ONE
May 1972
Thirty-five-year-old John Creighton pulls a slab of black walnut wood from the back of his pickup truck and carries it into the small workshop behind his home. He retrieves two more slabs, setting each one down on the worktable, sizing them up and his task at hand. What possibly made him think that he could build a kitchen table by October when the only other things he has made to this point are mirror and picture frames?
“So, this is the wood!”
He turns to see his thirty-year-old wife, Joan, standing in the doorway with her shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and holding their one-year-old son, Christopher. Their five-year-old daughter, Gigi, runs to her dad, wrapping an arm around one of his legs and using the other hand to pound on the wood. “This is it!” he says. “Nice, isn’t it?”
Joan runs a hand over the top of the wood, dusty and dirty from sitting in a farmer’s barn on the outskirts of Elmore for years. “If you say so, I believe you.” Christopher leans over in his mother’s arms, and Joan lowers him so he can tap the wood with his chubby hand.
John reaches for a can of mineral spirits and swipes a cloth off the table behind him. He pours some of the mineral spirits onto the cloth and rubs it across a slab, revealing a handsome, rich, brown wood. “See that, Joansie! Beautiful!”
She smiles. “Remember John, you don’t have to have this finished by October.”
“I told you that we would not eat one more Thanksgiving or Christmas meal on that yellow Formica table, and you have my word,” he says, saluting her.
“I’m just saying you don’t have to rush it.”
He leans against the workbench, looking at her. “Are you implying I won’t be able to have it finished by October?” She opens her mouth. “Are you inferring you don’t believe in my skills as a fine craftsman of tables? Are you saying I can’t demonstrate my woodworking abilities on our local PBS affiliate?”
Joan laughs, setting Christopher down on the floor. “I’m suggesting you’ve never made a table before, so take it easy on yourself.”
John throws the white cloth on top of the wood. “Game on, sister! Game on! The table will be done, and it will be magnificent. The question is, will we be able to say the same about your turkey?”
“Are you calling yourself a turkey? Because that’s how I interpreted that.”
He rears his head back, laughing. “To be so pretty, you’re a cruel woman, Joan Creighton.”
She kisses his cheek, picks up Christopher, and reaches for her daughter’s hand. “Dinner is in an hour and a half. I assume by your confidence that you’ll be bringing the table in with you?”
John watches them leave. “You jest, but it could happen!” He turns to look at the wood, sighing and scratching his head. He walks back to his truck and opens the passenger-side door, then lifts several library books off the front seat. Carrying them back into the workshop, he stacks them next to the wood and picks up the first one filled with black-and-white photos of kitchen tables and other furniture pieces. He reaches for another book, titled Measure Twice and Cut Once, and opens the pages filled with step-by-step instructions for furniture projects. “Oh boy,” he says beneath his breath. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”
TWO
May 2012
Lauren Mabrey stands on the sidewalk at the entrance to Glory’s Place, welcoming children as they arrive for the after-school program. She finished her shift in the floral department at Clauson’s Supermarket an hour ago. Clauson’s has given her the morning shift so she can be at Glory’s Place each day by three to help. In November the twenty-three-year-old will mark two years of volunteering here and less than a year as a married woman. Just five months ago, in December, she stood in the gazebo in the heart of Grandon, surrounded by the townspeople who had adopted her as one of their own, and became Mrs. Travis Mabrey. She stumbled upon Grandon just a year and a half ago by accident, a literal crash. She was a witness to a car crash while driving through Grandon one day, was called back to town to identify the man involved in the hit-and-run, and never left. After years in foster families and with no family of her own to return to, she became a volunteer at Glory’s Place, fell in love with the children at Glory’s Place, with Grandon itself, and then with Travis.
Travis works with the Grandon Parks and Recreation Department, keeping ball fields in shape and the city’s playground equipment safe. He mows the grass at city parks, paints and cares for the gazebo in the town square, and even places the giant star atop it for Christmas. They live in the house Travis bought two years ago, a small two-bedroom ranch that was built in the 1960s. Although Lauren would like to say that she has added a female’s touch to the home, decorating has never been her strong suit. Part of her thinks it’s because she moved from one foster home to the next and never really had it modeled for her, but the other part believes it’s because she simply does not have an eye for it. Either way, their home still lacks warmth in color and feel, like Miss Glory’s home or Dalton and Heddy’s or Miriam’s, and she wants to do something about it.
Her stomach feels queasy, and Lauren leans against the door, waiting for another wave of children to arrive. A knock on the glass of the door makes her jump. “What is wrong with you?” She turns to see Miriam looking at her from inside. Her colored strawberry-blond hair hangs just below her chin in a sleek bob and her pink oxford shirt is tucked impeccably into blue trousers on Miriam’s trim frame. Her English accent and appearance would make anyone believe that she is demure, fragile even, but this isn’t the Miriam that Lauren has come to love.
“Are you ill?” Miriam says, opening the door and sizing up Lauren. “You look dreadful.”
Lauren shakes her head. “I ate sushi at work yesterday for lunch and it’s been a rough two days.”
Miriam groans. “Supermarket sushi! Do people really have to be told not to eat that? Isn’t that akin to squirting cheese out of a machine onto nachos in a petrol station?”
“No! Clauson’s has wonderful sushi. It’s always fresh.”
“And toxic,” Miriam says. “Fresh and toxic. A wonderful combination.” She looks at Lauren. “I’ll finish here. Why don’t you go inside and sit down or throw up or … whatever? One of Gloria’s friends is coming in today for training and since I don’t necessarily care to be around people, I will leave her training to you.”
Lauren smiles. Miriam can pretend all she wants, but Lauren knows how much she loves these children and the work that is done at Glory’s Place. Miriam loathes the thought that she’s old enough to be a grandmother to most of the volunteers, but she loves them and the children here with the fierce, protective love of any grandma. It was Miriam who bought her wedding dress and it was Miriam who wrapped her arms around her when Lauren gave the dress to a young woman who couldn’t afford a wedding gown of her own. Her bond to Miriam, Gloria, Stacy, and Heddy and Dalton here at Glory’s Place is stronger than any she ever imagined having with any adult as a child growing up and she feels safe in a way she never thought possible.
The tutoring section of Glory’s Place is behind a door and Lauren spends the next few minutes here, sitting quietly at a desk and hoping this queasiness doesn’t blow up into food poisoning. She pops a couple of peppermint candies into her mouth, something that Heddy told her would help ease nausea, and lays her head on the desk in front of her. She stays here for several minutes until she hears Gloria’s voice inside the big room. Gloria is Glory’s Place; it was her idea many years ago to help single moms and struggling families and that morphed into an after-school program that’s open year-round. Lauren opens the door and sees Gloria standing in the middle of the big room with her arms open wide.