Desert Gift (28 page)

Chapter 39

Chicago

Jill checked her watch for the umpteenth time. Jack was late. She had been standing at the pickup curb outside the airport for twenty-eight minutes in the cold night air, her luggage neatly stacked beside her.

She should have told him she would take the train. No. She should have stayed in San Diego and gone to Agnes’s funeral and delayed this reunion.

“Oh, God.” The abbreviated prayer braced her for yet another wave of uncertainty and doubt. Since leaving the desert, the reality of facing Jack had loomed, a growing black cloud in her mind.

She believed she had changed. But would Jack see it or even care? Today marked the fifth week of separation. Would he talk now about them as he had promised he would?

The cloud overshadowed the goodness everyone had packed into her. Her parents had driven her to Viv’s, a two-hour flow of encouragement and love from their lips. Viv had continued where they left off. Even Marty had been thoughtful.

Jill pressed at the base of her throat. The tension of being unable to pray more than two words ached like a vise gripping her vocal cords. “Oh, God.”

Agnes would be proud of her brevity, for not informing God about what exactly needed to happen, for not preplanning a conversation with the estranged husband.

Estranged.
It was such an ugly word. How did people acquainted intimately on so many levels for twenty-five years get to being estranged?

When he’d asked if she needed him to come out, it had felt like a slap. She could have died. Viv could have died. Agnes did die. And he had to ask if she needed him to be with her in the aftermath of such a nightmare?

Two days later she was back at Viv and Marty’s house, sitting in their kitchen, on the phone with Jack. He repeated his question. Stunned and hurt, she again said no thanks.

After Jill hung up the phone, Viv glared, her eyes almost hidden in dark circles. She removed her arm from its sling and set it on the table. The cast made a decided thump. “I want you to write something here.” She pointed to her forearm. “Write: ‘Jack does not fight for me because I won’t let him. I am stubborn and foolish and always have to be in control, and I get off on being hurt and self-righteous. Love, Jill.’”

Marty had seconded the motion, adding his own steely look. “He might try harder if you gave him half a chance.”

Now Jill doubled over the suitcase handle. “Oh, God.”

She
had
needed desperately for Jack to come and be her knight in shining armor. Why had she denied herself?

Because a true knight in shining armor would make the choice himself without asking. She wanted it to be his choice, his determination, his spontaneous reaction.

Squealing brakes jerked her attention to the street. A black car had stopped in front of her. Its door opened and Jack emerged.

“Jill!” He hurried around the car she did not recognize.

He had a new car. It wasn’t red.

Of course he had a new car. He’d totaled his own the previous month.

“Jill!” He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. “The traffic was—Are you all right?”

She lifted her chin, began to nod, and then burst into tears.

* * *

The initial hugs and expressions of relief over, her tears abated, Jill and Jack rode home. After all that had occurred in the past five weeks, it comforted her to feel an old sense of camaraderie with him.

Maybe the bus accident was the cause. Although Jack had failed her ridiculous litmus test for knight status, he had been exhibiting his gracious qualities. He sent flowers, phoned often, was overly concerned about her well-being, and talked to the doctor who had seen her.

The underlying stressful tone had disappeared from his speech, as if he no longer thought about divorce. Maybe the accident had knocked him right on through the midlife crisis.

The thought warmed her. Recalling his tenderness while she cried and his welcome-home kiss after filled her with hope.

She twisted around in her seat to face him as he drove, her cheek against soft leather. “The car is nice.”

“It’s a set of wheels.” He reached over and touched her hand in the dark. “Jill, I’m so glad you’re home, safe and sound. I can’t tell you how scared I was when Marty called.”

“He should have waited until he knew more.”

“No, I needed to know as soon as he did. And he kept me updated.” Jack squeezed her hand. “It was the longest day of my life. I can’t imagine how awful it was for you.”

“Off-the-charts awful. But there were amazing things too. I cannot believe that not one of those seniors needed so much as a Band-Aid. But Viv . . .” Jill’s voiced trailed off.

“Is going to be fine. A broken wrist. Bruises. She will be good as new in no time. Head injuries are a different story. We still need to be on the lookout for repercussions.”

Repercussions. Ty had used the same word as he sat next to her on the bus, examining her forehead.

He had said, “The skin isn’t broken but there’s a knot, I’d say jumbo egg size. Cage-free, no hormones added.”

She talked about Jack, looked straight into Ty’s willow green eyes and talked about her husband. “Jack was in a car accident and cracked his head open a few weeks ago. He needed stitches.”
Jack fell down and broke his crown.

And now Jill had finally tumbled down after him. The very thing she had vowed not to let happen.

“Any repercussions?” Ty asked.

He wants a divorce.
“He, uh, he hasn’t been himself since.”

“Hopefully that won’t happen with you. I kind of like you the way you are.” Ty held her hand, fingers on her pulse. Checking it or trying to calm her? “Except for the shivering, but that will go away soon.”

Jill eyed Jack now by the light of the dashboard. She remembered how throughout the years his gentle touch quelled her shivering. He knew feet secrets and massaged her soles to quell distress.

“I need one of your foot treatments.”

He threw her a small smile.

They arrived at the house and she knew immediately that no way on earth was that going to happen.

She knew it because the house was dark. It was dark because Jack had not been there to turn on welcoming lights. He had not been there because he did not live there.

A pallor of awkwardness fell over Jill. Their marriage was floundering. That fact pounced front and center, in-her-face ugly.

As she walked inside, that fact resounded like crashing symbols. The pendulum on the wall clock was not ticking.

She flipped on lights. Jack set down her bags and went into the hall bathroom.

She headed upstairs to their bedroom, to their closet, into their bathroom. All traces of Jack were gone. His cologne, his hairbrush, his toothbrush, his clothes . . .

“Oh, God!” she cried out. Her chest tightened.

She returned to the kitchen. The rack above the stovetop was empty. His favorite pots and pans no longer hung there.

“Jack!”

“Back here,” he replied.

She found him in the small family room off the kitchen. The cozy nook held only two recliners, a television, and a bookcase. They had built it as their getaway when it became apparent that the house had become the main gathering hub for Connor and his twelve-year-old friends.

Jack stood before the gas fireplace. His face was tired, his clothes rumpled, his light brown hair in need of a cut. The light caught his left hand on the mantel.

His gold wedding band was gone.

The flames behind glass threw off enough heat to warm the small space, but it did not touch the sudden chill in her heart.

“Have a seat,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

She looked at her chair, a fresh cup of tea on the end table. She looked at his chair, at his end table that should have been piled with books.

“Jack, I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Live here without you.”

“Sit. Let’s talk.”

She shook her head. Her chest ached. She had no words to speak. They were dying inside of her, beaten to death by one blow after another proclaiming unabashedly that Jack had moved out of their home, out of their marriage.

“Jill, I know this is beyond difficult, but we need to talk and get through Connor’s—”

“How dare you! How dare you do this! Get out. Get out right this minute, Jack.”

He held his arms out at his sides. “I’m sorry.”

“Now!” She turned on her heel and hurried back through the empty kitchen, up to the empty bedroom.

Deeply ingrained, oft-repeated phrases sprang to mind.
Don’t let the sun go down on your anger. Reclaim your marriage. Take ownership of your relationship.

She did not have the foggiest notion of how to heal a marriage.

The looming black cloud engulfed her. She crawled into bed, clothes on, under the covers, and wondered if she would ever crawl back out.

Chapter 40

Seated on his stool at the end of the examining table, Jack kneaded Mrs. Bengsten’s right foot and smiled to himself. A patient’s foot before him, life resumed its balance. He could set aside Jill’s deserved anger. He could anticipate Connor’s return with delight. He could even laugh at his concerns about Sophie.

That morning he had noticed her hair hanging loose to her shoulders, free from the bun. He skirted around someone at her desk, but not fast enough.

“Dr. G! Do you remember David?”

He paused and greeted a vaguely familiar pharmaceutical salesman.

Sophie had leaned across the counter, her hand on the guy’s forearm, his hand on top of hers, and whispered, “David, this is the one who’s like a dad to me.”

Later Baxter confirmed Jack’s suspicions: Sophie and the salesman were an item, had been for some time. Baxter had slapped his shoulder. “So sue me for thinking it was you.”

Jack turned his attention back to the thick ankles and swollen feet protruding from black knit slacks. “Massage like this, a few minutes every day. It will help the circulation.”

“But Olie hates to touch my feet, Dr. G. They’re not the prettiest things. Maybe if I got him some of those latex gloves, he wouldn’t mind so much.”

“Well.” Jack looked at the gray-haired woman propped upright, her face a road map of a difficult life. Was that Olie’s fault? Would lines crease Jill’s face someday because of him? “Some people are like that about feet.”

“Not you, though, Dr. G.”

“Feet have always intrigued me.” He smiled. “The things they do for us, and we usually take them for granted.”

“I should tell him we can’t take mine for granted, right? Not with the diabetes.”

“Right.”

“I’ll pay the grandkids. They’ll do anything for a few bucks, even touch Grandma’s old feet.” She laughed.

Jack smiled and hoped the jerk Olie had a good pension. “We’ll get these calluses trimmed and—”

A loud thump on the door interrupted him. A conversation ensued just the other side.

He excused himself and opened the door. Baxter and Sophie were nose to nose and fussing in loud whispers.

“What’s going on?”

“Jack!” Baxter grabbed his elbow. “One minute.”

Sophie frowned. “This is so unprofessional. You both have—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Baxter pulled Jack quickly down the hall, into his private office, and shut the door.

“What—?”

“Shh. Listen.” Baxter reached across his desk to a radio.

Jill’s voice filled the room.

“So except for this knot on my noggin, I am fine. Absolutely, positively fine.”

She didn’t sound fine. The
angelic
was missing from her voice, replaced by worn-out, stressed-out, overworked, hesitant, and grating tones.

A familiar male voice said something. It belonged to either Sam or Don, the morning show guys, brothers in their forties. Likable on air and in person.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m scheduled to do live interviews next week. We have a great lineup of local marital counselors who’ll talk about their special areas of expertise.”

“Jill, from what I hear, you probably hope one of them knows how to plan weddings.”

“Don, bro—” Sam’s tone reprimanded—“sometimes you talk too much.”

“What?”

“Well, take a look at her.”

Jill must be at the studio, not on the phone with them.

Sam went on. “Jillian Galloway is speechless. That wedding info was on the q.t. Way to go, Donno.”

“Oops!” Don said. “Seriously, I didn’t know that, Jill. I apologize. Too personal.”

She chuckled, a strained noise. “I’m all about personal. You guys are stealing my thunder, that’s all.”

“At least we didn’t say
who
is getting married,” Sam said. “It’s not you, is it? And there she goes. See you!” he called out as if Jill were walking away. “That was Jillian Galloway, folks, just back from her home state of California and author of
She Said, He Heard
, available at bookstores everywhere.”

“She’ll be here at the mike next week,” Don added. “Monday, eleven o’clock in the a.m. Meanwhile she is recovering from a tour bus accident, so we thank you for your prayers. Hey, Sam, let’s give a shout-out to those volunteer medics in Sweetwater Springs, California.”

Baxter reached across his desk and turned off the radio. “Fun guys.”

Jack locked eyes with his friend. “Mind telling me why you insisted I listen to that?”

“Thought you’d want to.”

“Why would I want to?”

“She doesn’t sound so good.”

“She was exhausted last night. Good grief. She was in a crash where a woman died. She should have stayed home today.”

“What are you going to do?”

Jack sighed. “Call a truce. Get Connor married. After that, she and I will talk. We’ll figure something out.”

“Bzz! Wrong answer. You need a game plan. You need to speak up.”

“And say what?”

“Say what you want. You can’t keep Jill in this no-man’s-land any longer. I don’t care how many weddings you have to go to. What exactly do you want, Jack?”

“To trim Mrs. Bengsten’s calluses.” He turned and walked out the door.

Chapter 41

Jill poked a fork at her lunch salad and avoided the concerned expressions aimed at her from across the table. The wincing women in the restaurant booth were Gretchen and the station manager, Nan Zimmer.