A Year of Extraordinary Moments (A Magnolia Grove Novel)

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  41

  Alice DeLuca

  Today the pain was worse than ever, and it forced me to come to grips with the reality of how little time I have left. When Dr. Willoughby first told me the cancer was back, he said six months, and in an odd way, that seemed to be enough. Now I’m looking at weeks, maybe days, and I’m feeling a sense of panic.

  I thought it would be a simple thing to get my affairs in order, but life is so much more complicated than we realize. It’s not one long stretch of time that starts on the day you’re born and ends on the day you die; it’s a collection of meaningful moments with spots of happiness and sorrow in between.

  Looking back, I know some of the most meaningful moments flew by with me not taking enough time to truly appreciate them. The day I first held Dorothy to my breast, I was so worried about doing it right I couldn’t let myself relax and enjoy the moment. The same is true of the day I married Joe. It was what I wanted, yet I stood there wondering if he would ever love me as I did him. It seems that the truly memorable moments, the ones that shape your life, are often a mix of pleasure and pain. That held true even on the day I met Lucas. I fell in love with the child right from the start, but loving him also meant knowing Dominic had lied to me.

  There are other moments, ones most people would consider too small to qualify, but I can look back on those and know there was nothing but pure joy in them. Charlie holding my hand in his, Daddy DeLuca hugging me tight to his chest, Lila baking her special lemon cake because she knew it was my favorite. Those are the special, everyday moments the Lord Himself hands down to you.

  The sad part is, I’ve sometimes wasted too many of those moments trying to convince myself that what I wanted to believe was the truth. Now that I’m here at the eleventh hour, I can look back and see more clearly: Joe never did have Daddy DeLuca’s goodness in his heart, and neither does Dominic. Lucas does, though; I’m almost certain of it. I realized that the first time I saw him.

  Hopefully it’s not too late for me to make things right. Now that I know what I need to do, I pray the Good Lord will give me enough time to take care of it before He calls me home.

  42

  The Appointment

  Alice heard the rooster crow but remained in bed. The pain in her back was excruciating, and her legs felt as if they were weighted with something too heavy to move. Between the slats in the blinds, she could see the first rays of dawn creeping into the sky. She watched until the sun cleared the horizon, then she pushed through her pain and climbed out of bed.

  Instead of pulling on a bathrobe and heading downstairs for a cup of coffee as she usually did, she dressed; it would save a trip back up the stairs. Although the forecaster had promised a day in the eighties, she chose wool slacks and a sweater. As a young woman she’d worn sundresses and cotton frocks well into November, but now she was always cold. Even when the Georgia sun blazed so hot that men pulled out handkerchiefs and mopped their brows, she felt a chill on the back of her neck or goose bumps rising up on her arms.

  Today was the day she would do what she had to do, the thing she’d been putting off for all these weeks. Once downstairs, she poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table. Dr. Willoughby warned she had to force herself to eat, but today she couldn’t stand even the thought of plain toast.

  Maybe later, after this is done and over with.

  When the cup was empty, she poured another half cup, then wrapped her hands around the mug to warm them. She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. The office didn’t open until nine o’clock. If she called earlier, the machine would answer, and she dreaded talking to the machine.

  To be on the safe side, she waited until 9:02, then dialed the number for the office of McGinley & Hudson. Years ago, Sandra always answered the phone. She’d take a moment to ask how Alice was doing. Now there was a new girl, one who answered in a sharp, hurried voice and wasted no time on chitchat.

  “This is Alice DeLuca. I’d like to meet with Mr. McGinley today.”

  “Hold on, and I’ll check if he’s available.”

  In the background, Alice heard a muffled conversation; then the girl came back and said the only availability he had was at eleven.

  “That’s fine,” Alice replied.

  Her next phone call was to Charlie. “I have an eleven o’clock appointment.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at ten thirty.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Alice said, “Come earlier if you can. We’ll have a cup of coffee together.”

  “Is Dominic there?”

  “Sleeping. It was another late night, so he won’t be up before noon.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He’d been expecting her call, and, like Alice, he was already dressed.

  Earlier, she’d reheated yesterday’s coffee; it was good enough for her but not for Charlie. She poured the last of it down the drain, set a fresh pot on to brew, and filled a wicker basket with corn muffins she’d brought home from the market.

  Once the table was set, she stood by the front window, watching for Charlie’s car. On the off chance that Dominic might wake up, it would be better if Charlie didn’t ring the bell. When she saw his car coming down the drive, she stepped onto the porch and waited. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, then followed her back to the kitchen.

  They sat for a while, talking softly and taking small sips of coffee. Charlie helped himself to a muffin and spread butter on it. After he’d taken the first bite, he grinned.

  “These are good but not the same as yours.”

  Alice gave a sad smile. “I haven’t baked for weeks. Maybe tomorrow, if I’m feeling better . . .”

  She knew tomorrow would be no better, but it wasn’t a thought she was willing to voice. It was happening, and there was little she could do about it. Dr. Willoughby had suggested morphine to dull the pain, but so far she’d resisted it. The drug made her groggy, and she lost track of time. Time was the one thing she couldn’t afford to lose—not a single day, not even a minute.

  43

  McGinley & Hudson

  When they arrived at the lawyer’s, Alice followed Matthew McGinley back to his office, and Charlie sat in the waiting room. He took a Bloomberg Businessweek from the table and leafed through the pages; not that he was interested in the pipeline coming in from Canada or a recycling method for used tires. He was too worried about Alice to focus on any of those things. He’d noticed the way she winced when she moved from one spot to another, and he’d seen her skin growing more yellow with each passing day.

  Alice sat across from Matthew McGinley and explained what she wanted to do. He nodded and made notes, just as his father had done years earlier.

  “I can set it up,” he said, “but are you sure about your decision?”

  Alice gave a sorrowful nod. “I’ve thought about it long and hard, and it isn’t an easy choice, but I think it’s what Daddy DeLuca would have wanted.”

  When she stood to leave, Alice felt her heart banging against her chest and her knees threatening to give way. Charlie had been keeping his eye on the door, so when he saw her come out, he tossed the magazine aside and hurried over.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Just tired.”

  That afternoon, instead of going back to the farm, Charlie bought a carry-out order of sandwiches and colas, then drove to the lake. With the sun warm on their shoulders, they rolled the windows down and sat in the car watching the ducks on the pond. Once Alice had calmed herself, Charlie handed her a sandwich, and she ate almost half of it.

  She didn’t miss her handbag until she had need of a pain pill. That’s when she realized she’d left it sitting alongside the chair in Matthew McGinley’s office.

  It was almost one when Pamela Rose, Mr. McGinley’s secretary, spotted the purse sitting on the floor. She recognized it as belonging to Alice DeLuca. Scooping it up, she carried it back to her own desk, then ca
lled the farm.

  Nursing a worse-than-usual hangover, Dominic was sitting at the kitchen table when the phone rang. Figuring it to be another telemarketer, he sat there and let it ring five times without answering. It stopped, then started up again a minute later. This time he answered on the third ring.

  “Is this the DeLuca household?” Pamela asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, good, for a minute I thought I had the wrong number in the file. May I please speak with Alice?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Oh.” There was a moment of hesitation, then Pamela said, “Can you please give her a message? Tell her she left her purse in Mr. McGinley’s office but not to worry, I have it.”

  Brushing the cobwebs from his brain, Dominic asked, “She left what where?”

  “Her purse. She left it in Mr. McGinley’s office.” When there was only silence on the other end, she added, “Of McGinley and Hudson.”

  More silence.

  “Okay, then, let me give you my phone number, and she can just call me.”

  “Hold on. I gotta get something to write this down.” Searching for a pencil, Dominic pulled open the kitchen drawer where Alice kept an assortment of papers and junk. He rummaged through until he found a ballpoint pen, then wrote Pamela’s number on an envelope he took from the drawer.

  It wasn’t until after he hung up that he noticed the envelope’s return address.

  “Tompkins Investigative Services? What’s she doing with . . .” He pulled the report from the envelope.

  For the next half hour, he sat there, reading and rereading the report. It was not good. It as much as said that although his name was not on the birth certificate, it was probable that Dominic was Lucas’s father.

  “Shit,” he grumbled. He folded the report, slid it back into the envelope, and returned it to the drawer.

  Was it possible she’d done what she threatened—changed her will and left the farm to Lucas?

  Stomping back and forth across the kitchen floor, he railed against such a thought, arguing aloud that Lucas was just a kid who didn’t deserve what rightly belonged to him. After several minutes, he came to the conclusion that he needed to find out exactly what she was up to. He looked at the envelope again and dialed the number he’d written.

  “McGinley and Hudson.”

  “Say that again. Who’s this?”

  “It’s the law office of McGinley and Hudson. Do you know who—”

  Dominic slammed the receiver down, now certain she’d done precisely what she’d threatened.

  He was counting on that money; it was as good as in his pocket. Now he had to contend with this. Well, if she changed the will once, she could change it back. All he had to do was figure out a way to prove he deserved it.

  Right now his head was fuzzy. He needed a drink. He could think a lot better if he had a drink; a pick-me-up just to get him going. Yanking the kitchen cupboards open, he pushed aside containers of oatmeal, bread crumbs, and canned peaches, looking for whiskey. Didn’t older people keep a bottle around for medicinal purposes?

  After several minutes of searching, he gave up and dialed Broom’s number. Broom had a half-ass job working at the junkyard. He made next to nothing, but he knew how to skim off the top, and he could come and go as he wanted.

  “Meet me for a drink,” Dominic said.

  “Don’t you gotta work today?”

  “Screw work. I gotta take care of something more important.”

  Broom hemmed and hawed, then finally said he’d be at Murphy’s in twenty minutes.

  “Bring your thinking cap,” Dominic said, then hung up.

  44

  The Plan

  By the time Broom got to Murphy’s, Dominic had already polished off two bourbons. With his chin dropped down onto his chest, he stared at the empty glass and moaned, “I got unbelievable problems.”

  Broom ordered a beer, then asked, “You wanna talk about it?”

  Dominic nodded, then told about the private investigator’s report and how he feared his grandma was going to do what she’d threatened. He waved to the bartender and ordered another drink.

  “The kid is five years old,” he said with a groan. “What the hell is a five-year-old gonna do with a farm?”

  Broom sucked down a swig of beer and sat there for a moment before answering. “Maybe his mama’s gonna sell it and let the kid use the money for college. My sister got a divorce settlement, and she—”

  Dominic turned with a look of disgust. “Shut your idiot face. I was just thinking out loud. You think I really give a rat’s ass about what he can or can’t do with the money?”

  “Well, you said—”

  “Shit, Broom, you ain’t even got half a brain. The point is that the money from selling that farm is supposed to belong to me, not the kid. I gotta come up with an idea to make her change her mind back.”

  They sat there for a long time, commiserating over the turn of events and unable to come up with a way to get around the situation.

  Broom picked at the stubble of his beard. “As far as I can see, you’re screwed unless you make your grandma believe you’re more deserving of the place.”

  “No shit, Einstein. How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Maybe say you and Tracy are getting back together. Tell her you’re doing it because of the kid.”

  Dominic rolled his eyes. “You think she’s gonna believe it after the story I fed her last time?”

  “She might if she saw you and Tracy together.”

  “Forget it. Me and Tracy are done.”

  “Yeah, well, then I guess you and the money from the farm are done, too.”

  They sat there for another five minutes with Dominic nervously drumming his fingers against the bar and Broom staring down at the half-empty beer glass.

  “Does Tracy know about this?” Broom finally asked.

  “Know about what?”

  “That your grandma is gonna give the farm to her kid?”

  Dominic shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  Broom gave a wide grin that showed where his eyetooth was missing. “That’s good, ’cause then she ain’t gonna be suspicious. Just tell Tracy you’re going crazy without her, and you wanna get back together. Say you’re concerned about the kid not having a father.”

  “What are you, insane? I don’t wanna get back with her, and I sure as hell don’t want the responsibility of that kid.”

  “Dummy, this ain’t for real. Pretend long enough to convince your grandma. Then, when you get the farm, break it off.”

  Dominic thought back to years earlier, how Tracy had left everything behind and gone off to Philadelphia with him. If she’d loved him that much then, there was a possibility she still might.

  “If I can get her to believe me, that could work . . .”

  They bounced the idea around for a while, and, after almost two hours of passing it back and forth, decided the best approach would be to convince Tracy he’d changed, was interested in Lucas’s future, and wanted to get married. If she bought that, then he’d invite them to dinner at the house and let Alice see for herself. He figured that would be enough to convince her that he should be the one to inherit the farm.

  The following morning, Dominic was up early. He showered, shaved, and came down to breakfast before nine thirty.

  Alice smiled. “Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “Yeah, Grandma, I’m sorry about sleeping late so often; I guess this gas station job is harder than I thought it would be.”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. “I probably ought to give up working there. You know, maybe fix up Grandpa’s tractor and plant something in the south field next summer.”

  Alice looked across with a raised eyebrow. “Plant what?” she asked.

  Dominic shrugged. “Peanuts or maybe tobacco.”

  He waited for her to pick up on the conversation so he could follow her lead, but she ju
st sat there looking down at a half cup of coffee.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.” He hesitated for a few moments, then added, “Especially about times I’ve been less than truthful.”

  Maybe if Dominic wasn’t so much like Joe, such a statement would have been believable, but given the circumstances, Alice had her doubts.

  “Less than truthful about what?”

  “Lucas being my son.” He buried his face in his palms and shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m not proud of how I acted, but I’m trying to fix it.”

  Just then a sharp pain snapped across Alice’s back.

  “Likely as not, it’s too late,” she said wearily, then got up from the table, limped into the living room, and lowered herself into the recliner. The thought that even now, even with the end already in sight, Dominic still chose to lie to her was like a great stone dropped down on her chest. Alice pushed back in the chair and closed her eyes to hold back the tears.

  45

  Alice DeLuca

  The pain is something fierce. I try to move past it, but sometimes doing that is almost impossible. Dr. Willoughby has given me pills, but they don’t help much anymore. It might be time for the morphine, even though it makes your brain so cloudy you give up on living.

  I need to keep my wits about me, at least until I finalize the last few details of what I’m about to do. Agatha Parsons, a woman who sang in the choir at church, was a widow like me. She died the summer before last and left a terrible mess behind. Her children and grandchildren squabbled over every stick of furniture in the house, and they actually got into a fistfight when it came to dividing up the little bit of jewelry she had. That happened because she didn’t have a will and didn’t leave so much as a note saying what her wishes were. Agatha was sick for nearly a year before she passed, and I keep wondering if in all that time she didn’t think to mention what she wanted her sister, Matilda, to have or if she intended her wedding band to be given to her oldest daughter.