A Journey by Chance

by Sally John

  “Oh, come on. I’ll catch you this time.”

  She laughed again, along with him. Eventually the others talked her into rolling the ball down any which way she could. She walked to the end of the lane, holding the ball in both hands, then dropped it with a little “oomph” to send it on its way.

  She missed that spare, but never her turn. The evening turned out to be rather enjoyable.

  Even Brady Olafsson seemed less annoying.

  After church the next morning, Aunt Lottie napped. Gina and her mother settled on the front porch swing with unsweetened iced tea and gently pushed, creating a slight breeze in the hot afternoon.

  “Well, that was different,” Gina commented.

  “What was?”

  “Church. Kind of informal.”

  “Not like home, that’s for sure. The pastor makes Jesus sound, oh, I don’t know. Maybe approachable is the word.”

  Gina nodded. “Everyday and real. Like the people. Although Brady Oleo wasn’t everyday. He wore a nice pair of jeans and no cap.”

  Maggie’s forehead creased.

  “You missed him at the open house. He wore mud-caked boots and jeans! Unbelievable.”

  “That’s the Olafssons.” Maggie stared out at the street.

  “Did you know—” The phone shrilled through the screen door. “I’ll get that.”

  Gina hurried to the kitchen. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Gina. How are things in Podunk?”

  “Dad! Hey, I promised not to call it that. How’s work?” She always asked him about work. It was synonymous with “How are you?” As a top executive in a national land development company, he traveled more than 50 percent of the time. Work was his life.

  “I’ll be in Chicago in a couple of weeks, and I may run down to Valley Oaks.”

  “Very good, Dad! Mother would appreciate that emphasis.”

  “Well, I’m not coming to the garden spot to sightsee. Our Midwest division ran into a snag on some nearby property. I said I’d look into it. On another subject, nothing new here yet on the Park situation. How are you dealing with that issue?”

  Gina answered her dad’s straightforward question in a like manner. “I’m not. I don’t want to even think about it. I’d rather plan the future.”

  “All right. It will work out, honey. Don’t worry.”

  He chatted with her about other things, keeping her on the phone, she knew, until she calmed down. He was a good dad.

  While her mother talked with him, Gina sat outside. Her thoughts drifted over the full schedule that prevented her from focusing on the future. She remembered Brady’s comment under the oak tree as her mother rejoined her.

  “Mom, you know that Brady character kind of rubs me the wrong way. He’s just so friendly, but at the same time I sense a chip on his shoulder or something. Kind of like he’s not being genuinely friendly toward me. Anyway, we were getting into it about being paired up. I said the ceremony was the only necessary time for that, and then he definitely lost his down-home attitude. He said, ‘I don’t know what your mother told you,’ but he never finished the sentence. Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  Her mother stopped pushing the porch swing and looked out at the street. “Your dad and I were just talking about some memories. He said you should know.” Her voice trailed off. “Gina.” Maggie looked at her then, and there was sadness in her eyes. “I need to show you something. It may answer your question. I’ll get the car keys.”

  Gina sat frozen on the swing. Why would there be an answer to that question?

  Open, rolling fields surrounded the town of Valley Oaks. Maggie drove Aunt Lottie’s old car to one of the edges of town. A few minutes later Gina’s stomach tightened as they turned into an old cemetery enclosed on three sides by soybean fields. Cows grazed on a distant rolling hill. They parked along one of the narrow gravel lanes and climbed out.

  “Is this where Grandma and Grandpa are buried?”

  “Yes. Do you remember coming here?”

  “Not really,” Gina replied, “just that we brought flowers to a cemetery.”

  She walked behind her mother between tombstones, many more than a hundred years old with worn lettering. It was a well-maintained place with neatly trimmed grass. They stopped before a small, pink-flecked marble stone. Fresh white roses filled an attached metal vase.

  Gina read the engraved name. Rose Lindstrom Olafsson.

  Lindstrom? Her mother’s maiden name.

  Olafsson?!

  She read the dates. The girl was born 35 years ago. And she lived only three days. Gina felt as if a hand clutched her throat. “Mom?”

  Unshed tears swam in her mother’s eyes. “It was before hyphenated names were fashionable.” She gave her a tiny smile. “I did have another middle name in mind. Engraving four names cost…” Her voice trailed off. “I made a mistake, but I didn’t want her to leave without her mother’s family name.”

  Gina sat on the soft grass and let the news sink in. She had a sister.

  “Sweetie, I was married to Brady’s father.” Maggie sat down beside her.

  Another shock wave rolled through her. A baby and a husband? Hearing out of the blue that her mother had such secrets was disconcerting. She listened without comment to the story that began at Valley Oaks High School almost 40 years ago. Her mother and Neil Olafsson dated and fell in adolescent love. By the end of their senior year, she was pregnant.

  Their families had never cared for each other. The Olafssons were wealthy farmers. The grandparents had been able to purchase land during the Depression rather than lose it like so many others. On the other hand, the Lindstroms, a family of seven, lived in town, not far from the railroad tracks. Grandpa Martin worked in the factory that built the tractors and combines that the Olafssons purchased.

  “I stayed home from college and worked, determined that I was on my own and that I would make it work. By October, Neil was fed up with his family. We were legally adults and so much in love.” She shrugged. “We eloped. His parents almost disowned him. Mine let me live at home while he went back to school. Rosie was born December 27.”

  Maggie wiped a tear. “Her skin felt like velvet, like a rose petal. There were complications. Anyway, we were too young. When she died, we didn’t have to be married. Neil went back to school. I went to a different one.” She sighed. “I never would have lasted as a farm wife. We got divorced. I met your father. End of story.”

  Gina didn’t think so. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “And tarnish my image?” She gave her a sad smile. “I felt so guilty. I wanted to be the perfect mother to you. There was never a right time. I’m sorry.”

  “I remember calling you old-fashioned and uptight and mean and stricter than any mother on earth had a right to be.”

  “I didn’t want you to live with the baggage I had. I should have told you why. Your dad always told me to. It was the only major thing we disagreed on. I’m so grateful I found him. Without him, I wouldn’t have you.”

  Now Gina cried. They sniffled for a few moments. “Did you bring these roses?”

  She nodded. “But some were already here. I thought Aunt Marsha probably brought them…” Her voice trailed off again.

  Was this the chip on Brady Olafsson’s shoulder? “Do you think Brady holds this against me? But why would he?”

  Her mother dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, I imagine he’s heard poisonous remarks at impressionable times growing up here. Neil’s mother—that would be Brady’s grandmother—always blamed me for getting pregnant. Then for Rosie’s death. Then for the divorce. I couldn’t win. I’m sure I was known as ‘that hussy.’ You’re probably referred to as ‘that hussy’s daughter.’ In a small town like this, the past never goes completely away.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  “Partly. Partly because Valley Oaks was not your Chicago-native father’s kind of town.”

  They sat quietly. A light breeze played with Gina’s hair. Knowing that she had
a sister felt…well, she wasn’t sure how to feel, not that there was much to be done about it. Still…maybe her sharp sense of aloneness could soften just a bit by the simple fact that nestled in her family tree was a half sibling.

  “Mom? Do you think she’s in heaven?”

  “If Jesus is real, I know she is.”

  Eight

  The house was quiet. Gina was out somewhere with Lauren. Aunt Lottie had fallen asleep on the couch while crocheting. Maggie set down the book she couldn’t concentrate on.

  She should call Reece, tell him that Gina now knew the deep, dark secret.

  With a shake of her head, she reworded the thought, erasing the angry tone. I told Gina about Rosie and we’re fine. Yes, they were fine. Her daughter’s mature compassion amazed her. The upheaval of the past few months had drawn them closer together, more as equals, as friends even. While Maggie’s unpredictable emotions tore down stoic walls of perfectionism, Gina had been able to tease her and, in more serious moments, confess that her mother was much easier to relate to these days.

  As this new relationship blossomed, hers with Reece deteriorated. Marsha had asked if he traveled more. He could scarcely be gone more than he had been in recent years unless he simply moved out of the house. On the surface their marriage appeared the same, but she knew they weren’t connecting on a deeper level. Yet at times she wondered if it were all in her imagination, simply a result of this unstable time.

  He needed to hear what happened yesterday, and she needed to apologize for mentally stomping her foot and snapping at his suggestion. She thought again of what she would tell him. This was positive news. Why the angry tone?

  Maggie went to the kitchen, lifted the phone receiver from the wall and carried it through the back door, stretching the cord to its limit. It was a pleasant evening without last week’s stifling humidity. The sun was almost hidden behind the garage. She sat on the top step and dialed Reece’s cell phone number.

  It rang and rang and rang. She disconnected and tried again. After ten rings she cut it off. If he didn’t answer, the stupid thing was supposed to automatically roll into voice mail. She glanced at her watch and subtracted two hours. Evelyn, his secretary, might still be at the office.

  Someone else answered. Before she could ask for her husband’s voice mail, she was on hold, a Vivaldi concerto assaulting her eardrum.

  Her internal thermostat did its spontaneous overheating number. Perspiration seeped through every pore. Her heart pounded, resonating in her head and chest. She rested her elbows on her knees, blinked back tears, and bit her lip. This had nothing whatsoever to do with summer, absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with anything except pure frustration and anger at not being able to reach her husband when she needed him. She wondered if years and years worth of bottled-up frustration now flowed.

  Evelyn got on the line. Maggie had always liked the woman and tried now to keep up her end of the polite chitchat. Reece was in New York, probably at a restaurant at this hour. Unavailable. At last she was connected with the voice mail.

  “Reece, it’s me. Margaret.” She coughed a self-deprecating laugh. “Guess you could figure that out. Your cell number didn’t work. I don’t know why.” She wiped her brow, steeling herself to drop the complaining tone. “I took Gina to Rosie’s grave yesterday. She’s fine with it, of course. Just as you knew she would be. She is a darling, isn’t she? Call me so I can apologize for snapping at you.” She paused. “I miss you.”

  She did miss him, had been missing him for a long time, but suspected the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, then dialed another number, fully aware that she had promised not to, fully aware that sometime between the unanswered ringing of the cell phone and the Vivaldi concerto she had decided to break that promise.

  The answering machine clicked on. The soothing, professorial voice stated simply, “Please leave a message.”

  She waited through the beeps. “Don’t pick up. I just need to talk one-sided.” To someone who will listen, she added silently. “I told Gina yesterday. She was so precious about it all. Are all my fears this unnecessary? I don’t think she’ll hold it against me. She seems to appreciate seeing all sides of me—”

  “Hi.”

  She closed her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to answer.”

  “You weren’t supposed to call.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” There was a smile in his voice. “I wanted you to call, remember? But we did agree it would be best for your sake to go it alone.” He paused. “How are you?”

  “Not very well at the moment. Actually, I’m doing a thoroughly good job of botching my going it alone.”

  “Sounds as if things went well with Gina.”

  He was coaxing her thoughts to focus on the positive. She knew his deep brown eyes would be twinkling pools about now, subdued by thick black lashes and wire-rimmed glasses. “They call me Maggie here.”

  “Maggie?”

  She let him ponder that for a moment.

  “Maggie,” he repeated. “Hmm. It suits you, I think. The ‘you’ that you let me in on sometimes. Do you like it?”

  “Confession time.” She smiled softly. “I do, I really do.”

  “Ah, the beginnings of an authentic identity?”

  “Just a baby step.”

  “Two baby steps. Authenticity with Gina as well as yourself.”

  “I miss you, John.”

  “Margaret,” he breathed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. “You need a friend there. Tell your sister.”

  She bit her lip.

  “It’s the next baby step. Pretty soon you’ll have taken one giant step in authentic relationships and, I suspect, found a large piece to the identity-slash-future puzzle. Nothing to lose, right?”

  She exhaled sharply. “No. Nothing to lose.”

  He waited, patiently, politely. She knew he would let her end the conversation.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “You’re welcome…Maggie.”

  She heard the grin, imagined the crinkled crow’s feet behind the glasses. “Bye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Maggie held the phone against her forehead and blinked back tears. If only—

  “Who’s John?”

  She looked up, over her shoulder. On the other side of the screen door stood Marsha.

  Nine

  Brady grabbed a sport coat and tie from the closet, just in case his editor chose an upscale Chicago restaurant. An upscale one that allowed jeans. On that point he wasn’t conceding.

  He laughed as he strode out the door and to his truck. Contract for book Number Five was signed. Today’s discussion over lunch would be the gist of Number Six. The critics loved his work.

  He didn’t have to wear a suit!

  He flung his arms wide and whirled around, whooping loudly. Thank You for that, Father.

  Brady gazed at his log cabin house. At his 122.7 wooded acres that glowed now in slanted shafts of early morning sunlight through the oak trees.

  And for this.

  And for not having to major on planting corn the rest of my life!

  Well, he could go on with the list, but it was time to leave. The “girls” would be waiting. When Lauren had heard he was headed to Chicago on Thursday, she begged for a lift and offered her mother’s van so that she and her wedding entourage could sit comfortably for the 90-minute ride. They had shopping to do, and Gina hadn’t seen the city in 20 years. Could he just stay an extra hour or maybe two?

  He wasn’t adept at saying no to a sweet, pretty woman asking a favor. And Lauren was genuinely both.

  With a wry smile, he climbed into his truck. It was a wonder he could still recognize such feminine traits. When his fiancée, Nicole, left him for another man and another lifestyle in California, he had buried himself in work. The escape route had surely
been a gift from God. When he emerged from it, his second book had just been released to rave reviews. Now, at last count, the combined sales of the first two novels had reached 200,000.

  Much to his surprise, he had noticed a tender streak emerge. His fictional characters took on depth. He had a soft spot for readers who bothered to write and tell him how they liked his books. He became more involved with community affairs and enjoyed the people of his hometown, unlike his former tendency toward aloofness.

  Still, he fiercely guarded his privacy. He turned down most speaking invitations and had done only one major book tour. He liked living and working alone; he could not imagine doing anything else. It was easy to keep his distance from sweet, pretty, unattached females not only because he knew better, but because he had found contentment apart from them.

  And so while his tender side could not say no to Lauren, his practical side knew it wasn’t a serious disruption to his life to say yes. Their company would make the drive go quickly. Perhaps he could spend the extra time at the Art Institute.

  Or he could take notes on Gina Philips. Given the reputation of her parents, she probably never stood a chance. She had a mother who had left her first husband, and a father who traveled on business most of the time. Except for a brief period at the bowling alley Saturday night, Gina was the epitome of a thorny character, a perfect blueprint for one of his Number Six characters.

  Well, as long as she didn’t smile. That Miss America smile of hers could still make a guy weak in the knees.

  Gina felt embarrassment.

  She climbed into the minivan, mumbled a hello to Brady, and headed to the far backseat. How should she greet the guy, a practical stranger, who had the same half sister as she did? Oh, by the way, I just heard our parents were married…something you’ve probably known your entire life?

  Good grief! Did this mean they were related?

  No, of course not.

  They weren’t even anywhere near being step-related. Absolutely none of the business of her mother being married to Brady’s father 35 years ago had anything whatsoever to do with her or him. There really was nothing whatsoever to feel embarrassed about.