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The Shame of Merline Gates
The Shame of Merline Gates
The Shame of Merline Gates
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The Shame of Merline Gates

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At the height of World War II, Merline fled Santa Rita. Ten years later, when her sister is killed by a car, Merline returns to close the estate, hoping to avoid inevitable questions. Memories make painful companions as she clears the tag ends of their life in Santa Rita. Most of all, she remembers her beloved Paul, lost when his bomber crashed. Paul Winfield, rescued by the Resistance in France, has searched for his lost love, never found her or anyone to equal her, and is now Santa Rita's high school principal. Knowing Merline will probably return for her sister's funeral, he comes knocking on the door of her childhood home, but she sends him away. Paul survived the tragedies of war; he won't let anything stand between him and Merline again, but they are different people than they were ten years before. Will a shameful secret and their own history keep them apart?
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJun 10, 2016
ISBN9781509207565
The Shame of Merline Gates
Author

Fleeta Cunningham

A fifth generation Texan, Fleeta Cunningham has lived her entire life in Texas, both small towns and big cities. Drawing on all of them, she writes about the unique character--and characters--of the southern states. After a career as a law librarian for a major Texas law firm, writing a monthly column for a professional newsletter and other legal publications, she returned to her home in Central Texas to write full time. Fleeta has been writing in one form or another since the age of eight. When she isn't writing, she teaches creative writing classes, makes quilts, and designs miniature gowns for her huge collection of fashion dolls.

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    The Shame of Merline Gates - Fleeta Cunningham

    Reunion

    Chapter 1

    Mrs. Conover? Mary was relieved to see Lucy come from the back. I don’t mean to interrupt. The mailman left a letter for this address, but it’s nobody I know. Does the name Merline Gates mean anything to you?

    Merline Gates! No! The clutch at the pit of her stomach took her breath. The air jammed in her throat. Her words stuck. That name— She hadn’t heard it in ten years. She swallowed hard. I think we once had an employee by that name, Lucy. Leave it with me. Without looking at it, she took the white envelope. Go away. Please, just go away. Everybody, go. She forced herself to face Gill Thomas. I appreciate your offer. If I ever want to sell the shop, there’s no one I’d rather have it than you. You were a good friend to Gavin, and I know he’d feel the same. I’ll keep your offer in mind. Go on, Gill Thomas. Go back to your own shop. Her heart thudded in her chest. She struggled to keep her composure, not to show how the name had shaken her.

    Now, Mrs. Conover, you know I’m a reasonable man. I’d give you a good price for the business and your building. Make you and the boy a nice nest egg, and I’d keep your people on, too. Can’t say fairer than that. Mr. Thomas picked up his hat and nodded to Lucy. The bells above the door tinkled softly as he opened it. We’ll leave it there for the time being. Good night, ladies.

    Gripping the doorknob after he’d gone, without turning, Mary spoke to her assistant. I’ll see about forwarding the letter, Lucy. It’s late. You go on home. The words sounded labored, harsh in her own ears.

    A thin fog across her eyes separated her from the shop, from everything in her world. As disoriented as if suddenly struck blind, she took hesitant steps to the glass cubicle behind the counter, finally locating her chair and crumpling into it, her knees giving way as she sank down. She could hear Lucy going about the business of closing up, locking the door, and clearing the cash register. The change going into the cash drawer made a jingle in the silence. She heard it but saw nothing beyond the frosted glass.

    I’m going now. Lucy paused at the door. Don’t stay here too late. It looks like rain. Remind Andrew we’re expecting him for the birthday party.

    I’ll be sure he’s there. Her answer was automatic; she barely realized she said it. Staring down at the desk, unseeing, waiting until Lucy was well out the door, she crushed the envelope, twisting it in shaking fingers. Certain she was alone, she pushed back the desk chair, clutching the edge of the desk to steady herself before she ventured to turn off the outside lights. Without conscious thought she checked the back door, then retreated again to the small desk behind the counter. Cold phantom fingers touched her spine. She shivered, as if chilled, though the shop was warm from the steam press. Her grey sweater sagged over the desk chair. With fingers too numb to feel, she pulled it on. Legs of the straight chair rasped on the hard floor when she scooted it closer. Leaving the envelope on the desk before her, she smoothed one twisted corner, then the opposite one. Her hands shook as she lifted it, turning the innocuous square of paper side to side. Plain white business envelope. Address handwritten. Postmark, Santa Rita. Return, a box number. I don’t recognize the writing. Not Hazel, of course; it wouldn’t be from her. She never had this address. But who else knows where Merline Gates went? Who would write?

    The only way to find out was to open the letter. Did she want to know? Did she want to open that door again? Ten years is a long time, a lifetime. Whatever the letter might say, it was nothing she wanted to know. She started to tear it to scraps and drop it in the trash, but an eerie premonition stopped her. If I don’t open it, I’ll always wonder who wrote and why. If I do open it, no one has to know. I can still throw it away. Nothing had changed. The delivery of one plain envelope didn’t affect her world. Lines of ink on a page of paper could scarcely alter history. She hesitated, turning the envelope over again. Open it? Don’t open it? Just put Merline Gates back into the dark and shut the door again? The turmoil of her mind tormented her. Not willing to prolong it, she picked up the penknife and slipped it into the seam of the envelope. She slit it slowly. The smooth, even paper made a tiny whisper as she cut across the top. A single page fell to the desk when she opened the envelope. The letter, neatly folded, was a plain white sheet, no letterhead.

    Dear Merline,

    I don’t know if this will reach you. The only address I could find for you was an old one in an address book in Hazel’s purse. I know you haven’t seen your sister or been in communication with her for some time, but I felt you needed to know. Late yesterday, around midnight, as she was leaving the hospital, Hazel was struck by a car. It happened at that dark corner across from the parking lot. The driver never saw her, and probably Hazel didn’t see him coming, either. We brought her into the emergency room immediately, but she never recovered consciousness. I realize this will come as a shock to you, and I am so sorry. Thirty-eight is far too young to die. Hazel was an excellent nurse and a respected community leader. She will be greatly missed. Under the circumstances, I thought she would forgive the intrusion, so I looked through her desk at the office, hoping to find some contact information for you. While I didn’t find an address for you until I looked in her purse, I found she’d made final arrangements for herself and had a paid insurance policy to cover them. It was so like Hazel to have managed things in advance. Still, there are matters of her estate that must be seen to. I hope you’ll come to Santa Rita and take charge of those things—your mother’s house, Hazel’s personal belongings, and if this letter reaches you in time, the graveside service. I spoke to Mr. Albert, and he said we could wait until Friday afternoon, if you can manage to be here.

    It’s been a long time, Merline, since you went away. Santa Rita was your home all your life. I’d like to know that things went well for you after you left. Please let me hear from you, even if you feel you can’t get away for your sister’s service.

    All the best.

    Dr. Dan Sherwood

    Hazel? Hazel was gone? Something as mundane as an encounter with an oncoming car had managed to disrupt, actually end, Hazel Gates’ orderly life? That invincible force, that righteous authority of right and wrong—whether of significant or minuscule concern—was gone? And, all other matters aside, how did Hazel come to have the address for the shop?

    Dr. Sherwood thinks Merline should come home. After all these years? I could tell him Merline disappeared ten years ago, right after she got here. I could send a typewritten note and tell him she was here for a few months, but she moved on after…

    She could find any number of ways to avoid the situation. Tear up the letter. Write a note of apology for opening someone else’s mail. Send regrets that no one knew a forwarding address for Merline Gates, or deny she had ever been known at this address. Waves of excuses came to mind. But Hazel is dead, the past is history, and what does any of it matter now, anyway? No one cares about those days now. The only one who mattered to me has been dead a long time.

    Mary picked up the phone and asked for the long distance operator. Santa Rita, Texas, please. Person to person for Dr. Dan Sherwood. Merline Gates calling.

    Chapter 2

    I’ll only be away for a few days, Andrew. Someone I knew a long time ago died suddenly, and I need to go to the funeral. You’ll be with Davie and his mom, which is much better than where I’ll be. Packing could wait a moment. Her son, lower lip pushed out and brows drawn, looked forlorn and wistful. Sweetheart, if you went with me, you might miss the birthday party. And you’d be out of school for three days. You wouldn’t want to miss the spelling bee or the party, would you?

    His solemn grey eyes closed, and he shook his head. She’d helped him drill for the spelling bee and knew it was important to him. Davie’s birthday was important, too. He and Davie had been best friends since they were toddlers, and now that Lucy had moved closer to work, they were in the same class at school.

    No. He expelled a massive sigh. I guess not. His sandy hair was showing a little bit of curl again. He’d need another haircut by the time she got back. He sat cross-legged on the bed, his brown overalls hiked over striped socks. But maybe you’ll be back in time for the party. Do you think you will, Mom?

    Somehow since school started she’d gone from Mommy to just Mom. He was growing up. I’ll try, Andrew. I really will. I won’t be gone one minute longer than it takes to clear the house and get a real estate agent to handle the sale. If there’s other paperwork, well, surely there’s still a lawyer practicing in Santa Rita. I think I hear a car. Davie and his mom must be a little early. Let’s get your suitcase. Mind your manners, be polite, and do whatever Davie’s mother asks you to do. Get your shoes on and make sure everything is in your school bag.

    Yes, ma’am. His answer, while compliant, came from the depths of dejection.

    The doorbell rang, and the next few minutes were a flurry of getting small boys into the car, stowing suitcase and school books, and giving last minute hugs and instructions.

    Now, Mary, don’t you worry about a thing. Andrew will be just fine. He and Davie will have all kinds of fun together. I’ll see the schoolwork and tooth brushing get done. You don’t need to have anything on your mind but getting through that funeral and coming home.

    It’s wonderful how Lucy manages to keep Mrs. Conover in the shop and her friend Mary separate. I suppose she thinks it’s best to keep work and outside life each in a different box, but in all the years we’ve known each other, she’s never once called me Mary at work. What would she think if she knew all the secrets of the woman she’s known as Mary Conover for the last seven years?

    Reminding herself the afternoon was getting shorter, she locked up the apartment and plopped her weathered bag into the trunk of the car. She’d actually never driven the road to Santa Rita, she realized. Fortunately, the service station provided a map when she filled the car. The last time… Well, that was a lifetime ago. She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She wasn’t half sick, shivering with cold and nerves at the back of a lumbering bus filled with men in uniform. Her purse had money in it, and a driver’s license that said she was Mary Conover, age twenty-seven, with blonde hair and blue eyes. True, the hair was a light sandy brown now, and the eyes were more grey than blue, but the world she lived in knew her, knew Mary Conover—mother, shopkeeper—knew Mary, not Merline, that terrified girl who had carried a world of shame with her battered suitcase. The place she was going? No one knew her there, either, not any more. Likely they never really had.

    The smooth highway rolled before her. Afternoon traffic was light, and she made good time along the new interstate. It hadn’t been like that ten years before, going the other way. That night had been bitterly cold. Gas had been rationed, so the road was almost empty, dark for miles, with no vehicles but the rattling old bus. She’d sat at the back, one thin, terrified teenage girl in a bus crowded with soldiers on their way to join units or to say goodbye to loved ones. The war had been gearing up, the Allies had Berlin in their sights, but no one could foresee an early end to it. She’d been lucky; she’d been small and agile, barely five feet and under a hundred pounds. Otherwise, there would have been no room for her. She’d been able to sit in one corner, her back against the cold metal, her suitcase upended for a seat. The space was too small for a soldier.

    The road that night had been rutted by convoy wheels, and the pavement cracked and uneven. She hadn’t slept, though she’d tried. Each time she dozed off, the bus hit a rut or crack that snapped her head back against the metal fitting behind her. The raw smell of gasoline, too many people in a confined space, and her own misery had left her sick and exhausted by the time the bus ended its hundred-mile trip.

    Pushing the dark memory back, refusing to let that journey repeat in her mind, she rolled along the highway, now an even stretch of pavement with a steady flow of cars coming and going. Different time, different world, and very much a different person, she reminded herself. No creaking, cold bus now, but a comfortable car, with a sweet autumn breeze coming through the window to ruffle her short curls. A good car, and her own. She smiled a little, remembering Gavin patiently teaching her to drive it. Another of his many kindnesses to treasure.

    As the last ray of sun dropped below the hills, she saw the sign pointing toward Santa Rita. Just in time. Another minute and I would have missed the turn. In the distance, the old railroad bridge still gleamed where the lingering light touched it. The road narrowed, met the bridge, and for the first time in a decade, she saw Main Street spread out before her. New shops, new signs, but familiar landmarks. Luke’s Drug Store still had the ice cream cone sign in the window. The newspaper office, a squatty little brick building, took up the opposite corner. As she drove away from the center of town, she saw new construction. Small homes, duplexes, and shops had replaced some of the structures and filled in the open spaces she remembered. She hadn’t forgotten the way to the place where she’d grown up. Three blocks down, turn left, go past the high school stadium, make a right, and it stood on the left corner.

    Slowing for the driveway, she saw the place hadn’t changed. The date might just as easily be early 1944 instead of late September 1953. Blue shutters still outlined windows covered by dark shades. The white frame cottage was immaculate, unstained by rain or storm. The fence still marked a perfect and uninteresting swath of browning lawn, edged on each side of the walk by squared bushes but without any tree that might shed untidy leaves. Perfectly kept, of course, but without autumn blooms or time-consuming ornamental plants. The car rolled smoothly over the level drive to the carport in back. With some surprise she saw another car parked beside the house. An amber light leaked beneath the shade of the single kitchen window and made a thin rectangle on the bare concrete. As she got out of her car, the back door opened. A grey-haired man, tall but slightly stooped, came out and down the steps, holding out a hand in greeting.

    Merline, I used your sister’s key. I didn’t want you to walk into the house alone. I thought it might be easier for you if someone were here.

    Dr. Sherwood? I didn’t expect you.

    Come in, Merline. It’s been a long time. I’m glad you decided to come.

    As he drew closer, by the light from the open door she could see the lines in his face. Time hadn’t been kind to the doctor. She knew he was in his fifties, but he looked much older. His hand, when she took it, seemed frail. I’ll only stay as long as it takes to clear up the estate, Doctor. I can’t tell you how hard it was for me to come at all.

    He didn’t release her hand. He clasped it in both of his. I imagine it was difficult, but it was the right thing to do. In spite of what you probably think, Hazel would have wanted you to come. I know she missed you, though she might have never admitted it, Merline.

    Not admitted it? I doubt she ever thought of me again once the bus disappeared down the road, though at some point she did track down the shop address, it seems. I can’t imagine why. The less she heard from Merline, the less likelihood of someone learning how I’d shamed the name of Gates. Dr. Sherwood, Merline Gates ceased to exist, as far as I’m concerned, when she left here ten years ago. I’m Mary Conover now and have been for a long time.

    Mary? Well, that’s a fine old name. Your mother’s name, too, wasn’t it? He turned toward the open door. Come inside, Mary, and we’ll talk. I’m sure you’ll remember everything here. The place hasn’t changed much.

    The last thing in the world she wanted to do was set foot in Hazel’s domain again. No fond memories waited inside, but the house was the primary reason for her trip. She saw nothing for it but to follow Dr. Sherwood back into the kitchen. Taking care of the last details of Hazel’s world, that was the job. The sooner she got to it, the quicker she could return to her own life, to Andrew and the shop.

    Nothing had changed, not one detail had altered, as far as she could tell. The kitchen was in immaculate order, smelling of bleach and strong detergent. She looked around, wondering if anyone could actually enjoy such a sterile environment, and for a moment imagined Andrew and Davie, with cookies, milk, crayons, scissors, and glue, hovering over a project on that shining table, sneakers digging into the insipid lily-print chair seats. Such an invasion would make Hazel rise up from her casket in horror.

    It all looks the same. Her tone was dry, and she didn’t offer the comment as a compliment.

    Hazel wasn’t one to discard something just because fashion changed. She expected things to last. She had mighty high standards.

    High standards for everything, and high expectations as well, especially for everyone else. She knew her tone sounded bitter.

    Let’s go into the living room and talk for a minute, Mer…uh, Mary. I’m certain you’ll have questions.

    Her primary question was how long she’d have to stay to get Hazel’s affairs wound up, but she didn’t voice that thought to the doctor. He had always been a good-hearted man who probably didn’t understand how badly relations had deteriorated between her and her sister. She followed him to the living room, but when he started to turn on the overhead light, she stopped him.

    I’d rather not advertise my presence, Doctor. We have enough light from the kitchen.

    Just as you like. He sat down on the dun-colored sofa and gestured to the matching armchair beside it. Come and sit for a moment…Mary, and tell me about yourself.

    There’s very little to tell, Doctor. I left here, as Hazel had planned, on the bus to San Antonio. Shortly after I got there, I was fortunate enough to get a job in a small shop doing alterations and repairs. The man who owned it, Gavin Conover, had a son in the service who was killed in the war. Gavin almost died of grief. He wasn’t well himself. We became friends, and I married him. He died two years ago.

    And…and the baby? Did the home I recommended work out for you and the child?

    I never went there. I met Gavin. As far as anyone ever knew, Andrew was his child.

    I see.

    Mary doubted that he did. He couldn’t imagine those first weeks, when she was so alone and lost, but she had no desire to explain further. From the amount of building I saw around town as I came in, I shouldn’t have too much trouble finding a buyer for the house, should I? She gave the room a critical glance. Everything is well maintained. Hazel kept the property up, kept everything in perfect order. Not one thing has moved in the ten years I’ve been gone, but it all looks like it was delivered yesterday. So like

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