A Boy To Remember. Cynthia Thomason
NINETEEN
THE LUCKIEST GIRL in Ohio. How many times had Alexis Pope heard people refer to her this way? And today, driving through the lush, green pastureland that carpeted the mini ranches of Fox Creek, she could almost agree with them. Who wouldn’t feel lucky to be returning to this magical, beautiful place of grace and charm?
And yet, in truth, Alex had never really believed in luck. Yes, she was lucky enough to be raised by loving parents in this town, with its top schools and clubs. But for the most part, she had made her own destiny.
The high grades she’d achieved throughout her schooling were not handed out to a lucky student. She’d worked hard for every A. Luck hadn’t landed her in the National Honor Society. Luck hadn’t rewarded her with first chair in the high school orchestra. Years of violin study, cramped and callused fingers, had put her in that chair.
And luck hadn’t brought her back home today. No one would say “Oh, my, it’s Alexis Foster...what a lucky girl.” Especially not when they realized that she was only thirty-five years old and had recently buried her husband.
“It’s so pretty here, Mom,” her daughter said from the passenger seat. “I’m glad we came, but I hope we didn’t leave Chicago just for me. I hope you wanted to come, too.”
Those were the first words Lizzie had spoken in many miles. The silence had caused Alex to worry that her daughter, grieving over the loss of her father, would rather not have made this trip. She covered Lizzie’s hand with hers and smiled. “Of course I wanted to come, sweetheart. I think the change of scenery will do us both good. And you know how happy Grandpa will be to see you.”
“Auntie Jude will be here, won’t she?” Lizzie asked.
“You know your auntie Jude. She is as much a part of this acreage as the trees and the grass.”
“And Aunt Carrie?”
“The last I heard, Carrie was out west taking forestry classes. Unless she surprises us with a visit, I doubt we’ll see her.”
Dr. Martin Foster’s three daughters were as different as could be. But one thing they all had in common. Each of them knew she was loved by her generous and supportive father. Each one knew she could always come home.
Alex turned into the drive, which led to a tall iron gate with the words Dancing Falls stamped in gray steel across the rails. With a touch of whimsy, a metal medallion showing a frothy waterfall lent authenticity to the name her father had chosen for his patch of heaven.
“The gate is open,” she said. “Grandpa is expecting us.”
They drove a quarter mile under ancient oak and maple trees before the house came into view. As stately as ever, its white brick walls and ebony shutters gave a majestic feel to the Georgian structure. Alex pulled around the circular drive and turned off her engine. Martin Foster, looking young for his sixty-four years, was dressed in tan chinos, a light blue golf shirt and boat shoes, his thick gray hair catching an Ohio breeze. He came down the front steps before Alex had opened her car door.
“You made it,” he called, opening his arms to his daughter and granddaughter. He managed to fold them both into a hug at the same time. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m going to do my darndest to see that we make the most of this summer before Lizzie goes off to college.”
Alex kissed her father’s cheek. He meant that promise. But could a bottomless well of paternal caring erase the grieving of the past months? Alex stole a glance at Lizzie and found her bravely trying to smile, exactly what she had done during the funeral five months ago, exactly what she had been doing since. How Alex wished she could see a genuine smile on her daughter’s face again. But the girl had adored Teddy Pope, and she missed him with an unquenchable ache.
“I guess it’s all been said a million times, Lizzie.” Martin’s voice was gentle. “I know I said it at the funeral, but I’m so sorry about your father. I miss him, too. He was a good friend as well as a colleague.”
“I know, Grandpa. Thanks.” Grabbing her backpack from the car, Lizzie walked into the house.
Martin put his arm around Alex’s shoulders. “She’ll be all right, darling. She just needs time.”
Right. And she needs to keep living the lie, Alex thought. The lie that Teddy Pope was her father.
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK PRECISELY, Dr. Foster’s housekeeper announced that dinner was served. Alex, Lizzie and Martin headed for the family dining room but were interrupted when the back door slammed.
“That must be Jude,” Alex said.
“Of course it’s Jude,” Martin replied. “She may live in that apartment above the tack room, but at least she has the good sense to come here for her meals. Your sister has never been accomplished in domestic arts.”
Jude Foster O’Leary, wearing what was obviously a hastily put-together outfit consisting of a belted aqua T-shirt over a long madras skirt, bounded into the dining room just behind her adorable five-year-old son, Wesley. The child still wore what Dr. Foster called his “barn clothes”—jeans, a button-down shirt and scuffed cowboy boots—but his hands looked clean and his hair had been combed. Alex couldn’t say the same for her sister. Humidity-frizzed strands of blond hair refused to be tamed like the rest of her mane in the long braid down her back.
“Hey, you two,” Jude said, hugging her sister first. “It seems like an age since I was in Chicago for Teddy’s...” Realizing her niece might not be prepared to relive those memories, Jude glanced guiltily at Lizzie before kissing her cheek. “Yup, it’s been too long, and I’ve missed you both. How are you doing, honey?”
“I’m okay, Auntie Jude,” Lizzie said. She reached for her cousin and wrapped her arms around him. “You look like a real cowboy, Wes,” she said. “A really hunky one.”
The boy giggled. He had a little-boy crush on his cute big cousin.
“Glad you made it for dinner,” Dr. Foster said.
“Are you kidding? I knew my sister was due today, so I wouldn’t have missed it.” She smiled at Alex. “Besides, I could smell Rosie’s chicken enchiladas from the barn.”
Jude was the first to admit that she was much more comfortable in jeans and a work shirt than a dress. But to her credit, she managed to fluff her long skirt gracefully over the seat of one of Martin’s reproduction twentieth-century Chippendale chairs.
Jude had been Alex’s rock during Teddy’s funeral. Sadly, her sister understood all too well what the family was going through. She’d lost her own husband five years before when he was serving in Afghanistan. Now she managed the Paul O’Leary Foundation she’d established in his honor. Paul had possessed a heart