What She'd Do for Love (10 page)

No, she was not sleeping well, but she refused to give Mom anything more to worry about. “I’m fine. Do we still have those old albums, with all the black-and-white photos of the ranch?”

“I think they’re probably up in the attic. Why?”

“The Summer Festival this year has a theme of our ranching heritage. I thought it would be cool to enlarge some of those photos and use them to decorate some of the booths.”

“I’m glad you’re helping with the festival. I know they can really use your talents.”

“I am having a good time.” She liked working on a project that would directly benefit the town and the people she loved. “Thanks for pushing me to do it.”

“That’s how it always was when you were a little girl.” Her mom smiled at the memory. “Swimming lessons, 4-H, even the beauty pageants—you never wanted to try anything new, then once you were involved, you loved it.”

“I guess I’m still trying to learn to expand my comfort zone.” She’d been doing well in Houston, but apparently the layoff, and her mom’s cancer, had pushed her back into the comfort of the familiar. “Anyway, do you think we have some pictures I could use?”

“You’re welcome to look up in the attic, though it’s awfully warm up there this time of year. Don’t let yourself get too hot.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

She pulled down the stairs and climbed into the windowless attic. Mom was right—it was an oven up here. Well, she didn’t intend to stay long. She yanked the chain to turn on the single light bulb suspended from the rafters and surveyed the stacks of boxes, old lamps and unused furniture.

She spotted two trunks pushed against the far wall and crawled to them. The lid of the first lifted easily and the aroma of honeysuckle surrounded her, instantly transporting her to her girlhood, and long summer afternoons shelling beans or shucking corn on the back porch in the company of her grandmother.

Grandmother Swan always wore honeysuckle perfume, the scent infused into her clothing, as much a part of her as her black hair and eyes and her accented English. Though she had come to Texas from Vietnam as a girl of only sixteen, she had never mastered the language of her new country. To Christa, her grandmother was the most exotic and interesting person she had ever known.

She lifted an apron from the trunk, an old-fashioned kind with a bib front and deep pockets. Grandmother had worn this apron, or one like it, every day as she worked in the kitchen and garden. The pockets held tissues and wrapped pieces of candied ginger, which she shared with her only granddaughter.

The next item she pulled from the trunk was her grandfather’s Army uniform. William Montgomery had died before Christa was born, but he was as real to her as any living person, thanks to Grandmother’s stories. He had been a soldier in the Vietnam War when he and Swan met, and, according to Swan, he was the most handsome, smartest and bravest man who ever lived.

Next came the sky blue
áo dài
in which Thiên Nga had married her GI. No one ever called her by her Vietnamese name after that, using instead the English translation—Swan. Embroidered images of cranes and lotus flowers in silk and gold threads covered the tunic and trousers—symbols of good fortune and happiness for the newlyweds.

“First time I see my Billy, I was washing shirts in wooden tub out behind the barracks. I look a mess, but he doesn’t care. He try to talk to me in English and Vietnamese. I thought he was handsome and funny and
old
.” Grandmother wrinkled her nose to show her disdain for Corporal William Montgomery who had been only eight years older than she was, but her diminutive size and delicate features made her appear younger

“He comes back the next day and brings great present—American chocolate. I tell him I want to learn English and he promises to teach me. He come every day after that and we fall in love.”

A tender look came over Grandmother’s face at this point in her story, and Christa knew she was lost in memories of her soldier boy. After a bit, Grandmother returned from her memories to continue the story.

“Billy say he want to marry me. I say yes, but when he ask for permission to marry me, his commanding officer say no.

“Then Billy get word he being sent home. No time to marry, make me dependent. I cry and cry, thinking I will never see Billy again.”

Even though Christa knew what happened next, her heart always beat a little faster at this point in the story.

“Then he comes to me very early one morning,” Grandmother continued. “He say I must pretend I am fourteen and an orphan. I say okay, and he take me to a school—a place where many orphans live. A church in America has raised money to have these orphans taken there. I will go with them and wait for Billy. He will come and marry me.”

The memory still made Christa sigh. Faced with the prospect of losing the woman he loved, her grandfather had gone to extraordinary lengths to rescue her. The story was incredibly romantic, but also a little daunting. She wanted that kind of deep, life-long love, but she didn’t know if she would be willing to risk so much for someone else.

A drop of moisture landed on the
áo dài
in her lap—not tears, but sweat. Christa realized she’d probably been up in the stifling attic too long. Reluctantly, she put the clothing away and opened the second trunk, where she found the photo album.

Her mother, who had been lying on the sofa with Jet at her feet, struggled to sit up when Christa walked into the living room with the pictures. “You don’t have to get up,” Christa said. “Lie down and rest.”

“No, I’m fine.” Mom sat up, her expression drawn but determined. Jet moved up beside her, the little dog’s eyes full of concern.

“Mom, it’s okay to admit you’re human. You’re not super woman.”

“I won’t let this cancer get the better of me.”

“And it won’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t rest when you’re tired, or admit when you feel sick. We won’t think any less of you.”

“I’ve spent a lot of years being tough. You can’t expect me to change now.” She frowned at her daughter. “You’re all flushed. You stayed up in that heat too long.”

“I lost track of the time. I found a trunk full of Grandmother and Grandfather’s things—his Army uniform and the
áo dài
she wore at their wedding.”

“Definitely not a conventional wedding outfit. I can only imagine what people had to say about it.”

“But they loved each other so much they didn’t care what other people thought.” Christa settled into an armchair. “I think that’s beautiful.”

“As many years as she lived with us, I never felt I knew her well.”

“It must have been hard for her; she couldn’t have had much in common with other ranchers’ wives.”

Mom stroked Jet’s back over and over. “Some of them were not nice to her, especially when she first came here from Vietnam. But she seemed happy to devote herself to her home and family. She adored your grandfather, and she spoiled Bud shamelessly.”

“Grandfather saved her. He was her hero. And he must have loved her very much, to risk so much for her.”

“They did love each other very much. But being rescued never sounded that romantic to me.”

“No?”

“No. I like to think I could always save myself. There’s something to be said for a love that survives between two people who are on even footing.”

Her mother made love sound so practical. “I still think Swan and William are the most romantic couple I know. I’d like to think a man would go to such great lengths for me one day.”

“Maybe he will. Or even if he doesn’t have to, you’ll believe he would. And he should believe you would do the same for him.”

Her parents’ marriage was like that, an even match between two people equally devoted to one another. A steady, sure love didn’t sound as exciting as an all-consuming passion—but maybe that fantasy only lived in movies and books, not real life. Christa only knew about her grandparents’ marriage from her grandmother’s stories. Still, she couldn’t help believing that when love found her, it ought to feel big and special, even if in the end it was a quieter, deeper devotion.

CHAPTER NINE

C
EDAR
G
ROVE
DIDN
’
T
look quite so sleepy the Thursday afternoon before the Summer Festival. As Ryder made his way across the town park, the echo of hammers on wood, the whine of circular saws and the shouts and laughter of volunteers filled the air. Paul Raybourn waved to him from a spot near the bandstand. “Glad you could make it.” Paul clapped him on the back in greeting when Ryder reached the group gathered around stacks of lumber and a pile of hand tools. “We need all the help we can get.”

Ryder nodded hello to Paul’s wife, Didi, and Christa’s friend, Kelly. “I heard you needed volunteers, so here I am.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” Kelly said. “We have to get all these booths built and in place so the different clubs and other groups can decorate them for the fair on Saturday.”

“Usually, we just use those pop-up canopies,” Paul said. “But Christa thought we should have wooden structures, to make it look like an Old West town.” He nudged a stack of lumber with his foot. “It’s more work and expense, but Christa swears it will help set the festival apart, and she got businesses to donate most of the materials.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Kelly said. “We’re lucky to have someone with Christa’s marketing background to help us.”

“I don’t see her here with a hammer,” Paul grumbled.

“I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.” Didi nudged him. “Besides, you’re the one who said you could handle the construction details.”

“That’s before I saw what a big job we had ahead of us,” Paul said.

Ryder picked up a hammer and studied the piles of precut lumber and premade corner brackets. “I think if we frame up the walls lying flat on the ground, then we can lift them into place and brace them at the corners with metal brackets. That will make them relatively easy to disassemble. Stack the pieces flat for storage, then put them together again next time you need them. You could even put several smaller structures together in a different configuration or to make a bigger booth.”

“That’s it. I’m resigning as the volunteer in charge of construction and handing my golden hammer over to you.” Paul bowed low, to the laughter of those around him.

“You’re going to need that hammer to help me with this. Come on.” Ryder hefted up the first corner post. “We’ll form teams—you and Didi against me and Kelly. Let’s see who’s fastest.”

They were well on their way to having the first two booths assembled when Christa joined them. “Sorry, I’m late. The print shop took longer than I’d anticipated.”

“You’re just in time.” Paul finished pounding in a nail. “Ryder’s come up with a great idea for these booths.” He repeated Ryder’s suggestion that they assemble the booths in sections they could brace together. “It’s going to make things so much easier.”

“Whatever you think, Paul,” she said. “You’re in charge of construction.”

“I’ve handed that job over to Ryder. Clearly, he’s the expert.”

Ryder shifted the hammer from one hand to the other, aware of Christa’s intense gaze fixed on him. “It just seems like the most practical approach,” he said.

“Well, thanks for helping out.”

“Did you get the photographs you needed?” Kelly laid aside her tools and approached Christa.

“I did. I’m going to distribute them among the different booths. Some other people are bringing additional pictures, as well as things like chaps and saddles. The Seed and Feed is lending us some hay bales and we’ve got some old milk cans and buckets to put sunflowers in. The different groups will come in Friday to put the finishing touches on their booths and we’ll be all set for Saturday.”

“What’s the weather forecast?” Ryder asked.

She frowned at him, as if he’d somehow jinxed her project by mentioning bad weather, but before she could say anything, Kelly flashed Ryder a warm smile. “I’m sure Christa ordered sunshine for this weekend,” she said. “And a little rain won’t stop folks. They’d probably welcome it.”

“No kidding.” Paul mopped the sweat from his brow with a bandana. “And rain would cool things off.”

“The park has lots of shade, and we’ll have plenty of cold drinks for everyone,” Kelly said. “I know a lot of people who are especially going to turn out for the handyman raffle. I’m sure you’re both going to draw a lot of bids.”

“Y’all did set some limits on what kinds of jobs the volunteers will do, right?” Paul asked.

“We figured we’d leave that up to the individuals,” Kelly said. “They know where their talents lie.”

“Just don’t ask me to balance anybody’s checkbook,” Paul said. “People come into the bank all the time wanting help with that, and I have to send them to a teller. They can’t imagine a banker who’s not good with math. But my specialty is really my people skills.”

“I’m thinking about bidding on you and forcing you to paint the den,” Didi said.

“Maybe you can win Ryder for that one,” Paul said. “He’s probably good with a paintbrush.”

“Paintbrush, hammer or scrub brush, I’m your man,” Ryder said.

“This raffle is going to be the best fund-raiser the fair has had in years,” Kelly said. She nudged Christa. “We’ll have to make it an annual tradition.”

“Let’s make sure we get through the first year before we make any plans.” She snagged a tape measure from the jumble of tools on the picnic table. “I’m going to work on putting these pictures into the frames I bought. I’ll check with y’all later.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Ryder and Paul and other volunteers worked on knocking together the wooden booths. The structures were crude, but Paul assured Ryder they were going for the rustic look—all part of Christa’s master plan for the event.

“Christa definitely has a talent for organizing,” Ryder said as he watched her direct the garden volunteers in arranging planters filled with flowers and small shrubs around the completed booths.

“You should have seen her in high school. I always wanted to be on her team for group projects. She’s smart and creative and scary organized.” Paul shook his head. “That marketing firm she worked for made a mistake when they let her go.”

Just then, Christa turned and met Ryder’s gaze. She smiled and started toward him, and his heart sped up. “You look like you’re all finished here,” she said. She’d tucked her hair under a ball cap that advertised horse feed and her denim shirt was smeared with black poster paint. A pink petunia blossom peeked jauntily from behind one ear. She looked young and fresh and so adorable Ryder had to look away, afraid his eyes might betray too much.

“Thanks for your help, Ryder,” she said.

“You’re welcome.” Silence stretched between them. He felt hot, almost feverish. Maybe he was coming down with something. Usually, he didn’t have any trouble finding things to say to people, but this afternoon, with Christa, he was suddenly tongue tied.

“Where are these photographs you were talking about earlier?” he asked.

“Come see.” She started toward the other end of the row of completed booths and he followed. “I tried to match them up to the theme of the booth,” she said. “So the bake sale booth has a photo of ranch women in the kitchen.” She pointed to a framed poster-sized image of a trio of women in flour sack aprons who were rolling out pie crust and peeling potatoes.

“This booth will feature local crafts,” she said. The picture here was of a group of cowboys around a campfire. One man whittled while another played a harmonica. These weren’t movie-star cowboys, but rough, somewhat homely men in worn shirts and patched jeans, horses picketed behind them.

“Are these all pictures from your family’s ranch?” he asked.

“Yes.” She led him to the next booth and pointed to a photograph of a young couple posed in front of a low wooden house. “That’s my grandmother and grandfather, in front of the original ranch house.”

Ryder leaned forward to examine the photograph more closely. The man resembled Bud Montgomery, with the same square chin and unruly cow’s lick of hair dipping down over one eye. The woman, however, was nothing like he would have expected. She stared at the camera with small, knowing eyes and delicate Asian features. She was tiny, reaching only to her husband’s shoulder, and she didn’t look comfortable with the attention of the camera.

“Are your grandparents still living?” he asked.

“No, they both died relatively young. Grandfather died of cancer before I was born. Grandmother passed away the year I graduated college. I really miss her. I grew up hearing her stories and I loved them all.”

“I’ve heard of war brides from World War II, but not any from the Vietnam War.”

“I guess it was pretty unusual. Maybe the equivalent would be an American World War II soldier marrying a German girl—even though the South Vietnamese were our allies in the war, most people around here didn’t make a distinction.”

“How did she and your grandfather manage?”

“It wasn’t easy.”

“That must have been a bit of culture shock for her.”

“It was, but she was very focused on family. I think she would have been happy anywhere, as long as she was with him. She came here because it was my grandfather’s home, but she did it knowing the heroic effort he made to be with her—that he was willing to risk everything—his money, his reputation, the good opinion of his family—in order to be with her. It’s just so romantic.”

Some people probably called her grandfather’s actions foolish. But in the end they had worked out.

“Would you take those kinds of risks for someone you loved?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a situation where I had to make that kind of choice. I can’t imagine that I ever would be.”

“But what would you have done, if you had been in my grandfather’s place?”

“I tend to make safe choices.” Her expression clearly showed this wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. “That’s my personality,” he said. “I don’t act on impulse. Knowing the difficulty of a romance between an American GI and a Vietnamese girl, I probably never would have approached her.”

“Not even if you were attracted to her?”

“I’m attracted to a lot of people. But I don’t start things I can’t finish, whether it’s jobs or relationships.”

“I think love is worth any kind of risk,” she said. “It’s more important to follow our hearts than to always listen to our heads.”

“I think it’s smarter to let our heads rule our hearts. Maybe there would be fewer divorces if people thought more before they married, instead of relying on raw emotion.”

“No wonder you aren’t married. No woman is practical enough for you.”

“You’re still single, too.”

“I’m holding out for a man who will take my breath away.”

And that man clearly wasn’t him. If he’d really meant what he said, about not getting involved in a relationship that he knew from the start would cause problems, then how did he explain his continued attraction to Christa, and the pain that her rejection caused him, though he’d never in a million years admit as such to her?

Maybe his heart wasn’t as good at paying attention to his head as he liked to pretend. In any case, with at least two more years in Cedar Grove, he’d have plenty of opportunities to spar with Christa, and maybe make her see him and his practicality in a better light.

* * *

D
ESPITE
R
YDER
’
S
QUESTIONS
about the weather, the day of the Summer Festival turned out perfect—sunny and not too hot, with enough of a breeze to fill the air with the scent of all the flowers the Garden Club had distributed in planters around the park. Christa closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the aroma of roses and petunias competing with the mouthwatering scents of barbecue, kettle corn and baked goods from the food booths. She opened her eyes again as a trio of children raced past, laughing. All around her, people filled the picnic tables to enjoy everything from the Elks Club’s secret recipe barbecue ribs to the Methodist women’s brownies and red velvet cupcakes.

Right now, the biggest crowd surrounded the community garden’s booth, where high school principal Ray Gardiner was taking his turn in the dunking booth, much to the delight of his students, who eagerly lined up to buy tickets for a chance to dunk their principal.

As Christa stopped to watch, a tall boy wound up and let the ball fly. It hit the bull’s-eye with a satisfying thwack and Ray plunged into the water, to the cheers and giggling of the crowd. Christa applauded and moved on, past the metal water trough the Boy and Girl Scouts had set up as a fish pond, where kids could cast their line and try to catch prizes, to the Garden Club’s display of herb plants for sale. “At this rate, we’ll be all sold out in another hour or so,” announced Didi, when Christa asked how things were going.

“
Christa, there you are!” Christa turned at the sound of the familiar voice and hurried to where her mom waved from one of the tables. Adele Montgomery wore a pale straw cowboy hat with a teal band over her increasingly thinning hair. Just that morning she’d announced that she was going wig shopping after her chemo appointment next week. Though new medications were helping her deal better with the nausea the treatments induced, doctors could do nothing to prevent her from losing her hair. Though she may have shed tears in private over this loss, in front of her husband and daughter she maintained a reserved calm, which they felt compelled to emulate.

But right now none of them needed to fake happiness. Mom looked well, and her smile was genuine. Judging by the ribs and potato salad on the paper plate in front of her, she even had a good appetite. “I think this is the best festival yet,” Mom said.

“Roberta tells us you had a lot to do with it,” Dad said. “She said you had a lot of great ideas.”

“Many people volunteered to help,” Christa said. “I only made a few suggestions I thought would work.”

“You don’t have to be so modest around us,” Mom said. “Here, eat some of these ribs for me. I can’t possibly finish them all.”

“You eat them, Mom.”

“I’ve already had two. I’ll bet you’ve been too busy to even stop for lunch.”