Stars to Lead Me Home: Love and Marriage (A Novel)

by Peggy Webb

  “I’ll call from every port, Mom.”

  “More, Lydia.”

  She laughs. “I’ll try,” she says, and then before I’m ready to let her go, she’s in her car, waving through the open window as she drives away.

  I shade my eyes until she’s out of sight.

  There’s a pickup truck heading this way, and I know the man behind the wheel. When he turns into the driveway I see Matt’s elbow out the open window and hear the tail end of the song he’s whistling, “Me and My Gal,” a true old chestnut.

  He climbs down, bangs the door shut and yells, “Hello, Maggie!”

  Then he strides toward me with the sun in his hair and leans against one of the columns he built then painted white, and I am totally unprepared for the way this makes me feel. Flushed and giddy, and not the least bit ashamed. Not one bit.

  “Hello, yourself. What brings you to my neck of the woods, Mr. Fixit?”

  His grin is wide and spontaneous. “I left a few tools. I thought I’d come by and pick them up.”

  “You did? Where are they?”

  “Down by the garage. Under the plum tree.” He grabs my hand. “Come on, Maggie. Race you.”

  We run like school children, hands joined, our laughter floating behind us like kites.

  I’ve missed Matt. I’ve walked through my house a dozen times feeling his absence.

  “There they are,” he says, and sure enough, his tools are stacked neatly in a carpenter’s box, which is exactly what he would do, pack everything away after he finished work. He’s methodical and organized, but I won’t let myself dwell on why he forgot his tools. I won’t let myself fantasize.

  From now on, everything in my life is going to be real, including this: I am forty and he is twenty-nine, and if he’s feeling anything at all for me, even one fraction of the respect, the attraction, the pleasure, the pure animal magnetism that I’m feeling, then he has to face that truth.

  The tool box is in his hand now, and any minute he’s going to walk to his Ford truck and drive away. I’ll see him only on Sundays, in church, with God and everybody in the community as witnesses. I can picture how it will be, me sitting across the aisle from him sneaking glances out of the corner of my eye, or choosing a seat in the back of the church so I can crane my neck and catch a glimpse of the thinning spot in the back of his hair, or positioning myself on the front pew hoping he’ll notice that I wore a new dress, purple to match my eyes, hoping he will remember.

  “Won’t you come in, Matt? I can make lemonade.”

  “Great.” He strides along beside me, smiling.

  So am I, and I can’t seem to stop.

  He’s at home in my kitchen, but I can’t picture him any other way. Matt is the kind of man who is comfortable wherever he goes, the kind who puts everybody around him at ease. Including me.

  Making lemonade for this man eleven years my junior, this handsome young man I’ve invited into my kitchen for no other reason than to prolong the pleasure of his company, I’m as comfortable as if I’m entertaining Jean or Lillian.

  Suddenly I think of sitting on Jean’s sofa beside Halbert, of looking at the cold sliver of moon and dreaming that love would be some other way, as comforting as a favorite pair of slippers or a familiar fuzzy blanket.

  Impossible, I tell myself. But then I hand him the lemonade and Matt smiles, and I believe in the possibility of miracles.

  “I enjoyed your party,” he says.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me, too.” He drains his glass.

  “Do you want more?”

  “Yes. I want more.” The look that passes between us is full and rich, and nothing can take that away. Nothing. Not even the glass he lifts toward me. Belatedly.

  I wonder at the steadiness of my hand when I pour his second glass, wonder that I can sit down beside him and make small talk.

  “How did you know the words to that old song from the thirties?” I say.

  “I’ve always loved music, especially the old songs.”

  I discover that he likes antiques, too, especially old clocks. He is a man who appreciates things seasoned with age, and I take this personally.

  “I brought you something, Maggie. I meant to give it to you after the party, but your daughter was here.”

  There, I think. There now.

  “Hold out your hand,” he says.

  His gift lies in my palm, a chain for my ceiling fan with porcelain and brass pulls. I picture him walking through the hardware section at Lowe’s, picking up each chain pull, feeling the texture, hefting the weight, imagining how it would look in my house.

  “I noticed you have one missing on that fan over your bed, and I thought I’d put it on for you.”

  I think of Blanche DuBois depending on the kindness of strangers, and I am very glad Matt is no stranger to me. Still, this thoughtful act, this simple kindness almost moves me to tears.

  He whistles while he installs my new ceiling fan pulls, and I lean against the door, watching.

  “All done,” he finally says, but makes no move to leave the side of my bed. I dare not go any closer than the doorway. “Well, Maggie, I guess I won’t be seeing you again except in church . . . unless you have some more work for me to do.”

  “I have plenty of work I want done, but not enough money to do it.”

  “You never know. Why don’t you show me the job?”

  I point out the exact place where I’d like to install a skylight.

  “I’d love to be able to lie in bed and look up at the stars,” I say.

  “It would be amazing.” He walks around my bedroom, whistling. “You could get a nice sized one in here. I’d put in the kind with a screen so you can crank it open and let in a breeze.”

  “That sounds perfect. Maybe I can have it someday. And a gazebo, too.”

  “Ah, the gazebo! Tell you what. Things are slow for me right now. I’ll do your job just to have something to do.”

  “But I can’t pay you. Not yet. Probably not till fall.”

  “Yes, you can. You have something I want, and I have something you want.” He’s grinning, and I suddenly doubt my own judgment. If he turns into another Graden, if I’ve misjudged him that terribly, then I shouldn’t be let loose in this world. I might as well crawl into a cave and never come out.

  “Music lessons, Maggie. I’ll do your work if you’ll teach me how to sing.”

  “But that’s one-sided.”

  “I know. I’m getting the best deal.” He leans down to kiss my cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I plan for Matt’s return as if I’m getting ready to host a presidential State of the Union address. Everything must be perfect, the piano polished with lemon oil, the music I think he’ll love already laid out - a book of old Broadway hits - the scent of freshly baked gingerbread filling the house.

  The only thing I can’t control is the weather. It starts raining at five-thirty and doesn’t let up. I don’t even know whether Matt will come. Will he call to cancel? Will he change his mind entirely and say Maggie, this is a bad idea.

  Is it? I tell myself it’s only a small barter, skylight and gazebo for music, but I know better.

  I put on a blue blouse, which I know Matt loves, and then change my mind and end up in pink tee shirt and shorts with comfortable flip flops from Yellow Box. They have sequined straps and I love the way they sparkle even without sunlight as I stand gazing out my kitchen window and drinking coffee.

  I hear Matt’s truck before I see it, the roar of the powerful engine that makes you think he’s speeding through this quiet neighborhood. In fact, he’s going extra slow, the windows down, even in the rain, so he can wave to my neighbors and their children. He got to know all of them by name during my renovation, a big plus in my book. Dick didn’t want to know the neighbors.

  Matt parks under a magnolia tree and I open the door wide then stand there grinning like a kid at Christmas.

  “Coffee’s
ready.”

  He steps inside, brushes his knuckles softly across my cheek, sending shivers.

  “Hello, Maggie.” His voice is deep and intimate sounding and I am transported back to a fire escape with nothing but the stars and the voice of Mr. Fixit on my radio.

  “Well, hello to you, too.” We smile at each other for a long time, and then I say, “I didn’t know if you would come today.”

  “I can measure today then pick up supplies and install the skylight tomorrow. Or whenever it quits raining… Is that gingerbread I smell?”

  “It is.”

  We take our time in the kitchen, lingering over coffee, and later, in my bedroom, discussing every option for placement of the skylight. With the rain hammering the roof and falling in gray curtains outside the windows, it feels as if the two of us are alone in the world.

  The feeling stays with me as I lead the way to the piano then slide onto the bench.

  “I thought you might like some of the old songs. How about ‘Fly Me to the Moon?’”

  “Frank Sinatra? I love that song.” Matt leans against the piano. “I’ll never be old blue eyes, but if you can get me to carry the tune, I’ll kiss the ground you walk on.”

  I picture Matt bending at my feet, my fingers running through his dark hair, his warm breath on my skin.

  “You’d be in big trouble. Most of the time, I walk on quicksand.”

  He expresses pleasure the way he does everything else, with full-throttle-ahead abandon. So we begin the lesson with laughter, as we have begun everything we’ve done together. And when it’s over and I’ve waved until his truck disappears into the rain, I walk back to the piano.

  Here’s how it is with me: I press my hand against the spot where he’d been leaning, touch the smooth polished wood to feel the warmth of him still captured there. Then I lean down and kiss the spot.

  Afterward I am so scared I race to my bedroom and scramble to find my iPhone. It’s not in the usual place, by the bedside table, and I panic, thinking I’ve been so wrapped up in Matt all day I could have dropped the phone into the garbage and never have known the difference. It’s dark and gloomy, almost evening, and I turn on all the lights, hoping my phone will pop out at me. I search under magazines, behind cushions and even under the bedcovers.

  By the time I find it in the bathroom next to the toilet, I’m so relieved I sink onto the toilet seat and have to catch my breath for a very long while. Belatedly, I wonder why I didn’t just go to the ground line and call my mobile number, listen for the ring. I’m falling apart.

  Any woman who has been through divorce and upheaval knows who you turn to for comfort: another woman, a soul sister, a female friend who understands when you tell her you’ve considered murder and suicide all in the same day.

  I call Jean.

  “Hello,” she says, and I start crying. “Maggie? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m falling for Matt Graham.”

  “For Pete’s sake. Is that all? I thought you were calling to tell me Lillian had died!”

  “Oh, my God, no! I’m so sorry, Jean. I’m a selfish woman. I wouldn’t blame you if you hang up on me.”

  “I’m not going to hang up. I’m going to say good for you! It’s about time!”

  “What? Are you kidding me?”

  “Why would I kid?”

  “I’m light years older than Matt.”

  “So what?”

  “So when I’m on Social Security, he’ll still be a virile man in his early fifties. People will think I’m his mother.”

  “That’s twenty-five years down the road, Maggie.”

  “Still.”

  “Look. I was skeptical about the age difference at first, but Bill says Matt Graham is salt of the earth, as good as they get, and you know how stingy he is with compliments. What I’m saying is I think you can enjoy yourself with a man who would never just walk out on you without a word. Like that snake Halbert.”

  “He’s practically Beth’s age.”

  “Good grief.”

  “She’d have a hissy fit.”

  “Maggie, did you call so I could convince you to leave him or love him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to figure it out. But I vote for loving. And so would Lillian. Are you going to tell her?”

  “Yes. But not till I figure it out.”

  After we say goodbye, I lean over the sink and splash cold water on my face. Common sense tells me exactly what I have to do.

  Matt answers on the first ring. I can hear the hard rains slashing against his windows, the radio he has tuned to a country and Western station. He’s still in his truck.

  “Maggie? Hello, are you there?”

  “I am.” I take a deep breath, try to figure out the best way to say this. Finally, I settle on being straightforward. “Don’t come anymore.”

  The silence is only a heartbeat, but it feels like an eternity.

  “We’re not finished, Maggie.”

  On the surface he’s talking about the job, about the skylight that’s still only a dream. But underneath there’s more, and it’s that part that scares me to death.

  “Yes, we have.”

  It’s funny how you hear things you’ve never heard before at times like this - the movement of wings as a moth dives into the lamp, the faint click as teeth bump together in a jaw held too tight, the way breathing in and out can sound like somebody mourning.

  I interrupt this awful sound with one final plea. “It’s best, Matt.”

  I tell him goodbye before I can start crying again.

  o0o

  Around midnight there’s a knock on my door, and I’m not the least bit surprised. I don’t even have to look through the peephole, for I know this caller in my bones.

  Matt is standing in a pool of yellow from the naked bulb over the front door, and when he sees me he holds out a bottle of champagne.

  “To celebrate,” he says.

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Us, Maggie. We’ve already passed the point where one of us can call a halt.”

  Yes, something inside me says, yes. I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom, and as we pass underneath the plaster plaque I glance up at the lovebirds there and smile.

  He closes the door then pulls the chain to turn on the ceiling fan, and when he takes me in his arms I keep my eyes wide open. I don’t want to miss a single thing.

  o0o

  When my phone rings, I’m surprised to wake up with the covers tangled around my legs and my head on a man’s chest. But then I see the way Matt’s eyes are crinkled with pleasure, and my surprise turns to contentment, even a little cat-in-the-cream grin.

  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  I kiss his nose. “Good morning, Mr. Fixit.”

  “Did I?”

  “Indeed!” I swat him with my pillow then reach for the phone. “Hello! Maggie Hudson, here!”

  “Maggie, it’s me. They’ve found a heart!”

  “Oh, my God! Lillian!”

  Matt sits straight up, grabs his pants, whispers, “Is she okay?”

  I nod, smile, point to my heart, and my own relief is mirrored in his face. He sits back on the bed and reaches for my free hand.

  “Carl and I will be boarding the helicopter soon. I’ve already called Jean. She’s heading your way. But Maggie, you don’t have to come.”

  “I pity anybody who tries to stop us! Love you. See you soon!”

  As soon as I hang up, Matt says, “I’ll drive you and Jean to Birmingham, Maggie.”

  I cup his face, kiss him softly on the mouth. “That’s sweet, Matt, but I think we’d rather be alone.”

  “I understand.” He pulls me close, and I feel as if I’m in a cocoon of strong arms and wide chest, safe from everything, including disappointment. “I won’t call and pester. You call me whenever you need to, Maggie. Anytime. Ok?”

  “I know.” He goes to turn on the shower for me then stands there talking over the soun
d of the water. This feels as natural to me as breathing.

  “By the time you get back, I’ll have the skylight installed.”

  “I’d like that, Matt.” I make quick work of my bath, not wanting to waste a minute before getting on the road. I step out of the shower and into a huge towel he’s holding for me.

  “I’m going to head out before Jean gets here, in case you don’t want her to know.”

  “Thank you. But she knows, and so will Lillian. Soon.”

  “Still, this is a time for you and your friends.”

  He’s whistling when he leaves, and I think how lucky I am.

  o0o

  When Jean arrives, I’m on the front porch, fully dressed and carrying a small picnic hamper.

  “Breakfast,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat.

  “Good. Soon as I’m on the freeway, I’ll have whatever you’ve got. I’m starving.”

  “So am I. Stress makes me hungry.” I busy myself pouring coffee and unwrapping gingerbread.

  “Me, too. If this heart is too big or too small or too whatever else they measure, I’m going to get big as a barrel.”

  “It’ll be a match, Jean.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Well, I’m going to think that, anyhow, because I can’t bear to think of any other result.”

  “I can’t, either.” Jean holds her hand out for her cup, and I pass it to her. “School will be here before you know it, and then Christmas, and then what?”

  “Stop that. We’re going to think positive.”

  I say this, meaning it absolutely, but we spend the entire drive thinking up dire scenarios and then trying to cheer ourselves back up. By the time we reach Birmingham, I’m totally exhausted, and from the looks of Jean, so is she.

  “We look like the devil,” I tell her. “Lillian will worry.”

  “Nothing lipstick and a brush won’t cure.”

  We make hasty repairs then barrel from the car. This time we don’t get lost in the corridors. This time, Carl is inside with Lillian and so is her doctor. For a moment, my heart stops. Simply stops. They all look so solemn, and I can’t tell by their faces whether he has delivered good news or bad. And I don’t dare interrupt a doctor/patient conference to ask questions.