Marriage Seasons 04 - Winter Turns to Spring (27 page)

“I saw the tree, Ashley. I know you spent the whole day decorating it, and I thought it was so great. The beads and the snowflakes and all of that. It was beautiful.”

“Take it down, Brad. Do it now.” She raised the window and turned the ignition.

Bordering on desperation, he watched as she backed out. Without looking at him again, she drove her car across the parking lot toward the highway.

“Last time I saw you, young fella,” Charlie Moore said, “you looked like something the cat threw up. What are you up to this evening? I’ve been thinking about us having another visit.”

At the sound of Charlie Moore’s voice, the older man’s face emerged through the void that had encroached on Brad’s vision. White hair. Wrinkled, leathery skin. That voice. Those words. Faith. Belief. Repentance. Miss Shimmy-hips.

“Brad? Are you there, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Carrying a sack of groceries in one arm and holding the phone to his ear with his free hand, Brad stepped into his house and kicked the door shut behind him with his bootheel.

“What? I didn’t hear you. Speak up. I’m over seventy years old. You think I can understand a whisper? What’s going on there?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Have you been drinking? You sound odd.”

“No. I haven’t been drinking. I just got home from work.”

As he carried the groceries through the living room, Brad recalled his conviction that January was the longest, coldest, and most miserable month on Missouri’s calendar. The holidays were over and spring lay far in the future. As a rule, January stunk. This one was no exception.

He had gone thirty days, nine hours, and eighteen minutes of this particular January without a drink. In order to save propane, he had lived that entire time with his thermostat turned to a maximum of forty-two degrees. Just warm enough to keep the water pipes from freezing. Running the vacuum cleaner, washing machine, dryer, or dishwasher would eat up electricity, so he no longer had a stitch of laundered clothing or a single clean plate. He kept forgetting to shave.

“What are you planning to do tonight?” Charlie asked. “Sit around moping? Feeling sorry for yourself as usual?”

Brad couldn’t summon up any indignation at the dig. “No, sir. I’ll probably watch some TV and then go to bed.”

Sleep had become more and more appealing lately. When he could manage to drift off, the hours slipped by and nothing mattered.

Charlie’s voice piped up again. “Well, listen here. I’ve been thinking about pie. Now, Aunt Mamie’s Good Food in Camdenton has some of the best pecan pie you ever sank a tooth into. How about we drive over there, get a bite to eat, and then have us a couple of slices of pie?”

Passing the Christmas tree, Brad looked at the needles that littered the floor around what was left of it. He had tracked them back and forth to the kitchen, and now they were embedded in the carpet. Walking barefoot had become a hazard.

He recalled Ashley’s order to take down the tree.
Then you’ll know how I feel…. Then you’ll know …
How had she known it was still standing? Despite her admonition, Brad hadn’t had the energy to take off the beaded decorations and haul the tree outside.

He reflected on the conversation with his wife more than two weeks previously in the parking lot outside the beauty shop. Ashley had told him that everything had changed forever. Did she really mean that? Was it possible that no matter how desperately he apologized, no matter how hard he begged her forgiveness, no matter how much he changed himself, she was determined to end their marriage?

“Brad, did you hear what I just said?” Charlie asked.

“I heard you, Mr. Moore.”

“Are you all right? You sound different to me tonight. Your voice is a little hollow.”

“I
feel
hollow.”

“I can sure understand that. But you’re not hollow, boy. You’re full up, see? You’ve got good sense and a fine work ethic. Now listen to me, young man. I enjoy your company very much. Why do you suppose I thought about you when I had my pecan pie craving just now? It’s because we’re friends, that’s why. You are a good friend to me. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Brad dropped the grocery sack on the kitchen counter. For meals, he had resorted to dry cereal and the occasional can of soup. Sometimes he ate boxed macaroni-and-cheese dinners. At the very worst, it was cold weenies and saltines.

As he shrugged out of his denim jacket, he accepted the blunt truth. He was worthless. Never mind what Charlie Moore said about their friendship. Never mind the sports trophies on the shelf over the television set. Never mind his 4.0 grade point average. Never mind his steady job and regular—though insufficient—paycheck. None of it meant anything.

After setting a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter on the counter, he carried the phone into the living room again.

Charlie was still speaking. “You are a good friend to me,” he repeated. “Do you understand that?”

Brad tried to answer. “I’m not a good person, Mr. Moore.”

“None of us is perfect. Don’t you remember me telling you about Miss Shimmy-hips? Just telling you about her the other day put the woman right back into my brain. Esther would have a fit if she knew, and she probably does. Sometimes I feel like an old goat being led by a rope around my neck. Parade a pretty girl in front of me, and I’ll follow. Sure, even a geezer like me. And now I’ve got to get Miss Shimmy-hips out of my mind again. You know what I’m saying? Brad? Brad, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what about that pecan pie?”

“I’m tired, Mr. Moore. It’s been a long day.”

Though normally intolerant of any letdown by his crew, Bill Walters seemed to accept the fact that Brad was working on not enough sleep and wearing jeans so dirty they could stand up on their own. So far, no one at the job site acted like they knew anything had gone wrong in Brad’s life, even though they did. He was grateful.

Now that he knew where Ashley was staying, Brad studied Patsy Pringle’s house each time he drove by. His wife’s car remained in the garage, though, and he never caught sight of her long red hair. He even drove past at times when he thought she should be on her way to work, but their cars never met. She didn’t answer when he called and left voice mails on her cell phone or sent her text messages. Nor did he spot the puppy he had rescued from a cardboard box on a freezing night in Tranquility.

“All right, then,” Charlie said. “I’ll let you go. But if you change your mind about that pecan pie, just give me a call.”

“I will, Mr. Moore.”

A glint of silver beneath the Christmas tree caught Brad’s eye as he dropped the phone into his pocket. One of Ashley’s beads, he guessed. Curiosity allowing him a brief respite from his misery, Brad pushed his hand through the stiff branches toward the silvery glimmer. His skin, chapped from the cold, caught on the rough pine needles and began to bleed. When his fingertips touched the shining thing, he saw that it wasn’t a bead. It was a box. A small square wrapped in silver paper and tied with a silver bow.

A gift.

For the first time in weeks, the rhythm of his heart increased its tempo. Was this a present from Ashley? Had she put it under the tree after she decorated it? Maybe, despite his harsh words of accusation to her that last morning they spent together, she had begun to anticipate a happy Christmas day with him.

But of course … after decorating the tree, she had discovered Brad in Yvonne Ratcliff’s apartment. Maybe in her haste, Ashley had left the present behind when she took her clothes and the puppy and fled to Patsy Pringle’s house. Even so, it was something of his wife. A remnant of what they might have had.

His mouth dry, Brad carried the small box to the sofa. In the silence, he untied the bow and took off the wrapping paper. What could be inside? He almost hated to open the lid. Had Ashley made him something? Or had she spent her bead money on a special gift?

Filled with a mixture of dread and hope, he took off the lid. A sheet of folded paper lay inside. When he lifted it out, he saw that Ashley had placed something beneath the note. Her diamond engagement ring.

The large gem glittered in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds behind the sofa. Brad picked up the slender gold circle with its crowning jewel. It barely fit over the tip of his index finger. He would never forget Ashley’s response the night he gave it to her. She had burst into tears, thrown her arms around him, and vowed she would love him forever. The ring had become her pride and joy—always on display for friends and family to admire.

Now Brad recalled that he had held Ashley’s hand in the parking lot outside Just As I Am, and he hadn’t even noticed the ring was missing. With trepidation, he unfolded the note and began to read her familiar loopy handwriting.

Brad,

This morning after you told me that a
normal
wife would put up a Christmas tree, Yappy and I walked a long way back into the woods and found this little tree growing near some taller ones. I think the trees might be on Pete Roberts’s property, so please don’t tell him. I cut the tree down and dragged it home. Then I spent the day making ornaments. I wanted you to be happy when you came home from work.

I have always wanted you to be happy.

I guess I just wasn’t enough for you. So here is the ring you gave me. Merry Christmas. Maybe it will make you happy. You can give it to your girlfriend. Or you can hock it to pay off some of the bills.

I’m not sorry I married you. I loved you once, and I thought you loved me, too. Well, I was wrong about you. Anyway, have a good life.

Ashley

Brad gazed down at the signature. This was final. All the way back on Christmas Eve, after she had found him with Yvonne, Ashley had wrapped up her engagement ring and walked out of the marriage forever. Only now did he truly understand that.

He refolded the note, laid the ring back inside the box, and put the note on top of it. Then he set the lid in place.

Slipping off the sofa, Brad knelt. As tears welled, he began to pray.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
t smells funny.” Jennifer Hansen made a face. “I think the people who rented this apartment before you must have had cats.”

Ashley shrugged. “I can’t complain. I’m planning to bring Yappy even though I know the place is supposed to be pet-free. I signed the lease agreeing to abide by that rule. I guess we’re all liars and cheaters, aren’t we?”

When Jennifer didn’t respond, Ashley closed the door. The two women stood without speaking inside the empty room. Ashley had rented the place almost a month ago, but she hadn’t been able to summon the energy to drive over and take a look at it until now.

Jennifer remained motionless as Ashley stepped to the bare window. The one-level apartment building backed up against a stretch of forest running between the highway and a steep limestone bluff that dropped forty feet straight down into the chilly waters of the lake. A dense thicket of leafless oaks, maples, redbuds, and dogwoods enclosed the occasional scraggly pine. The perfect place to walk Yappy.

The parking area had never been paved, so tracked-in mud had stained the low-pile carpet. The walls wore toddlers’ handprints, spots of purple jelly, splatters of spaghetti sauce. A knob-size hole in the drywall revealed that someone had once thrown open the front door. In excitement? Ashley wondered. Or in anger?

“I could bring over some candles from Mom’s shop,” Jennifer remarked as she moved toward the open kitchen area. Still wearing her knitted gloves, she touched the countertop with a fingertip. “She put the Christmas things on sale at the start of the new year. I love the cinnamon candles. The fragrance is sweet with a hint of cloves and vanilla. It’s just strong enough that it doesn’t overpower a room. Of course, in this room … well, anything would help.”

Ashley took off her coat and hung it over a hook someone had screwed into the wall near the door. “It’s going to smell better soon. I can scrub the kitchen and rent a carpet steamer. At the snack shop, we used to clean the carpet a couple of times a year. I never understood why my dad carpeted the bathrooms. But they always looked pretty good after I tackled them.”

“Ick.”

Maybe Jennifer had never had to clean a bathroom, Ashley thought as she wandered into the single bedroom. “Mom says I can bring my old bed over here. I can even have the sheets.”

At the memory of the sunny midwinter afternoon when she and Brad had picked out their new king-size bed, Ashley felt a familiar lump in her throat. While planning their purchase, they had viewed themselves as so very adult. It was a somber event, this premarital acquisition of their first piece of real furniture.

But once inside the store, they’d acted like a couple of children. Brad had chased Ashley from one display to another, tickling her and making her squeal and giggle. They had bounced on every available mattress until the manager nearly asked them to leave. In the end, they chose a beautiful pillow-topped set along with a cherry headboard and metal frame. The store had been happy to let them open a charge account and buy it all on credit.

“Stupid,” she muttered.