CHAPTER 7

REUNION

 

Dinner was an elegant affair in the spacious dining room of the lodge restaurant. Bill went all out. Steak and seafood, a live band. Maroon and gold banners—our school colors—hung from the wooden ceiling beams. Maroon candles flickered in golden holders on tables draped with white linen tablecloths and set with sparkling silverware. Folded gold linen napkins stood at each place setting.

I felt like a retread next to Mickie, who looked stunning in a sequined red chiffon halter dress that sparkled when she moved. A soft white shawl casually draped across her back and over her elbows. Against her loose brown curls, gold hoop earrings glinted in the soft light. Bill’s eyes widened when he saw her. Suddenly I was invisible to him. And so was everyone else. He escorted her to a table next to the outside wall, after a “Hello, you look nice tonight, Vangie” to me.

Bet he didn’t even notice I’m wearing the same dress I wore on our date the other night. I scanned the room for the “Friday night girls.” An arm waved above the throng. They were seated at a round table next to the bandstand. I shouldered my way to them through the crowd.

“We saved you a seat,” Dorothy said, taking her purse off the chair next to her.

We all were single—widowed, divorced, or just baching it for the weekend. At six-thirty we were herded into another room, where we posed for a class picture. Bill stood at the end of the second row, right behind Mickie, his hand resting casually on her bare shoulder. After jokingly harassing the photographer and smiling to the count of three too many times, we headed back to the banquet room, where Father Frank prayed for our “departed classmates” and said grace.

“I hadn’t realized we’d lost ten classmates since graduation,” I said to no one in particular while we waited our turn for the buffet line. Four had died in car accidents, two from cancer, one from AIDS, one suicide. Two died in Vietnam. Tommy was in jail, Suzie was hiding from an abusive husband, and no one had heard from Eddie in years. We pooled our knowledge of trivia to win Bill’s “1967 Trivia Challenge”—a free massage at the spa. After dessert we headed for the restroom while the band livened up the evening with songs from our last year in high school. When we returned to the banquet room, the lights were dim, the disco ball sprinkling shards of colored light over the huddled dancers. Bill’s arms were loosely wrapped around Mickie, while hers reached up around his neck. An acute sense of loneliness washed over me as I watched my best friend and my high school sweetheart slow dance.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.

“Dance?” Steve asked, his shy smile peeking through his gray beard. He cleaned up nicely. A light blue short-sleeved shirt was tucked loosely into dark slacks that draped loosely over his brown dress boots. The knot in his royal blue silk tie was slightly off center. His gray hair, neatly trimmed and combed back, was missing the ponytail. He’d made a trip to the barber.

I took the hand he had extended. “Love to,” I said, following him out to the parquet dance floor. As I settled in his arms, I had a sense of déjà vu. The band’s lead singer crooned the lyrics to “Can’t Take My Eyes off You,” sounding much like Frankie Valli.

“Thanks for dropping off the woodcarvings,” I said. “But you forgot to put the invoice in the box.”

“Would you like to go berry picking? I know where there are some fantastic blueberry bushes.”

I leaned back and stared at him. “What does that have to do with the invoice?”

His shook his head, dead serious. “Nothing at all.”

“I hardly know you.”

“You could come to church with me tomorrow morning.”

“Church?”

“I’ll pick you up at nine. It’s a little country church a few miles from here. Dress casual. Jeans. Those pants that come past your knees. No shorts.”

I smiled at him. “I haven’t said yes yet.”

He smiled back, a slight dimple showing on his cheekbone below the left lens of his eyeglasses. “You just did.”

We danced the entire slow set, then he led me back to my seat. I pulled out the chair next to me and gestured for him to sit down, but he shook his head.

“I have some things to get done before I hit the hay,” he said with a lopsided grin that reminded me of Gabe. “See you tomorrow morning. At nine.”

I spent the rest of the evening making rounds of the tables. By eleven o’clock, the crowd had thinned out. I wasn’t the only old fogey who needed to be in bed before midnight. I stifled a yawn. I said my farewells, grabbed my purse, then headed for the door, where Mickie and Bill stood, chatting with those on their way out.

“Leaving so soon?” Bill asked, his arm casually draped around Mickie’s waist.

I nodded. “Thanks, Bill. You outdid yourself. Everything was wonderful.”

“Don’t forget the picnic at one tomorrow,” he said.

I had forgotten. Surely we’d be back from church in time.

“Here.” Mickie pressed a set of keys into my hand. “Take my car back to the cabin.” She smiled up at Bill. “I have another ride.”

A little before nine the next morning, Steve’s green truck, water dripping from the fenders, pulled into the driveway. I was waiting on the front porch swing. I tucked my daily devotional booklet into my Bible, zipped up the quilted cover, and picked up my purse. I felt like skipping down the porch steps, but didn’t think it would look too dignified for a fifty-seven-year-old grandmother to act like a teenager on her first date. By the time I got to the truck, Steve was waiting by the passenger door. I’d decided on white cotton slacks and a lavender floral jersey. I’d thought about sandals but wasn’t sure what kind of church he was taking me to. Some denominations frowned on bare toes. So I’d slipped on a pair of soft moccasins. His blue eyes sparkled as he opened the door for me.

“You’ll do,” he said with a grin.

“I better,” I said, stepping up into the cab, which had a just-swept look and the smell of something spicy. “I’m not changing.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he said, shutting the door and leaning in the window, his face close to mine. “Never change because someone else wants you to. If they don’t like you the way you are, it’s their problem, not yours.”

Something in the tone of his voice, the resolve in his eyes, sent a shiver through me. “Is that today’s sermon, Reverend Steve?”

He grinned and tapped the door padding. “Roll up your window. You look cold.”

Steve’s church was a little white clapboard building set back from a winding country road a twenty-minute drive from the resort. Towering pine trees leaned protectively toward the steeple on the cemetery side. On the other side was a dirt parking lot with about a dozen cars. A couple, who looked to be in their twenties, had just arrived, and their young children raced across the lot, their parents calling after them not to run. They greeted Steve as we walked to the ramped entrance. The man, whose black shaggy beard made me think of Grizzly Adams, clapped Steve on the back.

“Hey, old man,” he said, nodding his ebony ringlets in my direction, “See you finally took my advice and got yourself a woman!”

Steve’s response was a deep blush, spreading from his cheeks to his ears in a flash.

“Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Vangie.”

“Evangeline Martin, this is Jonathon Goodwell and his lovely wife, Kate,” Steve said. “Jon is our song leader and Kate’s the pianist.”

Kate smiled, her dimples igniting a sparkle in her green eyes. Pushing a strand of dishwater blonde hair out of her eyes with her wrist, she tugged at the tote bag straps on her shoulder then extended her hand.

“Nice to meet you. Welcome to Sunnyside Church.” She elbowed her husband, who at six feet, towered over her. “Jon, the kids are running up the aisle again.”

“Yes, dear,” Jon mumbled with grin and a nod towards me. “Duty calls.”

As he hurried into the church—the double doors were flung wide open—Kate turned to Steve.

“You’re staying for the potluck, aren’t you, Steve? I hope you brought your famous Bo Kho stew.”

Steve’s face reddened again as he turned to me. “I forgot to mention the potluck after Sunday school. I apologize. I’ll take you back for the class picnic.”

“You’re having a dinner today here at the church?” I asked.

Kate giggled. “We like to party, so we have a picnic or potluck at least once a month.”

I turned to Steve. “Is that what I smelled on the way? Your famous stew?”

I didn’t think his face could get any redder, but it did. He nodded then put his hand in the small of my back.

“We’d best get inside,” he said, shepherding me through the doors.

Curious eyes watched as Steve led me down a side aisle to a pew toward the front. Open double hung windows on both sides of the sanctuary allowed the cool morning breeze to whisper through. I should have brought my sweater, I thought, eyeing the whirling fans hanging from the suspended ceiling. Maybe it gets warm when everyone arrives. Only a couple dozen people were scattered through the sanctuary. My own church in State College was packed ten minutes before the service began. If you were late, you didn’t just lose your seat, you lost any available seat. Even the balcony was crammed. But then again, this was a holiday weekend.

Piano music reined my thoughts back to the little country church. Kate attacked the ancient, slightly-out-of-tune mahogany upright with emotion, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she played “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” The old hymns resonated in my soul like nothing else. I closed my eyes, savoring every note. When she was done, a man of about sixty stepped up to the podium. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His thinning salt and pepper hair was combed back, trim as his beard.

“That’s Pastor Paul,” Steve whispered to me. “He used to work in the mines before he was called into the ministry.”

For the next hour, I enjoyed a casual but reverent worship service. Pastor Paul’s prayer was simple, but heartfelt. His message, like his prayer, was delivered in a relaxed, conversational style, and was appropriately titled “Reunion.” Sunday school, which followed the worship service, consisted of two classes: children and adult. Kate shepherded the kids—all five of them—to a basement classroom, while the adults stayed in the sanctuary. To my surprise, Steve was the teacher. The lesson was on the prodigal son.

Sunday school was over by eleven-thirty. As we headed up the aisle to the back door, Pastor Paul stopped us.

“You’re staying for the potluck, aren’t you, Steve?”

He shook his head. “Evangeline is a guest at the resort for the class reunion Bill’s hosting. I have to get her back in time for the picnic.”

I put my hand on his arm. “We can stay.”

His blue eyes questioned mine.

“The class picnic doesn’t start until one. No one will mind if I’m a little late. Besides, I have to taste your famous Bo Kho stew.”

Steve’s stew was delicious. Not too spicy, not too sweet.

“I want the recipe,” I told him after my second serving. “The name sounds Vietnamese. You didn’t serve in ’Nam by any chance, did you?”

His body stiffened. I changed the subject. We ’Nam vets understood each other.

He got me back to the cabin in time to change into denim capris and sneakers and meet up with the class at the pavilion where we’d had the luau Friday evening. I wasn’t hungry after the country fare I’d enjoyed at the church, but I went through the line anyway. I scanned the crowd, looking for Mickie. She sat next to Bill at one of the picnic tables set up in the grove. When she saw me, she waved me over.

“Where have you been all morning?” she asked before I even sat down.

“I went to church with Steve.”

She grimaced. “You mean you got up early to go to church?”

After we ate, we were free to enjoy the offerings at the resort and nearby Cook Forest State Park. Mickie took off with Bill, while Patti, Dorothy, Sara, and I skimmed through brochures and decided how best to spend the last few hours we had together as a class. The humidity of the past couple of days had lifted, and the temperature along the Clarion River hovered around a balmy seventy-five degrees. We paddled down the lazy river in canoes, zipped around a race track in tiny go carts, bicycled down River Road on tandem bikes, belting out “A Bicycle Built for Two,” and swam in the ice-cold outdoor pool. By early evening, only a few from our class of 1967 remained. After hugs and promises to keep in touch, Patti, Dorothy, and Sara checked out.

As I walked to my cabin alone, I thought back on the weekend. It certainly didn’t turn out the way I’d envisioned. Bill and Mickie were an item, not Bill and me. Steve churned up emotions I hadn’t felt since Seth—giving me hope that maybe I could put the past behind me. I stopped to watch a red squirrel scurry across the road. All my life, with the exception of the time I spent with Seth, I’ve been looking for something.

This morning, in that little country church, with their down-home hospitality and simple faith, with Steve beside me, I felt as though I’d finally found it. I’d come home.