Touching Stars (14 page)

“Noah was so bereft when his bird died that he just couldn’t face another loss. He makes a point of not wanting a pet. He makes fun of Dillon for his fish and his spiders. But it’s really all about being a sensitive kid who’s afraid of being hurt.”

“So he’s careful to put up the right barriers.”

“That’s it in a nutshell.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

She knew better than to answer. Eric hadn’t been around, and both of them knew it. And she had never been sure he would show the slightest interest if she sought him out to try.

“Hang in there,” she said at last.

“I guess being a parent isn’t for sissies.”

“I’ve never found it easy.”

“You? You were born knowing what to do.”

She shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I never knew exactly what to do. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and hoped I was moving in the right direction. I still do.”

“And when I put one foot in front of the other, it was to run in the opposite direction.”

“Maybe this summer’s all about turning around.” She got up and started toward the door. Then she pivoted. “Eric?”

He glanced up, and without thinking, she tossed him the apple. His reflexes were still excellent. He caught it without fuss.

“Eat it,” she said. “I think you’re going to need the energy.”

T
he inn was furnished with simple pieces, some antiques and some reproductions that gently suggested life as the former residents might have lived it. The quilts pulled everything together. An appreciative guest had shared her own theory about Gayle’s love affair with quilts. Anyone describing a quilt—comfortable, traditional, warm, inviting—could well be describing Gayle, herself.

Gayle also collected and displayed the work of some of the many artists and crafters in the valley. The result was gracious country living with just a few whimsical touches. The carriage house was decorated much the same, but with sturdy furniture that could stand up to life with roughhousing teenage boys.

Her bedroom was a different story. At home Gayle was surrounded with males, and the inn needed a unisex approach that appealed to both men and women. But her bedroom was her own, and she made certain that when she closed the door at night, she remembered she was a woman.

The walls were a deep rose that highlighted the roses in the spring-green carpet. They were sprinkled with unabashedly feminine watercolors and lithographs—cottage gardens, dreamy landscapes and small children at play. Lace curtains were draped and bunched at the windows, and the furniture was rosewood, with ornate carving and deeply polished surfaces. She kept fresh flowers in a vase by her bed, and cut-glass perfume bottles filled with light citrusy scents on the vanity. The bathroom had a soaking tub surrounded by herbal-scented candles and lilac bath salts.

Sunday at sunrise she unwillingly abandoned her personal hideaway, but there was no hope of lingering. Today of all days she needed coffee on the terrace to gather her thoughts. Her parents had arrived last night and were sleeping in the inn, which made for a full house and two separate breakfast shifts.

Sunday-morning breakfast was always the most elaborate and therefore the most work. The menu this morning included fresh melon slices and berries, paired with cinnamon rolls made from dough prepared last evening so it could rise slowly in the refrigerator. For the main course she planned to serve a baked egg casserole with her special Creole sauce, cheese grits and country ham. No one would leave the table hungry.

Her family would be hungry by midafternoon, when she planned to serve her traditional Sunday dinner. She prided herself on those dinners, and guests who were remaining past the weekend were always warned that this would be a good time to find outside diversion.

Meals throughout the week were too often wedged between soccer games, Cub Scout pack meetings and the needs of the guests. But Sunday dinners were family time. Each boy was allowed to invite any friends he wanted. Gayle made certain that there was something on the Sunday table that each son particularly liked. There was classical music in the background; pretty, inexpensive pottery; bright linen tablecloths; laughter and conversation. She was a believer in traditions and made sure that this one persisted.

Last week the meal had been informal because of Jared’s graduation party. Now she wondered how it would feel to have the first real Sunday dinner with Eric in residence. Would his isolation from his sons seem apparent to her parents? Or would everyone come together in enjoyment of the meal and company, and forget—for those hours, at least—that they were all feeling their way?

“I thought I might find you out here.”

Startled, Gayle turned around to see her mother, in blue sweatpants and jacket, coming toward her from the house. Phyllis Metzger had a cup of coffee, but she didn’t look quite awake. She looked soft and approachable, which was more than likely a trick of the light.

Gayle’s mother was a handsome woman in her mid-sixties, sharp-featured and sharp-witted. Her hair was a bright silver, cut short and pushed back from her tanned face. She was tall and thin, and her posture was so perfect that Gayle couldn’t remember a moment when her mother had sagged with exhaustion or sadness. Sagging had been discouraged in all family members, as well. Even now, Gayle felt herself straightening a little, since dawn was not an excuse for letting down.

“How did you sleep?” Gayle asked when her mother joined her.

“It’s a comfortable room. The mattress should do for another year.”

“Dad’s still sleeping?”

“I’ll have him up in time for breakfast.”

Gayle bet she would. She remembered living at home. The schedule had been organized into fifteen-minute increments. There had been little room for negotiation.

“I was sorry Eric was asleep by the time we got in,” Phyllis said. The Metzgers’ plane into Dulles Airport had been delayed by a storm. Even Phyllis hadn’t been able to negotiate with the forces of nature.

“You’ll be able to catch up with him today.”

“I was glad to see you welcomed him back.”

Gayle heard the words her mother didn’t add.
It’s about time.
Phyllis had always liked Eric, although it was an unlikely pairing. Phyllis liked order. She liked people who did whatever life called them to do and despised those who dropped the ball. She valued creativity less than discipline, and personality less than intellect. Yet Eric, who had chosen a life in the hot spots of the world over a life of duty to his family, had somehow implanted himself in her mother’s ironclad heart.

Phyllis had never come right out and said that Gayle was a fool to let Eric get away, but she had made the point in numerous ways.

Gayle took a sip of coffee to fortify herself. “You’ll find Eric changed, Mother.”

“Well, I imagine I knew that. But he’ll adjust. Eric has the right stuff.”

“I’m not sure the rest of us do.”

As expected, Phyllis proffered no sympathy. Her preferred method of dealing with feelings had always been to pretend they didn’t exist. Gayle wasn’t sad, she had just stayed up too late studying. Gayle wasn’t angry, she was just going through a phase. Gayle wasn’t lonely, she just hadn’t tried hard enough to make new friends at yet another of the many schools she had attended throughout the world.

Gayle couldn’t possibly be depressed after the divorce. After all, she had made the choice to stay at the inn and raise the boys without Eric, and no one had forced her into it.

Gayle changed the subject. “Doesn’t Jared look good? And haven’t Noah and Dillon grown since Christmas?”

“I suppose they have. I’m sure they’re delighted to have their father back with them.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yes, well don’t make it more complicated by telling them it is,” Phyllis said.

Gayle laughed softly, because what was the point of any other reaction? “Mother, what on earth are you going to do with your time now that Daddy is retiring? Who are you going to boss around besides him?”

“You always make me sound like some sort of harridan. Do I ever have a problem finding a life for myself?”

Gayle slung an arm over her mother’s shoulders and squeezed, but she released her quickly, before Phyllis could pull away. “I just want you to be happy. And I’m still hoping you and Daddy will settle on the East Coast, so we’ll see more of you.”

“Wherever we decide to settle, you know we’ll expect you to visit. You and the boys will always be welcome. And Eric, of course, if he wants to visit with them.”

Or with you.
Gayle heard the unspoken words.

“Eric is here to get to know his sons better,” Gayle said. “But
I
know him as well as I ever need to. Don’t hope this summer is anything more than it is.”

“Divorce always seems like a defeat to me.”

“Yes, well those millions of us who take this particular low road have each other for company, and I’m afraid the crowd’s pretty thick at times.”

To celebrate her parents’ arrival, Gayle splurged on a rib roast. All the boys loved beef, so this was a special treat. She made Jared’s favorite mashed-potato casserole, artichokes for Noah and homemade biscuits for Dillon. She baked lemon meringue pie because she knew it was Eric’s favorite, and a chocolate layer cake for Leon, who was always invited whether he was in residence at the moment or not. Since her parents could be counted on to like anything, she added her mother’s specialty, seven-layer salad, as a tribute from one cook to another.

The day was beautiful, and the morning sun had dried puddles and damp furniture. She asked the boys to set the tables on the terrace for thirteen, but Leon, who had come early, lagged behind when the others went off to set up.

“Would you mind if I asked my dad to join us?” Leon looked sheepish. Gayle, in the middle of sprinkling cheese on the potatoes, stopped grating.

“Would he like that?” Gayle had doubts. George Jenkins, Leon’s father, had serious problems with alcohol. When he drank he was a bully, and when his actions came back to haunt him, he always resented the people who tried to help.

She was one of the latter. George had been a deacon on the church board during her tenure as president. Numerous times she had been forced to either confront him or carry his share of the burden. Additionally, she had taken in his son when it was clear George was failing as Leon’s father. Their relationship was tense, at best. Although George sporadically attended twelve-step meetings and saw a counselor, he was off the wagon more frequently than he was on it. He was sober now, but she was almost certain Leon would be spending his senior year at the inn.

“He’s not drinking,” Leon said. “I don’t think he’ll cause a scene.”

“Then by all means invite him,” Gayle said. “But you go and get him, okay?”

He disappeared, to be replaced by Eric. Gayle knew that Eric and her father had taken a walk together. Franklin Metzger was a round faced, heavyset man most often described as pleasant. He smiled easily, listened carefully, and knew what to say and how to say it. He had been the easier of her parents to talk to, and the one Gayle had most often turned to during a crisis. But he had also been busy, too often involved with an international problem that made her childish troubles seem silly and inconsequential. If anyone could understand what Eric had gone through, he would be the one.

She finished grating and set the casserole in the oven. “Did you and Dad have a nice chat?”

“Gayle, is this a banquet? Did you hire a court jester? Jugglers?”

She supposed she had overdone it. “Proving love through food. My mantra.”

“If we start eating at three, we should finish by midnight. Tell me you don’t do this every Sunday.”

Since he didn’t sound critical, she smiled. “Not quite this expansively.”

“I normally eat cold pizza and watch the football game.”

“We could send out for pizza and put it on ice.”

“No one delivers out here.”

“You’ll have to cope with the banquet, then.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t know. Can you cook?”

“Not any better than I used to, but I can bowl you over with my charm.”

“In other words, you’re good for nothing.” She smiled to let him know she was teasing. More or less.

“Who’s coming?”

She had told Eric he was welcome to invite friends. He had a host of contacts in D.C., and the trip was doable. But he had declined. She wasn’t sure if those friendships weren’t deep enough, or if he just wasn’t ready to field questions about his ordeal from other professionals.

She recited the list. “Jared’s bringing three friends, including Brandy. I asked Sam and Elisa, our minister and his wife. You met them at the graduation party. Dillon’s friend Caleb, Noah’s friend Sherry—”

“Noah has a girlfriend?”

“No, they’ve been friends since they played on the same soccer team in first grade. Last year they painted a mural on the lunch-room wall for their art project. If there’s a romance, I haven’t seen signs.”

“That may not be something he’d want you to know.”

She finished the list with Leon and his father. “You aren’t going to like George, so don’t even try. But it’s important for Leon to feel he can invite his father here.”

“I’ll stay away from him.”

After that there was a steady stream of kitchen visitors. Phyllis came in to complain about Gayle’s use of taco cheese in the salad. Franklin went straight to the stove to make gravy. Jared and Cray trooped in to fill pitchers with tea and lemonade, while Brandy and Lisa stayed outside and flirted with Eric on the terrace.

Noah’s friend Sherry, an athletic-looking girl with long, red, corkscrew curls, had been to enough Sunday dinners to know the score. She carried platters and casseroles outside without being asked and studiously ignored Eric, as if she knew Noah would not want her to be friendly to his father.

Sam and Elisa arrived and finished getting things to the table. Gayle was flushed with hard work and the success of finishing everything at the same time.

The good feelings didn’t last. Three long tables had been set up in a
U
so that everyone could sit together. Unfortunately, by the time Sam and Elisa sat down, there were only two chairs left, directly across from George Jenkins. George had formerly been robust, but these days his eyes were sunken and his hands shook when he lifted a fork. Sam had been one of the first to confront George about his drinking, and he and Elisa had paid dearly for it. Somehow Sam still managed to be polite, even pastoral, toward George, but George would have none of it. Every comment he made dripped with sarcasm. The people sitting around them clearly felt it, particularly Leon, whose cheeks were red from embarrassment.