Someday Home (4 page)

On her way out the door, again being struck with no four-footed companion to tag along, she stopped and called the supply house. Yes, the order was ready; they'd had everything in stock. Funny that Maggie hadn't called to ask if she could keep Miss Priss while she slept. Some of her best G'ma times were when she had one of the kids at a time. Cookie baking was often a favorite activity, and with Miss Priss, whose real name was Caitlyn, dress-up was a close second. Miss Minerva took about as much as she could stand and then would hide who knew where.

After a brief stop at the grocery store on her way back, she delivered the threading compound and returned home. This time her research was shared housing. The phone again. Sometimes she was tempted to ignore it, but checking the screen, she grinned instead.

“G'ma, can I come bake cookies? Mommy is still sleeping and I just got home and…” She dropped her voice. “I don't want to wake her up. She's grumpy if I do.”

Lynn rolled her lips together. “See you in a minute.” And clicked off, smiling and shaking her head at the image. Miss Priss was on her way. As always when she knew one or more of the children were coming, she stepped out on the back porch to watch them run along the path that crossed the large open field between the two houses. The little towhead with a pink bow in her hair—she loved hair decorations—waved and picked up her speed.

Lynn blinked back the tears that burned the backs of her eyes and immediately caused her nose to run. Joy or sorrow, her tears had no rhyme or reason, other than the big M. She dug a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. Miss Priss would ask immediately why she was sad.

“G'ma,” she yelled to be heard. “I got a new purse.” She waved a shiny pink plastic bag, which would no doubt be of the latest princess ilk. Miss Priss devoutly believed in princesses, and according to her daddy, she was his.

“Beautiful.” Lynn wasn't making any definitions of what she was referring to. She braced for the leap into her arms, surely not typical princess behavior, whatever that was. The smile beamed up at her made her hug the little one again. “So how was preschool?”

“Arnold brought a big worm in his pocket, and the girls shrieked and ran.” She shook her head. “It was dumb. He wasted a good worm.”

In this family if you couldn't put your own worm on your own hook, you didn't get to go fishing. And if you didn't go fishing, you would miss out on a good amount of the family entertainment. Miss Priss slid her hand into her grandmother's. “I hope we are going to make peanut butter cookies, and I want to mash them with a fork.”

“If that is the kind you want, no problem. We could make chocolate chip bars, too, if you like. They can be baking while we form the others.”

“Okay. Daddy likes the bars best.” She swung her purse with her other hand. “Did you know that next year I go to kindergarten?”

“I figured.”

Blue eyes stared up at her. “What if I don't like it?”

“Do you like preschool?”

A nod and a serious look. “Most of the time, until some boy does something really, really stupid.”

“Girls don't do stupid things?”

She shrugged. “But we listen better.” Her smile widened. “Miss Minerva. You want to play dress-up?”

“How can we bake two kinds of cookies and still play dress-up?”

“I just wanted to see her run. I think she got tired of playing dress-up. Last time she scratched me. All she had to do was say she didn't want to play anymore. She didn't need to get mean about it.” Miss Priss boosted herself up on a stool. “Can I wear a apron?”

“Of course you must.” While they chatted, Lynn took all the ingredients and a mixer out of the pantry and set them on the table. Mentally she ran down the list of ingredients and double-checked to make sure she had everything. “The peanut butter is on the bottom shelf; you want to get that?” Fetching the princess apron she had made for this particular grand, in pink of course, she tied the apron strings and dropped a kiss on the curly blond hair that caused more than one argument over tangles. Getting the hair washed had taken coercing, bribing, and strict orders until they found a no-tangle product that even worked on curly hair.

“Can I start the mixer?”

“Wait until we get the ingredients in. You remember how to crack the eggs in?”

“Can we use a bowl like before? Daddy said he didn't like chewing on eggshells.”

Having made certain there were no shells in the dough, Lynn rolled her eyes. Leave it to Phillip. “Sure, that's always the best way to learn.” Cooking with helpers always slowed the job wa-a-y down but she'd not trade it. Both the brothers had helped in the kitchen, and Travis now did some of the cooking and baking. He said he was going to be a chef someday. Davey would rather catch the fish than fry them, although he, too, had become a good assistant in the kitchen.

She let Caitlyn measure the sugar and unwrap the butter cubes, then turn on the mixer. “Now, don't go sticking the wooden spoon or spatula in the bowl while it is running, right?”

“I got whapped good last time.”

“And?”

“And the beaters got bent. That was a tough wooden spoon, huh?”

“Could have been your fingers.”

“Nope, my fingers didn't go near that bowl. The spoon did.”

“Okay, shut it off and dump in the eggs.” Step by step, they mixed the dough, added the chocolate chips, minus a few that made it into two willing mouths, and shelled and broke nuts. Lynn spread the dough in the jelly roll pan and stood by while Caitlyn slid the pan into the oven. She stepped back and dusted off her hands. “Now we have tea.”

By the time the boys got home from school, the peanut butter cookies rested on the cooling racks, the bars were in a flat plastic container, and the two cooks made hot chocolate with marshmallows to float in it.

“You didn't wake Mommy, did you?” Caitlyn greeted her two brothers as they burst through the door.

“You think we're stupid or crazy?” Travis stared at her as if she was the crazy one. “G'ma, are we having supper here?”

“What did your mom say this morning?”

“She said she forgot to ask and Dad was supposed to, and I don't know if he did or if we are going out for pizza.”

Davey spoke around the cookie in his mouth. “Not going for pizza.”

“Why?”

“Daddy has a meeting.”

“How do you know?”

“He said.”

Lynn kept her smile to herself. Travis tried to be the boss, but while more quiet, Davey observed, listened, and forgot nothing. She took the corn bread casserole out of the freezer, along with a frozen peach pie, and turned the oven back on. Nights like this they ate early so Maggie could sleep until supper, then spend the evening with her kids before getting ready for the late shift. Everyone was glad when she wasn't on the night shift.

Thinking about the day on her way up the stairs to bed that night, Lynn realized it had gone from sad to study to hurry, hurry to the sublime and closed with the wild. All in all, a perfect day if she could ignore the tears and the sweat.

Was thinking about bringing two other women into this messy, busy life even half a good idea? It would certainly take some special kind of people. However could something like that even begin to work out? Surely even the thought was a menopausal fantasy.

P
lease, Lord, let this dinner help us mend the rips in our marriage.”

Angela Bishop stared at the face in the mirror. Dangly earrings just the way that Jack liked them. His favorite little black dress that he'd bought for her on one extravagant shopping trip. Strappy, sparkly heels that brought her five foot three up to five six and made her legs look far longer than they were. Even her deep auburn hair, colored just the way he liked it, managed to behave and stay in the French twist at the back of her head.

Tall, slim, sexy. She brightened the red lipstick and rolled her lips together. Checking the diamond-decked watch that she never wore for fear it would get lost, she saw she was ready on time. Learning to be punctual had been a hard lesson, but she had perfected it. She grabbed a wrap from the drawer, and after winking at that woman in the mirror, she strolled down the stairs.

Jack said he'd meet her here, right now. Where was he? So much for her grand entrance. She picked up the wrap she'd been trailing behind her and draped it over her arm.

“Oh, wow.” Accompanied by a wolf whistle, Jack skidded to a stop on the hard wood floor. “Angela, is this gorgeous creature really you?”

She ignored the reply she wanted to make and smiled seductively, tilting her head slightly to the side. Employing every sexy hint she'd ever read in the women's magazines or seen on the computer, she ran the tip of her tongue over her glistening lips and batted her false eyelashes. Ones she'd learned to apply just for this night. He'd wanted a sexy, beautiful, successful wife and she'd worked hard to become just that.

Pitching her voice down just a bit, she smiled again. “At your service.” At the bottom of the stairs, she did a slow pirouette, trailing the shawl and throwing a glance over her shoulder, lashes at half-mast. She'd even learned to wear contacts since he'd complained about her glasses. “Are you ready?”

“Am I ever.”

His throaty answer made her smile again. It must be working. Imagine Angela Bishop a vamp at age fifty-one. She laid one hand on his arm, bright red acrylic nails with a sparkly embedded on one forefinger tip, glinting in the light.

“Here, let me.” He took her wrap and laid it around her shoulders, fingertips caressing the back of her neck. “Your chariot awaits, m'amselle.”

Once he had her seated in the low-slung red Porsche, his latest purchase, he was whistling as he crossed in front of the car to the driver's side.

She had to admit Jack looked good, too. The black suit he'd paid far more for than half her wardrobe, with a white silk shirt, open at the neck to reveal curly chest hairs, set off his dark good looks as a heart-stopper. Who would ever dream looking at them, they were celebrating twenty-five years of marriage? While their two children were planning a family get-together to celebrate, she and Jack had opted to have this one night together, just the two of them.

He torched off the motor and paused. “Where are we going?”

“To the Mansfield.” She had set up this date, making reservations at what she knew to be his favorite restaurant. It was too high priced and too upscale to go to regularly, but once in a great while…

“Sparing no expense, I hope.”

“That's right.” She smiled at him and purred, “You're worth it.”

He patted her knee and shifted the Porsche to drive. Four on the floor. A man's dream, and a middle-aged man at that. Was middle age what was prompting his restlessness these last couple of years, his demand that she go out and get a job so they could have a better lifestyle? But perhaps she was feeling middle-aged as well, because she was going along with it, carefully remaking the old Angela into the kind of woman he raved about who worked in his office at the bank. Sexy and successful. Two of his favorite words when referring to women. And slim. Angela now weighed fourteen pounds less than when she graduated from high school.

“Did you get my shirts at the dry cleaners? I have to leave for a short trip in the morning.”

“No, I had two showings this afternoon and then I forgot. I'll pick them up in the morning.”

“My flight is at eight.” His tone bit.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I asked you to get them.”

“But you didn't say…” She cut off her reply. “Let's not argue tonight, okay? I'm sure you have plenty more shirts to make this trip. How long will you be gone?”

“Three days, four at the most. I guess I'll have to buy shirts if I need more.”

Since when had he played the martyr role? “Where are you going?”

“Seattle. I have back-to-back meetings with marketing and mergers and acquisitions.”

Was that a hint of pride she now heard in his voice? Since he'd given up sharing much business talk with her, complaining that she was never around to listen when she brought it up, she wasn't really sure what this meeting entailed.

“I'd like to go to Seattle again.”

“Someday maybe, but not this trip. I'll have no time for sightseeing or anything.”

“Will you see Charles and Gwynn?”

“No time. I've not even told them I'd be in the vicinity. This trip came up so unexpected. Rush, rush, rush. Why they didn't tell me before, but according to Ken's boss immediately above him, there's a problem and I'm the man to handle it.”

“Good for you.” She patted his knee, earning a quick grin. Why was it that lines on a man's face and silver sideburns looked sexy, but women were not to age? Another of those questions she'd seek answers for someday. She leaned back in the seat and stared out the windshield.

He switched the dial to light classical, something they both enjoyed, and for a change, peace seemed to settle into the car interior, the black leather both smelling and feeling luxurious.

“Maybe I should think of getting a new car, too. A Lexus maybe? Sedan would be good for taking clients to see the properties.”

“If you can afford it, go for it. Although you might give it a lot of thought. They're expensive, you know.”

Her eyebrows arched in spite of herself. And this little number had not been expensive? She'd never known the sticker price, but then perhaps he had leased it, something she might consider as well. After all, it would be a business write-off. Whatever had happened to those years where they talked over finances, trying to figure out whom to pay and who would have to wait? They'd laughed and loved together, did family things with Charles and Gwynn, like sports and canoeing up at the lake property. With both of their children married and no grandchildren at this point, they had all seemed to drift in different directions. Although they had worked together to create the family celebration…

“Four days?” She turned to stare at her husband. “The celebration the kids set up for our anniversary is Saturday.”
With a special something going on at church on Sunday.
But they were keeping that part a secret, so she couldn't mention it just yet.

“No problem, I'll be back Friday night at the latest.”

“Are you sure?” She fought to keep her tone calm when it wanted to go up an octave, bordering on shriek.

“Of course I'm sure. I told the board I had to be back.”

She stared at him, shock registering. He'd forgotten. “Wasn't it on your calendar?”

“Oh, I'm sure it was, er, is.” He gave her his toothy smile, sure she would acquiesce like she always had.

No arguments tonight. Just nod and smile. Tread softly. Drop a brick on his head later.
That thought surely didn't help peace, but it did make her laugh inside.
Breathe deep, tonight you are celebrating, just the two of you.

He pulled the car in front of the Mansfield and stopped where a valet opened her door and greeted her with a smile. She let him help her out while Jack came around the front of the car and tossed the young man the keys.

“Be careful with my baby here.” He patted the roof, took his ticket, and held out an arm to escort her inside.

When he greeted the maître d', the familiar response reminded her he'd been here before. But they had only been here once before, years ago. Jack always said they could not afford this kind of place. But back then, that was the truth.

The gentleman smiled mirthlessly. “Going all out?”

“Nothing too good for my girl.” His hand at her back guided her to follow the man with the leather-bound menus who seated them in a booth, shook out the fancy folded napkins, and placed the stiff, white cloths on their laps before opening and setting the menus in front of them.

“Thank you, Henri.”

“You are welcome, and if there is anything else you need, feel free to call me. I'll take care of it.”

Was that a tip Jack passed him? Jack, or at least the Jack she used to know, had been stingy with tips. “Henri?”

“Ah yes, I've brought clients here before.”

“Oh, your expense account must have expanded somewhat.”

He ignored her comment and studied the menu. “Would you like me to order for both of us? I have a special idea in mind.”

“If you'd like.” Another strange behavior. This was turning into a night of strange behaviors. Why did she feel like he was showing off?

He beckoned the waiter over, the two conferred, and the waiter left with a smile and nod to her. “Now,” said her husband. “Why don't we go dance while they prepare our supper? Oh, and I ordered a bottle of extra-nice wine since we are celebrating.”

“Thank you.” She nodded. “I didn't reserve a wine, but I know you don't care for champagne.”

They both put their napkins on the table, and he took her hand to lead her to the spotlighted dance floor. No recordings in the Mansfield or even a piano player. A six-piece ensemble played a waltz, and she let herself relax in the strength of Jack's arms. For a moment she could forget about the strange behaviors. They'd always danced well together and tonight was no exception. As they swung and blended with the music, she heaved a deep breath and let herself rest her cheek against his shoulder. Surely this would lead to a night of making love, something they'd not had a lot of lately.

The waiter brought the bottle of wine; poured some in a glass; and Jack swirled the goblet, inhaled the perfume, and nodded to the man to pour. They used to make a joke out of things like this because their only identification was with red house wine or white.

Somehow she got the idea if she brought that up to laugh over, he'd not think it funny. He'd reacted that way lately to a lot of their family stories, as if they were no longer humorous and he would rather forget their earlier life.

At least there would be lots of reminiscing when the whole family, including their church family, met to celebrate.

He lifted his glass to touch hers. “To our new lives.” After the elegant clink, they each sipped and savored. Or at least he seemed to. Actually, the wine was red and dry, and to her it tasted like medicine. The yucky kind that you chugged fast and followed with several glugs of water. Immediately. She ordered herself to not be silly and took another very small sip, glancing at the bottle. There was no way he was going to pour any more of that into her glass.

She nibbled on the assortment of breadsticks, crackers, and crunchy breads in the basket on the table. As bad as the wine was, these were delicious. Their salads arrived; the waiter ground the obligatory pepper on the Caesar salad and she savored the crispy crunch with a tangy dressing. The chef certainly knew how to prepare a good salad.

“More?” Jack held up the wine bottle. His glass was empty.

“Ah, no thank you. Not yet.” Another sip to go with a smile and an immediate bite of bread.

Here came Henri with an assistant and some kitchen equipment. They set up next to her table and with broad gestures prepared the entrée. A column of flame flared eighteen inches into the air as the other restaurant patrons were watching and pretended they weren't. This, she knew, was flambeau, but it had never been done for her before. With a flourish, the chefs folded up their equipment and left.

The food certainly lived up to its reputation. Small rosettes of the tenderest steak in a delicious wine sauce. “Oh, this is so good,” she murmured after the first bite. “Thank you.”

“Glad you like it. They are famous for their Steak Diane. One of my favorites here.”

Huh?
Another intriguing comment to file away for later pondering. She asked, “Have you heard from Charles lately?”

Jack shook his head and downed another swallow of wine. His glass was nearly empty again.

“What about Gwynn?”

Again he shook his head and finished off his glass.

“Ah, won't you be over the alcohol limit, dear?”

He did a brushing motion. “No problem, it'll be dissipated by then, and besides, you could drive. You can drive a stick shift, right?”

“Not for a long time.” So far he'd not allowed her to drive his baby. In fact, she'd hardly ridden in it.

They danced again while their table was being cleared, but for some strange reason, the feeling of closeness was no longer present. He danced more like it was a chore than a delight. Despite all the surface glamour, this evening was beginning to seem weirdly wrong. She wanted to mend her marriage and bring Jack back to the intimacy they knew once upon a time. What was happening here?

Back at the table she caught him checking his watch. “Do you have somewhere you have to be?”

“Oh no, no, not at all.” He smiled but it never reached his eyes. “Now, how about we share a dessert, unless you want a whole one. Their crème brûlée is really good.”

She ignored the feeling of unease she kept getting. “Share, huh? Can we not afford to each have one?”

“Of course we can,” he snapped, and signaled the waiter. “Two, please.”

“Of the usual?”

“Yes.”

“Jack, I meant that as a joke. You know, how we used to joke about not overspending?” She reached for his hand, but instead of taking hers, he withdrew his.