A Chance to Remember

by Kathleen Fuller

  A still, small voice was talking to his heart and soul, reminding him of unfinished business. Reminding him of Cevilla.

  “Richard?”

  Cevilla’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. How could he tell her how he felt? He hadn’t been able to say the words to her when they were young, and he’d lost her to another man. Now he felt like that mute teenager, unable to find the courage to tell the first girl he loved his true feelings.

  “What I mean is . . .” He stared at his soup, which he was sure had started to grow cold. “I missed our friendship. We used to be pretty good friends.”

  “That we were,” she said softly, still staring at him.

  “And you know what they say.” He picked up the spoon and gave her a grin he hoped wasn’t as forced as it felt. “Time is long, but life is short. I figured now would be as good a time as any to renew our friendship.”

  Cevilla didn’t say anything, which he knew was unusual for her. After a long silence, she lifted her teacup. “I suppose it is.”

  Richard picked up his small suitcase and followed Cevilla to her bedroom. The rest of supper had been a quiet affair. They hadn’t talked much, and he was grateful he didn’t have to explain himself further. The soup was tasty, the bread soft and fresh, and the company perfect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a wonderful meal, despite the simplicity and spontaneity of it, and despite the awkward moments in the beginning.

  Cevilla’s room was tidy, plain, and simple, which were compliments in Richard’s mind.

  “Probably a lot less than what you’re used to.” Cevilla smoothed the top of the well-worn quilt on her single bed before turning to him. “You might be better off at the hotel.”

  Richard was surprised to see a flicker of uncertainty in Cevilla’s eyes. As a teenager, she’d rarely shown that side of herself, only when she was torn between CJ and the Amish. He had listened while she talked about her feelings for CJ, yet how God was drawing her back to her roots. Back to the Amish life she’d loved more than anything. While all that had been hard to listen to, he’d been honored that she’d chosen him to confide in.

  He took a step toward her, his cane thumping against the hardwood floor. “Are you all right?”

  The uncertainty disappeared with a lift of her chin. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re just spending the night.” She chuckled. “And I invited you to do so.”

  Richard smiled, and he couldn’t help but crack a joke. “Sounds a little scandalous, doesn’t it?”

  Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink as she averted her gaze. Another surprise. He grew serious. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, I can go back to the hotel. I don’t have a problem with a little dust.”

  Cevilla looked at him. “You don’t have to leave, Richard.”

  “I don’t want to put you out—”

  “I want you to stay.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Cevilla bit her bottom lip, and then made herself stop. Really, biting her lip like a silly ingenue! And over something as mundane as an old friend being a houseguest. It made no sense. She’d had houseguests before, but never more than one at a time, and they’d always stayed in the spare room upstairs. No one other than herself had ever slept in her bed.

  But the thought of Richard being the first made her feel . . . a little giddy? No, that couldn’t be right. Must be the extra dash of pepper she’d added to the soup talking back to her. The older she was, the less tolerance she had for any kind of spice.

  But this wasn’t the first time she’d felt giddy around Richard. Her heart had been doing tiny backflips during the meal, especially after what he’d said. If I still felt the same way . . . about you. The way he’d looked at her and the softness of his words had touched something deep inside her soul. And the way he was looking at her now, with those warm gray eyes of his that had always had trouble with acuity, yet could see things more deeply than anyone she’d ever met . . .

  Her heart did another flip. Or maybe she should just cut back on the pepper.

  “I invited you here,” she said, regaining her senses and resuming her role as a neutral hostess. “And I want you to stay.”

  “Oh.” He tilted his head and looked at her. “I thought you meant . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  She turned from him, ignoring the little twirl of emotion in her chest—or indigestion, as the case may be—and fluffed the pillows. “If you need another one of these, I have an extra one in my closet. Also another blanket.” She turned to him. “The bathroom is around the corner. Small, but serviceable. Don’t worry about lights—my nephew installed these fancy sensor lights all around this house. I told him not to bother, but he insisted. He worries about me, you know.” She let out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know why. I’ve lived on my own for this long just fine.” Oh, good gravy, she was rambling. Actually rambling.

  “I know.” Richard’s voice was gravelly from age but still filled with strength. “You’re amazing, Cevilla.”

  For goodness’ sake, now her cheeks were heating again. Maybe she was falling ill. But she didn’t feel ill. She felt . . . nice.

  And foolish. She waved her hand at him. “I get up early,” she said, gripping the handle of her cane and making her way to the bedroom door. “If you hear some puttering around in the kitchen, it’s only me.”

  “I rise early too.”

  Why was he looking at her so intently? She cleared her throat. “Then feel free to join me for tea or coffee.”

  “I will.”

  She smiled, her nervousness disappearing. It was nice to have company, especially an old friend. And she had been feeling a bit lonely lately, a bit more steeped in the past than usual. That explained her odd feelings. Simple as that. “Sleep well, then.”

  “You too, Cevilla.”

  She shut the door behind her and went to the linen closet, where she took a pillow and a lap quilt from the shelves. She carried them to the couch and sat down. She’d had this old sofa for years. It was well worn, but comfortable. It had also been years since she’d slept on it, except for a quick nap every now and then. Usually she fell asleep in her chair.

  Cevilla folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. She’d said her evening prayers before Richard and Meghan arrived to spend the night, but she felt the need to pray again. She’d been unable to kneel since last year, but she knew God understood. A respectful posture was important, but not more important that the posture of her heart.

  She prayed for Richard and for Meghan. Then she sat in silence, as was her habit, and listened. This was the most difficult part of her prayer time, since she normally liked to be the one talking. But she’d learned over the years that opening her ears to God’s voice was as necessary as breathing. Sometimes he spoke to her. Sometimes he was silent. Tonight, she didn’t hear a thing—and she accepted that.

  She arranged her bed for the night, leaned her cane against the coffee table, and laid down. She was tired, and her eyes started to close.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Cevilla opened her eyes. She was startled, but then she recognized the sound. Meghan was pacing. It wasn’t loud, as if she was trying not to make noise, but Cevilla’s hearing was sharp. She sighed. The woman really was in some kind of pickle, and Cevilla’s heart went out to her. How can I help her, Lord?

  Meghan paced back and forth in bare feet. The fashionable heels she’d worn all day sat next to the closet, looking out of place in the simple bedroom. She should just lie down and try to get some sleep. She was tired from the flight and worrying about Grandfather. Oddly, he had seemed more energetic than she was. Then again, he’d had a nap in the car.

  But she couldn’t settle her mind enough to stay still. It was quiet in this house. Too quiet. Although she lived in an upscale neighborhood in LA, she was used to noise, like the hum of the air conditioning system or the computer in her office. In the kitchen, the refrigerator would cycle on and off, and while the dishwasher was top of the
line, it wasn’t silent. Noise was everywhere in her world. Here it was the complete opposite.

  She stopped and stared out the window. It was so dark out there.

  Now, alone in Cevilla’s spare bedroom, she couldn’t escape her thoughts. They rang loudly in her head.

  She hadn’t wanted to go on this trip with Grandfather, but she had to admit it was a good, if slightly frustrating diversion. She wondered what was going on back home. If Conor, her ex-fiancé as of a month ago, had taken his current girlfriend on the Fiji trip Meghan had planned for them before he dumped her. If Tawny, her former work partner as of two weeks ago, was enjoying the profit she made from selling their interior design business out from under her.

  If her grandfather, who had issued warnings about them both, was itching to say I told you so.

  Meghan shook her head. Grandfather would never do that. He was a class act, and always had been. She’d thought she’d found a man like him in Conor—a smart, business-minded, churchgoing man, who was also handsome and kind. She’d thought she’d hit the jackpot.

  She heard the phone buzz in her purse. Surprised that it still had a charge, she picked it up. Mother. If she didn’t answer it, her mother would blow up her phone until she did. With a sigh, she slid her finger on the screen to make the connection. “Hello?”

  “Well, hello to you.”

  Meghan winced at Mother’s sharp tone. “It’s kind of late here,” she said, glancing outside again. “I was going to call you in the morning.”

  “It’s not even ten o’clock there.”

  “Oh.” It had seemed much later. “Sorry. I should have called you, then.”

  “Yes, you should of.” Mother sniffed. “How is Father?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Is he getting enough rest? Has he eaten well today?”

  Meghan froze. She’d been so concerned about the hotel accommodations that she’d forgotten about supper. Her own appetite had been dulled these past weeks, which explained why her clothes hung so loosely, but it was inexcusable for her to forget his. And Grandfather hadn’t said a thing. “Uh, yes. He’s eating well.” At lunch, at least.

  Mother let out a relieved sigh. “I knew you would take good care of him. When are you coming back?”

  As soon as possible. Although, what did she have to go back to? She wasn’t engaged anymore. She had no fiancé, along with no wedding. She also had no money from her former business to start a new one—unless she borrowed from Grandfather, and she wasn’t about to do that again.

  “Meghan? Did you hear me?”

  “Ah, yes. Probably in a week.” Although what she would do with herself here in the backwoods for a week, she had no idea.

  “Humph.” Meghan could imagine her mother sipping on her organic pomegranate and beet smoothie she had every night before going to bed. “I thought you’d return tomorrow.”

  “I think back-to-back flights would be too tiring for Grandfather.” Not to mention that she knew full well he didn’t want to leave right away. He was too smitten with Cevilla—and smitten was the exact word to describe how he kept looking at her.

  “That’s true. I worry about him, that’s all.”

  But you’re not worried about me. Meghan gripped the phone. “My cell is dying, so I better put it on the charger.” Her mother had no idea they weren’t in the hotel she’d booked, a hotel with electricity.

  “Very well. Text me your flight information as soon as you make the reservation.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell Father I said good night.”

  Meghan nodded, but then she realized her mother couldn’t see the gesture. “I will—”

  She’d already disconnected the call.

  She put the phone back in her purse. In the morning she’d have to figure out how to charge it—probably in the rental car—but for now she didn’t care if it died during the night.

  She set her unpacked bag on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, tears welling in her eyes. Great, on top of everything else she was going to cry again. Why couldn’t she be strong like Mother? She rarely showed her tears, although she had little trouble revealing her temper. But Meghan didn’t blame her for being angry. She’d planned the wedding of the season and then had to cancel it. “What will my friends think?” she’d said before unleashing a tirade about how Meghan had screwed up something else in her life.

  Meghan looked down at her lap. Mother was right. She was a screwup. She’d lost her love, her business, and now she was losing her faith. Bad things weren’t supposed to happen to good people, right? And she was a good person . . . wasn’t she?

  She laid on top of the quilt and wiped her eyes. None of it mattered to her anymore. Only her grandfather was important. He hadn’t blamed her, hadn’t shamed her, hadn’t made her feel any more worthless than she already felt.

  She needed to be more supportive of him. She also needed to make sure he had something to eat.

  She snuck downstairs, and another dim light came on at the bottom of the stairwell. The sensor lights were everywhere, and now that she had experienced how dark it could be, she was glad. She saw Cevilla’s small body on the couch, covered with a quilt, her mouth slightly open as she slept. Meghan crept past her and searched for the bedroom. The house was so small she didn’t have any trouble finding it.

  She lifted her hand to knock. What if Grandfather was asleep? She didn’t want to disturb him. Then again, she didn’t want him getting up in the middle of the night because he was hungry. The door was open partway, and she peeked inside. Just enough light was coming from the hallway for her to see a lump on the bed, and she could hear light snoring.

  “He’s fine, Meghan,” a whisper sounded in her ear.

  She jumped and turned around to see Cevilla standing behind her. She pulled the door closed until it was open just a crack, and then faced her. “We forgot to eat supper,” she whispered back. “I don’t want him to go hungry.”

  Cevilla led Meghan back to the living room. “We had some soup earlier, after you went upstairs.” She paused. “He said you probably wouldn’t want any.”

  He was right. “Thank you for taking care of him.” For doing what I should be doing.

  “My pleasure.”

  From the sparkle in the old woman’s eyes, Meghan believed her.

  “Now, let’s feed you.”

  Meghan shook her head. “I’m really not hungry.”

  Cevilla peeped over her glasses and gave her a stern look. “And I’m Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Now come on, into the kitchen with you.”

  Knowing she better comply, Meghan went into the kitchen with her hostess. Cevilla turned on a gas lamp. A clock on the wall above the kitchen window confirmed it was a little after ten. Meghan felt like two days had passed. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” she said.

  “I wasn’t all the way asleep.” She looked at Meghan. “Peanut butter and grape jelly coming right up.”

  Meghan frowned. She hadn’t had peanut butter and jelly since she was a teenager.

  “I also have some apple juice.”

  “I’m not twelve,” Meghan blurted as she sat down.

  “I’m aware of that.” Cevilla shuffled to the pantry, her cane thumping on the floor.

  Meghan was about to protest, but suddenly peanut butter and grape jelly and apple juice sounded palatable, which she couldn’t say about any other food lately. “May I help?” she asked, feeling contrite for being rude. Continually rude, at that.

  “You’re just like your grandfather.” Cevilla shut the pantry door with her shoulder, a small jar of peanut butter and another small jar that looked like it contained homemade jelly tucked in the crook of one arm. She looked at her. “That’s a compliment.”

  “I know.” Meghan watched as the woman made a sandwich and then poured apple juice. When Cevilla started carrying the plate to the table, Meghan popped up and took it from her. She lifted the plastic cup of juic
e from the counter and walked back to the table. As Cevilla pulled out a chair, Meghan said, “You can go back to bed. I’m fine, really.”

  “Your idea of fine and my idea of fine are very different, young lady.” Cevilla sat down, and then tapped the space in front of Meghan’s chair with her cane.

  Meghan complied and sat down. She felt like she was being scolded by her grandmother—or NanNan, as she’d called her growing up. NanNan and Cevilla weren’t much alike in lifestyle, but the kindness in Cevilla’s eyes reminded her of NanNan . . . and brought a lump to her throat.

  Cevilla looked at her for a long moment, her head tilted. Silver-rimmed glasses, at least twenty years out of date but still with a timeless quality, sat perched on her nose. Her skin was wrinkled yet had a translucent softness to it. Meghan glanced at the woman’s hands. They were even more wrinkled and gnarled, the blue veins almost glowing beneath the yellowish gas light hissing in the corner of the kitchen. Meghan sensed she was in the company of a wise, independent woman who had made it through some tough times and come out better for it.

  “You’re staring,” Cevilla said, raising a thin gray eyebrow.

  “Sorry.” Meghan looked at her sandwich. She wasn’t sure if she could choke it down. Her loss of appetite, the lump in her throat, the tears that were coming unbidden—

  “Let’s pray.” Cevilla reached across the table and slipped her hand into Meghan’s. She closed her eyes.

  Meghan followed suit, aware of the warmth coming from Cevilla’s small hand. For the first time in weeks her mind cleared enough for her to say a few words of silent prayer. Lord . . . help me. Cevilla squeezed her hand and she opened her eyes.

  “Go on. Eat your sandwich.” Cevilla folded her hands on the table.

  With a nod, Meghan picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The softness of the bread was heavenly, the peanut butter and jelly comforting. She took a sip of the apple juice. “This is really good.”

  “It’s more like cider than juice,” Cevilla explained. “Freshly made by Thomas Bontrager. Perry’s father.”