Sunday Kind of Love (4 page)

Now all that hope was gone.

Hank bent down and began to pick up the broken pieces of the dish his father had hurled against the wall.

“Always cleanin' up your old man's messes, ain't ya?”

Hank didn't answer.

“Must be quite the sight…”

When his father drank, he became maudlin. His melancholy made him want to drink more, creating a cycle from which Myron never seemed able to escape.

“How about I put on a pot of coffee?” Hank suggested.

“If you've got a hankerin' for it,” Myron answered. “As for me, I got my own drink right here, though I'm gonna have to make do without a glass…”

When his father lifted his bottle to take another drink, Hank snatched it from his hand. He took it to the sink and began to pour it down the drain.

“Now, wait a minute!” Myron barked, his voice sounding panicked. He made to get out of his chair, his irritation fueling him, but he was too soused to manage it. When he plopped back down, he nearly tipped over and had to steady himself on the edge of the table.

Even as the last of the whiskey disappeared, Hank didn't feel victorious. Every time he found liquor in the house he got rid of it, but his father had proven to be sneakier than expected. He hid bottles everywhere—in the backs of closets, beneath the basement steps, even in the attic, tucking them among the exposed beams. It was a war Hank couldn't win.

“Ah, it's probably for the best,” Myron said, surrendering with a shrug. “It wasn't helpin' me forget 'bout Pete anyhow…”

Hank stood at the sink with his back to his father. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating his reflection in the window for a quick second; his face was creased by a deep frown, his lips drawn, his jaw tense. His hands squeezed a dish towel so tightly it was as if he was trying to strangle it.

“The other day…I was at the grocery store…” his father continued. “There were these two ladies lookin' at me from down the other end of the aisle. They must've thought they were far enough away that I wouldn't hear 'em, but I could…” His voice changed, becoming higher, almost theatrical as he tried to imitate the women's conversation. “‘Look at that poor man. Isn't he the one whose oldest boy killed his brother in that car accident a couple months back…'”

Hank didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

He'd heard it all before.

Myron chuckled, but it came out a humorless wheeze. “You know, I thought 'bout goin' over and tellin' 'em that they didn't know the half of it, but it wouldn't do a lick a good. People believe what they want to believe. To them, you and me, we're what they call a…call a…”

But that was as far as Myron got before finally passing out with his head on his arm, leaning hard against the table.

Hank sighed. He slipped an arm around his father's waist and lifted the older man out of his chair. In the living room, Hank laid Myron down on the couch, then pulled a blanket over him, hoping he would sleep it off. Only now, overcome by all the liquor he'd drunk, did his father look at peace.

Deep down, Hank believed that a lesser man would give up, pack his things, and hit the road, leaving his father to face his demons alone. But Hank wouldn't abandon him. He just couldn't. For all Myron's problems, his son loved him fiercely. He wanted him to get better, and still thought that he could.

“Get some rest, Dad.”

Back in the kitchen, Hank looked at his workshop through the rain. He knew he should go back and try to finish that chair, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His head was a mess, full of too many ghosts.

So instead, he snatched up his keys. He'd take his truck for a drive, listen to music, anything to distract himself. He couldn't stay.

Out he headed into the still-raging storm.

T
HIS IS ABOUT
you and me getting married…

Gwen sat at the dining room table, dumbstruck. It was as if Kent's words hung in the air, taunting her, daring her to respond.

A grin slowly spread across Kent's face, an expression that, she had to admit, made him even more handsome. From the way his eyes danced, Gwen knew he expected her to blush, cry tears of joy, clasp her hands together, and accept his sort-of proposal. In Kent's mind, there could be no other outcome. Rejection wasn't an option.

Glancing across the table, Gwen saw that her parents were equally expectant. Meredith's bright eyes lit up the room while Warren nodded slightly, as if he was giving his approval. Gwen knew that this was what her parents had always wanted for their daughter. They had struggled to send her to Worthington and pushed her to make the right choices, all in the hopes that she would have a better life than they'd had. And now, right before their eyes, she was on the cusp of succeeding beyond their wildest dreams.

All Gwen had to do was utter one simple word.

Yes…

But she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Undeniably, there was a part of Gwen that had always fantasized about becoming Kent's wife, yet another part remained cautious. She loved him, of that there was no doubt, but she knew it wasn't that simple. In the end, it came down to the one obstacle they'd yet to overcome: Kent didn't want her to become a writer. Until the matter was settled, she couldn't possibly accept.

“Kent, I…I think that…” she managed, unsure what, if anything, she should say.

“I told your father about the Lutheran church on Wheeler Avenue,” Kent said, acting as if she'd reacted every bit as emphatically as he'd assumed she would. “I know it's a little Gothic-looking, but it's perfect for the ceremony, large enough to hold all the people who would attend.”

“And later we'll have a celebration here in Buckton,” Meredith added. “Something for family and friends who can't make the trip to Chicago.”

“A lavish party!” Kent said enthusiastically.

“I'll make the best cakes you've ever tasted, Gwennie!” her father chimed in. “Everythin' you loved when you were a kid and more.”

“For the honeymoon, I was thinking Niagara Falls,” Kent continued, sounding a bit like a traveling salesman using the hard sell to peddle his wares. “I'd prefer somewhere more glamorous, myself. Hawaii, maybe. But with all my work at the firm, I can't be gone for that long. Still, I'm sure it will be wonderful!”

Gwen could only sit and stare, stunned at how everyone was acting. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. What was she supposed to do now? Should she speak up, point out that she hadn't agreed to marry Kent, thereby throwing a bucket of cold water on their good cheer? Or should she just go along with it, smile and nod her head, saying as little as possible, all while waiting for an opportunity to talk with Kent alone and set everything straight?

Or should I just give up my dreams of becoming a writer and be happy to become Mrs. Kent Brookings?

“What kind of flowers would you like, Gwendolyn?” Meredith asked while Warren and Kent began discussing the merits of Champagne. “I know you've always been fond of roses, but lilies would look better with a white dress.”

But as Gwen struggled to reply, the front door opened and then closed with a bang, followed by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. She turned in her seat and finally learned who'd be joining them for dinner.

It was her aunt Samantha.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said, breezing into the room, rainwater dripping from her short-cropped hair. Samantha unwound a soaked scarf from her neck and flung it onto a chair by the kitchen door. Half a dozen bracelets around her wrist clattered together as she took off her coat.

“I told you we were eating promptly at six,” Meredith scolded.

“You should know by now that if you wanted me here at six, you should have told me we were eating at five thirty,” her sister-in-law replied.

“Samantha will be late to her own funeral,” Warren said to Kent.

“Probably,” she said with a wink.

Other than a few almost unnoticeable wrinkles, her aunt was just as Gwen remembered her. Samantha was only a couple of years younger than Warren, but she carried herself more like she was Gwen's sibling. She dressed in the latest fashions, styled her hair like the stars in the Hollywood gossip magazines, and listened to rock-and-roll music, all in an effort to stay as young as possible. Though she was a beautiful woman, always talking about men who interested her, she had never been married. In fact, she'd never stayed in a relationship for long. Gwen had often thought that it was because her aunt was always on the move. If she settled down, she might miss something exciting.

Finally free from her coat, Samantha came around the table to stand beside Gwen, smiling down at her niece. But then, seeing Gwen's shaken expression, her good cheer faltered. “What's the matter, sweetie?” Samantha asked. “You're as white as a sheet!”

“Well, I…I just…” Gwen sputtered.

“She's getting married!” her father blurted, bursting with pride.

“She is?” Samantha asked, looking every bit as confused as Gwen felt. She glanced at Kent and said, “And I suppose you're the lucky fellow…”

“Kent Brookings,” he introduced himself, smiling brightly as he extended his hand. While Samantha shook it, he added, “I've heard a lot about you.”

“I just bet,” Warren said with a chuckle.

Samantha had always been Gwen's favorite relative, one of her favorite
people
, actually, and she'd spent hours telling Kent about all the scandalous things her aunt had done: wearing a skirt short enough to make Reverend Jordan write her a disparaging letter or driving her brand-new convertible down Main Street with the top down during a rain storm, laughing as she honked the horn. Samantha Foster did as she pleased, no matter what anyone else might think.

“Are you taking good care of my niece?” she asked Kent, her eyebrow arched, looking comically like a movie detective grilling a suspect.

“Of course,” Kent answered, his voice honest and his smile bright, all his charms on display. “I love Gwen with all my heart.”

His words cut through any skepticism Samantha might have felt; Gwen's aunt was a romantic, through and through. Seconds later, she had joined in the wedding planning, tossing ideas around the table.

“There has to be a band!” she declared. “A big band!”

“Like Tommy Dorsey's?” Warren asked. “I thought you were listening to all that newfangled stuff, with all the noise and whatnot.”

“Not like with horns, you goof,” Samantha replied. “I mean someone with lots of sound, a band that knows all the latest hits!”

“The music has to be something everyone will like,” Meredith added.

“Who wants that old fuddy-duddy stuff?” her sister-in-law asked.

While her family began to bicker, Gwen leaned over and squeezed Kent's arm to get his attention.

“Isn't this great?” he declared. “Everyone is so—”

“We need to talk,” Gwen said, cutting him off.

“What about?”

“About us
getting married
,” she told him, the words sounding strange, almost unbelievable to her own ears. “Right now.”

“This instant?” Kent asked, looking across the table at her parents and aunt still discussing wedding details. “But we haven't even had dinner. We—”

“
Now!
” Gwen hissed, finally putting her foot down.

Without waiting for a reply, she stood up, tossed her napkin on her plate, and stalked out of the room. She didn't look back, but from the way everyone had fallen silent, she was sure they were all staring after her.

But Gwen didn't care.

She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.

Out on the porch, Gwen shivered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to ward off the evening's chill. Rain continued to fall, though not as heavily as before, pitter-pattering on the porch roof, a steady drumming. Water rushed down the gutters, gathered in broad puddles on the sidewalk, and glistened in the grass, reflecting light from the street lamps. The rumble of thunder could still occasionally be heard, but the sound grew fainter, the storm finally moving away.

“Is everything all right?”

Gwen turned as Kent pulled the door shut behind him. Before it closed, she could hear that everyone was already back at it, discussing the wedding.

“What did you tell my family?” she asked.

“That you wanted some air,” Kent answered. “I said that I'd offered to keep you company. From the sound of things, they'll be all right without us.”

Gwen frowned. “Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about?” he replied. From the look on Kent's face, Gwen had to wonder whether he was actually clueless. Then again, as successful an attorney as he was, with every courtroom victory hinging on convincing a jury that he was sincere, Gwen thought he might be trying to snow her, too.

“You announced we were getting married! You never even asked me if that was what I wanted! You never proposed!”

“I just assumed—”

“How could you assume something as important as
that
?!”

“You're right,” Kent said, holding his hands up, palms out. “I got ahead of myself. But after spending time with your father, asking him for your hand, I suppose I got caught up in the moment.”

Gwen's eyes went wide. “You…you asked him for permission…?”

“Of course,” he answered with a chuckle. “That's the main reason I agreed to come with you to Buckton. I've had it planned for months. It wasn't like I was going to call him on the telephone or write him a letter.”

It was then that Gwen understood why Kent had been so insistent that she go upstairs and take a nap, why he hadn't been the least bit put out to spend time alone with her parents. It had all been part of his plan. While she slept, Kent had asked Warren for his daughter's hand in marriage.

“Did I make a mistake?” Kent prodded. “Should I not have asked?”

Gwen shook her head. “It's not that…not exactly…”

“Then what is it?”

She didn't know how to answer.

Kent smiled in the faint light. “Maybe I should have done it the old-fashioned way.” He stepped closer, then lowered himself down on one knee. He reached up and took her hand in his own. “My dearest Gwen,” he began. But before Kent could say more, Gwen yanked herself free and stepped back. She was so shocked by how she had reacted that she started to tremble.

“Don't…” she said. “Just don't…”

A frown creased Kent's face, and his eyes were touched with concern as he rose back to his feet.

“I don't understand,” he said. “Why are you acting like this? I thought you loved me. I thought that you wanted us to get married.”

“I do, on both counts,” Gwen answered, her gaze finding his, imploring him to believe her. “I want to accept, but I…I just…” Her voice trailed off.

“Then why don't you?”

For a moment, Gwen considered shaking her head, giving a little self-conscious laugh, and saying that he was right, that she was being silly, that she'd be honored to become his wife. It would undoubtedly be easier. After all, Gwen
did
love him. In almost every way, Kent would be the perfect husband. But deep down, Gwen knew that if she gave in, she'd spend the rest of her life questioning her decision, wondering about what might have been.

So instead, she said, “It's about my writing…”

“
That's
why you're so bothered?” Kent replied with a deep exhalation. “What a relief. I thought it was something serious.”

Gwen's anger flared. Kent's dismissive reaction was precisely why she hadn't accepted his proposal. That he couldn't understand how important becoming a writer was to her showed that their problems might lie even deeper than she thought.

“How can you say that?” Gwen asked. “Writing is important to me.”

Kent's expression softened. He looked as if he was trying to talk to a child, patiently explaining himself to someone who didn't know better.

“We've been over this time and time again, sweetheart,” he told her. “Between the money I make at the firm and what I stand to inherit from my father, you don't need to work. I can buy you whatever your heart desires.”

“This isn't about the money. It's about me. Becoming a writer is something I want to do.”

“What's wrong with being a mother and taking care of a home?”

“I want those things, too,” Gwen said with a gentle smile. She stepped closer, reached out, and took his hand, trying hard to convince him. “But they aren't enough. I want to write.”

“They were enough for my mother,” Kent said, looking away.

Gwen knew she'd struck a nerve. Giving his hand a soft squeeze, she asked, “When did you know that you wanted to be a lawyer?”

Kent's expression brightened. “When I was little. The other kids used to ask me to settle their disputes: who crossed the finish line first, which kite flew the highest, whether someone cheated at jacks, that sort of thing. Most of the time, I was paid in gum balls. Once or twice, I was even enlisted to argue cases before parents.” He chuckled. “It was so exciting. I knew there was nothing else I wanted to do.”

“That's exactly how I felt when I began to write!” Gwen exclaimed. “We aren't that different.”

He frowned. “It's not the same.”

“Of course it is.”

Kent shook his head. “What I do is important. Every time I step into a courtroom, I perform an essential duty to the community.”