Marriage Seasons 03 - Falling for You Again (19 page)

“I’m sure Ashley’s father is no fool,” Charlie observed. “The food industry is very competitive, and he’s kept that shop going for a long time. Still, those schemes can cost a fellow. Maybe he ought to just stick with what sells.”

Rolling up a heavy-duty extension cord, Charlie began to wonder what Esther had made for dinner. All this talk of hot dogs, onion blossoms, and ice cream was making him hungry. They had finally eaten the last of the frozen casseroles that friends and neighbors had brought over after her car accident, and now she was back to creating meals from scratch.

“It’s feast or famine with Ashley’s family.” Brad spat tobacco juice on the floor of the new addition—a habit that had not endeared him to Charlie. But the kid kept talking, so Charlie kept listening.

“All summer, the hot dog place does a booming business with the tourists in town,” Brad said. “Then in the winter, Ashley’s father relies on high schoolers to stop by on their way home. Those kids don’t spend anywhere near what he makes in the summer. Ashley told me there were years when all the clothes and shoes she and her sisters wore came from the thrift shop. And even though the family owned a restaurant, her mom would have to go to a free food pantry to get enough for their own table. That’s pretty pathetic.”

“You may not care for the father,” Charlie said, “but it sounds like you care an awful lot about Ashley.”

“I married her, didn’t I?”

Brad said this with such contempt, sarcasm, and hopelessness that Charlie felt a strong urge to grab the kid by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Ashley was sweet and innocent. It wasn’t her fault that her father had mismanaged his business. Didn’t Brad even remember why he had married the pretty redhead?

Charlie swallowed his ire and focused his eyes on the work the two had accomplished this afternoon. He couldn’t remember ever feeling as angry or frustrated with Esther as Brad was with Ashley. Charlie had always looked forward to coming home to her and the children each evening. Weekends were the best—days of laughter, games, picnics, and rest. What had come between the Hanes kids to cause such strife?

“I’d say we got a lot done today,” Charlie observed. When Brad didn’t respond, he added, “Ashley ought to be happy about all we’ve accomplished so far. Have you two decided whether we’re building a garage or a nursery?”

“It’s a spare room. I told her I didn’t want a baby right now. What’s the point? She doesn’t even like me half the time. I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring a kid into that kind of marriage.”

“You’re a wise man,” Charlie remarked. After a pause, he asked, “So why can’t you figure out what Ashley’s mad about these days?”

Brad shook his head. “If I ask her what’s wrong, she starts crying. Then she clams up. Then she talks and talks until I can’t stand to listen to another minute of it. I have no clue what her problem is. All I want is what every man wants, you know? A wife, three square meals, clean clothes. I thought we’d really like being married. Ashley used to be a lot of fun. Now … forget it.”

“You sound like a man from my generation, Brad. But you didn’t marry Susie Homemaker. You’ve got a wife who can set up a new washing machine all by herself. Ashley works full-time at the country club, and she’s doing her best to keep up with the bead orders that keep coming in. She’s got to send those necklaces and bracelets out before Christmas, you know. And you expect her to do all the cooking and laundry too? Don’t most young fellows help out with that kind of thing these days?”

“Not me. I’m no pansy. I work construction all day. Now I’m working on this project every afternoon. I’m not about to do the ironing or put dinner on the table. That’s Ashley’s job.”

“I see.” Charlie scratched his chin. He’d had pretty much the same idea about Esther throughout their marriage. Only Esther had never worked outside their home. Caring for the family and house was her chosen vocation, and she did it extremely well.

“You sure you’ve really talked this over with Ashley?” Charlie asked Brad. “Maybe you need to try a little harder to get everything out in the open. Tell her how you feel, and let her do the same. Nothing beats a good, honest conversation for resolving problems.”

A smirk on his face, Brad hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “So, when is Mrs. Moore getting her artery cleaned out? Did you ever get that problem resolved?”

Charlie shook his head and had to laugh. “You’ve got me there, kid. No amount of talking can convince her to let the doctor operate. She won’t hear of it.”

“You know what I think, Mr. Moore? I think women only hear what they want to hear. And half of what they do hear, they imagine. Like, I’ll be sitting in the living room watching a football game, and Ashley will start crying and saying I ignore her. I’m not ignoring her. I’m just trying to watch the game. She imagines stuff. Totally dreams it up. Admit it, Mr. Moore. There’s no point in trying to talk to women, and there’s no use in listening to them either. If you’re married, you have to just do your own thing and hope you survive another day.”

With that, he spat another stream of tobacco juice on the floor.

Charlie thought about Esther for a moment. It certainly
seemed
like they’d had a good marriage. But she did tend to chatter on and on until he often lost interest—or found himself distracted. Listening to Esther could be a chore. And, now that Brad had brought it up, Charlie realized he hadn’t had much success in talking to his wife lately either. Esther had point-blank refused to hear another word about her artery. Come to think of it, Charlie had never been able to get her to discuss George Snyder and the sketch in her dresser drawer.

Had they been fooling themselves all these years? They had imagined themselves happily married … but in reality, had they been more like Brad and Ashley, simply doing their own thing and hoping to survive another day?

Charlie and Brad eyed each other. The setting sun cast long shadows on the skeleton of the spare room. All at once, a sense of calm defiance filled Charlie’s chest. He was not going to let his marriage go one day further without putting everything in order. He had set himself up as a role model for Brad Hanes, and by golly, he was going to confront Esther about his concerns and clear the air between them.

“Marriage can be good,” he told the young man. “I’m not telling you it’s easy living with another person every day. And I’m not saying it’s ever totally perfect. But Esther and I have made it nearly fifty years together, and I wouldn’t trade a single one of them. Now you and Ashley chose to marry each other, and you owe it to God and to yourselves to give it all you’ve got.”

Brad studied Charlie from under hooded eyelids. “Yes, sir, Mr. Moore,” he drawled. “But if it’s no fun, why bother?”

“You answer that question yourself, Brad. I’ll be eager to hear what you decide.” Shouldering his tool belt, Charlie stepped out of the room. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

As he climbed into his golf cart, he heard another splat hitting the wooden floor behind him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E
sther had cooked an exceptionally fine pot roast this evening. As she brought it to the table, she couldn’t hide her pride. Potatoes, pearl onions, and carrots made a colorful wreath around the savory chunk of beef that had been slowly browning all afternoon. In fact, the fragrant aroma had been so strong, she had opened the kitchen window to let a cool autumn breeze waft through the house. Only when Charlie came in the front door after working with Brad had she closed the window again and turned up the furnace.

“There you go!” she said, setting the platter before her husband. “The perfect dinner for my meat-and-potatoes man. I’ve got rolls in the oven and a salad in the fridge, but let’s pray first.”

Delighted with her success, Esther seated herself at the table. But just as she folded her hands and bowed her head, she caught sight of the dour expression on Charlie’s face. He was staring at the roast and frowning.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look like you just ate a lemon.”

“What have you done to the meat, Esther?” he asked. He adjusted his trifocals with one hand and began poking at the roast with a fork.

“I cooked it—just like always. What do you think I did?”

“Something’s wrong here.” Charlie speared an onion, held it to his nose, and then dropped it back onto the platter as if it were poison.

“What is
that
?”

“It’s a pearl onion,” she told him, growing more annoyed by the second. “I don’t use them often, but I spotted them in the store today, and they were so little and cute that I decided to add them to the roast.”

Charlie looked up at her. “That’s not an onion, Esther. That’s an entire clove of garlic. You must have cooked fifteen or twenty of them here.”

“Garlic? What do you mean? It’s an onion.”

He poked at the glossy white orb again. “Honey, this is garlic. I knew something was wrong the minute I drove up to the house. The odor goes all the way across the road out there. When I pulled the golf cart under the carport, I couldn’t imagine what was causing such a strong smell.”

“What?” Esther set her palms on the table and pushed herself up to her full five-foot-three-inch height. “Charles Moore, don’t you think I would know a clove of garlic from a pearl onion? You are just like my mother. Insulting my cooking every time I turn around. You’ve never thought I was a good cook, and now you’re treating my roast like roadkill! Well, I’ll just take care of this problem for you then!”

In one swift movement, she swept the platter off the table and headed for the trash can.

Charlie caught up to her and deftly lifted the dish out of her hands. “Now let me have that, Esther.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Tears streaming, she swung around and tried to grab it back. As they both yanked on the platter, the roast made a swan dive, hit the floor with a thud, and slid straight under the table. Carrots and potatoes fanned through the air, landing in a perfect arc around the couple. Hot gravy splattered the counters and cabinets in a brown polka-dot pattern.

Esther covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “It’s ruined! You ruined my lovely dinner with your insults and your awful behavior. Oh, you’re a horrible, horrible man!”

In all her life, Esther couldn’t remember ever feeling such desperate hatred for her husband. Not the time he had thrown out her favorite childhood doll during one of his garage-cleaning binges. Not the time he had broken her precious Limoges bud vase by knocking it off the dresser with his elbow. Not even the time he had confessed to going to a bar with his friends and ending up at a strip club. So what if the men had been celebrating a best buddy’s engagement? So what if Charlie had never been drunk before or since? She had certainly reviled him then! She hadn’t been able to imagine ever loving him again. Somehow, against all odds, she had forgiven him and learned to accept his many flaws.

But now!
Now!

“Esther,” Charlie murmured, laying a hand on her arm. “Esther, look at me.”

“Get away!” she cried out, slapping at him. “Don’t touch me, you beast!”

Feeling as if she might faint, Esther grabbed the countertop and let herself sag down onto the floor. Through her tears, she could see Charlie on his knees, crawling under the table and trying to wrest what was left of the roast away from Boofer. Esther gulped as she attempted to quell her misery. Her russet-colored slacks were spattered with gravy, and she could see a flattened carrot on the bottom of Charlie’s shoe.

This was awful. The worst, worst thing in the world. How could two decent, civilized people end up like this? Shouting at each other. Throwing food. Crawling around on the floor. They might as well be barbarians.

Esther picked a pearl onion off the floor and sniffed it. Maybe it
was
garlic after all, but did that give Charlie any excuse for saying the things he’d said? So she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t her first and it wouldn’t be her last. Charlie made mistakes too.

“You threw out my doll, don’t forget!” she yelled at him. “You pitched her into the garbage as though she meant nothing. But she was mine! My grammy had given her to me for my fifth birthday, and my mother sewed her clothes, and I loved her. And you tossed her out as though she were nothing but a piece of trash!”

“What are you talking about?” Charlie peered through the forest of chair and table legs. “Did you say something about your doll?”

“You don’t ever listen to me, do you? You tune me out so you can watch your silly game shows. Well, Mr. Smarty-Pants, you make mistakes too. You threw out my doll—that’s what you did. So what if I used garlic instead of onions? You’re not perfect either.”

“Esther, I’m trying to clean up this mess. Call Boofer, would you? He’s got his teeth sunk into this meat, and I can’t get it away.”

“And don’t forget about my bud vase, Charles Moore! My uncle Bob brought it to me from France after the war. It was Limoges, you know. The only pretty thing I had. The only valuable object I’ve ever owned in my whole life. And you knocked it right off the dresser with your clumsy elbow as if it meant nothing. There’s no telling how much that bud vase would be worth today if you hadn’t broken it. Don’t talk to me about garlic cloves. Those are nothing compared to a Limoges bud vase.”

The memory of how she had swept up the delicate pieces of the vase and tried to glue them back together blew into Esther’s mind with the force of a tornado. She could see herself on her knees, plucking shards of French porcelain from between the wooden floorboards with tweezers. But it had been hopeless. The precious gift was irredeemably shattered.

Not only had Charlie carelessly broken her vase that day, but he had broken her heart.
“It’s only a vase,”
he’d said.
“I’ll get you another at the five-and-dime store.”
He’d had no idea what that unique, fragile thing meant to her. Every time she looked at it, she had felt as though she were a French princess—gowned in some airy trifle of a dress with a purple cape on her shoulders and a diamond tiara on her head.

Now, sobbing even harder at the realization that she would never, ever be a French princess … that life had brought her nothing but the ordinary lot of a housewife … that not even her two children, in whom she had invested all of her time and love and energy for so many years, had turned out to be perfect … Esther curled into a ball on the floor.