The Potluck Club (27 page)

“What’s that, Leann?”

“We forgot to save our marriage.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“Me too.”

I stood up and rummaged around on the bookshelf for a photo album labeled “Our Honeymoon.”

I flipped the album open to a picture of a young, smiling couple, obviously very much in love. I handed the book to my husband. “Henry, we loved each other once. Remember?”

Henry looked down at the picture, then back up to me. I reached for his hand and shyly asked, “Do you want to try again?”

“Do you?”

When I nodded, Henry surprised me by pulling me into his lap. I responded by wrapping my arms around his neck. Our eyes met, our lips touched, and Henry gently leaned me into the bed, where we relived the passion of long ago.

Later, Henry and I hurried around the kitchen as he taught me how to make trout amandine for the Moores. I pulled out a fork and took a bite of a pan-fried fish already cooling on a paper towel.

“I’d forgotten how good fresh trout is,” I said, smiling up at Henry.

He smiled back. “Does that mean you’re going to allow fish fries in the house?”

“When I don’t have to eat alone,” I challenged. “We really should take our meals together, you know.”

I smiled. I knew that our marriage needed a lot of work, but we’d definitely had a breakthrough. Plus we’d agreed to mealtimes together.

That night, Henry helped me deliver our fish fry to the Moores. Jan looked at both of us standing in her doorway and said, “You dears, we love fish. Thank you so much for your kindness.”

We smiled at each other, then back at her. “We thank you, Jan, for the opportunity,” I said.

Later, as we were driving home, Henry said, “Leann, I want to show you something.” He stopped in front of a dilapidated Victorian house down on Main Street. Even the dim streetlights illuminated its poor condition. Its windows were boarded up, its paint peeling, and the roof looked as if it could use a little work. Henry said, “I’ve been thinking of making a real estate investment. Earlier tonight, when you said you’d lost your purpose, I couldn’t help but think of this place.”

Henry’s eyes sparked. “What in the past five years has given you the most satisfaction?”

“Well, you already know the answer to that, Henry. It was helping Mandy plan her wedding.”

“Exactly,” Henry said. “I have to admit, you did a marvelous job.”

I did a double take. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I did, and remember what I said to you at the time?”

“No.”

“I said if you ever got tired of your choirs and clubs, you should consider going into business for yourself.”

I was stunned. “As a wedding planner?”

“Why not? Not only do the locals have to plan their weddings, so do the tourists. Just the other day, an out-of-state couple got married not far from where I was fishing.”

“Really?”

I gave that old two-story Victorian clapboard a second look. I just loved the steep roof, not to mention the ornate woodwork and trim. “You know, Henry, I see what you mean. I think this old place would make a great wedding boutique, complete with consulting services, of course.”

Henry pulled the car back into the street and grinned. “I thought you’d say that.”

I turned to him. “You know, that place will take a lot of work to make it shine. Are you up for helping me?”

“Well, as it was my idea, I’m willing to back it up with my hammer and paintbrush,” Henry said.

It was going to take a lot of work to restore what we’d lost, and this old house that stood before us probably looked a lot like our current relationship.

But we had agreed to try. And just as this old home could be renewed with a paintbrush and hammer, our marriage could be renewed with care, courtesy, and a project we could tackle together. For the first time in ages, I hoped, I believed, it could.

I stared at my husband as we drove home in silence. I could just kiss him. Which I did, as soon as we got back to the bedroom.

33

What’s she got going on . . .

Clay Whitefield looked out the window of his apartment. His brow rose as he tilted his chin just enough to stare through the slats of the blinds, taking in the scene of the Lamberts parked down the street. They seemed to be doing nothing more than staring at the old house he’d watched crumble to ruin over the years. “Hmmm,” he mumbled. “What’s up with that?”

The Lamberts were a nice enough couple, to his way of thinking, although it was obvious to him that they were living separate lives. Reporters had a nose for things like that.

He turned back to his desk and laptop. Bernstein and Woodward were sleeping, peacefully wrapped around each other and breathing in a rhythm only they could sense. Clay sighed as he sat, then frowned.

He hadn’t seen Donna in days. He’d been hoping to get her opinion on the latest gossip in town: Goldie Dippel had finally left Coach. He’d cherish her thoughts, work hard to remember every word she said in reference to the situation, then write them in his notebook just as soon as she was out of view.

Donna, after all, had been the victim of a wife leaving her husband when her mother left her father. She’d be just full of a biased viewpoint . . . if he could just figure out where she’d been hiding herself.

Then again, Clay mused, when she read this week’s
Gold Rush
News
, she wasn’t going to be too pleased with him, not pleased at all.

34

Scalding Story

The Monday morning sky was gray, a clear sign of the colder days to come. I both looked forward to and dreaded this time of year; the snowy white blanket capping the mountains and lawns is truly something to behold, but the brown slush that follows (not to mention the days stuck indoors) I am not particularly fond of.

When I walked into the kitchen, I found that Leigh was already there, toasting English muffins. She looked like she hadn’t slept well, and I said so.

Leaning against the counter, she replied, “I didn’t. This baby! It kicked all night.” She rubbed the roundness of her belly, which I noticed appeared to have dropped a bit.

“You’re dropping,” I said, walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out the gallon jug of orange juice.

Leigh nodded. “I know. Dr. Henderson says it won’t be much longer.” Dr. Henderson, the ob-gyn from over in Breckenridge, had been treating Leigh since she’d arrived.

“I see.” I poured my juice into a glass I’d taken out of the cabinet. “Leigh, don’t you think we should talk about Gary?”

Leigh’s English muffins popped up from the toaster, crisp and golden brown. “Not really.” She pulled the muffins out, laid them on a nearby waiting plate, and then slathered them with margarine from a tub. She replaced the lid on the tub, but rather than place it back in the refrigerator, she slid it over a few inches. “There’s nothing really to discuss.” She shook her head. “That’s not entirely true. I did speak with him a few nights ago.”

“What?” I jerked the refrigerator door open, returning the orange juice, then stepped over and reached for the butter.

Leigh took a bite of the muffin, stuffing it in the side of her mouth. “He insists that I go back home before it’s too late and I end up delivering out here.” She chewed and swallowed. “He says it’s not right for me to deprive him of the baby’s birth. He says he’s talked to Mom and Dad and—”

“He’s talked with Peg and Matthew? When was this?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Evie. Goodness, I don’t know anything anymore.”

I pointed a finger at my niece. “Now you listen to me, Leigh Banks. You do what you think is best and don’t let anyone talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”

“Well, that’s news. I thought you’d be all for me going back.”

I took a sip of the juice. “Fine thing when a man doesn’t say he misses the woman who is about to be the mother of his child. He’s more worried about missing a birth? Not that I don’t think he has rights, but let’s keep our priorities straight. Besides, I don’t want him pressuring you into doing something like moving in with him.”

Leigh smirked. “No problem there, Aunt Evie.”

I folded my arms across my middle. “Tell me something, Leigh. Do you still love him?”

Leigh didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “Yes, I do. Very much. But I want it to be right.”

The day continued to be gloomy. While Leigh rested for the better part of it, I finished up some paperwork until I grew tired and opted for a nap myself. Rather than returning to my room, I stretched out on the sofa, becoming less and less aware of the sounds of life from beyond the front window, and slipped into a frenzied dream.

Vonnie and I were back at college, but we looked as we look now. Everyone else looked like they did back all those years ago, but Vonnie and I had somehow managed to age. We were talking about our classes and about going to a pep rally later on in the week.

Then Vonnie pointed to a bench where the young man she’d been sitting with in the yearbook photograph sat smiling at the two of us. “Look at that,” Vonnie said to me. “Isn’t he a hottie?”

I woke with a jerk, sitting straight up, feeling strangely nauseous.
Dear Lord, what is it about that photograph that’s got me feeling so
odd?

The following day I told Leigh I would be out most of the day, but I didn’t say where I was going. Fortunately, she didn’t ask. Maybe she thought I was going to the grocery store or something, I don’t know, and at that moment I really didn’t care. All I knew for sure was that for some strange reason the thought of my old friend Vonnie sitting on that bench with the dark-haired man gazing at her as though she were the world’s best banana pudding bothered me. Since I’d discovered it, there’d been a few times I’d thought to ask Vonnie about it, but something always stopped me.

Maybe it wasn’t my place to ask, maybe it wasn’t even my place to know . . . but I wanted to satisfy my curiosity, and if driving to Cherry Creek College was what it took, then I would do it.

Within three hours of leaving my house, I had signed in as a guest and made my way over to the college library, where old yearbooks were kept, I suppose for posterity. I asked one of the librarians for the years 1964 through 1967, just to cover my bases, then took them to one of the many large oak desks and sat down.

The books were heavy and musty. I wrinkled my nose as I opened ’65, slowly making my way through pages of faculty most likely all dead and buried now, miniskirts, and boys with long hair. There were a few photos of peace rallies and kids piled in VW bugs. Some photos made me laugh, and others brought feelings too poignant to linger over long, lest I begin to cry.

It was in the ’65 yearbook that I found the photograph of the young man who’d sat with Vonnie on the bench. I ran my finger from the black-and-white school picture to just under where his name was registered. Joseph Ray Jewel, it read. Pre-med.

Joseph Ray Jewel. I let the name roll around in my head for a moment or two, but it didn’t cause any memories to surface. Joe, perhaps? Ray? Joe Jewel? Ray Jewel?

Nothing.

I sighed, resigning myself to either hitting Vonnie head-on with what I knew or simply letting it slide. I closed the book, restacked the collection of yearbooks, then returned them to the librarian with a “thank you very much.”

“Find what you were looking for?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, though in truth I had not.

I returned to my car and began the drive home, wondering what I would tell Leigh as to my long absence. Not that I had to tell her anything. At my age I should certainly be able to do what I please, when I please.

As I hit Summit View’s city limit sign, I passed Donna Vesey in her Ford Bronco heading in the opposite direction.

And that was when it hit me. Something she’d said at the Potluck meeting when Vonnie had told us about Jan. “Hey, ladies, let me ask you a question,” she’d said. “Any of you who’ve been in town a while know of a woman by the name of Jewel?”

I’d looked from Donna to the sofa, where Lizzie and Goldie exchanged blank glances. “No, why?” I’d answered.

“A few weeks ago I stopped a man from California. Name of David Harris. Nice-looking guy too,” she’d added. “Thirty-five. Close to six foot. Black hair. Brown eyes. Looks Hispanic. Maybe Mexican. Mexican-American. Hard to say, really.” Lisa Leann then made a crude statement about Julio Iglesias. Donna had continued. “Apparently he has a mother here. I’m thinking he was adopted and is trying to find her.”

My hand clamped over my mouth as I inhaled deeply. Vonnie’s sudden departure to Berkeley . . . her love for dolls . . . her favorite doll, Amanda Jewel—Jewel!—fit like the final pieces to a very large puzzle. “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven,” I declared. “Vonnie Westbrook, what have you done?”

I slowed my car, turning it around at the nearest section of the road that wouldn’t get me hit by an oncoming car, then sped along, trying to catch up with Donna. When I came up behind her, I flashed my lights several times until I saw her gaze into her rearview mirror, then pull over. I pulled behind her, parking my car, then got out and came up to the driver’s side of the Bronco. Donna had lowered the window, her forearm resting on top of the pane. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.