Desert Gift

by Sally John

  Jill bit her tongue some more. She hated these new complexities. What was Jack thinking not to see Connor after all these months?

  “Voilà!” Connor held up an unbroken strand of apple peel. “Four more to go.”

  “Con, you know Grandma will have a different recipe for this tomorrow. She makes them up as she goes along.”

  “Yeah, she told me, but I made her write down the basics. What is it with her and pies anyway?”

  “Aunt Viv and I think it’s her way of showing she cares. She puts a lot of energy into her baking and then offers it to everyone.” Jill sat on a stool, less energetic than she wanted to admit, and began slicing apples. “Unfortunately if you don’t eat her pie, she gets offended and thinks you don’t love her.”

  “She seemed fine when Emma only ate a little.”

  “That’s because Emma is your fiancée and young and beautiful. Grandma would understand that she wants to keep her figure for you and so she wouldn’t take it personally.”

  “You really think that?”

  “I’ve known your grandmother for a long time and—”

  “No, I mean about Emma. You think she’s beautiful?”

  “Of course. She looks like a model. Her skin is flawless. Her French accent is lovely-sounding as well as a lovely expression of her willingness to enter your world of English, which means she adores you. She seemed confident and kind.” Jill peeked at him through her eyelashes, wondering how open she could be with him. “All that said, I don’t like her.”

  Connor grinned. “Now you’re bluffing.”

  “Mostly.” She sighed. “First your father leaves me and before I can get used to that situation, you leave me. Yes, it’s irrational. I mean, you’re supposed to leave and cleave but my first reaction is sss!” She made a catlike hiss and clawed the air. “I’m being replaced by another woman.”

  “Yes! There is a God.” His eyes twinkled.

  She laughed. “You probably wanted me replaced long ago.”

  “Only now and then.” His grin softened. “I’m glad you think she’s beautiful.”

  She studied him for a moment. His long fingers worked gracefully with the fruit. He had Jack’s hands, an artist’s hands. “Connor, beauty attracts beauty. You would not want to marry someone with a shriveled-up heart.”

  “Thanks.” He scooped the parings into the trash bin. “Mom, uh, about Dad. Is he, you know, uh . . . ?”

  “Seeing someone?” Jill slid the bowl of sliced apples toward him. “I don’t think so.”

  “I hope not.”

  She shrugged. If another woman had replaced her in that relationship, Jill would just want to sit down and die. “I am happy you found Emma. I promise to be nice to her the next time we meet.”

  “You are such a wise woman.”

  “Ha-ha. Now show me how you pick up that dough and put it in the pie pan.”

  He proceeded to do so without a misstep. “So what are you going to do in place of baking pies when you get old and gray and need to feel the love?” He poured sugar on the apple slices, sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg, not measuring a thing. Then he began to mix it all with his hands.

  She said, “I doubt I’ll bake. I do like to talk. I could start a new show. A call-in format.” Jill lowered her voice to its soft radio tone. “Call 1-800-L-U-V-F-E-S-T. Tell me how wonderful I am and I’ll tell you how wonderful you are.”

  Connor laughed so hard he clutched the edge of the counter and tears ran down his cheeks.

  She hadn’t seen him do that in such a long time.

  It reminded her that they had indeed laughed together during his growing-up years. There had been joyful moments of connectedness between mother and child. Maybe there weren’t enough of them to cast a rosy glow on the fact that she had smothered him with instruction, and yet they were, without a doubt, real.

  Even as she had returned to her mother, Connor had returned to her. Like her, he needed a good dose of God’s compassionate, motherly side. Come to Me and I will give you rest.

  She prayed that, like her, he would receive it from a not-so-ideal mommy in human form.

  Chapter 43

  “Your mother what?” Jack nearly yelled into the phone. “She quit?”

  “Chill out, Dad.” Connor chuckled. “It’s not a money issue, is it?”

  “No, it’s not a money issue.” Jill’s income was slotted for special vacations and rainy days, neither of which had yet occurred. Two frugal workaholics did not cruise, nor did they have time to put up with rain. “It’s just—what about her class?”

  “That too. She’s not going back to teaching either.”

  “How can she give all this up?”

  “It’s all temporary. She really does sound fine with taking a break. You know she could use one.”

  “But these things are her life.”

  “Like she said to me, when you factor in a marriage on the rocks, there’s not a whole lot she has to offer on the subject.”

  “She said that?” A load of guilt hovered over his head yet again, ready to dump on him. It was his fault that she was doing this.

  “Dad, I’m not blaming you.”

  “I did get the ball rolling.” He tried to hit a neutral tone. “I’m sorry, Con. You’re in the middle of a major mess here.”

  “Dad.” There was a gentle reprimand in his tone. “You guys have to let me in. I’m a big boy now.”

  Jack looked at the photo on his desk, a favorite that he never managed to replace with one more recent. Connor was five, his blond hair almost white. His chubby hand gripped a fat crayon, his face intent on the sketchbook in his lap. Jack even recalled what the little boy had said after he’d taken the shot. “Mommy says I can be an artist.”

  Mommy says . . .

  Jill says patients will love me. Jill says I exude trustworthiness. Jill says . . .

  Jill said a lot.

  “So what do you think, Dad?” Connor asked. “Dinner here tonight? Talk wedding?”

  “Your mom’s okay with that?”

  “It was her idea. We have apple pie.”

  Jack chuckled. “Anything else?”

  “Takeout?”

  “I’ll bring dinner.”

  * * *

  Jack carried a cardboard box through the front door and felt ridiculous. They should have gone out to a restaurant.

  Connor shut the door behind him, sniffing. “I don’t smell dinner.”

  “We have to bake it.” He set the box on the floor and hugged his son for a silent moment. Seven months was a long, long time. He chucked Connor’s shoulders, let go, and looked up to make eye contact. “You’ve grown.”

  “My waist has. It’s the pasta.” He grinned and bent to pick up the box.

  Jack glanced around the living room. All the lamps were lit. The giant clock’s pendulum banged out its ticktock. Classic rock music rumbled in from the kitchen stereo.

  The hen was back in her roost.

  His feelings—which usually did not register so quickly—went from embarrassment about bringing a casserole into his own home to resentment for being put in such a predicament to tension, as if every nerve in his body were being stretched to the point of snapping.

  It was that rubber band sensation. He hadn’t experienced it in . . . weeks.

  This is not good.

  Jack blew out a breath. He followed Connor into the kitchen, chitchatting, catching up. As they unpacked food containers from the carton, Jill walked in.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Connor let out a low whistle. “Awkward moment between the ’rents.”

  Jill cocked her head to one side.

  Jack shrugged.

  He wondered if Jill’s masklike face mirrored his own. They were two strangers standing in a kitchen packed full of shared memories, with the child they had reared together, with no idea how to relate to one another. The thought hit him again as it had weeks before, just after he’d made his awful pronouncement: what had he done?
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  Connor lifted the casserole lid and peered at Jack’s tuna and noodle concoction. “Mm. Nice, Dad.”

  Jill peered over his shoulder. “Your favorite.” She flashed a smile at Jack.

  Okay. With their son between them, they could be normal.

  “Uh.” Connor wore a sheepish expression. “Well. Hm. Awkward moment between the kid and his amazingly thoughtful dad, the gourmet cook who could have whipped up boeuf bourguignon in between seeing patients.”

  Jack said, “You always loved this dish.”

  “Actually I always said that just because I preferred it over the boxed gunk Mom made.”

  Jill snickered. Connor grinned. Jack grimaced.

  Connor said, “It’s not that I totally dislike it, Dad. Thank you for a homemade meal. I really do appreciate it.”

  “Do you want pizza?”

  “I’ll run down to Giorgio’s. Pickup is faster than delivery.” He bounded off.

  Jill said, “I had no idea that wasn’t his favorite dinner. Shall we talk while he’s gone? We probably need to set some parameters for wedding planning.”

  Jack sighed.

  “What?” she said.

  The sigh must have been loud. “Nothing.”

  “Please don’t say ‘nothing.’ That gets us nowhere. What did the groan mean?”

  He nearly groaned again.

  “Jack.”

  He held up a finger and closed his eyes. He wanted Connor gone before they went any further. When he heard the front door shut, he looked at her.

  And almost gave up being forthright.

  Jill was the best friend he had ever had. She was still pretty, her voice still sensual. He liked her casual hairstyle. What did she call it? Sassy. It suited her. Her blue eyes, focused on his face, still produced a flood of longing in him.

  Then she opened her mouth.

  “Jack.” The voice went from sensual into clipped command mode.

  “It meant,” he said, “that I am tired of you micromanaging.”

  “Micromanaging? All I said was—”

  “What you always say. ‘Let’s do it this way, Jack. Let’s get a system going here so I can document it. Then I can use it later. You don’t mind, do you, Jack? I’ll just jot a few notes while we talk. Or turn on my handy-dandy palm-size voice-activated recorder.’”

  She blinked.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but hasn’t that been our life for the past ten years or so? Every single thing we do is like a scientific experiment. We eat, talk, entertain, argue, watch a movie, and make love in a laboratory. You set the parameters and take notes. I’m the rat finding his way through the maze. Or not.”

  “You never said you minded.”

  “And Connor never said he minded tuna and noodles.” He paused. “He didn’t know it was a big deal until he comes home after months away, finds a casserole made in his honor, and feels cheated.”

  “You cannot compare tuna to marriage.”

  He felt his jaw drop. “You compared seven recipes to marriage and had it published! Your radio program is called Recipes for Marriage!”

  She frowned. “That’s different.”

  Jack went on. “I didn’t know living in a lab was a big deal until I read about my sex life in a nationwide chain bookstore!”

  “That’s what this is all about? I mention candlelight and music—highly common romantic ambience enhancers, by the way—in the same sentence with your name, which I might add you signed off on, and you want a divorce?”

  “No.” He searched for words and calmed his voice. “No. It was the car accident. I was listening to the station. Heard your ad for the book. I opened the window because I was so upset I was suffocating. I started driving around, going too fast on the ice. And then I slid through the intersection and cracked my head.”

  “You’re upset about the ad?”

  “No. I’m upset because when I heard your voice, I realized that this is not what I signed up for.”

  “Me on the radio?”

  “You’re not doing it right.”

  “Not doing what right?”

  “You’re supposed to be listening, not interrupting and reacting while I’m trying to explain something.”

  “Yeah, well, this is us, not some fabricated scenario to toss out as an example on how to communicate.”

  “Exactly.” He folded his arms and wished he could undo the smug set of his mouth, but he couldn’t help it. She had just talked herself into a corner by agreeing with him.

  Jill glared at him.

  Neither one of them spoke.

  At last she said, “What didn’t you sign up for?”

  “A wife who has all the answers. Who rates every situation and person as right or wrong, perfect or imperfect. Even me. I can’t keep up with you anymore. I don’t want to.”

  “We need to see a counselor.”

  “So he can tell me what I’ve been hearing all along? We’ve got the communication skills down pat, Jill. We’ve practiced them ad nauseam. I could run them in my sleep.”

  “But you never told me this stuff!”

  “I didn’t know this stuff until now. Something snapped after my accident. I needed time to figure out what was going on. The way I see it, we’ve totally missed the real game of marriage, of life together.”

  “Then we figure out how to find it now!” She sounded too hyper.

  He bit back a smart remark about how that effort would be nice fodder for new material. “Jill, you’ve grown into an important communicator. Even if you only talk to your Sunday school ladies, you need to be out there just the way you are.”

  “I’m a wife first!”

  “Who has all the answers and a husband who doesn’t want to hear them any longer. You have my permission to blame this all on me. Your teaching isn’t wrong.”

  “Then why are we at this point?”

  Jack forced himself to breathe deeply. He looked around the kitchen, at the doorways leading to other rooms, to the garage. It was a good home, overflowing with memories, twentysome years of family and friends, joys and difficulties and simple everydayness.

  Where and when had their paths diverged?

  He said, “We’re here because in all our talking, we lost each other. We lost our friendship. And that, I think, is what the goal should have been from the beginning.”

  Jill spun on her heel and marched from the room.

  Jack leaned against the counter. He had just spoken his mind without first running his thoughts by that little voice that always told him what Jill wanted to hear.

  It felt . . . oddly freeing.

  Chapter 44

  “Viv.” Jill lay down on her bed, phone at her ear. “Viv!”

  Her sister’s response remained a muffled weeping.

  Jill blinked back her own tears. “Hey, the empathy is appreciated but it’s not what I need right now!”

  Viv sniffed loudly. “You need to talk to a counselor instead of me. I thought you liked your pastor. Call him.”

  Jill had just relayed the entire evening to her sister. Jack’s awful declaration that they’d lost their friendship. Poor Connor’s anxious looks at them during dinner. Jack’s upbeat attitude and ability to eat pizza while Jill nursed a throbbing headache.

  Jill said, “I can’t call him, Viv. He’ll tell me Jack’s right. I don’t want to hear that. And the fact is, Jack’s right.”

  “Yes, hon, but he’s also wrong. You’re right and wrong as well. Why don’t you both just fess up? You’ve shown major disrespect and he has been a wimp. I mean, you can be a self-righteous prig and you are hard to love, but that’s Jack’s job and he quit on it. He should’ve told you when you went too far, when he felt like he was a lab rat.”

  “He said he didn’t know until his accident, almost six weeks ago.”

  “That’s just when he admitted it. He could ignore it because he checked out ages ago when he should have been paying attention.”

  “I pushed him away.”


  “Don’t take all the blame. Marty pushed me away when he kept prioritizing work and sports ahead of me, when he stopped really seeing me. But I’m the one who decided to have an affair.”

  Jill winced. Jack had pushed her away and she had looked at Ty Wilkins differently.

  Viv said, “Stop the blame game. Both of you need to admit you’re wrong, forgive each other, and get back to it.”

  “He doesn’t want to get back to it.”

  “Then get on your knees, girl. Only God can change Jack’s mind.” Viv chuckled. “I read that in a book. It had something to do with Rockin’ Roast.”

  Jill burst into fresh tears. How could she have been so flippantly ignorant?

  * * *

  The following morning, Jill and Connor chatted while he drove them through a neighborhood not far from their own. A pewter-colored March sky seemed to touch the rooftops, threatening to unleash another round of snow.

  “Good grief, this weather!” she said. “I miss the desert. And I’ve never felt that in all the twenty-five years I’ve lived in the Midwest.”

  “You do have a few things on your mind, Mom.” He glanced at the GPS. “Promise not to freak out.”

  “Why is it I think you’re going to add one more thing to my mind?”

  He smiled and turned into a parking lot. “’Cause I know you.”

  Jill looked out the window at slushy concrete, bare trees, a lovely old stone wall, and a sign. She blinked but the words did not change. Grace Community Church. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “The rival,” Connor whispered in a furtive tone and turned off the engine.

  She cleared her throat and met his gaze. “There’s no such thing as rival churches.”

  “Are you sure?” He kept his voice hushed and his brow furrowed. “Their youth department has always been larger than ours. Kids from all over the city go here.”

  Jill squirmed. At one time, there had been hard feelings at her church about teens switching over to GCC. Connor visited with his friends as often as she allowed it, which wasn’t often.