Sunday Kind of Love

by Dorothy Garlock

  “Okay, okay,” Skip said. “No need to get bent outta shape. Gimme fifteen minutes to get it together and I’ll be there.”

  After they’d hung up, Hank resumed his pacing. He felt guilty for barking at his best friend, but this was urgent. Silently, he vowed to fix what was broken between him and Gwen. Whatever it was that had caused her to drive away, he would make it right. He wouldn’t let it end, not like this.

  He loved Gwen Foster like he’d never loved before.

  He wouldn’t give her up without a fight.

  Buckton’s hospital was a two-story brick building on the north end of Main Street. The doctors’ offices were located on the lower floor, while the patient rooms were on the upper. An American flag flapped in the breeze. When Gwen pulled Hank’s truck into the parking lot, there were few cars and fewer people; an old man inched slowly along with the help of a walker, while a young mother practically dragged her reluctant son toward the front door, the boy far more interested in kicking rocks than whatever awaited him inside. Gwen shut off the engine but made no move to get out.

  You’re here. So now what?

  There was a small part of her that wanted to drive back to Hank, to come up with an excuse for why she’d left, to act as if nothing had happened.

  But she couldn’t do it.

  Too much was at stake. Even though Gwen had no idea what sort of reception she would receive, she had to face it.

  For Hank. For me. For us.

  Stepping inside, Gwen was greeted by the receptionist. When she inquired what room Myron Ellis was in, the woman asked whether Gwen was a member of his family; Gwen said that she was, the lie coming so easily that it might as well have been the truth. She was given the room number and climbed the stairs. Standing in front of Myron’s door, she took a deep breath and went inside.

  Myron lay in the bed, his face tilted toward the window. Sunlight streamed through the narrow slats of the blinds, painting dark lines across his already discolored face. A large bandage covered the cut he’d sustained to his forehead the night before; the smallest drop of red blood seeped through to stain the white material. Dark bruises, a mottled mix of browns and purples, spread out from the wound, another sign of his fall. He looked much older than his years, his cheeks sunken, his hair a disheveled mess, his skin a canvas of wrinkles. There was enough of a resemblance between him and Hank to send a shiver running down Gwen’s spine. Myron’s eyes were closed as his chest rose and fell beneath his thin blanket.

  Gwen had hoped that they might talk, and was therefore disappointed he was asleep. Still, she knew Myron needed his rest. She could wait, go outside for some air, or maybe find some breakfast. That or—

  “Issit time for my pills…”

  Myron blinked awake. When he yawned, he winced as if in pain.

  “I’m not the nurse,” Gwen replied.

  He looked her over. “No, you’re a hell of a lot prettier than that battle-axe who kept tryin’ to jam pills down my throat all night.”

  “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Ellis,” she said, then stepped closer, thinking that it might help if he could see her more clearly. “I’m Gwen Foster.”

  Myron ran a hand across his whiskered chin, then nodded. “You’re Warren’s girl, ain’t ya,” he said. “You used to help down at the bakery.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t go takin’ this the wrong way, but you’re ’bout the last person I would’ve expected to see this mornin’.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this, but I was hoping we might talk,” Gwen explained with a measured smile, not too bright but still friendly, hoping she might get their conversation off on the right foot.

  Myron eyed her suspiciously, “’Bout what?”

  “About your son.”

  There was a long pause before he asked, “Which one?”

  “Both of them, actually.”

  This time, Myron’s silence stretched longer. He looked toward the window. Gwen worried. Only a couple of minutes in the door and she was losing him.

  So she pressed ahead. “A week ago, Hank saved my life.”

  “He what?” Myron exclaimed, turning back to her, his expression one of genuine surprise; he clearly knew nothing about it.

  “Your son dove into the Sawyer River to keep me from drowning. Since then, over the time we’ve spent together, I’ve fallen in love with him,” she explained, acknowledging her feelings for Hank. “Last night, after we found you…” Gwen started, then faltered, pausing to steel herself, “he told me what happened the night Pete died. He told me that he hadn’t been driving.”

  Myron stared hard at her. “And that it was me who done it…”

  Gwen nodded.

  Once again, Hank’s father turned from her, gazing into the distance. She wondered whether she’d said too much too soon, worrying that Myron would now clam up. But then he cleared his throat. “Damn, if my mouth ain’t dry as a ball of cotton. You think you could find me somethin’ to drink? If I’m gonna talk ’bout this, I reckon I should wet my whistle first.”

  Gwen thought he was asking her to get him some booze. Myron must’ve seen it written on her face.

  “Just water, darlin’,” he said with a sad frown. “You must think me a hell of a sight. A good-for-nothin’ drunk.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Wait till you hear my story, then.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I might end up changin’ your mind.”

  Gwen filled a glass with water from the cooler out in the hall. Myron gulped it thirstily, a little running down his chin. When he was finished, he twirled the empty glass in his hands.

  “When my wife died,” he began, sounding a little clearer, “everythin’ went to hell. It was like turnin’ off a light switch, my whole life goin’ dark. I was in so much damn pain that the only way I could make it stop was by numbin’ it with a drink. The inside of a whiskey bottle was my church, the only place I could find comfort. I stopped workin’. I spent all my money on booze. I turned my back on my boys when they needed me most. I was a coward who couldn’t face the truth of things, so I laid down and quit.” Myron gave a short snort. “It’s funny in a way, but right here, right now, startin’ with when I fell face-first on the kitchen floor, is probably the longest I’ve gone without a drink since Eleanor passed.”

  Though Gwen was well aware that Hank’s father had brought much of his misery on himself, she couldn’t help but feel a measure of pity for him, too. Here was a man who had lost someone dear to him, the woman he loved, and was unable to cope with his grief. That weakness had caused him to lose even more.

  “What happened the night of the accident?” she asked.

  Myron shook his head. “A lot of it’s a haze,” he told her. “I’ve spent months now tryin’ to piece it together, but all I got are snippets.”

  “Tell me what you can,” Gwen pressed.

  Myron nodded, then took a deep breath. “I remember bein’ down at the bar, like plenty of times before, and gettin’ into an argument, maybe a fight. I think Rex tossed me out, which, odds are, I deserved. The next thing I know, there’s Pete helpin’ me up off the sidewalk, wantin’ to put me in the car so he can take me home. Then it goes black again, time lost that can’t never be found, but I must’ve wrangled the keys from him ’cause next thing I know I’m behind the wheel, drivin’ us home.”

  Again he stopped. In the morning light, Gwen saw that his eyes were filling with tears. She didn’t say a word, hardly felt like she was breathing, as she waited for him to continue. Her only worry was that a doctor or nurse would walk through the door and interrupt.

  “I can still hear him, you know.”

  “Pete?” Gwen asked.

  Myron nodded. “He was sittin’ next to me in the car, beggin’ me to stop, but I wouldn’t listen,” he explained as a lone tear slid down his cheek. “What kind of man does that to his own son?”

  “You’d been drinking,” she told him. “You we
ren’t thinking clearly.”

  He shook his head. “That might explain it, but it ain’t an excuse, not a good one, anyway. It don’t make what I done right. It don’t change a damn thing.”

  Gwen understood that this was why Myron tried to numb his pain with drink. It was ironic to think that the very thing that had taken his beloved son from him was the same one he misguidedly used to try to drown his sorrows.

  “I don’t even remember the crash,” Myron continued. “One minute I’m weavin’ all over the road, the next I’m flat on my back, lookin’ up at the stars, my whole body hurtin’. My head was ringin’ loud, too, but I could still hear Hank yellin’ at me, demandin’ answers I couldn’t give. Then everythin’ went black again, so when I come to on the couch back home, I had no idea how I’d got there. I stripped off my clothes, not even noticin’ they was covered in blood, stumbled into the shower, and started soberin’ up. When the police pounded on the door, I answered wearin’ nothin’ but a towel.”

  “They told you that there’d been an accident,” Gwen said, not a question but rather just the next part of the sad story. “They told you that Pete was dead and Hank was responsible.”

  Myron’s expression soured. “I coulda put a stop to all that nonsense right then and there,” he said. “I coulda told them police that there’d been a mistake, that I done it, but I didn’t say a word. I was still so messed up that I started wonderin’ if I wasn’t imaginin’ it, if it was all a bad dream. I couldn’t figure out why Hank woulda taken the blame for somethin’ he didn’t do.”

  “He was trying to protect you.”

  “I know that now, but back then I couldn’t make it add up. So I went along with it. The worst part came later. First time I went into town after the crash, I saw how folks were lookin’ at me. They pitied me and hated my son.” He paused, struggling to continue. “By then, I knew it shoulda been the other way ’round.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  There was a long pause. Myron’s expression was one of shame. “’Cause I reckon it was easier to crawl back into my bottle. When you’re hurtin’, booze makes the wrongs into rights. It wasn’t ever my fault when I was drunk.”

  “Hank said he wasn’t sure if you knew what had actually happened,” Gwen pressed. “He told me that you didn’t say anything to him for days, but then when you did…” Her voice trailed off, remembering the terrible words.

  But Myron looked at her expectantly, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “You don’t remember what you said, do you?” she asked.

  “Did he say if I’d been drinkin’?”

  Gwen nodded.

  “Then odds are I wouldn’t. What was it?”

  Gwen didn’t know how to answer. If she told Myron the truth, it would only cause him more pain. Still, both he and Hank had been forthcoming about that terrible night. There was no point in holding back now. “You told Hank that even if you’d been the one behind the wheel, he was responsible for his brother’s death. You told him that he should’ve known better than to let Pete go. That he should’ve come instead.”

  Myron’s expression was one of utter disgust. Looking at him, Gwen understood that a man was truly capable of hating himself. A wet sob forced its way out of his mouth, but he squelched it, refusing to let it become something more.

  “Every goddamn day since then, I’ve wished that I’d been the one who died,” he told her. “Without me around, my sons coulda been happy. Instead, ’cause I lived and I’m a coward, Hank’s gotta bear my burden.” Myron sighed as he wiped away a tear. “The few times I manage to sober up, I want to make things right, apologize to him, tell him I know it ain’t fair, but then the guilt hits me and I go crawlin’ back to the booze. When I’m drunk, I can convince myself it ain’t my fault. I can numb myself to the pain.” He paused. “’Sides, it’s too late. There’s no changin’ things now. What’s done is done.”

  “Maybe not,” Gwen told him.

  Myron stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “What if I told you that it wasn’t too late? What if there was still time for you to turn a wrong into a right?”

  “How could I do that?”

  This was the reason Gwen had snuck out of Hank’s bed and driven to the hospital. Myron was the solution to their problems. If she could convince him to take the risk, it could change all of their lives.

  “I have an idea,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  WHEN GWEN LEFT the hospital, she headed for home. Though the last time she’d gone there had been a disaster—watching in disbelief as Kent struck Hank; ending her relationship with the young lawyer—Gwen knew that she couldn’t avoid it forever. Running away, even for a little while longer, wouldn’t help anyone. Besides, Kent had surely headed back to Chicago, likely cursing her with every mile the train traveled. With her father at the bakery, that left only her mother to deal with.

  As she drove, Gwen thought of all that had changed.

  Last night, as a storm raged all around her, she had willingly and happily given herself to another man. She was in love with Hank. Whatever future lay before her, she wanted to discover it alongside the handsome woodcarver. By breaking things off with Kent, she’d opened the door to a new life.

  Gwen parked along the curb in front of her parents’ house. She had thought she might have a moment alone to compose herself, to take a deep breath and consider what she was going to say to her mother, but it wasn’t to be. Out the passenger window, she was startled to see Kent rise from a chair on the porch to stare at her. A suitcase stood at his feet. Surprised, she considered driving away but instead shut off the engine and got out.

  “You’re alone,” Kent said as she made her way up the walk; his tone suggested that he wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

  “I am,” Gwen answered.

  “What did you do?” he asked, nodding toward the street. “Steal his truck?”

  She didn’t answer, not because Kent had come surprisingly close to the truth, but because she felt he was trying to goad her into an argument.

  “You spent the night with him.” It wasn’t a question.

  Gwen thought it must be obvious. Not only had she failed to come home since driving away with Hank, but she was still wearing the same clothes from the day before yesterday. She didn’t need a mirror to know she was a mess.

  For his part, Kent didn’t look a whole lot better. He was dressed expensively, if not quite in what he’d wear to court, but his face betrayed him. Gwen suspected that he’d had a rough night. She had expected her rejection to drive him away, make him leave Buckton far behind, but he had chosen to stay, to wait so that he could have another word with her. His eyes were thin and red, underlined with dark bags. Gwen wondered if he had gotten any sleep, or if he’d been awake all night, relentlessly pacing the floor, talking with her parents, all the while wondering whether she would return. With every passing hour, Kent had surely grown angrier and angrier. Other men would have eventually been overcome by their jealousy and driven across town, pounding on Hank’s door, wanting to fight for her hand. But not Kent. He would want her to come crawling back, to apologize. Likely that’s what he thought was happening now.

  It was up to Gwen to show him just how wrong he was.

  “I stayed with Hank last night,” she admitted, choosing to be honest and expecting him to be furious, to erupt with anger.

  But instead, Kent offered a thin smile as he shrugged his shoulders, then came down off the porch to wrap his arms around her, holding her tight. Gwen was so surprised that she couldn’t even speak. Reflexively, she returned his affection, sliding her hands behind his back.

  “It’s all right,” he said, then stepped back. “I forgive you.”

  Gwen’s anger flared as hot as the sun, though she remained too out of sorts to lash out at him, to tell him just how insulting his words were.

  “I understand why you di
d it,” Kent continued, his expression serious. “You had something you wanted to get out of your system, an itch that needed to be scratched before we got married. I don’t like it, but I can live with it.”

  “But I broke up with you!”

  “You weren’t serious,” Kent replied dismissively.

  “Yes, I was!” she insisted.

  His smile and conviction didn’t falter. “You were angry; we both were,” he said. “But we all make mistakes from time to time. Even me.”

  “You’re admitting to a mistake?” Gwen asked, her tone skeptical.

  “Of course,” he answered, briefly flashing his famous smile. “Obviously I was wrong to go back to Chicago, even though we both know I had no choice, not if I wanted to someday make partner,” Kent explained, the last bit making Gwen question the sincerity of his words. “You’d been hurt, maybe you were still a little scared, and you wanted me by your side, so when I left, you started running around with this small-town yokel with a bad reputation.” He held up his hands, palms out. “Believe me when I say that I’ve learned my lesson.”

  The truth was, Gwen didn’t think Kent had learned a thing. To her, he sounded just like he did in court, arguing a case, trying to sway a jury. He was presenting evidence, accepting some culpability but also trying to shift blame. Looking into his eyes, Gwen was struck by the sudden, almost sickening realization that she might never have known Kent at all, that everything he’d ever said to her, every smile he had given, might be nothing but an act, a performance from behind a mask, all to get the verdict he wanted.

  “You make it sound like my spending time with Hank was meant to punish you,” she told him.

  “What else would it have been?”

  “It isn’t like that at all,” Gwen answered defiantly. “After you left, I wanted to thank Hank for saving my life. But the more time we spent together, the more I got to know him, and the more I realized that…”

  Her voice trailed off. Gwen knew what came next was an admission that would hurt Kent. Even though his rude assumptions and slightly condescending tone had made her angry, even though she’d ended their relationship, she still retained enough good feelings toward him, memories they’d shared, to not want to purposefully cause him pain.