Love and War

by Peg Sutherland

  By Friday afternoon, he couldn’t wait to get out to the house he was building. Maybe he could haul lumber or something for Joe Santori. Drew was more than ready to swap mental strain for physical strain.

  He was the last to leave the building. When he got out to the car, he found a stack of books in the driver’s seat. Introduction-to-marketing textbooks.

  Shoving the volumes into the passenger seat, he grinned. “Another point for Ms. Murphy.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAGDALENA MURPHY WASN’T one for mooning over memories of days gone by. She believed in living in the present.

  “These are the good old days,” she would announce whenever one of her dotty friends in the quilting circle at Worthington House started harping on the past. “Remember wringer washers? Clotheslines in the dead of winter? Why, a pair of overalls would stand on their own when you brought ’em in. Good old days, my foot!”

  Today she found her fingers slowing, stopping, her mind on anything but the Dresden Plate quilt pattern in front of her.

  “Woolgathering isn’t like you, Mag,” Emma Finklebaum said.

  Emma Finklebaum always was into everybody else’s business. It came from working at the Tyler Citizen all those years. Mag felt no compunction to reply.

  “Evelyn has asked twice now how your Sandy is doing on her new job.”

  Mag glanced up to discover that all eyes were on her. Sometimes it took her by surprise to find herself smack in the middle of a gaggle of old women. Emma had iron-gray hair and bifocals so thick her eyes looked twice their size. White-haired Evelyn’s double chin had a double chin. And Martha Bauer must be older than dirt. Mag sighed. Most of the time, she saw them the way they’d been twenty and thirty years ago, completely overlooking the way they sagged and drooped in places where they hadn’t once upon a time.

  The same derangement, no doubt, that had fooled her into thinking she’d spotted Clarence Albert at the curb a week ago. She’d thought of that too much already to suit her.

  “Alexandra is doing just fine,” she said, turning her focus back to the quilting square in her hands. At least she didn’t have hair the color of a dull nickel—her Moonspun Gold from the Hair Affair suited her just fine, thank you—and these violet-colored contacts kept her eyesight almost as sharp as it had ever been. “My granddaughter is extremely capable, you know.”

  “I hear they’re opening an outlet store,” Evelyn said. “Will there be many new jobs?”

  Mag knew why Evelyn was asking about that. She glanced at Evelyn’s daughter, Karen, who looked embarrassed at the mention of jobs.

  “Mother,” Karen chided softly, looking around at the women in the quilting circle.

  “Now, where’s the shame in asking?” Evelyn replied.

  Evelyn’s daughter visited only about once a week these days, and when she did she looked troubled and tired. Karen’s husband worked at Ingalls F and M. At least, he had before the fire.

  Mag gave Karen what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I don’t know whether one little store will bring many jobs or not,” she admitted. “But I’m sure this can’t go on much longer.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not hearing about much progress,” Emma announced.

  “Judson has stayed in town, even after the holidays,” Martha Bauer said. “Things are bound to start happening now. I hear he’s already sitting the family down to talk about rebuilding.”

  Martha’s son-in-law, Johnny Kelsey, was foreman at Ingalls F and M, so if anyone would know, she would. Everyone had expected the Ingalls family to rebuild quickly after the fire, until an arson investigator for the insurance company started poking about. In his opinion, the fire was “suspicious in nature.” That meant somebody might have started it on purpose, although in Mag’s opinion there wasn’t a soul in Tyler who would do such a thing. But the investigator hadn’t asked her opinion, and the insurance company wasn’t writing any checks until the investigation was complete.

  Thanks to that investigator, plenty of people had had to sit out the holidays without working, their hopes resting on the New Year. And so far, the year had brought no good news. Still, the old biddies in the Tyler Quilting Circle continued to talk the subject to death.

  Mag had grown tired of the town’s obsession with the topic. Tyler had always been that way, latching onto a subject and talking it dry. Folks had been that way about Judson Ingalls’s murder trial. They’d been that way about Cliff Forrester, who had tried to run away from his memories of Vietnam by camping out at Timberlake Lodge before it was renovated and reopened. A lifetime ago, they’d talked themselves silly over the way Margaret Ingalls, Judson’s wife, had up and vanished the night of one of her scandalous parties.

  Of course, Mag had been grateful for that. That heartless troublemaker’s disappearance had finally given the people of Tyler something to talk about besides Mag and Clarence.

  At first, Mag had liked all the talk, all the glory that came from being engaged to Tyler’s most decorated World War II hero. Dashing with his wounded leg and the haunted look in his dark eyes, Clarence Albert Stirling had been the best catch in a town depleted of good men by Uncle Sam’s call to duty. With all her nineteen-year-old heart, Mag had wanted him. Had wanted to be the belle walking by his side, absorbing the secondhand glory.

  She had won him, too.

  The two months of their engagement had been everything she had dreamed. They were feted and fawned over, pampered and preened. Gifts had poured in and the parties had been endless.

  Until Clarence showed his true colors.

  Mag jabbed her needle through the layers of fabric and felt the prick of pain, startling and sharp.

  * * *

  TWO PAIRS OF wounded eyes stared back at Sandy, who stood in the middle of the braided rug in the Murphy family room. Called on the carpet, she thought, the same way she’d been at sixteen when she ran ten minutes past curfew.

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?” her mother asked, an imploring note in her voice.

  “No good reason I can think of, that’s for certain,” her father replied, his own voice gruff.

  Sandy sighed. At twenty-five, having spent all but a few summers away from home since leaving for college at eighteen, she hadn’t anticipated this kind of response. Or maybe she had. Maybe that was why she had waited until long after the holidays to bring up the subject of moving.

  “I’m grown now,” she said, trying hard to keep all hint of the little girl—their little girl—out of her voice. “Grown-ups don’t live with their parents. I should have my own place.”

  Frank and Sadie Murphy exchanged troubled glances. In that moment, Sandy saw something she hadn’t noticed before. Like the threadbare rug and the shiny upholstery in the house where she’d spent her childhood, her parents had grown older. Something seemed to drag down her father’s lean, solemn face, giving him the appearance of a droopy-eyed basset hound. And her mother’s dark good looks had faded, her hair shot through with silver and her eyes not as sparkling. Seeing them so clearly, so objectively all at once, Sandy almost backed down.

  “It just seems such a waste,” Sadie said, the pleading still in her voice. “Why spend money on an apartment when we have all these empty rooms?”

  Being the youngest had always carried burdens that Sandy’s older sister, Angela, had never appreciated. And their parents’ resistance to any indication that Sandy was growing up had always been the hardest burden of all to shoulder. They’d kept her in girlish dresses, without makeup, long after other kids had started dressing like teens. Her folks hadn’t wanted her to date. Hadn’t seen any reason for her to work after school. Had wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to stay home for a year before she went away to college.

  Sandy, on the other hand, realized she had always been overeager to grow up. With a sister six year
s older, she had always been in a rush to catch up.

  Hugging her elbows and hoping she was as right about this as she felt, Sandy said, “Mom, it’s hard enough to come back and have everyone in town look at you and see the kid you used to be. I have to do some things to show people I’m not that kid anymore.”

  She didn’t like it that the person she most wanted to impress with that point was someone who didn’t even remember her from childhood. Why should she need to prove anything to Drew Stirling, beyond her professional ability? Her personal life was none of his business.

  Still, it was his knowing grin that had suddenly made living at home rankle.

  Frank shook his head and seemed to sink lower in his favorite lumpy armchair, where he always retired with the newspaper after closing Murphy’s Hardware each day. “Whatever you want, Sandy. You know we always support your decisions.”

  True, Sandy thought. At least, it was true once they had hit her over the head with enough guilt to make her victories hollow. She would talk to Gran soon. Gran always helped her get things back into perspective after one of these tugs-of-war with her parents.

  “What can I get you two for supper?” Sadie slid to the edge of her seat and looked at them expectantly.

  “Mom, I think I’ll take a walk first. You both go ahead. I’ll catch something at the diner.”

  “But it’s so cold out. And the sidewalks are still...” Sadie seemed to realize she was treating her daughter like a child, exactly what Sandy didn’t want. “Well, we’ll see you later then.”

  Sandy bundled up, laced on her boots and headed out. Having spent Christmas here before finishing up in Atlanta, she had almost grown accustomed to the idea of being back in Tyler. She waved at Nora Gates Forrester and her husband, Byron, the one Britt said had opened a photography gallery. Nora was taking the wreath down from their door, while he climbed a ladder to strip their eaves of strings of lights. And next door, Manny Niess was hauling a bedraggled-looking Christmas tree to the curb.

  “Awfully cold for a stroll,” the elderly man called out.

  Sandy greeted him, and his friendly concern warmed her.

  After nearly seven years away, first at Ohio State, then in Atlanta, she found it startling to run into familiar faces. At first, the small-town holiday decorations had amused her with their simplicity and their pervasiveness. In the city, decorations had been elaborate but sophisticated. But they had also constituted little more than backdrop to the hustle and bustle. Life went on. Christmas was quaint, but not all-consuming. In Tyler, it was different. Pausing to celebrate was part of the fabric of life here.

  Now, as people up and down the street put away the last of the decorations they had been bringing down from the attic once a year for decades, Sandy began to feel the harmony and connectedness of such old-fashioned tradition.

  Tyler would always be here, no matter how out of kilter the rest of the world became.

  She turned down Gunther, a friendly street of well-kept working-class homes much like the one she’d grown up in, then across Main to Second, enjoying the sameness.

  Another reminder of that continuity loomed a half block ahead at the corner of Elm and Second: Marge’s Diner. Sandy smiled. How long since she had eaten there? Acknowledging the chill in her bones and the hunger that said it was definitely dinnertime, she entered the restaurant, pulling off her gloves and loosening her wool scarf as the door jingled shut behind her. Warm air and the smell of hot coffee greeted her.

  She surveyed the room, once again noting how little things had changed. Marge Phelps supposedly didn’t work here full-time anymore, since marrying Dr. Phelps. But Sandy had heard that she couldn’t stay away from the place, and her touch was still evident. The radio still played, barely audible over the buzz of conversation, but still tuned to the same station Marge had always favored. The L-shaped bar and the booths with red vinyl seats had been battered a bit by the years, but no one had thought to replace them.

  Even the same faces remained, although those, too, were showing the wear and tear of passing years. Judson Ingalls sat at one table with Tisha Olsen. The trial for his wife’s almost-fifty-year-old murder had no doubt added to the lines and shadows that marked the years in his face. The fire had, too. Sandy spotted Joe and Susannah Santori as well, and the Youngthunders. Sandy thought she might never have left Tyler.

  One table for two was free, near the front window. Shrugging out of her coat, Sandy headed for it, realizing as she approached that another table for two sat beside the one she intended to claim. It, too, had only one occupant.

  Drew Stirling.

  Her step faltered. He hadn’t looked up yet. He was reading a book, sipping hot coffee. It wasn’t too late to turn and leave.

  Then she remembered where she was—in the middle of Tyler’s most popular gathering place. Her presence had most certainly been noted. If she left now, having just spotted her co-worker, the story would be all over town before sundown tomorrow. Releasing a silent sigh, she made her way to the empty table. She was draping her coat over the spare chair when she noticed what he was reading—one of the introduction-to-marketing texts she had left in his car that afternoon.

  So when he looked up, she was smiling. He tried to look displeased, but she caught the glint in his eyes and knew he wasn’t. Not entirely, anyway.

  “Are you following me, Ms. Murphy?” he asked. “Checking up on me? Making sure I’m doing my assigned reading?”

  She laughed and pulled out her chair. “I’m glad to see you’re willing to do something I suggest.”

  “I pick my surrenders carefully. Save the struggles for the really important stuff. That’s one of the first things I learned about office politics.”

  If it hadn’t been for his smile, Sandy wasn’t sure how she would have taken his comment. But when Drew smiled, it was impossible not to be taken in by the boyishness hiding there. She sat. “I hate office politics.”

  “So do I.” He slipped a paper napkin into the book to hold his place and closed it. “Seems silly, you know.”

  “What does?”

  “You there. Me here.”

  A twinge of discomfort nudged her. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You know what they’ll say if you sit there eating all alone and I sit here eating all alone, don’t you?” She had a pretty fair idea, but shook her head. He leaned across the narrow aisle that separated them and whispered, “That we’re already feuding.”

  Sandy buried her smile in the menu. “Aren’t we?”

  “Or that we’re fooling around.”

  Startled, she darted a fearful look at him over the top of the vinyl-covered menu.

  He shrugged. “Could go either way, you know.”

  She shook her head again, pretending to contemplate the list of daily specials. She knew he was simply teasing, but the prospect wasn’t funny to her at all. “I don’t think so.”

  “A lovely, successful young woman. A dashing, incredibly charming bachelor.”

  She grunted.

  “Besides, if you won’t sit with me, Pat and Pam Kelsey are going to have to wait for a table.”

  Glancing up, Sandy caught the twinkle in his pale gray eyes before she looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, there stood the two coaches, surveying the crowded diner.

  “Okay. But no business talk.”

  He grinned as she shifted her coat to the back of the chair opposite him and sat. “Suit yourself. Personal matters only. You have my pledge.”

  He seemed so close now, across this tiny table. And Sandy realized she had bargained herself into a corner with her insistence that they not discuss business. Did she really want to have a personal conversation with this man who got under her skin so easily?

  His ham-and-bean soup came and she ordered beef stew. Then they were alone. Their knees brushed under
the table and she inched her chair back.

  “So, tell me something personal,” she said, deciding the playing field looked better from an offensive standpoint.

  He crushed a handful of crackers and sprinkled them into his bowl. “Gosh, with so many good things to tell, it’s hard to know where to start. Do I want to intrigue you? Amaze you? Charm you?”

  “I’m not easily charmed,” she said. “I could go for some amazement tonight, though.”

  “Amazement, huh? Let’s see, amazement. Okay, how’s this? I walked the Appalachian Trail between my junior and senior years in college.”

  “You didn’t.” She looked at him, expecting one of his not-quite-serious expressions. She didn’t see it. “You did. The whole two-thousand-mile thing?”

  “Actually, it was 1,995 miles. But that doesn’t count the extra miles when you need to leave the trail for, you know, showers. And stuff.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “To get in touch with nature. To explore my spiritual side. To challenge myself.” He broke into a grin as the waitress delivered Sandy’s stew. “Actually, I did it on a dare. An outdoor company was looking for a guide for a bunch of high school kids and my roommate said I didn’t have the gumption to do it. But, heck, I needed a job. So I proved my roommate wrong.”

  “Wow. I am amazed. And impressed.” She studied him as they ate, seeing him in a different light than she had before. He still wore what she’d come to consider his uniform, khaki slacks and a crewneck sweater—this one fisherman’s knit in a gray that made his eyes the color of a turbulent sky. His curly hair never quite followed directions. But he appeared more solid, somehow, more potent. For she knew now that, no matter how lightly he might regard the fact, he was someone who had challenged nature and won. “What was the hardest part?”