Falling for You Again

by Catherine Palmer

“Ashley bought bed pillows we’re not supposed to touch, let alone sleep on. I mean, we live in that house, you know? Nobody’s going to take pictures of it or show it off on some dumb ‘parade of homes.’ I can’t even put my feet on the coffee table without her pitching a hissy fit.”

  “Mmm. Sounds like a woman. It took me years to figure out what made Esther melt in my arms. It wasn’t my paycheck. It wasn’t my fine physique. It wasn’t even this handsome face.”

  Charlie rubbed his chin as if admiring himself in a mirror and saw that he’d finally drawn the hint of a smile from Brad. The young man sat down on an upturned bucket and shook his head. Boofer wandered over and nudged Brad’s hand with his nose.

  “I don’t have a clue what makes my wife tick,” he said, stroking the dog’s furry head. “Ashley used to be crazy about me, Mr. Moore.

  Every day, she was all over me—kissing on me and cooking for me and hanging around my neck like she was one of those dumb beaded chokers she makes. Now I’m a drunk, I can’t manage money, I’m lazy, I’m boring … she even tossed the Big D on the table.”

  “The Big D?” Charlie raced through a mental dictionary, but all he could think of were words that fit his own life. Dementia. Despair. Dread. Death.

  “Divorce,” Brad said, standing again and muttering foul words under his breath. “What is the deal around this place? It’s like I live with a bunch of bozos. No offense, Mr. Moore, but you people are so old you don’t have any idea what’s going on in the real world. Deepwater Cove … why did Ashley want to buy a house here? It’s like living in a cemetery. There’s nothing to do. Nobody to talk to. You’re not even allowed to shoot fireworks or ride a motorcycle or dive off the dock or do anything fun.”

  He kicked his toolbox this time, and Charlie began wondering what would be next. Jamming his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, Brad glared at the lake. Charlie recognized himself as a young man. Frustrated, angry, clueless. His first few years with Esther had been a joy—as well as a mishmash of confusing messages and awkward turns. Did she love him? Or hate him? Was he Sir Lancelot? Or a buffoon?

  “I’m old, all right,” Charlie conceded, though he figured he was a lot more spry than Brad gave him credit for. “But I’m not too old to remember wondering if I’d done the right thing when I married Esther. Wow, that woman was a handful. She never stopped talking. Sometimes, right out of the blue, she’d start boohooing like it was the end of the world. Usually I had no idea what had set her off, though it always turned out to be me.”

  “Sounds like Ashley. That’s the worst thing about her. She’s always got to talk, talk, talk. She wants to tell me about her whole day and all the people she met and what everyone did and said. If I don’t hang on every word and then make the exact right response, she gets furious.”

  Charlie chuckled. “Esther had strong opinions too. I expected them all to be focused on how wonderful I was and how glad she was to be my wife. I sure missed that by a mile. In fact, now that I think about it, Esther is still moody and opinionated.”

  “Ashley says I never listen to her. Well, she’s right. Who cares what Brenda Hansen thinks about couches? And as for Cody, that kid’s a kook. Ashley says he’s so cute and handsome and sweet and funny and blah, blah, blah. Sometimes she acts like she’s in love with him.”

  The hurt in Brad’s voice told Charlie exactly what he needed to know. The young man deeply loved his wife and wanted to please her. The thought of losing her to another man, even a “kook” like Cody, was enough to rankle him. That meant there was hope for this troubled young marriage. It might seem like only a spark of affection was left between the two, but Charlie had a lot of faith in God’s ability to stoke the fire.

  “Tell you what,” he said before he’d given himself the opportunity to think it through. “How about if I help you with this room addition? I’ve got the time to round up a building permit and take your plans to the bylaws committee. I’m a pretty good hand with a power saw and a nail gun, and I know the ins and outs of a toolbox. Maybe if we whip this thing out before next summer rolls around, Ashley will realize you’re still Prince Charming.”

  Brad eyed the older man. Clearly he didn’t think much of what he saw. “She’s not going to be happy even if I do finish the garage,” he said.

  “What if you finish a nursery?”

  With a grunt of acknowledgment, Brad shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve got other things to do after work.”

  “I imagine Larry’s Lake Lounge will stay afloat without any more contributions from your paycheck. What do you say, Brad? Think a youngster and an old geezer can put up with each other long enough to turn this pile of lumber into a bona fide room?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Moore.” Brad stalked the construction area like a caged panther. “Maybe I should just get out. If she hates me that much, why stick around? I don’t need it, you know? I earn a good living, and there are plenty of other women willing to treat me right. I don’t see the point in busting my can to build this room for Ashley if she’s already planning to divorce me. I ought to cut my losses and leave while I can.”

  “You don’t want to do that, do you? Have you even made it to your first anniversary, kid? You have to pass that milestone at least.”

  “Like I said, no offense, but you’re too old to know what things are like these days. People get divorced all the time. It happens, Mr. Moore. Most of the kids in my graduating class had parents, stepparents, half brothers and sisters, stepbrothers and -sisters. That’s the way things are.”

  “It may be the way things are, but it’s not the way God wants them to be. He’d prefer that a man and wife stick together and try their best to work through problems. Sometimes they can’t, but I suspect sometimes they give up too quickly. I’ve got nearly fifty years of marriage under my belt. And that’s with Esther—which has to count for a lot.”

  Brad chuckled. “Ashley thinks Mrs. Moore hung the moon. I’ve gotta tell you, though—and I don’t mean anything bad by it—but living with your wife would drive me right around the bend. What’s the deal with her hair, Mr. Moore?”

  “Oh, it’s her style. Every curl in place.” Charlie reflected on the way Esther darted to one side if his hand ever went near her head. The few times he’d managed to touch that glowing white crown, he had discovered it was as crisp and solid as the chocolate shell on a dipped ice cream cone.

  “Well, I guess so then,” Brad said. “It’s all right with me, anyhow. I’m sure Ashley won’t mind either.”

  “What’s all right? Esther’s hair?”

  “No—you and me. Putting up the new room together. If you’ll get the permits, I’ll make sure we have what we need for the next step. I think I can get a good deal on some insulation, and the contractor I work for will probably let me borrow big tools we’ll need—as long as we use them on the weekends. I’ll talk to him about the project tomorrow. It’ll be easier with two of us, even if you’re not that strong. I get off from work around three. How does that sound to you?”

  Charlie frowned for a moment, realizing all at once that he’d committed himself to a long-term project just as winter was coming on. Not only that, but Brad Hanes was one rough kid. Smart mouth, foul language, big ego, and probably on his way toward alcoholism and divorce. The idea of trying to work with a man who had been drinking didn’t please Charlie in the least.

  Besides that, Esther would be home alone. These days, that might be a problem. Just the day before, he had seen her take a mug out of a dishwasher loaded with dirty dishes. Before he could stop her, she filled the mug with coffee and walked off humming a tune. She had no idea what she’d done. Hadn’t even looked to see whether the mug was clean. Though it wasn’t a big deal, the number of these little glitches had been growing. Charlie was troubled, to say the least.

  “Aw, never mind,” Brad spoke up. He took a can of beer from the six-pack and popped the top. “Ashley married me, and she’ll have to accept me for who I am or get out. I don’t care about this room
. It was a dumb idea in the first place.”

  “Now, hold on.” Charlie studied the young man, who was taking a long swig. “Tell you what. I’ll help you, but only under certain conditions. No beer on the job. And you’ve got to pull your fair share of the labor. I’m off during the mornings, but I don’t intend to work out here by myself. You do your part, I’ll do mine, and we’ll get her done.”

  Brad tilted his can again and eyed Charlie. “This is my property. I can drink whatever I like.”

  “Not if you want my help.”

  “No cussing. No beer. I guess that means no weed either, huh?” He grinned.

  “You’ve got plenty of weeds around here, but not the kind that might land us in jail. No weed, Brad.”

  “All right.” Crushing the can, he studied it for a moment and then hurled it into the woods behind the house. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  With a nod, Charlie whistled for Boofer and headed back to the golf cart. He had made several poor decisions in his life, and he figured this one might be right up there with the worst. As his little dog settled on the vinyl seat beside him, Charlie put the vehicle in motion. They would be home again soon, and no doubt Esther would be aflutter with delight that he was going to help the husband of her dear, sweet Ashley.

  But something Brad had said during their conversation bothered Charlie a lot more than the thought of working with a no-account young tough.

  “There are plenty of other women willing to treat me right,” he had boasted.

  A wandering eye had to be one of the most common signs of a struggling marriage. Were things ever that bad with Esther? Had she been so frustrated with her hardworking, inattentive, and more than a little demanding husband that she’d been susceptible to the attentions of another man?

  George Snyder. The name filtered through the fog of memories inside Charlie’s brain, as it had so often since the day he’d found the sketch in the bottom drawer of Esther’s dresser. But this time it hit a bump and skidded to a standstill.

  Charlie stopped the golf cart and looked out at the lake. He knew that man. George Snyder had lived down the hall from the Moores in their first apartment. He was blond, blue-eyed, friendly, and in Charlie’s eyes, basically a bum living off the trust fund his father had left him. He didn’t hold down a job, and his head was full of fantasies. An artist … that’s what he planned to become. An illustrator for big city magazines and newspapers. Charlie had barely given the fellow the time of day.

  But Esther had been home alone from the moment her husband left the apartment until he returned each evening. Alone. Lonely. Hungry for conversation. In need of company.

  Despite her unhappiness, she had begged Charlie not to take the postal inspector job and move them to Washington DC. They hadn’t bought a home of their own until after the apartment down the hall had been vacated—its renter gone to New York in pursuit of his dreams.

  Might Esther have said something just like Brad Hanes had? “There’s another man willing to treat me right,” Charlie could almost hear her sob. “And his name is George Snyder.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  No, of course not!” Esther replied without hesitation to the question her husband had asked as he entered the house from his latest golf cart excursion. She had been sorting beads all evening, and she was exhausted. Her hands ached and her eyes stung. To tell the truth, she wasn’t absolutely positive she had put the beads in the correct compartments of Ashley’s plastic container. Preparing to head for the bathtub and then to bed, she was surprised at Charlie’s big announcement.

  “Why should I mind if you help Brad build the new room?” she asked him. “I’m delighted, honey. That’s a very neighborly thing to do.”

  Crossing the living room, she stood on tiptoe, slipped her arms around her husband’s neck, and gave him a peck on the cheek. Charlie smelled of the outdoors—chimney smoke, fallen leaves, the hint of rain. His jacket was cold, and she rubbed her hands up and down his arms.

  “Brr! I can’t believe you were outside for such a long time.” She knelt and petted the dog. “Poor Boofer. Were you about to freeze? Well, why didn’t you tell Daddy to bring you home? You were talking to Brad Hanes? Is that what he said? Really? My goodness!”

  Usually Charlie chuckled when she pretended to have a conversation with the little black mutt they had rescued from an animal shelter nearly eight years before. Tonight, her husband didn’t crack a smile. He walked over to his recliner, dropped onto the cushioned seat, and flipped up the footrest. As he reached for the remote control, Esther put her hand over it.

  “Not so fast on the trigger tonight, Roy Rogers,” she told him. “I want to hear more about this project. Is the room going to be a nursery or a garage?”

  Charlie turned to her, and for the first time in a long while, she thought he looked old. It happened now and then, catching Esther by surprise. In her mind, they were much as they always had been. Two happy-go-lucky young lovebirds chirping along, building a nest, rearing fledglings, sending the young off to try their wings, and then settling down for a long summer’s rest.

  But once in a while, she would notice that she was seated across the table from an old man. He had white hair and trifocals and a fascinating webwork of lines around his mouth and eyes. Where had this fellow come from, and what was he doing in her dining room?

  The same thing happened when she spotted herself in a store window. Who on earth was that elderly woman staring back? She was an awfully short, rounded-off little creature with silver hair, stumpy legs, and stodgy shoes. What had become of the girl with saddle oxfords, a swingy skirt, soft brown curls, and a giggle that drew boys like honeybees to a new rose?

  “I don’t know what to make of that pair,” Charlie said, and for a moment Esther thought he was speaking about himself and his wife. Then he continued. “Brad loves Ashley down deep, but the boy has an awful lot of growing up to do. I’m not sure what made me offer to help him.”

  “You’re just an old softie,” Esther said, sitting on the edge of the sofa nearest him. “It doesn’t surprise me a bit that you want to give the kids a hand. Ashley’s having a terrible time of it, you know. She’s afraid Brad is turning into a drunk. I think she’s scared they’re going to end up divorced.”

  “He is too.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Esther laid her hand on her heart and gasped. “Oh, Charlie, we can’t let that happen. I want them to have a long, happy marriage like ours. Ashley is so anxious to have children, and she’d be a perfect little mother. Brad is handsome and hardworking. But you know what? He spends money like it was going out of style. And he never listens to poor Ashley. She’s as lonely as a girl could be, even though she’s in a brand-new marriage with a cute house and neighbors all around. If she didn’t have me to talk to, I don’t know how she would get through the day.”

  Charlie’s mouth formed a crooked line—one that told Esther he had something on his mind. After all these years, she hardly had to look at the man. The sound of his voice or the way he walked across the floor could give him away.

  “What’s wrong?” Esther asked, knowing full well what he would say.

  “Nothing.”

  “Good,” she replied, “because I’m going to bed. I’ve been sorting beads till I could just about scream.”

  She made as if to stand but hesitated long enough to get the response she was waiting for.

  “Esther?” Charlie spoke up. “Were you ever lonely? In our marriage, I mean. You said you hoped Brad and Ashley could have a happy life like ours. But has it really been happy for you?”

  “You are the silliest goose in the gaggle,” she teased him, swatting his knee. “Yes, I’ve been happy. Do I look like some miserable old hulk huddled up in a corner?”

  “No, but in the hospital you said some things that bothered me. You blamed yourself for our problems. You said you had hurt me. And that has me wondering if the opposite is true. Maybe I hurt you, Esther.”

  “You never hurt
me. Not once.” She thought for a moment. These days, it was easier to recall events that had happened long ago than to remember what she had just been doing.

  “Not ever?”

  “Well, we had our spats, and maybe you did disappoint me a time or two,” she conceded. “You forgot Valentine’s Day one year. You didn’t bring me a card or a gift or anything. And you gave me that snow globe one Christmas, remember? What was inside it? A filling station! Why on earth would you think I’d like a gas pump inside a snow globe, Charlie?”

  “We were too poor for me to afford a gift you would really want. You had mentioned one time that you loved snow globes. I saw an ad in the newspaper saying you could get one free if you bought twenty gallons of gas at the local Texaco. Every time the car got low, I drove over there and filled up. The man behind the counter punched my gas card, and finally I had enough holes to get you the free snow globe. I thought you’d be thrilled, but I could tell you only pretended to be pleased with it.”

  “Well, for pete’s sake, a snow-blown gas station? What woman would want to look at that?” As she spoke, Esther felt a familiar cloak of darkness wrapping around her.

  Ever since the accident, a sense of frustration and gloom shadowed her, hovering, waiting to descend while she wasn’t paying attention. She tried to see the good in people, but often they simply irritated the living daylights out of her. And so many things went wrong. Little annoyances—and most of them happened through her own carelessness.

  “We’d been married at least a year, hadn’t we?” she asked Charlie. “You should have known me better by that time. I like pretty gifts. Jewelry, flowers, even chocolates. I know we didn’t have money, but how much could a box of candy have cost back then? Less than a tank of gas, I’ll bet. I was always fun-loving and free-spirited in those days. You could have taken me to the zoo or even made me something. You’re good with tools, Charlie, and I enjoy handmade gifts. Something artistic would have been nice. But a snow globe with a gas station inside? Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I gave that old thing to Charles Jr. years ago.”