“It won’t be the same. I’ll miss you.”
“Thank you, Hudson. I think it’s better if we both move on with our personal lives.”
“I do want you to be happy.”
“I am. And I’ll be even happier once I have my little boy home. Thank you for the letter of reference.” They stopped by his car. Amalia slapped her gloves into her palm. “I’ll call you later. Good-bye.” She let him kiss her cheek, then waved farewell.
Whatever change had occurred in Hudson to cause him to stop insisting on their marriage had her cheering. He even supported her efforts to make a home for Bunty. She narrowed her eyes. His new attitude probably had more to do with one attractive shop owner named Charlotte Guthry rather than any real change of heart. Nevertheless, she was grateful for someone else to grab his attention. Even though Amalia could not marry him, she still wished for his happiness. She plugged her ears again with the sounds of the latest WOW tunes while she bagged the fallen silver maple leaves. Their musky tickle in her arms sent her back decades to the times she had jumped in the pile her father had made.
If she could figure out what to do about taking her own advice of moving on, she’d swoon with joy. One step at a time, girl. Bunty first. He’d probably love leaping in the leaves.
And drifting along beside loomed the constant question of Justice Campbell. The trouble shared by the siblings didn’t have anything to do with her. Nonetheless, she ached for Merit, and Prudence and Tom. Even if their brother came back into their lives, what kind of relationship could they salvage? Thanksgiving would be hard this year, knowing he stayed outside of their family on purpose, and maybe alone. Holiday season should be a time for families. Next year she could celebrate with her own little family, Bunty. She’d never hide anything from people she loved. Oh, please, Bunty has to be mine.
* * *
Amalia juggled her dish with one hand as she poked at the doorbell of Merit’s house. At eleven o’clock on Thanksgiving Day the sun shimmied from behind wispy clouds. There had been a worship service the evening before, which had been a joyful time of singing and sharing praises. Today would surely be happy, filled with good things. She looked forward to spending it in a house with children, even if they weren’t related to her. Good practice. She smiled as she heard Lawrence giggling inside and pounding feet running across the floor.
A flustered Prudence opened the door. “Portia, get down! Amalia, come in. Here, let me take that. Sweet potatoes. Oh, how yummy they smell. Tricia!”
Amalia went still with the first shock of all the commotion. She had been with Merit’s sister’s family plenty of times before, just not so…confined.
Prudence yelled to the dog, “Portia, no! Tricia, come take this dish to the kitchen, please!”
Lawrence appeared under Amalia’s arm. She rubbed his head. “Hey, buddy. Happy Thanksgiving. How are you?”
“Hungry.”
“Lawrence, take Amalia’s coat and hang it…oh, never mind. Here, Tricia.” Pru handed the dish to her daughter, who had appeared in garishly striped stocking feet, then grabbed Amalia’s coat.
Amalia watched Prudence stick her coat on a hanger and thrust it into the closet under the steps. “I don’t blame you, Lawrence. It smells fabulous in here.”
Prudence’s muffled voice said, “Merit’s out back, messing with the turkey. He decided to grill it this year. Sort of smoke it, I guess. Tom had this recipe. Men.”
“Hey, I say any kitchen duty men volunteer for is a good thing. That wall turned out fantastic.”
“Thanks.” Prudence smoothed her hair and grinned.
Amalia walked across the living room to the freshly painted wall opposite. “You did this yesterday?”
“Yup. I thought it would still smell like paint in here. Fortunately, we were able to have the windows open.”
“The speckling looks great.” Amalia fingered the darker gold-colored streaks that complimented the sage eggshell paint and made the room feel elegant without being pretentious. “Did Merit like it?”
“Merit thinks his sister is a wonder.”
Merit strode in, accompanied by a whiff of cold outdoors and smoke.
Pru whispered, “Don’t do anything that will change his mind.”
Amalia grinned at his apron, adorned with a cartoon turkey that held up a sign saying “Eat More Chicken.”
“I’m glad you could come, Amalia,” Merit said. “Happy Thanksgiving.” He stood there, staring at her, then caught her raised eyebrows at the apron.
Amalia’s lips twitched at his flush.
“It was a gift. I’m trying something new with the turkey. It’s out back.” He turned his shoulder and pointed toward the kitchen, though he did not stop looking at her. “Out there. Cooking.”
“Thank you for the invitation. It’s so nice to have a family to share the day.” Amalia closed her eyes and wished the Madras fault would choose this moment to burp. She opened them before she swayed. “I mean—”
Pru grabbed her shoulders in a hug. “We know. Come on, let’s see how Tricia did with the table.”
With a backward glance at Merit’s bemused expression, Amalia let herself be led from the room to the strains of Lawrence’s question. “Uncle Merit, is Amalia our aunt?”
Over the pretty dining table decorated with colored cut-out leaves and a filigree antique-looking candelabra, Amalia took a deep breath before looking at Prudence. “Oh, my goodness. I really put my foot in it.”
“Don’t worry. Merit can handle it. Lawrence is the king of awkward questions. Besides, I’d like the answer to be ‘yes’ myself.”
“Prudence.”
“What?” Pru looked up from where she’d been checking the water level in the centerpiece of yellow and rusty mums. “Don’t you like us?”
With a panicky look toward the living room, Amalia whispered, “Of course I like all of you.” Then she frowned at the table, which looked much too long, with too many place settings.
“Where should I put your casserole, Aunt Amalia?”
Mid mental count, Amalia tore herself away to see that Tricia stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a dish in her hands. “Lawrence won’t eat this,” she said, oblivious to Amalia’s distress and her mother’s giggles. “But Portia might. She already sniffed it.”
“What’s the matter?” Merit appeared, Lawrence in tow. He cast a narrow-eyed suspicious look on his laughing audience.
Amalia threw up her hands. “Nothing.”
“Girls,” he said. “C’mon, Lawrence. Us men are going to check the turkey.”
She watched with deep fondness as Lawrence tried to match his uncle’s strides on their way through the room, Merit’s hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
He should have children of his own someday, Amalia thought. Prudence’s smile was tender, agreeing in the unspoken way of kindred spirits. She would love to have a sister like Prudence.
A little while later, she stood at the kitchen window, watching Merit’s antics with the children and Portia and a chewed up yellow plastic flying disc. The grill smoked merrily. Behind her, inside at the battered wooden table, Pru whipped real cream for her pies. Amalia sipped mulled cider, filled with contentment and a sense of peace she had not known she missed. The years of dining out with Hudson on the holidays, then returning for dessert at his apartment to listen to music or watch a movie, were sterile compared to this generous atmosphere of love.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll answer,” Amalia called through the sound of the beaters. Pru nodded in agreement.
“Coming!” Amalia clattered in her heels through the hall to the front door. What a wonderful surprise. “Hi, Happy Thanksgiving, Marianne.” Merit must have planned this. If she hadn’t loved him before, she couldn’t deny it now. “How wonderful. I didn’t know you were coming. But now I understand the extra place setting.”
Marianne returned her greeting with her usual joyful hug.
“Please, come in. Prudence and the kids
are here, too.”
“Actually, I came to bring you someone.”
With a giggle and leap, Bunty dashed from behind Marianne and buried himself in Amalia’s arms. Thanksgiving hardly defined the day.
NINETEEN
“Time out a sec, okay?” Merit told Lawrence after his last toss of the disc. He had to check the turkey once more. It must be getting close to done. It sure smelled good. All right, anyway. Was the recipe right? He had soaked the bird in brine last night, just like Tom said. Should he use the thermometer yet to check the interior temperature? Where had he put it, anyway?
The porch door banged. Portia barked sharply, once. “What’s going on?” He rolled the lid back over the tantalizing turkey and turned toward the sound, still holding the fork.
Pru stood there, face wreathed in smiles.
“Look who’s here.” She gave a dramatic flourish to her left and then sped down the steps to his side.
Merit grinned. So his surprise worked out after all. “Hi, Marianne. Happy Thanksgiving. Did you bring the present?”
“I sure did.” Amalia and Bunty appeared next.
“We’ve got more company, Uncle Merit!” Lawrence shouted. “Goody! Another boy. That’s two boys, Tricia. Only one girl.”
“Very good, Merit,” Prudence whispered.
Merit gave her a rueful smile and endured his sister’s pinch. “I did it for her.”
Amalia appeared to be in the throes of deep emotion. She had her cheek against the little boy’s hair. Bunty held onto her with a vice grip. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. How hard would it be when they had to separate again? Couldn’t he ever get things right? He should have asked Pru what she thought. “Pru—”
“It’ll be fine,” she whispered back, with that strange connection he both appreciated and feared. “Watch them. Enjoy your gift.”
He clasped the fork with numb fingers and did what she suggested.
Bunty finally loosened his hold when Portia cautiously sniffed at his shoe. He wriggled and Amalia set him down. “Be gentle,” she said. She showed him how to hold his hand out and let Portia give an experimental lick. Merit smiled automatically when Bunty gave a high-pitched shrieking giggle, then petted Portia’s side.
Lawrence had gone to stand on the other side of Portia, where he cautiously added his ministrations to that of Bunty.
Pru clapped her hands. “Let’s go inside. It’s chilly out here. And I think we’re close to dinner time.”
Tricia put her hands on her little hips and sassed. “Now I know why I had to set extra places.”
* * *
Later, when the turkey had been reduced to a carcass, they sprawled in the living room, talking. Merit watched as though this day had been recorded on film and he sat in a theater. Amalia fed the children pumpkin pie as they sat on a blanket.
Bunty stayed attached to Amalia during the whole visit. Merit wondered if the little guy realized he had to go back. Amalia kept her eyes glued to the child. He wondered what it had been like for her, growing up with older parents and no siblings. Probably a lot more quiet than this. Lawrence put down his fork, halfway through his dessert, and yawned. He wandered over to climb on Merit’s lap, where he soon began to breathe heavily and regularly, deep in six-year-old dreamland.
Merit looked at Bunty, now equally zonked out on Amalia’s lap. Merit knew her well enough by now to see the pain and sadness in her eyes, knowing that Bunty would have to leave. “How long can you stay?” Merit asked Marianne.
“I said I would probably return tonight to Chicago,” Marianne said quietly. “Saari, Bunty’s cousin, said I should call if we wanted…would be staying overnight.”
Prudence stood up. “You call, then.”
Merit pursed his mouth. Didn’t anyone want to ask him what he thought? They were in his house. It might be better if they took Bunty away now. Merit didn’t want to wake up to a problem. Pru knew the consequences. Why’d she put her foot in now? “Do we have—”
“We’ll work it out,” Pru cut in, with a glare. “For goodness’ sakes, let them have some time together.” Prudence plucked her son away from Merit, leaving him with a cold emptiness against his stomach. “Time for bed. Come, Trish.”
Merit caught Amalia’s expression of panic. She had been silent as a church mouse during the whole evening. “What do you want to do?” he asked her, aching for her when he saw her arms tighten around the sleeping child. He stood. “We can talk about this more in the morning. You’ll stay here, please. The guest suite is ready.”
“You’ve got your first missionary family coming to stay on Monday,” Amalia protested.
“I have plenty of time to get ready for that,” Merit said. “It’s only Thursday.” He smiled at her, though he didn’t feel particularly joyful, even if it meant waking up knowing Amalia slept near. “Things will work out.”
“Can I take Bunty back to my house?” Amalia asked.
Merit flicked a look of surprise at Marianne.
“I won’t run away with him,” Amalia said.
Marianne made some phone calls and ended up staying the weekend, announcing she and Bunty would return to Chicago on Sunday after church.
“I’m due for a vacation, anyway,” she said. “My mom’s in California, and that’s too far for a weekend. Thanks for putting me up.”
The sleepy little boy accepted the trip to Amalia’s house, as long as he had her close.
* * *
After the Sunday service, Pru helped serve lunch at Merit’s house. While they ate Pru’s turkey tetrazzini, she directed the conversation. “Marianne, tell us how you happened to help the refugees in Chicago.”
Merit wondered about that himself. He also hoped to hear more about Justice, anything at all about him, like what his little brother was like now he’d grown up. Had he turned out authoritative, shy, difficult, or easy to work with? Things Merit couldn’t bring himself to ask outright.
“Marianne is a gem,” Amalia said. “She’s been so helpful working with me and the authorities to get my foster license.”
The little boy sat up and beamed. “Malia my mother.”
Maybe, Merit thought. It’s a long shot. Who would be more hurt if things didn’t work out? The child or Amalia? Paul Dal’Chindri had called the office yesterday to discuss the refugee situation. The Nehrangesi government had set up a camp in Charderani, the capital city, and many of the families who’d found temporary shelter in the US were willing to go there, even though they had to wait to get to their homes. Merit asked about the status of Bunty.
As Merit feared, the Nehrangesi were not willing to give up their native sons so easily. With more refugees coming down the mountains daily in search of food and aid, records were alarmingly out of date. The government refused to acknowledge more than a hundred official deaths due to the earthquake and Bunty’s family had not been listed. Amalia needed to know, but how could he bring himself to break her heart? Keeping him for the weekend had been a big mistake, one he knew he’d regret in so many ways.
TWENTY
Amalia thought Merit seemed unusually subdued that Sunday afternoon. She and Bunty had been invited for Sunday dinner after church. Did he usually act like a tired-out dishrag after a busy weekend and preaching? Taking care of a congregation must be more work than she imagined. Thank heavens Prudence single-handedly kept the conversation from resting six feet under.
As she sat at the dining table, Amalia wondered how she would feel if she’d suddenly had her quiet life filled with people, even if just for the weekend. But they were family. The idea of “family” took on new meaning. She had lived with the concept of helping families and friends deal with the little details surrounding death and sorrow, and had gone through it with her own parents, but she had never experienced the uncertainty of not knowing what happened, like missing soldiers. Missing…like Justice. Like Bunty had been. Amalia closed her eyes for a moment to relive those terrifying hours. Then she heard him say “Mother.” Sh
e smiled and stroked his head.
But Bunty… the real gift. Oh, how she wanted to snatch him up and run until they were as lost as Justice. How could she say good-bye to Bunty now, after having him as her own little boy for the past three days? Bathing and dressing and finding out what he liked to eat? Watching him stare at television, mouthing new English words, seeing him sing with gusto in church that morning? She had bought him a little blue denim duffle bag in which to pack his new clothes and the toothbrush she had purchased for the unexpected weekend. Marianne kept quiet this morning, as well.
It would be a long ride back to Chicago with an unhappy little boy. She’d better get her act together and do all she could to make sure Bunty knew she would never send him away for good, that they’d be together again soon. And to be good for Marianne.
Amalia flashed through her too-short weekend memories: staying in on Black Friday—what an awful name—to avoid shopping crowds to play with the kids. Going to the Mendota Historical Society children’s day on Saturday where she watched Bunty cheerfully decorate ornaments and jabber at other children. Visiting Jordyn at the shop where he stopped petting Miss Priss long enough to taste raspberry jam. Letting him go off to Sunday school in the company of other little boys and girls this morning—her heart in her mouth in case he got lost or scared. Seeing Merit’s reassuring smile while she sat in his adult discussion class, barely able to concentrate. She could not remember what the topic had been.
All her thoughts were focused on the past weekend. Being Bunty’s mommy felt so natural. She refused to consider how she would feel tonight, with her house empty again. At least Merit had families with whom he could identify, other missionaries like him, coming soon, and a whole church family who needed him constantly. She had no one but clients.
The Last Detail Page 19
