The Secret Ingredient for a Happy Marriage

by Shirley Jump

  Even though Mary made light of her heart condition, the precariousness of her health worried Colleen. Mary had always been a person who did her own thing, set her own schedule, traveled at her own pace. Three weeks of convalescing in the hospital and then at home had given her some serious cabin fever, blowing up her social schedule with lunches and card games and shopping trips. Short of sprinkling some Unisom in her afternoon tea, Colleen had yet to find a way to get Mary to follow the doctor’s advice of resting and recuperating. “I do hope you aren’t overdoing it.”

  “I’m sitting at a kitchen table, holding a deck of cards. That’s hardly overdoing it.” Mary chuckled. “Anyway, my dear worrywart, I called to see if you wanted to join us. Carolyn doesn’t think she can make it, and we really need a fourth.”

  “I can’t.” She paused. “I have…plans.”

  “Plans? Like with another person?”

  “You say that like I’m some kind of friendless hermit. Yes, Mary, with another person.” Colleen moved in front of the hall mirror, gave her hair a pat, and then checked for lipstick on her teeth. Goodness, why was she trying so hard? This was hardly a date.

  “Wait…are you going out with that Roger? He’s very handsome and clearly keen on you, Colleen. I think he’d be good for you.”

  “We are discussing the shelter over dinner. That’s all.” Colleen crossed herself and whispered a “forgive me” to the ceiling. This man had her fibbing to her family. Yet another reason she shouldn’t date him.

  “Well, I think you should throw caution to the wind and go all in, my dear daughter. Life is too short to spend your days alone and miserable.” Mary sighed. “I know that lesson too well.”

  The sadness in Mary’s voice spoke of the years she’d spent away from her family and the love she had lost long ago. Colleen could sympathize—the loneliness she had felt in the two decades since her Michael died had been almost palpable. Perhaps that was what drove Mary to fill her days and nights with friends and adventures. “Speaking of making plans, perhaps you should make some of your own to actually listen to your doctor.”

  Mary laughed. “The busy workaholic daughter giving her busy social-holic mother advice to slow down? If I do that, Colleen, I’ll be underfoot all the time.”

  “Having you stay here hasn’t been too much of a hardship,” Colleen said.

  “Which is your way of saying you like me living with you, you softie. It has been good, I admit. Gives us plenty of time to rebuild that connection we missed. Speaking of mother-daughter connections, have you spoken to Nora?”

  Colleen noticed Mary’s quick conversational segue. On any other day, the inquisitive detour might have annoyed her—she’d been parenting on her own for two decades, after all, and didn’t need anyone else to point out her mistakes—but truth be told, Nora’s recent decisions had spurred some worry. Nora was usually so calm and steady and happy, but in recent weeks her daughter had been subdued and distant, not to mention the way she just up and took off on a trip. “I talked to her a couple times on the phone. She seems to be having quite the busy time on vacation. Though it still surprises me that she did that at the last minute. Nora’s always been such a planner.”

  Mary paused. “I wouldn’t want to butt in, but I think doing so is a requirement in this family, so I’m going to be a buttinsky, like it or not. Nora needs you right now, Colleen, more than she’ll say.”

  The hairs on the back of Colleen’s neck stood up. She should have tried harder to talk to Nora instead of being so consumed by this shelter business. Yet another reason why dating anyone was a ridiculous proposition. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “She’s having a rough time, and you know her, she’s never going to speak up about it. So I think you should reach out and talk to her. Don’t tell her I said anything. Just be there for her. And for God’s sake, be gentle.”

  “I’m always gentle.”

  Mary let out a hearty laugh. “Colleen, you are about as gentle as a porcupine with a heart of gold. Your intentions are great but your approach is prickly.”

  Colleen scoffed but knew Mary had a point. It wasn’t one that Colleen liked to acknowledge, but it was true. For three years, she and her middle daughter Abby hadn’t talked, after a family fight at Bridget’s wedding. Then Bridget had pulled away, dropping out of the bakery and then family dinners. In the past year, Colleen’s daughters had come home—literally, with Magpie in Massachusetts again for longer than a split second—and Colleen didn’t want to risk losing any of them ever again. Their amends had been in fits and starts, a recalcitrant engine trying to travel a bumpy road.

  This week, Colleen had chalked Nora’s quick departure up to stress. The main responsibility of their busy bakery had fallen on Nora’s shoulders for years, as Colleen stepped back in her old age and gave her daughters more free rein to helm their inheritance. Yet the more she thought back over the last few months, the more she realized Nora had seemed distracted, moody, unlike herself. Colleen couldn’t imagine why. Nora had a wonderful husband, great children, and a lovely house.

  Colleen knew she sometimes put too much on Nora. When Michael, God rest his soul, had passed away, Nora had stepped in as a second mother hen, who got all the other ducklings in a row when Colleen was too tired or overwhelmed. Of the four girls, Nora was the most like Colleen—stubborn, independent, and the last to complain or ask for help. Maybe Nora simply needed a few days’ rest. “I’ll call her first thing tomorrow, or tonight, if it’s early enough when I get home.”

  “I hope you aren’t home early enough to make a call. Besides, it’s Halloween. The kids will be out trick-or-treating, so Nora will be busy.”

  “I forgot about that.” Even though she’d spent most of her day selling orange frosted cupcakes, her brain had let that detail slip. Well, it was all due to that Roger. Every time she got around him, her mind went fuzzy. Yet another reason to be clear with him that this was not a date. She didn’t need another person in her life or another demand on her time. Her daughters still needed her, clearly.

  Mary said something to the other people in the room and then returned to the phone. “I have to go. Ernestine Wickman is coming to play instead. That woman drives me crazy, the way she clacks her dentures every few seconds. Dear God, it’s like playing bridge with a snare drum. Pray for patience for me.”

  Colleen laughed. In a few words, Mary had lightened the cloud hanging over Colleen. It really was good to have Mary back. “Just give her some extra-strength Poligrip. And keep her away from the crunchy food. Have fun tonight.”

  “Only if you promise me that you will too.”

  “I just saw headlights in the driveway. I’ll talk to you later, Mary.” Colleen replaced the handset in the cradle before Mary could ask any more questions or offer more advice that Colleen didn’t need.

  The doorbell rang, and even though Colleen had been half expecting Roger to come to the door for her, the sound still startled her. She caught her reflection one final time—determined she was sufficiently dowager-like—before pulling open the door. Roger stood on her porch, wearing a pale green button-down shirt, a blue-patterned tie, and dark gray trousers under his black overcoat. He held out a bouquet of white daisies wrapped in dark green paper. “Your favorite, if I remember right.”

  “They are.” She’d only mentioned that in passing. Quite remarkable of him to remember. She took the flowers and inhaled their sweet, light fragrance. “‘Black bees on the clover-heads drowsily clinging, where tall, feathered grasses and buttercups sway; and all through the fields a white sprinkle of daisies, open-eyed at the setting of day.’”

  Roger smiled. “I like that. What’s it from?”

  “A poem by Abba Woolson. I remember reading it in high school, and it’s stuck with me. I do think daisies are like that, don’t you? A sprinkle of white happiness in a field, open-eyed even when the sun is going down.”

  “Why, Colleen O’Bannon, I daresay you are a romantic.”

  “I am no such t
hing. Reciting a poem doesn’t make me any more romantic than a fencepost.” The man was looking for signs of some great love story when there were none. One stanza from a poem, that was all it was. She led him inside and down the hall to the kitchen, where she retrieved a vase from under the sink, filled it with water, and arranged the daisies. “Regardless, we should leave before the restaurant gets busy. And thank you for being prompt. I appreciate people who are on time. If you ask me, it’s ill-mannered to be late.”

  “Actually, I was ten minutes early, so I drove around the block a few times.” Roger chuckled. “Guess I was a little nervous. I haven’t been on a date in a long time.”

  For some reason, that pleased her and also made her wonder why a nice man like him hadn’t been scooped up by some predatory widow. Colleen grabbed her purse, tucked it under her arm, and readied her keys. “Let’s go, then.”

  As they walked down the hall, he put out his arm, but she ignored it, using the excuse of locking the door. “You look very pretty tonight, Colleen,” Roger said. “That blue sweater brings out your eyes.”

  “Now who’s the silly romantic?” She nodded toward his car, hoping he didn’t see the blush that heated her cheeks. “Before I get inside that car, are you a good driver?”

  “The state of Massachusetts and Allstate think so.” He grinned as he opened her door. A moment later he got in on the other side. “Sit back and enjoy yourself, Colleen.”

  She tried to do just that, but every nerve inside her was buzzing. Roger drove a practical four-door sedan, maybe eight years old, without a lot of fancy gadgetry in the dash. A cross hung from his rearview mirror, and the backseat was filled with canned food donations for the shelter. The car was clean and neat, tidy. He pulled away from the curb and headed down the street, well within the speed limit. At the four-way stop, Roger came to a complete halt before turning right, and Colleen allowed herself to relax a bit in the passenger seat.

  He took her to a small Italian restaurant a couple miles from her house, a place she’d wanted to try since they opened a year ago. Roger had made a reservation, and they were seated in a booth almost as soon as they walked inside. The cozy atmosphere was less Sopranos and more Pavarotti, with elegant chandeliers for lighting and dark blue seat cushions.

  The waitress, a friendly, too-skinny girl in her twenties, dropped off some menus and left them alone. Colleen fidgeted in her seat. She’d never been good at small talk, and even worse at date talk. Michael had been the third man she’d dated, and he’d been so full of life, she’d never had to say more than a handful of words with him.

  “Iris is doing well,” she said. “Thank you for sending her to me.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad to hear she’s working out.” Roger glanced over his menu at her. “Has she told you her story?”

  Colleen shook her head. “I haven’t asked either. I’m not much for prying. I always assume if someone wants me to know, they will share the information. She is quite the withdrawn young girl, though. And she often seems…troubled. But she doesn’t share.” The young girl had warmed a bit to working with the family, but she still had a tendency to go quiet. And there’d been a couple times Colleen had found her talking on her phone in angry whispers.

  “She doesn’t talk much about it, but I think it will help you understand her.” Roger laid his menu to the side and folded his hands on the white tablecloth. “Iris has been on her own since she was sixteen. Her mother has been in and out of jail and rehab for drugs, and Iris has been on her own, between places, more than she’s been in a stable home with her mother. She came to us a few months ago, and we got her set up with a high school and a tutor. She was…angry for a long time, getting into trouble on the streets and in and out of schools. All of it understandable, after what she’s been through with her mother. But we’ve seen a nice change in her since we brought her into the shelter and enrolled her in the school in her old neighborhood and she reconnected with a very good friend of hers—”

  “The unwed mother.”

  Roger frowned. “You say that as if it’s a terrible thing. Sometimes, Colleen, it is far better for a woman to raise her child alone than with a man who is abusive or drug addicted.”

  “True. But still…the church discourages that. They, and I, think children need stable homes.” Colleen thought of her own mother, who had pretended to be her sister, all to protect the family reputation. There were circumstances, of course, that could explain such a choice, but far better for young people to wait and be settled before adding children to their lives.

  “You were essentially a single mother yourself, and your daughters turned out quite well.”

  “Well, yes, but I was married when I had them and was blessed with Michael as their father for more than a decade.” She might not have remarried, but her children had had a strong foundation with a good father.

  “All I’m saying is try not to judge Iris’s friend—who is a very nice young woman, struggling to do the right thing—by a set of rules that aren’t meant to fit everyone. Grace is about giving people understanding and compassion, regardless of the choices they make.”

  Roger did have a point. She’d almost lost Abby because of her stubborn views, and her steadfast commitment to the rules set in place by the church centuries ago. Like the diocese, Colleen had begun to soften in some of her attitudes, trying to be more welcoming and less judging. It was new thinking, new ways of responding, and the one thing Colleen hated was change. The more predictable her days were, the easier it was to deal with the waves. “I shall think about it,” was all she said to Roger.

  “Good. Because that girl is a very important part of Iris’s life. When Iris was seven, her mother would lock her out of the house so she could turn tricks to pay for her drugs. Monica lived next door and took Iris in, any time of the day, and kept that girl from ending up on the streets or worse. She’s the one stable thing Iris has, and she’s a good influence on her.” Roger took a sip of water.

  “Do you”—Colleen drew in a deep breath—“trust Iris? I mean, a girl with a background like that?”

  “I wouldn’t have sent her to you if I didn’t trust her.” Roger studied Colleen. “Why? Has she done something to make you mistrust her?”

  “No, not anything in particular.” The whispering into her phone and the periods of withdrawal didn’t necessarily mean anything, but they still raised the hairs on the back of Colleen’s neck.

  Roger let out a long breath. “It would be nice if you loosened a few of those rules and standards you live by, Colleen. People can surprise you, in a good way, if you do.”

  “And sometimes it’s the opposite,” she replied. She resettled her napkin in her lap. “Well, regardless, for now, Iris is working out, and I’m glad to give her a job. Perhaps it can change her future a little bit.”

  “It already has. She says such wonderful things about you and the bakery. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

  What a life that young girl had endured. Colleen whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that her girls had never ended up living on the streets. All four had turned out to be responsible adults, and that alleviated a lot of the worry on Colleen’s shoulders. How sad that Iris had never had a mother who worried like that, or sisters to wrap their arms around her. The friend was, indeed, a blessing. “That surprises me that Iris is telling you about the bakery. She hardly talks at work.”

  “I sent her to you because I knew you’d be able to connect with her. And most importantly, that you’d be good for her.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because you’ve experienced loss and being on your own, and yet you didn’t quit or give up, or let your anger at what happened with your husband get in the way.”

  She’d only been doing what had to be done and had never seen any of that as a hardship. It was merely her life, and her job was to live it as God intended for her to do. Wallowing in her grief would have only hurt them all. Still, the praise warmed her. “Well, I had four
girls to raise. I didn’t have time for anger.”

  “Ah, you make it sound so easy, Colleen. When I know sometimes it is harder than hell to let go of your anger at God for taking someone you love too soon.”

  His voice held notes of sadness and grief, two things Colleen could relate to. She might have hauled herself out of bed every day to run the business and raise her girls, but late at night, when she was alone in her bed, she had railed at God and cried the tears she couldn’t shed in front of her daughters.

  “I understand that, Roger,” she said softly. “I think we all have been there before.”

  The waitress dropped off two glasses of chardonnay. Colleen thanked her and took a sip, noting Roger had good taste when it came to wine. The white was smooth and refined, with a hint of pear. “You’ve never told me how Sophie’s Home came about—I mean, not entirely. You said you were looking for a purpose after you got divorced, but it seems like a big change for someone who was working in management. Why did you open it?”

  “That’s a story not many get to hear.” Roger splayed his fingers across the base of the wineglass. He stared into the amber liquid as if there were some truth to be found there. “It’s not a story I tell often either. Even all these years later, it’s hard to speak the words.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She prayed he would, though. Ever since she’d met Roger, she’d wondered about his background. About why a man with a promising career in banking would give up everything to run a nonprofit shelter. About why this man had once been as angry at God as she had been.

  She did care, Lord forgive her, about this man. He had become more than a friend over the last year, and even on this date that wasn’t a date, she wanted to lend him her shoulder.

  “Sophie was my daughter,” he said after a while, his voice soft and sad. “She was the light of my life. The best thing that ever happened to me.”