Page 4

When the widow opened the door, and her little bird’s eyes peered through the bright-red leaves of the flowers, he found himself grinning like a ten-year-old.

“It’s about time,” she said as she let him in. “Wipe your feet.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jason scrubbed his boots against the rough mat before he set down the poinsettia on her kitchen table.

No more than five feet tall, the widow stood with her hands on her hips.

She was bent a bit with age and her face was a melody of lines and wrinkles.

The bib apron she wore was covered with flour.

Jason smelled cookies in the oven and heard the majestic sound of classical music from the living-room speakers. The widow nodded at the flowers.

“You always went for the big statement.” When she turned to look him up and down, Jason found himself automatically standing tall. “Put on a few pounds I see, but more wouldn’t hurt. Come, give me a kiss.”

He bent to peck her cheek dutifully, then found himself gathering her close. She felt frail; he hadn’t realized it by looking at her, but she still smelled of all the good things he remembered—soap and powder and warm sugar.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he murmured as he straightened up.

“I knew you were here.” She turned to fuss at the oven because her eyes had filled. “I knew before the ink dried where you signed the registration at the inn. Sit down and take off your coat. I have to get these cookies out.”

He sat quietly while she worked and absorbed the feeling of home. It was here he’d always been able to come as a child and feel safe. While he watched, she began to heat chocolate in a dented little pan on the stove.

“How long you staying?”

“I don’t know. I’m supposed to be in Hong Kong in a couple of weeks.”

“Hong Kong.” The widow pursed her lips as she arranged cookies on a plate. “You’ve been to all your places, Jason. Were they as exciting as you thought?”

“Some were.” He stretched out his legs. He’d forgotten what it was to relax, body, soul and mind. “Some weren’t.”

“Now you’ve come home.” She walked over to put the cookies on the table. “Why?”

He could be evasive with anyone else. He could even lie to himself. But with her there could only be the truth. “Faith.”

“It always was.” Back at the stove, she stirred the chocolate. He’d been a troubled boy, now he was a troubled man. “You heard she married Tom.”

And with her, he didn’t have to hide the bitterness.

“Six months after I left I called. I’d landed a job with Today’s News.

They were sending me to a hole in the wall in Chicago, but it was something.

I called Faith, but I got her mother. She was very kind, even sympathetic when she told me that Faith was married, had been married for three months and was going to have a baby.

I hung up, I got drunk. In the morning I went to Chicago.

” He plucked a cookie from the plate and shrugged. “Life goes on, right?”

“It does, whether it tows us along with it or rolls right over us. And now that you know she’s divorced?”

“We promised each other something. She married someone else.”

She made a sound like steam escaping from a kettle. “You’re a man now from the looks of you, not a bullheaded boy. Faith Kirkpatrick—”

“Faith Monroe,” he reminded her.

“All right then.” Patiently, she poured heated chocolate into mugs.

After she set them on the table, she seated herself with a quiet wheeze.

“Faith is a strong, beautiful woman inside and out. She’s raising that little girl all alone and doing a good job of it.

She’s started a business and she’s making it work.

Alone. I know something about being alone. ”

“If she’d waited—”

“Well, she didn’t. Whatever thoughts I have about her reasons I’m keeping to myself.”

“Why did she divorce Tom?”

The old woman sat back, resting her elbows on the worn arms of her chair. “He left her and the baby when Clara was six months old.”

His fingers tightened around the handle of the mug. “What do you mean, he left her?”

“You should know the meaning. You did so yourself.” She picked up her chocolate and held it in both hands. “I mean he packed his bags and left. She had the house—and the bills. He cleaned out the bank account and headed west.”

“But he has a daughter.”

“He hasn’t laid eyes on the girl since she was in diapers. Faith pulled herself out. She had the child to think of after all if not herself. Her parents stood behind her. They’re good people. She took a loan and started the doll business. We’re proud to have her here.”

He stared out the window to where the boughs of an old sycamore spread, dripping with snow and ice. “So I left, she married Tom, then he left. Seems Faith has a habit of picking the wrong men.”

“Think so?”

He’d forgotten how dry her voice could be and nearly smiled. “Clara looks like Faith.”

“Hmm. She favors her mother.” The widow smiled into her mug. “I’ve always been able to see her father in her. Your chocolate’s getting cold, Jason.”

Absently, he sipped. With the taste came floods of memories. “I hadn’t expected to feel at home here again. It’s funny. I don’t think I felt at home when I lived here, but now…”

“You haven’t been by your old place yet?”

“No.”

“There’s a nice couple in there now. They put a porch on the back.”

It meant nothing to him. “It was never home.” He set the chocolate down and took her hand. “This was. I never knew any mother but you.”

Her hand, thin, dry as paper, gripped his. “Your father was a hard man, harder maybe because he lost your mother so young.”

“I only felt relief when he died. I can’t even be sorry for it. Maybe that’s why I left when I did. With him gone, the house gone, it seemed the time was right.”

“Maybe it was, for you. Maybe the time’s right to come back again. You weren’t a good boy, Jason. But you weren’t so bad either. Give yourself some of that time you were always so desperate to beat ten years ago.”

“And Faith?”

She sat back again. “As I recall, you never did much courting. Seems to me the girl chased after you with her eyes wide open. A man who’s been all the places you been oughta know how to court a woman. Probably picked up some of those fancy languages.”

He picked up a cookie and bit into it. “A phrase or two.”

“Never knew a woman who wouldn’t flutter a bit with some fancy language.”

Leaning over he kissed both her hands. “I missed you.”

“I knew you’d come back. At my age, you know how to wait. Go find your girl.”

“I think I might.” Rising, he slipped into his coat. “I’ll come back and visit again.”

“See that you do.” She waited until he opened the door. “Jason—button your coat.” She didn’t pull out her handkerchief until she heard the door close behind him.