I stood up and began to pace. “You know, I’m so sick of everybody bringing up that kiss from Vernon. Everyone thinks that just because I never quite got over it that means I don’t understand anything else in the love and sex department.” I pointed to her. “Well, I do. I might’ve locked my heart away early in life, but it kept beating. I was happy for Ruth Ann, wasn’t I?”
Vonnie stood, still clutching her doll, and made her way to the kitchen, all the while saying, “That was different, Evie. Ruth Ann married Arnold McDonald, Summit View’s golden boy.” She stopped at the kitchen counter and turned to me. “Do you want anything? I’ve got some beef stew in the freezer I can microwave if you’re hungry.”
I stomped a foot. “I want the truth!”
“All right. I loved him. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him! God knows I loved him more than I’ve ever loved another human being my whole life . . . and yes, that includes Fred.”
My hand flew over my mouth. How could she be married to a man she didn’t love as much as her first husband? How could she share a bed with someone she wasn’t able to give herself to com–Shepherd_ pletely? Maybe I wasn’t as savvy in the love and sex department as I thought.
“If you’re wondering if Fred knows, he does. He knows I loved Joe, he knows I married him, he knows I had a baby with him,” she said quietly. “And,” she added even more quietly, “he knows I lost it all.”
I walked over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. “Well, Von, that’s the part I don’t understand.”
Vonnie joined me at the table. “Are you willing to listen . . . to listen and not judge me?” she asked, setting Amanda Jewel in her lap as though she were a real child that could not be ignored or forgotten.
I looked at her for a good ten seconds before I answered. “Yes, I believe I am.”
She told me the story—the whole story—of loving Joe, of marrying him, of losing him to the war. She told me about her mother’s reaction to her pregnancy, of leaving for L.A. to live with Maria Jewel and learning to make Mexican tamales. She told me about the day she heard that Joe had been killed, about going into labor and giving birth, and then about her mother coming to tell her she’d lost the baby. “Why would I doubt her?” she concluded.
She was crying, and I was crying with her. “Have you spoken to your mother?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“She’s apologetic . . . begging for forgiveness . . . but . . . I need time, Evie.”
“Of course you do. What about Maria Jewel?” I asked, but Vonnie only shook her head.
I fidgeted with the fringe of the woven place mat in front of me. “And Fred?”
Vonnie shrugged. “It’s been difficult.”
I couldn’t look at her when I asked my next question. “What are you going to do about David Harris?”
I could feel the tension from all the way across the table. “He’s my son and yet he’s not. Did you know he was raised by that actress person?” I nodded, but I’m not sure she saw me. She continued, “He’s my son and I don’t even know him. Lord, what he must think of me.”
I looked up then. “He came looking for you, didn’t he? That must mean something. You owe it to yourself to see him . . . to talk to him. Vonnie, you owe it to yourself.”
“We’ll see. I have some praying to do on that matter, and I need to confer with Fred a little more, when he’s not as emotional as he was this morning when we talked.” Vonnie looked down. “What about the others, Evie? What do they know about all this?”
I waited for her to raise her chin and looked her in the eye. “Donna knows, but you know that.” She nodded. “And Leigh knows. But to my knowledge, none of the other Potluckers have put it together.”
“I don’t know if Donna will ever forgive me.”
I reached across the table and patted her hand. “Give it time. She’s young.”
“She feels betrayed. First Doreen,” she said, sending a chill through me, “and now me.”
I patted her hand again. “Give it time,” I repeated. “One thing I can testify to is God’s goodness where time is concerned.”
Vonnie looked at me and smiled; it was a faint smile but a smile nonetheless. “Don’t I know it. After all this time . . . I have a child. I have a son.” She clutched Amanda Jewel to her breast. “My baby is alive.”
41
She’ll set you straight . . .
Clay’s best attempts at following Donna were just that: attempts. He’d covered nearly every street he could think to drive down but hadn’t seen her Bronco until some time later, heading back for her bungalow.
He had managed to see Evangeline Benson’s car parked in the Westbrook driveway, not that it had anything to do with anything. He smiled to himself though. Evangeline was probably setting Vonnie straight on something or other.
Later that evening he watched several hours of mindless television. With each commercial he walked over to his desk, picked up the PLC file, and flipped through it as though he were looking for something, some clue, some single item in all his notes that might give him an inkling as to what was going on with the ladies of late.
But he found nothing.
42
Measured Steps
Olivia’s morning sickness (that was really afternoon sickness) took a sudden turn for the worse on Tuesday afternoon, forcing her to ask me if I’d be willing to cook supper and clean up afterward. “That’s why I’m here,” I told her, and she gave me a look that read No, that’s not why you’re here, but as long as you are . . .
I cooked, served Tony and Brook, and checked in on Olivia, who napped fitfully in the master bedroom. Tony—stretched out in a blue leather recliner—watched television while I gave Brook his bath, dressed him, and then handed him off to his father, who then read him a story from My First Bible Story Book while I cleaned the kitchen. By the time we’d kissed Brook good night and I’d checked on my daughter one last time, I was too tired to do anything more than climb between the covers of the bed in what was now “Nana’s Room.” I hadn’t closed my eyes more than a few minutes when the phone rang. Tony answered: “Oh, hi, Jack,” followed by, “I think she’s already gone to bed, but I’ll check.”
The closed door of my room cracked just enough to let in a muted shaft of light. I slammed my eyes shut, hoping Tony would assume I was asleep and not attempt to wake me, which is exactly what he did. When the door clicked shut, I reopened my eyes as though it would help me hear better.
“She is,” I heard my son-in-law say, followed by, “No, I won’t wake her for you, Jack. She’s had a long day and she needs to rest . . . she’s feeling a little sick and is in bed too . . . No, sir . . . No, sir . . . I will. Good night.” I smiled, feeling blessed to have such a knight in shining armor, even if he was married to my daughter.
The following morning Olivia woke feeling well enough to get Brook ready for preschool. As soon as she left—leaving me alone in the house with a cup of coffee and the Gold Rush News—I curled up on the end of the sofa, spreading the paper out on the seat beside me. I read the article about Vonnie’s dog and the bear, laughing out loud at the quote from Evangeline about Donna. Lord, will those two ever have anything in common?
I turned next to the classifieds, a one-page listing of houses for rent and for sale, lost and found items, legal notices, and—most importantly—employment. I’d never worked in my entire life, other than in my teen years back in the restaurant and at a medical office. There weren’t any ads for medical clerks, and I was too old now for toting trays high over my head, too stressed to keep food orders in my head, so the “Wanted, Server” ad for Rosey’s was out.
There were executive listings for Denver and Dillon, a few shops over in Vail and Breckenridge needing salesclerks. I could do that, I decided. I could sell stuff. I thought about the pay scale, wondered what minimum wage was now—which I’d make and which wasn’t enough to put a roof over my head or food in my pantry. Maybe Lisa Leann was right.
I needed an attorney.
My focus shifted from the employment ads to the advertisements. “Divorce Made Simple,” one read. “Chris Lowe, Attorney at Law.” Chris was the husband of Grace’s pianist. Even thinking about Carrie caused me to flinch. Sunday I’d opted not to attend services at all, until I could make up my mind as to what to do.
I looked up to the wall clock. It was a little after 9:00; Olivia would be back any minute. I rose quickly, walked over to the phone at the bar, and dialed the number I’d read on the ad.
“Chris Lowe’s office,” a chipper voice said.
“Yes, hello. I . . . I need to set an appointment with Mr. Lowe, please.”
“Your name?” the voice inquired.
I heard Olivia’s car pulling into the garage. “Um, Goldie. Goldie Dippel.”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Dippel.” I had no idea whom I was speaking with, and judging by the sound of Olivia’s car door slamming, I didn’t have time to find out.
“Yes, hello. I need to see Mr. Lowe as soon as possible.”
Olivia was coming up the garage steps, closing the garage door using the remote control at the top.
“I can get you in early this afternoon if that works for you.”
The back door opened. “It does, thank you. What time?” Olivia walked in, entering the laundry room off from the kitchen. I had a clear shot of her closing and securing the door with the dead bolt. “Does 1:00 work for you?”
Olivia turned to see me with the phone pressed hard against my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
I smiled at her. “Yes, that works fine for me,” I spoke into the phone.
Olivia proceeded through the laundry room to the hall, which led to the back of the house.
“Do you know where we’re located?” the voice asked.
“Main Street?”
“The corner of Main and Sixth. Across the street from the Church of Christ. We’re on the second floor over the card shop.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you then.” I replaced the receiver as quietly as I knew how, stepped lightly over to the sofa, and returned my attention to the paper still spread out before me.
Olivia entered just then. “Was that Dad on the phone?” she asked, sitting in Tony’s recliner.
“No.” I shook my head without looking over at her.
“Tony said he’d called last night but you were already asleep.”
“Mmmhmm.” I looked over at her. “Olivia, what do you think about my getting a job in Breckenridge in one of the little clothing stores?”
“Oh, Mom. Why don’t you just wait to see what God allows?” I looked back at the paper. “I’m not going to just sit and wait, Olivia. God provides, but he also expects us to work. He who does not work, does not eat,” I said, quoting one of the verses found in Proverbs.
“But you don’t need a real job; you’re helping me out here.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her cross one leg over the other as if that settled that. “Just wait, okay? For me?”
I turned to look at her. “I can’t do everything for you, Olivia. Some things I have to do for me. I need a job . . . no, I want a job. I want to feel useful to more than just my daughter or her husband or my grandson. Not that I’m not happy as a peach to help you, but I need to be my own person.” I looked back at the paper. “For once in my life.”
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the Alpine Card Shop at precisely 12:45, dressed in black slacks, a turquoise long-sleeved blouse, and a black jacket that did little to cut the cold coming in from down the mountains surrounding Summit View. Looking up, I saw an overhead window just below the Alpine-inspired façade jutting toward the blue sky. “Chris Lowe, Attorney at Law” was painted in picture-perfect lettering across the pane. I wondered how in the world I was supposed to get to the second floor. There didn’t seem to be a door leading from the outside to the upstairs.
A customer exiting the card shop interrupted my silent wondering. “Hi, Goldie.” I looked to see Carrie Lowe standing in front of me. I sighed, not needing this encounter. “Missed you on Sunday.”
“Thank you,” I said, hoping that just being polite would save me from having to say anything else.
“You didn’t feel well?”
So much for not lying, Lord. “No, not really.” Well, maybe not technically a lie.
“Going in the card shop?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I’m sorry, Lord. I don’t mean to lie like this, but I’m just not ready for the whole world to know yet.
Carrie smiled at me, tossing her long hair—secured by a large elastic band—over a shoulder. “Chris and I just came back from lunch over at the Pancake House,” she continued, pointing to the card shop door. “I was hoping to get him to go with me to Dillon this afternoon to look for new bedroom furniture, but he said he has a 1:00.”
I felt my eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah. Oh, well. We’ll go another time. I just had an itch, that’s all.”
I looked back up. “So that’s where Chris’s office is,” I prodded her.
Carrie looked up too. “Yeah,” she said, bringing her focus back to me. “The only thing I don’t like about it is that you have to go through the card shop to get to it, and most of the time I can hardly get through it without finding some cute something or other for the house.”
I smiled at her. “Well, let me get in there and see what I can find.” Sorry again, Lord, but you can consider this one an even ex–change for the other line I thought was a lie. Apparently I am going into the card shop.
I found a small staircase at the back of the card shop with a framed sign reading “Attorney’s Office Upstairs” next to it. I took the steps deliberately, glancing down at my watch to check the time. I had only a few minutes before my appointment. I paused near the top step, thinking I could always turn right around and go back down. I didn’t have to do this . . .
Ascending footsteps caused me to whirl around.
“Hi, Mrs. Dippel.” It was the same voice I’d heard on the phone earlier, a voice I now recognized as belonging to Jenna Lowe, daughter of Chris and Carrie.
“Hello, Jenna.” Jenna was a recent graduate of Summit View High; I remembered her as being one of Jack’s star basketball players. “I didn’t realize you worked for your father.”
She smiled as she reached me, forcing me to continue my ascent into the attorney’s office. “I’ve worked for Dad since I was in high school.” She managed to step past me once we hit the landing. “You’re just in time for your appointment. I’ll let Dad know that you’re here.”
I took a seat in the nearest chair I could find, clutching my purse close to my abdomen. I crossed my legs, bobbed one foot up and down in time with the music coming from the overhead speaker, and looked about the room. There was a sofa table flush against a wall and covered in neatly stacked magazines—Field and Stream, 4 Wheel Drive, Outside, Backcountry, and Skiing—all the necessary periodicals for those who live in the high country, while only a Bible accessorized the coffee table in front of a forest green love seat. The walls were richly decorated with large matted prints of aerial-view snapshots photographed in Colorado.
“Mrs. Dippel?”
I jumped at the sound of Jenna’s voice, standing and spilling my purse. “Oh, dear.” I began to collect the various items rolling around on the floor.
“My dad is ready to see you now,” Jenna continued.
I looked up at her, stuffing my purse with the retrieved escape artists, then stood straight and tall. “Thank you, Jenna.”
I walked to the door she pointed to, entering to find a man I’d gone to church with for as many years as I’d been a citizen of Summit View. The interior of his office was pretty much the same as the outer office with the exception of the love seat. There was even a Bible opened on his desk. “Goldie,” he greeted me, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him, nearly illuminating the white-blond hair he wore short and somewhat spiky. “Come in. Have a seat.” He indicated a nearby chair,
then returned to the one behind his desk. “How can I help you?”
I sighed deeply, allowing my shoulders to slump. “I’ve left Jack.” Tears began to well up and spill down my cheeks. Chris stood and grabbed a box of tissues from a bookcase as he moved toward me. I took the entire box, saying, “Thank you,” as he sat in the chair next to mine.
“Oh, Goldie,” he said. “This is a part of my job I wish I never had to take part in. I know it hurts.”
I nodded, blowing my nose as daintily as I knew how, considering how stuffed it had suddenly become. “I’m not saying I want a divorce, but I do need to know what my rights are. I have to think about financial support . . . things like that.”
“Are you still at the house?”
“No. I’m staying with Olivia and Tony.”
“I see. So you left the house.”
“Yes.” I looked him in the eye. “Is that bad?”
“No, no.”
Chris stood and returned to his desk. “Goldie, is this because of Jack’s . . .”
“Affairs? Yes.”
“There’s been more than one?” He picked up a pen and began to scribble on the yellow legal pad.
“There’s been more than I can count. But,” I looked down at my hands, “for the first time, Jack’s seeing someone right here in Summit View.” I looked back up to find my new attorney looking back at me. “I just can’t live like this anymore.”
Chris nodded, returning his attention to the pad. “Goldie, you’ve been married how many years?”
“Since 1975.” I watched him make a notation on a yellow legal pad.
“Only one child?”
“Yes.” Another jotting of notes.
“Can you tell me what Jack’s annual salary is?”
I gave him the figure from last year’s taxes. It probably wasn’t anything close to what an attorney brought in, but it had kept us comfortable all these years.
“Have you ever worked outside the home since you were married, Goldie?”
The Potluck Club Page 24
