by Ann B. Ross
He released my hand as we stepped up on the porch. “Let’s sit out here awhile,” he said, pointing to the cushioned wicker chairs behind the wisteria vine that partially shielded the porch from the street.
I smiled, feeling refreshed from the walk, as I always did, especially on such evenings when the day’s heat had lifted. Taking a walk with my husband was still new enough to be treasured, and I recalled how I used to feel about couples, young or old, who walked along holding hands. I’d looked at them with scorn, thinking that such displays were unseemly and slightly déclassé. Until I became Sam’s wife instead of Wesley Lloyd Springer’s widow, I hadn’t realized that what I’d felt was not contempt, but envy.
“Think you’ll miss having Trixie around?” Sam asked, returning to the main subject of our walk—the Trixie saga. I’d told Sam about getting her packed, missing the bus the day before so she had to spend another night, her determination to spend it at Hazel Marie’s house instead of ours, and my concern about her makeover having taken so long that she’d practically moved in with the Pickenses—a momentous mistake in hindsight.
“I had in mind something on the order of a day spa,” I’d said. “I didn’t expect her to be there day and night for days on end. Knowing what I now know, though, Elsie’s letter came in the nick of time.”
“Did you tell Hazel Marie?” Sam asked.
“No, and I don’t think I will. No need stirring up trouble when the troublemaker is gone.”
Sam laughed. “Honey, I don’t believe Hazel Marie has anything to worry about.”
“Well, that’s true,” I said, smiling. “Besides, I think she’d already figured it out. I stopped by after getting Trixie on the bus this morning, and Hazel Marie was putting away all those DVDs that had been pulled out. She told me she’d put four of them in Trixie’s suitcase as a surprise, which was a very kind and thoughtful thing to do. All I said was that Trixie would be thrilled when she found them. And Hazel Marie smiled that sweet smile of hers and said. ‘In his younger years, like he was on these shows, Magnum, P.I., had a remarkable resemblance to J.D., don’t you think?’ So I think she knows.”
“What about Pickens?” Sam asked, thoroughly amused at the thought of such an unlikely triangle. “Does he know?”
I waved my hand at such a notion. “The man is oblivious. But I tell you, Sam, I think that talking-to he gave her when she was so rude to Hazel Marie turned everything around. I think she was so impressed with his firmness and his . . . well, masculinity, I guess, that she realized the difference between a dilettante like Rodney and a real man. I think her crush began right then. In fact, she referred to her new interest as a real man, although I didn’t know who she was talking about at the time.”
We sat in companionable silence for a while. Three cars passed with bumper stickers for Murdoch on one and for Mooney on two. Not a good sign, but we smiled at each other because there was still plenty of time.
“You know, Sam,” I said, musing over the summer, almost in a stock-taking mood, “we’ve had some interesting events in the last several weeks. First, Trixie landed on us, then you had your surgery—two totally unexpected things, neither of which I’d want to repeat. Then there was my foray into public speaking, another experience I wouldn’t want to have again. Then there’s been your campaign, which you chose over a boat trip.” I smiled at him. “I’m glad you don’t regret the choice. Then, of course, there was Rodney. Just think, if it hadn’t been for Trixie, we’d never have known him—imagine what we would’ve missed.” We laughed together. Somewhat ruefully, though.
Sam said, “You and Hazel Marie did a lot for Trixie. And, in spite of her disappointment in Rodney, she’ll never forget her time here.”
“Well,” I agreed, “I’ll never forget her time here, either. And as beneficial as cosmetics and deportment exercises proved to be in her case, I think that just being here with us wrought a much more important makeover in the way she views the world. If, that is, she can separate it from a television show. But since I find myself missing her just a tiny bit, maybe she wrought one in me, as well.” I reached for his hand. “It’s been quite a marvelous summer in its way, hasn’t it?”
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