Loe raamatut: «The Lighthouse»

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS…

Suddenly I was thinking about my dad and how I hadn’t spent many Christmases with him. We’ve never really connected, but as far as family goes, he’s all I have left. That’s when I burst into tears—a forty-two-year-old successful Realtor, crying her eyes out on her Pottery Barn couch. I sat there, thinking about how this year, if I didn’t go home, I’d be alone. I don’t have a boyfriend. Truth be known, I haven’t had a date in a year because I work too much and I’m picky as hell about the men I date.

Long story short—I bought an airline ticket online. Deep down, I was hoping I might get closer to my father over Christmas.

Then I called him.

Mary Schramski

began writing when she was about ten. The first story she wrote took place at a junior high school. Her mother told her it was good, so she immediately threw it away. She read F. Scott Fitzgerald at eleven, fell in love with storytelling and decided to teach English. She holds a Ph.D. in creative writing and enjoys teaching and encouraging other writers. She lives in Nevada with her husband, and her daughter who lives close by. Visit Mary’s Web site at www.maryschramski.com.

The Lighthouse
Mary Schramski

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the Author

Dear Reader,

I was inspired to write The Lighthouse because I believe:

 There are people in our lives who guide us through the rough times,

 Lighthouses are special,

 And no matter what problems we face, there is always hope.

I also love the sound of the ocean in the morning, the veil of fog as the sun breaks through the clouds at sunrise and the happiness I feel when I connect with my family. The Lighthouse is the story of how a family deals with love, grief, past hurts—and how the light of forgiveness can bring us home, as a lighthouse does.

Come with me. We’ll stroll the beach, watch the sun set, laugh, cry and believe!

Mary

For my daughter

Jess—my light.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

The stars and the rivers

And waves call you back.

—Pindar

I feel invisible right now.

I’m sitting on an airplane next to an older man who reminds me a little of my father. And we are waiting to deplane into the Los Angeles airport. We never spoke a word to each other. At thirty thousand feet, when it got really bumpy, I wanted to say to him, Wow this is scary, but he was reading and I didn’t want to bother him.

Not saying what I feel isn’t unusual for me. Even when I have my feet on the ground, I don’t tell people what I think.

Like three weeks ago when I was watching TV. A Christmas commercial about cameras came on. In the middle, where the smiling, tearful mother says goodbye to her daughter, I started thinking about my mom, how I miss her, and how I wish I’d told her I loved her the last time we spoke.

Suddenly, I was thinking about my dad and how I hadn’t spent many Christmases with him. We’ve never really connected, but as far as family goes, he’s all I have left. That’s when I burst into tears—a forty-two-year-old, successful Realtor, crying her eyes out on her Pottery Barn couch. Twice I stopped, then I’d think about my mother, alone, in her smashed-up silver Camry. I’d start crying again. She called me the night before her accident. I didn’t call her back because I was angry about a million-dollar house I’d missed signing.

That night, after the commercial and tears, I sat on the couch thinking about how this year, if I didn’t go home, I’d be alone. I don’t have a boyfriend. Truth be known, I haven’t had a date in a year because I work too much and I’m picky as hell about the men I date.

Long story short, I bought an airline ticket online. Deep down, I was hoping I might get closer to my father over Christmas.

Then I called him.

He sounded surprised to hear from me, and when I told him I was coming home for Christmas, there was this long pause. He said, That’s not such a good idea. I have to go.

Click.

I stared at the phone, felt confused, then I got mad. My own father telling me not to come home for Christmas! I stomped around the house, threw a pillow across the room. Then when I thought about how my mother always let out a whoop when I told her I could make it home for the holidays, I started crying again.

I finally got control, but it took a while. I was holding my breath, trying to get rid of a mean case of hiccups and telling myself as soon as they went away I was going to call my father back and ask him what in the hell was wrong. That’s when the phone rang.

I said hello, and Dad launched into this explanation about how I woke him up. I looked at my watch, didn’t believe him, yet didn’t say anything. He asked what time he should pick me up at the airport. I got more confused, but I still didn’t say anything. None of this was like him. Instead of asking him what was really wrong, I gave him my itinerary and here I am, waiting to walk into the LAX terminal.

The airplane door must have opened because people are grabbing bags and inching down the aisle.

The man next to me smiles, leans a little closer. “Have a nice holiday,” he says.

I smile back. “You, too.”

He gets up, walks down the aisle in front of me.

When I reach the terminal, I take a deep breath. It’s late and the terminal is almost empty. I go down to the baggage-claim area. I see my father right away. He’s standing by the far wall, arms crossed with that familiar, serious look on his face. His hair’s a little grayer than I remember, and his blue shirt doesn’t match his brown pants, which surprises me because he’s always been a neat dresser.

As I walk over, he sees me, smiles, steps forward.

“Christine,” he says in the same deep, calm voice I’ve heard all my life.

“Hi, Dad.” I hesitate, want to hug him, but I’m still a little miffed about the phone call. I give him a quick hug, then pull back. “It’s good to see you.”

“Same here. Are you ready?” he asks, then looks at my roller bag. “This all you have?”

I nod, take the handle of the suitcase, and we begin walking.

“Flight okay?”

“The landing almost knocked out one of my fillings.”

Dad smiles. We’ve talked this airplane talk for a long time. That’s one of the first memories I have of my father. Him standing over my bed in his smooth, dark blue pilot uniform, and Mom saying, Good night, have a good flight. I probably giggled because of the rhyme.

“How’s work?” he asks as we make our way toward the exit door.

“Busy. Really busy. I’ve got a lot of house sales coming up. One big one.” I’ve always tried to impress him. People have called me a workaholic, and it was a big stretch for me to leave all my listings right now, but after I bought the ticket and called Dad, I didn’t have a choice.

He stops right before we walk out the door. “Can you afford to be away from work from now till New Year’s Day?”

The man behind us trips a little over my suitcase. My father puts his hand on my back, moves me to the side, out of the way.

“Sure. Christmas week is really slow, nothing will happen. I’ve worked hard all year. I deserve a little break. I’m the office’s top seller.”

“As long as you’re not losing money. We’ll play it by ear. If you have to go back early, I’ll understand.”

“Nobody buys a house around Christmas.” This isn’t exactly true—a listing can sell anytime. I lean closer, give him a quick hug. “I’ll handle everything when I get home. I’m a master at real estate sales.” I doubt if my father cares about this fact. He wanted me to go to college and become a doctor or lawyer, but I didn’t want to. We had a lot of fights over this. And it didn’t make it any better that I wasn’t settled until six years ago, when I finally found something I’m good at.

We walk outside.

“I had to park far away.”

“Parking at the Tucson airport is terrible, too.” I fill my lungs with moist air. The scent of the ocean brings a memory of my mother sitting on the back porch step, her head held back, lips parted. She takes a deep breath and smiles at me.

My heart begins to ache.

“Those bastards. President has to do more.”

“What?” I look at him. We’re walking past the corded-off, empty parking spaces.

“President needs to do more about security,” Dad says, gesturing toward the spaces. The irritation I hear in his voice surprises me and I feel achy and tired.

Dad settles my carry-on in the trunk of his Volvo and opens the passenger door. His car is immaculate, as usual. I glance down. A list stands at attention in the cup holder: bread, milk, gas, 8:15 Christine. I laugh.

“Something funny?” Dad asks as he climbs in.

“Your list.”

“Yeah?”

“You put me on the list. Would you have forgotten me if you hadn’t?” I’m kidding, but then remember the other night when he told me he didn’t want me to come home. Yet he’s always been a list-maker, a dependable man.

“Of course not. Just a habit.”

He starts the car, maneuvers out of the parking lot, and soon we’re on the 405. Air rushes in through his open window. I open mine, breathe in, feel as if I’m washing the last bit of arid desert out of my lungs.

Dad sighs.

A memory of my mother sneaks in. I close my eyes, relax. Warm afternoon sunlight streaming onto the back porch, my mother acting silly, telling me I can drink air. Me, a giggly girl. I hold my head back, sip the cool breeze. Dad asks what we’re doing, and in my little-girl voice I tell him drinkin’ air. He sighs, shakes his head and explains to my mother she shouldn’t fill my head with nonsense.

I look over at him. He’s driving like he always has, right hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his left thigh. Some things about him I know well.

“So everything’s okay? You don’t mind having company this week?”

He glances over, then back to the road. “Of course not. Why should I mind? Everything okay with you?”

“I was just wondering. You know, well, you hung up on me.” I feel the anger I felt in my living room, but I push it back so I don’t have to feel it right now.

“I was tired.” He stares straight ahead.

For some reason, I don’t believe him and I want him to explain more, say something else, yet I know he won’t. “But you’re okay?”

“Fine. How’s work?” he asks again.

“Great. I’ll probably win top sales for the office this year. I’m the top seller.” I repeat what I just told him. I work fourteen-hour days, but to produce the way I do, I have to. Most of the time, I’m exhausted. “What have you been up to?”

“Managing to keep busy.”

“Doing what?”

He flips on his turn signal and eases into the right lane to pick up the 110. “I’ve got lots of things to do, taking care of the house, for one thing. It’s getting older by the day. So your flight was okay?”

“Fine. A little crowded, but since it’s two days before Christmas I expected that.” I drink in more air, wishing I felt as if I could open up, tell him he pissed me off when I called to tell him about my trip, but I can’t.

“Yeah, it’s crazy flying at this time,” Dad says.

“People want to be home for the holidays.”

Dad looks at me, then back to the road. “I’m glad you’re home. That you could take the time off from work.”

“Thanks. I didn’t want you to be alone.” My shoulders relax a little and I lean back. Before I became a Realtor, I used to jump from job to job—waitress, secretary, Pottery Barn sales clerk. With those jobs, I could come home every year if Mom sent me airfare. My father used to just shake his head when I’d tell him I’d changed jobs again. Then one day, a friend said I should try selling houses because I had a knack for making people happy. I didn’t know what the heck she meant by that since my life was pretty much a train wreck. I was in debt, not happy with any job and never found a relationship that worked.

When I asked her what she meant, she said I was nice. I laughed, told her I wished I wasn’t so nice. That was seven years ago, and three top sales awards later.

“Still like your job?” Dad asks.

“The job’s great. The other day, a client told me I helped her find her dream home. That really reminded me of Mom.”

An eye blink later, he turns the steering wheel sharply to change lanes and brakes squeal. I’m thrown forward toward the dashboard.

“Good God!”

A horn screeches and I glance back, thinking he’s caused a ten-car pile up on the 110, but everything’s okay.

“Dad, you cut that guy off.”

“He had plenty of room. People should learn how to drive!”

A weird feeling spirals through me. This isn’t like him at all, but neither is him hanging up on me. I look over at him. Basically, he’s the same, maybe a little thinner, grayer. I turn my attention to the window, watch as we drive through the oil fields, come all the way up Pacific Avenue and turn right on Thirty-eighth Street.

When Dad turns into the driveway of our house, my heart jumps a little. It’s the one I grew up in, the one my mother loved, decorated, the one she didn’t come back to eight months ago.

We walk on the sidewalk that cuts from the garage to our house through the night-wet grass. I’m in front pulling my suitcase, and Dad is right behind me. The night is so quiet I can hear his shoes tapping against the concrete.

I scuff my feet against the familiar flowery welcome mat on the back porch. Dad unlocks the door, flips on the light, motions me to go in, and I step into my mother’s kitchen.

“I’ll put your suitcase in your room.” Dad disappears through the swinging door that leads from the kitchen to the rest of the house.

My head is aching, I guess from the flight, the drive home, anticipation. I glance around. The same familiar yellow walls—like sunshine—was how my mother described the color years ago. My dad told her that was silly.

I was so looking forward to seeing familiar things, but now I’m not so sure. When I’m in Tucson, I can keep my grief tucked away. Nothing there reminds me of home, and I’m so busy most of the time, I don’t have time to think about anything but work.

Yet, right now, it feels like just yesterday that I sat at the oak table in the kitchen in shocked disbelief that my mother was gone. Dad has changed nothing. The white-and-yellow tile and the turquoise art deco canisters sitting by the stove are still the same. And the white curtains edge the window over the sink. Except now the room is a mess with unwashed dishes, a greasy frying pan on the stove.

The old refrigerator, squat as an old woman, hums. I place my purse on the table in the middle of the room, dig around, find the little foil packet of Aleves in my makeup bag. The door to the dining room swings wide, Dad walks in, and the refrigerator sighs.

“Need anything?” he asks.

“No.” A half lie. I’m not sure what I need. I feel numb—a little disoriented, but I don’t know how to tell him this. And he probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. I glance toward the dining room and, for a split second, I expect my mom to push through the swinging door, hug me, then sit at the table and pat the space beside her.

My headache deepens.

“I saw Sandra this morning. She’s looking forward to seeing you,” Dad says.

Sandra is three years older than I am, and she grew up in the house next door. We played together when we were young and, when she went to high school, I followed her like a puppy, entranced by the boys, makeup and dates that swirled around her. Three years ago, she moved back into her childhood home to take care of her mother. We’ve kept in touch, but over the last few years I’ve been so busy, we haven’t talked much.

“I’ll go over tomorrow. It’s too late now.”

Dad looks at the clock. “Better turn on the news.”

“Still on at nine?”

We both look toward the yellow sunflower clock over the fridge, and I laugh despite what I’m feeling. Eight-fifty-five.

“Yep, still on at nine. Are you coming?” he throws over his shoulder as he walks out of the kitchen.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

A moment later the TV blares. I walk to the refrigerator, open the door. Almost empty. This surprises me until I remind myself my mother isn’t here to fill it. At the new stainless-steel sink that Mom had installed two months before she died, I find a clean glass, fill it with water, pop the pair of puffy blue Aleves in my mouth and wash them down.

The tiny crystal bear Mom hung in the window sways a little. I wonder how many times she stood in this spot, looked at the little bear and heard these same noises—the fridge humming, the TV voices, her own breathing? I try to look out the window, but all I can see is a lot of my mother in my reflection—long dark hair, narrow face.

Familiar grief pushes in and I shove it back.

After my mother passed away, my grief came in waves, like the ocean four blocks away, crashing against the cliffs. Sadness rolled over me, at times the weight of it knocking me down, filling up my throat and chest. Then just as suddenly, it would be gone, washing back to who knows where? I wouldn’t know when the grief was going to splash over me again—a song, feeling the early morning breeze against my skin, anything might bring back the hurt.

I turn around, lean against the counter’s edge. I grew up knowing my mother loved this kitchen. We talked a lot here. She told me once that she wanted to soak up the history of this house, and family history always began in kitchens.

She told me so many things. Once at the park, when I was around six, she held a dandelion to my lips, said, “Make a wish, Christine, and believe!”

I close my eyes, wish my mother were here.

“Christine,” Dad calls from the living room.

“Yeah?” Where did she go? Crazy, I know, but it’s so strange that one moment a person is breathing, laughing, then poof, gone!

“News is on.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I look around the kitchen, wonder how much my father misses my mother. They were married for forty-three years. Does he plunge into memories and swim to where she is, tangle in her long, dark hair?

I drain the glass. I have to get control. I push my thoughts back and walk into the other room.

Blinking red lights grab my attention.

“What in the heck is that?” I ask.

CHAPTER 2

“What does it look like?” Dad asks.

I glance at the fake Christmas tree sitting on the table in front of the window. I don’t think I should tell him the tree, leaning too far to the left, resembles a drunken sailor. He might not think that’s as funny as I do. Huge red lights are looped precariously around the tree’s small, fake branches, and the Santa ornaments that Mom used to place on a big, fresh tree, look like they are hanging on for dear life.

I shake my head, study a scratch in the hardwood floor.

“Something wrong?” Dad asks.

Oh, God, now he knows I don’t like the tree.

“Did you put up the tree?” I ask then feel like an idiot because who else would have done it? “It’s really nice,” I lie.

“No it’s not. It looks like crap.”

“It’s cute. Really.”

“It’s fake.”

Like anyone couldn’t tell! I walk to where he’s sitting. He looks up, turns down the volume of the TV.

“Fake, real, it doesn’t matter. I’m flattered that you put up a tree. It’s a great tree.”

“You never could lie very well. It’s crappy. I got it at Wal-Mart, on sale. With you coming for Christmas—”

He stops, gets this weird look on his face, and the gray light from the TV accentuates his frown lines.

“What?” I turn and see my reflection in the window by the tree.

“Nothing. I thought…nothing.” His expression is pure confusion. “We’re missing the news.” Then he points to the tree. “So you like it? The decorations are too big. If you want, we can go get a real one tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world. Really, I’m impressed. I know you don’t like Christmas.”

“True.”

“Do you still think it’s a Communist plot against democracy?” Under the tree are two badly wrapped packages. Jesus, I completely forgot to shop! “I need to go Christmas shopping.”

“What?”

“I have to go Christmas shopping tomorrow.” I point to the presents. “I was so busy before I left Tucson, I didn’t even think of gifts.”

Dad looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “How do you know they’re for you?”

“Well, I…I don’t.”

He laughs. “They are, but they aren’t much. I don’t want anything. I still think it’s a Communist plot. The tree seemed to need presents, that’s all. You can open them now, if you want.”

“No, I’ll wait till—”

A commercial about Toyotas blares through the room and tramples the rest of my words. Dad turns down the volume again.

“I have to get you something. I wouldn’t feel right.”

“Okay. Fight the crowds to get me something I don’t want or need.”

I laugh at his familiar directness but feel a little hurt. I love Christmas, the presents and the fun. “But we’ve always exchanged presents.” An image surfaces—of my mother, a serious look on her face, wrapping boxes in pretty paper. My throat tightens and I look around the living room. The over-stuffed couch, the different shades of blue in the Oriental rug that covers most of the hardwood floor, the large picture window with no curtains so early morning sunlight will rush in—all the same, and all seem to be waiting for my mother to return.

I close my eyes, want her here. Then I brush back this futile wish.

“Remember how Mom used to sing, ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ every evening, right before dinner, starting on the fifteenth?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Dad stares straight ahead.

Brian Williams talks about sextuplets born yesterday in Virginia.

Dad gets up, walks over and hands me the remote. “You know, I think I’ll go for a walk. Watch anything you want, honey.”

“But the news isn’t over.” I stand, motion to Peter Jennings.

“It’s all the same.”

He heads toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. I get up, follow him, stand in their bedroom doorway. The room looks the same—blue and white everywhere, a woman’s room shared with her husband. Except now there are clothes piled in corners, and the bed isn’t made. I can’t take my eyes off the mess.

“I didn’t have time to pick up,” Dad says.

He’s looking at me. I shrug. “Oh. So you’re going for a walk now?”

“Yeah.” He finds his Nikes under some clothes, sits on the edge of the bed, kicks off his loafers, then jams his feet with the black socks into tennis shoes and ties the laces in double knots.

“It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”

“The fresh air does me good, helps me sleep.”

“But you used to run, always in the morning. You aren’t doing that anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

He looks at me as if he’s trying to think of what to say. “A little. Things have changed. I walk now, at night. It seems to help.”

“Help what? The not sleeping?”

“Sometimes.”

The weird feeling I have in the pit of my stomach grows. I breathe in, remind myself, yes, things change, but some things don’t—like not being able to talk to your father or to feel completely relaxed around him.

“Excuse me,” he says, trying to pass through the door.

“Want me to go with you?”

“Only if you want to. I stay out a long time, so if you’re tired that’s not such a good idea.”

I step back into the hallway, knowing he wants me to stay home.

He moves past me. “Don’t wait up if you’re tired, honey.”

A moment later I hear the back door close. In the living room the tree blinks on. I turn off the TV, go to my old room and shut the door. The white daisy bedspread I’m so used to is still on the bed. The oak dresser and highboy from Lou’s Antiques in Palos Verdes stand opposite each other.

I pull back the curtain, try to look out to the front, but the window mirrors my reflection. I click off the lamp on the dresser and I disappear. Then I see my father, highlighted in the blinking red light from the fake tree. He’s standing in the middle of the front yard, staring at the house.

I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he happy I’m here? It sure doesn’t seem like it. But he did put up the tree. Maybe he just doesn’t want company. The sad part of all this is that I really don’t know.

Jake McGuire looked at the house his wife Dorothy had insisted on buying thirty-eight years ago. Christine’s bedroom light clicked off. He hoped his only child was going to bed. The red patch of light from the Christmas tree snapped off then on again. He crossed his arms and felt calmer than he had when he was in the house.

A few minutes ago, when he was sitting in his chair, he’d again seen an image of his wife. Jake shook his head.

Maybe all the talk about Christmas had brought it about. Then again, it could have been Christine’s reflection.

No, that wasn’t it.

He’d seen Dorothy standing in the middle of the living room. It was for just a split second, but he couldn’t deny it.

Jake took a deep breath. Many times this past eight months, he’d wished his wife were sitting next to him or in another room. He’d even closed his eyes and pictured her standing in front of him smiling. But tonight? What he saw felt real. And seeing her made him feel comforted.

The Christmas tree lights blinked off then on, and Jake remembered why he’d bought the stupid tree. He’d gone to pick up a case of Pennz-oil on sale at Wal-Mart, and he’d heard Dorothy’s favorite Christmas song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” as he was standing in the middle of the auto supplies, for Christ’s sake. That’s when he realized he needed to get a tree because Christine would be home. The next thing he knew, he was shoving the artificial one in the trunk.

Jake walked away from the house, then stopped a little ways down the sidewalk. He was glad he’d come outside. He wasn’t used to talking about Dorothy. Since she’d been gone, his evenings were silent, except for the TV. And he’d never been responsible for Christmas. When his wife was alive, she took care of all the holidays. Most of the time, he was flying. Lay-over hotels were quiet, and he got the best assignments for those days. Dorothy said she didn’t mind, even after they got older, as long as Christine could make it home.

Deep grief invaded his body as he walked down the street. To distract himself, he looked up. The tall streetlights dabbed every fourth lawn with glassy white light. He hoped the cool night air and being out of the house, away from the memories—all the regrets—would make him feel better.

Tonight, seeing Christine for the first time since Dorothy’s funeral had made him sad. She looked so much like her mother, with her dark hair, slim build and blue eyes.

Maybe all the fresh memories had made him think he saw Dorothy. Jake stopped in the middle of the street. Yeah, that was it. The same thing had happened three weeks ago, right after the evening news reported a car wreck. That’s the first time he thought he saw Dorothy standing in front of him. It was for just a moment, yet he felt elated.

And later that night, loneliness covered him like a blanket, suffocating him. So he’d walked to the center of town, away from the house, the memories, the uncertainty. He stayed out for an hour, then right after he’d walked in the kitchen, Christine called, told him she’d booked a flight to come home. He’d been so depressed, he couldn’t think or talk. It took him a few minutes to get it together, call her back and ask what time she was coming in.

This morning, he’d thought, with Christine home, he’d be busy and the grief would subside. Tonight, at least, he managed to talk, act normal. He certainly didn’t want his daughter to worry about him.

Jake walked faster, told himself he’d keep it together while Christine was here. At Dorothy’s funeral, he’d come to grips with the fact he was never going to see his wife again, despite what some people said.

You’ll be together again someday.

A lot of people said that to him. He thought people spouted that bull to make themselves feel better and not so afraid of death. He believed that the spirit everlasting was pretty much crap. He stuffed his grief, held his feelings back and told himself to face reality.

Jake crossed the deserted street. There was no heaven or hell or anything in between. When he was eight, he’d announced to his mother he didn’t believe in heaven. She slapped the crap out of him, and that pretty much convinced him. The woman had tried to shove her faith down his throat for years, until he joined the service and moved away from Des Moines.

He stopped at the corner. He had too much time on his hands. After Christmas, he’d paint the house, keep himself busy.

He turned west, pumped his arms, walked faster. For the first time he noticed the fog, up from the ocean and veiling everything. He thought about the pilots being vectored into LAX tonight, relying on instruments, believing in what they couldn’t see, working and not thinking about anything else but getting on the ground in one piece. He envied them and wished he could still fly—look out the front left window of an airplane.

He used to love flying in the mornings. Getting up early, taking off toward the sun as it inched up the blue sky—that was his personal heaven. And he liked jogging in the mornings, too. He always got back to the house before Dorothy woke. He’d step into their cathedral-like bedroom, watch her sleep, his fingers aching to touch her dark hair streaming against her pillow.