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Hope and a Future

By Betty Arrigotti

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Chapter 1

Change is frightening, but calls us to growth.

Marjorie lay stunned. Cold mud began oozing through her shirt and jeans, the smell of horse muck overwhelming her senses. Afraid to move enough to assess the damage, she scanned what she could see without moving her head. The arena fence rail blocked most of her view of the unseasonable grey Oregon sky. She could hear Oasis’ hooves as the horse began to slow its flight. The explosion of pheasant wings that caused the horse to rear had fallen silent, but a red-winged blackbird trilled for its lost mate. The sound of the lonely bird connected the pain of her body to the unrelenting ache in her heart.
A car door slammed, and she heard steps running toward her. A slight Irish brogue called, “Saints, preserve us! Don’t move!” Even in her predicament, something about the sound of his voice stirred a reaction that touched ancestral roots.
Gingerly she turned her head. Her would-be rescuer looked as if he could be hurrying from an Irish Spring soap commercial, complete with the kind of white cable-knit sweater that had always made her want to take up knitting.
“I’m ok.” She raised her chin to test her claim. “I think the helmet took the brunt of the fall. I’ll let my head clear before I stand.” As the man helped her sit, Marjorie could feel his arm shaking against her back. Her worry shifted from the manure ruining his knit sleeve to his wellbeing.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He glanced at the horse, which now approached them, head lowered and ears drooped, giving Marjorie only a quick moment to notice his strong Gaelic jaw line before he turned back to her. The Irishman appeared to force himself to focus only on Marjorie. “Can you walk at all, at all?”
She nodded and he helped her stand. As they made their way across the arena to the gate, he kept her hand enveloped in the warmth of his while his arm firmly braced her back. The horse followed them, but he didn’t look at it again.
Marjorie noticed one of the teenage girls who, like her, rented stall space at the stable, loading a wheelbarrow from a mound of woodchips. “Jenny,” she called to her, “I’ve taken a bit of a spill. Could you walk Oasis until she calms down and then get her settled in her stall?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Gloriam. Happy to.”
The man glanced down at the wedding ring on her finger as he heard her name. “Ah, you’re married.
“Yes.… No.…” She could see his confusion but was there a bit of disappointment, too?
“May I call your husband?”
“I’m…” She hesitated. The word “widow” still made her think of a black spider. She repressed the familiar weight of guilt shackled to her loss. “He died. Fifteen months ago.” She heard the pain in her voice and hurried to fend off any pity. “Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
The gentleman’s voice held only sincerity. “I’m very sorry. May I at least get you a cup of tea?”
“That sounds wonderful, but there’s none to be had around here, I’m afraid. There’s a coffee machine in the indoor arena, but it’s worse than nothing at all.” At all, at all, she added silently, repeating the lilt of his words.
“I’ve a thermos in the car. Sit here and I’ll be right back with it.”
She eased herself onto the arena bleachers and watched him hurry away, giving Jenny and the horse wide berth when they passed him.
What kind of man dresses like that at a horse stable? It was chilly for August, but a sweatshirt or jacket would be more appropriate than that handsome sweater.
She caught herself stroking her wedding ring. She supposed she should quit wearing it at some point. An involuntary shudder escaped her heart and made her shoulders jerk at the thought of removing the ring. She raised her eyes to the sky. Seems like both yesterday and forever ago. Almighty Father, help me. Forgive me for not being more grateful for Michael.
As the Irishman returned to her with the tea, he grinned and his whole face brightened. Marjorie figured he was about her age, in his forties. His hair was dark brown, but copper highlighted his eyebrows and trim sideburns. His green eyes still showed his concern and held hers a moment too long. Marjorie’s pulse raced as she shifted her gaze to the tea he poured, but she attributed it to her fall.
“It may be a wee bit strong. I left the bags in.”
“Bags?”
“Four. One for each cup.”
Marjorie, who loved tea but usually preferred hers rather weak, sipped the bitterest tea she had ever tasted. However, she felt it begin to soothe, more from the comfort of a familiar ritual than from the strong brew. As the man wiped his forehead with a pristine but shaking handkerchief, she realized he could use a bit of bracing, himself. She offered him the half-full cup. He smiled and drank the rest but when he refilled the cup and returned it to her, the tea rippled with the tremor of his hand.
“’Tis dead scared of horses, I am,” he blurted, and then Marjorie joined him in laughter that began from simple relief that they were both relatively unharmed but continued into an embarrassing giddiness.
She took a deep breath to regain her composure. “I’m Marjorie. Thank you for your help and for the tea.” Then she saw the dirty hand she had offered him, pulled it back, and surrendered into giggles. Marjorie’s sides hurt more from the laughter than from her fall.
He took her hand in his and she was again struck with the heat of his palm against her mud-chilled skin.
“Colm McCloskey. Thank you, Marjorie, for your brilliant way of helping me confront my horse-terror.”
Marjorie squeezed his hand and released it, then shook her head in disbelief. “What in the world are you doing at a stable if horses frighten you so?”
“They were next in line on the list of fears I’m facing,” Colm answered matter-of-factly. “I started on the easiest and am working up to the hardest.” He paused and straightened, as if drawing courage for some new challenge. “Would you forgive the forwardness of a stranger and allow me to take you to dinner to show my appreciation?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” She hadn’t dated since Michael died. The mere possibility flooded her with guilt.
She softened her voice when she saw his disappointment. “I assume you’re from Ireland, and I’d love to learn more about your country but my daughters are coming for the weekend. Not to mention that I’m covered in mud and reek of Oasis.”
“Oasis?”
“The horse.”
“Ah, of course. You should soak in hot water before your muscles realize what that beastie has done to them. Perhaps after your daughters have visited, call me—I’ll give you my card—and tell me a time and place. I’d be delighted to see you again.”
As they walked toward their cars, he asked, “You’re well enough to drive?”
She nodded. “I live just two exits back toward Portland.”
“Good, then I’ll be going your direction and can keep an eye on you until you’re off the highway.” He took her hand, and for a moment Marjorie imagined he might bend to kiss it, but he simply covered it momentarily with his other. His eyes, however, held hers captive as he said, “I’ll look forward to your call.”
Marjorie broke the gaze and dipped her head. “Thank you, Colm.”
“And you, Marjorie.” His accent diminished when he relaxed and Marjorie realized she missed his brogue.
Down the muddy road and on the highway, she watched his car in her rearview mirror until she exited. Such a long time since someone other than the Almighty looked out for me. The realization caused her forehead to tighten and her hands to clench the wheel.
It doesn’t seem right for it not to be Michael.

Once at home, Marjorie set Colm’s card next to the phone on her nightstand. As she did, the framed photograph of Michael caught her attention. A sympathy card next to the picture quoted St. John Chrysostom: “He whom we love and lose is no longer where he was before. He is now wherever we are.”
Her eyes rested on Michael’s pillow. After more than a year without him, she still found comfort in having it on the bed next to hers. She looked around the room and remembered him standing the last anniversary card on their dresser, before sliding the previous birthday card into the drawer where he kept all her greetings from over the years. She turned to the overstuffed chair and could almost feel him pulling her onto his lap, almost smell his Old Spice aftershave. She raised her eyes to the mirror and recalled the countless times he came up behind her to give her a kiss and help her fasten a necklace.
She opened the nightstand drawer and dropped Colm’s card in, saying to herself, Nobody could ever take Michael’s place. She closed the drawer, but her hand rested a bit longer on the wood.

Marjorie had finished her shower and stepped into her favorite turquoise summer dress when she heard the front door open. Her beagle Nutmeg barked, and she listened to the dog’s toenails dance as the girls called, “Mom, we’re home! Happy birthday weekend!”
Marjorie grabbed a sweater and her overnight bag. Though careful not to jolt her sore back, she hurried down the stairs to greet them with a three-way hug. She looked up into their merry eyes. Both stood taller than she did, but beyond that, their similarity ended. Sophie had the dark coloring, wavy hair and chiseled features of Michael’s Italian side and led with her head. She wore khaki slacks and a fitted black weskit shirt. Colleen favored their mother’s Irish ancestry with red corkscrew curls, freckles and delicate features. She led with her heart. Normally comfortable in her ever-present jeans, today she wore a soft skirt, presumably to honor the occasion.
“Good to see you two! I’ve really been looking forward to Ladies’ Day Out.”
“We wouldn’t miss it, Mom, even though it meant listening to Jazz all the way from Seattle.” Sophie rolled her eyes at Colleen, who, though colored like her mother, had her father’s taste in music.
“Which somehow is worse than three hours of Country on our way back?” her sister retorted.
“That must mean it’s my choice from here to the restaurant.” Marjorie grabbed her keys, and both girls groaned as they followed her to the garage.
In the car, they covered the typical updates. Sophie’s job as an engineer for a software company in Seattle was going well. A sophomore now in college, Colleen’s summer school classes and work kept her sleep-deprived but happy. Yes, they still skirmished like teenagers in their shared apartment but often managed moments of peace. No, they weren’t so busy that they needed to skip their Ladies’ Day Out.
Their visit was part of a plan the girls had devised to ease their mother’s loneliness. Since their father died, on the Saturdays closest to Marjorie’s anniversary and birthday the girls arrived in time to take their mother to dinner and a movie. The three would stay in a downtown hotel and update each other on the news in their lives, make fun of women’s magazines, and usually laugh late into the night. On Sunday, they would attend church together and follow it with a breakfast feast. Last August, they had wandered through Saturday Market browsing the outdoor craft booths. In March they commemorated her first anniversary alone with a trip to one of Portland’s many gardens to admire spring blossoms. This August Marjorie considered the birthday visit the official end to the year she had taken off work to adjust to her loss, a final weekend before returning to her work as a professor of counseling.
Their conversation over dinner turned to current young men in the girls’ lives. Sophie talked about Niko, a software designer she had met earlier in the summer. Marjorie congratulated herself on only raising an eyebrow, but holding her tongue when Sophie mentioned he was an atheist. Colleen declared she was too busy for boyfriends, for the time being, but teased, “What about you, Mom? Any men in your life that we should know about?”
Water splashed out of Marjorie’s glass as she set it back down on the table without taking a drink. She felt her cheeks warm. “Interesting you should ask. I fell for a man just today,” she said, and then told them about Colm McCloskey.
Colleen’s eyes opened wide. “Cool, Mom, call him! I’d love to see you happy with someone again.”
Marjorie’s breath caught in her throat. The idea of replacing Michael was unthinkable. She had loved him and loved him still. But why had she been so restless those months before his death?
Sophie’s chin shifted slightly forward and reminded Marjorie of the days before Sophie learned to prioritize thinking over feeling, when that pout used to accompany angry crossed arms.
Colleen glanced at her sister and then admitted, “It would be weird for it not to be Daddy, but you have great taste in men. I’m sure you’d find someone we’d all love.”
“No, my dears.” Marjorie shook her head and steeled her heart against the onslaught of guilt. “I couldn’t ever replace your dad. My work is my life now. Helping other people overcome their loneliness.”
After the visit ended and the girls left for Seattle, their opposite reactions to the mention of Colm stayed with Marjorie. Strange how perfectly Colleen’s excitement and Sophie’s disapproval portrayed her own mixed feelings.

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