I became somewhat of a Pollyanna during the heyday of my Mormon experience. I didn’t look around, but straight ahead—to the end I had to endure to.
The Coveys had more kids than the Von Trapps, & all by the same mother & father. I had a feeling there was going to be some matchmaking going on, especially since the Jonases had all girls & the Coveys, all boys. It would be like the Mormon version of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.
My friend Brad saw in me then, what I did not see in myself—the love I had for my stepfather that went beyond fatherly.
The Fosters—the owners of the diner David & I had secretly dined in—had been the aunt & uncle who’d raised him, the foster parents who’d never approved of Mother.
Beth & Gerald had loved me as if I were David’s very own. If only I’d known, I would’ve loved them more while they were alive than after they died.
The lovely couple I had known in that diner in the woods were the shapers, if not the creators, of the man on whose lap had I sat.
He had never let them go, even as he had never let me go. He had held on to his secrets, so he could hold on to my mother.
That was why they had seemed so familiar, for I had, in a way, grown up with them, even as they had watched me grow up, playing with my memories.
It was incongruous that David grew up on a farm in rural Pennsylvania, only to become the epitome of urbanity in a township in Green Haven, Florida.