Forever Friday Page 4

  One particular postcard caught his eye. A pretty young woman, her face teeming with anticipation, was reaching into a mailbox. The caption read, “Could there be a note from my sweetheart?” Gabe chuckled. Of course there would be a note, unless this gal’s man was blind and stupid. Any woman’s most treasured possessions were her love letters. After Gabe’s mother died, he discovered a small bundle tied with a ribbon and safely tucked near the bottom of her cedar chest. He’d felt a little guilty about reading them, even though they were mostly concerned with his parents’ ranching plans. It was obvious she’d read one letter more than the others because it was the most faded and contained a poem composed by his father. Gabe had no idea his father ever wrote poetry and could only remember the last two lines:

  Out where the coyotes and doggies roam

  Our work and love will build a home.

  He smiled. The man who rarely showed his soft side had created one simple love poem, which his wife cherished for decades. What if he’d written her a poem each year? If the waitress’s husband had sent a few romantic postcards early in their marriage, he might have felt close enough to look the other way when tempted. It made sense. A man whose thoughts about his mate lingered into beautiful prose would be less likely to stray.

  What if the waitress’s husband had sent her a card each month?

  What if her was Huck Huckabee, and he, Gabe, was the card-sending husband?

  A sudden tingle surged, warming the depths of Gabe Alexander’s lonely soul. He’d safeguard their relationship with postcards and poetry. The Long Division would lie in ruins at Huck Huckabee’s feet. He began to imagine it. Beginning the first week of their marriage, he’d compose a short verse about their love on the back of a meaningful postcard, then mail it in time to arrive for the weekend. With fifty-two Fridays each year, their bond would multiply into a million unbreakable connections.

  After some digging, Gabe found a postcard with a man and woman gazing into each other’s eyes. Perfect. He’d made up his mind.

  “Are you finding what you need?” a salesclerk asked.

  “Absolutely. Unless you have a postcard with oysters.”

  “Oysters, sir? What’s the occasion?

  Gabe smiled. “I’m getting married.”

  April 1926

  Houston, Texas

  Huck

  Huck slowly raised the lid on her jewelry box and peeked inside. Her engagement ring was still there, of course.

  Waiting.

  Patiently.

  She listened to the ticking alarm clock atop her dresser and sighed at the folly of her own annoyance.

  “How long must I wait for an answer?” Huck whispered. She’d not returned to Cecil’s Fish Market that wet Houston April, purposely avoiding Gabe while seeking divine guidance about marrying her fiancé, Clark Richards. She hadn’t expected to see Mister Jack again, but had offered several prayers each day for wisdom, then focused her thoughts on the pleasant times she and Clark had shared. After all, it was his ring that sometimes encircled her finger.

  Sometimes because she wrote left-handed and it scraped the chalkboard at Sidney Lanier. Sometimes because of her daily chores. It would be silly to wash dishes or perform cleaning duties while wearing a one-carat diamond. She might lose it. So the ring resided in her room at Mrs. Thompson’s boardinghouse, except on days when Clark came to call. Unexpected days like today, or rather evenings.

  It was Monday and she’d stayed after school tutoring students and grading papers. She still had to enter the marks into her grade book before bedtime, as well as make her lunch for the following day. On top of that, she’d looked forward to spending part of the evening soaking in a hot bath and washing her hair. It was almost waist-length and took forever to dry. However, the moment she’d arrived back at Mrs. Thompson’s, she found a note thumbtacked to her door. Clark was in town on business and would swing by and pick her up at eight p.m. He was dying to try the city’s finest new restaurant, Pickwicks.

  “I’ll have to wait to wash my hair on another day,” Huck muttered regretfully.

  She reached inside the jewelry box. The ring felt heavy, even larger than on the afternoon Clark gave it to her. She held it up to the light and studied the stone’s multifaceted brilliance. It was beautiful. And even though she knew it was impossible for a diamond to grow in size, everything else about their relationship had shrunk, especially her feelings. Clark constantly boasted about owning the biggest and the best. Sometimes he acted as if he owned her.

  Huck slipped the ring on her finger. Her fiancé’s materialistic ideas were frustrating indeed. But in the Richards family, expensive gifts measured the depth of one’s love and devotion. Clark would’ve never given her such an exquisite diamond if he didn’t love her with all his heart.

  She glanced at the clock. Thirty-three minutes to spare. So she lay back on her bed and propped her legs up on two pillows. Perhaps Clark would be different this time. He’d not always behaved in such a serious manner. In fact, she’d never known anyone as delightfully funny. Moreover, he could read her better than anyone in the entire Huckabee household, even Cutter. She sighed. Clark knew immediately when she was being honest, or not entirely truthful. Even so, she’d never had the courage to tell him about her guardian angel.

  Huck closed her eyes. After her encounter with Mister Jack, she’d wondered if Clark might be her soul mate. But thoughts of her chance encounter with Gabe still swirled through her mind. Had she been mistaken?

  Both Huck and Clark had grown up seventy miles north in the piney East Texas community of Huntsville. Started first grade together and even attended the same church. Throughout their public education, Clark penned and passed dozens of love notes, but never did anything wildly romantic until seventh grade Sunday school. It was Bible Memorization Day, and girls paired with girls and boys with boys. The gender was uneven, so Clark suggested he and Huck partner. Instead of memorizing the Twenty-Third Psalm, he whispered an especially daring passage out of the Song of Solomon, inserting both their names and emphasizing descriptive words. If she hadn’t gasped at the word “breasts,” old Mrs. Hudge—dubbed Methuselah’s Grandmother—would never have known. Until then, everyone thought her ears had played out around the turn of the century. So instead of Sunday’s tasty fried chicken dinner, Clark suffered a nasty helping of lye soap with razor strap sting for dessert, spending the rest of the day standing outside the privy between soap-related bouts. Huck had never heard of anyone in Walker County being punished for reciting Holy Scripture and had no idea God even knew the word “breasts” or that married folks carried on that way. So she read the entire Song by moonlight after the family had gone to bed.

  During high school, Clark was an all-state linebacker with gladiator good looks and voted most handsome. She was captain of the cheer squad, naturally stunning, and chosen most beautiful. And he was a friend as much as a beau: carefree, daring, and always interesting. When the slow freight trains would steam through town, she and Clark would occasionally hop an empty boxcar and pretend they were hobos. They’d sit leisurely in the open doorway, and Clark would steal a kiss or two. When the train began to pick up speed, they’d hold hands and jump off. Once, a man saw them and threatened to inform the railroad authorities. So they concocted a wild tale about how they’d ridden all the way from Tampa, Florida, in search of their lost family. The man handed them a dollar and wished them luck. For days afterward, Clark would whisper “Tampa” in Huck’s ear, and then they’d laugh themselves silly.

  At Sam Houston Normal Institute—SHNI, the local college—Huck majored in education and Clark was an all-American. They attended the same postgame parties and other collegiate functions, soon evolving into a “likely couple,” which sometimes pleased Huck as much as it displeased her. Clark could be debonair one minute and crude the next. Somehow, he always shadowed her, even at church. When she finally consented to a formal courtship during their senior year, it gratified her mother immensely.

  “H
e’s a well-educated boy,” Annise had said one evening while putting away the supper dishes.

  “I know, Mother.” Huck stacked several plates and handed them over. “But there are lots of educated men.”

  “And—missed a spot on this one—and he’s a member of our local congregation. Brother Ralph Leggett says Clark hasn’t been absent from a service since he can remember.”

  Huck inspected the plate. “The same Brother Leggett who can’t remember to button his suspenders, so he paid the price last Sunday during ‘Stand Up for Jesus’?”

  Annise ignored the remark. “You know what I mean. Heaven forbid you marry someone from a different denomination. Remember your brother.”

  “Cutter’s still single, Mother. Is there something about him I should know?” Huck smiled and glanced at her mother, who remained expressionless.

  “I mean your oldest brother’s wife, Helen, my only daughter-in-law who refused to change her church affiliation once she knew the truth.”

  Huck slid the plate underneath the final stack. It wasn’t dirty, just a bit different in design. Helen was probably closer to God than anyone in the entire Huckabee clan.

  It wasn’t long before Clark began hinting at marriage, planning each moment of time together. To Huck their relationship reeked of predictability. As college graduation neared, he’d become businesslike with their relationship, even domineering. To complicate matters, she’d begun doubting that he was her soul mate, so evaded all proposal attempts.

  When they graduated from SHNI and Huck landed the job at Sidney Lanier, Clark wanted to follow. However, his father was president of Huntsville’s First National Bank and quickly offered his son a junior vice-president’s income and prestige. That’s when Clark purchased the big diamond. Huck never really intended to accept it, but he asked her in the middle of the Huckabee Christmas afternoon domino game. Ethan was in the process of skunking several sons, their wives, and a number of grandkids when Clark suddenly dropped to his knees, slipped the ring on Huck’s finger, and offered his eternal fidelity. Before she could answer, her mother and most of the others welcomed Clark into the family, dragging him into the kitchen for his pick of celebratory dessert. Her father dropped his final domino and grunted. Then jammed a chaw of tobacco between his teeth and retreated outside to chew and spit off the gallery. Cutter followed.

  Huck watched the front door slam. Her father and twin brother would eventually accept Clark into the family. It would just take time, and perhaps a few hundred domino games. Someone called Huck’s name from the kitchen. She stood, glancing at her father’s empty chair. His last domino lay facedown. How did he always know what to keep and what to throw away? As if on cue, her mind flooded with thoughts of Mister Jack. She’d asked him the same question. And suddenly, his answer made her uncomfortable. “Look deep into a man’s eyes and you’ll see his hopes and dreams.”

  Huck shuddered. Clark was constantly spouting about his hopes and dreams. Somehow, she’d never seen them in his eyes.

  Clark arrived at Mrs. Thompson’s boardinghouse at eight o’clock sharp to take Huck to dinner. They drove to a refurbished downtown building and pulled up out front. “Redoing these old dinosaurs into elite restaurants is all the rage,” he stated proudly as the valet opened Huck’s door. “And talk about a good investment.”

  Pickwicks’ elaborate entryway reminded Huck of pictures she’d seen in travelogues of Elizabethan mansions. And instead of one large dining room, there were several smaller ones, all hearth and candlelit cozy, each one elegantly furnished.

  “This is lovely,” Huck said as soon as they were seated. And then the restaurant’s name suddenly made sense. The Pickwick Papers was Charles Dickens’s first novel. She breathed deeply. Perhaps the evening would turn out better than expected.

  A white-gloved busboy served ice water, while another placed an embroidered napkin in Huck’s lap. A waiter appeared with menus, his movements as starched as his uniform. “Please take your time,” the waiter said. “Prime rib is our house specialty. I’ll return momentarily for your order.”

  Clark fixed his gaze on Huck’s left hand. “I love coming to Houston to see my diamond ring,” he said casually.

  Huck glanced down, having considered it hers. “Just the ring?” She repositioned the napkin in her lap.

  “You know what I mean. I also love seeing who’s attached to it.” He laughed and studied his menu.

  “An extremely tired woman is attached,” Huck said. “I’ll be recording grades in my sleep tonight. My classes have been diagramming sentences for the past two weeks. I’ve tried to make it interesting to them, but—”

  “How about that prime rib?” Clark interrupted. “It’s served with new potatoes in a white wine sauce.”

  “I’d rather have a small beefsteak, well done. And a salad.”

  “That’s what you always order.”

  “Prime rib’s too rare for my taste. You know that.”

  Clark raised his chin and leaned forward. “I think since I went to all the trouble of escorting you here, you’d want to honor my suggestion.”

  “Fine.” Huck was too tired to argue. And after the day she’d had, she’d rather talk than eat anyway.

  The waiter returned, took their order, then spun on a heel and marched away. Huck continued her story. “As I said earlier, I’ve been teaching my classes how to properly diagram sentences.”

  “That’s nice, not that they’ll find it useful in a career.”

  “And what do mean by that?”

  “Oh, Huck, don’t come undone. This is the age of science and industry. Do you think the Wright brothers invented flight by defining subjects and predicates?”

  “Of course not, but they had to succinctly write about their discovery.” She paused. “And since we’re on the subject, what does banking have to do with our modern age?”

  He laughed. “Finance controls everything. Without the proper backing, no great invention would ever make it out of the laboratory. Successful industry depends not only upon investors who believe in science but us banking wizards who are savvy enough to make a profit for all concerned.”

  Huck stared past Clark and considered the great author who had inspired the restaurant’s name. His brilliant prose still lived, unhindered by the boundaries of the modern industrial age, while encompassing the heart and soul of all mankind.

  “Speaking of banks,” Clark said beneath raised eyebrows, “guess what happened at work today?”

  Huck frowned. “It got robbed and there’s no more money for science and industry?”

  “Absolutely not.” Clark glanced about the room and lowered his voice. “Please consider the ramifications of your words before speaking. That’s how rumors get started.”

  “Clark, dear. I wasn’t being serious.”

  “Obviously.” He cleared his throat. “You weren’t being smart either. Don’t turn around and look, but I think one of our shareholders just walked in. He’s liable to recognize me and drop by our table.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about.” Huck smiled sweetly. “I’ll make sure to speak on his level of understanding.”

  “See that you do.” Clark paused, then sighed and wagged his head.

  When the man didn’t appear, Clark frowned. “You insist on being facetious when I’ve got monumental news to share.”

  Huck leaned forward. “News?”

  “Well …” He grinned. “I’m being promoted to senior vice-president.”

  “Oh, Clark. That’s wonderful.”

  “My salary will double, plus I’ll be vested. Naturally there’ll be added responsibilities,” he continued, explaining each one in great detail until the food came.

  “Which means we can get married sooner than planned,” he finished as soon as they were alone again.

  Huck stared down at her plate and felt slightly nauseous. “I didn’t think we’d set an exact date.”

  “Correct. Now we can.” He began eating.

  A defini
tive date was the last thing Huck wanted to discuss, but Clark seemed intent, which was probably the main reason he’d insisted upon dinner. Perhaps she could redirect their conversation.

  “So?” he said between bites. “How about—”

  Huck spoke up. “Before the wedding, I was thinking about cutting my hair.”

  He swallowed. “Your hair?”

  “Into the latest flapper bob. It’s all the rage.”

  Clark turned redder than the beef. “I forbid you to snip a single strand,” he said abruptly.

  “You what?” In all her growing-up years, she had never heard her father “forbid” her mother to do anything. He might strongly disagree, citing various reasons, but ultimately the decision was her mother’s.

  Clark continued. “My future wife will not look like a floozy. I won’t allow it.”

  Huck slowly stood and undid her bun, letting her hair fall down her back. People stared.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered. “You’re embarrassing me. I demand you sit at once.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you, Clark dear.” Huck shook her hair out, making herself resemble a wild, windblown woman. “See? Now there won’t be any question about what you allow or your future wife’s status as a short-haired floozy.”

  “You’re acting ridiculous. I demand you sit and keep your voice down.”

  “And one more thing …” Huck grabbed a few strands of hair. Holding them at arm’s length, she separated a single hair between her thumb and forefinger. “Is this the one you forbid me to cut? Or is it one of the others?”

  Clark glanced about the room, stood, and spoke in a distinct hushed tone. “I will pull out your chair and you will calmly sit.” Reaching for Huck’s chair, he grasped her wrist instead.

  “You’re hurting me. Let go.”

  “Let go of your hair first,” he replied in a tone indifferent to her pain.