Marriage Seasons 03 - Falling for You Again (9 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

What is plaque, anyhow?” Esther asked. Seated beside her husband in the car, she gazed out the window at the majestic Ozark hills as they drove toward Camdenton. Cloaked in shades of red, gold, and brown, the trees were reaching the peak of their colorful display. Esther had always loved autumn at the lake. Brisk breezes ruffled the water and whispered through the leaves. Docks emptied as people tucked their boats away for the winter. Canada geese flew overhead, squirrels hunted for nuts, and deer bounded into the woods from the roadside.

“Some kind of sticky goop, I guess. The doctor said it was a mix of cholesterol, calcium, and … what was it? Oh, fibrous tissue.”

Behind the wheel, Charlie looked as he always had. Handsome and earnest but with the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Esther studied the rays of the setting sun as they lit up a farmer’s stubbled field and round bales of hay.

“I don’t like the idea of anyone putting a balloon into my arteries or poking around in there to clean them out,” she fretted. “I’m not sure I’ll agree to that. Why do you suppose I have plaque and you don’t? We’ve been eating the same meals all these years.”

“Probably walking my mail route kept the blood pumping.”

“As if I didn’t walk just as much as you—running after those two kids, doing my chores, cooking three meals a day. And in case you’ve forgotten, I used to mow the lawn too.”

“How could I forget a sight like that? You in your pedal pushers with those shapely legs. When I knew you’d be outside mowing, I used to try to get home from work early.”

“Did you really?”

“Sure.” He glanced over at her. “I liked the red pants with the polka dots. You were as cute as a bug’s ear.”

“I cannot believe you remember those crazy pants, Charlie.”

“They’re burned into my memory.”

She giggled. “Do you still think I’m cute? Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing but an old wrinkled sack. My curves have gone flat. My hips keep spreading. My neck looks like a turkey wattle.”

“Don’t forget your plaque.”

“Oh, Charlie, stop teasing me!” She gave him a playful swat. “I used to think I was kind of pretty. Some people even called me beautiful.”

She sat back to wait for him to make one of his usual sweetly flattering remarks. Instead of responding, Charlie frowned and adjusted the sun visor. Esther waited a little longer for him to speak up, but he said nothing.

“Is any of my beauty left?” she asked finally. “Do you still find me attractive, Charlie? In a sweetheart kind of way?”

Charlie fell silent for so long that Esther decided he must be figuring out how to tell her the truth—her looks were gone, her mind was fading, and even her arteries were clogging up. Well, so what if he did think that? Charlie Moore was no Prince Charming himself. He pooched out around the middle, and he couldn’t see the end of his own nose without those trifocals. What once had been a head of hair to rival Elvis Presley’s pompadour was now a scattering of straight white wisps.

Just when she’d given up on him answering her question, he spoke. “You know, Esther, a name came to mind the other day, and for the life of me, I can’t place it.” He looked at her. “George Snyder. Does that ring a bell?”

Esther’s hand tightened on her purse strap. “I haven’t heard that name in years. What on earth made you think of George Snyder?”

“So you do remember him?”

“Somewhere back in the past. But you never answered my question, Charlie.”

“What did you ask?”

“If you thought I was still attractive.”

“Of course you are.”

He sounded awfully grumpy for someone paying a compliment. Esther couldn’t imagine what had unearthed Charlie’s memory of George Snyder. She had filed away that era of her life a long time ago.

“What’s wrong with you, Mr. Grouch?” she asked. “Are you getting sleepy? The last thing we need is another car accident.”

“I’m not sleepy. I’m just wondering when we knew this George Snyder fellow.”

“You always insist you’re not sleepy, but you are. We both missed our after-lunch nap today, and I can tell you’re getting drowsy. You’d better let me drive, Charlie.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Pull over to that rest area up ahead. Let’s swap places.”

“Oh, for pete’s sake.”

“Don’t argue with me, Charlie. I saw your eyelids drooping way back there in Buffalo. We’ve got a half hour to go till Camdenton and then another twenty minutes to Deepwater Cove. I insist on taking the wheel.”

“It’s getting dark, Esther.”

“Which is exactly why I should be driving.”

“If you hadn’t frittered away so much time choosing Christmas cards, we’d be home by now. Did you have to read the inscription on every single box, Esther?”

“Pull over right this minute, Charles Moore, and I mean it. You are tired and hungry and irritable, and I’m not riding another mile with you in the driver’s seat.”

To Esther’s immense satisfaction, her husband steered the car off the roadway and parked under a tree at a rest area. Esther pushed open her door. “Yes, I had to read every inscription. We can’t send out cards that just say
Happy Holidays
or
Warm Wishes for the Season
. A Christmas card ought to celebrate the birth of Jesus, don’t you think?”

Charlie was muttering under his breath as they swapped places. If there was one thing about her husband that drove Esther nuts, it was his habit of mumbling. She had no doubt he was griping about something she’d said or done, but he was too big a chicken to say what.

Through the years, her husband had been a good listener—a sit-down-and-talk-things-out kind of man. If an important issue came up, they both knew how to have a good discussion and clear it all up. But Charlie preferred to let the smaller things slide—except for that exasperating muttering.

As Esther pulled the car out onto Highway 54, she recalled the topic of their most recent conversation. Christmas cards—yes. That had been a bother. But of greater concern was Charlie’s mention of George Snyder. Esther had no desire to dredge up memories of that long-ago time, and she certainly hoped Charlie would lay it to rest too.

“I may take a few names off our Christmas list,” she told her husband. “Last year we sent out nearly a hundred cards. That’s too many, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t make much difference to me,” he said. “They’re all your friends.”

“
Our
friends.”

“Esther, I’ve had a few buddies through the years. Guys I enjoyed visiting with at work. A neighbor or two I didn’t mind having over to barbecue some burgers. But as for friends, that’s always been your department.”

“I never thought of it that way, but I suppose you’re right.” Esther switched on the headlamps. If traffic was light, she always used the brighter beams in case a deer wandered onto the road.

“You don’t have friends because you never learned how to give a gift,” she told him. “If someone gives you a present, you can be sure they care about you. When I was in the hospital, Ashley Hanes made that beautiful necklace for me, and I knew right away that she valued my friendship. Why do you suppose I’ve spent so much time with her lately? I’m teaching her how to cook. It’s my way of repaying the gift she gave me.”

Charlie leaned his head against the backrest. “Men don’t give each other gifts. Can you see me presenting Steve Hansen with a new tie or a box of chocolates?”

Esther laughed. “Maybe not, but you could take him to lunch. Or offer to help him rehab one of the houses he’s trying to sell.”

“No thanks. I don’t intend to get into the remodeling business ever again.”

Esther reflected on the first house she and Charlie had purchased. After two years in an apartment—with one baby crawling around and another on the way—she’d been about to go stark raving mad. They couldn’t afford much, but they had put money down on an old fixer-upper in a nice neighborhood. Charlie worked his mail route during the day and spent his evenings and weekends repairing the house. Those had been some trying years, now that she thought about it.

“If you don’t want to have close friendships, that’s fine,” she told him. “But I intend to keep mine—except for those I’m thinking of crossing off the Christmas card list.”

“How come you keep every card you ever got, Esther?” he asked. “The other day when I was putting laundry away, I saw them all bundled up in your bottom drawer.”

“I don’t save all my cards. Just the special ones. I tie them with ribbons and mark down the year I got them. It may sound silly to you, but each card is like a little gift. A love token. That makes it precious. Sometimes I take the cards out and look at them, remembering and feeling grateful for all the love I’ve known through the years.”

Charlie grunted. Esther pursed her lips as she drove. Muttering again. That was one of the things she had learned about a long marriage—the husband would always have some unchangeable traits that nearly sent his poor wife around the bend. For her, it was Charlie’s muttering. And always forgetting where he’d put things. Not to mention leaving the kitchen cabinet doors open. Clomping around in his house slippers. Blowing his nose like a foghorn. Chewing a toothpick for two hours after every meal. Well, she could go on and on.

If she chose to focus on the negatives about her husband, Esther realized, she probably could come up with enough irritants, aggravations, disagreements, and downright hostilities to just about warrant a divorce. But then she would lose
him
. Charlie had so many wonderful, endearing qualities. She certainly couldn’t have found a kinder, better, steadier, or more faithful man to spend her life with.

“George Snyder,” he suddenly spoke up in the darkness. “Ever figure out where we knew him?”

Esther’s heart stumbled. “Would you just shut your eyes and go to sleep, Charlie? You’re pulling long-forgotten names out of an old hat, while I’m sitting here trying to figure out who to cross off our Christmas card list. Do you suppose Clara Gibson even remembers us? She babysat the kids for us a few times. You remember—that old lady with the white streak in her hair? Should I eliminate her?”

When Charlie didn’t reply, Esther drove on in silence. Thank goodness. They were both worn-out from missing their naps and running around the city of Springfield all day, so maybe he would doze the rest of the way home.

What had made him think of George Snyder anyway? Esther hardly remembered the man. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Who could forget those amazing blond curls and sapphire blue eyes?

She and Charlie had been in their first apartment for about a month when their neighbor knocked on the door to ask if Esther could spare an egg. George had been mixing up a cake, of all things. A man baking a cake? Esther had actually giggled in his face. He explained that he’d accidentally dropped his last egg on the floor; then he stood in the doorway while she fetched one from her refrigerator. They had chatted a moment or two before he headed back down the corridor to his own apartment.

Esther wouldn’t have thought another thing about him, but that afternoon George Snyder had knocked on her door again. This time he carried a plate with two slices of lemon chiffon cake—a gift of appreciation for the borrowed egg. Her heart softening, Esther had invited the golden-haired young man into the living room, brewed a pot of tea, and nibbled on that heavenly cake while they sat and talked.

George was an artist, he had told her. At least, that was his goal. His father’s recent death had provided him with a small inheritance, and he was using the money to pay for the apartment and a course of art lessons. George dreamed of moving to New York, where he could paint magazine covers like Norman Rockwell’s famous illustrations or sketch celebrities as Al Hirschfeld did. Esther had happily donated all her back issues of the
Saturday Evening Post
,
Ladies’ Home Journal
,
McCall’s
, and
Look
to George’s artistic endeavors. He responded as though she had given him a treasure more valuable than gold. When she asked to see some of his artwork, George promised to show her the portfolio he was compiling. They talked so long that Esther barely had dinner on the stove when Charlie walked in the door that evening.

Glancing over at her husband now, Esther saw that he had laid his head against the padded seat back and was already snoozing. Glad that she had insisted on driving, she relaxed and allowed herself to drift back in time to those awkward early years of marriage. How lonely she had been in her new role as the wife of a mailman. Without children or a job, she had felt terribly isolated in the tiny apartment … until George Snyder showed up asking for an egg. Things had certainly changed after that.

Esther leaned her own head against the seat back and focused on the road ahead. The yellow lines flashed beneath the car’s headlights as she steered toward Camdenton. In the silence of the growing darkness, she reflected on the man who had brought such luminosity, such turmoil, and such joy into her world.

How odd to remember him now, after all these years. To recall the hours of chatting, playing dominoes, watching television together on the old tufted sofa. George had given Esther so many gifts. Copies of his favorite books … wildflowers from the park near their apartment building … a chip of broken Italian tile he had found near the train tracks … and sketches … so many lovely sketches…