Someday Home (5 page)

“Oh, well, I—I guess I overreacted. Sorry.”

Sorry, my foot. You're furious. What is going on here?
She took another sip of wine to make nice. It didn't taste any better than before.

He poured the remainder of the bottle in his glass, only a small amount.

“Look, why don't you take mine? I really would rather have tea with my dessert.” She pushed her glass over toward him.

“You sure?”

“Oh, my, yes. I've had plenty.”
And besides, since I'll be driving, I will not take any chance on being forced into a sobriety test.

Conversation lagged, with her trying to come up with a topic for conversation that couldn't be answered with one sentence or one word. Jack was normally a real talker, especially at his most charming and after a glass or two of wine. Maybe after so much wine, he became taciturn. He rarely drank so heavily. She heaved a sigh of relief when the dessert arrived and put in her order for the hibiscus rose tea.

“If this is as good as it looks…” She picked up her spoon and broke the burnt sugar crust to scoop out the rich velvety crème. Her eyes closed, the better to appreciate the texture and flavor. “Oh my.”

“I knew you'd like it.”

“Eating this is a decadent delight.” She savored another spoonful. “This is the best I've ever tasted. I'd come here just for the dessert. I so want this evening to be a memorable one. Just think, as of tonight, we have been married twenty-five years. Hard to believe, isn't it?”

Jack took more than one sip from his wineglass, more like a big swallow. While he nodded, he did not answer.

She licked the spoon, looking at him at the same time. Sultry was the effect she was hoping for. She huskied her voice. “Let's do another twenty-five, what do you say?”

Jack stared at her. No smile, no nod, no affirmation.

The silence sent a chill through her. Something was absolutely wrong here.

“Angela, I've been wanting to tell you this, but I couldn't find a good time.” He drained the glass, set it down, and laid his palms flat on the table. “I need to find out who I am.”

Find out who I am?
That was so 1960s. The chill deepened.

He cleared his throat, firmed up his voice. “This afternoon I filed for divorce.”

A
re you ready, Miss Rutherford?” the elderly Realtor asked quietly.

Judith Rutherford stared at her home and swallowed.
Ready? Never.

They stood together on the sidewalk in front of the stately three-story old home. Rutherford House, listed on the historical sites in the town of Rutherford, Minnesota, was an icon of the area and family owned since 1893, when lumber baron August Rutherford built the house for his bride. Family owned until Judith's father died and she discovered that in reality, the Heritage League owned the Rutherford House, according to a trust she had never seen. Her father had promised that he would provide for her. She had always assumed that meant the house was hers, there being not much else left from the grand estate.

I have to get some backbone here
, Judith told herself when she would far more easily melt into a puddle or, as the case may be this day, become a sheet of ice. She shivered in spite of her heavy wool black coat. Like the house, it too had seen better days. “I lived here all my life.”

Mr. Odegaard flinched. “I know. I've known you since before you were born.”

Judith was well aware of the friendship between her father and the Odegaard males, one of whom was this Realtor and brother to the head of the Rutherford Bank. Had she not known better, she might have suspected they were in cahoots regarding the Rutherford legacy, since the bank was also the financial arm of the Heritage League. As an only child, Judith understood far more of the intricacies of the family history, some mythical and others supremely valid. She should know; she'd been the caregiver for both of her parents since
the accident
. While history used BC and AD as time markers,
the accident
did the same in this once-thriving town.

Judith forced her mind to focus on the here and now. Her mother died five years ago, and her father had been wheelchair bound since he'd broken his back those long years before, although twenty-five years was not really long in the overall scheme of things. She'd been a young woman when the forest fire roared through the town, leaving this house as one of the few untouched structures. Her father fell during the firefight and a broken back was the result. He had run his business from his home thereafter.

“Ready as I'll ever be.” She drew a deep breath. “Would you like another walk-through?”

“No, I know you have catalogued every artifact down to counting the spoons. As soon as we can come to an agreement between the Heritage League and the bank, this house can go into the national directory. Your father's wishes to turn this into a living museum are coming true.” He shuffled one foot. “I know this is such a personal question, but have you been provided for?”

“In a manner of speaking. I have a trust that was separate from that of the house and business, from my grandmother on my mother's side.” That in itself was a miracle. More than once, really many times, her father had tried to persuade her to join that trust with other family investments that he controlled. There was some clause in the trust that forbade that from happening.

She'd considered fighting the trust that she was, in name only, administrator for. The trust that gave the house, the only remaining property of the once-thriving family, to become a heritage center rather than hers to sell and thereby gain sufficient funds to live on. Her father had promised that if she remained at home and took care of her parents, she would be well provided for on his death. She had dreamed that perhaps then she could leave this place that held so few good memories for her and begin a new life, somewhere where she was not bound by the strictures of the family history and family name.

Not that she was bitter or anything.

“How long before I have to be moved out?” All right, so she had dreamed of moving out. But not on these terms.

“I really do wish you would stay on as caretaker at least. I know your father intended that you should; he said so. Once we have the living history museum in place, we will need a knowledgeable administrator. You're perfect for that. I guess I assumed from the way your father talked that you were in agreement with that.”

“He did not mention anything like that to me, Mr. Odegaard.”

“Perhaps he simply assumed it.”

“Perhaps.” He did tend to assume she would do whatever he wanted. “And how long do you think it will be before that is in place?”

“I wish I knew. The paperwork is horrendous between the state and the national historical societies. I know you did as much as you were able, but the inventory of furnishings was only one small aspect.”

Judith nodded. The cold winter that should have moved on and left spring in charge was still fighting for supremacy. Snow was predicted for tonight. The thought of remaining as caretaker in a house that no longer belonged to her made her jaw clench.
Provided for. Right.
How cruel when one's own father did not live up to his word. Especially after she laid aside all her hopes and dreams to make her ill and aging parents' remaining years as comfortable as possible, even to being an assistant in the family business. A business that had it not been run into the ground, she had often considered taking over.

But according to her father, women were not capable of running a business. In those last months that had surely been a joke. Judith shivered in spite of her heavy coat. “So basically, I can leave immediately. “

“Immediately? Oh, please do not leave immediately.” He turned to look at her. “Miss Rutherford, we have to find someone to be caretaker, someone dependable. That will take time. Are you sure I cannot convince you to remain for, say, six months at least?”

Judith heaved a sigh. “Let me think about it. I'll let you know in a week if that is all right.” The thought of remaining in the house tore her in two ways.

“Oh, thank you. I will be hoping you agree to stay.” He reached out to shake her hand. His hand was cold and bony. “We will be in touch. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?”

Remaining polite was growing more difficult by the moment. She should have invited him in in the beginning, but she'd been afraid he'd stay around forever. And stop her packing. “No thank you.” Hoping she wasn't appearing rude, she moved toward the wrought iron gate that opened to the walk up to the front door. Green shafts were just starting to break through the soil. The daffodils that had lined the walk for years were as anxious for spring to come as she was.

“I will call you,” he called to her.

“Ah, ah, yes, thank you.” She sent something that she hoped resembled a smile and pushed open the gate as if the hounds of heaven were after her. As she heard his car door slam and the engine start, she heaved a sigh, but did not allow herself to slow down until the sound of the motor disappeared down the street. Putting one foot in front of the other was like pulling her feet out of gluey mud, the kind they had in the Red River Valley less than a hundred miles to the west.

Since she'd been forced to let the help go several weeks after her father died, due to lack of money to pay them any longer, she dug a house key out of her leather purse and finally was able to open the door. Going around to the side entrance from the garage would have been far easier, since the front door was so rarely used any longer, but she hadn't been thinking clearly.

She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. Admitting to not thinking clearly was almost as bad as not brushing her teeth the required two minutes. “Judith, you must not let Mr. Odegaard or anyone else befuddle you like that.” Her voice disappeared in the dead air of the entry hall. Ignoring the ornate mirror over the walnut table and the flowers that were wilting in the vase, she made her way back to her retreat, the sunroom, the one room in the entire house not tainted by all the vultures that had been circling for the carrion.

She felt the peace of this usually sunny room sink into her soul. Totally out of character, she draped her heavy coat over a chair, loath to traverse back down the hall to the coat closet, at least right at that moment. Instead she crossed to the fireplace and flipped the switch for the gas log to ignite and pour warmth into the room immediately. Several years earlier, she had insisted, and for a change her father had finally agreed, that all the fireplaces be refitted with gas logs. At least they still had the look of the original fireplaces so the historical value of the house was not seriously compromised. Those last years he had suffered from the cold and acquiesced to changes.

Suffice it to say, her father wrote the book on stubborn.

Oh, for the years when she would ring for Mrs. Winslow, who ran the house, or Mindy, their last maid, and before long a pot of hot tea would be brought into the room, along with whatever she had pleased to eat. Mrs. Winslow was the last one to go and she had been ready to retire anyway. The job had gotten to be far too much for one aging lady.

“Well, if you want tea, go fix it and be grateful for the microwave.” This talking out loud to herself was getting to be a habit. One that she would have to discard when she left Rutherford House or people would think her going batty in her later years. Not that forty-seven was old. According to statistics, she was only getting into middle age.

In middle age and she had yet to live, apart from this house and those who used to live here, too. Sometimes she felt like if she turned fast enough she'd see her father wheeling through the widened doorway. He disdained using the motorized wheelchair. Perhaps that was something she could sell. Judith shook her head. Surely there was someone in need of that chair. She would call the senior center in the morning; they would know.

Back in the sunroom, after carrying in her tray of tea and toast, she settled near the fireplace, staring into the flickering flames. Did even the flames ask her the questions ricocheting in her mind now in the silence?
What am I going to do? Where am I going to live?

Staying here and carrying on as always was far and away the easiest of all possibilities. And also the most impossible.

“I will not stay in Rutherford. I will not remain in this house.” Her voice dropped in spite of her personal orders to be strong and firm. “I can't, dear God, I can't. Haven't I given this place enough of my life?” Even her backbone refused to obey and she slumped in the chair. Leaning her head against the pillowed back, her eyes drifted closed.
What can you do, other than take care of stubborn, cantankerous old men?
The miserable little voice that lived somewhere where she couldn't evict it taunted her when her defenses were down. But it was right, what could she do? She had to find some way to earn a living; the inheritance would not last long if she used it to solely support herself. At least through the years since her mother died, she had reinvested it, and not into the Rutherford company, in spite of her father's wishes.

The one thing she had stood up for, and even when reeling in terror, she had persisted. Her mother's mother had been very wise in the way she set up the trust so that her father had not been able to touch it even when his wife was alive. At least not the principal.

Oh, Mother, I never blamed you for leaving. But…
She sipped her tea, now gone tepid. At least the cozy kept the teapot relatively warm. Her mother had knitted the cozy in a double layer that insulated the china well. Strange how today so many of her memories returned to her mother. It was as if now that her father was gone, there was room for the good memories of her mother to return. For so long her mother's memories had centered around those last excruciating months and the agony of watching her dear mother die an inch at a time.

All the while trying to keep up with her father's demands.

Her mother's death was an emotional devastation, her father's a financial one.

He had promised to provide for her in return for her years of service.

And she had believed him. Calling herself names did nothing to facilitate the situation. She'd been through this miasma countless times.

She rose to stand in front of the mirror that reflected the beauty outside into the room. She took the pins out of her sedate bun and let her hair fall down behind. Two feet long. Nearly three. She ought to cut it now that he who insisted she not cut it was dead. Staring at the gaunt face that looked to have aged ten years, she shook her head. “Is it too late to start a new life?”

That night she sat down in front of the fire, teapot in cozy beside her and a yellow pad on a clipboard. At the top of the page she wrote: “To Do with the Rest of My Life.” She poured herself a cup of chamomile tea so she could go to sleep sometime before 2:00 a.m. and stared at the page.

The grandfather clock out in the hall bonged the hour.

She stared at the page.

And finally wrote: “I can choose to stay here and take care of the place.” That would indeed be the easy way out. But it would no longer be her home. Not that it was now either. She stayed here on sufferance.

“I can go somewhere else, but what will I do?” She stared at the words she had written. Where and what? Two huge words growing more so all the time.

Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and let her mind free float. She saw herself growing into a young woman, dreaming of going away to college. While her two friends were dreaming of boys and marriage, all she wanted was to be an anthropologist or an archaeologist on a dig in some faraway place, like Egypt or Africa.

After one year at the University of Minnesota, she'd not gotten too far away from Rutherford, and she'd been forced to remain at home and take care of her parents. One took care of one's family, the creed of the Rutherfords through the years. It was supposed to be short-term and then she would return to school. And now twenty-plus years later, she was nothing and she had nothing.

When the phone rang, she thought to ignore it but instead checked the face, a familiar number, at least not a crank call.