Dandelion Summer Read online

  Dandelion Summer

  Mary Ellen Bramwell

  © Copyright Mary Ellen Bramwell 2019

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2019 by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-279-3

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for checking out one of our Literary Fiction novels.

  If you enjoy this book, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  The Five Wishes of Mr. Murray McBride by Joe Siple

  2018 Maxy Award “Book of the Year”

  “A sweet...tale of human connection...will feel familiar to fans of Hallmark movies.” –KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “An emotional story that will leave readers meditating on the life-saving magic of kindness.” –Indie Reader

  To Erin Horn,

  because life isn’t always easy, in fact sometimes it’s downright hard—

  and that’s when we truly need an ally and a friend.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Summer 1975

  1942

  June 6, 1975

  June 6, 1944

  Week One – Summer 1975

  Monday – Friday

  Saturday

  1944

  Week Two – Summer 1975

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Thursday

  1945

  Friday

  Saturday

  Week Three – Summer 1975

  Tuesday

  1946

  Thursday

  Saturday

  Part 2

  Week Four – Summer 1975

  Monday

  1950

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  1957

  Week Five – Summer 1975

  Monday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Saturday

  1974

  Week Six – Summer 1975

  Monday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Week Seven – Summer 1975

  Tuesday

  Friday

  1974

  Week Eight – Summer 1975

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Part 3

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Week Nine – Summer 1975

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Week Ten – Summer 1975

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  BRW Info

  Part 1

  Madelyn had heard whispered tales of butterfly summers—the ones that float gently and beautifully in and out of our lives, and cat summers—narcissistic passages filled with visits to the pool and lazy backyard barbecues, even rainbow summers—the calm after the storm of the school year. But she’d never thought for an instant there could be a dandelion summer. Dandelions are, after all, a weed, and a resilient one at that. But when life is choked by unwanted disruptions, you have to make a choice—do you dig up the dandelions or ignore them? Or is it a little of each?

  Summer 1975

  Her mother was hiding something, that much Madelyn knew. It was in the subtle things she might not normally notice—Mom was twirling her fingers in her hair more and she seemed almost hesitant to answer any questions, even, “What’s for dinner?” It’s not as if she couldn’t answer something so simple, it was more like she was distracted. Her mind was somewhere else, and Madelyn had no idea where it was.

  It had been building gradually for the last month, ever since the day her parents had announced that her dad would be working out of town for the entire summer. He was doing training or some such thing that Madelyn couldn’t have cared less about. What she did care about was the absence of the one parent she connected with. It felt like a betrayal, one they hadn’t even thought to consult her about.

  “He’ll be back at the end of the summer. It will be over before you know it,” Mom had said. And then Dad said something about his job or a promotion, but by then Madelyn had stopped listening because she recognized what had gone unsaid. They were talking to each other, comforting each other, explaining the value of their decision to each other—she wasn’t even part of the equation. Her initial reaction was shock, even anger, but in that split second when she discovered her feelings didn’t matter, even as they tried to appeal to them, her mind was made up. If they didn’t care how she felt, then she wouldn’t care either.

  “Okay. Whatever,” she said, getting up to leave.

  “Wait, don’t you want to talk about it?” Dad said. Madelyn shrugged her shoulders, trying to convince herself that it was really nothing. It was nothing that Dad was her confidante. It was nothing that he was always there for her—or at least had been. It appeared that wasn’t the case anymore. And it was certainly meaningless when she cried on his shoulder, like when she recently learned her best friend Lori was moving. No, this time, with this loss, crying was not in Madelyn’s plans.

  She simply replied, “No thanks,” registering the almost imperceptible sound of her mom’s jaw dropping—and then something else. It was the first she had noticed the nervousness, her mom’s furtive glance around the room. Mom would certainly miss him—they were a team, doing everything together from grocery shopping to cooking to running errands. But she was bothered by something else. Madelyn could feel it in the air like a summer storm that was brewing yet still too far off to be seen.

  At the time, she shrugged it off, too angry or too busy pretending not to care to give it a second thought. She walked out on the two of them, moving swiftly down the hall to her room.

>   Jillian found her there a few minutes later, asking Madelyn with her eyes what was wrong. Madelyn gathered her little sister in a big hug and held her tight, grateful that at least she wasn’t going anywhere.

  It was to be the summer of her discontent, and not all of it was of her own making.

  . . .

  Madelyn was 14 that year, and even with the attitudes that often gift themselves at birthdays that end with “teen,” she had, up until that point, enjoyed spending time with her dad. When the weather was cold or the evening’s darkness advanced, Madelyn and her dad would each grab a book to read. They’d invite the others to join them, but Mom’s answer was to toss a Mona Lisa smile in Dad’s direction, kiss him on the cheek, and leave them to their reading.

  Occasionally, Daniel or Jillian would take them up on their offer, and they would end up sprawled around the living room. But often as not, it would just be the two of them, so they’d move to Dad’s study. It’s not that they wouldn’t be disturbed there—because they usually were—Mom would have a question, or Daniel would be stuck on a homework problem. Rather, for Madelyn, it was like they owned some large manor house, and this was their great library, even if the room wasn’t large at all. It held Dad’s desk, his office chair, and two overstuffed easy chairs. Dad, tall and lanky, liked sitting upright in one chair while Madelyn would lie sideways in the other, resting her head on one arm of the chair while looping her legs over the other, kicking them up and down as she read. Her long hair would flow over the arm, falling like a blond, tangled mess down the side of the chair. Typically, Madelyn pulled her hair back in a ponytail—except when reading with Dad, choosing instead to let it flow freely, without restraint.

  Often as not, Dad would pull out a piece of Black Jack gum to pop in his mouth. Madelyn didn’t like the licorice taste of it like he did, but the sound of him softly chewing while he read was familiar and comforting. It created a subtle rhythm that added to the turning of pages and exclamations of surprise when their stories took unexpected turns.

  Dad would look up periodically and smile in her direction then take a hand and brush his hair back from his forehead, push up his glasses, and start reading again. He repeated this motion often since looking down at a book made his thinning brown hair fall forward into his eyes and his glasses wiggle their way down his nose. Madelyn didn’t have the same problem since she hadn’t needed glasses—at least not yet. But she couldn’t resist glancing up every so often just to see him there.

  Dad liked to read everything—histories and mysteries, tender love stories (as long as they weren’t too mushy), and swashbuckling adventures. He often gave her suggestions such as Pride and Prejudice, Fahrenheit 451, To Kill a Mockingbird, and anything by Agatha Christie. They even read a few Shakespeare plays together, altering their voices for the various characters until they could no longer keep straight who sounded like what.

  But it was other voices she heard now after they told her he was leaving, whispers in the night with an edge to them, anxious, worried. She only caught a phrase here and there, “It’ll be fine … trust me … you can,” and then, “Madelyn will take care of it.”

  The words felt like a knife in her back. The specific meaning was lost on her—who knew what she was going to “take care of,” but the whole idea hit her hard. Wasn’t that just nice. Dad was leaving and she got to shoulder the burden, whatever that burden happened to be.

  Acting unphased by it all became harder and harder as frustration built inside her. She had questions she wanted answered, but that would mean sitting down and talking with one or both of her parents. Doing that smelled of admitting defeat, and she wasn’t about to do that—at least not yet.

  She caught herself a few times almost being kind, almost confiding in Dad, almost acting the way she knew she should. It didn’t help having Lori gone. If she’d been around, at least Madelyn would have had someone to complain to instead of bottling it up.

  But thinking of all the “ifs” didn’t improve her situation any. Lori was gone, and now her teddy bear of a daddy was leaving too, all without telling her the whole story of what was going on. What did it matter anyway? She knew enough. She was barely an afterthought. Her feelings hadn’t been their concern. So why should she care about theirs?

  The only thing was, she cared more than she was willing to admit.

  1942

  They were called the Screaming Eagles, but to Hazel they were no more than soldiers going off to fight a war halfway around the world. Specifically, they were the division taking her husband away to World War II, to an uncertain future. The thought that he might not return was something she tried hard not to contemplate.

  William reached across the kitchen table to grasp her hand. For several nights the two of them had huddled over this very table discussing the available opportunities, as they called them. Their conversation had been intimate and intense, yet quiet for the sake of their sleeping children.

  But after so many nights with so many words, there were none left to express what their final decision had wrought. Brushing up against their clasped hands lay the official paper—William Knight was to report in October, just a few short weeks away, for training at Fort Benning, Georgia. Given the past horrors of The War to End All Wars, now downgraded to simply World War I, they had made the decision that William should volunteer, knowing he would eventually be called up anyway. Volunteering seemed the only way to maintain a bit of control in a chaotic and frightening world.

  He had signed up to be a paratrooper, part of the 101st Airborne Division. The children sleeping peacefully in the next room had been the deciding factor—paratroopers were paid more. That extra amount would come in handy with Rachel, almost three, and Thomas, still an infant.

  Hearing over the radio about the attack on Pearl Harbor less than a year ago now seemed like a world away to Hazel. That night after the Japanese attack, lying in bed, she and William had talked about what war might mean. And at that same moment, she had felt the baby that would be Thomas move for the first time. The joy that overwhelmed her for the small life yet to be born also brought with it a strange sense of guilt—guilt that she could be happy after such a tragic day. It was bittersweet—an affirmation of life at a time when so many lives had been lost, with so many more inevitably being extinguished before it was over.

  And now here they were. Without a word, William let go of her hand to push away the paper that separated them and reached up to gently wipe away the tears trickling down her cheeks. Then standing, he opened his arms for his wife, beautiful even now in her sorrow. She gave him a small smile, the best she could muster, then rose into his embrace.

  The baby woke not soon after, hungry. While Hazel nursed him, William sat beside her—sometimes reaching up to stroke her hair, sometimes simply looking into her eyes, trying to convey all that he didn’t have the words to say. After the baby was settled back down, William and Hazel, overcome by sheer exhaustion, fell asleep clasped in each other’s arms.

  June 6, 1975

  June 6th was her dad’s departure day. On the surface, Madelyn had managed to maintain her indifference, but on the inside, she felt as if her legs might give out from under her. The day itself was beautiful. Besides being a Friday, it was the first day of summer vacation. The Colorado weather was a perfect 75 degrees, with just a light breeze blowing wisps of hair occasionally across her face. The Rocky Mountains, at their lower elevations, were alive with green, and even though the peaks were still snow-covered, they were warm and inviting to the eye. Madelyn usually loved those mountains. They reminded her to stand tall and strong—like her dad. But that June day, reminding her of Dad wasn’t a positive thing.

  She knew it was the thirty-something anniversary of D-Day when the allied forces invaded Normandy in World War II. Supposedly, that day long ago
was important because it was the turning point of the war—an indication that the allies might actually win it after all. But every time Madelyn heard about it, the only thing that stayed with her was the chaos and all those dead and injured soldiers. Maybe she should have taken heart from the significance of that day—that something so costly and horrible could lead to something good, like the end of a world war. She should have, but she didn’t.

  As Madelyn tried to covertly watch Dad gather his bags together, she contemplated a summer without him. He was her rock, her sounding board—helping her with homework, listening to her problems, even making cookies for her. Mom did most of those things too if he wasn’t around, but Madelyn didn’t give her a chance if he was. What exactly does a Daddy’s girl do when her daddy isn’t around?

  Her little brother Daniel, at eleven, had an independent streak no one could tame. Madelyn believed the prospect of having only one parent to supervise the three of them had his creative and highly mischievous mind working overtime. While he might miss Dad, she was sure he was viewing it as an unparalleled opportunity.

  Jillian, being the youngest, cried at the thought of Daddy leaving. But Madelyn knew she’d weather the storm all right since she usually spent most of her time trailing in Mom’s shadow. When Madelyn saw her tears, her stomach lurched with uncomfortable emotions. She hadn’t cried since they’d told her he was leaving, refusing to give in to the emotions even while something in her told her it was the wrong approach to take.

  It’s just that Dad had always been there, and now that he wasn’t, Madelyn didn’t know how to conduct her life. Even the thought of picking up a book brought with it reminders that she should be reading it while he was also reading close by.