Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
Snow. I had never seen such snow. My first blizzard. The Charles froze, and Tom and his classmates walked across the ice to the Business School. A weekend at the picture calendar village of Newfane, reading art books by a roaring fire in the inn, then going to our room furnished with genuine antiques. And still Tom was understanding.
Tom.
Spring in New England. Coming late, so appreciated more. Walking hand-in-hand through the sweet, green countryside. Watching the fish jump in Walden Pond.
Oh, Tom. How can I live without you?
Moving to Boise where Tom had a job with M-K. All his classmates going to Wall Street or Chicago or Philadelphia. But we wanted to live in the West—a smaller city was better for raising a family.
Oh, Tom. I failed you again.
Being busy and happy. Really happy. Fixing up our new home—well, actually 72 years old, but new to us; getting involved at church. Tom surprising me by volunteering to teach a class of nine-year-old boys. Building our careers: me writing for every opportunity that appeared—poetry, curriculum, devotionals—Tom working day and night to meet the challenges of corporate America. Tom, the poor son of an alcoholic father, so determined to make good and always working for the extra bonus so he could send something to his mother and younger sister in Portland.
Then the frustration. Tom, still driven for the money he had never had, but bored with his work because he had met and conquered all the challenges his corporate pigeonhole offered. The rejections coming back faster than I could mail out manuscripts. And every month my body telling me I’d failed there too. Filling the extra time with more church work. Tom took on a Scout troop. I took on the drama ministry. And still we had time. Time for bike rides together along Boise’s quiet old tree-lined North End streets. Time for weekend trips to the mountains. Time to make homemade ice cream. Time to be with Tom.
Tom.
The seemingly overnight change. Tom’s brainchild—a system for people to buy new homes without a down payment. “It will make the American dream a possibility to thousands who never had a chance!” Tom as excited as he used to be when he came up with a particularly ingenious debate plan. And my form rejection letters changed to personal letters: “Sorry, this doesn’t fit our line, but why don’t you try …” And then an acceptance! Three contracts in one spring.
Everything perfect. Everything but one. And Tom was becoming less patient.
And now. All that success and happiness had led to this. But it wasn’t the fault of the success and happiness. It was Tom’s fault. Wasn’t it? Tom implied it was partly my fault. I suppose it takes two, that’s what Tom said. Sometimes I think it’s God’s fault. Why did He have to create men to be such animals? Tom was so perfect in every other way.
Oh, Tom. Tom.
Laura’s face and journal were both wet. But all that reminiscing, walking again through the pages of their lives, had made one thing absolutely clear in her mind and in her heart. She wanted Tom. More than anything else in the world, she wanted Tom. And she would do anything to get him back.
She didn’t have any idea what she could do, but knowing what she wanted ignited a clear, shining light that burned through her gray haze—a beacon to follow. And Tom would be at the end.
The next day two things happened. She received a letter from her agent. And Tom came back.
“Well …” He cleared his throat.
She was sitting at her computer in the small room that opened off the master bedroom through French doors, and she hadn’t heard him come in. She must have jumped three inches off her chair at the sound of his voice. It made her feel a fool. “Oh, Tom, I …” She sprang up to meet him with delight shining from her face. But she stopped cold at the solid wall his countenance presented. “You’re back,” she finished weakly.
“You may recall I only packed enough clothes for the trip.” His voice was as hard as his features.
She stood blinking dumbly as he turned to his closet. No, wait! This wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She had decided they would go on. They would make it. Everything would be all right.
She was gripped with paralysis as she watched him in seeming slow motion empty the contents of his dresser into two large cardboard boxes. She had to stop this. But it was like a nightmare where she tried and tried to run, but no matter how hard she worked she couldn’t make her legs move.
He carried a load of suits and coats to the car and returned for his shirts when she finally found her voice. “Tom, please. Don’t do this. Let us
try
.” He pulled his hand back from the row of shirts in his closet. Now she was fully awake; she could function. She could fight for her life.
“Tom, I’ve done so much thinking—all the time you’ve been gone.” She moved a few steps toward him into the bedroom. “Don’t go.” She held out her hands in pleading. “I love you.” There was nothing more to say. Her eyes would have to say the rest for her—her eyes and her heart, which was in her throat.
The deep lines in his face seemed to soften ever so slightly. “What do you want to do?” It was a cautious question with no commitment, but it held out hope. It gave her courage to go on.
“I got a letter from my agent today. And a contract. Cathedral Press liked my proposal. They want to publish
Roses for the Bride.
That means I have to go to Victoria for background research.” She paused and took a deep breath to give her courage for the next part. “Come with me.”
Her whole life had passed before her when she reread her journal. It did a quick rerun now as she awaited Tom’s answer.
“I’ll think about it.” He walked from the room, leaving his shirts in the closet.
There are no airsick bags on this plane!
Between the lurches and drops of the little San Juan commuter plane, Laura hunted frantically in the seat-back pouches around her—but to no avail.
What am I going to do?
Strong winds buffeted the small propjet making its last flight of the night across the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Seattle to Vancouver Island while Laura, with one hand over her mouth, looked around desperately.
Tom sat stoically beside her, his eyes focused on the sharp crease of his dark blue suit pants.
He’ll kill me if I get sick on him. And this was supposed to be a honeymoon.
She clamped her hand tighter, her thumb against her nose to keep out the stench of stale cigar smoke clinging to a nearby passenger. They were so compactly sardined in the narrow seats that every blast of wind threw her against the passenger across the so-called aisle and then bounced her off Tom’s shoulder. “You’ll have a wonderful time!” their neighbor had said over and over. If only she could see her now. And Tom, whom she longed so to reach, seemed stiffer and more remote each time she lunged into him.
This is going to be the shortest reconciliation on record.
What am I going to do?
Feeling too awful even to breathe, let alone think, Laura found the answer. She pulled the safety information card and airline magazine from the pocket in front of her and put her head down. The clean-up crew would earn their keep tonight.
“Well, folks, here we are. That was a little bumpy, wasn’t it? Sorry if any of you felt any discomfort. We were delayed getting out of Seattle, so it’s getting pretty late here, but thank you for flying San Juan.” The pilot, grinning from ear to ear, emerged from the curtained cockpit to dismiss his load of sardines to the mercies of the black, rain-drenched, wind-whipped night.
Tom pulled Laura’s case from the overhead bin behind them and supported her off the plane into the tiny, almost deserted airport for the customs formalities conducted by officials who couldn’t talk about anything but the unseasonableness of the storm. The bright lights made Laura blink. “Don’t look at me, Tom. I look awful in pea green.”
There were no porters available, so while Tom signed the rental car papers handed him by a yawning girl behind a counter, Laura struggled with their luggage at the carousel. “Let me help you with those, ma’am.”
Laura gave a weak but grateful smile to the tall, broad man with curly dark hair beside her.
“Thank you. The big blue one just coming up now … and the little one over there … and the black—”
“I’ll take care of that. Thanks anyway.” Tom stepped in front of the helpful stranger and began jerking bags off the carousel. “Come on, Laura. If I get these, can you handle those three?” Laura had packed generously for their two weeks, but even then she hadn’t realized she had brought quite so much.
“Why don’t you take those to the car, and I’ll stay here with the others?”
“We can make it all in one trip. I don’t want to leave you here alone for one of those French-Canadian mashers.”
Laura had a fleeting sensation that she ought to be flattered that he cared, but at the moment just carrying her assigned bags took all her concentration. Crossing the street to the parking lot, a fresh blast of wind practically blew her over. “Steady on,” Tom encouraged her.
Steady
. She repeated the word over and over to herself to the rhythm of the windshield wipers as their little white rental car swished bravely through the downpour. Her head felt wobbly on her neck, her knees were as supportive as sprung Slinkies, and her stomach didn’t bear thinking of at all. “I didn’t know the island was this big.”
Keep your mind off yourself.
“The airport’s at the far end. We’ll soon be there.”
“You’re sure you know the way?”
“No problem. There’s only one way.”
Laura would have liked to pursue the thought that life should be so simple. But at the moment, she wanted even more not to think at all.
“See? The lights of the city. What’d I tell you?” Even in her near-comatose state Laura admired her husband’s ability to find his way in a strange city in the black of night. Laura had a mind that could memorize poetry at little more than a single reading, but she couldn’t remember directions or a math formula to save herself from hanging. Tom whipped around three corners, and there before her appeared the fairy-tale scene of the many-domed Parliament building all outlined in lights. She had seen the pictures but assumed the illumination was only done at Christmas. And now, after all the time she had dreamed of seeing it, here she was—too wretched to care. Tom turned up a dim, rain-washed driveway and stopped under the portals of the Empress Hotel.
But grande dame that she was, the Empress needed her sleep. And apparently so did her doorman and bellman. So Laura made her entrance into one of the world’s great hotels tripping over bulging bags and struggling to see around the straggles of wet hair hanging over her eyes. So much for all of her daydreams of the beautiful, romantic times they would have in the garden city of the world—how they would rediscover each other and learn to love in a whole new way, the honeymoon that would be a prelude to the rest of their lives … She had undoubtedly endued the venture with too much fantasy—that was typical of her—but she could never have imagined this reality.
Consciousness came slowly the next morning as Laura lay looking up at the jade green canopy patterned with peach flowers, then snuggled deeper in the comfort of the carved mahogany four-poster that filled the bedroom of their suite.
Tom’s breathing was still sleep-heavy on the other side of the big bed. Early rays of gold coming in the high windows told Laura the storm had blown itself out, leaving the promise of a more hospitable first day in Victoria than their inauspicious welcome seemed to presage. Moving carefully so as not to awaken Tom, she reached for her journal on the bedside table but knocked the slim pen to the floor. She scrambled to pick it up. Such a nuisance to not have fingernails. She hoisted herself to a semisitting position and began chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen:
I’m so thankful Tom agreed to come with me—it’s so good to have him here in bed beside me. I was afraid he’d book a room with twin beds—or even two rooms—the fact that we’re together in this gorgeous antique bed in this lovely old hotel in this romantic city must be a good sign.
She looked at the tousled head of her sleeping husband.
It has to be a good sign. I can’t imagine life without him. What would I do? Just the question panics me. But can I possibly hold him? Make him happy? Make him want to stay with me?
Dear God, in our years of marriage I’ve never really been all I should be. Can I possibly now? Is desperation enough? Help me.
Tom rolled over and stretched lazily. “I’m hungry.”
“At least 60 percent stomach.” Laura grinned and scooted out of bed to get dressed. She had spent so many years perfecting the switch from her own forlorn longings to the bantering relationship that held their marriage together that she did it now without thinking.
When they stepped off the elevator it was evident that after last night’s inhospitality the Empress had returned to her gracious, refined self. The tartan-jacketed gentleman at the carved oak, marble-topped counter pointed across the red-carpeted length of the ivory-pillared lobby filled with Queen Anne furniture. “Down the stairs. Turn right to the Garden Café.” It was much more like being in a stately English mansion than the main lobby of a hotel. Except Tom wouldn’t have been able to buy a
Wall Street Journal
in a stately home.
They followed the man’s directions to a room circled with rose-patterned drapes looped between Corinthian pillars. Pedestaled urns of flowers sitting atop balustrades separated the tables, giving one the feeling of having just stepped through French windows onto the terrace of a Georgian mansion.
Laura asked the waitress for skimmed milk for her tea, then between sips looked over her notes. “Let’s do the provincial museum this morning and then have tea at the Crystal Garden. Then we can go to the castle if there’s time.” A good night of sleep had restored her usual enthusiasm, and the hot milky drink was stirring her energy.
Tom looked up from the
Wall Street Journal
folded discreetly beside his plate. When the waitress brought his platter of bacon and eggs, Laura asked about their house tea. “It’s called Empress blend. Murchie’s makes it for us.” Laura’s nod was a mental ticking of her list—Murchie’s was on her agenda. She liked having her lists organized. Being the fuzzy, right-brained person she was, lists were her lifeline.