The Splendor of Ordinary Days (4 page)

The bees heard you too. They stopped their endless buzzing and lingered, sleepily hanging on the small white crowns of clover. The birds in the trees quieted and cooed distantly, shying away from their constant piping. Everything in my world was waiting, watching . . . and changing.

I told you to stop it. I didn't want to hear you right now. . . . Wasn
't ready to hear you. . . . Wasn't prepared for my world to change. I wanted to hear the hum of the bees, the songs of the birds, the endless pouring of the water. I wanted to feel the fresh, clean warmth of the sunlight, to be lost in the sweet, fragrant smell of the clover. I wanted everything to be like it had always been.

Then I heard your voice again . . . and it was beautiful. It fell softly like a lullaby. There was magic in it of things unfelt, things unimagined, things yet to come that were tender and sweet and delightful, and I began to dream of you. It was wonderful . . . so that's the name I will give you.

I knew then and there, sitting in the clover of Bracken's Knoll, that someday I would hear your voice and I would know you. Someday I would see you, maybe in a crowd or standing in a doorway. And you would be the one who whispered my name, the one I heard, the one I would always love.

Who are you, Mr. Wonderful? What will you look like? Where will we meet? I listened, but you wouldn't say. You only called my name, telling me you were there.

And so I dreamed of you for the first time.

I dreamed of you today.

The sun grew hot, making me thirsty. But I didn't cup my hand and drink out of Snow Creek like I used to do when I was younger. I'm changing. Everything about me is changing. I'm older now and know better. Next month I'll be thirteen. So, I waited.

I will wait for you too, Mr. Wonderful. I will wait.

Twilight came and I started for home. But as I made my way across the open fields, I could still hear you, your voice, sweetly, magically calling my name . . . “Christine, Christine, Christine.”

CAC

Memories and Memoirs

“C
an I make a confession?” I asked Christine.

“Sure.”

“I'm glad you're happy to have found your old journal, but I'm not getting the significance.”

Christine continued to regard me incandescently, with an odd mixture of fondness and curiosity, but her thoughts seemed miles away.

“Okay, Chambers, why all of a sudden have you invoked the cone of silence?”

My question brought her back. She sat in one of the wingback chairs, still absorbed with a tender, ruminating smile. “I was just thinking about something. It was fun to find my old journal and read what I wrote in my early teens.”

I slouched in my chair, gazing idly at the ceiling. “Hmm. Let me guess. Probably a lot of stuff about hating braces and boys ­being dumb.”

“Well, I never wore braces, so you're ­half-­right.”

“And when do I get to read this ­tell-­all of your enchanted youth?”

“Bradford, you are not getting anywhere near my journal.”

“Ouch, definitely hit a nerve there. Now I really want to read it.”

“No chance, Buckhead boy.”

“Hey, speaking of which, I have to run down to Atlanta sometime. All of my family furniture is in storage, and I want to get a few pieces moved up here.”

I was an only child. When I was twelve, my parents died in an auto accident, after which I lived with Aunt Grace in her stately Buckhead home until she too died, the summer before I started med school. After I graduated, I signed a ­three-­year contract with Watervalley. In return for my services as the sole doctor, the town would pay off my med school debts. I was also provided with a furnished house only a few blocks from the clinic. But some of the furnishings were rather dated, and I had a huge inventory of heirloom furniture in storage, left from my parents' estate and Aunt Grace's house.

“While I'm there,” I said, “I'll try to locate my old journal. If I find it, we can swap.”

Christine appeared unenthused. “I seriously doubt that would be a fair trade. What did you write about?”

“Hmm, mostly sports and girls.” I paused briefly and added, “And girls who were good sports.”

“Shocker.”

“So, did you and your mom find many things for the yard sale?” Every year around the Fourth of July, several of the churches and civic clubs in Watervalley sponsored a huge charity yard sale to help out some benevolent organization.

“Yes. A ton of things. I don't think anyone has been up there in the five years since Daddy died. Lamps, an old sewing machine, tennis racquets, camping gear, and a bunch of my grandmother Cavanaugh's vases and china that were packed away back in the sixties.”

“And an old journal.”

“And an old journal.”

“I have to admit,” I said, “you've made me curious.” I leaned forward, propping my elbows on my desk. “Okay, Christine Ann Chambers, time to confess. What deep, dark mysteries are hidden in those pages?”

Folding her arms, Christine eased back in her chair, wearing a flirtatious expression of stealth and amusement, her eyes full of secret warmth. “Not happening, Bradford.”

“Oh, I see. So that's how it is, huh? Well, no matter.” I slumped back into my chair. “Actually, besides my journal, there are three pretty important things I want to find in the Atlanta storage.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. There's a box of old family photo albums and some of my mom's jewelry that I want to bring back with me.”

Christine nodded thoughtfully. “Your mother's jewelry . . . hmm.” She unfolded her arms and tucked a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear. Given the intensity of our relationship, I was sure she was curious about the mention of my mother's jewelry, but she was tactful enough not to ask. Her voice was tender and accommodating.

“Well, that all sounds very sweet. I'm sure it would be nice to have some family photos and some things of your mom's around you.”

I stared at the bookshelves that lined the walls of my stately office, formerly the library of the antebellum home turned community clinic.

Christine's words conjured my best memory, my mother. Evelyn Bradford was a slim, tall, elegant woman with sandy hair and sky blue eyes, traits that I had ­inherited—­except perhaps for the elegant part. I remember Aunt Grace, my dad's sister, once telling me that my mother had the prettiest legs she had ever seen. My mother was an only child and had come from a modestly wealthy family in Atlanta. Yet when my father, a doctor like myself, had set up practice in a rural Georgia community, she had willingly embraced ­small-­town life.

In all my memories of her, whether sitting at a Little League game, going out for an evening, or working in her flower beds, she always wore a pearl necklace. As gracious and approachable as she was, there was something in my mother's private definition of herself that wanted to hold on to the aura of her Buckhead upbringing, a keepsake of her roots. I wanted to find those pearls.

I did, in fact, have definitive plans for some of my mother's jewelry. But I was far from ready to divulge any particulars. The musical sound of Christine's voice pulled me from my momentary trance.

“Luke, what is the third thing you're hoping to find?”

“Excuse me, the what?”

“The third thing. You said that besides your journal, there are three things you will be looking for in storage.”

“Oh yes.” I nodded and smiled softly. “There's something very special, something very dear to me from my younger days that I want to give you.”

Christine leaned forward in her chair. Her entire body language seemed to be melting toward me in an expression of yielding endearment. She spoke in a pleased, excited voice. “Oh, and what would that be?”

“My old Beavis and ­Butt-­Head T-shirt.”

The pencil she sent flying only barely missed me.

The Sisters

T
here was still plenty of warmth and daylight to be enjoyed when shortly after five we walked out to my car. Since Christine was a schoolteacher and off for summer break, we had a delightful flexibility in scheduling our time together, which of late had become a daily expectation. We laughed at ourselves about this new reality. I was thirty and Christine was in her late twenties . . . both of us old enough to have developed very independent lives. Yet our hunger for each other's company had become part of every day.

“Listen,” I said, “I've got a house call to make in about an hour. You want to grab a bite to eat before I go?”

“Sure? Is the house call anything serious?”

“Nah, just following up on something. It's out past Gallivant's Crossing in the Mennonite community. Let's drop by the bakery. Estelle may have some wraps left over from lunch.”

Christine climbed into the passenger side of my convertible, a 1960 ­Austin-­Healey. I could never have afforded such an expensive second car had it not been willed to me by one of my patients who passed away. Watervalley's local mechanic, Chick McKissick, had beautifully restored the classic roadster.

I drove the few short blocks to the downtown square and the newly opened Sweetlife Bakery. Connie Thompson, my saintly, stern, and unexpectedly wealthy housekeeper, and her flamboyant sister, Estelle Pillow, were the owners.

Despite her sixty years, Connie was a lively, robust black woman with a brilliant mind, a no-nonsense demeanor, and a heart of gold. Soon after my arrival the previous year, she had agreed to keep house and cook to help me make a smooth transition as the new town doctor. After a rocky start, she had become a beloved friend. Now she came to help out only once or twice a week, but we still enjoyed an endearing relationship.

Estelle was in her early fifties and had recently retired from a professorship at Vanderbilt University to return to Watervalley and start the bakery. Originally, Connie had been less than enthusiastic about the new business, but eventually she had warmed to the idea and had become a silent partner in her sister's venture . . . at least, silent in the figurative sense.

I parked the car in front. As we entered, I noticed something odd down the street. Luther Whitmore had just walked out of the Tilted Tulip, Watervalley's local flower shop, and was carrying a bouquet of daisies. With his face framed in its familiar scowl, he walked straight to his car, oblivious to the rest of the world. Luther's buying flowers for someone was pretty much on par with a sign of the Apocalypse. I turned and followed Christine inside the bakery, curious about what I had just seen.

We found Connie and Estelle in the kitchen; ­squared-­off with arms folded, they were engaged in a highly audible and enthusiastic discussion. In any other setting, this would be known as yelling, but with these two, it was daily discourse laced with a peculiar, underlying bond of affection.

“Estelle, sweetie! I know that technically corn bread is bread, but I don't think we should put it with the ciabatta and the baguettes.” Connie was in rare form, lecturing her younger sister.

“Well, I can't believe my ears, Constance Grace. You're talking about Momma's corn bread recipe. It was so good people wanted to write poetry about it.”

“Oh heavens, girl. Cousin Shirley tried to get Momma to make it for a wedding cake. Everyone knows it's good. But you're putting it in the wrong display.”

It seemed that both sisters were masters of speaking passionately under a facade of detached indifference, as if a breezy boredom were crucial to the art of arguing.

Estelle still wasn't yielding. “I'll have you know I went through a very meticulous process to determine where to put the corn bread.”

Connie regarded her skeptically. “­Mmm-­hmm. And what process was that? The one potato, two potato, three potato method?”

“Constance, you know when you start talking like that, it only means there's no logical basis for your argument.”

“Estelle, honey, I'm just saying the corn bread ought to be with the chess pies and other Southern baked goods and not in the artisan breads display. It's just not efficient.”

This insight deflated some of Estelle's bluster, and she hesitated for a moment. I suspected she finally saw the wisdom of Connie's assertion but wasn't quite ready to acquiesce. She responded with a reserved voice and raised chin. “We'll see. Efficiency takes time.”

With that pronouncement, she walked triumphantly across the kitchen and back out to the front of the store. As she passed us, she offered a gushing and engaging “Hi, you two,” to Christine and me, flipping her hand in a sprightly manner and radiating a bubbly smile as if addressing an infant in a carriage. The two of us grinned, doing our best to muzzle our outright laughter. As always, Estelle and Connie's exchange lacked any real sting of hostility. It was their norm for spirited conversation.

Meanwhile, Connie had removed her glasses and was rubbing the bridge of her nose. She stared straight ahead in bewilderment.

“­Mmm-­mmm. Efficiency takes time. I'm going to have to dwell on that one for a while.” She shrugged, gushed a short laugh, and turned to us. “So, how are you two lovebirds?”

“Hungry,” I responded. “And sorry about barging in on the business meeting, but it was just too entertaining to walk away from.”

Connie cut her eyes at me and spoke with her usual deadpan intonation. “­Mmm-­hmm. Do tell.” She shook her head in exasperation. But then, just as quickly, she exhaled another abrupt laugh. “It's just my crazy sister, the
pain de boulanger
, being a pain in the you know what.” The hint of a smile remained at the edges of her mouth.

My close relationship with the two sisters afforded me carte blanche access to the treats of the bakery. I casually grabbed one of the newly frosted cupcakes from a nearby worktable. “Ah, come on, Connie. Admit it. Estelle is a load of fun. She's such a personality, it's kinda hard not to love her.”

Connie dropped her chin and regarded me from above the top of her ­gold-­inlay glasses. “Why wouldn't anyone love her personality? She has several to choose from.”

I took a bite of the cupcake and handed it to Christine. Connie spoke again.

“So, big plans for the evening?”

Abandoning any pretense of good etiquette, I spoke through my ­half-­swallowed bite. “Not really. I need to make a house call out in the Mennonite community and work a little of my magic. We thought we'd grab a quick bite first.”

“­Mmm-­hmm,” Connie responded in low reprimand. “Not if you choke on that cupcake first. Where are your manners, young man?”

I swallowed and continued. “Jacob Yoder came by today and asked me if I would come check on his dad. Apparently his father's eyesight has gotten worse, but he refuses to come to town to see the doctor. So, looks like the doctor is going to see him.”

“Well,” Connie responded, “that's certainly good of you.”

“Maybe. Truth is, I've never seen a Mennonite village. Thought it might be interesting. What's the difference between them and the Amish?”

“The two are ecclesiastical cousins, but the Amish are less adapted to modern technology. Even so, the Watervalley Mennonites are an Old Order community and pretty basic.”

“So, no phone, no lights, no motorcar?”

“Yeah, something like that. Anyway, busy day at the clinic?”

“Not too bad. Looked down a few sore throats, put in a few stitches, and did a physical on a rat in a black suit.”

“Oh, so Luther came by to see you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“His liver finally telling him that he's not immortal?”

“No. Genetics didn't take a holiday when Luther was born. He's got a chink or two in his armor, but otherwise he's pretty indestructible.”

Connie nodded. She knew that I wouldn't divulge confidential patient information about Luther, despite how much I disliked him. “Those superpowers must have come from his mother's side. She was a tall, handsome woman. His father's people, on the other hand, were a little different. You shake that side of the family tree and a few nuts fall out.”

“Did his father run the newspaper, too?”

“No, Luther inherited it from his mother's side. His father farmed and had a place near the Mennonite settlement out by Moon Lake. Luther grew up out there. His dad battled lung cancer, so they sold the farm and moved to town when Luther was in his early teens. The family kept Moon Lake to be a homesite for Luther . . . not that he's ever wanted to live there, the way he's got it all fenced off.”

“I know. Why in the world did he do that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Claire, his ex-wife, and I were friends. Even she didn't know. Said he never wanted to talk about it.”

I shrugged and let the matter drop. Luther was a curiosity, but he had occupied enough of my world for one day. “Anyway, I was hoping there are a few wraps left over from lunch? Mind if we grab a couple before I head out to the promised land?”

“Check the back fridge and help yourself. We're about to close up.”

“You and Estelle have big plans this evening?”

This evoked a despairing slump from Connie. She spoke in a breezy monotone. “Oh, yeah. Estelle and I are observing our Tuesday night ritual. We make spaghetti and watch old Elvis movies. She sits there and giggles, and I contemplate setting myself on fire.”

After raiding the fridge, we bid Connie ­good-­bye and made our way back out to the front of the bakery, where Estelle and her assistant, Louise Fox, were cleaning up for the day.

Louise was my ­next-­door neighbor on Fleming Street. In her early forties, she was a widow raising a brilliant, albeit quirky, ­thirteen-­year-­old son named Will. The sudden loss of her husband more than a year ago had left Louise in a spiral of alcoholism and imminent bankruptcy, but a recent turn of fortune had restored the family's financial standing, and with Connie's help, Louise had recovered from her struggles with addiction. She smiled warmly at me as we entered.

I left a twenty on the counter, waved, and headed for the door, but not before Estelle, who was more ­touchy-­feely than airport security, came over and grabbed me.

“Now, sugar, you know you can't leave here without giving me a squnch.”

I played along with enthusiasm. “Oh, I wouldn't dream of it.”

Estelle was a half foot shorter than me, and despite being rather portly and fifty, she had a lively, pretty face. She approached from the side and wrapped her arms around me in a gushing hug, making a deep “­mmm-­mmm” sound.

She addressed Christine. “Now, don't be getting jealous, sweetie. Every ­well-­stocked kitchen has a little brown sugar in it.”

Christine's improvisation was quick and natural. “I don't know, Estelle. You're kind of the total package. I'm feeling a little threatened.”

Having squeezed most of the oxygen out of me, Estelle finally let go and took a step back. She lifted her head in a rather queenly fashion and spoke airily, as if making a closing soliloquy. “I know, I know. But don't worry, dear. For you, I'll keep my irrefutable charms in check and just play catch and release. There're always more fish in the sea.”

This brought no small amount of laughter from the three women, who were clearly having a good chuckle at my expense. I smiled, shrugged, and put my hand lightly on Christine's back, ushering her toward the door.

Estelle continued laughing, quite pleased with herself. “You two have fun.”

As we exited, I noticed that two doors down, Trina Hamilton, the owner of the Tilted Tulip, was locking up for the day. I asked Christine to give me a minute, and I walked toward Trina. Curiosity had gotten the better of me.

“Hey, Trina, mind if I ask you a question?”

“Oh, hi, Dr. Bradford.” Trina was a small but pert and engaging woman. She dressed smartly and had short blond hair with bangs that wonderfully accentuated her lively brown eyes. She had a degree in marketing and had been an account manager with IBM before moving to Watervalley. Her outgoing and winning personality had a professional polish a notch above the norm. She had both a love and a gift for flower arranging and had owned the shop for almost a decade.

Trina peered around me, noticing Christine standing next to the ­Austin-­Healey parked down the street. “I can open back up if you want to buy some flowers, Dr. Bradford. But I think you've lost the element of surprise.”

“Thanks. Actually, I just have a question.”

“Sure.”

“Was that Luther Whitmore I saw coming out of here a little while ago?”

Her puzzled face relaxed into an amused smile. “It sure was.”

“Any idea what that's all about?”

She nodded her understanding. “Does seem odd, doesn't it? Every year on May ­twenty-­seventh, Luther comes in and buys a bouquet of daisies. It's always the same. He calls ahead and places the order, comes in and complains about the price, then buys them and leaves. It's just speculation, but I figure it's his mother's birthday and he puts them on her gravesite.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense. Even Luther had a mother.” I paused and smiled. “Sorry to be so nosy. It just struck me as strange.”

Trina smiled warmly. “Tell me about it.”

“So, daisies, huh?”

“Yeah, same every year. Kind of an odd choice.”

“Why is that?”

“Plenty of daisies grow wild in the countryside. Luther can pick them just about anywhere.”

“I suspect he would rather wear a tutu than be seen picking flowers.”

“Sounds about right.” She tilted her head and glanced around me, once again observing Christine waiting at the car. “Anyway, you should surprise that pretty girl with a dozen roses sometime. Rumor has it that women like that kind of thing.”