Early the next morning on
our road trip to Dallas—in Marcus’s rental car and with me at the wheel—we had a chance to get to know each other on a deeper level. We covered our childhoods and our families. Our favorite things. Our fears and dreams. Our various friendships and romantic relationships when we were teenagers. My marriage. And, of course, Julie.
We went beyond the casual chitchat of first dates, and delved into more important issues, the ones couples talk about when they get more serious about each other. I liked almost everything I saw on Marcus’s table when he got it all laid out, and he seemed to respond positively to all my answers and viewpoints. It was obvious we were not perfect people, but we both loved God and we were both smitten with each other.
Later, as we drove through the residential area of Dallas, Marcus gaped at me when I told him one of my crazy escapades as a child.
“So, let me get this straight,” he said, “you nearly blew yourself up. How exactly did that happen?”
“Well, one of the neighborhood kids, Ziggy, found a box of gunpowder on a high shelf out in his garage. Obviously it was something we weren’t supposed to be playing with, but he and I decided it might be fun to see if we could blow up some rotten vegetables we found out in the garden. We did indeed discover it was a blast …”
Marcus laughed.
“So, we tried it on bigger and bigger vegetables and fruits. I’m telling you it’s a real rush to watch a watermelon go ka-boom.”
He threw his head back, laughing. “I would love to have seen this.”
I passed a truck that was going too slowly. “Well, the story takes a dark turn. After a while we got bored with exploding vegetation, so we just threw bits of the gunpowder into a small fire, watching it fire up and sparkle like fireworks.”
“What? Where was your nanny in all this?”
“My nanny at the time, a woman named Matilda, was having cookies and coffee in the house where we were visiting, while Ziggy and I were hiding behind an empty horse barn with our gunpowder. They couldn’t hear a thing. So, back to the dark turn. Little did we know that bits of gunpowder were seeping through my fingers each time I went from the box to the fire. That action made a rough fuse, which neither one of us noticed.”
“Oh, Lily, you’re kidding.”
“No joke.” I gripped the steering wheel, remembering the blast. The thunder of it, the jolt, and the smell of scorched hair. “After a while the fuse lit, and it blew up the whole box of gunpowder. The explosion sent me sort of jumping as well as flying over a fence. I wasn’t permanently damaged, but for a while I had a ringing in my ears and some of my hair got scorched. It was a piece of my childhood that I will never forget, I can tell you that. And one my nanny will never forget either, since she got fired over it.”
Marcus whistled. “It’s a miracle you’re alive and that you didn’t get severely injured.”
“True.”
“There are a lot of miracles in this life, Lily.”
“Also true.”
“And one of them was when you decided to get on that plane to Australia.”
Delight rushed through me, making me smile.
“By the way, we’re almost there. Okay, now. Make a left on this street … Timberland Trails.”
When I did, Marcus pointed to the right. “My parents’ home is that one over there. The two story red brick with the green shutters and the American flag.”
“It looks like a friendly house. Very Norman Rockwell–ish.” It was a nice size, well-designed, and unpretentious. A home said a lot about the people inside. At least that had always been my theory. The only thing that seemed odd was the blinds—they were all closed tightly. I pulled up to the house and cut the engine. “So, are you ready for this?” Was I ready for this?
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Marcus adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “After a year, this is hard. I can’t imagine going ten years like you did. How did you manage going back that first time?”
“The grace of God I guess.” I picked up my purse, wondering if I had enough tissues. Just in case things got emotional.
“But the thing is, when you went back to see your mom after all those years, you hadn’t been guilty of anything. You weren’t even guilty of not going to visit her, since you told me she hadn’t wanted your company. You were an innocent. I’m not.”
“None of us are completely innocent. Not me, not your parents.” I wanted to hold Marcus’s hand, but I fiddled with the buttons on the console instead. “And you didn’t mean to fall asleep at the wheel. You wouldn’t have harmed a hair on your sister’s head. You loved her. While it was tragic, what happened, it wasn’t right for your parents to disown you.”
“I suppose not. But I can see the temptation. It seemed easier to unleash all their anger on something … someone.” Marcus adjusted his tie again.
“There needs to be forgiveness, though, and I hope it starts today.” I handed Marcus the keys to his rental car.
He gestured to my door. “Stay put. I’m coming around to open your door.”
I sat still while Marcus came around to my side, and like the genteel man he was, he opened my door, took my hand, and helped me out. As we walked up the sidewalk to the house I circled my arm through his, a place that now felt homey like a comfortable pair of slippers.
The blinds in one of the front windows moved as if someone had been watching. Guess they knew we’d arrived. I didn’t mention it to Marcus or tell him how scared I was to meet his parents, especially under such difficult circumstances. He already knew, so there was no sense in belaboring the point. The anxiety on my part would only add to his own.
The closer we got to the front door the more Marcus’s arm stiffened. I deliberately relaxed my own and patted his.
Seconds later we stood on the porch, staring at the tattered autumn wreath on the front door.
Marcus paused, reached over to the round bell, and gave it a decisive push.
Hmm. I suddenly hoped my dress was nice enough and not too low-cut. I’d spent half an hour agonizing over what to wear to give Marcus’s parents just the right message, and yet now I questioned my choice. Too late for any changes now. I practiced my smile and a few words of greeting in my head. I tried not to tap my foot or fidget. I was glad, at least, that I had no need to worry about Camille while I was gone. She seemed more stable emotionally and physically, and she’d insisted I come along with Marcus. As I left her she was relaxing on the back deck, reading a novel.
After a moment or two of waiting, Marcus stepped on a few fallen acorns, which made an impatient crunching sound under his shoe. “I wonder if they changed their minds.” Just as he reached out to ring the bell a second time, the door eased open.
I was surprised to see a woman who appeared more youthful than my mother. Mrs. Averill did, however, wear a pinched and tired look as if the only thing on her mind was to take a very long rest from life.
“Hi, Mom.” Marcus smiled and inched forward.
“Hi. Both of you, please come in.” His mother opened the door wider.
We both stepped inside the entryway. Mrs. Averill’s face lit with what appeared to be gladness, and yet she didn’t hug Marcus. Her eyes were lined in red, but it was impossible to know whether she’d been weeping from the excitement over their reunion or from the painful memories that would surely come from his visit. Maybe a little of both.
Marcus glanced around the entrance and beyond as if searching for something—someone. “The place still looks the same.”
His mother heaved a sigh. “I guess your father felt there’d been enough change, so he wouldn’t let me alter anything, even the old drapes …”
Marcus and his mother locked eyes, and in those moments something shifted. He thumped his fist into his palm as if he were starting a game of rock-paper-scissors.
It must have been a secret code from when he was a boy, because it instantly made his mother smile, changing the whole landscape of her face as well as the room.
“It’s good to see you, Mom,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” she said in an unsteady voice. She glanced my way. “Please introduce me, Son.”
“Mom, this is Lily Winter.”
We shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Averill.”
“Glad to meet you too.” Mrs. Averill slid her hands along her flared skirt, smoothing it.
Marcus milled around the entry hall. “Where’s Dad? Is he having a hard time with me coming home?”
Mrs. Averill straightened a figurine on the table. “Yes. A little.”
“I’m just glad you both agreed to let me come home for a bit.”
“Oh, well, it’s not that bad.” His mother waved him off. “You’re going to make us sound like horrible parents in front of your friend, here.”
“I don’t mean to do that. But Dad was pretty clear when I left. So I thought—”
“I know, Son.” His mother looked down, shifting the weight on her feet. “It wasn’t my idea. It was your father’s.” Her lip quivered.
Marcus went over to his mother and put his arms around her. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. I should have let it go. Would it be all right for us to go into the living room and sit down?”
“Of course. Please make yourself at home, both of you.” Mrs. Averill gestured toward the living room. “I have some coffee on. Would either of you like some?”
“No, thank you.” I scrubbed my fingers along my arms, feeling a chill.
“None for me,” Marcus said. “Thanks.”
“Well, then.” His mother backed away. “I’ll go and see where your father is.”
When she left the entry Marcus strolled into the living room. “Not exactly a joyous homecoming.”
I followed him and sat on the couch. “But your mom
did
offer coffee. That was nice.”
“Not quite the fattened calf, but it’ll do.”
It seemed clear to me now what God was up to—that He’d put us together to help each other through the same plight, the same familial turmoil. I wasn’t sure how it would all work out, but life was no doubt made easier by the empathetic camaraderie of similar circumstances. What mystery there was in the Almighty and His ways.
Marcus sat down next to me and picked up a family photo, which sat on an end table. The photo included three people, Mr. and Mrs. Averill and a young girl. Must be Ellie, his sister. But why didn’t the photo include Marcus?
His shoulders sagged some, but he said nothing as he set the photo down. While we were waiting on his mother, an older man who looked a lot like Marcus appeared in the doorway.
Marcus looked up. “Sir?”
For just one moment—an empty one jammed full of more raw emotion than humans were meant to endure—I could not guess how things would work out. I could almost hear Marcus’s plea to heaven.
Mr. Averill stood there in his three-piece suit and tie while we waited for the first flicker of welcome. “Marcus?” His first word came out as a question.
“Dad.” Marcus rose. “It’s good to see you.”
His father strode toward him, and when they met in the living room, he stuck out his hand. “Well, so you came home for a visit.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“You seem thin. Didn’t they feed you in the Outback?” his father asked.
“Yes, there’s plenty of food. I don’t eat as much as I used to, but I’ve been getting along all right.”
His father turned his attention to me. “And who’s your friend? Are you an Aussie?”
“No. I’m from Houston.” Best to keep things simple. Less of a target to shoot at.
After Marcus made the formal introductions, I quickly wiped my sweaty palm behind me on my dress and said, “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
“Same here,” Mr. Averill said to me, and then to Marcus, “I think your mother has made us a late lunch. Why don’t we go in and sit down?”
We filed tidily into the dining room where the table was set with a linen tablecloth and napkins and a bowl of short-cut roses. The room looked lovely but unused. Mrs. Averill brought in a loaf of sliced bread and sat down.
When we were all seated, Mr. Averill said a word of grace, very short and very solemn, and then his wife passed the roast and mashed potatoes around the table. No one said anything, so as the seconds ticked by it was as if Marcus had lost the little bit of ground he’d gained.
“So,” his father broke the silence, “what have you been doing with yourself in Australia all this time?”
“Staying busy.” Marcus let his fork rest back on his plate and looked directly at his father until he had his full attention. “That’s not the whole truth. I’ve not been that busy. I don’t have a real job. I live off my royalties. I have seen some of the sights, but mostly I’ve lived like a vagabond. When I met Lily on a park bench in Melbourne, I even looked like one.”
Oh, dear. Like Camille had done with Mother on her arrival, he was emptying his whole duffel bag at once. “Marcus is being modest,” I said. “He’s spent some of his time at St. Paul’s Cathedral, doing volunteer work with the youth. They speak highly of him there. And I would call his clothes more casual than anything.”
I waited for Mr. Averill to respond, but he just plowed into his mashed potatoes.
Timidly, a bug made its way across the hardwood floor. It stopped by my chair, and seemed to consider me before it vanished under the table. I wasn’t big on bugs, but I kept my feet still, not wanting to crush the poor thing. I had a feeling there would be enough of that for one day.
Mr. Averill cleared his throat, and I jolted back to the conversation, or the lack of one. The sugar bowl came my way, but I passed it on, since I didn’t want to add the clicking of glass to the tension in the room.
His father scooped several spoonfuls of sugar into his tea and stirred, clattering the utensil around on the glass. “Lily, what do you do?”
I took a sip of my iced tea, since my mouth had become an arid terrain. “I’m a secretary for an oil company.”
“Good solid business, but do you ever aspire for more?” Mr. Averill asked. “You know, hoping to be more than someone’s lackey?”
“Dad,” Marcus said, “I hardly think that an executive secretary should be thought of as someone’s lackey. It’s a very—”
“Okay, so it wasn’t the best choice of words.” His father put up a hand. “New subject. So, how in the world did you two become friends? Lily, were you on vacation in Melbourne when you met Marcus?”