Love Me Forever Read online

  “That would be wonderful.” Sandy picked up the box and Bobbie came to open the door for her.

  “You just want to say I told you so,” Sandy said under her breath as she passed her.

  “Of course I do.” Bobbie walked around her to the Volkswagen. “Hunter threw the check at you, didn’t he?” she guessed as Sandy beeped the door open.

  “No.” Sandy placed the box on the back seat while Bobbie held the door. “He tore it in two.

  They’d been college roommates at Portland State and since then had supported each other through major life crises. They were dear friends. Bobbie’s tone turned from teasing to gently rebuking. “Sandy, he’s told you before in no uncertain terms that he won’t accept money from you. If you’re ever going to have a permanent relationship with him, you’ll have to pay closer attention to what he wants.”

  “He wants to never get married.”

  “That’s what every man wants. But he cares about you.”

  “Yeah, well, caring isn’t loving. He wants his self-respect. I guess the girls and I rate somewhere behind that.” She closed the door on the Closet’s first official donation. At least that was off to a good start.

  Bobbie patted her shoulder as they walked around to the driver’s side. “You do realize that many men in such a position would be happy to let you solve their financial problems and take care of everything? I think it’s to his credit that he won’t.”

  Sandy gave Bobbie a hug. Despite her own anguish, she noted that her friend looked healthy and happy. After battling cancer, falling in love and relinquishing her dream to study art in Florence, Italy, she appeared remarkably grounded and serene. Her dark hair had even grown sufficiently to now curl around her ears. Sandy was happy she was doing so well. She got back to the subject at hand. “Did you know that Hunter was engaged to the woman who embezzled from him?”

  Bobbie looked surprised. “No, I didn’t. Geez.”

  “Yeah. And he never told me.”

  “Maybe he was embarrassed that someone he loved stole from him.”

  Sandy growled. “Then wouldn’t you want to tell everybody how badly you’d been treated? But not him. He keeps his distance.” Sandy climbed in behind the wheel. “Thanks for the help. And thank you for coming to Celia’s rescue with the Shop-vac.”

  “I was in the backyard and heard her screaming. I ran over to investigate. I couldn’t do the plumbing, but I could get the water up. You know, you’re a pretty handy warrior goddess. Did you tell Hunter you can do plumbing? It might change his mind.”

  “Cute. You can joke about my pain.”

  “What are friends for? If you have more flan than you can eat, call me.”

  Sandy drove home and turned into her driveway lined with yellow and orange nasturtiums. Her small, gray two-bedroom on Fifteenth Street had a beautiful view of the Columbia River from the front and a fenced backyard for the girls. Built in the sixties, it was the only single-level house in a block of two-story Victorians constructed around the turn of the Twentieth Century. With the girls already beginning to stretch their personalities, the house was starting to feel too small. Still, it was affordable and, she reminded herself archly that she had just refinanced it, so she had to be happy with it for now.

  She carried the box up two steps onto the porch formed by a brick wall with built-in flower boxes. In another month, they’d be filled with purple petunias. She put the box down, unlocked the door then hefted the box again and walked into the cool, cozy living room. Her furniture wasn’t new, but after Charlie had left she’d reupholstered it herself, unable to look at the blue-patterned sofa and chairs he’d picked out. She’d repainted the walls pink and chosen a largish lavender-and-white floral pattern for the upholstery. The curtains were lace and the other furniture pieces a motley collection of things from friends—a white spindly bench from her mother, a pair of ginger jar lamps Nate and Bobbie had given her when they’d redecorated after getting married, and an old trunk she used as a coffee table. That had been her grandmother’s. She had photos of the girls all over, and a few of Bobbie’s paintings.

  Bobbie also did calligraphy on handmade paper. When she was still living in Southern California, she’d done a piece of calligraphy for Sandy’s birthday that read, “A friend is never known till a man have need.” The quote by John Heywood, who lived in the sixteenth century, was on handmade paper with tiny leaves in it, and set in a filigree frame.

  Sandy valued the work for more than just its wonderful, esoteric quality, because Bobbie had done it while ill and struggling to get from day to day. She’d said she wanted Sandy to know how touched she’d been that Sandy had left the girls with her mother and flown to Southern California to sit with her for her first chemo session. Sandy always looked at it whenever she walked through the living room.

  In her cream-and-yellow bedroom, she dropped the box in a corner, designating that space for the Clothes Closet things. Then she sat on the foot of her bed and let herself plop backward.

  So much time had passed since she’d shared this room with anyone. She hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to love a man and be loved in return, but the process seemed to have forgotten her.

  She wondered if something was wrong with her. Oh, everyone liked her, men were attracted to her, and she had the opportunity to meet many of them in her job at the law office and her work for the community. But she seldom had long-term relationships.

  Her mother insisted that Sandy was too competent, but always smiled when she said that. “Thank goodness for your competence. Remember when your father left and I couldn’t pay the rent? The landlord was so mean to me, and you went and told him off, though I pleaded with you not to.”

  She did remember. They were still living in Salem. She’d been mad and scared and had trembled inside, but she knew if they had to leave the apartment, the only place they could go was a shelter or the street. Her mother’s depression prevented her from explaining the situation to Mr. Fogarty, the landlord, so Sandy had taken charge. First, she told him how cruel it was for a man who had several businesses and an apartment house to evict a woman and her daughter who were destitute through no fault of their own. Then she told him she’d seen the Help Wanted sign in the window of his hardware store. She said if he’d give her the job, he wouldn’t have to pay her until she’d earned the amount of their rent. “I can work weekends and after school,” she’d told him.

  He’d folded his arms and frowned at her. “You’re not old enough to work.”

  “I’m fourteen.” She stood straighter to give herself more height. “I have a social security card and an Employment Certificate from the State of Oregon. I can start this weekend.”

  And that was how she’d helped get their lives on track again. Her mother had been amazed and grateful.

  Sandy remembered those days well and was happy they were behind them. She’d had a part-time job until she graduated from high school with a scholarship. The summer before she went away to school, Mr. Fogarty had given her a raise, full-time work, overtime opportunities and a bonus that provided her with spending money for school. Her mother had gotten a job scheduling appointments and doing the billing in a doctor’s office and had even saved a little to help Sandy on her way.

  No, competence wasn’t the reason men didn’t want a permanent relationship with her; most men now realized women could do most things they could do, even those involving muscle. The smart ones appreciated that.

  Maybe it was because Sandy had two lively, often loud little girls. Hunter had dealt well with them, whereas even she needed to run for cover sometimes.

  No, not that reason, either. It must be something about her personality, not her skills. Life had made her strong and independent. It wasn’t her fault that she knew her own mind and recognized Hunter as the ONE. Of course, her mind had once led her to Charlie, and that relationship hadn’
t been anything to boast about.

  The simple fact was that she didn’t want anyone halfhearted about her or her girls. If Hunter couldn’t be completely committed, she didn’t want him—even if he was the ONE.

  Okay. That was it. No more agonizing. She got to her feet, put in a load of laundry, straightened up the kitchen, then went back to Celia’s. The faucet continued to work beautifully.

  Celia sent her off with a casserole and three ceramic cups of flan. Sandy took them home to the safety of her refrigerator, then headed for town and the peaceful, quiet lunch she’d promised herself.

  She shopped first, and found a large tube of giftwrap with the Cars design patterned after the children’s movie of the same name. While Zoey loved princesses in all forms, Addie’s passion was Tow Mater, the movie’s loveable tow truck character whose greatest skill was driving backward. Sandy’s mother predicted that Addie would be the Danica Patrick of her generation, the first woman ever to place in the Indianapolis 500. Addie ignored doll houses and Barbies and loved everything that had wheels, motors and loud noises.

  Sandy found Cars pajamas, a Tow Mater bank and a bright yellow jacket for herself made from a redesigned sweatshirt.

  Her cell phone rang as she was finishing a jalapeño burger at the Wet Dog, a brew pub that was a local favorite.

  She saw the name of her employer and answered, thinking someone in the front office must have gone home sick and her free afternoon was about to disappear.

  “Sandy!” Darren, her immediate supervisor, said her name cheerfully. “What are you doing?”

  “Having lunch,” she replied. “What’s going on? Somebody sick?”

  “No. I wondered if you could come in this afternoon for a quick meeting. I know you asked for the day off, but something’s happened that I need to talk to you about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ll talk about it when you get here. Can you come in?”

  She didn’t want to, but she did a lot of things she really didn’t want to. “Sure. Half an hour?”

  “Perfect.”

  She hurried home to freshen up, trade her jeans jacket for the new yellow one, and wondered what the meeting was about as she drove to the office. It might be scheduling. A new partner had come to the firm several months ago and brought along his secretary. The woman had been remote and superior, and had complained about most things since she’d arrived, but she was good at her job.

  Or maybe it was the mundane business of coffee and rolls for the morning meetings. Sandy usually picked them up at the coffeehouse when she drove in, but she’d been told not to bother last week, that someone else would handle it.

  She walked through the office, smiling and waving at the other women she’d worked with for six years since moving to Astoria with Charlie. His dream of making a fortune fishing had been short-lived when he got seriously seasick and decided he didn’t like twelve hour shifts after all. When Charlie left, Sandy’s mother had moved to Astoria. Life had been good since then.

  Sandy had so enjoyed managing the office, answering the phones, directing clients to the right person to solve their problems, working with various organizations in town to coordinate a client’s needs and obligations. Those contacts had made her community work easier.

  But the minute she arrived at Darren Foster’s office she knew that something had changed. She felt it in the air. Darren, one of the partners, who also supervised the front office staff, was usually lighthearted, eager to make people feel comfortable. But, today he sat focused on the open file in the middle of his desk and barely looked at her except to greet her with a perfunctory smile and invite her to sit down.

  Sandy’s throat went dry and her heartbeat accelerated. She sensed danger.

  “You have been the most loyal, hardworking office manager we have ever had,” Darren said, eyes still on the file.

  She noticed the past tense. Not are but have been.

  She struggled to remain calm, not sure what was happening. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t find fault with your work.”

  “Thank you.”

  Darren looked up at her under his eyebrows. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

  Her heart thudded against her ribs. Oh, no. No. She asked calmly, “What is this, Darren?”

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

  “Just say it.” She sat a little straighter, bracing herself. “It’ll be easier on both of us.”

  He opened his eyes and leaned his forearms on his desk. His gaze held regret for just an instant, then relaxed in that curious manner middle managers in an awkward position acquire. “When Palmer joined us and brought Janice along, we got a sort of twofer. She’s a trained legal secretary, and she’s good on the phone and...” His voice seemed to lose power. “We think she can manage the office.”

  Sandy was out. Jobless. That was her new reality. She laughed nervously. “Darren, she bought oat cakes and herbal tea instead of donuts and mochas for the office meeting. You said you hated that.” Of all the examples Sandy could have brought up in her defense, that one was pathetic, but she wasn’t at the top of her game at the moment.

  He nodded grimly. “The people who count thought it was innovative and appropriately considerate of our good health.”

  She knew Kevin Palmer had been brought in because Jim Somerville was in his late seventies and finally thinking it was time he retired. Palmer was an impressive litigator and had clients in Portland, Seattle, and several in Hawaii. His billable hours had been a lot of his appeal.

  “It’s business,” Darren said, firming his voice, clearly unwilling for the meeting to go on longer than necessary. “Things have been a little tight for us the last few years. We bill a lot of time, but we don’t collect on a lot of it.”

  “Everybody’s broke.”

  “The economy’s picking up.”

  “But...you just said things are tight.”

  He frowned at her challenge. “It’s picking up where Palmer’s clients are, but not here. Not yet. Maybe if things turn around...” he began.

  She stood, unwilling to listen to him tell her they might want to bring her back. Hunter had dangled the same nebulous promise in front of her, too, as though the future might somehow improve her appeal. “Do you need a couple of weeks?”

  He stood, too. “No. You’re free to go today.” He reached into his middle drawer and handed her an envelope. “Severance. Two extra weeks and your vacation pay.” He drew a breath and asked in a rush, “Can I have your key?”

  She accepted the envelope, desperately trying to hold on to her dignity. She struggled to get her office key off the ring and finally resorted to using his letter opener to hold the ring open while she pulled the key off. Then she handed the key to him.

  “Thank you.” He looked embarrassed for a moment then seemed to harden himself against her distress. All the years she’d gone above and beyond to do her job well counted for nothing in the face of a tight cash flow.

  “Goodbye, Darren.” She angled her chin and forced a smile.

  He nodded. “Bye, Sandy.”

  She intended to take the photos of her girls and her mother off her desk, thinking she would pack up her other belongings later, but Vi, who had the desk beside hers, already had everything in a document box.

  She handed it to Sandy, her eyes brimming. “I’m going to miss you.” No one understood office politics like the worker bees.

  Sandy leaned forward to touch her cheek to Vi’s with a quick thank-you, then turned to leave. All eyes were on her. She smiled, waved and left before she fell apart.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LORETTA CONWAY OPENED her back door and smiled at Sandy in surprise. Sandy’s mother, her hair all gray but worn spikey, was a small-framed woman
in her fifties who still looked great in jeans and a sweater. “Hi, sweetie! I thought you had the day off.” Her eyes went over Sandy’s new jacket with approval. “New duds? How pretty.” Then her gaze settled on Sandy’s face and she grew serious. “What?” she asked anxiously.

  Sandy threw her arms around her and just held on. She allowed herself a spate of tears, then pulled herself together.

  “I just had the worst day off in the history of the world. Can I have a glass of wine?”

  “Of course. Come in.”

  Sandy followed her mother into a huge kitchen with a giant work island, high stools pulled up to it on all sides. Loretta had been a sous chef in her youth and loved to cook for friends and family. Her house, with two bedrooms upstairs, was small otherwise, but she often said she’d bought the cottage, which had belonged to an Astoria restaurateur, for the roomy kitchen.

  Hiking herself onto a stool on a corner, Sandy watched her mother pour wine into two tulip glasses, then place one in front of her. “What’s happened?” her mother asked.

  When it took Sandy a moment to answer, her mother sat at a right angle to her and said softly, “I was right about Hunter and the check, wasn’t I?”

  Sandy swiped away a single tear. “You were right about his reaction. I still think I was right about the situation. But, he yelled, tore up the check, and we broke up.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Your offer just had disaster written all over it.” After that bit of frankness, she added bracingly, “Of course, part of your charm and your life success is that you jump in, whatever the prevailing opinion, and do what you think is right. And it’s served you well many times.”

  Sandy sighed, thinking about her job and trying not to succumb to panic and more tears. She said with an attempt at humor, “Well, it hasn’t served me well today. I got fired.”

  “What?” Her mother responded with flattering indignation. “Why? And who will they ever get to show up on Sundays to meet clients and get signatures on whatever those lawyers enjoying their weekends need signed but aren’t willing to drive over to the office for and get signed themselves?”