by Rachel Hauck
Her pulse slowed, and she headed upstairs to shower off the stench of the night. When she reached the second-floor landing, Natalie called.
“You heard from him?” she said, smiling.
“Not a word. I don’t even know where he went on this trip. I’ve tried to call Stuart, but Strickland Industries is like a freaking vault. Beck, do you know where he was headed?”
“Dallas.”
“Why isn’t he answering his phone? That thing was his third hand.”
“Maybe he’s in a meeting?”
“For two days?”
Beck’s shallow pool of hope drained. “Maybe he lost his phone.”
“Never. Even so, he could still call. Beck, hold on.” Natalie clicked off and Beck looked over at Beetle Boo, who slept peacefully in his bed. “Trade you places, buddy.”
“Beck.” Natalie’s voice was hollow and empty. “That was Strickland Industries. Stuart was piloting that plane.”
chapter thirty-five
Everleigh
May 1961
She awoke late, the midmorning sun streaming through the bedroom windows, and rolled over to find Don’s side of the bed empty, the sheets cool under her palm.
He rose before dawn to start work. The life of an insurance man was not one of ease. He had mounds of paperwork with each client he signed, but he loved what he was doing and the fruit of his labor was starting to bloom.
Pushing back the mass of curls falling over her eyes, she walked to the window. She’d let go of the platinum blonde and high bouffant style for more natural sandy-brown curls.
She’d started helping out at a local flower shop but was more interested in getting pregnant, a chore she and Don both enjoyed rather amorously.
Rhett was the man of her past. Don was the man who brought her reluctantly into the present with his patience and love.
They were regulars now at Fernandina Beach Church, Don serving as a deacon and Everleigh heading up the Women’s Prayer League.
Back in Waco, Mama had become Reed’s Flowers most popular florist, her arrangements getting regular mentions in the newspaper.
Mr. Childers still took his weekly order, and Connie reported he’d finally instructed his housekeeper to refill the vases once a week.
Taking a page from Everleigh’s book, Mama died her hair a soft blonde and was a regular at church socials and the Friday-night dance club downtown.
Tom Jr. helped her buy a new car—not from Dewey, mind you—and she drove to Austin once a month to spend a week with her granddaughters.
Everleigh picked up Mama’s latest letter from her bedside table.
Visited the graves this past weekend. The Applegates have flowers and the headstones are clean. Daddy’s was splattered with mud so cleaned it off with a rag and some water.
I’m thinking of selling the house. It’s too much for just me. Sharon Hayes bought one of those new little places over by the I-35 corridor and is loving it. Three bedrooms and two baths with a nice yard, but not the large dining room and kitchen. If Tom Jr. and Alice come with the girls and you with your brood once you get going, I think we can still cram together. What’s Christmas if we’re not living on top of each other? What do you think? I feel like this is your home as much as mine.
Oh, did you hear? The Marshall family bought the Applegate ranch. It’ll be a working spread by the end of the year. I think Spike would like Jacob taking over the place. The bank kept it dormant way too long.
Everleigh tucked the letter back in the envelope, absorbing the changes that were happening to her hometown, to her mama, to her.
But she couldn’t imagine being any other place or taking a different journey. Every event formed her life and marked her for the woman God created her to be.
Even living across the street from the boy was part of her now. She watched him from afar, and in the nine months she’d lived on Memory Lane, in this memory house, he’d grown and raced down the lane with long, strong legs, catching whatever ball his father tossed to him.
She stayed out of their way, only conversing with Aimee about news from Waco or about Fernandina Beach. Once in a while Aimee bragged on Lou Jr.’s report card, stumbling over phrases such as, “He’s smart like his daddy.”
But instead of envy or jealousy, Everleigh felt her pride in her bright-eyed, towheaded little boy.
“You’re awake.” Don walked in with a breakfast tray.
“What’s this?” Everleigh kissed him as she walked over to her chair by the window. Don set the tray on the table.
“Well, yesterday was busy . . . I had to leave early for church, then we had the social afterward.” He knelt in front of her, offering her the rose from the tray. “You smiled like a champ, never said a word as the pastor honored the mothers. I know it must have been hard. So between you and me, happy Mother’s Day, Everleigh.” He held her face in his hands as he kissed her, then brushed her shoulders. “For the babies we will have one day. And even if we don’t, darling, you are enough for me.”
“You are enough for me.” She brushed aside his hair. “I mean that, Don. I do.”
“Nevertheless, I’d be happy to get to work on our own baby before work if—”
She laughed, tugging on his tie. “We’d be here all day and I know you have calls to make.”
“You’re right.” He kissed her. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Joshua Christian forgave the loan he gave us. George and I are debt-free.”
Everleigh regarded him over the edge of her coffee cup. “Did he now? How generous. We must have him to dinner. Do you have his number?” The bagel was burned on the edges but spread with cream cheese and love. Everleigh bit in with delight.
“You know, I don’t. I’ll get it from George. He’s a bit of an enigma. You never know when he’s going to show up and change our lives.” Don glanced at his watch. “I do need to go. But we have a date tonight, my love.”
“Have a good day. Call me later.”
She smiled at his footsteps thundering down the stairs—Don thundered everywhere he went—and when she finished her breakfast, she carried the tray downstairs and filled the sink with dishwater.
She’d just finished cleaning up when the doorbell chimed. Everleigh wiped her hands, and when she opened the door, Lou Jr. stood on the steps, dressed for school, his hair parted, a bouquet of roses gripped in his hand.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Miss Everleigh.” He jutted the flowers toward her, a sheepish grin on his lips.
She dropped to her knees, taking the bouquet while drawing him into a tight hug. “What’s all this?”
“You’re squishing me and the flowers.” He shoved back and patted the blooms as if to revive them from her crushing embrace.
“Oh my, how right you are. So sorry.” Everleigh took a long sniff of the roses. “They are beautiful. Thank you, Lou Jr., very much.”
“I bought them with my allowance, and Mama said I could give them to you.” He pointed to the tallest and yellowest rose. “You’re from Texas, and they like yellow roses out there.”
“Indeed they do.” She gripped his chin softly, then brushed her hand over his little-boy shoulders. “Thank you for these flowers. I’ll enjoy them very much.”
He kissed her cheek. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
Dashing off the porch, he ran toward Aimee, who waited on her side of the lane, one arm crossed over her waist, her hand over her lips.
Everleigh stepped off the porch, her long gaze meshing with Aimee’s. She raised the flowers in thanks. Aimee nodded before turning and hurrying her son to the waiting school bus.
She was inside before the real tears fell, clutching the thorny stems to her chest. Eight years after she learned he was coming into the world, her boy, Aimee’s boy, wished her a happy Mother’s Day.
* * *
Bruno
Walking into his office, he wanted to face-plant and kiss the floor. What an ordeal. After getting stranded in Waco, it took two days, a gazillion-dollar flight, and a hundred
bucks in Uber rides to get home.
Without his phone, he couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even call his mother. All of his credit cards were on the device, and other than the cash he had in his wallet, he was busted.
But this mess was all his own, stupid, immature doing. By the time he got back to Dallas to meet Stuart, the guy had taken off.
He’d warned Bruno they had to have wheels-up no later than ten thirty Friday because he had a benefit for the company that night.
At the hotel computer, he managed to book a flight by reciting from memory one of his credit card numbers. He’d memorized it back in the day before he handed over his brain, his life, to his phone and computer.
Then, just as Bruno was about to leave Dallas, every flight was delayed due to a computer foul-up, and he spent the night sleeping in the airport chairs, the man next to him snoring and exhaling the worst breath. Like, who died in his mouth?
Bruno dropped his bags by the office door, then collapsed in his chair. He needed a shower, a decent meal, and to catch up with work. Beginning with a phone call to Kevin Vrable. He wasn’t waiting for him to do the right thing.
The debacle had a silver lining, though. He’d run into a former Watershed client just outside the Delta lounge, a lineman for the Cowboys looking for new representation after a bungled contract dispute.
Bruno handed him his card, and they scheduled a call for next week. He opened his calendar and entered Call with Bryant. How stupid to kill his phone over Calvin Blue.
Next he launched Messenger to check his text messages. The app pinged nonstop. Forty-eight hours without his phone, and his small world had tilted.
The latest text was from Scott Fuller about Pro Day and Tyvis.
Confirming he’s coming next week.
Then one from the trainer.
He’s a beast. You’d never know he didn’t play D1 ball last year. I hope you’re talking him up with front offices.
Next came a waterfall of texts from Mom and Beck.
Where are you? Call me.
Bruno, why aren’t you answering your phone?
Okay, this is not funny. CALL YOUR MOTHER!
Well, he would if he had a phone. And the office didn’t have a landline. He hit reply on her last message.
What’s up? I’m home. Broke phone in Waco. Calvin dumped me for Vrable.
His stomach rumbled, and suddenly he wanted dinner and to hug his mother. To use her phone to call Beck.
But first he ordered the latest and greatest phone online and had it delivered express.
Being disconnected from his world was exhausting. It stripped him of his identity. Who was Bruno Endicott without a phone in his hand, hustling for the next client?
Which concerned him. He’d vowed on that Sunday in church with Beck to disconnect from work more, from busyness, to just be. Before God. The One who calmed his anxious thoughts.
One thing became clear on this journey. He didn’t crash his phone or run down Waco Avenue because he lost Calvin Blue. Or because Mom lied about Dad’s death.
He ran like a wild man because he’d lost Beck. He could take any failure as long as she was by his side.
All he’d wanted while trying to sleep next to Snores With Bad Breath was to get home to her.
Except she wouldn’t be there.
Bruno faced his computer ready to work, then changed his mind. Not tonight. He’d make the time he promised God starting tonight.
Then he’d get through Pro Day with Tyvis and call Alec Jones at AJ & Co and see if his offer still stood. He’d move to New York and win Beck over.
And when everything had settled down and his life was on track, he’d look up Dad. See what he wanted and why he lurked around Fernandina Beach in January.
He was just about to turn out the lights when someone knocked on his door.
“It’s open.”
“Hello, Bruno.”
“Dad.” He looked the same except for the signs of time. Gray at his temples, deep lines on his cheeks that came from aging fast. But it was his dad. “I heard you’re back from the grave.”
He nodded, somber. “Got a minute?”
Bruno’s Messenger app pinged once more, but he reached over and slapped it closed.
“I was just about to go to dinner.”
“Can I join you?”
Bruno hesitated, then nodded. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard Miss Everleigh died. She was always kind to me even though I didn’t deserve it. And frankly, Bruno, it got me to thinking. It was time to come back from the dead.”
“I can’t promise you anything.”
“And I’m not asking.”
They walked down the narrow stairs, then hit the sidewalk, father and son, walking in quiet tandem, their gait making the same scraping sound over the concrete.
* * *
Beck
Where was he? Natalie had texted he was home, but she’d been waiting for him on his back porch for almost two hours. She shoved up from the Adirondack and waddled over to the edge of Bruno’s sandy backyard every time a car pulled in.
But so far he’d not showed.
She returned to her chair and texted Natalie, the pleasant, semi-warm night full of saltwater dew and bright stars lost on her.
Not here yet. You?
No.
She’d just dozed off when headlights flashed over her, starting her awake. Pushing up to her feet, she stared toward the red taillights.
When the driver rose from the car, she caught his profile in the ghostly hue of the parking lot lights.
“Bruno!” She held her belly as she tried to run, her legs like lead. “Bruno!”
He dropped his bag and ran to her, lifting her up as she flew into his arms, her belly bulging between them.
She buried her face in his chest. “You’re here, you’re here!”
“Of course I’m here. What’s wrong?” He set her on her feet and kissed away her salty tears. “What are you doing here?”
“You scared the life out of me.” She stepped back, wiping her tears. “Where have you been?”
“Texas. Beck, what’s going on? You’re trembling.” He set his hand on her belly. “You’re scaring me and the baby.” He ran back for his bag. “Let’s go inside.”
She hiccupped a sob, fingers pressed to her lips. “We thought you were killed. They gave your mom nothing about the wreckage. No hint, no clue.”
Beck crashed her head against his chest and clung to his sleeve.
“Beck, wait, killed? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Stuart’s plane went down outside Jackson. He was killed. We thought you were with him.” She fell against him. “I thought I’d lost you before I ever really found you.”
“What? Stuart went down? How?” He paced away from her, facing the night pulling over the Atlantic. “My friend—”
“He flew into a storm. When we couldn’t get ahold of you—”
“You thought I was with him. Of course you would. But I’m here, babe. I’m here.”
She led him to the sofa and embraced him as he mourned the death of his friend. He'd call Strickland Industries tomorrow. Offer his condolences. Stuart's loss would be felt for years to come.
Sitting forward he brushed his face with the back of his hand, then looped his arm around her.
“I love you, Beck Holiday. Always have. Always will.”
She buried her head against him. “Always have, Bruno Endicott. Always will.”
chapter thirty-six
Bruno
April
For a kid who grew up on the wrong side of happiness, Bruno was certain he’d done well for himself. And it had nothing to do with his sports agent résumé.
At the moment he was broke, a bit desperate, but indisputably happy. The green-eyed beauty with a freckled nose and NYPD demeanor was going to be his bride.
He missed her like crazy, but she h
ad to return to New York and wait for Baby Girl. He had to walk Tyvis through this mid-March Pro Day at the University of Central Florida.
His calls to NFL front offices dashed the sliver of hope he had for Tyvis. If the guy on the other end of the line didn’t laugh outright when he said, “He’s a JUCO kid,” he’d offer Bruno some brutal truth: “There’s too many great D1 players ahead of him, Endicott. Is he your only prospect?”
But he’d cheated death in more ways than one this winter so he held on to hope. This morning he woke up with a revelation. A God-inspired, divine revelation.
When he met Tyvis at the University of Central Florida field house, Bruno pulled him aside as the rest of the team ran onto the field.
“Listen to me, you were a top college recruit four years ago, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were All-American your red-shirt sophomore year. Broke all kinds of school records”—Bruno gently tapped his chest with his fist—“you were a stud.”
A slow smile split his lips. “Well, them was the days.”
“Those are your days,” Bruno said. “You’re the same Tyvis Pryor. You are not a has-been. You are a not-yet. Or a you’ve-not-seen-me-yet. But do not let your mistakes, which you’ve paid for dearly, define you. Let them refine you.”
A shade of regret fell over the kid’s expression. “It kind of did, Bruno. I never got back to D1. No one would touch me.”
“Forget those losers. You are an outstanding QB. There are scouts out there who’ve never seen you. Amaze them. Today they only care about what you can do with your arm. Show them who you are. Prove to them you deserve to be in the league. Let me deal with your past. That’s my job.”
Before his eyes, the six-five, 230-pound player, sculpted into a living, breathing muscle machine, dropped his head on Bruno’s shoulders and wept.
