Waiting to Believe

Waiting to Believe
© copyright 2013 by Sandra Kjarstad Bloom. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events, or to locales, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Print edition ISBN: 978-1-59298-556-2

E-book edition ISBN: 978-1-59298-992-8

Print edition Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916820

Cover and book design by Mayfly Design

E-book edition 2013

17 16 15 14 13 5 4 3 2 1

Beaver's Pond Press, Inc.

7108 Ohms Lane

Edina, Minnesota 55439

(952) 829-8818

www.BeaversPondPress.com

To order, visit
www.BeaversPondBooks.com

or call (800) 901-3480. Reseller discounts available.

For Colleen,

with my love

Thanks

To Marian, who opened me to the world and who will forever be my greatest cheerleader.

To Faith Sullivan, my friend, my mentor and leader of our merry little band of writers whose influence is on every page:

Barb Strandell

Connie Kunin

Eileen Welsh

Eleanor Waldrup

Mary McLeod

Nancy Massman

Pat Barone

To LMC, who held a mirror to my face as I read to her.

To my mom, Clara Kjarstad Bloom. Wish you were here to worry about this for me. . . .

Acknowledgements

My path to publishing began on January 21, 1946 in room 110 of Bancroft Grade School, Minneapolis. There, under the guidance of my 2nd grade teacher, Virginia Stronk, I wrote my first story. So pleased with it was Miss Stronk that she sent me to the Kindergarten class to read it aloud. Thrilled, I decided right then that I would “become a writer” when I grew up. Hats off to you, Miss Stronk, wherever you may be, for putting the idea in my head and starting me off on a very long journey.

Another teacher has played a significant role in my life: Phyl Lyders, my senior English teacher at Minneapolis South High, saw something in me worthy of encouragement and encourage me she did! Our teacher-student relationship evolved into a lasting friendship which now has included her in-depth role as proof-reader, grammarian, sounding-board, nagger-as-needed and fervent champion of
Waiting to Believe
. Thanks for everything, Phyl!

I turned my completed manuscript over to Margaret Shryer for her reaction as an outside reader. She responded with a thoughtful analysis and a ringing endorsement. Thank you, Maggie!

I entrusted myself into the hands of my editor at Beaver's Pond Press, Lily Coyle, and allowed her to do her magic. She did all the right things, with skill, passion for our work together and an exuberance that often dazzled me. I am indebted. Thank you, Lily!

Along the way, I've been cheered on by dear friends, Elaine Lytle and Ronn Larson, who read the initial draft and declared it “Great!” Their praise and enthusiasm helped me believe in myself as a writer. Thanks, Elaine and Ronn!

From California to D.C. and all the way to Spain, I've been urged on by the Family Breen. No small force! I thank them for their encouragement and support. A special shout-out to John who wrote from Bilbao: “Just finish the damn book, Sandy!”

Okay, John. I did.

Prologue

The scene was a Norman Rockwell
Saturday Evening Post
cover: Gently rolling hills wrapped in falling snow, Norway pines standing guard over the limestone country club. Golden light shimmered through floor-to-ceiling windows, giving evidence of happy people in a happy place. But a closer look would tell a different story.

At a prominent table in the dining room, the six Doyle children sat, frozen in embarrassment. Parents Kenneth and Rose snapped at one another, their speech growing angrier, louder.

Fifteen-year-old Kacey watched in disgust. She was the one to pick up the pieces.

It was December 14, 1960: The evening had begun as a thirty-sixth birthday dinner for Rose. It was ending, as so often happened, in insults and spilled champagne.

The argument was over a birthday cake. Rose had wanted one. Kenneth had not ordered one.

“For Christ's sake, Rose,” Kenneth hissed, “you've had enough champagne! Tomorrow you won't even
remember
if you had a birthday cake! Just drop it!”

“I
told
you I wanted a cake and candles! Is that so much to ask?” She stood to confront him, but her legs tangled with her chair leg, and she went down. Kacey heard the sound of silk ripping. All eyes in the crowded room had shifted to them.

The other Doyle children cringed, but Kacey knelt by her mother. “C'mon, Mom,” she whispered, helping her get up. Rose was a tall, angular woman whose frame did not betray the birth of six children. She was an attractive woman, but for something in her face that was not welcoming.

Kenneth's face was stony. He glared at his wife, then reached in his pocket and withdrew the car keys. “Here, Kacey,” he said, tossing them to her. “You know how to drive. Take her home. I'm not leaving!”

Kacey's eyes widened. She caught the keys. Putting an arm around her wobbly mother, she guided her through the great room and after grabbing their coats, plunged out into the biting winter air, with Rose muttering the whole way. “Couldn't he have ordered me a cake?”

As Kacey maneuvered a limp Rose into the car, a wave of pity rolled over her. “Oh, Mom, why do you always have to do it?”

“It's not my fault, honey.” Rose swiped at tears. “He just doesn't love me,” she whimpered and fell asleep.

As they swung into their long drive, Rose rallied. “Kenneth?” she asked and began retching. “Kenneth?” she mumbled again through vomit.

The car lurched to a halt, and Kacey ran to open her mother's door. “Oh, Kacey,” Rose said softly, “I didn't know you were here.”

Kacey led her into the kitchen, helping her to a chair at the table. With unfocused eyes, Rose looked up at her daughter. “Ya know what I'd really like? I'd like you to bake me a birthday cake! You're so good at it, honey.”

This is my mother . . . This is my mother . . .

Book 1

1

It was a beautiful morning. Too beautiful to stay inside. The purity of the blue spring sky was breathtaking. The sweet aroma of fir and pine drifted through the air.

Kenneth often rode early while the household still slept, and again later after arriving home from the bank. He enjoyed the solitude and reveled in the knowledge that he was master of this little kingdom. But he wasn't alone, this morning. He led the way toward the farm and out of the woods on his black stallion, Shaw. A few paces behind him on Two Spot, rode fifteen-year-old Kacey. A wispy, strawberry blonde with limpid blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles, she was named for her paternal grandmother, Kathryn Clare. The name had seemed too big for her as a newborn, so it was shortened to her initials: K. C. Kacey. Second oldest, she took her role in the family seriously.

Tall and vigorous, Kenneth was what the world would call a handsome man, but the distinction was unimportant to him. He looked back at Kacey with a grin and spurred Shaw into a gallop, speeding across the pasture toward the barn. Kacey leaned into her little pinto, but she could not close the gap. Kenneth had already dismounted when Kacey reigned in beside him. “You're a fine horsewoman!” he declared as Kacey swung her leg over Two Spot and dropped to the ground. He reached over to tousle her hair. It was not a familiar gesture.

Kacey smiled up at him and fell into step as they led the horses into the barn. Time alone with her father was something she wished for, but also dreaded. His high expectations, his inability to praise his children, too often kept him at arm's length from them.

But this had been a magical morning. They had ridden side by side through the woods, Kenneth making conversation as he would with a friend. Their gait had been lazy, comfortable. He had spoken of his hopes for a Kennedy win in the upcoming election, Kenneth's wish for a Catholic president ultimately overcoming his allegiance to Nixon. This was not something he could share with his cronies at the club.

He spoke of the rumors that Ted Williams was going to retire at the end of the 1960 season. Kacey soaked it all up.

“This is so great, riding with you, like this. Just us and our horses!”

“Well, it's what I dreamed of when I talked your mother into moving out to this place. I know she didn't want to leave the city and take on a ‘hobby farm,' as she calls it.”

“She sure didn't want to, did she?”

“Oh, she hasn't wanted to do a lot of things I have but she comes around.”

Kacey looked over at her father. “I think she was just afraid it'd be too much for her to handle. You so busy at the bank all day and then a farm to tend. It's a lot!”

Kenneth chuckled. “Well, maybe that's why we had six children! They should be the ‘farm hands!'”

In spite of a nip in the air, the horses were steamy, nickering softly as they were led into the barn to be cooled down. They shook their big heads with pleasure while Kenneth and Kacey brushed them with strong, loving strokes.

Kenneth watched Kacey from the corner of his eye as she gave Two Spot a final pat. She was emerging not only as a fine horsewoman but as a strong young lady. She was the closest to his heart, perhaps because she was the most like him: an achiever, an athlete. She had a questioning mind, not afraid to stand alone.

Kacey could see the pleasure on her father's face. He clasped his hand over hers, and they entered the kitchen laughing.
This,
Kacey reflected,
has been a ride I'm gonna remember!

2

Kacey held her first baseman's glove up high, in front of her face, her knees slightly bent as she planted herself. “Right here, Gerald. Put 'er right here!” she called to her brother who stood twenty feet beyond her. He went into his windup and loosed a slow but accurate pitch right into the unmoving glove.

“Great!” Kacey yelled and lobbed the ball back to the twelve-year-old. It was a hot Friday afternoon. The school year was winding down. Kacey was relishing the beginning of a lazy weekend. She was happy.

“Whoa!” Gerald yelped as his next pitch shot from his hand and sped out of control above Kacey's head.

“That's getting some speed on it, Gerald!” Kacey laughed as she ran to retrieve the runaway ball.

At the edge of the drive stood Kacey's classmate, Greg Saunders. He raised his hand in greeting. Kacey picked up the ball and walked toward him. He glistened with sweat, and his damp blond hair fell in a tangle of waves over the rolled bandana around his forehead.

“Hey! I didn't see you there!” she called, her voice taking on an unfamiliar quality as she spoke.

“Didn't mean to sneak up on you. I was out for a run. Thought I'd stop by.”

“We don't get too many runners down this road,” Kacey said.

Greg laughed and shifted from foot to foot. “Well, to tell the truth, I planned my route to include your place. I wonder if—if you'd go to Excelsior with me tomorrow.”

It was difficult for Kacey to suppress her surprise. Excelsior was a big deal. It was a large amusement park located on the largest lake in the area.

“Excelsior?” she repeated, her heart quickening.

“Yeah, they're opening up for the season. I thought we could try out some rides. You know.” He untied his bandana as he talked, wiping his face with it, avoiding eye contact.

“I'd love to! Thanks for asking me!”

“Terrific!” He grinned at her. “I'll pick you up tomorrow at two.” Without another word, he turned and set off back down the long drive.

Kacey had dated occasionally but never with much enthusiasm. This felt different. Greg was unlike most of the guys at school. For one thing, he was a serious student as well as a good athlete. She smiled at herself, pondering everything about the invitation. Why had he asked her out? He'd never looked at her before. How long had he been standing there, watching her? What did he think of the way she threw a ball . . .

The amusement park was alive with throngs of people, everyone shaking off the winter blahs. Hoping to be seen with Greg, Kacey was on the alert for her girlfriends. She and Greg moved through the crowd, riding the Ferris wheel, then the roller coaster—the tallest, steepest, most feared in the state. Between rides they ate their way through corndogs, cotton candy, and popcorn, washing it all down with Coke. Kacey's head spun.

Waiting to be locked into the tilt-a-whirl, Greg slid his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Kacey shivered and gave him a shy smile. The ride took off. At first Kacey felt exhilaration, and she pushed harder into Greg, leaning her head back. But midway through the jerking, swirling motion, her stomach lurched. Her hands flew to her mouth, and her face paled as she cried out, “I'm gonna be sick!”

“No!” Greg yelled, pulling away from her. “Not on my new sweater!” But it was too late. Kacey spewed corndog and popcorn while the ride continued its relentless course.

When it finally ground to a halt, Kacey staggered down the ramp, one step ahead of Greg. He peeled off his sweater and wadded it into a ball. Kacey watched him, her face aflame with embarrassment. Greg gave her a sickly smile. “It's okay, Kacey,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Think of it this way: we'll never forget our first date!” Her heart quickened.
Greg just called this our first date!

She would remember the date: June 11, 1961.

So it began. Many things about Greg reminded Kacey of her father: His self-confidence, the way he walked as if he knew exactly where he was going. But there was a gentler side to him that Kacey never saw in her father. A tenderness in his face and touch.

For Greg, it was the pixie in Kacey that first attracted him. The wide-open eyes and impish expressions made him smile. She was a free spirit beneath a thin covering of uncertainty. It made her seem vulnerable even as he saw her inner strength. She was a puzzle, and he wanted to be the one to put the pieces together.

Kenneth was pleased with what he was seeing.
This is a good choice
, he thought. He liked the steadiness, the quickness of mind he saw in Greg. The potential for success was obvious.

Though Rose was taken with him, she said little, somehow fearing her approval would turn Kacey against him.

As weeks turned to months, Greg's presence was a delight to each of the Doyles, and a joy to Kacey.

3

“Give me a hand here, Greg!” Kenneth had finished splitting the maple and oak logs in preparation for the winter that would come all too soon. Greg left his truck in the driveway and loped over to join Kenneth in stacking wood beside the back porch.

“I could have done more than stack, Mr. Doyle! Why didn't you give me a call?”

“No need till now. It's always the cleanup that tires a man out. I like this kind of work! Keeps me fit!”

Kenneth had big, strong hands. Not banker's hands, Rose had said once long ago. His body was solid but still lean, all angles and planes. “You're fit, all right,” Greg told him. “You do it all! Run the bank, run the farm, practically run the church! Not many guys could keep up with you.”

Kenneth wedged another piece of maple into the growing pile and leaned against the porch railing, wiping sweat from his brow. Smiling at the compliment, he recognized how seldom he received them from his family. “I don't know about that, but I like everything I do.” He turned back to stacking, but Greg continued the conversation.

“I've got a lot of respect for you, Mr. D.” He paused. “Actually, I've been wondering if I could pick your brain a little.” He laid a piece of oak on the pile.

“How so?” Kenneth had six children. He could not have anticipated this question from any of his own. He did not miss the irony of it.

“Well, I'll be a senior this fall. Everyone says it's time to start thinking about college.”

“Sure.”

“I want to go, but I don't know what I want to
do.
I know I want more out of my life than my dad's gotten out of his, so how can I talk to him about it?”

“What's he doing these days?”

“That's just it. He's never really found anything he's stayed with.”

Kenneth nodded.

“In the fifties, he invested everything he and Mom had to start up a bomb shelter business.” There was embarrassment in Greg's voice.

Kenneth stopped stacking and reached out his hand, urging Greg to stop, too. “Lost his shirt, did he?”

“Yeah. Now he's selling aluminum awnings for the Jensen brothers. On commission. I want more than that.”

Kenneth draped his arm loosely around Greg's shoulder. “C'mon in and have some lemonade. I'd be glad to talk with you.”

They settled themselves at the kitchen table. “How'd you decide what
you
wanted to do?” Greg asked.

Kenneth poured lemonade. “Well, let's see. You know, I'm a pretty methodical guy.” He paused, pushing one of the glasses across to Greg, “I actually did some research into what would offer the best opportunity for success.”

“Guess selling bomb shelters wasn't on your list, huh?”

Kenneth grinned, taking a sip of the icy drink. “Nope, not bomb shelters. Not Edsels, either.” Greg returned the grin. Kenneth eased into a chair and began the story of his career pursuit. He was pleased to have a listener.

After some time, he got up and crossed to a kitchen cupboard. Taking down a bottle of vodka, he poured liberally into his lemonade. He glanced over at Greg, the bottle still in his hand, then placed it back in the cupboard.

“Banking's more than the movement of money. It's about how a community functions. And there's so much to choose from in banking.”

Greg raised an eyebrow.

Kenneth settled back into his chair, looking down into his glass as he spoke. “I think the idea of being a loan officer was what captured my attention first. When I was starting out, loans were the major source of revenue for most banks.” He took a swallow. “I saw a future for myself almost right away.”

Greg leaned his elbows on the table. “And you were right?”

“I was right. But a bank's only as good as its people, and I knew I'd be good.”

Kacey appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I thought I heard your voice!” She smiled at Greg. “I've been waiting for you.”

“My fault,” Kenneth admitted. “But I got some work out of him.”

Kacey mussed Greg's hair. “Doesn't look like you're working real hard now!” While grabbing her sweater, she pulled Greg from the chair, “C'mon,
My Fair Lady
starts in half an hour.”

Kenneth walked them to the back door. “To be continued, Greg!” he promised.

Sitting beside Greg in his old Ford pickup, Kacey watched his hand turn the key in the ignition. Something about that simple movement created a twinge deep within her. The act itself was simply a connection made between electrical forces. But for Kacey, it became sensual. She placed a hand on Greg's knee. “Let's not go to the movie.”

Greg smiled and started down the driveway, flicking on the right turn signal as they approached the road. The truck built up a thick trail of dust as they moved toward their private spot at the edge of the neighboring woods.

It was just ten minutes away, but it was hidden from sight. They called it their glen. Greg maneuvered slowly down the narrow, rutted road only they knew. Shrubs and low-hanging branches brushed against the truck. Finally it rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Oaks, maples, and birch provided a canopy. Wild daisies, Queen Anne's lace, and Indian paintbrush popped up in the long grass that shimmered in the breeze. Kacey and Greg sprang from the truck, laughing.

Greg pulled a blanket from behind the seat. “I've learned never to leave home without this thing!”

Kacey feigned indignation. “So that's the kind of guy you are!”