It had only been five weeks. It felt like five months. Already he felt the wall between them, the unfamiliarity that set in after so much life lived apart. And if it was this bad already, how much worse would it be in April? And how long would it take before things went back to normal?
Will they go back to normal? His father’s comments about Amelia came back to haunt him.
Marcus couldn’t let himself think about that. He finished his cereal and dumped the bowl in the sink. He noticed the flyer for the house on the fridge as he passed and thought of the conversation he’d had with a Realtor from the congregation. She’d laid out various mortgage plans based on how much he could offer for a down payment, and unless he took a second job, they wouldn’t have enough for at least another year. Was it worth it to him to look for more work?
If it was the right job … the right pay … and Amelia liked the house, then yes. And—who was he kidding?—it would keep him too busy to allow for moments like this when his thoughts started to betray him and his devotion to his vision began to waver.
That was settled, then—he’d spend his Monday off searching for another stream of income, and with any luck, that house on the fridge, or something like it, would be theirs sooner rather than later. He returned to bed, telling himself that of course Amelia would be happy when he told her.
“Didn’t sleep well last night?”
Marcus gave Ed a rueful smile. “It’s that obvious?”
“Sorry, but yes. Is everything all right?”
Marcus folded the church bulletin in his hands, giving his eyes somewhere else to focus. “Yes, for the most part. Amelia called, upset about something, but when she realized what time it was she told me never mind and hung up. ’Course, then I was wound up and worried about her—I don’t think I fell back asleep until nearly five.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, well—nature of the beast. Something else for both of us to get used to: not being able to comfort each other when we need it.” Ed’s concerned gaze made Marcus uncomfortable. “It’s all good, though, no worries. I’m ready for this morning.”
“I wish I could invite you to lunch. You seem like you could use some company. Lucy and I are headed out to Denver this afternoon, though, for a last-minute vacation. One of the perks of being retired; you can take advantage of great airfare when it pops up.”
Marcus forced a brighter smile. “Oh, it’s no big deal, Ed. Have fun on your trip.”
A parishioner came up to greet them, and their attention turned to the people trickling in through the vestibule. Marcus had the warm smile and handshake down to a science, and greeted the congregants with a cheery “Good morning” that reflected the opposite of what was going on inside. But that was part of the role, wasn’t it? No one would put their faith in a pastor who was an emotional mess.
His third sermon was more polished than the first two, and when the service was over, Marcus felt that he’d finally found his preaching groove. At least one aspect of the job was coming together—unlike the ministries and events he’d tried to launch over the last month. He thought they would appease the parishioners who subtly and not-so-subtly expressed their expectation that he improve the climate of the congregation, but participation had so far been meager, and he was on the verge of canceling them all. He didn’t know what else the church expected from him.
When the service ended, Marcus planted himself at the front door to shake hands with people as they left. He was the last one out of the building, which he locked up before heading to his car. The gravel parking lot was already empty, and the gray February afternoon mirrored his mood. He got into his car, shut the door, and sat there, feeling morose. He didn’t want to go home, but didn’t know what else to do.
A jog, perhaps, just to kill some time. And maybe Karis would be around and in the mood to hang out. At least she would be able to relate to his loneliness.
Ross’s kiss sent Amelia into a downward spiral that only grew worse with time.
She blamed it on all sorts of things. On missing Marcus. On how Jill and Dane’s deepening relationship made the slow breakdown of her own even more obvious. On the strain she felt now whenever she and Ross were within ten feet of each other. On how much she hated her deli job. On how she was her mother’s daughter. This one in particular became the backdrop of her tumultuous emotions, and as a result she found it harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning.
Her emotions were out of control. She’d always had a small melodramatic streak, but it was worse now than it had ever been. She cried at the stupidest things—greeting card commercials; the sight of a camo-clad soldier waiting for the bus to LAX with his duffel slung over his shoulder; a mild correction from her boss at the deli. And dark thoughts about her doomed marriage were always close to the surface, along with the depressing resignation that this was as far as her career would ever go.
When she awoke one Saturday morning with flu symptoms, she felt as if God was punishing her. It wasn’t bad enough that her mind was sick; now she had to struggle with a sick body, too. She fought the nausea and went in to work anyway, knowing she couldn’t afford to miss a day if she was going to keep saving money for the divorce she was sure would eventually come.
She was feeling a little better by that night, but dragging herself to another performance of Pippin made her feel worse. She couldn’t take the awkwardness between her and Ross anymore. His affection for her was so obvious to her now. He hadn’t hit on her or even flirted with her since opening night, and they’d never spoken of what had transpired on the sidewalk, but the tension was still there. What made it worse was her growing affection for him, which only added to her self-loathing.
Amelia descended the bus steps with heavy feet, which plodded ever slower along her route to the theater. She’d never not wanted to perform before, but there was a first time for everything. She was dreading the night, even though it was their first sold-out show. She didn’t feel like she could trust her fingers not to betray the chaos in her head.
Tears began to fall for the second time that day. She just wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep until Monday. No—she just wanted everything to stop. Expectations, stress, the shows, the ache for Marcus. Life. All of it, just to stop.
She froze on the sidewalk as the gravity of her thoughts became clear. She, Amelia Sheffield, who until now had embraced life with passion and verve, wanted it all to end? Even when her mother had disappeared Amelia hadn’t felt this low. Pressure had always made her perform better, made her rise to the challenge it posed—it had never beat her down. Until now. Now she felt like she was drowning.
The curse uttered by another pedestrian as he narrowly missed walking into Amelia jolted her from her thoughts. She continued to the theater, hands clammy, tears still running. Once she arrived, she scrubbed at her cheeks with her sleeves and willed herself to pull it together. I can’t fall apart now. I can’t. The whole troupe is depending on me. She freed her hair from its ponytail and kept her head low as she made her way to the orchestra pit. She was later than usual and had only a few minutes before curtain. She knew Ross would leave her alone, and tried her hand at ESP to keep the rest of the band away from her. Luckily everyone else was busy tuning up, and other than a couple high fives for making it in the nick of time—which Amelia played along with—conversation was minimal. The knot in her stomach tightened as the lights went down, and she channeled all her energy into focusing on the performance.
The night was more draining than usual. By the finale, she was struggling to keep her concentration—even to stay awake. It would figure that the sleepless nights she’d experienced recently would choose that evening to catch up with her, and when the curtain came down, she folded her arms on the dash of the digital piano and laid down her head, utterly exhausted. The thought of having to pack up and take the bus home nearly brought her to tears.
“Amelia?”
Her whole body flinched at Ross’s voice. She s
at up, not caring if her misery was plain on her face. “Hey.”
“Are you okay?”
Honesty or not? She didn’t want to give Ross any more information than necessary.
“I’m fine. I think I’m … coming down with the flu or something.” It wasn’t a total lie—she’d been sick all morning, hadn’t she?—and in fact that might have been the real reason she was so bone-achingly tired. Though it doesn’t explain why I’ve thought about— She mentally batted away the thought and pushed herself to her feet.
“If there’s anything I can do—” Ross’s eyes would only meet hers for a few seconds at a time before darting away.
“No thanks, I’ll be fine.” She set to work on packing up her things, hoping he’d get the message and leave her alone.
“I know you take the bus here. Can I please give you a ride home? I promise I won’t … you know …” His unfinished thought hung in the air, filling the space between them with awkwardness.
She wanted to turn him down, but getting home twenty minutes early sounded like heaven. “All right, thanks,” she said, working to not sound too eager about it.
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the back door to the parking lot. I just have to talk to Gabe for a minute. Take your time.”
She broke down her setup and managed to shoulder the bag without falling over, which felt like a small triumph, then shuffled to the back door to wait.
The ride with Ross was blessedly silent, save for Amelia’s occasional directions. “Thanks again. See you tomorrow night.” She climbed out in front of her building.
“Yeah, see you.” He cleared his throat. “Um, Amelia, look, if I’m the reason—”
“Good night, Ross.” Amelia gave him a pointed look, hoping he caught her drift, and lugged her bag to the security door and let herself in. She couldn’t stomach a heartfelt apology right now. She couldn’t stomach anything but the feel of her cool sheets and feather pillow.
Leaving her keyboard in the living room, Amelia dragged herself to bed and crawled, fully clothed, beneath the covers.
She wanted nothing more than to sleep—for days, preferably, though she’d settle for a solid eight hours—but once again sleep fought her for most of the night. This time, however, it wasn’t thoughts of missing Marcus or that stupid kiss that kept her awake. It was the thought she’d had on the way to the show that night, the one that ran so counter to her usual outlook, the one that made her wonder if she was starting to lose her mind.
Marcus stood once again at the vestibule door and shook hands with the parishioners as they filed out for home. He kept a smile on his face, though inside he wanted to hide, and searched his congregants’ faces for signs of disappointment as they said good-bye. His sermon that morning had been weak, and he knew going in that it would be. He just hadn’t had the time to prepare that he’d thought he would. It wasn’t the tutoring he was now doing in the evenings at the private college that stole so much time—it was all the peripherals of his job that kept him from researching and writing. Meeting with the elders; meeting with other ministers in the area looking to network with New Hope’s new pastor; meeting with the choir director, who wanted to coordinate his music selections to the sermon; visiting those who were technically still members but could no longer attend services due to age or illness—and, of course, more meetings with congregants who wanted to process their experience at the church under the old pastor, or who wanted to critique his sermon from the week before. He spent more time in meetings than he did actually preparing for the weekend.
So many people wanted him to fix them, fix their circumstances, fix their doubt, their frustrations. And he felt powerless to do so. All he could do was encourage and try to comfort. He had a feeling his father would be a lot more successful in this position than he had been so far.
It was this recurring thought that haunted him most—or rather, what it implied: that he wasn’t the right man for this job. Maybe Amelia had been right all along. Maybe he hadn’t heard God, and maybe this move had taken him out of God’s will, rather than into the middle of it. Or maybe he was in God’s will but just not up to the task of fulfilling it.
Marcus locked up the church and headed through the empty lot to his car. He caught a glimpse of himself in the car’s window. By all appearances, he looked like a regular man in a suit. He looked smart, even accomplished—but there was a lack of sparkle in his eyes that made Marcus realize he looked as if he was just acting the part.
Nonsense. This was what he was meant to do. He was just still adapting. He’d never imagined himself at such a small church, where he was virtually the only staff member. He’d anticipated being on a team of pastors, with hundreds, if not thousands, of people to minister to—people who weren’t bent on picking apart his sermon or whining about the previous leadership. Fresh out of seminary, he’d expected a more specialized position, a more focused job description. It would take time to adjust to his new reality, that’s all. He just had to try harder.
Amelia was a big part of the problem. Every time they spoke on the phone these days, he sensed something was off with her, and his worry for her compounded how much he missed her. Maybe a visit would help. In person, he could see for himself that she was as fine as she insisted she was, reconnect with her, and hopefully clear his mind so he’d be more focused when he returned.
The thought of seeing her again brightened his spirit considerably. Forsaking the rumble in his stomach, he got on the Internet the minute he reached home and looked up flights for the next two weeks. He wouldn’t be able to visit long, just a couple days, but he could leave right after church and get into LA in time to watch one of her productions, then spend another full day and come home the next morning. He found a flight two weeks from that Sunday that wasn’t exorbitantly expensive and booked it before emailing Dane to tell him he’d be coming into town. Don’t tell Amelia, he wrote. I’m going to surprise her at that night’s Pippin.
He couldn’t help smiling as he sent the email, then changed clothes to go for a run with the new energy his plans had given him. He wasn’t sure how he’d make it two more weeks, but just knowing he’d see her before the month was out made him feel better.
Amelia burst through the door of the theater five minutes before curtain. The look of relief on everyone’s faces made her palms even more damp than they already were. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she muttered as she set up her keyboard in the pit. “I overslept.”
“Musta partied hard last night,” said their violinist. The sarcasm wasn’t hard to hear—she’d been showing up late more frequently—and Amelia’s embarrassment grew. She hadn’t joined the troupe for a post-performance get-together since opening night, and she could tell everyone else’s friendships were deepening and slowly shutting her out. Just another thing to pile onto the heap along with the temperamental flu that wouldn’t go away and the persistent thoughts of giving up on life.
Amelia set up her things in what felt like record time, but when Ross gave them all his final eye-to-eye check, Amelia’s hands were shaking so hard she could barely line her fingers up on the right keys. She gave him an “Okay” nod anyway, knowing she’d already stressed everyone out enough—to make them all wait for her to calm down would only irritate them more. She didn’t want to give them any more reasons to be mad at her.
Her head was a jumble of chaos and fear—par for the course these days, but exacerbated by the last forty minutes she’d spent scrambling to get to the theater on time. She kept her eyes on her music as she played, something she hadn’t had to do since the third week of rehearsal, and in between songs she dug her fingernails into her forearm to give her mind something else to think about other than her restlessness. She needed to stay focused. Even Ross’s forgiveness would expire eventually.
She prayed harder than she’d prayed in a long time—and for the first time in weeks. Don’t let me screw up. Don’t let me mess up the show. Please just get me through tonight. She blinked several times, then began
to play. Her playing sounded emotionless—ironic, given how emotional she actually was—and she kept expecting Ross to throw her dirty looks. When the show was over she almost collapsed on the keyboard, so spent was she from wrangling her concentration and trying to herd her emotions away from what felt like a drop-off into insanity. She couldn’t do this again. She had to get better. She had to stop feeling sick all the time, and thinking about a sleep from which she never awoke, and struggling to follow through on the simplest of tasks. She couldn’t live like this much longer. She’d go crazy. If she wasn’t already.
“Coming out?” asked the guitarist while everyone packed up. She could hear the note of challenge in his voice. She hated how they must all think of her now, but the thought of socializing made her almost physically ill. She just wanted to get home and call Marcus, even though he’d already be asleep. She needed to hear his voice.
“Amelia?” A voice—a familiar one—called out to her.
She sat straight up.
“Amelia, over here.”
She spun, hope almost suffocating her, and saw him standing at the door to the orchestra pit holding a bouquet of roses.
“Marcus!” Her voice broke as she called. She dodged equipment to get to him, and she literally fell into his arms and began to cry.
“Hey, babe—whoa, it’s all right, calm down.” His arms tightened around her and she felt safe. Strong, stable, levelheaded Marcus. He’d help her get her head back on straight.
“Are you okay?” he said into her ear.
She nodded, holding him tighter. “I’m just—so glad to see you.”
He chuckled and squeezed. “Me, too. I hope you don’t mind that I surprised you.”
Composing Amelia Page 13
