18

 

 

“I have some good news to report.”

Karen glanced at Val as they waited in line at the coffee shop to place their weekly orders. “Tell me. I could use some.”

“Mom is doing so well that David’s reduced her therapy ses­sions to once a week. She should be finished by the end of summer.”

“That is encouraging.” Karen stepped to the counter and ordered an iced tea.

“What happened to the frappuccino?”

“Can’t afford it. I indulged at Mr. Frank’s this morning.” Not quite true. She’d eaten no more than a few bites of the custard—but the butterflies that had been roused in her stomach after that cozy huddle on the sappy bench with Scott continued to flit about.

“Mr. Frank’s before lunch? That was an indulgence.”

“To be honest, it was a bribe. For Kristen.” Karen tried to tamp down a sudden case of jitters. “I wanted an audience, and I hoped if I offered her a trip to Mr. Frank’s she’d give me twenty minutes.”

“Now I’m intrigued. An audience for what?”

Karen tried for a nonchalant tone. “Scott—the music direc­tor—asked me to sing the solo part in one of the songs the choir is doing at the benefit. He thinks I can do it, but I wanted to get Kristen’s opinion.”

Her sister came to an abrupt halt halfway to the pickup counter. “How in the world did he convince you to do that?”

“I haven’t committed yet. I’m reserving the right to change my mind up until the last minute.”

“I think you should go for it.”

The tension in Karen’s shoulders dissolved. “That’s what Kristen said you’d say.”

“I knew my niece was smart.”

As they took their drinks and claimed a small table, Karen played with her straw and sighed. “Mom will think I’m nuts.”

“Forget Mom.”

“Also Kristen’s advice—but easier said than done. If I embarrass myself, I’ll have to listen to her ‘I told you so’ routine for months. Or years.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Scott would put you in a position to fail. Do you?”

“Not on purpose. I think he believes I can do it. The problem is me. My confidence level is so low it’s in the negative range.”

“You want my advice? Trust his judgment and stop worrying about what anyone else thinks. Oh, that reminds me...have you noticed Mom’s been kind of quiet the past couple of days?”

“I haven’t talked to her much since Wednesday, but Mom and quiet don’t belong in the same sentence. What’s up?”

“I don’t know—except she did tell me she wants to go to the cemetery tomorrow. In fact, she wants the three of us to go. Is this some kind of annual ritual for Dad’s birthday?”

“No. We often go on the anniversary of his death, but she’s never asked me to take her on his birthday.”

“Interesting.” Val tapped the table. “She had me stop at Walmart after therapy Thursday too. I offered to get whatever she wanted, but she told me she had to do this herself. For Dad. Any idea what that was all about?”

Curiouser and curiouser.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“I guess it’ll be a surprise. I told her I’d go tomorrow night, after dinner. Can you come?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Karen propped her chin in her hand. “I wonder what she’s up to?”

Val rolled her eyes. “With Mom, who knows?”

 

* * *

 

As she pulled to a stop in the deserted cemetery, Karen surveyed the parched grass. At seven o’clock in the evening, it should be cooling off—but the mercury hovered near ninety and the humidity was close to 100 percent. Not a leaf was stirring, and the limited shade in the small cemetery provided minimal relief from the relentless sun.

“Mom, it’s stifling today. You shouldn’t be out in this heat.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Margaret grasped the handle and opened the door.

Karen looked at Val, who lifted her hands palm-up in a “what can you do?” gesture. “Hold on a minute and we’ll help you out.”

Margaret waited until Val and Karen were both on her side of the car. With their assistance, she emerged onto the concrete drive and stepped onto the dried-out turf. Val leaned in for her cane, but Margaret shooed her off.

“I don’t need that anymore. David said I can walk without it.”

“I don’t think he meant on uneven ground. Why don’t you use it here?” Karen motioned for Val to retrieve it. Her mother was progressing at a steady clip toward independence, and a sprained or broken ankle would throw a major monkey wrench into her recovery.

“I’ll hold onto you girls. I’ll be fine.” She latched onto Karen’s arm, but as she reached for Val, the bag from Walmart interfered.

“I’ll take that for you.” Val extended her hand.

After a brief hesitation, Margaret relinquished it and grasped Val’s arm. She nodded to her right. “It’s over there.”

“I know, Mom.” Karen kept a firm grip on her as they inched toward the familiar plot. How many solitary trips had she made here in the months after Dad’s death—and continued to make until her life had grown too hectic?

Too many to count.

At the simple stone that bore only their father’s name, the date of his death, and a brief paraphrase from Psalms—“My lines have fallen on pleasant places”—Karen’s vision misted. How she missed him, even after all these years. But he had gone to a more pleasant place. She believed that with every fiber of her being. And he deserved it, for his life on earth with their mother couldn’t have been all that pleasant.

As if reading her mind, Margaret spoke in what, for her, was a subdued tone. “Your father didn’t have an easy life, but he loved you girls…and me, far more than I deserved.”

Karen’s jaw dropped.

Her mother was acknowledging her faults?

Was the world about to end?

“Give me the bag, Val.” Margaret held out her hand.

In silence, Val handed it over. Despite the significant improve­ment in her left hand, Margaret struggled to open the top, which she’d clutched into mangled crinkles.

“Can I help?” Karen reached for it.

“No. I’ve got it.” After working at the crimped plastic a bit more, the top gapped open and Margaret withdrew a package of licorice and a safari hat. Clutching them to her chest, she shuffled toward the headstone, rested one hand on top for support, and bent down to lay the items on the grave. Then she straightened up and stood in silence.

What in the world...?

A tingle of apprehension raced along Karen’s spine, and she shifted her attention to Val. Her sister’s shock mirrored her own reaction to their mother’s bizarre behavior.

As Margaret addressed them, however, she appeared to be alert and lucid. “I know what you’re thinking, and no, I haven’t lost my mind.” She withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and patted her forehead. “It’s a hot one, no question about it. Always was on your father’s birthday.”

She tucked the handkerchief back, steadied herself on the headstone again, and swept a hand over the items on the grave. “I’m sure you’re wondering what that’s all about—and why I wanted to come here today.”

Karen didn’t respond. Neither did Val.

“Of course you are.” Margaret continued as if she hadn’t ex­pected a reply. “And I’m going to tell you. It’s a long story, so I’ll start with those.” She pointed again to the candy and hat on the grave. “Every year, I used to ask your father what he wanted for his birthday, and he always gave me the same answer. ‘How about some licorice, Maggie? Or a safari hat. I always fancied one of those.’” The angular lines of her face softened. “He used to call me that sometimes, you know. Maggie. He was the only one who ever did.”

She fell silent for a few seconds...coughed...and continued. “Any­way, my answer was always the same. I’d say, ‘Licorice will ruin your teeth, Bill—and what in creation would you do with a safari hat?’ Then he’d say, ‘Maggie, honey, these teeth will last far longer than I will—and if I had a safari hat, I could pretend I was hunting elephants in the wilds of Africa while I cut the grass.’”

Although she shook her head, her eyes were filled with a rare warmth and affection. “Your father always did have a fanciful streak, you know.” When she continued, there was a hint of regret in her inflection. “I never did get him the licorice or the hat. I didn’t think the candy was healthy, and I dismissed the hat as frivolous.”

She examined the items on the grave. “I had a peculiar dream the other night, though. I’ve never been one to put much stock in dreams, but this one has been on my mind. I saw your father sitting on that old, rusty riding mower he loved. He was eating licorice and wearing a safari hat, and he looked happy. Then he spoke to me. ‘It’s important to give people what they need, Maggie—and you still have time to do that.’”

She paused, pulled out her handkerchief again, and dabbed at her brow. “I pondered over that for a long while. At first I thought Bill was talking about the candy and that silly hat—but finally, I understood what he meant. He wanted me to tell you girls a story so you would understand why I am the way I am. Why I tend to push people away. Especially the people closest to me.”

She tucked the handkerchief back in her pocket. “I know I haven’t been the best mother. Or the best wife. I thank God every day that Bill saw the love deep inside me, even if I don’t communicate it well, and that he was willing to take me as I was. His devotion was the greatest blessing I ever received. Followed closely by you girls.”

Her voice caught, and she rested her hand on the grave marker again. “I don’t really know if that dream was a message from your father, or if it was my conscience having its say at last, but after I prayed about it I decided to share my story with you girls. It’s a difficult one to tell, despite all the years that have passed, and I’m not going to dress it up or belabor it. The fact is, when I was eleven, I was molested by my favorite uncle. My father’s brother. A man I loved and trusted and admired. It happened on three occasions. I never told anyone about it. I was too embarrassed and ashamed. Somehow I felt it was my fault.”

She swallowed and crinkled the empty bag in her fingers. “Until that happened, I was an outgoing, happy child. Afterward, I shut down. I didn’t trust anyone, and I pushed away the people I should have loved the most. I didn’t know how else to protect myself. I was terrified of having my trust violated, of getting hurt again.”

She stroked the top of the granite marker. “The truth is, I’ll never know why your father fell in love with me. Why he persevered. I’m just thankful he did. With him, I learned to let my guard down. And after I told him my story, he understood. He was able to see the woman I might have become—and did become, every once in a while, with him. But habits die hard, and once I had you girls, I reverted to my old behavior. Not by choice, mind you. I couldn’t help myself. I began doing things to push you away—and that pattern has continued. I do the same with other people. It’s how I am.”

Margaret surveyed the items resting on the grave. “As I spoke with God about it these past few days, I realized that if the stroke had killed me, I’d have left unfinished business here. I know it’s foolish, but I wanted to bring these items to Bill and tell you girls what happened to me so you’ll understand why I was never the kind of mother I should have been—and never will be, at this stage of my life, I suspect.”

She directed her next comment to both of them. “I know understanding doesn’t change anything, but it may help you make some sense of it. Especially if you know I always loved you, no matter what my actions said. As for forgiveness, I leave that to God.” Margaret’s lower lip began to tremble. “I’m ready to go—and I don’t ever want to discuss this again.”

Seconds ticked by as Karen tried to digest her mother’s shocking story and Margaret gave Val a bemused perusal. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever seen you speechless.” Then she waved the empty plastic bag around her legs. “Are we going to stand here all evening in this heat? The mosquitoes are out already and I’m being eaten alive.”

Karen jerked forward and held out her arm. Her sister did the same on the other side.

No one spoke during the slow walk back to the car.

Once behind the wheel, Karen’s shaky fingers fumbled with the key as she tried to insert it in the ignition.

What a strange few minutes.

Also illuminating.

Today she’d seen a new side of her mother—one she might never see again. She also understood the events that had shaped her. While that didn’t take away the sting of the hurtful things her mother had said and done or improve their relationship much, it helped to know Margaret’s criticism had nothing to do with Karen herself and everything to do with a little girl who had been hurt and betrayed by someone she’d loved and trusted. A little girl who had been afraid, after that, to ever again let anyone get too close.

Karen flicked a glance at Val in the rearview mirror. As if sensing her sister’s scrutiny, Val met her gaze—and in her eyes, Karen saw what was in her own heart.

Understanding that mitigated the pain of their rocky mother/daughter relationship.

And gratitude for a final gift from the father they had cherished.

 

* * *

 

“Karen, could you come in here, please?”

At her boss’s summons, Karen surveyed her piled-high desk. Like she needed another assignment in the middle of reconciling the monthly department budget.

Curbing a sigh, she spoke into the receiver. “I’ll be right there.” After dropping the phone back into its cradle, she typed several more numbers into the computer, retrieved a pen, and picked up a notebook.

Harold Simmons was seated at his desk. As usual, the sun from the large window behind him bounced off his shiny bald head, re­minding her of the silver reflecting ball in her father’s rose garden.

But under his intent, no-nonsense scrutiny, those capricious thoughts disappeared as fast as the startled deer she’d seen by the side of the road a few days ago.

He began spitting out rapid-fire instructions the instant she crossed the threshold. “We got approval for a new position. An entry-level financial analyst. I want you to put together a job descrip­tion based on comparable positions in the industry, along with a list of internal candidates for me to review. As soon as possible.”

Translation: by the end of the day. A mere two hours away. Mean­ing she’d have to work late to finish the budget.

Her hopes for a quiet evening at home evaporated.

“I’ll get on it immediately.”

Back at her desk, she put aside the budget work and gave Harold’s project top priority. On the positive side, she’d been around long enough to establish contacts in human resources, compensation, and staffing who could provide all the necessary information.

By ten minutes to five, she was putting the finishing touches on the report.

After proofing the job description, Karen gave the list of candi­dates a final scan. With a satisfied nod, she gathered up the material, stood—and froze.

Wait a minute.

She could do this job...couldn’t she?

Yes.

She knew the company and the industry. Plus, after her promo­tion to administrative assistant eight months ago, she’d taken on responsibility for a significant amount of budget work and analysis.

It was a perfect fit—and this job would vault her into the profes­sional ranks, offer more perks, and pay a higher salary.

But did she have the nerve to apply for it?

She sat back down.

A few weeks ago, the answer would have been no—but she wasn’t the same person she’d been a few weeks ago. Thanks to Val and Scott’s push­ing and prodding, she was learning to take control of her life. To stop worrying about pleasing other people or seeking anyone’s approval. To reach higher than she’d ever dreamed.

Scott’s comments a few days ago had a ring of truth that was impossible to deny.

The biggest successes come after we take a chance.

Squaring her shoulders, Karen reopened the document of candidates and added her name to the bottom of the list. Hesi­tated. Switched it to the top.

Five minutes later she marched into Harold’s office and handed him the material. She might not get the job, but at least she’d put herself in the running.

And that, in itself, was a huge leap forward.

 

* * *

 

Huffing out a breath, Karen jammed on her brake as the light changed from yellow to red. The third one that had morphed to red as she approached. Kristen would be starving, but what could she do? Her boss didn’t care if his special project had thrown off her schedule. The budget work had to get done no matter what. And she couldn’t renege on her promise to Reverend Richards that she’d pick up the proof for the benefit flier after work.

Praying no cops were lying in wait to fulfill their ticket quotas on this Monday night, she pressed harder on the accelerator and zipped through several yellow lights.

Once in the church’s lot, she snatched up her purse and half jogged toward the door, scanning the portico for the envelope the minister had promised to leave if she was late.

Nothing.

Had he tucked it against the wall, behind one of the overflowing pots of petunias, to protect it from the gathering storm clouds?

As she ran up the stairs, the muffled but plaintive wail of a saxophone seeped through the thick, wooden front door, and she stopped.

It had to be Scott.

Errand forgotten, she cracked the door. He was playing some sort of bluesy number she’d never heard, so raw with emotion a shiver snaked down her spine. Yes, there were a few fumbled notes—but the rendition was powerful, imbued with such anguish and loss and pain it felt like reading a diary.

As the last notes died away, she slowly opened the door. A shaft of light from the descending sun darted inside, illuminating the man standing in the sanctuary and bathing the interior in a golden glow.

“Wow.” It was all she could manage.

Slowly Scott lowered the saxophone. “I didn’t know I had an audience.” Unlike his reaction to her previous unexpected appearance, he sounded shaky rather than angry or accusatory.

“I didn’t think you played the sax anymore.”

“I don’t. This is…it’s the first time I’ve tried since the accident. It wasn’t very polished.”

“I heard a few wrong notes, if that’s what you mean, but the power of the music...the feeling…the emotion...” Words failed her. “You have an incredible gift.”

His color was high as he stroked the polished brass instrument with an almost reverent touch. “I never thought I’d pick this up again.”

She walked closer. “Why did you?”

“Because of what happened yesterday after services. I stayed around to go through some music, and Steven came over to ask if I’d help him with a spot he’s having difficulty mastering in one of the pieces for the benefit. It’s a tricky area, and instead of explaining the correct technique, I decided to show him. As I played, I realized my fingers were re­sponding. Not perfectly, but there was enough improvement that I decided to pull the sax out of the mothballs.”

“That’s wonderful!” She touched his arm.

He looked down at her fingers—and her heart skipped a beat as a faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

She ought to break the contact. Retreat. Play it safe.

But before she could follow through, he laid his hand over hers and lifted his gaze.

Her lungs short-circuited.

A magnetism as compelling and powerful as the music he’d been playing began to pulsate between them.

He raised his free hand toward her, and her knees began to wobble. “Karen, I…”

“Scott? Is that you in here?”

At Reverend Richards’s question, she gasped and jerked back. Scott dropped his hand at once, but she caught a glimpse of regret as he turned toward the door the minister had cracked open. “Yeah. It’s me.” His voice was husky and ragged.

The man pushed through and crossed toward them. “I saw the lights. I didn’t know you’d be here today. Karen, I have the proofs for you. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“No.” Her assurance came out as a croak. She counted to three and tried again. “I just got here.”

“I’m glad I didn’t delay you. I meant to walk these over here sooner, but the office got hectic.” He spoke to Scott as he handed her the enve­lope. “What brings you here on a Monday evening?”

“I was, uh, working on some music.”

The minister grinned. “Don’t overdo it. We don’t pay you that much.” He consulted his watch, his expression rueful. “Late for dinner again. Thank goodness I have a patient wife. I’ll see you two Sunday.”

As he hustled toward the door, Karen fell in behind him. “I-I have to go too. Kristen is waiting for dinner, and she isn’t quite as patient as your wife.”

Reverend Richards stopped on the threshold and spoke to Scott. “Will you lock up as you leave?”

“Sure.”

He continued—but Karen peeked back.

Big mistake.

Scott was standing where she’d left him, watching her—and the sharp zing of electricity that zipped through her had noth­ing to do with the supercharged air of the approaching storm.

He took a step toward her.

Panicked, she stumbled toward the door and almost ran to her car.

And as she slid behind the wheel, one thing became clear.

In a perfect world, she’d be able to put off decisions about romance until life slowed down and she had an opportunity to think through the situation.

But her world wasn’t perfect.

And she’d just run out of time.