Make You Feel My Love

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  As soon as the two of them stepped into the aisle, Chelsea took hold of her great-aunt’s free arm and they made their way out of the sanctuary. It was a slow process. Those people who hadn’t spoken to Aunt Rosemary before the service all seemed to want to do so now. But somehow Chelsea kept them moving toward the doorway, one determined step after another.

  It was outside, on the front stoop of the church, where they met up with Liam again.

  “Good morning,” he said, still smiling, his chocolate-brown eyes moving from Rosemary to Chelsea and back again.

  Something fluttered in Chelsea’s stomach, but it wasn’t a sensation she welcomed.

  “Oh, Liam. So nice to see you here.” Rosemary released a deep sigh. “Would you mind letting me lean on you while Chelsea goes for the car? I’m not sure I can make it across that gravel lot again.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” Concern crossed his face as he looked a second time at Chelsea.

  She released her great-aunt’s arm. “I’ll hurry.”

  Once she knew Liam had a steadying hold on Aunt Rosemary, Chelsea hastened to where she’d left the car earlier. Her great-aunt hadn’t allowed her to park by the handicapped signs. “I don’t have one of those permit thingies,” she’d said, “and I don’t intend to get one. Not even a temporary one. I’m not handicapped. I’m simply recovering from surgery.”

  Now Chelsea wished she’d insisted on parking closer to the church entrance. There wasn’t a police officer around who would ticket Rosemary Townsend for parking in a handicapped spot, nor would anyone complain. Everyone in Chickadee Creek knew about her fall, about the multiple breaks in her leg and the surgery that followed. She was a beloved figure in the small mountain town.

  It took only moments to back out of the spot and pull to the front of the church, but worry for her great-aunt made it seem longer. Once Chelsea stopped the car, Liam opened the passenger door and helped Aunt Rosemary sit on the seat, then pivot into place, taking extra care not to bump her bad leg in the process.

  “Thank you, my boy.” Aunt Rosemary patted Liam’s arm. “I don’t know why I suddenly felt so weak. It’s silly, really.”

  “Not silly,” Liam answered. “You go home and rest.”

  Aunt Rosemary brightened. “Why don’t you come have Sunday dinner with us?”

  Before Chelsea could object to the invitation, Liam declined. “Thanks, but I can’t today. Maybe another time.” He looked across the car at Chelsea but still spoke to her great-aunt. “Now you’d better rest.”

  “Yes.” Aunt Rosemary sighed. “I suppose I’d better.”

  Thank you, Chelsea mouthed.

  He responded with the slightest of nods before stepping back from the car and straightening, then closing the door.

  “What a thoughtful young man,” Aunt Rosemary said.

  “Yes.”

  It was easy enough to agree. Liam Chandler appeared to be very kind, very thoughtful. But Chelsea knew appearances were often deceptive, and as she drove away, she warned herself not to be fooled again by a handsome man full of charm.

  Liam's Journal

  Last night I dreamed about Jacob’s funeral. I was there at the graveside service with everybody else. The last goodbye. The ground was covered with a thin layer of snow, and the wind was bitter.

  Same as it was in real life. Only there were differences too.

  Dad’s secretary was there, and he kept turning and whispering things to her, and she took notes. Dad, always working.

  Mom wore dark glasses, but I heard her crying. I put a hand on her shoulder to try to comfort her. She shrugged it off.

  All of a sudden, I stood on the opposite side of the casket. Alone. And I looked across at Mom and Dad, and I realized how far apart we were. How far apart I was from them and how far apart they were from each other. The perfect Chandler family was a charade. Like one of my movies, we all had parts to play, but none of it was real. Smoke and mirrors. That’s all.

  I woke up with that thought clear in my mind. The only real thing was Jacob, and he’s gone now.

  Liam's Journal

  I went into Chickadee Creek to attend church. I thought I was getting on all right watching the service from my church in LA on YouTube. But when I got up on Sunday morning, I knew I wanted to actually sit in church with other people. To be in the presence of others as I listened to a sermon, to get to worship with them. It was good too. Small but good.

  Rosemary Townsend from the antique store and her great-niece, Chelsea, were there. The older woman got to feeling a bit weak when it was over, and I helped get her into her car. Nice lady.

  But I keep thinking about Chelsea the most. Spencer is her last name. (I had to ask somebody at church what her last name was after they drove off because I’d forgotten.) I don’t know why I keep thinking about her. Maybe it’s that red hair of hers. I’m a sucker for redheads. She’s cute too. But there’s something else. She seems kind of fragile, and yet at the same time I see strength.

  Maybe what I like most is that, even once she put my name with my face and mentioned my latest movie, there wasn’t that look in her eyes. That hungry look some girls get. Just about every female in Los Angeles is a wannabe actress, and too often I feel like they want me to be a stepping-stone. And I’m not even a major film star. I’m better known than I was a few years ago. But still not the first guy hired on a film.

  That’s not what too many girls my age see when we meet. No wonder so many Hollywood marriages (if they even bother to marry) don’t last. So much is just the surface stuff. The women I’ve gone out with in recent years—I don’t think any of them wanted to know me. Nobody cared where I came from or about my brother once I learned he had cancer. Okay, that was as much my fault as anybody else’s. You get used to wearing that facade, and letting it down isn’t easy.

  I’d like something real.

  Jacob wanted me to be real.

  Can I make that happen?

  Chapter 7

  Dust motes hung in the still air of the second-floor storage room. Sunlight filtered through an uncovered window that was in need of a good cleaning. Stacks of boxes lined the walls, and miscellaneous objects filled the floor in the center of the room.

  Chelsea stood in the doorway, reminding herself of something Grandpa John liked to ask: How do you eat an elephant?

  “One bite at a time,” she answered aloud. “And I sure hope you’re right, Grandpa.” She stepped into the room and set the caddy of cleaning supplies on a wooden crate.

  Chelsea didn’t mind hard work. She was used to it. At four, her assigned chore had been to collect eggs from the chicken coop. By the age of six, she was tasked with fixing breakfast for her two younger sisters and one brother. By ten, she was an expert at chopping wood and starting a fire in the fireplace. The Spencers hadn’t lived entirely off the grid, but it had been close. Hadley Station was a town of about six hundred residents. Tucked away in the forests of Idaho’s panhandle, it was easily cut off from the rest of the world by winter snows and spring runoffs. Chelsea’s dad had loved to remind his children that they must be able to take care of themselves in every instance. Failure to perform brought punishment. Swift and harsh.

  A shudder passed through Chelsea, and she felt the walls closing in, threatening to trap her. The light grew dim, and her breathing grew shallow. She moved across the room as quickly as the cluttered floor permitted. There, she opened the window, leaned forward until sunlight touched her face, and breathed in the pine-scented air, eyes now closed.

  Oh, how she hated these unexpected moments of terror. They made her feel weak. But she wasn’t weak. Small of stature, yes. Too thin, according to her kid sister, Frances, yes. But not weak.

  I will rather boast about my weaknesses, a voice seemed to whisper in her heart, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.

  “Boast in my weaknesses.” She opened her eyes. Then, looking up through the pines at the blue sky, she added, “Your power is perfected in my weakness.”


  The darkness—along with threatening memories—scurried away, and she released a long sigh.

  Her panic attacks weren’t always this cooperative. Sometimes they seemed to last an eternity. But at least the attacks happened less frequently than they once had. Her faith in Jesus had changed the grip they’d had on her. She counted that among her many blessings.

  “I’m better now. I’m free now. God is with me.”

  She turned from the window and pinned her gaze on the nearest corner of the room. She would start there. One bite at a time, like her grandfather had taught her. Drawing another deep breath, she reached for a box on top of a stack, set it on the floor, and opened the lid.

  Chelsea lost track of time as she sorted, then saved or discarded. It was the growling of her stomach that finally made her realize how long she’d worked in this room alone. And while she could probably go for another hour or two without eating, she needed to stop long enough to fix lunch for her great-aunt. Hopefully, Aunt Rosemary had followed her instructions and stayed in her chair.

  As she pushed up from the floor, Chelsea saw something poking from behind a painted chest of drawers. It surprised her that she hadn’t noticed it before; the object was black while the dresser was blue. She stepped closer and tried to pull the odd-shaped item free. It didn’t budge. Curious, she tugged the dresser away from the wall. This time when she tried, the object slid into view.

  Her breath caught. It was a violin case. Was it just a case, or could there be a violin inside? She reached for the latch to learn the answer.

  The case wasn’t empty, and the instrument inside looked wonderful to her. The brown varnish dull, but wonderful all the same. She didn’t know much about violins. She’d only had a few lessons when she was twelve before her father learned of it and forbade her to continue. But her love for violin music had never left her, which made the instrument in the case perfect in her eyes. Perhaps her father’s edicts had increased her love. Her favorite country music always included a fiddle. Her favorite classical music always featured a violin.

  Heart suddenly racing, she closed the lid and held the case against her chest. No one else was going to buy this violin. She was certain Aunt Rosemary would agree to let her buy it, even if she had to make payments. She had to ask, and she meant to do so right now.

  Clutching the violin case tightly, she hurried out of the storage room and down the stairs. At the door, she paused only long enough to flip the sign from Open to Closed before leaving the shop. At the edge of the boardwalk, she stopped once more to look left and right. Then she ran across the road and up the driveway.

  “Aunt Rosemary!” she called as she entered the house. “Aunt Rosemary, look what I found.”

  “My goodness. What is it, child?” Her great-aunt set aside a book and leaned forward on the chair.

  Chelsea dropped to her knees on the floor, setting the case in front of her. “It was in the upstairs storage room.” She flicked the latches and opened the lid of the case. “And this was inside.” Almost reverently, she drew out the violin. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Exquisite.”

  “How did it come to be there? How long has it been there?”

  “I haven’t a clue, dear. I’ve never seen it before. I promise I would remember it if I had.”

  Chelsea dragged her gaze from the violin to her great-aunt. “You have no idea? So you don’t know who it belonged to before it came to the shop?”

  “No, dear. I don’t. Someone else must have been managing the store when it was brought in. If I’d known about it, it’ve gone up for sale right away. Where did you say you found it?”

  “In that upstairs storage room on the northeast side. It was behind the blue chest of drawers.”

  “Heavens. It could have been in there for thirty years or more. Forty, even. That dresser’s been in that room almost as long as I’ve owned the place. Piece of junk and ugly as sin. I never even put a price tag on it. Just used it to put stuff in.”

  “Aunt Rosemary, I would like to buy it. Not the dresser. The violin. I don’t know what you would ask for it, but I’d still like to buy it from—”

  “It’s yours, my girl. You found it. You can have it.” Her great-aunt pressed the violin toward Chelsea.

  “It might take a while for me to pay it off.”

  Aunt Rosemary huffed. “I don’t mean for you to buy it. It’s my gift to you.”

  “But if it’s a professional violin, it could be worth a couple of thousand dollars.” Even as she raised that objection, she pulled the violin the rest of the way to her chest.

  “Chelsea Spencer, do you see me going without anything I need? I have this good old house. Got electricity and a nice fireplace. I’ve even got cable TV and the internet, though I can’t say I do much with either. I’ve got a reliable vehicle. I’ve got lots of friends. And I’ve got you taking care of me and spoiling me like I’ve never been spoiled before. Not to mention all the work you’ve put in over at that shop. Why, you’ve near worked yourself to death.” She pointed at the violin. “Nothing I could get for that pretty thing in your hands would give me more pleasure than I’ve already got from giving it to you.”

  Tears welled in Chelsea’s eyes. She wanted to tell her great-aunt how much she loved her, but the words caught in her throat. Obvious signs of affection had been discouraged in the Spencer household. Chelsea loved her mother, her sisters, and her brother, but the words were rarely spoken between them. Silence was a hard habit to break. And the last time she’d tried to break it, she’d paid for it dearly.

  Chelsea stood and went to a nearby chair. “I took a few violin lessons when I was in school.”

  “You did? Well, then. It seems that violin was meant to be yours. You’ll have to entertain me sometime.”

  She laughed softly. “I said a few lessons. I can’t play at all. I’ve forgotten the little bit I learned.”

  “It’ll come back fast enough. Seems to me I heard about a lady who gives lessons hereabouts. Up the highway in one of those fancy mountain subdivisions. I’ll have to ask Grace about it. She’ll know for certain.” Aunt Rosemary’s forehead crinkled. “You know, I think that’s where I heard about the teacher. From Grace. There’s a poster on the announcement board just inside the door of the general store.”

  “I came here to help you, Aunt Rosemary. Not to spend my time learning to play the violin.”

  Her great-aunt released another huff. “As if you won’t have plenty of time to do both.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “Go get the phone book out of that drawer. The top drawer on the left. We need to find a music shop that can take a look at the violin. Give it a polish and some new strings and whatever else it needs. I’ll cover the cost.”

  “Aunt Rosemary—”

  “Shush, girl. Don’t argue with me. I’m an old woman recovering from surgery. You don’t want me to get overwrought or anything.”

  Chelsea recognized the kindhearted manipulation for what it was, and she laughed again as she set the violin gently into its case and went to do her great-aunt’s bidding.

  It didn’t take long to find several listings under “Musical Instruments—Repairs.” Of course, the phone book was about a decade old, so they couldn’t be sure all of them were still in business. Before placing any calls, Chelsea used her phone to look up reviews online, wanting to be sure she took the violin to the best place available. After talking to a man at the store with the top ratings, she told him to expect her soon and ended the call.

  “Go today,” Aunt Rosemary said. “There’s still plenty of time. You can be there and back long before dinnertime.”

  “I don’t know. I can go another day. I haven’t even made your lunch yet.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “And I’d need to shower first.”

  “So go shower. Now. Can’t you tell I’m as excited as you are about getting that violin looked over and ready for you to learn to play?”

  Chelsea couldn’t deny the
excited pounding of her own heart. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  “Go. Scoot. On your way.”

  * * *

  Once out of the mountains, the GPS on Chelsea’s phone guided her to the music store without a problem. Intense heat accompanied her short walk from the car into the cool air of the shop. A smiling salesman came to ask if he could show her something in particular, and she gave him the name of the man she’d spoken to earlier. The salesman then led her through a collection of pianos to the back of the store.

  Another man arrived on the opposite side of the counter. He, too, wore a smile. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m Chelsea Spencer.” She set the case on the counter. “I spoke with George Frost on the phone earlier today.”

  His smile grew. “I’m George Frost. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Spencer.” His gaze lowered to the case. “Let’s see what we have here, shall we?”

  She loosened the clasps and opened the case, revealing the violin.

  “Mmm.” George looked at the instrument for a long while before removing it. Then he carried it to a nearby work counter with plenty of light. “Mmm.”

  Did that sound he made mean it was going to cost a small fortune to get the violin in shape? Was it beyond repair? Perhaps being left to sit like that had ruined it.

  “Miss Spencer, may I ask how long you’ve had this violin?”

  “My great-aunt just gave it to me. It’s been in her antique shop in Chickadee Creek for years. She couldn’t say how long for sure. Perhaps more than thirty. It was in a storage room with a lot of junk.”

  He looked over at her as if to assess the veracity of her words. “And before your great-aunt? Who owned it then?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “I see.” His gaze returned to the violin.

  “Can it be repaired?”

  “Yes, Miss Spencer. It can be repaired. It’s a fine violin. Very fine.”