Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (4 page)

“There is our clinic,” he wheezed. “Just…just a quick walk from here. I’ll show it to you in the morning.”

The apartment was small, but Christina hadn’t expected, or wanted, much. There was a front room furnished with a patched-up couch and a lone table, an attached kitchen with a stove and icebox, a tiny bathroom, and a door that led down a short hallway to a bedroom. The main window faced west and the rays of the setting sun streamed inside, brightening the walls a pleasant shade. The little flat might have needed a fresh coat of paint or a picture or two hanging from the walls, but the sight of it brought a smile to her face.

“Now I know it isn’t much,” the doctor began.

“It will do just fine,” she assured him.

Together, they hauled the trunk into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor beside the dresser with a loud thud; Christina frowned at the missing knobs on the drawers and deep gouges that chipped the paint on its surface, but quickly hid her unhappiness for fear that the doctor would see. After all, there was nothing wrong with it that she could not fix.

“One of the little-known perks of staying in this room is that you’ll never need an alarm clock,” Dr. Barlow said. “Every morning, the smell of whatever’s coming out fresh from the oven will get you out of bed and down the stairs faster than any rooster could ever dream of doing.”

The mention of food again set Christina’s stomach to rumbling; it had been a long time since she had finished her small sandwich on the train.

“I am quite hungry,” she said. “I suppose I should find something to eat.”

“Well, then you’re in luck,” he crowed. “I’m inviting you to share a home-cooked meal, and before you even try to say that I shouldn’t have gone to such trouble, I didn’t. Tonight we’re eating at my sister’s home. There’ll be roast chicken, mashed potatoes, more salads than will fit in your stomach, and of course an apple pie. So, if you’ve got any reservations about attending, you’ll have to take them up with her, but I warn you, she’s not above biting those who cross her.”

Much to her stomach’s joy, Christina readily accepted.

T
HE SUN WAS JUST
SETTING
over the edge of the western horizon, brilliant streams of burnt oranges and reds coloring the sky, when Dr. Barlow turned the coupe onto the street on which his sister, Clara Sutter, lived east of downtown. Elm trees had been planted between the street and sidewalk long ago, their lengthy branches spreading out over the street in a canopy that blocked out much of the sky. In the early evening hour, lightning bugs blinked in and out as the cicadas keened.

Clara Sutter’s home was a modest two-story that was identical to most all of the others on her street. It was a bungalow style that had been popular for years, with a brick exterior framed by shutters that had been painted a warm shade of yellow. A low-pitched, gabled roof overhung a porch that ran the length of the front of the house; it was held up by brick supports, buttressed at the top by ornate, decorative braces. Big windows looked out at the street and a manicured walk led up to the front door.

“Just look at all of the beautiful flowers!” Christina exclaimed.

Bright red and pink blooms ran the length of the walk up to the porch and filled the stone planter boxes on both the façade and stairs. Potted ferns stood at either side of the bottom of the stairs, silent sentinels watching all comings and goings. Meticulously placed bushes sprouted beneath the side windows, all of the red, pink, and white flowers spread full, their petals soaking up the last of the sunlight.

“My sister started growing flowers just as her sons were shipped off to the war,” Dr. Barlow explained. “Every day she could, she would tend to them, feed and fertilize them, dote over them like her life depended on it. It was her coping mechanism, the only way she could find to get herself through another day of worrying about what could happen to her boys.”

“
Did
anything happen to them?”

“Now that…,” he muttered, “is one…difficult question to answer…”

Through the coupe’s open windows, the piercing, rhythmic sound of metal banging against metal reached their ears. At the other end of the drive, a light shone through the windows of the detached garage. Over and over, the steady noise was carried over the evening air. When it was suddenly interrupted, a man’s voice barked a harsh obscenity before the sound again resumed.

“That’ll be my nephew, Tyler, working on his car,” Dr. Barlow said with a weary shake of his head. “I just can’t ever seem to get that boy’s head out from under the hood of a car. Clara’s afraid he’s starting to like engines more than people.”

Another, more colorful display of cursing came from the garage, as if in reply.

Just as Christina was shutting the car door behind her, footsteps sounded down the walk and she turned to find Clara Sutter hurrying toward them. Though much younger than her brother, she still shared a close resemblance; there were the same eyes and droopy face, but where Samuel Barlow’s mood was sometimes sour, Clara’s was as sunny as early morning. But as she wiped her hands on her flower print apron, Christina could see that, just behind Clara’s warm exterior, there was a look of fatigue in her eyes and a tiredness around her edges.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” Clara exclaimed, beaming broadly. “It’s so very nice to meet you. Welcome to Longstock!”

“It’s my pleasure,” Christina answered, suddenly embarrassed by her lack of a bath and that she was still wearing dirty clothes; she wondered if she was as disheveled to look at as she felt. “I’m sorry that I’m not more presentable.”

“Nonsense,” Clara replied. “Just wait until you see the shape Tyler will arrive in. You’ll look like a princess in comparison. Now, I’m just certain that after a long day cooped up on a train, then being dragged about by my brother, you must be starving!”

“Tending to people in need isn’t the same as being dragged around,” the doctor disagreed.

“Hush now, Samuel,” she chided him. “The way you drive, it’s something of a miracle that she’s made it this far in one piece!”

“You talk as if your driving is any better!”

“Well, at least I have the good sense to know my limitations. Only the blindest of men go about in the darkness claiming that they can still see.” Taking Christina gently by the arm, Clara asked, “Are you ready to eat?”

Without warning, Christina’s stomach growled loudly. Embarrassed, she quickly said, “I hadn’t realized just how hungry I was until we went to the apartment where I’ll be staying. The smells from the bakery were almost more than I could bear.”

“Then you’ve certainly come to the right place. The roast chicken will be ready to come out of the oven any minute. Please, come.”

“Making fun of my driving…well, I never…,” the doctor grumbled as they headed up the walk.

The inside of Clara Sutter’s home was as attractive as the outside. The furniture wasn’t showy but well lived-in and comfortable: a painting of a boat sailing across choppy waters caught the last sun through an open window; a vase of cut flowers added a splash of color; and a row of bookcases, filled with ornate volumes, lined one wall. The smell of cooking food wafted through the house. But what caught Christina’s attention was the music. A record slowly turned on a player almost identical to the one lying discarded in the Simmons drive, needle dancing along its grooves, filling the room with classical music.

“You have such a beautiful home,” she said.

“Thank you.” Clara saw that her guest was especially interested in the phonograph. “Do you like music?”

“Very much. I grew up listening to my grandmother and mother playing the piano.”

“I’ve found that listening to Brahms or Mozart as I work is the easiest way to make an unpleasant task go faster,” Clara explained. “When I’m gardening, I especially like to entertain myself with a record, although once in a while I’ve had a neighbor ask if I might turn it down a bit.” She laughed.

The dining room, just off the kitchen, was prepared for their meal; the table was covered in a pristine cloth, white china plates were framed by sparkling silverware, and goblets were filled with water. Unlit candles were set out between a bowl heaped high with mashed potatoes and a tray covered in steaming grilled vegetables. Five place settings had been prepared, each chair slid back for its occupant.

“I see you’re still hoping that Holden will join us,” Dr. Barlow said to his sister.

Clara looked nervously at their guest. “I told him that we were having someone over for dinner and that I expected him to join us.”

“You know that’ll get his dander up. He’ll not come down—”

“I know perfectly well what works and what does not work with my own son,” Clara snapped, a sudden fiery look filling her eyes. “Just because you’re the doctor in this family does not mean that I have to follow every bit of advice you so freely give. What Holden needs is the reminder that he’s
still
welcome to join us.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“Just hold your tongue.” She glared. “I’ve already asked him, so there’s no point in arguing it further.”

Dr. Barlow looked as if he wanted to say more, but he glanced up to see Christina regarding them both uncomfortably, her eyes wide with surprise, and held his tongue.

An awkward silence filled the room. “I’m sorry, Christina,” Clara finally said, her smile returning so easily that it looked practiced. “Holden, my oldest son, has a…it’s just that he feels…well, instead of struggling to explain it to you, when he comes down and joins us for the meal I’m sure that you will understand.”

“Well, I…,” Christina began, uncertain as to how to reply, but neither of them seemed to require an answer.

“Samuel,” Clara said, turning her attention to other matters. “Why don’t you call Tyler to the table and I’ll fetch the chicken from the oven. In the meantime, Christina, make yourself at home.”

And with that, they both left.

When she was alone in the dining room, Christina’s sense of discomfort did not subside. She didn’t know what Clara and Dr. Barlow were talking about, but the argument was one they seemed well accustomed to hashing out. Whatever problems Holden Sutter was facing, there had been two competing ideas for how to handle them. Christina hoped that, if Clara’s son did join them, there would be no further confrontation.

Still, part of her wondered what
had
happened to Holden Sutter. That no one was willing to say it aloud unnerved her.

In the kitchen, she heard the sounds of the oven door being swung open and a heavy pan being set on a countertop.

“Tyler!” Dr. Barlow shouted out the kitchen window. “Get out from under that hood and come in here! It’s time to eat!”

“Yeah, yeah!” a voice shouted in answer.

“The car will still be there when you’ve finished! You’re not going to want to wait untill the chicken gets cold!”

“Hold your horses!”

“Don’t make me come out there!”

“It might be the only way you’ll get him in here,” Clara muttered.

Eager to avoid more bickering, Christina retreated farther into the living room, where she allowed her attention to be drawn to the top of a bureau. There she saw a photograph in a simple frame, which she picked up for a closer look; in the picture, two young boys stood directly in front of a man and woman, the latter of whom was easily recognizable as Clara Sutter. Squinting closer, Christina saw that it had been taken right in front of the house. From what she had heard, it was easy to assume that the two boys were Tyler and Holden, but she couldn’t know for certain.

Suddenly, the back door in the kitchen slammed shut, startling her. She set the picture back down on the bureau in a clatter, nearly dropping it.

“You’re lucky you came when you did, because I was about to come out there and drag you in,” Dr. Barlow said.

“Quit lying,” a man’s voice joked loudly. “The way you love Mom’s chicken, it would’ve been in your best interest to leave me out there until you helped yourself.”

Christina stepped into the middle of the living room, giving her a slightly less obscured view into the kitchen. A man had joined Clara and Dr. Barlow, but the door frame prevented her from seeing him clearly. He was dressed simply; a grey work shirt was tucked haphazardly into brown work pants, all of his clothing smudged. She wanted to see more, but she couldn’t bring herself to step out and be noticed.

“Go get cleaned up, Tyler,” Clara scolded. “Being covered in grease stains is no way to meet our guest. You’ll not make a good impression that way.”

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot we were having company!” Tyler complained. “Damn!”

“You just watch your mouth, young man!” his mother cried. “I will not tolerate that type of language under my roof! If your father were still with us, he wouldn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! All the nagging makes me wonder why I ever come out of the garage! Hell, she’s probably from some backwater where dirt streaks are considered attractive! I bet she—”

As he talked, Tyler Sutter continued to move backward until, out of the corner of his eye, he got his first look at Christina Tucker.

As she sat down at the dinner table, there was much for Christina to enjoy: Clara Sutter’s cooking was excellent, particularly her roast chicken, which practically fell from the bone. Dr. Barlow regaled them with funny anecdotes from his thirty years of medicine, laughing so hard that tears formed in his eyes; and the classical music had been replaced by a swinging big band, the sounds of trumpets and clarinets mixing with the clinking of silverware, the heaping of plates, and the filling of glasses.

But even as she helped herself to another serving of green beans, Christina was acutely aware of the awkwardness that had crept in at the edges of the room. Holden Sutter hadn’t joined them, his empty chair sitting opposite his uncle’s, his plate and utensils unused. While his absence was never acknowledged, Clara’s gaze occasionally wandered over to the stairs, as if she expected him to appear at any minute. No verbal fireworks, though; this time, all held their tongues, at least so far.

And then there was Tyler Sutter.

Even though he now knew that Christina had heard every rude, despicable word he’d said in the kitchen, he showed no sign of embarrassment. Protesting every inch of the way, he had finally agreed to his mother’s demand that he change into something more presentable, trading his dirty shirt for a white one; even now, sitting directly across from her, he fumbled at his collar, pulling it out and away from his skin. He rarely added anything to the conversation other than a snide comment or disdainful laugh. But through it all, Christina found it hard
not
to look at him.

Tyler Sutter was the sort of man whose appearance drew attention; he had a strong, firm jaw framing expressive features, particularly his eyes, the clear blue of a fresh April morning. His blond hair was cut short. Even in uncomfortable clothes, his broad shoulders and muscular arms were evident, straining against the fabric of his shirt. He had a habit of pursing his lips together, as if he was thinking over something important, which narrowed his gaze and made him look slightly mischievous, even dangerous.

The impression Tyler gave was one of detachment, as if he wanted to be anywhere other than the dinner table, probably back in his beloved garage, but through all of his posturing Christina noticed that his eyes remained alert, darting glances in her direction. She couldn’t say much about his manners, but he
was
a handsome man.

“…with three pigs underneath the trough!”

“No matter how many times you tell that story, Samuel,” Clara gushed, “it still never fails to make me laugh!”

“Yeah,” Tyler added sarcastically. “It’s hilarious…”

Clara did her best to ignore her son. “So tell me, Christina, my dear.” She smiled. “What do you think of Longstock so far?”

“I haven’t had a chance to see much of it,” she answered. “But what I’ve seen is certainly very nice. It reminds me of Carlson, the town I grew up in back in Minnesota.”

“So it’s boring there, too, huh?” Tyler smirked, his eyes devilish.