Forever Friday (5 page)

The waitress returned with a strong cup and a weak smile. “Let me know if you change your mind about the special.”

Gabe inhaled the rich steam. Before he was old enough to walk, he’d sucked thick cowboy coffee dribbled onto a teaspoon of sugar. One of his favorite boyhood memories was traveling with his parents to the Galveston wharves. If the wind was right, he could smell the grainy aroma of raw coffee beans before the trade ships docked. By the time his father died, he was downing several cups a day, roasting the beans to perfection in an iron skillet and grinding them one pot at a time. Long before cigarettes, coffee helped make life worth all the trouble. And today, he’d met a girl whose hair and eyes matched the brew’s exotic color.

Taking a sip, he glanced out the window … almost dusk. Across the street he could see foundation work for the massive new Gulf Building. When complete, it would be an Art Deco masterpiece of castle-like Gothic design, boasting the tallest and most commanding skyscraper west of the Mississippi. Rumor was that Gulf Oil Corporation would be hiring a horde of entry-level bookkeepers. Since he’d advanced as far as possible at Cecil’s, he’d filled out an application. Working for a major oil company had never been his passion, but Gulf paid top dollar. Any sensible man should be willing to expand his financial future. Especially a man who wanted to provide nice things for a woman like Huck.

“Gulf Building’s gonna be quite a spectacle, ain’t it,” croaked a voice that resembled a bullfrog with gravel stuck in its throat. A middle-aged potbellied cook plopped down opposite the table from Gabe. “Saw the architect’s drawing in yesterday’s
Chronicle
. Looked like some runaway medieval birthday cake.”

“Have a seat, Benny.”

“Already got one. Wish it was big enough to hold up my britches.” He laughed.

A different waitress appeared, coffeepot in hand. “Ready for a warm-up?” Without waiting for a reply, she topped Gabe’s coffee, poured a cup for Benny, and disappeared.

“See you’re still scaring off the ladies.” Benny pulled a half-smoked stogie from behind his ear and lit it. “Where you been, Gabe? Find a gal to cook breakfast for you?”

“I’ve been working double duty. Cecil’s away in Dallas since last weekend. His grandson’s getting married.”

Benny frowned. “Happens to the best of us … and the worst.”

“Looks like you’ve hired some new girls. What happened to my first waitress?”

“Got a picture postcard last week from her husband. Rascal up and dumped her after eight years. Ran off to the Caribbean with another woman.”

Gabe nodded. “I thought she’d been crying.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Benny slurped coffee with the cigar still clamped between his teeth. “Worked her first shift today. Kept staring at her wedding band. Wouldn’t take it off. Finally told her to go home early. Never worked outside the home till now and got three kids.”

The second waitress returned. “A delivery boy is here with eggs for tomorrow. Where do you want them?”

Benny stood and hiked his britches. “Where they won’t get cracked this time. All I get around here is busted eggs and broken hearts.” He shook Gabe’s hand. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Outside Benny’s Diner, the Friday evening traffic was thickening.
In another thirty minutes, Main Street would be an unbroken line of honking headlights looking for a parking space—cars plodding impatiently along like bawling cattle in search of bedding ground. Gabe finished his coffee and headed out the door. Potent exhaust fumes blended with the pungent odor of electric trolleys. Streetlamps glowed white beneath colorful restaurant signs and movie marquees. Stores stayed open late to accommodate the throng of money-spending Houstonians.

Remembering he needed a new typewriter ribbon, Gabe entered a stationery shop. He preferred to type, although he’d been told more than once he had excellent handwriting. Passing a display of picture postcards, he recalled Benny’s comment about the waitress and her husband. Ending an eight-year marriage with a postcard was cruel. The man was a gutless coward. He’d probably mailed her a photo of some deserted beach to symbolize his own desertion. Odds were that their broken marriage was just another casualty of The Long Division.

One particular postcard caught his eye. A pretty young woman, her face teeming with anticipation, was reaching into a mailbox. The caption read, “Could there be a note from my sweetheart?” Gabe chuckled. Of course there would be a note, unless this gal’s man was blind and stupid. Any woman’s most treasured possessions were her love letters. After Gabe’s mother died, he discovered a small bundle tied with a ribbon and safely tucked near the bottom of her cedar chest. He’d felt a little guilty about reading them, even though they were mostly concerned with his parents’ ranching plans. It was obvious she’d read one letter more than the others because it was the most faded and contained a poem composed by his father. Gabe had no idea his father ever wrote poetry and could only remember the last two lines:

He smiled. The man who rarely showed his soft side had created one simple love poem, which his wife cherished for decades. What if he’d written her a poem each year? If the waitress’s husband had sent a few romantic postcards early in their marriage, he might have felt close enough to look the other way when tempted. It made sense. A man whose thoughts about his mate lingered into beautiful prose would be less likely to stray.

What if the waitress’s husband had sent her a card each month?

What if
her
was Huck Huckabee, and
he
, Gabe, was the card-sending husband?

A sudden tingle surged, warming the depths of Gabe Alexander’s lonely soul. He’d safeguard their relationship with postcards
and
poetry. The Long Division would lie in ruins at Huck Huckabee’s feet. He began to imagine it. Beginning the first week of their marriage, he’d compose a short verse about their love on the back of a meaningful postcard, then mail it in time to arrive for the weekend. With fifty-two Fridays each year, their bond would multiply into a million unbreakable connections.

After some digging, Gabe found a postcard with a man and woman gazing into each other’s eyes. Perfect. He’d made up his mind.

“Are you finding what you need?” a salesclerk asked.

“Absolutely. Unless you have a postcard with oysters.”

“Oysters, sir? What’s the occasion?

Gabe smiled. “I’m getting married.”

April 1926

Houston, Texas

Huck

Huck slowly raised the lid on her jewelry box and peeked inside. Her engagement ring was still there, of course.

Waiting.

Patiently.

She listened to the ticking alarm clock atop her dresser and sighed at the folly of her own annoyance.

“How long must I wait for an answer?” Huck whispered. She’d not returned to Cecil’s Fish Market that wet Houston April, purposely avoiding Gabe while seeking divine guidance about marrying her fiancé, Clark Richards. She hadn’t expected to see Mister Jack again, but had offered several prayers each day for wisdom, then focused her thoughts on the pleasant times she and Clark had shared. After all, it was his ring that
sometimes
encircled her finger.

Sometimes
because she wrote left-handed and it scraped the chalkboard at Sidney Lanier.
Sometimes
because of her daily chores. It would be silly to wash dishes or perform cleaning duties while wearing a
one-carat diamond. She might lose it. So the ring resided in her room at Mrs. Thompson’s boardinghouse, except on days when Clark came to call. Unexpected days like today, or rather evenings.

It was Monday and she’d stayed after school tutoring students and grading papers. She still had to enter the marks into her grade book before bedtime, as well as make her lunch for the following day. On top of that, she’d looked forward to spending part of the evening soaking in a hot bath and washing her hair. It was almost waist-length and took forever to dry. However, the moment she’d arrived back at Mrs. Thompson’s, she found a note thumbtacked to her door. Clark was in town on business and would swing by and pick her up at eight p.m. He was dying to try the city’s finest new restaurant, Pickwicks.

“I’ll have to wait to wash my hair on another day,” Huck muttered regretfully.

She reached inside the jewelry box. The ring felt heavy, even larger than on the afternoon Clark gave it to her. She held it up to the light and studied the stone’s multifaceted brilliance. It
was
beautiful. And even though she knew it was impossible for a diamond to grow in size, everything else about their relationship had shrunk, especially her feelings. Clark constantly boasted about owning the biggest and the best. Sometimes he acted as if he owned
her
.

Huck slipped the ring on her finger. Her fiancé’s materialistic ideas were frustrating indeed. But in the Richards family, expensive gifts measured the depth of one’s love and devotion. Clark would’ve never given her such an exquisite diamond if he didn’t love her with all his heart.

She glanced at the clock. Thirty-three minutes to spare. So she lay back on her bed and propped her legs up on two pillows. Perhaps Clark
would be different this time. He’d not always behaved in such a serious manner. In fact, she’d never known anyone as delightfully funny. Moreover, he could read her better than anyone in the entire Huckabee household, even Cutter. She sighed. Clark knew immediately when she was being honest, or not
entirely truthful
. Even so, she’d never had the courage to tell him about her guardian angel.

Huck closed her eyes. After her encounter with Mister Jack, she’d wondered if Clark might be her soul mate. But thoughts of her chance encounter with Gabe still swirled through her mind. Had she been mistaken?

Both Huck and Clark had grown up seventy miles north in the piney East Texas community of Huntsville. Started first grade together and even attended the same church. Throughout their public education, Clark penned and passed dozens of love notes, but never did anything wildly romantic until seventh grade Sunday school. It was Bible Memorization Day, and girls paired with girls and boys with boys. The gender was uneven, so Clark suggested he and Huck partner. Instead of memorizing the Twenty-Third Psalm, he whispered an especially daring passage out of the Song of Solomon, inserting both their names and emphasizing descriptive words. If she hadn’t gasped at the word “breasts,” old Mrs. Hudge—dubbed Methuselah’s Grandmother—would never have known. Until then, everyone thought her ears had played out around the turn of the century. So instead of Sunday’s tasty fried chicken dinner, Clark suffered a nasty helping of lye soap with razor strap sting for dessert, spending the rest of the day standing outside the privy between soap-related bouts. Huck had never heard of
anyone in Walker County being punished for reciting Holy Scripture and had no idea God even knew the word “breasts” or that married folks carried on that way. So she read the entire Song by moonlight after the family had gone to bed.

During high school, Clark was an all-state linebacker with gladiator good looks and voted most handsome. She was captain of the cheer squad, naturally stunning, and chosen most beautiful. And he was a friend as much as a beau: carefree, daring, and always interesting. When the slow freight trains would steam through town, she and Clark would occasionally hop an empty boxcar and pretend they were hobos. They’d sit leisurely in the open doorway, and Clark would steal a kiss or two. When the train began to pick up speed, they’d hold hands and jump off. Once, a man saw them and threatened to inform the railroad authorities. So they concocted a wild tale about how they’d ridden all the way from Tampa, Florida, in search of their lost family. The man handed them a dollar and wished them luck. For days afterward, Clark would whisper “Tampa” in Huck’s ear, and then they’d laugh themselves silly.

At Sam Houston Normal Institute—SHNI, the local college—Huck majored in education and Clark was an all-American. They attended the same postgame parties and other collegiate functions, soon evolving into a “likely couple,” which sometimes pleased Huck as much as it displeased her. Clark could be debonair one minute and crude the next. Somehow, he always shadowed her, even at church. When she finally consented to a formal courtship during their senior year, it gratified her mother immensely.