We WALK in FOOTPRINTS BOOK TWO

By Ellyn Weaver

When Austin meets Jenny, sparks fly. A fleeting essence haunts his dreams, invades his day-time fantasies. Bewitched, he pursues her. Equally attracted to the handsome, well-bred engineer, Jenny and Austin tumble amorously into lust/love. They elope!

On honeymoon, Austin learns of his bride's mixed racial ancestry. For decades, her tribe and his extended family have been in legal warfare over disputed land claims, an impediment to his rise in the family business. His bride easily "passes" as Anglo. He will not give up the girl he loves. And she will never know he didn't know before he put a ring on her finger, setting the tone for their marriage. Dark clouds hang over Austin: his mother's secret, a vindictive woman from his past; Vietnam.

In the first year, a treasured son is born.

Climbing the corporate ladder moves the family far from legal disputes. A rising star, he travels extensively. Austin's fidelity in doubt, rootless and wounded, Jenny returns to Indian Lake in the throes of the Native American Movement, stroking a native spirit she has suppressed. Humbled and desperately lonely, Austin will pay the price to keep her in his bed. Trust restored, they move into her dream home, where Jenny comes into her own, birthing "Creations" a shop featuring Native American crafts. She and her son take part in Seneca traditions on reservations. The long-lost journal of an early settler come into Jenny's possession. Emersed in troubles of her own, she sets the journal aside, until the apparition appears during visits to Indian Lake.

His authority severely challenged, Austin resists growing pains of the marriage, leading to divisive power struggles. The ways this loving couple navigates expectations/disappointments inevitable in a long union will confound, inspire, capture readers, turning pages to the end.

BOOK TWO of the series We WALK in FOOTPRINTS tells the intimate love story of Austin and Jenny progeny of two opposing interests.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642377156

Ellyn Weaver

Ellyn Weaver, of mixed Anglo and Native American ancestry, was born and raised in upstate New York, near the Seneca/Iroquois reservation. While raising a family in varied urban regions, she earned a degree in human services with a major in anthropological studies. Research into her own mixed racial heritage brought to life characters telling stories unique to their time and geological setting. She now makes her home in the state of Colorado.

Book preview

Jim

The Next Generation

• The Other Sixties

Austin Burdette builds professional acumen, a rising-star reputation in his chosen profession.

• Come Back Jenny Dawn

Jennifer Cary Burdette finds her true voice as a mixed blood within the revival of Native American culture and traditions.

Austin Burdette bounded down the ornate staircase in the lobby of Welborne House, suede boots forging wing-shaped imprints in the plush red carpet. A mid-February afternoon, he was warmly dressed: toast cords, a heather crew-neck sweater and the pricey bomber jacket his mother sent for Christmas. She would say, he cut a handsome figure.

He’d just picked up the company tickets from AJ Welborne’s office, and he was running late. Even so, at the bottom of the staircase, he stepped aside allowing a party of locals to maneuver a white-haired gentleman in a wheelchair in the direction of the ballroom. A placard beside double doors read: Milano/Hamlin Wedding Reception.

The word wedding set his teeth on edge. He’d asked Pam to marry him, move with him to Welborne. They were great in bed, she said, but how could he believe that she would marry him? "Darling, your blood isn’t quite the right shade of blue," she told him in that mocking tone reserved for those she thought beneath her. She broke it off with him.

More to the point, he’d concluded, his assets weren’t the right shade of green. Pam would marry money—old, family money; the lifestyle she envisioned requiring big bucks and a pedigree. No regrets. They would have been miserable together in Welborne.

From the ballroom, a rich baritone crooned a schmaltzy ballad: My Funny Valentine. ... Sweet … Comic Valentine. ... You make me smile with my heart. People in his office tried to fix him up. Primed for the chase, he’d find his own Miss Right.

Austin turned away from the celebration, striding towards the side door. He missed the stimulation of female companionship, going out in the company of someone near his own age. Since a transfer from the New York office, he’d found he knew almost no one in the place where he was born and spent his early years. Exceptions being: the Welbornes and their well-heeled circle of friends, whose daughters were attached, or ugly ducklings, and Uncle Lyme, surly and suspicious these days. Basketball one of the few interests they shared, Austin hoped a warrior’s game would sweeten his uncle’s sour disposition.

The Valentine Song faded as he approached the double glass doors opening to the parking lot. Hesitating there, he reached into his pocket for his driving gloves. Frigid gusts tumbled a discarded popcorn box as a foursome, huddled in their winter gear, came around the corner of the building. He held the heavy door for a woman, her face buried in a blue, wool coat.

Thank you, she acknowledged, allowing her coat collar drop.

He nodded, politely, shifting to the one-armed man who followed her through the doorway. Rob! You’d be heading for the reception, he observed, nodding towards the ballroom.

Rob Milano, extended his good hand, exerting a firm grip. Austin! he chuckled into a vapor cloud. Yes, we are. My sister … Caroline’s brother, tied the knot. Rolling his eyes, he shifted to the woman in the blue coat. You know my wife, Caroline.

Unsure, Austin looked into her face.

"We met here, the Christmas party?"

Caroline: attractive, classic style much like his mother’s. I remember! Hello!

A pretty, dark-haired girl stepped beside Rob, who introduced his daughter, Robin Tracy. The two exchanged a greeting as Austin shifted footing. In doing so, he nearly collided with another lithe figure who had just stepped through the doorway he had narrowed.

I’m sorry, she whispered.

The wind biting cold, her breath a touch of warmth, a scent, delicate … sensual, filled his senses. My fault. He looked into a pretty face … magnetic eyes holding him spellbound. He couldn’t take his eyes away.

Rob cleared his throat. Ahhh, this is our niece, Jenny Cary. Jenny, Austin Burdette. Austin’s an engineer at the company.

Her head tilted, slightly, to one side, the sound of her voice as lilting as the music from the ballroom. Austin.

Hello! The warmth of her breath, her scent, spread from his brain to his groin. "Jenny ... Jenny," he repeated, focused on her face, fixing her name in his mind.

Rob’s question broke the spell. Where was Austin headed?

His eyes shifted to Rob, quickly back to Jenny. The Warriors’ game.

Take care, the roads are icy, Rob chided, moving on.

The girls said, Nice meeting you. The party stepped into the lobby.

He said the same, stepping out into the cold that somewhat cleared his head. Uncle Lyme and the Warriors he put on hold as he inched along the cut-stone building to a window where he could peer inside without being noticed.

The foursome had checked their coats, walked towards the ballroom. Jenny was smaller, her hair lighter than her cousin’s, her tawny coloring more like Caroline’s; more than Robin, she resembled Caroline. Intrigued, he liked the way she moved—graceful, womanly.

"Stayyyy pretty Valentine stay…y…y. ... Each day is Valentines’ Day…y…y."

The song ended as she disappeared beyond the ballroom door. Cold-to-the-bone, an empty feeling crept into his belly; he felt more than a little foolish window peeking.

Turning away, he headed for his Corvette. The final payment made, he owned the 327 free and clear. Pam wanted him to buy the Corvette—had to be black, white leather interior. If he couldn’t have a Jag or a Ferrari, a Vette would have to do, she conceded; the comment a dig. John drove a Ferrari.

Not that he didn’t want a classy set of wheels; seemed important at the time, now, in Welborne, a Corvette was out of place.

Over the next two weeks while he was traveling on business, that tune—The Valentine Song—popped into his head, a fragrance—warm, sensual—stirring a memory of their brief encounter. At times, he had a clear impression of the girl with the almond-shaped eyes; at others, only a vague recollection. Were those amazing eyes soft brown? No, translucent, blue-gray; green? Her face he couldn’t capture. He was harboring an attraction for a girl he couldn’t recognize again. Man! Irrational! He had to find her. Once he did would she be as appealing as the image he couldn’t quite capture?

Office chatter centered on the bride: a former nun. Eavesdropping, he heard that Robin was a nurse who lived in Pittsburgh with a husband and a young son. No one mentioned Jenny. Strange, it seemed that everyone in Welborne was in each others’ pockets.

Checking on an order late one afternoon, Austin had gone to the parts department—a supplier’s nuts and bolts. The potent smell of machinery reminded him of home, his dad’s farm equipment business—the building leveled to the ground. Remaining intact, Austin’s memories of a gentle giant, calm, controlled, always in command, an independent man with a playful sense of humor; a champion in his son’s eyes.

It was a lucky man who had a love affair with his wife, he recalled Dad saying. Dad’s other love—machinery; the purr of a well-tuned engine, music to his ears. A boy could not have had a better dad than Lloyd Burdette.

He couldn’t understand why his mother took his father’s name away, or why he’d let her do it after Dad died, suddenly. He resented her for taking him away from Burdette Farms, supplanting his dad with Barney Bluestone. Not that he disliked Barney. They got on as well as any two men could. He blamed his mother. Why did she leave Welborne? Did she burn down the cottage? Lightning, Uncle Lyme insisted, though his odd remarks left Austin curious.

No question his mother had been unusually jumpy that day. He remembered how she’d pushed him out the back door, ordered him sit behind her in the Chevy. She’d burned rubber to the state road, broke speed limits all the way to Evermore. They said she had a virus, needed rest.

Then she did a turnaround, enrolling him in High Gate. Man, homesickness hurt like Hell, and she was in seclusion somewhere in New York. In the end, High Gate had been good for him; broke the apron strings. An image flashed: his mother in a paint-dabbed artist’s smock; he’d never seen her in an apron.

It seemed like months before he learned the cottage had burned down. There was no home to go back to after that. Was she seeing Barney even then? Carelessness, he suspected. Otherwise, why would Uncle Lyme, and Grandma Kora before she died, refuse to speak his mother’s name? On this day the parts department brought back hurtful memories, private thoughts he’d buried.

"What can we do fur ya’, Mister Burdette?" inquired Ida Chaffee, an employee who’d been with the Welbornes for most of her working life. Ida’s husband, Pat, worked in the foundry—a grim, cave-like inferno no front-office employees went willingly.

Conferring with Ida concerning the order, she checked invoice numbers, assuring him parts had been shipped to his customer. Jotting down the information he thanked Ida, when it occurred to him that she would know the Hamlins. He said he’d run into Rob Milano the day of the wedding. Was she there?

Sat on the groom’s side, Ida crowed. Boyce and Charlie … two finer men never walked the Earth.

Around Welborne locals said you could depend on Ida Chaffee to tell it like it is. Encouraged, Austin ventured, "Is there a granddaughter named, Jenny?"

She’d be Lita’s girl. Her pa was Dan Cary. Killed in the war, he was. WWII.

Cary. That checked out. Where –

Rob ‘n Charlie, Ida went on, a distance in her eyes as if looking back, fought in Europe. Dan, South Pacific. Her eyes came back to him. Some came back … some didn’t, ya’ know.

People who’d lived to talk about that war took on a look of reverence, he’d observed. After a moment’s silence, Austin tried again. Where –

The Hamlin’s had mor’n thar share a’ tragedies, I’d say. Ida’s eyes focused on the here and now. The boys done good. Look at Rob, lost ’is arm, didn’t stop ’im, ’n Charlie …

He’d heard that Charlie Hamlin was in line for Chief of Police. "About Jenny?" he interjected, as the telephone on the counter buzzed.

Ida raised an index finger, Parts! ... ... Hello thar Scotty. How’s the weather up thur in Calgary? ... ... Thirty below ... Celsius, ya’ say? Well, thar ya’ go. Holding the receiver to her ear, she nodded, I’ll check, you hold the phone. A fast clip, she took off into a maze of bins that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, returning with a globe valve under her arm. We got ‘er, Scotty. Send ‘er out.

Austin played a round at Tom Scott’s club when he’d been in the western provinces a few months back. Ask Tom, how he’s hittin’ ‘em.

Scotty, a young friend ‘a yurs wants ta know ... how yur hittin’ ‘em? She held the receiver away from her ear so he could hear Tom’s Aussie accent.

"Ball goes higher, faster at this altitude, Aye!"

Austin grinned. Hope to see you soon, Tom.

Bring your sticks, mate.

Austin seldom went anywhere without his sticks.

Ida signed off, hung up. A puzzled expression, she asked, Where was we?

Jenny Cary, Austin ventured, Where does she live?

Humm. She slipped a yellow pencil over her left ear. Last I heard, she lived with her mom out in California.

The bottom dropped out. Figures! The only girl he’d been attracted to in months, lives three thousand miles across the country. The next time he went to California, he’d find out exactly where Jenny Cary lived. Thanks Ida, you’ve been a big help.

Within the Welborne realm, they were known as: the Young Princes, he and John. John, being the elder and but a heartbeat from the throne, would inherit a still growing family fortune. Austin’s birthright had gone the way of Burdette Farms. He pinned his professional future on Welborne Industries.

All through his college years it was taken for granted that he would join the dynasty. He didn’t entertain another offer, though Austin was considered a personnel recruiters dream: An inch or two taller than average, trim, athletic build, manly features; clear blue eyes revealed the depth of his intelligence. He had a genteel mother, a respected father, manners polished while attending first-rate schools and rubbing elbows at the finest country clubs, where he claimed a four handicap. Like his late father, Austin enjoyed a good story. When bemused, an irreverent chortle slipped from his throat, and he held his liquor well—most of the time. Yet there were times he felt inferior, a weakness he would cover with a confident facade.

Straight out of Penn State, he was placed in the highly competitive, potentially lucrative sales division with the title and duties of Junior Sales Executive. While John floated in the hierarchy, Austin paid his dues. This young prince was an employee working for his salary. Second cousin to the owner gave him an advantage; he kept that in perspective.

In the scheme of things, he knew he would not be taken seriously until he took a wife, began to raise a family. John had married Meridith, the debutante daughter of an old-line, New York family. He’d been John’s Best Man; Pam, Maid of Honor. The weekend of the wedding, he and Pam were still together.

Back in Welborne he decided, Pam did him a favor. Marrying her would have been a huge mistake. At Welborne High School, he fit in, but he wasn’t all that comfortable at High Gate among the current generation of wealth and privilege. Rich boys are soft. They envy athletic prowess. In sports, Austin was a high achiever. Golf had been the great equalizer. His dad had been a golfer; they’d shared a love of the game.

At Penn State on scholarship he’d earned his own way, his fellow students more like him; more like the place he’d come from, more like the life he wanted.

February faded into memory; Austin traveled a good deal. Several times a day his mind drifted to the image of a girl he couldn’t quite capture. March crept in on big, wet cat’s feet.

In the first week of the month, he took a call from Uncle Lyme. His uncle had a buyer for a section of their holdings. In need of funds to pay back taxes, Uncle Lyme hoped for a little to spare. We gotta’ strike while the iron’s hot, boy, the old saw his uncle used by way of persuading him to sign off on the contract. Gritting his teeth, he wouldn’t stand in the way, but he had to speak to his uncle about calling him boy.

Let me know when Corkran has the paperwork ready. I’ll sign off. Abruptly, he hung up. Another chunk of Burdette Farms slipping away and he had no control. Dad hadn’t meant for this to happen. Unfortunately, Uncle Lyme had the law on his side.

Locals saw Lyman Burdette as a harmless—or was it hapless—dreamer, with a streak of bad luck. Bad luck or bad judgment. The way things stood, if his uncle died tomorrow, Austin would inherit the debts of Burdette Farms.

Late morning, a Tuesday the last week of the month, they met in lawyer Corkran’s walnut-paneled offices, around a conference table, each with a sheaf of documents in hand. Signing a mere formality, Austin had come from his office on an early lunch break. Lead-gray clouds hung low in the sky. Outside the second story window—cracked open a few inches—the air was chilly, though the feel of spring flowed in on fresh, moist currents.

A prosperous paunch protruding over his belt, Corkran leaned back, his chair, an Inner Sanctum squeal befitting the proceedings. Well then, since we’re in agreement, I’ll have my Notary come in. He buzzed the outer office. Mrs. Johnson! Cork had a booming voice that fit a forceful personality. "Have Jenny bring her stamp on in."

Jenny! Austin felt a quick turn in his groin before his head took over. Could this be his Jenny? Prattling on about the sale, Cork and his uncle shuffled through paperwork. Austin kept his eyes trained on the door … two minutes ... three … a tap.

Without looking up, Corkran boomed, Come!

A slender form, soft, brown hair, falling to the middle of her back, stepped inside and closed the door: dark-tweed skirt and sweater, mid-calf boots, a row of fringe around the lacing, she seemed shy and vulnerable. Heart tripping, Austin came half out of his chair. He couldn’t be certain. This Jenny seemed younger than the girl he’d met.

Corkran motioned. Take a seat there, Jenny, beside Young Loy.

Austin cringed. He’d been called Young Loy before Dad died, not since. The girl came up beside him. Holding a chair out for her, he caught her scent –warm, spicy, delicate—the same fragrance, moving through his day-time thoughts and night-time fantasies.

Mr. Lyman Burdette here, Jenny, Corkran indicated.

Uncle Lyme grunted without looking up from his contracts.

"And his nephew, L. Austin, Corkran continued, my assistant, Jenny Cary."

Hello. She gazed at him. The same expression he remembered in those amazing eyes: soft brown with flecks of blue and green.

I ... believe we’ve met, he stammered. Rob Milano introduced us. I think it was … Valentine’s Day.

Her pretty face reflected recognition. I remember. She slipped into the chair he held. He dropped into the chair beside her.

Corkran gave Austin a sly glance. Good then, we all know each other.

One by one, he and Uncle Lyme signed, passing the stack of documents on down the table where Jenny affixed her stamp. Her hands in full view, a silver bracelet and a ring set with a turquoise stone on the smallest finger of her left hand. No diamonds, Austin noted, meaning: an open field. Had there been a ring, he’d still be making his move.

Deliberately, Corkran collected the papers into a thick, unruly stack. Thank you, Jenny, that’s all.

Soundless as a fawn moving through the forest, she left the room.

Austin stood, intending to follow. Corkran stopped him, One moment, Austin, if you would? Outcomes of the deal: fees, back taxes, there’d be no profit. Nothing unexpected, but Uncle Lyme was screwed.

As soon as he could break away, Austin stepped into the outer office where he thought he’d find this girl he had to get to know. He’d ask her out to lunch at Welborne House. Glancing around, he didn’t see Jenny.

A blue-haired secretary, Mrs. Johnson, looked up from her desk. How can I help you Mr. Burdette?

I’m looking for Miss Cary.

Oh, I’m afraid you’ve missed her. Jenny’s gone to lunch.

He looked at his watch: ten past noon. Where was she having lunch?

She had a sandwich with her. With a pencil, she pointed. The park across the way, I think.

Old Church Park. Thanks, Austin called out, as he whirled around and out the door. Bounding down the stairs to street level, he made his way between parked cars, across four lanes of noon-time traffic and a grassy mall before he came upon the entrance.

Inside the park, a maze of paths concealed in evergreens. If she were there, he’d need a plan. In the center of the park, a bandstand doubled as a shelter. Walking briskly while keeping the shelter in his sights, he crisscrossed the paths; very few others strolling or cutting through.

Finally from a distance in a grove of naked maples beside a silent fountain, he saw her on a bench. From the cover of a blue spruce, catching his breath, he hesitated. A man goes after what he wants; nothing wrong with that. He didn’t want this golden, California girl to think he’d chased her like some horny school kid.

In her lap she held a paper sack, rolling the contents across the path. Two gray fur balls tangled, end over end. She laughed—a sound like water rippling in a stream. Here you go, Silvester. She rolled a pecan between the loser’s haunches. A puffed-up male snatched the offering in his jowls scampering up the nearest tree trunk. A second squirrel came right up to her, sniffed her boots. I know you, Minnie the Moocher. She rolled a pecan out across the path. More critters came out of the trees scampering after pecans.

Spellbound, Austin watched the scene play out. His mother gave the critters on the farm a human name, talked to them the same way Jenny did. Stepping out on the path, he sauntered up to the bench. You’ve attracted quite a crowd.

Incredible eyes looked up, startled.

I was hoping you’d be free for lunch.

Oh ... I had a sandwich. She had the most intriguing half-smile.

Mrs. Johnson told me I’d find you here. I – Chirping like a stuck parrot, Silvester leaped onto the bench between them, boxing the air with his paws. Austin didn’t retreat an inch. That one’s mean enough to take a finger.

She tossed a handout into the grass. Silvester took the bait. Too tame for his own good.

Ill at ease, he lifted a polished wingtip on the bench, leaned towards her. Did you live in California? Man! That came out of the blue. Like … do I know you from somewhere?

She wasn’t put off. I came back when I finished school almost a year ago.

Ida Chaffee wasn’t keeping up on the local gossip, he thought, cursing the time he’d wasted. The pesky squirrels gathered their cousins, an army closing in. I was transferred in last November, but I travel a lot. I grew up here, before we moved away.

She nodded, as though she knew, tossing out pecans one after another. A dozen critters surrounded them, charging their feet, chirping an ear-splitting din.

He held his hand out. Can we go somewhere quiet and talk? Placing her hand in his—that first touch a prickle, through his chest, into his groin—she rose from the bench. When they tried to walk away, the critters circled making a menacing clatter.

Jenny took a handful from the sack, heaved. A dozen fur balls took off. The rest stayed put to guard the hand that fed them. He looked into her eyes, she looked up at him; they laughed.

Considering, he took hold of the sack, May I? She let go. He emptied the contents into his hand, heaved as far as he could. All the fur balls turned tail, ran. He grasped her hand, they sprinted for the shelter. Reaching it, he whirled around, took her by the shoulders, easing her back against lattice siding. Over the top of her head, he peered back down the path. Not a critter in sight. Aha haaa. Faking a gravelly accent in his throat, he said, We made a clean getaway.

Muffling laughter, she covered her face, her body trembling close to his. He could feel her heart beat, and his own. A step closer, she was in his arms.

Hands palms down on his jacket, she looked up at him. It’s been a hard winter. The wildlife are hungry.

Her breath mingled with his. Greedy, I’d say.

Greedy, she agreed. She didn’t push him away.

The park grew quiet, traffic noises miles away. Close, the warmth, the sounds their breathing made. He tried to memorize a face framed in honey-colored hair: a high forehead and cheekbones, glowing complexion; eyes the color of violets in a pale light filtered through the still-bare trees. Those eyes could see his thoughts. Did they like what they saw? He resisted an impulse to kiss a sensuous mouth—too soon—he’d scare her off.

A chiming from the clock tower in the common, her arms dropped to her sides. I have to get back. Mr. Corkran has clients coming in at one-fifteen.

Reluctant to let her go, he took her hand in his. I left my car back there. I’ll go with you. Walking the tree-lined path to the corner, timing their steps, their eyes kept meeting. I’ve been looking for you since that day in Welborne House, you know.

A tilt of the head, a faint smile, she said, And I’ve been right here all the time.

The signal changed: green to red. With his hand in the small of her back, he guided her across. I want to take you out this weekend ... dinner and a movie? he ventured, confident she wouldn’t turn him down.

She thought a moment. I’d like to go out with you … sometime. I’ll be at the lake this weekend.

The lake, he repeated, assuming she meant Indian Lake.

My grandfather, Joe, is picking me up. We have business to take care of.

They walked on a few steps. This week he was in town, next week, West Virginia. Are you free tonight ... or Thursday?

Thursday would be good.

Success! He smiled at her. Thursday it is then. They’d reached the brass doors of the building where she worked. I’ll pick you up. Until he knew where he could find her, she wouldn’t get away.

I live with my grandparents, the Hamlins. Do you know River Bend?

From his jacket pocket, he took a pen and one of his business cards. Give me your number. I’ll call before I pick you up. She recited a phone number, he wrote it down, returned the card to his pocket. Taking another, he wrote down the number at his apartment, put the card into her hand, closing her fingers around it. If your plans change, you’ll call me. He held on to her hand, not wanting to let go now that he’d found her again.

I’ll call you, she assured him with that intriguing half-smile and a slight tilt of her head he was learning to interpret.

"I mean, if you are free this weekend. I’ll see you Thursday, but ... He thought he must be making a damned fool of himself, so he held open the door; she stepped inside. Seven?"

She affirmed. Seven Starting up the steps, she turned back, See you Thursday.

He said, Right! Be seeing you. Ten feet off the ground, he walked off to where he’d parked his Vette. Man! He was wired. Turning the key in the driver’s side door, he glanced up at the building. Across the second story windows, gold letters trimmed in black: Corkran and Donnelly Attorneys at Law. In the window looking down into the parking lot a barrel-chested, ruddy-faced Irisher with a shock of sandy-colored hair: Dennis Donnelly, Corkran’s partner, the son of Twin Springs County’s congressman.

Austin knew the attorney by reputation. He’d seen Tim Donnelly, the congressman’s, photo. Father and son bore a strong resemblance. His mother had a history with the family. Molly Donnelly had worked in the Austin’s house; that old relic on Highland’s Boulevard Aunt Audra calls a national treasure.

Why was Donnelly staring, or glaring at him? Austin gave a thumbs up. Abruptly, Donnelly turned from the window, moved out of sight. His stomach growled. He’d grab a burger, get back to the office. Pulling out into the flow of traffic, he drove off without giving Donnelly a second thought.

It rained on Thursday. A soil-soaking rain that started in the night, kept on steady through the early afternoon. In spite of industrialization, Twin Springs County had always been farm country. A crack of thunder sounded overhead, jolting the building to the ground beneath Austin’s office. Farmers are happy, he thought, gazing from his office window on a landscape greening before his eyes. Spring rains triggered memories he’d kept buried.

As a boy, he’d stand before the showroom window in his father’s dealership watching storm clouds form above the rolling hills, bolts of lightning zigzag through a threatening sky, striking ground, or worse, a barn, a house, a hay stack erupting in a puff of smoke and flame; casualties of untamed nature rumbling through the valley.

Farm hands in faded overalls and mucky rubber boots streamed from the fields and pastures seeking shelter. Rough, earth-bound men—reeking of manure—stood in awe of nature, thankful to wash the sweat from their brow; as much control over their lives as they had over the weather. Neither his dad nor his uncle had ever tilled the soil as these men did. Dad had a tacit understanding of their ways. Though his uncle could clean up his act when he had to, Uncle Lyme had found it advantageous to talk the talk of a country boy. A piece of advice his uncle had given him: Play dumb, boy. It’ll keep ya’ out’a trouble. Uncle Lyme pretended to be dumb, a hapless victim of circumstance; a brooding, apathetic, country way of life.

Austin left country ways when he left Welborne. No man could control the weather, but he’d gained control of his own destiny. That chunk of Burdette land was in another owner’s hands. He’d put that loss behind him, move on. Turning from the window, he focused on a stack of reports. The previous day he’d worked late into the evening making updates on proposals he’d take with him to West Virginia. He’d leave on Sunday spend the night so he’d be fresh for Monday’s presentation.

Tonight, he had a date with a girl he liked a lot. He’d make their time together go well. That afternoon he left the office about five thirty; one stop at the cleaners for his suits and laundry, then straight to his apartment—a small efficiency just off the state road that continued on past Burdette Farms. The rain had stopped, a heavy mist, thick cloud cover lingered.

He showered. Toweling off, he scanned his closet: golf slacks, polo shirts—too casual for this date. He chose gray, flannel slacks, blue shirt, navy blazer—the one his mother said brought out the blue of his eyes. Clothes made a statement; the right, impression. She’d taught him that. An everyman in size and shape, Austin frequented up-scale shops, choosing suits off the rack, shirts off the shelves.

His mother didn’t like Pam. Though she hadn’t said as much, he knew. He wondered what she’d think of Jenny. The way Pam had thrown him over turned him off on females. This girl with amazing eyes, warm, sexy body tested his resolve. A young man in a hurry, he’d play it cautious, not come on too strong.

A striped tie in hand, he turned his attention to TV news; usual local stuff, followed by world news: South East Asia heating up, choppers coming in for wounded and the dead—American dead and wounded. How can they call a soldier an advisor when he’s shooting at the Cong, being shot and killed? That’s combat.

A small number of guys he knew at Penn State were in military service; one in training as an astronaut—space—the last frontier. Most men his age were settling into their professions. He didn’t like the word career—too feminine. A man had his life’s work, his place in the scheme of things. War was not for him. Space—there was an adventure worth inherent risks.

Those guys slogging through rice paddies seemed a million miles from nowhere; as far from his experience as the long-haired hippies hanging in the streets of major cities—smoking pot. He seldom saw a hippie in Welborne, unless passing through. Lots of people smoked pot. He’d tried it a few times.

Walter Cronkite signing off. Six-thirty. Wired, he checked his watch, went to the phone, dialed the number he’d written down. An appealing tone, Jenny relayed clear directions.

Parking at the curb in front, he came up the walk. In his sights, a weathered, two-story house with a porch across the front—like many in town. This house seemed familiar. Taking the steps two at a time, he strode across the porch, pushed the bell.

A radiant, grown-up Jenny swung opened the door. Tawny hair pulled up in a clip fell in soft curls: a dark green dress clung around her hips and breasts. This Jenny, he judged, to be twenty; right for him in every way. He grinned. Hi.

Come in. You must have come straight here.

He eased inside the crowded hall. Your directions were right on. She closed the door behind him. In the air around her, clean, woodsy, fragrance; the impression of spring rain in the mountains, as though she belonged there. Radio says rain’s over for a while.

She gave him her pleasant half-smile. I think I’ll wear my raincoat anyway. Turning, she went on, My grandparents would like to meet you.

She led him through an archway to the parlor: A small room, cluttered with comfortable, worn furniture, scroll wallpaper, family pictures on the walls and tabletops. He had the feeling he’d been in this room before. I love Lucy played on the TV. The same white-haired gentleman he’d seen that day at Welborne House rolled his wheelchair over, turned the volume down. A silver-haired lady sat in the corner of the couch folding a piece of cloth she placed in a basket. Jenny made the introductions.

Hello. They returned the greeting. He stepped up to the wheelchair took the hand that was extended. Sir.

Always nice meeting one of our Jenny’s young friends. Boyce Hamlin’s clear, bright eyes held an affable glint; a firm handshake for a man in a wheelchair. Everyone calls me Boyce.

Would you like to sit down, Mr. Burdette? Ivy motioned to a chair.

She was more formal. He glanced at Jenny who perched on the arm of the sofa. Please, call me Austin. He eased into a chair.

Boyce maneuvered his wheelchair beside the group. Jenny tells us you work at Welborne Industries. Our son-in-law, Rob, works there.

A get-to-know-you session. Yeah, I know Rob from work. That’s how I met Jenny. They probably knew that, but what the hell, he was making small talk.

Boyce worked at Welborne Industries for more than twenty years, Ivy interjected.

A phone rang somewhere in the house. Jenny came to her feet, went to answer.

He backed up. Twenty years. Is that right, sir?

Twenty three years, Boyce responded. I started with Forbes in the old plant one just down the road. We built the first compressors Welborne sold.

Plant one, umm humm. We’re building centrifugals there now.

I heard that. No centrifugals back in those days. Boyce laughed. What sort of work do you do, Austin?

Though he barely knew these people, he didn’t feel uneasy. I’m an engineer, sir, in the sales division, handling inquiries, working up proposals. I’m on the road a lot making sales calls

Well, that’s very important work! Boyce declared, glancing at Ivy.

She nodded, Yes, yes it is.

Right now, I have a big job up at one of our customers in West Virginia. An oxygen plant, several million, if I get the order and it looks good.

Grrreat! Boyce beamed. Hope you get that order. Will it be built here?

So do I, sir. He rambled on because the Hamlins seemed genuinely interested. We’ll build it here in stages over the next few years.

Again, Boyce glanced at Ivy. That’s good news. Our men will have steady work.

Ivy agreed. Could mean no layoffs before Christmas, or over the summer.

The gaze of pure approval fixed on him, took Austin back a moment. Welborne Industries was infamous for layoffs—blue-collar workers mostly—men with families who lived in River Bend. To Austin, his order meant a healthy commission, a step up the ladder. He’d lost sight of the bigger picture drilled into him at Penn State. The Hamlins brought that picture into focus.

Jenny came back to the parlor with a message for Ivy.

Austin stood, directing his comment to Jenny. We don’t have a lot of time, if we want to make the movie.

She went for her coat.

"The Seven Year Itch is playing. You’ll enjoy it." Ivy picked up her sewing.

He said, it was nice meeting them, they returned the comment. Relieved, he stepped into the hall, helped Jenny into a raincoat. Gleaming stands she swept from under her collar filled his head with the scent of warm, sweet honey.

Don’t wait up. Jenny called out.

He saw her into his Vette, retracing the way he’d come. Your grandparents are real nice people. It troubled him that a man had to live that way. How long has Boyce been in a wheelchair?

Across the seat, a wistful look came into her face. As long as I can remember.

He took his eyes from the road for a second. Traffic accident?

No. She took a second. It happened in the last flood, before the levees where built.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

She shifted in her seat. Grandpa’s crew were piling sandbags around plant one. Upstream, a dam broke. She paused. Water came up fast … he was swept away. Mom and Uncle Charlie found him.

He’d heard the story, not the names. Those men were saving their jobs, back in the 40’s. Several men were swept away. Boyce Hamlin survived. Give the man credit, an up-beat attitude in spite of all those years in a wheelchair.

They were leaving River Bend; time to change the subject. He asked her to suggest a place for dinner, something more substantial than burgers or pizza.

Humm. A pleasing sound sent a chord humming through him. "The Red Dragon is a block from the theater, it’s Szechuan. The food is good and the service is usually fast."

The Red Dragon? Chinese would not have been his choice, but what the hell. They could use restaurant parking; he wouldn’t have to move the Vette. Chinese it is.

They parked next to the building, walking under the restaurant’s enormous sign. Aunt Audra had been livid when that fire-breathing dragon went up. Blight on the business district, an obscenity, she fumed; she’d lobbied the town board. When it came to a vote, her side lost. Chances were neither she nor her confederates would patronize the place.

He’d keep dating Jenny quiet until he knew her better.

Inside the black lacquer entrance an oriental woman called Jenny by name, inquiring if there were only two in her party? Jenny called her, Mrs. Chen. And when they were seated she explained that her family came here often in groups of eight or ten. That many close relatives at one table gave him pause as he took in the surroundings: A glossy, red, black, gold decor, overhead, lanterns strung on wire; screens separating tables—most empty. Mrs. Chen delivered menus, filled their water glasses, scampered off.

Nice place. he remarked. Is there a bar?

The Chens don’t have a liquor license ... yet, she confided, for some reason, they’d been turned down. Uncle Charlie was helping them with an appeal. They do good take-out business.

Um hum. Audra Welborne got to the liquor authority, Austin deduced, the sort of under-handed tactic she’d use. He focused on the menu. What do you recommend?

Head tilted, she peered over the top of her menu. How adventurous are you?

A challenge? I’ll have … Mongolian beef. He set aside his menu, studying her in candle light. Very little makeup, she was pretty in a natural sort of way. So far, he liked everything about her.

Setting her menu aside, she looked into his face with that intriguing half-smile, I like the way they do Kung Po chicken.

Mrs. Chen came right on over, he ordered for them. She bowed and scampered off. He focused on the girl across the table. Did you like living in California?

Yes, I did. She paused spread her napkin in her lap. It was a big adjustment at first. I lived at Indian Lake with Gran and Gramps, my father’s parents, until I was thirteen.

He didn’t question why she lived there.

After Gran died, she went on, We decided it was best I live with Mom in San Diego.

Nice town. He liked the open way she looked into his face. What brought you back?

I missed the lake, and Mr. Corkran offered me a job. Things fell into place. She made a rippling gesture; delicate fingers revealing half-moons.

Welborne was a small town, Twin Springs County a way of life. Growing up here, they knew the local customs. So, what does your grandfather do up at Indian Lake?

Gramps has been with the park service since he was a young man. That’s where my dad grew up, and I was born there. She drew a breath, My dad was …

Her words just stopped; the way she said them touched that guarded place inside him. On a memorial in the ballpark, he told her, he’d seen a picture of her father. His dad had seen Dan Cary play. "My dad told me, ’Dan Cary was the fastest shortstop on the Eastern seaboard. Hit the ball a country mile.’"

Pride and sadness came to her face. We have that picture at home. One of the few he had taken. Superstitions of our people.

They’d happened on a common bond. I was fifteen when my dad died.

I’m so sorry, she whispered.

A moment passed between them, so profound it left him speechless.

Their entrees arrived with pungent aromas and side orders of rice. Austin leaned back in his chair, took a swallow of water. Jenny took chopsticks between her fingers, scooped rice onto her plate without spilling a single grain. Man! That was impressive.

She caught him watching, put the chopsticks down.

Please don’t stop on my account. He picked up his fork. That’s a skill I don’t have. He scooped a portion; flavors sharp, pleasing. This is good.

She resumed with the chopsticks. At our house in California, Mom cooked Chinese; she taught me this. She clicked the sticks. Our neighbors were Chinese. Mom has Chinese friends and people she worked with. I learned their ways.

He saw her on a California beach, nude… sea breezes lifting soft curls. Switch gears, Man. With a wink, he confided, I don’t know any Chinese people.

She laughed, whispered, The Chinese are hard-working, and avid gamblers. Mom fits right in.

While she worked the chopsticks, he a fork, he recalled a photograph he’d seem in the Hamlin’s parlor: a younger Jenny and a dark-haired woman with their heads together—her mom. All the Hamlin women had a look he’d call sex appeal. What sort of work does your mother do? He rested a fork on his plate.

Mom works at North Star Instruments? she returned. The up-tone in her voice meant: did he know the company? He didn’t. They make navigation equipment and guidance systems.

Radar? He set a plate aside.

Radar, sonar, compasses, sextants, and such.

That’s an unusual field for a woman.

Mrs. Chen returned with a pot of tea, two small cups—no handles. She was gone as though she’d melted.

Jenny’s fingers touched the teapot. Would you like tea?

With a wave of his hand, he declined. Water’s fine.

She poured a cup, drank a portion. Mom’s worked in the same business since the war years. She’s an expert, people say.

Pride in her mother’s accomplishments, a bond between them, he decided. Mrs. Chen appeared, took the plates away, brought fortune cookies and a check. Austin glanced at his watch. If we leave now, we’ll make the movie, no problem. He left money on the table.

Jenny wrapped the fortune cookies dropping them into her handbag.

They sat near the back in the darkened theater. The movie’s setting was Manhattan—his old stomping grounds—in the heat of summer. Marilyn, a perfect temptress; Tom Ewell, the hapless hero, didn’t get the girl. When Ewell caught his necktie in the garbage disposal, they laughed, their eyes met. He reached out, took her hand. They held hands until the lights came up.

The movie put a cap on his New York years. He could put those years behind him, move on with someone new. At this point he intended that someone to be the girl beside him.

Out on the street, too wired to call it a night, he didn’t want to end their evening. Where in this town does a guy take a nice girl for a drink? The place that came to mind was Welborne House, the taproom. Aaaa, a nightcap? he suggested. She nodded a tilt of her head.

They strolled through the common, stepped through the side door to the lobby—the doorway where they’d met. There was no one in the taproom except a bored bartender with the TV volume low. He ordered rye and water, and a white wine without asking. At some point, she must have told him she preferred wine.

In a corner booth, they settled in to talk. The movie: she liked Marilyn, he agreed; places they’d lived or visited. Her mother took her to Hawaii because she’d been conceived there while her father was on leave—an inside family story.

The subject turned to music. He liked Jazz and Tony Bennett. She liked the Beach Boys and Elvis. Elvis! And musicals: The King and I a favorite. She read biographies and mysteries. He read sports’ magazines. She liked baseball, the Pirates, Roberto Clemente. She knew Clemente’s stats; so did he.

They cracked open the fortune cookies. Hers read: You will travel to a distant land, and prosper. His read: the same. They compared their fortunes, and they laughed. She was real. He liked her too much for a first date. He told her about the Valentine Song, his flashbacks. Risky.

She looked into his eyes, whispered, The day we met, I hoped I would see you again.

Man! She made him feel good. They talked until the bar was closing. I guess we have to go, he whispered close to her ear.

She responded with that half-smile, a slight tilt of the head he’d learned to interpret. Hand in hand, they walked back through the Common. She said his Vette was, too cool. He had to see her again, and soon. Do you like basketball?

She said she followed the Warriors.

He said he’d get tickets for a game ... if she’d go with him?

The half-smile, tilt of the head—affirmative,

Except for the porch light, the Hamlin house was dark as they pulled into the driveway. He turned off the engine. The jump seat of a sports car was no place to say goodnight—too much equipment in the way. He got out, came around, opened her door and held his hand out.

She took his hand, came up from the seat. Wrapped in darkness, they stood touching; her face turned up to his. A pulse pounding in his throat, his arm worked inside her coat, he drew her in. His lips touched hers. A surge. Man, be careful. He tried for just the right amount of pressure the right duration, not too intense or lingering. A kiss that took a natural course then ended in an I-like-you-a-lot caress.

She kissed him back. Full on the mouth, tender, testing. Before he could recover his wits, she’d slipped out of his grasp and was gone. The sweet taste of wine on his lips; her warmth hadn’t left him. In the dark, he felt empty and alone.

Back in his apartment, he lay in the double bed staring at the bright flecks on the ceiling, replaying those last moments in the dark; the moments just before he kissed her. The opportunity was there, she seemed willing. Where did he go wrong?

Okay, he was being careful, got too caught up in mechanics. No. The kiss wasn’t all that bad. But the way she kissed him back was ... unnerving. Did it mean: sorry, you’re not my type, let’s be friends. He didn’t want to be her friend.

He clamped a hand over his eyes, drew it the length of his face, let it fly against his pillow. He didn’t—for a minute—believe a guy and a girl could be friends. Not the way guys are friends. There’s energy between the sexes, an expectation of physical contact.

That was the attraction that moment in the dark. What was she feeling? And why did she flee that way? She didn’t like him? No, repulsion wasn’t in that kiss. He couldn’t put his finger on the meaning of that kiss. He worked his way from negative to a positive frame of mind, decided on his next move before he fell asleep.

At ten-thirty the next morning he called the law offices. There were voices in the background when Jenny came on the line. Can we talk?

Briefly, she whispered.

I just wanted to say, I enjoyed our evening. If I did something to offend you ... I apologize.

You didn’t ... I was ... I can’t explain right now.

He heard two men laughing: Corkran and another. Meet me for lunch so we can talk.

She hesitated. I can’t today. I have to work through lunch so I can leave early.

Plan B came into play. I’ll call you at the lake. What’s the number?

There’s no phone at the lake.

No phone!

The rangers use two-way radios.

That made sense; now he was stuck.

She whispered, Austin.

Yeah?

"I do want to see you again. It just can’t be this weekend."

Okay. I’ll call you when I get back from West Virginia. Disappointed though encouraged, he felt ten feet tall when he hung up the phone.

Saturday, he put in a full day at the office, stopped for a burger. Back in his apartment, he watched a game on TV while he packed; she moved through his thoughts.

The next day he headed south through Pennsylvania towards Charlestown, West Virginia, Top-Ten Tunes playing on his car radio. Number five an up-beat rhythm caught his attention. Tapping out beats on his steering wheel, he listened close to catch the lyrics. "If-you-wanna-be-happy-for-the-rest-of-your-life ... find-a-pretty-woman-and-make-her-your-wife."

What? "Find-a-pretty-woman-and-make-her-your-wife." Uh huh. Simple enough. He’d found a pretty woman. Marry her? Man! Not so fast. They say, a couple needs to know each