Chapter Seven
Late Friday morning Wyatt dumped a huge dose of cream into his coffee at The Depot. He was muttering to himself when the pastor walked up next to him.
“Tough day at the merry-go-round?” Pastor Newton joked.
Wyatt snapped the to-go lid onto his coffee, not necessarily in a rush to head back to the still-broken mechanism next door. “You could say that.”
The pastor nodded toward an open booth in the train-car-turned-coffee-shop. “Got a minute?”
“Me?” Never one to hang out at Wander Community Church, Wyatt nevertheless liked the congregation’s pastor. He’d always found Newton down-to-earth, surprisingly funny and devoid of the gossipy nature too many of the town’s residents had. The pastor treated him as a neighbor—which he was—without regard to his church attendance or lack thereof.
Dad and Pauline, on the other hand, never missed an opportunity to remind him that he was the only Walker not to regularly fill a pew. Wyatt still believed in God, it was just church—or rather the attitudes of some churchgoers—that kept his faith on a private scale.
Wyatt’s obvious balk brought a laugh from the reverend. “Yeah, you.”
Even though he wasn’t keen on being suddenly singled out by the good pastor, Wyatt opted to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “Maybe a break’s not such a bad idea.” He gestured toward the window that overlooked the entrance to the carousel building. “That thing over there’s driving me nuts.”
“Seems to me,” Newton said as he slid into one side of the booth with his own coffee, “folks have been pretty quick to be annoyed it isn’t fixed yet and in no hurry to thank you for trying.”
That’s exactly how Wyatt felt. No one else was lining up to tinker with the finicky old machine, but loads of people were ready to complain how slow he’d been to get it up and running. “Um...yeah.” Where was this conversation heading? “So...?”
“So I just wanted to make sure I said thanks for trying.”
No one had ever bothered to say that. In fact, most people treated his offer to help as if it were long overdue. Wyatt Walker finally acts like a Walker. The rebel son far overdrawn on his account of community service finally pays up.
“I have to ask. Why did you? Offer to try to fix it, I mean. No offense, but volunteering isn’t exactly your style.”
Even Wyatt had no solid reason why he’d stepped up when he did. “Distraction, I suppose.”
“Seems to me you’ve had quite the talent for finding distractions. Why this one now?”
“Come on, Rev. You know things haven’t been so smooth between Dad and me lately. Oh, he’ll tell you it’s resolved. Even Chaz will tell you it all worked out in the end. And I suppose it has.” Wyatt sat back in the booth. “Settled doesn’t always mean settled, you know?”
“You don’t think your father has forgiven you for not wanting to take over the ranch?”
“Let’s just say I’m learning forgiveness isn’t the same thing as not being disappointed. Then again, I’ve made a career out of disappointing Dad, so it’s hard to see why this one gets special attention.” He’d already said way more than he planned to admit. Did pastors have some sort of secret method to getting things out of people like this?
“Your dad would be proud of you if you fixed the carousel.”
Wyatt took a large swig of coffee to hide how close to home that statement struck. “Well, I haven’t fixed it yet, so we’re still firmly in Camp Disappointment at the moment.” Maybe that was the reason his father’s impatience irked him more than all the other complaints the Carousel Committee was lobbing his way. “It’s a carnival ride, for crying out loud. Lives aren’t hanging in the balance.”
Newton nodded. “Sometimes people turn a little thing into a big thing for reasons even they don’t understand. Still, I’m impressed you decided to give the good-deed thing a try.”
Wyatt gazed over toward the Out of Order sign that felt like it was hanging around his neck instead of on the building door. “It’s not working out so good so far.”
The pastor gave a small laugh. “Everybody knows no good deed goes unpunished.” When Wyatt gave him an incredulous look, he said, “Believe it or not, I do hear my fair share of grousing in my job.”
Right there was the thing Wyatt most liked about Bob Newton. He never pretended to be anything but human. He’d never thought about it, but pastors had to have bad or trying days just like everybody else. Maybe, given the expectations he’d barely glimpsed in his temporary stint as the Carousel Man, more than everybody else. “Huh,” Wyatt replied, not quite sure how to respond.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. Most days. But church—like the rest of the world—is populated by humans. And humans, well, they tend to get it wrong. A lot.”
Being one of those people accused of getting it wrong a lot, Wyatt definitely didn’t know how to respond to that. He opted for his usual diversionary tactic, a wisecrack. “Hey, if it were a perfect world, you’d be out of a job.”
The pastor took the crack in stride. “Good point. But it’s also why I try not to miss an opportunity to say a word of encouragement when someone gets it right. Or is at least trying to.” With a hint of a smile, he added, “Even if they don’t show up in church often.”
“Or ever,” Wyatt felt compelled to amend. In fact, the last two times he’d been in a church weren’t even in Wander. It was in Matrimony Valley for Dad’s wedding, and again for Chaz’s to Yvonne.
“I prefer to say hardly ever so far. I mean, I have to keep trying. It’s in the pastor handbook.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Dad, Pauline, Chaz and Yvonne keep trying.” He thought he owed Newton at least a shred of explanation. “Look, I’m just not a Sunday-morning-church kind of guy. God is real to me. He’s just way more real to me in a clear mountain sky than in any hymnbook or stale old prayer.” He realized those were rather sharp words, and added, “No offense. I’m sure your prayers are as fresh as Yvonne’s doughnuts.”
Newton laughed. “Now there’s a compliment I’ve never received before. From someone who would have no way of knowing, even. Speaking of which, the other reason I came over was to pass along a high compliment someone paid you the other day.” Wyatt raised an eyebrow. People weren’t in the habit of paying him compliments. Well, outside of women on dates, that is. He fielded plenty of praise then.
Newton pulled a paper from his pocket, opening it up on the table to reveal a brightly colored children’s drawing. Mr. Wyatt was scrawled in unsteady hand on the top, the r and y both backward, as were two letters in the signature “Margie” on the bottom. What the spelling and handwriting lacked, the artwork had in spades. The sheer adorableness of it tightened his throat, and he took another drink of coffee to cover the reaction.
“Margie started in our school prep program last week,” the pastor went on. “In fact, Marilyn enrolled Margie in our dyslexic kids tutoring program the day after she moved back.”
That was some kind of reading thing, wasn’t it? Mixed-up letters and such? “Nice drawing,” he said as Newton slid the paper toward him across the table. It was, actually. Not that he was any kind of judge, but it seemed well done for someone of her age. The man in the drawing actually looked a bit like him, not just some stick figure standing next to the garage’s tow truck.
“She went on and on about you in the child care program when Marilyn was at church for the Solos single parent Bible study,” Newton continued. “You made quite an impression. And, well, she might have said one or two things that let me know fixing the carousel hadn’t been the easiest of jobs.”
Wyatt gulped, wondering what inappropriate slipups he’d made in front of the girls. Clearly he needed more precautions than the lines of yellow tape he’d laid down on the garage floor to guide them where it was okay for them to stand and walk.
“Relax,” the pastor replied to his
expression. “Kids are keen observers, that’s all. I mostly read between the lines. And figured someone ought to come and say thanks for all the time you’re putting in to fix that thing.”
Wyatt couldn’t deny it was good to hear. No one had made any show of gratitude for the dozens of hours he’d spent in that red barn trying to coax those vintage gears back to operation. If anyone did talk to him about the carousel, it never strayed beyond some form of “When are you going to have it fixed?”
“Much appreciated,” Wyatt managed to sputter out, genuinely surprised. “I do hate that it’s not running yet, you know. No one seems to believe that.”
“I expect you do,” Newton agreed. “Margie and Maddie told me you promised them the first ride when you did get it to work. That’s a nice thing to do to a newcomer to town. Anyone who makes a child feel special is a good guy in my book.”
Wyatt managed a laugh. “Well, now, I’ve been called a lot of things in my day. But I gotta say, good guy is hardly ever one of them.”
“Everybody’s gotta start somewhere.” He expected Newton to circle back to how good guys should go to church, but he didn’t. He just smiled toward the drawing. “You keep that. Put it on your fridge or your office wall and look at it when the gripes get a bit much. That kind of thing always works for me.”
Wyatt remembered Yvonne saying something about how one wall in the pastor’s office was filled with children’s drawings. She’d left paper and crayons out in the bakery and often posted pictures up, as well.
The pastor finished his coffee and stood. “Well, it’s been a good talk. I’ll let you get back to it, Carousel Man.”
For the first time, the unwanted title didn’t stick in Wyatt’s craw. Instead, Wyatt just stared at the man in the drawing and picked a spot on the shop refrigerator to hang it up. Any defense against the growing complaints was worth a shot.
* * *
Marilyn sat in her bedroom late Sunday evening and stared at the box of photos. She’d put the task off all weekend, dreading it. She tried to spend a little time each weekend downsizing their things from the large Denver house. Whatever home they settled on next wouldn’t be nearly as large. The furniture had been easy to pare down, and Dad had helped her move the pieces she wanted to keep into storage while they lived here.
It was the mementos, the huge mound of photos and keepsakes and souvenirs, that posed the biggest challenge. So much grief and regret came washing back up anytime she tried to sort through them. She’d made a long list of small steps, tackling the overwhelming project in tiny bites. It drove her crazy that it wasn’t yet done, but she couldn’t seem to make herself accomplish it any faster. It cost too much to hold and view these things. She had to space it out or it would swallow her whole.
Late at night seemed the worst time to do such a thing, and yet she couldn’t bear to do it in front of the girls. She was, after all, preparing their memories of their father. She had purchased three boxes: one for Margie, one for Maddie and one for her. Of course they had videos—Landon had loved to take videos, and his cell phone and computer were full of them—but there was something so potent about touching a photo, holding a little trinket from a state park, or the postcard from a vacation spot. She wanted to fill these boxes and give the girls wonderful, vivid memories. Her own had become so muddied and complex that filling these boxes, painful as it was, had become nearly an obsession.
Since they’d gone to the carousel for birthday rides every year since the girls were born, that seemed like the happiest place to start.
The first birthday photo showed a chubby baby girl on each of their laps as they sat in the hippopotamus chair. Mom or Dad must have taken the photo. We look so happy. All that hope and promise. The bittersweet lump in her throat was difficult, but not unbearable. In fact, the image looked so far from what her final months with Landon had been like that it was almost like looking at some other family. Landon looked affectionate and attentive. That, as much as the time stamp and the girls’ young age, dated the photograph.
As a sort of painful visual experiment, Marilyn laid out the six years of photographs in a timeline. She knew what she might see, but it stung to have her suspicions verified. Even there, on their daughters’ special day, Landon’s wandering attention was on full display. By the third photo he wasn’t looking into their happy faces. By the fifth photo he wasn’t even looking in their direction. The photograph showed her face watching how his gaze was directed elsewhere. Does my face look like that all the time? Do my daughters see that weary resignation every day? The answer drove her to tears.
It took twenty minutes to find a pair of photographs from recent years where Landon was looking at one or both of his daughters. And despite searching through the entire collection, she could find only one of Landon looking at her. Some newspaper articles showed a carefully crafted family image—beautifully dressed wife, shiny-cheeked girls in pigtails and matching outfits—but she saw only coldness in Landon’s eyes. If his hand was on her waist, it was only to turn her in a certain direction. If he whispered to her, it was to instruct, not compliment.
Was it really that bad? Was grief just tilting her viewpoint to see things that weren’t there? Drumming up evidence for the shameful lack of loss she felt? Justifying the inexcusable numbness that wore the edges off her newly widowed days?
The lids made a soft whoosh, an exhaling sound, as they slid onto the boxes. The girls had photos of their birthdays, and their father was in each photo. That would never happen again, so these couldn’t be anything but precious. Promise me, Lord, that they won’t see what I see, Marilyn prayed as she slid the trio of boxes up onto the top shelf of her closet next to the other box, her very private locked box, the box no one would ever see.
Promise me they’ll just see happy birthdays. Happy memories. Little girls should never doubt that their daddies love them.
Wives, on the other hand, could have a whole universe of doubt about husbands.
Chapter Eight
Wyatt smiled to himself Monday morning. Victory!
The three orders he’d placed—or more precisely the three car parts orders that Marilyn had helped him place—arrived. Correct.
Finally, something went his way in running the garage. The package from Albany was due in later today, as well. If that gear for the carousel motor came in right, he’d declare it an all-out triumph. It might just be the part to get it going. How good it would feel to pull that lever and watch the carousel slowly whirl to life. To make the call inviting Margie and Maddie to have their first ride on their chosen animals. Maybe even Marilyn, too. For that matter, he’d even join in on the celebratory ride—Mr. Carousel atop an eagle of victory.
“Well, look at you!” A familiar voice pulled him from the happy vision. “What’s got you grinning?”
Wyatt walked over to clasp Manny’s bony shoulder. “I could say the same thing about you.” Manny was, in fact, wearing the closest thing to a smile Wyatt had seen from him in weeks. “Peggy doing better?”
“Some and sort of.” It was Manny’s peculiar phrase that roughly translated to “about what I expected.” He leaned in. “I think she’s faking it. Well, partly.”
Wyatt raised in eyebrow. Peggy Stewart was a no-nonsense sort of woman who’d put up with a lot over the years. Faking it wasn’t in her vocabulary. “Oh, I doubt that.”
Manny shrugged. “I worry she’s getting used to having me home.”
Manny was well past the age many men retired. It wasn’t a stretch to think that Peggy enjoyed not having to share him with the garage. “Well, hey, is that so bad?”
“Some and sort of.” He looked around the place. “I worry about here.”
“No need.” Wyatt gestured to the impressive piles neatly organized on the desk. The whole garage felt—and looked—more orderly than it had ever been since he’d been in charge. “Look around. I got it covered, old man.” A sur
ge of pride rose up through him to be able to say it and mean it. To be able to set Manny’s mind at ease. Forget cupcakes and coffee, he’d owe Marilyn a whole cake for this moment. “Mike’s picking his truck up today.” He didn’t hold back his proud grin. “A whole day earlier than we promised.”
Manny looked so pleased. And relieved. “Oh, don’t let ’em get used to that.”
“Your helpers are here!” came the cry of two small voices behind them.
Manny turned to see Margie and Maddie, complete with pink and purple backpacks, trotting into the garage bay. Wyatt watched them carefully stay within the yellow tape he’d set down the other day so that the girls stayed safely away from all the machinery of the shop.
Manny scratched his chin as he took it all in: the girls, their pronouncement, the tape and finally their mother walking in behind them. “Well, now that might just explain everything.” With a mischievous smirk, he added, “Sort of.”
“I’m Maddie.” Wyatt watched the girl extend the same confident handshake she had to him on the day they first met.
“Hello, Maddie,” Manny replied, shaking hands. “I’m Manny.”
“Mr. Stewart to you,” Marilyn amended.
“Manny’s fine, really.” The old man turned to Margie. “So who are you?”
“Margie.” No explanation or embellishment. That was Margie. Peggy would like her, Wyatt thought.
“Marilyn Sofitel,” Marilyn offered before Wyatt could remember his manners and make an introduction.
Manny shook her hand. “Marilyn, Margie, Maddie and Manny. We’re a bunch of Ms, the lot of us.”
“’Cept for Mr. Wyatt,” Maddie said.
“I’ve always liked to stand out,” Wyatt said.
The girls walked over to the table Wyatt had cleared for them on their first visit, settling in as if they owned the place.
“You been hiring staff while I’ve been gone?” Manny made a face. “How’ll they reach the hose on the air compressor?”
Their Wander Canyon Wish Page 7
