Читать книгу A Family For Andi - Eileen Berger - Страница 9

Andi had been invited to come downstairs for some supper after she’d unpacked, so was soon following sounds of activity toward the rear of the downstairs hallway.

She passed a third, regular-size door on her left, and then was in the huge kitchen with built-in floorto-twelve-foot-ceiling cherry cupboards. There was an old, galvanized sink and early-model refrigerator/ freezer and electric stove—but also a top-of-the-line mixer, blender and microwave on the counter. “What a pleasant kitchen to work—to live in!”

“I especially like having all these windows on two sides—except when washing them.” Her hostess took bowls from a cupboard and reached into a wooden drawer for soup spoons. Setting them on the table, she brought a container from the microwave and divided its contents. Andi also saw a basket of homebaked biscuits on the table. “I hope you like chicken-and-corn soup, Miss—Miss? Marker.”

“Please…I’m Annie,” she said, stumbling slightly over the almost-Andi. “And yes, I’m unmarried.”

“Okay, Annie. And you call me MaryJean, if it doesn’t bother you to say that to someone of my advanced years. Or just Gram, if you like.”

Mrs. McHenry’s attitude as she spoke of “advanced years” made it plain that she felt anything but elderly. Considering her reason for being here, Andi had no difficulty making her choice. “Since Keith called you ‘Gram,’ I’d prefer that”

“Fine.” She motioned for Andi to sit near the corner, on the long side of the wooden extension table, while she took the matching cane-seated chair at the end. “This soup’s a favorite of my family. I make huge batches, eat some, give some away, and put the rest in the freezer.”

Andi’s spoon moved among chunks of chicken, pieces of hard-boiled egg, tiny dumplings, and yellow kernels of corn in broth as she waited for Gram to take the first bite—

“Do you want to return thanks or shall I?”

Andi’s spoon clunked against the side of her bowl as she hastily set it down. “Would you, please?”

Gram reached for Andi’s hand and bowed her head. “We thank you, Lord, for your many blessings, including bringing Annie safely this far, even though she had car trouble.”

Andi shifted uncomfortably as the prayer continued. “Help the boys be able to fix it, and help this delay to not interfere too much with her plans. I appreciate her being here, where I pray she’ll find rest, peace and renewal.”

How long has it been since I was prayed for? she wondered. Mother used to pray with her at bedtime, and when just the two of them ate lunch or dinner together, they’d sometimes hold hands like this. Mother also took her to Sunday School and church, before all those trips to the hospital began.

Gram concludcd. “…Thanks, also, for this nourishing food. Amen.” She patted Andi’s hand before reaching for her spoon. “Where are you heading? And when must you get there?”

Andi had expected her story to be easy to tell, but now, after that prayer, felt uncomfortable—even though convinced that her motives justified her actions. She had to learn about her family—about The Cousins.

“There’s no set time—no exact destination,” she admitted. “Just driving around New England and sightseeing, so I don’t mind staying a while.”

Gram’s head was cocked to the side again, birdlike. “All by yourself? Won’t you get lonely?”

Probably Gram would miss people. Surrounded by family as she was, she probably never had a chance to be lonely. “I wanted to spend time by myself.” She surprised herself by adding, “I just lost an especially good friend.”

She was embarrassed by tears in her eyes; they still came too readily. “It was—an automobile accident. Jon was killed.”

Gram’s hand was on her arm and then she was getting up from her chair to stand beside Andi’s, drawing her close, holding her. “I’m sorry.”

No sounds except for a truck’s passing on the street. The buzzing of a fly at the back door. A distant lawn mower. Yet in some strange way Andi felt comforted.

Gram returned to her seat. “My Phil died suddenly, too. I know what a shock that is.”

Andi looked into the clear blue eyes of this woman whom she was already beginning to consider a friend. “I’m sorry, too—about your loss.”

They began eating and the on-and-off conversation concerned soup ingredients, and the size of the community and what went on in it. “Next weekend will be busier,” Gram told her. “It’s the annual Firemen’s Carnival.”

“What’s that?”

“All the towns around here, except Dalton, have their own volunteer fire companies. We think Sylvan Falls’s is the best—and it is. We win contests year after year. But it’s horrendously expensive to buy equipment and pay for repairs and uniforms and stuff, so they need money-making projects.

“Over at Caldeer, they have hunters’ breakfasts round-the-clock for three days at the beginning of deer season, and at Murrayville, there are elaborate skeet shoots a couple of times each year. At Parsons Springs, next north of here, they specialize in familystyle dinners for Mother’s Day and Thanksgiving and Easter—times like that. But here in Sylvan Falls and at a number of other places, there are carnivals.”

“What is your carnival like?”

“Well-l-l, it’s one week when everyone in the community has fun together. There are parades some nights—pet parades, floats and fire equipment and vehicles—that sort of thing. Our school band performs, as well as. any from other towns that can be coerced into comin’. And the Little Leaguers, 4-H members, Scouts and kids from twirling and dance studios are here, even nursery schools—so there are many adults and children watching from the sidewalks.”

She got up, retrieved a half-gallon carton of butter pecan ice cream from the freezer, and scooped large servings into cereal bowls. “The Firemen’s Building and lot are one block back and two over that way,” she said, flicking her hand in a southwesterly direction.

“A day or two before the official opening, trucks arrive with the Ferris wheel, merry-go-rounds, Spiders, Moonwalks, slides—all sorts of things. In the meantime, the firemen and the Auxiliary, which is very active, set up things for chicken barbecues or pig roasts or whatever dinners are to be served. Others prepare the pizza, ice cream, and hot dog and barbecue stands. Or whatever.”

She returned the carton to the freezer. “By the time it’s all done, hundreds are involved—baking cakes or pies, setting up tables, selling raffle tickets for a donated quilt, cooking for the dinners, overseeing a coin-toss booth where prizes are anything from stuffed bears to vases.”

“That sounds interesting. I almost wish I could stay.”

“Well—” she placed Andi’s dessert in front of her and returned to her own chair “—maybe you can.”

Andi was grateful for that, but tried to keep from appearing too eager. “Depending on the car…”

Andi hadn’t realized how tired she was until she tried to watch a comedy on TV. She sat with Gram in the room to the left of the front door, which Gram referred to as the “TV room.”

Gram seated herself in the center of the tapestrycovered couch and picked up her knitting. Andi chose the spindle-backed rocker with cushioned, petit point seat partly because it looked comfortable, but also to be facing the front windows looking onto the street.

She hoped others of Gram’s family might come, but they didn’t. She got up during a program break and walked over to the upright piano, where photos were displayed on its flat top. “Are these your children and grandchildren?”

Gram laid down her handwork and came over to pick up a framed picture. “This is our oldest, Phyllis, a second-shift nurse at the hospital, and her husband, Hal Bastian. He’s a mechanic. Did you meet him at the garage?”

She shook her head. “I arrived late and saw no one except Keith, who came when he heard the buzzer.”

“Well, they have only one child, Evelyn, and she teaches second grade. And this is her husband, Frank, and their kids, Brock and Melody—aged six and four.”

The children were leaning like bookends against their seated parents—bright-eyed, dark-complexioned Melody, with an impish look on her face; blond Brock, more serious.

Andi indicated the children. “They’re beautiful. Are they as different as they look?”

Gram laughed. “If they came in right now, Brock would sit with us and carry on a grown-up conversation, while Melody, the whirlwind, would be checking out the kitchen, running up and down the stairs— and might very well be going through your things upstairs!”

“In that case, I’ll keep things locked.” She must do that, at least with her laptop. She didn’t need in-quisitive little hands revealing—or destroying—data!

Some pictures appeared to be recent shots and some, much older. Andi picked up one of a little boy, dressed in a striped T-shirt and blue jeans, who proudly held a disgruntled-looking calico cat. Although the boy looked to be only six or seven years old, his wide warm smile and sparkling eyes were unmistakable to Andi.

“Is that Keith?” she asked Gram, already knowing the answer. What a dear little boy he seemed. Her heart felt a rush of warmth at this precious glimpse into his childhood.

“Yes, Keith and one of his many pets. All the strays in town seemed to follow that boy home. Zack used to joke about opening a petting farm.” Gram laughed.

Gram took the picture from Andi and gazed down at the image with a loving expression. “Our Keith…I couldn’t love him more if he was my own blood.”

“What do you mean, ‘your own blood’?”

“Well, my son Zack isn’t Keith’s natural father. Keith’s father died when the child was less than a year old. It was maybe two years later when Zack married Shelby and legally adopted him.”

While Gram set the photograph back on the piano, Andi felt such a moment of sadness for Keith, having lost his biological father at such a tender age. Then a flush of excitement followed. She and Keith weren’t even distantly related. She need not feel any concern at all about her attraction to him.

Gram reached for another photo, showing a middleaged couple and a stunningly beautiful blonde. “This is Brad—Bradley Eugene McHenry—married to Paula, a lawyer. And their daughter, Vanessa. Her degree’s in computer science, but she works as secretary to the president of a computer technical support company.”

Hmmmmm, she thought. Gram didn’t mention Brad’s profession. But she hadn’t said what Frank did, either, so that’s probably not significant. “With that background, Vanessa’s probably invaluable to her boss.”

“She calls herself a—an executive secretary.”

“Is that here in Sylvan Falls?” There was no mention of such a business in her file.

Gram slowly, precisely, replaced the likeness. “In Dalton. She lives there now, so I don’t see much of her.”

Is that disapproval in her tone? Andi wondered. “You saw a great deal of her when she lived at home?”

“Not as much as I’d have liked.”

The phone rang, and Gram went to the kitchen. She was talking into what she later referred to as her “walk-around” as she returned. “…There’s a lady from Chicago spending the weekend here…No, waiting for her car to be fixed…Yes, everything’s fine here. How ‘bout you?…Keith stopped for a few minutes, and all seems well with him.…I’d love to, Karlyn, if you promise not to go to a lot of trouble… Great! See you in church. And thanks…”

Andi had returned to her rocker, and Gram laid the phone among the balls of yarn as she returned to the sofa. “That was Karlyn, Zack’s daughter.”

Zack? That must be what they call Isaac Mark Mc-Henry, Gram’s younger son who owns the garage—Keith’s dad.

“She lives on the other side of town, in one of those new houses. She’s a sweet girl—tough, though, thank goodness! That ex-husband of hers got another woman pregnant, one of Karlyn’s friends—or so she’d thought! Anyway, Karlyn divorced him and he married Danielle Catherman a month before their baby was born. At least Karlyn got the kids and the house and child support. And she teaches art in the elementary school.”

MaryJean’s such a willing source of information, Andi thought, that we wouldn’t have needed that investigator!

They watched one more comedy before Andi, using the arms of the chair to push herself up, said, “I’m bushed. I think I’ll soak in the tub, then go to bed.”

“I’ll bet you’re tired, especially with your leg…”

Neither Andi nor Gram had mentioned her injuries until now. “It’s better than it was, but does still bother me.”

Gram’s dark blue eyes showed concern. “What happened?”

“I—” Did she want to get into this? “—I mentioned my friend’s being killed in an accident. I was in the car with Jon when it happened, though I don’t remember much after the first few minutes. I…guess I knew he was dead, that there was nothing to do, yet I kept trying to free myself—to reach him.” The horror was still there. She lived it daily—and nightly.

“And then there was—nothing at all till I came to in the hospital. And learned he was gone…”

The stairs seemed longer than when she’d climbed them earlier, and as she plodded upward she asked herself why she was talking so much about that accident. Not only had she mentioned his death during the evening meal, but now again.

I must get hold of myself, she thought.

Mrs. McHenry had told her that the dresser along the outside wall was for her use, so she put underclothes, T-shirts, sweaters and shorts in the second drawer. Into the top one went several good pieces of costume jewelry, along with socks, belts and other small items.

She placed four top-of-the-book-list novels and her travel alarm on the bedside chest, and carried her flower-print pajamas and toiletries to the bathroom.

While water ran into the tub, Andi took off her clothes, then twisted her hair, fastening it up on top of her head. Holding onto the rim of the high tub, she stepped in and lay back against its comfortably sloped end. What luxury! Many changes had been made in modern plumbing, but nothing beat the big oldfashioned tubs!

She dried her hands on a fluffy white towel before picking up the National Geographic from the stand beside her. Finishing the first article, she went on to the second, after adding more hot water to the bath.

She was tempted to go on reading, but told herself that Gram might want to use the facilities. Reluctantly climbing out, she dried herself and got into the cotton PJs.

Perhaps hearing the bathroom door open, Mrs. Mc-Henry came into the hallway from the second room on the left. “What time will you be getting up in the morning, Annie?”

“I’m—not sure.”

“I was asking because of breakfast.”

“Oh.” She’d momentarily forgotten the second part of bed-and-breakfast. “Whatever suits you is fine with me.”

“Well, I always go to Sunday School and church.…”

“What time are they?”

“Sunday School at 9:30, church at 10:45.”

“Do you get dressed and ready before eating?”

“Usually. Almost always when folks are staying here.”

“So what time should I be downstairs?”

“Is 8:15 too early?”

There was hopefulness in her voice. “Sounds fine.”

Andi had started toward her room again when she heard Gram say, “I hope you won’t mind, but Keith often comes for Sunday breakfast, then we walk to church together.”

“That makes it nice for both of you.”

“Yes, it does. Especially since his fiancée broke off their engagement last fall—and went off with some fellow she’d known less than two months! Keith and Sandy used to go to church and everywhere together…You’re welcome to go with us,” Gram invited. “We have an excellent pastor.”

Andi had no intention of allowing herself to be coaxed, so was evasive. “We’ll see in the morning.” She stopped to look at titles on the spines of old volumes in the tall, glass-fronted bookcase next to her doorway, and Gram came to stand beside her. “Most of these were Mother’s, some her mother’s—and some my own additions.” Opening the doors, her hand caressed the books.

Recognizing only a few of the authors, Andi randomly pulled out one book, Daddy-Long-Legs. “These covers are attractive—like this one, with its vine-surrounded heart and still-red roses. Modern publishers could take lessons.”

She opened the book and read aloud. “By Jean Webster, With illustrations by the author and scenes from the photo-play, produced by the Mary Pickford Company starring Mary Pickford.” Curious, she turned the page and was not surprised to find its copyright date was 1912.

Several pages were coming loose, so she handled the fragile volume with care, appreciating that the black-and-white photos were as clear and sharp as when published. “May I borrow this tonight? I often read myself to sleep.” Always have to, actually, said an inner voice.

“Of course—that or anything. I read them when a girl, my kids did, then the grandkids. You might as well, too.”

It felt good to be included with the family of this friendly, outgoing woman. Andi sighed with contentment as she climbed into the high old rope-bed and leaned back on pillows propped against the headboard.

The book had large margins, so she supposed she’d finish the whole thing before falling asleep.

But she drifted off at page sixty-three.

Laughter, teasing, wind blowing her hair. The squealing of wheels making sharp turns, the exhilarating high of speed.

Excitement turning into concern.

Reaching out, Please, Jon, slow down.

Laughing reassurance that he’d never had an accident.

Child running into the road.

Scream of brakes. Grinding protest of car’s frame.

Massive tree.

Thunderous crash of metal. Of glass.

Folding back of metal, wrapping itself around Jon.

Around her.

Agony…!

Andi awoke, gasping for air, reaching for Jon—who was not there. Staring wide-eyed around the unfamiliar room, lighted only by moon-glow filtered through maple leaves.

Submerged in terror.

Oh, God! But she’d given up on God long ago—as He’d doubtless given up on her.