Sunday Kind of Love (27 page)

“You should see the other guys,” Hank joked.

“Let's go inside,” Meredith said. “I'll get you properly cleaned up.”

But before they'd gone far, Warren and Samantha returned. The car zipped into the drive, then skidded to a stop. Gwen's father hurried across the yard, his sister right behind him. He hugged his daughter tightly, just as his wife had done. “Thank the stars above, Gwennie!” he exclaimed. “I about worried myself sick.”

“When you weren't at Hank's, we went to the hospital,” Samantha explained. “Myron told us that we'd just missed you.”

Gwen glanced at Hank. Where before he had willingly allowed her mother to inspect his injuries, now that Warren was here, he'd stepped back, not standing too close, as if he was anxious about what might happen. She turned to her father; he was eyeing Hank in return, his expression hard to read.

Then Gwen noticed something in his hand.

“What are those?” she asked, pointing to several formerly crumpled pieces of paper, though she thought she recognized them.

“I found these and a bunch more like 'em in the trash basket in my office,” Warren answered. “I smoothed a couple out and read 'em.”

Even though the pages were ones Gwen had rejected for her article, they contained much of the same information as those she'd submitted to Sid Keaton. If her father had indeed read them as he had said, then he knew that Hank wasn't responsible for his brother's death. He knew the truth.

Looking at Hank, Warren said, “When we were at the hospital, I asked your father 'bout what's in these pages. Myron said you didn't have nothin' to do with what happened to Pete. He said you were lookin' out for him.”

Hank nodded. “That's right.”

Warren walked over and stood before the other man, his expression grim. As much as she was hopeful, Gwen couldn't help but be nervous.

“My father wasn't the smartest fella in the world,” Warren began. “He struggled to make ends meet, scroungin' and savin' for all he had. He never opened a bank account in his life 'cause he never had anythin' to put in it. But one thing he taught me when I was growin' up is worth more than its weight in gold. He said that whenever a man knows he's wrong, the best thing he can do is admit to it, no beatin' 'round the bush.” Warren stuck out his hand. “I was wrong 'bout you. For that, and especially for how I reacted when you brought my daughter back to me safe and sound, I'm mighty sorry.”

Gwen held her breath as Hank stared at Warren. She wondered if he would refuse her father's apology, leaving his offered hand unshaken. She could understand why he might; after all, Warren had said many hurtful things to him. Forgiving such insults would likely be easier said than done.

But in the end, that's just what Hank did.

“Apology accepted,” he said, soundly shaking Warren's hand.

Gwen's eyes filled with tears. This was what she'd wanted, for Hank to be given a second chance. She knew it wouldn't take long for her family to see the same things she had, for them to realize that the woodcarver was someone to love and cherish, not despise. She was also aware that it had been her words that brought about this change.

She might be a writer after all.

“Let's go inside so I can tend to Hank's injuries,” Meredith said.

“I'm gonna fix up the couch,” Warren offered. “With the fire and all, it makes sense for him to sleep here tonight. In the mornin', we'll drive out, look over the damage, and decide what comes next.”

“I'll make something to eat,” Samantha added, not wanting to be left out. “After all they've been through, they must be hungry.”

Gwen and Hank watched as her family hurried into the house and left them alone, which was likely their intent.

“Am I dreaming?” Hank asked, touching her cheek.

“Maybe we both are,” she replied. “Maybe we're still asleep on the cot in the workshop.”

“If that were the case, at least all my things wouldn't have burned to a crisp.”

They both laughed, finding some humor in it after all.

“I can't believe all that's happened since this morning,” Hank said. “You saw my dad at the hospital, wrote an article about Pete's death for the paper, and broke things off with Kent.”

“Even though you thought I was leaving you to go back to him.”

Hank smiled sheepishly. “I'd like to forget that part.”

“I bet,” she told him.

“As for me,” he continued, “I got in a brawl with Jed Ringer, had my workshop and most of my belongings destroyed, and then your father apologized to me.” Hank shook his head. “I still can't believe that last one.”

“But that's not all!” Gwen suddenly exclaimed.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Sandy Pedersen, I mean Fiderlein, had her baby! A little girl named Kelly! Oh, and I got hired down at the
Bulletin
!” she added. “I can't believe it, but in all the excitement, I guess I forgot.”

“How about tomorrow we take it easy?” Hank suggested.

“No promises,” Gwen replied.

Hank pulled her close. She looked up into his eyes, hardly noticing the stars beyond, and knew happiness. “This might sound strange,” he said, “but I'm glad you fell in the river.”

“You are?” Gwen replied, raising her eyebrows. “I could have drowned.”

He shook his head. “But you didn't.”

“Only because you were there to save me.”

“In the end,” Hank said, leaning close, “we saved each other.” Then he kissed her, the perfect exclamation point.

As a writer, Gwen was always searching for a story. They were everywhere she looked: in train depots and burning buildings; in Chicago and Buckton; in selfish acts that claimed lives and selfless acts that saved them; in the relationships that ended and the ones that added a new member to the family; in the past and the present.

Hers and Hank's was only just beginning.

T
HIS IS PRETTY
good.”

Gwen smiled. Her desk in the
Bulletin
's office was neat, with everything just the way she wanted it: a small box to hold her pens and pencils; a stapler; the lamp she'd brought from home to use when she worked late; a pile of notebooks; a framed photograph of her and Hank standing beside the Sawyer River, smiling at both the camera and the irony; a potted plant; and of course, her typewriter. Sid Keaton sat on one corner, reading the pages she had written.

“Myrna collected oil lamps?” the publisher asked.

“She had dozens of them, in almost every room,” Gwen explained. “If they were all lit, her house would've been the brightest in town.”

“With her bad eyesight, it's a miracle she never caught the place on fire.”

“I thought the same thing myself.”

Just as Sid had told her, when Gwen accepted his job offer she'd started at the bottom of the ladder. For the first couple of months, her days had consisted of editing the other reporters' articles, making phone calls and going door-to-door drumming up advertising, and generally learning the ropes of the business. But whatever it was that she'd been asked to do, Gwen threw herself at it with enthusiasm. Eventually there'd been more and more responsibility given, until she landed her current position, writing obituaries.

Gwen hadn't shied from this slightly morbid task, but had embraced it. With most obituaries she'd read, the writeup in the newspaper was little more than basic information: where the deceased was born, the names of family members, and what he or she had done for a living. But to Gwen, that didn't seem enough. So when she heard that someone had passed, she visited their home and talked with those who had known them, all in an attempt to learn who that person had actually been. She wanted each obituary to be personal. For Myrna Portnoy, she'd included the fact that the old woman had a collection of lamps. Sid often praised her work, appreciating the details she added; the job had been his a long time ago.

Her dream of becoming a writer was coming true, one obituary at a time.

Gwen knew there would be more opportunities as time passed. She was patient. Maybe someday she'd even end up replacing Sid as the
Bulletin
's publisher.

Who knew what the future held?

“You'd better get a move on or you're gonna be late for your lunch date,” Sid said, nodding at the clock. “Don't want to keep him waiting.”

Outside, the day was perfect, one of those late-spring afternoons without a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers, and the sun was warm on her skin. As she started down the sidewalk, Gwen couldn't believe that not even a year ago, she'd still been living in Chicago, daydreaming about becoming a writer, imagining a future with Kent.

The last time she had seen the successful lawyer had been when he'd walked away from her toward the depot. Since then, Kent hadn't called. He'd never written any letters. When Gwen and her parents had traveled to Chicago to gather her things from her apartment, she had found a box just inside the door. Kent must've passed it to the building supervisor. In it were all the Christmas and birthday presents Gwen had given him, their love letters, and even some clothes she'd left at his place. At the bottom of the box she had found the photograph she'd framed for him, the one that had sat on his desk at the law firm. Kent had smashed the glass, causing cracks to radiate in every direction, as broken as their relationship had become. Gwen threw it all away.

There would be no looking back for either of them.

As she walked, Gwen waved to people she knew and glanced in the store windows she passed. The baby carriage on display at the department store reminded her that she wasn't the only one in Buckton whose life had been dramatically changed in the last year.

Sandy and John had taken to being parents like ducks to water. While Kelly hadn't been the best sleeper at first, making for some long nights in the Fiderlein house, she was still the sweetest baby Gwen had ever laid eyes on. Whenever Gwen stopped by for a visit, which was as often as she could, the girl instantly brightened at the sight of her “aunt,” full of gurgles and smiles. Sandy returned the favor, dropping in at the
Bulletin
, pushing a stroller up and down Buckton's streets, showing her daughter her hometown. For his part, John was as dutiful a dad as there had ever been. Having a girl instead of a boy had done nothing to diminish his enthusiasm. Sandy playfully complained that her husband was spoiling Kelly, bringing home so many toys they might as well open up a shop.

For Gwen, Sandy's growing family was an inspiration.

The sweet and savory smells of her father's bakery reached her nose from more than a block away. Customers came out carrying loaves of bread and other delicious treats. Even though she was running late, Gwen poked her head in the door, as she did every time she went past.

“Gwennie!” her father shouted from behind the counter. “Come on in! You gotta try this new pastry I whipped up. I swear it's my best yet!”

“I can't, Dad,” she replied. “I'm on my way to pick up Hank for lunch. I don't want to spoil my appetite.”

“You're missin' out,” Warren said with a wink, trying to tempt her. “The two of you are still comin' for dinner tonight, right?”

“Of course.”

“Should be fun. Your mom's makin' meat loaf, so you know I'll be bellyin' up to the table plenty early!”

Her father was still laughing as the door closed behind her.

What a difference a year makes…

In the weeks and months after Gwen's article about Pete's death had appeared in the newspaper, no one's attitude toward Hank had changed more than her father's. Warren had admitted that he'd been wrong, apologized for his behavior, and played a different tune from that day forward. He and Hank fished in the Sawyer, worked on projects around the house, and even drank beers as they listened to baseball games out in the garage. Gwen suspected that her father had also worked to influence others from behind his bakery counter, talking to those who were reluctant to give the former pariah another chance.

Meredith had also mended her ways, much as she'd tended to Hank's wounds the night his workshop had been burned. Gwen suspected that one reason her mother had forgiven Hank so quickly was because his sacrifice had been for family; having been rejected by her own over her choice of husband, Meredith was particularly protective of familial bonds and appreciative of those who felt the same. It didn't hurt that she'd also proven to be a huge fan of Hank's woodworking craftsmanship, ordering a number of pieces for her home.

As for Samantha, little had changed. Along with Sandy, she'd been one of the only people who had encouraged Gwen's interest in Hank. Still a regular presence around her brother's dinner table, she seemed genuinely happy for her niece, jokingly asking when she should expect a wedding announcement. Even though Samantha was still searching for Mr. Right, she didn't let that keep her from enjoying all that life had to offer. Still, whenever Gwen saw Brent Irving, the judge's son her aunt had once hoped to marry, her heart felt a little heavy.

Hurrying down the sidewalk, Gwen nearly bumped into a man as he stepped out of the post office. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tate,” she said.

“Right back atcha, Gwen,” the auto mechanic replied. “Say, when you see Sid, let him know I've got some new ads I wanna try out.”

“I will,” she said before hurrying on her way.

Carl Tate, the Morgans, and several others in Buckton, including Hank, had suffered great losses at the hands of Jed Ringer and his accomplices. For weeks, they had burned their way across town, destroying property and stealing mementos for some perverse reason. It wasn't until they'd been stopped in the act of torching Hank's workshop that they were locked behind bars. Between the evidence collected from Jed's trunk and Sam's courtroom testimony, which implicated all three of them in acts of arson, they'd been quickly found guilty as charged. Jed had been quite the sight on the witness stand, both of his arms and one leg encased in plaster casts as he slowly healed from the damage done by both Hank and Gwen. All three men had been sent to prison. It would be many long years before they were set free.

Rounding the corner past Elm Avenue, Gwen reached her destination. After years of cajoling his friend, Skip had finally managed to convince Hank to go into business with him. Their furniture store was set to open at the end of the week. Skip would deal with customers, taking orders for pieces that Hank would then build in his new workshop at the rear of the store. They'd also stockpiled a sizable inventory, which would be on display. As she approached, the two partners were out on the sidewalk, staring up at the sign they'd hung.

It read
BUCKTON FURNITURE
.

“Just in time to give your opinion,” Skip said when Gwen joined them. “What do you think? Pretty eye-catchin' if I do say so myself.”

“I like it,” she agreed.

“Are you sure it's high enough?” Hank asked with a frown.

“It's fine!” Skip answered, playfully throwing his hands up in exasperation; clearly they'd been having a bit of a disagreement.

“I just don't want people to miss it.”

“It's candy-apple red!” his friend exclaimed. “The only way it'd be more noticeable is if you put lights around it like a movie marquee!”

“Don't give him any ideas,” Gwen said.

Just then, the telephone rang inside the store. Like a flash, Skip was moving toward it. “Could be a customer,” he explained over his shoulder.

When the revelation of his innocence in his brother's death had been published in the newspaper, Hank had thought that Skip might be hurt. After all, even though they were best friends, Hank had never confessed his secret to him. But when Hank tried to apologize, Skip had waved it away.

“I don't care
how
the truth came out,” he'd said. “Just that it did.”

Once Hank no longer had a reason to avoid town, Skip had redoubled his efforts to get his friend to go into business with him. He'd argued, rather convincingly, that with his financial prowess and Hank's substantial woodworking skill, they could really amount to something. Since there was no one Hank trusted more, particularly when it came to money, he'd agreed. The people of Buckton had donated to those who had been affected by Jed's acts of arson; Hank had used his as a contribution to their new business. Now here they were, nearing the culmination of all their plans and dreams.

“I think it should be higher,” Hank grumbled.

“You're worrying for nothing,” Gwen told him. “Trust me.”

“I just want everything to be perfect. Friday will be here before we know it.”

“And everyone will say, ‘That sign's just the right height!'”

“Smart aleck,” he said, but they both laughed.

Looking at him, still finding him the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on, Gwen was convinced that Hank was about to propose to her. It was a feeling more than anything: glances shared between Hank and her father; the way he stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking, a smile curling the corners of his mouth; and especially the clumsy way he'd asked her what her ring size was, throwing the question out while commenting about a jewelry box Freddie Holland had ordered.

He needn't worry. If he asked—
when
he asked—she wouldn't hesitate.

The answer would be yes.

The almost-year they had been together had been the happiest of Gwen's life. Every day was a treasure, full of laughter, passion, encouragement, and even friendship. She wasn't afraid to be honest around him, to voice her worries and fears. Hank always seemed to know just what to say, building up her confidence or steering her in a slightly different direction. She tried to do the same in return; when he'd asked her opinion about Skip's business proposal, Gwen had told him to accept. They were building a future together, something to last a lifetime.

If that wasn't love, she had no idea what was.

“Did you have a chance to talk to your father?” Gwen asked.

He nodded.

“So how did it go?”

Hank's smile faltered but didn't completely vanish. The last ten months had been hardest on Myron. Having been revealed as the driver in the accident that claimed Pete's life was bad enough, but his allowing Hank to lie about it seemed to make things worse. Once, in the bank, Gwen had heard someone call Myron a coward; she thought the broken man would likely have agreed. Fortunately Sid Keaton had been right and the police declined to press charges. While Hank believed that his father wasn't drinking as much as he used to, it wasn't unusual for Gwen to smell alcohol on Myron's breath. But with the furniture business about to open, she'd suggested to Hank that he ask his father to help; maybe some time working beside his son would help him take another step in the right direction.

“He said he'd think about it,” Hank answered.

“At least he didn't turn you down,” she said in encouragement.

“How about you? Did you make your phone call?”

“I did.”

“So what did he say?”

Shortly after she'd started working at the
Bulletin
, Gwen had begun writing a novel on the side. Freed from her restricting relationship with Kent, strongly encouraged by Hank, back home and surrounded by friends and family, Gwen couldn't contain the words welling up inside her. She'd outlined some ideas, then fed paper into the typewriter and begun. As with all her other writing, she obsessed over the words, occasionally growing frustrated enough to consider quitting. But in those dark times, Hank had been there, refusing to let her give up so easily. Finally, through hard work and dedication, she had a manuscript she was proud of. Not knowing what she was supposed to do next, Gwen had decided to contact Dwight Wirtz, her old teacher back at Worthington.