by Judy Duarte
Yeah, right. Amy was implying that he was the one who had all the problems, that he was the one who needed to be “fixed.” But what about her? She’d lost her mother, and while it was normal for her to grieve, she’d blamed all her misery on him, on the things she’d found lacking in their relationship.
So what about all the things in their marriage that had been right?
“I think you ought to talk to someone about your childhood,” she added. “About your dad’s alcoholism. I think it will help you understand why you’re so driven. Why you can relate to business associates and clients, but can’t relate to your own wife and child.”
“Being career-minded and driven is an asset. My job isn’t the fire-breathing dragon you seem to think it is. It’s what provided you the ability to be a stay-at-home mother.” Brandon blew out an exasperated breath. “You know Amy, I’m not the only one who needs to talk to a counselor.”
“What are you saying? I had a loving home, two good parents.” She stiffened. “My family wasn’t dysfunctional.”
“Maybe not. But you’re still grieving for your mom.”
“I’ll always grieve for her. She wasn’t just my mother, she was my best friend. I’ll never get over losing her.”
“That’s what I mean.”
She rolled her eyes.
Maybe he ought to try another approach. “Therapy isn’t covered in my health plan—I checked. But I’m willing to pay whatever it costs. Let’s both visit a counselor and see what he or she has to say.”
“You think money solves everything.”
“Well, it certainly beats not having any at all. Don’t forget that it’s my job, my salary and savings plans that allow you to rent a house you’re not even living in.”
Her eyes blazed, which was his first clue to try yet another tack—or, better yet, to let it all ride until another day. But he’d had it up to his eyebrows with her stubbornness, with her inability to see the big picture.
“For some crazy reason,” he began, realizing that crazy had probably been a lousy word choice, but unable to reel it back now, “you’re so busy chasing the past and your roots that you’re not focused on the here and now, on the family you and I created.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about focusing on family.” She stood and crossed her arms. “I’m not going to talk to you about this anymore. Nor am I going to remind you that you almost missed my mother’s funeral, which was unforgivable.”
“I made it,” he said, getting to his feet because he hated to be looked down upon, hated to be forced into a defensive position. “How many times are you going to throw that at me? I had a critical meeting to attend, something I couldn’t cancel or postpone, even under the circumstances. But I left early.”
“Yeah, well, not early enough. That was the last in a long line of disappointments that pushed our marriage over the edge. And I’m not going to set myself up for any more.”
“I don’t suppose you are. I’ve never met a woman as strong-willed and stubborn as you are.”
“Look who’s talking.” She chuffed and crossed her arms. “I’m not the one who’s stubborn. I’m just determined when I set my mind on something.”
“Sometimes our greatest strengths are our greatest flaws.”
“Maybe you should be the one assessing your strengths, Brandon.” She walked to the door, opened it.
Clearly, that was his cue to leave.
He ought to apologize, to say something to make things right. But he, too, was stubborn and determined. And he refused to throw himself at her pretty little feet.
As he walked out of the house, he heard the door shut behind him, just a little louder than necessary.
His heart was pounding and his blood was swishing through his veins like that of a dazed boxer going down for the count. He’d really done it this time, but right now, he didn’t care. He just needed to get out of there.
As he climbed into his car and slid behind the wheel, an unbidden thought came to mind, a homeless man’s voice that said, The future offers healing, if you’ll open your heart. And making peace with the past is often the first step.
Like reconciling with his father?
Yeah, right. He swore under his breath.
What in the world was he thinking? Who in their right mind reflected on the half-baked advice of a homeless man?
Besides, Brandon hadn’t seen his old man in fifteen years, and he had no idea where to even look for him—if he were inclined to do so.
And he wasn’t.
Chuck had very little to show for his fifty-four years on earth. Just an old fifth-wheel trailer that was parked on the edge of the church grounds and some secondhand furnishings and clothes. But he had plenty to eat, good friends, and the blessed assurance of his salvation.
He also had people who depended upon him and a job to do as long as he was physically able.
Dawn and Joe Randolph, the couple in charge of the Parkside Community Church soup kitchen, had already left for the day, and Chuck was cleaning up. He didn’t need to worry about anything in the actual kitchen, though. Dawn was particular about how she wanted it cleaned and always took care of it herself.
But Chuck was in charge of wiping down tables, mopping the floors, and cleaning the restrooms, something he took pride in. As it was written in Colossians, Whatever you do, work at it wholeheartedly as though you were doing it for the Lord and not merely for people.
That had become his motto these days.
So while he was in the ladies’ room, mopping the floor, he whistled a happy tune—a praise song, actually—when a dull ache in his side cramped up.
He paused a moment and massaged the ache, thinking that it was just a result of getting older.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, he leaned against the mop as though it were a cane. He sure seemed to get winded these days. He wondered if it was a result of the cancer, or whether that, too, was to be expected with age.
It didn’t matter, he supposed.
As he got back to work and opened the door of the handicapped stall, he spotted a lady’s handbag on the floor—a brown, faux leather purse that had been around the block a few times, just like most of the people who partook of the free lunches offered by Parkside Community.
He leaned the mop against the wall and stooped to pick it up, wincing from the pesky pain in his side.
Some poor woman was probably stressing out about losing her purse right this very moment, and he could understand why she would. A lot of people couldn’t be trusted these days.
He checked the contents of the wallet in an effort to identify the owner—Janice French, who lived at 233 First Street, Apartment 13. Chuck had no idea how to get a hold of her, what number to call, so he would just take it to her after he locked up.
When he finished his work, he went into the kitchen to find some kind of bag or sack to put the purse in. There was no need for him to carry a lady’s handbag all over town. Next he shut off the lights, locked the doors, and headed for the bus stop, which was located near the front of the church.
He didn’t need to wait long for number 621, which would take him to just within a block of the apartment complex where Ms. French lived.
The bus pulled to a stop, its diesel engine humming so loud a fellow could hardly think.
When the driver opened the door, Chuck held the paper sack under one arm and gripped the handrail to steady himself as he climbed the steps.
Herb Dougherty, the robust driver who’d worked for the transit district for more than twenty years, welcomed him aboard with a hearty smile. “Hello, Chuck. How’s it going today?”
“Not too bad.”
“You sure?” Herb asked. “You look a little pale.”
“Just a bit tired. That’s all.”
“Good. You going to be working at the soup kitchen on Saturday? They’re having that birthday party for ol’ Stan Jeffries.”
“Yep. Stan’s a great guy.” Chuck tried to smile, although the pain i
n his side kept gnawing at him, urging him to take a seat.
As he made his way down the aisle, the diesel engine roared and the bus bumped and swayed as Herb drove back onto the road.
Boy oh boy, Chuck thought, taking a seat near the emergency exit in one of the only empty spots available. He tried to massage out the pain in his side and figured he would have to take a couple of aspirins or something as soon as he got home.
Two stops later, a little old lady climbed onboard. Her cane dangled over her forearm as she tried to make her way down the aisle. She scanned both sides of the bus, looking for a place to sit, but not having any luck.
A couple of teenage boys, their hair shaggy and in need of a trim, looked up. He expected one of them to give up his seat, but when neither of them did, Chuck got to his feet, clutching the paper sack to his chest and biting back a wince.
Thank goodness he’d be getting off at the next stop. Maybe he’d have to sit on the bench for a moment or two.
“Here,” he told the lady. “You can have my seat.”
“Thanks, young man.”
He could see where she might think of him as young. And he supposed he was. Fifty-four wasn’t decrepit, although it sure felt that way sometimes.
’Course, that was his own fault. He should have taken better care of himself when he was younger—drunk less, eaten better food, exercised more.
He sucked in a breath, then blew it out. His side wasn’t hurting him all that bad anymore, but now his stomach was tossing and turning.
Had he eaten something bad?
He wasn’t one to complain, but if there was one thing he hated, it was catching the intestinal flu or a bad case of food poisoning.
As the bus slowed to a stop, Chuck found himself leaning forward. He grabbed hold of the back of the old lady’s seat to steady himself. Apparently, he gripped her hair while doing so, and she squeaked out an “Ow!”
“Sorry,” he said, trying to make his way off the bus.
A wave of dizziness slowed his steps, and he blinked a couple of times, trying to shake it off so that Herb didn’t think he was dawdling.
“See you on Saturday,” Herb said.
“Yep. You sure will.” As Chuck made his way down the steps and his first foot reached the ground, everything started to spin, and his knee buckled.
Uh-oh.
A roar sounded in his ears, and then everything went dark.
Chapter 10
Late Wednesday morning, as the sun stretched high over Fairbrook, Maria carried two glasses of lemonade out to the front porch, where Captain sat with Ellie in side-by-side rocking chairs and Wally played with his trains near their feet.
Captain, who was closing in on his ninetieth birthday, appeared to be intrigued by the child, but Ellie didn’t seem to be the least bit interested.
“I hope this is sweet enough for you,” Maria said as she handed them the drinks.
Captain, who wore a broad-brimmed straw hat and a blue plaid shirt, took a sip, then lowered his glass. A grin softened his wrinkled face and put a twinkle in his brown eyes. “It’s just right, Maria. I haven’t had lemonade like this since I was a boy.”
Ellie, who’d only picked at her breakfast and had been quiet all morning, merely held her glass with both hands and stared off into the street. She’d been doing that a lot lately, traveling to some faraway place where words didn’t exist.
“Wally,” Maria said. “Would you like some lemonade?”
“Not now. I’m not thirsty.”
That wasn’t surprising. He’d had two glasses of milk at breakfast.
As the engine of an approaching vehicle sounded, Maria turned to see the postman across the street, which meant that he’d already delivered her mail.
“Jerry’s here earlier than usual,” Captain said. “He doesn’t usually come until after lunch.”
“Well, while I’m outside, I may as well get it.” So Maria walked to the curb, opened her box, and pulled out a good-sized stack of mail that was sandwiched between the Penny-Saver and a packet of coupons for the smart shopper.
On her way back to the house, she thumbed through the delivery. The church newsletter came today, reminding her that Pastor Craig usually stopped by to visit Captain and Ellie on Wednesdays. She also spotted the glossy photograph of an ornate European music hall, the Palau de la Música Catalana in Barcelona. Assuming the postcard was from Walter and Hilda, she paused on the sidewalk to read their note.
Yesterday, Hilda wrote, on our first day in Barcelona, Walter and I went to the art museum. Today we saw this extraordinary music hall. And tomorrow, we’re going to take a tour of the Basque region. You’d love Spain, Maria. I hope you and the kids can visit someday.
Maria’s maternal grandparents had been born near the Pyrenees Mountains and had told her and her cousins a lot of stories about the small village where they’d grown up and gotten married. So going to Spain had always been a dream of hers.
She glanced at the elderly couple in the rockers and her preschool-age son, who played with his Thomas the Tank Engines on the porch beside them.
It would be a long time before she could ever travel to Europe, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t thrilled that her dear friends had been able to go.
She continued to sort through the mail, spotting the power bill. She was almost afraid to open it. She’d been nagging the kids about leaving the lights on, but they always forgot. And sometimes Ellie got up in the middle of the night, turning on lamps all over the house.
If Joe Davila hadn’t still been in the hospital, Maria might have finally caved in and admitted that it was time to put Ellie in a convalescent hospital. But she didn’t want to put any unnecessary stress on Joe and his wife.
Besides, Tía Sofia and Ellie had once vowed to take care of each other in their twilight years. And Maria was glad she could look out for Ellie now, on Sofia’s behalf.
On those rare occasions when recognition sparked in Ellie’s eyes, it was all worth it, but unfortunately, the poor woman hadn’t had many meaningful conversations since Maria and Danny had found her wandering in the canyon six weeks ago.
“Good morning,” a familiar male called out.
Maria didn’t have to look up to know that Eddie was talking to her. As she turned toward him, her pulse slipped into a “Lady in Red” beat, and a smile swept across her face.
He was wearing jeans today. And a white T-shirt with a landscaping logo. Nothing special. Yet by the way her heart was strumming, you’d think he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ with a bouquet of red roses and a bottle of champagne in hand.
He strode toward his pickup, then lifted the lawnmower out of the back. She assumed that he meant to mow Amy’s lawn, until he lowered it to the sidewalk and pushed it toward her house.
What was he doing? When he’d cut the tree limb in her backyard, it was because it had been hanging over the fence and into Amy’s property. And she understood why he’d cut both sides of the hedge the other day.
But mowing her grass? That was clearly not a favor to Amy or the Davilas, no matter how badly her lawn needed to be cut and edged.
“I can’t pay you for this,” she reminded him.
“You don’t have to. I’m doing it because I want to.”
Their gazes locked momentarily, and she felt sixteen all over again, before the harsh realities of life had chased away any romantic notions.
Still, she couldn’t deny the sparks of attraction that went off whenever she spotted Eddie, whenever he looked her way.
“Mom,” Danny called from the front door. “Where’d you put my Padres shirt?”
So much for thoughts of youthful innocence and carefree flirtation. She turned to her son. “I threw it out a couple of days ago.”
“What!?” He plopped his hands on his hips. “Why did you do that?”
“It had a big tear under the sleeve, and there were a couple of stains on the front.”
“But it was my favorite shirt! Why didn’t you ask
me first?”
Before she could respond, Captain piped up. “When I was your age, I’d have gotten my backside smacked for talking to my mother like that. You’re lucky you have a mom to do the laundry and to fold your clothes, son.”
Danny only appeared to be the slightest bit contrite, and Maria blew out a sigh. She wasn’t one to coddle her children and allow them to get away with being disrespectful, but deep in her heart, she realized her oldest son was struggling with something. Something she needed to address. That is, if she could figure out what it was. And he wasn’t talking.
“Do you have a baseball mitt and a ball?” Eddie asked the boy.
“Yeah. In my closet. Why?”
“Because after I finish mowing the yard, I thought it might be fun to play catch for a little while.”
Danny tossed him a why-not? shrug. “Sure. That would be cool.” Then he disappeared into the house.
Maria took a few steps toward the man. “Thanks, Eddie. I appreciate you spending some time with him. But Captain’s right. He shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“I know. And I plan to bring that up after we throw the ball around a bit, if it’s okay with you.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to his offer, to his understanding and support.
Should she jump on it?
Or turn it down? After all, the kids weren’t his responsibility.
“When my brother and I were younger,” Eddie added, “and we’d done something wrong, our father would say, ‘Get in the car, mijo. We’re going for a ride.’ And then, when he had us alone, he’d let us know that we’d disappointed him.”
“I used to get a little walk,” Captain said. “Out to the woodshed, where my father took off his belt and let the leather do the talking on my hind end. But he only had to do it once or twice.”
Eddie smiled. “I didn’t need too many of those kind of talks. My dad had a way about him that made us want to obey, to make him proud. My brother uses that same approach with the boys on his team, and it seems to work. Those kids would do anything for him. In fact, a couple of the mothers said their sons’ grades are improving and they’ve even started cleaning their rooms without being told.”
