“You are the most romantic thing I’ve ever known,” I said back to him. “Marriage to you is going to be so wonderful.”
Yeah, well. We’ve been married nearly thirty years now, and it’s been anything but wonderful.
Not that I regret marrying Jack. We have a beautiful daughter, Olivia, and the most precious grandson anyone has ever seen on God’s green earth.
Olivia and her husband, Tony—who owns an antique shop over in Breckenridge—named the baby Brook, after my family. Brook is almost three years old, and—as my mama would say—he’s a cap pistol. He’s also the near spitting image of his grandfather. God help all the girls who will fall into his spell when he grows up. I can only pray to the good Lord that he doesn’t sin like “Grandpa Jack.”
When we came home from our honeymoon, it was to Summit View, where Jack had taken a position at the local high school as the football coach and eleventh-grade history teacher. With his charismatic ways, he soon had everyone eating out of his hands and thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread. Jack’s family lived in Denver, so every Sunday after church we’d pack ourselves into his Ford Pinto and drive the two hours to spend the rest of the day with them.
Jack had two younger brothers who still lived at home, though the older of the two was already attending Regis University. The younger was a sophomore in high school and cuter (if you can imagine) than Jack. All that to say that Sundays at the Dippel home were loud, with Dad Dippel and his sons watching whatever sport was being aired that day and Mother Dippel and me working our fingers to the bone in the kitchen, trying to keep up with them.
I remember well the afternoon Mother Dippel and I finally grabbed a quiet moment to talk. She’d made a pot of coffee to go with the chocolate pound cake she’d baked the afternoon before. When we’d finished serving the men, we retreated to her sewing room, where she kept a little love seat and a black-and-white television set. We curled up, both of us, on either end of the love seat, our hands wrapped around the coffee mugs, and began talking like we were old friends.
Like Laci and I used to do. How I missed Laci.
That’s when she told me. “You know,” she said quietly. “You know that Mr. Dippel has never been the most faithful of husbands.”
My mouth dropped open, I’m just sure it did. “What do you mean?”
She looked me straight on. Like me, she was short in stature, but a bit rounder—what with three kids having lived in her womb. She was by no means unattractive, though. She kept her hair styled, and though she didn’t wear any makeup, her face was just as pretty as it could be.
Mother Dippel stretched out her right hand, showing off a brilliant emerald and diamond cluster ring. “Affair number one,” she said.
Up until that moment I’d always admired that ring. She didn’t wear it a lot—it seemed she had so many rings she could accessorize every outfit she owned with a different one. That wasn’t the end of it, either. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings. You name it, she had it.
“Affair number one?”
She withdrew her hand, using it to point to the emerald and diamond earrings dressing her ear lobes. “Affair number . . . what was it . . . five, was it? Yes, five.”
“Mother—”
Before I could finish, she jutted her wrist toward me. “Affair number eleven,” she said as the diamond bangle bracelet winked at me from where it teetered.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, truly confused.
Her lips formed a thin line. “Listen to me, Goldie, and listen good. Jack’s father is a good man in every way but one. He works hard, provides well, and has never once laid a hand on me in any way other than sexually.”
I blushed, thinking I’d never heard my own mother speak of sex in any form or fashion—not even when she was talking about gender. Now . . . Mother Dippel . . . this . . .
“He’s a good man,” she repeated. “He just has this . . . need, I guess. He’s always been discreet about it, and goodness knows this city is big enough I don’t ever have to run in to any of these women, whoever they are.”
“Then how do you . . . ?”
“How do I know?”
I nodded.
“I know because there’s absolutely no other reason for a man to shower a woman with so many baubles when it’s not her birthday, their anniversary, or Christmas. That’s how I know.”
I bit my bottom lip so hard I nearly drew blood. “But why are you telling me?”
She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee. “So you’ll know what to look out for.”
“Me?” I squealed, sitting straight up.
Her lips grew thin again. “Jack is a good boy, but he’s his father’s son. I’m no fool, Goldie. Don’t you be one, either.”
I thought about Mother Dippel’s words all the way home, casting glances over to Jack in the driver’s seat, him looking as handsome as ever, I thought. I’d promised Mother that I wouldn’t repeat any of our conversation to anyone, and I’m certainly a woman of my word, so when Jack said, “What are you thinking about so quiet over there?” I answered, “Just thinking how lucky I am to be married to you.”
Which of course garnered a dimpled smile. He leaned over for a kiss, and I obliged, wrapping my arms around the strong biceps of his right arm. “We’re happy, aren’t we, Jack?”
“Of course we’re happy.”
“I mean, we’re really happy.”
“I’m really happy. Are you really happy?”
I nodded in answer. “These have been the most glorious ten months of my life, Jack Dippel,” I said. “I can’t imagine being any happier.”
He looked at me then, taking his eyes off the road long enough to draw me in closer to him. I squeezed his arm, then kissed him near his ear. “I promise you I’ll make you the best wife forever and ever.”
“You’ve already done that,” he said sweetly. “You’re the best a man could ask for.”
The following year—in our fourteenth month of marriage—Jack surprised me with a pair of diamond stud earrings.
For no apparent reason.
Except one.
7
That woman is loyal to a fault . . .
From his usual spot at the café window, Clay Whitefield saw Coach Jack Dippel drive by. Wonder where he’s off to, he mused with some suspicion.
As far as Clay was concerned, Coach Dippel was a snake, no two ways about it. Back when Clay was in high school, he’d been the idol of nearly every guy on the team, but once those like Clay had grown up and learned the truth behind the legend, they weren’t so impressed.
How a man could do a woman like Goldie Dippel the way Coach had was anyone’s guess. She’d always been the kind of lady who bakes cakes and pies—good cakes and pies—and takes them down to the boys at the volunteer fire department and to the nursing home.
“The kind of woman you hope to find for yourself one day,” Clay had heard himself earlier that day saying to Tate Tucker, an ex-team member and the current nursing home administrator. Clay had just made his weekly visit to get the necessary stories for “News from the Home Front,” a keeping-you-informed gossip column about the elderly who lived and died there.
Tate was munching on a homemade cookie fresh and hot from Goldie’s kitchen.
“You got that right,” he said, nodding then pointing to the basketful of goodies. “Loyal to a fault and sweet as Southern pecan pie.”
8
Steaming the Locals
I pulled my white Ford Bronco into the Gold Rush RV Park, just two miles west of town. I usually enjoy this area by moonlight, the tall pine forests standing like giants under the twinkling stars. Trouble was, I couldn’t see the stars with the glare of all the artificial lights. The overhead beams look like spotlights on the great white motor homes scattered around the picnic tables and jungle gym and trampoline. Trampoline? Now, there’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.
I looked back at the campers. It appeared to me that the great whites, as I calle
d those monstrosities, had thinned out—probably because of the snow shower earlier in the evening.
I picked up the radio and spoke to dispatch. “Arrived at 10-20 RV Park, 10-23 till I talk to manager.”
The manager, Bob Burnett, was already striding across the gravel to my window. When I lowered it, he popped his scowling face so close to mine I could smell a whiff of beer on his breath. He’s a funny, bald bird with eyebrows that jump so high up his forehead they could be mistaken for a streak of hair. As comical as he looks, I never laugh. A snicker from me would send him on another one of his world-famous tirades about respect. I’ve heard his speech often enough in the hallways of Grace Church; I didn’t have the patience for it tonight. Oh, no doubt, Bob believes in respect, especially when it comes to him. How he feels about women is an entirely different story. However, I’ve noticed he doesn’t hesitate to send for me when he needs someone.
“Deputy Donna, it’s those kids again. They ain’t on our property but close enough to drive my customers to leave for home. There are several truckloads of them over down by the river. They got their music blaring, and worst of all, I think they’ve been trying to start a campfire.”
Not good. With the fire conditions this extreme, even a spark could kick off a forest fire. The early evening snow shower helped, but not enough to dampen this parched timber. It was too little moisture, too late in the season. The way things stood, this forest was nothing more than an inferno waiting to happen, that is, until we got a real blanket of snow. And a fire this close to town could burn it down.
Polite as always, I said, “Thanks, Bob, I’ll drive over and look into it.”
“Oh, and Donna, the next time you see Miss Evangeline at your Potluck Club meeting, give her my regards.”
I fought the impulse to roll my eyes. “Sure, Bob, I’ll tell her.”
He gave me what appeared to be a shy grin as I closed my window. Bob must be lonelier than I thought, I decided as I circled my Bronco around Bob’s office and store. I shuddered. What anyone could see in Evie, well, that would take some imagination.
A quarter mile on the freeway, I pulled onto a dirt road. Just a couple of hundred yards ahead, I spotted them, about a dozen teenage boys blinded by my headlights. Talk about disturbing the peace. Truck stereos blared to the same heavy metal station while a couple of boys fed a small campfire pinecones and twigs.
I parked and stepped out of my truck. “You boys know we have a fire ban here?” No sense in elaborating—everyone knew about the fire ban unless they’d just landed from Mars. The forest fire threat had the whole county on edge. Besides, I could tell these boys were locals, judging by the old beat-up pickups with Colorado tags. They certainly weren’t driving the fancy red SUVs or sports cars the tourists pick up at DIA before driving up I-70 to visit us.
The boys stared at me without answering. I’ve seen that look plenty of times; it says, “Well, little lady, so what?”
Little lady. That’s what the fat, balding Texan tourists call me whenever I pull them over for speeding. I hate it. Maybe I’m short at five foot two; maybe I look petite even when I wear my gun. My voice doesn’t help my authority status either. I’m not as bad as the woman rookie in the movie Police Academy, but to these boys, I’d sound more like their irate mother than a law officer. And I know my blond hair doesn’t help, though I crop off my curls to keep it air force short. This effect makes me look like Tinker Bell, maybe, but nevertheless, it’s a major mistake to think I’m anything but tough. These boys would soon discover that.
Things could get interesting, I hoped.
I took my power stance. Hand on my holster, legs spread apart, my voice loud and commanding. “Boys, put out that fire now!”
A tall, lanky teen with a yellow streak dyed into his cropped hair slowly undraped himself from the hood of his truck and stood to his full six feet of height to peer down at me. The other boys did the same. Yellow Hair stepped closer.
“You think you’re going to make us?”
“That’s right, or I’m taking all of you to jail.”
The boys laughed among themselves and crossed their arms as they looked me up and down.
“And just how are you going to arrest us all?”
Keeping my hand on my holster, I stepped back, never taking my eyes off the boys. I reached under the seat of my truck and pulled out my twelve-gage shotgun.
Casually as you please, I cocked it and emphasized my words. “Oh, I won’t have to. I’ll only have to arrest those of you who are still standing.”
That shocked those boys into silence. Of course, I would never make good on that threat, not unless they came at me. But that wouldn’t happen, because they were worried now that I might be crazy, an assessment not far from the truth.
They stared. I stared right back. Suddenly, one of the boys turned and kicked dirt onto the fire. Another boy poured his bottled water on the small blaze. As it sizzled out, other boys stomped on the hot twigs, grinding them into the dirt.
Then, slowly, one by one, they spit their tobacco juice onto the ground, then climbed into their pickups and drove past me to the highway. Only Yellow Hair made eye contact as he slyly topped his head with a Rockies baseball cap, adjusting it with a one-fingered salute. He was a daring one, all right.
I sighed with relief as I walked over to investigate what was left of the campfire. I kicked a couple of blackened pinecones into the river, then walked back to my Bronco to grab my fire extinguisher. One final squirt of white foam, and the fire was officially out.
I probably should have called it in, or at least called for backup. Even a small campfire like this would make front-page news, with wildfire being such a threat. But a call to dispatch would have taken too much effort. Besides, I’d have to spend the rest of the evening writing up a report. Then the Gold Rush News reporter, Clay Whitefield, would call me first thing in the morning, waking me from my well-deserved rest, just to get a quote. Nope, I’d handled things just right. I don’t need anyone’s help, except maybe when it comes to cooking something for that Potluck Club. Why I go, I’ll never know.
Okay, that’s not quite true. I know exactly why I show up—with some lame dish in hand—month after month. And it’s not to say hello to Miss Evangeline Benson. That woman hates me, but I’m long past trying to win her approval. Besides, that was all resolved in sixth grade one Sunday at church.
There I was, all of twelve years old, dressed in one of the only dresses I owned, an olive drab A-line that was probably wrinkled and too short. Miss Evangeline Benson, dressed in her new orange pantsuit, walked right over to me, pinched my cheeks, and blurted, “Donna, dear. Someone needs to take you shopping. But, oh, I guess since your mom left your dad, you have to fend for yourself, poor, dear child.”
I stared at the woman, totally speechless, and stepped back into plump Vonnie Westbrook, my Sunday school teacher.
Vonnie stiffened, and one glance told me this lady was angry! Her voice shook as she spoke. “Evangeline Benson, that’s no way to speak to this fine young lady.” She’d put her arm around my shoulders and whispered in my ear. “Never mind Evangeline, dear. She’s just a bitter old maid.”
“I heard that,” Evangeline charged.
“Good.” Short Miss Vonnie never seemed taller. “Now you know how it feels when folks don’t mind their manners.”
With that, Vonnie and I stomped off together, though I somehow peeked over my shoulder to see Evangeline’s livid face.
That was probably the first time that old biddy had been told off in a very long time, and that it was Vonnie, one of her perpetual sidekicks, who did it just made it sweeter.
And Vonnie, truly a lady of grace, the very next week drove me down to a Denver Sears store and bought me a new dress for Sunday, a couple pairs of shoes, plus new tops and pants for school. She even managed to talk Dad out of two hundred bucks to perform this miracle.
“Vernon, Donna is a young lady now, and for that reason alone she needs new clothes. N
ow, don’t argue. I know you’re good for two hundred, and I promise to bring you the change.”
To my astonishment, Dad forked over the money without batting an eye. He said, “I appreciate the help, Vonnie. I’m not much on shopping for girls.”
Even today, I consider Vonnie Westbrook my best and possibly my only friend. She’s the reason I attend the Potluck Club. It was Vonnie who took my motherless self under wing.
I once had a mother. Deep inside my mind, I can still catch a glimpse of her swirled within watercolored fog. I wish I could remember more. Did she ever tuck me in at night? Did she ever tell me she loved me? I don’t know.
But I do remember she was a petite blond with a soft cloud of curls that framed her blue eyes. I know those eyes well because I see them every time I look into the mirror. But it’s my mom’s voice I remember best; a voice that sang sweet songs around the house, a voice that sang solos in the church choir.
I remember the time, one Sunday morning, when I was all of four years old; my father squeezed my arm, a warning to stop my wiggles as Mom sang from the pulpit of the church. That’s my last clear memory of my mom, and even now, it’s like a grand dream. Her voice rose in sweet glory while the choir director, Mr. Shelly, flapped his skinny arms as the choir’s voices rose to embrace my mother’s pure song. Suddenly, the choir director turned and stepped into the pulpit with her, completing the hymn in unbelievable harmony as the choir’s voices faded to silence. I stopped wiggling then, not because of the warning hand on my arm but because I was lost in the utter beauty of the song.
In fact, that moment is probably the last memory most people have of my mother and the choir director. Instead of going home after the service, they’d hopped into Mr. Shelly’s car and headed for the interstate to start a brand-new life together, a life that didn’t include me or my dad.
But what I still want to know is—why? Was it me? Was I just too wiggly for Mom to manage? Or was it because she and Mr. Shelly thought their college-trained talents were wasted on the people of Summit View and Grace Church?
The Potluck Club Page 5
