The Widow of Saunders Creek Page 5

  “Oh.” She tossed the parsley into a bowl of other fresh greens. “I didn’t figure poor Corrie would feel like stopping for food.” She shook her head. “She looked dead on her feet today.”

  Refraining from telling her exactly why Corrie appeared that way, I leaned across the counter and snuck a piece of broccoli from the bowl. “That’s thoughtful of you. You’re right: she wasn’t up for food at all.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s in the oven?” I asked.

  “Eggplant parmesan.” She paused and looked at me. “Do you want to go wash your hands while I get this on the table?”

  “Sure. That’s exactly what I want to do. Be right back.”

  Walking down the hallway toward the bathroom, I had to smile. God love her, she tried to let her thirty-year-old son grow up, but it was hard for her. She always posed her orders in the form of a question so I wouldn’t feel like a kid. I didn’t mind so much, but it was probably a good thing for her to work through it. Especially since marriage had been on my mind a lot lately.

  I didn’t think it had to do specifically with Corrie. I knew she had just suffered an enormous loss, and I had no business even considering her in a romantic fashion. But she was cute, funny, smart—more my type than Jarrod’s, I’d always thought. But he’d adored the girl, and the more I got to know her, the easier it was to see why.

  I stared at myself in the mirror above the sink as I dried my hands. My mind went back to Aunt Trudy’s words to me: “She’s not for you. Don’t let your competition with Jarrod lead your heart down the wrong path.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder why she would say such a thing. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that Corrie was single now, living at the home place, and I was going to be there a lot in the upcoming weeks.

  “You coming, Son?” Mom called from the kitchen. I shook my head at my reflection. I had considered moving in with Mom, or having her move in with me, after Dad died, but we’d have driven each other nuts inside a week. I figured she knew it too, because she’d never brought it up.

  The kitchen table was set when I got back. Mom stood at the counter, still watching Law & Order. She glanced up when I arrived and shut it off with the remote.

  “You can leave it on if you want,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  She shrugged and walked around the counter to the table. “It’s a rerun. I’d rather talk.”

  After a quick prayer of thanks, we filled our plates. I waited, assuming she’d want to talk about Corrie. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Did Corrie find what she needed?”

  I nodded. “Cushions for her porch swing and some groceries.” I slid the hot, tomato-filled bite of eggplant parmesan between my lips.

  “Cushions. Good idea. They’ll make the swing look better, I guess.”

  “They’re not for decoration.” My heart clenched at the memory of Corrie curled up on the swing. “She slept on the swing last night. I have a feeling she plans to do it again rather than sleep inside without Jarrod.”

  “I can understand that.” Mom sipped her tea and stared hard at the bowl of salad. “I guess it’s almost like it just happened for her, coming back here and all.”

  “I think she’s regrieving.”

  “Aunt Trudy seems taken with her.”

  I tensed and put down my fork. “What do you think about that? Doesn’t it seem like she’s more interested in Corrie than she should be?”

  “Hmm. Could be.” Mom sipped her tea and swallowed her bite.

  We loved Aunt Trudy. Her eccentricities were from being part of a very old, superstitious Ozarks family. Most of the families around these parts had at least one or two “widder women” who claimed powers. I believed Trudy actually possessed them. I trusted in God, but only a fool would turn a blind eye to the powers of darkness so prevalent in this area. Most of the folks who practiced believed their powers were for good, and despite assuring Corrie that Aunt Trudy also believed hers were for good, I wasn’t so sure. She did some good, I supposed, but I thought she delved knowingly into the darkness too.

  I waited for Mom to expound.

  “After you left the store and we were cleaning up, she mentioned there was sensitivity around Corrie. Something that makes her special.”

  “Well, Corrie isn’t a witch, and she’s not going to be.”

  My mom jerked her gaze to me, and I realized I’d spoken too abruptly. “Be careful, Son. I know you’re only speaking out of concern for this girl.”

  Mom’s nerves over this were uncharacteristic. She, of all people, knew personally the people around these parts who practiced magic. She sold them their herbs and powders. Natural healing solutions that were healthy and full of vitamins and minerals the body needed to repair itself. Aunt Trudy and the like took it to the extreme and made a religion out of it.

  Mom took a breath and pushed back her barely touched plate. She cut her glance to me. “Aunt Trudy believes that Corrie is like her.”

  “Like her? As in a witch?” I shook my head. “That’s not going to happen. Corrie knows better.”

  Mom rubbed her temple with her fingertips. “Eli, please remember that we don’t battle against flesh and blood. Try to take Aunt Trudy on without prayer and you might be in for more of a fight than you want.”

  She was right. I knew better than to try to fight darkness with emotion. I had to get a rein on my anxiety about Aunt Trudy’s possible plans for Corrie. I had no idea where Corrie stood spiritually. Jarrod was raised in a Christian home, so I had always assumed he’d chosen a girl with similar faith. Not knowing increased my concern for her. I knew the seductive influence of magic. Too many members of my family had been deceived by it for me to close my eyes and pretend there weren’t real powers involved. And what human being alive didn’t enjoy the feeling of power?

  I sat silently, eating and wrestling with my thoughts, until Mom shoved back from the table and stood. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go on home. You can take care of cleaning up, can’t you?”

  “Of course.” I stood with her. “Migraine?”

  “It’s been so long I haven’t kept up with my meds.” She retrieved her plate and glass and carried them to the counter. After grabbing her purse and keys from the counter, she headed toward the foyer. At the door she stopped and turned. “Honey, I know you like Corrie. I can tell. But she just lost her husband. I want you to guard your heart against getting hurt.”

  I shoved down my annoyance and pulled her into a hug. “All these years you’ve been after me to go on a date, and now you’re warning me off the only single girl around here with a full set of teeth?”

  She pulled back, smiling, but I saw concern in her eyes. “Just be careful not to get hurt. Her heart isn’t ready for a new man.”

  “Ma,” I said, opening the door and stepping outside with her. “Don’t you think I know that? Corrie and I are becoming friends because I’m the only person she knows around here. Once I’m finished with the house, I won’t even see her much. So put away the worry card, and let’s just put this in perspective, okay?”

  She nodded, but I could see she wasn’t convinced. A sigh lifted her shoulders, and her eyes closed for a brief second.

  “Do you want me to drive you home? I could pick you up in the morning and bring you back to get your car.” We walked down the steps, and I opened her car door.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. It’s not far. I’ll be fine.”

  “Call me as soon as you get home.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “I know. Just be careful.”

  I didn’t like the idea of her going home when the headache had hit her so suddenly. Briefly I wondered if it was a spiritual attack, but I didn’t want to overthink it. It didn’t do any good to look for demons around every corner. I prayed as I watched her drive away and remained outside until her red taillights disappeared.

  Keeping my line of communication with heaven open, I walked inside,
a heaviness bearing down on my heart. I didn’t like feeling this way, but rubbing up against darkness always produced an uncomfortable form of warfare. And clearly there was a fight brewing. Aunt Trudy might want to believe it was between her and me, but I knew Mom was right. This fight was not to be fought by my hands. It wasn’t Aunt Trudy I was wrestling. It was the darkness inside her. She thought she controlled it, but it was the other way around.

  I left the kitchen the way it was, without even putting away the leftovers, and went to my living room to pray. By the time my mother called to let me know she had gotten home okay, some of the burden had lifted, but after I hung up the phone, I continued to pray.

  Later, as I lay in bed, I began to suspect that today had been one battle in what I feared was going to be an all-out war for Corrie.

  Corrie

  After Eli brought me home last night, I put away the groceries, grabbed a pillow and blanket and my cushions, and went out to the porch. It was actually a little cool, and a few sprinkles dotted the ground, but that was okay. The quilt was warm and the cushions comfortable, and this was so much better than trying to sleep alone in that house.

  My fitful drunken sleep the night before had left me exhausted, despite my long nap, and I fell asleep almost instantly. I woke up once, thinking someone had called my name, but when I sat up, I realized it must have been a dream.

  I woke again to a hazy predawn world that was amazingly beautiful. I didn’t want to miss sunrise, so I stepped inside and made a pot of coffee as quickly as I could. I was glad I’d invested in the BUNN coffee maker that finished brewing in four minutes. By the time I made it back from the bathroom, I could pour strong coffee into my mug and walk back out to the porch. My blanket still felt warm from the memory of my body heat.

  The sun rose behind the house and flashed across the tree line, where the haze rose from the river overnight and hovered. It was an ethereal fog, like something out of a movie. The thick mist blanketing the trees gave up its hold on the ancient oaks and cedars as the sun brought the morning. The breathtaking view would never get old, and I ached because I’d never share it with Jarrod.

  I leaned against the arm of the swing and pulled my legs up. Sipping the warm, strong, sweet coffee, I watched the sun light my new world without Jarrod, and I let the tears fall.

  “Jarrod,” I said around a deep breath and closed my eyes. “I’ve been so mad at you, babe. So mad I just wanted to scream at you for saving lives at your expense. And my expense. And the expense of all the children that are never going to fill this house.”

  Keeping my eyes shut, I pictured him standing in front of me, holding out his palm. Lost in the fantasy, I lifted my hand and felt the warm memory. We stayed there, palm against palm, the way we’d done a thousand times.

  My breathing slowed, and maybe I fell back asleep, but I felt the warmth from his cheek brush by mine. His breath floated my hair across my ear and tickled my earlobe, just as he had done too many times to count.

  My stomach jumped, and I opened my eyes. I was so sure I’d find him sitting next to me, his arm pulling me close, that when he wasn’t there, I nearly burst into tears of disappointment.

  Instead, I saw Eli’s truck coming up the road. Shaking, I forced composure I didn’t feel and tried to shove away the memory of a phantom touch I could have sworn was real.

  Eli had been great last night, taking me to Springfield, putting off a day of work for me. I know it put him behind. Jarrod had been right. Eli was the kind of guy a person could count on. Fleetingly, I wondered why some lucky girl hadn’t snatched him up by now.

  His truck kicked up dust from the driveway as he pulled into the circular drive. Really, it was more an extension of the road than a driveway. He stepped out, carrying dishes.

  “What’s that?” I called as my mind slowly began the climb from the dream world to reality.

  “Mom made eggplant parmesan last night.” He smiled. “There’s lots left. I thought we could have it for lunch if you want.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I returned his smile. “Tell her thank you.” I opened the door and held it while he carried the food inside. He set the containers on the counter, and I put them in the fridge. I nodded to the coffeepot. “Help yourself. It’s fresh.”

  “How do you feel today?” He walked to the cabinet and found a mug. “All over the hangover?” He grinned.

  “Yes, all over it,” I said. “My first and last time getting drunk.”

  “It’s just as well.” He spooned sugar into his mug. “Drunk isn’t very attractive.”

  “Now you sound like my mother.” I said it as a quip, then realized I didn’t like those words. I stuck out my tongue. “I thought you didn’t take sugar in your coffee.”

  “Only in yours.” A chuckle rumbled his chest.

  “Aw, that’s right. You’re a coffee lightweight,” I said, my tone deliberately condescending. “How could I forget?” But Eli was so humble, he was easy to forgive.

  He grinned. “Oh, by the way. I called the electrician who usually works with me on jobs like this one.”

  “And?” I perked up. We couldn’t put in the new central heat and air or my new ceiling fans until the electrician rewired the entire house and added a new breaker box.

  “It’ll be mid-June at the earliest before he can get here.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. At least I can get the AC in before it gets too hot out.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me he’s the sort of contractor who says June but means December?”

  He chuckled in his deep, comforting way. “Maybe not quite that bad, but just about.”

  “So I might be using fans and the window unit this summer after all?”

  “Probably. But we’ll have to talk about how much electricity you can have going on at once. The dishwasher, washer, and dryer all going at one time is taxing enough on this sixty-year-old breaker box. Add the window unit and fans, and we might be talking a fire hazard.”

  An hour later, after I arranged the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, I went to the hallway and started unloading boxes. By noon, the house was eighty degrees, which was pretty warm for this early in the year. It made me a little nervous, given my discussion with Eli this morning about the electrician. In mid-May, it should be in the upper sixties, maybe low seventies from time to time. Eighty reminded me of Texas. But I was dying to get outside and see if I could find that bridge Eli mentioned yesterday. A covered Bridges of Madison County kind of bridge.

  At twelve thirty, I heard Eli’s boots coming down the stairs. I had tackled half a dozen boxes, and I was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by all the things I had yet to put away. Eli stepped carefully and glanced around at my things. His eyes stopped on my paint supplies. “You’re an artist?”

  “Used to be.” I accepted the hand he reached out to me, and he yanked me to my feet. He didn’t respond, and I sensed he didn’t want to pry. Though I wasn’t going to dredge up all the reasons I’d put my supplies away for years, I did feel the only way to remove the awkward atmosphere was to offer some explanation. “My sister went to medical school. I went to art school.” And my mother was still hyperventilating over that choice.

  I played it off as nothing, but inside I could see myself then—all those years of painting. I was good. I knew I was. “Brilliant,” some reviews said after art shows during college. Fresh and innovative.

  Eli followed me into the kitchen, and I pulled out the food he’d brought over. He leaned against my counter and watched me as I went about heating our lunch.

  “Do you only paint for fun now, or just not at all?”

  I shrugged. “Honestly? I haven’t painted in ages. Not since I married Jarrod, really.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Why’s that?”

  I pulled a couple of plates from the counter and set the table. “Well, I had the choice of marrying Jarrod or accepting a position at an art gallery in Dallas where I could display some of my
art. And I chose him.” Besides, my mother had gotten me the job at the gallery. I’d never really wanted it in the first place.

  “Yeah, I know he was relocated right after you got married, but to give up something you love?”

  I smiled as I pulled the dish from the microwave and set it on the table, motioning for Eli to take a seat. “I never said I loved it.”

  “I’m intruding. I’m sorry.”

  I released a heavy sigh and lifted my gaze to his. “Okay, I did love it. I thought I would be an artist. But you know, I fell in love, and my priorities changed.” I spooned some food onto my plate.

  He nodded without comment, but his eyes remained on me.

  I was ready to stop talking about me. “So your mom runs a natural-food store and cooks from scratch. How about your dad? What was he like?”

  “Let’s see. He was the sort of guy you could count on. Salt of the earth. Truly a 1950s, Father Knows Best type. Went to all my games during school. Took me camping. That kind of thing.”

  “Wow. Lucky you,” I said around a cheesy, tomatoey bite.

  “I take it your dad wasn’t the Ward Cleaver type?”

  I paused to think about it. My dad was my hero too. Only he wasn’t the 1950s dad. “My dad’s more ’60s than ’50s. Still to this day. As a matter of fact, I think he still has the lava lamp and bong he used in the ’70s. A real role model.”

  “Hippie, I take it?”

  I laughed. “Something like that. He’s the artistic type, which is where I get my creative side. My mother was going through a rebellious phase when she met him at college. They eloped. And she made him miserable until I was about twelve, and he ran off with someone who ‘understood’ him.”

  “I didn’t notice a fifty-year-old hippie at Jarrod’s funeral. He didn’t attend?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “He called after Mother chewed him out over the phone. Said he really tried to come. Yada-yada-yada.” I felt Eli’s sympathetic gaze, and he asked the inevitable question.

  “Do you ever see him?”

  “Occasionally. When he thinks of it. He’s killed a lot of brain cells.” I laughed because, despite his negligence, I adored my dad. He was who he was, and I accepted him. I shrugged, trying to lighten the mood, and tossed the plastic containers into the sink, a little embarrassed that I’d eaten more than half the food he brought. “I think I’ll take a walk by the bridge before I get back to the boxes,” I said. “You’re welcome to join me.”