living on the North Shore married to a Chicago financier.”
Rachel smiled. “I might have outdone you as far as marrying outside my caste goes.”
“I would say so. He’s Lebanese, is that right?”
“That’s right.” Rachel sipped coffee and set the cup down gently. “Lebanese, Christian, from a wealthy family that came through the civil war better off than most. I met him when I was at the embassy in Beirut. He was good-looking, charming, serious and accomplished in business matters, and spontaneous and fun-loving in everything else. He made me laugh, he courted me in an old-fashioned gentlemanly way, finally he swept me off my feet. I ignored everything everyone told me about the difficulties of an international marriage and said yes.”
She glanced at Mrs. Avery but found her look of sympathy intolerable and looked out the window instead. “The marriage might have had a chance if I’d given up the career. But when we went into Iraq, I was suddenly a hot commodity because of my Arabic, and that was when I had to choose, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. And I chose the career.”
A train rumbled through town, the mournful sound of the whistle trailing off into the distance. The room was growing dim, and Rachel felt her spirits fall.
“It doesn’t sound like the best of circumstances for a marriage,” said Mrs. Avery.
“It probably wasn’t. I used to pride myself on my level-headed judgment, but I’m a little humbler now. Anyway, I wanted to thank you. There aren’t many teachers you can say really changed your life, but you changed mine.”
The look on Mrs. Avery’s face was faintly alarmed. “Oh, dear. For the better, I hope.”
“You showed me what was out there. All the rest is what I made of it.”
Mrs. Avery brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “Honey, you had a dream and went and chased it. That’s more than a lot of people can say. You’ll always have Paris, if you’ll pardon the cliché.”
Rachel forced a smile, teetering suddenly on the brink of a bottomless desolation. Looking at the children in the photos on the piano, she opened her mouth to say she would trade Paris and all the rest for a living room full of pictures, but she thought better of it.
Rachel had meant to bring home a half gallon of milk but forgotten to stop in Warrensburg. Swanson’s General Store in Ontario was gone, but the gas station out on the highway now had a minimart attached.
The woman behind the register turned out to be Debby Mays, who had been a freshman when Rachel was a senior, and while Rachel had been manning far-flung outposts of the U.S. government, Debby had been raising children. “I told Amber not to make the same mistake I did. Go and get some schooling, make something of yourself before you start having babies. But she didn’t listen.” Debby shrugged and drew on her cigarette. “And I gotta say, the babies are cute. I love bein’ a grandma.”
Rachel smiled at her, though the thought of being a grandmother at thirty-nine depressed her. She was groping for a suitable pleasantry when the bell over the door jingled and a man walked in.
In truth Rachel might not have recognized him but for the hook; but the hook drew the eye just as it had when Rachel was a child, cowering behind her mother’s skirts. “Hello, Mr. Thomas,” she said.
He stopped in his tracks and stared, a sour-looking old man with wildly undisciplined eyebrows, a Harvester cap on his head and a brown corduroy jacket over old-fashioned engineer’s overalls. In place of his right hand he had a two-pronged stainless steel hook. He peered at Rachel as if she had asked him for money.
“I’m Rachel Lindstrom,” she said. “Jim Lindstrom’s daughter.”
It took him a moment but his seamed face finally contorted into what might have been a smile. “Why, sure. Little Rachel, I remember. You’ve been away a long time.”
“I have. How’s Ruth?”
The old man
Rachel smiled. “I might have outdone you as far as marrying outside my caste goes.”
“I would say so. He’s Lebanese, is that right?”
“That’s right.” Rachel sipped coffee and set the cup down gently. “Lebanese, Christian, from a wealthy family that came through the civil war better off than most. I met him when I was at the embassy in Beirut. He was good-looking, charming, serious and accomplished in business matters, and spontaneous and fun-loving in everything else. He made me laugh, he courted me in an old-fashioned gentlemanly way, finally he swept me off my feet. I ignored everything everyone told me about the difficulties of an international marriage and said yes.”
She glanced at Mrs. Avery but found her look of sympathy intolerable and looked out the window instead. “The marriage might have had a chance if I’d given up the career. But when we went into Iraq, I was suddenly a hot commodity because of my Arabic, and that was when I had to choose, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. And I chose the career.”
A train rumbled through town, the mournful sound of the whistle trailing off into the distance. The room was growing dim, and Rachel felt her spirits fall.
“It doesn’t sound like the best of circumstances for a marriage,” said Mrs. Avery.
“It probably wasn’t. I used to pride myself on my level-headed judgment, but I’m a little humbler now. Anyway, I wanted to thank you. There aren’t many teachers you can say really changed your life, but you changed mine.”
The look on Mrs. Avery’s face was faintly alarmed. “Oh, dear. For the better, I hope.”
“You showed me what was out there. All the rest is what I made of it.”
Mrs. Avery brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “Honey, you had a dream and went and chased it. That’s more than a lot of people can say. You’ll always have Paris, if you’ll pardon the cliché.”
Rachel forced a smile, teetering suddenly on the brink of a bottomless desolation. Looking at the children in the photos on the piano, she opened her mouth to say she would trade Paris and all the rest for a living room full of pictures, but she thought better of it.
Rachel had meant to bring home a half gallon of milk but forgotten to stop in Warrensburg. Swanson’s General Store in Ontario was gone, but the gas station out on the highway now had a minimart attached.
The woman behind the register turned out to be Debby Mays, who had been a freshman when Rachel was a senior, and while Rachel had been manning far-flung outposts of the U.S. government, Debby had been raising children. “I told Amber not to make the same mistake I did. Go and get some schooling, make something of yourself before you start having babies. But she didn’t listen.” Debby shrugged and drew on her cigarette. “And I gotta say, the babies are cute. I love bein’ a grandma.”
Rachel smiled at her, though the thought of being a grandmother at thirty-nine depressed her. She was groping for a suitable pleasantry when the bell over the door jingled and a man walked in.
In truth Rachel might not have recognized him but for the hook; but the hook drew the eye just as it had when Rachel was a child, cowering behind her mother’s skirts. “Hello, Mr. Thomas,” she said.
He stopped in his tracks and stared, a sour-looking old man with wildly undisciplined eyebrows, a Harvester cap on his head and a brown corduroy jacket over old-fashioned engineer’s overalls. In place of his right hand he had a two-pronged stainless steel hook. He peered at Rachel as if she had asked him for money.
“I’m Rachel Lindstrom,” she said. “Jim Lindstrom’s daughter.”
It took him a moment but his seamed face finally contorted into what might have been a smile. “Why, sure. Little Rachel, I remember. You’ve been away a long time.”
“I have. How’s Ruth?”
The old man
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