A Chance of a Lifetime, page 10
“We have some beautiful quilting fabric over here, along with pattern books,” the sales girl said. “If you’re a beginner, you might want to try a simple nine patch, but if your mother’s experienced and working with you, you can do an appliqué piece so beautiful you’ll cringe to see the baby touch it.”
“When Joshua and I moved here, my mother gave me a chest filled with baby blankets and quilts and garments,” Marti remarked, holding a large dangly string of beads to one ear and studying herself in the mirror. “They’d all been gifts to me when I was a baby, but she was sure I would get them dirty. Overflowing diapers, spit-up, drool—you know, all those nasty things newborns do. So she never dressed me in the clothes or wrapped me in the blankets.”
“At least she gave them to you in pristine condition so you could use them with your own baby if you have one.”
“You’d think, but you see, now they’re thirty-plus years old. They’re vintage baby clothes. Heirlooms. And I couldn’t possibly dress my infant in family heirlooms except for special occasions.”
Bennie laughed at Marti’s wry head shake. She’d heard a lot of stories about Marti’s mother, Eugenie. She was currently in her fourth widowhood—or was it fifth?—and each husband who’d passed had left her with even more money than before. She lived in Florida, where the world rotated around her, dated endlessly, and sent frequent dispatches to Marti and her brothers. As far as Bennie knew, Eugenie had never visited Tallgrass and, with luck, Marti liked to believe, never would.
The margarita sisters liked to remind her that luck could and often did change.
Following the clerk, Bennie found herself in the fabric section, surrounded by bolts of material in more colors and patterns and fabrics than she’d ever imagined. Immediately, Mama’s opinion on dinner buffets came to Bennie’s mind: Too many choices is just too many choices. How was she supposed to pick only six or eight fabrics for John’s quilt when they were all beautiful and colorful?
The clerk’s smile was a tad smug. “I’ll let you look and check back in a few minutes.”
Bennie browsed baby-patterned material, little boy themes, Christmas themes, jewel-toned solids, high school and state university logos, and specialty fabrics. There was a hand-painted fabric that she absolutely loved, but it cost more per yard than her college classes per credit hour.
She was exaggerating a little. Okay, maybe a lot, but still…The idea of working with the gorgeous material made her smile, as well as the idea of John teething and slobbering all over it.
Her meandering had taken her to the front windows of the craft store. She was glancing outside, acknowledging that she would have to come back with Mama to help her make choices, when a familiar figure on the sidewalk caught her attention. Rickey Duncan, tall and broad-shouldered, was deep in conversation with a man whose back was to her, but when she waved, Rickey’s face brightened, and he waved back, gesturing her to join them.
Then his companion turned, and Bennie’s breath caught. There were a boatload of tall, slender, muscular black men in town. She had to start reminding herself that any one of them, seen from a disadvantageous position, could be Calvin.
Leaving the few items she’d selected to buy on the measuring table, she slipped out the nearby door, a ready smile on her face. “Rickey!” she said with real pleasure as she stepped into his embrace. Their old friend who’d taken the drugs, sex, and rock-’n’-roll path to the ministry was easily one of the most cheerful people she knew. He was so grateful for the life he lived—wife, kids, friends, calling—that when he said he couldn’t complain, he truly meant he couldn’t complain.
Bennie wished she had that kind of utter and complete gratitude.
“I’m trying to persuade Calvin to drop in on our service tomorrow morning,” Rickey said as she stepped back to include the other man in their small circle.
“If I visited your church, Emmeline would track us both down for a come-to-Jesus meeting, and it wouldn’t be pretty,” Calvin said. His gaze flickered across Bennie’s face, away, back again, then away. She didn’t know if he was aware of it, but his feet were shifting, too, like he was looking to get away before he’d fully arrived. Was it just her that made him want to run? Though her skin should be plenty thick enough with all her heartaches, the idea stung. But it beat the alternative, that everyone made him so antsy he wanted to escape. That was entirely too sad a possibility.
“Everyone in town knows the Sweets and the Pickerings and Miss Emmeline’s people founded that church over in the Flats,” Rickey said, “and not one of them’s ever gone anywhere else since.”
“We make allowances for weddings, baptisms, and funerals,” Bennie teased.
Across the street, a horn honked, and Rickey waved in that direction. Bennie glanced across at a silver minivan with Rickey’s wife in the passenger seat and their four kids crowded into the driver’s and left rear seats, heads stuck out the windows, taking turns calling their daddy. “I’d better go before they make a real disturbance. Calvin, it’s really good to see you.” Rickey enveloped Calvin in a hug. Bennie had expected it—most pastors she knew were huggers—but Calvin hadn’t, and she watched how stiffly he held himself. Was hugging something else he’d given up along with J’Myel, visits home, and her?
That little sting inside sharpened its bite.
After another blast of the horn, Rickey called, “I’m coming,” then trotted across the street at the first break in traffic.
“Are all those kids his?” Calvin asked quietly.
“Yep. And one more on the way. They’ll have five under the age of six.”
“Wow.”
She felt the same in a stupefied kind of Don’t they know what birth control is? way.
As the Duncans drove away with one last wave, Calvin faced the building, his gaze sliding across the bright sign overhead. “‘Crafty Minds,’” he read before glancing at her. “Even in vacation Bible school, the stuff you made with ice cream sticks was crooked and fell apart before we got home. Don’t tell me you finally learned to use glue or knit or thread a needle.”
Huh. That look in his eyes showed a tiny bit of the humor she’d always loved about him, and with a little effort, the set of his mouth could almost become a smile. Lord, how she’d missed his smiles.
“I’ll have you know I’ve watched Mama do all those things a million times. She’s even let me help cut out quilt pieces before.” She glanced inside and saw Marti, still lingering on the jewelry aisle, trying to pretend she wasn’t paying more attention to Bennie and Calvin than she was to the merchandise. Nobody special, Bennie would say when she asked. Just some guy I went to high school with. He and J’Myel and I were friends. With the right degree of carelessness and no guilty look in her eyes, Marti might even believe her.
Why shouldn’t she? It was true. Mostly.
“My friend Ilena had a baby this summer. Kid’s got a wonderful mom and a dad who—” Breaking off, she swallowed hard. Combat deaths could be hard to talk about, especially with someone with firsthand experience. She knew Calvin had lost friends, and those losses had hit him hard. How accustomed was he to a discussion of death that, on the surface, seemed casual? Less than she and the margarita girls, that was sure.
She moistened her lips before continuing in the most normal voice she could force. “A dad who died in Afghanistan before he was born, plus eight or ten godmothers. I want to do something special for John’s first Christmas, so I was checking the possibilities.”
She’d been right that it wasn’t an easy topic for him. A hard look swept across his face, and he took a few steps back, scuffing his feet on the pavement. She thought again that he was emotionally preparing to flee but not necessarily from her this time. He was just itching to run in general.
The bell dinged behind her, and Marti came to stand next to Bennie. Maybe it was the appearance of a gorgeous woman that eased the lines of his face, or maybe it was just the interruption itself, the third person to change the direction of the conversation. Whatever, Bennie actually felt the air around Calvin soften.
“There I am looking at beads and loops and lobster claws, and you’re standing out here talking to a man.” Marti stuck her hand out, but just as surely as Rickey hadn’t given Calvin a chance regarding the hug, she wasn’t going to give him a chance to refuse the handshake. He seemed to realize that and offered his hand, his long brown fingers easily, perfunctorily gripping hers.
For a moment, Bennie envied Marti the touch. She and Calvin had always been generous with physical contact—a punch here, a hug there, shoulder bumps everywhere. They had been so comfortable together that the awkwardness now just about broke her heart.
“I’m Marti Levine.”
“Calvin Sweet.”
“Oh, the plays on words I could make with that name.”
Something of a smile flitted across his face. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that remark, Bennie knew. His last name had been a source of teasing since he started kindergarten.
“But I won’t.” Marti directed her gaze at Bennie. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
“Calvin’s parents live down the street from Mama and me. He just came to town a few weeks ago.”
Marti nodded, her sleek ponytail bobbing. “Are you married, Calvin?”
His face darkened a shade. “No.”
“Looking?”
Another shade of embarrassment as curiosity deep inside Bennie perked its little ears. “Not at the moment.”
“Like to have fun?”
“Marti,” Bennie chastened, telling herself it was just curiosity. The old friendship, the nosiness she’d inherited from Mama. Nothing more. “We’re going back inside now to finish our shopping.”
As Bennie shoved Marti back into the store, her friend caught hold of the door. “If you decide your answer is yes, Calvin, I know a lot of wonderful, fun, beautiful, available women who would love to meet you.”
To Bennie’s surprise when she turned around again, Calvin was still there. She’d thought he would take advantage of the distraction to get the heck out of Dodge. He stood there, though, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, and that almost-a-smile was back in place. “Matchmaker, weird, or just desperately seeking?”
“Matchmaker. I’m sure the only thing Marti has ever been desperate about was her husband’s death. That was tough for her, but of course, that’s true of all of us.”
“All?” he echoed.
“My best friends here in town.” Again, she hesitated a moment before plunging in. “You’ve heard of wives’ clubs. Well, we’ve got a widows’ club. The Tuesday Night Margarita Club. All our husbands died in the war.”
Bennie was used to various reactions when she told people about the margarita club. Some people instinctually understood the club for what it was: a group of women helping each other through the worst times of their lives. There were some, though, who heard “widow” and imagined a bunch of heartbroken women, complete with black scarves and veils, who sat in gloomy rooms talking endlessly about their dead husbands, God rest their souls. To ensure Calvin wasn’t in that last group, she added, “Forget the widow part. Just hear the best friends part.”
“Is it a support group?”
“Yeah, it’s a lot of that. It’s a sisterhood. An adventure club. A steady supply of work and relationship advisors, babysitters, shoulders to cry on, caretakers, caregivers, prayer warriors. Our youngest is twenty-three, and the oldest is in her fifties. We’ve got Christians and agnostics, with kids and without, and we cover the spectrum in pretty much every other way.”
“Sounds…depressing.”
She shrugged. “When a person’s gone through an experience that’s out of the norm, it always helps to find someone else who’s been through it and not just survived, but flourished. Why should every one of us have to struggle to learn things that those ahead of us have already learned?”
“Makes sense.” Delivered with a shrug that said he wasn’t convinced but wouldn’t argue. “Look, I, uh, have to go. I’ll…see you later.” With a nod, he turned on his heel and strode off down the street before she might argue. Surely he found death to be depressing, too. He’d damn well better have been depressed by J’Myel’s death, if for no other reason than it meant their last chance to salvage their friendship had been forever lost.
She watched him for a moment, then returned to the craft store, pushing his words out of her mind. Her days of having to convince anyone of anything were long gone. When it came to the margarita girls, all that mattered was that she loved them, and they loved her right back. Anyone else’s opinion or discomfort belonged entirely to that person, and it was their loss, not hers.
But, Lord, did her losses have to be so impressive?
* * *
Balancing a twenty-five-pound bag of sugar on one hip, Lucy slid her key into the back door of her new shop, shoved the door open with her foot, and made it to the nearest stainless table before the bag slipped free. It landed on the metal with a thump, then she slung her purse over her shoulder and went into the kitchen, turning on lights on the way. The room was filled with the kinds of equipment and space she had only dreamed of. There would be no more locking Norton in the bedroom while she baked, no more storing goodies in the guest room for safety. When her parents came for their next visit, she would once again have a bed for them to sleep on…and something wonderful to show off to them.
A couple of thuds sounded from the store room, then footsteps came to the kitchen door. She was standing at what would be her primary workspace, rubbing her hand lightly over a mixer that made hers at home look like a shrinky-dink model. There were ovens, burners, prep tables, sinks, fridges, freezers—plural. More than one of each.
She knew she was grinning ear to ear. She had been for the past week.
Hands propped on his hips, Joe watched her with his own grin. “As soon as we finish unloading the car, it’s time to baptize this place by fire.”
“Ouch, fire and bakery don’t belong in the same sentence.” She imagined the scene covered with soot, debris, water running everywhere, and firemen zapping down hotspots. “I prefer to think of this room as my pool, and I’m about to dip my toes into it for the first time.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, you’ve got a lot of stuff to fix for tomorrow, and I’m your only help.”
A few dozen miniature cupcakes, three dozen blueberry muffins, two large pans of cinnamon rolls, an assortment of fruit turnovers, and enough cheese Danishes to tempt her to sample. A small portion was going to her own church; the rest had been ordered—her second bona fide sale—by the church one of Joe’s assistant coaches attended.
“You know, I can call the girls to help.” All of them had volunteered at dinner Tuesday night, albeit in a wonderful rushed, Me, too! sort of way. Because they were the kind of people who always helped whenever they could, she had no doubt they’d show with one phone call.
“Or I could call the boys,” Joe said with a broad grin. He was as confident of his team jumping when he called as she was of her margarita sisters. The only thing the Tallgrass Eagles loved more than football was their coach. If learning to bake, decorate cupcakes, and do dishes would make their coach happy, they would bake, decorate, and do dishes.
“Let’s see how far we get on our own,” Lucy said, thinking how those boys could inhale two dozen cupcakes in two bites. She headed outside, lifting her face to the blue sky and warm November air, breathing deeply as she slung a large canvas bag over one shoulder, then hefted a box of supplies. For two days, she’d planned what she needed at the shop—that was what she’d decided to call it instead of bakery or kitchen; it was quainter. She’d gone over her recipes, listing every tool, spice, bowl, toothpick, ingredient, whatever. She’d added every baking pan she owned, every tray, bought new brooms and mops and buckets, dish detergent and soap, washcloths, towels, paper towels, toilet paper, everything she could possibly use. She was convinced she’d forgotten something vital, but with her gaze skimming over the box filled with every natural and artificial flavoring known to woman, she couldn’t think what it was.
Once her car was emptied, Joe asked, “Where do we start?”
“Unpacking and organizing, I guess.” She had spent every night but Tuesday—margarita club—and Friday—Joe’s football game—at the shop cleaning and envisioning what would go where. All that envisioning hadn’t gelled into a plan yet. “Every time Mike and I moved, we rented a two-bedroom house with a decent yard and a patio or deck, but each house was just different enough that our stuff didn’t quite fit. The kitchen cabinets would be configured differently. The new living room would be ten feet longer and four feet narrower than the old one. And curtains…In my attic, I have enough window treatments for four or five houses, tall windows, short ones, formal, casual, sheer, blackout. This is like unpacking into a new kitchen on a giant scale.”
“You’re making too big a deal of it.” Joe plopped a stack of baking trays on the top shelf, turned, and picked up a stack of dish towels.
Lucy went to stand beside him. “Too big a deal?”
“What’s the problem?”
She looked up to meet his gaze, then kept tilting her head until she could see the trays. For extra emphasis, she rose onto her tiptoes and stretched her right arm as far over her head as she could. Her fingertips were still a foot short of the trays.
She was lowering back to her soles when she caught a whiff of his cologne. She wasn’t one of those people who could identify every spice or flavoring by smell, but whatever fragrance he wore was perfectly suited for a kitchen. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, it brought to mind a toasty fire, spiced coffee, chocolate, something sweet and buttery. It was homey and sexy and warm and shivery, and if one of them didn’t move soon, she was going to swoon—or worse—right there. She was actually leaning toward him, drawn as if she had no will to resist, her nose seeking the source of the fragrances, sniffing up the length of his arm to—
