The Only Best Place Page 2

  Okay. Things were slithering right along. I needed points. Fast.

  “I'm really thankful you and Judy were able to help us move,” I said, injecting a hale and hearty note into my voice.

  Wilma shifted Nicholas in her arms, her brisk nod accepting my little peace offering. “We were finishing up in the kitchen,” Wilma said over her shoulder as she walked toward the porch door. “I thought that would be your first priority.”

  Wilma gave me more credit than I deserved. Right now my first priority was a selfishly long hot bath and a good book while Dan entertained the children. Such a dreamer I am.

  As we stepped onto the empty, echoing porch with its gleaming floor, I wondered if I should take my shoes off upon entering the hallowed ground of the VandeKeere home place.

  I glanced around, feeling the weight of history and responsibility slowly settle on my uneasy shoulders. Dan's father had grown up in this home with his siblings, and he and his wife,Wilma, had raised their children here.

  Once Dan and I moved in, we would temporarily hold the keys of the kingdom.

  I heard footsteps coming down the stairs above the porch, followed by the sound of humming. In spite of the weariness fuzzing my mind and dragging at my limbs, I smiled.

  Where Dan's older sister Gloria was forceful and up-tight, Judy was easygoing and friendly. Not hard to decipher which of the sisters I felt closest to.

  Judy looked up as we came into the kitchen. The same wispy blonde hair that tufted Nicholas's head these days drifted out of the elastic holding the rest of her hair away from her face. Her sloppy, faded shirt and sweats couldn't camouflage her generous size—the polar opposite of her slim and put-together mother and sister. And when she smiled, I thought for the first time since we packed up the vehicles, I can do this.

  Judy grabbed me in a quick hug and cupped my face in her hands. “Hey, Leslie. Don't you look adorable? I like the sassy haircut.”

  “Just got it done before we came.” I threw out the comment as if the new me was something I had planned. Not done in a fit of anger when I discovered the loss of Dan's business. The sudden splurge was supposed to make me feel lighter, cheer me up. In the end it gave me one more bill to add to the “pay it or skip it” file.

  “Suits you,” Judy said, lowering her hands and resting them on my shoulder as her expression grew serious. “I'm so glad you and Dan and the kids are here. I know you're going to miss Seattle and your job and all, but you can make a home here, too.” Judy's voice rose in a hopeful question. She touched Anneke's cheek, then slipped her arms around my shoulders again, encompassing both of us. She held on for that one extra split second, turning her hug from a polite gesture into a warm, welcoming greeting.

  When she pulled away,Anneke stared up at her, soft hazel eyes still puffy from crying. “Who are you?” Anneke asked, sniffing.

  Whoops. This she was supposed to know.

  “Oh, c'mon,Anneke,” Wilma chided. “That's your Auntie Judy.”

  “Do you remember me now?” Judy tilted her face to one side to catch Anneke's eyes.

  Anneke shook her head.

  “We have a picture of Auntie Judy and Uncle Dayton on our bulletin board. By the phone, remember?” In light of Anneke's momentary lapse, I needed them to know I hadn't neglected the legacy that was the VandeKeeres‘. I took seriously the responsibility of the family pictures entrusted to me each year in Christmas cards and letters.

  Judy winked at me, a small gesture that connected and forgave. “You'll remember us all soon enough, Anneke. But for now, we sure know who you are. Do you want to go upstairs and look at the rooms? Maybe if your mommy lets you, you can pick which one you want to sleep in.”

  Another solemn nod and then, to my surprise, she wiggled out of my arms to the floor and took Judy's proffered hand.

  I looked around the large empty kitchen. The avocado green flooring I'd seen in pictures of Dan as an eager toddler did what it was bought to do. Last. The bright yellow painted cupboards almost hurt my eyes. I knew Wilma had painted the cupboards and chosen the flooring, and I felt her eyes watching me as I inspected my new kitchen. To insult her handiwork was to insult her.

  Though Wilma was always unfailingly polite, I knew she didn't care for me. In her eyes, I had committed a number of cardinal sins of omission and commission. Where Dan and I had met headed the list of offenses. When Dan first introduced me to the family, he told the story of our meeting in the bar and laughed. Wilma gave me a glacial smile and never really warmed up to me after that. Though she never overtly referred to it, the subtext of her comments was that I had been the brazen hussy whose siren song lured Dan away from church and turned him into a lush. From that auspicious beginning, things went decidedly downhill. I was the daughter of an absent single mother, which had made the wording of our wedding invitations an awkward situation I got to hear about until Dan and I said “I do.” In Wilma's mind, to not have a father was a misfortune, but to misplace both parents was irresponsible.

  In addition to the lack of parents, I had a sister who smoked too much and laughed too loud when she drank too much. Which she did. At our wedding.

  I was the home wrecker who kept her beloved Dan in Minneapolis, then dragged him to Dallas and finally Seattle—all places too far away for casual visits. Easier to blame me than acknowledge that Dan's restless spirit had us packing up and heading out every two years. Wilma even cast me as the impediment to Dan's return to the farm, when that sinister role obviously belonged to Dan's stepfather.

  To add to the growing list, I had put her dear grandchildren in day care while I sauntered off to make bags of money saving up for an extravagant home that Dan would have to work all hours to keep up and furnish.

  But my worst offense was superseding her as the number-one woman in Dan's life. The battle for supremacy had been declared when she insisted on a church wedding and when she demanded an expensive supper followed by a reception large enough to invite even the most removed of Dan's relatives. I smiled, nodded, then told her we couldn't afford all of that. She pushed; I held firm. End result? One afternoon wedding held outside to avoid the hypocrisy of a church wedding, followed by a stand-up reception that Terra almost ruined with her crazy in-your-face behavior.

  The push and pull continued the first year of our marriage as I slowly weaned Dan off calling her every night to report on our life. I encouraged him to quit asking her for advice he never took.

  Our combined debt load made it difficult to travel back to Harland for Christmas, so we decided to celebrate in our apartment in Minneapolis rather than at the family farm as she insisted we do.

  Over time, our relationship became a one-way trip from bad to worse as Dan slowly became more my husband and less Wilma's son.

  Now we were back in the sheltering, smothering bosom of the family. Though I knew I would have to make a solid stand, I also realized I needed to be sensitive to Wilma's current emotional state.

  I glanced at Wilma, trying to catch some hint of the humiliation and sorrow I was sure she felt at the moment. It had been only a few months since Keith left. Wilma had been crushed in a public way and now stood in the house where she'd enjoyed much happier memories. I tried to imagine how difficult it must be for her.

  “So, how have you been doing?” I asked, lowering my voice in an attempt to sound sympathetic, warm, and friendly.

  Wilma gave me a puzzled frown. “I'm fine. Had a bit of a cold the other day, but otherwise, I'm fine.”

  And the sharing moment collapsed like a cheap tent in a light breeze.

  Okay. On to chirpy and mundane.

  “I see you left the electric stove behind.”

  “The last renters didn't have any appliances.” Wilma glanced down at Nicholas. “I'll go clean him up.”

  As she swept out of the kitchen, I sucked in a big breath. Suddenly I had room to breathe and allow myself a little bit of pity. Compromise had brought me here and, as with so many compromises, it resulted in two unhappy people.
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  I glanced around trying to see positives. I had more space in this kitchen than in our two-bedroom condo… and more cupboards. I swept the room with a glance. My gaze snagged on the large, fly-specked window facing south. Through it I saw the unfamiliar expanse of fields, fences, and hills rising to the mountains.

  Open, empty spaces.

  If my life were a movie, this would be the moment when the soundtrack would get all quiet, intimate, and trembly and the focus would go soft. I would gracefully drift to the floor, holding my head in my hands and curling into the fetal position to chew on the cuffs of my sweater and mutter incoherently.

  Okay, so it wouldn't be an Oscar-winning moment, but the way I felt, it had the elements of pathos, if not elegance. All the way here I had tried to be positive and upbeat, putting on my smiley face whenever Dan asked me how I was doing. But right now, faced with the reality of where we would be living for the next year and with whom, I felt a jolt of panic, if not Oscar-worthy emotion.

  Upstairs, I heard Anneke bopping along behind Judy. Downstairs, water ran in the bathroom off the kitchen as Wilma repaired the damage done to Nicholas's jacket. Then, above that, the rattly growl of a diesel engine.

  The truck pulling the trailer lumbered into the yard and drew up behind my little car. Dan had arrived with the remainders of our other life. Time for smiley face number three.

  After a moment Dan stepped out and stretched, twisting his upper body the way he always did when he wound down after a stressful day. His dark blonde hair looked as if he had run his fingers through it in five different directions. But as he walked away from the truck stretching out his arms above his head, I could see that the smile creasing his face was one of a man arriving at the promised land.

  “Dan's here!” Judy called out from upstairs. Her feet beat out a joyous tattoo down the stairs,Anneke close behind her.

  “My boy is home.” Wilma's soft exclamation from the hallway laid further claim on him. Still holding Nicholas, she strode out of the house down the walk, waving her free arm. Calling out his name.

  Dan turned and ran toward his mother, like a soldier returning from battle. He caught her in his arms, Nicholas and all, pulling them toward him in a hug that shouldn't have made me jealous.

  From: tfroese@hotmail.com

  To: lesismore@montana.net

  I can't believe U took three hundred and sixty-five Lindor chocolates along to Harland. U really are serious about this countdown thing, aren't U? How are U going to keep track if U suddenly have a snack attack, or Dan finds them? BTW—love the new e-mail name. How's life in La-la-land? Has Wilma told U she loves U yet? :) Will be a full-time job keeping her claws out of handsome hubby. I still can't get over how she ignored me at UR wedding, though I did my best to let her know I was there. Ha. Ha. Put a crust around that soft heart of URs. Don't let her get to U. Thankfully U got me giving pithy advice. Pithy I don't live closer. :) Keep UR house money in term deposit, else U will have nothin' when U head back to Seattle. I think UR crazy not to work. U'll find a job like that (me snapping finger) and U can use the money. I'm off to San Francisco next week. Try to find a job there. Kiss the kids. I'll send pics when I have some. Heard anything from Mom? Me neither. Sigh.

  Terrific Terra Testing the Tides

  P.S. Did U ever hear more about that chick Dan worked with, the one U said could speak two languages? Forgot her name.

  From: lesismore@montana.net

  To: tfroese@hotmail.com

  I forget her name too. Not. I figured I would let sleeping dogs lie, if you get my drift. Near as I know she moved back home to Canada. And the three hundred and sixty-two chocolates are in a box under the bed. Oh. Goody. It's almost 6:00. Supper time and time for another chocolate. Must snack.

  Lonely Leslie

  From: lesismore@montana.net

  To: josiepussycat@yahoo.com

  Hey, Josie. I'm here. And, well, I'm here. And, like you said, things are interesting. Please keep me posted on what's been happening at the hospital so I'm not so out of it when I come back.

  Les

  Chapter Two

  First thing tomorrow we should empty the rest of the boxes,” Dan whispered as he slipped into bed late Friday night. We had been here three nights already, and I was still in the throes of moving-denial, which meant that not all our stuff had been unpacked yet.

  “I won't need the stuff out of them,” I whispered back. I had been all for leaving them back in mini-storage in Seattle, creating an anchor that would eventually draw us back there. “Half those CDs qualify as antiques and the other half as poor taste and most of the books are covered in three inches of dust, one from each state we've lived in.”

  “You might want to read them,” he said. “You might even have time to start a hobby.”

  “Right, Dan. Hobbies and me are nodding acquaintances—I read about them in the obituaries of older women.” I stifled the jitters bubbling in my chest at the thought of being home day after day, trying to fill my time with knitting and tatting, baking—things I knew nothing about. For a moment I regretted my decision to stay home and nurture my relationships with kith and kin instead of going to work.

  When I was younger, my sister,Terra, and I had made a list of must-haves for what we considered a normal life. Husband, kids (in that order), all safely ensconced in a new house in the suburbs of a suitably sophisticated city. My job and Dan's business had been ways to achieve these must-haves. For now I could put a check mark beside two of my goals.

  The house would have to wait.

  “I think the roof leaks,” I said, counting the water spots on the ceiling of the upstairs bedroom.

  “I don't understand why we couldn't take the downstairs room.” Dan yanked on the blankets and shifted around, making his usual nest.

  “There is no way I'm sleeping in the same room you were conceived in.”

  “Over-sharing, Leslie,” he groaned.

  “Besides, I want to be close to the kids,” I whispered. “They're not used to this house yet.” Nor was I. It smelled wrong and made me feel disoriented. The last time we'd been here, Dan and I had slept in the spare room, Anneke and Nicholas in this room. Though our furniture graced most of the house now, this still seemed like Wilma's domain.

  Dan cuddled closer, a contented sigh drifting over his face. And why shouldn't he be feeling all jovial? Things were tipping heavily in his favor. We were in his old house, in his old yard. His territory.

  “Gloria phoned last night,” Dan said, pulling me close. “She thought maybe we could have a family dinner here sometime. Maybe after church.”

  Family? Dinner? All those VandeKeeres in this house? Wilma and Gloria walking through the house doing minute inspections of my kitchen and bathroom, critiquing my furniture and towels and snooping through my medicine chest?

  “That sounds like a good idea, but really, Dan, I'm still an apprentice in this whole family-supper course.” And if it was after church, the implication would be that we should attend the service. Though this subtle morphing of my husband to his pre-Seattle days wasn't a shocker, it created a low-level fear that we were making incremental shifts away from our goal.

  “Leslie, you're a great cook.” He lifted himself up on his elbow, and in the half light of the bedroom, his eyes shone down on me.

  “If it's tacos or barbecued steak you want, hey, I'm your girl. But Sunday dinner? I've never met a turkey that I didn't dry out. I hate cooking ham, and I don't know how to make my own croutons.” I pulled out a list of excuses, determined not to get railroaded again by his crooked smile and soft voice. In the months before we moved here, I hadn't seen much affection from Dan but now, it was as if back in his home place, he was slowly reverting to the man I had fallen in love with. Loving, attentive, and caring. Though the shadow of Miss Bilingual still hung like a silent specter over our marriage, she was slowly getting eased away by the obligations and expectations I was sure Dan felt from his family.

  “Leslie,” Dan said, go
ing down softly on the ie part of my name. I hate that light intonation even when I know it's coming. It signals his intention to be long-suffering and patient with the woman he promised to stay faithful to until death do us part, but Oh, Lord, it shouldn't have to be this hard. “It doesn't have to be Sunday dinner. We can buy pizza and ice cream and have them over during the week. We haven't gotten together in this house since Mom and Keith moved out.”

  “I don't know what kind of pizza they like.”

  “It would be fun to have a dinner here, in the old house. For Mom's sake.”

  The burden of moving into the flagship of the VandeKeere line dropped like a yoke on my shoulders. This house had been built by Dan's grandfather, replacing the older house now overgrown with willows and poplars, which replaced the small dugout that Great-grandfather Willem VandeKeere had moved his young bride into when they first came to Harland from Holland.

  This yard was a veritable museum of VandeKeere history, and I had taken reluctant possession of one piece of it. And if Dan's sisters wanted to have a family supper, it was a sure bet that in the long run I was helpless to stop the plans. But for now, the home was mine and the control was mine.

  “Let me think about it, okay?” I said, reverting to Ambiguous Wife as I turned to him, trying to re-create the faint moment of warmth he had kindled in me.

  “Sure. Whatever.” Dan flopped onto his back, replying with What's-So-Hard-about-This Husband.

  I deflected my automatic sigh. No need to fan the flames with that outpouring of breath.

  “Oh, by the way, Mom's coming over tomorrow,” Dan said.

  “Does Wilma think we need more help?” I had used my limited powers of persuasion to convince her to stay home today. I couldn't maintain a loving façade and deal with another litany of “suggestions” on how to arrange the kitchen or veiled criticisms about the number of appliances I owned. So what's wrong with having a crepe maker and a waffle iron? “Isn't she tired from helping out all day yesterday?”