'Til Summer's End

By Janet Bray Rubert

As Sarah announces shes pregnant, Geology Professor Mark Kingsley retreats into silence --
their perfect marriage arrangement over. Still she remains until the doctoral acceptance letter from the University of Washington arrives. While Mark is on another hiking trip, Sarah moves out, his only
contact a monthly check.
In Seattle, work, graduate classes, motherhood and preparations for a return trip to West Africa
for her dissertation in ethnomusicology leave Sarah little time for remorse or to grieve her grandparents
recent tragic deaths.
Surely, a week on the Idaho family farm will rejuvenate her and give her time to reflect. On the
drive over, Sarah can almost hear the bacon sizzling in the cast iron skillet, taste her mothers cinnamon
rolls. Mornings shell join her Dad on the porch to watch the sunrise above the Idaho wheat fields and
listen to the meadowlarks song. Refreshed, shell leave Rachel with Mom and Dad, head back to
Seattle, play matron of honor in her best friends wedding then fly to Ghana for the summer. She and her
mother enjoy a shopping trip to Lewiston and reminisce while sorting through Grandma Myers hats.
Will Sarahs perfect plans quickly unravel?
Her menopausal mother still mourns her parents loss, her recently married younger brother is
confrontational. Nightmares, unexplainable fatigue and a lengthy, soul-searching counseling session
leave her exhausted and struggling to wake and her best friends wedding hoopla is another reminder
shes a pining, sorta-single mom.
In Ghana, fear and desperation pulse through her body with every drum beat. Exhaustion
overtakes her, frightening the family whose hut she shares. Whats wrong with Sarah?
Til Summers End, explores the interconnectedness of three generations -- the strain of birth,
death, aging, mental and physical illness and marriage -- to pull apart or bring together.
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• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491811450

Janet Bray Rubert

Janet Bray Rubert brings depth to her characters combining her graduate studies in psychology and literature, crisis counseling, musical training and travel to Ghana where a portion of the story takes place. She has written for several newspapers including a monthly personal column. Her work has appeared in poetry anthologies, various magazines and periodicals. Rubert co-founded childbirth education in her community, earned national certification in prenatal education and was inducted as a Fellow into the American College of Childbirth Educators. After completing a Reed Alumni College fiction class taught by author, Janet Fitch and a poetry workshop from Oregon Poet Laureate Dr. William Stafford, she was inspired to complete her first novel. Currently, the author is collaborating on two historical nonfiction books and her sequel novel. She and her husband of 50 years, divide their time between Washington State and Idaho. They have two children and three grandchildren.

Book preview

Prologue

With tearless eyes, Sarah took a last minute inventory of the two-bedroom Portland condo she’d once called home.

When you get back, there won’t be a trace of us, she declared. I tried to make this work. I really did! But your emotional neglect, your silence, make it all-too clear. It’s over! The sad thing is, Mark, our absence won’t change your life one iota. Except . . . now you won’t have to explain where you’re going or when you’ll be back. As if you ever did.

As the weather man predicted, Pacific storm clouds swirled across Northwest Oregon skies enveloping the early morning stench of burnt toast and reheated coffee. Sarah slowly scanned the room, absorbing the memories soon to be left behind; memories of those first precious months when after an evening graduate class at Portland State University, her heart would wildly thump as she pulled into their driveway, bound through the door, toss her backpack on this very kitchen table and run to his warm, embracing arms.

That was before I reluctantly delivered the news . . . . the excited words that innocently tumbled from my mouth. ‘We’re pregnant,’ I’d squealed as I stood motionless watching the color drain from your face. Before me, you transformed into some dark, consuming cloud.

Campus charmer! Oh, you were good. I mistook goosebumps for love. You even had my Dad fooled. Something Paul and I could never do. I should have hightailed it back to Idaho before you stole the last speck of common sense left in me. But it was too late, I was now pregnant and suddenly alone.

Hand-strung seashells clanked angrily as threatening steely clouds swallowed the promise of a warm spring day. She recalled so vividly, those three glorious days honeymooning at the Sea Star Bed and Breakfast, how they’d strolled hand and hand along Newport’s main street, popping in and out of trinket-filled stores, buying the wind chime she’d picked from the many dangling from the ceiling. He’d hung it for her on this covered deck just outside the kitchenette where she listened to their merry jangles. She reached for the long strands of shells and carefully tucked it in her bag.

You won’t miss this either, she declared.

From a notepad, Sarah carelessly ripped out a sheet of paper, grabbed a pen from her canvas tote and began.

Dear . . .

Teeth clenched, she tossed the waded paper into the trash and tore out another.

Mark—By the time you read this . . . .

While innocence slumbered on, Sarah printed her name in capitals, deliberately jamming the point through the paper as she crossed the last H, nearly added her maiden name, then thought better of it.

A soft coo caught her attention, her heart softened with motherly love. She sighed with disappointment,

Well, at least one good thing has come out of this. No doubt your father will never even notice we’ve gone. And, precious one, you won’t remember what he never gave you—a small part of himself.

Sarah visualized the geology professor stealthily making his way through the darkened kitchen late Sunday night after his usual weekend with his hiking buddies.

Oblivious of our absence, you’ll sit on that hard kitchen chair, unlace your well-worn boots and place them neatly by the door. Then, thinking we’re sound asleep, you’ll tiptoe to the couch and contentedly drift off until six.

Fighting back remorseful tears, she pulled a tissue from her sweater pocket, scrawled Professor Kingsley on a recycled envelope and propped it between the pewter salt and pepper shakers, a wedding gift from some old family friends of his parents.

Monday morning you’ll wake up, flip on the news, trudge into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and . . . , and then instead of ignoring me standing there in my terry-cloth bathrobe and sloppy slippers, you’ll find it!

As you read these words, will you be stunned? Grin victoriously? Oh, Mark, lets not keep tippy-toeing around this place in silence. Admit it! We’re strangers who just happen to occupy the same space. It was your bachelor pad to start with so I guess that means Rachel and I are out of here.

A gentle sigh of determination, final words resolute. You’re not the same Professor Kingsley I fell in love with, and I’m definitely not that doting student in your class.

She placed the key on the table, checked her briefcase for the doctoral acceptance letter from the University of Washington’s music department, gently scooped up her sleeping child and softly closed the back door with finality.

Chapter One

Sarah escorted Rachel to her last day of preschool before heading for the park to meet up with a running buddy, a sophomore and member of the women’s track team. After a brief regimen of stretches, the pair set out for their daily jaunt, zooming past strolling couples, creating a wide berth for dog walkers and keeping pace with the youthful male joggers. At first, Sarah let the younger triathlete set the pace. But as they approached the third mile, she was surprised to hear her own out-of-breath voice call out Wait up, Barb.

Just one more mile, the younger woman chanted. But as each foot slammed against the hard-packed path, in Sarah’s mind her mother’s cautious voice echoed what her muscles screamed. Don’t overdo.

Right, Mom, her father’s overpowering words reinforced Barb’s. Never give up, kiddo. Never, Dad! But this is supposed to be fun. And right now it’s anything but.

As if overhearing her thoughts, the nineteen-year-old glanced back, circled around, then moved along side. Let’s be race horses—walk the last mile, Barb chuckled.

Sarah wasn’t used to giving up so easily. Been a grueling week tying up loose ends with work, school, packing and my friend’s wedding.

Well, then lets pretend there’s a good-looking stable boy to brush us down afterward, Barb teased.

Sarah held up her left hand, the gold band still graced her finger. Just to remind myself that I’m a sorta married single mom.

Ooo! Afraid a little massage will what? Barb giggled and threw up her hands in goodnatured mockery. How long has it been anyway? You’re too young to wait around. It’s time you moved on.

Usually quick with a comeback, Sarah awkwardly searched for words. Two years exactly. And I’ve been so busy the time has flown by. Seriously, I’ll call you when I get back from Ghana.

As she plunked in the key code of the apartment complex, a chilly morning breeze rushed through her damp sweats. She bolted through the door and charged down the narrow hall toward the shower, creating a drop and kick trail of discarded clothes and running shoes along the way. Two years since I walked out that door. Two years without a word. Oh, well, I haven’t got the time nor the energy to give you a thought. Obviously, Mark, you don’t think about us except when you go to the bank.

Heavy steam soon filled her nostrils and thickly frosted the glass enclosure before the ineffective fan sucked up just enough to keep her from suffocating. Sorry Barb but when I get back to Seattle this fall, I’m going to have to find someone more my own age to run with. Like twenty-eight is old. You’re just coddling me anyway.

One by one, she stretched the tender muscles of her arms and legs, massaging them with a mesh ball coated with creamy jasmine-scented body wash—a token gift for hosting her best friend Megan’s first of several bridal showers.

After three-minutes, she reluctantly shut off the water—a hard-and-fast well water rule she’d been brought up to observe. Sarah shuddered as she stepped onto the mat and wished he was there to hand her a pre-warmed towel. Instead, she wrapped herself snugly in an oversized terry robe then shuffled her way to the kitchen to make one of her high-protein smoothies.

With classes finished for the summer, Sarah had a rare moment to relax, She grabbed the morning paper, stepped onto the still damp deck and plopped into a cushioned rattan chair. I do love the city; just enough invention and concrete to make life comfy.

In the morning stillness she watched as the glow of a peach cobbler morning oozed across the crystalline western sky—the Olympics, their rugged tips looming above the fog like an ancient city rising out of a sheer white shroud. She visualized the early morning burst of youthful, energetic Seattlites with foam-laden lattes and bulging attache cases making their way through the roller-coaster streets and herded into the narrow, cloudscrapers to spend this glorious day in a soundproof cubicle with tinted windows to block out the rays.

Now that the leaves of the towering oak had emerged, their strong, gnarled arms provided her shade and privacy—a perfect nesting place for various birds and fluffy-tailed squirrels. Before her, the euphonic chirps of a courting bird seized her attention. The feathered, brown creature distracted by the natural spring ritual, ceremoniously fanned his wings like a tremolo. Despite his diminutive size, this tenacious fellow was sure to win the attention of the nearby, curious female who, pretending not to notice his advances, cocked her head and cautiously inched along the branch to get a better look at her suitor.

Sarah continued to observe the wooing ritual with a mixture of curiosity and a hollow twinge of envy and guilt. While in Africa, she’d miss the nest building, the hatching eggs and fledglings as they attempted their first flight. I’ll leave the newlyweds a note. Megan will love watching the babies grow while I’m gone and Brian’s Bellevue home is being renovated.

Through thick, dark lashes, she peeped through the snarl of intertwining limbs to scrutinize a young couple huddled beneath the sanctuary of an all encompassing blue umbrella. The melancholy sentry insatiably hungered as the lovers wrapped their arms about each other. And as she pressed her head upon his shoulder, they lilted, as one, across the mossy cobbled courtyard and floated beyond sight.

Like a shooting star, Sarah rubbed her eyes wondering. Had she actually seen them there or had these apparitions drifted out of the low-lying fog, soaring upward in their hungry quest for the light?

*     *     *

Yikes! If I want a decent parking spot I’d better hustle.

Not to disturb her bird couple, Sarah slowly rose from the chair and inched backward through the open French doors. Her clothes previously laid out, she slipped into the tangerine, fuchsia and lime multitiered broom skirt Mark had bought her at the Portland Saturday Market nearly five years ago. The brightly colored tie-dye conjured up memories that in the beginning there had been good times between them. She added a passion-pink tee then stood before the mirror to pull her hair into a ponytail, slide in a pair of large silver hoops and dab on some barely pink lipstick and blush.

Normally, Sarah would have biked over to pick up her daughter. But today at 10:30, her soon-to-be four-year-old would receive her preschool diploma, bound for prekindergarten. The invitation said there would be a musical program followed by a punch-and-cookie reception.

Wish you could join us, Mr. Independence. You apparently have absolutely no clue of what you’re missing, but I’m not so sure you even care. She let out an exasperated sigh. There’s nothing like cheering on your own child and little classmates. Kids decked out in caps and gowns, lined up like chattering birds on a power line waiting eagerly to receive a scrolled piece of paper soon to be carefully added to a special scrapbook. This is a dress rehearsal for many graduations, school dances and recitals to come. Your sisters are certainly concerned our little darling will leave the security of the nest and fly away before you come to your senses. They have more confidence that I do that it will ever happen.

Unexpected as she was, Rachel is a very special gift. I cherish every day that I spend with her., especially while I’m away from her in Africa. Oh, how I’ll miss my little butterfly.

Sarah stepped into a pair of hand-tooled leather thongs from a trip to Berkley, grabbed her wicker bag and the box of bakery cookies then jetted out the door.

Chapter Two

Puget Sound Christian Academy was held in the basement of the Methodist Church, just twelve blocks from the apartment complex. With extra parents attending, the lot would surely fill up fast, and Sarah wanted to avoid parking her black Volvo in the street. It wasn’t a new car nor hardly vintage, but it was dependable and since Mark had helped her pick it out five years ago, she’d pampered Stallion like a first born.

As a former farm girl, she’d tinkered with tractor motors and old pickups alongside two Grandpas, her dad and brother, learning the importance of regular maintenance. And with wrench in hand and a greasy rag hanging from her pocket, Sarah tried, for a time, to be one-of-the-guys.

Since moving to the city, however, it was impossible to get her hands dirty. Fortunately, through friends, she had a reliable and reasonably priced mechanic. Every time she went home for a visit, she knew even before the engine had a chance to cool, the men would have their heads burrowed under the hood of her car while she headed for the house. Tinkering, they’d called it. Visualizing it made her chuckle even without Grandpa Myers.

There’s an empty spot, she nearly shouted, spying a waiting bay.

But a mom driving a hulky SUV bullied her way in first. Drat!

Up ahead another vacant spot, Sarah whipped the car in, got out and locked up. After the rejuvenating hot shower and quiet observance, Sarah’s brisk and confident stride had returned as she charged toward the heavy side door.

Wait up, a familiar but out-of-breath voice called out as Jen Russell raced across the parking lot, arms cutting through the air like a farmer’s windmill. I was hoping to get here early enough to secure good seats for pictures. It seems everyone else has the same idea. Jen was a forty-two-year-old former high school psychology teacher and mother of four-year-old twins Sadie and Hattie. Isn’t this exciting? My girls are planning some sort of surprise. Little Chatty Kathy’s won’t tell me more.

The two mothers had often talked while standing outside the preschool door for their children to emerge. It was Jen who first welcomed them to the Seattle area after moving from Portland, Oregon where she’d been a PSU graduate student, married and gave birth.

At first, the transition from a rural Idaho town of less than 600 to a city the size of Portland had seemed quite a feat of courage. The university’s student body alone had far more people than all of Lewis County, Idaho. The move to Seattle was made all the easier with friends like the Russell’s.

Days after escaping north to the Puget Sound area with a toddler, Sarah had checked out several preschool programs. This one ranked highest on the list plus was conveniently located near the U and their apartment. She relished the idea of uniforms, the low student-teacher ratio, the strict but not harsh discipline and the balance of the arts, academics, physical activities and Biblical instruction. Some of the parents, including Bernard and Jen, were members of the congregation which allowed Rachel the opportunity to visit some of her school chums during Sunday school.

The two women briskly headed into the sanctuary where pews were already filling fast. Find a spot for three, Jen said. As usual, Bernie is hung up with a customer. I only hope he’s here in time to see the girls perform. They’d be heartbroken if their father missed their performance.

Well, at least you’ve got backup, Sarah teased, pointing to the camera dangling from her shoulder. It is Friday. Traffic gets a bit thick with everybody trying to head out of town on a beautiful spring day.

Wouldn’t know about the get-out-of-town thing, Jen sighed. Bernie spends far too much time at that store. I keep urging him to hire more help, but no one can do it like… . well, you know. Never the right person with whom he’d entrust his precious store. She shook her head in mock disgust.

Sarah empathetically watched Jen nervously fidget, frequently checking her watch and monitoring the auditorium door.

Looks like I made it just in time, Bernard said as he scooted in beside his wife and gave her a peck on the cheek. What a crowd, I had to park two blocks away.

Jen gave him a wry smile which he seemed to ignore.

Nice to see you, again, Sarah, his grip strong.

A fellow runner, she had seen Bernard at several events including the San Juan Island Marathon, the 200-mile Seattle to Portland bike ride and the Multiple Sclerosis Walk-a-Thon. Jen and the girls always cheering him on from the sidelines.

From her peripheral vision, Sarah noticed Ms. Jarvis walk across the stage and adjust the mic down to her five-foot-three-inch height.

Welcome everyone, the principal said, grinning. Please stand for the flag salute and an opening prayer.

As the two classes of children filed on stage and stepped into their assigned spots on the risers, Jen handed her husband the camera. The makeshift stage was decorated with jigsaw cutouts the children had painted—billowy green trees, colorful flowers and a white picket fence. Mrs. Jenkins, the music teacher announced the first song about May flowers and spring showers. Several children had solo parts in a song about Noah’s Ark while others rang bells, clanged triangles and two feisty boys beat on drums. As they’d performed during the Christmas program, the children silently signed to Jesus Loves the Little Children while John Spaulding, who taught the other three-year-old class, accompanied them on the piano.

Just before the girls were supposed to sing, Bernard found an inconspicuous place to crouch on one knee for a good shot. The twins and Rachel crossed the stage while their teacher, Miss Connors, handed the microphone to Sadie who now stood in the middle. When they were situated, the trio nodded to the accompanist to begin. Like the Andrews’ Sisters, they leaned in together, smiled at the audience with a medley of 40’s tunes.

The restrained audience waited until the end of the performance before breaking into enthusiastic clapping. Bernard panned the spectators, then focused on the two unsuspecting mothers who eagerly jumped up and down clapping and cheering.

Did you know about this, Jen asked Sarah, who shook her head. I’m so glad Bernie was here to see it.

Isn’t he always? Sarah sighed.

As rehearsed, each child skittered across the stage like a mama quail and her chicks to receive their diploma and a hug,

We’re taking the girls for a quick lunch at that new deli down the block, Bernard announced, his intense dark eyes looking squarely into hers as Sadie and Hattie hung from each of his arms. Care to join us?

Please? Rachel begged, jumping up and down like a yo-yo.

Well, Sarah hesitated, feeling slightly pressured. I’m still packing.

The girls looked crushed.

Since you did such a phenomenal job and it’s your last day let’s celebrate.

The deli was close enough to walk. Inside, the children quickly made their way to a nearby booth, giving the adults a chance for some grownup talk, as Bernard liked to call it.

The adults ordered the traditional Northwest Friday special, clam chowder with oyster crackers while the girls decided on corn dogs and fries with ketchup.

How’s your mother doing? Jen asked, touching the back of Sarah’s hand. Although I’ve never met her, I can only imagine how hard these past months have been. I remember what a state I was in when my mother passed. I still have days when I forget and start to dial her up.

Sorry, Jen. You must have been close.

Very. Until I finally got married, we did everything together like sisters.

Bernard silently took her hand.

Mom doesn’t let on much—it’s that old school, stiff-upper-lip thing, I guess. Sarah chuckled then continued. Even though the funeral was last November, Mom decided we’d toss the ashes when the weather is predictable, Grandma’s favorite flowers are in full bloom and I could be there. We’ll be congregating at this beautiful spot out past the fields on a hill overlooking the canyon where my grandparents used to picnic when they were courting.

Sounds lovely. Wish I could have met your grandparents when they came to Seattle. Just happened to be the weekend we went to Leavenworth to spend Thanksgiving with Bernie’s brother and family.

And I left Jim in charge of the store for three whole days. Bernard laughed, glancing at his wife whose furrowed brow seemed a warning. Sorry, little inside joke.

And you stewed about it the whole time. Didn’t think I noticed, did you?

Sarah remembered more than once when Jen’s art class would run over and Bernard would be summoned to pick up the girls. It was always pleasant, those friendly chats outside the door—his intuitive nature, the way he focused on their discussions no matter how trite, the depth of his eyes. And yet, she’d come away melancholy. In many ways, he’s like Mark used to be. Only now—the two couldn’t be more polarized.

So how long ’til you’re back in the States? he asked.

Mid August. As-soon-as I arrive at Sea-Tac, I’ll fly to the Tri-Cities where my family will pick me up, visit Great Aunt Gertrude, then head for the farm—a good two hours away. I’ll stay with the folks a week or so before heading back in time for Rachel to start pre-kindergarten. I’m also teaching two classes this fall plus writing my dissertation. That’s the plan anyway. You know what they say?

I’m a detail guy myself, Bernard commented, glancing at his wife. Listening to your schedule makes me feel like a slacker.

You do what you have to do. Anyway, Jen says your store keeps you quite busy.

Sarah watched as Jen rolled her eyes and nodded in agreement. She thought back at the many times her friend had complained of her husband’s workload and extra curricular activities. She ought to be married to someone like Mark for just a few days then she’d appreciate what she’s got. He may be late, but as far as I know, Bernard has attended every recital and game those girls have ever been involved in, and Jen’s got them in everything imaginable.

Spend a few days on a farm especially during harvest. Nature’s in control. Farmers are completely guided by weather and seasons. I can remember many times when Dad worked through the night trying to beat an impending storm, Mom or one of us kids finally bringing supper and another thermos of coffee to him. And of course, we all had our chores to do. We’d all be out helping in one way or another.

It would certainly be a change of pace for me anyway, Jen said. All I know about farm life is what I see in the movies.

Well, then, maybe you and the twins should make a visit, Jen offered. I’ll mention it to Mom. I’ve got nine whole days before I fly out. Early tomorrow morning, I’m heading over for a week’s visit. Sunday after church, we’re all congregating on the hill to throw Grandma’s and Grandpa’s ashes. But do come stay while I’m gone. The girls would have such fun and you could take my place at the kitchen table and chat with Mom or sit and rock on the porch with Dad on a Sunday morning, watch the sunrise and sip coffee. Listen to the Robins and the Meadowlarks. My week there will be brief. I’m hoping for some quiet time with my folks and get Rachel settled in before I head back for a dress rehearsal and banquet. Then next Saturday I’m be playing matron of honor for my friend, Megan’s wedding.

Who’s the groom?" Bernard asked, opening the heavy glass door.

Brian Quinn, teaches high school chemistry. You may have bumped into him at some sporting event.

Among thousands of other young athletes! he said, pulling out his palm pilot. Before I forget, please put my Rotary club on your fall schedule. When I told the program committee about your research, they wanted you as guest speaker. How’s October tenth?

Bernard added the information, checked his diamond-studded watch and declared he needed to head back to the downtown men’s clothing store.

"Jen’s always wanting me to find activities we can all enjoy, so when a friend mentioned he was selling his sailboat, I jumped on it. Sleeps eight adults, more than enough room for the two of you—maybe invite those newlyweds and another couple, if you like. Say early September? That