Round Robin (14 page)

That evening, after the campers had turned in for the night, Sarah, Matt, and Carol joined Sylvia and Andrew in the parlor to hear more of Andrew's story. The day Andrew broke the tragic news to Sylvia had been his last in Waterford, and from there he had gone to Detroit for a job on the line in a factory that was being returned to auto production since tanks were no longer in such demand. Within a few years he had worked his way up to shift supervisor, and soon after he became foreman he married a young widow whose husband had died in Normandy, a beautiful young schoolteacher with dark hair, a ready laugh, and a quick temper that was appeased as quickly as it flared up. They had a daughter and a son, the most perfect grandchildren in the world, and almost fifty years together. She had died of an extended illness, but Andrew so couched this part of his story in euphemism that Sarah wasn't exactly sure what had taken her life. After his retirement, Andrew had bought the motor home and spent most of his time traveling between his son's home, on the West Coast, and his daughter's home, in the East. His many years of hard work had earned him the freedom to come and go as he pleased, and he'd made the most of it—and he planned to keep doing so as long as he and the motor home held up.

“I'm glad you finally decided to take the road home to Waterford,” Sylvia said.

He smiled at her. “So am I.”

They held each other's gaze for a moment. Sarah would have sworn Sylvia's cheeks colored before she looked away.

Then Andrew turned to Matt. “Is Elm Creek still good for trout?”

“One of the best streams in the state,” Matt said. “They stock it every year.”

“In the old days they didn't need to,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “Domestic fish. Bet they train them to swim right up to your hook and take the bait. Where's the challenge in that?”

Matt grinned. “Think of it this way. They stock upstream, and that's where most people fish. The trout that make it down here have to be
pretty smart to run that gauntlet. It might be harder to catch them than you think.”

“Good. It's more fun that way.”

“We can go out tomorrow morning if you like.”

“I would,” Andrew said, pleased. “We'll have trout for you and all your campers for lunch, Sylvia.”

“Thank you, but I think I'll go ahead with my original menu, just in case.”

Andrew smiled and turned to Sarah. “How about you? Do you fish?”

“Not much,” Sarah admitted, making a face at the thought of putting a worm on a hook.

“I'll teach you so you'll like it,” Andrew promised. “I taught a young woman to fish once. She caught her first fish with her bare hands. Well, actually, it was with her foot, and she didn't mean to catch it, but it wasn't bad for a first try.”

“What on earth?” Sylvia asked.

He shrugged and waved the question off. “It's a long story. You don't want to hear it.”

“Yes, we do,” Sarah said. “You're just keeping us in suspense so we'll beg you to tell us.”

The twinkle in his eye told Sarah she had guessed correctly. “My wife and I used to have a cabin up north near Charlevoix,” he began. “We used to talk about retiring there, but when Katy fell ill, we went less and less, until I finally decided to sell it. No sense in owning a cabin you never use. But when my son was in college, we still had the place, and the whole family used to go up there all the time and go fishing.

“His third year in school over in Ann Arbor, my son met a real sweet girl and he wanted to bring her home to meet us. We had already planned a trip to the cabin, so we told them to come on up and join us. Cathy was a pretty little thing, but she was a city girl. Sweet and smart, but not much for the outdoors.” He indicated Sylvia with a jerk of his head. “Not like this one, here. Never saw an animal she couldn't tame.”

“Nonsense,” Sylvia said, but she looked pleased.

“So one afternoon, me and Bob—that's my son—and Cathy were out
in the rowboat. Cathy didn't want to fish, though. She said she just wanted to watch. Pretty soon she started to get bored, or hot, or something, because she took off her shoes and socks so she could dangle her feet over the side of the boat to cool off.”

Matt grinned. “I think I can see where this is heading.”

“Well, she couldn't, and we did try to warn her. ‘Better not,' my son said. ‘There's muskie in this lake.'”

“‘What's a muskie?' she asked. I told her it was a big, mean, ugly fish with sharp teeth, a sour temper, and curiosity to spare. ‘You put your foot over the side, and a muskie might think it's lunch,' I warned her, but she didn't listen. She thought we were just making it up to tease her.” He looked abashed. “She had good reason. We'd been teasing her a lot already.”

“So what happened?” Sarah asked.

“She put her feet over the side, and for the first half hour or so she was fine. ‘See, I knew you were making it up,' she said, and then she let out a shriek that would curl your hair. She yanked her feet back into the boat—and she brought a fourteen-inch muskie with her.”

Carol gasped. “You're kidding.”

“I wish I was. That ugly thing had its teeth clamped around the heel of her foot, and it wouldn't let go no matter how hard she waved her leg around. Bob wrestled with it and managed to get it off, but it wasn't easy, what with Cathy clutching him and sobbing and carrying on.”

“I would have been sobbing, too, if it had been me,” Sylvia declared.

Andrew smiled at her. “No, not you, Sylvia. I've seen you break horses. You wouldn't be scared by a little fish.”

“I never broke horses,” Sylvia said, smiling back. “I gentled them. There's a difference.”

“Fourteen inches doesn't sound so little to me,” Sarah said. “Was Cathy all right?”

“She was fine. She needed a few stitches, and she hobbled around for a while with a bandage around her foot, but she was okay. She was a good sport about it afterward, too.”

“What happened to the fish?” Matt asked.

The others laughed, but Andrew seemed to consider it a logical question. “I told Cathy and Bob that I threw it back. It was too small. Wouldn't have been legal to keep it. But I didn't really. I kept it, then went to the DNR, turned myself in, told them the story, paid a fee, and took the fella home.” He grinned. “I had it mounted and gave it to Cathy and Bob two years later as a wedding present.”

His listeners burst out laughing.

“Now, that's a fish story,” Sylvia said. “You two aren't allowed to get into any trouble like that tomorrow, understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Matt said meekly, but Andrew only grinned at her.

“I'll never look at filet of sole the same way,” Carol said, laughing. “You just scared me away from fishing forever.”

Andrew chuckled. “If you change your mind, you're welcome to join us.”

“No thanks.” Carol shuddered.

Andrew turned to Sylvia. “You run a quilt camp. Why don't you run a trout camp, too?”

Sylvia's eyebrows arched. “A trout camp?”

“Sure. Maybe once in a while you could have a weekend for couples. The ladies could quilt during the day while the men go fishing. At night you could play records in the ballroom and have a dance.”

Sarah and Sylvia looked at each other.

“That's a lovely idea,” Sylvia said.

Sarah agreed, wondering why they hadn't thought of it first. They could have fishing for the men, or golf—there were so many possibilities they hadn't even considered.

“Andrew, between your story and your suggestion, you've earned your keep,” Sylvia said. “Sarah, would you mind fixing up a room for our newest guest?”

Sarah nodded and rose, but Andrew shook his head. “I brought my bed with me.”

“You can't mean it,” Sylvia said. “Surely you don't want to stay in the parking lot when you can have a nice, comfortable room indoors?”

“The motor home's comfortable enough for me,” he said, and in his
mild way proceeded to deflect all of Sylvia's arguments to the contrary. To Sarah's amazement, Sylvia eventually gave up. She almost never backed down from a position once she had made up her mind.

The next morning, Sylvia phoned Agnes and told her to come to Elm Creek Manor earlier than usual, because Sylvia wanted to show her something before her appliqué workshop. Agnes arrived while Sarah, Sylvia, and Carol were preparing lunch and Andrew was entertaining them with stories of his travels. When Andrew identified himself, Agnes shrieked, burst into tears, and threw her arms around him, and for a moment Sarah could see the girl she had been, the impulsive, emotional young woman Sylvia had nicknamed “the Puzzle.” If Sylvia had been surprised to see Andrew, Agnes looked positively astounded. Agnes, Andrew, and Richard had been great friends those few years in Philadelphia before the men went off to war. Sarah could only imagine how Agnes felt at seeing this figure from the past sitting so casually at the kitchen table.

Agnes insisted Andrew tell her everything that had happened to him since she had last seen him. He laughed and complied. She clasped one of his hands in both of hers and hardly took her eyes off him as he spoke.

“She's the one he really came to see,” Sylvia told Sarah and Carol in an undertone. “It makes sense. They were friends in their youth, they're both alone again, and she was his best friend's widow.”

Watching the pair, Sarah wasn't so sure. Andrew was looking at Agnes with genuine affection, but it seemed to be the love of friends or of family. There had been something different, something more, in his expression when he first spoke to Sylvia, she was sure of it.

On Saturday, after the campers had departed, Sylvia and Andrew took a picnic lunch out to the north gardens. They had asked Sarah and Matt to join them, but Sarah begged off, claiming too much work. What she really wanted was to give Sylvia and Andrew some time alone. They had so much to talk about, and they could do so more easily without the younger couple present.

After Sylvia and Andrew left, the manor was quiet for the first time all
week. On Sunday morning they would need to prepare for the arrival of the next group of quilters, but Sylvia insisted they keep Saturday afternoons for themselves, to recover from the previous week and rest up for the one to come. Sarah considered spending some time with Carol, but the sight of Sylvia and Andrew strolling arm in arm with their picnic basket reminded her of picnics she and Matt used to go on when they were first married. They would pick up bagel sandwiches and bottles of iced tea from a deli on College Avenue, and hold hands as they crossed the campus to President's House. Behind it was a secluded garden with a wooden gazebo where they would sit and eat and talk about everything—their hopes for the future, their worries, their plans. Sometimes Sarah would pretend that President's House was theirs and that they were sitting in their own backyard, though she kept this dream to herself. She never could have imagined that one day she and Matt would live in a house many times larger and grander than the one on the Penn State campus.

Sarah went upstairs to their suite, but Matt wasn't there. She searched the manor for him, planning their picnic menu as she looked. Before long she found him alone on the veranda, sitting in an Adirondack chair and reading the newspaper.

“Are you hungry for lunch?” she asked him. “I thought we could go on a picnic.” It would be like old times. They would talk and laugh and kiss and Matt would be content again.

But Matt didn't even look up. “I'm kind of busy right now.” He turned the page of the newspaper.

Sarah's happiness dimmed. “Can't the paper wait?” She playfully snatched at the pages until she realized what section he held. “The classifieds? Are you looking for another job?”

“No.” Matt set the paper down. “If I want another job, Tony said I can come back to work for Exterior Architects any time I want.”

“Why would you want to go back to your old job?” Then his words fully registered. “Tony said you could come back. So you've already talked to him about it? Without discussing it with me?”

Matt frowned. “I knew you'd react like this.”

“Like what? How am I reacting?”

“Like a nag.” He stood up. “Like a control freak.”

“How can you say that?” Stung, Sarah felt tears spring into her eyes. “That's not fair. All I did was ask you a simple question and you snap at me like I'm your worst enemy instead of your best friend.”

Her eyes met Matt's as she fought back the tears. He must have seen how she struggled, how he had wounded her, because he took her in his arms. “You're right.” He kissed her on the top of the head. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.”

But Sarah was not comforted. “I don't know what's been going on lately. You're just not nice to me anymore.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's not you.”

Sarah pulled away so she could see his face. “Then what is it? Can you tell me what's wrong? Is it my mom? Is it something I've done—or haven't done?”

“No. Of course not.” He drew her close again, and held her so tightly that the buttons of his shirt pressed into her cheek. “I'm just being a jerk. I'll stop it. I promise.”

His voice was gentle and loving in a way that it hadn't been for far too long, but Sarah's heart ached. She didn't know why he was so unhappy, but if he disguised his feelings rather than risk hurting her by sharing them, their troubles were sure to continue.

As Matt gave her one last kiss and released her, she recognized the same aching worry she had felt throughout those long months of his unemployment in State College. Matt's recent behavior, too, reminded her of that bleak time; his impatience with her, his restlessness, his hurtful words like lightning strikes on her soul. Back then, the smoldering emotions had too often erupted into arguments that left them hoarse from shouting and exhausted from the endless, circular quarreling over imagined slights and old resentments. Matt had blamed their fights on the strain of his unsuccessful job search, and usually Sarah had agreed with him, since it seemed the obvious culprit. After the worst fights, however, when the peace between them strained like new skin over burns, Sarah had wondered aloud if his unemployment was really the problem. Maybe
it was their marriage. Maybe it was their life together that evoked his dark moods.