Coming Home (8 page)

“How much control did you have to begin with?”

“Very little.”

“I’m thinking zero.”

Someone was beeping through. Andy checked the ID and smiled. He said good-bye to Chris, thanked him for nothing, and took the call.

“Honey …”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Who’s Marilyn?”

Andy swallowed and prepared to speak in a measured tone.

“Marilyn? Oh … well, she’s just a friend from church. Why do you ask?”

“For just a friend, she seems very nice.”

Seems nice?

“Mom, you didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?”

“Call her.”

“Oh … my.” Her voice dripped of innocence. “Was that wrong?”

Andy’s townhouse in Castle Rock was tiny, but it suited him fine. His porch offered a view of the Front Range, but only if you held your head just right and peered through the narrow space between the apartment buildings across the street.

At least life was a bit calmer here. Quieter. Less frenetic. Unfortunately, Castle Rock was growing rapidly. In a matter of years, it would be little more than a suburb of Denver. No matter. He was renting. Perhaps in six months, when his lease expired, he might consider options closer to the mountains, perhaps farther south—Perry Park or Larkspur—something closer to Palmer Lake. Maybe even Palmer Lake itself.

He tossed his keys onto the counter, went to turn on the stereo, then slumped into the couch, replaying the conversation with his mother. He’d come within inches of telling her the full truth. The time to come clean was nearing if not here already, but he wouldn’t do that over the phone. Yet he couldn’t imagine sitting his parents down and ’fessing up:

“What’s wrong, Andy?” his mother would ask with a worried tone.

“Mom. Dad. There’s something you don’t know about me.”

“What is it, son?”

“I’m not really a Christian anymore.”

Mom would break into tears, and Dad would attempt damage control. “All Christians struggle with their faith now and then. Even the disciples had difficulty trusting Jesus.”

Andy would try to explain himself further. “You don’t understand, Dad… .”

And no matter what he might say, they
wouldn’t
understand. Raised in a conservative home, he’d been taught the Christian way of life at a very young age. Breezing through junior high and high school with his principles intact, he had made an unabashed stand for Christ, yet remained one of the popular kids. Good looks, a confident demeanor, athletic talent—all had undoubtedly greased his social wheels. Struggle was almost unknown to him.

As a freshman in college he’d met the beautiful daughter of a prominent Denver TV evangelist, and they’d dated for several years. When they became engaged, his soon-to-be father-in-law offered him a future job with the ministry.

Andy’s downfall probably originated with a certain naïveté and the sense that his faith was invulnerable. As a young man fascinated with apologetics, he had devoured the works of C. S. Lewis, Peter Kreeft, Alvin Plantinga, and William Craig, among others. For the second semester of his junior year, he signed up for what he thought would be a benign history course: The Historical Origins of Christianity. When he discovered the extreme liberal nature of the professor, Andy decided to stay and duke it out, counter fallacy with fact, lies with truth.
I can take him,
Andy had thought.

The professor ate him alive. Dr. Neal raised hundreds of questions in the name of biblical criticism and historical accuracy, questions Andy had never considered before. In spite of digging through his apologetics books for endless hours, looking for answers, his faith began to slowly disintegrate.

“The Bible is a myth,” his teacher stated. “A beautiful myth, sure, but a myth all the same… . I’ll show you the true origins of the Christian faith… . Let’s discuss the strange differences between the Synoptic Gospels and the Gospel of John… . Where did Paul’s mentality come from? Well, I’ll tell you… .”

It was like being attacked with intellectual bombs, each one tearing out another piece of his house of faith. By the end of the semester, Andy was despairing, the historical roots for his faith having been all but destroyed.

Of course, Elizabeth couldn’t help but sense his struggle. Finally in a fit of despair, he told her the truth, fearful of her response. As he expected, she was horrified. “Just believe. It’s about faith, not about evidence.”

But his struggles continued. After a difficult few months, Elizabeth finally broke the engagement. “My father is an evangelist, Andy! He needs a son-in-law to stand by his side without wavering!”

His parents never knew the true reason for the breakup, despite his mother’s persistent quizzing over the following months, finding ever new ways to inquire of the romantic demise.

Andy’s life floundered in every way but professionally. He graduated from college, found a good job, made good money, and kept up the appearance of going to church. He found his own church, in fact—a decision that disappointed his parents but isolated him from his mother’s prying eyes.

But lately, keeping up appearances had begun to wear on him. While he enjoyed the social nature of church attendance, making Christian friends, living a lie was exhausting. Something had to give, especially now that he’d begun to seriously entertain the notion of getting married.

What kind of young woman did he want to marry? No question: an upstanding Christian woman. Thus the dilemma deepened. His overall integrity, in spite of a blazing corner of deceit, prevented him from bringing a sincere Christian woman into his life, and yet he couldn’t—not in his wildest imagination—envision himself marrying a nonbeliever.

He’d basically lied to his mother tonight, telling her that Marilyn was not his type.

… “What type is that?” she’d asked.

“It’s a personality thing,” he’d replied.

“You two don’t click?” she asked incredulously.

“I can’t explain it.”

“Maybe Debbie is right. Give her another chance,” his mom insisted. She paused. “Andy, we know the truth, you know. You can’t hide it from us.”

His stomach lurched. “Sorry?”

“Dad and I. We know that you still grieve over Elizabeth. She was a wonderful girl. But you have to move on. Get back into the game. There are more Elizabeths out there.”

Andy exhaled deeply. “Mom, I’m over Elizabeth.”

“Oh good! Can I invite Marilyn for dinner?”

“No.”

“Maybe if you saw her in a family setting, you’d think differently.”

“No.”

“Andy—”

“No.”

On and on for another five minutes or so. He could not imagine any other mother on the planet as relentlessly determined to marry off her only son. Finally their conversation petered out. “May I, at the very least, take a look for myself?” she asked in a final fit of desperation.

What? Invite Marilyn over for tea and crumpets? Devise a strategy together?

“No, Mom.”

She chuckled. “You’re a stubborn man, Andrew McCormick.”

“Perhaps I inherited it?”

“From your father, maybe,” Mom clucked. “Everyone knows I’m a pushover.”

Chapter Ten

THE FEW MINUTES in front of her grandmother’s house was enough to bring Jessie to her senses. She was about to shift into drive, intending to forget the whole thing, when she heard a voice.

“Well, looky here!”

Startled, she noticed an elderly man in a cowboy hat push through the gate, carrying a giant wrench-type thing in his left hand. Had her grandmother sold her
own
house?

The tall, lanky man strolled across the street with a bright smile. Jessie registered the shiny belt buckle, plaid shirt, cowboy shoes, and faded jeans but was still trying to digest his greeting.

She smiled stiffly at the man, her mind racing with stories of malevolent strangers. “I’m sorry. I was just leaving.” She shifted into drive, but just before she depressed the accelerator, she paused. The man puzzled her. When he reached the car, his smile broadened. Silvery hair peeked out from beneath his hat and deep lines surrounded his cheery eyes. Looking like an extra in a cowboy western, he stuck out his free hand almost like a dare.

After eyeing it skeptically—
we’re in a public place,
she reminded herself—she shifted quietly back into park. She reached up through the window and shook it. His hand felt like coarse sandpaper, but strong and firm. Her own hand nearly disappeared into the cavern of his burly mitts.

“Pleased to meetcha. Name’s Bill. I’m your grandmother’s whatchamacallit.”

She was taken aback.
My grandmother?
How could this man have recognized her from across the street? No. There was some mistake. A freaky coincidence. He was looking for someone else.

“We’ve been expecting ya.”

“Listen, there’s been some—”

“You’re Jessica, right?”

“Oh …” Jessie said, confused again. Then suddenly, she put it all together. Betty must have called. “I’m sorry … who are you?”

“I work for your grandmother—gardener, handyman, chauffeur, tree trimmer, cook, and bottle washer. Actually, I don’t do much bottle washing, but I suppose I would if she asked me.”

Jessie smiled nervously.

“You plan on coming in?”

“I was just … passing by.”

“Why don’tcha see what it looks like on the inside? Dip your toe in, check the temp. Frankly, water runs hot or cold most of the time—wouldn’t mind something in between on occasion—but I guess I’ve gotten used to it!” Bill laughed and then his face turned oddly crimson.

Jessie resisted the urge to frown, but her mouth must have dropped open. What was he talking about? She glanced at the giant wrench.
The plumbing?
“I think I should go… .”

Bill, the whatchamacallit, crouched, setting the tool on the ground, and removed his hat. He suddenly seemed sober. “Listen, Jessie—if I may call you that—I meander when I’m nervous. And I can say the darnedest things when I’m trying to … uh … it’s just that … well, I’d—we’d—be delighted if you might see fit to actually come inside.”

He put the hat back on, nodded, and looked away, seemingly embarrassed. She stared at him for a moment. In spite of his touch-

ing little speech, going inside was out of the question, but she could only imagine what her grandmother might say to this Bill person later:
“Are you kidding? She just left?”

“I can’t,” she said, feeling stupid. “I thought I could.”

Bill shifted his weight, his eyes betraying disappointment. “Would you like me to tell her you was here?” Jessie shook her head. “Please don’t.”

Another quick nod. “Then I won’t.” He stood up and began backing away. “It was my pleasure indeed to have met you. Short as it was. From what your grandmother has said, I consider it an honor.” He smiled again, dipped his hat, and headed back toward the gate.

She watched him walk away, his gait steady and confident. What did he mean?
“What your grandmother has said.”
She heard the scrape of iron as he opened the gate, then saw him turn back and wave at her. Her own emotions were an enigma to her. Was she scared? Still angry? Curious? They all coalesced into an indeterminate lump of indecision.

“Bill?” she whispered, worried that he might actually hear her and surprised when he did.

Her next question was as nonsensical as driving by and then leaving. As foolish as meeting her grandmother’s handyman and practically pouring out her heart. But it just came out. “Do you like George Strait?”

Jessie cringed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.
What a stupid question
.

Bill was like a dog wagging his tail. He approached the car again, all smiles. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, he’s the king of our day, Miss Jessie. Never did fancy this newcomer, what’s-his-name …”

She thought a moment. “Garth Brooks?”

Bill laughed. “Hit the nail on the head. A little fancy for my blood.”

Jessie forced a smile. She glanced from Bill to the house again.
What about this picture doesn’t fit?

“But we know the real king, don’t we,” he said, winking. It felt like a secret handshake.

“The man in black.”

Bill smiled reverently, almost proudly, and gave another curt nod. He thumbed toward the house. “And I’m sure that place must look like the ring of fire itself.”

Jessie broke into a grin in spite of herself, and a strange sense of relief fell over her. She hadn’t come for a social visit. She’d come to confront her grandmother. But now that she was here, something else tugged at her.

Another moment passed. Bill’s mouth was working in a nervous fashion, but his eyes seemed sincere. “Between you and me, Jessie girl, nothing’s going to happen to you, okay? I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you one teeny-weeny bit. You go in there with me and the moment she steps out of line, she’s going to have me to contend with, okay? I can roar like a lion if I need to, but I really think you’ll want to stay once you try it on for size. Like I said, the water runs hot or cold most of the time, but once you get in, the swimming ain’t so bad.”

Jessie nodded and pushed the car door partly open. “May I park it here?”

He looked ecstatic. “You can park it anywhere you want. Do you have a suitcase?”

“Oh, Bill—”

He raised his hands in a mock defense. “Say no more. We’ll take it slow. You decide later.”

Jessie closed the door and for the first time wondered about her appearance, strangely worried about making a good impression.
Why?

Bill made small talk as they walked, pointing out the various flowers he’d planted, talking as if they’d known each other a lifetime.

When they arrived at the door he rang the bell and winked at her. “She’ll want to show you everything the moment you set foot inside. She’s got an order to her madness, or should I say, a little madness to her order. Either way, I may have to catch her fall when she sees you.”

A few moments passed, long enough for Jessie to wonder if she was crazy. A thin elderly woman in a brown wool skirt and a light tan blouse answered the door. Her immaculately styled gray-blond hair contrasted with her light brown penetrating eyes. Her pleasant expression disappeared, and her eyes widened.

She turned to Bill, and he nodded proudly. “Spittin’ image.”

“Jessica?” Doris seemed to recover and held out her arms, and for a brief moment, Jessie wasn’t sure what to do. The two hugged quickly and uncomfortably. Her grandmother smelled of the kind of perfume that costs a fortune. Jessie’s mind flipped through images of the past, trying to reconcile the reality of the woman who stood before her. Like Betty Robinette, her grandmother seemed much smaller than Jessie had imagined. The word
frail
crossed her mind.

Doris held on to Jessie’s arms and studied her face. She shook her head, as if amazed, or was it chagrined? “You’re so thin,” she finally said.

Jessie forced a smile. “I’m not a chubby little cubby anymore.”

“No, I should say not.”

Bill broke in. “Thin is
power
. Just look at all those paper-clipthin New Yahk models.”

Doris gave him a disapproving glance. “Bill, most of those emaciated girls are on drugs.” She poked a thumb toward him. “Don’t you mind Bill. He’s still finding his way off the ranch. Hope he didn’t frighten you out there. I bet he threatened to lasso you.”

Jessie chuckled nervously.
Close
. They stepped through the portico, beneath a narrow second-story balcony, and in through the double doors. Immediately, Jessie was reminded of the movie
Gone With the Wind
and Clark Gable’s famous utterance:
“Frankly, my dear …”
She also remembered feeling rather witty one night when at the age of seven she’d asked her grandmother if Rhett Butler might be persuaded to make an entrance. Her grandmother had tartly replied,
“Honey, you’re thinking of a
southern
colonial home. World of difference, you know.”

“Oh yeah, of course,”
little Jessie had said.

The entryway was ridiculously spacious but smaller than she’d remembered. The vast mahogany floor greeted spindled double staircases, one on each side of the large room. In a magnificent sweep they curved upward, joining at the second-floor balcony, overlooking both the entryway and the grand room below.

This is crazy,
she thought again.
Why did I come here?

“Have you eaten?” Grandmother asked.

The memories were like dominoes again. She was eleven. Her grandmother had stopped by the Rock House Ice Cream Shoppe, for some reason Jessie couldn’t remember now. Jessie and Andy were slurping on bubble-gum ice cream. Grandmother gave a fierce look of disapproval.
“Oh my, Jess. If you want your mother’s figure, you can’t eat Mrs. Robinette’s ice cream.”
Already self-conscious about her weight, she’d nearly died of embarrassment.

Jessie glanced at Bill. His eyes twinkled and he nodded again.

They were staring at her. Waiting. The question registered.

“Oh no. I haven’t eaten yet. But please don’t—”

“Join us,” Bill interjected. “We’re gonna dine out with the common folk tonight.”

“Bill, for pete’s sake.”

Jessie stammered. “Oh, I didn’t mean to impose… .”
Sure you did, Jessie. You intended to be quite the imposition, as a matter of fact
.

She could barely catch her breath. Only a minute ago she was waiting in the car across the street and now … “We’ll see the house later,” her grandmother explained while Bill retrieved the car—a Lincoln Town Car, it turned out, complete with “bells and whistles and a few party kazoos,” he said before leaving, and Jessie noticed the warning smile he gave her grandmother. “Behave, now. I’ll be right back.” Grandmother had clearly bristled at his remark.

As they waited for him to pull out of the garage, the moment was as awkward as any Jessie had ever experienced. Her grandmother made pointless small talk.

Once they were situated inside the plush interior with leather seats, they headed down Lake Avenue, the wide and grand street Jessie had traveled on the way to the house. Sitting in the backseat, she felt safer, removed from her grandmother’s direct observation.

Her grandmother handled the conversation as if they’d never lost touch. She talked about growing fuchsia in the garden and her failed effort at blue hydrangeas, an apparent attempt to mimic the oceanfront beauty of her vacation home in Groton, Connecticut.

Jessie tried to pay attention, but her mind was spinning. She felt overwhelmed, unable to sort things out on the fly.
I’m making this up as I go,
she consoled herself.

Bill chimed in. “I was misting those bushes three times a day.”

“And I’m up for trying again.”

“I’ll build you a greenhouse.”

“I don’t
want
a greenhouse.”

In the course of the next few minutes, Jessie discovered that her grandmother spent two months out of every year in New England, daring the humid weather to play havoc with her arthritis. Eventually, the climate won out again, forcing her to yield to Colorado long before she was ready. She kept in close touch with a dozen friends in southeastern Connecticut, friendships made thirty years back, because, as she put it, “Friends from the East are friends for life.”

The memories came back to Jessie like a thousand pinpricks. She felt like she was sinking as she continued wrestling with a mixture of emotions. She kicked herself again and again, wishing she had reconsidered.
“Sorry, Bill, thanks for the invite, but I have to be going… .”