Mrs. Miracle

  His heart returned to his throat at the awkward way in which he’d asked her to dinner. He was certain she hadn’t understood a word he’d said until she’d laughed and nodded. They’d set a time to meet and he’d hurried back to his car, his heart jumping rope inside his chest.

  He had a date, his first in longer than he could remember. All he had to do now was behave like a human instead of an alien from outer space. Excitement swelled like a water-soaked sponge inside him.

  Seth started for his study with a fresh cup of coffee, then hesitated. He needed to ask Mrs. Merkle if she would be available to baby-sit the twins Friday evening. There weren’t provisions in her contract for weekend baby-sitting. Naturally he’d pay her overtime, whatever she wanted. The woman was worth ten Mrs. Hampstons.

  With his coffee in his hand he walked into the living room, to find the children snuggled one on each side of the housekeeper. Her reading glasses were balanced halfway down her nose, a book open. The children were enraptured. The only time Seth had ever seen them this still was when they were sound asleep.

  Jason braced his head against the housekeeper’s pudgy arm. Judd’s arms were tucked about his bent knees, and his chin rested there.

  It took Seth a couple of moments to recognize the story: it was C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Pamela’s favorite childhood story. The one she’d longed to read to her children one day, only to be cheated out of the long awaited joy.

  Mrs. Merkle glanced up and smiled.

  “Hi, Daddy.” Jason covered his mouth and yawned loudly. “Mrs. Miracle is reading us a new story.”

  “So I see.” Some of his tension leaked into his voice. Of all the books in the world, he wondered how it was that she’d chosen that particular one.

  “It’s good, too,” Judd added. “None of that mushy girl stuff.”

  Seth’s gaze fell to the book itself. Moments earlier his heart had raced with thoughts of Reba and the impromptu dinner date he’d arranged. Now it skidded to a sudden, grinding halt. His chest tightened painfully.

  “Where’d you get that book?” he demanded, not bothering to disguise his distress.

  “The book.” Mrs. Merkle closed the volume and stared at the front cover. “It’s mine. I brought it with me.”

  “It’s Pamela’s,” he countered sharply. The woman had been in his den and had searched through his desk drawers. He didn’t care how good a cook she was, he wouldn’t have her sneaking around in his office.

  “Mr. Webster, let me assure you—”

  “I’ll prove it,” he said, his voice rough with shock and anger. Without another word he marched back into his office and sat down at the desk he’d recently vacated. The children raced into the room after him, and Mrs. Merkle followed, looking flustered and red in the face.

  “I put it here myself just recently,” he said, jerking open the bottom drawer. He’d held that very book in his hands. Seen for himself how the corners had frayed and worn down so that the filler showed through, just the way the one she had did. The gold lettering had faded on the title, the same as with the book Mrs. Merkle held.

  “See,” he said, leveling his gaze toward the drawer.

  The book was there. Seth’s mouth dropped, and he glanced up at the housekeeper, dumbfounded. Slowly, almost as if he were afraid Pam’s volume would vanish if he touched it, he lifted it from its resting place.

  His round, shock-filled eyes returned to Mrs. Merkle.

  “Did she take Mommy’s book?” Judd asked.

  Seth shook his head. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” he said, nearly choking on the words. Not because he wasn’t sorry, for he was. But he’d been so sure. Not only had the woman chosen to read the one book his wife had loved, but she’d read from a copy that was identical to Pam’s in every way.

  How was that possible? Had he walked into an episode of The Twilight Zone? If he looked at himself in the mirror, would he see Rod Serling’s reflection? Seth was almost afraid to find out.

  “Come on, you two,” Mrs. Merkle said, ushering the kids back into the room. “Let’s find out what happens to the children next.”

  “They shouldn’t go in the wardrobe, should they?” Judd asked.

  “That, my fine young man, is a matter of opinion.” His housekeeper looked over her shoulder at Seth. “Everyone needs to take a risk now and again, don’t you agree, Mr. Webster?”

  * * *

  Red Sauce

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  2 cloves crushed garlic

  1 onion, chopped

  1 28-ounce can ready crushed tomatoes

  1 28-ounce can of tomato puree

  1 can tomato paste, plus 1 can water

  2 teaspoons basil

  2 teaspoons oregano

  2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese

  Simmer all ingredients together for 1 ½ hours. Add meatballs.

  Italian Meatballs

  1 pound lean ground beef

  ½ pound Italian sausage

  ½ cup fresh parsley, chopped

  2/3 cup Italian-flavored bread crumbs

  2 eggs

  1 or 2 cloves fresh garlic

  A little milk to moisten mixture

  Mix all ingredients well, roll into golf-size balls, and add to simmering spaghetti sauce. Cook 10 to 15 minutes on low heat.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  A closed mouth gathers no foot.

  —Mrs. Miracle

  Sharon Palmer quietly put dinner on the table. Her husband sat reading the newspaper in front of the television, doing his best to ignore her. She knew what he was up to. He’d barely said a civil word to her all week, but then she hadn’t behaved any better.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she told him without enthusiasm, sitting down at the round oak table in the alcove off the kitchen. She didn’t wait for Jerry to join her before unfolding and placing the napkin on her lap.

  Leaving the television on, Jerry claimed his seat at the table and kept his eyes on the screen. For years it had been customary to turn the set off completely. Dinnertime was sacred, a time set aside to share the happenings of their day. No longer. Her husband didn’t so much as look at the meal she’d spent the better part of the afternoon preparing. His gaze left the sportscaster only long enough to reach for the serving spoon.

  Not until he’d finished heaping his plate did he bother to ask, “What is it?” A frown dominated his still-handsome face.

  “A casserole,” Sharon assured him, not meeting his eyes.

  “What’s in it?” he demanded.

  Jerry had never been a picky eater.

  “Eggplant.”

  His gaze hardened. “You know I don’t like eggplant.”

  “It’s cleverly disguised with cheese. Taste it. Who knows, you might surprise yourself.” The recipe came from Maggie, her best friend, who was an excellent cook.

  “I don’t like eggplant,” he insisted.

  “And I do. Why is it if you don’t like something, I can never have it myself? Eggplant happens to be my favorite vegetable.”

  “Then order it in a restaurant, don’t serve it to me.”

  “If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.”

  Jerry slammed his fork against the table. “Fine, I won’t.” The chair nearly toppled as he shoved himself away from the table. He stalked across the kitchen to the refrigerator, took out a loaf of bread, and promptly made himself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Sharon figured she was supposed to feel sorry for him, but she didn’t.

  Instead she poured herself a small glass of red wine and turned on the radio so that the classical music played softly in the background. Jerry did his best to counteract the soothing music by slamming around the room. Sharon ignored him the same way he’d been ignoring her all week.

  Finally Jerry took his seat again and wolfed down his sandwich like a man eating his last meal.

  The eggplant Parmesan was heavenly. She hadn’t made the dish in years and wondered now why she
’d deprived herself of her favorite dish. Jerry didn’t appreciate her sacrifice. She wasn’t fond of salmon but served it at least once a month because it was her husband’s favorite. It was time he learned to give as well as take in this partnership. He expected her to pander to his every whim. Well, those days were over. Jerry had retired, but she hadn’t been given any such reprieve. She still washed, cleaned, and cooked while he played golf with his cronies. If she showed any signs of doing something for herself, her husband invariably disapproved. The eggplant dinner was a good example. Visiting Seth and the children was another.

  When he finished his sandwich Jerry sat for a moment and stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why does something have to be wrong?” she asked. She took pride in pretending nothing was amiss.

  “You haven’t been yourself lately. You don’t seem to have as much energy. You hardly laugh, and frankly you’ve gotten to be something of a drag. If you’re sick, see a doctor, but do something.”

  “In other words you’re suggesting I snap out of it?” Her husband had never been known for his sensitivity.

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. You’re the one with the problem.”

  “Me?” She noticed the way he assumed the “problem” lay entirely with her.

  “You sleep in every morning.”

  “We’re retired, remember?”

  “And when you do come to bed, you toss and turn half the night.”

  “I’ve been having a bit of a problem sleeping, is all. The doctor said this sometimes happens as people age.”

  “You’re only sixty-two.”

  How kind of him to remind her of her age.

  “You’re only as old as you feel.”

  At the moment, Sharon felt a hundred and ten. “I called the travel agent this afternoon,” she announced, falling into the familiar habit of changing subjects rather than dealing with the unpleasantness between them.

  The change in Jerry was immediate. His face muscles relaxed and softened, as if the words had pleased him. “You called about the cruise. I knew you’d eventually have a change of heart.” He leaned forward and affectionately brushed his mouth against her cheek, then reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. “Burgundy and peanut butter don’t necessarily go together, but this is reason to celebrate.” He clinked his glass against hers and raised it to his lips.

  Sharon lowered her gaze, feeling guilty when she had no reason to. He’d find out sooner or later that her call had had nothing to do with the cruise, which had been put on hold. To mislead him would be cruel, but she couldn’t see any reason they couldn’t compromise.

  “It wasn’t about the cruise,” she admitted with a certain reluctance.

  The light in her husband’s eyes dimmed. “It wasn’t?”

  Sharon nervously dabbed the napkin at the corner of her mouth. “I…I booked a flight to Seattle to spend Christmas with Seth and the twins. There were only a few seats left on the flight, so I booked one for you, too. I thought—”

  “You did what?” Jerry bolted upright like a jack-in-the-box escaping his confines. His face reddened and his jaw tightened with indignation and outrage. “I told you before that I didn’t want you disrupting the twins their first Christmas with their father.”

  “Clay and Neal aren’t going to be home, and—”

  “What’s wrong with spending the holiday here, just the two of us? It used to be you enjoyed my company.”

  “So we can spend the holidays fighting?” she asked, slapping her napkin down against the table. She’d lost her appetite.

  Jerry folded his arms in a defensive gesture and glared at her, challenging her to deny his role as head of the family. “You’re not going.”

  For nearly forty years she’d lived with his dictatorial ways, put up with his arbitrary decisions, swallowed her pride; but she would do so no longer. “I’ve already bought our tickets.”

  “Then you’ll return them,” he said, leaving no room for argument.

  “Feel free to return your ticket if that’s what you wish, but I’m spending Christmas with my grandchildren. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about this, Jerry. I miss the twins and they miss me.”

  “You’re damn right I’m taking back that ticket.”

  Sharon recognized that tone of voice only too well. She hadn’t lived with Jerry all these years not to know when his mind was made up. Nothing she said or did beyond this point would do one whit of good.

  “We’ll miss you,” she said quietly. It would be the first Christmas she’d spent apart from her husband since they’d met in college. Her heart ached knowing they’d be apart because that was the way he wanted it.

  “You’ll miss me,” he repeated, sounding more than a little stunned. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “Do you want me to add anything more?” She wasn’t being flippant, only inquisitive.

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he moved back to his recliner and pointed the remote control at the TV, turning up the volume until it was so loud she couldn’t think without the grating sound of the newscast echoing in her ear. She turned off the classical music, saddened that her marriage had dissolved to this childish display of temper on both their parts.

  Jerry didn’t speak to her while she cleared the table and washed the dishes herself. Applying lotion to her hands, she joined him in front of the television to watch their favorite game show, Jeopardy. It used to be that they’d call out the answers and keep a friendly score between them. Jerry didn’t seem to want to continue the tradition that night, so she reached for her knitting.

  He left her soon after final jeopardy and disappeared inside the garage, where he was tinkering with some project. The moment he was gone the tension evaporated as if someone had sucked it away with a powerful vacuum. Left in its wake was a fragile contentment as Sharon worked the worsted yarn, weaving together a sweater.

  Her fingers worked the metal needles. They made soft clashing sounds as they clanked against each other. The tentative contentment began to fade as the regrets took turns lining up in her mind. She didn’t like what was happening between her and her husband but felt powerless to stop it. Jerry was harsh, unreasonable, and dictatorial. She wasn’t willing to let him control her life any longer. She’d made her stand, defied him, but she experienced no sense of exhilaration, no rush of triumph. Her heart felt heavy and burdened with sadness. The dull ache reminded her of those first months following Pamela’s funeral.

  In many ways she was dealing with another death, only this time it was the death of her marriage.

  Jerry finished in the garage and without a word headed toward their bedroom. He showered and reappeared in his robe and slippers. Sharon concentrated on the television screen as if the murder mystery movie of the week were tossing out fat-free recipes. He walked over to his chair and reached for the novel he’d recently been reading, then headed back to the bedroom. He didn’t tell her he was going to bed or wish her good night. She didn’t say anything to him, either.

  By the time the movie was over and she’d watched the eleven o’clock news and listened for the weather forecast, Jerry was sound asleep. He lay on his back, sprawled with his arms outstretched.

  Irritated that he’d taken more than his share of the bed, Sharon frowned and jerked her pajamas out of the top dresser drawer. If he was so keen to spend the holidays alone, then maybe she should let him sleep by himself and see how he liked that as well.

  With a sense of purpose she moved into the guest bedroom. This would show him how miserable he’d be without her and without family during the holidays. He’d soon learn that she was her own woman, with her own mind and her own will. She didn’t need someone to stand guard over her twenty-four hours a day. She was intelligent and articulate. It was time Jerry appreciated her.

  Those were all the things she said to herself as she readied for bed. The things she repeated as she tossed and turned until all hours of the night. The room was dark
and cold, the bed uncomfortable. Pride was what kept her there. Pride and pure stubbornness. She wanted Jerry to wake and find her gone and worry, just a little, when he realized she hadn’t been to bed. She wanted him to regret the way he’d treated her.

  If he did, he didn’t show it. When she wandered into the kitchen early the next morning, her husband was dressed and ready for a golf match with his friends. The coffee was brewed and he was humming softly to himself. Apparently he’d slept better than he had in months, as well he should since he’d taken his half of the bed out of the middle.

  “Mornin’,” he greeted her, sounding as bright and chipper as she could remember.

  Sharon reached for a mug. “Mornin’.”

  “Did you sleep well?” her husband asked, leaning against the counter. He wore his favorite golf sweater, the one she’d knitted for him several years back. His lucky one. The very sweater he’d been wearing when he scored his hole in one.

  “Like a log,” she answered, stretching the truth. No need for Jerry to know how restless the night had been, how she’d yearned for morning, waited to hear him stir before venturing into the kitchen herself.

  “Me too.” He smiled as if auditioning for a toothpaste advertisement.

  She sipped her coffee and stared at him over the edge of the cup.

  He stared back, his gaze unwavering. “With all the trouble you’ve been having sleeping lately, maybe you’d rest more comfortably in the guest bedroom.”

  This wasn’t what Sharon expected. He was supposed to have missed her. Supposed to have awakened and felt lost and lonely without her beside him. There’d been a time when neither one of them slept well when the other was away. It had happened so rarely that they’d talked about it for days afterward, cuddled each other each night, grateful for the warm feel of one another.

  “Are you suggesting,” she said, not allowing the hurt to show, “that you want me to move into the guest bedroom?”

  The question appeared to take Jerry by surprise. He froze and then quietly set aside his mug. “You said yourself you slept better without me.”