Jessie Belle: The Women of Merryton - Book One (16 page)

“You
have, and I like that. She also says I need to disconnect sex with getting
pregnant.”

“But,”
he said hesitantly, “that’s not even an option anymore.”

“I
know, but sex became more about getting pregnant than it did about connecting
with you.”

He
nodded in agreement.

“I’m
sorry.” I thought back about how sex had become like a chore. Nothing is sexier
than telling your husband he has to have sex with you because you’re ovulating.
He always obliged, but I could tell he wished it were a more natural event. I
did too, but I was determined to have a baby. The romance of it all went out
the window.

“Don’t
be sorry—we both wanted that—but sometimes I only wanted you.”

“Well,
that’s all that’s left now.”

“You’re
not the consolation prize.”

I
snuggled in closer and breathed him in. “You know, sometimes I think I may be
in love with you.”

He
drew me as close as he could. “I guess that’s better than ‘I don’t know.’”

“Are
you going to move back into our room now?”

He
kissed the top of my head. “I said I could be patient, but I’m not a masochist.
Let’s take things slow and see how it goes.”

“Okay,”
I said, relieved and disappointed. “Do you think Maddie will think it’s odd we
don’t sleep in the same room?”

“I
have a feeling the only odd thing for her will be how normal life will be with
us.”

I
hated thinking about the life Maddie had led up to that point. It made me more
determined to be like Maria, or at least a really good knock-off.

I
spent the next hour being held by my husband, nothing more and nothing less. I
enjoyed every second of my head against his chest, listening to the strong,
steady beat of his heart. We didn’t talk, but we listened to each other, if
that made sense. It was the best start to my day that I had had in years. I
could have stayed like that for a lot longer, but Blake was anxious to get his
day started. He was more than ready for Maddie to be legally his.

Once
we were ready and fed by room service—anytime Blake could avoid people he
did—we went our separate ways. Blake took Maddie with him. I wasn’t sure what
he would do with her at the attorney’s office, but they both seemed happy about
it. I wasn’t going to complain. It was a beautiful summer day and I had it all
to myself. I started off with a garden tour around the Mormon temple. It was
within walking distance from our hotel, which was perfect, since Blake took my
car.

The
gardens were stunning. They had over seven hundred varieties of plants and
flowers from all over the world, at least that’s what the tour guide said. The
kaleidoscope of color was amazing. Everything from the deepest reds and blues,
to the softest pinks and yellows. I snapped so many pictures I think the button
on my camera groaned. Other than the magnificent gardens, my favorite had to be
the reflecting pool outside of their granite temple. It was breathtaking to see
that castle structure reflected off the still water.

Then,
for the fun of it, I did a tour of the temple’s visitors’ center. I figured
when in Rome . . . I had friends that were Mormon, but I didn’t know a lot
about what they believed; I thought it would be interesting. It ended up being
more than interesting. At first it was mostly historical, about how the Mormons
ended up in Salt Lake City before it was even called that. Heck, it wasn’t even
the United States when they arrived as pioneers. Some of the details were
harrowing and, quite frankly, depressing. I had no idea that they were driven
out of Illinois and forced to trek west, or how many of their people died in
the journey from starvation and the elements. It got uncomfortable for me as
the tour guide started talking about people burying their babies in shallow
graves by the trailside. I had to force my tears back.

They
didn’t stay back long as the guide went on to explain that the pioneers trudged
forward with the faith that someday they would be reunited with their lost
family members.

I
left the tour early. I walked out into the beautiful, sun-filled day and found
a bench to sit on while I composed myself. I looked up at the beautiful granite
structure that the tour guide said took forty years to build and wondered about
God and if he was really there. And if my Carter did live on, and if I would
see him again.

My
pastor preached about heaven and life beyond death, but after so much loss, my
faith had been shaken. In the midst of my contemplation, my phone rang.

“Jessica,”
my husband said on the other end.

“Yes.”

“Hey,
we’re done here. I’m going to drop Madeline and Sabrina off at their apartment.”

“Randy
won’t be there, will he?” I couldn’t stand the thought of him being around
Maddie.

“No,”
he said authoritatively.

“I’m
glad to hear that.” Though I didn’t really like to think of Maddie in that
apartment at all, I guess she had survived this long.

“Where
are you? I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

“Right
now I’m at the Mormon temple, but I wanted to go to City Creek Center. They’re
having an art show I wanted to check out.”

“An
art show?”

“I
know it’s not your thing. But do you think you could indulge me?”

“If
that’s what you really want to do.”

“I
can meet you back at the hotel.”

He
paused, and then paused some more. “I’ll meet you at City Creek Center.”

“Don’t
sound so happy about it.”

“Jess,
I’ll see you there.”

I
shook my head. How we ended up together, I would never know. I swore we had
nothing in common.

I
grabbed a smoothie and soaked in the sun while waiting for my husband to join
me. Within a half hour he came waltzing down the sidewalk, looking handsome. I
rarely got to see him in anything but jeans and a t-shirt. He was still wearing
jeans, but they were clean and snug in the right way and he was wearing an
azure-colored button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It brought out the
blue in his gray eyes and it suited him and his physique well. It was also nice
to see him in some leather dress shoes instead of work boots. Don’t get me
wrong, I loved the whole construction worker look, but this was nice, too.

I
stood up from the bench I had been occupying—wearing the flirty pinkish sundress
I had bought when I overhauled my wardrobe—and smiled at my
not-so-happy-looking husband.

“There
a lot of people here,” he commented as soon as he got to me.

“Hello
to you, too.”

“Sorry,”
he said as he kissed my cheek.

“Thanks
for being a sport, or at least willing.”

“I
told Madeline we wouldn’t be long. She’s finishing up packing.”

“All
right,” I said before I turned toward the City Creek Center entrance and began
walking that way.

“Hey.”
Blake tugged on my hand.

I
stopped and looked up at him.

His
features had softened some and I could see the annoyance dissipate. “I’m sorry
I’m on edge. I’m just ready to be out of this place.”

“Did
something happen at your attorney’s office?”

“No,
other than Sabrina being late and forgetting Madeline’s medical records, so we
had fax a release form over to her pediatrician. And it looks like Madeline
hasn’t had a physical in years. I’ll need to get her in to see Easton as soon
as we get home.”

I
smiled and shook my head at my husband, the first-time father. “You can’t take
her to see Easton.”

“Why
not?”

“Your
daughter is a young woman, and young women don’t want male doctors, especially
ones she may see at our house. Make her an appointment with his partner, Dr.
Singer. Debbie’s who I go to.”

He
nodded his head in agreement. “That makes sense.”

“Everything
else okay?”

“Can
we go home tonight or at least drive to Grand Junction?”

“Yeah,
sure. Do you want to leave now?”

He
smiled down at me. “No. I want to spend some time with my wife.”

“Even
at an art show?”

He
didn’t answer, at least not verbally. I got that his answer was “no” by his
crooked grin.

“Come
on.” I pulled him along. It wasn’t going to kill him to spend an hour or so
being immersed in culture, or at least pretending to be. Besides, the
architecture of City Creek Center alone was art. There was a manmade stream
that flowed through the shopping area and the waterfalls and fountains were
amazing. Even Blake could be impressed by that. I mean seriously, they had
trout swimming through the thing.

Blake
would never admit to me that he was impressed, but I could tell as we walked
toward the art show that was being held near the fountain that at least his
interest was piqued, at least it was until we got to the art part. Blake
thought we could just make a quick trip around and not stop and look at
anything, but he was wrong. I planned to take a little time and immerse myself
in the beautiful masterpieces that surrounded us.

The
first thing that caught my eye was a wire sculpture of a tree with a child in a
swing hanging off one of the branches. How people created such things, I would
never know, and part of me didn’t want to know. It was more magical that way.
This particular artist had several wire sculptures of trees. Some were made to
look like they were blowing in the wind and some were even in color, but they
were all lovely.

Next
were some heavenly looking watercolor paintings. One I particularly loved was
done of the reflecting pool I had visited earlier in the day. I kept looking at
Blake to gauge his reaction and it was the same for every piece. It said, “Can
you please hurry up, I think I’d rather poke my eyes out.” So I began to ignore
him. I even released his hand and walked at my own pace.

It
was then I came by the most alluring oil painting I’d ever seen. I don’t know
why, but it was like the woman in the painting was calling to me. I drew closer
to the fairly large painting set up on an easel and framed beautifully in thick,
black-painted, sculpted wood. The artist sat next to her creation and smiled at
me like she knew the painting had pulled me in.

I
knew better than to touch the art, but it was like my hand had a mind of its
own. I had to stop it from reaching up and touching the hauntingly beautiful
woman that stood on a cold beach looking out toward the tumultuous, unforgiving
ocean. Though she was facing the water, her left hand, with a simple gold band
on it, looked as if it was almost reaching back to the warmth. The scene behind
her was of a fine home, warm and inviting with a fire blazing, and a feast on
the table. Yet this raven-haired woman with the wind blowing against her wasn’t
looking back. She looked determined not to.

I
turned to the gray-haired artist who had a twinkle in her violet eyes. “Why is
this woman not turning back?” I asked her. It seemed like that’s what she
should do.

She
smiled as if she knew a wonderful secret and was about to share it. “This woman
is my great-great-great grandmother. She couldn’t look back because my
great-great-great grandfather was across the ocean.”

I
smiled. It was a love story, or so I thought. “So she followed him?”

“She
gave up everything she had to do it,” the artist responded.

“Everything?”

“Her
parents disowned her because she joined a strange new faith and promised
herself to a man her parents disapproved of. When she finally made it to
America, they worked until they could afford to cross the plains and make it
west to this valley. They lost practically everything they owned, even their
infant son, but together they made it.”

I
looked up at Blake who had decided to join my side. I was surprised to see him
listening intently to the story.

I
turned back to the woman. “How did they get over such a loss?” I wiped an
errant tear from the corner of my eye.

Blake
took up my hand and applied gentle pressure.

She
smiled again like she wanted to share another secret. “Because they had each
other and their God. Together they built a beautiful life in this valley. It’s
why I’m here today.”

“Did
she ever regret leaving her comfortable life and home?”

“Not
once. She wrote in her journal that ‘to look behind keeps us from the promises
that lie before us. To face what is before us is nothing short of bravery.’”

“I
like that,” I whispered. And oh, how I wished I could be brave like that woman.
“What was her name?” I asked.

“Margaret
Mackenzie. Same as me.”

“It’s
a lovely name. How much for the painting?” I asked almost offhandedly as I
stood mesmerized by it. I almost choked when she told me how much, but I was
still tempted to tell her to wrap it up or box it up or whatever they did, but
reason set in before I took a big bite out of my savings account. I turned from
the painting of Margaret Mackenzie to the living, breathing version. “Thank
you.”