Be Sweet (6 page)

Not that he isn't good-looking. Quite the contrary. With a lean body—that he works out daily—stretching to a full six foot two, some would say he borders on perfection. He combs his thick, sandy hair back from his forehead, and, trust me on this, it does not move for the rest of the day. When I first met him, I thought his hair wasn't real because it never moved. One time I feigned a moment of passion just so I could run my fingers through it. When it didn't shake loose, I figured it was real. Passionate moment over.

His stuffy ways have cramped my flair for fun on many a day, but we have real estate in common, and that seems to work for us. In fact, sometimes I wonder if he doesn't “wine and dine” me because I'm the most profitable realtor in the office. Guess he's just like everyone else.

“Good to hear your voice,” I say.

“Yeah? Maybe you're missing me?”

“Maybe.”

“So how's life on Sunnybrook Farm?”

“Don't get me started.”

“Want me to come and rescue you?” he asks.

“Your last name is McDonald. I don't trust you. Farming is in your blood.”

“When are you coming home?” Like my mother, he ignores my jokes.

“I just got here, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Papers stir in the background. No, wait. I'm sure there are tidy little stacks. He would never have papers strewn about his desk. That would be me. “Have you spotted any land for the Scottens yet?”

“Peter, I have been here less than twenty-four hours.”

“Sorry. When are you going to give up the syrup and just enjoy the good life?”

“Give up the syrup? Never! Besides, my family is here. I have to come back sometimes.”

“I guess.”

“Working late?”

“Yeah. I just sold the Sanderses' house.”

“That's fabulous, Peter.”

“And my best girl isn't here to celebrate.”

The fact that he says
best
girl doesn't elude me. There's that safe relationship thing again. Peter made it clear from day one that he was never going to marry, and that was fine with me. I've gotten along by myself for all these years, and I don't need a man telling me what to do at this point in my life. We are free to have other “friends.”

“I'm sorry. That's great news, though. Such a beautiful property.”

We move on to discuss how things are going at the office, and by the time we hang up, I'm driving through the brick-lined streets of down-be town Tappery and soon pull my car up to a beach by the shores of Lake Michigan.

A fresh gust of icy air grazes my cheek when I climb out of the car. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Lifting my face toward the dusky skies, I watch the twinkling stars and take a breath, the chill reaching deep down into my lungs. Oh, what I wouldn't give for a maple mac-chiato with a triple shot of espresso right about now.

Moonlight shimmers across the lake and illuminates my path toward the shoreline. Pulling my coat closer to my neck, I carefully avoid the cascading wall of ice that has formed from the icy winds and breaking freshwater waves near the shoreline. A few diehard beach lovers stroll along and lift a smile as we pass one another in the misty twilight.

The howling of the wind, the somber call of the lake, and the isolation of the moment all cause me to pause and reflect on my life. How many times did I come here when I needed to think and clear my head as a teenager? When life hurt too much, I always met God in the forest or on the beach.

As the smell of lake water mingles with the misty air, my gaze lifts skyward. I love the sense of worship that falls over me when I stand before Lake Michigan or the sea by my cottage—or even when I'm tucked away on my favorite tree limb where no one can see me or hear me but the Father. “Why do things have to change?” A gust of wind circles and carries my words out to the lake, while my feet trudge along the sand and my heart whispers heavenward. With my bad attitudes lately, I'm surprised He's still listening.

By the time I make my way back to the car, I realize it's too late to visit Mom and Dad. It's just as well. I'm not sure I'm up to it tonight.

“And how long have you been here, young lady?
” Mom barrels through the front door of Janni's house in a huff. That's one thing about my mother that never ceases to amaze me. Upon meeting her, it always seems we're in the middle of a conversation—or confrontation.

“Good morning, Mom. Good to see you too,” I say, closing the door behind her.

A blur of white whips past me. Say what you will about my mother, there is no denying she has a great head of hair.

She drops her purse by the sofa. Pulling herself up to her full four-foot-eleven-inch frame she turns and faces me, all twigs and skin. “You didn't answer my question. And why weren't you in church this morn-ing?” Bony fists settle on her hips like a gun belt. I believe Mom was the secret to my father's pastoral success for forty-two years. I've seen her on more than one occasion yank a sinner by the ear and drag him to the altar. Once her pale blue eyes lock on you, there's no use fighting it. She
will
win.

“Well? When did you get here?” Her toe is tapping now.

I sigh. “Yesterday.”

Her mouth drops. “And why didn't you call or come over?”

“I was tired, Mom. I knew I could see you today.”

“You didn't even come to church, Charlene Haverford. We needed help in the kids department.” She makes that last statement as though it's my fault. Her eyebrows take a sharp dip south, and her lips pucker like a bad seam. “We've taught you better than that.”

“I'll tell Saint Peter at the pearly gates that it's totally my fault.”

“Oh, that's right, make light of the Gospel.”

“I'm not trying to do that, Mom—”

“Everything is a joke to you, Charlene. A party.”

“Not true. I'm not exactly having fun at this moment.”

She stabs a pointed stare straight through me. We both know joking isn't the only thing she has against me.

“Sorry.” Why is it that at the age of forty-seven I'm reduced to a five-year-old when my mother's around?

“You know what I always say—”

It takes everything in me to keep my eyeballs from rolling back in my head. I recite the words with her in my mind, but dare not move my lips.

“There's a time to joke and a time to listen.”

I could be wrong, but I think I learned to quote that before my first Bible verse. “I'm sorry, Mom,” I try to say with an appropriate amount of contrition. “Did Janni tell you I was here?” The little snitch. No won-der Mom favors her.

“No. I ran into Gail Campbell.”

“
She
goes to church?”

“Now, don't you get ugly, Charlene Marybelle.”

Okay, the fact that she gave me the middle name of Marybelle should tell you something about my mother. Number one, that she's terrible with names. Number two, she flunked all the “which one does not belong here” questions in school.

“You have to admit her tongue drips more than maple trees at sap time,” I say, laughing at my clever self as I edge over to the sofa.

Mom sucks in air. “I will admit no such thing, young lady. You know my motto, if you don't have something nice to say—”

“Come sit by me?”

Mom blinks. I'm trying to make her laugh, but it's not happening. “You know, if you don't have something nice to say, come sit by me.” I'm laughing, hoping to set the example. Mom's expression is totally snatching my joy. “It's a joke, Mom.”

“Well, you can make fun all you want. But it's still true. If you don't have something nice to say about someone, you shouldn't say anything at all. You need to learn to control that tongue of yours.”

Now there's the pot calling the kettle black. I'm not sure where I got my sense of humor, but I can tell you right here and right now it was not from my mother. I sink down into the sofa. And I do mean sink—as in, if I slip under the cushion, they may never find me again. Which, at this moment, might be a good thing.

“Hey, everybody, we're home,” Janni says, entering through the back door and into the living room. “Hi, Mom.” She grins and tosses me a wink.

The least she could do is help me off of this sofa. With a grunt, I try to heave upward, but it's like climbing the Alps. Maybe I should yodel. That would get their attention.

“Why didn't you tell me your sister was in town?” Mom snaps.

“She hasn't been in town long.” The sound of hanger wire scraping against a metal pole muffles Janni's words as she hangs their coats in the hall closet. “You and Dad want to join us for lunch, Mom?”

Oh, yoo-hoo. Anybody notice I'm struggling to get off this sofa? Can we say Venus flytrap? Wait. Did someone say “Feed Me”? I'm almost sure I heard that coming from somewhere beneath the cushions. This is Stephen King material, literally, and I want out of here.

“No. We have plans after lunch. The Hillarys are celebrating their fiftieth anniversary.
Their
daughters are throwing a big party for
them
.” She stares pointedly at Janni and then at me.

My arms and legs flail about as I fight for my life from the bowels of the sofa.

“What
are
you doing, Charlene Marybelle?” Mom asks, staring at me for only a fraction of a second before she turns back to Janni.

“How nice for the Hillarys,” Janni says to Mom before discreetly tossing a wink my way. “They're your neighbors, right?”

Janni's comment catches Mom off guard. “Well, of course they are.”

At last, with one final exertive push, I roll myself out of the sofa and dump onto the floor with a loud thud.

Janni and Mom look at me.

“For goodness' sakes, Charlene Marybelle, what are you doing down there?” Mom asks.

Thanks for caring.
“Looking for coins?”

Janni walks over and puts her arm around Mom. “Well, if you want to come over for coffee and dessert later, we'll save you some. It's your favorite, chocolate éclair.”

Mom's shoulders relax. She bites her lower lip. “Oh, dear. That is my favorite. Well, we'll see what your dad wants to do.” She perks a bit. “I've made maple chicken for lunch, but save me a bite of dessert.”

Janni can calm Mom down as fast as I get her stirred up. Mom and I are as different as maple and sludge. 'Course, my opinion of which one of us is sludge would no doubt differ from her point of view. But then we've never agreed on anything.

“Okay, will do.” Janni walks Mom toward the door while I heave my stiff self up from the floor and brush myself off. I twist my head from side to side to kick up a little blood flow and oxygen to my starving brain cells.

Mom turns and walks over to Wiggles's cage. “Hi, little fella, how are you?” she coos, poking her fingers through the slits in the cage to scratch Wiggles's belly that is now shamelessly exposed. My jaw practically drops off its hinges, and I'm almost sure Wiggles sneers at me. The little rat.

“Don't forget the dessert, Janni.” Mom calls out before turning an expression of reprimand my way. “Char, you behave yourself.” She steps through the door and yanks it shut.

I look at Janni. “I told you that you're her favorite.”

“I 'm stuffed,” I say as Janni and I waddle into
the living room. “What was that again?”

“Enchilada casserole. I picked up the recipe from a cooking magazine.”

Not quite the cuisine I'm used to, but hers is, after all,
homemade
. I nod. “You know, I still can't believe the way you handled Mom, and she totally listened to you. You've always had a way with her.” I step over to the oak rocker and sit down. If I try that couch again, they might not dig me out 'til Thanksgiving. “Mom always did like you best.”

She looks at me point-blank. “Thank you, Tommy Smothers.”

“Well, it's true.” Kicking off my shoes, I settle onto the rocking chair and start, well, rocking.

“Yeah, right. You're simply the”—she gestures quotes with her fingers —“ambitious daughter who's made a lucrative living out East,” Janni says with a touch of sarcasm. “Besides, you know as well as I do that sometimes she listens. Sometimes not.”

The dark circles beneath Janni's eyes make me wonder if she's rest-ing well at night.

“That's true.”

“Mom has been acting a little strange lately,” Janni says, settling onto the sofa. She yawns and pulls an afghan over her as though she plans to take a nap. I make a mental note to time her when she tries to escape the cushions.

“How so?”

“Well, I'm not quite sure what it is. Kind of secretive. She never travels the same way twice, almost like she's hiding from someone.”

“I knew it. Mom's past is finally catching up with her. She's an AWOL Marine sergeant. I've always known that.”

Janni giggles. “You're awful.”

“I know. It's what I do best.”

“I think she's a little disoriented from the move and everything.” Daniel plops down beside Janni and stretches out his arm behind her. His thighs are slowly disappearing into the cushions. I'll have to remember to sit there if Russ comes back for a visit.

“Well, no doubt living in a condo is a little different than being on this farm where they've lived most of their lives,” I say, eyes still on the sofa, hand within grabbing distance of the phone in case I need to call 911.

“At least they know they can come here anytime they want.”

I nod. “That would help ease the loss.” After taking a drink of iced tea, I put my glass on the coaster next to the phone on the stand. “So how did dinner go with Russ?”

“He was real disappointed you didn't stay,” Daniel says.

“Danny, behave yourself.” My sister turns to me. “We had a nice dinner. He caught us up on how his parents are getting along, shared a little about his travels in the military, that kind of thing.”