The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The sparkle of serious teasing was in Seth’s eyes tonight, and he would be forever grateful to the old man for rubbing a palm across his smile and holding his tongue. C.W. offered a quick but polite good-bye to Seth, winked at Esther, and grabbing his dirty clothes, ducked out of there as fast as a fox from the hen coop. The glow of appreciation in Nora’s eyes, however, made the fuss all worth it.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs and glided toward him, he fought the urge to grab her in an embrace. So he was all the more upstaged when she rested her hands on his shoulders and tiptoed to place a soft kiss on his lips.

  Eyes twinkling, he handed her a brown paper bag.

  “Here, these are for you. I didn’t pass any florists on the way, and we’re long past wildflowers. I thought you might use these someday.”

  She opened the crumpled bag. It was stuffed full of milkweed pods, their feathery contents overflowing into the bag.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling out a few pods and running her finger in the silky seeds. “They’re perfect.”

  He wrapped her in his arms, his thick sweater covering her like a blanket, and kissed her once, gently, on the forehead.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now it’s my turn. Wait here,” she called as she ran down-stairs. In a flash she was back, carrying two bottles of wine: one white and one red. “This one,” she said, handing the bottle of red to C.W., “is your housewarming gift. It’s rather late, but it should help warm the cabin.”

  He accepted it and studied the label. He knew the vineyard; he knew the owner.

  “It’s an excellent year. I’m surprised you found a bottle.”

  Nora was taken aback by his lackluster thanks. “And this bottle,” she continued holding up the white, “is for dinner.” Her hand froze midair. “Dinner!” She handed him the bottle. “Open it, please,” she called over her shoulder as she grabbed a mitt and ran to the oven.

  C.W. held the bottle in indecision. He hadn’t had a drink in a year—swore he’d never have another. With a determined yank, he uncorked the wine.

  “Just in time,” Nora sang as she carried into the room a puffy, golden-crowned soufflé. “Won’t you please sit down? Once I light the candles we should eat. Soufflés collapse within min—oh,” she said with a crestfallen look. “Even as we speak.”

  The puffy soufflé toppled and collapsed into a wrinkled, flat-topped casserole. So did Nora’s smile.

  “Not to worry,” he said reassuringly. “I saw it in its glory. It was perfection.”

  “It should still taste good. Please.” She extended her palm. “Won’t you sit down?”

  As she served the soufflé and salad, she tilted her head toward the wine. “C.W., would you please do the honors?” He hesitated, then filled Nora’s glass without pouring any for himself.

  Once finished serving, Nora reached for her glass, noticing as she did that his glass was empty. “None for you?”

  C.W. drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t drink.”

  Nora’s glass stopped at her lips. She paused, then set the glass back upon the table.

  “Don’t do that,” he said gently.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t be nervous. Enjoy your wine. It’s all right.”

  She picked up her glass, took a small sip, then set it back down. She couldn’t taste its sweetness.

  “I don’t miss it,” he continued. “To tell you the truth, my life here is so challenging that I can’t afford to be sluggish the next day. I could lose a finger or a foot in one of any number of ways here. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. She fingered the long stem of her wineglass and watched shadows of emotion cross his face.

  “My father drank,” he said in way of explanation, “and as a result he made some mistakes. He died a broken man.” His voice was low, and he used that tone people use when they’re talking more to themselves than to anyone else.

  “Tell me about him, about your childhood,” she urged. Placing his hand over hers, he pulled her closer across the table. The candles glowed. Above them, his eyes shone with such intensity she could see his pupils flicker like the flame.

  “My father was a decent man. A brilliant man. He worked at a bank, but home for him was on a horse. We used to go riding together early in the morning—he, my mother, myself, and my sister Nelly—before he went off to the city.” He chuckled. “We’d laugh, swap stories—those were the best times of my childhood.”

  C.W. leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Then my mother died. I was about ten, and everything changed. Father was lonely and remarried. The classic evil stepmother. She hated animals, she hated Nelly and me—you know, I’m quite certain she even hated my father.”

  Nora reached out and patted his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Nelly and I had each other and we did all right. But my father… You know, all he really wanted to be was a farmer.”

  “Like you.”

  He raised his eyes. “Like me. Now it’s your turn. I imagine you were a sweet little thing with long, yellow braids, a kitten, and skinned knees.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know about how sweet I was.” Her smile faltered and she absently traced a line along the damask cloth. “Actually, my father died when I was young too, so I know what it’s like to lose a parent.

  “He was a baker, a wonderful baker.” She smiled. “That’s all he ever wanted to be. When he died, the bakery died with him.” She sighed. “Mother never reconciled to the fact that she was broke. Times were hard back then, harder for her, probably, than they were for me. Mother dreamed of the day she’d be ‘back on top,’ as she put it. I guess she saw me as her best chance.”

  C.W. pursed his lips, understanding. As the eldest and only son of a financial empire, his family had pinned their hopes on him. It was a burden.

  “Were you ever married?” she asked, changing from an unpleasant subject.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Nope. Never did. Never wanted to. Yet.”

  “Oh.”

  He saw her frown.

  “There is so much about you I don’t know,” she said. The muscles in his jaw worked as he wiped his hands with deliberation. Then, with an air of resignation, he tossed his napkin upon the table.

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Everything. The truth. Why you won’t go to town, why you disappear for days, why you keep your past a secret?”

  His hands moved to the cup before him and he studied the clear liquid. Nora waited, trying to be patient. Underneath the table her foot tapped.

  Slowly, he lifted his glass and drank water from his cup. The ice clinked in the glass. “Do you remember when you chose this house site?”

  She released an exasperated sigh. “Of course. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “You had to build it near a water source,” he continued in an even voice. “Throughout history, civilization has developed around a water source. Yet sometimes the well gets muddy. When it does, one has a choice. Either to take the time to clean it, maybe even rebuild its foundation, or to drink from tainted water—and eventually die of the poison. The wise man cleans his well.”

  He put the cup to his lips and took a long sip. “Ahh,” he said with relish. “Fresh, pure, Vermont water.”

  “You’re saying you took time to clean your well—up here—on my farm?”

  “Something like that. Nora, I have my reasons for asking you to wait for an explanation, and one will come. I promise you.”

  “Why can’t you tell me now? What difference will a week or a month mean? You want me to believe in you, in your plans for the farm. And yet, you can’t confide in me about your past? What do you fear I can’t accept?”

  A long, strained silence reigned.

  Leaning far back against the ladder-back chair, she said evenly, “You expect a lot from me, C.W.”

  “You’re right. I do.”

  His tone changed and
his gaze sharpened. “Do you want to know what I can offer you? Is that it? Nora, I thought you knew that by now.”

  She felt slapped but kept a resolute silence.

  “Ah, this part of Nora MacKenzie I know very well,” he said. “So stubborn. So persistent.” He sighed. “Very well.” Tilting his chair back on its hind legs, he stuck the tips of his fingers in his pockets. He looked to Nora like a gambler about to make a bet.

  “What can I offer you? I offer you whatever I have. Right now in dollars that’s…” He dug inside his pockets, pulling out a handful of dollars and some coins. Then, taking her palm, he carefully counted the sum into it. “I can offer seven dollars and forty-two whole cents, plus whatever I might have in the bank.”

  Sitting prim in the wood chair she faced him squarely. “No. This isn’t about dollars and cents. I’ve learned that money isn’t the root of security.” She held out her palm full of money to him.

  His eyes gleamed in satisfaction as he closed her fingers around the coins. “What we have cannot be measured in dollars and cents,” he murmured, looking deep into her eyes.

  “You ask me to have faith in you. All right, I will. But is it wrong for me to ask the same of you?”

  He didn’t speak, but his expression told her he had listened. His sigh rumbled in his chest, then bubbled up to burst as a short laugh.

  “Touché,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “Give me a week. Two at the most. Then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “Agreed,” she whispered.

  His chair scraped the floor as he moved closer to the table.

  “Nora,” he continued, taking her hand again. He fiddled with her fingers, choosing his words, before bringing it to his lips. “I have to ask you to trust me a little further. I need to go away.”

  She sucked in her breath, but he held her hand firm. “Again? Now? After tonight?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, and stop it,” he admonished, tapping her hand. “There’s something I need to take care of.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be back in two days.”

  “Oh, C.W.,” she moaned. She turned her head, not able to hide her disappointment behind her hand. “Promise?”

  “I promise. I couldn’t keep away from you for more than two days.”

  Nora tried to smile, but it turned out to be more of a lopsided frown. “You know where to find me.”

  “Come on,” he said, taking her hand with a wink of devilment. “Give me a good-bye kiss that will last me.”

  It was almost dawn and Nora was still wrestling with her sheets. Thoughts of C.W.’s leaving had teased her all through the night, creating nightmares of abandonment and heartbreak. Turning on her side, she again ran her hand along his chest, its steady rise and fall allaying her fears. Memories of their lovemaking stirred. She had kissed him here, she thought, tracing the path with her fingertip to his still lips. And here…here… Her finger stopped and her eyes continued the path down the sheets. And there, she recalled.

  How many nights had she reached out for her husband, eager to please him, her own desire prodding her courage? And how many ways had he rejected her? A turned back, a vicious remark, a swagger out of the room. Nora’s hand slipped under her cheek. This man wasn’t Mike, she reminded herself.

  She listened in the dark to the sonorous sound of his snores. When she could lie in bed no longer, Nora sat up and glanced at the alarm clock. The hour glowed green in the early morning darkness: 5:05. Nora had a flash of inspiration.

  She crept from her bed, carefully covering her sleeping lover, and grabbed her robe. Her bare feet skipped across the cold floor as she tied her robe, rolled up the sleeves, and tugged on heavy wool socks. Until this morning, she had deliberately remained in bed until after C.W. had showered, shaved, breakfasted, and left. But today, she’d surprise him.

  In the kitchen, instead of the usual welcoming aroma of fresh coffee, the air held the stale smell of cold ashes. It occurred to Nora that she had taken for granted all of C.W.’s thoughtfulness. The thought of preparing a meal for him, of warming the room for him, of showing in little, everyday ways that she cared, warmed her more than any fire could.

  Nora measured the freshly ground coffee into the pot, then worked to the cheery tempo of the percolator. Soon, the smell of ashes was overpowered by the fresh smell of hot coffee. Next, she lit a fire, humming as she did so. Then with practiced efficiency, she pulled out the bowls, bins of flour and yeast she would need for baking bread.

  She felt better the moment her hands were in the dough. This one skill brought Nora back to her roots more than any genealogical chart ever could. While she kneaded, memories of her childhood, of hours spent in the kitchen with Oma, drifted back.

  Baking was in her blood; there had been bakers in the Koehler family for generations. Her grandfather took his family to America, setting up a bakery in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her father, Franz, carried on the tradition, and the name Koehler came to stand for quality bread and pastries in that Germanic city.

  As the bakery expanded, Nora’s care shifted from her mother to her grandmother. Oma was distraught to see her family recipes replaced by cost-effective, inferior ones. So she baked for her granddaughter, teaching her the family secrets, instilling in her a love and respect for the art of baking. She also taught Nora about perseverance, patience, and consistency.

  “Life is like dis bread dough,” she would tell Nora as she took a bowl full of risen dough from the oven. “Mit bubbles like a balloon, yah?

  “But liebchen. Life is not alvays full of bubbles. Sometimes somezing vill crash down like dis.” With that, Oma thrust a powerful punch into the dough. It collapsed around her fist. “But not to vorry,” Oma said with a wink, reshaping the dough into formed loaves. “If you take ze time to vork mit ze problem, reshape things a bit, and give it a tincture of time—” she put the loaves into greased baking tins and set them back into the warm oven “—ze bubbles, they vill rise again and in ze end, you have somezing to be proud of.

  “Life, it can be simple, if you do vat you believe is right.”

  Nora hadn’t listened. At twenty-one, Nora had met Michael MacKenzie—and he was everything her mother had ever dreamed of. Young MacKenzie was smart, driven, and poised for financial success. And at thirty-two, he needed a wife.

  Nora still could feel the rush Mike gave her when he swept her up in his brawling arms and told her he wanted her to be his wife, the matriarch of his empire. He had called her “good breeding stock.” Back then, she had laughed. Now, as she remembered his words, Nora’s hands squeezed the dough till it oozed through her fingers.

  “Ach, he is a swinehund, zat one,” Oma had warned when Nora announced her engagement. Oma had reached out to touch her face with fingers worn thin from years of kneading bread and braiding her long, yellow locks. “This one vill punch down your bubbles. And liebchen, from zat kind of punch, it vill be hard to rise.”

  Why didn’t I listen? thought Nora as she wiped away a tear with her elbow. She had loved Mike, sure, in a youthful passion. In retrospect, she realized she was wooed by his promise of security more than she was by him. How could she have been so naive?

  Nora’s still hands rested on the formed loaves of dough. Father, Mother, and Oma too—they were all gone now. She had only herself to listen to.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Startled, Nora turned to greet C.W. and stopped short of laughing. His hair was tousled and his cheeks bore bristle. Under his eyes, the dark circles attested to his not having slept as peacefully as she thought.

  When C.W. saw her standing at the counter, with an apron and a smile, he didn’t speak. He simply stood in the doorway with a look of sleepy stupor.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” she called, sliding the loaves in the oven. “I thought you’d want a good meal before your trip.”

  He walked around the kitchen, absently drumming his fingers near the percolator, over the wood stove, upon the n
eatly set table. “Are you always this domestic?”

  Nora laughed and carried him a mug of coffee. “I haven’t been. But I’d like to be.”

  “Busy and warm, wasn’t that it?”

  “Like Oma’s kitchen. You remembered.”

  “It’s an image I’ve kept pocketed away.” His eyes were glowing over the rim of his coffee cup as he watched her wash dishes in the sink. “Are you really happy here? Living this life? Are you sure you don’t miss New York?”

  Nora’s hands stilled and she looked out the kitchen window. The sky was pink over the eastern mountain range, a mist hung low in the valley, and she heard the bleating of her sheep in the distance. She thought again of Oma’s words. Life could not be more simple, nor did it ever feel more right.

  “I’m happy here,” she replied.

  He reached for her but the telephone ring cut him short.

  “Who could that be at six o’clock in the morning?” she asked. The memory of Mike on the phone at all hours during his last months rushed by. “Phones are bad news,” she muttered as she swung around and answered. She immediately recognized the nasal voice of her auctioneer in New York.

  “Walton! Is everything all right?”

  With a wave of his hand, C.W. headed to the bathroom. “I know it’s early,” Walton went on, “but I thought you farmers rose with the sun anyway. Have you seen the Times?”

  “I’m in Vermont, remember? What’s so exciting?”

  “The advance notices for your auction are out.”

  She paled and held the phone tight. “Already? What does it say?”

  He read the short column, emphasizing adjectives and adverbs with a flourish. The article was brief, and to her relief, there was no mention of her financial status. Yet, the news was bittersweet. Pleased as she was at the rave reviews, hearing the description of her furniture, her jewelry, her private art collection was painful. So public. So much of herself was going up on the block.

  “They’re touting it as the biggest sale since Warhol.” He cleared his throat. “It should bring in a fortune.”