Tate pushed himself to pick up the pace, heading along Porter and, despite good intentions, slowing to see if Marilee’s bedroom light was on. Yes, it was.
He stood for a moment, gazing at the light and imagining going in her back door and into her bedroom and taking her into his arms to remind her that she was his.
Quite quickly his imagination went headlong into seeing them naked and tangled in the sheets. This picture propelled him jogging again, fast. Down Porter, up First to Main and, with no letup in his steady pace, down Main, crossing over to The Valentine Voice building, where the blinds were raised, so Charlotte was not there, at least not yet, thank heaven. Breathing heavily, he let himself in with his key.
The low glow of night-lights, plus streetlights shining through the plate-glass windows, lit his way to his office, where a poster-size print of Marilyn Monroe in her sexy skirt-blowing pose watched over his desk. He turned on his computer, shut the door and spent thirty minutes surfing the Internet to find out what he could about one Stuart James, photo-journalist. With the information he found, he formed a picture of a man who had been gung-ho on reporting on the hot situations and people of the world, making a name for himself, until the past years, when his pieces—all about exotic and comfortable places—had been for slick travel magazines and National Geographic. Three separate pieces alone had been about gothic estates in Switzerland, England and Scotland, glorious photographs showing the magnificent structures and grounds, all well within a town that provided equally glorious accommodation.
A man gets older and doesn’t want to be bedding down in some dive or a tent or looking into the faces of endless struggle and pain. Tate could not blame James. He himself had given up tough stories long ago, finding living his own life tough and painful enough. He quit trying to make sense of life’s struggles, because his finite earthly brain couldn’t make sense of it.
Perhaps that was what James had discovered. Maybe that was why he had suddenly turned up—to see what he could salvage from what he had lost.
Salvaging the results of some poor choices was exactly what had brought Tate himself to Valentine, where he was making a new life for himself.
And Tate wasn’t going to let James take what he had found, either.
He shut down his computer and locked the front door after himself. Setting off jogging once again, although not as fast, he headed up Church Street toward home.
Marilee loved him. He knew this. Yet he also knew her loyalty to others in her life. It was a trait he admired greatly in her. But he did not want to see that trait come to life for Stuart James.
Seven
It’s about time…
You knew about Parker getting married? You told him about our coming wedding? What did he say, how did he look, what’s his new wife like? What do you think about Stuart showing up like this? What about us?
There had been no time to talk, of course. Tate had come in and given her a quick kiss, then out he went with the children, while she stood waving from the front door, a mother in her pink terry bathrobe sending off her family.
Closing the door, she turned and leaned against it, feeling a sense of flowing from one part of her life and ever onward to more, as her eye traveled the room, seeing all that she needed to get done.
There was an old wisdom that said life was made up of time, dirt and money. Marilee heartily agreed with that estimate, most especially when one had children. With children, one was always sweeping out dirt and wildly trying to bring in money.
At best, life was a messy affair.
She pushed herself away from the door and went through the room, picking up strewn clothes—Willie Lee’s pajamas, which, curiously, had dirt on the knees, Corrine’s discarded sweater, her own socks.
Perhaps everything came down to time. Time to clean away dirt, and time to earn money, so that one could purchase soap to clean dirt. One purchased time, too, with each breath.
There was a kitten sleeping atop the clothes dryer, in a shaft of sunlight falling through the window of the back door.
“Oh, good grief, you are back.” The grey kitten opened its narrow eyes a crack, yawned and closed its eyes again.
Her son’s doing, of course. She looked at his pajamas with the soiled knees.
There were a lot of things she did not see her son do. Likely she was glad of that, she thought, tossing the pajamas into the nearby basket of dirty clothes.
She stroked the kitten’s silky head. The kitten purred loudly. Oh, dang it anyway, but she would not put it out. She filled a small dish with milk and placed it on the floor beside the washer; it would have to do until she could get to the IGA for cat food. Picking up the kitten, she set him…yes, definitely a him…in front of the bowl. He went to licking, while she dug into the storage closet, brought out a kitty litter pan and litter, which were left over from the last feline, fixed it for the kitten and pointed at it. “There. That is for you.”
Willie Lee brought them in, and she got a new pet.
Taking her precious second cup of coffee to the bedroom, she deliberately slowed her motions as she got out her clothes. She was always moving so fast. Hurry, hurry in this world. She always felt as if she could not do enough fast enough. As if she were always behind, lacking in some manner.
As she sat to work on her panty hose, Marilee thought of her front porch. She had not sat in her porch swing for at least…why, not for three weeks. She was startled at the swift passage of time. Her life was passing her by, and she hardly realized.
The telephone rang, and, thinking of Stuart, who nagged at the edges of her mind like a pesky mosquito, she paused to prepare herself.
“Hey, sweet darlin’.” It was Tate. His precious drawl vibrated through her body, causing an instant smile to bloom up and out. “Kids are safe at school,” he told her, “and I’m safe at the office. How’s your mornin’?”
“Good. I think I shall walk to work.” She quite suddenly felt grand. The result of a few extra minutes, a second cup of coffee and a warm call from a warm man. “Thank you for takin’ the kids this mornin’.” She mentally threw herself into his arms.
“I enjoy takin’ them.” She imagined he winked, as was his habit. “Well…see you when you get down here.”
All sorts of thoughts flew through her mind, too quickly to grasp. There was more she wanted to say but that she could not get out. “Yes…see you in a bit.”
Holding onto the receiver, she heard it click on the other end. We have to talk, Tate. I have to share some things with you.
Slowly she replaced the receiver into its cradle, her thoughts spinning back in time to when she had finally given in to exploring a relationship with Tate. Oh, my, how he had courted her, until she had come around. She smiled with the memory that was tucked into a sacred place in her heart.
Once she had admitted her strong attraction to him, she had relished the wonderful discovery that she could say some things to Tate that she had not ever been able to speak of to anyone else. Things about her life growing up, her difficulties with her mother and with her sister, her fear of her weaknesses, her fears for the children, and her dearest desires for them. Tate listened. He had much in common with her. What a miracle that was, finding someone who understood. And, mostly, Tate did not tell her not to have fears.
When had being able to talk to Tate changed for her?
Everything had gotten so hectic, with the Christmas holidays and many things to do for the children. They had sort of lost touch with each other, and it seemed difficult to get back together.
Perhaps she had quit being able to talk so easily when she had become fully aware of how deeply she had fallen in love with him. In the past, that had been her first big error: falling in love with a man.
Marilee walked along the sidewalk with her hands jammed into the deep pockets of her barn coat, buttons unfastened. Munro followed directly at her heels. The bright sun was warm on her head, promising a balmy day, and indeed the air was rich with the scent of verdan
t ground getting ready for growing things and the melody of songbirds calling to their mates.
It was what was called a moment out of time, she thought, where she could walk easy and wave to friends who drove past, such as Charlene MacCoy, who she had known just about all her life, and who waved and hollered out the window of her Suburban. “Hey, Marilee!”
“Hey, Charlene!”
Charlene perpetually drove at the pace of a woman with somewhere to go and no time to waste. The Suburban roared through the intersection of Main and Church, bouncing where the road humped.
Then, as Marilee and Munro approached the intersection, here came Aunt Vella in her new Land Rover that she had purchased in order to more conveniently haul roses, fertilizer and all the landscaping items for which she had developed a passion.
The truck stopped, and the tinted window came down. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday. Tate came by the store and showed us the announcement. I meant to call you then, but Mrs. Andresen’s dance class came in for sundaes, and last night was the first meeting of the rose club this year—I’ll call you this afternoon with the report for the paper. Did you need somethin’ in particular?”
Hollering from vehicle to sidewalk did not seem conducive to adequate conversation. Marilee shook her head. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Okay, sugar.” Aunt Vella waved, the tinted window went back up, and the Land Rover slid away, crossing the intersection and heading on north, possibly again up to Lawton and the Home Depot, where her aunt spent an inordinate amount of time perusing the wares, usually coming home to deliberate, giving her another excuse to drive up and look again.
Marilee stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change, and realized that she stood on concrete that she had traveled as a child, walking, running, riding her bicycle. Main Street stretching west and east had changed very little. When she had been a child, there had been trees along it; they had seemed big trees then, since she had been so small. When she visited from college, the trees had been gone, as the town went through a drought and a phase of modern, no-frills improvement. Five years ago the phase of returning to the original look of the town had swept through, and modern facades had been torn down to reveal the authentic rural town fronts beneath. Thanks to Tate’s efforts, the trees, planted last November, had returned, as well.
Cars, head-in, lined the edges of the wide street or drove slowly up and down. Flags flew gaily from storefronts. Fred Grace was once more putting out bins of fresh flowers in front of the florist, and the Main Street Café sported a spanking new green awning. Fayrene Gardner, who had bought the café with the money she received at the death of her ex-husband, was updating the entire building. She planned to renovate the upstairs into a luxury apartment.
In that minute, Marilee experienced a soaring of her spirits. Thank you, God, for letting me live in such a good, peaceful town. There was absolutely nowhere else on earth she would want to live.
Full of gratitude and feeling as if she walked on sunshine, she sashayed across the street, down the sidewalk and through the Voice doors, where she was met by the sight of Sandy Conroy bending his long tall frame over Charlotte’s shoulder, taking the opportunity to press extra close as they studied something on Charlotte’s computer monitor.
“Hi, y’all.”
“Hi,” the two responded in unity. Charlotte automatically straightened and put on an ultraproper expression, but Sandy did not pull away from her.
“When are you going to talk this woman into marryin’ you, Sandy?”
“It isn’t like I don’t try,” Sandy said, and gave his slow, innocent grin.
Charlotte frowned, and it was the sort of painful frown that made Marilee feel a bit guilty for having brought up what she knew was a sore subject.
She headed on to her desk and dropped her portfolio and purse atop the mess of papers and files. Then, with the lingering of uplifted spirits, she strode eagerly to Tate’s office. He saw her, got up from his desk, pulled her close and shoved his office door closed at the same time. She heard it slam shut as his lips took hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she let herself sink into the passion.
“Well…” He took a breath and eased away. “Good mornin’.”
“Good morning.” Was he embarrassed now? Why did he keep backing away? Oh, she was imagining all sorts of things.
The telephone rang, and he stepped quickly to the desk to answer it. “Yes, Charlotte. Oh?” His eyes met Marilee’s, and she knew who it was even before he said, “Hello, Stuart. How are you?”
She turned her back, while her ears remained tuned to each word and inflection.
“You did?” A bit of surprise. “No, we haven’t done a story on it, but it probably would be a good idea. Can’t afford your pictures, though.” Tate came up behind her and grabbed her hand. “Well, now, that’s generous of you. We’d give you title credit.” And then, “Yes, here she is. Right here with me.” He spoke the last very deliberately, devoid of his pleasant drawl.
He handed over the receiver, whispering, “He stayed at the Goodnight.”
He did? “Hello, Stuart.”
“Good morning.”
Marilee tried to phrase her questions: okay, why have you shown up now? What do you want?
“I thank you for dinner last night.” His tone was truly appreciative.
“You’re welcome. Tate said you are stayin’ out at the Goodnight.” She had trouble picturing this.
“Yes. If you stick to the bedside lamp, it isn’t a bad place.”
“It reminds me of a more peaceful time.”
“Oh, yeah…so when did you stay here?” he asked with high curiosity. She heard a clicking and remembered that Stuart used to talk on the phone and click pictures at the same time. He could never seem to pay direct attention to her. Or to others, for that matter.
“Year or so ago, when I had our house fumigated.”
“Oh. Since both you and Tate are so familiar with the place, I thought maybe you two were regulars out here.”
She understood the inference then. “No. We’re grown-ups.”
“Well, you might ask Tate. He’s the one who suggested the place.”
She did not reply to this, refusing to continue the juvenile line of thought. She glanced at Tate, who perched on the corner of his desk and made no pretense whatsoever not to be listening.
“Listen.” The clicking stopped. “I’d like the opportunity to return the favor of dinner last night by taking you out. Tonight, if that isn’t too short notice.”
She responded immediately that school nights were not available for going out. “The children have homework, and I have their clothes to get ready. There’re just a lot of things to do.”
Of course he didn’t understand about busy school nights. He had run out on his child. She could almost taste the resentment on her tongue. It took her by surprise, and brought guilt.
“If you came to see Willie Lee, you’re certainly welcome to visit him, Stuart. Why don’t you come to the house again this evening, say around seven?”
Silence from Stuart’s end, while Marilee, on hers, was wondering at her choice of words: if you came to see Willie Lee. Realizing her tight grip on the telephone receiver, she relaxed her fingers.
Stuart said, “I could pick him up from school. Him and Corrine.”
“No. No, you couldn’t,” Marilee responded flatly. “Willie Lee and Corrine don’t know you. And I don’t know you.” Was she being paranoid? Rather that than sorry.
Another pause, and then, “I’m hoping you will give me a chance to change that, Marilee.”
She absorbed his words, his earnest tone. Stuart could always use earnestness well. “We need to talk, Stuart.”
“O-kay.”
That was vaguely unsatisfactory. “Would you like to come to supper again tonight? Nothing fancy. I’ll get some baked hens from the deli. We eat at six, and you can come early, around four-thirty.”
He agreed, and they bid go
odbye.
“He’s still here,” she said to Tate, when she hung up.
“Did you think he wouldn’t be?” He cast her an amused glance and then drank deeply from his coffee cup.
She felt annoyed, at what, she was uncertain. She just did not appreciate his attitude.
“I don’t know exactly what I thought,” she said. “He just dropped in. No advance warning. No nothin’. At least back when he left, he said he was going.” Although there had not been but about an hour, time enough to pack, between him saying he was leaving and then walking out the door.
She recalled her feeling of confusion from the previous evening, the sense of powerlessness in the face of seeing Stuart standing there in the kitchen doorway. Had he not considered that he might be intruding in her life? “And you invited him to supper.”
Tate’s eyes widened. “You just invited him.”
“No, I mean last night.”
“What was I supposed to do? Tell him, ‘Sorry, but we are about to eat and would rather you leave’?”
“Well, no, of course not.” How silly of her. His inviting Stuart had been the right thing, and actually the best thing, in that Marilee and Willie Lee had not been alone to face Stuart. She realized suddenly how glad she had been for Tate’s presence. Not only had she faced her ex-husband as a desirable and engaged woman, but Tate could smooth any awkward situation. He had been there for her.
“Besides,” he was saying, “I thought maybe you would want to visit with him.”
“Oh?” She looked at him, at his silky hair curling neatly behind his ear. What in the world was he thinking about this?
Then, before she could explore the subject further, the telephone rang and a knock sounded at the door.
Tate picked up the telephone, and Marilee opened the door.
Leo Pahdocony, Sr., their sports and agri-business reporter, who looked like a model out of one of the western wear catalogs, stuck his head in the office. “I need to see Editor a minute.”
At the Corner of Love and Heartache Page 7
