Sunday Kind of Love (2 page)

As the years passed, writing had become her passion. Everywhere Gwen went, she saw a story just waiting to be told. It was in the sights, sounds, and even smells of a busy city street. It was in the clink of glasses and silverware in a restaurant. It could be found in the conversations she overheard; that was one of the reasons she'd been so interested in the businessman back in the train station. Writing about events as they actually happened, the type of investigative journalism found in a newspaper, appealed to her every bit as much as spinning tales of make-believe. Words were all around her all the time, ready to be put down on paper. Gwen could no more deny her urge to write than she could ignore the sun in the sky.

The problem was Kent.

When Gwen had first told him of her interest in becoming a writer, she'd hoped he would be supportive, that he might even have some suggestions about how she might make a living doing the thing she loved. At the least, Gwen wished for a reaction not unlike her parents'.

Instead, he had left her speechless.

“Why would you ever want to do that?” he'd asked, putting down his fork and staring at her across their table at the restaurant.

Seeing her fallen face, Kent had apologized for his bluntness, but had proceeded to tell her all the reasons he thought it was a bad idea: that it would be next to impossible to find someone willing to hire her; that the writers he knew worked like dogs, day and night, and brought home little money; and, most importantly, that she was a woman.

For all his many interests, for all his knowledge, Kent could be stubbornly old-fashioned. He expected the woman he married to take on a more traditional role, just as his own mother had done. His wife would stay at home and raise their children while he went off to work and provided for them. In exchange, he would give his spouse whatever her heart desired, be it expensive furniture, a closet full of clothes, vacations to faraway places—all so long as she stayed in her place and upheld her end of the deal.

That night, Gwen had sat in the restaurant and listened to Kent run down her dream. She'd wanted to cry, to scream, to run away, but had instead remained silent, too stunned to react. Later, she'd felt determined to change his mind, to make him understand just how important becoming a writer was to her. But every time she mentioned it, Kent grew dismissive, repeating many of the same arguments. Lately, she'd heard annoyance in his voice, displeasure that she wasn't seeing things his way, that she wasn't letting the matter go.

But she would
never
let it go. She couldn't.

Despite all that, Gwen was in love with him. Kent Brookings was smart, funny, and thoughtful. He worked hard; she had no doubt that he would someday be made a partner at his firm. He was the type of man most women dreamed of meeting. She wanted to build a life with him, to one day marry and have a family, to grow old and gray together. But for that to happen, she knew that something needed to change.

Unfortunately for Gwen, she had no idea what that was.

“Wake up, sweetheart. We're here.”

Gwen blinked her eyes, swimming up out of a pleasant dream, the memory of which was already fading. Outside her rain-streaked window, houses slowly drifted past; it took her a moment to recognize that she was in Buckton. Inside the train car, passengers were gathering their things as the engine slowed.

Kent looked at her with a gentle smile.

“How long have I been sleeping?” she asked, then stifled a yawn.

“For a while,” he answered. “You drifted off just outside Indianapolis. It looked like you needed some rest, so I tried not to bother you.”

Gwen ran a hand through her hair, her head clearing. “Sorry I left you without someone to talk to.”

“I was fine. I had plenty to keep me busy.”

Though still not fully awake, Gwen understood that Kent was talking about the pile of papers he was now putting back in his briefcase.

She must have frowned because he said, “Now, now, let's not start that argument back up again. I told you I wouldn't work while we were here and I meant it. Nothing's going to get in the way of us enjoying our time with your family.”

Kent said it with such honesty that Gwen found herself wanting to believe him. She saw her mother and father so rarely, came back to Buckton so infrequently, that this time, she wanted everything to be perfect.

Silently, she vowed to make the most of this trip. They both would.

“Are you coming?” Kent asked from the aisle, holding out his hand for her.

Gwen took a deep breath. She was ready.

She was home.

O
H, MY DEAR
Gwendolyn…”

Meredith Foster hurried across Buckton's small depot, her eyes misty with tears, and pulled her daughter into her arms, embracing her tightly. Gwen returned her mother's hug, her own eyes growing wet as she smiled, overwhelmed with happiness at being with her again.

Five months had passed since Gwen had last seen her parents; they'd come to visit in February for her birthday, taking her to the top of the Chicago Board of Trade Building, the tallest in the city, marveling at the view. Meredith called as often as she could, while Warren wrote letters, but their get-togethers were rare; it took almost all of her parents' money to send Gwen to a prestigious school like Worthington, leaving little for travel.

This was the first time she'd been back to Buckton in years.

Holding Gwen by the hands, Meredith stepped back and, beaming with pride, said, “Let me take a look at you.”

Gwen did the same, noticing a few small changes in her mother: wisps of gray streaked her otherwise black hair; a few wrinkles tugged at the corners of her smile, though they did nothing to dampen its intensity; but her green eyes were unchanged and still twinkled like stars. Meredith was dressed simply yet elegantly in a long-sleeved white blouse and a blue skirt. Her favorite opal necklace, a piece that had once belonged to her grandmother, hung around her neck.

To her daughter, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.

“You've gotten prettier since the last time I saw you,” Meredith proclaimed.

“Mother…” Gwen replied, a little embarrassed.

“Let me brag!” her mother said with a smile. “Remember, you're the only person I have to gush over.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

At the familiar sound of her father's voice, Gwen left her mother and went to him. Warren Foster stood with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, beaming from ear to ear. He was a short, portly man; his big belly was the product of years spent sampling the breads, rolls, and pastries he made at the bakery, the business he'd run since just after Gwen was born. Even now, he had handprints of flour on his trousers and shirt, so when his daughter held out her arms to hug him, he warned, “Careful, sweetheart. I'm still wearin' this afternoon's work.”

“I'm used to it,” she replied, not caring a whit that her clothes might get dirty.

Holding him tight, Gwen was amazed by how familiar it felt: stretching to get her arms around his neck because of his ample midsection, the scratch of his whiskers on her cheek, and the way he smelled, a mix of all the delicious things he spent his day baking.

“I've missed you, Gwennie,” he told her.

Gwen had always liked that her parents each had their own special way of addressing her, her mother's being more formal, while her father's was as casual as could be. Each said something about the person. Meredith came from money in Pennsylvania and had grown up with maids, cooks, and a chauffeur, her dressers and closets full of fine clothes. Warren's family had struggled to make ends meet, going without food when they had no choice, mending clothes until they practically fell apart, all while living in a home that was little more than a shack.

But somehow, even though they came from very different backgrounds, from what many would consider different worlds, Meredith and Warren had fallen in love. Together, through good times and bad, they'd built themselves a home, a business, a family, a future. Choosing Warren had cost her mother her pampered life. Her parents had been so disappointed in her pick of husband that she'd been disinherited. But Gwen had always known that Meredith had no regrets; it could be seen in the way she smiled at Warren, the way she laughed at his outdated jokes, and how she helped at the bakery, praising the quality of his bread to anyone who walked through the door.

Gwen could only hope her own love would be so strong, so pure.

“It's good to see you again, Mr. Foster,” Kent said, choosing the perfect moment to insert himself into the conversation without interrupting their reunion. He stepped over and shook Gwen's father's hand, smiling warmly.

“Glad you could make it, son,” Warren replied.

“I hope you'll find Buckton to your liking,” Meredith said. Glancing around the small depot, she added, “I know it's a far cry from the big city.”

While Gwen and Kent had been in a relationship for more than a year, this was the first time that he'd come home with her to Indiana. They had made plans in the past, had even bought train tickets for Thanksgiving, but something always seemed to come up with his work. So though he had met Gwen's parents when they visited Chicago, charming them both during a long meal he'd paid for at the ritzy Via Lago Café, he'd never seen where she was born, where she grew up, where she had lived before attending Worthington. Much like her mother, Gwen had wondered what his reaction would be.

“It's perfect,” Kent answered. Putting his arm around Gwen, pulling her close, he said, “Any place that could produce such a wonderful young woman would have to be.”

“Wait'll you see all the hubbub on Main Street,” Warren said with a wink. “We better get a move on if we want to beat the traffic.”

When her father made to grab their bags, Kent interrupted him.

“Please, let me,” he said, snatching them up.

“You sure?” Warren asked.

Kent nodded. “After being cooped up on that train for so long, it will do me good to stretch a bit.”

Gwen couldn't help but smile at seeing Kent trying to make a good impression with her parents, though it wasn't all that far from who he was most of the time. From the smile on her father's face, his charm was working.

“Well, come on, then,” Warren said with a chuckle, leading the way out of the depot. “Let's give you your first look at Buckton.”

“…and that there's the shoe store Frank Holter's run since his father, Nigel, passed away from influenza during the outbreak in 1919. His cousin, Margaret, is married to Dick Epting, and together they own…”

Gwen sat in the backseat of her parents' car listening to her father ramble, explaining the history of what seemed like every other business and building they passed. Warren grew excited as he spoke, his hand darting out the open window to point at one thing or another. Kent sat up front beside him, smiling and nodding along, occasionally asking questions, while Meredith was next to her daughter. During a brief lull in her father's tour, Gwen caught Kent's eye, trying to express her sympathy for his having to listen to such boring talk, but he gave her a quick wink before laughing at one of Warren's infamously stale jokes.

Driving down Main Street, Gwen took a tour of her own, looking at the familiar sights: there was the lamppost in front of Mott's Drug Store where she used to lean her bike before going inside to have a soda at the counter; the tall stone steps of the library, where she would sit whiling away a sunny summer afternoon with an open book on her lap; and the street corner across from the movie theater where, at thirteen, Paul French had given Gwen her first kiss, leaning in unexpectedly to plant a chaste peck on her lips before running away, laughing with his friends.

Surprisingly, seeing these places again made Gwen feel nostalgic, a wave of happiness for something she hadn't even known she missed.

“It's nice to be home, isn't it?” Meredith asked, as if she'd been reading her daughter's mind.

Gwen nodded, still looking out the window. “Everything's the same. It's like all the years I've been gone, nothing's changed.”

“Things are more different than you might think.”

Meredith pointed out the window as they drove past Pedersen's Barber Shop, a place Gwen knew well. It was owned by Clark Pedersen, whose daughter, Sandy, had been Gwen's best friend growing up. The two girls had spent countless hours spinning around in the swivel seats, reading on the floor while Sandy's father cut someone's hair, and standing under the awning during thunderstorms, listening to the rain drum against the fabric above their heads.

“You know that Sandy got married.”

Gwen nodded. For as long as she could remember, Sandy had been head over heels in love with John Fiderlein, who had loved her right back. Quite frankly, it would've been a shock to the whole town if the two of them
hadn't
ended up together. Gwen had gotten an invitation to their wedding in the mail, along with a three-page letter Sandy had written detailing her excitement. Because of examinations, Gwen hadn't been able to attend, a fact that nearly broke her heart.

“But that's not all,” Meredith continued. “She's pregnant.”

“Sandy's going to have a baby?!” Gwen shouted; Kent and her father both glanced at the backseat before returning to their conversation.

“Eight months along now,” her mother said. “She's as round as a ball and tired, but excited to bring her and John's child into the world.”

Gwen was speechless. On the one hand, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. On the other, it was hard to believe that her friend was about to become a mother. In a way, it made Gwen feel melancholy; it saddened her that she and Sandy, who'd once been as close as sisters, had drifted apart.

“What happened over there?” Kent suddenly asked.

Gwen looked where he was pointing and saw the charred remains of a house; all that was left were a few blackened bits of wood still pointing toward the overcast sky. Debris littered the property. Even most of the grass in the front lawn had been singed away.

“Poor old Stan Nunn's place burned to the ground the night before last,” Warren explained. “Stan and his dog made it out, but by the time the fire department showed up, there wasn't much left to save. Heck, with as hard as it was rainin' that night, Mother Nature did most of the work for 'em.”

Once they'd driven past the wrecked house, Gwen turned to watch it fade away through the rear window. Something about it spoke to the writer in her. She wanted to put together what had happened, how the fire had started, what Stan Nunn would do now as he began rebuilding his life. In a way, Gwen thought she might understand how Stan now felt; having somewhere to come home to was much better than having no home at all.

As familiar as the rest of Buckton had been, it paled in comparison to how Gwen felt when she saw her parents' house. After Warren pulled into the drive, she got out and stood in the grass, looking up at the gray two-story Queen Anne, largely unchanged in the time she'd been away: the steep shingled roof was broken on one side by the chimney; tall windows opened onto the street, the curtains stirring in the steady breeze; a long porch wrapped around the southwest corner with a couple of wicker chairs set out to enjoy the view; and a pair of viburnum shrubs grew beside the walk, their flowers a brilliant white tinged with purple. While it was less opulent than the estate where her mother had been brought up, it was also much more so than the run-down shack in which her father's family had lived. It was perfect for them, another meeting in the middle.

Once again, Gwen wondered what Kent thought. His father's mansion had so many rooms that he'd once said he hadn't been in all of them; Gwen hadn't known whether he was joking. But for the second time, he surprised her.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said.

“That's kind of you to say,” Meredith answered. “We certainly adore it, even if it's a far cry from some of the fancy houses in Chicago.”

Kent flashed his warmest, most genuine smile. “Maybe so,” he agreed, “but there are plenty of ways in which living in Buckton might be better.”

“Now this I gotta hear,” Warren said.

“For example,” Kent began, “you don't have to fight through crowded sidewalks or elevated platforms just so you can go a couple of blocks.”

“That's true,” Meredith admitted.

“You also don't have to worry about neighbors, car horns, police sirens, or any number of other things that can keep you awake well into the night,” he continued. “This is to say nothing about the smells…”

“Maybe we got it better here than I thought.” Warren chuckled.

Just then, the deep rumble of thunder shook the late afternoon. The sky, which had grown darker and more menacing since they'd left the depot, finally let loose. Fat droplets of rain began pounding the ground. Laughing, Kent snatched up their bags and they all ran for the porch. They were quick, but not fast enough to keep from getting plenty wet, water dripping from their hair and clothes.

“I'm startin' to wonder if it's ever gonna stop rainin',” Warren said.

Inside the front door was a small foyer; to the left was the living room, to the right the dining room, and down a short hallway was the kitchen. A staircase rose to the second floor. But all Gwen noticed was the little things: the lace doily draped across the fireplace mantel, knitted long ago by her grandmother; the gold picture frame she'd given her mother for Christmas the year she'd turned ten; the end of the banister, the wood worn smooth by countless hands over dozens of years. It was these things that made the house feel like home.

Suddenly, Gwen stifled a yawn.

Her mother noticed. “Why don't you go upstairs and lie down for a while,” she said. “There's plenty of time before dinner.”

Gwen shook her head. “I'm fine,” she answered, though she doubted she would be awake for more than a minute after her head touched the pillow.

“Go on, Gwennie,” her father insisted.

She looked at Kent. Gwen assumed that he wouldn't be pleased to be left alone with her parents so soon after arriving in Buckton. But he gently touched her cheek and smiled. “It's fine,” he told her. “You should rest.”

“But I slept most of the way here.”