Marriage Seasons 03 - Falling for You Again (7 page)

“
You
broke the can opener, honey,” Charlie gently reminded his wife.

“I did not. Why would you say that?”

“You put the blame thing in the dishwasher, Esther. An electric can opener. I still can’t figure out what you were thinking. Ruined the motor. Honestly! Nobody puts an electric can opener in the dishwasher.”

“Oh well,” she said, brushing him off with a wave of her hand. “Come over here and help us—my knuckles have been aching all day. It’s the weather, I suppose. You know what the cold does to my joints.”

“Yup,” Charlie said. Another ailment to add to her collection.

“Ashley tells me she’s never even seen the nonelectric kind of can opener,” Esther went on. “Can you believe it? That’s modern technology for you—good old tools lie in a drawer unused and forgotten. It’s a throwaway world, Ashley, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

With a sigh, Charlie stepped up to the counter. “Evening, Ashley,” he said, hooking the hand-turned opener onto the lid of the can of beans. “How’s the necklace business these days?”

“I’m swamped.” She glanced at him, her big brown eyes framed by masses of long red hair. “Mrs. Finley—Miranda, not Kim—gets the credit for a lot of my sales. She and the twins made up brochures and sent them to friends in the social clubs she used to belong to in St. Louis. Those women are ordering necklaces so fast I can hardly keep up. Seems like I’m always down in the Hansens’ basement craft room making beads or printing out orders from my computer or running to the post office with a bunch of boxes to mail. I really do appreciate all the work you and Mrs. Moore have done sorting beads for me. It’s been a huge help.”

“No problem.” Charlie gave the can opener a final twist, and the lid popped open. Truth to tell, if he never saw another bead in his life, it wouldn’t bother him a bit. He handed Ashley the can. “Watch the edge of that, now. It’s sharp.”

“Wow, you’re right, Mrs. Moore,” Ashley said, dumping the contents into a saucepan. “These beans aren’t nearly as green and pretty as the ones from your garden.”

“Nothing beats fresh vegetables, right, Charlie?” Esther flashed her husband a pretty smile. “If
someone
had troubled himself to plant enough beans this summer, we wouldn’t need to be opening cans. We’d have bags of beans from our own garden sitting in the freezer.”

Choosing not to remind Esther that it was she who had urged him to limit the number of rows in his garden this year, Charlie set off toward the laundry room. Esther had said she was tired of cleaning and freezing vegetables, he recalled.
“Why not just open a can from the grocery store?”
she asked him.
“It’s much simpler, and the beans are almost as good.”

As usual, he had done his wife’s bidding. Now he was paying the price. He had conceded her original point. The garden
was
too big, and it took a lot of time and work.

Charlie loved his garden, though. Since Esther wasn’t interested in buying a motor home, taking a cruise, or even venturing out of state to see the grandkids, he knew he’d be stuck at home again next summer. He might as well take his garden back to its previous size, no matter what Esther said.

Hearing Ashley’s voice in the kitchen reminded Charlie of something that nagged at him every time he made a round in his golf cart. Back in the summer, Brad Hanes had begun building an addition onto the couple’s small house. The young man had informed Charlie that it was to be a garage for his new truck. But Ashley had told Esther the room would be a nursery for the baby she was hoping to have one of these days.

Either way, not long after Brad erected the frame and put on a semblance of a roof, construction ceased. Now the Hanes property—never much to look at in the first place—had become an eyesore. Charlie had done some investigating. He learned that not only had Brad failed to obtain a building permit, but he hadn’t gotten construction permission from the subdivision’s governing board. To top it off, debris lay scattered everywhere—piles of flagstone, heaps of dirt, stacks of shingles, and several moldering cardboard boxes filled with vinyl siding.

Halting on his way to the laundry room, Charlie looked back toward the kitchen. “Say, how’s that addition coming along, Ashley?” he said over his shoulder. “I don’t believe I’ve seen Brad working on it for a while.”

A moment of silence was followed by Esther’s voice. “Charles Moore, if you don’t stop griping about Ashley’s new room, I’m going to give you a good chewing out. Leave her and Brad alone. They’ll finish it when they have time—which is a scarce commodity when you’re young.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Charlie muttered under his breath. Surely in four months the Hanes kids could have found a few hours to straighten up the clutter. If there was one thing Charlie couldn’t stand, it was a mess.

He ambled into the laundry room, opened the dryer, and began folding clothes—a new activity he’d undertaken in recent days. Charlie hadn’t signed on for this job when he married Esther. But life had changed since her accident—in more ways than one. He laid one of his undershirts on the dryer and smoothed it out with his palms. As he began to fold, he could hear the women still jabbering away in the kitchen.

“I don’t think Brad’s ready,” Ashley was saying. “At least, he tells me he wants to wait awhile—till we’re more settled, you know.”

“How much more settled can a couple be?” Esther asked. “You’ve both got good jobs, and you own a lovely home. Most of all, you have empty arms and a heart hungry for the sweet babble of a baby.”

Sweet babble?
Charlie thought, recalling the two babies he’d helped raise to adulthood.
Howl
was more like it.
Wail
.
Scream
.
Screech
until the roof raised a good foot or two.

He chuckled at the memory of himself and Esther—practically kids themselves—frantically racing around trying to figure out how to stop the babies from squalling. Charlie sighed and began to match and roll the white cotton socks Esther had taken to wearing in bed a few years back. Time sure went by fast. Their two children were adults now, one of them with offspring of his own.

Over the years, he and Esther had matured into adults, and then—slowly and insidiously—they had begun to fall apart. Joints began to ache. Backs went out. Hair thinned, and so did bones. Even though Pastor Andrew had offered up a rosy picture of the afterlife, Charlie didn’t like to think about it. He enjoyed his wife and the marriage they’d built. It was impossible to imagine an end to their summertime of gentle breezes, sweet fragrances, and love beyond measure.

“Our jobs are the problem.” Ashley’s voice was plaintive as Charlie carried a wicker basket of clothing toward the bedroom. “If I could work days like Brad, then we’d be together in the evenings. But with me waitressing at the country club almost every night, he’s left at home alone. Days and weekends, I’m working on my beads all the time. Brad says he doesn’t like to sit around and watch TV by himself. I can’t blame him, but I wish he wouldn’t go over to Larry’s.”

Charlie grunted. Larry’s Lake Lounge was a popular local tavern. Brad Hanes’s pickup was usually parked outside it every afternoon by four. Charlie couldn’t be sure how long the young man stayed there playing pool and drinking beer with his buddies, but two DWIs on his record didn’t bode well.

That kind of thing had never been a problem between him and Esther, Charlie reflected as he arranged his clean clothes in the chest of drawers near his side of their double bed. After a day on his feet delivering mail, he had wanted nothing more than to head for his home, his family, and one of Esther’s delicious meals. Usually he and Charles Jr. had played catch in the backyard until Esther called them inside. After dinner, he often pulled both kids onto his lap and read them stories until bedtime. Those had been golden years.

Opening the top drawer in Esther’s dresser, Charlie discovered that the space was neatly divided into little boxes filled with Esther’s jewelry. Bemused, he realized he had no idea where his wife kept her lingerie. Another thing he’d failed to notice. The second drawer down held scarves and the girdles Esther had stopped wearing years ago. Charlie pulled out a girdle and held it up to the light. Studying the web of elastic and the dangling stocking clips, he shook his head. Amazing contraption.

He pushed the drawer shut. Didn’t Esther use her dresser for clothing? Pulling open the bottom drawer, he noted stacks of old Christmas cards tied with faded ribbons. Into each collection Esther had slipped a piece of paper noting the year the cards had arrived. Here were birthday cards and letters from the kids too. A small white leather Bible lay on a pair of white silk gloves. Where had that come from?

Charlie lifted the Bible, opened it, and read the inscription.
To my beloved Esther on our wedding day. Charles Edgar Moore.

Well, how about that? He didn’t even remember giving the Bible to Esther, and here she had kept it all these years. Maybe she had worn the gloves that special day too. Charlie drew them out and fingered them gently. Such fine, pale fabric. He thought back on the afternoon of their wedding—and the surprise, embarrassed confusion, and eventual joy of the ensuing night. Now
that
had been quite an event for both of them.

Smiling as he replaced the Bible and gloves, Charlie noticed a large manila envelope with Esther’s name and the address of their first apartment scrawled in a hand he didn’t recognize. Feeling a little sheepish for snooping, he slid the envelope out from under the stacks of Christmas cards. Was this something else he had given Esther and forgotten? He certainly had no memory of the envelope, but then he hadn’t recognized the Bible either.

Reaching inside the manila packet, he drew out a sheet of paper on which someone had penciled a sketch. Not a sketch exactly—better than that. It was a full-blown portrait. A woman with dark hair; intense eyes; and a warm, beautiful smile gazed back at him.

It was Esther.

A shiver of recognition racing down his spine, Charlie stared at the portrait. But this wasn’t Esther Jennings, the cute brunette he’d met in high school and married shortly after graduation. This was a curly-haired, doe-eyed, seductive dream girl.

Sure, it was Esther. But—wow. Somehow the artist had captured a side of her that Charlie had never seen. If he’d been anywhere near
this
Esther, he surely would have remembered it.

Swallowing, he dropped his focus to the signature at the bottom of the sketch.
George Snyder
, it read. And beneath the name, a short phrase had been penciled:
I will always love you, Esther.

“Did you know Ashley has never made gravy from scratch in her entire life?”

Esther’s voice echoing along the hall startled Charlie. Quickly he slid the portrait back into the envelope, slipped it under the old white Bible, and pushed the drawer shut.

“Can you imagine that, honey?” Esther’s head appeared around the doorframe just as Charlie dropped down onto the bed beside the laundry basket. His wife was giggling as she spoke. “I had to come tell you so I could watch your reaction. Not once. Not a single time. Do you believe it?”

“Nope. I don’t believe it.” Charlie feigned an expression of wonderment and shook his head. Though he had no idea what Esther was talking about, he felt pretty sure he would agree with her no matter what. Hoping she would hurry back to the kitchen, he leaned over the wicker basket and began reorganizing the folded clothing. Who was George Snyder? Why had he sketched Esther? And when?

“Neither brown nor white!” Esther was saying. “I told Ashley I’d teach her, because I am the gravy queen. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”

“Yup. Sure would.”

“You don’t sound as though you mean that, Charlie.” Esther’s face sobered as she moved into the bedroom. “I know your mother always made a tasty gravy. And my mother was … well, you and I talked about how she felt about my cooking. But I thought you liked my gravy.”

Charlie repositioned the sock balls for a third time. “Esther, I like your gravy. You know I do.”

“You don’t sound sincere.”

“I like your gravy!”
he bellowed, surprising himself with the intensity of his own voice. He stood from the bed and jerked open the closet door. “Where in blazes do you keep your socks, woman?”

“Right there in front of your nose.” She marched to the closet and pointed out a set of shelves she’d had him build inside it a few years back. “If you don’t like my cooking, why don’t you just admit it? That way I won’t embarrass myself trying to teach Ashley how to make a gravy no one will even want to eat.”

Charlie plunked his wife’s socks and lingerie on the shelf. Wishing Esther would leave him alone for once, he turned his back on her and examined the items remaining in the laundry basket. If that portrait in the drawer wasn’t the strangest thing, he didn’t know what was.

George Snyder
. The name had a familiar ring, but he couldn’t quite place it. Esther had never mentioned having had a boyfriend before Charlie started dating her when they were high school juniors.

So why had this George Snyder fellow written that he would always love her? Love was love. Not admiration. Not simple affection. Not respect or appreciation.

Love.

“Well, if that’s how you feel,” Esther huffed, “I certainly won’t make the effort to pass along my culinary skills. But you might have let me know what you thought of my gravy before we’d been married nearly fifty years, Charlie Moore. I can’t count all the times I’ve served it to you, and you never said a word. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Chicken-fried steak and gravy. Roast beef and gravy. Turkey and—”

“What are you jabbering about, Esther?” He swung around to face her. “Can’t you see I’m trying to figure out where to put this blame-fool laundry? It’s bad enough I’m stuck in the house day and night, but now you’ve got me washing clothes, sweeping floors, and vacuuming carpets. I’ve about had it up to here, and I mean that.”

“For your information, Cody Goss can do just as good a job with the laundry and the floors as you. Better, in fact. I don’t know why you asked him to stop coming after my accident.”