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  Bob leaned in. He looked interested in the tale. “Did she slap ya?”

  “No,” Jeff laughed, “though I half expected her to. She mouthed a thank you. Then, she reached down to stick her left heel back into her opened-toed sandals. Her toenails were polished in a soft pink, matching her manicured fingernails. I saw that small gold cross she wears slip from her inside her lace blouse. It dangled right above her cleavage. I felt like a pool of primal goop, dripping off the seat.”

  Bob raised his eyebrows in rapid fire. “Uh, huh.”

  “For the rest of the week I watched for her bus stop. She’d get on and maneuver to the back, not once acknowledging me.”

  “Your gallant, but gentlemanly act ancient history, huh?”

  Yeah, well, still, I couldn’t forget her. I finally got up the gumption to sit at the back of the bus where she sat everyday reading her novel. After two weeks of casual talk, I considered asking her out on a date.”

  Bob laughed. “Not a fast mover were you?”

  Jeff shrugged. “I needed time. Ease into it slowly. Win her trust. She didn’t know me from Adam. Anyway, I’d saved enough to be sure I could take her to the movies, then afterwards to dinner at a candle-lit restaurant—you know, the kind with real table cloths, soft music, and appetizers which would cost as much as the movie tickets and snack bar?”

  “Uh, huh. Funny what we’ll do when the heart takes over. They sure know how to play us, don’t they?”

  Jeff agreed. “When I asked her, I know I sounded just like Porky Pig. I never dreamed she would actually accept. But she cocked her head, thought for a few seconds, then said, ‘Okay. When?’”

  “And you fell on the floor in shock, right?”

  Jeff looked out the window, smudged from lack of cleaning. “You know, I recall the two of us walking to my car after the movie, though for the life of me I can’t remember the movie’s name or plot. Doesn’t matter. It was a date flick anyway. The kind I now usually tune out as soon as Christina tunes into one on Cable.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mary watches those, too. When I let her.” Bob winked.

  Jeff’s gaze returned to his friend. “Yeah, every once in a while we gotta let them have the remote, right?”

  “Keep’s the peace. Happy wife, happy life.”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t know, lately.” Jeff looked back outside. A couple walked arm in arm. The guy looked smitten. “I do recollect something seemed to click between us on that first date. After the movie, we talked about childhood memories, astonished that we shared so many. I knew then I’d be asking her out again soon. And,” Jeff raised his finger, “I’d have to ask the boss for a raise.”

  Bob laughed. “You always did aim high, my friend.”

  “I asked her if she remembered the time the train trestle caught on fire near the golf course. It was a big deal. Fire engines from all over came. We all ran to watch.”

  Bob nodded. “I remember that when I was a kid, too. It was on the news. All that black smoke looked like a tornado.”

  “The smell of that burning pitch. It was rancid for days. You know what she said? ‘Mother had to get the curtains and rugs cleaned before her dinner party.’ Boy, I felt the classes clash. Man, I thought. Maybe this was a mistake. Almost took her home instead of the restaurant.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I got in the car and clicked my seat belt. She clicked hers, touched my shoulder and said, ‘Did your school ever go on the field trip to Rainbow Bakery?’ That convinced me.”

  Bob looked vague. “Because . . .?”

  “Because she was obviously trying hard to keep the conversation going. It was like saying, ‘I want this date to go on.’ Just mentioning it brought back the taste of hot bread with melted butter and jam they’d hand out to each class at the end of the tour. She gave that giggle girls always do when they flirt and said, ‘I’m getting hungry now.’”

  “So you took her to the restaurant and the rest is history, huh?”

  Jeff, lost in thought, didn’t pick up on his friend’s hint. He continued, “I parked the car in the last stall in front of the restaurant. Luckily not in a puddle, or I would’ve seriously considered pulling a Sir Walter Raleigh gesture with my jacket. Then, I noticed the valet swaying back and forth in his epaulets. She pretended not to notice I didn’t know he was supposed to park the car. Pure class.”

  Jeff stopped, took a bite of his lunch. Mouth half full, he went on, “I got out and rounded the fender to get her door. A bit of lace slipped from under her hem as she twirled her legs to the pavement. Just like a ballerina. When I offered her my hand, her grasp felt soft and warm as dove’s breast.”

  Bob’s eyes glazed over. Jeff chomped some more. Then he laughed. “Here’s the funny part.”

  Bob sat back, arms folded. “Okay. Go on. What happened?” He swished his spoon around the banana pudding bowl, then not catching it all, scraped his fingers along the sides and licked them.

  “The waiter pulled out her chair before I could. He waited politely for her to settle, then he comes and pulls out mine, too. Can you believe that? Then, the guy placed a napkin in my lap. I flinched. She looked at the menu and again . . .”

  Bob finished the sentence, “. . .pretended not to notice.”

  “She chose a lesser priced dish, but not the cheapest one listed, knowing that might offend me.”

  “The girl had style, all right. You married a good one.”

  “Yeah.” Jeff eyed Bob. “What do ya think? Flowers?”

  “Can’t hurt. Cover the bases, man.” Bob set the bowl back on the tray.

  Jeff pulled out his cell phone. “Know a good florist?”

  Bob jerked his head. “How long’s it’s been since you bought her flowers, dude?”

  Jeff shrugged.

  “Try West Avenue Florists. They do a good job.”

  Jeff Googled it on his smartphone, found the number and ordered a dozen peppermint carnations. A voice said she’d check to see if they had any in stock. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Used to be her favorite. Guess they still are. I’ll pick them up tonight on the way home.”

  Bo gave him the thumbs up sign.

  Then Jeff heard the voice confirming they did have them. He gave his credit card info. “You’re open ‘til six, right?” He clicked his phone off. “Think I’ll just walk in the house with them, and maybe with dinner under my arm, too.”

  Bob winked. “Might do the trick.”

  Chapter 6 Feathered Nests

  Christina felt a cold stone settle in the pit of her stomach. When she said those vows all those years ago, she thought she’d never feel alone again. But now, that was exactly how she’d been feeling. Her thoughts echoed back to her in hollowness.

  Rising from of her stroll down memory lane, she felt thirsty. She wondered if there might be a cold Coke in the fridge, leftover from past summers. Grasping the handle, she didn’t feel a vibration. Of course. The electricity’s turned off. Duh.

  Now she hoped no one had left anything behind. She sure didn’t want to open the door, just in case something green and growing lurked inside. The thought made her shiver in disgust. But, having nothing to whet her whistle only enhanced her thirst. Why hadn’t she stopped off on the way and gotten something to drink?

  She wondered who might be home. Neighbors in the Hill Country always kept the back door unlatched, the coffee pot on and cold Coca Cola in their icebox, as refrigerators were still dubbed, even though it had been sixty years since the last one appeared in the Sears catalogue. She recalled seeing one on the Owens’s back porch as a child. Rusted around the edges, it had a round cage on top, as if a flying saucer had landed on it. It even whirred the way a five year old could imagine UFO’s sounded. When she stood on her tiptoes she could barely touch it. She stopped trying when Bud Owens told her the little aliens would get her and bite her finger.

  In her grandfather’s era, everyone went to the neighborhood Lone Star Ice House daily to buy the blocks o
f ice needed to keep their iceboxes cold. The stores also sold reasonably priced things to go in them such as milk, Cokes, eggs and cheese. People still talked about “running down to the icehouse” for something even though most of the places didn’t survive the national chain convenient store invasion. But the old terms stuck. Things were slow to change in this part of the country, and for Christina, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was a comforting stability in a too fast-paced spinning world fueled by cyberspace and stress.

  Christina hopped onto the kitchen counter, dangled her legs, and stared at the green speckled linoleum floor, laid when she was a toddler. The Owens were the closest neighbors, just down the road over the creek. They might be home, but she hadn’t seen them in years. She hadn’t been in their house since the Bud incident. Ancient history. But even if it had been a month of Sundays and then some, they were the type of folk to be excited to see you and ask you to sit a spell at the kitchen table so they could catch up on all your news. Texas hospitality ruled, no matter how deeply you had gouged their son’s ego back in high school.

  She wished, over the years, her own backdoor had been more hospitable for her neighbors in Allensville. But Jeff liked his house to be his sanctuary. Always had.

  “I need peace and quiet when I get home, not a bunch of people chattering.” His voice echoed in her mind.

  She slid off the counter and walked over to the dining table, made by a local craftsman long ago. Folk in the Hill Country lived hard, laughed heartily and acknowledged God as the center of their lives. No Bible thumping, just a quiet resolve that showed in their eyes and their lives whether it was Sunday in the pew or Saturday night at the Steppin’ Out Dance Hall. In this part of the world, where you can experience tornadoes, drought, floods and fire ants on a yearly basis, you had better rely on God. You definitely couldn’t rely on Mother Nature.

  Sitting down with one leg tucked under her, she traced the notches in the wood of the cedar table, shined with half a century of accumulated polish. Maybe instead of relying on God, she had relied on Jeff too much over the years. Just as she had relied on her father. The first man in her life was dead. Could she even contemplate life without the second? Then her nest would really be empty.

  Guilt over being slothful and self-indulgent crept into her soul. Why was she on this stupid nostalgia trek? What good did it do? So, Jeff was not the same man. Maybe she was not the same woman. Big deal. People change.

  Life had grinded them into another shape—steadily, slowly, day after day, as a stream molds a pebble. She glanced at the small pudginess where her hourglass waist once was. Another shape is right. Neither of us would fit in our skinny high school jeans now.

  She allowed another thought to surface. Feathered nests after a while no longer fit, like twenty-five year old jeans. They need to stretch. She wondered from where that tidbit of wisdom originated. Was it from a book she’d read, or perhaps an original thought? God inspired? Hardly.

  Christina rose with a sigh and tiptoed through the closed cabin as if to not awaken its hibernation. Sunlight outlined the long canvas awnings rolled down and fastened to the sills. They were designed to keep the weather out of the screened-in porch. She unlatched one of the canvas awnings and pulled the ropes, rolling it to the top. A welcomed breeze floated up from the cliff, cooled by the river below. It drifted over her face. When the wind picked up, the other awnings billowed slightly and then flattened with a “slap”. Back and forth, in and out. The porch inhaled and exhaled the generations surrounding her.

  Christina looked at the old ceiling fan and noticed a delicate cobweb dangling between two of its blades, a sure sign of an abandoned and shuttered summer cabin. She resisted the urge to jump up and find the broom. No, the cabin didn’t need to be pristine and perfect anymore. Her mother wasn’t around anymore to inspect it, or her daughter’s life.

  Why had her mother been so overly critical? And why had Christina spent so many years jumping through hoops to try and win the approval she could never get? Even now, the hurt stuck in her craw. So what if I can’t call my husband perfect? Or our son. Whose were? Dad had his faults too, didn’t he? Nothing in life is perfect.

  She shrugged and sat down on the chair positioned to view the river. At least the ceiling fan was off. Lately she had developed an aversion to them. She hated how the path of the blades reflected right between her bifocal lines: dark, light, dark, light flashes that threw her focus a little off balance. She yanked them off her nose and peered at the smudged lens.

  She fogged them with a blast of her breath, then rubbed the smudges away with her blouse. “I am always adjusting these darn glasses,” she addressed the arachnid delicately suspended between the blades, the only other occupant as far as she knew. Upon hearing her growl, she noticed the spider skitter into the shadows for security.

  Glasses were first stuck on her nose in third grade. Along with her good grades, the specs had earned her the label of “nerd”. But she never had so much trouble with a pair until these. The half moons were too large, cutting right in the middle of her irises. She constantly repositioned them on her nose, trying to find the right focus. At work she found it troublesome to see the computer monitor, nodding her head up and down like a Bobble-head doll on the dashboard of a car.

  Once again the familiar anger began to emerge—one which raised its internal head a lot lately though she never considered herself to be a fretful or short-fused person. Still, at times she screamed like a banshee inside, just like that painting she saw when they went to the Museum of Modern Art in New York when she was thirteen. The distorted girl, mouth open, swirls of life and discontent streaming behind her while she remained caught in suspended animation. Christina could relate.

  “Am I kicking myself because the darn things cost almost four-hundred dollars? I accepted them knowing full well they weren’t made quite right,” she addressed the spider. “Spine of a jellyfish. Why didn’t I speak up that day?”

  Like the mirror, it didn’t answer.

  That day, she’d peered back through the new glasses at the sales clerk on the other side of the optical desk, hesitant to say anything.

  She could hear her mother spouting off one of her platitudes, “Don’t make waves and chance upsetting the clerk. She might end up not liking you and then what type of Christian witness would you be? Besides, it might get around town that you were rude. We have our reputation to consider.”

  So, at the time, Christina convinced herself it would just take awhile to adjust to bifocals. She signed the credit card receipt, then dashed out of the building.

  Why had she put up with the wretched things and resigned herself into believing it was her lot in life not to see well? Penitence for making a poor choice and spending way too much money? Some morsel of inherited parental wisdom surfaced. Something about being thankful for what you had and the starving children in China?

  She shook her head again, but the mental Magic Eight Ball still gave no poignant response.

  Jeff’s remarks surfaced instead. “Buy a vowel. Get a refund. Your choice. Ah, the Bears won. Glass of water.”

  Christina sighed, then peered out over the tops of the cedar trees. Down below the cliff, she could see the emerald green river. Wavelets sparkled like tiny water sprites in a glass-surfaced ballet.

  In her mind’s ear, memories of laughter, the splashing of water and the “thunk-thunk” of the old diving board bolted to a tree stump resounded up the cliff from the riverfront—summer sounds as natural as the squirrel’s chatter or the sharp cheeps of the purple finches darting in and out of the trees.

  Lazy river. Not a care in the world. It just kept softly drifting by.

  Chapter 7 Glasses in an Hour

  Christina needed fresh air to clear her throbbing head. She turned and grabbed the handle to the time-warped cedar door, yanking it loose from a deserted mud-dauber cone. As quiet as possible, she opened the screen door enough to slide through without making the rusty spring vibrate with sever
al declining pitches of boing, boing, boing.

  Outside, she asked herself why she did that. No one else was around to hear it. Habit. Pure habit. In her teen years, Christina often snuck out of the cabin to bask in the subdued world of darkness during the wee hours of the morning. Late at night there was an undisturbed and peaceful freshness. No intrusive human noises like during the day. No laughter, blaring radios, or car sounds from the highway a mile away. The only sounds were crickets, frogs, and sometimes a rustle through the leaves of an armadillo rooting for grub worms.

  She recalled the time a doe walked by her, unaware of her presence because the breeze carried her human scent in the other direction. The doe carefully stepped along the rock path in front of her. Christina sat still. She barely breathed. She could almost reach out and pet it. It made her feel so close to God, as if He walked alongside the deer, smiling at her.

  Now, she sat on the same rock stoop in her stocking feet. She wiggled her toes. A few peeked through the runs caused by the cedar floor. The rock, shaded from the sun’s path by the tall trees that surrounded the cabin, felt cool.

  She whimpered like a child in search of her favorite stuffed animal.”Where is that closeness now, God?”

  Was God pushing her in a new direction? Perhaps she just felt tired of the way she was living her life. Maybe she wanted to make it into a God-thing. Had she veered off the path or had she tromped down it so long her horizons became as out of focus as her bifocals?

  Perhaps I should just go home and stop thinking. Christina stood, brushed the leaves from her bottom and stretched. Did she hear thunder? Surely it wasn’t a heavenly answer. One glance confirmed dark clouds building over the treetops to the west.

  Time to go. She slapped her hands to her thighs and blocked the tears. Christina locked the screen and bolted the door. She walked through the cabin, then turned to scan the main living area. It held so many years of memories. She shrugged, slipped on her heels and stepped onto the front patio to jerk the front door closed. She wiggled the old key in the lock until she heard the familiar click, closed the screen door and bent over to put the key back in its hiding place under the rock covering the water shut-off valve. Then she stopped dead in her tracks.