Marriage Seasons 01 - It Happens Every Spring (8 page)

Picking up a clean fork, Cody leaned forward in the chair and
lifted a bite of chocolate cake to his mouth. "Make my way," he
said glumly. "Time to make my way."

"Why did your daddy want you to leave?"

"I'm twenty-one. Time to make my way."

Brenda sighed. They had been through this conversation many
times, and it never got them anywhere. She had no idea how long
Cody had lived with his father, or where. Nor did she know what
had possessed the man to send this man-child into the world
alone. Surely Cody's dad must have known the young man would
have a difficult time surviving on his own.

"I'm a sweeper," the young man said suddenly. "I kept the
trailer span. That was my job. I kept everything span."

"You lived in a trailer?"

"Until we moved out and lived in our car. In the trailer, I swept
the floor with a broom. Like her." Cody pointed a finger at one of
the stylists who was brushing shorn hair from her last cut into a
dustpan. "I can mop, too. With a mop and a bucket and water. My
daddy says I keep everything span."

"Now, Cody, where was this trailer? Was it near-?"

A deafening, floor-shuddering buzz suddenly blasted through
the salon, cutting off Brenda's words. Walls shook. Ceiling fixtures
swayed. A row of teacups leaped off a shelf in unison like a team of
synchronized swimmers diving into a pool.

As the cups shattered on the floor, a look of horror darkened
Cody's face, and he clamped his hands over his ears. The buzz grew
to a roar that sounded like the end of the world. Both of Kim's
twins began to scream as Patsy Pringle came running into the tearoom.

"What on earth?" she cried. "What on earth?"

Cody let out the wail of a wounded animal. He bolted from the
table, knocking over his chair, and ran through the salon as though
a bear were after him. As Brenda tried to steady the plates and teacups rattling on their table, she watched him fling open the door
and vanish.

"Oh, my stars, not again!" Patsy hollered over the roar. She
flung a handful of pink plastic curlers to the floor. "That does it. I
will not stand for this!"

She turned and dashed out the salon door behind Cody. Still
holding on to the table, Brenda saw the buxom salon owner march
past the window toward Pete's Rods-n-Ends, the tackle shop that
had recently opened next door. Then, like every other customer in
the salon, Brenda raced after Patsy.

The only difference was, Brenda was looking for Cody. And he
was nowhere to be seen.

Empty cars sat parked in front of the various businesses that
made up the strip mall, while other vehicles streamed up and down
Highway 5 through Tranquility, which was nothing more than the
row of stores, a bank, a grocery, a bar, and two restaurants. A line of
trees, just beginning to leaf out, rimmed the parking lot.

Brenda sensed Cody would have headed for protective cover.

"Now you just come with me!" Patsy Pringle was saying as she
hauled a burly, bearded man out of the tackle shop by one of his beefy arms. "Take a look at what you did to my tearoom, mister.
Andwhile you're at it, you can explain yourself to my customers!"

"I started up a chain saw-that's all," the man said. "Just to see if
it worked."

"You might as well have cut right through my wall with that
crazy thing," Patsy snapped. She waved a hand toward the group of
women who stood on the sidewalk in plastic capes, curlers, and
layers of tinfoil. "Come on back inside everyone. This Einstein is
Pete Roberts, our new neighbor."

The man reminded Brenda of a Saint Bernard being dragged
down a sidewalk on a leash. He gave the ladies a sheepish smile as
Patsy pulled him into the salon.

Brenda hurried over to the line of trees. "Cody?" she called.
"Cody, it's all right. You can come out now. That loud sound was
just a chain saw in the store next door."

Nothing in the woods stirred except a gray squirrel. It leaped
from a stump to a low branch and then scurried up the trunk.

"Cody?" Brenda yelled again. "It's me, Brenda. You can come
back now. Everything is safe!"

She stood for a moment, feeling almost as awful as she had the fall
day when Justin and Jessica drove off to college. Emptiness sucked
through her like a vacuum. She tried to breathe, but couldn't.

"Cody!" she called, more softly now. She knew it was useless.
"Come back, Cody. Please come back."

(Steve Hansen had a plan. A foolproof plan. He had closed on a
lucrative sale that morning and finished his office work early. This
meant he would get home in time for supper-an event he was
determined to avoid. So he would greet Brenda with a shouted
hello. Hoping she wouldn't come looking for him, he would
quickly change into jeans and a T-shirt, grab his fishing pole, and
head down to the dock.

After work, he had stopped by Rods-n-Ends and asked for a
dozen minnows. Like most bait-shop owners at the lake, Pete
always scooped out about twice that many-plenty enough to
keep Steve busy until well after dark. He also bought a rotisserie
hot dog and a can of soda. He would eat while he fished.

If things went well, he would be able to head for bed without
ever setting eyes on his wife. That would be good. Her project to
save a local drifter from homelessness had come to an abrupt end
the other day. Every time he asked what was wrong, Brenda stared
at him from beneath hooded eyelids as if he was supposed to read
her mind. These days she barely spoke to him, and she shrank from his touch. Forget about the two of them doing anything in bed but
sleeping. Brenda had made it perfectly clear she was not interested.

As he switched off the car engine and listened to the garage door
go down, Steve closed his eyes, leaned his forehead on the steering
wheel, and tried to pray. He had loved Brenda from the minute he
first laid eyes on her. They had been high school sweethearts, and
up until the last few months, she had been trim, pretty, smart, fun
loving, and as sweet as a slice of warm pecan pie.

What was wrong with Brenda lately? Why wouldn't she ever talk
to him or touch him?

Frustrated, realizing that his prayer had come to nothing, Steve
opened the car door. The handyman Brenda had hired was supposed to start on the basement remodeling today, and Steve fervently hoped that project would improve his wife's mood.

As Steve opened the door from the garage to the kitchen, he
heard a sound that hadn't been in the house in months. Brenda
was laughing.

"All right, all right," she said with a chuckle. "If you say so. I
think it's kind of extravagant, but why not?"

"You deserve it, so you ought to have it," a deep voice answered
her.

Steve rounded the corner to find his wife standing in the foyer
with a tall, lanky fellow in a sweat-stained ball cap, a paintspattered shirt, and an even dirtier pair of jeans. The man's focus
shifted to Steve, and his expression sobered a little. "Howdy. I'm
Nick LeClair, A-I Remodeling." He held out his hand. "You must
be the famous Steve Hansen."

Steve shook his hand. "Did you and Brenda work out a plan for
the basement?"

"A crafts room!" Brenda exclaimed, her green eyes sparkling. "It
was Nick's idea. I explained how the basement had been the playroom when the kids were little, and then it became the teen hangout, and that I just didn't know what to do with it now. All their
trophies are down there, and school pictures, and the wide-screen TV. The puzzles and LEGOs ... you know? Nick and I were looking
at the paw prints where Ozzie had jumped into the paint, and he
asked me why they were pink. So I showed him my chairs!"

"Which chairs?" Steve asked. He had no idea what Brenda was
talking about-paw prints, chairs, pink paint. What on earth was a
crafts room, and why did the Hansens need one?

"The dining-room chairs." The emerald sparkle in Brenda's
eyes faded to a dull, wary olive. "The ones I painted."

"Oh." Steve glanced across the foyer into the dining area. Sure
enough. Pink plaid chairs. Where had those come from?

"Nick thinks they're wonderful," Brenda said. "I showed him
the slipcovers I'd sewn for the couches. He knows a lady who hired
someone to make a set of slipcovers, and he says hers aren't nearly
as professional looking. Our house has been mostly contemporary,
you know, but I've been wanting a change. I told Nick my
thoughts, and he says with a little paint and a few alterations, we
can easily go cottage."

Steve stared dumbly at his wife. He had no idea what she was
talking about, but at least some life had come back into her eyes.

"Cottage," he repeated, nodding sagely. It was a trick he'd
learned years ago. If he couldn't remember, didn't understand, or
couldn't make himself care what his wife was talking about, he
simply repeated her last word. Worked like a charm. She never
knew he was paying no attention.

This time, Brenda rolled her eyes. "Nick knows several store
owners who are interested in painted furniture too. He thinks I
should continue perfecting my art."

"Perfecting your art?" Steve mouthed. When had painting
chairs and draping sheets across furniture become an art?

"We can cover the floor in a neutral vinyl," Nick was saying
now. "Then we can divide the room into work zones for Brenda.
We'll use different shades of paint and a few built-in dividers to
separate each area. It won't take much-time or money. We can
give her a sewing spot with a big table where she can spread out her fabric. Then we can create a painting space where she'll be able to
drip without causing any problems. I've got an idea for a large,
shallow metal tray that will allow her to put the furniture safely on
the floor. She told me about her gardening, so I thought we could
set a potting area next to the sliding glass door. And that ought to
just about take care of her."

Steve blinked, trying to work his head around potting, sewing,
and painting zones. All day he had been thinking about closing
costs and mortgage rates. Phrases like your dream vacation home
and fishing, floating, and fun and lakefront beauty had been zipping
around in his brain. He had photographed three houses, one of
which was about to collapse on its foundation, and had spent
hours trying to get good shots from flattering angles.

What on earth was a potting area?

Steve rubbed his temples. For the first time since he'd walked
into the house, he noticed that Brenda was wearing a pretty purple
shirt and a pair of black slacks. It looked like she might have done
something with her hair, too. The edges were different.

Deciding the best thing to do at this point was follow his original
plan of action, Steve mustered a smile for his wife. "Well, that
sounds interesting," he said. "Looks like you've got your work cut
out for you, Nick. Write us up an estimate, we'll take a look at it,
and then we can talk some more." Turning to his wife, he continued speaking. "I guess I'll head down to the lake and wet a line,
Brenda. I haven't been home early in a while, and Charlie Moore
tells me the crappie are really biting these days."

"Nice to meet you, Steve," Nick said. "You've built yourself a
great reputation here at the lake. I wouldn't be surprised if you got
the Realtor of the Year award at the banquet this Christmas. Congratulations."

Steve nodded to acknowledge the compliment; then he hurried
toward the bedroom. He could hear the excitement return to
Brenda's voice when she began conversing with the handyman again. Well, if it made her happy to pot, sew, and paint, then that
was all right. Maybe she would get back to normal eventually.

In fact, now that Steve recalled the situation, Brenda had looked
like her old self today. Maybe even better. He decided to revise his
plan and only fish for a little while. If Brenda was happy about the
basement remodeling, maybe she wouldn't push him away in bed
again tonight. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Steve
felt sure good things were right around the bend.