My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (20 page)

Why didn’t he come to his senses sooner before the semester began?

I even had moments when I suspected he had timed his coming home so that we wouldn’t be able to go to St. Gabriel until the spring, and by then, he was silently hoping that I might change my mind. Not that when Race wanted to come back to me, he had any intention of agreeing to move to an island or any idea about ferries that would stop running because of ice. But I had no need for rational thinking.

Some days the wound in my heart just wanted to be angry and bitter like biting down on a toothache. Some days Race would leave a perfectly pleasant wife in the morning and would come home to a sullen, accusatory one in the afternoon.

If the actual Stages of Reconciliation were observed and written out, I think they would look something like—relief, joy, anger, anxiety, doubt, and then joy again, followed by more anger, relief, resentment, thankfulness, anxiety with a little bitterness mixed in. It would be a pretty jumbled cycle.

Race listened to me, comforted me, reassured me, and apologized to me more than any human being should have to, to another fallible human being. No matter which way my mood was swinging, Race was steadfast. Had he not been, I don’t think we would have made it through those first few months.

I was ready for him to say, “Cammy, I’ve had enough of this. What’s done is done. Get over it.”

If he had, I was prepared to pack my bags and walk across the ice of Lake Brigade. My heart was trying to wash away the grief by testing him, not intentionally, but I can now see that’s what was happening. And he passed the test. The way Race continued loving me, when I was far from acting lovable, went a long way toward healing our marriage.

In December the college insisted on giving Race a retirement party—that’s what they called it, which Race didn’t like at all. He was leaving his position but retire from teaching? Never! The party planners didn’t acknowledge the fact that Race and I had been separated the previous year and why. So, when the powers that be planned the event, the Board members were all invited, and I prepared myself to see Sarah Burns.

The night of the party, I stood in front of the mirror inspecting myself.

How could I compete with Sarah Burns?

That’s one of the things infidelity does to a person. It instills an insecurity that drives you to try and compete with the other person or at least with the idea of them.

I had managed to keep off the weight I had lost on the Jilted Wife Diet. I exercised regularly since then, and had been more aware about everything in my life, including how many cookies I ate when they came out of the oven.

I was wearing my olive-green satin dress, and it fit perfectly. Race loved that dress. He said it matched my eyes and made them look, as he would say in a Gaelic brogue, “Green as the Irish Moors.”

Many questions were posed to Race, to me, to us that night. “You’re moving to an island, is that right, and you’re going to run a lodge?”

“What would you want to move there for? Don’t you know this is God’s country?”

And then there were the well-meaning souls who took it upon themselves to make sure we knew how cold the winters would be up north. “You’re gonna freeze your titties off,” warned the always subtle Mamie Montgomery.

Isn’t it wise how God didn’t give us all a penchant for the same place on the earth? We’d all be living on top of each other if he had.

Despite my preoccupation with my appearance and my constant watch for the arrival of Sarah Burns—if she was in the room, I wanted to know where she was and what she was doing—I’ve got to tell you that I was proud of myself. With my head up, I visited with all of the people Race and I had known for the last twenty-six years, laughing at the stories of the good old days, enjoying the crowd just as I always had.

And I was so proud as David Cook, the college president, recounted Race’s quarter century of teaching at the school, “Race Coleman’s contributions have made the English Department one of the most well thought of in the state.”

Race was presented with a gold pocket watch that was engraved with the date of his first semester at the college and his last semester, the one he had just finished. He still didn’t like the insinuation that he was retiring, but he did like the watch.

And when Race accepted the watch and spoke to the guests, he recounted his first day of teaching at the school and thanked everyone who he had taught and worked with, and then he said, “But the person who made it possible for me to do what I love all of these years and still have a beautiful family and a loving home is my wife. My teaching would have been empty, pointless if it hadn’t been for her. Thank you, Cammy, I love you.” And then he left the podium and came to me, took me in his arms, and we danced even though there wasn’t any music. Everyone applauded. It was really corny and really great.

I hadn’t been looking forward to the evening but it was good for me, good for us. That evening I realized how much I had changed, Race and I had both changed, but Race and Cammy were still Race and Cammy and it felt solid. Sarah Burns did not show up.

Right before Christmas
a reminder of the early days of Race and my separation came in the mail. It was a letter from the
Eat Clean, Be Clean
, Beverly Rivers. Responding to the letter of thanks I had sent to her the previous spring, Beverly sent me her phone number and asked if I would please call her. She wrote that she would like the opportunity to talk to me about what
Eat Clean, Be Clean
had done for me.

My letter to Beverly Rivers wasn’t something Race or anyone else knew about. I had always thought about writing to public figures that had impacted me, you know, to encourage them. But then I would never get around to it. They probably wouldn’t read the letter anyway. Their mail was certainly screened by a team of managers and publicists. That letter I wrote after Race had left me was as much to encourage me as it was her I think.

I wasn’t sticking to the Rivers plan anymore, but what I had learned when I was eating
clean
had changed the way I ate, most of the time, and the way I thought about food and my body. But totally clean, free of sugar, caffeine, dairy, white flour, I was not. Still, I had tremendous respect for Beverly Rivers. She had inspired me to do something for myself that helped get me through a very bad time in my life. So, I dialed the number.

“Hello, this is Beverly,” the voice said with a cheery English accent.

I wasn’t expecting her to answer. “Beverly Rivers?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“This is Cammy Coleman. I received a letter from you. You asked me to call you. Ms. Rivers, I wanted to let you know—”

“Call me, Beverly.”

“Okay.”

“Cammy, yes, thank you for your letter. I’ve been meaning to write you since I got it. I was so touched by the things you wrote.”

What did I write
? I couldn’t even remember.

“So, tell me, Cammy, how are you getting along?”

“Great, but I’m not—”

“So, you’ve kept the weight off?”

“Yes, but—”

“And how is your life going? I remember you were at a turning point in your marriage.”

“Well, actually, my husband and I have gotten back together.”

“Congratulations. That’s brilliant. That is a keen, isn’t it?”

“Keen?”

“A good thing.”

“Yes, it’s a very good thing.”

“Great, then, if I’m ever in Texas, I hope we can meet. Or if you’re ever in New York, you have my number and you can ring me.”

“Actually, we’re getting ready to move to St. Gabriel Island. Have you heard of it?”

“No, an island, huh, that sounds interesting. What’s taking you to an island, St. Gabriel you say?”

“I bought a lodge, The Lake Lodge. We’re going to restore it and open it up for business.”

“That really is interesting. Sounds like you’re stepping out. Well, again, Cammy, I want to thank you for writing me such a beautiful letter. It’s always good to know that people are benefiting from a
clean
lifestyle. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Beverly.”

“Goodbye, Cammy.”

“Goodbye.” I hung up.

That went well.
My call to confess became a completely false representation of my life as a
clean
eater. I thought about calling her back but what would I say? “Actually, Beverly Rivers, don’t be too encouraged by me. I’m a backslider.” That seemed like a waste of a phone call, so I let it go.

Paul and Janie came home for Christmas
and we spent the holidays at Race’s parents. When Paul went back to work and Janie went back to school in January, Race and I made lots of road trips around Texas.

I think Race really was hoping that I might change my mind before the spring and not want to leave. Texas wasn’t home anymore though, and I wanted to go home. But as we spent that time together, Race saying goodbye to the Lone Star State, he talked more and more about our future on St. Gabe, and I could feel his excitement about starting his novel.

Still, I was taking a risk. I knew that Race might go to St. Gabriel and not want to stay. He had left me once, he could leave again. Anything was possible.

When April arrived, we packed what was left of our worldly possessions in the back of Race’s jeep and in the small hauling trailer that he and his dad had made. We secured our bikes on the rack and drove to the interstate.

I looked over at Race who, despite all that had happened, I adored, and I felt a shift. I would be the one to jump through the hoops. I would do all I could to make my husband love an island.

Ours, All Ours

Lake Brigade is one of the largest fresh bodies of water in the world. Its temperature never rises to more than seventy degrees Fahrenheit, during any part of the year, and it is home to some of the best freshwater diving anywhere. Race and I stood on the top deck of the ferry boat, and I was filled with the peace, joy, and excitement of going home that is felt after a vacation that has lasted too long.

Race stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, possibly so that I couldn’t see the tension on his face. As the shores of St. Gabriel came into view, I pointed out the Fort on the hill, The Willows Inn that I had stayed at with Loretta and the girls, the downtown area, and the building that housed Hausterman’s Bakery. Inhaling the Lake Brigade air was calming, clean and crisp with the scent of evergreens drifting from beyond the shores, and as we approached the dock, you guessed it, pastry.

Traces of snow were still on the ground but the island had been experiencing record high temperatures for April, high fifties, the white stuff would soon be a winter memory.

I had called Betty and asked if she would please let George know we would be arriving on the noon ferry. “And please ask him to meet us with the dray.”

We stood on Main Street, waiting with our bikes. Stacked behind us were the cans of paint for the cottages, suitcases and a wall of boxes. The boxes were filled with things we had moved from Texas and all of the purchases we had made in the town of Kipsey on the mainland—groceries, cleaning supplies, and new bed and bath linens for the rental cottage.

My concern that George didn’t get the message, or that Collard Greens had refused to pick up
that woman,
began a session of hand-wringing. I don’t even realize when I’m doing it. As we stood there, having no way to find out where George was, I was lamenting that I didn’t talk to him myself. It was not what I wanted Race’s first impression of the island to be.

Race watched me fret for few minutes and then held out his hand. I slipped my fingers between his and he gave me a big smile, and then thankfully, George came around the bend from Shoreline Drive.

Collard Greens, with his light brown coat, trotted alongside the blackest horse I had ever seen. The new horse was about the same height as his coworker but had a youthful spirit that made Collard Greens look like a mule. The horse’s frame was covered with huge muscles that flexed with every step, and his shiny black coat stretched across them like patent leather. I wondered, boy or girl? And either way, what did Cat think of this stunning creature?

George climbed down from the dray. I gave him a hug and then introduced him to Race, “George, this is my husband, Race Coleman.”

George pinched the tip of his hat and tilted his head at Race. Then the three of us loaded the boxes, suitcases and paint cans in the dray.

“I don’t think we need to do this. The skies are clear,” Race said as we covered the load with a tarp and tied it down.

“Wait ten minutes that could change,” I told him. Before George climbed back into the dray, I gave him another hug. “Thanks for meeting us, George. We’ll see you back at the lodge.”

We could have loaded our bikes in the dray and climbed up with George, but I wanted Race’s first look at the island to be from behind the handlebars of his mountain bike. He loved to ride that bike almost as much as he loved driving his jeep.

We wouldn’t stop at the bakery to meet Sara that day. Race would need time to take everything in slowly. I didn’t want him overwhelmed. Ha, as if that was even possible, but I figured why push it.