Her Forever Gift
by
Debra Salonen
Dedicated to my parents: Daisy and Reuben Robson for showing me what real love was all about for fifty- one years…and beyond.
Copyright © 2014 by Debra Salonen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Publisher’s Note: The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Art ©2014 Rogenna Brewer
Chapter 1
Popcorn and pine. Two distinct smells that had the power to transport Louise Jenkins back to the small farmhouse a few miles outside of Marietta, Montana, where she’d lived for nearly two decades. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see Oscar with six-year-old Bailey on his shoulders looping a string of popcorn and cranberries haphazardly across the branches of their freshly cut tree. For a few years, every Christmas was special. Their small family a universe of the perfect size, contentment and traditions as reliable as the arrival of Santa.
But not every holiday that followed was as special. When Bailey was in high school, the scent of whiskey overshadowed even the Yule log and pine candles Louise would light, determined to salvage a few happy memories for her beautiful teenage daughter.
Luckily, this Christmas was shaping up to be one of the best in recent memory, she decided, as she watched Oscar, her husband of nearly forty years, trying to out-string popcorn and cranberries in a race against their new son- in-law, Paul Zabrinski.
“You’re putting too many cranberries in a row, Paul. They’re heavier than the popcorn. They’ll weigh down the limbs.”
Paul laughed. “Yeah, I know. But cranberries are easier to poke with a needle than popcorn and I want to beat you.”
In years past, Louise would have held her breath and waited for an OC temper tantrum. This time, Oscar threw back his head and chortled. “At least you’re an honest cheat.”
Louise caught Bailey’s eye and they both made a face. Their men were acting like children and nothing could make Louise happier.
For the first Christmas in more years than she cared to count, Louise felt content. OC’s recovery—both from alcoholism and his amputation—was nothing short of remarkable. And the positive improvements in his relationship with their daughter seemed based on mutual forgiveness and respect.
Bailey was newly wed to her first love, Paul Zabrinski, and the two were giddy with expectation as they prepared to welcome a baby—Louise’s first grandchild—in a few months. Life was spectacularly beautiful at the moment. And Louise had lived through enough bad times to be superstitious about rocking the boat.
So, when Bailey approached her at Thanksgiving with a request to help Chloe, the elder of Louise’s new step- grandchildren, with a school project, Louise hadn’t immediately jumped onboard.
“Chloe’s class is supposed to interview parents and grandparents over the holidays and ask questions like how’d you meet, what was your first job, where did you live before you moved to Marietta, and things like that,” Bailey said.
Louise would never forget her first job…because she was so bad at it.
“And, honestly, Mom, when she asked about you and Dad, I drew a blank. I know you grew up in Chicago and took the train Bozeman to teach school, but I don’t think you ever told me how you and Dad met and fell in love.” She touched her blossoming belly. “I want to be able to share your story with your new grandbaby.”
Louise had wrestled with the idea for three days before discussing it with Oscar. After all, any truthful telling of their life together would have to include some not-so flattering mention of the dark years, his addiction.
“I want you to do it, Luly,” had been his response. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth…as long as it isn’t boring. We had plenty of good times, too. Remember?”
Remember? That she did.
She walked to the front hall closet and picked up the Marietta Library tote bag that held five small, smartly bound books, individually inscribed and wrapped. When she returned to the living room, she clapped her hands to be heard over the sound of Burl Ives’ rendition of Frosty, the Snowman.
“There’s a storm coming, people. We need to get started so you can make it over the pass safely.”
Originally, Bailey and Paul had planned to share Christmas Eve dinner with Louise and OC, then drive the kids to Bozeman to their mother’s and get a motel near the airport so they could fly to Paul’s parents’ winter home in Arizona.
As Paul and Bailey and the kids settled down on the couch and OC claimed his recliner, Bailey tried once more to get her parents to change their minds. “Are you sure you won’t come, Dad? I hate the idea of you two being here alone.”
Louise bit back a smile. She and Oscar had been alone at Christmas for years, when the grudge Bailey carried made it impossible for her forgive and forget. Getting a second chance at love had gone a long ways toward healing those old hurts, Louise thought.
Oscar shook his head. “No, thank you. That trip we made to Reno to see Jack is the last I plan to make in your plane, Paul. No offense, but my circulation still isn’t one hundred percent.” Unconsciously, he rubbed his knee above his amputated stump. “Sitting still for six or seven hours would probably kill me.”
“We’re truly content to stay home, dear. Believe it or not, your dad has agreed to go to midnight services with me on Christmas Eve…weather permitting.”
Bailey blinked in surprise. Sotto voce she asked, “Does he know about the caroling?”
Louise looked at her husband and laughed. “He said he’d stay in the car, but I haven’t given up hope that he might join us for a song or two. I think his voice is lot like Blake Shelton’s.”
Everybody had a question or comment to add to that declaration it seemed. Louise put a hand to her face so Oscar wouldn’t see her grin, but the look he gave her said she’d pay later. In a good way. She trusted that, now.
She sat forward and cleared her throat. “I have a little something for everyone here.” She held up the tote. “They’re all the same, so you don’t have to open yours now.”
“What is it, Grandma?” Chloe asked.
Louise produced the unwrapped copy she’d purchased for her and Oscar. A proof copy, the company called it. “Because you asked, Chloe, I wrote down the story of Oscar’s and my life together. I attended a meeting at the library of a group of aspiring authors and one offered to help anyone who wanted to try their hand at writing to publish a book. This is mine.”
Bailey let out a squeal that turned every head in the room. “You did it. Oh, Mom, that’s great. I’m so excited. What a gift,” she said, crossing the room to hug Louise. “It’s so pretty. Thank you.”
“You haven’t read it, yet. You know what I think about judging a book by its cover.”
But, in truth, Louise was very happy with this cover. Ryker Bensen, the young photographer Louise had befriended months ago, had helped her create a cover that came very close to conveying the hope and joy she’d felt when she married Oscar.
“Oh, wow, Grandma Louise. This makes you an author,” Chloe exclaimed. “Will you read it to us? Like you do at the library. Please.”
Storytime at the Marietta Library had always been Louise’s favorite part of her job. “A few pages while the soup simmers.”
She settled back in the chair and opened the stiff cover. “A Forever Gift by Louise Jenkins.” She found her place and started to read:
“In 1974, at the ripe old age of 23, I pretty much thought I knew exactly how my life was going to turn out. I’d teach people who had better things to do with their time until I got fired and had to go home to Chicago to sponge off my folks. I’d graduated from college a year and a half earlier and taken a job in Bozeman, Montana, teaching adult education.
Why Bozeman? Montana sounded exciting, adventurous and romantic. Don’t laugh. I’d been an avid reader all my life and I’d developed a secret passion for romance novels set in the American west—both historical and contemporary. Something about the independent spirit of the people in these stories appealed to me.
I took the teaching job because it paid enough to keep a roof over my head and food on the table, while allowing me the freedom to explore my new state on the weekends. So, the first thing I did when I got here was buy a used car. Then I visited all the neighboring towns, including Marietta.
I can’t explain why, but something about the place called to me, so I returned often. On occasion, I’d catch a glimpse of a tall, good-looking man with black hair, a straight back and broad shoulders carrying an Army green canvas backpack that appeared to hold all his worldly possessions, including one extremely long fishing pole that waved like an antenna.
Backpacks were common in those days. This was the era of free love, Hippies, and Volkswagon Bugs with peace-sign paint jobs. I assumed he was an itinerant poet who fed himself by fishing from streams as he made his way across the country.
But then one evening in mid-December, I stopped at the Marietta Library. Confession: I have always loved libraries. They were/are a haven for a mind like mine. They’re both restful and stimulating. I can leave the library excited about some new possibility I discovered or I may amble home all mellow and chill—She winked at Chloe because the word was one Louise had added for Chloe’s sake. It came up a lot when Chloe and Mark were arguing. —because I spent time in someone else’s peaceful, interesting life. If you’re wondering, I hadn’t considered a career in library management at the time because my parents insisted I become a teacher since teaching was a job that would allow me to be self-sufficient.
That night was special because school was out for the holiday break. I couldn’t afford to go back home for Christmas. My new friends were busy with their families. I was completely, utterly alone. And, I admit, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I decided to treat myself to a stack of books, which I intended to read over the next two weeks.
I parked in the mostly empty parking lot, dashed through the bitter cold, and nearly slipped on a patch of ice on the library steps. A man I hadn’t noticed seemed to materialize out of thin air to catch my elbow and help me stumble drunkenly to dry ground. I realized instantly the man was my poet/wanderer/Hippie/peacenik. (In hindsight, he could just as easily have been a murderer/rapist/madman.)
“Thank you, kind sir.” Yes, I said those exact words like the true dork I was.”
Everyone laughed. Louise ignored the blush she felt blossom in her cheeks. Did anybody even use that word anymore? Did all authors feel like idiots when they read their words aloud?
She shook off the thoughts and continued.
” ‘Where’d you come from?’ I asked, breathless and shaking like a wet puppy. “Saw you running. Knew you wouldn’t see the black ice. Told the old b…witch inside about it, but she ignored me.” The idea that a public servant would purposely put patrons at risk upset me to no end, but before I could march inside and give the woman a piece of my mind, my hero said, “She doesn’t listen to vagrants, but she might listen to you.” Then he tipped an imaginary hat (he was wearing a thick, Army-surplus type of stocking cap with ear flaps), which led me to jump to my second foolish conclusion.
“Are you a Vet? Were you in Vietnam? Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” My dears, let me assure you I’m not an impulsive person. I think long and hard about important decisions, but this gesture felt right…noble, even. The guy saved me from a broken limb or a concussion at worst, a bruised butt-slash-ego at best. Even with a heavy coat, he looked thin. In the yellowish light from the library fixtures, I could almost picture him barely surviving an Agent Orange overspray in ‘Nam. He didn’t jump at my offer. He seemed embarrassed. I took that as male pride and pleaded. “I owe you a cup of coffee at the very least. The last thing I could afford was to spend Christmas in the hospital with a broken arm. Please.”
He thought a moment then said, ‘Why not?'”
Louise glanced around. She still had their interest—even the children. “Have you ever heard of Agent Orange or Vietnam?” she asked Chloe, who’d settled at Louise’s feet rather than return to the couch. “Vietnam is a country. We had a lady come and show us slides from a trip she took there. She said it was once a place of war.”
Louise lightly touched Chloe’s pretty blond head. “Very good. The war was taking place…or just winding down, I think, when I met your grandpa.”
Mark looked at OC. “Did you fight in the war, Gramps?”
Gramps was OC’s choice of nickname. He said Grandpa made him feel old. Louise saw him smile every time one of the children called him that. She didn’t know why.
“Nope. I did not. I was too dumb.”
Chloe’s eyes went wide and she looked at her father, as if OC had cussed. “Grandpa, we don’t use that word. It’s not polite. Some people just don’t know as much as other people. That doesn’t make them dumb.”
OC roared. “I wish you’d been my teacher when I was in school, Chloe. One time, Miss Etta Hanson made me stand at the blackboard and write two-plus-two-equals-four one hundred times. She told the class that even a dummy like Oscar Jenkins could learn his sums if he practiced long enough.”
Chloe’s eyes filled with tears and she jumped to her feet and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re not dumb, Gramps. She was just mean.”
OC looked at Louise, who was dabbing the tears from her eyes, too. He comforted the little girl and made a place for her on his lap. He cleared his throat gruffly and said, “Go on, Luly. Read some more.”
Louise took a big breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. Here goes.”
“The strong, silent type, I decided. My father was the silent type, too. Easy to overlook if you weren’t careful. This man, however, was impossible to miss. He gathered up his belongings from a protected spot near the building. (I learned later he’d found a way to jimmy the door and would sneak into the basement of the library at night to sleep near the furnace.)
I gave him a ride to the coffee shop.
Yes, this bold action came from a woman who prided herself on never picking up a hitchhiker. The truth is I didn’t feel the least bit threatened by this stranger. At this point, I couldn’t guess his age. Thirty? Forty? Older? His manners came across as old school, courtly even. “Thank you, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”
I felt ancient and not terribly attractive.
Once inside the cafe, I ordered a coffee and a basket of French fries without even looking at the menu. My hero studied the small, laminated menu for two or three minutes without saying a word.
“Me, too,” he told the waitress when she came back for our orders.
Only a few people were in the place. I didn’t know anyone, but everyone present seemed to know my hero. They called him ‘OC.’ I couldn’t decide if that was his nickname or some sort of insult. Nobody seemed overly friendly. He wasn’t well- liked, in other words.
We introduced ourselves. I went first. “My name is Louise Billingham.”
“Oscar Jenkins. People call me OC.”
“What does the C stand for?”
“Clark.”
“Oh. Like Superman.”
I could tell he didn’t get my reference to Clark Kent. I remember blushing because instead of sounding witty, I came off like a comic book geek (although I’m not sure geeks had a formal identity at that time).
We made small talk while we waited for the food. I honestly can’t remember what either of us said, until Oscar asked about my work. “You’re a teacher, aren’t you?”
I remember feeling surprised because I hadn’t told him my profession, and, honestly, most days I felt like an imposter. I was a recent graduate trying to teach people decades older than me how to read. I’d been taught how to teach, but I didn’t grasp how to reach my students with the methods at my disposal.
For some reason, I told Oscar the truth. Maybe because I had a sense he wouldn’t judge me.
“I’m a pretender,” I said. “I go to work every day. I pretend I know what I’m doing, and I get paid for my time. Am I really teaching these people anything useful? I don’t know.”
“You are.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Even learning a few words would make a difference to someone who can’t read.”
A shiver passed through my body. A tingle that told me he spoke from experience. I was looking at a person my age—he’d already told me he was twenty-six and he had not served in Vietnam because he’d had a high draft number and his ol’ man told him only fools volunteered. This made him just three years older than me, but for whatever reasons, Oscar C. Jenkins couldn’t read.”
An audible gasp from everyone in the room told her now was a good time to take a break. She closed the book and set it on the coffee table. “We’ll read some more after supper. Who’s hungry?”
“Me! Me!” Chloe and Mark shouted.
Everyone got up and headed toward the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, but when Louise looked at her daughter, she saw questions—and a hint of disappointment—on Bailey’s face. Louise knew what was coming next. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?”
The reasons were complex and vast, but topping the list were pride and shame. Bailey would understand…Louise hoped.
Chapter 2
Dinner was simple fare since everyone would be participating in more elaborate festivities over the next two days. On Christmas Day, weather permitting, OC and Louise would dine at the Graff with Ryker Bensen and Paul’s sister, Mia. After meeting under less-than-ideal circumstances, the two seemed quite taken with each other. Ryker, who was a world class photographer, had been flat broke when Louise had befriended him. She remembered thinking when she met him how much he reminded her of OC some forty-odd years earlier.
“The soup is fabulous, Louise,” her new son-in-law said. “Really great, Grandma, can I have more?” Chloe asked.
“Of course. Eat up.” Louise stood to reach the ladle. “What about you, Mark?”
The youngest of them shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m leaving room for dessert.”
Everyone’s gaze followed Mark’s to the tall-sided glass bowl that held Louise’s trifle. She’d removed it from the refrigerator moments earlier so it could come to room temperature before serving. Three distinct strata were visible: coarsely torn bits of white cake topped by marinated cherries, blueberries, mandarin orange slices and pineapple, and lastly whipped cream. Each portion would be topped with warm Copper Mountain Chocolate Company’s decadent and nearly immoral dark chocolate syrup.
Mark wasn’t the only one to lick his lips.
“Where’d you learn to make that, Mom?” Bailey asked. “We’ve had it on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember.”
Louise looked at OC. The intensity of his stare made her blush. “I made it up. Our first Christmas after we were married, we were too poor to make anything fancy and I remembered reading that in olden days, people served stale cake with fruit that they marinated in rum or brandy then poured over the cake to make it palatable. So, that’s what I did.”
OC let out a laugh that made everyone look his way. “First time I ever saw your mother drunk.”
“Mom doesn’t drink.”
“She didn’t have to—every bite was like taking a shot.” OC slapped his knee. “It was funnier than heck. Unlike some people—” He tapped both thumbs to his chest.”—Luly was a happy drunk. But, boy, did she have a headache in the morning.”
Markie sat forward, rubbing his hands together. “Am I going to get drunk eating it?”
Paul elbowed him. “No.”
Paul looked at Louise for confirmation.
“That was the last time I used whiskey to make my trifle, Mark. Sorry to disappoint you, but the brandy flavor comes from the little bit of natural fermentation produced by the fruit.” She leaned over and squeezed his thin little arm. “It still tastes yummy and you won’t have a terrible, horrible headache in the morning. Like I did.”
And my husband won’t have fallen off the wagon when he’s been doing so well, she didn’t add.
“Will you read some more before dessert, Grandma Louise?” Chloe asked. “I’m supposed to pick one person in my family to interview for school. Your book…”
Paul leaned around Bailey to look at his daughter. “No. You may not turn in Louise’s book as your assignment, Chloe. Even if it was your assignment that made her think about writing it.” His overly stern tone made everyone laugh, although Chloe’s blush said she actually might have been thinking along those lines.
Shyly, Chloe asked the question Louise knew everyone was thinking. “Did you really not know how to read, Grandpa?”
OC looked around the table. “Yep. It’s true. But since Luly says I’m the reason she became a librarian, I’m not apologizing for the fact. You ready to hear some more ancient history?” He put both hands on the table and stood. “Let’s go. I’ll help you clean up this mess later, dear.”
Even all these years later, the endearment made her heart flutter with tenderness and love. Was it crazy to still be in love with the man who made her life a living nightmare for too many years to count? Probably. The community of Marietta certainly thought so. Even at the beginning of their friendship, people warned her not to get involved with Oscar Jenkins. Of course, she didn’t listen.
Once she was settled in her chair again, she opened to her bookmark and began to read.
“Let me try to explain what this meant. As you probably know, I love to read. Reading saved my life. Books were my escape. My neighborhood in Chicago was in transition. Without a free library where I felt safe every day after school until my parents got home, I hate to think how different my life would have been. Oscar admitted he’d dropped out of school at fifteen or sixteen. His mother died when he was young and his father was hard speaking, hard drinking, hard living. I only met Rand Jenkins one time before he passed away, but I can say for a fact he was hard. Period. From fifteen on, Oscar supported himself by doing odd jobs in the winter and ranch work in the summer. When times were lean…he “got by.” That’s what he called it. I didn’t know what that involved exactly, but the idea broke my heart.
That night at the diner, after our French fries were delivered, I ate two or three and gave the rest to him. I told him I’d changed my mind and wanted pie, instead. Then, I ordered two pieces a la mode. Did this largesse make me feel superior?”
She looked at Chloe, who shook her head in answer to the question.
“No. Not at all. I wanted to do more but I’d run up against male pride in my classroom and I didn’t want to insult him. When we were done eating, I made him a proposition.”
Oscar let out a gruff hoot. “See there,” he said. “I have proof in writing. She’s the one who propositioned me. All those louts who thought I ruined a sweet young thing were wrong.”
Mark looked at his dad. “What’s a lout?”
Bailey hushed them both. “Go on, Mom.”
“I told him, “I can’t afford to go home to see my family. I don’t have a lot of friends. I don’t ski. I have more time than money. If you’d be interested, I’d meet you at the library every day during vacation to help you prepare for the GED. That’s my supposed specialty, although I’ve yet to have anyone actually complete it. I feel like a failure. It’s really bothering me.” This was the truth. “You’re younger and hopefully more motivated to learn. If you pass, I’ll be less likely to get fired when the year is over.”
“But I’m not signed up with your class.”
“I can fix that.” And I did. My “fix” wasn’t entirely legal, but it was morally right. I taught him on my own time in Marietta since he had part time work and no means of getting to Bozeman. We studied at the library on weekends. The librarian was a bit hostile at first, but I gradually won her over and we became friends. She proved a powerful ally later on.
Her old friend was long dead, now, but Louise never entered the Marietta Library without thinking of her.
I’d like to say this was the beginning of a beautiful romance, but that would be a lie. Oscar was like a big old bear with a thorn in his paw.”
“An understatement,” Louise said, looking at Oscar.
“A lie. I was a pussycat,” he returned, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. Their grandchildren snickered.
“Extracting that thorn would have been easier. But, I honestly couldn’t blame Oscar for not trusting teachers. He’d had so many bad experiences with school and teachers—the system quite literally failed him. Every time one of his teachers passed him to the next grade, he or she failed to do right by Oscar. By the time he left school for good, OC had a chip on his shoulder that a family of four could have stood under in the rain. And there were times when I wanted to shout at him—”I drove all the way here to be abused by you? Am I nuts? I must be nuts.” But I kept coming and he kept trying.”
Louise paused. She knew what was coming next and felt her throat tighten.
“My first glimmer of hope came on Valentine’s Day. He found a Mercer Mayer children’s book that had just been released and he used it to compose a card for me. It read: “Just For U You, Luly. Thank you for helping me.”
Her voice cracked but she read on.
“And, that, my dears, was when I knew I’d fallen in love with this ornery, difficult, kind, loving, damaged man. Life had not been easy for Oscar. He accepted bad luck as his fate, but he was too intelligent to give up. He studied when I wasn’t looking. He practiced his words every chance he had. I once saw him draw vocabulary words in the dirt of the parking lot while he was waiting for me to show up.
Lest you think I was easy or he was quick to take advantage of my feelings, you’d be wrong. We “dated” that following summer. He would take me fishing to his favorite secret spots. I’d read him the classics—in a soft voice so as not to scare the fish—and he’d cook his catch on an open fire. We learned each other’s strengths. Oscar was fearless in the outdoors. I was a terrified city girl, certain that bears, snakes and skunks were poised to attack. He rarely spoke in public for fear his ignorance would show, although he had an amazing memory and knew trivia and facts I didn’t have a clue about. He managed money—what little he had—far better than me—a spoiled girl of moderate means who couldn’t balance her checking account for love nor money.”
“No pun intended?” Bailey asked, jokingly. She looked around and apologized. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to use the bathroom.”
Paul helped her to her feet. “And I need to make some coffee if I’m driving these louts…” He winked at Mark. “…to their mom’s after this. Who wants to help me?”
Oscar volunteered. The children were huddled together talking softly so Louise looked at the page in hand and remembered.
In October, ten months after our first meeting, Oscar took the GED test. He passed it on the first try. I will never forget the look of shock and pride on his face when he showed me the results. “I did it, Luly. I’m not as dumb as I thought.” Every time he belittled himself something inside me wept. How could someone with so many gifts think so little of himself, I asked myself all the time. I didn’t know the answer, but I did my best to show him he wasn’t the loser that someone—society?—convinced him he was. A week later, he took his driver’s license test and passed it, too.
She closed the book and set it aside. What happened next was something her family would want to hear.
“Coffee, my love?” Oscar carried two cups with focused care. She knew he still didn’t trust his balance on his prosthetic leg completely. But he’d come so far in his rehabilitation. She knew how easy it would have been to give up. “Thank you.” She looked at the light honey color and smiled. “Just the way I like it.”
A few minutes later, she continued the story. “I’m going to read fast, my lovelies. We still have a few presents to open, remember?”
Mark nodded, looking toward the little tree. “Read on, Grandma.”
“Oscar used my car for his driver’s test, and when he came out of the DMV with his temporary license, he handed it to me and said, “You’re the first person who ever believed in me, Luly. I love you. Will you marry me?”
Guess what I said? You’re wrong. I said no. I didn’t want him to ask out of some feeling of obligation. I wanted undying passion. I wanted to be the one he couldn’t live without. We’d kissed and held hands, but he always pulled back when things got serious. At the time, I didn’t know why. He was hurt by my rejection—and why wouldn’t he feel that way? He’d been rejected by his mother who committed suicide when he was in grade school, by his father who had struck first and asked questions later, by too many teachers to count and by the very system that should have helped. He walked away without letting me explain. He didn’t have a phone. I couldn’t find him. I didn’t see him again until Christmas vacation.
This year, I’d scraped together enough money to buy a ticket to fly home. My heart was broken and I needed a shoulder to cry on. But when I left my apartment with suitcase in hand, I nearly bumped into a stranger in a suit and tie. I assumed he was a new tenant. I remember thinking, “What a strange time of year to move.”
I walked past him then stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. “Oscar?”
She put her hand to chest.
“My heart is beating fast as I write this because I will never forget how he looked that day. The bright blue Montana sky made the perfect backdrop. His black hair glistened in the sunlight. He’d had it cut in a trim, almost military style that made his cheekbones more chiseled, his brows sharper. He could have been a movie star, my dear ones. He was that handsome.
He wore new cowboy boots—pointy-toe spider-killers, we called them back then. A part of me knew his suit was the first he’d ever owned. His leather jacket wasn’t a city jacket. It had sheepskin fleece lapels and trim. His shoulders never looked so wide—so strong and resourceful. I knew if he still wanted me to marry him, I would never go hungry, I’d never want for a roof over my head. I’d be loved to my dying breath.
We both said, “I’m sorry,” at the same time. We laughed. And I started to cry. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me like I’d never been kissed before in my life. I couldn’t believe this was the same man who found it so difficult to express his emotions. His kiss spoke volumes. His eyes told me every love word I’d ever read in those sonnets and romance novels I adored. His love was equal to if not greater than mine for him.
Over the years, that balance has tilted my way and back, time and again. Love isn’t static or predictable. That would be boring. And life with Oscar Clark Jenkins was never that. Ever.”
“Oh, mom,” Bailey cried. “That’s beautiful. Daddy, I can’t believe you were such a romantic. Where’s the box of tissues?”
Louise was pleased by her family’s reaction. There were many pages left in the book, but now wasn’t the time to share them, she decided. This was their Christmas Eve-a time for celebration and fun. The holidays were about living in the present, not reflecting on the past.
She closed the book. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready for dessert.” “And presents,” Mark cried. “And presents.” She noticed Chloe’s frown when she realized story time was over, so Louise reached into the bag beside her chair and handed Chloe one of the volumes she’d wrapped that afternoon. “Here, sweet girl. You can finish reading the story yourself. I inscribed this one especially for you.”
Chloe threw herself in Louise’s arms. “Thank you, Grandma.”
“No, thank you, for asking me to write it.” The feel of the young girl’s loving arms around her neck made Louise’s heart thud happily in her chest. “Let’s go get us some trifle.
Chapter 3
OC watched the ladies and children head for the kitchen, then he signaled his new son-in-law to follow him toward the basement. His damn prosthetic made going up and down the stairs particularly tricky, but he’d been determined to get to his shop to put together the little presents he had in mind for his family.
Luly, of course, insisted she didn’t want a thing. And what could he possibly make two young kids who had everything? He’d given it a lot of thought, and like Luly’s book, he’d decided to pull from the past.
“How’d you manage to make gifts without Louise knowing?” Paul asked, following on OC’s heels.
“Luckily, she was so wrapped up helping your sister’s new boyfriend with his problems, I managed to fly under her radar for months. And then, when Ryker got back to town for Thanksgiving, I asked him to lend me a hand with a couple of things. You and your dad helped, too.”
Paul laid a hand on OC’s shoulder. “We collected a little wood from the shed that fell down on your old place. Zero credit. I can’t wait to see them.”
Them. Four shadow boxes. Bailey’s and Paul’s was the largest. Several beautiful black and white photos from their wedding supplied part of the backdrop, along with a newspaper clipping and the tattered and stained Miss Marietta ribbon OC rescued from the garbage the day after Bailey left home for college. He’d carried it to his favorite fishing hole and cried like a baby…while he polished off a fifth of Jack. He’d made his life a lot harder than it needed to be back in the day, and he’d been quick to seize any excuse to get drunk. He didn’t miss that any more.
“I don’t do wrapping paper,” he said, reaching behind his workbench where he’d stacked each one as he finished
“Me, neither. Do you want me to take them to the top of the stairs so you can give them out one-by-one?”
“Sounds like a plan.” OC started to pass the two small ones—Mark’s and Chloe’s—but paused. “You know, I might not have told you this, Paul, but you’re one smart cookie.”
“I am?”
“Yep. Nearly every day at Big Z’s I see something that can be attributed to you, and I think to myself, ‘What the hell was wrong with me back when you and Bailey were dating that I couldn’t see what kind of man you’d grow up to be?'”
Paul looked moved by OC’s words. It took him a minute to respond. When he did, his voice sounded tight with emotion. “That’s really nice of you to say, Oscar. We’ll never know what might have been if Bailey and I had stayed together in High School, but that doesn’t matter any more. We’re right where we need to be. I wouldn’t change a thing, and I sure as hell don’t blame you.” He swallowed hard and nodded. “We all did the best we could.”
OC knew that wasn’t true. He’d been a coward most of his life, hiding behind his addictions when things got too hard, too emotional.
He handed Paul one of the eight-by-ten frames.
Paul studied it a moment before exclaiming, “Oh, my God! Markie’s gonna go nuts. Are those real arrowheads?” He squinted and held the gift to the light above the workbench. “That looks like an old campaign ribbon, too. World War II?”
“The Indian stuff came from my dad. His father was a miner. My grandma was Lakota or Cheyenne. I never knew for sure. Most of this stuff was in an old cigar box Dad lugged around. He told me he picked up the arrowheads off some battleground. I hid the box every time he got drunk. Nothin’ of value here to speak of, but a drunk will trade anything for a bottle.” He pointed to the Purple Heart. “That belonged to my mom. She said the government sent it posthumously after her dad was killed in Normandy.”
Paul put a hand to his chest. “Everything in here is precious. Are you sure…?”
OC gave him the look that used to put the fear of broken body parts into his old drinkin’ buddies. “Mark’s my first grandson. These go to him. If you and Bailey had…if I hadn’t…” He couldn’t finish the thought. He’d been so sure having a baby at eighteen and marrying a kid who was still in high school would ruin his only child’s life, he’d made her do the unthinkable. And she’d hated him for that. For a long time. A long, long time. Until she came home to help her mother after he’d lost his foot.
“Fixing things with you helped Bailey fix things with me, Paul. I owe you a debt I’ll never be able to repay.” Paul set the gift on the workbench and hugged OC. Neither spoke. There were no words.
“Dessert’s ready, you two,” Bailey called from the top of the stairs. “Don’t make me come down there to check up on you.”
Her threat made them step apart, laughing. Paul brushed at the corner of his eyes and tucked both frames under his arm. He didn’t even look at Chloe’s. “Whatdaya say I come back for the bigger ones after you give these to the kids?”
OC nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Luly’s trifle is not to be trifled with.” Paul groaned as he led the way up the steps. “I married into a family of comedians.” His comment made OC laugh out loud. He was still chuckling when he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Louise walked toward him carrying two bowls filled with cake, fruit and whipped cream. “What’s so funny? Or do I even want to know?”
OC took one bowl from her and planted a kiss squarely on her lips, surprising the heck out of her, he could tell. “I was just telling Paul about our wedding. Do you remember me walking into the airport and paying cash for a ticket so I could fly back to Chicago with you?” To Paul, he added, “Round-trip cost seventy-five dollars, and I paid for the whole thing with fives and ones.”
“Fives and ones? Seriously? Why?”
Louise glanced at what Paul was carrying but she didn’t ask any questions. Instead, she nodded for them to follow her as she repeated a part of the story OC had forgotten until she wrote it down. “Oscar saved money better than anyone I ever knew. Although he denies it now, I swear he told me he pulled the money for his plane ticket out of buried coffee cans on his dad’s old land. And, remember, this was 1975, not today. There were no questions asked.”
“So you were married in Chicago?” Paul asked.
“Two days after Christmas. In my parents’ living room. A few friends and relatives who lived in the area came. Nothing fancy, but very nice. And my aunt who married well gave us a night’s stay in a swanky hotel as a wedding present.”
“That was our honeymoon,” Oscar added. “Better than anything I could have afforded at the time.” Louise gave him that smile she’d perfected over the years. The one that said stop putting yourself down. “We flew home a day later, anxious to begin the next chapter in our lives.” OC’s knee buckled and he reached for the wall to stay upright. As much as he hated showing weakness in front of others, he’d learned to roll with the ups and downs of his recovery. “Help me to my chair, Luly. I’ve been waiting all day for this. Your trifle—.”
“Isn’t to be trifled with,” Paul said with a laugh. “Are we eating in the living room? Good. Because I just happen to have the first two presents of the night to pass out. Hand-made works of art from a local, undiscovered talent by the name of OC Jenkins.”
OC shook his head. “Laying it on a little thick there, Boss.”
Paul winked. “I’ll start selling them at Big Z’s any time you’ve got one to spare.” He looked at his wife. “Actually, Bailey, you could sell these in your shop. I’m serious. Your dad’s eye for detail is amazing.”
“Since nobody else knows what you’re talking about, Paul, why don’t you give Chloe hers?” OC suggested.
His stomach tightened. Old habits—especially the ones that had been around since his childhood—were the hardest to break. He’d never mastered the art of expecting the best. Anything he ever tried had been met with disapproval or indifference.
A gentle hand on his shoulder instantly relaxed him. No words. Just a supportive touch that told him Chloe would love his gift.
And she was right.
Chapter 4
Chloe heard her dad call her name but she didn’t look up right away. She had her eyes closed as she tried to discern every delicious texture and flavor in her dessert. The cake was moist but firm, not mushy. The juices from the fruit had a tang that produced prickly bubbles on her tongue. The sugar and vanilla in the whipped cream smoothed everything out. And the ribbons of dark chocolate Bailey used to decorate the top tasted so good Chloe wanted to call all her friends and tell them about it. Which, of course, made her the biggest dork in Marietta.
She licked her spoon and opened her eyes…and found everybody watching her. Her cheeks turned hot. “What?”
“Nothing, dear,” Grandma Louise said. “Take your time. But, whenever you’re ready, Oscar has a present he made for you.”
Chloe quickly finished her bowl and set it on the end table. “For me? Really? What is it?”
“It’s a present,” Mark said, testily. “You won’t know until you open it, dipwad.”
“Da…ad. He’s calling me names again.”
“Sannnnta,” Dad said, looking at the ceiling. “It’s not too late. You can still turn back.”
Chloe groaned. She didn’t believe in Santa anymore. Not really. Maybe just a little. She and Grandma Louise had had a long talk about whether or not Saint Nick was real. “I’ve been the recipient of too many wonderful gifts to question whether or not the spirit of the holidays is genuine,” Grandma said.
That was how she talked. Like Chloe was old enough to understand every word. Chloe liked that. A lot. Even if she didn’t know every single word…yet. She would eventually because Louise—before she became her grandma— taught Chloe how make sense of all the letters, which sometimes wound up in a jumble in Chloe’s head.
Louise, Chloe’s tutor and reading coach, changed Chloe’s life. She was the reason Chloe had decided to become a teacher when she grew up.
Chloe looked at her brother, who did believe in the big guy in the red suit—or claimed to, anyway—and stuck out her tongue, which hopefully still had lots of chunky white stuff on it. “Where is it? I’m ready.”
Dad got up and walked to the pretty artificial tree. He must have hidden them when everybody was dishing up dessert because she’d looked over the stash of gifts carefully when they first got to there to make sure she had the same number as Mark. She hadn’t seen anything in a frame.
“This is an eco-friendly gift,” Daddy said. “No wrapping paper. But it’s signed and dated on the back, see?”
He handed it to her face down. He was right. The block printing done with a Sharpie said: To Chloe—a very special granddaughter. Love, Gramps.
She looked at her new grandfather and smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Turn it over. Tell me what you think.”
She bit down on her lip as she studied the three individual boxes. The up and down one had a picture of her and Skipper, her horse. A blue ribbon that she got for gymkhana crisscrossed the top corner. How did he…? Then she remembered him asking to see all the trophies and ribbons she’d won since Bailey started coaching her. She hadn’t even noticed one was missing.
“You stole it.”
“Borrowed,” Gramps said with a wink.
There were other things, too. A braid made from a lock of Skipper’s white and brown mane. Her gaze zeroed in on a tiny golden horseshoe. A charm, she realized.
“My mother didn’t have much jewelry, and I was pretty young when she died, but I managed to save her charm bracelet before the old man could hock it,” Grandpa said. He looked at Bailey and Louise and added, “There’s a couple of little bits of her in everybody’s shadowbox.”
Bailey made a surprised sound. “Did you know he was making these, Mom?”
Grandma shook her head. “No clue.”
Dad leaned over the couch. “What else do you see in there?”
Chloe suddenly felt shy, as if a spotlight was shining on her. She pressed the gift to her chest and looked down.
“Aw,” Gramps said. “Shadowboxes are personal. Between the giver and the givee. You don’t have to share, Chloe.”
He smiled at her in a way that made her happy and want to cry at the same time. “Or, you can show everyone later, after you’ve had time to look it over.”
She nodded and sat back, her arms wrapped snugly around her new treasure. “That’s what I want to do.”
She’d seen enough to know the box held immense wonders. Things only she would understand—like a piece of the hospital band they put around her wrist when she did something stupid and nearly broke her neck at the Big Marietta Fair last summer. She’d never forget the lessons she learned from trying to show off.
She took another peek when Daddy got up to fetch Mark’s. Lace. And dried flowers. From Dad’s and Bailey’s wedding, she figured. A day some kids might not want to remember, but Chloe loved Bailey. Not like a mom so much, although Bailey was a good one. More like a combination big sister, older cousin, and good friend. And a teacher. Chloe had grown so much as a horsewoman since Bailey came into her life.
Chloe waited until everybody was oohing and ahhing over Mark’s shadow box before she looked to see what was in the lower right corner. Money? Books? Jewelry?
She inhaled sharply. The future. She was looking at the future her step-grandfather envisioned for her. Travel. The background was a map. From the corner hung part of a tassel from a Marietta High graduation cap. Bailey’s or Daddy’s, she guessed. Two little boxes made to look like suitcases were adorned with postage stamps from France and Africa. She didn’t know where he found those. And sprinkled across the bottom were coins unlike any she’d ever seen and a few folded bills.
She squinted. Euros.
A tingle of excitement moved through her body. She closed her eyes and pictured herself at the Eiffel Tower.
Someday.
When she looked again, Chloe spotted something she’d missed before. Partially hidden, as if daring her to find it. A small brass-colored fishing hook and one of those things her dad sold in his store for fishermen…a fly. A furry, delicate little thing tied with brilliant red thread and a sliver of gold.
When she looked toward Gramp’s recliner, she saw him looking at her, a knowing smile on his lips. She jumped up and ran to give him a hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Will you teach me how to fish next spring?”
He laid his big, rough hand on her head and nodded. “Yep.”
Then he looked at Louise and said, “Luly, why don’t we give the kids their real presents?”
Grandma disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later with two long beautifully wrapped boxes in her hands.
Chloe looked at Mark, his eyes wide, too.
“Fishing rods,” they cried together.
Chapter 5
“Listen to this,” Bailey said, snuggling into the warm cradle of her husband’s arms when they finally made it to their hotel room bed.
It was late. Too late to be reading her mother’s little book, but Bailey knew she wouldn’t be able to close her eyes without seeing how it ended.
“Aren’t you wiped out? We can do this in the morning,” Paul said, sleepily.
“We could, but your daughter is wide awake and doing gymnastics from that second helping of Mom’s trifle I ate, so I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to doze off like some people.”
He moved his hand under the sheet to cover her rounded belly. A sharp poke made him blink. “Wow. She’s fired up. She must like Christmas.”
So did her mother. For the first time in more years than she cared to admit, Bailey got why people made such a big deal over the holiday. Maybe it was all the baby hormones—”mones,” Mia called them—coursing through her veins. Maybe it all came down to being in love with the best man in the whole world. The other half of her soul.
She turned her head to look at Paul, his dear, handsome face inches from hers. “I love you.” Simple words, but true. “Me, too. And, for the record, this is turning out to be the best Christmas ever.” Bailey agreed. The kids had been great at her parents’ house this afternoon. The food, the gifts, the surprises made it one of the most special Christmases she could remember. “Did you know about Dad’s shadowboxes?”
Paul made his guilty face. “Sorta. Dad and I salvaged some wood from that old shed that fell down last winter. OC knew my crew planned to demo the building before they started erecting Serena’s new shelters for her alpacas. Your dad said he could use a few boards. I had no idea he’d turn it into something so special.”
Bailey turned on her side so she could see the shadow box she’d insisted Paul bring in from the car. Their room was on the second floor and he’d had to make two trips with their suitcases, but he hadn’t complained. They planned to leave all the gifts they’d gotten today in the SUV in the hanger if they were able to take off in the morning.
Although she couldn’t see all the details she knew her father had put into the two-foot by three-foot, beautifully framed box, her throat tightened up as she looked at it. “How many hours do you think he spent on this?”
“I have no idea. A lot. His attention to detail floored me. And where he got one of those old Big Z’s calendars from the fifties is anybody’s guess.”
“Maybe your dad gave it to him. Those two have gotten pretty friendly since they decided to bury the hatchet.”
“True. I was holding my breath for a while after the fair, but I think Dad could see how hard OC was trying. You gotta respect that kind of courage.”
Bailey agreed. Courage and foresight. One of the most startling elements in the box for her was the Miss Marietta Fair Queen sash she’d worn the night she broke up with Paul. She’d ripped it off and stuffed it in the trash when she got home. She couldn’t believe her dad had found it and saved it for fifteen years.
But she knew why he had. Penance. She’d done her share over the years, too.
“Read,” Paul said, cutting into her thoughts. “I’m exhausted and we have a long day tomorrow.”
Their first Christmas as husband and wife. The plane was fueled and ready to go. The storm looked as if it might hold off until late afternoon. Weather permitting they’d fly south in the morning to spend a few days with Paul’s parents in Arizona. Her last trip of that kind until after the baby was born.
Bob and Sarah planned to entertain them royally, including a pig roast in the desert with friends on Christmas Day.
Bailey’s parents would be joining Mia and Ryker at the Graff for a gala brunch, if everyone was dug out of the two or three feet of snow predicted by then. If their plans got canceled, Mom said they’d spend the day watching old movies, like It’s A Wonderful Life.
It had struck Bailey when her mother was reading from her book that something about the tone of Mom’s writing reminded her of Jimmy Stewart’s ordeal in the classic holiday film. Bailey opened the beautifully inscribed copy Mom had given her and Paul and thumbed ahead to the place her mother had stopped.
She cleared her throat and read, “The years that followed brought with them a full gamut of emotions, which, I believe, is proof of how much we loved each other. Neither of us is a perfect individual. We are human, with many failings. Many people wondered over the years what made us stay together.”
Bailey paused and looked at Paul. “The sixty-four thousand dollar question, right?”
The one she’d asked Mom a thousand times as a teenager. Louise never had been able to give a satisfactory answer. Finally, Bailey decided her mother was either crazy or suffering from some kind dependency issues of her own.
“OC is Mom’s booze,” she remembered telling Paul once.
Paul snuggled a little closer but didn’t reply, so she kept reading.
“The answer is very simple. I wouldn’t be the person I am without Oscar Jenkins.”
Bailey paused and looked at her husband. At last, the answer made sense.
“He helped me find my true calling. He not only believed in me when I told him I wanted to go back to college to get my masters in Library Science, he worked double-time, triple-time, to make it happen. When I told him I’d found my dream job—Children’s Librarian for the Marietta Library, he did everything in his power to make sure I was hired.”
Bailey couldn’t stop the grin that formed on her lips.
“He even went so far as to take my future boss fly fishing. I’ll never know for sure what happened that day, but Margaret Houghton called the next morning to tell me the job was mine. And, I should add, Margaret continues to fish to this day.”
Paul nodded. “That’s true. She was one of the first to sign up for OC’s fly-making class. And she’s no spring chicken, either.”
The synergy of these connections felt so perfect, so unexpected, Bailey had a hard time speaking, so Paul took the book from her hands and read for her.
“I knew Oscar had a special gift when it came to fishing. He downplayed his abilities for years, but, finally, I talked him into giving the professional guide business a try. Jenkins’s Fish and Game was an immediate success. That doesn’t mean it was easy. Many of the men who hired Oscar were hard-drinking partyers who viewed their fishing excursions as a way to whoop it up without the wife ever knowing. They drank, and they expected Oscar to drink, too. I’m not blaming other people for Oscar’s addiction. That probably was something he was born with, and certainly his father’s example didn’t help. But, for all his business success, the reality of that lifestyle took a toll on me and Bailey.”
Paul looked at her. “Wow. I didn’t expect your mom to get into this.”
“Me, either. What else does she say about it?”
Bailey listened in shock as Mom described the nights Louise would push Bailey’s dresser in front of the door to keep OC from coming in, yelling at the top of his lungs, calling Mom names, and looking for a fight. She couldn’t believe it when Mom included a passage about Bailey driving into town to haul her father’s drunk ass out of the Wolf Den before the owner had him tossed in jail for public intoxication.
But Mom shared it all. Fearlessly. She described the bad times in a way that made the reader see Oscar fighting a losing battle against demons that had the upper hand.
“To be fair, we had fun times, too. Oscar’s annual Fish Fry became the talk of the town. And, of course, the best part of our lives revolved around our amazing, beautiful, talented daughter, Bailey. Both Oscar and I loved being her parents and watching her grow up. Never in a million years did I see myself as a horse mom, but I can’t possibly describe the pride I felt watching my girl excel on horseback.”
“Aww,” Paul said, making her a funny face. “I know exactly what she means. Watching Chloe on Skipper is like seeing you riding Charlie.”
“Dad bought him for me, you know. I wanted a pretty little appaloosa, but OC took one look at Charlie and said, ‘This is your horse, Queen Bee.’ And as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Go on. Looks like you’re almost to the end.”
Paul lifted the book again.
“We made a lot of mistakes over the years. Oscar became known as The Fish Whisperer, but he had a darker reputation, too. Before you judge him, my dear ones, I ask you to consider the weight a man carries when, during his formative years, he was told he had no worth. The loss of his mother was something Oscar couldn’t bear to share even with me until very recently.”
Paul looked at her, remembering, no doubt, the gut-wrenching revelation Dad had shared with them after his best friend died in the hospital in Reno.
“But rough patches are part of life. You can’t appreciate the view from the peaks if you haven’t experienced the lows of the valleys. Even in the worst of times, I still saw a glimmer of that strong, confident, handsome man who flew to Chicago to marry me. A man who, until that day, had never left western Montana, let alone boarded an airplane.
And, since I’m trying to be completely honest, I must admit that I wasn’t perfect, either. There is a certain smugness that comes with being well-read—a sense of superiority, if you will. I don’t say this to discourage you from reading— heaven forbid, but in my case, it took years before I fully understood and appreciated the value of “street sense.”
Oscar’s mind could think circles around mine. His memory bordered on photographic—because it had to. As a child, he didn’t have the luxury of paper and pens—or the ability to write notes. He could always—and still does—think on his feet, while I dither and debate.”
Paul looked at her, a hint of surprise in his expression. “That’s true. I’ve never seen OC use a calculator, and he has everyone’s phone number in his head. Even Austen noticed and said something about that the other day. Remember when he broke his phone and couldn’t call anybody to pick him up at Serena’s?”
Bailey laughed. “Are you kidding? I give him a hard time about falling into a pile of alpaca poop and coming out smelling like a rose every time I see him.” She looked at the bedside clock radio. “Do you think Austen and Serena have made it to Portland, yet? I would have loved to be there when Austen meets Peyton and Mack for the first time. Your brother isn’t homophobic, is he?“
Paul shook his head. “No. Just misogynistic.”
They both laughed. Her brother-in-law came across as extremely judgmental and cynical until you got to know him. Falling in love with Serena James had done Austen Zabrinski a world of good. “Do you think he’ll give her a diamond for Christmas?”
“No.”
“No?” “He bought her a new herd sire from a breeder in California. Epic Alpacas Ragnarok. They won’t pick him up until spring, but Austen couldn’t stop talking about his excellent lineage and the crimp of his fleece or whatever. Blah, blah, blah. Austen’s never done anything half way.”
“Which is why he’s going to propose, too. Betcha.” She held out her hand to shake. He closed the book with a solid snap and tossed it over his shoulder. He shook her hand and pulled her close. “To heck with the rest of the family. I have a little present for you. Wanna see?”
His lecherous look got lost in a laugh as they rolled together. Bailey didn’t need to read the rest of her mother’s book to know it ended happily. After all, she was living her own storybook ending every minute she was with Paul.
Chapter 6
Louise finished brushing her hair then snapped off the bathroom light. “I can’t believe how late it is. Good thing we don’t have to meet Ryker and Mia until eleven. We can sleep late.” Oscar’s low rumble made her snicker, too. “When’s the last time that happened, right?” He threw back the covers and patted the bed beside him. Thankfully, they’d been able to return the hospital bed months ago so they could share the same room again, as they had for nearly forty years of marriage. She dropped the new fleece robe she’d gotten from Chloe and Mark on the chair and hurried to bed.
“Brrr,” she said, sliding close to Oscar’s warm body.
His strong arms pulled her tight against him. He’d never gotten into the habit of wearing pajamas. His bare shoulders seemed to handle the chill just fine, while Louise favored flannel and lots of it.
“Isn’t it funny how different we are and, yet, we fit perfectly,” she said, remembering a line from her book. “We complement each other.”
“Even when we forget to say the words,” Oscar added. “But you do know how much I love you. You must because you wrote it all down in your book.”
She pulled back enough to see his face. “You’re sure you were okay with everything I put in.”
“I am. You nailed it.”
She looked at the shadow box he’d made for her—already hanging in a place of honor above her tall dresser.
“So did you, my love. Paul was right. What you made was a one-of-a-kind work of art. I can’t believe you kept your mother’s charm bracelet a secret from me for all these years.”
His sheepish look made her forgive him on the spot. “I didn’t mean to. Believe it or not, I found the bracelet, along with a bunch of my dad’s stuff, hidden in a coffee can on a shelf in the garage. I ran across it when you asked me to make room for Ryker’s boxes. Funny coincidence, huh?”
Louise felt a shiver pass through her body. She didn’t believe in coincidences. She did believe in Divine intervention. She’d reached out to help a young man who reminded her of the lost soul who changed her life in ways she never could have predicted. “Maybe it’s like I wrote in my book.”
She closed her eyes and recited a passage she’d toiled over for days.
“We love each other, yes. But we also respect one another. Over the years, each of us has given the other gifts beyond price. I taught Oscar to read. He taught me to take risks and live life fully.”