FOCUSED

Prologue - The Litmus Test
1985

Oh, why did I insist on coming here?
Christina’s hands dripped with anxiety. The heirloom serving dish slipped out of her grasp and clunked onto the cedar log table. The take-out fried chicken wobbled as the sound ricocheted against the wooden walls of the summer cabin where her ancestors once ate, slept and loved. She raised her shoulders to her ears and grimaced.
Her mother scowled. “Must you be so clumsy? I don’t want your grandmother’s china platter chipped.”
Must you always criticize me? She clamped her lips into a taut line and swallowed her true response, just as she did every time. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Christina watched her mother scoop the carton of coleslaw into a lead crystal bowl. It seemed appropriate. She felt as if she’d been born for a plastic tub life but shoved into crystal from the get-go. She never did quite fit into her mother’s idea of what a daughter should be. Secretly as a child, she’d often wondered if she’d been adopted.
Ticks from the old mantle clock perched on the rock fireplace vibrated into the kitchen and pounded in her ears. Finally, her mother’s voice broke the stifled hush that hung between them.
“So, Christina, how long have you known this Jeff of yours?” Her eyebrow arched as she clumsily dried a dinner plate. A two-carat diamond ring bulged under her yellow Playtex glove. She always insisted on the dishes from the cabin’s kitchen being washed before using them. Pity her latest maid-cook didn’t accompany them this trip. Christina sighed and dunked her bare, ring-less hands into the hot suds. They were used to it. Her apartment had no dishwasher.
“A few months. But I really like him, Mother. Really like him.”
Christina noticed Jeff and her father through the screened window. They walked down the rock path. Lazy daisies peeked between the stones, in danger of being crushed by their cowboy boots. Her father stared straight ahead. Jeff talked with palms clasped behind his back. His posture seemed as stiff as a scarecrow’s. His fingers twitched. She wondered why he appeared so nervous? It was just her dad. Everyone felt comfortable around her dad. Easy going. Not like her mother.
“Okay, true.” Christina dipped another dish into the soapy water. It splashed her Save the Dolphins T-shirt. “I agree that Jeff’s not socially conscious of how he looks. He’s happy in plaid pants and a striped shirt if they’re comfortable and relatively clean.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her mother’s sneer.
Christina went on to defend him. “He may be rough around the edges, Mother, but he more than makes up for it with his strong work ethic and morals. He’s honest and kind and,” she nodded with emphasis,” . . . and gentlemanly.”
Her mother remained silent.
Christina wiped her hands on her cut-off jeans. The tennis bracelet, a gift from her sorority little sister years ago, cast minute rainbows upon the bubbles. She squared her shoulders. “He may not be in your circle of influential friends, Mother, but Jeff can look someone in the eye no matter what their social standing and make them feel appreciated and important. That’s why I love him. That’s why I want to marry him.” To her shock, the words now blurted from the secret confines of her heart actually made sense.
“I know, dear. And, we think you have made an excellent choice.” Her taunt mouth relaxed, almost into a smile.
Christina’s balloon of rebellious pride for daring to date outside her mother’s social circle popped. It slid into the suds along with the sponge. “You . . . do?”
“We, your father and I, admire Jeff, too.”
“But, you don’t know him.”
Her mother sighed, then set the plate on the counter. “We know more than you think. Upon hearing of your courtship from your sister, we hired a private investigator. A few days ago, the P.I. reported back to us. He told us Jeff Willis didn’t have any dirt on him worth digging up.”
Christina’s eyes and mouth widened at mother’s words. “How could you?”
The woman looked away. She fingered the choker of pearls at her neck. “He told us Jeff served his time in the Marines, right? We know he was injured in Lebanon. Spent months stateside in the hospital and received the Purple Heart for that. Shot in the hip, I believe.”
“Yes, I know.” When she saw her mother’s eyebrow arch again, Christina added, “He, uh, told me all about it. It, ah, still catches now and then.”
“I see.” Her mother looked down to take the next rinsed plate in the drainer.
Christina noticed her smirk. Please don’t let her see me blush. Surely she and Dad . . . maybe not, it was the 1950’s after all. Oh, never mind.
“Anyway. . .” Her mother emphasized the word to regain her daughter’s attention. “We learned he’d been an A student at St. Paul’s, a respectable school from what I hear, even though it is Catholic.”
Christina rolled her eyes. She knew her mother was snooty-proud about her British Protestant roots. But, Mother, but come on. Just because your maiden name is Winslow . . .
“Oh,” she pointed the plate at Christina’s face, “and he said Jeff was an Eagle Scout. Your father liked that.”
“He worked to put himself through college, too. Graduated with honors with a B.S. in structural engineering from U.T. in Austin. I guess your spy told you that as well.”
“Yes, well, we knew he was in construction of some sort.” She sniffed and tilted her head as she rubbed the plate dry.
To Christina her gesture meant even though he’s decent enough, he’s not an attorney, bank officer or a doctor, my dear. Not our class.
“We asked the P.I to dig a bit further, but he couldn’t uncover any police record, except for a few speeding tickets. Even your father’s had a few of those.”
Christina felt her cheeks heat. She turned away and counted to ten, slowly.
Her mother placed her latex-covered hand under Christina’s chin, gently twisting it back to face her. The glove smelled pungent, straight out of the package. “So you see? Now we know your Jeff is an outstanding young man.”
Christina’s eyes narrowed. How dare she think I’d be stupid enough to date any guy who wasn’t.
The woman shifted to face her daughter full on. “You had the foresight to know in your heart he would make a good husband.”
“And he will.” Her voice had an edge to it.
“Your father and I should have trusted you more, honey.” She put her hand on Christina’s back with motherly tenderness, a rare act for her. “You’re a grown woman. We just didn’t know his family and we were concerned. That’s all.” She returned to her duty of wiping dishes.
“He loves it up here, you know.” Christina’s eyes took on a mischievous glint. She raised her for finger for effect. Jeff had passed one of the family litmus tests as to whether a beau was worth dating or not. He loved the Hill Country, the rustic Texas version of a Martha’s Vineyard, a welcome reprieve from the hustle-bustle glitter and glam of the high society, Southern big-city life.
Christina leaned into the sink to get her mother to look at her. “And, Mother, “ she held up a second finger. “He loves God.” Test number two passed.
“We know.” Her mother nodded in the direction of the window. Outside, the two men were shaking hands and smiling.
Now, Christina understood. She squealed and hugged her mother, dripping suds down the back of the lady’s linen sundress, recently acquired on a shopping spree to Neiman Marcus in Dallas.
Later that night, on the door stoop to her apartment, Jeff brought out the black velvet box, down on one knee, per proper tradition.


Chapter 1 Steamed
Twenty-four years later. . .

Christina locked herself in the bathroom for the first time in her married life. Above the rush of the shower, she heard a fist bang against the door. She jolted at the sound. Go away. Please, just go away.
“Hon, you okay in there? Coffee’s ready.”
Her mouth opened to answer, but couldn’t form the words. There were too many she wanted to say to him and she’d regret them all later if she did.
Eyes closed, head propped against the back tile, she pressed her spine into the corner of the shower stall, wishing the water would drench her inside out and send the hurt down the drain with the swirl of soap bubbles. Things, which might seem little to anyone else, had built up like plaque in her emotional arteries, clogging any rational thoughts from reaching her heart.
Another loud knuckle rap. “Okay, then. See ya tonight. I made raisin toast. Your favorite.”
Raisin toast. As if that would make up for everything else. Today, the thought of greeting Jeff with a cheek smooch before he traipsed off to work thrust bile into her throat. She'd done that every day for the last twenty-four years. And, why? Because, growing up, she'd seen her mother air kiss her father's cheek to launch him into the world of business each morning? Silly, empty routine. Besides, when did she ever do anything like her mother? She'd always gone to work as well. So, why didn’t Jeff ever smooch her goodbye?
She masked her gulped sobs in the spray of steamy water. Her chest ached as the weight of her world pressed against it. Everything once precious seemed obscured by a black veil of loss.
Loss over her dad with an intensity she told herself a grown woman shouldn’t have. She even missed her mother, even though they had rarely seen eye to eye. Loss of her grown son, Josh, now in an apartment of his own. With work and college classes, he rarely came around unless he had a mound of dirty laundry. Or needed cash. He hardly ever called. His schedule was so different from theirs. She had brief text messages saved on her phone she listened to when she was lonely. A permanent reminder, like the Hallmark cards she discovered after the funeral in the back of her father’s sock drawer, secretly kept all those years.
Most of all she missed the closeness she and Jeff once had. It had slowly dissolved, blending into matrimonial patterns like sugar in Southern sweet tea. Now, instead of his arms, this shower stall was her refuge. And she hated tight places.

                                                                                                   * * *

Jeff heard the shower running . . . still. What had it been? Fifteen minutes? His wife had always been a long tub soaker, he knew that. But when it came to the shower stall, she’d be in and out in less time than any private in the Marine Corp. She always hated tight places.
So why in the . . .? He shook his head. Who knew.
Every morning for the past umpteen years Christina had greeted him, robe sashed around her, hair still a bit disheveled, with a smooch to send him off to work. Not today. Was this one more routine hitting the can now that their son had flown the coop? Who knew? Lately her moods were as changing as Texas weather. Hot, cold, muggy, icy.
Jeff hissed under his breath. “I am not a mind reader. If I’ve done something, tell me. Woman, you’re driving me nuts.”
His hand reached for the door knob. Then it froze. The thought of busting in and pulling back the shower curtain to ask her what the heck was wrong made him cringe. Wouldn’t be pretty. She hated surprises worse than tight places. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for an explosion and didn’t feel like dodging the shrapnel she’d launch in his direction. So he knocked instead. No answer. Not even when he told her he’d made raisin toast, her favorite.
Last night, Christina left the den in a huff. He didn’t know why. Just as well, though. He hadn’t been in the mood to hear her jabber on about this and that. The vise clamp around his cranium had been a killer and the mindless noise on the TV hadn’t helped to ease it.
She’ll cool down by tonight. But one whiff told him the scrambled eggs he’d left sizzling in the skillet weren’t cooling down. They were burning. He dashed down the hall, grabbed the pan handle with a towel and turned off the flame. Ruined. He flicked on the vent.
Darn that woman. Christina used to fix breakfast for him and Josh every morning, when Josh was around. Now he had to fix his own. He hated cooking.
Jeff took a swig of the brewed caffeine to wash down the nagging thought that he really didn’t matter to her now. Sure, she’s mourning her dad, and in a way Josh. But dammit all, I’m still around.
He shoveled as much of the rubbery brown eggs as he could into the trashcan then tossed the skillet into the sink. He snatched one of the slices of raisin bread from the toaster, now ice cold. That and a cup of coffee would have to suffice.
Soft fur rubbed against his calf. Small blue eyes peered up at him over long white whiskers in a black mask. Heart softened, he picked up the purring feline and nuzzled its fur.
“At least one female in this house loves me this morning. Don’t you, Precious?”
That cat rubbed her jowl against his freshly shaven cheek. It almost qualified for his morning smooch. His mood melted.
“I love you too, Baby. But I gotta go, now.”
Jeff punched the automatic garage door opener with his fist. A brisk March breeze swirled the last of the winter leaves into the garage in a haphazard waltz. He slid into the bench seat of his truck and backed out into the world of traffic and another hectic day at the office. His Styrofoam coffee cup, still perched on the hardtop, made it four blocks before sliding off into the gutter. A new record.

                                                                                      * * *

Waterlogged, Christina remained in the shower until she was sure her husband had left. The last of the hot water had left as well. Enough. I have to get to work. This shower pity party isn’t going to pay the bills.
One hand turned off the water as her other grabbed a towel. She proceeded with her weekday ritual of dressing in the business casual and hosiery already lain out on the bedroom chair the night before. But first, she had to remove her marmalade cat from on top of them. Another ritual.
“Momma’s Okay, Fat Cat,” she told herself more than her furry companion. So named for his girth and ability to outdo any garbage disposal, the male feline was her favorite. He lay on her stocking feet as she sat at the vanity.
Christina blinked her eyes wide to thwart any tears from ruining her freshly applied mascara. Pupils rolled to the ceiling, she willed her emotions back into her stomach. Maybe her avoidance had steamed Jeff as much as it had the bathroom mirror. Or at least made him think about what he’d done. The click of her heels down the hall emphasized each syllable in her thoughts. Then, at the kitchen door, she halted. The range vent whirred on high speed.
What has he done now? She stared at the sink. Her favorite skillet rested in slimy water. On top floated brown gunk she assumed had once been scrambled eggs. Her arms clutched around her chest in a pretzel as she tapped away her anger with her foot. How hard was it to cook eggs? Perhaps she had spoiled him by doing everything for him all those years. She certainly didn’t have time to scrub it clean now. Jeff wasn’t the only one who had to get to work. She added it to her growing list of things to do before she hit the sheets that night, exhausted as usual.
She grabbed the last piece of raisin toast, filled her commuter mug with coffee, hopped in her seven year old Accord, and headed for the accounting clerk job she had held for the last fifteen years. It was the last place she wanted to be. Surely there was someplace she could go, one door she could open without stress tumbling out like junk from an overstuffed closet.
“Another day, another dollar,” her dad always said.
Today, Dad, it’s more like ten cents after taxes. Dad. Had it really been two years since the funeral? A whiff of memory, mingled with the damp March air, allowed just a pinch of grief to filter back into her heart. It had been overcast and gloomy that day, too.
Then it happened. One ray of sun poked through the gloom. When Christina reached the intersection to turn east towards work, a quote from her high school literature class marqueed across her brain. “Go west, young man, go west.” On a whim, she made a U turn. She dug her cell phone out of her purse, called in sick for the first time in years, and without a bit of regret, just kept driving.

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