by Susan Wiggs
“You already have,” Gwen assured him. “Those steps have been a hazard for years.” She stood to clear the table. “Brian, I’m going to need help with the dishes tonight.”
“Aw, Grammy—”
“And then I’ll need help popping the popcorn before the Sunday-night movie.”
He dragged a step stool over to the sink.
“Good night, Gwen, Brian,” said Rob, taking his hat from his back pocket. “I’ll be back in the morning to finish up.”
Twyla followed him outside, down the new steps into the yard. “You’re not finished?”
He turned, propping one hip on a sawhorse. His eyes never left her. “Not even close to finished.” Then he blinked as if he’d been disoriented. “Actually, the steps are done, but you need a railing.”
“I’ve never had a railing here. I think it fell off before I bought the place.”
“Probably violates some building code. I might as well do it right, Twyla, okay? Humor me. I don’t get to work with my hands too often.”
Everything he said seemed to have a double meaning. Everything reminded her of last night.
“Okay, so we need a railing,” she said.
“I’d hate to think of your mom losing her footing.”
Twyla hesitated, then lowered her voice and said, “She never comes down the stairs.” Catching the expression on his face, she said, “I’m not kidding, Rob.”
He held out his hand. “Come here. Walk with me.”
It felt good to touch him again, even if it was just holding hands. They headed down the slope to where his car was parked and stood together in the yard, watching the evening breeze stir the tire swing in the big oak tree.
“I know what you’re probably thinking about my mother,” Twyla said. “Everyone considers her a charming, bright lady, a good talker and a clear thinker. That’s why her agoraphobia is so strange, and so devastating. Everyone thinks that surely she’s not the sort of person who could be afflicted with some weird psychosis.”
“That’s more or less what I was thinking,” he admitted. “I did a psych rotation in med school. Anxiety disorders are pretty common, and your mother fits the profile. You probably know more about this than I do at this point, but I want you to know, it’s treatable.”
“I know that. So does Mom.” She shivered as the breeze drifted over her bare arms.
“Cold?”
“No, not really.” She strolled over to the swing and sat down. “Mom keeps saying she wants to seek treatment. She has some pills from our family practitioner, but I can’t force her to take them.”
Over at the house, a light came on in the window. In the gathering darkness, the place didn’t look so bad. You couldn’t see the peeling paint and warped boards. It appeared cozy and inviting. No one would ever guess that for Gwen McCabe, it was a prison.
“Maybe one reason this problem has gone on so long is that Mom is so rational, so grounded that her illness doesn’t seem real,” Twyla continued. Other than Sadie, Rob was the only person she’d ever felt like discussing this with.
“At first everyone simply called her a homebody. People came to see her rather than vice versa, and they phoned her. There didn’t seem to be anything strange about a middle-aged woman who stuck close to home. Sometimes I wonder if I inadvertently contributed to the problem.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I expected her to be there for Brian while I worked at the salon. It’s been the ideal arrangement. I’ve always been grateful to her for staying home, supporting me, having supper on the table after a long day. I praised her for being so available, the model grandma. It’s no joke that I’m the envy of the town’s working mothers because of Mom.”
She touched her foot to the ground to set the swing into slow motion. “Home cooking, homebody, stay-at-home mom, homemaker. The messages are everywhere, ever notice that?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither, until it became clear Mom had this problem. But society promotes the idea. It’s considered virtuous for a woman to stay home. On some level, Mom took this to the extreme. Now it’s gone on so long, I don’t know if she can jolt herself out of it.”
She kept the swing in motion, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. “Whew,” she said. “And you thought this was going to be your day of rest.”
“What do you mean?”
“First you had to fix the porch, and now you’re having to be my therapist. I’m not usually such a wreck, honest.”
“You’re not a wreck.” He took a step toward her. “And you’re not finished. You never explained how this problem started.”
Twyla bit her lip, but she knew she’d tell him. He was so easy to talk to. She had never known a man whose silent, solid presence she could trust, yet she trusted Rob. “It started when my father died.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and he said nothing, seeming to sense that she had to say more. “The lawsuit—the one Jake’s firm brought against him—wasn’t going well. Dad had borrowed way beyond his limit, and the only things he had of value were a policy on his crop duster and his life insurance.”
“Aw, damn, Twyla—”
When he spoke those words, she knew he’d figured out the truth. She stared at the ground, her chest tight with a grief that, at moments like this, felt as fresh and sharp as the day of his death.
“I don’t think he really meant to be so dramatic about it. He knew he was headed for bankruptcy because of the lawsuit. He saw a way to leave Mom with something before they took it all away.” She swallowed hard, trying to collect her thoughts. “What he didn’t realize is that he was all she needed. Not success or money or fine things.”
She looked into Rob’s face. “How could he have been so stupid?”
“Um, men get that way sometimes.”
She nodded, not about to disagree with him. “My father probably never even thought about the fact that Mom could see Lost Horse Mountain from the little window over her kitchen sink. She saw the accident, standing there, doing the breakfast dishes. I can’t imagine what that was like for her, watching him crash into the mountain while she’s washing his coffee cup.”
He took hold of the swing to stop its motion, then cradled her face between his hands. “Twyla, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“It was pretty awful, but it was ruled an accident, which is what he planned, I think. There’s a scar on the side of Lost Horse Mountain that marks his passing. The policy settled his debts and gave Mom and me a way to get out of Hell Creek.”
She felt his thumb skim over the ridge of her cheekbone, catching a tear and brushing it aside. “Thank God we were able to leave. Because everyone knew it was no accident. The talk was making me crazy.”
“That’s the real reason you didn’t want to go back, isn’t it?”
“It’s the main reason. But it’s been a long time. People found something else to talk about, and I managed to quit feeling responsible for everything that happened.” She reached up and took his hands from her face, holding them in hers. “I never thanked you for what you did. For taking me to the reunion, pretending I’d actually found some big important doctor to marry me. It meant a lot to me, Rob. Really.”
“Twyla, I said I wasn’t finished—”
“I know, we need a stair rail.” She took her hands from his and stood, walking toward his car. “Can you finish in time for your flight tomorrow?”
“Reilly’s opens early. I’ll need to pick up some things, and then I’ll be out here around eight.”
“I’m afraid I’ll already be at the salon. I like to get in early for the book work, and on Monday I do volunteer work. Brian’ll be at school—it’s the last week before summer vacation.” She managed to smile. “Mom’ll be here, though. You can count on that.”
She stopped at the driver’s door of the car. This was the best way to say goodbye, she told herself. Lingering and trying to make things last would simply prolong the inevitable. She rose up o
n tiptoe and kissed his cheek, keeping it brief even though she wanted to press her skin against his, to inhale that scent of expensive after-shave and honest sweat, to touch her lips to his—No. Time to step back into the real world.
“Thanks again, Rob,” she said, her voice quavering only the slightest bit.
When she tried to move away from the car, he blocked her, his arm coming up and planting itself against the roof. “Twyla,” he said, “about last night…”
She put two fingers gently against his mouth. “Hey, last night can mean…whatever you want it to mean.”
“Why don’t you ask me?”
Because I’m afraid to hear the answer.
“I don’t think you’ve decided yet.”
“Have you?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “Nope. But when I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.” She took a firm grip on his arm and moved it out of the way. “I’d better go inside, Rob. Good night. And thanks again.”
She could feel his eyes on her as she walked toward the house, but she didn’t turn. She wondered if he knew she lied. She knew exactly what last night meant to her.
Now she just had to think up what she was going to say to Mrs. Duckworth and Mrs. Spinelli.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROB TOLD HIMSELF he should know better, but after checking into the Starlite Motel, he headed straight for the Grill instead of phoning Lauren right away. A light fog of smoke layered the upper atmosphere of the old place, and attendance was sparse. He guessed that Sunday nights were not terribly busy at the Roadkill Grill.
He ordered a beer and had a seat at the bar, trying not to feel like some poor schmo in a country-and-western tune. He pretended great interest in the White Sox game on the flickering TV on a shelf above the bar, and barely noticed when someone slipped onto the stool beside him.
“Hey, Romeo. So how did the big weekend go?”
He turned to Stanley Fish, who sported a sunburn and a few days’ growth of beard. “Off the record?” Rob asked.
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t do this to me. I need a scoop.”
“Sorry, pal. There is no scoop, period. I went to this woman’s reunion, everybody thought she turned out great, and tomorrow I’m out of here.”
“So why’re you sitting in a bar crying in your beer?”
Rob rolled his eyes. “I’m watching the game.”
“You look as if you just lost your best friend. I can’t help but wonder why.”
“The Sox. They’re having a lousy season.”
“Right.” Stanley ordered a beer and a handful of darts for the English-pub-style dart board at the far end of the bar. “Up for a game?” he asked.
“Maybe later.”
Rob contemplated his life in Denver. He had a perfect woman and a lucrative job to go home to. He could forget about his plane ticket, drive all night and be there by morning. He should do it. There was nothing left for him here. Fixing the porch at Twyla’s house was just an excuse to hang around longer than he should.
It was nuts, completely nuts. His life was set. He’d had everything planned out from the time he was sixteen years old. He’d always been determined to make good. Determined to fill the hole left in his life the day his mother had walked away. To him, that meant marrying well, choosing someone stable and reliable, career-minded, popular. Someone like Lauren DeVane. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman—stylish, sophisticated, educated and polished.
But she wasn’t cute, fun and loving. She didn’t listen with her whole heart.
She wasn’t anything like Twyla McCabe.
Glumly, he took a sip of his beer. Twyla and her loopy mother and Brian were everything Rob had spent his whole life trying to forget and escape. Small-town working-class people with everyday struggles and plans that never amounted to more than daydreams. Spending time with Twyla had made him take another look around, and he knew his view was shallow.
Against his will, against all good sense, against the central core of his life’s plan, he felt drawn to her. Drawn to this woman who grew up in a trailer park, nurtured on the grandiose dreams of her reckless father. This woman who dyed hair for a living. This woman who loved her son and mother so much she’d given up her own dreams for them.
He kept trying to focus on Lauren and their plans and his future in Denver, but his heart tugged him in another direction—toward Twyla and the life he’d always been so determined to escape.
With quick, angry movements he drained his beer and went over to the dartboard, grabbing a handful of darts.
Stanley Fish stepped aside. “Change your mind?”
“Yeah,” said Rob, aiming the first dart. “I need to stab something.”
THAT NIGHT HE SLEPT poorly at the Starlite Motel in a room that smelled of ancient cigarette smoke and commercially laundered sheets. The flickering neon marquis outside threw a bluish glow between gaps in the drapes, adding a weird strobelike effect. Rob tried not to think, but the beer and dart games had failed him. Alert and restless, he didn’t do much more than doze off and on all night.
A couple of times he got up, even took out a road map and calculated the driving distance to Denver. Three hundred miles, maybe. He could have breakfast with Lauren.
But around 2:00 a.m. he folded up the road map. If he did that, he’d forever be haunted by Twyla and her broken-down house. Fixing the porch was something he had to do. There was probably an explanation in one of her many psychology books. The repair would give him some sort of closure so he could move on.
Right. And the moon was made of green cheese.
THE TOWN OF LIGHTNING Creek stirred to life early. Rob showered and shaved, dressing in a T-shirt and the old jeans Lauren wouldn’t let him wear in public. He stopped in at the Grill for a cup of coffee. By the time he saw who was in the booth next to him, it was too late to hide.
“Hey, Mrs. Duckworth,” he said, his smile both forced and casual. “Mrs. Spinelli.”
“Robert, we were hoping we’d run into you here,” Mrs. Duckworth said, carefully measuring a spoonful of sugar for her coffee.
“We want a report on the weekend,” Mrs. Spinelli said. “We want to know every detail.”
He nearly choked on a gulp of coffee. “It went fine, just fine,” he blurted out, trying not to stumble over the words. They regarded him as if they had X-ray vision, seeing that he had made love to Twyla…again and again.
“I did everything you told me to do,” he said, hoping they’d settle for that. “Took her horseback riding, gave her a present, acted like her fiancé at the reunion.”
“Was she the most beautiful woman there?”
“By far.” He didn’t even have to think about that one.
Mrs. Duckworth clasped her hands. “Oh, perfect. It sounds like Twyla got just what we wanted for her.”
And then some, Rob thought.
“So now what?” Mrs. Spinelli asked. “You’re going to want to see her again, aren’t you?”
“Well, actually, I, uh, I live in Denver, so it’d be sort of difficult,” he said, fumbling for words.
“You’ll have to come up on weekends, then,” Mrs. Duckworth said briskly.
Damn, thought Rob. These two wouldn’t give up. They were industrial-strength fairy godmothers. “Ma’am,” he said, “Twyla McCabe is a wonderful woman.”
“We knew you’d think so.”
“But the weekend’s over. We both live separate lives. We don’t plan on seeing each other again.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Spinelli said breezily. “You have to understand, Robert. We chose you. Not one of the other bachelors. You. Because we knew you would be the one.”
Rummaging in their purses, the ladies paid their tab and prepared to leave. As they stood, Mrs. Spinelli gave him a guileless smile. “We admit to shameless matchmaking, but the next step is up to you.”
Mrs. Duckworth fixed him with her steely-eyed stare. “A word to the wise, Robert,” she said. “Twyla McCabe means the world to us
. Don’t break her heart.” She closed her pocketbook with a decisive snap. “You always were a gifted student. You won’t blow it this time.”
He sat there, speechless, while his coffee got cold. They were batty, those two. Truly batty.
At Reilly’s store, he bought half a pound of finishing nails, a new saw blade to replace the rusty one he’d used yesterday, some treated pine balusters and a handrail, and a can of wood preservative.
He stopped in the motel office to check out. The desk clerk handed him a receipt and a folded pink slip. “You had a message yesterday, Dr. Carter.”
He glanced at the slip. The message was from Lauren. Seeing her name chilled him. “Change of plans,” the message read. “Let’s meet at the Fremonts’ place in Chugwater. Meet my flight in Casper—4:00 p.m.”
The fishing place was about a two hours’ drive south of Casper. Maybe in two hours he’d think up what he was going to say to her.
“Looks like you’re off to do a little carpentry,” the clerk said, peering curiously at the Cadillac. The car looked odd with red-flagged lumber sticking out of its half-closed trunk.
“A few repairs around the old McCabe place.”
“You must be a man of many talents.”
“Not nearly enough,” he said, getting into the car. “Not nearly enough.”
GWEN MCCABE GREETED HIM with a cup of hot coffee and a sticky bun that made him roll his eyes in ecstasy. “This could change my religion,” he said.
“I was just aiming to get that hungry look off your face.”
He wolfed down another one. “Come out on the porch and keep me company, Gwen.”
She hesitated, then picked up an oval-shaped hoop with a big quilt square stretched across it. “All right. I’ll work on quilting this section.”
He watched her closely, noting a slight tremor in her hand when she opened the screen door. She slid the painted wooden chair as close to the wall as it would go and took her sewing in her lap. Rob worked fast, sawing and hammering, making sure everything fit just right.
“You’re very good at that,” Gwen said.
