by Judy Duarte
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll just play it by ear.”
Or by heart. But that wasn’t the only thing bothering her.
She leaned forward and placed her palms on her knees. “I got another letter from Ray the other day. He wants me to write to the parole board on his behalf.”
“What’s he want you to say?”
“That the kids need him.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t want to.”
Captain nodded, his craggy brow furrowing as though giving her dilemma some thought. Finally, he said, “You don’t have to sing his praises, you know.”
She’d be hard-pressed to do that, even if he’d been a relatively good father when he’d been home and not just mediocre.
“So what’s holding you back?” he asked.
“I don’t want Danny to grow up with his father’s values, especially when it comes to relationships.”
“A lot of men make one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnarounds when they take advantage of the prison ministries.” Captain stroked his upper arm again, as though easing a tired muscle. “You know, I used to be a real hellion in my day. But then I saw the error of my ways and turned my heart and life over to Jesus. I’m walking proof that men can change.”
“Yes, but I doubt that Ray’s the kind to get involved with any kind of ministry.”
“You’d be surprised at some of the testimonies I’ve heard from ex-prisoners. I’ll start praying that Ray connects with a godly man.”
She smiled even though she had a world of doubt. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that—for the kids’ sake.”
He shifted in his seat, as if he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. “Does Ray get to see the children very often?”
She’d taken them to visit him on several occasions, but she’d been on edge the entire time. So now she found excuses not to make the trip. “No, he doesn’t see them very often. It’s a long drive, and it’s hard for me to get away.”
“Doesn’t he want to see them?”
She couldn’t lie. “Yes. He’s even been trying to contact Danny, but I’ve been hiding the letters until he’s old enough to deal with receiving them.”
“You can’t coddle the boy or change his reality, no matter how hard you try. And while you need to look out for his best interests, life will probably be a whole lot easier when he learns how to play the hand he’s been dealt.”
“Even when he’s only eleven?”
Captain fingered the book in his hand, a library copy of The Purpose Driven Life. “I’m not saying that you need to throw the boy into something he’s not able to handle, but his father made a mistake—a big one, and it’s landed him in prison. He’s not a part of your lives right now. Those are facts, and hiding or sugarcoating the details may not be in Danny’s best interest. At least, not in the long run.”
“I’m not hiding them. He’s aware of what his father did and where his father is.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you talked to Danny about it? If you asked him how he felt about having a relationship with his father?”
He made it all sound so simple.
“Let me ask you this,” Captain said. “And dig deep for a truthful answer. Are you trying to protect Danny? Or punish Ray?”
Her heart knotted up and thumped around in her chest like a clump of air-dried Play-Doh. She was afraid to ponder the question, let alone respond. If truth be told, the answer was, “A little of both.”
She studied her elderly boarder for a moment, his thick head of white hair, his tired gray eyes, his age-lined face, the paper-thin skin of his hands. On the outside, he appeared to be at the end of his life’s journey, but he’d garnered a treasure trove of wisdom along the way.
And for that reason, as well as the friendship factor, she hoped that he would be around for many more years to come.
With her quest almost over, Amy left Callie with Steph on Monday morning and returned to the house on Sugar Plum Lane.
Even though she’d packed almost all of Ellie’s personal belongings, she wasn’t quite ready to hand anything over to the Realtor/property manager. She’d signed a lease for six months, and the house, as well as Ellie’s essence, belonged to her until well after summer turned to fall.
She’d no more than unlocked the front door, dropped her purse on the table near the entry, and stepped into the living room when she scanned the fourteen boxes she’d stacked against the south wall.
Other than the framed photos that remained on the mantel and the quilt from Ellie’s bed, which now lay on the sofa to pad the last of the breakable items, she’d packed everything.
There were still pots, pans, utensils, and appliances in the kitchen, as well as the furniture that filled the house, since Amy had leased it furnished. But the precious items had been carefully put away.
She really ought to call Ron and tell him that either he or the Ruckers could send someone to pick up the stuff at their convenience. After that was done, she really didn’t have a game plan, although she had half a notion to approach Barbara on her next visit and announce who she really was, who her mother had been.
But maybe it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.
After all, her questions had been answered—at least, most of them.
As the back door creaked open and shut, Amy’s heart jammed. Her first thought was that she’d imagined it, until footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Her pulse raced, and her adrenaline production skyrocketed.
Someone was in the house. But who?
One of Maria’s kids?
Eddie? Barbara?
Ron Paige, the Realtor?
Any other option was too frightening to contemplate.
She backed toward the front door, her legs as stiff and spindly as a newborn fawn’s, and reached for the knob, ready to dash outside. But before her escape, she called out in a deep, don’t-mess-with-me tone. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” a frail voice answered.
Ellie?
Amy released the knob just as the elderly woman entered the living room, her gray hair windblown, her lightweight sweater turned inside out.
She held a yellow rosebud in one hand and a house key in the other.
Amy tried to reconcile the two images she held: the young Ellie who’d once lived in the old Victorian with the woman standing before her, the ghost of a person whose mind had become her prison. But she wasn’t having any luck.
Ellie’s brow, already creased by age, furrowed into a craggy V, and her eyes darted back and forth as if trying to navigate through a cloudy mind.
“Who…are you?” she asked. “Why are you in my house?”
Was she having a lucid moment?
“I’m Amy. A friend of Maria’s.” Did she have to explain any more than that?
Ellie’s head listed to the side, as if she was trying to find balance, then she straightened and her gaze brightened a couple of watts. “Of course. I remember now. Would you like to have some tea?”
Amy really should let Maria know that Ellie was here and safe, but she couldn’t help thinking she’d been offered an opportunity to talk to her great-grandmother, a rare moment that might not last through a phone call.
“I’d love a cup, Ellie.” She smiled. “Thanks for asking. Would you like me to fix it for us?”
“I…” Ellie glanced around the room, as though taking inventory, noting the boxes. Confusion toyed with her brow until she eyed the quilt on the sofa and made her way toward it. The rose dropped to the floor, completely forgotten, as she reached for the handmade blanket instead, fingering the patchwork squares made out of a hodgepodge of fabrics.
“That’s pretty,” Amy said, hoping the woman would remain rooted in reality. “Did you make it?”
Ellie didn’t respond; she just caressed a square of pink dotted Swiss. When she looked up, she smiled. “Barbie loved her Easter dress, and she cried when she sat on that half-eaten chocolate egg.”
Amy eased closer, afraid to p
ush too hard, yet desperate to connect, to be allowed to be a part of Ellie’s world, if only for a moment.
“Children grow so quickly,” Ellie added.
“Yes, they do.” Amy was afraid to speak, afraid to breathe.
“Barbie’s going to be a woman before I know it,” Ellie said, her voice wistful.
Okay, so the moment wasn’t so lucid after all. But Amy was determined to have some kind of conversation, even if it was disjointed. “Did you cut the dress fabric into a quilt?”
No response.
Ellie’s fingers moved to a piece of green plaid, and she studied it intently, a smile stretching across her lips. She lifted the quilt, held it against her cheek. “Harold loved that shirt.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Amy had to tear herself away from the old woman to answer.
It was Maria, appearing nearly as frantic as Ellie had been when she’d entered the living room just moments before.
“Have you seen Ellie?” she asked.
“She’s here, Maria. Come inside.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Maria entered the house, and when she spotted Ellie, blew out a ragged breath. “I couldn’t find her, and I was afraid something had happened to her.”
“I meant to call you. She’s only been here a minute.”
They both turned to the old woman, who continued to hold the quilt against her face, rocking slowly, absorbing some kind of comfort.
“The quilt,” Maria said. “She was asking for it last night, and I forgot to mention it to you. I was going to have you look for it.”
“I can see that it meant a lot to her.”
Maria nodded. “She was afraid that she wouldn’t remember the important people and events in her life, so she made what she called a memory quilt a year or so ago. She cut satin from her wedding dress, flannel from a baby blanket her mother had made for Barbara, and fabric from some of Harold’s clothing.”
“That breaks my heart,” Amy said.
“Mine, too.”
“She must have come looking for it.”
That was possible, although Amy suspected she’d just wandered into the rose garden and on into the house. That she’d stumbled upon it by chance.
Yet Amy supposed it really didn’t matter. The fact that she continued to hold the quilt close suggested that there was still a ghost of the old Ellie deep inside.
Chapter 15
Armed with a small grocery list, Barbara pulled into the parking lot at the Farm Fresh Market, found a space near the entrance, and parked.
Joseph had called an hour ago, letting her know that he’d invited a group of political supporters to dinner that evening, a little detail that he’d forgotten to tell her, even though it had been on his office calendar for a week. Another woman might have snapped, but she’d held her tongue and did what she did best—scrambled to make everything right.
Thanks to Adele, her live-in housekeeper, the house was clean, the table was set, and a floral arrangement for the centerpiece had been ordered. With a little luck, the florist would have it delivered by the time Barbara got home.
It had taken three phone calls to line up a chef to prepare hors d’oeuvres and dinner, but Barbara planned to make the dessert herself—her mother’s Texas chocolate cake and homemade vanilla ice cream. For some reason, her guests had always marveled over the treat, which gave the meal, as well as her candidate husband, a down-home feel.
Just as she reached for her purse, which rested on the passenger seat, her cell phone rang. She reached for it, but since she’d neglected to return it to the side pouch after she’d taken the last call, she had to dig around her wallet, cosmetic bag, and a clutter of receipts to find it.
Usually she looked at the lighted display to see who was calling first, but she was afraid she’d lose the connection if she didn’t answer quickly. “Hello?”
“Barbara? It’s Cynthia.”
It was Joey’s wife, Barbara realized. Had her voice just cracked? “What’s up, honey?”
“Joey…” Cynthia choked back a little sob, and Barbara’s heart stalled.
“No! Don’t tell me that!”
“No…. He’s…not…” She sniffled. “It’s just that he had…a setback. They’re putting him back in ICU.”
Barbara gripped the cell phone until she thought she might squeeze it in two. “I’ll be right there, honey.”
She pushed the End button, then dialed Joseph’s office. When Marilyn Rawlings, her husband’s secretary, answered, Barbara heard noise in the background, a buzz of conversation, a chuckle or two.
“I need to talk to Joseph,” she said in her best don’t-put-me-on-hold voice. “It’s important.”
“Your wife on line three,” Marilyn told him.
The din of conversation stilled, and Joseph picked up the line. “Hey, Barb. How’s it going?”
“Not good,” she said. “Not good at all. Joey’s been placed in ICU. I’m heading to the hospital now. You’re going to have to cancel that dinner tonight.”
“Sure,” he said. “Of course. Do you want me to meet you there?”
“That would be a good idea, don’t you think?” She hadn’t meant to snap at him, but he was so caught up in his work, in the campaign strategy, that nothing else seemed to matter. Not their son, not their marriage.
For as long as she could remember, she’d been holding things together, making things right, but she was reaching her limit, and she didn’t think he realized it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so worried.”
“I know. I’ll get out of here as soon as I can, and I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Thanks.”
Relieved that they’d found a common ground, a common crisis, she ended the call.
She hadn’t meant to put a strain on the marriage she’d fought so hard and so long to keep together.
For years she’d feared that Joseph would walk out on her if he found out what she’d done while he’d been in Vietnam. And even if time might have softened the blow, she feared that he’d be crushed by her coverup, by her deception.
She’d made a deal with God, though. And she was going to spend the rest of her life making it up to everyone involved by being the best wife and mother a family ever had.
And she’d done just that, even if there were times when she’d only gone through the motions of being happy.
But if anything happened to Joey, if her son…Oh, dear God, she couldn’t even think it.
Her eyes welled with emotion, with fear, and pain filled her chest. In a rush to get to her son’s bedside, she backed out of the parking lot. But before she could blink back her tears, the Jag slammed into something rock hard, and she jerked to a sudden stop.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. She glanced in the rearview mirror, expecting to see another vehicle, but spied a police patrol car instead.
How was that for luck?
Her whole life was falling apart, and now this had to happen.
Amy sat in haunting silence, grieving for the woman she’d never really met and trying to wrap her mind around what she ought to do now.
She scanned the living room, with the stacks of boxes that had left the once-cozy area as cluttered as Ellie’s current mental state. Just moments ago, Maria had led the elderly woman back home. When she’d suggested they take the quilt with them, Ellie had dropped it onto the recliner as though it was a used tissue she no longer needed.
A dull ache throbbed at Amy’s temples, and she massaged it away with her fingers. What more could she do here?
She’d been dragging her feet about calling the Realtor—or rather the property manager—but there was no need to dawdle any longer. Ron might as well send someone to pick up the boxes. So she dialed his number, then waited through four rings.
A click sounded, and a canned voice answered, “You’ve reached Ron Paige with Parkside Realty and Mar Vista Property Management Company. I’m either on another line or have stepped away from my desk. You can leav
e a message at the tone, or dial zero for an operator now.”
Amy pressed the zero.
Another ring, another click.
A chipper female voice answered. “Parkside Realty. It’s a great day to buy a new home.”
“Is Ron Paige in the office?”
“He’s on another line. Would you like to leave a message?”
“This is Amy Masterson. Will you have him give me a call?” She left her number, then hung up.
She glanced around the living room again. Even though she’d already set the wheels in motion and someone would soon come to pick up the boxes she’d stacked against the wall, there still didn’t seem to be any hurry to pack the last of it. As weird as it might sound, Ellie’s essence remained vibrant in this room as long as her things remained in the house.
But Amy couldn’t hang out on Sugar Plum Lane forever, even if it was her only connection to Ellie.
She wandered to an antique curio cabinet near the fireplace, ran her fingers along the wood grain and over the lip of the trim. She studied the figurines that rested on glass shelves—a couple of Precious Moments angels and several Hummels—noticing how dusty they’d gotten.
For a moment, she thought about packing them away, then decided to take them to Maria’s house instead. That way, Ellie could have them in her room, a reminder of the things that had once meant something to her.
As she turned and headed for the cabinet under the sink to get a dust rag, her gaze shifted to the photographs that lined the mantel. She probably should take those to Ellie, too.
On her way to the kitchen, she again spotted the Bible on the lamp stand. She hadn’t given it much thought before; she’d just noticed the worn binding and the embossed lettering that spelled out Eleanor Rucker on the front cover. But she just couldn’t seem to walk past it this time. So she picked it up and carried it to the sofa, where she took a seat on the cushion nearest the lamp, a place she could easily imagine Ellie sitting, the light turned on for easy reading.
As she opened the cover and flipped through the pages, she noted Ellie’s handwriting in the margins, comments she’d made, scripture she’d underlined.
