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Marsha Dixon’s just told her granddaughter how Marsha and Joe first met, and now we see how much they still live each other in the present–even though they have some tough challenges ahead of them.

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Christmas on Bellevue Lane
November 2, 2015
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Chapter Three

“And that’s why Dad’s always calls you Bird,” Dru said after Marsha finished her story, “when the two of you are necking and don’t think anyone’s watching.”

She winked toward Camille, who was still sitting on the other side of the love seat.

“Your grandparents are shamelessly in love, kiddo. But you’ll get used to it.”

“We’re not the only ones.” Marsha took in her twenty-two-year-old daughter’s pregnancy glow. “A day doesn’t go by that your dad and I don’t hear from someone who’s seen you and Brad kissing at the Whip when you think no one’s watching. Like . . . this morning, in fact.”

“Who ratted us out?” Dru demanded good-naturedly. “We were prepping to open. None of the rest of the crew was there yet.”

Dru and her fiancé, Brad Douglas, owned and ran his late grandmother’s hugely popular hamburger joint, the Dream Whip. Vivian Douglas’s will had left the business and the Douglas house to the couple.

Dru had begun cutting back her hours recently , morning sickness not always conducive to being up to her elbows in preparing and serving fast food and milk shakes. But she loved the place. Everyone in Chandlerville did—almost as much as they loved Dru and Brad.

“None of the crew would have called,” Marsha teased, waiting for her daughter’s memory to click.

Dru narrowed her eyes.

“Leigh Hastings . . .” She reached around Marsha and tugged at one of Camille’s hot-pink tennis shoes, the ones with Hello Kitty’s face embroidered on them. “The next time I take you to Dan’s for a cupcake, we’re gonna make Leigh pay for tattling.”

Camille nodded enthusiastically, giggling at her aunt’s hollow threat. She and Dru and the rest of the Dixons were addicted to Dan’s Doughnuts and the amazing baked things produced daily by Leigh and Dan Hastings’s staff.

“I forgot Leigh dropped off our pastry order this morning.” Dru melted into the cushions behind her, propped her feet onto the ottoman, and sighed. She closed her eyes and patted her softly rounded belly. “Sometimes I swear this little creature is siphoning away my ability to remember anything.”

“You look tired,” Marsha told her, while Camille admired the hummingbird ornament. “Why don’t you take a nap before everyone gets here?”

Dru shook her head and yawned.

Her eyes fluttered open. “And miss the chance to hang with my flower girl?”

She and Camille had been best buds from the moment Dru asked her to be in Dru’s upcoming wedding in October—which she and Brad had planned to coincide with Marsha and Joe’s thirty-fifth anniversary.

Another loud crash and curse from the other side of the house left Marsha and Dru sharing a worried glance.

Joe’s irritability had gotten progressively worse since his heart attack—partially a side effect of the medication he was taking. But more and more it was due to his frustration over the post-surgical physical limitations he continued to struggle with.

Anxiety skipped about in Marsha’s chest at the memory of waiting for hours during her husband’s bypass operation. The doctors had had to stop Joe’s heart. She’d prayed silently, nonstop, that the surgeon would come out and tell her that the man she’d built her world around would be okay.

When Joe had made it through the procedure as well as could be expected, Marsha had thought they were in the clear. Until his continued stubborn insistence since coming home that he didn’t need the outpatient cardiovascular rehabilitation his doctors had prescribed.

Her legs shook as she got to her feet now, determined as ever to hide from the rest of the family as much as she could of husband’s mood swings, fading appetite, inability to sleep, and lack of energy. She caught Camille watching her worriedly.

She was a bright child, hypersensitive to the emotions of the adults around her.

Marsha smoothed back her granddaughter’s soft bangs. “Why don’t you keep looking through the decorations while I go check on Grandpa.”

Dru followed Marsha to the door, stopping her with a touch on her arm.

“Let Brad deal with Dad and the tree,” Dru said.

Marsha blinked. “Your dad and I are fine, honey. I’ll get him settled down. Besides, you said Brad wouldn’t be able to get off work until two.”

“He’s on his way now.” Dru held up her smart phone. “I texted him a while you were telling Camille about your and Joe’s meet-cute.”

“You did what?”

“Travis, too,” Dru said, referring to one of her older foster brothers who still lived in Chandlerville. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I didn’t have a choice. You and Dad aren’t fine.”

Marsha swallowed, trying and failing to think of a way to spin Joe’s behavior into looking or sounding or being less troubling than it was.

Dru glanced at her niece and lowered her voice. “There’s obviously no settling him down at this point. Even Camille can see that. You look as run down as he does, from trying to pick up the slack while he can’t do as much around here. And you’re both determined to make Christmas in July happen the same as always—with the two of you doing all the work. Let us older kids pitch in this year.”

“That’s the last thing your father needs right now,” Marsha said in a stage whisper, grateful for the offer of support but dreading the inevitable pushback from Joe. “He’s already upset enough.”

“Then let him be upset,” Dru countered. “You two can’t keep this up, whatever this is that you’re trying to pretend isn’t happening. And family stands with family, right? That’s what you and Joe taught us.”

“Of course. But—”

“Well, Brad and Travis and I are going to all be here soon. Let’s finally talk about this as a family—whatever Dad’s going through. He needs to take his recovery seriously. Before not dealing with it lands him back in the hospital—and you right there with him, from exhaustion.”

“I . . .” Marsha stepped away from her daughter and the prospect of a confrontation. “Please don’t get between your father and me today. Just watch Camille while I go check on him.”

Another crash sent her hustling toward the storage room and her husband’s escalating meltdown.

Joe was leaning over, his arms braced on his thighs, breathing heavily.

He was staring belligerently at the mess of Rubbermaid bins, corrugated boxes, sporting equipment, and other flotsam that seemed to have flung itself at him. He’d tried to disengage the monstrous tree box that had been pinned next to the wall. It looked as if he’d attempted to pry it free without shifting anything else out of the way.

“Are you okay?” Marsha stumbled, rushing forward in a panic. “Is it your heart?”

Joe straightened as she reached him. He looked puzzled by her question, and more annoyed than in pain. Relief flooded her—a split second before his handsome features rumpled into a scowl.

He kicked the nearest bin.

“What are we doing with all this crap?” he snapped at the mess he’d made, his glare accusing Marsha, as if she were responsible for the circumstances that were agitating him to distraction. “I can’t move in this house without stumbling over people and things and God knows what else. I swear, sometimes I want to . . .”

“What?” Marsha snapped back.

The emotional chasm growing between them was starting to feel like an open wound that refused to heal.

She inhaled air that felt so sharp, it might have been freezing—even though it was close to eighty degrees in the stuffy storage room.

That morning she and Joe had promised each other they’d stop doing this—this bickering thing that had been brewing between them since he’d come home from the surgical rehab center. Sure, they had difficult things to deal with and tough decisions to make. But tearing into each other was taking tiny bites out of the love they’d always relied on. Fighting instead of dealing with their problems was making everything that was already hard enough feel even more overwhelming.

She stared with stinging eyes at the loving, outgoing family man she knew adored the day-to-day chaos of raising as many foster kids as they had.

She and Joe were used to having next to no time alone, until they collapsed into bed at the end of each day. And even then their newest placement, eighteen-month-old Teddy, was aces at picking just the right moment to demand attention—or no one else in the house would sleep through the night. But her marriage thrived on chaos, as well as the unconditional love they received back from the foster kids they were raising.

Except now a harried, exasperated stranger stared back at her. And it suddenly felt, with Dru’s concern still ringing in Marsha’s ears, as if the runaway train of Joe’s derailed recovery was threatening everything they’d worked so hard to build.

“You love Christmas in July,” she told him.

She pushed aside an oversize container labeled COATS. It was loaded with jackets and winter gear in a Noah’s arc of sizes.

“You love a house full of messy kids and their even messier stuff.” She laid her hand over Joe’s heart, the strumming of its beat calming her, feeding her courage. “You love me.”

Staring at her as if he were just then seeing her clearly, he tugged her against his chest.

“I do love you, Bird.” He kissed her temple. “More than I knew I could love anything.”

She clung to him and the words, so familiar and dear and ringing with honesty. He’d made the same admission, just as haltingly, the night he’d asked her to marry him. He’d behaved badly then, too. And when he proposed, he hadn’t sounded as if he expected her to believe him, any more than he seemed to now.

“But . . .” Marsha braced herself.

They’d circled the same argument every night of the last week, when Joe had seemed even more tired and irritable than the week before. He was hurting too badly to sleep well. And she’d been increasingly troubled by his refusal to deal with the root of the problem.

“But . . .” This was the man she loved. She’d be damned if she was going let him—them—slip away without a fight. “You don’t love me and our life and the things we’re doing for our kids enough to commit to what you have to, to keep all of this going?”

Joe—handsome and towering over her and stronger than should be possible for a man who was so sick still—set her away from him, gently but firmly.

The sudden physical distance was a biting slap of reality.

“That’s not fair,” he accused.

“Your kids are worried about you, no matter how hard you and I have tried to keep things normal around here. How fair is that to them? Even Camille can tell something’s up. And Dru and Brad and Travis . . .”

She stopped short of filling him in on the rest.

“Since when,” she asked, “do we need life to be fair in order for us to be okay?”

She relived the moment long ago when Joe had said the same thing to her. She watched his gaze flicker with recognition. Then his stare took on an even steelier edge, and she knew Dru was right.

They couldn’t keep this up.

Marsha had to get through to her husband. Now.

“We need to talk about your recovery options,” she insisted.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Joe ran a hand through his thick crop of salt-and-pepper hair. “I just need to get my feet back under me.”

“Is that what you call coming home early from work two or three days a week? And what about when you’re here, and you’re hurting so badly, you’re so tired, that everyday things you used to love doing are now burdens?”

“What are you saying?” He planted his hands on his hips.

Not that he didn’t already know. He just didn’t want to talk about it. Any of it. If she kept giving him a pass, worried about how he’d react if she pushed him, he’d never want to talk about it.

She surveyed the mess he’d made, the containers strewn all over. She began to restack them, working her way toward the tree box, trying to get to the ancient thing that the older kids compared to the sad castoff in the Charlie Brown Christmas movie.

“Since when”—she ignored her husband’s clenched fists and escalating temper—“are you the kind of man who’d rather stay sick, trying to convince yourself you’re okay, instead of accepting the help you need to actually be okay?”

Her husband grabbed the Halloween decorations out of her hands and tossed the bin aside. It went flying across the room and into the wall. She jumped when containers skidded in every direction like bowling pins. One of them spilled out the dinged and dented pots and pans the family used for camping.

They were both panting, Marsha realized. Joe from exertion. Her from shock at how out of control he was becoming.

“Since I’m the man”—his gaze lifted from the mess he’d made—“who’s had my life taken away from me.”

He was keeping his voice down, aware enough of his surroundings to shield the worst of what he was saying from the little girl only two rooms away.

“Since I wake up every morning,” he continued, “and wonder how I’ll have the energy to put on my shoes. Let alone go to work or put up with more pointless physical therapy that doesn’t change a damn thing.”

“It’s not pointless.”

“Really? I was at that rehab center for weeks. Where did that get me? I’ve been through two at-home therapy aides, and I still can’t do my part putting up a pitiful Christmas tree. And later,” he growled, “I’ll be making a mess of our celebration, the way I have this room.”

“Joe, please . . .”

She’d heard the tears in his voice while he’d vented his anger and frustration. She could tell his big heart breaking. And worse, he sounded so close to giving up.

Which she wasn’t about to let happen.

“I know the last two therapists didn’t work out,” she conceded. “But this time—”

“This time what?” He shook his head. “When is the right time for us to accept that the problem isn’t the physical therapy aides—it’s me? And that I can’t do this. I just can’t!”

He half tripped over the coat box on his way out, brushing into Brad at the door to the kitchen.

“Joe,” Marsha called, stopping herself from chasing after her husband. “We need to talk this through before the kids get home.”

Brad, wearing jeans and one of his Chandlerville Sherriff’s Department T-shirts, watched Joe stalk through the kitchen and out the door to the garage.

Marsha’s heart sank as the minivan’s engine fired to life. How could Joe be taking off like this? It was supposed to be one of the happiest days of their year. He’d be back soon. Right?

She still hadn’t moved when she heard him backing down the driveway.

Brad was restacking the storage containers.

“If I had one wish for this year’s Christmas in July . . .” she started to say.

Her soon-to-be son-in-law gave her a side hug. “You’re doing everything you can to help him.”

“We all are.” Marsha hugged back, before Brad headed to unearth the tree box. “Not that my husband wants any help.”

Brad drug out the dilapidated cardboard carton. He tipped it up, leaning on its shortest end, and watched her with an understanding expression.

Marsha wiped at the corners of her eyes.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he said. “But—”

“It’s as much your business as anyone else’s in this family.”

He nodded his appreciation and kissed her cheek sweetly—the way he had when he and Dru announced their engagement.

“But?” she asked the fine young man who was giving her her second grandchild.

“Joe seems really lost right now, Marsha.”

“Mom,” she reminded him. “And Dad.”

She and Joe had been insistent, as soon as Brad proposed to their Dru, that the young man think of them as his parents, too.

“Mom,” Brad corrected. “To me, Dad seems more scared than angry. Too scared to talk about why.”

“He’s so sick of being sick, he can’t see straight.” It felt a little like she was betraying her husband’s confidence, but she was at her wits’ end. “He thinks that if he can’t magically regain his strength by force of will alone, somehow that makes him a failure.”

”He’ll get a handle on it,” Brad reassured her.

She shook her head. She’d been just as guilty as Joe of not seeing their situation for what it really was.

“At least,” Brad amended, some of his well-intentioned optimism fading, “that’s what we’re all hoping for.”

“He needs to talk about what he’s feeling,” she finally admitted, “and why he’s not fighting harder to make his physical therapy work. But he won’t. He just keeps letting things worry him until he explodes. There’s no telling what he’ll do when he gets back later, and Travis and Dru confront him the way it sounds like they’re planning to.”

Brad winced. “You got wind of that?”

“Your fiancé has a lot of amazing qualities. But subtlety isn’t one of them.” Marsha gave a short laugh and nodded. “And even though I’m relieved to have some backup finally, it’s going to cause trouble. My husband’s already dealing with so much. . . .”

Brad waited her out, no doubt letting her decide how much to tell him next.

“It’s more than just Joe missing so much work,” she admitted, “or his frustration with what he can’t get done around here these days.”

Brad nodded, as if he had all day to listen.

There was no guarantee she’d have a chance to speak with Dru again privately, not once the younger kids got home and Travis arrived, too, and Joe got back. And Marsha needed to confide in someone before the Christmas-in-July mayhem commenced in full.

“A family services caseworker is doing a site visit next week,” she told Brad. “She’s been monitoring Joe’s progress—and how well our home is adjusting to his illness. Her report will help the county decide if . . .”

“If there need to be some official changes with some of the kids’ placements?” Brad offered, as if he and Dru had already suspected that might be the case. “Because a foster home the size of yours might be too much for you and Joe to handle now?”

Marsha nodded.

She blinked back a fresh surge of panic.

“We’re not losing a single one of our kids,” she insisted. “No matter what it takes to convince my husband to work through his recovery in a more successful way.”

“Damn straight,” Brad agreed with a wink of encouragement, as if to say, Piece of cake—one of his and Dru’s pet sayings.

Marsha winked back, embracing the reality of their kids being there to help.

“I don’t want to worry the younger ones,” she insisted. “Not today. Not until after we’ve met with family services, and we know whether or not there’s anything to worry about at all.”

“Then let’s get this party started,” Brad said, taking all she’d revealed in stride the way he had so much else. “We need a tree assembled, pronto.”

“Mom!” Dru called cheerfully from the living room.

She was using her forced cheerful voice. Which told Marsha her daughter, who was still distracting Camille, had heard enough of the commotion Marsha and Joe had made to suspect that something was seriously wrong.

“Camille wants to hear,” Dru continued, “how you and Dad had your first big fight in a dive bar on Christmas Eve. And then about the amazing way he made it up to you!”

Brad hefted the tree box onto his shoulder and walked ahead of Marsha toward the family room, grinning ear to ear. “I’ve been dying to hear that story first hand myself. . . .”

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