She still thought about him more than she should. He'd been in Iraq for a year. In fact, it had been eighteen months since he first left for basic training. Marley Davis, Jesse's girlfriend, attended the wedding and she told Fern the boys had only six months left on their tour. Marley said Jesse had asked her to marry him when he got home. She seemed thrilled at the prospect. Jesse Jr. was the same age as Rita's baby, Tyler. But where Ty favored his mother, baby Jesse favored his daddy, his brown skin and kinky black hair making him a little replica of his father. He was adorable, happy and healthy, and already a handful for his young mother.
When Rita walked down the aisle and made her solemn vows to Becker Garth and he repeated them in return, both sacred and sweet, Fern felt her heart swell in hope for her friend. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe Becker loved her like he said he did. And maybe love would be enough. Maybe the promises he was making would inspire him to be a better man.
From the look on Bailey's face, he didn't hold out much hope. Bailey sat beside Fern in the front row, his wheel chair parked at the end of the long pew, his expression as wooden as the bench. After all, he and Rita were friends too, and he worried just like Fern. Bailey had been subdued since Rita's announcement. Fern knew he had feelings for Rita. But she thought he'd moved beyond them, sort of the way she'd outgrown her infatuation with Ambrose Young. And maybe that was his problem . . . because Fern really hadn't outgrown anything. But Rita was a mother now, tied to Becker in a way that was permanent and final. Still, old feelings had a way of resurfacing just when you thought they were gone forever.
“’Til death do us part,” Rita promised, her face lovely in its sincerity.
When Becker kissed her smiling lips, sealing the deal, Bailey closed his eyes, and Fern reached for his hand.
12: Build a Hideaway
It only took about three months before Rita drifted out of sight. The occasions she was seen in public with her husband, she kept her eyes carefully averted and other times wore sunglasses even when it was raining. Fern called regularly and even stopped by Rita's duplex a few times. But her visits seemed to make Rita nervous. Once Fern swore she saw Rita pull into her garage just before Fern arrived, yet Rita didn't answer the door when she knocked.
Things improved slightly when Becker got a job where he traveled for several days at a time. Rita even called and took Fern to lunch on her birthday. They ate enchiladas at Luisa's Cocina, and Rita smiled brightly and reassured Fern that everything was just fine when Fern asked gently if she was okay. According to Rita, everything was just wonderful--perfect. But Fern didn't believe her.
Fern didn't tell Bailey about her fears for Rita. She didn't want to upset him, and what could he do? Fern saw Becker every once in a while at the store, and though he was polite and always greeted her with a smile, Fern didn't like him. And he seemed to know it. He was always perfectly groomed, every dark hair in place, his handsome face clean-shaven, his clothes crisp and stylish. But it was all packaging. And Fern was reminded of the analogy of the grease her father had shared with Elliott Young once upon a time. Fern couldn't have been more than fourteen, but the lesson had stuck.
Elliott Young looked nothing like his son. He was short, maybe 5'8 at the most. His blond hair had thinned until he'd finally shaved it off. His eyes were a soft blue, his nose a little flat, his smile always at the ready. Today he wasn't smiling, and his eyes were heavily ringed, like he hadn't slept well in a long time.
“Hi, Mr. Young,” Fern said, a question in her voice.
“Hi, Fern. Is your dad home?” Elliott didn't make a move to enter even though Fern held the screen door wide in welcome.
“Dad?” Fern called toward her dad's office. “Elliott Young is here to see you.”
“Invite him in Fern!” Joshua Taylor called from the recesses of the room.
“Please come in, Mr. Young,” Fern said.
Elliott Young shoved his hands in his pockets and let Fern lead him into her father's office. There are various churches and denominations in Pennsylvania. Some say it's a state where God still has a foothold. There are lots of Catholics, lots of Methodists, lots of Presbyterians, lots of Baptists, lots of everything. But in Hannah Lake, Joshua Taylor ran his little church with such care and commitment to the community that it didn't matter to him what you called yourself, he was still your pastor. If you didn't sit in his pews each Sunday, it really made no difference to him. He preached from the bible, kept his message simple, kept his sermons universal, and for forty years he had labored with one goal: love and serve–the rest would take care of itself. Everyone called him Pastor Joshua, whether he was their pastor or not. And more often than not, when someone was soul-searching, they found themselves at Pastor Joshua's church.
“Elliott!” Joshua Taylor stood from his desk as Fern led Elliott Young into the room. “How are you? I haven't seen you in a while. What can I do for you?”
Fern pulled the French doors shut behind her and walked into the kitchen, wishing desperately to hear the rest of the conversation. Elliott was Ambrose's dad. Rumors were, he and Ambrose's mother were splitting up, that Lily Young was leaving town. Fern wondered if that meant Ambrose would leave too.
Fern knew she shouldn't do it, but she did. She sneaked into the pantry and positioned herself on a sack of flour. Sitting in the pantry was almost as good as sitting in her father's office. Whoever had framed up the house must have scrimped on the wall that divided the back of the pantry from the little room her father used for his office, because if Fern wedged herself into the corner, not only could she hear perfectly, she could even see into the room where the sheet rock didn't quite reach the corner. Her mother was at the grocery store. She was safe to listen without getting caught, and if her mother suddenly came home, she could swoop up the full trash and pretend like she was just doing her chores.