My Mother's Chamomile Page 8

  “I’m not going back.”

  “Come on, Ev.”

  “No way. I’m never going back there.”

  “Really? Not even for the guy who drove the getaway after you murdered the deer?”

  “Seriously, Cal. That’s not okay.” I turned on the radio, waiting for an entire song to play before I let my shoulders slump. “I’m so sick of being an outsider.”

  “Rebel, really.”

  “Cal, I’m serious.”

  “Okay. You want me to be serious.” He straightened up in his seat and pushed up his tie. “People have a hard time being around us. We know that. We’ve known that since we were kids. And it’s because we remind them of something they’d rather not have to think about every few minutes. We remind them that, one of these days, they will die. That someone they love will die. They see us and remember that they don’t have the slightest bit of control over when or who or how. They don’t like having mortality shoved in their faces.”

  “But they need us,” I mumbled. “They should be a little more accepting of us.”

  “Ev, this job is all about comforting them. It’s not about being popular. We don’t need them to understand us. They aren’t going to. But we need to be there in the worst of their lives anyway.” He pulled down the sun visor. “When they need us, they’re desperate. And we’re the only ones who can help them. So, we go and do it.”

  He pulled into a parking spot right outside my apartment.

  “Hey, Ev,” he said, stopping me right before I got out. “Don’t let her get to you.”

  “I know.” I pushed a strand of hair behind my ears.

  “Seriously. Besides that bakery, gossip is all she has.” He scratched his chin. “I don’t think she’d know what to do with herself if all the drama magically disappeared.”

  “I know. It still bothers me, though.” I clenched my jaw. “I hate it when people talk about me.”

  “They wouldn’t bother talking if you weren’t so great.”

  “Thanks.”

  My brother clearly didn’t understand the mind of women, but I decided to take his kind words anyway.

  “Are you really thinking about leaving?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” I looked at my shoes. Powdered sugar speckled the black leather. “Probably not. Everyone I have is here.”

  “It would be nice to have a little break from death.” His mouth made a half smile. “We need a puppy.”

  I hadn’t wanted to laugh at him. Or at anything, for that matter. But I couldn’t help myself.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” I was surprised by how my emotions surged. The idea that Deirdre knew something about my brother that I didn’t upset me more than I would have thought. “Why did you really want to go into The Beauty Hut?”

  “Her name is Grace.” He sighed. “And she’s awesome.”

  “Did you ask her out?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “She shot me down in the nicest possible way.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” He scratched a spot on his neck right under the stiff, white collar. “I’m just going to show up tomorrow with some flowers.”

  My brother was becoming more like Granddad all the time.

  It made me lonely to think that only a handful of men like them existed. I worried that I’d never find one of them for me.

  Chapter Ten

  Olga

  I didn’t get too many chances to wear a nice dress. In fact, I only had a couple to choose from that weren’t sensible or black. For a date with Clive, I thought my red one best. Too fancy for everyday and far too sassy for Sunday morning, let alone a funeral. I had that dress reserved for special occasions. I even put a bright shade on my lips for added ritz.

  Old age had settled in and took up housekeeping, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t get dolled up for my love.

  When Clive got his peepers on me, his jaw hung low before his mouth pulled back up in a smile. I didn’t mind that one bit. To play it up, I took a twirl, letting the red fabric fan out around my legs.

  “My, my,” he said, gliding his way toward me. His hands on my hips, he led me in a swaying back and forth dance. “If we didn’t already have reservations, I’d say we should stay in for the night.”

  “I suppose I’d better wear this dress more often.” I smoothed his collar. “Just so long as it gets me out of cooking dinner.”

  “If you wore it every day, my dear, I’d hire a cook.” He checked his watch. “Oh. I could stay like this with you all night. But we’d better scoot. We’ve got just enough time to get there.”

  He took my hand in his and led me to the stairs. I knew that hand as well as my own. Knew the calloused spots on his palm and the way his thumb rubbed the tender inside of my wrist. But I still got a shiver of delight from our skin touching.

  He escorted me all the way to our car and opened the door for me. “My love,” he said.

  “You still haven’t told me where you’re taking me.”

  “Someplace nice.” His kiss on my lips warmed me all the way through. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Sitting in my seat with the belt strapping me in, I watched Clive trot around the front of the car. I hadn’t seen him so bouncy in years.

  “You’re downright giddy, Clive,” I said once he got into his seat.

  “Honey, the way you look, I can hardly help myself.”

  The little bit of youth left over in my heart jumped up and down to hear my husband say such things.

  We rode along, the warmth of the day softening as the evening sun inched down. We drove past houses and fields we’d known our whole lives. Still, in that familiar place, the beauty hadn’t grown plain to me. Instead, I carried all those sights and smells in my soul as gifts from the Almighty. Precious and interwoven into my very being.

  Clive reached over and patted my hand. His flesh on my flesh. Our flesh together that so long ago had become one.

  One flesh, riding with the sun glowing and the smell of someone burning brush. Not needing to make a single sound, but knowing when to meet eyes for the smallest and sweetest of moments. One flesh, letting the windows stay rolled down because his scalp was bare and my hair didn’t mind the whipping wind.

  Romance meant riding in our old, reliable, never-once-broke-down Buick along a fresh grated country road. Realizing that, even after fifty-two years of marriage, we still worked together at figuring out what being in love meant.

  Clive parked the Buick. Oh, but did that man pick my very favorite place a few towns over? He certainly had. The kind of restaurant made out of an old railway car. I wouldn’t even have to look at the menu. My mouth started watering for the salmon as soon as we pulled in.

  Once we got ourselves inside and seated at a table, I locked eyes with Clive. Those baby blues of his made my heart pitter pat. I hardly even noticed the way he fumbled with his cloth napkin and took extra sips of water. But from those little cues, I figured he had something on his mind. He acted just the way he had the night he asked me to be his bride.

  “Honey,” I said. “What is the matter?”

  He stilled his fidgeting. Then the man smiled so big, I saw the gold crowns on his back teeth.

  “Well, Olga, I wanted to talk to you about something.” He waited once the waitress came to get our orders. When she stepped away, he looked back at me, nervous as all get-out. “You know we’re getting older.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Seems like life hasn’t worked out the way we thought it would.” He took a sip from his water glass. “In fact, nothing turned out the way we planned it.”

  “I’d venture to say it all ended up far better than we’d expected.”

  “I’d have to agree with you on that.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “Remember how we wanted to see parts of the world so far away, we’d have to ride an airplane to get there?”

  “Oh, that silly dream.” Sighing, I tilted my head to the side. “Such young dreamers.�
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  “I never thought that it was so silly.”

  “What are you getting at, Clive?”

  “I’m thinking it’s about time for me to retire.”

  “Truly?” My heartbeat thudded in my ears.

  “Now, I don’t know when. But I know it’s getting harder for me to do the work these days.”

  My fingertips reached up to hold the scream of excitement that about burst out from my lips. Even a seventy-two-year-old woman had the giddies bubble inside sometimes.

  “I guess I wanted to ask you a few questions. First, are you ready for me to be around all the time, taking up space?”

  “It’s the best thing I can imagine,” I answered.

  “Good.” He pushed himself up from his seat and walked around to my seat. Getting down on one knee, he turned his eyes to my face. “Next, I’d like to know if you would be ever so kind enough to join me next year in Hawaii for the honeymoon you never got?”

  In his hand lay a white, fuzzy box. A gold ring with a milky, flat stone caught my eye. My poor heart skipped at least two beats, and I thought I’d never be able to catch my breath.

  “Of course,” I whispered. “Yes.”

  He pulled the ring from its box and slipped it right onto my finger. “That’s mother of pearl. Charlotte helped me order it from a little place in Hawaii. Maybe we can even find the shop when we’re there. Get you a pair of earrings to match it.”

  The ring fit just right.

  “It’s so pretty.”

  “You make it even prettier.” He winked at me. “Now, I got to figure out if I can get up off this floor. Last time I was on one knee I didn’t seem to have such a problem.”

  Using the table, he pushed himself up. Thank goodness it held sturdy and Clive didn’t get himself stuck on that floor. But, really, I wasn’t paying him all that much mind. The mother of pearl ring had my attention.

  “Well, honey.” He settled into his chair. “What do you think?”

  I sipped on my peppermint iced tea. “Retirement is a big word, Clive. A big, heavy word.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He blew out a puff of relief. “I’ve been carrying it around all by myself for the last few weeks.”

  “Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “I had the darnedest time getting a reservation. And every time I had one on the books, I’d get a call for a funeral.”

  And if that didn’t put into one sentence our entire marriage, I wouldn’t know what did.

  We turned our words to dreams of Hawaii. Waterfalls and luaus. Fresh blue water and flowers of every color in my imagination and beyond. We talked of putting our little tootsies in the ocean and drinking straight out of a coconut. Even seeing a palm tree would seem a miracle.

  Our food arrived, steaming and smelling like a piece of paradise come all the way to our corner of Michigan. The way it tasted proved that, indeed, it had.

  “Where will we live?” The question popped up, so suddenly to my mind, I let it tumble from my lips.

  “What do you mean, honey?” Clive sawed a knife into his steak. “You want to try a bite of this?”

  “I’ll trade you for a taste of salmon.” So tender, the pink fish flaked apart when I touched it. “I mean, after you retire. Will we move?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far in my planning.” He pushed a generous portion of beef off his fork and onto my plate. “Do you think we should?”

  “I don’t know that we could stay in our apartment and have you keep your handsome paws out of the business.” My fork scraped under a mound of rice. “I’d have a hard time being away from Gretchen, though.”

  A wave of anxiety rippled through my heart. What would we do about her? It wouldn’t feel right to move even a mile away from her.

  “We never meant to live in that apartment so long, did we?” A piece of garnish fell off his plate as he worked at his steak. “I wanted more for you. And for Gretchen.”

  “Oh, Clive. You know all I’ve ever wanted was to be a family alongside you. And God blessed that.” The wet roll of a tear inched down my cheek. “I never cared where we spent our life. Just so long as we got to do it together. And the apartment worked just right.”

  His eyes got good and watery.

  “Honey,” I said. “You’ve made a good life for us.”

  Returning to fill our iced teas, the waitress asked if we didn’t think we’d like to save room for dessert.

  Of course we would.

  She left us to finish our last bites of supper before bringing out plates of fancy torte cakes with hoity-toity names. My mouth didn’t much care what they were called. I just enjoyed the rich sweetness of chocolate and cream.

  We finished up. Clive paid the bill. Together, we walked out into the cooled off evening. We got into the Buick for a bit of a drive.

  My thumb rubbed against the smooth shell of my new ring. After so long, one conversation over steak and salmon had changed a whole lot of my life. Retirement. Moving. Having more of Clive to myself. Most of my life had stayed the same for years. Even down to the way I arranged the furniture. The very idea of change flipped my stomach upside-down.

  But, glancing over at Clive, I remembered the sweet wealth of all that would stay the same.

  Chapter Eleven

  Evelyn

  Two churches shared an intersection in our little town. Really, it was the only intersection we had. Blinking yellow light and all.

  Middle Main Bible Church and First Christian Church of Middle Main stood across from each other on a narrow, two lane road. Ironically, First Church came second. More accurately, it split from the Bible Church with a defection led by none other than Old Buster. According to Gran, it all caused quite the stir back in the nineteen-sixties. And all before Deirdre’s reign as village gossip.

  I wondered how news spread back in those days.

  My family attended First Church. More out of obligation than anything. But I usually skipped out. The last thing I needed was to hear Old Buster’s voice even more than I already did.

  But that Sunday I showed up, Charlotte alongside me. I had to see for myself whether or not Will had been hired. And find out if he was really divorced.

  Besides, I wanted to see him again.

  Apparently the rest of Middle Main wanted to catch an eye-full of him, too. Char and I couldn’t find an empty pew when we arrived.

  Shoulder to shoulder, people filled the sanctuary. No doubt they felt thankful for the air conditioning that had been installed the year before.

  “Great,” I whispered to her. “No seats.”

  We’d have to stand in the narthex, looking in through the glass wall and listening to the service through an old speaker hanging from the ceiling.

  “Sorry,” she whispered back. “I tried to hurry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Really, I’d just wanted to get a seat where I could see Will. Maybe be seen by him. I’d even worn a skirt. And shaved my legs. Just in case I got the chance to talk to him.

  One of the ushers frowned at us. I stuffed down the desire to frown back.

  “Your hair looks fine, Char.” I turned from the grumpy man. “Stop touching it.”

  The service began. The congregation stood for the praise time. A middle-aged man wearing socks and sandals stood on the stage, guitar slung across his torso. His voice shook into the microphone with overdone vibrato as he sang tired, repetitive, fluffy songs. Old Buster took great pride in what he called the “contemporary worship” at First Church.

  Standing next to me, Char sang along, her voice bouncing back to us from the glass wall. Such a clear tone, she didn’t need to show off. I, on the other hand, chose to mouth the words for a very specific reason.

  “You all go ahead and have a seat for a minute,” the guitar man said after finishing the last song. “Zeke Filler has our communion meditation.”

  Sitting, the congregation turned their eyes to the man who moved with solemnity to the stage. His hair had been sli
cked to one side and his face held the expression of a man delivering a eulogy. He wore what could only be described as a leisure suit. The burnt orange polyester made the royal blue ascot really stand out.

  “I’m so impressed,” I whispered to Charlotte. “How does something like that survive after forty years?”

  “Polyester is the cockroach of fabric,” Charlotte answered. She had to turn around to laugh.

  Guitar man spread his arms, offering a hug to old Zeke. He looked guitar man up and down before turning his back to him and taking the microphone in his hand.

  He spoke about the dangers of consuming communion in an unworthy manner. That to do so would make one guilty of the blood of Christ. From the severe look in his eyes, I figured he meant it. Making fun of a man’s ancient suit qualified as unworthy, I guessed. The frowning usher didn’t bring the communion trays to us anyway.

  Next, the wicker baskets passed around from pew to pew, collecting cash and checks. A woman made her way to the microphone. She wore a bright yellow dress and red shoes. Grabbing the microphone, she nodded at the guy in the sound booth.

  “God is good all the time,” she said over the music, her voice smooth and sticky sweet. “All the time, God is good.”

  As if watching something ascend into the air, she moved her gaze to the ceiling. Opening her mouth, she pulled in a deep breath that seemed to fill her up down to her toes.

  And then she sang.

  When I was a kid, Gran had talked about how God didn’t choose to grace everyone with beautiful singing voices. She said that, when those people sang, it truly was a noise with joy tossed in. And that, to God, it was a beautiful sound.

  The woman on the stage sure did make a noise. Though I wasn’t sure she’d remembered to include the joy. She clung to the microphone so tightly, I wondered how it didn’t short out. As the song went on, the noise from her vocal cords turned shrill and loud. Flaring nostrils grew wider and wider as she approached the end note. Eyebrows raised up so far into her forehead, they almost became bangs. At the high note, she got a strangle hold on the microphone. Mouth opened wide and lips pulled up, she screamed a fierce war cry I was sure had gotten half the dogs in town barking.