A Journey by Chance

by Sally John

  Valley Oaks. Now that was a misnomer. Those trees bending in the fierce wind were maples. Not one oak tree sprouted from land flatter than the Pacific on an ugly surfing day.

  “Here you go.” He pulled into the driveway, scrunched the parking brake and hopped out.

  The endless ride had probably taken all of two minutes. Gina shoved open her door into a privet hedge, patted the dog goodbye, and squeezed out.

  With the bicycle balanced upside down on a shoulder, Brady loped through the drenching rain to the garage at the end of the driveway. He was rangy looking. Extremely long arms and legs.

  The wind was howling now, flapping her hair in every direction. Fat raindrops ricocheted off the sidewalk and soaked her. She ran to the covered front porch as the guy raced past her and shouted, “See you around, Gina Philips!”

  Her thanks caught in her throat as he slammed his door shut. He knew her name. What didn’t he know?

  Four weeks in this place was definitely, absolutely, without a doubt going to be way too long.

  He wasn’t surprised.

  Brady drove down the two-lane county highway, the wipers furiously beating buckets of rain off the windshield.

  He had been curious, but he hadn’t really expected anything different. The snobby California 15-year-old he remembered had grown into a snobby California young woman. Still cute as a bug’s ear, with thick, just-above-the-shoulder, milk chocolate brown hair and eyes the shock of brilliant, late spring green.

  Absent, though, was the 1,000-watt Miss America smile that had caught his attention when he was 19. After all these years he could distinctly recall how it was nothing less than dazzling. Today he hadn’t glimpsed even a semblance of a smile. And how in the world could she give poor old Hattie such a hard time?

  “Well, Homer,” he addressed the dog snuggled against him, “for Aaron’s sake we’ll be nice to her. At least for wedding stuff, huh? It won’t hurt me to walk Dr. Angelina Philips up and down the aisle.”

  Now that he thought about it, didn’t the groomsmen usually just wait down front? Lauren, his cousin’s fiancée, had mentioned they would escort the bridesmaids up and down the aisle. He wondered if that had anything to do with the woman’s limp? It was her limp—wasn’t it?—that had tugged at him, prompting him to offer the book. And drive her the few blocks home.

  He gave his head a slight shake and turned onto the gravel lane that led through cornfields. In the distance a leafy canopy of oak trees welcomed him home.

  Wedding-related activities were obligatory, but they wouldn’t consume the next four weeks. If he had to spend time with a Lindstrom, he’d just as soon keep it to a minimum.

  Two

  Gina’s mother and Aunt Lottie greeted her as she carefully laid her wet backpack on the rug just inside the front door at the foot of the staircase.

  “Oh, sweetie,” her mother said, “I was worried.”

  “Mother! I’m 28 years old.”

  “So?” She patted her cheek.

  Gina noticed that her mother’s naturally curly and almost naturally blonde hair was frizzy. Uh-oh. Even cool, calm, collected Margaret Philips appeared uptight after spending less than a day in her hometown. She wasn’t even called by her name here. Sophisticated Margaret, manager of women’s clothing for Southern California’s largest department store, was reduced to Maggie.

  “Did you ride that bike in this rain?” Margaret’s tone was reminiscent of the days when Gina would miss curfew.

  Aunt Lottie answered for her. “No.” She moved away from the lace-curtained window. “Looks like Brady’s truck.”

  “Yeah, Brady Oleo something,” Gina replied. “He was at the library.”

  “Oleo?” Margaret asked.

  Aunt Lottie laughed, her plump hands folded at the waist of her flowered apron. “Olafsson, Gina. Say Olafsson. It’s a good Swedish name. Maggie, you remember the Olafssons, don’t you? Oh, goodness!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Of course you do. Well.” She lowered her hand and smiled brightly. “How about some nice cold iced tea with our sandwiches? We’ll take lunch to the cellar.”

  “Sounds great.” Gina watched her great-aunt waddle off toward the kitchen. She was short, on the rotund side, still sharp and active at the age of 89, still living alone in this big old house. Snow white hair, fluffed weekly at the hairdresser’s, framed her round cheeks. Gina smiled. “Aunt Lottie,” she called after her, “no sugar, please!”

  “Oh, a little sugar won’t hurt you!” she called back.

  Gina pulled the book out of her bag. “Mother, why are we going to the cellar?”

  “Tornado watch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If I remember correctly, it’s when the entire town goes outside to watch for a tornado. Except for cautious, elderly women. They head to the basement because it’s the safest place if a tornado hits, which it never has in Valley Oaks.” Shoulder braced against the front door, she shoved the humidity-swollen wood into its jamb.

  “Do we have to shut the door? It’s stifling in here.”

  “It’s raining in. Ah, summer in the Midwest. I had hoped Aunt Lottie would have had air conditioning installed by now. You can live with the heat and humidity for a few weeks, can’t you? It means so much to her to have us here.”

  Gina looked into her mother’s emerald green eyes, so like her own. They were tired. “No problem. Aunt Lottie’s a hoot. Worth the trip. Are you okay?”

  Margaret gave a slight shrug. “It’s always a little rough at first. So many old emotions hit all at once.”

  “Oh, Mom! Don’t let it get you down. It’s just Podunk, Illinois—”

  “Angelina Philips! This is my hometown. My heritage is rooted here, and so is half of yours. Please don’t use that derogatory term in my presence.”

  “I’m sorry. I just hate seeing you upset. If you’re upset, who’s going to pamper me? I’ll be forced to act my age, and then I’ll have to give up whining. You have spoiled me rotten these past eight months.”

  “Only eight months?” She smiled. “Gina, it’s just emotions and not only the negative kind. Now, promise me something?”

  Gina hid her exasperation by turning to drop the back-pack in the coat closet. Her mother had been riding this strange emotional roller coaster for some time now, supposedly a normal event for women her age, but Podunk had definitely intensified the situation. Nothing would be gained by pointing that out, so she swallowed her frustration and turned around. “Promise you what?”

  “Well, I know your future is up in the air right now, and you’re anxious to attend to that matter, which means you are not thrilled about spending an entire month here—”

  “I chose to come, Mother. I want to be here for Lauren’s sake.”

  “I know, but I also know it will be difficult for you.”

  That was an understatement. One short visit to the village library and her teeth were on edge.

  “Will you just try to keep an open mind? Look for the positives in Valley Oaks. It’s not California, but it’s not a bad place.”

  Gina made a conscious effort not to roll her eyes. As they wound their way between overstuffed chairs and doilycovered end tables, she heard the solemn ticktock of the grandfather clock, erasing the seconds one by one. This interminable time would pass. Sweating the small stuff with her mother would only heighten the discomfort. She agreed to keep an open mind toward Po…make that Valley Oaks.

  Margaret stood at Aunt Lottie’s kitchen sink, her hands submerged in hot, sudsy water, and stared out the window. Storm clouds were dispersing and the sun had broken through, its heat coaxing steam from the wet grass. Sweet fragrances drifted through the screen, mingling with the scent of lemony detergent.

  Odd how such a simple act as washing dishes soothed, how it centered her. She should do it more often. But then, maybe back home it wouldn’t have the same effect.

  Back home. She thought of her shiny white ceramic tile countertop and, just outside the window, the br
illiant red bougainvillea covering the patio wall. San Clemente, where she was Margaret Philips, career woman with a very full social calendar, a talented daughter, and a handsome husband…

  She sighed. Margaret Philips didn’t even exist here in Valley Oaks. She was Maggie Lindstrom, always had been, always would be. Maggie or Magpie or Mags, depending on who was speaking. She imagined a collective Valley Oaks voice. You remember Maggie. Daughter of Martin and Mary…good, hard-working folks…tragic how they were killed in a car accident, only around 60 years old when it happened out on Highway 72; you know that curve. Marsha Anderson is her sister. That’s right, they’ve got three older brothers. Everybody loved Maggie. She was a good student, cheerleader and homecoming queen, worked at the Tastee Freez. Ended up marrying a guy from Chicago, but all through high school she went with Neil—

  “Maggie, I’ll help with those dishes.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Aunt Lottie shuffling into the kitchen. “No, I’m going to wait on you. Just sit and visit with me.”

  “Talked me into it.” She angled a chair toward Maggie and sank into it with a slight groan. “Rainstorms remind my knees they’ve been at work for almost 90 years.”

  Maggie smiled. It was the closest her aunt would come to a complaint. “I’ve been admiring your perennials. They’re so beautiful, as always. Shall I put in some tomato plants for you? I hope you still have the garden patch behind the garage.”

  “It’s there. Can’t say much has changed outside that window in 50 years, except the elms are gone and that maple is taller.”

  “Everything is so lush, not dry like my yard.”

  “Do you miss Valley Oaks?”

  “I don’t know.” She began washing the dishes, remembering how 35 years ago she had turned her back on all this. Her dream had been to spend her life here, out on the farm. The memories swirled, uprooting adolescent joys, guilt, anger, crushed hopes. “Out of the blue I get these incredibly intense emotions from the past. Like now.” It came then, a familiar burst of internal fireworks. Maggie grabbed a dishtowel and wiped perspiration from her face.

  Aunt Lottie chuckled. “That happens, honey, especially around your age. You feel like you’re losing your mind?”

  Maggie blinked back tears and took a deep breath. “It’s crazy. I feel like buying a wild purple dress or eating an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Or taking four weeks off from work?”

  She nodded. That had been such an off-the-wall decision, like many others of late. “My boss agreed I needed an extended vacation. I just feel so ungrounded.”

  Aunt Lottie nodded. “So you came home.”

  “So I came home.” She resumed washing the dishes. “I thought it might help to reflect on the past. Figure out where I’m going.”

  “That’s a wise decision, honey. What does Reece think?”

  “Reece? Oh,” she shrugged, “that I’m crazy. He can’t fathom why I simply don’t fix the problem.”

  “Husbands can’t always understand. But God does, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I’m counting on Him. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else at the moment.” Except for…she stopped the thought from forming.

  “God’s love is always unconditional. Will you take Gina to the cemetery?”

  She nodded. “It’s time.”

  “I agree.” Aunt Lottie went to a cupboard and pulled out two tin canisters.

  “What are you doing with the flour and sugar?”

  Aunt Lottie rummaged on a shelf. “Ah! I knew I had some.” She held up a bag of chocolate chips and smiled. “Homemade is so much better than store-bought.”

  In the warm twilight that evening, Maggie watched her sister Marsha back out of the driveway. Gina had left earlier to shop with Marsha’s daughter Lauren.

  “Maggie.” Aunt Lottie stood beside her on the covered front porch, waving. “Now I don’t want you worrying about making long-distance phone calls.”

  “I won’t.” She followed her inside through the screen door.

  “You’ve got to keep those communication lines open with hubby, you know.” She turned at the foot of the staircase and smiled. Her words grated, but that round face and sparkling eyes were the epitome of sweetness. “I haven’t heard you call him yet, and I thought maybe you’re concerned about the money. I’m not rich, but I’ve got more tucked away than I’ve time to spend.”

  Maggie’s heart melted. Aunt Lottie, her mother’s older sister, had two grown children of her own, four grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. Still, since the death of Maggie’s mother 25 years ago, Aunt Lottie had embraced her sister’s family as if it were her own, liberally giving her time and energy and money. “Aunt Lottie, you have been so generous with us.” She chuckled. “Do you know what a dual income means? With an independent daughter whose school bills are paid and not one grandchild to spoil?”

  Aunt Lottie grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Of course I do, dear. That wasn’t the point. Good night.” She climbed the stairs, pulling heavily on the banister, setting one foot at a time on each step, her knees creaking audibly.

  “Good night. I’ll close up.”

  So what was the point? Communication lines. “And I’ll call Reece,” she muttered to herself as she walked to the kitchen.

  Communication lines hadn’t been open for some time, not for real communication anyway. She knew the difference. Oh, they talked. They lived together, went out for dinner with friends together, shared work stories, fussed about Gina’s dilemma. Yes, they talked…but they didn’t communicate.

  She picked up the receiver from the wall phone and sat at the formica-topped table. The old-fashioned kitchen was bright and cheery, even at nighttime. White cabinets reached all the way to the high ceiling. Intermittently slicing through the daffodil yellow walls were white doors with clear glass knobs, leading to the pantry, back staircase, back porch, and basement. The swinging dining room door was usually propped open.

  She listened to her own voice on their home answering machine. No surprise there. “Hi, Reece. Well, we’re here, trying to keep cool. Gina’s fine. I thought the humidity might bother her hip more, but she seems to be handling it well. Tomorrow we have the two celebrations for Aunt Lottie’s birthday, so we won’t be around the house much. Talk to you later.”

  Maggie bit her lip and hung the phone up on the wall behind her shoulder. He was traveling, of course. Somewhere. She hadn’t paid attention to his schedule. She had simply stuck his itinerary in the suitcase and left it there when she unpacked. It didn’t really matter, did it? If she wanted, she could try his cell phone. No matter where he was, the cell phone was in his pocket.

  If she wanted.

  What she wanted was to talk to John. Other women had close female friends. How was it her closest friend was a man?

  They had met at a party last September. What was the connection again? Lillian’s friend Deirdre was a friend of the Millikens who knew him. She stood across the buffet table from him, pondering an unidentifiable concoction. They laughed about it.

  “John Beaumont.” He introduced himself.

  “Margaret Philips.” She shook his hand.

  Chatting, they wedged themselves into the crowd, away from the table. He said he was a professor at Long Beach.

  She smiled. “English lit.”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “It’s that obvious.”

  He wore a tweed jacket, gray corduroys, and oval, wirerimmed glasses. His wavy black hair was sprinkled with silver, his dark eyes intense. His movements were slow, deliberate, and yet there was a distracted air about him. His accent was East Coast.

  “Tell me,” she teased, “there must be a pipe in your pocket?”

  He pulled it out just far enough for her to see it.

  Their talk covered current bestsellers and the Japanese display at the art museum. He wore a wedding band, but didn’t mention his wife. She told him that her husband had bowed out of the part
y. Reece was with a land acquisition company. She bragged about Gina, their veterinarian daughter who talked to elephants.

  Innocuous beginning. It could have been anyone.

  Reece should have been beside her.

  Three days later Gina misjudged her elephant. Maggie waited through interminable hours, gagging on the scent of antiseptic, head pounding at the stark, fluorescent whiteness. Waited while they put her child’s body back together again.

  Reece should have been beside her then, too.

  Three

  “Lauren,” Gina eyed her cousin in the driver’s seat, “when do I get to meet Mr. Right? Or should I say Dr. Right?”

  She sighed. “God has given me such a perfect partner. Aaron is so wonderful.”

  “So you’ve told me.” Gina smiled. “Once or twice.”

  Her cousin was on cloud nine, which made her whirlwind personality even flightier than usual. Lauren resembled their mothers, who were sisters, in personality as well as looks. Vivacious, petite, naturally curly, gold-blonde hair. Only the eyes were different. Gina’s cousin’s and aunt’s were a ginger brown, her mother’s emerald green.

  Except for sharing her mother’s eye color, Gina always felt the odd woman out in this group. She was taller, more solidly built with medium brown hair and a medium personality to match. Her demeanor was decidedly more calm, which was a plus for being a veterinarian.

  Although the cousins lived thousands of miles apart, their growing-up years had often intersected. Lauren visited California, sometimes for entire summers. Every spring they and their mothers met in Phoenix. Gina’s mom had an annual business meeting there, but her rooms at the resort were always large enough to accommodate the four of them. The tradition continued during and after their college years, and they seldom missed.

  Lauren threw her a smile as she turned a corner. “Aaron’s tied up tonight, but he’ll be at Aunt Lottie’s birthday party tomorrow.”