Amy looked outside, surprised that it was already dark and it was only five o’clock. Time to think about a nice hot shower, some dinner, and a nice fire and a little television before she retired for the night. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow she’d go up to the attic and get down all her mother’s Christmas decorations. Maybe she’d venture forth and get a real live Christmas tree. Not a glittery Hollywood tree but one that would smell up the whole house. Then she’d have that Christmas that never happened. The one she’d missed when Flo took her to California.
Maybe Christmas would be forever tainted. Maybe she couldn’t get the old feelings back. Well, she’d never know if she didn’t try.
Was it Hank or Ben in the house next door? She wished she knew. Maybe she should go over and knock on the door. People in Apple Valley did things like that. Most times they brought food to newcomers. She couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would bring her something once they knew she was back home.
As she walked down the steps, Amy crossed her fingers. Let it be Ben next door. Let him be the married one. Maybe she could discreetly ask where Hank was. Find out if he, too, was married. She crossed her fingers tighter.
Back on the first floor, Amy opened the doors of the fireplace, laid some kindling, then stacked the logs the way she’d seen her father do. She had a fireplace in her California home, but it was gas. She’d used it once and was so disappointed with the effect it created, she’d never turned it on again. Within minutes she had a nice blaze going. In the kitchen she prepared a small salad to accompany the frozen TV dinner she popped into the oven. She uncorked a bottle of wine to let it breathe before she headed upstairs to shower.
Her first day home.
Home. Amy closed her eyes and almost swooned at the way the one word made her feel. She literally ran up the stairs, her heart bursting with happiness. She knew, just knew, coming back home to Apple Valley was the best decision of her life.
In the shower, she sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs as she washed her hair and showered with her favorite bath gel, a Vera Wang scent she’d been using for years.
Thirty minutes later, Amy walked through the family room, where the fire was blazing cheerfully, and on out to the kitchen, where her dinner waited for her. She turned on the radio that was mounted under one of the kitchen cabinets. Holiday music invaded the old kitchen.
She was home. Eating in her old kitchen, using her mother’s old place mats, using the same silverware with the green handles. It seemed the same, but it wasn’t the same. The sugar bowl and creamer weren’t in the middle of the table. Both her parents had always had coffee with their meals, even at lunchtime. Suddenly, Amy wasn’t hungry anymore. She reached for the wine bottle and poured it into her glass. Flo had drummed into her head over the years that “you can’t go home again,” then went on to say some famous writer had said that. It wasn’t until she was in college that Amy learned that the writer was Thomas Wolfe.
Amy sat down on what had once been her mother’s chair and stared at the fire. She supposed you could go home again physically, but when you got there, you had to be realistic enough to know that time had passed, and it could never be recaptured. And recapture time was exactly what she had hoped to do by making this trip. How foolish she was to even think she could make that happen. The past was prologue.
Now what was she supposed to do until it was time to go back to California? Should she just eat, drink, sleep, watch television? Should she pretend it wasn’t the Christmas season and ignore everything? Wouldn’t that be a cop-out?
Maybe she should go next door and talk to Ben or Hank or whoever it was that lived in that house. There was nothing wrong with dropping in on old childhood friends. Was there? She tried to talk herself out of the idea by convincing herself that either Ben or Hank’s wife wouldn’t appreciate an unknown female dropping by—she looked down at her watch—at seven o’clock in the evening. Maybe she would do it tomorrow.
Before Amy could change her mind, she raced upstairs for her old peacoat. She was surprised that it still fit. She pulled the yellow hat down over her ears, wrapped the muffler around her neck, and was ready to go. A walk to the town square would be nice. She could take her time, look in the shop windows, and by the time she got home, she’d be wiped out and ready for a good night’s sleep in her own bed. Her own bed. Five minutes later she was out the door, the key to the front door in the pocket of her sweatpants.
It was icy cold, the wind blustery and pushing her along as she walked down the street to the corner. Her feet already felt numb from the cold. No wonder, she thought, looking down at her feet. She wasn’t wearing socks, and she was still wearing slippers, for God’s sake. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maybe she wasn’t really stupid. Maybe she was just overwhelmed with being home and wasn’t thinking clearly. She continued walking to the next corner, then she decided, yes, she was stupid, and turned around to go home.
How bleak and lonely Mr. Carpenter’s house looked. Every other house on the street featured colored Christmas lights on their porches and shrubbery. Correction. Every house but Mr. Carpenter’s and her house had colored lights. She made a mental note to get them down from the attic and hang them tomorrow. Maybe she’d hang some on Mr. Carpenter’s house, too. She rather thought Mr. Carpenter would like that.
The Anders house was lit up from top to bottom. It looked like every room in the house was lit up. She looked around. The other houses on the street looked the same way. Families needed a lot of light, she decided.
Amy heard the sound when she walked across the lawn in front of the Anders house in a shortcut to her driveway. She stopped and pushed her hat above her ears to see if she could hear better. It sounded like a baby was crying. She listened hard, then heard a whimpering sound. She turned around and there by her front door was the beautiful dog she’d seen earlier. He looked even more golden under the porch light. She whistled softly, and the dog bounded over to where she was standing. “Hey, big guy, what are you doing out here all by yourself? Did you get loose? Like you’re really going to answer me. I think you belong over there,” she said, pointing to the door of the Anders house. “C’mon, I’ll ring the bell, and before you know it, you’ll be warm and cozy inside.” The big dog walked alongside her as she made her way to the front door.
Amy rang the bell. Once. Twice. On the third ring she thought she heard a voice bellow, “Come in.” She looked down at the dog and shrugged. She opened the door and stuck her head in. “Anybody here?” she shouted.
“I’m upstairs giving the twins a bath,” came the reply.
“I brought your dog home. I think he might have jumped the fence. It’s freezing outside. It’s not right to leave an animal out in weather like this,” she shouted again, anger ringing in her voice. As an afterthought she yelled again, “If you can’t take care of an animal, you shouldn’t have one. I’m leaving now,” she said, backing toward the door, partially blocking it with her leg so the big dog wouldn’t bolt.
The voice from the second floor thundered down the steps. “What are you, some know-it-all? If the dog jumped the fence, it doesn’t mean I can’t take care of him. Stop that! Right now! Now look what you did!” Two high-pitched wails of misery traveled down the steps.
The golden dog immediately raced up the steps, a white fur ball on his heels, yapping every step of the way.
“A thank you would have been nice. Doesn’t sound like you’re any great shakes as a parent either.” Amy screamed out her parting shot as she closed the door behind her. “Stupid ass!” And to think I couldn’t wait to see you. Ha!
Back inside her own house, Amy raced to her room for some heavy warm socks. She could barely feel her feet, that’s how cold she was. Back downstairs, she tidied up the kitchen, poured more wine, then went back to the family room. She pulled at the cushions from the sofa and propped them up by the fire, her legs stretched forward. She added two more logs to the fire and sipped at her wine.
Two revelations in one day.
1. You can’t have expectations when you go home again. 2. Ben or Hank Anders was not the boy of her youth. Screw it, she thought as she set the wineglass aside and curled up on the old cushions. Moments later she was sound asleep.
She slept soundly only to be awakened hours later by the sound of her doorbell. Groggily, she looked down at her watch. It was after twelve. Who would be visiting at this hour? She ran to the door, turned on the porch light, and was dismayed to see the huge golden dog slapping at her doorbell. She opened the door, and he bounded in like a whirlwind. He ran over to the fire and lay down on the cushions.
Amy threw her hands in the air. “What’s this mean? You moved out? What?”
The dog barked as he squirmed and wiggled to get more comfortable on the cushions. “Does this mean you’re staying here for the night?” The dog barked again, laid his head on his paws, and closed his eyes. “Guess so. Can’t say as how I blame you. He sounds like a…like a…big jerk.”
Before she made her way to the second floor, Amy bent over to look at the collar on the big dog’s neck. Churchill. “Okay, Churchill, see you in the morning.”
Chapter Four
Hank Anders staggered down the stairs a little before midnight. He was beyond exhausted from the past few hours with the twins, and he now had a newfound respect for his sister-in-law. Where in the name of God was she? Probably sleeping peacefully in some five-star hotel after being pampered by a trained masseuse.
The two dogs looked at him warily. Churchill ran to the sliding glass doors off the kitchen that led to a little terrace in the back. Earlier he’d seen the area was fenced, so he let the dogs out. His nerves were twanging all over the place as he prepared a cup of hot chocolate the way his mother had always done when things got dicey. Well, as far as he was concerned, things didn’t get any dicier than this.
Dinner had been a disaster. The twins didn’t like hard-boiled eggs. They didn’t like toast either. When they wouldn’t eat, he’d belatedly checked to make sure they had teeth, and sure enough they each had six. Then he’d tried peanut butter and jelly, but they didn’t like that either. All they’d done was smear it everywhere. The two dogs licked it up, to his chagrin. Milk from a cup was spilled on the floor and on the walls, leaving a sticky residue. The dogs licked that up, too. He finally found a can of ravioli and handed out spoons. Probably his tenth or eleventh mistake. At least he didn’t have to worry about the dogs’ dinner.
Bath time had been a total disaster. He wondered if Alice would notice, if she ever returned, that the wallpaper was soaking wet or that the linoleum on the floor was buckling where the splashed water had seeped under it. Probably not. Why should she? She had other things on her mind. God, where was she? Was she going to leave him here forever with her kids or until Ben got back? He shuddered at the thought. She’d be a fool not to. A five-star hotel, a pedicure, manicure, hairdo, facial, massage, certainly couldn’t compare to this experience.
And who the hell was that person who brought Churchill back? And how had the dog gotten out in the first place? “Please come home, Alice. Please,” Hank muttered over and over as he poured the hot chocolate into a cup.
Earlier, after the dinner the twins didn’t eat, he had called the market and placed an order the clerk promised to deliver early in the morning. He’d lucked out when he called the only employment agency in town. The woman who operated it was running late and was still in the office. She’d promised a “day lady” or possibly a male nanny depending on availability and sir, we do not discriminate, who was capable of minding children and doing light cooking for $750 a week. He’d blinked at the amount but agreed. At that precise moment he would have paid triple the amount she quoted.
Hank was so hungry he thought he was going to pass out. He’d used the last of the bread, so he ate peanut butter and jelly right out of the jar. All of it. Though still hungry, he was too tired to rummage or try to cook something.
When Miss Sadie scratched at the door, he went over to open it. The little fur ball pranced in and looked up at the giant standing over her. She yipped and did a circle dance that probably meant something, but he didn’t know what. He whistled for Churchill, and, when nothing happened, he turned on the outside light and whistled again. The small yard was lit up brightly, but there was no sign of the golden retriever. He ran out to the yard calling the dog’s name, Miss Sadie yapping and nipping at his pant leg as he raced around. Pure and simple—the dog was gone. “Aw, shit!”
Miss Sadie leaped up, snagged his pant leg, and held on. He tried to shake her loose, but she wasn’t budging. Somehow he managed to get back into the house in time to hear one of the twins wailing upstairs. “I hate you, Alice Anders,” he groaned as he made his way to the second floor. By the time he got to the boys’ cribs, whichever one had been wailing, had stopped. Both toddlers were peacefully sleeping, thumbs in their mouths. Ben had been a thumb sucker.
Hank went back downstairs and opened the front door. He whistled and called the golden retriever’s name. He felt like crying when the dog didn’t appear. It was so cold and windy and he could see light flurries of snow in the lamplight at the end of the driveway. Miss Sadie was still protesting whatever it was she was protesting by yapping and whining. He told her to shut up in no uncertain terms. She growled, a funny little sound that made the hair on the back of Hank’s neck stand on end. He’d read somewhere that little dogs could be killers.
Back in the kitchen, Hank looked at the hot chocolate in his cup. “Good for the nerves, my ass,” he mumbled as he searched the cabinets for something a little more powerful. He finally found a bottle of scotch behind a giant-size bottle of ketchup. He removed the cap and swigged directly from the bottle. One gulp. Two gulps. Three gulps. “Where are you, Alice?” he singsonged as he made his way into the family room. “Please come home, Churchill.” He immediately retraced his steps to the kitchen and made coffee. He stood in the middle of the kitchen as the coffee dripped into the pot. What kind of child-care provider was he? The worst kind, the kind that drank on the job, that’s what kind. Well, that was never going to happen again.
Hank opened the door again and whistled for Churchill. He looked down at Miss Sadie, who just looked sad, like she knew Churchill wasn’t coming back. He bent over to scoop the little dog into his arms. She cuddled against his heart, and he swore that she sighed with happiness. At least someone loves me, he thought. Either that or she’s desperate for attention. More than likely she missed Albert.
The clock on the kitchen stove said it was one o’clock. What time did the twins get up in the morning? Not that he was going to be any more prepared for them when they did than he was when he arrived. He just knew Alice was sleeping soundly and peacefully on thousand-thread-count sheets while he was afraid to close his eyes.
Somehow he managed to pour his coffee and drink it without disturbing Miss Sadie, who appeared to be out for the count. Who was his earlier visitor, the one who brought Churchill back? Maybe the chick from next door, the one with the fancy set of wheels in the driveway.
As he walked around the well-lighted kitchen he felt sad that the Leigh house had finally, after all these years, been sold. And, without a doubt, the Carpenter house would go up for sale, too. This house, Ben’s now, would be all that was left of the old childhood neighborhood. All the other houses on the street had recycled themselves, and, once again, small children played in the yards and even on the road because there was no traffic on the cul-de-sac. His memories seemed like they were a hundred years old.
Hank finally locked the door when he realized Churchill wasn’t coming back. Obviously, the dog had jumped the fence. The best he could hope for was that the dog wasn’t freezing somewhere. Miss Sadie squirmed, stretched, and licked at his chin before she went back to sleep. He just knew that Albert Carpenter had carried her around just the way he was doing.
Good Lord, how was he going to go to Albert’s wake and funeral? He made a mental note to order flowers first thing in the morning. He’d ha
ve to find a babysitter. Suddenly, he wanted to cry all over again. How was he going to get the news to Alice? If she ran true to what she was doing, she wasn’t going to be watching the news or reading papers. Ben needed to know, too. Tomorrow he would figure out what he was going to do about that.
The coffee had sobered him up, but he knew he couldn’t sleep, so he switched on the television and watched a rerun of the daily news on Fox. Eventually he dozed, his arm around Miss Sadie.
Dawn was breaking when Hank finally stirred. Something had woken him. What? Miss Sadie was no longer sleeping in his arms. The house was silent except for a scratching noise on the sliding glass door. Miss Sadie wanted to go out. Then he remembered that Churchill was still missing. He ran to the door and opened it, but there was no sign of the golden retriever. What he saw made him blink. A good inch of snow covered the ground. Miss Sadie was no fool—she took one look at the white stuff, stepped over the threshold, squatted, and raced back inside.
Hank ran to the front door to see if the golden dog was waiting outside. He whistled and called. No dog prints could be seen in the snow. Shoulders slumped, he closed the door and went back to the kitchen to make coffee. While it dripped, and the twins were still sleeping, he used the first-floor bathroom to shower and shave. He wanted to be ready when the groceries and his new day lady arrived to take charge.
Fifteen minutes later, Hank was ready for whatever the day was going to throw at him. To pass the time until the twins woke, he checked out the little computer station Alice had set up in a small alcove off the kitchen. He was surprised when he clicked the computer on that it opened up to Alice’s e-mail on AOL. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about a password—it was all here, right in front of him. And there was an e-mail addressed to him.
Hank gawked at what he was seeing. Well, that certainly took a lot of nerve. He clicked on the e-mail and saw a to-do list. Not one word about where she was, what she was doing, or that she was sorry. A damn to-do list. He lashed out with his foot to kick the side of the little desk and was instantly sorry. He looked down at his bare feet and howled in pain, knowing damn well that he’d broken his big toe. What the hell else could go wrong? This was way beyond Murphy’s law.
Silver Bells Page 3
