A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  The only thing was, he admitted to himself, his upper lip was just going to have to stiffen up. It wouldn’t do to have a bishop breaking down in tears at such services, which he had nearly done at several points, such as when he had first escorted Hilda in to see her husband in his casket, then about an hour later when that casket had been closed for the last time. He’d had to clench his teeth when he had slipped into the chapel at the beginning of the service and asked the congregation to please rise, in honor of Roscoe and his family. Then there had been that one spot in the life sketch, when Roscoe’s brother had departed from his written text and said, “I don’t reckon Hildy ever even knew about this, but I remember when Ross was gettin’ ready to go off to war, and he went over to the liberry and cut him out a pitcher of Hildy from the school yearbook— figgered he needed it worse than that old liberry did, I reckon—and he kept it with him for the duration. Reckon it were a comfort to him. He shore loved his Hildy.”

  The bishop had dared a glance at Hilda in that moment and saw her turn to her sister-in-law and mouth the words, “I knew.”

  Whoa, Roscoe! he had thought. We thought we were being so secretive about that picture, and here she knew it all the time. He felt his throat choke off, and then, unaccountably, the urge to chuckle at the same time. And if she hadn’t known, she would now, with your tale-telling brother here! He had had to cough to cover the strange, explosive sound that resulted from this mix of feelings.

  * * *

  “Man, I’m drained,” he muttered to himself, heading into the store from the stockroom. “I never knew that funerals were more exhausting than a day’s work.” Having missed some of Thursday and Friday due to Roscoe’s death and the demands of the ward social, he felt obligated to show up for at least part of Saturday. He looked around. Business was pretty brisk for a gorgeous, near-summer Saturday afternoon. He spied Lula Rexford moving slowly down an aisle, picking up one item after another, considering each carefully, and rejecting most. He watched to see which direction she turned at the end of the aisle, then raced down another and into his office.

  “Hey, Mary Lynn,” he greeted his office girl, startling her with his abrupt entrance. “Where do we keep those buy-one-get-one-free labels?”

  “Right here,” she responded, handing him a box. “Are we having a sale?”

  “A short one,” he said, rushing out with the labels and a pad of paper. He literally ran to the aisle ahead of Lula Rexford and affixed a label on a good brand of canned vegetables and soups, then headed for the dry beans and rice area, slapped a couple on pudding and cake mixes, and made a beeline for the refrigerated foods. Beef roasts and cut-up chicken parts received labels, as did milk, cottage cheese, and frozen juices. He looped back around to the produce and baked goods areas and added a few signs there, then quickly penned an announcement and handed it to Mary Lynn, indicating that she was to get on the speaker. Giving him a strange look, she complied.

  “Good afternoon, shoppers, this is your lucky day! We are having a special, one-hour, buy-one-get-one-free sale on selected items. Look for the stickers, and take one labeled and one identical unlabeled item of the same or lesser value to the checkout line before 3:45 to receive your discount. And thank you for shopping at Shepherd’s!”

  He grinned, gave her a thumbs-up, and hurried back out, being sure to avoid Lula, and made a list of all the items he had tagged. He ran three copies of the list and had Mary Lynn take one to each of the checkers for verification.

  “I don’t get it,” Mary Lynn said bluntly, as she returned from this errand. “What gives, Jim?”

  He grinned. “I guess we do. Won’t hurt us, and if word spreads that such things happen here, maybe it’ll even be good for business. In the meantime, we’re being good Scouts—just doing our daily good turn.”

  “But—when did you think of this? You just buzzed in here, and I didn’t even expect—I mean, I thought you were at a funeral today!”

  “I was. It’s over. Let’s just say I’m so glad to be alive that I wanted to help out a few people.”

  “Just for an hour, huh?”

  “Well, frankly, if we did it for much longer, we’d run out of some of the marked items because of not planning ahead. You’ve heard of impulse buying? Well, this is impulse selling.”

  “Okayyy, you’re the boss.” She bent toward her computer keyboard again, her long brown hair falling forward to hide her expression. He smiled and went about his business, his funeral-fatigue forgotten.

  * * *

  He enjoyed his afternoon; it was good to get back to simple daily pursuits after dealing with weightier matters. It was almost time to go home when Muzzie Winston hailed him from the produce aisle.

  “Hey, Jim, I hear your in-laws are coming!” she caroled, tossing her mane of streaked blondish-brown hair in a way that had always unnerved him. And it had been such a good day.

  “That they are,” he agreed, smiling. “Been talking to Trish, have you?”

  “Uh-huh, she called me about a little decorative birdhouse I have. Wanted to know where I found it. Said she was fixing the place up because her folks were coming. And Merrie.”

  “Yep—and Meredith. Kids are over the moon ’cause Aunt Merrie’s coming.”

  “You okay with it?” Muzzie asked, cocking her head to one side like a sympathetic bird.

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” Muzzie was altogether too perceptive for his comfort—or too well informed, he wasn’t sure which.

  “Well, I’m just remembering that she wasn’t too thrilled when you guys got married. Not that it was her business, mind you, I’m not saying that. Or that she was right. Just wondered how things have shaken down since then.”

  “Oh, I think we’re probably all a little more mature by now. Hopefully,” he added, with a grin. “I know a small-time grocer didn’t fit her ideal of the perfect husband for Trish, but she’s got her own big-time businessman now, who apparently is so busy that he can’t spare the time to travel with her—at least on unimportant family visits—so with all that success behind her, maybe I won’t be such a source of embarrassment anymore.”

  “Well, I don’t think you were exactly that. Merrie just always had some jumped-up ideas about everything. She was a city girl at heart.”

  “Reckon so.”

  “But I’ll tell you what—you got the pick of the litter when you married Trish. Not saying any of the girls are dogs, but you know what I mean. She’s the best.”

  “Can’t help agreeing there,” he grinned. “I just hope she feels okay about how things have turned out.”

  “Are you kidding? I only wish I felt about Dugan the way she feels about you. You guys have something special.”

  “Well, thanks, Muzzie. But aren’t you and Dugan okay?”

  “We are, I reckon. He’s a good dad to the kids, and I don’t have any real complaints. It’s just—well, marriage ain’t exactly the stuff of my teenage dreams, know what I mean? Dugie and I just sort of get along, and do our own thing most of the time. Hum-drum, I s’pose, is how you’d describe our marriage. We must be getting old!” She laughed, but it was a sad laugh, not the kind he would expect from Muzzie Evans Winston, the scintillating, flirtatious vamp of his high school days.

  She had married Dugan Winston when she was a year out of high school and Dugie had just come home with his bachelor’s degree from Auburn. It had been a celebrated wedding, with as much splash and style as Fairhaven could muster, and the pair had gone off to graduate school at the University of Florida, moving back home two years later with gorgeous tans, another degree under Dugan’s belt, and a baby boy. They purchased a new house in an up-and-coming suburb, and Dugan had taken his place in his uncle’s business, handling the paperwork and promotional side of selling RVs and boats, leaving his uncle to do what he loved—the demonstrating and selling. Muzzie had always seemed as dazzling as ever, and he was surprised to hear that things were not what she had hoped and dreamed. He wondered if Trish knew.

  �
��Well, gotta hurry,” Muzzie was saying. “I’m picking Chloe and Marie up from school today. They have ballet, and it’s their turn to bring cookies. See ya, Jim! Hang in there.”

  “Sure, Muzzie. You do the same.” Marie, he thought. That was Muzzie’s real name, which she had given to one of her daughters. “Muzzie” must have been a younger sibling’s attempt to say Marie, and it had stuck. That happened. He knew several “Bubbas” whose nicknames had come from babyish attempts to say “Brother.” He wondered why people felt obliged to allow the childish titles to hang on forever.

  He drove home in a contemplative mood, pondering relationships. Roscoe and Hilda had managed to keep their shine, all their lives, despite having very little of this world’s goods and despite the disappointment of having only one child and then losing her too soon. Muzzie and Dugan had apparently lost some of the shine with which they had begun life together, despite having three beautiful children and plenty of material goods. If they had experienced some adversity together, early on, might it have strengthened them as a couple, or would they have dissolved into an early divorce? Or if everything had come up roses for Roscoe and Hilda, would they have appreciated each other less? One obvious difference, it seemed to him, was that Roscoe and Hilda had the advantage of the fullness of the gospel, including the concept of eternal families, whereas Muzzie and Dugan did not.

  But then there were the Padgetts. Melody and Jack were members of the Church, and supposedly working toward having their family sealed in the temple for time and all eternity—and yet he perceived trouble there. And trouble of varying kinds and degrees, he was becoming aware, afflicted many of the families of his ward. He was not naive enough to suppose that merely knowing the basics of the restored gospel of Christ was enough to keep families happy and strong. The tenets had to be practiced, love strengthened, forgiveness readily given, priesthood used to bless and not to subdue or control.

  And how were he and Trish doing? From Muzzie’s point of view, very well, he supposed. But what did the Lord think of them? He had allowed them to serve in this calling, and President Walker had heartily concurred with that choice. No small part of that, he was sure, was due to Trish herself—her faithfulness, her testimony, her willingness to support him. But suppose he and Trish had encountered opposition and disappointment early in their marriage—how would they have performed? He hoped they would have come through with flying colors. He knew their love was genuine and felt it was strong—but had it been tested?

  “Not that I’m asking for a test,” he muttered. “It’s enough for me right now that I feel intimidated by my in-laws, which, as a problem, is probably as silly and small-minded as they get.”

  He pulled the truck into the garage and parked, wondering what was for dinner. A bank of dark blue clouds had moved in, cooling the air slightly, and a smell of promised rain hung in the air. He was glad it had waited until Roscoe was safely buried. Even the best of funerals were sad; funerals in the rain must be sadness squared.

  “Hey, baby,” he greeted, as Mallory flung herself at him on the back porch.

  “Hey, Daddy. Where’s my hot dog?”

  “Hot dog. Oh, shoot, Mal—I forgot all about ’em. Let’s say hi to Mom and the others, and then you and I can run back out and get them, okay?”

  She turned and ran into the house. “Mom-mee! Daddy forgot to bring dinner!”

  Trish was on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, scrubbing with a brush and pail of soapy water the spots in corners and by the appliances where the mop didn’t quite do the job. She sat back on her heels and regarded him, her face perspiring.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said contritely. “I totally forgot the dogs and burgers. Mallory and I’ll run right back out and get them.”

  “Oh, don’t bother, it’s okay. Besides, it’s going to storm any minute. We’ll just make something here.”

  “No, Mommy! I want my hot dog.”

  “Me, too,” said Jamie, from his computer corner. “With chili and onions, remember?”

  Trish frowned. “I don’t have any hot dogs on hand. I have ground beef, but it’s frozen. I could thaw some in the micro wave, but I don’t have buns. I could hurry and make spaghetti or chili, I guess. I just have so much to do that I didn’t want to take the time to cook.”

  “Where’s Tiff?”

  “Baby-sitting for the Hallmarks. It’s their anniversary. They picked her up, and she’s supposed to eat dinner with their kids.”

  “You look tired, babe. Why don’t you put your feet up for a while? Come on, Mal—let’s go for a ride. Want to go, Jamie?”

  “Uh, no, I want to finish my game. I’m trying to beat my last score.”

  “Well, then help your Mom, okay? You could put out napkins and ketchup and stuff on the table.”

  “It’s okay,” Trish said wearily. “And all I want is a chili burger—no cheese or fries. And I’ll drink water. I need to lose a couple of pounds.”

  “Where from?” her husband asked, frowning. “I don’t see any extra.”

  “You have my undying love for saying that, but I know exactly where they are. And so will Meredith. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  The bishop compressed his lips. Such comments did nothing to endear his youngest sister-in-law to him.

  “Aunt Merrie’s coming, Aunt Merrie’s coming,” chanted Mallory as he seatbelted her into the backseat of the car, which he deemed safer than the truck to transport small children.

  “And Nana and Papa, too,” he reminded her.

  “I know! They’ll be here when I get home from school on Monday, Mom says.”

  “Monday. Wow. That’s coming right up.”

  “Yep!”

  “How come you like Aunt Merrie so much?”

  “Tiff says she’s fun, and she brings us neat presents, and takes us places.”

  “I guess you don’t remember her much yourself, do you?”

  “Just kinda. I think she has blonde hair, like me.”

  “M-hmm, last time I looked, she did. So what are you having tonight, Mal?”

  “A hot dog, just plain, like I said. And fries and onion rings and a drink and a big ice cream cone and—”

  “Whoa! All that, for such a little girl?” He peered at her in the rearview mirror.

  “What are you having, Daddy?”

  “A chili cheeseburger with fries and onion rings and a drink and a big ice cream cone to share with my little girl.”

  She giggled.

  * * *

  It was Sunday evening. Dinner was long since over and cleaned up, and the familiar place mats replaced with new finery—eggshell lace over a dusty rose cloth. A crystal vase held place of pride in the center, waiting to be filled the next day with fresh- cut flowers from the yard. The table typified what had gone on in the rest of the house—things were picked up, polished, buffed, steam-cleaned, or brand new. The bath that served the guest room had its new matching towels and rugs, and the guest room itself was prepared and inviting with its new sage-green paper and collection of birdhouses. The pink, ruffly thing on the bed had been replaced by a tailored beige spread with coordinated plaid skirt and what his mother would have called pillow slips, but which Trish called shams. Mallory’s room had undergone less of a change, since she was moving back into it after a week, but it had grown up somewhat under Trish’s determined hand, and now sported a cluster of scented candles and several of the latest books on Mal’s erstwhile toy shelves.

  Normally, by this time on the Sabbath day, all cooking efforts would have ceased, all necessary meetings would have been attended, and if he and Trish were lucky, they would be strolling hand-in-hand around their neighborhood, speaking to this person or that, visiting with each other about family concerns, and refreshing their souls with the peace of it all. Not so on this evening, however. Mingled aromas of spice cake baking and chicken breasts simmering to become tomorrow’s salad emanated from the kitchen, where Trish was kneading a soft dough for croissants.
r />   “Want to take a break, go for a walk?” he asked, lounging in the doorway.

  She looked up and used her forearm to brush a strand of hair from her eyes, leaving a streak of flour on her face. “There’s no way,” she told him. “I’ve got enough stuff still to do to take all night.”

  “Is it all necessary, babe? I mean, maybe bakery croissants would have been okay, don’t you reckon? You’re knocking yourself out.”

  “Jim, I’m fine. I just want things to be nice for my family. I mean, for the part of my family that’s visiting. Is that a problem?”

  “Only because I’m afraid you’ll be too wiped out to enjoy their visit. How can I help?”

  “You don’t need to do anything. You’ve had a busy day, too. Why don’t you just relax, or go for a walk yourself? Maybe one of the kids will go with you.”

  “Get out of your hair, in other words.”

  “I didn’t say that! But I can’t just run off and relax, even though I might like to, with cake in the oven and chicken cooking and dough to tend.”

  “‘A man may work from dawn to dusk, but woman’s work is never done?’”

  “Something like that. Except that saying never made sense to me. Dawn to dusk is pretty much the same thing as never done, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe that’s the point. There’s work enough to do for everybody to keep us busy all the time. But, honey, if you’ve got an ox to pull out of the ditch, I don’t want to go off and leave you to tackle him alone. There must be something I can do.”

  “Well, Tiff said she finished dusting, but you could look around and follow up on that if you want, and maybe check outside to be sure things are okay—no debris or toys on the lawn, no flowers that need deadheading.”

  “Busy work,” her husband muttered as he went to do her bidding. There were times when it was wise for a man to stay out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, he ventured back. Trish was rolling triangles of dough into curved shapes on a baking pan, her lips compressed and her cheeks pink from the heat of the oven. He sat down at the table and watched.