Who I Am with You

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Jessica was taken aback by the unfinished question. Her mind went momentarily blank.

  Billie stepped forward on Jessica’s left side. “Is that boyfriend of yours with you, Ellery? What’s his name? Ted?”

  Ellery flicked her ponytail over her shoulder. “He’s around.”

  “I thought maybe the two of you broke up,” Billie added.

  “We didn’t break up.” Ellery’s expression hardened. “He wanted to play volleyball. I don’t like sand.”

  “Hmm,” Billie and Carol said in unison.

  Ellery sent them each a scathing look. Then, an icy smile curving her mouth, she said to Jessica, “Good luck with the baby.” Head held high, she swirled around and walked away.

  Beneath her breath, Billie hissed like a cat.

  Jessica lightly slapped her friend’s arm. “That’s not nice.”

  “I’m not nice?” Billie tipped her head in the departing Ellery’s direction. “She had her claws out the instant she saw you. Did you do something to her?”

  “We’ve always been civil to each other, although I admit I’ve never liked her much.”

  Carol grunted. “Unlike most of the men in this town. She plays guys like a maestro with a violin. They never see her nasty side until it’s too late.”

  “Not most of the men,” Jessica countered.

  “Sometimes you’re just too nice for your own good, my friend.” Billie took hold of Jessica’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go watch the games.”

  The threesome headed toward the gathering of people at the south end of the park. Jessica felt the warmth of the sun on the top of her head. More than that, she felt the warmth of this community. She heard voices raised in conversations and lots of laughter, and pleasure washed over her.

  “Thank you.” Stopping, she looked from Billie to Carol and back again. “Thank you both.”

  “For what?” Carol asked.

  “For not letting me slip away completely.”

  Carol patted her back and Billie squeezed her arm. Then the three of them moved on.

  Thanks to Mick Phelps, Ridley found himself about to run in the last three-legged race of the afternoon. His partner was a little red-haired girl whose father, he was told, was currently deployed overseas. Cassie was her name, and she informed him she was nine years old and fast as a fox.

  “We’ll win if you can do your part,” she said, eyes narrowed as she gave him a once-over.

  “Don’t worry, Cassie. I know how to run a three-legged race.”

  “I hope so.” Clearly, she didn’t believe him.

  He wanted to tell her there were other things he could do at this moment rather than listen to a nine-year-old insult him. Then again, he supposed that would make him sound like a nine-year-old himself. Chuckling at the thought, he said, “I promise to do my best.”

  Standing next to the girl, Ridley took the provided strip of heavy cloth and tied their ankles together. Of course, three-legged races were best run with partners of equal height, but since every other pair in the race had the same disadvantage—one adult and one child—he wasn’t worried about it. If he had to, he’d carry Cassie across the finish line. Hopefully in first place, because he liked to win every bit as much as the girl seemed to.

  They were getting into place at the starting line when he looked up and saw Jessica on the sidelines with two other women. He searched his mind for the names of her friends, but before he placed them, Jessica looked in his direction. Surprise overtook her expression, followed by amusement. She whispered something to Carol—he’d remembered names by this time—and the two of them laughed.

  “Cassie.” He looked down at his racing partner. “We are going to win this thing.”

  She grinned, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks seemed to jump about in a wild dance.

  “Ready!” a voice to his right shouted.

  Cassie’s right arm went around his waist. His left arm went around her shoulders.

  “Start with our outside feet,” Ridley said.

  “Right,” Cassie replied.

  “Set!”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “Go!”

  They bolted from the line like a racehorse from a starting gate. Ridley was fast, but it was trickier than he’d expected running with someone almost half his height. Still, Cassie was a game little thing. She ran more like a gazelle, making her strides surprisingly long.

  “Hold on, Cassie,” he shouted to her. “We’ve got the lead.”

  “I’m holdin’ on!” Her knuckles pressed into his back at his waistband.

  With a slight turn of his head, he saw a father-daughter team he’d spoken with earlier not far behind them. Oh, no, you don’t. Gritting his teeth, he put everything he had into the last ten yards of the race. Three strides beyond the finish line, he tripped over Cassie’s foot and the two of them pitched forward into the grass. He pulled back on the girl, trying to take the brunt of the fall himself—and did, if his right elbow and both knees could be believed.

  Cassie didn’t care. She was screaming and laughing and hooting with joy. “We did it, Mr. Chesterfield. We did it. We won.” She managed to twist around and untie their ankles before Ridley could right himself. “We won!”

  “Yeah, I know.” Sitting up, he brushed grass and dirt from his elbow. A bit of skin came with it.

  “You okay? You need help gettin’ up?”

  He hadn’t known how ancient a smart-mouthed nine-year-old could make him feel. “No, thanks. I’m good.” He stood up and brushed at his knees with both hands. More skin and a little blood this time. It made him wish he’d worn Levis instead of Bermuda shorts, but he hadn’t anticipated being coerced into a three-legged race by a pastor.

  A short while later, he and Cassie got their first-place ribbons. The ribbons came with safety pins, and Cassie pinned hers to her blouse. Then she thanked him for the race and ran to join her mom.

  Ridley stared at the ribbon in his hand. Why not? He pinned it to his T-shirt. When he turned around, he found Jessica and her friends standing nearby. He’d lost sight of them when the race started and had assumed they’d moved on to other spectator sports when it was over. He was entirely too pleased to find Jessica had stuck around.

  “Congratulations,” she said, laughter in the word.

  “Thanks.”

  She pointed at his knees. “You need to get that cleaned up.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Come on. You don’t want it to get infected.” She motioned with her hand. “First aid’s right over there.” Then to her friends she added, “I’ll meet you back at our chairs.”

  “Okay,” the other two women said in unison. They each acknowledged him with a wave but didn’t linger to talk to him.

  “How did you get roped into that race?” Jessica asked as she and Ridley started for the First-Aid Station.

  “Pastor Mick.”

  She laughed again. “I should have known.”

  “The kid’s dad’s deployed overseas. She needed somebody. I couldn’t say no.”

  “Of course you couldn’t.” Jessica reached out and lightly tugged the blue ribbon attached to his shirt. “And look, you won. You earned the wounds on your knees.”

  He held up his arm. “And this one too.”

  “Ouch.” But her smile said she wasn’t too concerned with his pain level.

  Over the past two days, he’d almost convinced himself he could leave Hope Springs and never look back, that the kiss he’d shared with Jessica hadn’t altered his world. But he was a fool to believe it, even a little. He was a goner, and somehow he was determined to find answers to whatever problems stood in his way—in their way.

  Perhaps it was ridiculous to think one had anything to do with the other. But if he could manage to win a three-legged race with a nine-year-old stranger without breaking his neck, maybe he could make a future with Jessica Mason and the baby she carried.

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Wednesday
, April 27, 1932

  The new filly was born at dusk. Andrew stood outside the stall, not wanting to worry the mare but making sure he could lend a hand if one was needed. It wasn’t. The birth was of the textbook variety, and the mare was soon washing her offspring clean.

  “Andrew?”

  He turned at the sound of Helen’s voice and watched her approach. Above her protruding stomach, she carried a mug in both hands.

  “I brought you some coffee.” She stopped beside him.

  “Thanks.” He took the mug. “Have a look.”

  Helen peered over the top rail of the stall. “Oh, Andrew. Look at her. She’s a beautiful little thing.”

  “You’re a beautiful little thing,” he said softly, eyes on her and not the mare and foal.

  “I’m anything but little these days.”

  He wanted to object, to argue with her. He knew she felt unattractive in this last stage of her pregnancy, but she was wrong. She was gloriously beautiful. So beautiful he couldn’t find the words to describe how she appeared to him.

  “Belle was Dad’s favorite mare.” Her eyes seemed to reveal the memories of years past. “He would have loved to see this new filly.”

  “I’m sorry he isn’t here.”

  Helen looked at him. “He died easier knowing you would take care us, of Mother and me and the farm and everything. He trusted you, Andrew. I . . . I didn’t appreciate it then. I was so confused after we lost the baby. To escape the pain, I closed myself off from you, and I tried to find happiness elsewhere. But Dad was right. He told me I’d married the best of men. He was right.”

  Emotions welled inside, almost choking Andrew. He moved the mug to his left hand and slipped his right arm around his wife’s shoulders. Then he turned his gaze back onto the mare and foal. They stood like that, in silence, for a long while, allowing a few words to accomplish another level of healing between them.

  At last, Helen took a step away, taking her warmth from his side. “I need to go inside.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “And your coffee’s growing cold.”

  He didn’t care. “Probably.” He took a sip. “Already cold.” He returned her smile.

  She rested a hand on her belly, and a look of apprehension passed suddenly over her face. He’d seen it a lot lately, and he understood. She was close to seven months along. That’s when she’d lost baby Ralph, and she had begun to fear that it would happen again. Not that she’d told him in so many words. He just knew. Maybe because, sometimes, he was afraid of the same thing.

  “I’ll be in soon,” he told her.

  After Helen left the barn, Andrew bowed his head and prayed for her protection, for her life and for the life of their unborn child. It had become a frequent prayer. Not that he didn’t believe the good Lord had heard him the first time, but until their child was born, he’d determined to be like the persistent widow in the book of Luke who pounded on the judge’s door until she received what she wanted.

  Setting aside the mug, he tended to the remainder of his duties in the barn, then headed for the house. He’d stomped off the dust and straw from his boots and removed his jacket before he heard a deep voice coming from the living room. Curious to see who it was, given the hour, he headed in that direction. Once there, he discovered their neighbor from across the way.

  “I’m gonna have to sell the last of my cows,” Luke Adams said as he slowly inched his fingers along the brim of the hat that he held between his knees. “I don’t see any way to avoid it.” He noticed Andrew in the doorway and gave him a weary nod. “I’ve come to the end, I think. The farm will go next.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear it.” Andrew crossed the room to sit on the couch next to Helen. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  It was the sort of question neighbors had asked neighbors a lot since the beginning of the depression. Of course no one had believed the economic situation would drag on so long, hadn’t known so many would be affected by it. Certainly that was true for Andrew, and he was supposed to understand about money, given his education. The country had been promised by many a politician that better days were coming, that the end was in sight. Tell that to men like Luke Adams who’d worked hard all their lives, building up dairy farms, grocery stores, insurance agencies, and the like, only to face losing everything.

  “No,” Luke answered at last. “Nothing anybody can do, far as I can tell.”

  Helen asked, “How is Agnes?”

  “She’s takin’ it mighty hard. We’re not young. Hard to start over at our age. Don’t know what we’ll do or where we’ll go.”

  Andrew’s mother-in-law said, “Tell Agnes that Helen and I will come calling tomorrow.”

  “I guess that’s really why I came over. She could use some comfort from other womenfolk. I’m at a loss what to say to her. I spent the last two years telling her we’d be all right. And now . . .” He ended with a shake of his head.

  Uncertainty shivered through Andrew at those words. He’d said much the same thing to Mother Greyson and Helen. He still believed they were true. But what if there was a drought? What if a crop failed? What if sickness took the livestock? What if—

  “Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?”

  The words of Christ that echoed in Andrew’s heart calmed the tremble of uncertainty inside him. Yes, life was more than meat and clothing. And even if they were to lose everything, would it make God’s words any less true? No.

  “Luke, if you do think of something you need, anything at all, all you need do is ask.”

  “I appreciate it, Andrew. Thanks.”

  Chapter 19

  The nurse at the First-Aid Station was busy tending to an older woman who said she felt faint, but Jessica wasn’t in need of assistance. She’d attended enough of these events—and cleaned up more than one scraped knee—to know what to do. She instructed Ridley to sit on one of the benches beneath the shade of the open-sided tent. Then she got some supplies from the first-aid kit and sat beside him.

  “I’ve been hurt worse, you know.” He slid his sunglasses up to the crown of his head, then took a wet wipe from her and began to cleanse his right knee.

  “Football?”

  “Baseball. Basketball. Hiking.”

  “Ah. Accident prone?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Finished with the wipe, he exchanged it for some antibiotic ointment, followed by various sizes of Band-Aids.

  She’d been afraid seeing him again would feel awkward, but it didn’t. It felt natural, and she was thankful the kiss they’d shared hadn’t ruined their fledgling friendship. She would hate to lose that.

  “Thanks, Nurse Mason, for your help.” He grinned at her as he wadded up the packaging from the first-aid supplies. He turned and tossed it all into a nearby receptacle.

  She started to push herself up from the bench. Before she could manage to rise, he was on his feet and helping her with a hand at her elbow. It surprised her, the difference it made. “Somebody called me fat today. I guess she was right. It’s getting harder and harder to get up from a chair.”

  “You’re not fat, Jessica.”

  “I feel fat.”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  The appreciation in his eyes told her he meant what he said. And just like that, she believed him. For a moment, she felt attractive and . . . desirable. A corresponding sensation spiraled through her, causing her breath to quicken.

  “Come on,” he said, lowering his sunglasses into place. “I’ll walk you back to your friends.”

  “Okay.”

  They left the First-Aid Station, their pace unhurried.

  “Have you attended a lot of these community events?” Ridley asked, his gaze sweeping the park.

  “I’ve been to all of them since I moved here. Is that a lot?” She shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “No f
ireworks this year, I hear.”

  “Nope. No fireworks. Fire danger is too high this summer, and there are too many open fields near the park. No one wants to take the risk. It’s bad enough when all the campers pour into the mountains for the holiday. There are always a few who are careless.”

  “Too bad. I love fireworks.”

  “Me too.”

  “Did Angela like them?” There was great tenderness in his voice.

  She smiled, glad that this time she could remember her daughter without weeping. “Yes, she did. She loved the games too. She would have beaten you in that three-legged race today.”

  He laughed softly.

  “Or she would have nabbed you for her partner before Cassie did.”

  “Wouldn’t she have raced with her dad?”

  She felt her smile slip away. “He wouldn’t have been here.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Joe stopped coming to events like this a couple of years ago. He said he had to work on holidays to . . . to make his bosses happy. But now I think he . . .” She let the words drift into silence, having said more than intended.

  “I’ve bungled it again.”

  She stopped walking and put her hand on his forearm, stopping him too. “No, Ridley, you haven’t bungled it. It’s okay for you to ask questions.” Silently she added, I need to learn to talk about my family, about the life we had. Both the good and the bad.

  He studied her through his dark glasses. She felt his stare more than saw it. Could he read her thoughts? Of course not. Yet in an odd sort of way, she wished he could.

  Ridley turned his head. “Listen.”

  She paused. All she heard was the general hubbub of voices in the park. Then it came to her. The sound of musicians warming up their instruments.

  “Come on.” He reached for her elbow. “I’d like to see this Hope Springs orchestra.”

  Her arm tingled at his tender touch. “Be careful,” her mom’s voice whispered in her head. She silently replied with the same words as before: “I’m not foolish.” She prayed they were still the truth.