Roses in Autumn Page 2
Still unable to face the present, she turned her thoughts from the past to the future. And again she faced the empty “God is dead” void. How could she bear it? Could she ever trust Tom again? Could she ever stand to let him touch her now? If he ever took her in his arms again, would he be thinking of Marla? Would she be thinking of Marla? Would that other woman always be there between them?
And yet, what if he never held her again? Last night with him in the next room had been unbearable. She had become accustomed to his absence on business trips, but to have him sleep in another bed when he was home was unthinkable.
Bed. She thought of the warm comfort of him curled beside her. Then her senses revolted and she could think no further.
Chapter 2
Tom was home for dinner at his usual hour. And Laura had done dishes and laundry and scrubbed the bathroom and spent two hours at her computer, as if it had been any other day. Strange; the world could be ravaged by war or earthquake or infidelity, yet the daily pattern continued. People needed food and clothing and shelter, and it was a woman’s job to provide it. Old-fashioned thinking, maybe, but the way the world worked. In normal times it was a woman’s burden, but in a time of crisis it could also be her salvation. Take refuge in the routine, the small, the nittygritty details that keep the world turning. Even when there is no world left to turn.
“How was your day?” Anything to break the silence. It was the first time in seven years she hadn’t met him at the door with a kiss. They both seemed at a loss without it.
“Busy. I approved the advertising campaign for the condos in Palm Desert. Then Phil and I went over the proposed contracts before we negotiate the K.C. deal.”
It didn’t sound like he’d been with Marla. “Oh, is Philip back?” Philip Marsden, Tom’s partner, was the legal brain while Tom was the marketing expert. They made a powerful team. But Phil was older and not in good health. He was considerably past retirement age, but his creative, energetic mind wouldn’t retire, even if his body and his wife wanted him to.
“He claims the week in Sun Valley rested him completely. But I suspect he worked every minute Lois turned her back.” Tom set down his briefcase and pulled off his jacket.
It was so easy. It was almost as if the past 18 hours hadn’t happened. Laura turned to slice mushrooms for their green salad while Tom put on tall glasses of ice water. The crazy idea came to her that they could simply go on from here. She could pretend it was all something she had read in a book—in a florid, poorly written romance—something that had nothing to do with her or with real life.
She set the bowls of stroganoff and noodles on the table. Tom held her chair for her as he always did. They bowed their heads for a brief grace. Laura took a bite of bread—and choked. It simply would not go down. The little ball of dough stuck in her throat. There was nothing to do but go to the sink.
The rest of the evening was a disaster. The green salad wilted and the untouched stroganoff congealed in its sour cream sauce while they alternately flung threats and recriminations at each other, rehashing everything they had said that morning—only saying it with greater violence each time around.
It was sheer exhaustion that finally brought it to a stop. “I’m going to pack now.” Tom wrenched open his closet door. “I leave for Kansas City in the morning. I’ll stay at the airport hotel for what’s left of tonight. I can’t face those high-powered syndicators tomorrow without any sleep.” He began stuffing shirts and ties into the carryon bag he always used for business trips.
On his second time out of the bathroom with toothpaste tube and red toothbrush still in his hand, Laura found the courage to ask, “And when will you be back?”
“What makes you think I’m coming back?” He crammed the zipper shut on his case and flung himself out the door.
The next four days Laura spent in a state of suspended animation. She thought of calling her mother in Texas but couldn’t bear the thought of hearing that tight, accusing voice telling her it was all her fault. She thought of calling their pastor, but she didn’t just want a shoulder to cry on; and she knew any serious counseling would have to be a joint effort. She thought of reading her Bible and praying … but God was dead. When there was no one to pray to, there were no answers.
She tried to write, but her heroine’s problems were insipid and contrived next to her own. Her journal was her only solace. She wrote until the words ran out and the blank pages jeered at her. She put the cap on her pen and began looking back through the pages of her life—not reading the words but reliving the scenes:
A debate tournament at some college in southern Oregon. “… and this is Tom James, the Great White Hope of Rocky Mountain’s debate squad.” Instant friendship between our teams because we were from sister colleges, established by the same denomination. Later that day, dragging back to the central lounge, exhausted after a grueling round of debate. Tom waved to me from across the room crowded and noisy with faceless bodies. I wasn’t tired anymore.
Double date that night. Tom with my debate partner and I with his. Got it right later. Transferred to Rocky Mountain College at semester. A debate romance; a wonderful time together on every trip the team took, then something always went wrong—usually my fault—and we’d not speak to each other back on campus.
And then that tournament in North Dakota—at a Black Hills resort, of all places. A long walk down a dusty country lane the first evening. Tom’s arm around my shoulders in the cool air. The sunset a pale yellow in a pastel blue sky behind a newly green field. Went back to my room and pounded the saggy iron bed with my fists because I was in love, and I had blown so many chances with Tom. Nobody got that many second chances. But I did. For years we celebrated the sixth of every month because we had fallen in love on April 6.
Tom.
A perfect June wedding with my bridesmaids in long yellow dresses and picture hats. Our reception on the church lawn. Afterward, I saw the photograph of my bridesmaids on the grass and realized they looked like daffodils in the breeze. But that afternoon I had eyes only for Tom, stunning with his boyish smile and tender eyes, his tall, lean grace and thick blond hair, his tuxedo and ruffled shirt. “To love, honor, and cherish till death do us part.” The Lord’s Prayer on the violin while we knelt and took Communion to symbolize the Lord’s presence at our wedding and in our lives.
Our honeymoon to Carmel-by-the-Sea. Wandered through tiny streets, browsed in art shops, ate ice-cream cones at a sidewalk café, took pictures of each other under the gnarled old cypress tree on the beach. Then romped in the glorious white sand and blue surf, shared an unspeakable spiritual closeness when we prayed together, awoke in the middle of the night to find Tom raised on one elbow beside me, stroking me with gentle wonder. Inexpressible tenderness.
Tom.
That wonderful lazy summer in our tiny apartment. Midnight rambles along the greenbelt, then sleeping till noon because Tom’s job in the grocery store didn’t start until 1:30. The fun it was to waken first, slip out, and fix breakfast so I could surprise Tom with a tray in bed. Everything so idyllic. Perfect, really. All except one thing. And Tom was patient and loving about that.
Tom.
Then packing to move East where we both had scholarships for graduate school. Hearing the tornado warnings on the radio as we crossed into western Nebraska. Feeling tense all the way across the state because all our earthly possessions are in that little U-Haul trailer. Tom studying for his Harvard M.B.A. Me sitting beside him reading for my English degree from Boston University. Reveling in the student life in those sleek, high-rise apartments along the Charles River. Walking through piles of rustling leaves to Harvard Square. Driving along country lanes under breathtaking fall foliage. Stopping at little roadside stands to buy jam and apples from children.
Snow. I had never seen such snow. My first blizzard. The Charles froze, and Tom and his classmates walked across the ice to the Business School. A weekend at the picture calendar village of Newfane, reading art books by a ro
aring fire in the inn, then going to our room furnished with genuine antiques. And still Tom was understanding.
Tom.
Spring in New England. Coming late, so appreciated more. Walking hand-in-hand through the sweet, green countryside. Watching the fish jump in Walden Pond.
Oh, Tom. How can I live without you?
Moving to Boise where Tom had a job with M-K. All his classmates going to Wall Street or Chicago or Philadelphia. But we wanted to live in the West—a smaller city was better for raising a family.
Oh, Tom. I failed you again.
Being busy and happy. Really happy. Fixing up our new home—well, actually 72 years old, but new to us; getting involved at church. Tom surprising me by volunteering to teach a class of nine-year-old boys. Building our careers: me writing for every opportunity that appeared—poetry, curriculum, devotionals—Tom working day and night to meet the challenges of corporate America. Tom, the poor son of an alcoholic father, so determined to make good and always working for the extra bonus so he could send something to his mother and younger sister in Portland.
Then the frustration. Tom, still driven for the money he had never had, but bored with his work because he had met and conquered all the challenges his corporate pigeonhole offered. The rejections coming back faster than I could mail out manuscripts. And every month my body telling me I’d failed there too. Filling the extra time with more church work. Tom took on a Scout troop. I took on the drama ministry. And still we had time. Time for bike rides together along Boise’s quiet old tree-lined North End streets. Time for weekend trips to the mountains. Time to make homemade ice cream. Time to be with Tom.
Tom.
The seemingly overnight change. Tom’s brainchild—a system for people to buy new homes without a down payment. “It will make the American dream a possibility to thousands who never had a chance!” Tom as excited as he used to be when he came up with a particularly ingenious debate plan. And my form rejection letters changed to personal letters: “Sorry, this doesn’t fit our line, but why don’t you try …” And then an acceptance! Three contracts in one spring.
Everything perfect. Everything but one. And Tom was becoming less patient.
And now. All that success and happiness had led to this. But it wasn’t the fault of the success and happiness. It was Tom’s fault. Wasn’t it? Tom implied it was partly my fault. I suppose it takes two, that’s what Tom said. Sometimes I think it’s God’s fault. Why did He have to create men to be such animals? Tom was so perfect in every other way.
Oh, Tom. Tom.
Laura’s face and journal were both wet. But all that reminiscing, walking again through the pages of their lives, had made one thing absolutely clear in her mind and in her heart. She wanted Tom. More than anything else in the world, she wanted Tom. And she would do anything to get him back.
She didn’t have any idea what she could do, but knowing what she wanted ignited a clear, shining light that burned through her gray haze—a beacon to follow. And Tom would be at the end.
The next day two things happened. She received a letter from her agent. And Tom came back.
“Well …” He cleared his throat.
She was sitting at her computer in the small room that opened off the master bedroom through French doors, and she hadn’t heard him come in. She must have jumped three inches off her chair at the sound of his voice. It made her feel a fool. “Oh, Tom, I …” She sprang up to meet him with delight shining from her face. But she stopped cold at the solid wall his countenance presented. “You’re back,” she finished weakly.
“You may recall I only packed enough clothes for the trip.” His voice was as hard as his features.
She stood blinking dumbly as he turned to his closet. No, wait! This wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She had decided they would go on. They would make it. Everything would be all right.
She was gripped with paralysis as she watched him in seeming slow motion empty the contents of his dresser into two large cardboard boxes. She had to stop this. But it was like a nightmare where she tried and tried to run, but no matter how hard she worked she couldn’t make her legs move.
He carried a load of suits and coats to the car and returned for his shirts when she finally found her voice. “Tom, please. Don’t do this. Let us try.” He pulled his hand back from the row of shirts in his closet. Now she was fully awake; she could function. She could fight for her life.
“Tom, I’ve done so much thinking—all the time you’ve been gone.” She moved a few steps toward him into the bedroom. “Don’t go.” She held out her hands in pleading. “I love you.” There was nothing more to say. Her eyes would have to say the rest for her—her eyes and her heart, which was in her throat.
The deep lines in his face seemed to soften ever so slightly. “What do you want to do?” It was a cautious question with no commitment, but it held out hope. It gave her courage to go on.
“I got a letter from my agent today. And a contract. Cathedral Press liked my proposal. They want to publish Roses for the Bride. That means I have to go to Victoria for background research.” She paused and took a deep breath to give her courage for the next part. “Come with me.”
Her whole life had passed before her when she reread her journal. It did a quick rerun now as she awaited Tom’s answer.
“I’ll think about it.” He walked from the room, leaving his shirts in the closet.
Chapter 3
There are no airsick bags on this plane! Between the lurches and drops of the little San Juan commuter plane, Laura hunted frantically in the seat-back pouches around her—but to no avail. What am I going to do? Strong winds buffeted the small propjet making its last flight of the night across the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Seattle to Vancouver Island while Laura, with one hand over her mouth, looked around desperately.
Tom sat stoically beside her, his eyes focused on the sharp crease of his dark blue suit pants. He’ll kill me if I get sick on him. And this was supposed to be a honeymoon.
She clamped her hand tighter, her thumb against her nose to keep out the stench of stale cigar smoke clinging to a nearby passenger. They were so compactly sardined in the narrow seats that every blast of wind threw her against the passenger across the so-called aisle and then bounced her off Tom’s shoulder. “You’ll have a wonderful time!” their neighbor had said over and over. If only she could see her now. And Tom, whom she longed so to reach, seemed stiffer and more remote each time she lunged into him. This is going to be the shortest reconciliation on record.
What am I going to do? Feeling too awful even to breathe, let alone think, Laura found the answer. She pulled the safety information card and airline magazine from the pocket in front of her and put her head down. The clean-up crew would earn their keep tonight.
“Well, folks, here we are. That was a little bumpy, wasn’t it? Sorry if any of you felt any discomfort. We were delayed getting out of Seattle, so it’s getting pretty late here, but thank you for flying San Juan.” The pilot, grinning from ear to ear, emerged from the curtained cockpit to dismiss his load of sardines to the mercies of the black, rain-drenched, wind-whipped night.
Tom pulled Laura’s case from the overhead bin behind them and supported her off the plane into the tiny, almost deserted airport for the customs formalities conducted by officials who couldn’t talk about anything but the unseasonableness of the storm. The bright lights made Laura blink. “Don’t look at me, Tom. I look awful in pea green.”
There were no porters available, so while Tom signed the rental car papers handed him by a yawning girl behind a counter, Laura struggled with their luggage at the carousel. “Let me help you with those, ma’am.”
Laura gave a weak but grateful smile to the tall, broad man with curly dark hair beside her.
“Thank you. The big blue one just coming up now … and the little one over there … and the black—”
“I’ll take care of that. Thanks anyway.” Tom stepped in front of the
helpful stranger and began jerking bags off the carousel. “Come on, Laura. If I get these, can you handle those three?” Laura had packed generously for their two weeks, but even then she hadn’t realized she had brought quite so much.
“Why don’t you take those to the car, and I’ll stay here with the others?”
“We can make it all in one trip. I don’t want to leave you here alone for one of those French-Canadian mashers.”
Laura had a fleeting sensation that she ought to be flattered that he cared, but at the moment just carrying her assigned bags took all her concentration. Crossing the street to the parking lot, a fresh blast of wind practically blew her over. “Steady on,” Tom encouraged her.
Steady. She repeated the word over and over to herself to the rhythm of the windshield wipers as their little white rental car swished bravely through the downpour. Her head felt wobbly on her neck, her knees were as supportive as sprung Slinkies, and her stomach didn’t bear thinking of at all. “I didn’t know the island was this big.” Keep your mind off yourself.
“The airport’s at the far end. We’ll soon be there.”
“You’re sure you know the way?”
“No problem. There’s only one way.”
Laura would have liked to pursue the thought that life should be so simple. But at the moment, she wanted even more not to think at all.
“See? The lights of the city. What’d I tell you?” Even in her near-comatose state Laura admired her husband’s ability to find his way in a strange city in the black of night. Laura had a mind that could memorize poetry at little more than a single reading, but she couldn’t remember directions or a math formula to save herself from hanging. Tom whipped around three corners, and there before her appeared the fairy-tale scene of the many-domed Parliament building all outlined in lights. She had seen the pictures but assumed the illumination was only done at Christmas. And now, after all the time she had dreamed of seeing it, here she was—too wretched to care. Tom turned up a dim, rain-washed driveway and stopped under the portals of the Empress Hotel.