Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot

her ash, she sized me up. “Honey, you look like you’re straight off the banana boat.” She moved past me into the living room and only then stuck out her hand. “I’m your next-door-neighbor, Marge DeVere. And I’ll lay odds, you need help.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Am I right, sugar cakes?”

      All I could do was nod. Marge was as unlike my sorority sisters or the matrons of Springbranch, Louisiana, as anyone could imagine, but I couldn’t have been more pleased to see her. “I’m Izzy,” I said, surprising myself. I had always referred to myself as Isabel. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue.” I shrugged, then grinned. “About anything.”

      Marge’s laugh rolled up from her belly and filled the room. I joined in until tears ran down my face. Finally, catching my breath, I remembered my manners. “Please sit down. I have more questions than you can imagine.”

      “I’ve got plenty of time. Why don’t you check the fridge and let’s have us a beer and some girl talk.”

      Until then I had never guessed beer could substitute for an afternoon glass of tea. I pulled out two bottles, snatched up a bag of chips and settled on the sofa. In a few short hours she gave me a tutorial on the intricacies of being a military wife, reminding me to wear a hat and gloves when Sam and I called on his commanding officer and his wife, and cautioning me about speeding on base, an infraction for which Sam could be reprimanded. Never, before or since, have I been so grateful to a teacher.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Breckenridge, Colorado

      THE FOLLOWING MORNING when the phone rings, I am ill-prepared for my daughter Lisa’s outburst. “Where’s Daddy? I’ve tried his cell, his Blackberry…It’s not every day his grandson scores two goals for his little league soccer team, and you’d think he’d want to know. But he’s incommunicado, just when I need him and…”

      I listen, wondering why the urgency. Scooter, Lisa’s only child, is seven. Sam will be pleased and proud, but Lisa will not be satisfied because his reaction isn’t immediate.

      Our younger daughter is high maintenance, especially since her divorce. She harbors expectations—especially of Sam—but no matter what we do, we fall short. As a child, she kept us off guard, craving attention on the one hand and shrugging it off on the other. She adores her father, but it’s always been hard for her to trust his love and approval. After leaving her husband a year ago and relocating to Boulder, she turns to Sam for all her honey-do’s. Even though we understand her stress and vulnerability, sometimes we dread her phone calls.

      She finally stops talking. I struggle not to make excuses for Sam’s absence, which is, at the moment, none of her business. “Daddy’s at his buddy Mike’s Montana cabin. Fishing.”

      “When will he be back? Scooter keeps asking about him. Besides, something’s the matter with my dishwasher.”

      I smile in recognition of her modus operandi. Scooter’s alleged disappointment is the guilt trip; the dishwasher is the primary concern. “I’ll have him call when he gets home.”

      We chat about Scooter’s parent-teacher conference, and I suspect I’m hearing the edited version, the one that omits his mood swings. Lisa and Scooter have not had an easy time since her ex-husband remarried in an embarrassingly short time after their divorce. Thankfully he left Lisa financially secure.

      “Dare I hope you have a full-blown case of cabin fever?”

      “Not really,” I murmur, surprised by the truth of my answer.

      “Well, are you free to come stay with Scooter? My babysitter has flaked out, and I have to be in Pueblo tomorrow.”

      I love my grandson, but find myself resenting the abrupt end of my solitude and the way Lisa takes me for granted. “I’ll drive down this afternoon and we can have a nice dinner together.”

      “Only if you cook it. I haven’t had time to go the store and won’t today, either.”

      Lisa has an uncanny way of orchestrating life to accommodate her needs. Yet in truth, being a single mother is no picnic. She works a demanding job at the University of Colorado and as far as I know, scarcely has a social life.

      “Remember, Scooter doesn’t like cheese.”

      Scratch the macaroni and cheese. “How does he feel about meat loaf?”

      “Haven’t a clue. We’ll see, won’t we?”

      We complete the arrangements, I fix a quick sandwich and pack my bag, pondering whether I should let Sam know that I’m going to Lisa’s. I decide against it. If he wants his privacy, I’ll give it to him. Besides, I really don’t want to talk to him.

      When I load Orville’s dish with cat chow, he eyes me accusingly, sensing I’m abandoning him. “Back soon, kitty,” I say, grabbing my keys and heading out the door. On the drive, I drink in the beauty of the mountains, now dressed in fiery aspens, resplendent against the dark blue-green of the fir and spruce. I’m reminded that we are living Sam’s dream. Growing up on the barren plains of eastern Colorado, he loved the distant, snowcapped peaks, a shining El Dorado. In summer, dust swirled around the trailer house where he lived, and in winter, wind-driven snow formed impassable drifts. Early in our marriage he confided that his goal was eventually to live in the Rockies. His expression the day we moved into our Breckenridge home with its larger-than-life view of the mountains said it all. This is where I belong!

      Stopping at the market, I pick up ingredients for dinner, and by the time Lisa and Scooter arrive home, a meat loaf and baked potatoes are in the oven and green beans are simmering on the stove. Scooter gives me a hug, then settles in front of the TV while Lisa changes into jeans and a Colorado Buffaloes sweatshirt. Then she pours us a glass of wine and sits on the sofa, legs crossed. Even though she looks tired, she is still strikingly attractive. “I know life isn’t easy for you just now,” I begin, “but you’re a beautiful young woman with a full life ahead of you.”