by Lin Stepp
Lydia hesitated before saying, “I’m sure I’ll visit one Sunday.”
“Pastor Reilly, the stuffy minister that Mother had in her coat pocket is gone now, Lydia. We have a new minister at Fairview Methodist named Reverend Oliver Wheaton. A mid-years man. Kindly sort. Good preacher. Has a strong tenor voice and is a fanatic bird-watcher.”
John sipped at a glass of cold lemonade. “Perhaps Reverend Wheaton is too much of a bird-watcher, now that I think on it.” He grinned. “The man glanced out the window last Sunday, spotted some sort of rare bird sitting on the cemetery fence rail, and completely lost his train of thought right in the middle of his sermon.”
Lydia giggled, and the sound teased up John’s spine. Being with Lydia all evening, touching her in the moves of their dancing, sitting near her, hearing her voice, and catching the scent of her, had been heady stuff for John.
“Let’s go dance some more,” she said, reaching across to catch his hand. “The band’s started up again.”
Later that evening, after saying good-byes to their friends and driving in the dark down the mountain, John put his hand under Lydia’s elbow to walk her to the door of Hill House.
“I had a good time, John,” she said, dropping her eyes. “Thanks for persuading me to go.”
He leaned in, slipping an arm behind her back. “It was my pleasure.” He let his lips drop to hers, savoring the good-night kiss, yearning for more as he felt her softness against him. “Let me come in, Lydia.”
She stiffened. “No, John.” Her eyes grew troubled and she bit at her lip, drawing away from him.
His mouth tightened. “Can’t you let the past go?”
“Just like that?” Her eyes flashed. “Simply forget everything—walk into a new tomorrow? Not hardly.” She stamped a foot in annoyance.
He gave her a quizzical look as she continued.
“You still don’t understand how much pain I went through in the past here. How your mother hurt me with her subtle insults, digs, and haughty looks every day. Always criticizing me, finding fault with me. Wearing my soul down to the quick.” She turned to look out across the dark yard, hugging herself with her arms as if chilled. “It took me years in Atlanta to begin to feel good about myself again. To like myself. To realize I was a decent and likeable person.”
He frowned. “You always took Mother too seriously.”
She whirled to face him with angry eyes. “And you never took her ongoing attacks against me—and then against the boys—seriously enough. You always said to ‘look the other way,’ ‘turn the other cheek,’ ‘don’t let her get under your skin.’ It made me always feel in the wrong. As if it was my problem and not your mother’s.”
John felt uncomfortable. “Mother was a difficult person, I agree.”
“Difficult?” Lydia’s voice grew almost shrill now. “You still don’t see that she was abusive. Verbally abusive. She wounded people with her words and ways. She wasn’t simply difficult.”
John felt himself stiffen. “I don’t see any point in maligning her now that she’s gone, Lydia. It doesn’t seem respectful.”
She lifted pained eyes to his. “Here’s where our problem is, John. You still don’t understand what I went through, how it felt to me, and why I gradually grew so wounded and hurt that I had to leave. Do you think I wanted that? Wanted to leave my home and break up my family?”
He didn’t know how to reply. “You didn’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I did. I was dying here—like a person being gradually, daily poisoned to death. And you couldn’t see it. You didn’t help me, either, except to tell me to buck up. To toughen up and not let her bother me.”
“That’s how I managed it.” He clenched his jaw, finding her criticism difficult to take. “You always thought I should somehow be able to change my mother, but you can’t change others much in this world. You just have to change yourself to get along.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re still doing it, John. You’re still saying that somehow I should have found a way to get along with your mother. You still don’t see why I couldn’t—how hard I tried, but how I simply couldn’t.” She sniffed. “Then when your mother went at the boys later, you expected the same accommodation from them. You told them to buck up and find a way to get along with her. To understand she was ‘just the way she was.’ ”
Irritation needled up John’s spine. “What could I have done differently? Beat up my mother? Thrown her out of her own home after I promised my father I’d care for her? Should I have walked away from the farm and all my responsibilities?”
Lydia shook her head. “No, John. All I wanted, and all the boys wanted, was for you to stand with us sometimes. To stand up for us. To not pretend it wasn’t happening. To not lock your heart away from our pain.”
“That’s overly harsh, Lydia. I never locked my heart away. I always loved you and the boys.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But not enough. If you love someone, you don’t let another person hurt them again and again, while you stand by and do nothing. There is something inherently wrong with allowing someone to hurt those you love—while you watch and do nothing.”
He rubbed a fist in his palm in annoyance. “You make it sound like I stood by and let her beat on you and my sons.”
“Didn’t you?” she asked, the tears sliding down her face. “John, the wounds of verbal abuse hurt as much as the wounds of physical abuse sometimes. Both are forms of bullying.”
John’s heart hurt from her harsh words. “You always overdramatized the situation with my mother.”
She opened the door and let herself inside. “And you always underdramatized—and overlooked—the situation.” She paused, looking at him with tear-filled eyes. “For the boys and me to come back into your life, you have to find a way to see that.”
Lydia shut the door, clicking the lock behind her, leaving John feeling, once again, shut out and misunderstood.
CHAPTER 7
Lydia spent the weekend quietly—settling into the house, working in the yard, writing e-mails to friends and family in the evening. She talked to the boys, but didn’t tell them about the swirls of mixed emotions she’d encountered.
“I hope I haven’t made a mistake coming back here,” she told her aunt Martha on the phone Sunday evening. She sat snuggled into a corner of the sofa as she talked, both of the kittens sleeping on her lap.
“Now, now, Lydia. You just told me earlier of all the good times you’ve enjoyed—getting together with old friends, clogging up at the ranch, working in the flower beds, and hiking up the mountain trail yesterday afternoon.”
“It is beautiful here.” Lydia sighed. “So different from the city—”
“And as for this business with John,” her aunt interrupted, “I’m delighted to hear the man is trying to win you back. It shows he has good sense.”
Lydia shot back, “Yes, and he’s kissed me twice and without even asking.”
Martha snorted. “Personally, I’ve never liked those namby-pamby men who ask if they can kiss you first before they do it. Give me the take-charge kind any time over the timid ones.”
“Honestly.” Lydia rolled her eyes.
“Just because I never married doesn’t mean I haven’t known my share of men over time, girl. I just never found one worth marrying or giving up my freedom for.” She paused. “But you and John were always different. You two fit together like two peas in a pod. I saw you belonged together from the first. Even after all this trouble, the love is still there.”
“Maybe.” Lydia shifted in discomfort. “But there’s so much trouble and misunderstanding.”
“Yes, but at least the old harridan’s gone now. You have a new chance to talk and work things out.” She grew silent. “That’s why I encouraged you to go back, Lydia. Surely you know the boys and I would prefer to keep you here in Atlanta with us. But I saw that a part of you still yearned for John and missed your life in North Carolina. Even after ten years, you never really
transplanted. You know it’s true.”
“I guess.” Lydia shifted the kittens to the couch beside her and curled her legs under her. “But why can’t John see his part in why everything went so wrong?”
“I don’t know, but you keep talking to him. Keep telling him how you feel, what you want of him. What you need from him. A lot of men can’t figure out emotional issues without some help.” Martha paused again. “I think women get raised up more as nurturers, sensitive to the needs and feelings of others. They become naturally more empathetic by nature. You’ve read the research on that.”
“I suppose.”
“There’s no I suppose about it. You’ve seen much of the same kind of behavior in your boys. We’ve talked about it often enough together.” She laughed. “Many times we both got purely frustrated and exasperated with those boys, but we never gave up on them. Don’t you give up on John, either.”
“It’s good to talk to you, Marthie.” Lydia used her pet name for her aunt and godmother. “You’re the only one who really knows I came back to North Carolina, not just for the job, but to see if there might be a way for John and me to get together again.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re admitting it at last. You denied it long enough after the first time I brought it up to you.”
“I guess.” She smoothed back a loose strand of hair. “I miss you, Marthie. I miss our Sunday afternoon teas and our talks over lunch at the school.”
Martha shifted the conversation. “That reminds me. Have you been over to the campus at Western yet?”
“No, but I’m going tomorrow and then into Waynesville for errands and to see John’s sister, Holly. She wants me to have lunch.”
“That sounds good. I always liked Holly. Strong, sensible woman. I guess she had to be strong to grow up as Estelle Cunningham’s only girl. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. She’s made allusions to that effect.” Lydia chewed on her nail. “You know, John made a comment the other night that let me know it wasn’t easy for him, either.”
“What did he say?”
She tried to remember. “I fumed that he always advised me to handle his mother by toughening up and by not letting her bother me. John sort of harrumphed and said that’s how he’d gotten through. How he managed. He said he couldn’t change his mother, so he changed himself to get along.”
“Couldn’t have been easy for him. You need to find some way to get John to talk more about his childhood. He probably repressed and buried nearly half his feelings, growing up the way he did. By talking to him, you might get more information and some insights about why he handles things the way he does.”
Lydia laughed. “That’s what you always say: Get more information. You’ve given me that advice about on-the-job problems, too.”
The older woman chuckled in response. “It usually works when you do it, too, doesn’t it?”
“Most of the time it does—I admit it.” She considered the idea. “Maybe I can get some information from Holly tomorrow that might help.”
Martha yawned into the phone. “Dear one, it’s getting late, and unlike you, I am not on vacation and I need to head to the office early in the morning. That career center won’t run itself, you know. Plus, I’m having to train and work with your replacement.”
“Pamela is wonderful. You know she’ll do a good job.”
“Yes,” Martha replied with her usual businesslike tone. “I expect you to do a good job down there at Western, too, with my old director’s job from long ago. You know I stuck my neck out recommending you.”
Lydia smiled. “I know. I’ll give it my best.”
“That a girl.” Lydia heard the smile in her voice. “You do the same in trying to work out the strained relationships with your family, you hear?”
Lydia recalled these words of encouragement as she visited the Western Carolina University campus the next day. She met with the vice chancellor of undergraduate studies, who would be her direct supervisor, renewed old acquaintances, and made several new contacts. Her job appointment didn’t start officially until September first, but she planned to work scattered part-time hours in August to begin to acclimate—especially toward the latter part of August as the students began to return.
“I don’t feel anxious about beginning my work with Western,” Lydia told the outgoing director when they met. “I worked here for many years as a student and later as a support staff member. I feel I already know the career center and the college well.”
“Yes, and I’ve only heard good things about you from others at Western whom you worked with in the past—and from Martha Howard.”
Lydia smiled. “Well, Martha might be a little prejudiced since she’s my aunt.”
“Not when it comes to business, if I know Martha. Plus, we had only strong praise from others on staff at Georgia Tech who worked with you there. You come to us with excellent recommendations, Lydia. I feel confident that I am leaving the center in good hands as I move on.”
Lydia knew the current director had accepted a new job directing a career counseling center in a larger university, much like her aunt Martha had done when she moved to Georgia Tech to a higher position and salary.
“Have you met all the staff at Western?” the director asked.
Lydia nodded. “I met my administrative assistant, the main counselor in the center, the coordinator of special events, and the work-study coordinator today. Also, as you know, I met with the vice chancellor earlier. It’s a good beginning.”
The two shook hands, and Lydia moved back through the career center and down the steps of the Killian Annex Building to head for her car. She looked around with pleasure at the solid brick buildings and at the impressive clock tower rising high above the lawn. Western was a beautiful campus, nestled in a rolling mountain setting.
“Thanks, God, for opening this opportunity for me. I’m truly grateful.” She sent a glance skyward. “Help me to do a good job with it and to find a way to mend relationships with my family. I especially need Your strength and help to do that.”
Lydia continued her prayer in her car as she headed to Waynesville for her lunch with Holly. “That confrontation with John at the door Friday night was less than pleasant, Lord, and both my encounters with my daughter have felt formal and strained—first at dinner and then at the store. I hate feeling like such a stranger with my own child, the two of us tiptoeing politely around each other.”
Coming into Waynesville, Lydia began to focus on looking for a parking place near Holly’s store. After graduating from college, Holly had lived and worked in Asheville for years, but then returned to Haywood County to open a small bookstore on the historic main street in downtown Waynesville. Lydia had maintained a casual correspondence with Holly over the years, and she looked forward to seeing her store.
Walking down Main Street, she saw the green awnings that Holly had told her to watch for. As she pushed open the store door, she spotted John’s sister right away at the front register.
Holly waved and made her way over. “It’s good to see you, Lydia,” she said, offering her a quick hug. Stepping back, she laughed that deep, throaty laugh Lydia remembered so well. “I saw you pause and wince when I first looked up. I know, from looking in the mirror every morning, that I’m the spitting image of my mother in many ways—except for being taller—but I assure you I’m nothing like Estelle Cunningham in temperament.”
Lydia dropped her eyes.
“Oh, come on. Don’t start feeling guilty on me.” She put an arm around Lydia’s shoulder. “Let me show you around the store, and then we’ll walk down the street to the City Bakery for lunch. It’s a cute place for sandwiches and soups, or good quiche, and the ambience is wonderful. We can sit and catch up. Then we’ll come back here for dessert in the coffee shop. Having you visit is the perfect excuse to ignore calories today.”
They soon sat at a cozy table on the back patio of the City Bakery, Holly tucking into quiche with a side salad and Lydia enjoying
homemade chicken salad.
“When did you open Barbers’ Books?” Lydia asked. “It’s charming. I love the layout of the store and the little coffee shop in back.”
Holly stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “When I left the farm and went to college, I studied retail management. I worked part-time at Barnes and Noble during college, and they offered me an under-management position after graduation. I stayed with them, moved up in position, and lived in an apartment as a happy single, until I met Wade Barber.” She laughed. “It’s funny that what got us talking the first time we met is that both of us grew up around apple farming in Haywood County.”
“So, Wade is related to the Barbers who started the orchard outside of Waynesville?”
Holly nodded. “Yes, and both of us had left our farm origins and developed an infatuation with books. Wade worked as a book rep for one of the major book companies then.” She stopped to eat a few bites. “When we met we were already in our forties, if you remember.”
“And then you didn’t come home and get married in the family church.” Lydia smiled. “I heard about that often enough.”
“Well.” Holly rolled her eyes. “Giving Mother an opportunity for an event wasn’t one of my priorities. We got married on an Alaskan cruise ship—much more our kind of thing. We cruised for our honeymoon, saw the Northern Lights and watched whales.” She smiled. “Then, eight years ago, Wade and I started the bookstore here. Wade recently retired from Pearson and is now helping me in the store full-time. We make enough together to stay ahead, and we both love having our own place.”
Holly asked Lydia questions then about the boys in Atlanta and about her new job at Western. Then she leaned back and crossed her arms. “Well, we’ve been nice and social up until now, Lydia, but I can tell by how you’ve stirred your salad around so many times that you have something else on your mind. Why don’t you just spit it out? You know I’m very direct. Are you having regrets that you moved back to North Carolina? Are you and John having problems living near each other?”
