The Forgiving Hour (3 page)

Dave whistled through his teeth. “Bet you were one spoiled little baby doll.”

If someone else had said that to her, she’d have been insulted. “I suppose so,” she admitted. “But I was pestered plenty too. Their favorite game when I was five or six was ‘let’s ditch Sara.’ I was left behind in the strangest places.”

He laughed.

“It wasn’t funny at the time.”

“Bet not.” As he spoke, he started to work on the cabinets. “What got you interested in the theater?”

“I don’t know.” Sara settled onto one of the two barstools at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. “I just always loved to act.”

Dave had a way of drawing out more and more information. Over the course of the next hour, she told him the names of her three brothers as well as the names of her parents, disclosed her passion for horses and barrel racing, announced she had the lead role in Boise State’s production of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,
and confessed her fondness for Chinese food and chocolate cake with dark-fudge frosting.

It was only when he started packing up his tools that she realized she hadn’t asked him a single question about himself, and now he was getting ready to leave. A wave of panic struck her in the midsection.

“Well, that should do it. Now you can put your dishes away.” He picked up his toolbox.

“Dave …” She let his name drift into silence, afraid to continue. What if she’d misread him? What if he wasn’t interested in her?

“Yeah?”

“I, ah, I have a couple of tickets for the play. For
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
It starts next Friday. A week from tomorrow. If you’d like to use them …” Again she failed to finish her sentence.

He smiled. “I’d love to come.”

She couldn’t remember when she’d felt this nervous or excited. If he would just —

His voice lowered a notch as he continued, “But I’ll only need one of those tickets. I’ll be coming alone.” He set his toolbox on the floor, then took a step toward her. “Although I hope I won’t end the evening alone. Will you be my dinner date after the play?”

She swallowed hard. “Your date?”

“They do still call it that, don’t they?” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “A date. You know? When a guy asks a pretty girl out.”

She nodded.

“So will you? Go out with me?”

“Yes.” She sounded as breathless as she felt.

“Great. Friday night it is. Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you. Okay?”

“Okay.” She thought he might try to kiss her.

Instead, he pulled a small spiral notebook and a pencil from his shirt pocket. “Sara Jennings,” he said as he wrote on one of the pages. Then he looked at her expectantly. “Your number?”

Just as she finished answering him, the apartment door opened, and Patti entered. She stopped and stared at Dave. Her expression changed quickly from surprise to frank appreciation. Sara felt a rush of relief that her roommate hadn’t returned sooner.

Dave grinned at the newcomer. “You must be Patti.”

“Yes.” She glanced at Sara, one eyebrow cocked in question.

“I’m Dave,” he answered before Sara could. “Your friendly neighborhood carpenter.” He picked up his toolbox again. “And I’d better go. I’m already behind schedule on my next job.”

Patti stepped aside so he could walk past her. Sara followed him out to the open-air landing, purposefully closing the door behind her.

He paused at the top of the stairs. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll call you on Monday.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She immediately regretted the words. She sounded too anxious, too much like a teenager.

His smile made her forget everything else. “Talk to you then.”

THREE

Claire dipped the tops of the éclairs in the chocolate ganache glaze, then put the dozen rich desserts into the refrigerator to chill.

Not for the first time, she glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Dave should have been home by now.

“Please don’t forget we’ve got company coming for dinner,” she muttered.

If he did forget, it wouldn’t be the first time. Dave was notorious for losing track of the time or forgetting an obligation. And he hated it when Claire reminded him. He detested being nagged, and that’s exactly what he accused her of doing, no matter how carefully she selected her words. They used to fight about it all the time until she’d made the decision it wasn’t worth the grief. Her husband was a hard worker and a good provider. He labored six days a week and occasionally on Sundays too.

So Dave had a slight character flaw. Wasn’t love about accepting a man as he was?

“I’m done setting the table, Mom.”

She turned. Mike stood in the archway between the kitchen and the dining room.

“Can I go over to John’s now?” he asked, referring to his best friend.

“You’re sure Mrs. Kreizenbeck won’t mind you coming so early?”

He laughed. “You know what it’s like over there. John’s mom probably doesn’t even know when there’s an extra kid around.”

Claire couldn’t disagree. There were ten children in the Kreizenbeck household, and she’d never been inside their home when it wasn’t in total chaos. Maybe there was peace in the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, but certainly never in the light of day.

She lifted a paper plate covered with aluminum foil from the counter and held it out to her son. “I made some frosted sugar cookies to take with you. They are
not
just for you and John. Understood? You be sure to share them with his folks and brothers and sisters. There’s plenty for all.”

“I will.”

“And you give Mrs. Kreizenbeck a hand with whatever she asks.”

“I will. I always do.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide his impatience.

“Have you got your dress clothes packed so you can go with them to church in the morning?”

“Ah, Mom, you know I do.”

Claire grasped his shoulders and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Okay, get going. Have a good time and behave yourself. Be home by one o’clock. And be sure you’re careful crossing Orchard Avenue on your bike. You know how busy —”

He was off and running before she could finish her words of caution.

She smiled. Some of her friends had to worry about their children all the time, but Mike rarely gave her any concern. He did his homework, usually without being told, and brought home good grades with every report card. He was active in the Boy Scouts. He was considerate to old people, like their neighbor Mrs. Applegate. He always helped around the house, washing dishes, running thevacuum, making his bed. She’d never once suspected him of smoking or drinking, although she knew some children his age were already into such things. And he never sassed her.

Suddenly she chuckled. If someone could read her mind, they’d think her son was a candidate for sainthood, which wasn’t the case either. Despite all his good points, Michael Dakota Porter was still just a normal boy who could get into more than a little mischief when he was so inclined.

With a shake of her head, Claire returned her attention to the dinner preparations.

The Italian stuffed veal breast, along with carrots and new potatoes, was roasting in the oven, filling the air with the delicious scents of onion, garlic, and sage. A salad of mixed greens was prepared, as were two homemade dressings. The last thing she had to do was put the rolls into a serving basket and warm them, but that could wait until after her guests arrived.

She glanced at the clock again. “Oh, Dave,
please
don’t be late tonight. Please don’t forget about dinner. Not with all these guests coming.”

Maybe she should have reminded him, even if he would have gotten angry and called her a nag. He’d been so preoccupied the last couple of days. Like his thoughts were in a far-off place. Sometimes when he looked at her, she didn’t think he saw her. Instead, he seemed to look right through her.

She frowned. Last night, she’d worn the nightgown he’d given her for their last anniversary, and he hadn’t even noticed. He’d just given her a perfunctory kiss good-night, rolled over, and gone to sleep. If that black satin negligee couldn’t get his attention, he was sure to forget a dinner party, especially one given in honor of her best friend, Alana Moncur, and her husband, Jack.

“Couple of stuffed shirts,” Dave had said when she’d told him she wanted to give this party for the Moncurs’ tenth weddinganniversary. “Haven’t you ever noticed how he lords it over the rest of us common folk? He’s always bragging about how much money he makes and what a success he is.”

“He does no such thing,” she’d protested, despite knowing it wouldn’t change Dave’s mind. Her husband rarely changed his mind about anything.

Claire yanked off her apron and left the kitchen. Unless she wanted to greet her guests in her faded Levi’s and oversized cotton blouse, she’d better get changed. Worrying about whether Dave would arrive before everyone else wasn’t going to get him there any faster.

Waiting for Monday—and that anticipated phone call from Dave— was going to drive Sara crazy.

It was only Saturday, and she’d already spent far too much time staring at the telephone, waiting for it to ring. She’d tried watching television, but she couldn’t find a single program that interested her. She’d tried reading a new novel by her favorite author, but even a great love story couldn’t hold her attention. Patti was off playing tennis with a group of friends, so she couldn’t while away the day exchanging mindless gossip with her roommate. She found no enjoyment, as she usually did, in rehearsing her lines for the upcoming production. If she didn’t do something to take her mind off Dave, she would be a basket case by Monday.

So Sara did what came naturally. She went home to see her family.

Her parents owned three hundred and twenty acres in western Canyon County. The farm had been in the family since the late twenties, purchased with money Sara’s great-grandfather, Horace Jennings, had made as a bootlegger during the Prohibition years — a story her dad liked to retell at every Jennings family reunion.

For decades, the rich soil had produced crops of sweet corn and sugar beets to be sold at market. It also nurtured an immense garden of vegetables to help feed the family. A few calves, raised for the beef that would go into the Jenningses’ deep freeze, grazed on pastureland alongside several saddle horses. Huge poplars, oaks, and maples filled the yard, providing shade, and one tree offered a gnarled limb from which hung an old rope-and-board swing. The two-story white house that had sheltered several generations of Jennings kids was large and drafty, like most seventy-year-old farmhouses.

Sara had never minded any of the imperfections in her childhood home. Not the creaky stairs or the groans from the attic on dark windy nights. Not the icy floor on an early winter morning. Not the faded flowered wallpaper in her bedroom. Not even the hairline cracks in the claw-footed bathtub or the leaky faucet in the sink. Nothing would ever make her think there was a better place for children to grow up than in this old house.

She arrived at the farm at suppertime. She hadn’t planned it that way, but she wasn’t sorry either. Although her mom wasn’t a fancy cook, nobody knew better than Kristina Jennings how to fill up a husband and three strapping sons with plain, hearty, just-tastes-good food. Tonight she was serving poor-boy stew, made with hamburger, onions, carrots, potatoes, and tomato sauce. Before Sara scarcely knew what was happening, she’d been seated in her old spot at the table between her dad and her eldest brother, Tim.

“You’re too thin,” Kristina fussed as she set before Sara a large bowl of stew and a chunk of fresh-baked bread with ample butter spread on it. “You’re wasting away to nothing.”

It was what her mother said every time she saw Sara. A woman of short stature, Kristina was round and soft, reminding Sara of the Pillsbury Doughboy in a curly red wig.

“I’m
not
too thin.” Sara glanced to her left. “Tell her I’m okay, Dad.”

Her father, Jared Jennings, had a face like an old weathered glove, browned by the sun and creased by the heat, cold, wind, and constant worries that came with farming. He also had eyes that twinkled with the mischief of a small boy.

“She’s okay, Kris. Leave her be.” He winked at Sara. “Besides, them college boys like ‘em skinny as beanpoles. Ain’t that right?”

Heat rose in her cheeks as she remembered Dave telling her she was pretty enough to be a movie star. He wasn’t a college boy but —

“Well, I’ll be!” Tim exclaimed. “Look at her blush. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush before.”

“The princess has gone and got herself a boyfriend,” Josh said with a laugh. Her middle brother was a ruthless tease, and now that he thought he had something to razz her about, this was sure to be a long evening.

Sara groaned inwardly. She didn’t need this. She’d come home to take her mind
off
Dave.

“Who is he?” Eli asked. “Do we know him?”

“I
don’t
have a boyfriend. And if I did, I sure wouldn’t tell any of you buffoons.” She picked up her spoon and stared into her stew. “I’m not
that
naive.”