Not Just For Christmas. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d appreciated each day a little more, treasured each moment with her children while they were young. Before she could account for all the years that had passed, it was 1960, and Vaughn was in high school.
Jerry was especially proud of Vaughn’s athletic talent. He, too, had been a sports star in his youth. Vaughn had played team sports throughout his four years in high school, and they’d never missed a game. One or the other, and often both of them, were at his games, even if it meant closing the pharmacy, although they didn’t do that often. They always sat in the same section of the stands so Vaughn would know where to find them. When his team came onto the field, it wasn’t unusual for him to turn toward the bleachers and survey the crowd until he located his parents. Then he’d smile and briefly raise one hand.
Without even trying, Hassie could hear the crowds and recall the cheerleaders’ triumphant leaps, while the school band played in the background.
Watching Vaughn play ball had been hard on Hassie’s nerves. Twice that she could remember, her son had been injured. Both times Jerry had to stop her from running onto the field. She stood with the other concerned parents, her hands over her mouth, as the coaches assessed his injuries. On both occasions Vaughn had walked off the playing field unaided, but it’d been pride that had carried him. The first time his arm had been broken, and the second, his nose.
His high-school years had been wonderful. The girls always had eyes for Vaughn. Not only was he a star athlete and academically accomplished, he was tall and good-looking. The phone nearly rang off the hook during his junior and senior years. There’d never been anyone special, though, until he met Barbara Lowell in college. She’d been his first love and his last.
Hassie recalled how handsome he’d looked in his brand-new suit for the junior-senior prom, although he’d been uncomfortable in the starched white dress shirt. The photo from the dance revealed how ill at ease he’d been. His expression, Jerry had said, was that of someone who expected to be hit by a water balloon.
Hassie had suggested he ask Theresa Burkhart to the biggest dance of the year. He’d done so, but he’d never asked her out for a second date. When Hassie asked him why, Vaughn shrugged and had nothing more to say. Every afternoon for a week after the prom, Theresa had stopped at the soda fountain, obviuosly hoping to run into Vaughn. Each afternoon she left, looking disappointed.
Packing Vaughn’s suitcase the day before he went off to the University of Michigan was another fond memory. She’d lovingly placed his new clothes in the suitcase that would accompany him on this first trip away from home. Although saddened by his departure, she took comfort in knowing he’d only be gone for a few years. This wasn’t a new experience, since Valerie had left four years earlier and was attending Oregon State. She was working part-time and seemed in no particular hurry to finish her education. Jerry and Hassie had been reassured by Vaughn’s promise to return as a pharmacist himself. He shared their commitment to community and their belief in tradition.
Soon the kitchen table was littered with his letters home. The letter in which he first mentioned meeting Barbara had brought back memories of Hassie’s own—like meeting Jerry at college just before the war. The day that letter arrived, she’d sat at the kitchen table with her husband and they’d held hands and reminisced about the early days of their own romance.
Then the unthinkable happened. News of a war in a country she’d barely heard of escalated daily. The papers, television and radio were filled with reports, despite President Johnson’s promises to limit the United States’ involvement. Then the day came when Vaughn phoned home and announced, like so many young men his age, that he’d been drafted. A numbness had spread from Hassie’s hand and traveled up her arm. It didn’t stop until it had reached her heart. Vaughn was going to war. Like his father before him, he would carry a rifle and see death.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. For a while, men in college were exempt, but with the war’s escalation, they were now included. Vaughn took the news well, but not Hassie. He had to do his part, he told her. It was too easy to pass the burden onto someone else. Citizenship came with a price tag.
Suddenly bombs were exploding all around her. Terrified, Hassie hid her head in her hands, certain she was about to die. Bullets whizzed past her and she gasped, her heart cramping with a terrible fear. All at once she was cold, colder than she could ever remember being, and then she was flat on her back with the sure knowledge that she’d been hit. The sky was an intense shade of blue, and she was simultaneously lying there and hovering far above. But when she looked down, it wasn’t her face she saw. It was the face of her dying son. His blood drained out of him with unstoppable speed as the frantic medic worked over him.
Her son, the child of her heart, was dying. He saw her and tried to smile, to tell her it was all right, but his eyes closed and he was gone. Her baby was forever gone.
A crushing load of grief weighed on Hassie’s heart. She cried out and, groaning, sat upright.
It was then she realized she’d fallen asleep. This had all been a dream. Awash with memories, she’d drifted into a dream so real she could hear the fading echoes of exploding ammunition as she dragged herself out of a past world and back to reality.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, her gaze darted from one familiar object to another. From the bedroom door where her housecoat hung on a hook to the dresser top with the silver mirror and brush set Jerry had given her on their tenth anniversary.
“Vaughn.” His name was a broken whisper, and she realized that she couldn’t remember what he looked like. His face, so well loved, refused to come. Strain as she might, she couldn’t see him. Panic descended, and she tossed aside the blankets and slid out of bed. It wasn’t her son’s image that filled her mind, but the face of another young man. Another Vaughn.
Vaughn Kyle.
“Of course,” she whispered, clutching the bedpost. Leaning against it, she heaved a deep, quivering sigh and climbed back into bed.
Wrapping the quilt around her, she tucked her arm beneath her pillow and closed her eyes. Yes, it made sense that she’d dream of Vaughn that night. Her Vaughn. It also made sense that it was Vaughn Kyle’s face she now saw. After all, she’d spent much of the day with him.
Barbara and Rick had done a good job raising him. Vaughn was a fine man, honest and genuine, sensitive yet forthright. She was grateful she’d had the opportunity to meet him before she died.
Giving him the gold watch had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was the one possession of Jerry’s she’d held back from Valerie and her two granddaughters. Valerie lived in Hawaii and although they were close, they rarely visited each other. Hassie had flown to the island once, but all those tourists and hordes of people had made her nervous. Not only that, she wasn’t comfortable in planes, and the long flight made her nervous. A few years back, after a scare with Hassie’s heart, Valerie had flown out to spend time with her, but had soon grown bored and restless.
Hassie didn’t think Val’s daughters, Alison and Charlotte, would have much interest in their grandfather’s watch. But it was precious to her, so she’d kept it.
She knew when she pressed the watch into Vaughn’s palm that this was the right thing to do. He looked as if he was about to argue with her, but he didn’t and she was glad. Still, his hesitation told her more clearly than any words that he understood the significance of her gift.
Warm once more, Hassie stretched out her legs, enjoying the feel of the sheets against her bare skin. She smiled, remembering the exchange she’d witnessed between Carrie and Vaughn Kyle last night. She hoped something came of it. After her divorce Carrie was understandably wary about relationships, but Hassie felt confident that Vaughn would never intentionally do anything to hurt her.
“Can’t something be done?” Carrie asked, pacing in front of Heath Quantrill’s polished wood desk. As the president of Buffalo Valley Bank, he just might know of some way to stop Value-X from moving into town. In the past day or so, news of the retailer’s plans had spread through town faster than an August brushfire. Carrie had first heard of it that morning. She suspected Hassie knew and had been protecting her;