Desert Gift Read online

  She walked out to the front office of her small tour agency and watched through the large windows as Dustin drove off in her sunshine yellow van. The lime green lettering on its side caused the usual fluttery catch in her throat. Encircled with palm trees, sun rays, and foamy ocean waves, it read “Vivvie’s Tours ~ Adventures for the Young at Heart” along with the phone number, 1-800-VIVVIES.

  She had come a long way. She was married to a great guy and had her own small business. Not only was it a hoot, it had just paid for her very own minibus to be delivered next week. Life was good. What did it matter that her sister was married to the sweetest man on earth and had a loving son and owned a big house and had met Oprah and was becoming famous for speaking Christianese? What did it matter that Jill was two hours up the coast and had not called yet and probably would not find time to come by the office? None of that should matter.

  But it did. It always did.

  * * *

  Seated in his recliner, feet up, Marty shifted his gaze from the television to Viv, who stood beside it. He said, “Why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t.” She had just unloaded on her husband all the angst about her sister that had been building since early that morning.

  “Sounds like it matters.” His eyes strayed toward the screen again. The Lakers game had been muted for her whiny speech but Marty didn’t need audio to follow any athletic event. “Block it. Yes! What! What? Foul? Are you kidding me? Foul? Idiotic call, ref! Idiotic.” He turned to her. “Viv, you know Jill loves you. She’s just different.”

  “Then you’re fine with her and Jack staying here instead of a hotel?”

  “Sure.”

  “For four nights?”

  Marty’s double take made her smile.

  He said, “They never stay that long.”

  “No. But this trip is a huge deal for them. Besides the book tour, they’re celebrating the anniversary of when they met up in Hollywood twenty-five years ago.”

  “Who celebrates when they met?”

  “My sister. I think it’s partly an excuse to get Jack to join her. It’s been more than two years since we’ve seen him. And they haven’t vacationed since I don’t know when.”

  “Jack’s a good guy.” Marty tucked in his chin and grunted a short hm, his announcement that he’d reached a decision. “Sure, four nights is fine with me.”

  “You’re a peach.”

  His nod swung into a vehement shake at the television. “No way!” He turned the sound back on.

  Marty loved his sports almost as much as he loved his work. He built ships, big ones that the Navy bought. He was a welder—one of many, of course, but he spoke of it with such enthusiasm that she almost believed he was responsible for the entire enormous vessel. He looked capable of such a feat with his square frame that remained as rock solid as the day she first saw him.

  Like him, she adored her work. Somewhere in between their other passions she and Marty loved each other. It drove her sister crazy how they lived their marriage. Viv knew without reading Jill’s book that her and Marty’s relationship would not be touted as a model.

  “Oh, rats rats rats,” she muttered. Had theirs been used as an example of how not to do it? She really should read the thing before Jill showed up.

  “Vivian.” Marty muted the volume again. “Wanna go out for dinner?”

  She stared at him, wondering if she heard correctly.

  His face unreadable, he stared back at her. He didn’t have his nephew Dustin’s lashes but the chocolate color of his eyes was the same. It ran in the Kovich family. Marty’s were the darkest of everyone’s though, probably an 80 percent cacao shade. His hair, still military cut, matched.

  He said, “Not Mickey D’s. Maybe the Blue Crab down on the harbor.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Every once in a while, he surprised her like this. “You could wear that black dress.”

  She smiled. “We’ll have ourselves a schpate night.”

  “A what night?”

  Laughing, she turned on her heel. “Give me twenty minutes.”

  Chapter 10

  Los Angeles

  Jill lay on the lumpy hotel bed, curled into a ball, cell phone in hand. She’d spent the past hour in that position, hoping for Jack to call, dreading that he would, vowing not to call him first, and then calling him twice and leaving messages trying not to sound like a basket case and knowing she missed the mark by a long shot.

  She tried her sister’s number again.

  “Hey!” Viv greeted her. The sound of her familiar, strong alto instantly comforted Jill.

  “Hey, yourself. You answered.”

  “I saw your missed calls on my cell. Sorry, I was taking a phone break.”

  “When was the last time you did that?”

  “I have no idea. Marty and I went out. We had a schp—a dinner out. What’s wrong?”

  Jill moved the phone from her mouth and sighed. This was why she had delayed the call. Viv could read her like nobody’s business. With only ten months between them, they’d been like twins on some deep-down level, connecting almost eerily. At every other level they were night and day, black and white, fire and ice. Some of their teachers never caught on that they were sisters by birth.

  She put the phone back to her mouth. “I’m just tired. Gretchen has me going nonstop. We just got back to the hotel. Tomorrow we’ll—”

  “I’ve got your itinerary, Jill. Tell me, how did everything go? You sounded great on the radio.”

  “You listened to that?”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t miss my opinionated sis spouting off on L.A. drive time for the world. So how was this luncheon and that luncheon? the signings? and Hope on the Coast? Is that as wow of a place as they say?”

  And some people thought Jill was the only Wagner sister with magpie jaws. “It was.”

  “I bet everyone is getting a kick out of meeting you.”

  “Some of them seem to appreciate me.”

  “Oh, come on, Jill. You know women resonate with your stuff. Jack is probably strutting like a peacock.”

  “Yeah. Listen, I just wanted to touch base. I better get to sleep. We have an early—”

  “Back up. What’s wrong with Jack?”

  “Noth—” She shut her eyes. This was Viv, zeroing in on undertone and nuance. She could be like a terrier when Jill held back. She’d hang on and pull until something broke loose. “He didn’t come.”

  “He didn’t come? He didn’t come! Why not?”

  “He just didn’t want to. You know what a homebody he is.”

  “And overworked. I’m sorry, Jill. You were counting on vacation time with him. You must be in a major funk.”

  “I’m okay. These things happen. And Gretchen has me going—well, you know all that. I-I’m not sure if I’ll get down there to San Diego. I may head home earlier than planned.”

  “But you have umpteen things scheduled here. I’m even bringing some of my seniors to your signing up in Carmel Mountain. And I’ll have my bus by then. I want you to see my bus.”

  “I’ll call, okay? It depends on . . . on . . .” On how long she could compartmentalize Jack’s announcement? “On what Gretchen comes up with. I really miss Jack.”

  Jill promised to call again soon and made it through a quick good-bye, grateful that Viv had not yanked the rest of the story from her.

  She put her phone on the nightstand and turned out the light. The clock read 10:45 p.m. Numbers danced in her head. The day had begun at 6:45 a.m. at a prayer breakfast with a businesswomen’s group. Following that were a midmorning coffee chat, a luncheon, a book signing. The day ended with dinner with two other speakers, clients of Gretchen’s who, like the businesswomen, had their acts together.

  There had not been one whiff of gossip. She did all right sidestepping what felt like an albatross, The Guarantee. No one asked impossible-to-answer questions. Still she held her breath. For roughly sixteen hours she’d held her breath. It was a reco
rd.

  Numbers probably danced in Gretchen’s head too. She would be counting how many books had been sold, how many potential buyers might have had their interest piqued.

  Jill on the other hand counted how many people she had misled, beginning with her sister and going backward.

  Chapter 11

  “And last but not least, we come to Sizzlin’ Spinach.” From the dais, Jill looked out over the audience and paused for their reaction.

  Almost fifty women smiled at her and a wave of chuckles swept round the room. From the far back, Gretchen gave her a thumbs-up.

  Jill stretched her mouth into a smile, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it was beginning to feel. It had started out genuine but was fading fast. Danielle’s pep talk had lost its oomph.

  As had yesterday’s phone conversations. Her publisher and the radio station manager had both been hugely sympathetic. They said similar things. “Oh, Jill, I am so sorry. We will pray for you and Jack. No, don’t concern yourself just now about gossip. If and when it becomes necessary, we’ll help you put out a statement. Meanwhile, if you’re uncomfortable talking about some particular aspect of the book, don’t say it. For now, we’ll keep airing the recorded shows. It’s not like you claimed to have a perfect marriage.”

  Still, business was business. “Can you just hang on through Sunday? We’ll talk again.”

  Today was Wednesday. Gretchen had canceled two minor appearances earlier in the day and one for tomorrow. Jill had decided that she would buy a ticket for an early Monday morning flight home. Those things should have given her another dose of oomph. Recovery, though, was not happening. She felt emptied inside, as if she were in the process of uncleaving. The part of her that was one with Jack had shut down for want of oxygen.

  Lord, help me.

  With her last ounce of energy, she refocused on the women before her. The event was a tea, an elegant affair in Beverly Hills. Linen tablecloths and napkins, fresh flowers, bone china, sparkling crystal and silver, cucumber sandwiches, scones and jam, the whole whoop-de-do. It should have been fun.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the screen. Some saint at the control booth had kept her PowerPoint presentation on target for the past thirty minutes, never missing a beat. They’d gone through six recipes, literal and figurative. On the screen she shared Jack’s recipes, the ones he had created to go along with her chapter titles. She also shared highlights from the book on how to relate to a husband in every sort of situation.

  Like she and Jack had? She truly thought he had enjoyed their joint project. He loved to cook. He was always making up dishes. He seemed to like the challenge of throwing together a spinach concoction. He didn’t bat an eyelash when she explained the sizzle reference.

  She put the microphone back up to her chin. “God’s gift of intimacy reminds me of spinach.” She smiled. “It’s natural. It’s good for us. And sometimes, just as the flavor of spinach in this recipe is enhanced with garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, and a quick sauté—” she pointed over her shoulder—“we might want to enhance our times of intimacy. Music does wonders for romance, especially the classics. A little Vivaldi, Bach, whatever. Then there’s candlelight. The older I get, the more I adore candlelight. You know what I’m sayin’, right? In the shadows I’m still the twenty-one-year-old he married.”

  There was laughter, though some in the audience would doubtless be uncomfortable with her openness. Over the years her enthusiasm to be straightforward got her into trouble. She stepped on toes without meaning to and people let her know it. Terribly upset whenever that happened, she would hold herself together until she got to Jack. Then it was Niagara Falls. He’d listen with a knowing smile and suggest cutting back some on the zeal.

  It seemed a long time ago that Jack had taken such an interest in her work. Or in her.

  Suddenly Jill hit a wall and her jaws slowed. With an effort she wrapped up the talk before its technical end, no doubt confusing the saint at the controls but sending the message to Gretchen, who in turn nodded.

  There would be no question-and-answer session. As Gretchen put it, Jill’s ability to hold it together these days had a shelf life of about ninety minutes. Her internal clock ticked toward the time limit. She was about five minutes away from laying her head down on the nearest flat surface.

  A podium in front of fifty lovely women from Beverly Hills was probably not the ideal spot.

  * * *

  “It’s all my fault.” Jill looked at Gretchen’s profile as she maneuvered the car through freeway traffic. “It feels good to confess that out loud.”

  “That’s swell, sweetums, but it can’t all be your fault. It takes two to tango.”

  Jill ignored her comment. “Rule number one is to stay current. If I’d stayed current with Jack, he wouldn’t be in this emotional mess. The past six months I’ve been caught up in work like never before. You know how things were taking off. Seven new stations picked up the program. My interviewees were reading advance copies of the book and loving it. Poor Jack. I was the one who kept putting off Date Night. I was the one who didn’t make eye contact and listen to him. I was too busy talking about dates and eye contact and how to listen.”

  “Not to rain on your parade, but wanting a divorce does not happen because of a crazy-full six-month period.”

  “Where’s the umbrella? I am not letting your rain touch me.”

  “I just don’t want you to lose sight of who you are, Jillie. Remember when we first met at church? You were a newlywed and new to Chicago. I was single. I wanted to be your friend because your husband had this all-American smile. I put up with your enviable, whimsical cuteness so I could hang out with Jack in hopes his friends were clones. I got to play doting aunt with Connor. Then of course you became my best friend mostly because I wanted your faith to rub off on me.”

  Jill had heard the story more than once. It always ended with them being a dynamic duo, encouraging each other to get to where they were today. That was true. Gretchen had introduced her to radio people. Jill had introduced her to key people who helped her get her public relations agency off the ground.

  “You still are whimsical and cute and married to Jack Galloway, the kindest, most handsome doctor imaginable. Connor is still a doll and the two of us even have inside jokes. And you still have a deep, abiding, enviable faith. It’s really hard to like you some days.” She shrugged. “But I never would have wished this on you.”

  “There is a purpose to everything, and the sooner I get home, the sooner I can get a handle on it.”

  “Starting Monday. For a week.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They rode in silence, the unspoken disagreement hanging between them. Gretchen wanted her to return to the tour after a week back in Chicago. Jill, obsessive planner, refused to commit.

  Gretchen said, “We need prayer support. Are you ready to bring in the prayer chain?”

  “No.” Jill shuddered at the thought of her entire home church hearing about her and Jack’s situation via e-mail.

  “We can say it’s an unspoken request—”

  “No!”

  “Not even the private chain for our class?”

  “No.”

  “How about your dad?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Jill! Skip Wagner is the first guy we always call for prayer backup.”

  “No, Jack is.”

  “Yeah, well, Jack isn’t himself. The more I think about it, the more I think it was that car accident. He bumped his head. Something got knocked out of whack. You know, this whole thing could be the result of that accident. It shook him up more than he admitted or even knew. It’s coming out now in this strange behavior. So stop blaming yourself. It’s not all your fault.”

  Jill thought back to the previous Tuesday, the evening it happened. They’d both been running late, tying up loose ends so they could pack Wednesday evening and leave town early Thursday. A frozen pizza was in the oven when Jack phoned from the ER.

  H
e had said, “I’m fine,” and described sliding through an icy intersection, sideways into a parked car. The impact rammed his head against the edge of his window, which was partially open. It was open? On a cold, sleety winter’s night? He said he needed air and no, she needn’t come to the hospital. His car was not drivable, probably totaled. He’d hitch a ride with somebody, right after X-rays and a few sutures on the top of his head.

  She remembered seeing him come through the door at home. He tilted his head to reveal bloodied hair and an ugly raw spot on the part line. The hair had been shaved for the gash to be sewn. He’d gone straight to bed, complaining, not surprisingly, of a headache.

  Eating pizza by herself, she thanked God that Jack was all right. He’d broken his crown, but he was all right.

  She had hummed the “Jack and Jill” nursery rhyme, a ditty she’d always figured was a smile sent from God. After all, how many couples had their own personal rhyme that came with the happy connotations of childhood?

  Their real story came with happy connotations as well. They had made it up the hill and filled their pail. In October they would celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They could rest assured that so many years together proved they were at the top, that their buckets were full of everything they needed.

  Puh-lease. Was she naive or just plain stupid? Nursery rhymes were full of horror. Humpty Dumpty fell to his death. Georgie Porgie was a mess. Little Miss Muffet met a spider and was never heard from again. London Bridge—a huge, entire bridge—fell apart. And Old Mother Hubbard? All about heartbreaking tragedy.

  Jill turned now to Gretchen and quoted. “‘Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown.’ That’s where this ends. Mark my words, no matter what pushed him down the hill, I am not tumbling after. I will skip to the bottom and pick him up.”