That Certain Summer (6 page)

“No.” Karen picked up a package of ground beef. “But I should be. I've put on twenty-five pounds over the past two years.”

Leaning over, Val did a quick survey of Karen's cart. “It couldn't hurt to modify your eating habits a little. A lot of that frozen stuff is high in salt and carbs.”

“But it's easy to fix.” Her defenses rose. “And I don't have time to prepare elaborate dinners.”

“I don't either, but I have a repertoire of quick, healthy meals, including some stir-frys that are out of this world. I'd be happy to share the recipes if you want to try them.”

Karen weighed the pack of ground beef in her hand and put it in her cart. “You know, I don't recall you cooking very much when we were growing up.”

“I didn't. Mom never taught me the domestic stuff. I think she expected me to be a Broadway star and have servants running around at my beck and call.” Val pushed her cart toward the front of the store.

“I did too. You have the looks and the talent.”

Karen only had a side view, but she caught a sudden, subtle tightening in Val's features. “Good looks aren't all they're cracked up to be. I'd have traded them for your brains any day.”

As Val guided her cart into the checkout lane and started unloading it, Karen glanced at her watch. This outing hadn't been half bad. She couldn't remember the last time the two of them had had a congenial, relaxed conversation.

Maybe never.

On impulse, she touched Val's arm. “Do you want to stop for a quick cup of coffee? There's a shop next door, and we have time to spare before your two-hour reprieve is up.”

“A Saturday treat.” A soft smile played at Val's lips. “That makes me think of our trips with Dad to the ice-cream parlor on summer Saturdays.”

“Yeah. Those are some of my happiest memories. Mom could
never understand why we wanted to go with him to the hardware store every week. I don't think she ever figured out our little secret.”

“Me, neither.” Chuckling, Val grabbed the head of broccoli and put it on the conveyor belt. “Okay. Let's do it. Maybe we can start a new tradition.”

Five minutes later, as they sipped their lattes at a small café table tucked into the corner of the shop, Val's expression grew wistful. “It's not ice cream, but it does remind me of our outings with Dad.”

“Even after all these years, I still miss him a lot.” Karen played with the edge of her lid.

“Me too. He was such a great guy. Kind and encouraging and supportive. He always made me feel special. Like I had a lot to offer.”

“He made me feel the same way.” Karen took a sip of her drink. “You know, I've often wondered why he was attracted to Mom.”

“Beats me.”

“Maybe she was different in her younger days.”

“People don't change that much. But she might have softened during the courtship. People do a lot of things that may be out of character when they're in love, if they think it will make the other person love them back.”

Sadness nipped at the edges of her voice, and a question sprang to Karen's lips. But she bit it back. They'd never been confidantes. Better to stick to a subject that was comfortable for both of them.

“Dad never complained, though.” Karen swirled her drink. “I can't remember him ever saying one negative word about Mom.”

“That wasn't his style. Whenever I criticized her, he'd say that was just how she was, but it didn't mean she loved us any less.”

“He told me the same thing. And he did a good job tempering her. He even knew how to make me feel pretty.” Karen dipped her head as she made the admission.

“Why was that so hard?”

She shot her a get-real look. “Come on, Val. Mom was right. You got all the looks in this family.”

Val gave an unladylike snort. “That's a bunch of rubbish.”

“It's true.”

“Not.”

“Look . . . I appreciate what you're trying to do. But if you put the two of us next to each other and gave a man a choice, who do you think he'd pick?”

Her sister's eyes narrowed. “Men can be very superficial.”

“It isn't just men who notice beautiful women first.”

“Okay, I might be the first one people notice. Blonde hair does have a tendency to attract attention. But you have great eyes—which a little makeup could enhance, by the way. And wonderful hair. I wish mine had a natural wave like yours. Plus you have cheekbones to die for.”

“Nice try.”

Val put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm. “I never knew you felt so . . . so . . .”

“Dowdy? Try living in the shadow of a glamorous sister.”

Val traced a thin trail of coffee across the café table with one perfect, polished nail. “I know I got the flashy looks, but it never occurred to me that you felt unattractive. Believe it or not, I was always jealous of you.”

“You've got to be kidding. Why in the world would you be jealous of me?”

“Because you were Mom's favorite. The smart sister. The one who always did the right thing.”

Karen's mouth dropped open. “Mom told you that?”

“Yes. With annoying regularity.”

“But . . . but I thought
you
were her favorite! She always bragged about how pretty and talented you were. How you would go places someday. Maybe as far as Broadway. And she always talked about how the boys were knocking down the door to take you out. I never even had a date till college. I felt like a loser.”

Val exhaled and shook her head. “I knew she was manipulative, but I never realized how much she played us off each other—and how much it affected our relationship.”

“Me neither.”

After checking her watch, Val reached for her purse. “Speak of the . . . well,
devil
may be too strong a word. I don't want to imply there was any diabolical intent. I think Mom just likes to control people. In any case, she'll be getting up soon, and if I'm not there when she wakes up, I'll have to listen to her complain for the rest of the day. I can take it—but I'd rather not.”

“I hear you.” Karen rose, but as she started for the door, Val touched her arm.

“You're not dowdy, by the way.”

“And you're not a dumb blonde.”

For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

“What do you say we do this again?” Val hoisted her shoulder purse into position.

“How does a week from Saturday sound? I have to help with month-end closing next week.”

Her sister grinned. “I'll pencil it in.”

Karen cranked up the oldies radio station, reached into the refrigerator for the leftover spaghetti from last night . . . and stopped as she pictured Val's shopping cart from this morning. There had been nary a noodle in sight.

Switching gears, she chose the deli turkey instead. A whole-wheat sandwich would be much healthier . . . and better for her waistline.

As Karen spread mustard on the bread, Bette Midler began to sing. Ah . . . “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Now there was a song. They didn't write them like that anymore. And since no one was home, why not join in—even if she usually confined her musical efforts to the church choir, where she could anonymously blend into the group?

It was a sing-along kind of day.

Halfway through the first verse, however, she stopped mid-phrase at the sudden bang of the front door. “Kristen? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

Uh-oh. She was home far too early. They were supposed to stay for the fireworks.

But perhaps there'd been fireworks of a different kind.

Karen wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked into the living room. Kristen was slumped on the couch, arms crossed, face stormy.

“Aren't you home a little early?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Stephanie wasn't feeling well.” Sarcasm dripped from her words.

Karen moved to the couch and perched on the arm. “People do get sick.”

“Oh, please!” Kristen rolled her eyes.

“It's possible.”

“She was sick all right. Sick of spending her Saturday at a school picnic. I heard her tell that to Dad. And she's so young! It's embarrassing. She looks more like his daughter than his . . . whatever.”

No arguments there. Michael liked his women young. She'd been a student herself when she'd caught his eye. At least his current love was in graduate school. That would put her at twenty-three or twenty-four. Better than eighteen or nineteen, but she was still too young for a fifty-one-year-old man.

“I don't know what Dad sees in her, anyway.” Kristen's words were laced with disgust. “She didn't talk much, but what she did say was all about herself. What movie she went to last week, what clothes she bought, what classes she was taking next semester. She never asked one single thing about me. Not even about my leg. She is, like, so shallow.”

“I'm sorry your day didn't turn out the way you hoped.” Karen draped her arm around her daughter's stiff shoulders.

“I should have gone to the picnic with you.”

Karen tried not to let her second-choice status hurt. “You wanted some father-daughter time.”

“That didn't happen anyway.” She reached for her crutches and struggled to her feet. “I'll be in my room.”

“Do you want some dinner?”

“I had a hamburger at the picnic. Stephanie didn't want to bother, but Dad insisted he owed me a meal.” Kristen stopped on the threshold. “I guess there was one good thing about today, though.”

“What was that?”

“There was something wrong between Dad and Stephanie. I mean, it was obvious she didn't want to be at the picnic. But it was more than that. It was like . . . I don't know. Like there wasn't a . . . a connection between them anymore. She wasn't focused on him at all, and she wouldn't let him hold her hand. It was . . . different. Maybe they'll break up.”

And maybe you and Dad will get back together.

At the hope in Kristen's eyes, her throat tightened. How was it possible so many years had passed since the fierce grip of her newborn's tiny fingers had sealed the bond between them? And wasn't it just yesterday she'd run behind the bike as her daughter learned to ride, heart in throat, afraid her precious little girl would fall and get hurt? And it seemed like a week rather than a year ago that she'd sat in the audience, filled with pride and trepidation, as the poised young woman her daughter had become executed a flawless routine on the balance beam and walked away with a blue ribbon, her face filled with joy.

If going back to Michael would help restore that joy, she'd almost consider it.

Except even without Stephanie, Michael had no interest in her. And she, too, had moved on.

“Your dad isn't going to come back, Kristen.” Her words were quiet but firm. “If he and Stephanie break up, he'll find someone else like her. Thin and pretty and young.”

“You could be thin and pretty if you made an effort.” Kristen's eyes filled with tears.

“It wouldn't work, honey.”

“How do you know? You won't even try!”

“There's more to it than that.”

“I just want us to be a family again. I don't know why that's too much to ask.”

The first faint hum of a headache began to throb behind her temples. “I wish things could have been different too. But your dad and I weren't a great match from the beginning. We have very different—and incompatible—priorities. That doesn't mean you and he can't have a great relationship, though.”

“It's not the same.” As Kristen choked out the words, her face crumpled. With a strangled sob, she clumped down the hall to her room and slammed the door.

Hard enough to rattle the pictures on the walls.

As well as the resolve in a mother's heart.

Scott stood at the window of his mother's guest room and clenched his right hand into a fist. Neither the view of the colorful gardens Dorothy tended with such care nor the brilliant light of the May Saturday penetrated the darkness within him that had stolen his appetite, his energy, his interest in life. Every day was the same. Get up. Get dressed. Sit around his room. Go to bed. Stare at the ceiling.

What was the point of it all?

He fingered the dog-eared paper in his pocket. The one he'd been carrying around since his last trip to St. Louis.

Maybe he should give the shrink a call.

But the man couldn't bring back his friends or his career. Nor erase the fact that his years of training and practice and work had been wiped out in an instant by a truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel.

All the psychologist could do was listen as he vented his rage and frustration and despair.

And he didn't need to pay big bucks for a sounding board.

Lifting his left hand, he examined the once-nimble fingers, now stiff and numb. He'd done all the exercises, but there'd been
minuscule improvement. At this pace, it would be years before full function returned and he could think about performing again.

And what was he supposed to do in the meantime?

He didn't have a clue.

“Scott?” His mother's muted query came through the door. “Everything okay?”

Taking a deep breath, he struggled to pull off the lie. “Yes. You can come in.”

The door opened, and Dorothy stepped inside. “It's a beautiful day out. Perfect for a walk.”

Another plea for exercise, thanks to that library book about depression he'd stumbled across in a kitchen drawer. Physical activity had been near the top of the “helpful suggestions” list. She'd stuck a slip of paper on that page to mark the spot.

“I'll think about it.”

She hesitated, but to his relief she didn't push.

“I left salad and a piece of quiche in the fridge for your lunch. I also made those chocolate chip pecan cookies you like.”

“Thanks, Mom.” A healthy diet and regular eating schedule had been on the list too.

“I'm going to run a casserole over to the Ramseys'. Their son was injured in March, and they've been having a rough time. I'm also going to stop in and check on Margaret Montgomery from church. She had a stroke last month. Do you want to ride along? It might be nice to get out of the house for a while.”

The names of her friends meant nothing to him, and he had zero interest in venturing back into the world. Or hearing about other people's problems.

“No.”

Instead of responding, Dorothy walked into the room and leaned over to kiss his forehead. At close proximity, he could see new, fine lines on her face—put there by him, no doubt. Guilt gnawed at his gut. He ought to expend some effort for her sake, if nothing else.

“Maybe I'll take that walk instead.”

“That would be good.” Despite her upbeat tone, the strain around her mouth didn't ease much. “By the way, we're having a social after services tomorrow. Would you like to come?”

Making some concessions to please his mother was one thing. Going back to church was another. “I don't think so. I'm not ready yet to be around a lot of people.”
Or anywhere close to the God who abandoned me.

“Okay. I'll see you in a couple of hours.” It was clear she hadn't expected him to embrace her suggestion.

A few minutes later, Scott heard the automatic garage door kick into gear as his mother pulled out. It rumbled again as she closed it. Then the house fell silent.

Summoning up the reserves of his ebbing energy, Scott reached over to close the mini blinds and shut out the sunshine that often triggered headaches.

Besides, darkness better suited his mood.

As the room grew dim, the outlines of the furniture became indistinct. Feeling his way, he crossed to the bed and stretched out. Not that he held out much hope of sleep. Insomnia had been his constant companion since the accident. Yet he craved the blackness of slumber, where he could escape from the torment of his memories.

In fact, blackness in general held a certain appeal. A promise of release that beckoned to him. Tempted him.

But that decision was so final . . .

No. He wasn't ready to take that step.

Yet.

“You must be Val. I'm Dorothy Walker, from church. I just stopped in to see how your mother is doing.”

At the lively eyes and open manner of the jeans-clad, salt-and-pepper-haired woman on the other side of the door, Val smiled and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. Won't you come in?”

“I don't want to intrude.”

“To be honest, I'd appreciate the company. I haven't had a chance to talk with anyone but Mom since Karen and I went grocery shopping last weekend. I know Mom would enjoy a visitor too.” Okay, that might be a stretch. Margaret wasn't the most sociable person even on her better days. But it wouldn't hurt her to practice her social graces once in a while. “She should be getting up from her nap soon.”

“All right. I'll stay for a few minutes.” Dorothy held out a bouquet of roses, peonies, and daylilies. “I thought Margaret might enjoy these. They're from my garden.”

“Those are gorgeous!” Val took the tissue-wrapped blossoms and motioned the older woman into the living room. Lifting the flowers, she inhaled an old-fashioned, heady scent that evoked images of white picket fences and garden parties and lazy summer afternoons. Of an era when the pace of life was slower, and neighbors met for lemonade and a chat on wide front porches. Of a time when families sat in the deepening dusk of a garden, sharing laughter and stories as the fireflies flickered to life.

A time she'd never known but had always longed to experience.

With an effort, she managed to hang on to her smile. “Have a seat while I find a vase. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, I'm fine. Thank you.”

It took Val a few minutes to scrounge up a suitable container from the recesses of her mother's pantry. Rejoining Dorothy, she placed the bouquet on the coffee table. “You must have quite a garden.”

“It is nice. And digging in the soil, helping things grow . . . it soothes my soul.” She settled back on the sofa. “Are you a gardener?”

Val gave a wry shake of her head as she perched on the arm of a chair. “Not even close. I live in a high-rise condo in Chicago. My horticultural efforts are confined to growing a few herbs in pots. But I know what you mean about finding satisfaction in
helping things grow. I teach drama at a high school, and working with young people, watching them develop, can be an amazing experience.”

“I've heard Margaret talk about her theatrical daughter, but I didn't realize you were a teacher.”

No surprise there. Her mother had always been more impressed by her stage work than her teaching. “You said you know Mom from church?”

“That's right. My husband and I moved to Washington three years ago, after he retired, and we joined the congregation. It's a very close-knit faith community, and I feel guilty it's taken me this long to get over to see your mother.”

“People lead busy lives these days.”

“I'm afraid mine's been busier than usual in recent weeks. My son was in a serious car accident a few weeks ago, and he's come home to recover. My husband died two years ago, and at emotionally taxing times like this I feel his loss very deeply.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. I guess we all have our crosses to bear. Fortunately, God walks with us on our journey.”

As Val tried to think of a diplomatic response, her mother's strident voice rang through the house.

“Val? I'm ready to get up.”

Saved by the yell.

“Coming, Mom.” She rose. “Give me a few minutes and I'll bring Mom out for a visit. Do you mind waiting?”

“Not at all.”

As Val had suspected, however, Margaret wasn't the least bit happy about entertaining an uninvited guest.

“I look a sight.” Margaret peered into the mirror over her dresser and patted her hair, twin crevices etched in her brow. “You'd think a person would call before dropping in unexpectedly when someone is ill.”

“I think it was very thoughtful.” Val handed Margaret her cane.

“That's because good manners are about as rare today as piecrust made with lard. And the world is a worse place because of it.”

“But a lot healthier.”

“Hmph.” Margaret peered at her over her glasses and took her arm. “We might as well get this over with.”

As Val helped her mother into the living room, Dorothy rose and held out her hands. “Margaret, it's good to see you.”

Her mother extended her good hand in an excellent imitation of a queen condescending to meet with a peasant. “Thank you.”

“Look at the beautiful flowers Dorothy brought.” Val motioned to the coffee table.

Margaret adjusted her glasses and scrutinized the table. “You better put a saucer under that vase. I don't want it to leave a water ring.”

So much for graciousness.

“I checked. It's dry.” She nudged her mother. “Aren't they lovely?”

Margaret glared at her but got the hint. “Very pretty. You always were quite the gardener, Dorothy, though it seems a waste to put that much effort into something that has such a brief life.”

“But the flowers give such pleasure while they're here.” Dorothy smiled. “I'm glad to see you looking better.”

As Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh, Val decided her mother was the family member with the real dramatic talent. “I suppose I'm improving, but illness is a trial.”

“That's true. On the plus side, you're lucky to have such good care from your two daughters.”

“Yes, well, families should help each other.”

“I agree. But young people are busy these days.”

“I know. I haven't seen much of Karen since Val arrived.”

Val resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to her mother to gloss over all the years of Karen's diligent care.

The chime of the doorbell interrupted the conversation, and Val eased Margaret into a chair. “I'll get it.”

Glancing out the sidelight before she released the lock, she stifled a chuckle.

Perfect timing.

She called over her shoulder as she opened the door. “Look who's here, Mom.”

Karen walked in, juggling packages in one arm while a load of clothing in clear plastic dry cleaning bags was draped over the other.

“Why, Karen, we were just talking about you.” Dorothy gave her a welcoming smile.

A ruddy hue suffused Margaret's cheeks, but she masked her chagrin with annoyance. “Why aren't you at the office? I thought you always worked the last Saturday of the month for closure, or whatever you call it?”

Karen sent Val a questioning glance.

“Mom was just saying how she hasn't seen much of you lately.” Val did her best to tamp down the curve of her lips.

Understanding dawned in Karen's eyes. “We finished the closing early this month, so I stopped to get your prescription and a few other odds and ends you needed on my way home. I also picked up the things you left at the cleaner before your stroke. I thought I'd save Val a trip.”

“Hmph.” Her mother inspected Karen. “I see you still have that pink blouse. It's not your color, you know. You ought to get rid of it. Too bad some of Val's style sense didn't rub off on you.”

A few seconds of awkward silence crawled by, and Dorothy checked her watch. “I'm afraid I have to be running along. But I must say I wish I was staying for dinner. Whatever you're cooking smells delicious.”

Margaret sniffed and sent Val a suspicious look. “What is that?”

“Ratatouille.”

“Rat a what?”

“Ratatouille. It's a vegetarian dish made with eggplant, tomatoes, green peppers, and squash—you'll love it.”