Pulling Home (That Second Chance)

by Campisi, Mary

  He was not a well-liked man, possibly because he refused to accept the humanness of the soul, his or anyone else’s which made confession a true purgatory. Rumors circled the vestibule that confession goers changed their voices so as not to be recognized through the screened panel. Those same confession goers grew disturbed and anxious when their ruse failed and Father Benedict eyed them a bit too long as they inched up the aisle toward the Holy Eucharist.

  He hadn’t always been that way. Years and circumstance transformed a passionate, understanding man of the cloth into a demanding, judgmental tyrant. On rare occasions, Pastor Richot caught glimpses of the younger Father Benedict, a man he’d befriended years ago when the newly ordained priest skipped nightly prayers to visit August and debate the necessity of a pope, confessionals, and the true definition of passion as defined by the Catholic Church.

  It was this younger version of Bartholomew Benedict which simmered on the edge tonight—agitated and torn. August poured two fingers of Grey Goose and handed a glass to his long-time friend. Bartholomew saluted, and downed the whiskey in one gulp. August sipped his drink and waited for the inevitable outpouring.

  “She looks just like her mother, doesn’t she?”

  “There is a resemblance,” he admitted, wishing it weren’t true. But that was better than having her resemble her father. That would be disastrous.

  “Did you see her eyes? Like a bourbon neat.” Bartholomew reached for the bottle and poured another drink.

  The entire town had been talking about the subject of Father Benedict’s tortured musings since the woman’s return. Audra Valentine looked just like Corrine, the mother who popped one too many valiums and overdosed before her daughter reached her sixteenth birthday.

  “Maybe you should stay away until she leaves,” August offered, knowing propriety and Bartholomew’s position wouldn’t allow him to even consider it. After all, who would give the funeral Mass?

  “Alice expects me to be there. The town expects me to be there.” He dragged both hands over his face and sighed. “God is punishing me for my indiscretions.”

  The man refused to believe in his humanness, which complicated his role as humble servant of the Lord. “God isn’t making you pay, Bart. You are,” August said in a gentle voice.

  Bartholomew wasn’t listening. “Her hair might be a different color, but I’ll bet it’s just as soft as her mother’s.”

  “Stop it. We’ve been through this all before. Many times.”

  “But if I confessed to the daughter—”

  “You’d jeopardize the Church. Not to mention the bishop’s ire and a swift discharge. Then what good could you do?”

  Bartholomew’s shoulders slumped. “Sometimes I wish I’d come forward when it first happened instead of running off to a different country for seven years.”

  “It would have served no purpose except to hurt more people. Pray for strength, my friend. Audra Valentine will be gone in a few days.”

  ***

  The day of Christian’s funeral turned hot and muggy, with the only respite found in the ceiling fans of St. Peter’s Church and later, the cars fortunate enough to have air conditioning. Audra sat in the back seat of Joe Wheyton’s gold Lincoln with Kara nudged against her side. They were making the two mile journey to St. Peter’s cemetery, high on a hill Christian once called Heaven because of its view.

  “I miss him, Mommy.” Kara’s words seeped into the sheer folds of Audra’s simple black dress.

  “I miss him, too.” Christian in the morning, a burst of warmth, pouring her first cup of coffee. Christian, laughing and drenched with water as he taught Kara the butterfly. Christian immersed in his work, his blond head bent over a pile of books. Christian, soothing her with his quiet voice and gentle hands at the end of a long day. How would she survive without him?

  Most of Holly Springs had turned out to fill the pews of St. Peter’s and would attend the luncheon in her husband’s honor. Audra knew many of them, knew also what they would be whispering once they buckled themselves in their cars to head home.

  Audra Valentine.

  Just like her mother.

  It’s all her fault. She took him away.

  California, for God’s sake.

  Just like her mother.

  She’d never thought of the Wheyton house as a source of respite but when Joe pulled the Lincoln into his driveway hours later, Audra heaved a quiet sigh. Now she could begin plans to leave, maybe not tomorrow, but certainly by the weekend. Soon, she could get back to her life. Away from here.

  Alice had given her Jack’s old room. Jack’s old bed. One more reminder of their secret past. It was an innocent gesture, but one which fueled a chain reaction of torment and guilt that began the millisecond Audra saw Jack in the funeral home.

  She slipped out of her black dress and reached for jeans and a T-shirt, careful not to touch the high school jacket smothered in plastic which hung next to her clothes. It had to be Jack’s. Christian once told her Jack held the record for foul shots on the Bobcat basketball team. He’d told her quite a few things about Jack—how he found a rabbit with a swollen foot in his mother’s vegetable garden and nursed it back to health, how he took the blame for the fastball Christian threw into the garage window. But that was before. When Audra’s cell rang, she snatched it off the dresser, eager to block out thoughts of Jack Wheyton. “Hello?”

  “Hi, sweetheart. How are you holding up?”

  “Peter! Thank God.”

  “You okay?”

  His soft concern clawed at her composure. She bit her lip and squeaked out, “I guess.”

  “Tough, huh?”

  “Worse.”

  He paused and she pictured his graceful fingers rubbing his tanned forehead as he did whenever he struggled with something unpleasant. “How did everything go?”

  “Horrible. I just want to come home.” She gulped in air through a throat clogged with tears. “But I want to bring him with me.”

  “I know.”

  “They blame me, Peter. They think I’m responsible for Christian’s death.”

  “Maybe they’re more upset they lost so many years with him.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Try to let it go. How’s Kara?”

  Leave it to Peter to swing the subject toward his shining star. “I’m worried about her. She won’t cry.” Audra swiped at her cheeks. “Not even at the gravesite. At least she did say she missed him this morning. Other than that, all she does is sit in the kitchen and watch her grandmother roll out her ten thousandth cookie. And why on earth that woman is baking at a time like this, is impossible for me to understand.”

  “Maybe the mother needs to bake to exorcise her grief. And maybe, for Kara, it’ll all come pouring out once she gets back home.”

  “She cried when her goldfish died last year. It’s not normal, but right now all I want to do is get out of here.”

  There was a long pause at the other end and then Peter asked, “How’s it going with the brother?”

  “Exactly as you’d expect. We hate each other.” And I hate myself for remembering his touch. Hate, hate, hate.

  “Hang in there. It’ll all be over soon.”

  “If I survive.” And then, “How are you doing?”

  “Lousy. Not that Dr. Perfection is allowed to do anything but smile wide at the camera and insert another silicone implant.” He sighed. “Come home, soon. We need each other.”

  ***

  “The veal’s delicious, Mom.” Jack covered his mother’s hand with his own. “Everything’s great.”

  She managed a small smile and nodded. “Christian said there wasn’t a restaurant in Sicily or Rome that could equal my veal saltimbocca.”

  “He would know.” Jack glanced at Audra, who sat across from him at the oak table his parents had used for forty-three years. She could ignore him all she wanted, but she wasn’t going anywhere until she answered his questions—and he had nine years of them just waiting for h
er.

  Audra nodded at her daughter who has maneuvering a trail of peas on her plate with great precision. “Kara, more eating, less playing.”

  “Uncle Peter says a person can be an artist and create art with food.”

  “Well, Uncle Peter isn’t here so why don’t you play magician and make that food disappear?”

  Kara scrunched up her nose and forked a single pea. “Uncle Peter says—”

  “Who the heck is Uncle Peter?” Jack wanted the truth, not some watered down version about an uncle who wasn’t really an uncle. He wanted to know who he was, and what he was to Audra.

  “He’s my uncle,” Kara chirped. “And he’s very handsome and he drives a silver sports car. What’s it called, Mommy? A port?”

  “A Porsche, honey.”

  “A Porsche, and he lets me ride in it with the top down and my hair blows all over.”

  Jack stared at Audra and asked again. “Who’s this Peter?”

  “I’m sure you heard Christian speak of him before. He’s a plastic surgeon.”

  Why couldn’t she look at him when she said it? “And what else?”

  “He’s a friend of the family.”

  She met his gaze and he wished she hadn’t. It was one thing to conjure up a memory of those eyes, but quite another to view them from arm’s length away.

  His mother cleared her throat, forced a smile in Audra’s direction and said in a wavering voice, “Joe and I have been talking and we were wondering,” she paused, cleared her throat again. “What I mean to say is, do you think Kara, and you, of course, could stay a while longer?”

  Clearly, Audra had not expected that. She let out a tiny noise close to panic and clutched the ends of the table until her knuckles lost color. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “We can’t.” Lustrous waves of mahogany danced back and forth in denial. “I’m sorry.” And then once again, “I’m sorry.”

  His mother’s face crumbled, her shoulders slumping as she buried her head in her hands. Jack’s father pushed back his chair and limped to his wife. “It’s okay, Alice. Let’s go outside and catch a breather.” He put an arm around his wife and guided her through the kitchen.

  When the back door creaked closed, Jack faced Audra. He didn’t want her staying in Holly Springs one breath longer than necessary. He wanted answers and then he wanted her gone. But he’d witnessed the desperation on his mother’s worn face just now and the accompanying pain on his father’s. Alice Wheyton was a proud woman who had weathered the death of a daughter and now a son, and never asked for favors, not even from her family, and yet, she’d practically begged Audra to extend her stay, knowing she might be denied. “She’s just lost her son. Can’t you at least give her a few more days?”

  “I can’t.”

  Damn her. “You mean won’t.” He slid a glance toward the child who had her eyes squeezed shut and her fists against her temples. Something about her expression disturbed him. She didn’t look like a child blocking out an adult fight—she looked like a child in pain. “Kara?” Jack eased out of his chair and approached her. “Are you okay?”

  She let out a muffled cry that sounded more whimper than word and shook her head.

  “Kara?” Audra sprang from her seat and pulled her daughter into her arms. “Another headache, honey?”

  “Hmhmm.”

  “I’ll get your Tylenol.” She glanced at Jack. “Do you have an icepack?”

  “Sure. I’ll get it.” Locating the icepack gave him time to consider what had just happened. There were hundreds of reasons children got headaches, not all of them leading to brain tumors. Unfortunately, those were the ones he usually saw. He studied the child’s drawn face, the slight pucker around the lips, the paleness under the cheeks. “Let’s get her to the couch. Uncle Jack’s going to lift you so you don’t have to walk, okay?” When she nodded, he hoisted Kara in his arms and carried her into the living room where he settled her on the Americana style sofa. “Can you point to where it hurts?”She laid a limp hand on her temple and whimpered.

  Kids got headaches from eyestrains. Or stress. Or jet lag. Or their father’s death. “Your mother will give you something for the pain and the icepack will help, too.” He stroked her forehead, sifted his fingers through the curls that reminded him of his dead brother. He looked up to find Audra watching him with something close to fear. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” he said quietly as she sank to her knees in front of Kara.

  Ten minutes later, Audra stood in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes wet, nose swollen. He hated seeing her so vulnerable. It was too damn appealing. “Does she get headaches often?” Now he could switch to doctor mode and relay all the various reasons for childhood headaches—well-known territory that made him forget he was talking to his ex-lover.

  “They started four months ago. Minor at first but this past month, right before summer vacation, she missed two days of school.”

  “Does she ever throw up or get dizzy?” Children did get migraines related to the weather, stress, food, hormones.

  “No.”

  “And she’s had her eyes checked?”

  “Two months ago. Why?”

  He shrugged. “Just trying to eliminate common causes. Was she under any undue stress at home?” Jack pinned her with the question. She knew exactly what he meant—were there problems between Audra and Christian? Children often manifested physical ailments when they were emotionally distressed.

  She stared at the iron rooster above the stove. “There were no problems.”

  So, why won’t you look at me? “Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?”

  Again, no eye contact. “Yes,” she murmured. “It is.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing but since you’re in town, I think I’d like to have her checked out at the clinic.”

  “Why?” This time she did look at him and her eyes filled with panic. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No, but you’ve got the benefit of a relative who specializes in this sort of thing. Why not take advantage of it instead of sending her back to San Diego where your pediatrician may send her to a bunch of specialists for no reason? We’ll just bypass all of that.” He owed this thoroughness to Christian and the child. Audra wet her lips with the tip of that tongue he remembered so well.

  “You’re not suggesting this to keep her here, are you?”

  Apparently she didn’t trust him any more than he trusted her. “I take care of children. I don’t exploit them.”

  She did have the good grace to blush. “Would you be the doctor examining her?”

  What she meant was I don’t want you examining her. “I have a colleague I could recommend.”

  “Thank you for your advice, but I think I’d rather get her home and then have her examined. Just in case it’s more involved.”

  Her tone slipped, reminding him of melted butter and the time they fed each other steamy croissants. In bed. Naked. The oxygen in his lungs depleted ninety-five percent. “I can call Bernie and get her in tomorrow morning.”

  She looked away. “Thank you, Jack, but no. I’d like to take her home as soon as possible.”

  Two thousand miles away. He’d probably never see Audra again. A burst of panic shot through him but he refused to acknowledge the reason.

  “She’ll be okay, won’t she?”

  The plea in her voice echoed every parent whose child faced the unknown. Jack’s answer was always the same. Try not to worry. This time though, he couldn’t bear the terror clouding those eyes, so he said something he never offered a patient’s mother. “I think she’ll be fine.”

  He hoped he was right.

  Chapter 7

  “You’re gonna have a daddy, Sweetheart.”—Corrine Valentine

  Alice plopped the dough on the countertop and flattened it with the rolling pin, using quick, even strokes as one long accustomed to molding and shaping. Today she was making sweet rolls, one of her granddaughter’s favorites.

  “I brought th
e child a few of the grandkids’ coloring books and crayons,” Joyce said. “And there’s a Shrek puzzle she might like, even though she’s only here one more day.”

  “Thank you,” Alice murmured, whacking the dough into a pliable shape. She spread the sugar-cinnamon mixture over the flat surface, careful it reached the very ends. Her mother taught her the trick to decent sweet rolls was covering the whole area and using extra butter. Alice had already rolled out one apple pie, baked a banana bread for Father Benedict and one for Pastor Richot, and set a batch of dough for sugar cookies. Heaven knew who was going to eat all this food, not that it mattered. Baking helped her deal with problems, and with the way the good Lord had laid out these past days, she’d be baking into her grave.

  “Walter said thank you for the streusel. He’s coming to mow your lawn this afternoon.”

  “He doesn’t need to do that. Joe can get around, slow but sure.”

  Joyce shook her gray head. “He needs to feel needed. Being laid off doesn’t help a body’s self-esteem.”

  “If that isn’t the truth,” Marion said, glancing up from her knitting. This skein was royal blue, Hannah’s color of the week and would become a sweater with pearl buttons. “When they laid me off from the shirt factory, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I mean to tell you, I suffered horrible, worrying about how I was going to pay the gas and what about little Rose’s braces, and dang if we didn’t need the roof patched. It was a terrible time.”

  “You only had one child,” Joyce said. “Try five and a husband on disability.”

  “Try no husband,” Tilly piped in, shaking her curly head. “That was a rough time.”

  Alice let out a sob and swiped a hand across her cheek. “I know the Lord doesn’t want us questioning, but my shoulders are heavy and I don’t know what I’ll do if something’s wrong with Kara.”

  “She’ll be fine, you’ll see.” Joyce patted her back. “The Lord would not be so cruel as to bring harm to that baby girl after what happened to her father.”