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White Doves

By Shannon Taylor Vannatter

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The post office door opened and Laken closed her eyes, waiting to hear Mother’s accusing tone. A whoosh of June’s humidity blasted her with its hot, steamy breath. Nibbling on the inside of her lip until she tasted blood, she realized it was the employee door.
“Welcome to Love Station,” a male voice said from behind her. “Hope you like weddings. I’ve got a whole passel of invitations.”
Laken turned around. A man swung an overstuffed mail sack from his broad shoulder. Tanned calf muscles rippled beneath knee-length khaki shorts as he bent to scoop up a stray Post-it. He turned to face her. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of olive eyes.
“You must be the new postmistress.” He wore a day’s growth of beard, the kind that made a woman want to rub her cheek against it. A wind-blown coffee-colored lock dipped low over one eyebrow. He brushed away the stray wave and pressed the back of his wrist against the perspiration beading his forehead.
Until that moment, he looked like he’d stepped out of one of those cheesy soap operas, where perfect male specimens serve up a daily dish of melodrama. But romantic heroes don’t sweat—even in Romance, Arkansas’s sticky heat.
Get a grip, Laken. So he’s cute. She tried to concentrate on the paneled walls, the tan commercial tile, the mail instead of the male.
“You’re the. . .”
“Mail carrier at your service.” He made a low, sweeping bow as if she were royalty, then straightened with a cocky grin and offered his hand. “Your loyal servant, Hayden Winters.”
Laken hadn’t paid much attention to what the transferring postmistress had said about the carrier, picturing a graying, potbellied Cliff Clavin, not a member of the hunk-of-the-month club. She cleared her throat. “I don’t have any servants. Just coworkers. I’m Laken Kroft.”
With a genuine smile, he grasped her hand and shook it then deposited another stuffed manila envelope on her counter. He strode to his three-sided sorter, pulled the envelopes from each slotted divider, and stuffed them into his tray.
“Do you live around here?”
“I moved from Little Rock last week.” She set a flats tray full of magazines next to him. “No packages today.”
“Since my parents retired here a few years back, I moved from North Little Rock last month so my nephew could be near them.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “I’d like to know how you got to transfer exactly where you wanted to.”
“I prayed for God to work it out and waited almost a year.”
Her mouth went dry. Well, he was almost perfect. Too bad he had to start talking about God. She went back to stamping, with more determination.
Clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk reverberated in Laken’s ears. With perfect precision, she imprinted the famous postmark barely at the edge of the entwined wedding rings on the fancy postage stamp. Just like the former postmistress had shown her.
“Do you have family in these parts?” Hayden scratched his chin. “Seems like there’s a lady at my church in Rose Bud by the name of Kroft.”
Laken stifled a sigh. If only her promotion could have materialized somewhere else. Somewhere far away from Searcy and her parents and all the people who knew them.
Already this morning, three customers had figured out her family ties. An imaginary clock ticked in Laken’s left temple. Any minute, Mother would show up with a disapproving frown ready to dredge up the past.
Surely Mother had better things to do than drive forty-five minutes just to hassle Laken.
Hayden cocked an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips.
“Never mind. Just trying to make conversation.” He stuffed more mail into his case.
Keeping rhythm with the tick-tock in her head, Laken clunk-clunked the metal stamp a little harder.
The door from the lobby opened and seemed to suck the cool air from the building. Forcing a smile, Laken turned to greet her next customer. Her smile died.
Over-bright, bottle-red hair and garish watermelon-colored lipstick drew attention to the wrinkles in her mother’s face. Too many for a woman not quite fifty.
“Laken, I can’t believe you’re here.”
Something in Mother’s green eyes tugged at her. Hurt? No. No one could hurt Sylvie Kroft, even if they ran her down with a mail truck. She’d just come up slinging gossip about the driver.
“I thought certainly Mrs. Jones was wrong.” Mother propped her hands on still-slim hips. “How could you, my own daughter, not call or visit for eight years?” Her voice grew louder and more shrewish with each word. “Eight years. Then land a job as postmistress and arrive in Romance without so much as a letter?”
“No one writes letters anymore.” Despite her trembly insides, Laken willed herself not to break eye contact. “E-mail is the lament of the U.S. Postal Service.”
Laken could almost see the steam erupt from her mother’s ears.
“Young lady.” With a forefinger, Mother jabbed the air in Laken’s direction.
“Ahem.” Hayden stepped into Mother’s line of view, with a great show of clearing his throat, followed by a forced cough. “Hello, Mrs. Kroft.”
Mother flashed a trademark fake smile. “I’ve seen you at church lately. You’re. . .”
“Hayden Winters.” He shook her hand.
“You have the young boy in the wheelchair.” Mother cocked her head to the side, striving for innocence. “But I haven’t seen a wife.”
Hayden stiffened, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “Brady is my nephew. My sister died almost three years ago.”
“Oh my.” Mother clasped a hand over her mouth as if she’d intended no harm. “I’m so sorry. Was it a car accident? Is that what happened to Brady?”
Laken wished the mountain of wedding invitations would swallow her up as Hayden’s inner light snuffed completely out.
“Mother, do you need something mailed?”
Her mother frowned. “No.”
“Well then, Hayden has a lot of sorting to do, and I’m up to my eyebrows in invitations.”
“But I came all the way from Searcy.” Mother’s mouth opened again. Nothing came out.
“I’m not here just for fun. I’m on the clock and I don’t have time to”—deal with you—“visit.”
Hayden’s jaw clenched. “I’m sure your daughter is just nervous since it’s her first day.”
With an indignant, sharp nod Mother paraded out, head held high. The door thudded closed behind her.
Heat crept up Laken’s neck. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s none of my business.” The life in his voice drained dry. Hayden sifted through the mail in his case. “Brady and I love Palisade. I guess you used to attend there?”
“Yes.” Her stomach knotted at the memories threatening to surface. She stamped the final invitation and began sorting by route.
“Then it would be like home for you. Of course, I hear there’s a great church here in Romance, too, but since my folks live in Rose Bud, they’ve always attended Palisade.”
“I really don’t have time for church.” No church for me. No room for any more hypocrites in my life.
“Well, if you change your mind, we’d love to have you. Better get going. See you later.” He picked up his case and strode toward the door but came to an abrupt halt. “Looks like we’ve got a wedding. Guess I’ll stay put. They usually don’t take long.”
“You’ll get behind on your route.”
“Who am I to interfere with romance?” The tic in his jaw contradicted his casual tone.
Laken peered out the small barred window in front. A young woman in a short white sheath dress stood beside a man in a black suit. Both faced another man holding a Bible. A blond man, with a discreet ponytail, wore a large camera around his neck. A woman, who looked like she’d just stepped out of Vogue magazine, carried a small cage, the top covered by a white cloth.
“So, they just show up?”
Hayden stepped into the lobby. “Some call ahead, especially if they want to get married inside the office. Sometimes, you get to play wedding planner.”
Curious, Laken followed him to look out the window in the main door. “Why would anyone want to get married at the post office? I mean, why go to the trouble of getting married in Romance and have the ceremony here? Why not the park?”
“Or a church or the waterfalls?” Hayden’s jaw clenched. “Just wait until Valentine’s Day. I heard there were eight weddings in Romance this past year. And on top of that, you’ll stamp yourself into a frenzy with cards and invitations arriving in droves for the special Love Station postmark.”
“Different every year and in use from February first to the fifteenth.”
“Very good. You catch on quick.”
The young couple gazed into one another’s eyes as the preacher spoke. Laken’s mouth went dry. No one had ever looked at her like that.
The just-marrieds sealed their love with a kiss, and the foursome bowed their heads in prayer. Hayden did, too, and Laken’s muscles tensed. Her throat constricted.
After a few seconds, the prayer ended. The woman with the cage stepped forward and set it in front of the bride and groom.
Laken swallowed the lump in her throat. “They’re done.”
Hayden raised his head.
The woman removed the cloth with flair, flapping it in the nonexistent breeze.
“What is that?”
“I’m assuming white doves.”
The newlyweds took turns reaching into the cage and each pulled out a delicate, sleek bird with alabaster feathers. Laken gasped. In a flurry of wings, the birds of peace flew toward the heavens as the photographer focused his lens.
The doves flew up until they blended with puffy white clouds. She frowned. “Can they live in the wild?”
“They’re rock doves. Like a homing pigeon, they find their way home.”
She turned to face him. “Not something your typical mail carrier knows.”
His throat convulsed. “I used to have a friend who worked for a handler in Little Rock. I better get busy with my route.”
Hayden waited until all three cars drove away, then went back to the work area, retrieved his case, and opened the door. “See you this afternoon.”
Not your typical mail carrier at all.
***
With the steering wheel in a vise grip, Hayden tried to concentrate on the road. Of all the dove handlers in Arkansas, it had to be Jan. She looked good, with her glossy blond businesslike bun at the nape of her neck. A perfect silver suit accentuated her lean build and gave her a dovelike appearance, almost matching the birds she’d set free. Nary a bead of sweat despite the temperature. Calm and cool as an iceberg.
The sad thing—even if he’d walked right into her, she’d have remained just as tranquil.
Think about something else. What was with Laken and her mother? Despite the scene between the two women, the soul-deep pain in Laken’s pretty blue eyes haunted him. He’d seen that kind of sorrow.
In his own mirror.
Anguish still stared him down some days. But Jesus got him through the valleys.
Did she know Jesus?
He traveled the first winding gravel road on his route, then turned back onto Highway 5. Three stops later, he approached a bright blue Mustang convertible on the side of the road. The top was down and steam billowed from under the hood. Another victim of the stifling heat.
It couldn’t be. A car just like that had been at the post office, but he hadn’t paid attention to which car she’d driven away in. The Mustang looked like something she’d drive. Probably not the preacher. But maybe, just maybe it was the bride and groom. Or even a different car.
Hayden pulled to the shoulder behind the car and grabbed the two milk jugs of water and shop towel he kept handy for this purpose. As he walked toward the Mustang, the driver’s door opened and a pair of long, shapely legs appeared. The woman stepped out onto the slightly sloped shoulder of the road, graceful despite her high heels.
Jan.
He swallowed hard.
“Hayden, what are you doing in this godforsaken place?”
“My route.” He gestured toward the flashing yellow light on top of his truck. “And there’s no place on earth that God has forsaken.”
She rolled her eyes. “Still on your religious tangent, huh? Well, I’m melting here. Can you give us a lift out of Hooterville and back into civilization?”
The photographer sat in the passenger seat, with no offer to get out of the car, much less help. Probably her latest conquest.
Thank You, Lord, for letting me see how shallow she was before it was too late. “More than likely, your radiator just needs water.” He held up the jug. “This should do the trick.”
“Just hurry.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He wadded the towel around the scorching radiator cap. The heat found its way to his fingers, and he jerked away. Three more attempts and he managed to twist the cap off and pour water in. More steam billowed and water hissed as it glub-glubbed into the boiling radiator.
“That should do it.” He tightened the radiator cap. “Start it up now.”
The powerful engine roared to life.
“Thanks.”
He held the other gallon jug toward her.
Her nose crinkled at the dusty container.
“If it gets hot again, have GQ add water.”
A sly grin pulled the corners of her mouth upward. “His name is Miles.” She accepted the jug, tilting sideways at the awkward weight of it.
Great, she thinks I’m jealous.
“There’s a station about fifteen minutes up the road in El Paso. Have them take a look and make sure you don’t have a leak.”
“I will.” One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose. “So, how did you get demoted from postmaster in North Little Rock to mail carrier for this hick town?”
“I put in for the transfer. My parents live here, and Brady loves being near them.” He waited. Surely she’d ask.
She rested a hand on his forearm. “It’s good to see you.”
“Brady’s doing great.” The tic in his jaw started up.
“I was hoping that by now, your parents would’ve taken the kid off your hands.”
Hayden clenched his teeth and took a step back. “I’m glad we ran into each other, Jan. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Thanks.” Her radiant smile didn’t waver as the insult sailed over her head like a white dove. She got back in her car, and with an elegant princess wave, pulled onto the highway.
When her car was out of sight, he shook his head. How could he have ever fallen for her? Had he really been that superficial?
Yes, he had. Until Katie got sick. Until Brady needed him.
Several vehicles whizzed past as Hayden started his engine. Taking a few deep breaths, he pulled back onto the highway and concentrated on getting the mail into the right boxes.
***
Almost home. Laken sighed. Could the rental house in Romance ever feel like home?
Thankfully, the rest of the week had been uneventful. Mother hadn’t returned.
The contract carrier stopped in daily, an older gentleman, all business and in a hurry to get his load to Beebe. The other local carrier, middle-aged Carol, was friendly, outgoing, and prompt. Hayden could be a bit tight-lipped, but when in a talkative mood, he was pleasant.
With no more weddings, Laken’s first week on the job ended on a peaceful note.
A white Cadillac sat in the drive of her new home as she pulled in, and a familiar redhead waited on the porch. Laken closed her eyes. So much for peace.
She opened the car door. “Mother, how did you know where I’m staying?”
“Everybody knows everything about everybody in Romance.”
Thanks to your gossip. Laken bit her lip to keep the thought from becoming audible.
Mother swept a dismissive hand toward the front door. “Really, Laken, couldn’t you find anything better?”
Laken gazed at the neat, freshly painted house. “What’s wrong with it? It’s newly remodeled and clean.” And one of the only available accommodations in the tiny town.
“It’s beneath you. Don’t you know who once lived here?”
“No, but I’m certain you’ll tell me more than I want to know.”
“Watch your tone with me, young lady.” Mother pointed a finger at her. “Wade Fenwick. You remember him, don’t you? Slightly younger than you in school.”
Laken unlocked the door. “Look, Mother, I’m tired. I just want a crème brûlée cappuccino and a bubble bath.”
“You’re not even going to invite me in?” Mother followed her in, obviously not needing an invitation. Her haughty glare took in the humble furnishings and the unpacked boxes lining the living room. “Wade was the town drunk, until he tried to off himself.”
“I thought Father held that title.”
Mother gasped. She drew a hand to her mouth, and her green eyes moistened.
Laken bit her tongue. Why had she been so cruel?
“I don’t understand you kids.” Mother shook her head. “Your father and I did everything for you. Yet both of you left, in your brand-new set of graduation wheels, without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror.”
Laken softened her tone. “It’s not like we were the perfect functional family.”
“Your father’s been through a lot.”
“So that makes it okay to be a drunk?”
Mother’s palm caught Laken across the left cheek. “Don’t ever call your father that again.”
Laken pressed her hand to her stinging cheek.
“You can’t possibly understand.”
“Then tell me, Mother.” Laken held her hands palm up. “What is there to understand?”
“I can’t.” Shaking her head, Mother strode toward the door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. Welcome home, Laken.” The door slammed behind her.
Laken locked it and leaned her throbbing temple against the frame.
***
Hayden neared the Rose Bud intersection and flicked on his turn signal. Maybe his parents wouldn’t come outside. He could avoid their blaming attempts for the day and hurry Brady for a quick getaway.
His cell phone vibrated. An unfamiliar number showed. With a frown, he flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” a male voice asked.
“Hayden Winters. Who is this?”
Silence.
“Hello.”
“I’m trying to get in touch with Katie. She gave me this number.”
The breath went out of Hayden, as if he’d been kicked in the gut. He pulled the truck to the shoulder of the highway. “What kind of sick joke are you playing?”
“It’s no joke. It’s Collin.”
The Collin who took advantage of his little sister and left her pregnant and alone. The Collin whose last name Katie never revealed because she knew Hayden would find him and pound his face in.
Heat boiled up inside his chest. “It’s a little late to be calling. Where were you three years ago?” Where were you seven years ago?
“Being a jerk. Please.” A shaky sigh echoed. “Just tell me. Is she okay?”
Hayden’s jaw clenched. “No, she’s not okay. She’s dead.”
An audible gasp. “No.”
“And you couldn’t even give her the time of day when she needed you most.”
“I didn’t know.” Collin’s voice cracked.
His temple pounded. “Don’t give me that.”
“I didn’t. I swear.”
“She sent you a letter, begging you to come, and you never even bothered to answer.”
“You have to believe me. I never got it, until last week.”
Hayden closed his eyes. He’d seen a few chewed-up envelopes stuck in the bottom of bar code sorters. But not for three years.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

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