by Rachel Hauck
“Ev, I’m falling in love with you.”
“Don . . .” Love? Did she really think they were just having a few laughs? “Love? What’s this? We’ve only been on a few dates.”
“I knew the moment I saw you in the grocery aisle.”
She scoffed. “You fell in love with the dowdy widow at a glance?”
“What can I say? I have an eye for true beauty beneath sensible shoes and a granny bun. You have my attention.” He ran his hand along her jawline, igniting buried but long-smoldering embers. “I can love you well, Everleigh.”
“Mercy.” She exhaled, hand to her chest. “You must be reading romance novels.”
He touched her chin. “I love you.”
“Don, please, I-I don’t know what to say.” She gripped the door handle and held on for dear life.
What did she expect? He’d come home the last four weekends just to be with her. She’d colored her hair and refreshed her wardrobe for him. What message was she sending?
“Do you think you might return my feelings? Everleigh, I’ve never felt this way before, and it’s a bit unsettling and exciting.”
“I’m flattered, Don. Truly. But shouldn’t we go? We’ll miss our reservation. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”
Don shifted into reverse and eased toward the street. “I know I sprang this whole ‘I love you’ bit on you tonight, but I mean it. I’m yours.”
“Don, I do adore you . . . but love? I-I don’t know. I’m still rather attached to Rhett.”
“I’m not intimidated by what you had with him. I’m glad he loved you and you loved him. It bodes well for me.” He bent to see her face, making a cheeky sound. “Babe?”
“There are things, Don.” Mama had to mention the baby, didn’t she? Now Everleigh felt the guilt afresh. “Things you don’t know. Things that will appall you.”
“Like what?” Don slowed for the stop sign. “Robbery? Murder?”
“Not exactly, but shocking nonetheless.”
“It’s in the past and I don’t care.”
You would if you knew. “Tell me,” she said with forced joviality, “where is this surprise dinner?” She turned up the radio only to hear the Fleetwoods singing “Come Softly to Me.”
“I want, want you to know, I love, I love you so . . .”
She coiled her hands in her lap to keep from snapping off the radio. Maybe Don should just take her home. The twist of nerves in her gut made her feel ill. She saw now how she’d been deluding herself.
Don sang with the radio, his smooth voice low and out of tune.
“Mm dooby do, dahm dahm, dahm do dahm ooby do.”
Don’t laugh, Ev. Don’t laugh.
Louder and louder. So off-key Everleigh couldn’t match the melody in her head with the one on the radio.
A low snort escaped.
“What?” Don flashed his white, even smile. “You don’t like my singing?” He merged onto Hwy. 6 with Corvette speed, heading north. He tipped back his head and howled at the full moon.
Everleigh burst out, her ha-has bouncing against the dash and into her thirsty soul.
Don slipped his hand into hers and brought it to his lips. “I love your laugh, Ev.”
“Oh, Don . . .” She sank back in her seat, smiling, tightening her fingers around his.
chapter twenty
Don
Flashbulbs popped as Dad and Standish Dewey signed the agreement between Dewey Motors and Callahan Cars, making them the largest dealership in central Texas.
The reporter asked questions as Standish and Dad posed for more pictures. Standish’s robust laugh was a force all its own.
“We are going to be wealthy men, Harold.” He waved Don over. “Get in here. You’re still our heir apparent even though my daughter let you go.”
Don smiled for the picture, but the basketball-size knot in his chest made it hard to breathe, let alone talk and look happy. He had news of his own to share, and it would not be well received.
He’d met with George Granger last night and he was in, jumping into the insurance business. It was booming in the post-war market with soldiers becoming husbands and fathers, some with kids approaching high school age already.
The world was changing. People needed, wanted insurance. After the Depression and war years, it wasn’t enough to live in a decent three-two and pray the factory never closed. People demanded a safety net.
With a bit of hard work, George charted out Don’s course. Not only could he help blaze a new trail, but the earning potential was twice that of selling cars. And he’d be helping people prepare for the future.
Everleigh and Mrs. Novak were classic examples. Rhett had no insurance because he was young, sixty years from the threat of death. Mr. Novak, at the age of fifty-seven, had just decided on a policy a week before the tornado but had yet to file the final papers.
Nevertheless, Don was in knots. George was set to move to Florida in two weeks and Don needed to give his final word. George had another prospect if Don couldn’t make the leap.
Five hundred dollars was his start-up fee. A small price to pay for such a promising future. For something Don could call his own.
Another flashbulb exploded and spots bounced before his eyes. Carol Ann stood off in the corner with her mother, her arm linked through her new beau’s, a statue of a man.
“Champagne all around!” Standish pressed the intercom button. “Denise, bring in the glasses.”
As the corks popped and the lawyers shook hands with a wink and a nod, Don made his way over to his parents. Dad was beyond jovial and Mom flittered about, showing off her new green silk suit and regaling anyone who would listen with details of her new home.
“Are you happy, Dad?” Don said. “You won’t miss being your own boss, doing things your way?”
“Standish and I have it all worked out. I’ll still run things at Callahan. But I won’t have to be there twelve hours a day since the sales and accounting will be managed up here. Ol’ Brock Lucas was going to retire on me anyway. Look at these.” Dad pulled travel brochures from his inside pocket. “I’m surprising your mom with a trip to California next month. Already called the travel agent. We’re going to the Brown Derby and Grauman’s Chinese Theater.” He stuffed the brochures in his pocket. “Why the furrowed brow, son? This is a fine day for the Callahans. Especially you.” He rested his hand on Don’s shoulder. “That brute Carol Ann threw you over for doesn’t have the brain of a bear, let alone a keen businessman.”
“He’s a football coach, Dad. He doesn’t want to sell cars.”
“Smile, my boy, and behold your future. Sometimes I think you’re afraid of happiness. It’s the war, I tell you. It takes something out of a man he can’t get back. But these are good, prosperous times.”
“The California trip sounds great. Make sure Mom doesn’t act like Lucy Ricardo if she sees a real celebrity. And I assure you I’m not afraid of happiness.” He was concerned, however, that his pursuit of it would somehow trample on Dad’s.
Don set down his champagne with an eye on the door. “I should get to the showroom floor. It’s still a work day.”
“Did Standish promote you yet? He said he was going to as soon as we merged.”
“He’s said nothing to me.”
“I’ll have a chat—”
“Don’t. It’s okay,” Don said. “Let it play out.”
No promotion meant one less hurdle. One less way to disappoint. As he hit the showroom floor, the receptionist announced he had visitors in his office.
He’d been working with a local contractor for a deal on a fleet of new trucks, and he hoped they were here to sign.
But it wasn’t the boys from RonKen Construction waiting for him. It was George Grange and a man he didn’t recognize.
“George, didn’t I just see you last night?” Don shook his hand, then reached to close his office door.
“I hate to bother you at work, so we won’t take long,” George sat across fro
m Don’s desk. “This is Joshua Christian. He’s partnering with me, with us, in Florida, and he was passing through and wondered if he could meet you, see if you had any questions.”
Don perched on the edge of his desk, shaking the man’s hand. “Have we met?”
“Once, a while ago.” Dressed in a brown suit and brown loafers, he seemed rather ordinary. Steady and calm, yet asserting a permeating presence. “In Waco. At the First Baptist Church.”
“I’m sorry I don’t remember.”
“I do.” Mr. Christian sat back with a glance at George. “Now, as you know, there are no guarantees in this life.” Mr. Christian spoke with a pristine authority. “But isn’t it nice to know you can come alongside others with a good insurance policy to ease their minds? Like faith. It’s our assurance that God is taking care of us.”
“I suppose, yes,” Don said. Mr. Christian’s insights ignited a strange passion in him. “But, George, Mr. Christian, you don’t have to sell me. I’m in. It’s just, this is a big day for my family and I need to find the right time. I’m not sure how—”
“Don, when you begin to ask how, you’ve already killed the dream.” Mr. Christian leaned forward. “Leave the how to God.”
“Excuse me?”
“Leave the how to God.”
“Yes, of course. Faith, right?” Don sank down to his chair. It’d been so long since he’d considered his faith. Since his return from Korea, he was, as his old granny used to say, a bad-weather Christian.
“Exactly,” Mr. Christian said. “So, you’re in?”
“Just have to resign my job here and make arrangements to move to Florida.”
George leaped to his feet and pumped Don’s hand with enthusiasm. “Welcome aboard, welcome aboard. I knew you’d come with us. Mr. Christian said you would. Didn’t we dream of something like this back in our Baylor days?” He glanced at Mr. Christian. “Thank you for trusting us with your investment.”
“I believe in you both. I do admire your loyalty to your dad, Don, but remember, your father loves you. Trust in that love.” Mr. Christian glanced at George. “We should let this man get to work. Don, say hello to Everleigh for me.”
“Everleigh? H-how do you know about Everleigh?”
“I was there the night her husband died.”
He was there . . . the night . . . “At the Circle A? You were there?”
“Actually, in downtown Waco. George, we best be going. Good day to you, Don.”
He exchanged a curiosity glance with George. Who was this guy?
Dad appeared in the doorway. “The RonKen boys are here.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll be right out.”
“They’re waiting in Standish’s office,” Dad said. “See you there.”
Alone again with George and Mr. Christian, they set a tentative date for Don to arrive in Florida by the end of the month. George would go on ahead and rent their office and scout out housing.
With a final handshake, the two left. But Don called George back with a husky whisper.
“Who is he again?”
“Joshua Christian.”
“How do you know him? Is he really investing in our venture? Can we trust him?”
George looked over his shoulder to where Mr. Christian was greeting the Dewey salesmen and complimenting them on their fine products.
“Dad said he’s legit. Comes around when we need him. Even when we don’t. Gave Dad great advice about selling our place in Waco and moving to Dallas. He visited my grandmother in the hospital when we thought she was dying. She walked out two days later.”
Don shook the chill from his arms. “But who is he? Where does he come from?”
George laughed and popped his hand on Don’s shoulder. “I don’t know. But let’s just take him on faith, eh?”
“That’s not the answer I wanted, but if you trust him, I trust him.” Don shook his friend’s hand a final time.
He turned back in his office to get the RonKen file. When he looked around, Dad was in his office, closing the door.
Don’s courage abated with a subtle sense of dread. “We’d better get to the RonKen meeting.” He held up the folder.
Dad leaned against the door, arms folded, his lips pressed tight. “What was that meeting about?”
“Well, funny you should ask.” Don cleared his throat and loosened his tie as a voice shot through him. Your father loves you. “Have a seat, Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
* * *
Bruno
“I owe you a solid, man.” Bruno parked behind Mom’s car and ended his call.
He was meeting Stu in an hour to fly down to Ft. Lauderdale, then up to Tallahassee. Bruno would meet with a player at FAU, then with another FSU player not named Calvin Blue while Stu dined with the governor. Yeah, the governor. Stu rolled big.
He glanced toward Miss Everleigh’s, hoping for a glimpse of Beck. She’d picked Beetle Boo up from the vet two days ago and tended him 24–7.
Every text, call, and encounter with her drew him in a little bit more. Maybe she didn’t see herself as a mother, but the way she cared for that dog? She was nurturing personified.
He hated to think what would happen when she returned to New York.
Could he talk her into something long distance? Despite her objections?
He supposed he could move to New York, take a job with AJ & Co.
He doubted Stuart would remain his personal pilot forever, and he was grateful the man’s generosity had helped him expand his recruiting territory.
But there were other things to consider besides Beck’s objections and the geographic challenge.
The pregnancy, for one. In his head the baby presented no problem, but he would have to cop to the sobering reality of taking on a kid not his own. He admired men who did it. He just had to be clear he was one of them.
So, yes, a relationship with her would be complicated. But worth it, right? One thing was becoming increasingly clear. He loved her. Because he’d always loved her.
With no sign of Beck at the memory house, he let himself into Mom’s place, snooping around the kitchen for something to eat. “Mom?” he called up the stairs. “You up?”
No answer. In the living room, he waited, listening, his eye catching the shiny pot on the fireplace mantel. He squinted and stepped forward, reading the bronze name plate.
Stone Aloysius Endicott
No dates. Just his name. What was she doing with Dad’s ashes? Bruno flicked the brass urn with the back of his hand. “Hope you’re comfy in there.”
“Bruno?” Mom bent over the top of the banister. “You startled me.”
“Mom, what are you doing with Dad’s ashes?”
“I brought them home from Mrs. Ackers.”
“Mrs. Ackers?”
“I stored them there.” She disappeared. “Couldn’t stand the thought of them in my closet or yours so—”
“You stored Dad’s ashes at Mrs. Ackers. Did she know?”
“Let’s just say she found out.”
“Mom, you can’t just leave a dead man in another woman’s closet.”
“It’s not like he was murdered.”
Bruno carried the urn to his old room and set Dad on the empty bureau. “Shouldn’t we scatter him somewhere?” he said, returning to the kitchen.
“I like the idea of him being trapped in that pot.” Mom whooshed past dressed in her uniform of sneakers, yoga pants, and a T-shirt, taking her keys from the hook by the door. “Where are you off to today?”
“Lauderdale, then Tallahassee. With Stu.”
“Not again. When will you listen to your mother?”
“When she makes sense. Mom, seriously, what are we going to do with Dad’s ashes? What about scattering them over the river?” Despite the conflict he carried in his heart over his father’s absence, the man deserved a proper send-off. “We could call Aunt Keri and have a little ceremony. Say a prayer.”
Though he hadn’t seen his dad’s sister in year
s, she sent an annual Christmas card with a photo of her grandchildren.
“She moved to Seattle. There was no love lost between the two of them anyway.”
She gestured at her watch. “Got to go. Why’d you stop by? You normally don’t make your way over here quite so much.” Mom’s grin said everything. “Couldn’t be the cute girl across the street.”
“Can’t a guy want to say hello to his mother before taking a trip?”
She patted his cheek. “Don’t worry, I think it’s sweet. You still have a crush on your first crush.”
At his car, he gazed toward the memory house one last time. He’d be late if he didn’t get on the road, and Stuart would take off without him. He was serious about his flying time.
Just then Beck stepped out, Beetle in her arms.
She set him in the grass, aiding his weak side as he did what all dogs do. Then she straightened, her long T-shirt stretching over her baby middle, and stared in his direction as she shielded her eyes from the morning sun.
Bruno waved, but instead of responding in kind, Beck ducked down and inched over to one of the ancient, fat-trunk live oaks and disappeared behind its girth.
What the—
She poked her head around the right side, then the left.
Bruno walked to the driveway’s edge and scanned the lane. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A few cars parked on the street. A blue Ford truck. A black Mercedes. A red Mustang.
“Beck!” He jogged across the street and over the thick green lawn. “What are you doing?”
Wide-eyed, she pressed her finger to her lips and waved him over. When he met up with her, she grabbed his shirt and yanked him behind the tree.
He gazed down at her, his chest against her breast, his heart a locomotive.
“Did you accidentally swallow Beetle’s drugs?”
“I’m watching the black Mercedes.”
“Where?” He angled to see, but she jerked him back.
“Don’t let him see you.”
“Who?”
“The man in the Mercedes. Keep up, Endicott.”
“Sergeant Holiday, I think you’ve gone off the deep end. Pregnancy hormones or too many hours of Gilmore Girls have fried your brain.” Regretfully, Bruno freed himself from her grasp and walked around the tree in search of a black Mercedes. “Are you looking at the car way down at the end? That’s Mr. Colter.”
