Pulling Home (That Second Chance)

by Campisi, Mary

  “Where’s Kara?”

  “Down the street, playing with Joyce’s grandchildren.”

  He hesitated. “And Audra?”

  Alice shook her head. “She hasn’t come out of her room since she read this morning’s paper. Took it real hard. I think what with all that’s happened to her, this is the last straw.”

  “She might not have been our first choice for a daughter-in-law,” Joe added, “but nobody deserves this.”

  Even if it’s the truth?

  “Besides,” he went on, “it’s our duty to protect the Wheyton name.” After the slightest hesitation, he added, “And everyone associated with it.”

  Either the old man was turning soft or the fact that Audra wrote the script for his favorite daytime soap had boosted her up the ladder of approval. “So, she’s upstairs?” Jack had a few things to say to her, starting with, How foolish could you be? and ending along the line of You got your money, but you still didn’t get your respect, now did you?

  “Been there since she saw the article,” Joe said. “Didn’t even finish her toast. Maybe you should bring her one of those yogurts she likes so much. Raspberry, I think.”

  “Gee, Dad, since when did you start paying attention to yogurt? I thought you called it bacteria in a cup?”

  Joe Wheyton shrugged and looked away. “I figured she deserves a chance. Hell, any woman who uproots her life so her daughter can get to know her grandparents better, well, you gotta give them another shot.”

  If he only knew she’d been blackmailed into doing it, he might change his mind about his daughter-in-law. “I’ll check on her.”

  “You don’t think you should bring her a yogurt?” Joe’s customary gruffness tempered with concern.

  “I think she’s got more on her mind right now than yogurt, but thanks, Dad.” Jack turned and headed for the stairs, taking two at a time, like he and Christian did when they were kids. A sudden fierce longing grabbed him and made him wish he’d tried harder to see his brother over the years. Dammit, they should not have let a woman come between them.

  Jack stood outside the door to the room which had been his growing up. Ironic, his mother picked this one for Audra. He knocked and when she didn’t answer, he opened it and stepped inside. The blinds were drawn against the late afternoon sun, casting the room in gray twilight. The scent of honeysuckle smothered his senses. Three pair of shoes lined the floor, reminding him of slim ankles, pink nail polish, and long legs. He panned to his desk but that only heightened the memories. A wristwatch, a bracelet, and the hoop earrings she’d worn the day of Kara’s surgery—the day he’d made love to her for the first time in nine years. Everything reminded him of her. And he’d thought a marquis diamond would squelch the wanting. He’d done nothing but create a monster.

  He glanced at the bed. Empty. He walked toward it and snatched a dark T-shirt from the floor, lifted it to his face and inhaled. There was only one other place she could be.

  ***

  Audra lay huddled in a ball on Christian’s bed. Oh, Christian, what have we done? If only he were here, he’d know how to get them through this mess. He would have shut down the paparazzi in his very logical manner and then he would have elicited an apology from Howard and a promise to make things right.

  “It looks like we’ve got one hell of a mess on our hands.”

  Jack. In the gray darkness she could just make out his thighs pressing against the side of the bed.

  “Did you know there’s a TV crew outside? They’re asking a lot of nasty, personal questions.” When she didn’t respond, he eased onto the edge of the bed and grabbed her arm. “How the hell could you let this happen? Did you not once ask yourself what the fallout would be if you were found out?”

  Of course she had. She’d considered every angle but Christian had urged her on, telling her this was a once in a lifetime opportunity she couldn’t pass up. In typical Christian style, he’d refused to consider the downside of the situation.

  “Answer me.”

  “Of course I did but Howard assured me no one would ever find out my identity. That’s the only way I agreed to do the show.”

  “Well, somebody broke their end of the bargain, didn’t they? Maybe Howard got pissed when you flew back here and left him cold. Maybe he wanted to show you who’s really boss. Or maybe, he figured selling you out would send ratings through the roof.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “That’s showbiz, screw or be screwed.”

  “Peter’s contacted a lawyer. They’re looking into a few angles.”

  “Peter? Next they’ll have you linked with him.” He paused. “Or are you already? Linked, I mean?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Deny everything. If they press, say we met once or twice. Christian introduced us. End of story.”

  End of story. That part at least was true. She hadn’t seen Jack since the afternoon Leslie showed up at the Wheyton’s with a rock the size of Rhode Island on her finger. “Does Leslie know about us?”

  His breath fanned her bare arm as he leaned in close. “No, and there’s no reason to tell her.”

  “What about Kara?” If he made good on his threat to come forward as her father, he’d have no choice but to tell Leslie.

  “I won’t do that to my brother. I’ll have to settle for over-involved uncle.” His next words pinched her heart. “But whatever happened between us is over.”

  “Good,” she said, wishing she meant it.

  Chapter 26

  “I never tell secrets, you know that.”—Doris O’Brien

  The truth emerged or rather exploded through an unknown source recently that Rhetta Hardt is really Audra Valentine Wheyton, recently widowed mother of an eight year old daughter and close friend to none other than one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, Dr. Perfection, Peter Andellieu.

  “Now if that don’t just beat all,” Tilly murmured.

  “Like mother like daughter,” Marion muttered, grabbing her knitting needles.

  “Even if it’s not true, Lord have mercy, what a mess.” Joyce made the sign of the cross. “People will believe it is, you know that.”

  “Is it, Alice?” Marion asked, glancing over her cat eye-glasses.

  “Of course not.” Alice sliced the banana bread she and Kara made yesterday. It was the eighth recipe they’d tried, this one with sour cream and a hint of lemon. ‘The Betty Crocker Best Bread Contest’ deadline loomed six days away and Kara was anxious to send in a recipe. She’d asked Joe to pick the best bread, but he’d been no help at all, chomping down slice after slice and then forgetting which he liked best, which from the looks of his tightening belt, was all of them.

  The coffee klatch could pick apart a speck of sugar so Alice asked them to narrow the choices to two and then Kara would make the final decision.

  “How can you be so sure?” Marion asked.

  “He’s my son, Marion. He’d never do such a thing.”

  Tilly tapped the table with blunt fingernails. “She would though, wouldn’t she?”

  To that, Alice had no answer. Would Audra Valentine take up with one brother and marry another? Oh dear Lord, the very thought made her queasy. Six months ago, she would have pronounced a vehement yes but after spending time with her, and especially after her daughter-in-law’s offer to remain in Holly Springs indefinitely, well that certainly carried weight.

  “I’m not so sure even a Valentine would do that,” Joyce said.

  Alice sank into her chair and clasped both hands. “We’ve all been rather harsh on her. Jack says they’re only trying to bump up the ratings which will skyrocket and the producers won’t care whether the stories are true or false.”

  “But we care, don’t we?” Joyce reached across the table and patted Alice’s hand. “Just think about poor Leslie Richot, wearing that big old ring and a smile as large as a sunrise and then hearing something like this.”

  “It doesn’t bear thinking on, does it?” Marion ch
imed in, for once offering a gracious tidbit. “Here you have poor Leslie losing Christian to her and now, this? That is just not right.”

  “Not right.” Tilly bolted upright. “It’s downright criminal is what it is.”

  Alice’s head throbbed with each insinuation. She wanted the accusations to stop. Maybe putting food in their mouths would silence them. “Have a slice of banana bread. There are three different kinds.”

  “That little girl’s becoming quite a baker,” Joyce said, picking up a slice of bread from the second plate. “She takes after you, Alice.”

  “Mmmmm. I like this one,” Marion said, munching on a slice from the first plate.

  Tilly picked up a knife and cut a small piece off of plate number one, two, and three.

  “Are you on a diet again? All those pieces together don’t make up one of ours,” Joyce said, sliding another piece onto her plate.

  “I am not going to look like my mother-in-law. That woman eats ding dongs for breakfast and wonders why she can’t see her ankles. Besides, after sixty things shifted downward and I’m trying to control the shifting.”

  Joyce laughed and patted her ample middle. “I think it’s after forty or the first three children.” She slid a glance Marion’s way. “Makes all the difference in the world.”

  Alice ignored their bickering and poured herself a cup of coffee. On a normal day, she wouldn’t mind the backhanded comments, might even join in with one or two of her own. But today, they sounded small and mean. Today, she was in no mood.

  “I’ll bet you know who doesn’t touch this stuff. Probably doesn’t eat anything, that’s why she looks like she does.” Marion nodded and clucked. “You can always tell. I’ll bet she’s got some eating disorder. I was reading all about them in the Sunday Parade last week. There’s anorexia. Bulemia, which is what I’m guessing she’s got. And then there’s—”

  “You’re crazy, Marion. That girl’s got curves. Somebody with an eating disorder looks more like,” Tilly paused, then enunciated, “Rose.”

  Marion sputtered and spewed, “My Rose does not have an eating disorder. You take that back right now. You’re just trying to defend Audra Valentine by making my daughter look bad. And even if she did, she’s not a whore.”

  “That’s enough!”

  Joe Wheyton stood in the doorway, face beet red, mouth flattened. “What’s wrong with you women? Alice, how can you put up with this day in, day out?” He growled and limped forward, his dark eyes narrowing on the three women at the table. “You call yourselves Christians, can’t do enough for the priest and the Church, but what about the people who need it? What about my daughter-in-law? She lost a husband, has a sick child, and now a scandal hanging around her head. What have one of you done but judge and crucify her like a bunch of Judases?”

  “Joe, we were just talking, idle chit-chat is all,” Marion said in a manner that told them she had her pointy nose all out of joint.

  “Idle chit-chat? That’s probably what The Sentinel and the TV channels said when they decided to run those stories about Audra and Jack. It’s just a way to pass time, don’t mean nothing. Well, that’s where you’re damn sure wrong. Idle chit-chat ruins lives.”

  Marion looked away. Joyce wiped her eyes. Tilly stared at the plate in front of her. Alice touched her husband’s arm. “Joe, I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Alice, if they didn’t mean it, they shouldn’t have said it. And if you’re okay with them lambasting that poor girl up and down the Seneca River, then maybe you better pay Pastor Richot a few more visits. Now, you women are welcome in this house to eat my food, drink my coffee, and visit with my wife. But there’ll be no more talk about my daughter-in-law unless it’s to pay her a compliment.” His gaze narrowed on each of them. “You got that?”

  One by one, they nodded, even Marion though her chin only did a half dip. Still, she got the message. Alice watched her husband limp away, wondering when he’d become Audra Valentine’s champion, wondering too, if she herself weren’t headed down that same path.

  ***

  “Well, it looks like you’ve caused as much talk as your mother.” Doris O’Brien pursed her lips and blew a pale line of smoke in the air. She wore a lemon housedress with matching slippers. The live-in helper had wound Doris’s hair into a high bun and plunked a daisy in it.

  “I wish it would all just stop.” Audra sank into the rocker next to Doris. She liked this front porch with its white wicker and potted geraniums. The setting reminded her of early morning walks with Grandma Lenore to St. Peter’s with the sun just over the horizon and the birds chirping hello. Despite the upheaval of a discontented mother, Audra had found comfort with her arthritic grandmother’s sage advice.

  “It won’t stop, child, not until somebody gets chewed up and spit out. I don’t want that somebody to be you.” Her pale gray eyes narrowed on Audra’s lap. “They say you and the older Wheyton boy got together and he’s your little girl’s real daddy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Stay calm. She’s only making conversation.

  “They say you knew him when you were in college.”

  “We met briefly.”

  “How brief was the meeting?” Doris cackled. “It only takes a second and bang, you’re banged.”

  “No.” Audra looked away. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Like what? Not a short bang? Was it a long bang?”

  “No, Doris. Why are you talking like that?”

  She shrugged. “We were forbidden to make sexual references in the convent. It’s a habit, I imagine, to throw them out because I know I won’t get sent to solitary confinement for nine novenas and no dinner. Screw.” She chuckled. “Poke. Bang. Fu—”

  “Doris!”

  “Don’t mind me.” She fanned herself with a folded copy of The Sentinel. “When they think you’re crazy, you’ve got to play the part, now don’t you?”

  Her eyes were so lucid, her expression so honest, Audra wondered if the town’s assessment of Doris O’Brien as a crazy lady was nothing more than a few people’s overactive imaginations.

  “Screw, poke, bang and the big F.” Cackle, cackle, cackle.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Doris fingered the pearl necklace at the base of her neck, stroking the tiny beads in a circular motion. “It’s true, isn’t it? The older one’s the father. I saw it in your eyes. The eyes never lie.”

  “Doris—”

  “Hush, Corrine.” She clasped Audra’s hand and squeezed hard, settling back in the rocker with a creak. “I won’t tell.” She rocked back and forth, a tiny smile cracking her lips. “I never tell secrets, you know that.”

  ***

  When Bartholomew Benedict stepped on the altar of St. Peter’s church to perform 10 o’clock Mass as he’d done for twenty-one years, the congregation noticed two things. The incense which he’d insisted upon despite complaints from asthmatics and allergy sufferers, was absent. That, of course, created a mix of delight and concern among those in attendance. Had the priest simply forgotten? If so, why? He was too young for dementia or Alzheimer’s. Wasn’t he? And yet, perhaps Donald Tindell’s threat to write the bishop about the right of a parishioner to breathe clean air had come to pass and this was the result. Still. The young altar boy responsible for disbursing the incense buried his hands so tightly against his thin middle, the parish worried he’d perform an involuntary Heimlich.

  The absence of incense was not as startling as the priest’s vestments. For a man of God who had taken vows of poverty and humility, Bartholomew Benedict loved color, cut, and cloth of varying design that made a statement. Once he’d even appeared in Catholic Digest as one of the clergy’s best-dressed men. But this morning, Father Benedict wore a simple garb of coarse cotton belted with tapestry roping. It was an outfit befitting a monk, not the pastor of St. Peter’s parish.

  “What’s gotten into him?” Tilly asked, leaning over so she could whisper in Alice’s ear. “He’s usually primping like a
peacock on a festival lawn and now he’s looking like a drab old crow in a chicken coop.”

  Alice shrugged and whispered back, “Maybe he’s getting over the flu.”

  “He needs to get over that fat head he’s been carrying around for too many years.”

  “Shhhh.” Marion cast a no talking in Church look at her.

  Tilly mumbled under her breath and scratched her pointy chin. “Something’s not right.”

  She finished her words as Mabel Parker, the church organist for the past twenty-one years, stroked the last notes of Faith of Our Fathers. The next several minutes were ritual Catholic routine—up, down, sit, up, down, sit. When the calisthenics ended, Father Benedict stood before the pulpit and gazed out at his congregation.

  “He looks pasty,” Alice whispered.

  “Did you hear his voice quiver when he said the Glory Be?” Tilly asked.

  “Shhh.” This from Marion again.

  Then the sermon began and the congregation forgot their pastor’s appearance and the incense-free church. Their attention fell on his words as they hovered, swooped and pierced each soul with a vibrancy they’d not heard before.

  “We’re all familiar with phrases such as ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’ and ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ His cloaked arms swept the congregation as he stepped from his pulpit and approached them. “But what does that truly mean? We’ve heard these phrases all our lives, but do we live them or are they meant for someone else?” His deep voice rose with the conviction reminiscent of a newly-ordained priest. “Do we choose those to be judged or those who may cast a stone? And if we do, are we not committing a sin far greater than the sinner? Are we not by doing so, the greater sinners?” His dark eyes scanned the pews. “Many of you know a member of our community has been the subject of recent tabloid fodder with accusations damaging not only her reputation, but that of an innocent child, and the good standing of her husband’s family. This same woman has suffered banishment from our community in the form of rejections and judgment for years. Who are we to behave in such a manner?” he bellowed, his pale face bursting into patches of red. “What gives us the right to destroy another with petty musings and blasphemy? Look around, each of you. What have you done to help her? If the answer is nothing, you are as guilty as the person casting the stone.” He bowed his head and clasped his hands to his chest.