A Hidden Gem – The story behind Hidden Hearts

I’m a neighborhood walker. Most everywhere we’ve lived, my wife and I have explored our neighborhood and the surrounding area. We’ve had some funny experiences, a few scary close calls, and once in a while, we find something marvelous. Such was the case when we found The Farmhouse.

We’d moved into an old suburb of Phoenix that had originally been acres and acres of orange groves through the early part of the 1900’s. As Phoenix grew and the developers gobbled up the farmland after WWII, rows and rows of simple ranch houses appeared. While the general attitude of Phoenix has always been to tear down anything that’s old, this developer clearly had a heart for nostalgia—he’d kept the original farmhouse and its adjoining property.

Discovering The Farmhouse was easy. It was impossible to miss. A black wrought-iron fence sat near the street and the red-brick Victorian sat beyond a large front yard with birdbaths, lawn ornaments and statues. I was curious to see inside but I wasn’t bold enough to march up the walk and ring the bell. We learned that a descendant of the original owners still lived in the house, and eventually, as a community leader, I actually had a reason to go through the gate and up to the door. I got a brief look inside at the old hardwood floors and the grand fireplace. The elderly woman who lived there was soft spoken and kind. Before I left, she suggested there were other homes on what used to be the Farmhouse’s property and I should also contact those owners with my community work.

I started back up the street—and noticed a driveway, practically hidden by shrubbery with a set of mailboxes off to the side. I’d walked past this entrance a hundred times and never noticed it. I followed the driveway to a set of mailboxes and a little sign that said, “Private Driveway.” As I was here on official business with my clipboard in hand, I continued to a turn and saw three other homes along with the backside of the Farmhouse. A scenic common area allowed the neighbors to come together—an enclave. How had I missed this? These four homes had their own little private community in the middle of a Phoenix suburb.

Thus, The Enclave, the original title of Hidden Hearts was born. The other houses were a gaudy ‘70s design, so I changed them to cute cottages, but the regal Farmhouse maintained every feature. The main idea also stuck: a group of lesbians come together and form their own little community. Sounded like nirvana to me. I also had to change the title as my publisher worried no one would realize The Enclave was a romance. And while it is a romance, it’s also a story of the past colliding with the present, the obvious racism of the ‘50s, and the power of strong women.

Chapter One

October, 1953

“Vivian Lucille Battle, you are a complete moron! You could’ve been killed! No one with a brain would do something as ridiculous as jump off the roof but apparently God handed your brain to the next child in line. Whoever that boy is, he’ll probably grow up to be president seeing as he has two brains!”

I gazed up at Mama, a screaming silhouette against the blinding sun. A familiar pain chewed through my left arm and I was pretty sure I’d broken it, just like I’d broken my right one two summers before. I held it against my stomach, praying that it didn’t split in two. Douggie Kerns had told me he’d seen a guy whose broken hand fell into a well and he never got it back. I needed mine for drawing.

Mama yelled some more and I hoped she’d finish soon because I knew she wouldn’t take me to the doctor until she’d said her piece, and her pieces tended to run at least as long as a radio commercial when it came to scolding me.

She yanked me off the ground in one motion and my left arm swung free.

“Don’t you expect any tea and sympathy from me, young lady,” she said as she shoved me into the front seat of the Cadillac. “This is your own doing. If they have to cut off your arm, then so be it. Can’t believe a twelve-year-old is so thoughtless.”

She slammed the door shut and went to the other side. Her lips kept moving but I couldn’t hear most of the words. Those Caddies were well made cars.

“This is just like what happened to Mopey,” she added as she turned on to Missouri Avenue.

It wasn’t anything like what I’d done to our dog Mopey a few years back but I knew better than to argue. My brother Will had dared me to shake a leftover bottle of champagne and poor Mopey was walking through the kitchen when the cork flew off. Blinded him in one eye, and for the rest of his days whenever he’d bang against a doorjamb or knock something over because his side vision was gone, Mama shook her finger and said, “There’s a dog with more sense than my daughter, the moron!”

When we turned left I knew we weren’t going to the emergency room. “Why aren’t we going to St. Joseph’s?” I asked, remembering the last time. I thought broken bones automatically meant the emergency room.

Her breath seemed to catch. “Can’t,” she said simply.

When we stopped at an intersection a young guy in a Ford called, “Hey, beautiful! You babysitting?”

Her face slid into a grin. “Hey, yourself. You plannin’ on stayin’ here all day?”

“If it means talkin’ to you,” he said coolly.

She laughed. This happened all the time, especially when she was forced to go out in her house clothes. She always wore her blonde hair in a ponytail and people thought she was seventeen, not thirty-seven. I’d noticed two tiny crow’s feet near her eyes but I didn’t dare mention it. She prided herself on her appearance even when she was wearing pedal pushers and a simple cotton blouse like she was now.

“Well, I need to get going,” she said. “My daughter needs to go to the doctor.”

I waved and his face fell. He tore away and she just kept laughing.

We drove to Dr. Steele’s office. He’d been our family doctor for as long as we’d lived in Phoenix and I’d been a regular visitor since I seemed to need stitches, splints and medications more than most kids. He enjoyed my exploits as he called them. His most favorite story was how I busted my lip when I flew over my bike handlebars after Will convinced me that blind people could ride bicycles and I could close my eyes as I flew down the hill. Dr. Steele had laughed so hard he’d caught the hiccups. That visit had actually worked out okay because he didn’t charge Mama since he was so amused.

I followed her inside and my eyes watered from the strong smell of rubbing alcohol. I went to my usual chair while she talked to the nurse. Soon they were both staring at me and frowning. My arm was killing me but I didn’t make a peep. That would make Mama yell more. Will had told me that she yelled to keep from crying because I scared her most of the time. I tried to stay out of trouble but I’d get these pictures in my head and I wanted to see if I could make them come true. He said I needed to get out my sketchpad when those moments happened and draw them instead of do them. Sometimes that worked but it didn’t help that he dared me to do some of the stuff.

Even though there were other people ahead of us, the nurse took us right back like she always did. We never waited long and I wasn’t sure if it was because she worried I’d set the whole place on fire before I saw Dr. Steele or if he just wanted to spend more time with Mama. Men loved spending time with her—the plumber, the milk man and even the grocery delivery boy.

I hopped on the table while she checked her face in the mirror. She reapplied her lipstick and pulled the rubber band out of her hair. She shook and fluffed a bit and undid the second button of her shirt. When she turned around she looked different, not so much like a mother and more like a model in a magazine. By the time he walked in she’d lit a cigarette and was leaning against his instrument counter with one hand on her hip.

He ignored me and went right to her. “Lois, it’s always good to see you.”

“Hi, Hank,” she replied with a broad smile. “We’re back.”

I guessed he was somewhat older than her since he had a lot of gray hair and a pot belly. He wasn’t very tall and he always looked tired with big bags under his eyes. But when he looked at her he found a bunch of energy. And for some reason when she talked to Hank, whatever I’d done was funny or amusing because she never sounded angry.

“What happened this time?”

She sighed and played with her hair. “Fell and broke her other arm, I think.”

He chuckled and gave me a sideways glance before stepping closer to her. It was their little ritual. She sniffled and then he’d put a friendly arm around her, assuring her that she was a great mother and my stupidity wasn’t her fault.

By the time they got to this part, my arm felt like someone was pounding it with a hammer but it was like I wasn’t there. I opened my mouth to say something but they were giggling and whispering so I kept my mouth closed.

“Um, Hank, there is one thing,” she said. “Chet can’t make another shipment until Friday.”

He nodded thoughtfully and her face tensed while she watched him think. His arm was still around her but he wasn’t stroking her shoulder anymore.

“Hmm. I seem to remember this happening last time, Lois. Everything okay in the orange growing business?”

I could tell he was making fun of Pops by the way he asked the question. It made me mad because I loved those trees even if Pops didn’t make a lot of money.

“We’re fine, Hank, but money’s tight.”

“Isn’t it always?”

I didn’t recognize the soft voice that answered. “Uh, well, I was also hoping you could check a mole for me. It’s on my chest. It looks funny.”

He licked his lips. “Let’s take a look.”

He led her into the next room and I held my broken arm for another five minutes. I thought about putting my ear against the door but I was pretty sure that Mama would break my other arm again if she caught me.

I saw my reflection in the mirror above his sink. From a distance I guessed I looked like her, although I had Pops’ dark hair, which I’d recently cut with her sewing shears one day. She’d been so mad that she had me wear a big hat with a sunflower on it when we went to church. She said that it looked like I’d stuck my head in a threshing machine and I deserved what I got. I said I’d rather wear Pops’ fedora and she’d scowled.

The calendar on the wall caught my eye. Somebody had forgotten to flip the months and it was still on January and February. The picture was friendly. A boy sat in an attic room, showing a clock to his grandma, who sat on a bed. A cat curled up at the foot of the bed, right above the name of the painter—Norman Rockwell. I decided I liked Mr. Rockwell’s pictures very much and would ask my art teacher Mrs. Curry if she knew who he was.

The door flew open and Mama went straight to the window. She lit a cigarette and stared into the sunlight. Her eyes were red and I looked over at Dr. Steele, who was writing on my chart. When he finally stepped to the table and took my arm in his hands, he shook his head.

“Vivi, Vivi, what are we going to do with you?”

On the way home Mama said nothing. She kept her eyes on the road. I waited for the lecture that usually followed our return from the doctor or the hospital, but she only drove, which was a bad sign. I much preferred her yelling since I’d learned to block it out after the millionth time. Will had told me it was her way of showing she cared, and there was always plenty to yell about. My grades were too low, I continually did stupid things, and I just wasn’t as good as him, a conclusion she’d made the last time she’d retrieved me from the principal’s office.

She often said, “I’m almost positive, Vivian Battle, that you were switched at birth. How your father and I wound up with such different children could only be explained by such a thing.”

I didn’t think it would be wise to mention that Will could have been the switched one.

I glanced down at the cast on my arm. It itched and Dr. Steele said I’d need to wear it for at least six weeks before he could cut it off. He’d offered to sign it but Mama had hurried me out of the office before he could.

“I’m sorry,” I offered.

She puffed her cigarette. “Sorry is a word, Vivian. Don’t be sorry.”

“But I am sorry. I know it costs money to go to the doctor,” I said, hoping I could show her I was mature. I knew

Pops was struggling with the orchard, or as she called it, his harebrained idea to get rich.
At the mention of money, she shot me a cold look. “Yes, Vivian, that’s right. Everything has a price, a cost. You should learn that.”

Her eyes returned to the road and I stared out the window, ashamed that I’d caused so much trouble. I vowed to do better and thought about saying so but I remembered what she’d said about words. I’d need to prove it to her.
I could tell she wasn’t just mad at me. I guessed she was mad at Dr. Steele for some reason, but I knew she was mad at Pops, too. She was always mad at him.

We’d moved from Iowa to Phoenix in forty-seven when I was six. Pops had said Phoenix was “money land” because they were building so many houses. He’d heard stories of rich men pulling up in fancy cars carrying wads of cash that they showered on the folks fortunate enough to own the property.

So when he inherited the family farm, he sold it, moved us to Phoenix, and took every penny he had and bought thirty acres of orange orchards and a farmhouse that reminded him of home. Mama hadn’t wanted to leave her family but after the first mild winter, she’d fallen in love with the dry climate.

But no one wanted to buy the land and he wasn’t very good at running the orchard. When they’d fight over money, she would point at the trees and scream, “There’s the gas bill, Chet, and the kids’ school clothes and the gasoline!”
He’d shrug and say, “If I’d wanted to be a damn farmer, I’d have stayed in Iowa. This is our way out.”

We pulled into the long driveway and I automatically smiled at the sight of the orchard in the distance and our beautiful farmhouse. On its walls built entirely of red brick, the white wooden windows looked like enormous eyes and the long brick path that extended from the road to the large oak front door seemed to go on forever. We had a fancy dining room with a chandelier and something called a sun porch with glass walls. It got hotter than the oven during the summer but Pops said it was a great place to sleep in the winter after he and Mama fought.

There were four bedrooms so Will and I didn’t have to share anymore but the best part was the backyard—rows and rows of orange trees. I’d tried to count them once and got lost after forty-eight. Right now the blossoms were just beginning to turn and by February there would be millions of oranges dangling from the limbs.

“Go upstairs and do your homework,” she said wearily. “Tell Will he needs to do his chores.”

I ran up to his room, glancing at Mama’s amazing sweet potato pie as I passed through the kitchen. I found him hunched over his desk, his pen moving effortlessly across a paper. It was always easy for him. Once I’d asked him to explain my homework since he was two grades ahead of me, and he’d tried but it was like he wasn’t saying the words in the right order. I knew he’d been speaking English, at least part of the time, but it was too confusing. I’d just nodded and never asked him again.

“Mama says you need to do your chores.”

He turned and grinned when he saw my arm. “Was it broken?”

“Just my wrist.”

He looked half like Mama and half like Pops. He had a friendly smile that Mama said would charm the ladies and Pops’ thick hair and spindly build. And I loved looking into his pretty blue eyes. They always reassured me that everything would be all right no matter what happened.

“How’d Mama pay Dr. Steele?” he asked suspiciously.

“He was really nice. He said she could pay him on Friday.”

He frowned and turned back to his book. “I’ll be down in a minute. Go do your homework.”

Instead of reaching for my school books I went to the window seat and gazed out at the orchard and the mountain. The acreage Pops bought was near the base of Squaw Peak and seemed close enough to touch. I’d wake up in the morning and stare over the treetops to the rugged switchbacks that crossed the face. Once in a while Will and I would ride our bikes to the trailhead and climb to the top. We’d look at Phoenix and he’d say something about how different it was from Iowa—so flat, no rolling hills or blue rivers. I knew he missed home a lot. He’d been eight when we moved so he remembered Cedar Rapids but Phoenix was all I’d ever known.

If we turned the other way we saw the tall buildings of the downtown and all the fancy stores. Central Avenue sliced the city in half and houses chewed up the sorghum fields. But nobody seemed to want our orchard. Mama had said once that Pops’ price was too high.

He’d just laughed and said, “It’ll happen. Just wait.”

The day turned dark and he still wasn’t home. He worked long hours and sometimes we ate without him. My stomach rumbled and I stole down the stairs to see what she was doing. I’d given up on my homework after only completing a few problems. Hopefully I could copy off someone when I got to school.

I sat at the base of the stairs in the shadows of the dark living room and faced the kitchen. Dinner was on the table but Mama sat alone, smoking a cigarette and drinking her water, which was what she called vodka. She didn’t know I’d read the bottle one time before she put it away. She stared at nothing in particular and the smoke twisted around her as if she were surrounded by a dream.

I wondered what she thought about. Did she think about us? Him? Was she worried he wouldn’t like his dinner? Whatever it was I knew it didn’t make her happy. She never looked happy.

I went back upstairs guessing that if he didn’t show up in a little while we’d eat the dinner cold as usual. I’d learned not to say anything about the condition of the food, then, which tasted as if it had been sitting out all afternoon at a picnic.

I stared at my unfinished math homework, meaning to finish, but soon I was doodling and copying the picture I’d seen in Dr. Steele’s office. I closed my eyes trying to remember the exact details, the light and dark as Mrs. Curry would say. With only a lead pencil it was impossible to recreate Norman Rockwell’s colorful painting but I did my best.

“Get down here, Vivian!” my father’s voice boomed.

I dropped the pencil and hustled down the stairs. He stood in the living room, his arms crossed. He was lanky and tall, with wavy hair that rarely looked as if it needed to be combed. It just sort of sat on his head naturally. He was tanned from living outdoors everyday and I thought he looked like a movie star, although Will always said Mama was the good-looking one. But whenever we tagged along on one of his errands to the store, he’d smile and laugh with the pretty cashiers, more so than he ever did with us or Mama.

He stood over me, his angry face a million miles away. He reached for my arm and studied my cast. “Bend over,” he commanded.

At least he hadn’t brought out the paddle he kept on the bathroom doorknob, but the three swats still hurt and it was hard to sit down at the table. Will grinned and I stuck out my tongue when Mama and Pops weren’t looking.

“Meat’s dry,” he said, scowling at his pork chop.

Dinnertime was the main event and Mama’s cooking was usually the topic that started a fight. Even though we’d moved out of the Midwest, she still cooked as if she were there. I can’t imagine why he would’ve thought that could change. She cooked what she knew and that meant meat at one o’clock on the plate, potatoes at six and vegetable at ten. There wasn’t a lot of love in the meals but she tried.

The only thing he never complained about was her sweet potato pie. She made the best I’d ever tasted and we always fought over the last piece but that fight was good-natured. The rest of the arguments weren’t. He wanted to be proud of her for certain things—the ones he chose.

“Perhaps if we could afford something more substantial it would taste better,” she remarked as she went to the cabinet for the vodka.

Ever since we’d moved to Phoenix, I noticed she’d taken to drinking at the table, which by our Midwestern standards was bad manners but he didn’t seem to care.

“You need to keep your comments to yourself, Lois,” he said sharply. “And I don’t appreciate your fancy words. Substantial. What the hell kind of word is that? Maybe if you’d keep our children in line, we’d have some more money for food,” he said, throwing a glare in my direction.

I hung my head.

“So how much did that little trip to Dr. Steele’s office set us back?” he asked.

“Fifteen,” she said quietly.

He harrumphed but never asked where she got the money. That’s how it always was. Conversation between my parents was like Will and me playing catch. He’d throw the ball and I’d always miss it since I wasn’t very coordinated. Them talking was just like that—a lot of dropped balls.

“Well it won’t be long until we can pay for everything up front. We’re having a visitor tonight,” he said, “a man named Rubenstein.” He looked up and offered a little smile. “I think he wants to buy our land.”

Will and I glanced at each other. Maybe if Pops sold the land they’d be fine.

“Now, when he gets here, I don’t want any fightin’ between the two of you, ya’ hear?” He was holding out his fork like a weapon and we nodded. “You say your hellos and then you get upstairs.”

We nodded again for salvation’s sake. While we were scared of Mama, we were terrified of him, not just because he swung the paddle but because we didn’t know him. He was always in the orchard or at the bar with his friends. Once in a while he’d take Mama out for special occasions, but when he was home, he ignored us mostly.

“How did you meet Mr. Rubenstein?” she asked.

“He bought the grove next door. Came by the other day and said he wanted to talk.”

I glanced at Mama, who opened her mouth to say something but decided to swirl her drink instead. He was the only one who could keep her quiet. When she was angry with me, her mouth was like a motorboat on a full tank of gas. She only stopped when she ran out.

He hated talking to her about anything that he thought was his business, like finances or major decisions. He thought she ran the kitchen and the kids but nothing else. She didn’t think so. Their fights were so loud that Will and I heard everything.

We ate in silence until she excused herself and began the cleanup that Will and I would finish. In my entire life I’d never seen Pops pick up a single dish or cup to help. He entered the kitchen to eat and left when he was done.
Uncomfortable sitting at the table with him alone, Will and I gobbled the rest of our dinner and I took over the washing from Mama while Will dried. She disappeared upstairs to change and fix her hair before Mr. Rubenstein arrived.

“Do you think he’ll buy it?” I asked quietly, unsure if Pops was listening in the front room where he read the paper.

He shrugged. “I dunno. He already owns the land next to ours. It could be economically advantageous,” he said.

He liked using big words and sounding smart like Mama. I knew he wanted me to ask him what it meant but I just kept washing since I was pretty sure I understood.

“Where will we go?”

He stopped drying the skillet and stared at me like he hadn’t thought about that part. We’d waited so long for anyone to take an interest in the land that we’d forgotten what it might mean to our family.

The doorbell rang and we finished just as Mr. Rubenstein shook Mama’s hand. She looked like Rita Hayworth at a movie premiere. She’d put her hair up in a style called a chignon and reapplied her makeup. And like every other man who met her, he was laughing and patting her hand as if they’d known each other for years.

She waved at us and we were immediately at her side wearing our own smiles of hope.

“These are our children, Will and Vivian.” She’d said our names like she was proud of us.

He bent down and offered a firm handshake. I was surprised because his fingers were soft and his palm was warm, nothing like Pops’ hands, which were like tree bark. He had a long face and his nose was like a beak. I tried not to stare but it was hard because it took up a lot of his face. Pops said all Jews had a big nose—even the women—and that’s how you could tell you were in the presence of one. His hair was slicked back and he wore a dark blue suit with a red tie. He smelled like spice and I resisted the urge to hug him just to be closer to his smell.

“Get on up to your homework,” Pops said firmly and we quickly charged up the stairs, only to tiptoe back down to the landing where we could watch and listen.

Pops led him to the dining room table while Mama went to the kitchen and retrieved some refreshments. They made small talk as Mr. Rubenstein opened his briefcase and looked around the dining room. He asked several questions like how many rooms our house had and what was the square footage and I realized if he bought our land, he’d probably live here.

When Mama returned with a tray of coffee and three slices of sweet potato pie, Pops scowled at her. I knew he wanted her to drop the refreshments and go away but she planted herself across from the two of them, not really in the conversation but not gone.

Mr. Rubenstein complimented her on the pie and told them he loved the area and the orange groves. But like adults usually do, he rambled into a bunch of boring things I didn’t understand, using words like fair market value, equity and water rights. I plunked my head against the wall feeling like I was stuck at school. I woke up when Will poked me in the ribs.

“They’re talking about whether we get to stay,” he whispered.

I’d been asleep for a while because the pie was gone, there were papers scattered over the table and Mama was sitting next to Mr. Rubenstein. Pops was studying something while she laughed at one of Mr. Rubenstein’s stories. She touched his arm and played with her hair just like she’d done in Dr. Steele’s office.

When she stopped laughing, she said, “You know, Jacob, I love this house. I’d really like to keep it. Would you ever consider purchasing the groves but not the house?”

She still held his arm, a look of pleading on her face.

“I don’t know, Lois. This farmhouse is one of the reasons I considered buying the property.”

“But to a woman a house is really a home. I’m sure your wife has explained that to you.”

He coughed and said, “Um, I’m not married, Lois. Haven’t met the right woman.”

She gasped. “I’m shocked. A handsome man like you with your strong business sense?” She patted his arm again.

“It will happen and then you’ll understand why a woman loves her home so much—”

Pops set down the papers and picked up a pen. “Don’t listen to her jibber-jabber, Mr. Rubenstein. We’ll be just fine in another place. Where do I sign?”

“Chet, now hold on a minute. You hate the idea of living in a ranch-style house.” She quickly turned her gaze to Mr. Rubenstein. “No offense to you, Jacob. I’m sure the houses you’ll build will be grand but we loved this place the moment we saw it.”

“No offense taken,” he said.

I knew she’d hate leaving this place, especially the formal dining room where they were sitting. It would kill her to give up the chandelier and the white crown molding that bordered the ceiling. It was fancy and there wasn’t much in her life that fit that description.

“This is our home,” she continued. “If we—”

“Lois, shut up,” Pops said gruffly. “This decision doesn’t concern you.”

She turned red and started to rise but Mr. Rubenstein shot him a hard glare and caught her arm. He whispered to her and she nodded. When they both looked at Pops, I knew it was two against one.

“Mr. Battle, I’m no longer interested in purchasing this house as part of the agreement.”

He smacked the table and stabbed a finger at one of the papers. “This is what you’re costing us, Lois. This is what we’re losing by keeping this place.”

“Actually, Mr. Battle,” he interrupted, “Your wife’s charming personality has saved you money.” He turned to her and added, “I’ll be happy to buy the groves but you’ll retain the house and two acres beyond so the children have a yard. Initially, though, I’ll need to borrow that property for some temporary worker housing, but I’ll be happy to pay rent to you for its usage.”

He looked like he was holding her hand, almost like he was her husband. I suddenly wondered if Jews were any different than us.

“Will that be acceptable, Mrs. Battle?” he asked, totally ignoring Pops.

She sighed and touched her chest. “That would be perfect.”