the head as she passed him on her way to the pantry. “Still, I wonder. How much time will it take? And do you have enough left to give her?”
CHAPTER 16
what i need
Suspicious, Amanda crossed her arms. “Tell me again.”
“The ladies specifically asked for you,” Mark repeated.
“By name. They want you to ride with them on the way to the retreat.” Mark sat on a kitchen chair, retying his shoelaces after a Saturday-morning run through the neighborhood.
“They did not.” Amanda taped a black-silhouetted witch to the window. My name. She wondered what they called her. Mrs. Reynolds. She shuddered, thinking of Marianne.
Mark’s wife. The preacher’s ball and chain. She dug into the plastic Wal-Mart sack for the matching cat.
Or had they said Amanda? She remembered Shelinda, with her easy laugh in the kitchen with King Ranch casserole. Shelinda called her Amanda.
She squelched the beginning of hope, flat as a June bug in September. Not liking its unfamiliar creep in the shadows of her heart.
Hope left when Grace died.
Securing the cat with Scotch tape, Amanda slapped the cutout next to the broom.
“Did too.” Mark stepped over the grocery bags and picked up her newspaper tornado, rumpled and forgotten in front of the couch. As he gathered, he folded the sheets into conformity before sitting down to read it himself.
Following him, Amanda mimicked his nonchalance. She didn’t care. She placed a chubby ghost candle on her paperback bookshelf and plugged in an electric jack-o’-lantern on a side table. Examining its blinking grin, she asked over her shoulder, “Who?”
The newspaper rattled as Mark turned the page. “Let’s see. Pam Hart, Missy Underwood. They remembered you from the luncheon.” He added, “Course, Peggy’ll be there. And, whatshername? Co
urtney Williams, the one who does everything.”
Fantastic. She’d be cornered for hours by the effervescent LeFleur saleswoman. “Did you bring it up, or did they?” She imagined him sidling up to a chattering pack on a Sunday morning and tossing her name among them. An awkward, deflated volleyball. Thunk. They’d have nothing to do but pick it up. “You arranged all this, didn’t you? You. Not them.”
Leaning forward, Mark rested his elbows on his knees. “Forget about who did what. The important thing is the church is paying for the trip. Well, maybe that’s not the most important thing,” he corrected himself. “But the point is, they’re footing the bill since I’m … we’re on staff. It’d be rude for us to turn them down. A weekend in the mountains of Colorado. How could you say no?”
“N-o. It’s not that hard, Mark. It’s called taking a stand. You don’t have to do everything they ask you.” She knew she was being petty. Digging her heels in. But she wanted to lash out, to make some sort of a point she couldn’t even define for herself.
“A stand about what? A women’s retreat?” Mark went back to the kitchen and fumbled in the pantry for his postrun protein drink. He slammed the door, impatient. “It’s not a political statement. It’s called a vacation. And I thought you could use one.” The spoon clicked against the glass like a clock on speed. Ting ting ting ting ting.
“I don’t need a vacation.” She poured candy corn in a ceramic pumpkin bowl. Her thoughts tumbled forth, caught by ambivalent porcelain.
Telling him without sound, wishing he could hear. Watching the sweets fall.
I need my husband at home and not sitting beside every grieving widow inside Carson County.
Sugar niblets cascaded in slow motion, clattering against the sides, spinning in a crazy dance.
I need my partner not to interrupt our dinners with church phone calls, calming down a deacon while the gravy gets cold.
Triangles of white, yellow, and orange candies piled together, blurring into a muted peach.
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