A Journey by Chance (25 page)

“Shaving cream?” Maggie laughed into the telephone at Gina's rendition of the slumber party. The young Olafsson must have inherited his sense of humor from his mother.

“I think I owe him, don't you? Anyway, is it all right if I keep the car for a while?”

“Sure. Aunt Lottie and I are tied to the washing machine today. What are your plans?”

“Brady invited me to go horseback riding at the farm. I think I'll take him up on it. I need to hang out with some animals.”

“You're probably in withdrawal. Honey.” Maggie paused, catching the motherly words poised on the tip of her tongue, words that would only exasperate her daughter.

“Mom, I know I can't ride, but Lauren thinks they've probably got a sidesaddle. His sisters used to be into riding in a big way. We'll see.”

Maggie smiled. “At least you'll be near horses.”

“Yep. Gotta go. We're plotting how I can get back at Brady, embarrass him to pieces.”

She chuckled. “Good luck. See you later.”

“Bye.”

It was good to hear Gina happy. Her daughter hadn't snapped at her for referring to her injury. There wasn't even a hint in her tone that she was rolling her eyes or lifting her right eyebrow. This was a definite sign of progress in Gina's emotional well-being.

Thank You, Father
, she breathed a prayer.
And thanks for my own progress in that direction.

Aunt Lottie came through the back screen door into the kitchen, huffing slightly. “Maggie, I'm worried about your ankle. Are you sure all this basement-stair climbing and hauling laundry outside to the clothesline doesn't hurt it?”

“Not at all. The walking cast is great. And it's such a perfect day to hang the linens outside.”

“It's a gorgeous summer day.” She nodded toward the Bible laying open on the kitchen table and sat down. “What are you reading now?”

“Oh, I'm looking up all the references to ‘wife,' trying to get a Christian perspective on marriage. I don't understand all this ‘be subject to' stuff.”

Aunt Lottie chuckled, her blue eyes twinkling beneath her halo of white hair. “I never worried too much about that. Are you in Ephesians?” She pulled her glasses from an apron pocket and slipped them on. “Read this. ‘The wife must respect her husband.' Pretty cut and dry, in my opinion. Nothing complicated about respecting another person.”

“No, there isn't.”

“But it's the easiest thing to lose sight of with the people living in the same house, up close where you can see all their warts.”

“The first part of the sentence says husbands should love their wives. It's easy to respect someone who shows obvious love for you.”

“But the two don't have anything to do with each other.”

“What?”

“It doesn't say respect him
if
he loves you. And it doesn't say love her
if
she respects you.”

“Oh.” Maggie frowned. “Well, what if the husband doesn't deserve respect? What if he pretty much ignores his wife and doesn't communicate with her?”

“Doesn't say anything about deserving. It's just God's order of things. Reece doesn't beat you, does he?”

“Who said we were talking about Reece?” She smiled. “No, he doesn't.”

“He's just gone all the time.”

Maggie raised her brows.

“I've got eyes and ears, child. Do you want to know what I think?” Aunt Lottie patted her hand.

“Okay.”

“Let him off the hook.”

Maggie winced.

“God let you off.”

“But He's God.”

“And He'll give you the grace and the power to do what you want to do. That's the real trick. Do you want to do it? You think about that while I go check the washer.” She stood and shuffled to the basement door. “You've listened long enough to an old woman's ramblings.”

“Don't carry anything upstairs. I'll be down in a minute.”

They aren't ramblings,
Maggie thought.
They are the voice of real, down-to-earth experience.

She sighed. She really didn't want to let Reece off the hook. He'd think his ignoring her was acceptable, that her loneliness was just in her head and not his fault.

But was his response her responsibility? No.

Her responsibility was responding correctly to God. And according to Aunt Lottie, He wanted her to respect her husband.

That probably meant being honest with him. Tell him she was angry with him, had wanted more from him. Well, she'd done a pretty good job of that his last night in Valley Oaks when she asked him if he loved her. But she hadn't told him about John.

If not for a nagging in the back of her mind to be obedient, she didn't want to do this. Her feelings for Reece had
gone…neutral. It wasn't as if she wanted any more from him now, except maybe to tie up loose ends. For the sake of obedience.

Maggie picked up the phone. He hadn't returned her messages to call her this week. He wasn't answering his cell phone, and she didn't want to leave this type of voice mail on his business line. She dialed home, thinking he would be there sometime over the weekend. The machine picked up.

“Reece, I'd rather talk to you than the machine, but…I need to talk. That voice you heard was a friend of mine. Just a friend. Past tense. There were all these emotions in my heart, and I felt like they were disconnected, just empty holes in between them because there wasn't anyone to share them with. You haven't been interested. I…I needed…wanted someone to fill in the gaps.” She took a deep breath. “But I know it was…I was disrespectful to you. I'm sorry.

“So,” the words rushed out now, “about this quest of mine, this delving into the past. It's helping. I had to let Jesus forgive all those teenage mistakes I made. I had to forgive Neil's mother. I had to forgive the town in general. I don't have that heavy lump of guilt anymore that I really didn't understand I had in the first place, so I guess I had to figure that one out, too. And I don't think I have to be perfect anymore, now that I've stopped pretending with Gina.

“Maybe this is more information than you want. But, Reece, this is the kind of stuff I've needed to say out loud to you, without you making light of it or offering a zillion quick-fix solutions.” She paused. She was finished. “Bye.”

Maggie hung up the phone and exhaled noisily. Finished, but it felt as if something wasn't. Something was missing. What was it?

She pushed up her sleeves and headed toward the basement staircase. The temperature was low today, not—she stopped mid-stride.

Hot. She wasn't hot. That's what was missing. No internal combustion. And she'd talked to Reece—well, sort of to him—and her body didn't do its usual haywire thermostat number. Interesting. She'd been straight and honest about John, about her feelings, about him not meeting needs, about her working through the past.

Hmmm. Maybe they should just talk one-sided into answering machines, avoid confrontation.

What came next? She'd have to leave Reece's response up to God. And if there was no response? She shrugged as she continued down the stairs. That was fine. There really hadn't been a response in a long time. By this point she wasn't sure she wanted one.

Reece had listened to Margaret as she talked to the answering machine, still too numb from shock to pick up the phone and respond. Hours later, he was just beginning to warm again. Numb was easier.

Many Saturdays he went to the office, but not this time. He replayed the message over and over, letting her voice wash over him, at times soothing the pain, at times feeding it.

Just a friend.
A punch in the gut, but not devastating. Not an affair.

Past tense.
A ray of hope.

You weren't interested.
Guilt, shame, then anger consumed him. What did she want? He listened!

Disrespectful to you. I'm sorry.
She was perfect in his mind, always had been. She was a good person. This was
his
fault. He hadn't given her something, hadn't made her feel loved.

I had to let Jesus forgive…
He was reading Olafsson's book. This man Jesus was taking on dimensions he'd never thought about. In the fictional account He had the power to remove anyone's guilt and then tell them to try again, His way. If Reece asked forgiveness, like Margaret was saying, would He give it to him? Could he try again?

I need to say this without you making light of it or offering a zillion quick-fix solutions.
Female perspective. He didn't get it. If there's a problem, fix it. If it's just emotional, no big deal. Get over it. Right?

No, wrong. She wanted him to…listen.

But he didn't want to over the telephone. He wanted to see her face, sit down across a table and try to understand this time, try not to disappoint her. How could he…?

What had Gina said? That she was a romantic. That she liked surprise gifts. But not, he reminded himself, flowers, because she had told him about those, and if she had to tell him, she didn't want them.

He stared through the patio door at her backyard full of flowers. Such care she put into those things. She put care into everything, him and Gina and their home. He turned and began wandering through the house now, studying clues to the identity of this woman who'd lived with him for the past 30 years.

It was a one-story tract house, built on a slab of concrete in a decent neighborhood, their first. Margaret loved it and had never wanted to buy a larger one. She had upgraded the plumbing and wiring, replastered the entire interior, refinished the exterior stucco. It was probably the prettiest house on the block. The overall feel was light and air with bright splashes of color.

He stopped in the front room, hands stuffed in his shorts. It was just like her. By far the prettiest one in the entire neighborhood. Petite. Blonde. Her smile always a breath of fresh
air, her clothing bright splashes of color. She could wear anything, make anything work on her small figure. She had an innate sense of style, always drawing admirable glances from men and women.

He focused on the small things. There were paintings on the wall, art he had never really noticed before. They were just there, part of the wall. He noticed now the floral prints in light wood. He studied the end tables and bookshelf. Empty crystal vases that usually held fresh flowers when she was home. A bowl of potpourri. Candles. A few white figurines. What were those? He picked one up and read the bottom. Lladro. A five-by-seven family portrait. Gina's high school graduation photograph. Another of Gina in her khaki Wild Creature Country's vet outfit, a baby orangutan wrapped around her side.

He wandered down the hall and looked in his daughter's room. Since she had moved back in, she had removed the teenage posters of surfing and wild animals. One bulletin board remained with photos of old friends. He knew the garage held boxes of things from the apartment she had had to give up. He smiled at the four-poster, remembering how at the age of eight she had torn off the canopy's ruffle—the canopy her mother had insisted on—and stuffed it in the dog's house outside. She had replaced it with an army fatigue cape she bought from a neighbor boy.

They both had given Margaret fits through the years.

He walked into their room. More photos of Gina alone and with them were on one wall. An ocean scene on another. He stepped to it. It wasn't California. The colors were too vibrant, the buildings too old-fashioned and too near to the water. Balconies full of overflowing geraniums. Maybe the Mediterranean?

He opened the folding door of Margaret's side of the closet. More vibrant colors. He fingered the dresses. She
wore dresses to work, not suits. What was she wearing to the wedding?

He took a deep breath. He didn't know what was missing, which ones she had taken with her.

He stepped to the dresser and opened her jewelry box. It was packed with inexpensive costume baubles, different styles and colors to match every outfit. He had given her the requisite nice pieces. An anniversary ring on their twenty-fifth. No, not twenty-fifth. He hadn't thought of it until Gina suggested it the following year. Then there was the diamond bracelet for her fiftieth birthday. Did she have those with her?

He picked up a perfume bottle, removed the lid, and sniffed. He tried another. He closed his eyes. This one was her. This was the one that nudged memories. He read the label.
Coco
. He hadn't known…

Books and magazines were in the nightstand on her side of the bed. Women's fashion stuff, work-related material.
Pride and Prejudice
. She read classics? A biography on some writer he had never heard of. He knew there were CDs in the stereo. Music he never listened to. Classical. Italian operas.

The perfume bottle was clutched in his hand. He closed his eyes.

Dear Jesus, forgive me for not knowing her. For taking her for granted.