Come Back to Me Page 8

  13

  So Damn Lucky

  Alan pushed the shovel toward the edge of the driveway, not wanting to deal with Chris, who stood near the garage door watching him. The peace he’d felt when he first started shoveling had faded, and now something tugged at his heart, as if just beyond his reach lay a solution. He’d engaged Jamie in a few stilted conversations, sent cards and small presents, even helped out financially with her mom’s care, but things hadn’t improved. Maybe the key had been there all along, the one that would facilitate a reunion with Jamie, land him a job, and make it all right again. His heart stirred, creating a little flip flop sensation.

  “Alan?”

  He ignored his fluttering heart and breathed deeply, ready to face the music.

  Only Chris didn’t appear angry now. His hair stood on end, tousled and matted. Circles darkened the skin beneath his eyes, and his shoulders sagged as he shoved his bare hands into the pockets of his fleece-lined, corduroy jacket. If that look had a name, “exhaustion” was it.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in there.” Chris titled his head toward the house. “My gripes with you are legitimate. I won’t take that back. But, I provoked you. And I was inconsiderate. So . . . sorry.” He rocked back on his heels, obviously relieved that was out of the way.

  Alan let a grin slip, thinking the apology may have sprung from something other than brotherly love. “So, is that you talking or Rebecca?”

  Chris grinned too and shrugged a shoulder. “The lines are kind of blurred. You know, that whole two become one thing?”

  Yeah, well, he didn’t know it so well anymore. “Gotcha.” He leaned the shovel against the cinder block retaining wall on the opposite side of the drive. “I’m at least as much to blame.” He shook his head and let the dejection cover him like a cloak. He might as well level with Chris. “I don’t want to be here. You know that, right? I want to be in my house with my wife, not be the third wheel around here, freeloadin’ and gettin’ in the way.”

  “Well, it’s kinda a relief to hear you say it. I mean, I’ve lived with you and Rebecca almost as long as I’ve lived with just Rebecca.” He kicked the snow with the toe of his boot. “I didn’t figure she’d get pregnant so quick, not that I’m not thrilled about it.” He met Alan’s gaze, obviously not wanting Alan to think he was anything less than overjoyed about this baby. “I just thought it would take a few more months or something. In the space of five months, we got married, bought a house, moved, got pregnant and took on a . . . houseguest.”

  Chris rubbed his fingers beneath his eyes and along the bridge of his nose. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

  Alan wrinkled his nose. “What do you mean? You guys are great. I know it’s been, like, huge changes—and I’m sorry for my part in it—but I don’t know what it is. It’s like, whatever comes, you’ve got it, and the two of you just get tighter and move on.” He waved his hand in the air, suddenly tripping on an idea he hadn’t given a moment’s consideration.

  He’d lived under the same roof as Chris and Rebecca for months. He observed their bowed heads before meals, the weekly treks to church, and the quiet moments at night when he sometimes discovered them curled up on the couch with rosaries dangling from their hands. He’d eaten in front of a wreath with purple and pink candles for a month before Christmas and sat curiously before a meager, meatless meal while staring at the dark smudges on their foreheads one recent Wednesday. Their faith was interwoven seamlessly into their love affair. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him until now that perhaps faith had a bigger role in sustaining them than he’d ever considered. “What’s going on below the surface?”

  Chris closed his eyes. “Where to start . . .” He faltered, then went for the shovel and picked up where Alan had left off. The metal blade scraped over concrete.

  The cogs and wheels in his brain still turning, Alan studied Chris for a moment . . . and then he got it. “So, you basically say your prayers and go to church, and it’s like a get-outta-jail-free card, right?”

  Chris jerked his head around. “Huh?”

  “I’m just . . . I’m thinkin’ here. I haven’t been able to figure out what makes you guys tick. I mean, jeez, you didn’t even . . .” He glanced around, self-conscious that someone might overhear although no one else was even outside. “You didn’t have sex until after the wedding.”

  Chris averted his gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the direction Alan had taken.

  “What do you get out of this? All the rules. The prayers and the customs and stuff.” He recalled a stream of Hispanic people parading through the streets of Gettysburg last summer, a bunch of guys in robes in the front holding up a gold star-like candelabra or something and sending smoke into the air. What was that about?

  Chris’s gaze narrowed. “Are you sincere? Do you really want to know?”

  Yes, he did. For the first time, he wanted to know why and what for and maybe even what it could do for him. “Yeah, I am.”

  Something like surprise lit Chris’s eyes, and after a moment’s pause—was he praying?—he said, “It’s not about me. It’s about Him.” He glanced up, where only a few stray flakes fell from the gray sky.

  That he didn’t get. Alan could learn rules; he could follow them. The relationship side of it, he didn’t get. Frankly, didn’t want. What he did want was some order, some resolution, some sense of up and down, right and wrong in his life. Direction, purpose. “So, you pray and go to church and it all, like, it makes sense? Everything’s hunky-dory?”

  “Hunky-dory?” Chris gave him an odd look. “Are you serious?”

  Was he? “Yeah. I am. What’s the payoff? Do this, this, and that and life gets easier? It makes some kinda blasted sense?”

  Chris shook his head. “First off, do you pay any attention at all to what’s going on in my life? My wife’s super-pregnant and filled with irrational fears about being a mom, ’cause her own mom was AWOL. Her blood pressure creeps up at every doctor’s visit. Oh, and the company I work for is tanking. Literally. As in beer production has practically stagnated because of equipment failure. Somehow, I got pulled into finding a solution, and they’re talking about sending me somewhere they’re either looking to buy or to do reconnaissance. I have no idea.”

  Alan kneaded his forehead. Okay, so he hadn’t been paying enough attention to things, but still, just the fact that stuff hadn’t been a big issue proved his point. They weathered these things like they were nothing. “Yeah, but—”

  “Oh, no. You’re going to get all of it.” Chris stood the shovel up in the snow and leaned on it, slacking a hip. “My father-in-law hates me. Still. Barely speaks to Rebecca, but won’t even tolerate my presence in the same room, not since the day he learned she was pregnant. And Rebecca’s brother-in-law—this one you wouldn’t know since I only found out last night—” His features relaxed, softened. “He was just diagnosed with a brain tumor.”

  “Abby’s husband?” Rebecca’s sister was a piece of work. Didn’t the poor guy suffer enough?

  “Yeah. Benign, thank God. But still.” Chris picked up the shovel and started pushing snow toward the end of the driveway, his voice drifting over his shoulder. “He’s going to have surgery. So, no, my faith isn’t some kind of magic get-outta-jail-free card.” Shovel loaded with snow, he stopped and said, “But it does mean I don’t deal with all of this alone. And it—all suffering—has meaning and purpose.” He resumed shoving the fluffy powder down the drive. “But I still think you’re missing the point.”

  Alan caught up to him, snatching the shovel from his hands. “How so?”

  “It’s not what I can get out of it. If that’s all you’re after—some kind of prosperity gospel—don’t waste your time.”

  Having no clue what a “prosperity gospel” was, Alan stood speechless while Chris trudged back to the garage, opened the door, and slipped inside.

  14

  If Only

  Megan stared at the new spice rack nestled between
a barrel of sourdough pretzels and the coffeemaker at the rear of Jamie’s kitchen counter. Tarragon. Did she have tarragon? And more importantly, what was tarragon? Sounded like the hot guy with stringy hair from the Lord of the Rings movies Tim had made her sit through.

  “Did you find it?” Jamie struggled to tie a bunch of parsley together with some kitchen string then huffed and dropped it into the stockpot on the stove.

  Using her index finger, Megan traced a path along each row of spices. What was she doing here after work, trying to instruct Jamie in soup-making? She stocked her freezer with frozen meals, and her refrigerator and cupboards were almost as bare as Jamie’s. She was the first to suggest eating out. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cook or even that she didn’t enjoy it. It simply wasn’t a skill she wanted to cultivate; it didn’t quite fit her image as a cosmopolitan, carefree, career girl.

  “Uh . . .” Megan scanned the tiny bottles again, her gaze roving over the labels twice before she realized they’d been alphabetized. “Got it!” She held up the small bottle of crushed green flakes, a smile of satisfaction lifting her spirits.

  Jamie’s mom used a paring knife to push her pile of sliced, peeled carrots to the edge of the cutting board. “Carrots are ready.”

  Petite with silver hair cut in a no-nonsense shingle bob, wearing neither makeup nor jewelry, the kind-faced lady appeared to be close to seventy. That seemed about right given that Jamie had said her mom had been in her mid-forties when Jamie had been born. Jamie had set her up with a table tray so she could sit while she worked. Her recovery from the knee replacements had taken longer than expected due to an infection, but Megan guessed she’d be ready to be on her own again soon.

  “So, Jamie, why the sudden urge to learn how to cook?” Megan measured the tarragon and dumped it into the stock pot. The warm aroma of chicken and herbs wafted on a swirling cloud of steam. If Jamie were interested in honing her cooking skills, wouldn’t she have done it already? If providing healthy food for her and for Alan wasn’t motivation enough, surely all the ribbing she took for her ineptitude in the kitchen was. Her lack of culinary skills was legendary.

  Jamie wiped her hands on a dishcloth, sighed, and then grabbed the recipe card from the counter. “The recipe says this soup costs less than a dollar per serving.” Jamie shook her head. “Do you know how much a bowl of soup at a fast casual restaurant costs?”

  “Around five bucks.” Megan dropped the sliced carrots into the pot and stirred, forcing more of the savory bouquet into the air. “Just think of the house you guys could’ve bought if you used your eating-out budget alone for a down payment.”

  Jamie, leaning against the counter in her jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt, shot her a withered glance. “Exactly. That’s why I want to learn how to cook.” She accepted the cutting board and knife from her mom and took them to the sink. “I’d like to keep us from going broke.”

  Jamie hadn’t given her specifics, but Megan assumed she was financially strapped. Being on family leave caring for her recuperating mother would be challenge enough, but she presumed Jamie had lost Alan’s income as well, little as it was lately.

  “There’s a simple solution,” Jamie’s mom said, pushing the tray table aside and smoothing her white polyester shirt. Her forehead knotted and a frown twisting her lips, she braced herself with a hand to each armrest and stood.

  Megan darted a glance between Jamie and her mom, the dissension between them palpable.

  “Invite your husband to come home.” Her mom grabbed a wooden cane and angled toward the hall. “I’ll be right back. Just going to take a bathroom break.”

  Jamie breathed out, and the irritation on her face dissolved. “Need any help?”

  “No, thank you.” Without turning back, her mom headed for the bathroom.

  Once she’d moved out of earshot, Megan spoke. “I didn’t think she cared for Alan much.”

  Jamie shrugged and tightened her low ponytail. “She didn’t seem to, but lately . . .” She glanced toward the bathroom. “I think he’s won her over.”

  “How’s that possible when he’s not even around?”

  Jamie grinned. “Oh, believe me, he’s done just enough to get on her good side.”

  Megan clapped the lid on the pot and leaned against the counter, curious as to how Alan, out of a job and kicked out by his wife, had been able to impress his formerly recalcitrant mother-in-law. “Such as?”

  Jamie scooped up stray utensils from the counter and dropped them into the sink with a clatter. “Well, guess who came by to shovel us out when it snowed so Mom could get to her doctor’s appointment?”

  “Ah, now I see. Anything else?”

  “Well,” Jamie said, twisting the dish towel between her hands. “He sold tickets for three Dave Matthews Band concerts this summer so I could buy Mom some medical equipment that wasn’t covered by her insurance. I hated to ask for help because, honestly, I already felt kind of guilty about him paying the mortgage when he’s not living here. And he’d lost his job. But I had no choice.” Jamie’s eyes watered as she scraped onion scraps into the trash. Megan guessed emotion rather than onion caused the tears.

  Pushing off the counter, Megan strolled to Jamie and laid a hand on her shoulder. “So money’s really the only reason you want to cook?”

  Jamie glanced down, batting her eyes several times. “Megan,” she whispered. “I do want Alan to come home. I miss him so much. I even miss the bits of beard stubble left in the bathroom sink and that stupid lock of hair that hangs over his eye.”

  Megan wrinkled her nose. “You miss that? I’ve wanted to snip that hair off about a thousand times.”

  Jamie chuckled, sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “There’s a big part of me that wants to please him. I’ve been getting better at this, you know. The time-lapse videos and the step-by-step photo recipes—they help.”

  Megan nodded her encouragement. Anything that helped Jamie demystify recipes and learn unfamiliar cooking techniques had to be good. “So, why not just tell him? Tell him you want him to come home.”

  Jamie’s jaw opened then slammed shut as her mom’s cane tapped on the wooden floor, signaling her shuffling approach.

  Laying her cane aside, her mom eased into the chair. “Don’t clam up on my account. I’d like to know too. Why don’t you ask your husband to come home?”

  The stock pot clattered as steam rattled its lid, and Megan quickly dialed the knob on the stove down to low.

  Her spine stiff and her features tight, Jamie took a seat at the kitchen bar. She used her palm to sweep crumbs into a tiny pile in front of her. “You make it sound so simple.”

  Her mother stretched a hand out as if she wanted to comfort Jamie, but that was impossible from where she sat. “It is simple, honey. You’re married. You took vows. That means you stick together and work it out, whatever it is.”

  Megan clenched her teeth. Simple. Right. Her parents had taken vows too, but that hadn’t stopped her dad from leaving. That didn’t make her mom willing to forgive. It was as if the second her brother Randy’s body came home in that flag-draped casket, everything had tanked. Vows were only as sincere as the persons who made them. In her family, neither of her parents had intended to keep the promises they’d made.

  “Mom, I don’t know if he . . .” Jamie shook her head and brushed the pile of crumbs into her cupped palm. “We never talked about it.”

  “About what?” Jamie’s mom stared intently at Jamie.

  Megan began to feel like an intruder. Maybe they needed some mother/daughter time. She slipped the phone from her pocket and glanced at the time. She needed to be getting to Tim’s place soon anyway. “Well, soup’s good to go, so I should probably—”

  “About getting married. About what it meant. About . . . forever.” Jamie’s voice quaked. “About babies.”

  As far as the other two women in the room were concerned, Megan may as well have drifted away on a cloud of steaming broth, invisible and unnoticed.
She sighed and walked to the stove so she could peek at the soup’s progress. Should she continue to blend into the background and wait out their conversation?

  “Finally!” Jamie’s mom smacked her palms against her polyester slacks. “It’s the first time you’ve said it.”

  Interesting. Jamie’s mom apparently hadn’t heard her daughter’s complaints about Alan and his sudden onset of baby fever.

  “For a girl who spent half her childhood toting around baby dolls and her teenage years babysitting, your reluctance to have a baby . . . well, I don’t get it, honey.”

  Neither did Megan, really. Alan may be a pain in the rear, but as a husband, he didn’t seem half bad. Jamie may not be the domestic goddess that Chris’s wife apparently was, but she’d be a good mom. In any case, her life sang love and stability whereas Megan’s rasped alienation and aimlessness.

  “Having a baby’s a big deal,” Jamie whined.

  Megan lifted her brows, fairly certain they all knew babies were a big deal.

  “And?” her mom prompted, arms folded across her chest.

  A few beats of silence ticked by before the truth finally burst from Jamie. “And I don’t want to do it alone. It scares me.”

  “And why would you be doing it alone?” Her mom’s brow wrinkled. “You’re married. Doesn’t Alan want to be a father?”

  Twisting the end of her ponytail, Jamie’s voice softened. “He says he does.” She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. “But he could change his mind. He only brought it up because Chris and Rebecca are having a baby. And, he doesn’t have to leave to be gone.”

  Megan glanced between mother and daughter, their gazes locked on one another. Something more was going on here. Something Megan wasn’t privy to.