Sunday Kind of Love (14 page)

She wanted to tell Hank.

At first, Gwen wasn't sure how to get in touch with Hank. After all, it wasn't as if she could go home or to the bakery to call, not with her mother and father around. In the end, she thought it best to use the telephone booth on the corner opposite the drugstore. She stepped inside the cramped space, hot from the summer sun, and closed the partition behind her. Then she looked up Hank's number in the directory, dropped a coin in the slot, and dialed. Seconds later, it began to ring.

And ring and ring and ring…

But then, just as Gwen was about to give up, someone answered.

“Hello,” a man said, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Hank?” she asked tentatively, not sure if she recognized his voice, wondering if she might be talking to his father.

“Yeah,” he said a bit brusquely. “Who is this?”

“It's Gwen.”

Instantly, his demeanor changed. “Hey! This is a surprise. I wasn't expecting you to call,” Hank said, sounding genuinely pleased that it was her. “Sorry that it took me a while to answer, but I was working in the shop and there isn't a line out there. I heard it ringing in the house and had to run to get it.”

“Are you busy?”

“Nothing that can't wait.”

“I want to celebrate something. Would you be interested in joining me?”

“Sure. What's the occasion?”

Gwen smiled. She knew it was cheeky to keep it from him, but she wanted to hold on to her secret for a little while longer. “I can't tell you,” she explained. “It's a surprise. Let's just say that I have some good news to share.”

“I don't get a hint?” Hank asked.

“And ruin the suspense?” she teased with a soft laugh.

“Okay, okay. I get it,” he said. “Where do you want to go?”

“How about I treat us to ice cream at Mercer's Malt Shop?”

Gwen had thought Hank would argue with her, insisting that he be the one to pay, but instead he was silent; the pause lasted so long she began to wonder if their connection hadn't been lost. But finally he asked, “You want to stay in Buckton?”

“Is that all right?”

Another pause. “Sure…yeah, that's fine…” he said, by the end sounding more like himself. “Give me twenty minutes to get cleaned up and I'll meet you in front of the movie theater.”

“I'll be waiting,” Gwen said, then hung up.

Back outside the phone booth, she raised her face to the sun. Today was wonderful. She had taken a chance writing about the Morgans' fire and submitting her piece to the newspaper, but it had paid off. She was going to be published. On top of that, she'd been paid for it.

Things were definitely looking up.

And now she was going to see Hank again…

Just then, Gwen realized she was taking a chance that someone in town would see the two of them together. Word could get back to her parents. There was no reason to think they wouldn't be upset with her. But she didn't care.

This was a time for celebration.

And who knows what other surprises might lie ahead…

H
ANK ABSENTLY DRUMMED
his fingers across the top of the truck's steering wheel as he looked over at the malt shop for what felt like the twentieth time. Even though Buckton's streets were mostly empty, he felt conspicuous, like he was parked beneath a billboard or up on a stage.

He didn't want to be in town. He wanted to drive away, fast.

But he stayed for Gwen.

Hearing her voice on the telephone had sent a charge racing through him. Ever since Hank had watched her drive away after their afternoon together, all he'd thought about was her: the curve of her smile, the smell of her perfume, the sweet sound of her voice. Being unable to focus made it hard to work. That very morning, he had flubbed the same piece of wood so many times that he'd finally thrown it away. His father had been sleeping off another night of drinking, so her call had been a welcome surprise. That Gwen had wanted to get together had been even better. Hank had figured he'd pick her up and take her for a drive in the countryside, somewhere they could be alone and talk.

He hadn't expected her to want to stay in Buckton.

Ever since Pete's death, whenever he'd come to town, it had been uncomfortable. Everyone stared. A few pointed. The boldest walked up and gave him a piece of their mind. Once, in the grocery store, Hank had been slapped; Grace Gesell had done it, an older woman he knew from church. He reckoned that he deserved it, though not in the way most folks believed, and so he took their abuse without complaint. But that didn't mean he liked it. After a while, it became easier to stay away, to do his business in places like Mansfield. Hank couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd last driven downtown.

What's taking her so long?

Having Gwen at his side made it worse. It was one thing for him to take abuse for what happened to his brother, but the last thing he wanted was for her to see it. That burden was his alone. Besides, it would ruin her good mood.

When Hank had pulled up outside the movie theater, Gwen had been a bundle of excitement. He'd tried to match her happiness, but he doubted that he'd been very convincing.

“This is my treat,” Gwen had said once he'd parked in front of Mercer's Malt Shop.

Hank had wanted to argue, to insist on buying, but he also hadn't wanted to get out of the truck. He'd been trying to protect her.

Gwen had opened her door, then looked back at him in surprise when she'd realized he wasn't joining her. “Aren't you coming?”

“Just get me a chocolate.”

She had paused, a frown on her otherwise beautiful face, but then gone inside.

Now, sitting behind the wheel, Hank felt like a fool. His growing attraction to Gwen didn't change the fact that she was involved with, if not actually engaged to, another man. While he was thrilled to spend more time with her, it was pointless to get his hopes up. Even
if
Kent Brookings didn't exist,
if
Hank could somehow start a relationship with Gwen, then he would have no choice but to tell her the truth about himself. He would have to confess a secret he'd sworn to take to the grave.

Could I do that? Could I be completely honest with her?

The sudden honk of a horn startled him.

Hank turned to look out his window and found Jed Ringer staring at him, sitting in his own car as it idled in the middle of the street. He had two of his flunkies with him, men Hank recognized from the baseball game.

As if I didn't feel uneasy enough being in town…

“What in the hell are you doin' here?” Jed asked with a sneer. It pleased Hank to see that the troublemaker's face was still bruised and battered from their brawl, one of his eyes swollen and purple. It made him look uglier than ever.

“None of your damn business,” Hank answered.

“Don't you talk to him that way,” the goon closest to the passenger-side door snapped. A thin, wiry man, he reminded Hank of a yippy little dog snarling behind a fence, thinking that he was far bigger and tougher than he was.

“Shut up, Clint,” the middle crony said. “Jed don't need your help.”

“You ain't the boss a me, Sam! Don't go thinkin' that—”

“Quiet, the both of you!” Jed barked, instantly silencing his fawning menagerie. Turning his attention back to Hank, he said, “You ain't wanted 'round here, murderer.”

Even though Hank had been uncomfortable about being in Buckton from the moment Gwen had suggested he join her for ice cream, the last thing he would have done was leave because Jed Ringer wanted him to.

“You man enough to make me go on your own,” Hank began, unable to resist baiting the other man, “or do you need your girlfriends' help?”

Jed's face flushed an angry crimson. “No,” he said as he popped open his door, pushing it wider. “I'm gonna enjoy this by myself.”

But before he could set foot on the pavement, another horn sounded. All four men looked to see a police car in the street behind Jed's sedan; the officer wanted him to get moving. None of them had a good reputation, including Hank, so if there was trouble now, they'd likely all be hauled off to jail.

Hank didn't want to cause a scene, especially in front of Gwen; too late, he realized that it had been stupid to antagonize Jed.

So he was plenty relieved when Jed eased back behind the wheel.

Putting his car in gear, the tough stared daggers at Hank. “The next time you see me, there's gonna be trouble,” he said, then drove away.

Seconds later, Gwen finally came out of the malt shop holding two ice cream cones, none the wiser about what had just happened.

Even as he put the truck in gear, Hank was grateful for that.

“So are you ever going to tell me what your big surprise is?”

Gwen looked at Hank. He was turned in his seat, away from the sidewalk and toward her, licking at his ice cream cone. Ever since he'd picked her up in front of the movie theater, he had seemed a bit out of sorts, distracted. She'd been surprised he hadn't argued about her offering to pay, and then when he'd chosen to stay in the truck rather than go inside the malt shop. He hadn't said much as he'd driven them to a more secluded spot, away from Main Street, parking in the shade on the east side of the park. She was sure it was nothing, convinced that she was imagining it, but before she told Hank what had happened, she was determined to make him smile.

“Isn't it obvious?” she teased.

Hank shrugged.

“You're eating it,” Gwen said, nodding toward his ice cream.

He smiled, just a little, causing her heart to beat faster. “Most days, ice cream would be more than enough to get me out of my workshop, but I got the impression that you were talking about something bigger.”

Gwen laughed, the sound filling the truck's cab and spilling out the open windows. “You're right,” she said. “And it's amazing!”

She told him everything, beginning with the fire that had destroyed the Morgans' house. She struggled to explain how horrible it had been to sit helplessly and watch people she genuinely cared for lose everything they owned, even as she scribbled down the details of what she saw. Then how she'd stayed up all night writing, submitted her article to Sid Keaton, and ended with it being purchased for publication in the
Bulletin
. Occasionally she had to pause to keep from getting melted ice cream all over herself. Gwen admitted to Hank that she'd been nervous, worried that she wasn't good enough, but that in the end her hard work had paid off. The only thing she didn't tell him about was her disastrous phone call with Kent.

“That's great, Gwen!” Hank told her when she'd finished. From the tone of his voice, she knew that he meant it. “I'm really happy for you.”

“Thanks. I knew you'd understand.”

“So are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sid said that if you wrote something else he'd take a look at it,” Hank explained. “You should take him up on the offer.”

“I don't know,” she said. “What would I write about?”

“Didn't you tell me on the way back from Mansfield that everything around you is a story waiting to be told? If that's true, it shouldn't be all that hard.”

“Maybe you're right,” Gwen said, momentarily warming to the idea before a sliver of doubt crept in. “But what if he doesn't like
that
one?”

Hank shrugged. “Then you write another. If this is what you really want to do, then failure's going to be a part of it every bit as often as success. Maybe more. It sure is in woodworking. But if you can handle getting knocked down from time to time, if it makes you want to get back up and try again, you'll earn your success.”

Gwen found Hank's confidence infectious. Listening to him erased her doubts. To Hank, the only way she could fail would be if she quit trying. She wasn't used to someone having that kind of faith in her.

“You make it sound easy,” she told him.

“I know it isn't,” Hank replied. “Far from it. But if you've come this far, it'd be a shame not to see how far the road goes.”

“I just worry that I'm not good enough,” she admitted.

“Who doesn't?”

“I doubt you do.”

“Then you'd be wrong,” Hank answered. “No matter how many times someone like Freddie tells me they love my work, there's always the fear lurking in the back of my mind that the next piece I make will be a failure, that it will sit unsold.” He nodded at her. “Most artists I know feel the same.”

“I don't see myself that way,” Gwen insisted.

“You should. As a matter of fact, if I was a betting man, I'd be willing to wager that you'll end up being a lot more famous than I ever will.”

Gwen smiled. She wasn't happy because Hank believed she would one day be a well-known and respected writer. She was grinning because he had once again been kind and considerate, had complimented her and offered encouragement, far different from how she'd expected him to be. She thought about taking his hand, a touch to express how she was feeling, but then thought better of it. She wasn't sure of herself and worried she might send the wrong message, even if she had no idea what the
right
message would be.

So instead she asked, “Would you like to play a game?”

“Sure,” he answered, not quite sure where she was going.

Gwen pointed out the windshield at the few people walking Buckton's sidewalks. “All you have to do is pick someone out and invent a story about them,” she explained. “It can be about whatever you want. What they do for a living, where they went on vacation last year, the kind of movies they like to watch. Anything you can think of. The most creative story wins.”

“You mean make something up?” Hank asked hesitantly.

“Exactly. I'll go first so you can see how it works.”

Farther up the street, a man made to cross, looking both ways for traffic before stepping off the curb. He was dressed smartly, his hat pushed back a bit on his head and a newspaper folded under his arm. From where Gwen sat, it looked like he was whistling.

She pointed and said, “His name is Lou Morris and he—”

“That's Phil Mounts,” Hank interrupted. “He moved to town three years ago to practice law. He and his family bought the Palmers' old place up on Sycamore. His wife teaches at the—”

“Shush!” Gwen cut him off. “The less I know about him the better. Otherwise it interferes with the story.” She'd had an elaborate tale beginning to form in which the man was off to visit his mistress after having just embezzled thousands from the bank. But now it would remain untold. “Let's try again.”

“Gwen, I don't—”

“There,” she said, pointing at an older woman just coming out of the five-and-dime carrying so many packages that she could barely see over them. Gwen thought it might be Carol Starks, a longtime fixture behind the counter of Buckton's post office, but her view was obscured. Besides, as she'd told Hank, she didn't want to know anything about her subject.

“That's Marjorie Blanchard,” she began. “She married her husband, Jeffrey, because he was the wealthy heir to a manufacturing business, but now, after fourteen years of loveless marriage—”

“C'mon, this isn't—”

“—she has a surprise for her whole family. You see, each one of those packages contains a gift that she purchased especially—”

“—funny. I don't think that we should—”

Gwen was faintly aware of Hank saying something but she was so focused on creating a fictional history for the older woman that she wasn't paying close attention. So when he finally made himself heard, she was shocked.

“Stop it, Gwen!” he snapped, his voice loud and angry.

She immediately fell silent, her heart hammering. Gwen looked at Hank, wondering what she'd done to make him so upset. He stared silently ahead, his eyes narrow slits, his jaw tight. When he tossed the last bit of his ice cream cone out his window, he no longer looked angry, but almost a little sad.

“What's wrong?” she asked tentatively.

He didn't answer.

“Hank, what did I do?”

For a while longer, he still wouldn't reply. Finally he said, “I just didn't want to play, that's all…”

Gwen didn't believe a word of it. Whatever had upset him, it wasn't something he was going to reveal easily. It would've been easy to accept his answer, to drop the matter, but she couldn't.

She needed to know the truth.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

Stubbornly, Hank kept staring out the window.

“Please,” Gwen pressed, overcoming her earlier reluctance and gently placing her hand on his arm. Hank made no move to pull away. Her touch proved enough to lift his gaze to her. Trying to read his expression wasn't easy; she saw pain and confusion, but she also recognized indecision, as if he was weighing telling her what she wanted to know.