The Homecoming Hero Returns. Joan Elliott Pickart
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I swear, David, our son is never going to forgive me for the fact that he inherited my naturally curly blond hair and Molly got your thick, straight black hair. He’ll probably do one of those deals where the kid divorces the parent.”
“Speaking of the Westport twins,” David said, “I assume they’re still sleeping?”
“Yep. It’s one of the perks of being ten. You don’t get roped into making a zillion cupcakes on a hot and humid day.” Sandra paused. “I wasn’t nagging about air-conditioning, David.”
The timer went off on the stove and Sandra hurried to remove the tray from the oven. She turned the dial to Off, switched the cooled cupcakes with the hot ones and brought the tray to the table.
“Almost done,” she said, sinking back onto her chair. “I’ve lost count here, but there should be enough for the sale and to still have some for us.”
“I should hope so,” David said, reaching for another one.
“Go away,” Sandra said, flicking the knife so a blob of frosting landed on the back of David’s hand. “Do the world a favor and take a shower, sweaty man.”
“Okay,” David said, then proceeded to lick the frosting from his hand.
“Gross,” Sandra said, laughing.
“Nothing like a little salty sweat mixed in with chocolate frosting,” David said, wrinkling his nose. “Yuck. I’m hittin’ the suds.”
Sandra shifted in her chair to watch her husband stride from the room.
Good grief, she thought, he was still so gorgeous. They’d been married nearly eleven years and he could still make her heart go pitter-patter. David was tall, dark and handsome, with the added bonus of incredible green eyes. He didn’t weigh a pound more than when they’d met in college, kept himself fit and trim. He was just so beautifully proportioned with broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscular legs and…
A coil of heat tightened low in Sandra’s body and she spun back around in her chair.
“It’s hot enough in here,” she said to a cupcake, “without thinking about… Sandra, shut-up.”
She continued to frost the cupcakes by rote as her mind wandered.
Every year they went through the same silly ritual, she thought. She’d make wistful comments about having air-conditioning in the house, and David would declare that one of these days, oh, yes, one of these days, they would have the coveted cooling. And both of them knew it would never happen. There just wasn’t enough money for a luxury like installing air-conditioning, then paying the bills that running it created. Nope. Not in this lifetime.
Oh, sure, they had AC at the ever-famous Westport’s Emporium because it made good business sense. Customers stayed longer and put more groceries and sundry other items into their carts because they were comfortable, in no rush to go back outside into the heat.
“Done,” Sandra said, setting the last cupcake on the table.
She got to her feet and went to the small pantry beyond the kitchen to retrieve the plastic carriers she’d use to transport the desserts to the church the next day. As she began to pack the treats, she frowned.
Why had she just wasted mental energy thinking about the air-conditioning they didn’t have, would never have? she wondered. She was an intelligent woman, for heaven’s sake, a part-time journalistic reporter extraordinaire for the ten-page weekly neighborhood newspaper, the North End News. And, yes, sir, by golly, she was hot on the trail of a scoop. After tomorrow she’d turn in an award-winning story on the bake sale that had been held at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church after the eleven-o’clock service on Sunday.
“You’re losing it, Sandra,” she said, snapping the cover onto the first carrier. “You fried your brain when you turned on the oven to bake these messy things.”
As she continued her task she inwardly sighed.
Such big dreams she’d had a zillion years ago, she mused. She’d travel the world as a famous journalist with editors clamoring for first chance to publish her genius-level words that flowed effortlessly from her fingertips. Yeah, right.
Sandra swiped her finger around the inside edge of the frosting bowl, then licked the gooey chocolate absently as she stared into space.
Dreams, she thought. She’d long ago tucked hers away and concentrated on her family, her beautiful children, the husband she loved every bit as when they were first married, if not more. She didn’t resent for one second that she’d had to forget her career dreams.
But David?
David’s potential for success hadn’t been a dream, it was a given way back when. He had everything it took to be a professional baseball player and it was simply a matter of graduating from Saunders University where they both went and waiting to see which major league team would draft him. He could have had it all…fame, fortune and a house with air-conditioning.
He’d been close, so very close, to having his dreams come true…but then…she’d gotten pregnant. She had just turned nineteen, was so young and terrified, and she could still remember so clearly weeping buckets while David held her in his arms.
He’d been wonderful, Sandra remembered, as she began to clean up after her baking spree. He’d told her in a voice ringing with conviction that everything would be fine. They’d be married immediately and love and cherish their baby when it was born.
She’d quit college, went to work as a waitress and David found a part-time job pumping gas to help pay the rent on the shabby little apartment they’d found. But everything had not been fine. David couldn’t keep up the grueling schedule and flunked out of Saunders before he could graduate.
His dreams for being a pro baseball player were buried beneath diapers and bottles and bibs. For two babies. Twins. Their beautiful and wondrous Michael and Molly.
And to this day, Sandra thought, as she wiped off the table, she still believed—knew—that David resented what had happened, was not truly happy, and definitely did not love her anymore, hadn’t loved her for a very long time.
Oh, he put on a smiling facade, was a devoted father, worked hard at the store, gave the impression that he was a man who was contented with his life.
But she couldn’t remember, no matter how hard she tried, the last time that David had told her that he loved her.
When would it happen? Sandra wondered, blinking away unwanted tears. When would he have had enough of this charade and leave her? Did he consider ten-years-plus a long enough punishment for a foolish mistake? Oh, dear heaven, what could she do to make him love her again? What, what, what? She loved David so much, couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, but she didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
“Hi, Mom. I smell cake or cookies or something.”
“Oh,” Sandra said, grateful to be pulled from her depressing thoughts. “Good morning, Molly mine. I made cupcakes for the bake sale at church tomorrow, but there’s some left over for us. You have to have breakfast before you can have one, though.”
“Bummer,” Molly said, sliding onto a chair at the table. The enormous T-shirt she was wearing as pajamas slid off one shoulder. “I hate breakfast. It’s boring.”
“How sad,” Sandra said, smiling. “Do you think that shirt of your father’s is big enough for you?”
“It’s cool,” Molly said, glancing down at the faded lettering that said Saunders University. “Dad was going to use it to dry the car after he washed it, but I talked him into letting me have it. My friend Becky sleeps in a T-shirt of her dad’s that says Harvard, but he never even went there. That’s bogus. At least Dad went to Saunders.”
But didn’t graduate, Sandra thought, inwardly sighing.
“Yep, he did attend Saunders,” she said brightly. “So did I for about two seconds.