A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace (12 page)

No, Abby was fairly certain there wasn’t anyone whose love story topped hers and John’s. She thought back, and at first the pictures seemed hazy. But after several seconds of trying, the images came more easily, and Abby realized something. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten their past or convinced herself that maybe it never happened. She simply had stopped giving herself permission to go back.

But here, with Jo Harter going on about a story that seemed to have no real plot and yet was bound to last the rest of the afternoon, Abby allowed herself to remember as she hadn’t done in years.

There, in the privacy of her own mind, she journeyed to a time and place when she was just a young girl, ten years old, and living in a wonderful old house on the back side of Lake Geneva.

“Abby, come in and get cleaned up . . .”
It was her mother’s voice, crisp and vivid as though she were still alive, still looking at Abby from the back porch and beckoning her to come in from the water—

“You’re listening to me, right, Abby?” Jo’s gravelly voice cut into the memory, stopping it cold.

Abby drew a settling breath. This was not the place. But maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Nicole’s wedding plans were bound to bring up much of Abby’s memories of the past anyway . . .

She took out a ten-dollar bill and set it on the table. “It’s a fascinating story, Jo, but I’ll have to hear the rest later.”

Nicole practically lurched from her seat and joined Abby near the edge of the table, grabbing money from her purse and handing it to Jo. “Me, too. Sorry . . . Matt’s waiting for me.”

Jo looked disappointed, but she collected the money and began calculating. “Well, now, don’t you know something I never even counted on? It’s been the best afternoon I can remember in a long time, spending it with you girls. I say next week we do it again, huh? Lots of shopping to do, and if there’s one thing I love it’s—”

“Not next weekend, Jo.” Abby looked at Nicole and smiled. “I promised Nicole we’d take a couple of date days, just her and me.” She shifted her gaze back to Jo. “We’ve done that ever since she was a little girl.”

Jo’s eyes lit up. “Well, then, I know. Thursday night, week from this. How ’bout say we go scrapping together?”

Get me out of here . . .
“Scrapping?”

A laugh bubbled up from deep in Jo’s throat. “Oh, I forgot . . . you ‘Northern’ types call it scrapbookin’. You know, getting together at the craft store and puttin’ pictures down on paper. I’m makin’ a book for Matthew for the wedding.” She glanced quickly at Nicole and held a finger up to her lips. “Shhh, now, don’t go tellin’ him. It’s a surprise. Just like when I used to bring homemade peanut-butter fudge to school after he got a good report card.” She grinned proudly at Nicole. “And you, sweetie girl, are the best thing he’s gotten since who knows when, and like I always say, the celebration has to fit the thing you’re celebratin’.”

Abby watched Nicole’s eyes dance with possibilities as they turned to her, half expectantly, half apologetically. “Mom, I know you’re busy with your writing.” She batted her eyelashes in a gesture she’d used since she was a little girl. “Do you think you could? Find time to make me a scrapbook, I mean?” Nicole looked at Jo once more. “I think it’s a great idea.”

At that point, Abby was willing to do whatever she could to end the afternoon and get as far away from Jo Harter as she could. Besides, the idea wasn’t bad. She’d started a scrapbook for Nicole back when her daughter was in grade school, but it was missing pages. Sometime after Nicole’s tenth year, Abby had gotten too busy to work on it. If she was ever going to finish it, there was no time like the present. “A week from Thursday, then. What time?”

Jo grinned. “Six o’clock. Meet at the Crafter’s Bin on Main and Sixth.”

When the three of them were out in the parking lot, Nicole and Abby bid good-bye to Jo and watched her leave. Then Abby turned to her daughter and the two nearly collapsed in laughter. “I thought I was going to lose it for sure.” Nicole could barely breathe she was laughing so hard.

“All I know is if I heard one more detail about fish guts and shiny objects slithering about I was going to lose my lunch.” Abby caught her breath and held her sides. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t very nice.”

Nicole looped her arm around her mother’s waist and walked alongside her to the car. “I understand, Mom. It’s not like you’re condemning the woman. And it could be worse. Marli’s mother-in-law acts like Marli isn’t even alive. At least Jo likes me.”

“That’s for sure.” They were at the car and Abby turned to her daughter. “You go on home. It’s not too cold this afternoon. I think I’ll walk.”

Nicole frowned. “Mother, that’s two miles. You don’t want to walk two miles on frozen sidewalks. You’ll break your neck.”

Abby tousled Nicole’s bangs. “Now you sound like me.” She grinned. “No, really. Don’t worry. I’ll take the scenic route along Willow Way. That’s a gravel path. No danger of ice.”

“Are you sure?” There was concern in Nicole’s eyes, and Abby worked as hard as she could to appear casual about her decision.

“Yep. I need the fresh air. Tell Dad I’ll be home in an hour if he asks, okay?”

Nicole smiled and pulled her mother into a close hug. “Okay. I guess I can understand wanting a little silence in light of the afternoon.” Abby laughed again and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Drive safe.”

“Walk safe.” They smiled at each other again, and Nicole climbed into the car. “See you at home.”

When her car was out of sight, Abby released the deep breath that had been building since they’d met up with Jo Harter. Especially over the past twenty minutes, while memories of another day, another time, beckoned her back to the hallways of yesterday. Abby could hardly think of anything else.

“Abby, come in and get cleaned up . . . The Reynoldses will be here in
half an hour.”

She could see the cotton sheets blowing on the line, hear the rustling of leaves in the oaks that lined the sides of their property. The smell of the lake, the feel of the sun on her tanned little girl arms . . . all of it was right there, so close she could touch it.

And now, with a two-mile walk of solitude and a future of loneliness lying just ahead of her, she was ready to go back and live the past again.

Nine

A
BBY AND
J
OHN WOULDN’T HAVE MET AT ALL
if it hadn’t been for their fathers. Abby considered that as she set out toward home and remembered once more the stories her father had told. Stories of the glory days, back when Joe Chapman and Allen Reynolds had been football heroes for the University of Michigan Wolverines. Her father had been a receiver, John’s father, the quarterback. Abby stared at the cloudy sky above and held her jacket a bit closer.

I wish I could have seen you play, Dad.

Instead she’d heard a hundred tales of game-winning touchdown tosses and crazy anecdotes in one of the most famed locker rooms in all of college football. Long after their playing days were over, her father and John’s remained friends, the kind who sent Christmas cards and surprised each other with a phone call once or twice during the football season, just to be sure the other was watching a good Michigan game. The one against Ohio State, usually.

The Chapmans settled in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, in a hundred-year-old cottage given to them by Abby’s grandparents. The house bordered the lake on the far end, away from the area where tourists flocked each summer. With football rich in his blood, Abby’s father taught and coached at the local high school. So completely absorbed were the Chapmans in football that even now Abby remembered finding her father on the sidelines at halftime one cool Friday night and tugging on his jacket.

“Yes, honey . . .” Her father had always been patient, enjoying the way his family stayed involved in his passion.

“Daddy, when I grow up I’m going to play football for you, okay?”

Something about the night, the crimson and gold of the trees surrounding the stadium, the smell of burning leaves faint in the wind, caused the memory to stand out sharply in Abby’s mind.

Football.

When she’d been old enough to realize that girls simply didn’t play the game, she figured there was only one other option. She’d marry a football player. The realization had come when she was ten years old. The same year she first met John Reynolds.

For reasons Abby never fully understood, the summer of her tenth year her family’s friendship with the Reynolds stopped being a Christmas-only correspondence and turned into something rich and personal, something the two families would continue the rest of their days. Back then Abby hadn’t cared about any of that, only that Daddy’s friends were coming for a visit and bringing along their kids.

Of course, she’d been bitterly disappointed when her mother explained that they had no little girls her age. Still, there was an air of excitement knowing they were coming. And that afternoon, when her mother called her in from the lake, Abby remembered running into the house, her child-blonde hair wispy in the wind, cheeks golden from the early summer days on the lake.

Abby hadn’t wanted to be downstairs when they arrived, so she scurried to her room and held private watch from a bench just beneath her grand window. Maybe her mother was wrong. Maybe they did have a child her age, or at least near it. As she tried to imagine what the coming week would be like, a blue station wagon pulled up and a family climbed out.

Even now, with Abby’s and John’s divorce a certain thing, with the bitter cold stinging her cheeks and summer forever away, Abby could remember how her face grew hot that afternoon the moment she first laid eyes on John Reynolds.

He was tall and muscled, with hair as dark as the mane on her old mare out in the barn. Abby recalled her little girl sigh, long and hard. Still, he was just a yucky boy. How much fun could they have together? Especially when he was so much older.

The reality had been surprisingly different. With no one else for him to play with, thirteen-year-old John had taken a liking to her that week. Together they rode horses on hidden trails and built sandcastles on the beach around the lake. There was a public pier a hundred yards down the shore, and they spent hours there, tossing rocks into the lake and telling silly jokes. She taught him how to somersault off the end of the pier, and he taught her how to throw a spiral pass.

Abby realized he wasn’t attracted to her. He was three and a half years older and she was only ten, after all. But as he held the football and ran his fingers over the leather laces, taking her hand in his and positioning it just so, she was overwhelmed with a feeling she had never been more sure of in all her young life.

One day, she was going to marry John Reynolds. And if he didn’t know it now, that was okay. Because she wasn’t going to stay a little girl forever, and when the years allowed, she had no doubt that he would feel about her the way she already felt about him.

Abby grinned as she walked, remembering the pixie she’d been and how hard she’d fallen for John that summer. She kicked a loose rock and let her eyes gaze up into the winter sky.
There was never any
other boy for me, was there, Lord?

Silence.

Abby didn’t think too hard on the fact that there were no holy whispers in response to her daydreaming.
Maybe God’s giving me
space. After all the conversation today, I probably need it.

She dug her hands deep into her coat pockets and kept walking. It hadn’t taken long for John to come around. Not really.

Four years later, the summer she was fourteen, John and his family came back to Lake Geneva and this time spent two weeks. He remembered her, of course, and though he was going into his senior year in high school and she was only a freshman, they again found common ground. By then she could throw and catch a football better than most boys her age, and they spent hours barefoot on the beach tossing the ball back and forth.

“You’re not so bad for a girl,” John had teased her.

She remembered holding her head a bit higher. Older boys didn’t intimidate her. After all, her father coached sixty of them every year at the high school, and oftentimes they hung out at the house, playing on the lake or eating barbecued chicken with her family. She cocked her head and stared at John, her heart dancing close to the surface. “And you’re not so bad for a
boy
.”

John had laughed hard that afternoon, hard enough that eventually he took off after her, tickling her and pretending she could outrun him. The truth was, he had become a great quarterback in his own right by then and was being pursued by a dozen major universities, including their fathers’ alma mater—Michigan.

How strange you were back then, John . . . seventeen, star football
player, yet somehow content to spend two weeks running around with a
little girl.

One night the two families brought blankets down to the sandy shoreline and her father built a bonfire. There they did something Abby couldn’t remember ever having done before: they sang songs about God. Not the usual silly campfire songs about chickens or trains comin’ round the mountain, but sweet songs about peace and joy and love and a God who cared deeply for all of them. When the songs ended and the adults were lost in their own conversation, John moved next to her and poked her with his elbow.

“You got a boyfriend, little Miss Abby Chapman?” He grinned, and Abby still remembered the way his blue eyes shimmered with the reflection of the moon on the water.

She had been sorely thankful it was dark, because her cheeks were hot from his question. Again, years of being teased by older boys paid off, and she kept her cool. “I don’t need a boyfriend.” She nudged his bare foot with her own.

He nudged her back. “That so?” A grin spread across his face, and Abby hadn’t been quite sure how to take him.

“Yes.” Her head raised another notch, and she leveled her gaze straight at him. “Boys can be very immature.” She studied him for a moment. “Let me guess . . . you’ve got a different girlfriend every week, right? That’s how it is with Dad’s quarterbacks.”