After the neighbors left, Garrett called from the airport, his voice hoarse and tired. His flight had been rerouted to Dulles, and he’d be home in an hour. Kiersten said something cheerful about seeing him soon and hung up without telling him that she’d accidentally left one of their children at a truck stop. She’d share that news with her husband when he was sitting down, at home.
She puttered around the house, attempting to restore order and put things away, but she felt jittery, unable to focus.
In the past few hours, she’d lost her son, found new friends, and promised to drop out of everything. Was this idea sane or crazier than her current life?
She gave up on cleaning and reached for the diary Rosamund had left open on the kitchen table. Maybe the past could shed light on how to live in the present.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dottie
April 5, 1965
I found the perfect hiding place for my diary today. Though it was painful to desecrate such an expensive gift, I used a carpet knife to carve out the inside of that set of encyclopedias I got from Daddy for my 16th birthday. Dickie would never willingly open any book, much less one as dense and full of facts as an encyclopedia.
Peggy, my replacement at the office, called again yesterday about the mimeograph machine. She was polite enough, asked me when my due date is and how I’m feeling and all, but it was difficult to explain how to fix the machine over the phone. It would be easier just to go down there and fix it myself. I suggested that to Dickie and he was horrified.
“Absolutely not,” he said, shaking his head.
“It would be a lot more efficient.”
“I don’t want you talking to her,” he insisted. “She shouldn’t be bothering you.”
“Why not? I’m happy to help.”
He shook his head vehemently. “It’s not appropriate for the daughter of the owner and the wife of the general manager to be the typewriter and mimeograph repair man.”
Daddy just promoted Dickie to General Manager and there’s some grumbling about this, or so I hear from Oscar. Even though Oscar works in the garage, he knows all the front office gossip. He came by yesterday to bring me a set of socket wrenches.
“Some of the other account execs say he just got the job because he’s married to the boss’s daughter,” Oscar said with a pointed look at me. “But according to the girls in the front office, he’s a damn good salesman. They say he could convince Henry Ford to buy a Chevrolet. Charming guy, your husband.”
I gave Oscar a weak smile. The line between charm and manipulation is thin and hard to see, even when you’re looking right at it.
April 9, 1965
I did it! I fixed Dickie’s car. As I suspected, it was the fan belt. I took care of that, then I cleaned the spark plugs and checked the alternator. I changed the oil too.
Then I made the mistake of telling Dickie. He screamed at me for a half hour straight.
“Who do you think you are? You could have ruined the engine or damaged the oil pan.”
I tried to keep a straight face. Dickie couldn’t find the oil pan if it bit him on the nose.
But there’s no point trying to argue with him. I’ve learned that the hard way. Now I just hang my head, pretend to be sorry, and let my mind go somewhere else until he’s done hollering.
But I’m not sorry. Not one little bit. That was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. I can hardly wait for Dickie’s transmission to go out.
For a number of reasons.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kiersten
On Sunday night, Kiersten glanced over at her husband and gave him a nervous smile. She’d wanted to have this conversation alone in a quiet restaurant where they’d be undisturbed.
But the boys had reached that awkward stage where Matt could theoretically babysit his younger siblings, but not in actual practice, because they would stage a bloody coup if he told them to brush their teeth, change into their pajamas, or go to bed.
However, hiring a fifteen-year-old girl to babysit a thirteen-year-old boy and his younger brothers also seemed weird. As a result, they hadn’t been out to dinner alone since moving away from the grandparents.
