Sunday Kind of Love (3 page)

“By the look of that yawn, you must need a little more. Don't worry,” Kent said, glancing at both Meredith and Warren. “We have lots to talk about.”

Reluctantly, her fatigue growing by the minute, Gwen gave in. Halfway up the stairs, she glanced back to find Kent laughing at something her father had said. He looked perfectly at ease.

Gwen sighed. She was worried about nothing.

Everything was just right.

Gwen sat up with a start, her heart pounding, a hand rising to her chest as the deep rumble of thunder rolled over the house. Lying in bed, she turned to look out the window in time to see a crooked fork of lightning blaze across the dark sky; seconds later, there was another tremendous boom. A strong gust of wind lashed against the glass, rattling the panes. The storm raged.

Now that she was awake, Gwen stretched before getting up to look at herself in the mirror above her dresser. The young woman who stared back at her appeared more than a little groggy, so she ran a hand through her dark hair. There wasn't a clock in her bedroom, so Gwen couldn't know what time it was, but she was sure she hadn't overslept dinner, convinced that her mother would have come to wake her. She noticed her suitcase lying just inside the door; someone had brought it in without disturbing her.

Back downstairs, Gwen entered the dining room just as her mother left the kitchen, a platter of steaming carrots in her hands.

“There you are,” Meredith said. “You're just in time to eat.”

“How long did I sleep?” Gwen asked.

“More than an hour. You must've been more tired than you thought.”

“Can I help?”

“Put this on the table for me,” her mother said, handing her the dish. “I'll be right back with the bread.”

The Fosters' large, rectangular table seemed to be overflowing with food; dishes of roast beef, potatoes, and peas were nestled in among her mother's finest china, shining silverware, and crystal glasses. Two long, tapered candles flickered away at either end. As Gwen was finding a place for the carrots, she noticed something. There was a fifth setting. Someone was joining them for dinner.

But then, before Gwen could go ask her mother about their unexpected guest, laughter interrupted her.

“It came outta the oven black as a lump of coal!” Warren said with a snort, clapping Kent's shoulder as if they were old friends. The young lawyer's head was tipped back, and he was laughing like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.

Gwen smiled. Things were going better than she could ever have hoped.

Meredith joined them, putting the last dish on the table. “Sit down, everyone,” she said. “Let's eat while it's still hot.”

Gwen chose the seat across from her mother, beside Kent. He leaned close, put his hand on hers beneath the table, and gave it a squeeze. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear.

“Much,” she answered. “Were you all right with my parents?”

“I had a wonderful time,” Kent answered. “As a matter of fact, I think you're about to find out just how nicely it went.”

“What do you mean?” Gwen asked.

Kent only winked in answer.

Her father said grace, but then, just as Gwen realized that she hadn't asked who was joining them for dinner, Warren rose from his seat, cleared his throat, and lifted his glass. Outside, thunder rumbled.

“I've never been much for talkin', but with all that's happened here today,” he began, looking at Kent, his eyes dancing, “I couldn't let this occasion pass without sayin' something.”

“Don't you think we should wait a while longer?” Meredith asked, nodding toward the empty setting at the table.

“Nope,” Warren replied.  “I can't hold it a second longer.”

Gwen glanced around the table. Seeing how everyone was smiling, she understood that she was the only one of them who had no idea what her father was talking about.

“Gwennie has always been the apple of my eye,” Warren continued. “Since the day she was born, I've only wanted what was best for her. That's why Meredith and I worked so hard to send her to that fancy school. Figured all that learnin' would do her good. I couldn't be more proud of her.”

Listening to her father, Gwen wondered where all of this was going. An odd feeling of unease rose inside her.

“Thinkin' 'bout Gwennie growin' up reminds me of the time she was helpin' me make rolls at the bakery. She couldn't have been more than ten, but—”

“Warren…” Meredith interrupted, touching his arm and silencing him as only a wife can do to her husband.

“I reckon I've talked enough,” he said with a chuckle. “Besides, I'm not the one who's got somethin' important to say.”

As if on cue, Kent turned to face Gwen. He took both of her hands in his and flashed his brightest smile.

“What's…what's this about?” she asked.

“This,” he told her, “is about you and me getting married.”

T
HE CAR WAS
going fast…too fast…nearly out of control…

The dark road looked like it was swimming before his eyes, racing up and down hills, curving left and then right so sharply that the tires screeched, never straight, never where he thought it would be. His window was down, the spring wind raising gooseflesh on his bare arm, though he didn't notice the cold. High above, a fat, full moon darted among the treetops, as if it was watching, waiting for what was about to happen.

He took a hand off the steering wheel and groped around on the seat beside him, between his legs, and finally down to the floorboard until he found what he was looking for. Bringing the nearly empty bottle of whiskey to his lips, he drank heavily, only vaguely aware that some of it was spilling down his shirt.

On the road ahead, he noticed a pinprick of light. As he watched, it began to slowly spread apart; it took him a moment to understand that he was seeing the headlights of another car. He felt himself drifting toward it, hypnotized, like a moth to a flame and just as dangerous. At the last second, he yanked the steering wheel away, the other vehicle whizzing by just outside his window. He laughed.

A woman sang faintly on the radio, a melody that he knew well, so he mumbled along, slurring his words, messing up the lyrics.

But that wasn't the only sound he could hear…

“Stop! Stop the car! You're gonna get us killed!”

Pete sat in the passenger seat. He was seventeen years old. Most days, he was a handsome, confident boy, quick to smile. But not now. Now, he cowered against the door, his eyes wide as saucers, frightened more than half out of his wits.

For an answer, he shouted something at Pete, the words as messed up as his singing. Whatever it was, it worked; Pete shrank farther into the door and closed his eyes, looking like he was trying to convince himself it was all a bad dream.

But it wasn't. It was as real as it got.

Satisfied he wasn't going to hear any more backtalk, he gave the horn a long honk, as if crowing in triumph.

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, everything spun out of control.

He didn't know what caused it: a deer or some other animal darting into the road, forcing him to reflexively turn the wheel to keep from hitting it; too sharp of a turn; or maybe he fell asleep. But the next thing he knew, Pete was screaming, the whiskey had been ripped out of his hand, and the road had vanished somewhere behind them. The steering wheel bucked like an animal, trying to break free.

At one blink of his watery, bloodshot eyes, there was nothing in front of them; at the next, a tree loomed large.

Amazingly, the next few seconds passed slowly, like they were frozen in time, as if he and Pete were posing for a picture. Then, in a rush, everything sped up. There was a horrific sound, deafening, like the world was cracking open, the last instant punctuated by a scream. Before he could wonder if he was the one making it, pain tore through him, biting down hard, trying to rip him in two.

Then everything went silent. It went black.

Hank Ellis woke with a start, his heart speeding faster than the car in his dream. He was drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin. Outside the window at the rear of his workroom, a storm raged; lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, a symphony of nature. Angrily, he flung off his thin blanket. He had only lain down for a quick nap, but it had been long enough for his mind to play a familiar trick.

It had happened again.

It was the same dream that had haunted Hank for months. It felt vividly real, so much so that he expected to be covered in cuts and bruises. These dreams were lies mixed with the truth, as much fiction as fact. Details changed, such as the weather and the song playing on the radio, but the end was always the same.

Every time, the car crashed.

As another clap of thunder shook the windows, Hank went to wash up at the workshop's sink. He splashed his face with cold water, trying to clear his head. When he turned on the bare bulb, he winced at the sudden bright light. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he barely recognized the man who stared back.

At twenty-three years old, Hank felt like the last year of his life had aged him twenty more. His sandy-blond hair was a bit longer than was the fashion and was mussed from sleep. Eyes the color of an afternoon sky in springtime were hooded in shadow. Stubble peppered his cheeks and the curve of his strong jaw. In the harsh glare of the bulb, he looked drawn, exhausted, as white as a ghost. Once upon a time, he'd turned plenty of pretty girls' heads, but because of all that had happened, with the toll it had taken on him, he couldn't imagine catching someone's fancy. Not now. Frustrated by feelings he would have struggled to explain, Hank peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, revealing a lean, muscular torso. He grabbed a clean shirt off the back of a nearby chair and slipped it on.

He took one last glance at the mirror.

“You look like hell,” he muttered before turning off the light.

Hank's workshop was a converted garage that sat back from the home he shared with his father. Projects in various stages of completion were arranged around the room: tables, a dresser, a child's rocking horse, and a bench that Sarah Enabnit wanted to put near her pond so she could sit and watch the ducks glide down for a swim. Wood was stacked in piles along the far wall: red cedar, black walnut, ash, several types of oak, whatever would be needed for a particular piece. The floor was littered with shavings. Tools hung on the walls: saws, chisels, shaves, files, hammers, planes, rasps, in all different shapes and sizes. His lathe, so old that some might consider it an antique, stood at the ready.

He turned on the radio, hoping he might catch the last few innings of the Reds game, but it had been rained out. Instead, he settled for the station out of Claxton, jazz that sounded scratchy because of the storm.

For weeks, Hank had been trying to finish a project. Now, hoping to quiet the turmoil in his head, he went back to it. He had been hired by a wealthy woman from Mansfield who'd already commissioned three other expensive pieces; she was the type who wanted only the best, no matter what it cost. The chair was to have an intricate design, with small flowers circling the outer spindles, rising to a full bouquet decorating the headboard. He'd done this sort of carving before, but this time, no matter how much Hank worked the wood, something wasn't quite right. Wiping sweat from his brow, he picked up his chisel and mallet and set to it, making a tiny mark here, a small correction there, but it wasn't long before he faltered.

“Damn it,” he swore, tossing down his tools in frustration.

Usually, working with his hands allowed his mind to drift, to forget his troubles. Lost in his craft, Hank could spend hours at peace.

But not tonight.

After his dream, he couldn't stop thinking about Pete.

For as long as Hank could remember, Pete had been his shadow. He tagged along to the movies, laughing at the Marx Brothers, marveling at the ray guns in
Flash Gordon
, and squinting through his fingers while watching
Frankenstein
. He followed to the watering hole, shucking off his shirt, pants, and shoes to swing on the old tire, letting go and plunging into the water. He shagged the baseballs that Hank and his friends hit, chasing them into the twilight with only fireflies to light the way.

He was
always
there. That's how little brothers were.

Pete was six years younger than Hank. He idolized his older sibling, wanting to eat every meal across the table from him, demanding to sit next to him at the barbershop so they could have their hair cut at the same time, and often sliding into Hank's bed at night to sleep beside his big brother. For the most part, Hank returned Pete's affection, even if the kid could sometimes be a royal pain in the ass.

The Ellis boys looked a lot alike, both tall and trim with bright blue eyes. They had the same taste in movies, music, and clothes. Both lived and died with the fortunes of the Cincinnati Reds baseball team. Both attended church, held doors open for others, and behaved, for the most part, as gentlemen. But as Pete grew older, Hank noticed that there were differences between them.

Where Hank found comfort in being alone, Pete was at his best around others. When he entered a room, all eyes turned toward him. He could talk to anyone, young or old, learned or uneducated, rich or poor, and make people feel like they were important, like someone was listening to what they had to say. Girls flocked to him, drawn as much to Pete's charm as to his good looks. He had more friends than Hank could keep track of. Before Pete had even entered high school, everyone in Buckton had forecast great things for him. Everything was perfect.

Until the day their mother got sick.

Eleanor Ellis was as bright a presence as her youngest son. She baked cookies and cakes for Buckton's annual Fourth of July picnic, sang in the church choir, hosted a bridge club for a dozen friends, and volunteered at the library. She was loved by one and all, but especially by her sons. To Hank and Pete, Eleanor was an angel. She fed and clothed them, kissed away the pain of their many scrapes, and guided them as they grew toward manhood. It was because of her that they stayed on the straight and narrow. They didn't want to disappoint her.

But then one day, now more than a year back, in the cold of January, Eleanor had collapsed in the kitchen while making dinner. For a week, she'd talked about being tired, worrying that she was coming down with the flu. After a couple of days in bed without improvement, they'd taken her to the doctor.

It was cancer.

Tears were shed. Pills and promises were given, but none of them worked. Four weeks after she fell, their mother was dead.

In Eleanor's sudden, shocking absence, Hank stepped into the void her death had left. He cooked and cleaned. He paid the bills. He helped Pete with his homework; with the loss of their mother, the brothers grew even closer. Unfortunately, Hank did all these things because his father couldn't.

Without his wife, Myron Ellis fell apart, struggling to find the strength to carry on. A woodworker by trade, he started to let jobs slide, failing to complete the work he'd been hired for. Hank, who had apprenticed to his father for years, managed to keep up, apologizing to their unhappy buyers. As the months passed, Myron grew sullen, quick to let his temper loose. He stopped shaving, grew a patchy beard, and wore the same clothes for a week at a time.

But worst of all was his drinking.

Myron had never been a teetotaler, but the only drinking Hank could remember him doing was having the occasional beer while he listened to a ballgame in the workshop. With Eleanor's death, that changed. Myron began to drink whiskey straight out of the bottle in a misguided attempt to drown his sorrows, not stopping until he passed out in the workshop, the kitchen, wherever he happened to fall. Hank would haul his father to the shower and pour him cups of steaming black coffee to try to sober him up, all while being yelled at, insulted by a downtrodden, broken man whom Hank still loved with all his heart.

Month by month, week by week, even day by day, the stress mounted for Hank, eating away at him. He didn't think it could get worse.

But it did.

Three months ago, on a rainy night not unlike this one, Pete had been killed in a car crash, and as far as everyone in Buckton was concerned, it was Hank's fault.

Because of him, his brother was dead.

Soon after Hank had gone back to working on the chair, his head snapped up at the sound of glass breaking, the noise loud enough to cut through the din of the storm. He looked out the workshop's double doors toward the house. A light was on in the kitchen. He heard shouting but couldn't make out any of the words. Hank knew who was yelling.

It was his father.

For a moment, Hank considered letting Myron be. He'd run out of steam eventually. It wouldn't be the first time.

But Hank wasn't that kind of son. He took a deep breath, put down his tools, and headed into the storm, hurrying against the stiff rain.

Myron was in the kitchen. He sat at the small table, his head on his arm, his mouth smushed against the wood. An empty glass lay on its side, a long trail of whiskey leading over the table's edge to pool on the floor. A half-empty bottle was clutched tightly in his hand. Soup was splattered against the wallpaper on the other side of the room, sliding down into a heap of food and broken dish.

“What happened?” Hank asked.

“Soup was too cold…” his father mumbled.

“And that was reason enough to throw it across the room?”

“Felt like it at the time…”

Myron stirred, reaching blindly for his glass, but all he managed to do was knock it to the floor with a clatter. Undaunted, he raised his head and took a long swig from the bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork as he drank.

Back before his wife died, before he allowed himself to slide down a slope slickened by alcohol, Myron Ellis had been a handsome man. He was tall and a bit thin, with his shock of thick black hair and no small amount of charm, he'd had his own share of success while courting Buckton's pretty young ladies. But now, sitting in the dark kitchen, drunk and struggling to stay conscious, he was almost unrecognizable. His eyes were bloodshot and wet. His skin was pale, with the exception of his cheeks, which were flushed red. His shirt was stained with Lord knows what. Myron looked utterly beaten, and he'd surrendered without much of a fight.

Looking at his father, Hank felt many different emotions all at once. He was angry, sad, and plenty worried.

But most of all, he was disappointed.

Over the last couple of weeks, Hank had allowed himself to hope that his father was finally coming out of his depression. He wasn't drinking every night, and when he was sober, Myron seemed more like his old self. He'd mowed the grass, cooked a stew, and even come out to the workshop to look at his son's craftsmanship, making a suggestion here and there, although he hadn't picked up his own tools for months. They'd shared a laugh about Johnny Temple, the diminutive second baseman for the Reds, wondering whether he'd ever manage to hit another home run.