That Certain Summer (21 page)

Tilting his head, he held out his hand and gave her a quizzical look. “So do I get to sample that before it melts?”

“Sorry.” Karen thrust the cup of custard toward him.

He took it from her, hesitated, then moved over as much as he could without falling off the edge. “Join me?”

Wonderful. He'd picked up on her nervousness.

Telling herself to stop acting like an adolescent, Karen perched on the bench, keeping as much distance between them as possible. But unless she wanted to go home with tree sap all over her slacks, she had to sit too close for comfort. Close enough to smell the distinctive musky scent of his aftershave. To see the speck of chocolate that clung to his lips after he took a bite of his custard. To notice the tiny flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes.

“This is great.” He took another bite, but his attention was on her, not the custard. “I'll endorse Kristen's recommendation any day.”

Was he talking about the custard flavor—or her daughter's suggestion that he join them? Hard to tell from his expression, but for safety's sake, she'd assume it was the former.

“She likes Mr. Frank's a lot. Her dad and I used to bring her here, and they still come here once in a while when they get together.”

Frowning, she poked at her custard. That was stretching the truth. Michael had rarely accompanied them on their trips to Mr. Frank's. Was mentioning her ex some sort of a subliminal defensive measure? A way to keep Scott at arm's length while she figured out what role romance might play in her future?

“My mom told me you were divorced. I'm sorry.”

She spooned up a bite of custard, hoping the creamy treat would work its usual soothing, comfort-food magic. But when the sweet confection melted on her tongue, it left a bitter aftertaste instead.

The silence lengthened, and Scott spoke again. “I guess I shouldn't have brought that up. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Separation and divorce are very sad—and very hard, even after a year and a half. I appreciate your empathy.” She watched the custard dissolving in her cup.

“Is there any chance you two might get back together?”

“No.”

“I guess there are some hurts that can't be overcome.”

His gentle, empathetic tone soothed her—and encouraged confidences. Somehow she sensed that this man could be trusted with secrets, that he would respond with understanding and kindness.

Dare she open up a bit about her divorce? About Michael's infidelity?

Brow furrowed, she swirled the tip of her spoon through her custard. Strange. Those subjects had always been too painful—and demeaning—to discuss in depth with anyone. Yet for whatever reason, she wanted to tell this man more. To explain how devastated she had been by her husband's betrayal. To be affirmed in her refusal to agree to a reconciliation.

Maybe he wouldn't want to hear all that garbage, though. Maybe he'd back off if she opened up.

Still . . . she'd taken other risks lately—and been rewarded.

Why stop now?

As Karen stared at the dissolving custard in her cup, Scott debated his next move. She struck him as a very private person who might resent personal questions. Yet he wanted to know what had happened. Wanted to know what kind of idiot would dump such a strong, caring woman for a fling with a coed.

And Karen
was
strong, whether she realized it or not. According to his mother, she'd shouldered the burden of Margaret's demands for years, gone back to work when her husband walked out on her, and was now raising her teenage daughter alone. That took guts. And grit. And determination.

This was another woman who took the lemons life dealt her and made lemonade.

He was still struggling to come up with a diplomatic way to ferret out some information when she surprised him with a tentative, quiet overture.

“My husband and I weren't a good match from the beginning.”

He latched on to the opening. “How so?”

She ran her plastic spoon round and round the custard, watching as it left soft trails in its wake. “He was a lot older than me, and I was flattered by his attention. You've met Val. Imagine what it was like growing up in her shadow. She was the popular and pretty sister. The boys never noticed me. So Michael's attention was great for my ego, and my acquiescence was great for his. But that wasn't enough to sustain a marriage. Especially after he . . . strayed. More than once, as I learned not long ago.”

Her plastic spoon snapped in two with a loud crack, and she set the almost untouched custard on the bench beside her, folding her hands in her lap.

Scott studied her profile. The sun highlighted the soft auburn strands of her hair as they curved over her high cheekbones. Yet the harsh noonday light was also merciless, drawing attention to the shadows beneath her eyes and the creases at their corners—evidence of long-term stress and fatigue and tension more than age, he suspected.

Out of the blue, an overpowering urge to punch out the man who'd hurt her swept over him.

He frowned. How weird was that, considering he was usually repulsed by violence?

She slanted him a look, reminding him he owed her a response.

“It's hard to forgive a betrayal like that.”

The faint parallel grooves on her forehead deepened. “I have to admit I'm still working on that. He's told me he's sorry. Even suggested we give it another try.” She lifted her chin. “I'll get to forgiveness eventually, but that doesn't mean I have to put myself back into a bad situation. I'd rather live alone than return to a relationship where I'm not an equal partner.”

“Maybe you'll marry again.” Scott toyed with his own spoon, watching her.

“I don't know. I've always believed the vows we took before God were for life, no matter what Michael did. But I've been doing some praying about it lately . . . I guess I'll see where that leads.”

“I doubt God wants you to spend the rest of your life alone.”

“Some people stay single.” She studied him. “You've never married, have you? If you don't mind me asking.”

“I don't mind.” Oddly enough, he didn't, even though he'd never talked much about his personal life with anyone but family. “No, I've never married. I was on the road too much, and I didn't have time for anything but my music. Now that I've been away from it, though, I don't think I could ever go back to that nomadic existence.”

“What will you do instead?”

“Good question. I wish I had the answer.” Lifting his left hand, he tried to flex the fingers. “A lot depends on this.”

“Have you seen any improvement?”

“A little, maybe. Not enough to be noticeable to anyone else.”

“Well, despite that liability, you're doing a great job as music director. And you've already demonstrated you can teach music.”

“But the saxophone was my main instrument, and performance was my passion.”

“Those things may still be in your future. You just have to be patient.”

“Reverend Richards gave me the same advice—but patience isn't my strong suit.”

“I don't know. You're pretty patient these days with a very mediocre choir. One member in particular.”

He looked straight into her eyes. “In that particular area, I don't find it at all difficult to be patient.”

“Hey, Mom, I need to get home and change.”

As Kristen drew up beside them, Karen moistened her lips and checked her watch. “Wow! I had no idea we'd been here so long. We need to get going.”

Kristen examined Scott's empty cup. “Did you like the custard?”

“It was amazing. I think I'll be visiting Mr. Frank's on a regular basis.”

“So you're glad you came with us?”

“Absolutely.” His gaze flickered to Karen, and an endearing blush crept across her cheeks.

“Cool. Come on, Mom.” Without waiting for a response, Kristen started toward the car.

“I guess duty calls.” Karen rose and took a step back.

“Yeah. For me too. I need to check out the gym at the Y. I'll see you tomorrow at the service.” He reached over and plucked the custard cup from her fingers. “I'll get rid of these.”

“Thanks. Well . . . until tomorrow.”

Scott remained where he was as she set off for her car. Waited as she backed out. Waved as she disappeared from sight down the road.

But as he slid into his own car and buckled his seat belt, he had a feeling that a certain auburn-haired soprano wasn't going to disappear as quickly from his thoughts.

And that could be dangerous.

Because a woman with unresolved issues about her marital status—and who was also fast making inroads on his heart—could be a recipe for disaster.

“I have some good news to report.”

Karen glanced at Val as they waited in line at the coffee shop to place their weekly orders. “Tell me. I could use some.”

“Mom is doing so well that David has reduced her therapy sessions to once a week. By the time I leave, she should be finished.”

“That
is
good news.” Karen stepped to the counter and ordered an iced tea.

“What happened to the frappuccino?” Val gave her a quizzical look.

“Can't afford it. I indulged at Mr. Frank's this morning.” Not quite true. She'd eaten no more than a few bites of the custard—but her stomach hadn't yet settled down from that cozy huddle on the sappy bench with Scott.

“Mr. Frank's before lunch? That
was
an indulgence.”

“To be honest, it was a bribe. For Kristen.” Karen tried to tamp down the sudden hammering of her heart. “I needed an audience, and I hoped if I offered her a trip to Mr. Frank's she might give me twenty minutes.”

“Okay—now I'm intrigued. Why did you need an audience?”

Karen tried for a nonchalant tone. “Scott—the music director—asked me to sing the solo part in one of the songs the choir is doing at the benefit. He thinks I can do it, but I wanted to get Kristen's opinion.”

Her sister's mouth dropped open. “How in the world did he convince you to do that?”

“I haven't committed yet. I'm reserving the right to change my mind up until the last minute.”

“I think you should go for it.”

The tension in Karen's shoulders dissolved. “That's what Kristen said you'd say.”

“I knew my niece was smart.”

As they took their drinks and settled at a small table, Karen played with her straw and sighed. “The thing is, Mom will think I'm nuts.”

“Forget Mom.”

“Also Kristen's advice—but easier said than done. If I embarrass myself, I'll have to listen to her ‘I told you so' routine for months. Or years.”

“Somehow, I don't think Scott would put you in a position to fail. Do you?”

“Not on purpose. I think he believes I can do it. The problem is me. My confidence level is so low it's in the negative range.”

“You want my advice? Trust his judgment and stop worrying about what anyone else thinks. Oh, that reminds me . . . have you noticed Mom's been kind of quiet the past couple of days?”

“I haven't talked to her much since Wednesday, but
Mom
and
quiet
don't belong in the same sentence. What's up?”

“I don't know. She did tell me she wants to go to the cemetery tomorrow, though. In fact, she wants the three of us to go. Is this some kind of annual ritual for Dad's birthday or something?”

“No. We often go on the anniversary of his death, but she's never asked me to take her on his birthday.”

“Interesting.” Val tapped the table, her expression pensive. “She
had me stop at Walmart on the way home from therapy Thursday too. I offered to get whatever she wanted, but she told me she had to do this herself. For Dad. Any idea what that was all about?”

Curiouser and curiouser.

“I haven't a clue.”

“Hmm. I told her I'd go tomorrow night, after dinner. Can you come?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Karen propped her chin in her hand. “I wonder what she's up to?”

Val rolled her eyes. “With Mom, who knows?”

As she pulled to a stop in the deserted cemetery, Karen surveyed the parched grass. Even at seven o'clock in the evening, the mercury hovered near ninety and the humidity was close to 100 percent. Not a leaf was moving, and the limited shade in the small cemetery provided little relief from the relentless sun.

“Mom, it's stifling today. You shouldn't be out in this heat.”

“I've seen worse.” Margaret grasped the handle and opened the door.

Karen looked over her shoulder at Val, who lifted her hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “Hold on a minute and we'll help you out.”

Margaret waited until Val and Karen were both on her side of the car. With their assistance, she stood on the concrete drive and stepped onto the dried-out turf. Val leaned in for her cane, but Margaret shook her head.

“I don't need that anymore. David said it's all right to walk without it.”

“Maybe you could use it on the uneven ground.” Karen started to reach for it. With her mother making solid progress toward independence, the last thing they all needed was a sprained or broken ankle.

“I'll hold onto you girls. I'll be fine.” She grabbed Karen's arm, but when she reached for Val, the bag from Walmart got in her way.

“I'll hold that for you.” Val extended her hand.

After a brief hesitation, Margaret relinquished it and took Val's arm. She nodded to her right. “It's over there.”

“I know, Mom.” Karen kept a firm grip on her arm as they inched toward the familiar plot. How many solitary trips had she made here in the early years after Dad's death—and continued to make until her life had grown too hectic?

Too many to count.

As they reached the simple stone that bore only their father's name, the date of his death, and a brief paraphrase from Psalms—“My lines have fallen on pleasant places”—Karen's throat tightened. How she still missed him, even after all these years! But he
had
moved on to a more pleasant place. She believed that with her whole heart and soul. And he deserved it, for his life on earth with their mother couldn't have been all that pleasant.

As if reading her mind, Margaret spoke in what, for her, was a subdued tone. “Your father didn't have an easy life, but he loved you girls. And me, far more than I deserved.”

Karen's eyes widened, and she exchanged a look with Val. Since when had their mother ever acknowledged her faults?

“Give me the bag, Val.” Margaret held out her hand.

In silence, Val handed it over. Despite the significant improvement in her left hand, Margaret struggled to open the top, which she'd clutched into mangled crinkles.

“Can I help?” Karen stepped closer.

“No. I can get it.” After working at the crimped plastic a bit more, the top gapped open and Margaret reached in. She withdrew a package of licorice and a safari hat, clutched them to her chest, and moved toward the headstone. Resting one hand on the top for support, she bent down and laid the items on the grave. Then she straightened up and stood in silence.

What in the world . . . ?

A tingle of apprehension raced along Karen's spine, and she glanced at Val. Her sister's shocked expression mirrored her own reaction to their mother's bizarre behavior.

When Margaret turned to them, however, her eyes were alert and lucid. “No, I haven't lost my mind. Though it probably seems so to you.” She withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and proceeded to pat her face. “It's a hot one, no question about it. Always was on your father's birthday.”

She tucked the handkerchief back, steadied herself by resting a hand on top of the headstone, and gestured to the items on the grave. “I guess you're wondering what that's all about—and why I wanted to come here today.”

Karen didn't respond. Neither did Val.

“Of course you are.” Margaret continued as if she hadn't expected a reply. “And I'm going to tell you. It's a long story, so I'll start with those.” She pointed again to the candy and hat on the grave. “Every year, I used to ask your father what he wanted for his birthday, and he always said the same thing. ‘How about some licorice, Maggie? Or a safari hat. I always fancied one of those.'” The angular lines of her face softened. “He used to call me that sometimes, you know. Maggie. He was the only one who ever did.”

After a few seconds, she coughed and cleared her throat. “Anyway, my answer was always the same. I'd say, ‘Licorice will ruin your teeth, Bill. And what in creation would you do with a safari hat?' Then he'd say, ‘Maggie, honey, these teeth will last far longer than I will. And if I had a safari hat, I could pretend I was hunting elephants in the wilds of Africa while I cut the grass.'”

She shook her head, but her eyes were filled with a rare warmth and affection. “Your father always did have a fanciful streak, you know.” A few beats of silence passed, and when she continued, a hint of regret clung to her words. “I never did get him the licorice or the hat. I didn't think the candy was good for him, and I dismissed the hat as frivolous.”

Her expression grew pensive as she examined the items on the grave. “I had a peculiar dream the other night, though. I've never been one to put much stock in dreams, but this one has been on my mind. I saw your father sitting on that old, rusty riding mower he loved. He was eating licorice and wearing a safari hat, and he looked happy. Then he spoke to me. ‘It's important to give people the things they need, Maggie. And you still have time to do that.'”

She pulled out her handkerchief again and dabbed at her brow. “I pondered over that for a long while. At first I thought Bill was talking about the candy and that silly hat. But finally, I understood what he meant. He wanted me to tell you girls a story so you would understand why I am the way I am. Why I tend to push people away. Especially the people closest to me.”

She tucked the handkerchief back in her pocket. “I know I haven't been the best mother. Or the best wife. I thank God every day that Bill saw the love in my heart, even though I don't always show it in the right way, and that he was willing to take me as I was. His devotion was the greatest blessing I ever received. Followed very closely by you girls.”

Her voice caught, and she rested her hand on the headstone again. “I don't really know if that dream was a message from your father, or my conscience having its say at last, but after I prayed about it I decided to share my story with you girls. It's not an easy one to tell, even after all these years, and I'm not going to dress it up or belabor it. The fact is, when I was eleven years old, I was molested by my favorite uncle. My father's brother. A man I loved and trusted and admired. It happened three times. I never told anyone about it. I was too embarrassed and ashamed. Somehow I felt it was my fault.”

She swallowed and tightened her grip on the headstone. “Until that happened, I was an outgoing, happy child. But afterward, I shut down. I didn't trust anyone, and I pushed away the people I should have loved the most. It was the only way I knew to protect myself. I was terrified of having my trust violated, of getting hurt again.”

Loosening her grip, she stroked the top of the headstone. “The truth is, I'll never know why your father fell in love with me. Why he persevered. I'm just thankful he did. With him, I learned to let my guard down. And after I told him my story, he understood. He was able to see the woman I might have become—and did become, now and then, with him. But habits die hard, and once I had you girls, I reverted to my old ways. Not by choice, mind you; I couldn't help myself. I started doing things to push you away. I still do. The same with other people. It's just how I am.”

Margaret refocused on the items resting on the grave. “As I spoke with God about it these past few days, I realized that if the stroke had killed me, I'd have left unfinished business here. I know it's foolish, but I wanted to bring these things to Bill and tell you girls what happened to me so maybe you'll understand why I was never the kind of mother I should have been—and never will be, at this stage of my life, I suspect.”

She looked over at her daughters. “I know understanding doesn't change anything, but it might help you make some sense of it. Especially if you know I always loved you, no matter what my actions might have said. As for forgiveness, I leave that to God.”

In the silence that followed her story, Margaret's lower lip began to tremble. “I'm ready to go now. And I don't ever want to discuss this again.”