Moonlight Road

  George laughed, drawing her attention to him. He leaned against the front of the vehicle, one leg crossed lazily in front of the other, arms crossed over his chest. He had the most engaging, lovely smile. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously; he had such pretty silver hair. A fine figure of a gentleman.

  “You should give me a kiss before the tour so I at least get the impression I’m as important as the coach,” he teased.

  “Of course,” she said, going to him. She put her hands on his cheeks, gave him a good enthusiastic peck and said, “Now can I see it inside? I’m dying to see it!”

  “I sent you plenty of pictures,” he said. “And I invited you to come up to Nevada to see it in person, but I remind you, you wanted me to make the decision on my own and you did approve the pictures.”

  It had seemed only fair. George was going to own it and she didn’t want him buying it for her. Nice of him to ask her opinion if she was to live in it for months, possibly years, but still…Of course, she’d offered to pay for half, but George was adamant—he’d be glad to put her name on the title, but he wouldn’t take her money. “Call me old-fashioned,” he had said, “but a man still likes to think he can take care of his woman.” In the end it was probably less complicated this way, since they’d both been married previously and had grown children.

  They had it all planned out—he bought the RV in his name from the proceeds of his house sale. They both put their furniture in separate storage facilities—just till they were absolutely sure they were together for the long haul. It was a struggle, but George finally agreed to take five hundred dollars a month in rent from her; her savings and eventually the money from her condo sale was to stay in her possession. If they married—or when, as George preferred to think of it—they would work out some sort of prenuptial thing so that George could leave his RV and savings to his stepgrandchildren and to Noah Kincaid and she could leave hers to her sons. For right now both had pensions that would allow them to pay for gas, insurance, incidentals, hookup space, food, et cetera.

  She stepped inside, up the steps. She ran a hand over the smooth white leather of the copilot’s seat—lush and rich. And then she stood looking into the interior. On either side were matching white leather couches and between them, what looked like dark, hardwood floors but was actually scuff-free laminate. Just beyond, a spacious kitchen on the left with all the necessary appliances and even an oak cupboard at a right angle to the kitchen that had decorative leaded glass on each side—the china cabinet. Opposite the kitchen, a dark marblish table stood with matching white leather sofa seats that could accommodate four for dinner. There were plenty of kitchen cabinets and storage above the sofas. Mounted above the driver’s seat, facing into the living room, was a fifty-eight-inch flat-screen TV.

  “My God,” she whispered. “It’s larger than my condo and more beautiful than any house I’ve ever lived in.”

  “You like it?” George asked from right behind her.

  “It’s amazing.” She turned around to face him. “Is it hard to drive?”

  “It’s easy. Those classes I took really paid off, even though I’d driven Noah’s RV in the past. I think you should take them, too. We’ll stop somewhere they have the classes and sign you up.”

  “Can we? That would be so much fun.”

  “You’d like that?”

  “Oh, I’d love that! But of course, it’s your—”

  He put a finger on her lips. “Let’s not do a lot of that, Maureen—all that yours-and-mine stuff. I understand we have an agreement, but we’re in this together.” He smiled. “And I love you.”

  She leaned toward him. “That’s so nice to hear, George.”

  “I suppose it is,” he said with a smile. “I imagine one of these days I might hear it, too.”

  She grinned at him. “I was saving it for a special moment—like when we drink champagne tonight at dinner in the RV, but—”

  “Perfect!” he said, interrupting her. “I’ll be ready!”

  “Can we sleep in it tonight?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see the rest of it first?”

  “I’d like to see it, but can we?”

  “Of course, if you feel like it.”

  “My house is upside down with boxes. I tore the sheets off the bed and washed them. I put them in the charity box since the bed in here is a king and I’ve only had a double all these years. I think we’d probably be more comfortable in here, actually.”

  “Then here’s what we do—load it up with the boxes for Virgin River and the household items you plan to add to our inventory. I made a reservation at a park so we can have a hookup. You’ll have to learn the difference quick—when we’re hooked up, the water, sewage and electricity belong to someone else and we don’t drain our supply or have the task of taking care of the lavatory. There will be times we dry-camp, when there’s no hookup, but when possible we’ll find a park with facilities. So—we have chores, don’t we?”

  “There isn’t that much. Tomorrow when the movers come to crate the furnishings for storage, we’ll finish and you can help me tidy up. I hired a cleaning service—the condo management will let them in once we’re on the road. I used packing boxes by the measurements you gave me for the storage under the coach—I hope the boxes fit.”

  “Very well organized,” he said. “I’m not surprised at all.” He touched her nose. “Did you tell them?”

  “More or less. I told Aiden on the phone while Luke was sitting across the room from him. That should catch them all up. I mean, I had told them I was thinking about it, but no one took me seriously.”

  “How’d Aiden take it?”

  “Very well, as a matter of fact. But then Aiden was the one to lecture me when he heard I’d brushed you off last fall. He said I shouldn’t assume my life couldn’t ever again include a man. In a romantic way.”

  “Ah,” George said, rolling his eyes skyward. “God bless him. I’ll leave him my entire fortune.”

  “There are five of them, George, and they’re as different from each other as day is from night. I know you’ve met them, but you haven’t spent any real time with them. There’s no way I can adequately prepare you.”

  “I understand completely. Let’s start carting boxes and pack up. The sooner we can get to that champagne dinner, the better I like it.”

  “I’d like to see the bedroom now,” she said. “Have you chosen your drawers and closet space? Your side of the bed?”

  “No, sweetheart. I’m waiting for you to decide.”

  She put her arms around his waist. “I’m so lucky to have found you.”

  Mel, local nurse-practitioner and midwife, had an appointment with a friend of hers she didn’t often see professionally. Darla Prentiss had been in the care of a fertility specialist in Santa Rosa for the past several years, so her women’s health needs were handled by him. But Phil Prentiss had called Mel and said that he was bringing his wife in because she complained of a cold and sore throat. “That’s not what it is, though,” Phil had said. “She waits for me to leave the house or fall asleep, then cries her heart out for hours. She needs someone to talk to. We just suffered our seventh miscarriage.”

  “Oh, good heavens, bring her. But wait—isn’t her doctor supporting you through this?”

  “Aw, he’s all about the big score,” Phil said. “He might have the best track record for getting people pregnant in three counties, but his bedside manner sucks. Darla’s crushed.”

  “Bring her to me,” Mel said. “But don’t lie to her—tell her you know she doesn’t have a cold. I’ll do what I can. Phil—I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “This one,” he said, “was eighteen weeks. We named him and buried him.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Mel’s heart was in tatters. Instead of seven miscarriages, this wonderful couple should have had seven children. Phil owned and operated the family farm, a vast acreage committed to dairy, pork and silage
. It was a wonderful, fun, healthy place and the Prentisses were a positive, beautiful, loving couple. They’d been married quite a while—ten or twelve years—trying most of that time to grow a family. It was so wrong, when the people who could do the best by children had such trouble getting them. It was a miracle the pain of their loss time after time hadn’t ripped their marriage apart, yet Phil and Darla were devoted to each other, as in love as the day they met.

  When Darla arrived with her husband, Mel just hugged her long and hard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “God, “I’m so sorry. You’ve been through so much.”

  That’s all it took for Darla to let the tears loose. Mel took her by the hand and they went into the office to talk for a while. Mel had told Darla a long time ago that in her first marriage, she and her husband had struggled with infertility issues, but for some unknown reason when she got together with Jack—instant pregnancy. Could be coincidence, could be some medical reason she didn’t quite understand.

  “I can’t do it anymore, Mel,” Darla said tearfully. “I’m sorry to be such a crybaby, but I think that last one did me in. A little boy…”

  “Seven miscarriages is too much for anyone, Darla. Remember when we talked about a surrogate? Someone with a sturdier, proven uterus?”

  “I know it’s a good option for people like me and Phil, since I have trouble conceiving and carrying. My younger sister, who’s a mother of three, even offered. But, Mel—oh, God, I know this makes me sound so shallow and self-absorbed—but I don’t think I can watch her carry our baby and stay out of her business. I’d be examining everything she puts in her mouth. I’d burn with jealousy that I couldn’t carry the baby and feel it move inside me. We talked about hiring a stranger. I know it works a lot, but I don’t think we can….”

  “Keep an open mind. It’s a good solution for couples who have everything they need but a womb,” Mel said.

  Darla was shaking her head. “There’s a message in here somewhere. I’m not sure what it is, but one thing I know for sure—I’m not meant to have a baby of my own. That was the first one we actually buried. Mel,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I really can’t do that again.”

  “I understand,” Mel said softly. “Tell me how I can help you now. Do you think a good antidepressant might help?”

  “With losing your child? No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to cry about it awhile, feel my husband’s arms around me and ask God what his plan is for me. It’s not like I’m the first woman who couldn’t have her own children. After all, how many women have as much as I have? The most handsome, wonderful, loving man in the world? Poor Phil, his heart must be breaking, too, and I’m only thinking of myself.”

  “Just reach out for him while he reaches out for you, sweetheart. Then call your doctor’s office and tell them you could probably use a little counseling to get you through this last miscarriage.”

  “But I don’t think I want to keep going with this…this crazy desperation to get pregnant and carry a child to term…”

  “That’s not the point,” Mel said, shaking her head. “Whether you keep trying or not, you need a little help getting through the loss. This was a big, hard one for you two. You’ve paid that doctor tens of thousands of dollars not covered by insurance—he must have counseling staff or at least people he can recommend. You don’t have to promise to risk more heartache to get yourself a good counselor. Get some help.”

  “Maybe we’ll see our pastor…”

  “See someone, Darla. Please? I just don’t want you to hurt. I never had a miscarriage—but I failed to get pregnant every time and I remember the pain and disappointment of that alone. I just can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

  Darla was quiet a moment. Then she wiped off her cheeks and said, “I think seven is enough.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Mel said.

  Every couple of weeks Luke had to drive over to Eureka to shop at the Costco warehouse for stock for his house and cabins. He bought large amounts of toilet paper, bar soap, paper towels, cleaning supplies and sometimes had to replace things like bath towels, washcloths, bath mats, and so on. While he was there, he shopped for some groceries for his own home; there was plenty of frozen fish in the freezer out in the shed next to the house, but they could always use chicken and red meat. Shelby kept a running list of items she was willing to keep in bulk, from ketchup to canned tuna. Now that her nursing-school program was on hiatus for the summer and she was hugely pregnant, her stop-offs at the grocery store on the way home were few. That made Luke’s trips to town more frequent.

  He didn’t have to tell Art when they were going. Art started asking at least a couple days ahead of time. “We going to Costco yet, Luke?”

  “Two days,” Luke would answer. Art, an adult with Down syndrome, whom Luke had taken on as a helper around the cabins, was Luke’s fairly constant shadow and had his own little cabin next to Luke and Shelby’s house.

  “What time, Luke?” he asked.

  “Let’s say two o’clock.”

  Then: “Tomorrow we’re going to Costco, Luke.” And then: “Today we’re going to Costco, Luke.” And then: “Is it time to go to Costco, Luke?”

  Going to Costco was Art’s absolute favorite chore in the entire world. He didn’t mind the hardware store but he loved Costco. Luke never made him stick close or help with the shopping and he took his sweet old time because Art wanted to look at everything, especially things he would never buy. Art loved the jewelry counter, and he was fascinated by the computers. When Luke had the satellite dish installed, he bought Art an inexpensive laptop and a couple of learning programs to help Art with his spelling and addition and subtraction. Once Art learned something, he was very capable, though it didn’t seem he was getting better at spelling or math. It was as though he’d reached his limit—but he loved the computer. Art was also extremely literal, not creative. Art did not think outside the box. If you said, “Take out the trash,” he might ask, “Out where?” Instead, you said, “Collect the trash in this bag and then tie the bag closed and put it in the Dumpster.”

  It took Luke about fifteen minutes to gather up his paper products and cleaning supplies. Then he dawdled around the meat, cheese and vegetables, mentally choosing what perishables he’d select after Art had had plenty of time to enjoy his shopping trip. He bought a few more nonperishables on Shelby’s list—olive oil, crackers, rice, pasta, cereal. He grabbed some beer and whiskey. He looked through books, DVDs and music—grabbed a couple of each. Then he went looking for Art.

  When he didn’t find Art by the jewelry, computer games or computers, he widened his search. He looked in the tools, cosmetics, frozen foods. It baffled him that Art wasn’t in any of his usual haunts.

  Finally, he found him in a far corner of the store by the dog food, standing very close to and towering above a short, round woman with curly brown hair. They were holding hands and gazing at each other intently. What an odd-looking pair, Luke found himself thinking with a smile. Yet how strangely perfect—great big lumbering Art and this little, chunky woman. “Art?” he asked.

  Art turned sharply as if startled. He was smiling and his small eyes were so large it made Luke chuckle. He’d never seen a smile that big on Art. “Luke! It’s Netta! From my group home! She was my girlfriend.”

  “No kidding?” Luke put out a hand. “How do you do, Netta. Hey,” he said. “I think I met you once before. Did you work at that grocery store with Art?”

  “They took her out of that store, Luke!” Art said excitedly. “They took everybody out of that store! Stan who owns the store? He got a big punishment for doing things wrong! Netta said he had to pay money and he was mad!”

  “Very…mmm…mad,” Netta said quietly.

  “How sad for old Stan,” Luke said with a wide smile. “I wish I could feel sorry for him. So, Netta, where are you living now?”

  “In a…mmm…house,” she said. “With Ellen and Bo. In Fortuna. I help in the bakery.”

>   “And why are you at Costco today?” Luke asked.

  “We get our…mmm…stuff at Costco. And Ellen lets me…mmm…shop.”

  “Art,” Luke said, “why don’t you buy Netta a hot dog or pizza slice and a cola or something. Sit down. Catch up on the news. I’ll get the rest of my stuff very slowly. Take your time.”

  Art just stared at him.

  Netta took his hand. “Let’s get…mmm…hot dog, Art.”

  “Go on, Art. Get a hot dog. Talk with Netta awhile.”

  Art seemed a little frozen, so Luke turned his laden cart away and walked off quickly, getting out of his space.

  Of course, Art had money, and he managed it very well. Luke would never reach into his pocket and give the man money, especially in front of a woman. Art got a disability check from Social Security, some state aid, and Luke paid him for his work. Art paid Luke a bit for the cabin he used as his home, but no money ever changed hands for things like groceries. Sometimes when Art had a little money left over, he wanted to buy something for Luke or Shelby, and that was all right, but Luke kept it within limits. Art was building a savings account, and when he showed Luke the growing balance, he beamed with pride.

  Luke wasn’t sure about what Netta’s issues were. She didn’t have Down’s; she had a slight hesitation in her speech, not quite a stutter but more an “mmm” while looking for the right word. He thought maybe she was a little slow, but wasn’t entirely sure about how disabled. Yet she must have some disability if she’d been in a group home with Art.

  But how unexpected—Art had had a girlfriend. Luke thought he might’ve mentioned someone named Netta, but surely no more than once. He hadn’t been pining or anything.

  There was a fast-food area in the front of the store, on the other side of the checkout lanes, so Luke steered clear of it. He wasted a good half hour looking at cameras. What the hell—the baby was coming soon and he needed a better camera. By the time he was done, he had a video camera, a digital still camera, a large-screen laptop and a color printer to go with it. He probably should have talked to Shelby about that first, but he was still being trained as a husband. Fortunately, Shelby was very patient with him.