Ruby's Slippers

“There’s no place like home.”
DOROTHY IN THE WIZARD OF OZ

To the three Dorothy’s in my life:

Dot Wilson
Dorothy Smith
D. Anne Love

I love you all!

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

The journey from idea to published book is long and often arduous and should not be attempted alone. In the
Wizard of Oz
, Dorothy had a few helpers along her path as I did. Thank you all. I hope I haven’t forgotten any who made my steps sure and helped ease any burdens.

As always, thanks, David, for your enthusiasm and insights! You are an editing wizard. It’s always a joy to work with you and the team at B&H Publishing. Julie, you’re a marketing lion! Karen, thank you for all you do! Kim, Pat, Diana, Matt, the sales team, and all the rest who do so much for each and every book, I so appreciate you! You are the best!

Natasha, thanks for always believing, for seeing straight to the heart of a book or character, for your honesty and for you patience. You have a great big heart!

Thanks to Jane and Hock for wading through this story with me. Sometimes it was more like slogging through the muck to find that road again. I appreciate you guys so much! Jennifer Archer, what a friend you are! Thanks for reading a snippet for me. Cyndi Scott, thanks for being my Latin guru! Julie Eller, thanks for information on the Northwest. Magician Brad Brown, thank you for graciously allowing me to come to one of your fun performances!

As always, thanks to my prayer buddies who are such a blessing. Leslie and Maria, I love you guys!

Thanks to the reviewers and readers who have been so supportive and encouraging. Your notes have uplifted my spirits and reminded me when the going gets rough why I sit at my computer for such long hours.

Last, but never truly last or least, thanks to my sweet husband and children who picked up the slack when I forgot to cook dinner or didn’t get the house cleaned. I love you all more than you will ever know. I am so proud of each of you and am delighted we are all on this journey through life together.

Some people wish on candles, others on stars. When I was a girl, nose pressed against the passenger window of our Vista Cruiser, I watched truck loads of hay bales rumbling down the highway near our Kansas farm. Weather-beaten farmers drove thirty miles an hour (or slower), traffic piling up a mile behind them. Momma would ease the station wagon into the left lane to pass the snaking line and say, “Make a wish, girls, and don’t look back.”

My younger sister, Abby, always made a production out of her wishes. She squeezed her eyes closed, pursed her lips toward heaven, and proclaimed to all who were within hearing, “I’m gonna …” She leaned forward, her hand on Momma’s shoulder. “Can I wish on every hay bale?”

“Why not?” Momma shook her head with bewilderment as if my sister was a novelty act in the circus. To me, she was.

Puckering up again, Abby rattled off her litany of wishes. “I’m gonna be famous! I’m gonna be on the big screen! I’m gonna fly around the world.”

Like any good big sister, I rolled my eyes and let out a long, loud huff of irritation. Looking back on it now, I realize I was jealous that Abby knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to throw her dreams out there for all the world to see.

Cynical, even at age nine, I never wished on candles, stars, or hay bales. Maybe I’ve always been looking back rather than forward. Nowadays I’ve become a moderately healthy realist at age thirty-five. But sometimes in the dark of a lonely night, I do imagine wishes coming true.

Otto’s barking first signals something amiss on this damp, overcast afternoon. He’s my loyal, scruffy black dog, not more than ten or twelve pounds soaking wet. He follows me everywhere and will defend me if so much as a crow flies too near. Crouched on my knees in the garden, holding a prickly weed, I watch a strange sedan clip along the forlorn drive at an unsafe pace and feel a catch in my chest.

Squinting against the afternoon glare, I shield my eyes and push to my feet. Hope overrides any childhood cynicism. I decided long ago to hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

Ever since I was young, I’ve kept watch on the drive to our small Kansas farm. “Momma,” I would shout, “somebody’s comin’!” She would stop whatever chore was occupying her— folding laundry, drying dishes, balancing the checkbook—and we’d stand on the porch, my hand in hers, tracking the approaching vehicle. “Momma, do you think it’s—”

“No, Dottie. Don’t say anything to Abby, all right?”

Ever the protective big sister, I nodded, keeping my disappointment to myself. My little sister by two years tended to be more emotional than Momma and me. Momma never acted sad, and I took my cue from her. But she never hesitated when I called out again, “Visitors!” Hope would crest, soon to be dashed by disappointment. Still, even after all these years, when Momma is no longer here to stand beside me, there’s that smidgen of hope at the sight of a strange vehicle coming up the drive.

Rolling my shoulder forward, I swipe my face with my sleeve, wiping away bits of dirt and sweat, and blink at the pale-gray four-door as it stirs up a whirlwind of dust in its wake. None of my neighbors drive this type of car. Craig Hanson, my lawyer and friend, drives a conservative dark-blue 4-Runner. Rhonda Cox, the preacher’s wife, drives a white Expedition to haul her three children along with Pampered Chef wares to parties in the adjoining counties. Homer Davies, from the feed store, drives a battered and weary Chevy truck he’s had since the seventies. Most come to drop off donations for the annual Easter egg hunt I’m organizing again this year, or if their kid needs help with math, or if they’re in need of a third on yet another church committee.

The darkened windows of the strange sedan veil the driver’s identity as it comes to a screeching halt in front of my house. I dust my hands off on the back of my overalls. My muddy Crocs leave a depression in the soft earth. Otto prances around me, yipping and barking. “Easy now. Let’s go see who it is.” I lift Otto over a chicken-wire fence I strung up last summer to keep out a family of rabbits that had been nibbling on my beets and sugar snap peas. The sedan hasn’t moved. No door opens. No window slides downward. Is the driver lost or confused? Reconsidering? My footsteps quicken.

The driver’s door swings open and a tall, shapely woman in a form-fitting white dress emerges. I keep my head upright as Momma always did, my footsteps steady. This woman is definitely lost, like she’s looking for the pages of a
Vogue
magazine to crawl into. She has long black hair and dark sunglasses that make her eyes appear as big as a grasshopper’s. It isn’t until she swings her hair over her shoulder in a familiar way that recognition causes a whoosh of air to escape me.

“Abby!” I holler.

She turns, raises her sunglasses to the top of her head, and spots me.

“Come on, boy!” I slap the side of my leg. “Abby’s home!” I break into a loping jog, unable to run at full speed with these shoes that want to slide off my feet with every step. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen my sister, when she came home for Momma’s funeral. Abby hasn’t been around often enough for Otto to remember her. With his hind legs propelling him forward, my trusty little dog quickly covers the fifty yards or so and launches himself at the intruder.

“Get back!” Abby screeches, stepping sideways, wedging herself between door and car. His quarry cornered, Otto sounds the alarm and stands firm, tail straight up with its fringe like a flag and pointy ears flat against his head.

“Otto!” I yell and clap my hands. “Come.” He doesn’t. It takes another sharper command before he backs down, circles around, his hackles raised like bristles on one of Abby’s many hairbrushes.

“Crazy dog.” I push back a limp strand of hair that’s fallen into my eyes. I keep it too short for a ponytail. “Don’t worry about him,” I say. “He wouldn’t harm a flea.” I hug my sister tight and breathe in her pricey perfume like it’s a salve to ease the ache of an old wound. “Good to have you home.”

I step back, releasing her, and she wobbles on impossibly high heels. Between the spiky white shoes and a newly enhanced bust no doubt manufactured in Hollywood, I’m surprised she doesn’t tip over. I reach a hand out to steady her. Those breasts are definitely not coded in the family genes, and I find I’m a little self-conscious. “What brings you back to Kansas?”

Abby brushes from her dress a smudge left by my overalls. Her heavily lashed green eyes give me a once over. “What have you been doing, Dottie? Digging in the dirt?”

It’s an old joke between us. Fact is, as a kid, I liked to dig in the dirt. Momma had shown me how to take a tiny seed, push it into the moist spring earth, and cover it with dirt, water, and prayer. Together, we would watch each day for the little shoots to poke through, unfurl, and reach for the sunshine. It didn’t take pie-in-the-sky dreams to grow something; it just took water and sunlight. Abby, however, preferred daydreams and play-acting. Still does.

“Nothing’s changed here.” I say. That simple fact comforts me. I cling to what I know, to the past and tradition. Abby has always reached toward something she doesn’t yet have.

“I can see that,” she says, her tone indicating she’s not amused.

“Look at me, standing out here gabbin’.” I feel goofy grinning at my sister, but I’m truly thrilled by her sudden appearance. “Come on in!”

She presses a button on the car key and the trunk to what appears to be a rental car pops open. She picks her way over the gravel drive to the back of the car, then peers down at her oversized suitcase as if measuring it for the first time. Waggling her long, fake nails at me, she asks, “Think you can help?”

“Sure.” I grab the suitcase, which weighs almost as much as I do, and a couple of heaves later it teeters on the brink of the trunk. I may be small, but I’m strong. The bag hits the drive with a thunk. “I hope there isn’t anything breakable in here.”

When she doesn’t answer, I turn and realize she’s already gone inside. Checking the luggage over for some sort of a handle or a way to roll it up to the door, I traipse back to the house. Otto sits outside the door, lifting one paw, his nails scratching the wood where he’s already worn through the white paint. If I look close, I can see the layers of paint, like tree rings telling of years past, the colors Momma experimented with, from bright and hopeful white to anemic yellow to barely-there beige. I often imagine the house as it was when I was a girl, vivid and dazzling, a shimmering safety net among fields that routinely changed from summery green to autumnal gold and wintry barren.

The house belonged to my grandparents, then Momma, and now Abby and me. Even though it probably seems small and inconsequential to most passersby, it is my inheritance. More than weather-beaten wood and rusted nails, old-fashioned furniture and out-of-date equipment, it is full of significance and memories for me.

Otto looks up at me, his paw rising midair. His muzzle has turned gray over the last couple of years. I’m not sure how old he is. He was a stray lurking around the steps of the middle school where I taught. He looked part terrier, part anything goes. I fed him scraps of leftover peanut-butter-andjelly sandwiches from my sack lunch. I posted signs around the school, but no one claimed him. I’ve had him nine years now, but he still has plenty of get-up-and-go. Forlornly he looks at the house and barks again.

“Abby’s not used to having a pet around.” Not in L.A. I reach for the doorknob. “Give her a little time.”

I wrestle the suitcase through the narrow doorway, scraping the behemoth against the door frame. I give one last push and it flops over on its side, lying as if swollen and bloated from the heat.

Abby stands in the bedroom we used to share. The window unit blasts her with the coldest air it has to offer. “It’s hot!”

“Tell me about it.” I plop down on the bedside table. The doilies Momma once kept there have long since been put away to make dusting easier and more efficient. After I left for college in Wichita and Abby staked her claim in Hollywood, Momma kept the twin beds and lilac-covered spreads that suited Abby more than me. When I moved back home to take care of her, I never bothered remodeling or redecorating. It seemed like a waste of money. Momma used to say I’d inherited her ability to stretch a dollar to its breaking point.

Abby primps in front of the oval dresser mirror, fluffing her hair, which makes the bracelets on her arm jangle. She leans close and examines her makeup. “It’s not easy, Dottie.”

“What’s that?”

“My job. There’s always a younger actress. Someone more talented. Someone prettier.”

“I doubt that. Besides, you’re not old.” After all, Abby had been Miss Maize her senior year. She could out-dance, out-sing, out-act anyone.

“You have no idea.” Exhaustion deepens her voice. “Thirty-three is
ancient
in Hollywood. I’ve been turned down for parts that once were a slam dunk for me. Now they want me to audition for the part of a
mother
.” She turns sideways, sucks in an invisible stomach, which only makes her curvaceous top protrude further. “Do I look matronly to you?”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

Her features relax. She focuses again on the mirror, forming an
O
with her mouth and stretching her jaw to the side. She taps the back of her hand under her chin twice. I can see my own reflection, small behind hers. It doesn’t seem possible that we’re from the same gene pool. She’s tall and statuesque; I’m short, petite, ordinary. Her hair is long, gleaming, full and inviting; mine is short and a dull brown. Maybe our differences are a reflection of how different our parents really were.

The flash of a diamond ring catches my eye. “Did you get married again?”

“I’m engaged.” She smiles, pleased I noticed. “You should come out to California and meet Trey.”

“Maybe.” I run a finger along the seam of my overalls.

“You really should get off the farm sometime, Dottie. See the world! Meet interesting people. Don’t you want to travel? See things?”

I feel a tightening in my gut at her insinuation. She was always the impatient sort, not content to sit around and wait for crops to grow, for Christmas morning to dawn, for boys to call. Is that why I stayed in Kansas? Was I content? Or was I scared?

“I’m happy here.”

She flops down on what used to be her bed, lying back, stretching her lithe body out like a sinewy rubber band. “I’d be bored out of my mind.” She props her elbows on the bed, pushing up to look at me. “What do you
do
around here for fun?”

Feeling prickly and defensive, I snap, “Watch paint dry.” Otto prances at my feet, and I pick him up and place him on the bed. “Pick fleas off the dog. You know, the usual.”

Abby eyes Otto, then sits up, and waves at him. “Shoo!”

“He doesn’t have fleas.” I move Otto to my lap, then can’t resist adding, “Just ticks.”

She wraps her arms across her stomach as if to ward off some invisible critter. “Are you still teaching Sunday school?”

“Yes.”

“And heading up the Easter egg hunt too, I suppose. How many committees are you on now?”

My defenses prickle. “Why?”

“Because you’re not living your
own
life.”

I laugh. “And whose life am I living? Groucho Marx’s?”

“Mother’s.”

“Momma had a good life.”

“Lonely, don’t you think?”

“That wasn’t her choice. What did you want her to do, abandon her marriage vows?”

Abby’s pupils tighten. “Don’t you want more in life, Dottie?” She watches me like I’m a strange plant from another world. “Don’t you want to live a little? Experience things for yourself?”

“I like my life.” My teeth click at my firm pronunciation. “Some people dream big dreams, Abby, like you. Others of us make do with what we have. But wishing on hay can’t change your life any more than it can change mine.”

“It’s what you do with those dreams that matters. What do you dream of doing, Dottie?”

Suddenly the reason for her questions becomes clear. “Is this about selling the farm?”

She folds her hands together and places them on her slim thighs. “Momma never should have made those ridiculous stipulations in her will.”