Marriage Seasons 01 - It Happens Every Spring (14 page)

Brenda took a step backward, set her hands on her hips, and surveyed the basement. Her hope of spending hours sewing, painting,
and decorating was about to come true. The dream that one day
she might pursue work as an interior decorator seemed almost
within reach.

She could hardly believe it was the same place. Everything that
once said teenage rec room was gone. In place of the sectional sofa
and big-screen television set stood a long worktable with Brenda's
sewing machine at one end and the cat curled up comfortably at
the other. Over the table hung a Peg-Board with spools of thread,
scissors, rotary cutters, seam rippers, and all her favorite tools. She
had plenty of room to lay out a length of fabric, pin on a pattern,
and cut the pieces. A set of open shelves beneath the table held multicolored fabrics and patterns she had gathered through the
years. An overhead light fixture bathed the area in a bright glow
that ensured her eyes would never get tired.

With the sewing zone completely outfitted, she could put
together slipcovers, pillows, curtains, tablecloths, and place mats.
If she chose, she could stitch dresses, mend torn jeans, or replace
buttons. While her own children had outgrown the need for those
things, there were plenty of kids in the cove whose busy moms
might welcome such a service.

This afternoon, Nick was finishing up the crafts center. She
watched him expertly attach a set of cabinets where once a shelf of
Justin's soccer and baseball trophies had sat. Pictures of Jennifer at
homecoming and college graduation, Jessica dressed in an array of
dance costumes, and Justin posing with various sports teams used
to hang on that wall. Now the photographs awaited places in the
scrapbooks Brenda was planning to create. The cabinets would
hold glue sticks, fancy-edged scissors, photo corners, blank paper,
stickers, beads, wire, pliers, tweezers, trims, tiny paint bottles, and
every other implement and embellishment Brenda had gradually
collected over the years while building dollhouses, creating necklaces and tiaras, or putting together the elaborate birthday parties
her kids had always enjoyed.

Setting the last screw in place, Nick opened and closed each of
the cabinet doors and then ran his hand over the desktop to sweep
away the sawdust. "There you go," he said, giving Brenda a broad
smile. "Two down and one to go. I still think we should have
painted the potting area when we did the other walls, but let's see
how that green looks now."

As jovial as always, he hooked his tools into the sueded leather
belt at his waist as he sauntered over to the two paint cans by the
door. "I don't think this shade you chose is going to be too dark,
Miz Brenda," he said. "I really don't. Not with all the light coming
in through that sliding door. Are you planning to hang curtains
over it?"

"No, just blinds I can pull up."

"That's great. You can have the fresh air through the screen if
you want it. And in the fall and winter, you'll be able to get a nice
view of the lake through the trees. I'm a summer man myself, but
there's something to be said for winter. Not so many leaves. You
can see things better."

He lifted a can of paint and turned to survey her. "Something
wrong? You look wore out."

Brenda smiled. "I'm not tired. I guess I'm just sorry to see this
project come to an end. It's been so much fun."

"We're not done yet, girl!" Nick held up the paint. "How about
you do the cuttin' in on that wall while I start the potting bench?
When you told me you wanted a sink with running water, that
threw me for a loop. I've got to figure out how to tie into your
plumbing without tearing up the floor."

Brenda shook her head. "Nick, you know I can't cut in. You'll
have to brush next to the ceiling and the doorframe; then I'll roll
on the rest of the paint-like always. I know we're going to lay
down a vinyl floor, but I don't even trust myself with the baseboard."

"For an artist of your caliber, cuttin' in is like shooting fish in a
barrel," he said. "Come over here and stir up this paint. When you
get ready to start, use my good brush. You've got everything taped
off anyhow. There's no way you'll mess it up."

Squaring her shoulders, Brenda took the paint can and knelt
near the stirring sticks. Nick exited through the sliding doors into
the backyard as she used a flathead screwdriver to pry off the paint
lid. Why did the man never have a negative thing to say about her?
To Nick LeClair, she was an artist. She had chosen the perfect paint
colors for the walls. She could sew like Betsy Ross. Her garden beds
looked as neat as a new pin. Her chocolate cake was delicious. He
enjoyed hearing her sing along with the country songs on his radio.
Lately, Nick had even started complimenting her looks-saying how much he preferred a blonde to a brunette and that he had
always liked short hair on a woman.

With Nick around, Brenda felt like she could do anything. He
treated her with respect and admiration. And he made her feel
pretty. He never spoke of his wife, so she had no idea how he felt
about the second woman he had married. But Nick loved his
grandkids, and Brenda enjoyed hearing his stories of their antics.
In fact, there was hardly a minute of the day that she didn't feel
upbeat and excited.

Except at night. That's when Steve trudged into the house after
dark, spoke a couple of words of greeting to his wife, and turned on
the television. As usual, he rarely ate dinner at home and offered
up not one interesting piece of information about his own life or
kind query about hers. In fact, Brenda doubted that Steve had seen
the basement since the day she proposed the remodeling project.
He never asked her about it. If they spoke at all, it was to discuss the
kids-which one had called or e-mailed, what time of day they
planned to arrive for spring break-that sort of thing.

As she poured paint into a smaller bowl, Brenda thought back
over the years of her marriage. How few couples had stayed
together as long as she and Steve had-nearly twenty-five years!
For the most part, their life together had been good. Sure, they had
weathered some rough spells when Steve's income didn't quite
match their needs or when one child or another was ill. Brenda's
mother had been sick for three years before finally dying, and
Justin got kicked off the baseball team his senior year for drinking
at a party down by the lake. If she really worked at it, Brenda could
dredge up plenty of problems that she and Steve had endured. But
through it all, they had been loyal to each other, honored their
faith, adored the children, and enjoyed a lot of happy times.

Nick LeClair had told Brenda he liked winter because the trees
shed their leaves and the view was better. As she climbed onto a
ladder to start painting the corner next to the ceiling, Brenda
decided she could not agree with him on that. Life with Steve had come to feel like an endless winter. Bitterness and hurt filled her
heart every time she thought of the way her husband had rejected
her in favor of his work.

Drawing the paintbrush along the line of tape protecting the
ceiling, she tried to find reasons for hope, joy, and optimism. The
last thing she wanted was to leave the man who had fathered her
children and built a marriage with her. But how much more of this
discouraging emptiness and cold climate could she take?

At the thought of the chilly atmosphere her children might
observe between their parents when they came home for spring
break, Brenda's hand clenched, and the paintbrush veered
upward.

"Oh no!" she cried out. A blotch of green marred the white ceiling. "I knew I couldn't do this! I just can't seem to ... to do anything right...."

Tears sprang to her eyes as Nick slid open the glass door and
leaned into the basement. "Whoa, Nellie! What's going on in
here?"

"Look what I did to the ceiling! It's green. I never should have
tried-"

"I thought you'd fallen off the ladder, girl. That paint is nothing
to worry about. Come on down, and let me take care of it for you."

He tugged a damp rag from the back pocket of his jeans and
took Brenda's place on the ladder. In moments, the blob of latex
paint had vanished, and the white ceiling looked as good as ever.
Brushing away tears, Brenda sniffled as he climbed back down and
handed her the brush.

"Are you crying?" he asked. "Over a little paint on the ceiling?"

"It's just that the kids are coming home for spring break, and-"

"We'll have everything done but the floor, girl. You don't need
to worry. This basement is going to look really nice, and you can
show off your slipcovers and your crafts and all the amazing things
you do. Those kids will be pleased as punch ... you watch."

She bent her head, pressed her lips together, and did her best to keep from bursting into tears again. Nick stood two steps in front
of her and hooked his hands into his back pockets. She could see
the paint-splattered toes of his work boots, and she wished he
would just go back outside. Or paint the wall for her. Or something.

"Come here, girl," he said, taking her hand. "I'm going to show
you how to cut in a wall. Then you won't have any more green
paint where you don't want it, and your kids will be so proud of
you they'll just about bust."

At that, she nearly sobbed out loud. Who had ever been proud
of her? All her adult life, Brenda had tried her best to be a good wife
and mother and daughter, doing everything just right for her husband and children and parents. They had accepted her labors as
her expected contribution to the family. Rightly so. But once-just
once-couldn't someone be proud of her?

When Brenda had been a child, her father was so cold and distant that she came to expect nothing but the gruffest of greetings
from him. Her mother had found fault with almost everything
Brenda did, no matter how hard she tried to please. Like her parents, Steve barely acknowledged the lifestyle his wife had created
for him and their family, though she knew he had come to rely on
her to keep things running at a high level. But proud of her? Never a
word.

As Nick led her to the corner of the basement, Brenda brushed
her cheek with the back of her hand. She couldn't let him see her
break down like this. He was just a hired handyman, after all-a
remodeler, a simple craftsman. He didn't owe her the slightest bit
of kindness or sympathy.

"Now then," he said, taking the brush to demonstrate, "you
want to dip the tips of the bristles down into the paint. Not the
whole brush-otherwise you'll wind up with a mess clear onto the
handle and all over your fingers. Okay, now take the brush and
press it right up against the wall. See how it flattens out? The bristles make a clean line that's so pretty it looks like you used a ruler. Now, I'm going to paint a strip on the wall, and then I want you to
do the same thing."

Sniffling, she watched as he dragged the damp bristles down the
wall in a perfectly straight stroke. He gave her the brush. "Your
turn, Miz Brenda."

She glanced into his eyes and saw deep caring written in the
pools of blue. "I'll try," she said softly. Following his instructions,
she painted a second green swath on the wall.

"Perfect. Now then, move over into the corner and line those
bristles up. There you go. That's it." He watched her paint for a
moment, then put out his arm. "Now hold on a minute. When
your brush starts to run dry, you need to slide the bristles up and
away from the wall like this."

Nick's hand covered hers, and with gentle pressure he illustrated how to paint a corner, lift away the brush, dip it back into
the paint, and then start again.

Brenda held her breath as his warm fingers gripped hers. She
could feel the calluses on the inside of his palm grazing against her
knuckles. He smelled like the outdoors, like paint, like freshly cut
wood, like soda, hot dogs, and mustard. His flannel shirtsleeve
touched the bare skin on her arm. She shivered.

"Okay," she whispered.

"Okay?" He didn't move for a moment, standing behind her, his
arm against hers, their hands entwined. She could hear his breath
in her ear, slow and labored.

And then he released her, backed away, and stepped toward the
sliding door. "I'd better get to building that potting bench," he
said.

As the door shut, Brenda closed her eyes and let out a breath.
She realized she was trembling.

That makes me as mad as a wet hen." Esther Moore carried her
purse from the cashier's desk toward the tearoom alcove. "I won't
let it happen, and neither will Charlie."

"Hold on, Esther," Patsy said, following. "You jerked off your
cape, and now you've got hair on the back of your shirt. Let me
brush it off." It was the day before Good Friday, and Patsy was glad
she'd decided to close the shop tomorrow. She'd enjoy the break.

"Oh, leave it be," Esther said. "I'll throw this blouse in the
washer tonight anyhow. Look, there's Ashley Hanes in the corner."
She paused and whispered to Patsy, "I bet Ashley didn't sign it, did
she? Young people today never do get involved with politics."