A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “Don’t say it,” she warned.

  “Say what?”

  “That this is too much work, and unnecessary. This is something I want to do.”

  “Okay. All I was going to say is I forgot to tell you there’s a new family moving into the ward.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The Case family. I believe the husband’s name is Court, and his wife’s called Jewel. They’ve got a girl and a boy, Charity and Justin.” He paused and looked at his wife.

  “Uh-huh?” she murmured absently, rolling another sheet of stretchy dough.

  “I’m told they’re bringing along a couple of dogs, too—one’s called Hopeless, and the other one’s name is Brief. He’s a dachsund, and really short.”

  She smiled slightly. “Brief. That’s cute. How old are the kids?”

  “Trish.”

  “What?” She looked up, confused and a little annoyed at the interruption. He raised his eyebrows and spread his hands in a gesture of silent appeal. She frowned, and then he could see her reprocessing what had just been said. Light dawned.

  “Oh, my gosh! Oh, that’s funny. Justin Case, Charity Case . . .” She began to laugh, a girlish, high-pitched giggle he hadn’t heard for a long while. She came around the table to shake and then hug him with her floury hands and arms. He didn’t care. He wasn’t even too surprised when her giggles suddenly turned to tears, and she collapsed onto his lap and sobbed against his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she squeaked between sobs. “I’ve just been so tense, so uptight.”

  “I know, it’s okay,” he told her, rocking her slightly in his arms as he would Mallory. “Is it Meredith? Because, babe—you don’t have anything to prove to her.”

  “But I do! I want her—I want all of them—to see how perfect our life is, here in Fairhaven.”

  “If it’s so perfect, how come it needs all fancying up?”

  “I just want—I just—Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Honey, don’t worry. Nobody’s life is perfect all the time. Nobody’s house never gets dusty or shabby. Nobody never gets mad or sad or bored or worried. Nobody’s kids are perfect all the time, and nobody married a perfect guy.”

  Her crying had tapered off into little hiccups, and she managed a small chuckle. “Nobody sounds like a lucky woman. Either that, or you just used more double negatives than the language can bear.” She got off his lap and reached for a tissue to blow her nose. “Brief Case,” she murmured, and giggled again. “Hopeless Case.”

  He grinned. “Speaking of me, or the dog?” He sent a small prayer of relief and gratitude heavenward. His wife was back.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  “ . . . teach us tolerance and love”

  Trish fell asleep that night as soon as her head touched the pillow, or so it seemed to her husband, who couldn’t, despite his own weariness, seem to do the same. Maybe it was because when he had knelt to have his personal prayer, all the people and events of the weekend had come parading back before him, and now he couldn’t seem to banish them. He had prayed for Hilda and for the Rexfords and for Muzzie and Dugan Winston, asking that all might be blessed according to their needs. For his in-laws, that they might travel safely. For himself and Trish, that they would be able to endure and even enjoy their visit. He had even remembered his friend Peter MacDonald and asked that he be blessed with wisdom in making decisions with his family. He thought back over the ward social and prayed that Mrs. Martha Ruckman, who had accompanied her granddaughter Tashia Jones to the party, would continue to have a warm feeling about the people in the ward and continue to allow Tashia to attend and eventually to be baptized. She had seemed to be enjoying herself, daintily spooning up gumbo and greeting various former students whom she recognized. She had spent some time getting acquainted with Joe and Camelia Arnaud, presently the only African-American family in the ward. He hoped they gave her a good report on the suitability of the Church as a place for Tashia to worship and to flourish. Tashia had talked and giggled happily with Tamika Arnaud, who was close to her age, and he hoped the association would blossom—that Tashia would feel comfortable enough to sit with the Arnauds at services, instead of by herself as she usually did.

  He had prayed for the Padgetts—not, by any means, for the first time—conspicuous in their absence from the social, but there on Sunday morning in their usual spot toward the rear of the chapel. Melody had brushed by him after sacrament meeting, on her way to Primary, and he had stuck out a hand for her to shake.

  “Hi, Bishop,” she had said, smiling as usual.

  “How’s everything, Sister Melody?”

  “Oh, just fine!” (Had he expected any other answer?)

  “Hey, Andrea. How are you today?”

  “Good,” the little girl chirped, her small hand swallowed in his. She was hardly any bigger than Mallory, though a year or so older.

  “Well, you ladies have a great time in Primary, okay?”

  “We will,” Melody promised, tugging her daughter along, smiling. He had looked up to see Jack Padgett’s eyes boring into him from across the chapel. The bishop nodded and raised a hand in greeting but felt that his smile had turned sickly.

  “Father, forgive me for my feelings toward this brother,” he had pleaded this night, on his knees. “I don’t know for sure that he’s being abusive, and I shouldn’t assume such a thing, when his wife hasn’t even complained or accused him. On the other hand, if this feeling I have is a prompting of the Spirit, I don’t want to be guilty of ignoring it. If any real harm came to Melody or Andrea, I wouldn’t want it to be because I wasn’t vigilant or responsive. Please help me sort out my thoughts, Father, and be fair. And please protect them in any needful way.”

  He sighed wearily, his eyes wide open in the relative darkness of the bedroom. He had prayed, too, for the ability to be gracious to Trish’s family—to make them welcome and to truly love them as he should. They were great people; it shouldn’t be difficult to do that, he reasoned. What was his problem?

  He flopped over on his side, closing his eyes determinedly. Losing sleep would only make things worse.

  He left for the store a bit early the next morning, promising Trish that if at all possible he would be home for lunch to greet her family. He examined the calendar in his office, half hoping there would be a forgotten luncheon meeting of the Kiwanis or the Fairhaven Boosters filling in the square for June first, but that space was unmercifully blank. He went about his duties as usual, stopping now and then for brief visits with customers he knew. At ten-thirty he called Trish, who confirmed that her folks had indeed landed on time in Birmingham and were on their way to Fairhaven in their rented car.

  “You’re coming home for lunch, aren’t you?” she queried anxiously.

  “Looks like I will be,” he said.

  “Jamie’ll be here, too—they only go half a day today.”

  “That’s right—school’s out, isn’t it?” He was happy for that; the kids might provide a chatty, distracting buffer.

  “Tiff doesn’t get out until two-thirty, but I can’t wait lunch that long, and she’ll probably have eaten something at school, anyway.”

  “So you’re all ready, hon? I mean, you ought to be, with all the preparations you made.”

  “I think so. I’m feeling better today. Just excited.”

  “That’s great. That’s how it should be.”

  “Right. Well—gotta run. I’m setting the table before they come, so we can just visit and eat whenever they’re ready.”

  “Want to give me a call, or should I just show up?”

  “They should be here by twelve or twelve-fifteen. Come when you can.”

  “See you then, babe.”

  “Oh, Jim—um—don’t call me ‘babe’ around my mom, okay? I like it, but she thinks names like that are demeaning to women.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry.” He hung up, feeling more the clueless, country bumpkin son-in-law than ever. What other faux pas might he commit
, in all innocence, that would offend Trish’s parents and sister? How often did they roll their eyes at each other behind his back? And was “babe” a demeaning nickname for him to call his wife? He had certainly never intended it to be anything other than an endearment. But, obviously, what did he know? He looked across the office at Mary Lynn, busily occupied with the computer.

  “Hey, Mary Lynn—can I ask you a dumb question?”

  She sat back in her chair and flipped a handful of long brown hair over her shoulder. Her bangs were so long that the tips of them could be seen behind her glasses. He wondered why she didn’t trim her hair.

  “What dumb question would that be?” she asked warily.

  “Well, if your husband called you ‘babe,’ would you be offended? Would you think it was demeaning?”

  She looked at him steadily. “I don’t have a husband.”

  “Oh, I know that. But if you did, do you think you would take offense?”

  “Let me put it this way: if I was married to a good, faithful man, he could call ‘Soo-eee, pig, pig, pig’ if he wanted, and I’d come running. Assuming, of course, he didn’t intend it to be demeaning.”

  He couldn’t see how it could fail to be, but he took her point.

  She still watched him. “Trish is offended by ‘babe,’ is she?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” he replied. “It’s her mother.”

  “You call her mother ‘babe?’”

  He chuckled at the idea. “Not likely.”

  “Well, good, because that would definitely rank as pretty cheeky. But to call your wife ‘babe’—I think it’s kinda sweet. Don’t worry about her mother, if Trish doesn’t object.”

  “But she just did—I mean, she asked me not to call her that in front of her mother, because her mother finds it demeaning to women—which is something that never remotely entered my mind. Now I’ve gotta wonder how Trish really feels about all my silly nicknames for her.”

  “Huh. Mama must be some kind of feminist.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think so. She’s just—uh—cultured, I reckon. Refined, and so on.”

  “Well, personally, I think she ought to be glad and grateful to have a son-in-law who loves her daughter enough to call her sweet nothings. I mean, think what some women get called.”

  Unbidden, he wondered what Jack Padgett called Melody. He didn’t think it was “babe.”

  “You’re right, Mary Lynn, and I’m sure I’m bothered about nothing. I just always feel like such a hick around Trish’s family.”

  “Well, you’re not,” Mary Lynn said loyally. “I grew up with the biggest, crudest bunch of redneck, hick-from-the-sticks brothers you ever saw, and believe me, I know one when I see him—and you’re not one.”

  “Thanks. But don’t you think it’s probably all relative? I mean, to Trish’s parents, I’m probably pretty red under the collar.”

  “Big-city folk, are they?”

  “Well—more military. They’ve been around. And they’re educated.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, so’re you. You’ve been to college.”

  He shrugged. “Two years. Hardly anything to brag about.”

  “I expect the training your daddy gave you here in the store was worth another couple of years, wasn’t it?”

  “Practically speaking, it has been, all right.”

  “Well, see? If that doesn’t count with them, then they’re the ones who’re ignorant.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I reckon.” He regarded his office girl curiously. How old was Mary Lynn? Thirty-two or so? Not a teeny-bopper, that was certain, but not middle-aged, either. Maybe older than she looked, though, hiding behind all that hair. He took her for granted, he realized. This was probably the longest and most personal conversation the two of them had ever had, although she had worked for him for over ten years, and their relationship was relaxed and comfortable. She ran a tight ship, and he depended on her to relieve him of a number of annoying details—such as working with the computer.

  “How come you’ve never married, Mary Lynn? Nice, sharp girl like you can’t be going unnoticed.”

  “Now, Jim, you know you never ask a lady her age or weight or her real hair color or why she isn’t married,” she scolded, but her lips turned up at the corners and her cheeks reddened before she flipped her hair to the front again and ducked her head toward her work.

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning. “Told you I was ignorant.”

  “Well, be good, or I’ll tell Mama-in-law. Now, quit stewing about things and run along. I’ve got work to do. My boss might get mad.”

  * * *

  He drove home slowly at about twelve-fifteen, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar car, new and shiny, parked in a patch of shade in front of his home. He pulled into the driveway and got out.

  “Daddee! They’re here, they’re here!” squealed Mallory, launching herself at him from the edge of the back porch. He caught her in mid-air and carried her into the dining room, where Jamie, Trish, and her family were just sitting down to lunch. Larry Langham, Trish’s dad, pushed back his chair and stood to come and shake Jim’s hand.

  “Jim! Good to see you, man—how’s our bishop?” Larry was tall, tanned, and youthful-looking under his white hair. He patted Jim’s shoulder as they shook hands.

  Ivy Langham, whose dark hair was turning a pretty silver, also rose and hugged her son-in-law. “Hi, Jim. You’re looking good—being bishop must agree with you.”

  “Oh, I think it’s Trish’s cooking that agrees with me,” he said, kissing Ivy’s cheek. “You look wonderful yourself.” He straightened and caught the eye of his sister-in-law, Meredith, across the table. She was flanked by Mallory and Jamie, and made no effort to get up, but smiled. He reached across the table and shook her hand.

  “Meredith, how are you?” he asked. “Looking lovely as ever, of course. Good to see you. Sorry Dirk couldn’t make it.”

  “It’s okay. This is my special time with my family,” she said, winking at Jamie, who grinned foolishly up at her. Was she warning him off? Jim wondered. In a subtle, lighthearted way, was she requesting that he, too, not interfere with her special family time? Well, he would do his level best not to, he decided. He dropped a kiss on Trish’s cheek and took his place at the head of the table. He offered a brief prayer, giving thanks for the safe arrival of their loved ones, and only a small dart of guilt for hypocrisy troubled his petition. As Trish started the croissants and chicken salad around, he examined his feelings. What, he asked himself—would you rather they had met with an accident along the way, or been detained by bad weather—or simply not have wanted to come? No, he was honestly able to answer himself. In a very real way, he was glad they had come—glad it was important enough for them to spend the time and money necessary to travel across the country and be with them. Especially for Trish’s sake, and for the sake of the kids, so that they could know their mother’s side of the family, he was glad. He would just have to deal with his own nasty little demons of insecurity and inadequacy that seemed to pop up whenever he was around the Langhams.

  How, he wondered, had he ever dared to propose to their daughter? It must have been the folly and bravado of youth. He glanced at her, his gaze softening as he acknowledged that it had also been because he had truly loved this girl—and still did—and because he had received confirmation of the rightness of the decision as answer to prayer. So, why, if the Lord in heaven approved the match, did he still feel ignorant and clumsy around these people?

  “Who is it who wants you to feel that way?” asked a small voice from deep inside. “Do Trish’s parents want you to? Do they criticize you, put you down, embarrass you?” He knew the answer was no—they had never been anything but gracious and kind to him. It was just his own recognition of the differences between their lifestyle and his own—their knowledge of things that had never been a part of his life, such as travel, art, a certain elegance of style, and the confidence of being fourth- or fifth-generation Latter-day
Saints, descendants of valiant pioneers. And he knew it was the fact that Trish’s younger sister, Meredith, had also recognized the gap between his qualifications and theirs that had made her less than accepting of him as a proper brother-in-law. But she had been young then, and supercritical of practically everybody. In recent years, he had to admit, she seemed to have mellowed considerably, and she loved his and Trish’s kids, he had no doubt of that.

  Okay, Bishop, he told himself silently. Time to get over yourself.

  He tuned back in to the conversation at the table. Mallory was directing Meredith as to the disposition of melon balls to her plate. “Two red, two green, and that orange one,” she said, and Meredith carefully complied. Meredith seemed to enjoy children so much; he wondered why she and Dirk had none, as yet.

  “How are things at the store, Jim?” Larry asked.

  “Doing well, thanks,” he replied, on safe, familiar footing here. He went on to discuss the impact that had been anticipated by the building of a large Albertson’s store across town and the measures Jim had taken to maintain his customer base. He and Larry spoke of how the fluctuation in gasoline prices affected the cost of produce that had to be trucked in and of how fortunate they were to live in a climate that allowed for the nearby production of many fruits and vegetables. Then Ivy inquired about the ward, recalling members they had known and catching up on the recent changes. The conversation was easy and genial, and he wondered why he had stressed. They spoke of going together to the Birmingham Temple, and of Mallory’s fifth birthday, which was imminent, and of Jamie’s plans for summer sports. In all, the lunchtime reunion proved a pleasant interlude in his day, and he went back to the store a much relieved and relaxed man.

  That evening they enjoyed a brief home evening lesson given by Tiffani, then played board games, with Aunt Merrie taking turns playing whatever game suited each of the children. Jim smiled, watching them. Meredith’s hair was a streaky blonde, with some of Mallory’s platinum and some of Tiffani’s antique gold in the mix. He had no clue whether the streaking had been done by the Arizona sun that had tanned her skin, nor, with Mary Lynn’s warning under his belt, did he dare ask—at least until he and Trish were alone in their room, preparing for bed.