Picket Fence Promises. Kathryn Springer
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smiled. “Actually…I have three months.”
I lost sight of Alex an hour after I started cutting hair for the residents. The last I’d seen him, he’d been talking to a woman named Althea, who thought that he was her son, Henry, who’d finally come for a visit. No one had said anything about having a celebrity in their midst. In fact, half the people in the family lounge probably thought that Alex was Althea’s neglectful son. Once in a while, I saw one of the nurses give Alex a speculative glance but no one approached him.
“Three months,” I muttered under my breath.
“That’s if I decide to go back,” a voice said behind me.
I’d lost sight of Alex but apparently he hadn’t lost sight of me. If he decided to go back? What did he mean by that? “You can’t just step out of your life.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re Alex Scott. People like you can’t just decide one day that they’re not going to be famous. You picked your life and now you’re stuck with it. If you wanted this—” I poked a comb in the air “—you would have chosen it a long time ago. After what you’ve gotten used to, you’d go insane in a small town like Prichett.”
“You seem pretty sane.”
Ha. The fact that he thinks so only shows how good an actress I can be. The truth is, I’m only coasting next to normal and like every good daughter, I blame my mother.
“Henry?”
Althea wandered up to us and I saw Alex’s expression change. His face softened and he put his hand on Althea’s arm to steady her. “I thought the nurse told you it was time to go back to your room now,” he reminded her, his voice so low and warm that it brought another dormant memory to life. Alex was a good man. I’d assumed that by now he’d be cynical and self-absorbed, and knew it would be easier on me if he was. I didn’t want to see him being kind to little old ladies who thought he was their long-lost son.
Althea looked at me, and then her gaze shifted back to Alex. “I just wanted to be sure you’ll come back to visit me. Don’t be gone so long next time.”
“I won’t.”
“Henry is my son,” she told me, her voice faltering slightly. “I’m lucky to have a boy like Henry.”
“Good night, Althea.” I watched as the nurse came to take her to her room and then I glanced at Alex. “I’m almost done here. I can give you a ride back to Charity’s.”
“Just give me five minutes. I’ll meet you by the reception desk.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call Henry.”
I took advantage of the few minutes I had to duck back into Esther and John’s room. John was already asleep but Esther was sitting in a chair by the bed, knitting.
“I’m starting early. I’m going to have to make two, you know.”
“You’re making blankets for Annie’s babies?” I reached out and touched the whisper-soft skein of mint-green yarn. Twins might not be such a big deal anymore when women all over the place were having triplets or quintuplets, but these were Annie’s twins.
Esther nodded, the knitting needles gently clicking together as the blanket grew in her lap. One of the things I loved about Esther was the way she didn’t feel the need to crowd the air with words. She knew I had something to say and she gave me the time and space I needed to say it.
“Thank you for not mentioning Heather. I’ll tell him. I’m just not sure when. Soon.” The thought suddenly occurred to me that if I wanted him to leave, revealing that particular bit of news just might do it. But why? I felt a ripple of unease. Over the years I’d convinced myself that I’d done him a favor by removing the baby and me from his equation, leaving him a famous, wealthy entity while saving myself from the rejection that I knew would eventually happen. I couldn’t let myself imagine that Alex and I might be celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in a few years if I’d made another decision.
“And are you going to tell Heather?”
“I don’t know yet.” That was something else that I didn’t want to face. I felt the urge to run away again. God, could we just rewind the last twenty-four hours and start over with a new script?
“God is bigger than this,” Esther said quietly. “Don’t forget that.”
“I thought the Christian life was supposed to be peaceful,” I said, hearing the faint whine creep into my voice. I never whine. I blamed Alex. “You know, like a nice scenic riverboat ride.”
“A riverboat ride.” Esther tipped her head thoughtfully and the knitting needles fell silent. “I think it’s more like…oh…bungee jumping off a bridge? Skydiving…?”
“I get the picture! Why didn’t someone tell me that?” Bungee jumping? She had to be kidding. I got dizzy if I ran up the stairs to my apartment too fast.
“This is what you have to remember, Bernice. Peace isn’t necessarily a warm, fuzzy feeling. It isn’t even something we can grab and hold on to. Peace is Him. It’s God Himself. So when you hit the rapids on your nice, scenic boat ride, you don’t run away, you run to.” The needles began to click again. She gave me a wide smile and a wink. “It’s an adventure, but you can trust Him.”
“You aren’t really going to leave me here, are you?”
When I pulled up in front of Charity’s B and B I didn’t even put the car into Park, I just put my foot on the brake to hold it steady for the two seconds Alex would need to open the door and get out. “Yup.”
“You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine…with Murphy for company.” I couldn’t resist.
“You’re trying to get rid of me.”
“I’m not very good at it.”
Alex twisted around in the seat. “You were,” he said. “But you aren’t going to get away this time. You aren’t just passing through Prichett, you live here. I’ve got you cornered. See you tomorrow.”
He started humming again when he got out of the car and strolled up to the door, which Charity was holding open for him.
I slapped my hands against the steering wheel and howled silently. Why was he doing this? Being funny and charming and kind? It was killing me.
I had forgotten to leave a light on so I had to blindly bump my way up the outside staircase behind the Cut and Curl in the dark. When I flipped the light on, the first thing I felt was absolute, total relief that I hadn’t let Alex come up.
My apartment gave the term “shabby chic” a whole new meaning. I have a weakness for tag sales and it shows. I’ve convinced myself that one day I’m going to convince Lester Lee to sell me the little place he owns a few miles out of town. I will then take up my hobby of choice and refinish furniture in my spare time, which is why, over the past ten years, I’ve collected a staggering number of old wooden chairs, interesting side tables and an antique buffet that stretches the width of my living room. And happens to be covered with my collection of snow globes—another weakness. I tried to see my apartment through Alex’s eyes and what I saw was an odd assortment of furnishings that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me. And then I caught sight of my reflection in the antique mirror. It wasn’t even centered on the wall—I’d hung it on the only nail large enough to support it while it waited patiently for its true home. The one with the picket fence.
Then I tried to see me through Alex’s eyes. I leaned closer to the glass and peered at the lines fanning out from my eyes. Anchoring two fingers on each side of my cheekbones and my thumbs against my chin, I pulled back on the skin that had loosened over the years, like