Love Me Forever

“The Columbia House?”

“That’s it. I’ve written my new landline number on the back of the card, but the cell number on the front still works. Call me when you have a plan and I’ll make an appointment.”

Hunter walked him to the front door. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Connolly.” He offered his hand. “You don’t run into many philanthropists these days. Everybody’s struggling to keep themselves afloat.”

“I know. But life was generous to me and this town was so kind. I have feelings for Astoria. I’d like to share.”

“That’s highly commendable.”

“Nah. The more I give away, the less I have to worry about. Good to meet you. We’re going to do good things together.”

“Well, you’ll be doing—I’m just fact-finding.”

“That’s an important part of the process. We want to make sure the money goes where it’ll do the most good. I’ll wait for your call.”

Connolly climbed into a silver Lexus parked out front and drove off.

Hunter strode across the green-oak-furnished office and rapped on Nate’s open door. Nate glanced up from the computer. “Yeah?”

“You won’t believe this,” Hunter began as he took a client chair and told him Harris Connolly’s story and what he wanted to do for Astoria.

Nate stared then said finally, “Well, great. If Sandy’s still talking to you, you should get her to help you. She knows every group in town.”

Running a hand over his face, Hunter groaned. “Yeah, well, I don’t think that’ll work. She’s gone. I have to figure this out for myself.”

“She lives in Astoria. How can she be gone?”

“Not gone from town. Gone from my life.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t give up. We all know she has strong opinions on everything.” Nate’s expression was vaguely superior, Hunter thought, now that Nate had his love life in order. Then Nate’s voice became vague as he refocused on the computer. “You’ll fix it. She’d do anything for anybody, and you, particularly.”

Hunter stood to leave and sketched a wave in Nate’s direction. Though Hunter had done his best to discourage Sandy’s feelings, he knew Nate’s assessment was probably still true. Sandy took care of everyone.

She just had to understand that Hunter Bristol took care of himself.

CHAPTER TWO

DISAPPOINTMENT LODGED like an anvil in her chest, Sandy did what she’d always done in such situations—she got on with her life. She drove to the Maritime Museum, parked her car and walked to the railing to look out on the river. The day was chilly and gray, but she loved it when the weather was like that. Moody and intimate, the air smelling the way she imagined heaven would.

She fought to think positively about other things. She had the rest of the day off and the girls were at daycare. She could finish painting the back porch. She could make goodie bags for Addie’s fourth birthday party on Saturday; she could buy gift wrap and treat herself to lunch while she was at it.

She sighed and a strangled little sound came out with the whoosh of air. She put a hand to her chest and breathed in, letting that wood-and-river fragrance fill her up. So she couldn’t have the man she wanted. She would survive.

Her father had left without any explanation when she was fourteen, and she’d survived. Her mother had gone into a decline for a few months, and Sandy had kept them going and they had both survived. Her husband had left two months after Addie was born, unable to deal with the tyrannies of parenthood, and she’d come through again. But, every time she’d had to pull it together, she’d felt a little of her soft side erode. She’d wondered what it would be like to have a man in her life who would be there when she turned to him, who would love her forever.

Well, she thought bracingly, that wasn’t going to happen today. She inhaled another gulp of Columbia River air and wandered back to her car, considering the virtues of painting her porch against shopping and lunch out, when her cell phone rang. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, but it could be the daycare calling about the girls.

The caller ID read A. Moreno. Armando and Celia Moreno and their two little girls were her tenants, living next door to Nate and Bobbie in a little cottage Sandy had inherited from her aunt. Bobbie had rented it before she met and married Nate and moved in with him and his nephews. Because the Morenos had come upon hard times, Sandy charged them just enough rent to cover property taxes and homeowner’s insurance. They were embarrassingly grateful.

She answered the phone.

“Sandee!” Celia was breathless. “I took the leaky faucet off the top of the...the sink in the kitchen to try to...to fix it myself and water is like a fountain! I called Mando, but he doesn’t answer. They are painting the apartment house by the bridge today.” Hunter had gotten Mando a job with Affordable Painting, one of his clients.

Must be one of those days, Sandy thought. “There’s a knob under the sink, Celia,” she said. “Turn off the one under the cold water. I’ll hold on while you do that.”

Sandy heard scurrying, mutterings in Spanish, then, “I did, but it doesn’t stop!”

“It’ll take a second.”

“Oh.” She heard Celia’s sigh of relief. “Just a little fountain. It is stopped.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there with a new faucet. That one was ready to be replaced anyway.”

Celia made a commiserating sound. “I’m sorry. Bobbie says you are having a Sandy day.”

She was surprised to feel herself smile. “I am.” A pileup of disasters was a Sandy day.

After a quick trip to City Lumber, Sandy arrived at her rental house with her tool box to find pandemonium that had nothing to do with plumbing. Celia babysat for friends who couldn’t afford formal daycare, did housekeeping and baked goodies for a Mexican bodega on Marine Drive. There were three children under two in a playpen in the middle of the kitchen. They babbled along with a children’s show on television, squealing their delight at the antics of a furry puppet. Fortunately Celia’s children weren’t home yet to contribute to the melee. Her oldest daughter, Crystal, was in the second grade, and Elena, her youngest, in kindergarten.

A loud whirring sound competed with the television as Bobbie sucked up water with a Shop-vac. She waved at Sandy then turned off the machine as two women Sandy recognized as friends of Celia’s went through a cardboard box and a large leaf bag on the table. Sandy knew they didn’t speak English and simply smiled and offered a friendly greeting.

“They have brought coats from our friends,” Celia explained. “In the box, they are good. In the bag, they need sewing. For el Armario.” The three women smiled broadly at Sandy. “The Clothes Closet,” Celia translated.

“Thank you!” Sandy was thrilled. Except for a few things of her own and her girls’ that she’d put aside in a corner of her bedroom, this was the first contribution to the Clothes Closet since the idea was conceived at a Food Bank meeting a month ago. “¡Gracias!”

The women nodded and responded in Spanish.

“They are happy to help,” Celia said, “because you have helped me.”

The women left in a flurry of waves and Spanish exclamations.

“Hi.” Bobbie hauled the large drum and hoses away from the sink so that Sandy had room to work. She looked into her friend’s face, her sympathetic expression explaining that she’d read Sandy’s morning accurately.

Sandy fought with the packaging, finally won and put the new faucet aside. “I am so sorry,” Celia said, hanging over her as she cleaned the sink around the mounting.

“It’s all right, Celia. No harm done.” After putting the faucet assembly in the holes, Sandy crawled under the sink to place washers and nuts on the mounting studs and hand tightened them, then finished the job with the wrench.

“It always surprises me that you’re so strong.” Bobbie had crouched beside Celia and was watching also. “I can never make a wrench work that well.”

“There’s a hardware store in my checkered past, remember. I clerked when I was in high school.” Sandy pointed to her tool box on the floor in front of the refrigerator. “There’s another wrench on top. Would you get it for me, please?”

Bobbie retrieved the tool. “I forgot that. You fixed the john in our dorm room. But, now you’re just showing off. Two wrenches?”

Sandy took it from her. “One to hold the fitting and the other to turn the nut on the water supply line.” She did as she explained, then told Celia to turn on the cold water, then the hot.

Bobbie looked doubtful. “You want to get out from under there first?”

“No. It’ll hold.”

Celia did as Sandy asked. There were no leaks.

Sandy crawled out from under the sink and accepted Bobbie’s hand up.

Celia wrapped her in a hug. “Thank you, Sandee. You are the best landlady in the world!” She handed her a check. “Here is the rent. Mando says we must pay you more, but we have no—”

Sandy stopped her. “Celia, we agreed on the rent. It’s fine until Mando gets a promotion or you win the lottery or something.”

Celia’s eyes teared. “I will come and clean your house.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. When my mother babysits for me, she can’t sit still, so she does it. You and Mando are fine here, Celia. You can live here at this rent until the girls get hitched.”

Celia repeated her last word uncertainly. “Hitched?”

“Casado,” Bobbie provided. “Married.” When Sandy looked at her in surprise, she said, “Crystal taught me. Last art class we drew brides, princesses and warriors.”

Crystal, Celia’s seven-year-old, was in an art class Bobbie taught at Astor Elementary School. Bobbie had learned about the Morenos’ troubles through Crystal last Christmas and told Nate, who had called the legal office Sandy worked for to see if anything could be done. Since then, they’d all been allied to make life more livable for the family.

Celia understood her meaning and hugged her again, smiling. “Until the girls are casado, si. But Mando will not let them get casado until they are thirty. You will wait a long time for more rent.”

“It’s fine, Celia.” Sandy glanced at her watch. “I’ll take the box of clothes home with me, run a few errands and be back to make sure the faucet isn’t leaking.”

Celia nodded. “Then I will send you home with frijoles refritos and flan.”

Sandy would have told her she didn’t have to, but Celia’s flan was legendary. And she put chorizo and onion in her beans.

“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.