Women's Intuition

by Lisa Samson

  The problem is, he’s trying to win me back too.

  We sat together on the screen porch in late September.

  “I’ll tell you what would go a long way in proving yourself to us again, Brad.”

  He sat forward. We were at the redwood table playing gin rummy. “I’m all ears.”

  “You could buy my lot from me.”

  “What?”

  “The lot in Hamilton.”

  He set down his cards. “You mean, set up a residence here?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you think that would prove a lot to Flannery?”

  He relaxed against the cushions and stared up at the beamed ceiling where a tin star with cutouts shed light on our game. “Wow, babe. Let me call my financial guy and see about it.”

  “Oh, cut the garbage, Brad. We both know you can afford a hundred of these houses. It’s Hamilton, for pity’s sake. It would be a haven for you when you’re here in the area.”

  “A nice change from California,” he admitted, his mouth turning down as he nodded. “H’m. Can I see it first?”

  I laughed and threw my cards at him. “Of course, silly.” Why does he have to go and be cute all the time?

  He dealt another hand. “I’m thinking of going in another direction with my music. I’m tired of the rock-’n’-roll scene.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Tapping his finger on the tabletop, he cleared his throat. Before he could speak, I said, “No way, Bradley. No way. I’m not going to join back up with you. I set the contemporary music scene behind me years ago.”

  “What about jazz?”

  “What about it?”

  “Oh, come on Lark. I’ve got all the connections. It would be a surefire way to finally make it.”

  Indignation rose within me. And it was luscious. Rich and sweet, because I realized something, praise God. “I have made it, Bradley del Champ.”

  “No, Lark, I didn’t mean—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you meant. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I did a fine job raising our daughter. I’m playing music with people I love, and Mother and I are working together now. We’re totally assuming the helm of Days of Summer in a couple of months. My life is mapped out beautifully. And for the first time in years, I am at peace. I feel God’s pleasure now, babe, in a way I’ve never felt it before. I am accepted in the Beloved. Do you even know what that means?”

  He shook his head. “You know me and religion, babe.”

  “Well, maybe you should try some.”

  He looked up at the tin star again. “Whew. Sorry for bringing that up. I was only trying to help.”

  I reached out and put my hand over his. “I don’t need your help. And that’s okay.”

  The left corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re something, babe. You know that?”

  “Yeah, for the first time in a lot of years, I do.”

  Three weeks later Bradley closed on the lot. He threw a costume party there in the burned out basement to celebrate. Neighbors came by, trick-or-treaters. It was a hoot. Flannery promised me she and James would show. Mother, Prisma, Bradley, and I spent the entire day getting ready.

  Johnny was coming. Marsha and Glen. Babe and Deke, and Rots, too. Father Charlie said he’d come dressed as a priest.

  I love that man!

  “I want a neutral setting to see Daddy in for the first time,” Flannery told me. “Make sure of that. Invite as many people as you can.”

  Of course, I’d had a phone call with Newly.

  “Come on, Newly, come to the party.”

  “What in the world would I come as, Lark?”

  “I don’t care. Put a sheet over your head. Flannery can use all the support she can get.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The good thing is, when I told Mother I had totally given up hope on mending things with Newly, she told me he had visited her at the hospital. That went a long way.

  “Anyway, we’d be glad to see you. And you can bring your girlfriend.”

  He chuckled. “Did Flannery tell you about her?”

  “Yes. I still can’t believe you’d have dinner over there at the apartment and won’t come to the party.”

  “Lark, I don’t know if I can hold my temper around Bradley yet.”

  Wow. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if that’s the reason, then don’t come, with my blessing.”

  “You see, dearest, I do have my reasons for things.”

  “Newly, we have to see each other sometime. I know I wasn’t always the best sister.”

  He sighed. “It was years ago, Lark.”

  “But it carved a gully between us.”

  “That’s the way it is with siblings sometimes.”

  “But does it have to be forever?”

  Silence.

  “I’d better go.”

  I felt desperate. “Well, let’s shoot for Thanksgiving.”

  “Maybe.”

  I left it at that. Pushing it would be stupid.

  Leslie

  I DID A FINE JOB arranging the crudités platter. The baby carrots lined up in a yin-and-yang pattern. The broccoli and cauliflower stood on their trunks, close together, like a field of daisies. We even carved out cucumber boats and loaded them with cream cheese and sprinkled them with chives.

  The chives were my idea.

  Prisma cooked beef stew in two large pumpkins. The spread also included corn bread and some kind of autumn fruit salad. Pears and apples and walnuts. Grapes too. They called it Waldorf salad in my day, but now, as in everything, it’s been casualized. The recipe in the paper simply said, Autumn Fruit Medley. Which isn’t a bad alternative as it lets the reader know right away what they’re in for.

  “That looks pretty, Mother,” Lark said, floating over in a fairy outfit. She’d overhauled that pink tulle thrift-store number she’d bought a couple of months ago, added wings and sprinkled sparkles over her skin.

  Oh, and the extra ten pounds becomes her greatly.

  “Not as pretty as you, dear.”

  And I was rewarded with a soft kiss on the cheek.

  “You look pretty fine yourself, Mother.”

  “I know!”

  We laughed. Lark flew off to set out the napkins and cutlery, and I realized the pillows on the futons we brought in for the occasion needed a bit of fluffing. I caught a picture of myself in the punch bowl. A size eight now, rosy cheeks, and the picture of health. Prisma and I walk around the neighborhood these days. Truly, I have never felt this good in my life.

  They say these procedures last about ten years.

  I patted the folds of my costume into a neater arrangement. What a fine Queen of Hearts you make, Leslie Summerville.

  Seven o’clock, the time of Flannery’s arrival drew near. All of us arrived early to help, and we congregated in the basement trying desperately not to brush up against the blackened walls. Marsha and Glen as the Blues Brothers, Johnny as a doctor (as he did not have time to find a good costume), and Prisma, her hair in cornrows now, saying she was Bo Derek in the movie 10. Father Charlie came as a priest. Deke and Babe arrived as Count and Lady Dracula. And finally, Bradley.

  In a cardboard box painted silver he awaited his daughter. Spangles and buttons sparkled, and the words painted on the back screamed his uncertainty. “If I could go back and do it all over again differently, I would.”

  “Like it, Mom?” he asked me.

  “I take it you’re a time machine.”

  “What do you think?”

  “If I could get my arms around that thing, I’d hug you.”

  The revelation astounded me.

  At seven, the headlights of the old brown Buick skimmed the upper cinder blocks. We all waited. As they descended the steps, my ex-son-in-law became so ill he ran to the far, darkened corner.

  “Flannery!” Lark waved from beside the chiminea that threw out heat in the other corner. “Come on over.”

  Sweet Pea’s brows
furrowed. “Where is he?”

  “Over there, throwing up in the trash can.”

  Marsha chirped, “He’s that nervous.”

  “Good,” Sweet Pea said.

  I laid a hand on her shoulder. “I like your style.”

  She turned to her new husband. “It’s now or never, James. I might as well get it over with. And if I go to him, it will give me the upper hand.”

  Sweet Pea? A diplomat?

  Well, with her growing up around her mother and me, it wasn’t surprising.

  We all busied ourselves quickly as she walked into the darkened area of the basement, careful to keep one eye flitting back to the scene. But only a quick flit, mind you.

  Flannery

  SO HE WAS RETCHING over the trash can, and I got a clear view of his message. I met it with skepticism, and to be honest, I sort of thought the whole getup a little childish and goofy, but he was my father. And you know what settled it all for me? James. Earlier today I was in the spare bedroom working on a painting, and he sat reading in the corner in an old recliner we bought at a yard sale for twenty bucks.

  “You know I don’t know the Bible all that well, but I did learn the Ten Commandments.”

  I looked over from my painting. “Wow. That was random.”

  He laughed. “I was thinking about your father.”

  “Yeah, do not commit adultery. That’s his commandment need all right.”

  “Actually I was thinking of your commandment need.”

  My commandment need? “A specific one?”

  “Right. And it may help you a little if you get that chip off your shoulder, babe.”

  “James!” He didn’t have to say it like that.

  Then he got to his feet, walked over and stood behind me, arms around my shoulders, hands on my rib cage. “I just love you, Flannery. That’s all.”

  Oh, what a sweet man. “I know.”

  It’s so wonderful to be in love at times like this. “So what commandment is it?”

  “ ‘Honor your father and mother.’ ”

  I kissed his arm. “You would have to bring that up.”

  “Well, babe, as I see it, if you don’t really have a choice, not if you live what you believe and all, that sort of takes some of the pressure off.”

  Wow. Is this guy something or what?

  And I remember that conversation in vivid detail as I lay a hand on his costume. Exodus 20 doesn’t say “Honor your father as long as he’s a great father.” Or “Honor your father unless he’s one of those man-children you can’t really trust more than you can throw.” It doesn’t even say “Honor your father except if he deserts you and doesn’t begin to deserve your honor, the creep.”

  It just says “Honor your father,” which means that even if he’s wearing a stupid costume that is not working its intended magic, you don’t have a choice.

  See? Some people think that having a choice about everything is so great. But that’s why I love following Christ. If you’re truly living in Him, well, the choices aren’t so many, and life isn’t nearly as confusing.

  “Dad.”

  He turns, and the uncertainty in his eyes endears him to me right away. Sort of like when you feel sorry for a frightened alley cat. This will be no normal father-daughter relationship. I know that. In fact, now that Mom is finally tucked away where she should be, I guess I have a job to do on my father.

  “Flannery? My gosh, you’re beautiful!”

  And he breaks down in tears, but, like, that’s okay, because it gives me something to do. You know?

  I take off my cowgirl hat and help him out of his box. And I let him hug me, and I feel nothing but pity. But I pretend I am happy to see him when he says he’s dreamed about this day for years.

  It is as good a start as we are going to get. And that is okay. I look over his shoulder into the basement, all lit up with glowing pumpkins, scented candles, twinkling lights, and brightly colored leaf garlands. All these nice people who love me or Mom enough to be here look up at once and smile. But my mom gives me a double thumbs-up and a smile that says, “You know, sweetheart, you’re really something.”

  See it’s like this, we all have regrets. Some of us more than others. And those of us who are blessed enough to have them slim and few are also blessed to be able to even things out for the others.

  I smile at Mom and pull away from my father. “So how are we going to begin this thing?”

  “Play it by ear?”

  Sounds like something a musician would say. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  What parents don’t realize when they break off their relationships is that someday, in some way, it will all be up to the child. I can’t pretend it isn’t a burden, but I can’t pretend that honoring my father and mother can be translated any other way.

  November

  Lark

  I TOOK JOHNNY TO DULLES AIRPORT IN MID-NOVEMBER.

  I drove there.

  Yes.

  We stood by the security check.

  “I’ll see you in April, right?” he said.

  “Yep.”

  “I know I’ll be looking forward to it even more then than I am now.”

  “We will too.”

  His flight was called. “I can’t believe Leslie will be coming.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s taking Days of Summer very seriously now. She’s never been to Africa either, and she’s using the mission as an excuse to go. ‘Just to make sure the funds are going to a real place, Larkspur.’ ”

  He laughed at the imitation. “You’re quite a mimic.”

  I shrugged. “It’s one of my hidden talents.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “I know.” I put my arms around him and hugged him. “It’s better this way, Johnny.”

  He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I’m not so sure about that. But I enjoyed our times together, Lark. I won’t pretend I didn’t.”

  “You’re a good man. Do well.” He raised a finger. “With a little help.”

  “Amen.”

  There hadn’t been kisses on the mouth between Johnny and me for several weeks. Sometimes relationships take a lovely turn all on their own.

  Before he disappeared at the curve of the ramp, he turned and waved. I returned the gesture.

  Good for you, Johnny Josefowski, M.D.

  Dr. J.

  I returned to find Mother and Prisma sitting in the kitchen, initial plans for an extension to Days of Summer’s headquarters splayed out on the kitchen table.

  I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down. “Wow. I love it. You did a great job with the architect, Mother.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Prisma laid a hand on the plans. “When your mama wants something, she knows how to get it.”

  I sat down. “What amazes me is that we can all live in this house, this big monstrosity on Greenway, and get along.”

  “Oh, fiddle!” Mother waved a hand. “It’s even more than amazing. It’s a miracle.”

  PRISMA

  “JESUS? THE PORCH IS DONE. The fence will be ready next week.”

  “Perfect timing, My girl.”

  I gazed up into the heavens. “My work is done here, isn’t it?

  “You got that right.”

  “So I’m guessing You and I are off on another adventure?”

  “There’s people that need you. People that love you and they need you.”

  I gripped the window sill, absorbing the indigo of the sky into my being. “Will I ever rest, Lord?”

  “Someday, My girl. Someday.”

  The good news is this. When Lark, Greenway’s own Sleeping Beauty, was kissed awake by the Lover of Her Soul, she opened her eyes and asked only to sleep for five more minutes. But she’s awake now.

  Honest to Pete, that’s the truth.

  December

  NEWLY

  CONTRARY TO POPULAR OPINION, I’m not just a voice on the phone. And I came home for Christmas for the first time in years. I would have brought
my girlfriend, Brenda, but she’s a real family sort and stayed in Dundalk with all her nieces and nephews, sisters and brothers, parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles. I’ve received quite an education from Brenda. Prisma already moved south. Lark cooked the turkey and dressing. Buddy and James brought some casseroles, and for the first time Mother gave only two gifts each. Picture frames.

  And matching sweaters.

  Good heavens.

  Bradley del Champ popped in for a brief while to give Buddy her present. They nabbed him to take a picture of all the family to go into the frame.

  My gosh, a family portrait, all in our hand-knitted sweaters. And we sat for hours laughing over Mother’s scrapbooks.

  “I’m going to make one each year. I’m not going to miss a thing.”

  If I didn’t love them, I’d want to regurgitate.

  Nevertheless, I found I didn’t wish to leave at four as I told them I would. I stayed well into the evening. I would say we got along just as we used to in the old days.

  Truth be told, however, the old days were never this good.

  Is my family perfect? Heavens, no! With Prisma now in North Carolina, you should hear the two of them argue about what to have for dinner.

  But I wouldn’t have them any other way.

  Strange, isn’t it?

  So I’m back in the family.

  And with the way they’re planning on traveling all over the world, those two, it’s a mighty good thing. Somebody needs to hold down the fort.

  Flannery told me the other day, “I’m glad you’ll still be here in town full time.”

  “And why is that, Buddy?”

  “Because you’re such a crackup, Uncle Newly.”

  We’re all insane to some extent, we Summervilles. And as my father would have said, “Isn’t it grand?”

  I’m thinking about keeping my new Christmas stocking up all year long.

  About the Author

  Lisa Samson, author of twelve published novels, changes her hairstyle and hair color almost every year, but the love of her family—husband, Will, and three children—never grows old. She makes her home in Maryland, where she cuts her own grass on her new, orange riding mower. She ran it into a tree the second week she had it.