The Winding Road Home Page 5

  “But you’re a girl.”

  “I’m going to forget you said that.”

  He laughed. “Here’s the latest scoop for you. Girls basketball, awards banquet, tomorrow night, in the commons. Be there. It’s news.”

  “Rusty already assigned it to me.”

  “Ah, she beat me. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty so you can give Helen a rest. She doesn’t sound so good.”

  Kate gunned the car. She sounded all right to her, though the heater hadn’t warmed up yet.

  “Which house is the Chandlers’?”

  “On Cherry, across from the Community Center’s parking lot, west end.”

  “Okay, see you there. Oh, I almost forgot. You need to bring a dish to pass.”

  “I thought it was a banquet, as in the food is provided?”

  “Banquet is a Magic Kingdom synonym for potluck. If you don’t want to cook, we’ll stop at Swensen’s on the way and buy something from the deli. That’s what I do, if I remember. Fried chicken goes over big. Need anything from Baltimore? I’m on my way.”

  “Baltimore, Maryland? And you’ll be back by tomorrow night?”

  “I’m flying a charter, just overnight. Some guy’s picking up an invalid. Give my love to Crusty Rusty.”

  Kate smiled. “Will do. Fly safe.”

  “You too.” He chuckled. “My guess is that describes how you drive. Bye!”

  “Goodbye.”

  She shifted into first and eased away from the curb, still smiling. The guy was better than Beth. Beth would have insisted that they cook.

  “Rusty, it’s archaic.” Kate wasn’t whining. She was just stating an opinion as calmly as she could while struggling to breathe in her boss’s chimney stack of a car.

  Rusty coughed, flicked her ash out the window opened just wide enough, and drove with one hand as they sped through the winter wonderland of rolling white hills. “What’s archaic?”

  “Driving to Twin Prairie to print the paper and then stuffing it in envelopes and then sticking those in the mail for subscribers.”

  “The paper doesn’t go in envelopes. We just stick labels on them.”

  “And fold them.”

  “And, don’t forget, then we come back, fill the vending machines, and drop some off at Lia’s pharmacy and Swensen’s.” Rusty snorted a laugh. “Keep in mind, kid, despite the one-horse show, it’s an important job we’re doing. We’re tuned to the pulse of the community, and it’s our responsibility to publish it.”

  “Do you ever feel like you make a difference?”

  “Sure. A lot of people tell me how much they appreciate the paper.”

  “I mean, do you ever change that pulse by speeding it up or slowing it down?”

  “An editorial here and there.”

  “But do you ever uncover anything that opens people’s eyes? That makes a decided change in their thought processes? This week we wrote about everything they already know or could know if they hung out long enough at the pharmacy.”

  “It ain’t DC, kid.”

  Mm-hmm.

  Whoops. What had happened to her middle-of-the-night surrender to God’s leading? To the reminder that God was the potter, she was the clay? Probably lost between lack of sleep and the mounting desire to a pull a fire alarm. She cracked open her window. She no longer cared that it was ten degrees out there.

  “Rusty, Tanner Carlucci sends his love.”

  The older woman roared her deep, bronchial laugh. “So you’ve met?”

  “Actually…” Kate cleared her throat, partly from embarrassment, partly from smoke. “He took the photo of Kingsley and Olafsson.”

  “Ha! Good for him. I might have had to fire you if you’d missed that one.”

  “You can’t fire an intern, can you? It’s not like I’m getting paid.”

  “Katy-girl, you need to lighten up.”

  Lighten up. She knew that. Wasn’t that another conclusion she’d reached at two this morning? God did not make mistakes. Like every other unplanned diversion in her life, He had directed her steps. Without a doubt, He had brought her to Valley Oaks. Now what was she going to do? Whine or lighten up?

  Rusty Connelly was a gold mine of wise journalistic tidbits. After 12 hours in her company storing countless nuggets, Kate went home with a decidedly nonwhiny attitude. The village still wasn’t DC, but professionally speaking, things were improving.

  When she opened the front door, a sound wave of female chatter greeted her. She recalled Adele had mentioned her book club meeting was at the house tonight and that Kate was welcome to join them.

  While removing her coat, she had a partial view of the living room. It looked like a packed house. She spotted Britte Olafsson and cringed. Before she could retreat, Adele hailed her.

  “Kate! Come on in. Ladies!”

  The conversation died and eight pairs of eyes zeroed in on Kate.

  Adele continued, “I’d like you all to meet Kate Kilpatrick.”

  As one, the group stood, gathered around her, and cheered.

  “Good job!”

  “Great job!”

  “Nice writing!”

  “It’s perfect!”

  They shook her hand, introducing themselves, patting her on the back. Their names went in one ear and out the other.

  Overwhelmed, Kate finally managed to say something. “What are you all talking about?”

  Adele replied, “Your article about Britte and Joel!”

  Of course. Copies of the Times were already available in the stores and vending machines. She had placed them there herself. Evidently while she was eating pizza with Rusty, eager readers were already out buying the weekly.

  “Kate.” Britte beamed, no longer resembling the shellshocked Nordic. “Thank you. We look like a couple of lovesick teenagers in the photo, but you did such a nice job of making the event sound sane rather than idiotic. I still cannot believe he called you.” She shook her head.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Kate accepted their invitation to join their book discussion. Pass up a roomful of potential sources? She didn’t think twice about finding a seat.

  Later that night she thought of Adele’s description of the group. They referred to themselves as Club NEDD, an acronym for nurture, eat, and dabble in discussion. It was an accurate name. She had eaten and discussed. And although she knew the article was pure fluff, the women’s response to it had, beyond a shadow of a doubt, nurtured her.

  Lying in her bed, she smiled at the ceiling, warmed at the image of the loving group. Their nurturing had jiggled loose a buried thought. God had created in her the mindset and the passion to be a reporter. In all her fussing over the internship, that gift had gone dormant. To recount life’s journey for others was what gave her breath, and she had been suffocating. It was time to start breathing again.

  Seven

  Midafternoon Friday Adele walked across the large open space of Fox Meadow’s lobby. It was a hub of activity with people milling about, many of them in wheelchairs. There was a big-screen television, lots of chairs, and a table laden with baked goodies some church women had provided. Windows lined the front of the brick building, providing an unhindered view of the parking lot.

  Sunshine glinted off a shiny black limousine, catching her attention. She watched as it parked on the circular drive just outside the entry. She knew immediately it was Rand Jennings. Only someone who had the ability to pay before even asking the price of admission would arrive in a limo.

  Would Graham be with him?

  She tried to ignore the tickle of anticipation in her stomach and hurried to grab a nearby communal wheelchair from the receptionist’s office. As she pushed it toward the door, she noticed the chauffeur unloading one from the car’s trunk. Naturally someone arriving in a limo would have his own. She smiled to herself and wheeled hers back.

  Adele went outdoors to greet them, something she tried to do for newcomers whenever possible. Waiting on the sidewalk, she wrapped her cardigan closely an
d crossed her arms against the cold. Graham stood beside the open back door, bent at the waist, holding his arm toward the interior. He wore sunglasses and, again, no coat over a sweater and cords.

  The man emerging from the back seat was familiar. He resembled all men over age 70 whose bodies had been ravaged by cancer and its treatments, men who spent their last days down the hall from her office. He was thin and he was bald, facts she knew despite the black winter dress coat and fur cap he wore.

  He stepped now unsteadily but on his own to the chair held by the chauffeur. Graham waited near enough to grasp an arm if needed but didn’t hover. His stance displayed a respect for what most men at that point desired: to remain unassisted for as long as possible.

  The driver relinquished the chair to Graham, who wheeled it around and pushed it toward the door Adele now opened. As they neared, the old man looked up at her, his eyeglasses a dark tint in the bright sunlight. He raised a hand and fumbled about his shoulder, as if searching for something. Graham reached out and clutched the pale, slender fingers, continuing to push and steer with one hand.

  “Hello!” She pulled the door open for them. “Welcome to Fox Meadow. Go right on inside.”

  Graham nodded grimly to her as he wheeled Mr. Jennings through the first set of doors.

  Adele stepped around them and pushed the large blue handicapped button that automatically opened the next set. Inside she led them off to the left where there was a grouping of vacant armchairs, and she sat down in one beside the wheelchair. Graham unbuttoned the elderly man’s coat and slipped it from his arms. He appeared shriveled beneath a white shirt and bright red cardigan.

  She touched the old man’s hand. “How do you do, Mr. Jennings.”

  He politely and slowly removed his hat. “You must be Adele!” His voice was low, raspy.

  Taken aback that he would know her name, she replied, “Why, yes, I am.”

  “Graham has told me so much about you.” Behind the thick bifocals now lightening a shade as they adjusted to the indoors, his eyes seemed to twinkle in the gaunt face.

  “He has?” Surprise raised her voice, and then she realized he must be teasing her. She had spent a mere 45 minutes with Graham Logan. But before she could recover, he went on.

  “He described you to a T and said you’re the incredibly beautiful, efficient director of this place. Sold him on the spot.”

  “Rand!” Graham’s voice jumped an octave.

  “Oh, call me Pops. I always wanted to be called Pops. Never too late to start, is it?”

  The man was a charmer. The nurses were going to enjoy him. “No, Mr. Jennings, it’s never too late to start anything.”

  “Until you’re dead and gone. Like I will be soon.” Matter of fact, with a hint of a chuckle and no self-pity. “Where’s my room?”

  “Let’s go right now.”

  She walked beside Graham, slowing her efficient walk to match the more sedate movement the wheelchair required. His sunglasses were atop his hair. That luscious pewterstreaked hair.

  “So, Graham,” she murmured, giving him a sly smile, “thanks for the compliment.”

  He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “You’re wel— The fact is, I didn’t exactly say—”

  She laughed. “I know you didn’t. He’s charming! Shall I warn the nurses?”

  Mr. Jennings turned his bald head slightly and glanced over his shoulder. “You’re talking about me behind my back. Literally behind my back.” His tone was amused.

  “We are!” Adele took a quick double step to the front of his chair. “But it’s all good stuff, Mr. Jennings. Here we go. Right in here.” She led the way into a single room. “You’ve got a nice southeast view. Snow-covered fields and sunshine most of the day. Oh, dear. The bed’s not ready. I’ll grab some linens and take care of that. I imagine you’re rather tired after your trip. ”

  “I could use a nap. You’d think the good Lord would take away the need for sleep at this stage of things. Kind of hate snoring away what little time I have left. Graham, park me by the window.”

  “There you go, Pops. I’ll get your things out of the car.” Without a backward glance, he strode from the room.

  “Mr. Jennings, I’ll get those linens and be right back.”

  “Don’t you pay someone else to do that?”

  “We’re short a couple of aides today. My job description doesn’t say I can’t do it! Sit tight.”

  He chuckled at that.

  Adele hurried out the door and jogged toward Graham. From the back, his height and breadth was almost intimidating. The top of his head appeared to nearly graze the low ceiling tiles. His shoulders occupied a lot of hall space.

  Why was it she kept noticing the man?

  “Graham.” She neared him.

  He stopped and turned, his furrowed brow questioning.

  She reached his side and touched his forearm. “It gets better. It does.”

  “Easy for you to say, Ms. Chandler.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Hurrying down the hallway, Graham tried to shut out the institutional gray-green walls, the faded black-and-white linoleum, the water stain on a corner ceiling tile. The totally overriding bleak, stark feel of the place. The vacant stares of wheelchair occupants as he passed them.

  The warmth of compassionate fingers touching his forearm.

  But of course he couldn’t.

  Because all of it revolved around Rand Jennings. And the man had always been an integral part of his life. There was no going backward. Adele Chandler, institutional green, the scent of waiting for death…all were permanent fixtures in his foreseeable future.

  Graham eyed Adele over the top of his reading glasses. She sat behind her desk, across from him, efficiently shuffling the myriad of papers he was signing.

  “Only one more.” Her voice was lilting, as if she were always on the verge of expressing something wildly joyful.

  “Ms. Chandler.”

  She didn’t correct him by reminding him of her first name. Perhaps she thought as he did, that it was best to keep the distance of formality between them. She met his gaze with a steady one of her own. Her eyes were large ovals that dominated her face. Not quite blue, not quite gray. Like a hazy summer sky. Warm and calm.

  “Yes, Dr. Logan?”

  He intended to ask another question about hospice, but her tone matched her eyes, and he knew formality was not in the woman’s character. Allowing him to vent his pain came with running the nursing home. She wouldn’t hold it against him. Still…confession was good for the soul.

  He removed his reading glasses. “I’m sorry for being short with you earlier.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have this annoying tendency to invade people’s private space. I think it’s because so many of the folks here continuously need it. I forget that healthy adults don’t go around hoping somebody, anybody, will offer comfort.” She gave him a half smile. “I should have read the signals.”

  “Signals?”

  Her eyelids fluttered downward as she straightened papers. “You know. Those manly signals of self-sufficiency.”

  “Oh, those. Evidently I wasn’t displaying them very well.”

  She looked back up as if to say something, gave her head a slight shake, and laughed. “Never mind. All right. We’re finished with the paperwork. Any questions?”

  He could think of only one. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  Eight

  Five minutes before Tanner’s scheduled arrival, Kate heard the doorbell buzz. Shrugging into her overcoat, she opened the front door. He stood there, bundled in a black jacket, his hair grazing the thick turtleneck rising above the leather, his breath turning into white puffs on the night air.

  “Hey, Sir Galahad.”

  The porch light shone on his puzzled face.

  “You could have just honked.” She shut the door behind her. “You know how I feel about Sir Galahad, right?”

  He followed her down the steps. “Let me guess
. Waste of energy?”

  “To the max.”

  “I was just being polite. Fighting noise pollution.”

  She laughed, hurrying through the cold night air around the big black hood of an SUV. “Man, was I ever wrong! I figured you drove a little red sports car.” She opened the passenger side door and climbed up onto the buttery soft leather seat as he entered from the driver’s side. “Isn’t that the thirtyyear-old bachelor’s usual mode of transportation?”

  “I totaled that when I was twenty-two.”

  “I see.” With exaggerated motions, she tugged the safety belt out as far as it would go and hooked it with a loud click. “Have your driving skills improved since that time?”

  “Well, my drinking skills have.”

  In the relaxed manner she had observed in her brothers, he handled the car as if it were a small toy, steering with one hand, elbow propped against the window. She waited, hoping he would elaborate on his cryptic comment.

  “I don’t anymore,” he said.

  “That’s great.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to deal with that issue?”

  “No. I can’t relate.”

  “Lucky you. Well!” He smiled, his tone flippant. “Enough about me!”

  “But I want to hear about your trip.”

  “Oh, all right. You’re such a snoop. But I guess that’s your job.”

  “Tell me who, what, where—”

  “There’s not that much to tell. Flew out, flew back. Some guy moved his friend here. He was a frail-looking older gentleman.”

  “In the dead of winter? Poor man, traveling here to the Arctic Circle. I bet it’s springtime in Baltimore already. You soaked up some sunshine, didn’t you? Your nose has a rosy tint to it.”

  “Observant little snoop.”

  “Hey, let’s not bring height into this. Observant snoop, okay, but I draw the line at the word ‘little.’”

  “Okay, okay.” He held up a hand in mock surrender. “Exactly how short are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  Like other times, they bantered easily. Teasing, laughing, freely sharing a wide range of thoughts. He never crossed the line into flirting, for which she was grateful. With her plain appearance and career-oriented outlook, she knew she was nothing like the type of woman he pursued. She would have doubted his sincerity if he had behaved that way toward her.