Coming Home Page 7

  Chapter Nine

  THE PANELED WALLS were in dark mahogany. The oversized desk, also mahogany, dominated the small room. The carpet, a tightly woven beige, had been installed in 1965. Located toward the back of her colonial home, her deceased husband’s office looked out to the backyard, which was surrounded by tall privacy fences, with grass the greenest plush possible in arid Colorado. And flowers everywhere—marigolds, petunias, fuchsia—along the fence, lining the house, surrounding the gazebo.

  From the hidden speakers—one of handyman Bill’s miracle projects—an orchestral version of Grieg’s Holberg Suite resonated throughout the house. For years she’d taught her students the suite from Liszt’s piano transcription, but nothing could compare to the original orchestral score—an amazing piece, both triumphal and heartbreaking.

  Just outside, her handyman was putting the finishing touches on a white paint job to the gazebo, centered in the middle of her generous yard.

  … “As Victorian as they come,” he’d observed skeptically the day he’d shown her the plans.

  “Wonderful,” she replied.

  “Doris, I may be out of order but—”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “Frankly, you don’t seem the gazebo type.”

  “Oh, Bill. Just exactly what is the gazebo type?”

  He paused. “The type of person who sits and thinks.”

  She nearly came uncorked. “Sometimes you’re like a porcupine in a balloon shop. So now you’re calling me stupid?”

  “I’m calling you busy.”

  “Build it, Bill.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” …

  Doris watched the hunched-over cowboy, and he seemed to sense her eyes on his back. He turned and smiled, waving his white paintbrush, then thumbed proudly toward his work and made a humorous grimace.

  She shook her head, recalling Bill’s argument against painting the gazebo. “Aw, Dory, why would you want to hide that natural wood?”

  “Paint it white and don’t call me Dory.”

  “How ’bout I stain it redwood and see what you think?”

  “White.”

  “How ’bout I just seal it, leave the wood natural, and you see what you think?”

  “No.”

  “How ’bout a white stain?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And then she added, “While you’re at it, put a swing in it.”

  “Oh boy,” he said to himself as he started walking away. “Maybe the squirrels will like it.”

  “Oh, and Bill?”

  He turned, his features pained. “Yes, Dory.”

  “Paint the swing white, too.”

  Bill appeared at the doorway, leaning against the threshold and crossing one leg over the other. She finished licking an envelope. “Gazebo looks good.”

  “Whadd’ya say we take it for a spin?”

  “I’m too busy.”

  He smiled. “The paint is dry inside, the weather is cool, and the swing is dying for affirmation. It told me so.”

  “How ’bout later?”

  He chuckled, whispering under his breath, “How ’bout never,” and headed for the kitchen so Doris could answer the ringing phone in privacy.

  It was Betty Robinette. “It’s sixty-seven degrees up here, Doris.”

  Although they rarely conversed more than two or three times a year, it had become a ritual to compare Colorado Springs weather with Palmer Lake temps, twenty miles to the north.

  “Bill?” Doris called across the family room. “What’s the temperature?”

  “Seventy-five,” Bill called from the kitchen, where he was throwing something together for dinner. Years ago, he’d hung a thermometer just outside the window.

  “Isn’t that something? Betty voiced. “Nearly ten degrees different.”

  “How’s the garden?” Doris asked, referring not to Betty’s but to Mrs. Browning’s.

  “It’s still the seventh wonder of Colorado.”

  “I need to send Bill up. He could learn a thing or two from that woman.”

  “I heard that,” Bill called in a matter-of-fact voice from across the house.

  “You know how hard it is to get good help, Betty.”

  Betty chuckled.

  “Just as hard as it is to get good employment,” he yelled back.

  They made more small talk until Betty seemed to hesitate and the call began to take a different turn. “I debated whether to call you, Dory… .”

  Another moment of silence as Doris began putting it all together. She had suspected this wasn’t just a social call. It had something to do with the house in Palmer Lake … or … a stray thought nudged her: something about Jessica. Doris just assumed that her granddaughter would never call her, but she’d hoped that perhaps one day Jessica might contact Betty. Doris felt her spirits sink. More than a decade had passed since Jessica had lived with Doris, and only one foster family had taken the time to forward pictures. The most recent ones she had were of Jessie at age fourteen, and Doris still carried the pictures in her purse.

  She ventured into the dark, navigating by nervous intuition.

  “How is she, Betty?”

  Betty sighed audibly, and Doris felt sorry for placing her friend in such a position.

  “She seems fine,” Betty replied, but the undertow in her voice told Doris more than the words themselves. Doris opened her mouth but didn’t know what to ask or say next. She waited instead. Betty filled the silence. “She looks just like Olivia. She’s a beautiful young woman.”

  Doris felt a mixture of pride and regret.

  “Carries herself so well. Polite. Smart as a whip. You’d be proud.”

  Doris ventured again—afraid to ask but afraid not to. “Did she say anything?”

  “No, but I encouraged her to call you. We’re going to have dinner tomorrow.”

  So she’s still around, Doris thought.

  “I have her cell number, but—”

  “No, you mustn’t,” Doris interrupted. “No point in her being angry with both of us.”

  Another uncomfortable silence. “I will tell her I spoke with you,” Betty offered. “Is there something that—”

  “Don’t even tell her that,” Doris insisted. “Perhaps you two can stay in touch if you leave my name out of it.”

  Bill was already back, leaning against the doorway. When Doris hung up, he gave her one of his annoying how-can-I-help-you looks. “What was that all about?”

  “Is any part of my life private anymore?”

  He cleared his throat, casting his eyes downward, but she could see right through his wounded-puppy act.

  “Jessie’s in the area,” she finally relayed. He brightened. “Shall I put on the dog?”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake, Bill. She won’t be visiting us.”

  “Give her a call, then. Invite her.”

  “Don’t have her number.”

  “Call Information or something. Call that roommate gal of hers.”

  “Bill, stop it.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna check the guest room. Make sure the toilet’s working—”

  “Don’t bother—”

  “Make sure Maria changed the sheets, maybe give it a little mopping while I’m at it, maybe even rip those pompous photos off the wall—”

  “Do you ever pay attention?”

  He smiled a toothy grin. “Didn’t you ever see that baseball film?”

  “Bill, please.”

  He seemed lost in thought. “If you build it, they’ll come? Field of Dreams, that’s it—”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake.”

  His eyes twinkled. “If we fix it up, who knows what might happen?”

  Doris shook her head to an empty room. Bill was already gone.

  Jessie parked her car at the curb and turned off the radio. Bordered by a wrought-iron fence and fronted by a circular driveway, her grandmother’s large colonial home appeared to be a fortress. When she was six or
seven, she’d asked her father why her grandmother lived in a mansion. He’d frowned and assured her that although the house was very big, it wasn’t a mansion.

  Maybe not, Jessie thought presently. But it sure looked like one, complete with dormers, white pillars, black shutters, and a maroon multipaneled front door. She still saw the house through the eyes of her youth—the young girl who’d kept running away until the authorities gave her what she wanted—and it looked as cold and austere as the day she’d slipped away for the final time. Unapproachable. Designed to dishearten and defray warmth. Or impress, depending on your social status.

  She spotted the second-story window, which seemed rather high from this distance. Perhaps not so high if you’re desperate—as she had been. She checked the time. Nearly seven. The sun was already disappearing behind the mountains, creating an early twilight. She flicked on the radio again, determined to lighten her darkening mood, and she realized she was slowly losing a grip on her angry resolve.

  Andy’s cell phone twittered.

  It was Chris. “Where were you?”

  “Say what?”

  “I thought you’d be at your folks’.”

  “Missed me by minutes.”

  “I accidentally grabbed your weight-lifting gloves at the gym.”

  “It can wait till—” Andy paused—“next week sometime.”

  Chris seemed disappointed. “Skipping church?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Well … I just wanted to warn you.”

  Warn me? Andy shuddered. Warn me about what? His mind instantly jumped to his mother. Oh no. What did Chris say to Mom?

  “Still there?” Chris asked.

  Andy groaned inwardly. What could be so bad? Maybe Chris told Mom that Andy hadn’t attended church in a while. That would be bad. Wait a minute. Debbie was probably with him. His mother would have invited them in. I’m so sorry; Andy just left, but would you two like some pumpkin pie? Andy cringed. Debbie had entered into the inner sanctum of his parents’ house. His mother’s kitchen. The den of inquisition.

  Andy broke the silence. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “I tried to stop her. Honest I did.” Chris’s voice had taken on a melodramatic tone. “You know how your mother is always—”

  “Complaining about my lack of marital prospects. Yeah, I know.”

  Chris continued, “Well … one thing led to another. Debbie mentioned Marilyn’s name. Your mother said, ‘Who’s Marilyn?’ Debbie said, ‘You mean you don’t know?’ and the whole thing suddenly leapt out my control. Like a raging fire, I’m telling you, and it was ugly… .”

  “How much control did you have to begin with?”

  “Very little.”

  “I’m thinking zero.”

  Someone was beeping through. Andy checked the ID and smiled. He said good-bye to Chris, thanked him for nothing, and took the call.

  “Honey …”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Who’s Marilyn?”

  Andy swallowed and prepared to speak in a measured tone.

  “Marilyn? Oh … well, she’s just a friend from church. Why do you ask?”

  “For just a friend, she seems very nice.”

  Seems nice?

  “Mom, you didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Call her.”

  “Oh … my.” Her voice dripped of innocence. “Was that wrong?”

  Andy’s townhouse in Castle Rock was tiny, but it suited him fine. His porch offered a view of the Front Range, but only if you held your head just right and peered through the narrow space between the apartment buildings across the street.

  At least life was a bit calmer here. Quieter. Less frenetic. Unfortunately, Castle Rock was growing rapidly. In a matter of years, it would be little more than a suburb of Denver. No matter. He was renting. Perhaps in six months, when his lease expired, he might consider options closer to the mountains, perhaps farther south—Perry Park or Larkspur—something closer to Palmer Lake. Maybe even Palmer Lake itself.

  He tossed his keys onto the counter, went to turn on the stereo, then slumped into the couch, replaying the conversation with his mother. He’d come within inches of telling her the full truth. The time to come clean was nearing if not here already, but he wouldn’t do that over the phone. Yet he couldn’t imagine sitting his parents down and ’fessing up:

  “What’s wrong, Andy?” his mother would ask with a worried tone.

  “Mom. Dad. There’s something you don’t know about me.”

  “What is it, son?”

  “I’m not really a Christian anymore.”

  Mom would break into tears, and Dad would attempt damage control. “All Christians struggle with their faith now and then. Even the disciples had difficulty trusting Jesus.”

  Andy would try to explain himself further. “You don’t understand, Dad… .”

  And no matter what he might say, they wouldn’t understand. Raised in a conservative home, he’d been taught the Christian way of life at a very young age. Breezing through junior high and high school with his principles intact, he had made an unabashed stand for Christ, yet remained one of the popular kids. Good looks, a confident demeanor, athletic talent—all had undoubtedly greased his social wheels. Struggle was almost unknown to him.

  As a freshman in college he’d met the beautiful daughter of a prominent Denver TV evangelist, and they’d dated for several years. When they became engaged, his soon-to-be father-in-law offered him a future job with the ministry.

  Andy’s downfall probably originated with a certain naïveté and the sense that his faith was invulnerable. As a young man fascinated with apologetics, he had devoured the works of C. S. Lewis, Peter Kreeft, Alvin Plantinga, and William Craig, among others. For the second semester of his junior year, he signed up for what he thought would be a benign history course: The Historical Origins of Christianity. When he discovered the extreme liberal nature of the professor, Andy decided to stay and duke it out, counter fallacy with fact, lies with truth. I can take him, Andy had thought.

  The professor ate him alive. Dr. Neal raised hundreds of questions in the name of biblical criticism and historical accuracy, questions Andy had never considered before. In spite of digging through his apologetics books for endless hours, looking for answers, his faith began to slowly disintegrate.

  “The Bible is a myth,” his teacher stated. “A beautiful myth, sure, but a myth all the same… . I’ll show you the true origins of the Christian faith… . Let’s discuss the strange differences between the Synoptic Gospels and the Gospel of John… . Where did Paul’s mentality come from? Well, I’ll tell you… .”

  It was like being attacked with intellectual bombs, each one tearing out another piece of his house of faith. By the end of the semester, Andy was despairing, the historical roots for his faith having been all but destroyed.

  Of course, Elizabeth couldn’t help but sense his struggle. Finally in a fit of despair, he told her the truth, fearful of her response. As he expected, she was horrified. “Just believe. It’s about faith, not about evidence.”

  But his struggles continued. After a difficult few months, Elizabeth finally broke the engagement. “My father is an evangelist, Andy! He needs a son-in-law to stand by his side without wavering!”

  His parents never knew the true reason for the breakup, despite his mother’s persistent quizzing over the following months, finding ever new ways to inquire of the romantic demise.

  Andy’s life floundered in every way but professionally. He graduated from college, found a good job, made good money, and kept up the appearance of going to church. He found his own church, in fact—a decision that disappointed his parents but isolated him from his mother’s prying eyes.

  But lately, keeping up appearances had begun to wear on him. While he enjoyed the social nature of church attendance, making Christian friends, living a lie was exhausting. Something had to give, especially now that he’d begun to seriously enterta
in the notion of getting married.

  What kind of young woman did he want to marry? No question: an upstanding Christian woman. Thus the dilemma deepened. His overall integrity, in spite of a blazing corner of deceit, prevented him from bringing a sincere Christian woman into his life, and yet he couldn’t—not in his wildest imagination—envision himself marrying a nonbeliever.

  He’d basically lied to his mother tonight, telling her that Marilyn was not his type.

  … “What type is that?” she’d asked.

  “It’s a personality thing,” he’d replied.

  “You two don’t click?” she asked incredulously.

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Maybe Debbie is right. Give her another chance,” his mom insisted. She paused. “Andy, we know the truth, you know. You can’t hide it from us.”

  His stomach lurched. “Sorry?”

  “Dad and I. We know that you still grieve over Elizabeth. She was a wonderful girl. But you have to move on. Get back into the game. There are more Elizabeths out there.”

  Andy exhaled deeply. “Mom, I’m over Elizabeth.”

  “Oh good! Can I invite Marilyn for dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe if you saw her in a family setting, you’d think differently.”

  “No.”

  “Andy—”

  “No.”

  On and on for another five minutes or so. He could not imagine any other mother on the planet as relentlessly determined to marry off her only son. Finally their conversation petered out. “May I, at the very least, take a look for myself?” she asked in a final fit of desperation.

  What? Invite Marilyn over for tea and crumpets? Devise a strategy together?

  “No, Mom.”

  She chuckled. “You’re a stubborn man, Andrew McCormick.”

  “Perhaps I inherited it?”

  “From your father, maybe,” Mom clucked. “Everyone knows I’m a pushover.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE FEW MINUTES in front of her grandmother’s house was enough to bring Jessie to her senses. She was about to shift into drive, intending to forget the whole thing, when she heard a voice.

  “Well, looky here!”