by Karen Harter
Oh, where was that love? Where was the passion that could fill her like this, so intensely beautiful that it almost hurt? She tried to think about Jack. She would see him tomorrow. But at the moment all she could envision when she closed her eyes was the mysteriously brooding face of Alex Estrada. Music could do that to people. Any woman would be drawn to him at this moment in this perfect atmosphere, she reminded herself. She knew better than to succumb to fleeting emotions. This attraction was physical just as it had been with Dodge. And the music. Another common thread. Dodge had been incredibly gifted, with a voice and mannerisms that wooed women like smooth, rich chocolate. Unwelcome tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes.
The song ended, leaving Sidney swaying near the edge of an emotional cliff. It was time to go home; she sensed it with a sudden urgency. Reaching for a lunch napkin from the table beside her, she dabbed at her eyes in an attempt to blot up the evidence before anyone could see what a sap she was.
The gentle strumming of Alex’s guitar caused her to cast a covert glance his way. His gaze was locked on her face—the first time their eyes had met all day—and for a long second, neither of them looked away.
22
MILLARD SHOWED UP on Sidney’s doorstep at precisely one o’clock. The Seattle Seahawks/Dallas Cowboys game was already tuned in on the television. She hugged Millard, took his jacket, and steered him toward her most comfortable chair, the green wing back. Rebecca and Sissy had already claimed the sofa, saving the middle section for their new hero, Jack, who had not yet arrived.
“Hello, young ladies,” he said as he lowered himself into the chair. He sat erect, his hands placed awkwardly on his knees.
“Hi, Mr. Bradbury,” they replied politely almost in unison. They quietly stared at him as he glanced around the room, nodding from time to time at nothing in particular. Apparently the girls had never made conversation with the old man before.
Sidney wasn’t sure how to put him at ease, but food seemed like a good icebreaker. She brought out a tray of spiraled cream cheese roll-ups. “How about being my first taste-tester, Millard?”
“Oh, glad to.” He plucked one from the tray, but an edge unraveled and it fell to the floor. “Oh!”
“My fault, Millard.” She bent to snatch it from the carpet. So did Millard. Their heads bonked together and Sidney, losing her balance, landed on her backside. The girls, of course, found this hilarious. Sidney chortled too as she and Millard rubbed their heads. “I’m sorry,” she said amid gales of laughter as she picked herself up off the floor. Millard’s face went from startled to the slow spread of an unnatural smile. He forced a couple of chuckles, obviously still grasping for the humor in it all.
“I forgot the little plates!” she said in apology as she left the room.
“Where’s Jack, Mom?” Sissy asked when she returned.
Sidney presented Millard with a plate and napkin along with a glass of cold cider. She was wondering the same thing, more uncomfortable with every passing moment that she did not see Jack’s dark SUV in the drive. It didn’t seem like him to miss the opening kickoff of the game. “Well, I don’t know. He must have been held up in traffic.” There was little traffic to speak of on the highway between Dunbar and Ham Bone on a Sunday afternoon unless somebody’s cows got out and were playing chicken with the cars on the road.
“Our friend Jack is supposed to join us today, Millard,” she said. “I think you’ll like him. He’s a big Seahawks fan. Actually, he likes any game that involves a ball or a puck.”
“He took us bowling,” Sissy said. “My ball went backward,” she added with a giggle, “so he made me do push-ups.”
“If you get a gutter ball, he makes you kiss his feet.” Rebecca seemed fine with that concept. Fortunately, there was still plenty of time to shape her little mind before it sank in too far.
“Oh, well,” Millard said in mock alarm, “I don’t know that I’d like to go bowling with him.” He leaned forward to look down the hallway. “Where’s Tyson today?”
“He’ll be out in a minute.” Sidney hoped, anyway. “He just wanted to finish up a computer game.”
The football players on the screen had begun their usual scrambling and tumbling. Sidney had little interest, though it occurred to her that she had better develop some if she ever wanted to have something in common with Jack. Sissy asked which players they were rooting for and Millard pointed out the dark blue Seahawks uniforms. Rebecca shared her mother’s lack of passion for the game. She started reading her latest girl sleuth book while craning her neck toward the window every minute or two looking for Jack.
He showed up at the end of the first quarter. Sidney acted nonchalant, accepting his grocery bag full of chips and soda cheerily with no questions. It was something she had learned to do during the Dodge days. No questions, no arguments or lies. Besides, she had no claim on Jack Mellon’s life. He and Millard introduced themselves, and the girls eagerly beckoned him to his assigned seat between them on the sofa. He sat down, knocking the girls’ heads together as they protested with loud giggles, and then he flashed a wink at Sidney.
Sissy patted Jack’s arm. “Can you come to our play? I’m a pumpkin in the pumpkin patch. Becca’s just a bus driver. She has to talk and stuff, but the pumpkins dance. You wanna see?”
While Sissy twirled, shooting her arms dynamically back and forth across her chest, Sidney went into the kitchen, pouring Jack’s bag of greasy potato chips into a bowl, warily regarding the log of summer sausage in her hand as if it were a grenade that some suspicious stranger said was disarmed and perfectly safe. She sighed in resignation, sliced the log into disks of fatty, hormone-fed beef and chemicals, and arranged them on a plate around a ramekin of mustard.
At the sound of shouts and yelps from the other room, she smiled. A football game on a Sunday afternoon. It brought comforting childhood memories of her dad. This was what life was all about. Family, friends, and fun. But Tyson was still in his room.
She marched down the hall and peeked into his doorway. “Hey, why don’t you come out and join us?”
His swivel chair twisted toward her. “I don’t really like football, Mom.”
“I know. I don’t either—yet. But I think I’ll learn to like it. I just haven’t taken the time.”
“Well, I already like this game.” The primitive characters on his computer screen were busily building their own civilization, harvesting resources, constructing houses and fortresses with the ultimate goal, it seemed, of going to war.
“Millard has been asking about you. And Jack is here now. He’d really like to get to know you again.”
At this he swiveled his chair so that his back was to her again. “Why? Is he planning on sticking around for a while this time?” There was a bitter edge to his question.
She didn’t know how to answer that. “Maybe. I really don’t know, Ty. We’re good friends. Let’s just see where it goes.”
“Not interested.”
“Tyson Holyfield Walker! Snap out of it! I’m not asking you to do anything weird here. Just come out and be a part of this family.” Her anger surprised her. She turned on her heels and started out the door, pausing at the threshold. “For heaven’s sake, there’s food out there. Come out for that if nothing else.”
He did wander out about five minutes later. Jack stood and leaned across the coffee table with an extended hand. “Hey, buddy. How are ya? Man, you’ve grown!” Ty shook his hand and Jack slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You look like you could take me now.”
Ty glanced fleetingly at Millard as if somehow embarrassed by the comment and scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
Rebecca and Sissy had lost interest in the football game, so Ty took the empty spot on the end of the sofa nearest Millard, propping his sock-covered feet on the edge of the hand-painted red coffee table. Sidney was on the other side of Jack, her feet pulled up and her chin resting on her knees. She caught Ty’s eye, giving him a subtle Mona Lisa smile. His mouth did that th
ing that was supposed to be an acknowledging smile but couldn’t seem to get the corners of his lips to pull into anything but a straight line. In their own dysfunctional communication style, Sidney knew they had just made amends.
Millard leaned forward, slapping the arm of his chair. “Oh, for crying out loud!”
“Let’s get some defense in there!” Jack shouted. A minute later, both men were laughing and hooting as a Seahawks player intercepted a Cowboys pass.
Sidney tried to stay focused. She could learn this game. She knew she could. Normally she would be baking and cooking on a Sunday afternoon, getting healthy foods ready for the week to come. But Jack was beside her, the answer to her prayers, right where she wanted him. What would it be like to have him there every Sunday afternoon? Sissy and Becca adored him; there was no problem there. And Ty—he would come around. She imagined the comfort of coming home to a husband at night. A good man at the head of their dinner table. A man in her bed. It had been so long.
She glanced at his profile. His eyes were so blue, set into a pleasant face with an easy grin. He was not a head-turner, not until you got to know him. But she was not the only woman drawn to him. It was a miracle that he had made it to thirty-two without being snatched up. She liked to think it was because of her. Maybe he compared other women but they just couldn’t measure up. Then again, maybe God had put an invisible fence around him to save him for when Sidney came to her senses. He had been meant for her all along.
An unsettling sound permeated her reverie. A noisy car laboring up the hill. Her heart went cold. Dodge? Oh, please, not today. Not any day. She had hoped that his vow to move back to Ham Bone to be a “family man” was as empty of true intention as all his other promises, but there had been something in his tone. She was afraid he meant this one. Well, he was not welcome in this house. She glanced at Jack, wondering if he could take her ex-husband. He was buff, but a bit of a teddy bear. He’d probably invite Dodge in, sit him down, and proceed to update him on all the plays he had missed.
Sidney sighed as the unfamiliar car rattled by without stopping.
Jack placed his hand on her knee, leaning into her. “I have something to show you at halftime.”
She perked up in anticipation. “What is it?”
His eyes were suddenly riveted back on the game. He leaned forward as a blue uniform pushed its way down the field, and then leaned back with a disappointed sigh as the player was crushed and buried beneath an avalanche of bodies. “You’ll see,” he mumbled as if he had that quickly forgotten about her.
“How much math did you get done yesterday, Tyson?” Millard asked.
Ty shook his head, swallowing a mouthful of cream cheese pinwheel. “Nothing. I had to work all day. I put in almost eight hours.” He reached for a handful of carrots. “Got the ramp almost done. We’re forming up concrete next week.” Sidney noted the pride in his voice.
“I’ve got some tools if you need them. I poured my walkway years ago and haven’t used them since.” Millard’s brows drew together in thought. “I think I’ve got an old tool belt out in the garage that you could use, too.”
Ty nodded. “Yeah. That would be great. I won’t have to stand around waiting so much if I have my own stuff.” He spun a coaster around and around on the top of a pen. Ty’s hands were usually busy doing something—anything. “My history assignment is so stupid. I hate history.”
Millard scoffed indignantly. “No, you don’t. You don’t even know what history is.”
Ty reached under the coffee table and grabbed his history textbook from the lower tier. He opened it at random and started reading. “On July 12, 1812, General Hull’s forces crossed into Canada at Sandwich. The invasion was quickly stopped and American forces were forced to withdraw. By August 16, Hull surrendered Detroit.” He snapped the book closed as if confident that he had made his point. “Boring. The only interesting thing is the sandwich.”
“That’s history as I remember it,” Jack added. “Boring with a capital B.” Sidney elbowed him and he grimaced apologetically.
“Ah, the War of 1812,” Millard said. “That was between the United States and Great Britain—ended in a stalemate.” He tapped his large foot on the floor. Sidney hadn’t realized they made Velcro-closing shoes for adults. “Does anyone here know how Ham Bone got its name?”
“No,” Sidney said. “I’ve always wondered that.”
Jack peeled his eyes away from the game, slathered mustard on a cracker laden with two slices of sausage, and leaned toward the old man.
“Back in 1879 there wasn’t much more than trees here. It was just miles and miles of wilderness spreading from Winger Valley up and over these mountains and beyond. A man named Bill Dangle heard there was gold up this way—everyone called him Silver because his hair went pale gray when he was twenty-one. He came upriver by canoe and started sluicing over there on Wolf Creek. He did okay, but it turned out that the trees were his gold mine. He bought land and timber rights and started his own logging business, cutting down native cedars as big around as school buses. I imagine that when they dropped, the ground shook like buses were falling out of the sky.” Millard stared off at the crack in the ceiling, bushy brows drawn together in thought, his watery eyes as blue as the sea off a desert island. “Silver built himself a sawmill and then a house. His sawmill provided railroad ties to the rail line, which brought more and more people up this way. Silver Dangle, being the businessman that he was, built the Silver Dangle Hotel and Saloon—you may have heard of that—and then a general store. In the meantime, other houses and businesses were popping up all around him.”
Sissy and Rebecca had been lying on their stomachs on the dining room floor and playing a board game. Rebecca rolled onto one elbow, regarding Millard with interest. Duke rested near the sofa, enjoying a back massage from his young master’s feet. The second quarter of the Seahawks game had ended but nobody moved.
“Well,” Millard went on, “old Silver Dangle had just about everything, but he was lonely. His friends kept telling him he should find himself a wife, but there were no unmarried women to speak of around here at that time.” He raised his brows. “No good women anyway, if you know what I mean. So he got himself a dog, a big, multicolored mutt that turned out to be useless for hunting and did nothing but sprawl out on the board porch between the store and the saloon all day. He wasn’t good company either from what I hear. The only person he’d wag his scraggly tail for was Sara Jenkins, the cook at the saloon who tossed him a bone every now and then.”
“Were you there?” Sissy asked.
Ty snickered. “That was back in the old days. He’d have to be about 150 or something.”
“No, I wasn’t there, but I got all this from a good source.”
“Was Silver Dangle still lonely?” Rebecca asked.
Millard nodded his head with a sad frown. “Terribly. You know what he finally did? He sent away for what they called a mail-order bride.”
“I know what that is,” Rebecca said.
“Yeah,” Jack laughed, “a blind date that never ends.”
“Exactly. In Silver’s case it was the blind date from hell. Actually she came from West Virginia. A little bit of a spinster woman named Victoria, all decked out in ruffles and ribbons and curls. Silver was immediately smitten but Victoria made no attempt to hide her contempt. It seemed that she had assumed a man who owned as much real estate and business holdings as William Dangle would greet her in proper businessman’s attire instead of worn canvas pants and a plaid shirt with red suspenders.” Millard leaned toward the girls dramatically. “And those were his Sunday best.” He shook his head as if the whole thing was a shame, and Sissy mimicked him, the same concerned expression on her face. “I guess Silver hadn’t sent a photo with his ad, because Victoria was shocked by his long white hair and mustache. She accused him of lying about his age in the newspaper ad that said he was only thirty-six, which he swore was true. She never did believe him, though. She wouldn’t call him Silver
like everyone else, either. Mr. Dangle, it was, even after they were married.”
“What does this have to do with Ham Bone?” Ty asked with his arms folded warily across his chest.
“Oh. Well, with the population of the village growing the way it was, it came time to set up a post office. But he had to give his little town a name. Dangle seemed right to him, especially since he was the founder. But Victoria was fit to be tied. Dangle, she said, was a silly name with no beauty or sophistication to it at all. Victoria, on the other hand, was regal. She insisted that the town be named after her. The woman went so far as to sneak into Silver’s desk one night and scratch the name Dangle from the petition to the postal service and fill in her own. Then she sealed up the envelope.”
Rebecca gasped. Sidney and Jack exchanged amused glances.
“But when the permit arrived from the government—it came through a post office in a neighboring town—everyone was shocked to learn that the official name of their new town was Ham Bone. Ham Bone, Washington.”
“Why?”
“It seems Silver opened the envelope to the Postal Service just to make sure before he sent it off. Ham Bone was the name of Silver Dangle’s mangy old dog.”
There were titters of laughter around the room. Ty smirked.
“Apparently the dog was better company than she was,” Jack said.
Millard sat back, placing his arms squarely on the arms of his chair. “Now that’s history,” he said, looking squarely at Ty.
“Do you know any more histories?” Sissy had crawled up to the foot of Millard’s chair.
He laughed. “Honey, I’m a walking, talking history book. I’ve lived through the Great Depression; my father saw three men murdered during the lumber industry strike in the mid-1930s. I can tell you stories about presidents and politics and war. I fought in the Korean War. Have you studied about that?”
“He flew an F-86 Sabre,” Ty added. “Tell about shooting down those MiGs.”
