That Certain Summer (9 page)

Appetite fleeing, David pushed his cereal aside. Victoria was right.

About swinging.

And about life.

“I don't understand why Val has to run back to Chicago tomorrow. She's only been here for three weeks.” Margaret dropped the piece of newspaper she'd been reading, letting it fall to the floor.

Karen tuned her out as she continued to try and balance her mother's checkbook. It had been challenging enough years ago. Now that Margaret had grown more lackadaisical about keeping up with her entries, it was downright difficult.

“Mom, there's a notation here for sixty dollars, but no check number and no indication who it was for.”

Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh. “Let me see.”

As she handed over the checkbook, Karen noted the improved dexterity in her mother's left hand. The physical therapy program—and Val's diligence in seeing that their mother did her exercises—were paying off.

Margaret lifted her chin and peered at the entry through her bifocals. “Oh. That was for trimming the tree out in front.”

“Who was it made out to?”

“The man who came by and offered to trim the tree.” Impatience nipped at her words. “He said if I didn't have it done, it might fall on the roof in a storm.”

“What was his name?”

“I don't remember.”

“Did you keep the carbon?”

“Is it in there?”

“No.”

“It must have stuck to the back of the check. They don't make checks like they used to.”

Karen reined in her own annoyance. “It would help if you either kept the stubs or filled out the register more completely.”

“I do the best I can. And this isn't high finance. You have a business degree. I should think you could figure it out. Anyway, I don't know why Val has to run off like this.”

“She told you she had a couple of modeling commitments to fulfill this summer. It's only for one night.”

“I don't care how long it is. It's still an inconvenience for everyone.”

“She's spending the summer here, Mom. That's not exactly convenient for her.”

“She was due for a visit, anyway. Overdue.”

Resigned, Karen closed the checkbook. She'd have to straighten out the mess later, when she wasn't distracted. Besides, there was another issue she needed to tackle before Val got back from running errands. One that would require her full attention.

As her pulse tripped into double time, Karen forced herself to speak the words she'd practiced. “Mom, while Val is gone I'd like you to come and stay in our guest room.”

Margaret stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. “What?”

“I'd like you to stay in our guest room. I don't want you or Kristen to be alone at night, and it will be easier for you to come to our house than for Kristen and me to come here.”

“Easier for you, maybe.”

“And Kristen will be home all day.” Karen continued as if her mother hadn't spoken.
Lord, give me the fortitude to stay the course
. “She can see to anything you need and get dinner started.”

“I want to stay here. I sleep better in my own bed.”

“We have a nice guest room. You'll be very comfortable.”

“Not as comfortable as I would be in my own house.”

“Mom, be logical. It will be a lot less hassle for one person to spend the night elsewhere than for two people to haul all their stuff to another house. And I'll be very busy tomorrow, working late in preparation for the second-quarter closing. Plus, Kristen is still having trouble getting around.”

Margaret glared at her. “I had a stroke. Doesn't that count for anything?”

Karen's stomach spasmed, the way it always did when Margaret was displeased with her. But she was tired of being manipulated. If Val could stand her ground with their mother, so could she.

“I'm not keeping score, Mom. This is just the best solution.”

“I'm not going.” Margaret's jaw settled into a stubborn line.

Her mother had called her bluff, just as she'd feared.

But it wasn't going to work. Not this time.

Struggling to maintain a placid expression, she slung her purse over her shoulder. “Okay. I guess you know what's best for yourself.” The line of Margaret's jaw slackened—until Karen continued. “I'll call throughout the day to check on you.”

The look of surprise on her mother's face was almost comical. “You mean you're going to leave me by myself? All night?”

“That was your choice, wasn't it?”

“Karen Marie, I've never seen you act this selfish.”

That hurt.

Nevertheless, Karen managed to hold on to her neutral expression—by a hair. “I'm sorry you feel that way.” She tucked her mother's checkbook into her purse. “Val should be back any minute. I'm going to head home and start dinner.”

She got all the way to the door before her mother spoke.

“I suppose I could manage to come to your place for one night.” Margaret said the words as if she had to pry each one loose like a stuck window.

Thank you, Lord!
Karen closed her eyes and let out the breath she'd been holding.

When she turned, her mother was scowling. But for once, she didn't care. She'd stood her ground and done the logical thing instead of acquiescing to please someone else. It might be a small triumph, but it was a victory nonetheless.

“I'm glad you're being sensible.”

“Do I have a choice? At least I'll get a decent meal instead of that weird food Val's been fixing.”

Time to play her trump card. “As a matter of fact, I'm planning to try a new tofu recipe I clipped out of the paper. It sounds delicious.”

“Tofu?” Shock flattened her mother's features.

“Yes. It's very healthy. Well, I have to be off. Kristen's heating up the leftover turkey lasagna we had for dinner last night, and I don't want to be late. Dorothy Walker gave me the recipe. Have a nice evening.”

As Karen shut the door, she kept a firm grip on the handle, pausing to give her legs a chance to steady. That had been tough. And scary. And it had taken her way out of her comfort zone.

But she'd won.

Best of all, there was no lingering sense of guilt or remorse or shame.

In fact, there was only one word to describe how she felt.

Satisfied.

“So how did it go with Mom while I was in Chicago?”

Karen took a sip of her skim-milk frappuccino before she responded to Val. “I think she thinks we're conspiring against her.”

“How so?”

“She grilled me about why we started shopping together, and commented that it was odd how we want to spend time together now when we never did as kids. Then she asked me what we talked about.”

“What did you say?”

“This and that.”

“I bet that drove her nuts.”

“It frustrated her, anyway. When she couldn't get any info out of me, she started interrogating Kristen about her boyfriend. She knows I don't approve of him, and I guess she assumed that would get a rise out of me.”

“Did it?”

“Nope. In fact, I came to his defense. Which surprised Mom—and Kristen. Mom's next strategy was to criticize the dinner.”

“What did you have?”

“Tofu stew.”

Val burst out laughing. “I wish I'd been there.”

“She tried to enlist Kristen against me on the food front, but believe it or not, my daughter took my side. She said she thought it was not only delicious but healthy and good for the waistline. Mom never misses an opportunity to point out that I've gained a few pounds, so Kristen also told her I'd lost seven pounds—and that she could afford to do the same.”

“I bet that didn't meet with a very favorable response.”

“Give the lady a gold star.” Karen took a sip of her drink. “She accused Kristen of being disrespectful and told me I should have raised her better.”

“Sounds like a jolly meal. Did you, by the way?”

“Did I what?”

“Lose seven pounds?”

“Uh-huh.” It wasn't much, but the accomplishment still gave her a small rush of pride. “Just eighteen more to go.”

“Good for you. Listen, I'm sorry I had to bail for a day. I would have gotten out of the commitment if I could, but modeling is a nice supplement to my income and I don't want to turn down too many jobs or my agent will put me at the bottom of her call list.”

“It wasn't a problem.”

“I'm booked for one other assignment too, remember.”

“I know. I have it jotted down.” Karen tipped her head and pursed her lips. “Maybe I'll make turkey lasagna that night.”

Val laughed again and shook her head. “You're bad.”

“Aren't I, though?”

But she didn't feel in the least repentant.

“Martha!” Karen waved at the middle-aged woman across the church parking lot. At the summons, Martha Ramsey halted her trek toward the dumpster.

As she drew close, Karen's heart contracted at the weary slope of the woman's shoulders and her careworn face. Martha might only be in her midfifties, but she'd aged a decade since her son's debilitating accident. Yet she continued to find time to keep the sanctuary in the church decorated with fresh flowers supplied from the gardens of the congregation. Amazing—and inspiring.

Shifting her folder of music from one arm to the other, Karen stopped in front of the woman. “How's Steven?”

Martha set down a bucket filled with withered, dying blooms redolent with the pungent scent of decay. “About as well as can be expected, I guess. It's hard for a young man with such athletic promise to give up his dreams. Thank you for asking.” She brushed a dead petal off her blouse and cleared her throat. “How is your mother? I'm still keeping her in my prayers.”

“Improving every day.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” The woman stooped and picked up the bucket. “I need to get home and help settle Steven in for the night. Take care, and give your mother my best.”

“You too. And I'll pass on your message.”

Turning back toward her car, Karen rummaged in her purse for her keys. Considering how fast the lot had emptied, the other choir members had been as eager to leave as she was. And no wonder. Their second choir rehearsal with Scott Walker had been as unpleasant as the first one.

She continued to feel for her keys as she walked toward her car. If the man didn't want the job, why had he taken it? His flat tone, his cursory review of the music for Sunday, his early dismissal all reeked of indifference. If this continued, the already small group was certain to shrink. They'd all joined the choir in search of fellowship and spiritual enrichment, not friction and stress.

Rotating her taut shoulders, she tried to cut him some slack based on the little he'd told them about his accident. A partially paralyzed hand would wreak havoc with a musician's career. She could understand how that would turn a person's world upside
down. So could the rest of the choir members. They were all kind, caring people.

But given the stoic expressions on their faces as the rehearsal ended, along with their silent exodus, the well of sympathy was fast running dry.

Karen stopped beside her car and frowned. No keys. Had she left them on the music cabinet? It was possible. She'd stopped there on her way in to retrieve a copy of a hymn the former director had passed out at a rehearsal she'd missed a couple of weeks ago.

Hand on hip, Karen surveyed the church. She hadn't seen Scott come out, but there was only one car left in the lot beside hers, and Martha was still here. If he'd slipped away while the two of them were talking, she'd have to ask Martha to reopen the door. But better to check first rather than delay the other woman, who was anxious to get home.

And if she was lucky, Scott would still be there and the door would be open.

Scott slowly lowered himself to the piano bench and expelled a long breath.

Tonight had been a disaster.

Even worse than last week.

He ought to just throw in the towel on this gig. His mother and the minister would be disappointed, but he didn't much care.

About anything.

Positioning his hand over the keyboard, he plunked out the melody line from one of the hymns they'd been practicing tonight. Something about eagle's wings and being freed from the terror of the night.

Too bad the nice words were a lie.

Nobody could save him from the kind of suffocating darkness, the vast, hollow emptiness that enveloped his soul.

Including God.

He knew that for a fact.

Because in his darkest, most desperate hours, when he'd pleaded for mercy, for release, for help—for anything that would lift the burden of darkness from his soul—the Almighty had been silent. Maybe he was there; maybe he wasn't. All Scott knew for sure was that he was on his own.

Rotating his injured hand left and right, he studied the fingers. Was it possible the doctor had been right when he'd said the disability could be partly psychological? That if he wanted to recover, he could? Was there some truth to the whole notion of mind over matter?

Closing his eyes, Scott gave himself a silent pep talk.

I want to play this piano. I
will
play this piano. I will command my brain to send the correct impulses to my left hand, and it
will
respond.

After repeating that mantra several times, he flipped through a book of hymns and selected a song that would have been a piece of cake to sight-read in the old days. Then, positioning his fingers on the keys, he attempted to play it.

His left hand refused to cooperate.

He repeated the mantra and tried again. And again. And again. Until whatever dim hope had flickered to life in his soul sputtered and died.

Tears pricking his eyelids, Scott banged the keys with all the force he could muster. As the jarring, discordant sound echoed in the empty church, he dropped his head into his hands and sucked in a harsh breath.

He might as well face it. His music career was toast. He needed to move on.

Except he didn't know where to go.

At the loud, dissonant crash from the piano, Karen jerked to a stop near the entrance to the sanctuary.

What was going on in there?

Edging closer to the door, she cracked it open and peeked in. Scott was sitting at a right angle to her, his elbows propped on the keys, his head buried in his hands.

Not an opportune moment to intrude.

But a quick glance confirmed that her keys were on top of the music cabinet two feet inside the door. Close, but just beyond her grasp—and she wasn't going anywhere without them.

Could she sidle in far enough to snag the ring and disappear without disturbing Scott?

Taking a cautious step forward, she reached for the keys—and watched in dismay as a loose piece of music slipped from her folder and fell to the floor with a clatter.

Her gaze flew to Scott. His head jerked up, and as his expression morphed from surprise to anger, her stomach twisted.

“Were you spying on me?”

Wrong word choice.

That was exactly what Michael had accused her of whenever she'd called his office on the nights he worked late during the months preceding their separation.

The accusation had been as misplaced then as it was now—and just as insulting.

“I forgot my keys.” She lifted her chin, snatched them off the cabinet, and jangled them.

Some of the tautness in Scott's features dissipated, but his anger didn't abate. “Too bad you didn't come a little sooner. You would have heard my pathetic attempts to play this.” Bitterness etched his words as he flung the music on the rack to the floor. “This job was a mistake. I knew it from the beginning.”

Despite his hostility, her heart contracted at his almost palpable pain.

She took a tentative step closer and gentled her voice. “We're
not the St. Louis Symphony Chorus, you know. We don't expect perfection.”

He turned to her, his eyes raw. Bleak. “But I'm a trained musician, and I'm not satisfied with less than that.”

“Perfection is a high standard to apply to anything—with or without an injury. It's a recipe for frustration.”

“Yeah. I know all about frustration.” He slammed the keyboard cover shut. “And I don't think there's much chance it's going to disappear anytime soon.”