She finished her morning routine and then stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Under the harsh light, her skin held an almost gray pallor, the circles under her eyes a deep purple. She snorted. “Aren’t you the pretty one today, Ms. Spalding? Good thing you planned to work at home the rest of the week. You’d scare people if you went out in public.”
Yawning again, she ran her hands through her short bleached hair. She grimaced. Lately the strands had thinned and were as dry as straw. Maybe she’d treat herself to one of those deep-conditioning treatments her salon advertised. If she was going to take time to see a chiropractor—and after this morning’s rude awakening, she’d be making a call ASAP—she might as well schedule a salon visit, too. Then she could dive into this newest project looking and feeling more like herself.
Despite her tiredness and the persistent dull throb in her back, she smiled at her wan reflection. Retired by forty—that was the goal she’d set for herself when she graduated from college. If this latest acquisition turned out to be as profitable as she hoped, she might beat her goal by a year or two. Then she could sell her town house, book a flight to Belize or Tahiti or some other island paradise, and spend the rest of her life lazing on a beach. No encumbrances. No demands. No responsibilities. She’d be as carefree as a child…the way she’d never been.
“Bliss…” She sighed the word.
Before she could capture the bliss, though, she had to capture the builder. Her half-finished letter waited on the desk in her office. She’d been too tired to finish it last night, but after she’d dressed, patted on a little makeup so she wouldn’t startle herself when she caught glimpses of her reflection in the half-dozen mirrors decorating the walls of her town house, and downed a cup or two—she yawned—or three of coffee, she’d finish the letter and get it sent.
3
Pine Hill
Marty
By treating herself to a little something extra each day, Marty made it through the first week on her own. She enjoyed Tuesday’s excursion to Wildcat Creek the most, but Wednesday’s trip to the mall in Lafayette was a close second. She browsed the shoe and specialty stores, sniffed nearly every candle in a home decor store, and read half the cards in the rack at the big card and gift shop before choosing one to send to Brooke.
Thursday morning she wrote a letter to Brooke and tucked it inside the card with the intention of mailing it that day, but Dawna called midmorning and invited Marty to lunch. She couldn’t refuse without seeming ungrateful, so she wrapped the little pastel pinwheel quilt she’d finished for baby Audrey in tissue paper and drove to the farm east of town where Anthony’s brother and sister-in-law lived. She stayed for nearly two hours—long enough to eat chicken salad sandwiches, help Dawna wash dishes, read a story to eight-year-old Levi and six-year-old Jaxton, help three-year-old Ava put clothes on her half-dozen dolls, and hold the baby while Dawna put Ava down for a nap.
Seeing the baby and spending time with the children should have been the highlight of her week, especially since they were all so happy to see her—with the exception of the baby, who only wanted her mama. But jealousy hung like a millstone around her neck, and she battled tears the entire drive back to town. Safe in her house, she sat at the kitchen table and added another page to Brooke’s letter. Without the worry of Anthony peeking over her shoulder, she had the freedom to share openly. Unashamedly. Unrestrainedly. But when she was finished, she realized that writing out the unfairness didn’t purge her envy. And what a poor example of Christian benevolence now glared up at her from the paper. Brooke often referred to Marty as her “moral compass.” Marty couldn’t lead her friend astray, even if her own faith was mostly fabricated these days.
Instead of putting the page into the card, she wadded it up, threw it away, and took a book to the swing in the backyard. She read until dusk fell, then went to bed without bothering to eat supper. Stomach cramps awakened her early on Friday, and for the first time since Anthony left for Noblesville, she ate something more substantial than a bowl of cereal or a piece of toast for breakfast. The bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns tasted better than usual, given her hunger, but when she’d finished, she felt sluggish and overfull. She knew what would cure the feeling—a walk.
Pine Hill’s tiny post office was in the middle of the business district, between Kroeker’s Sewing Notions and Rieger & Sons Hardware, ten blocks from her house, which sat at the far west edge of town. She’d made the roughly half-mile walk to the post office many times, and she’d dreamed of pushing a stroller or pulling a little wagon over the uneven sidewalks or at the edge of the dirt streets. She often pulled a wagon, but she left the house with it empty and returned with the bed filled with groceries from Vogt’s Food Store. Not as satisfying as taking a child for a ride.
The morning was already warm and sticky, and only a mild breeze tousled flower petals and tree leaves. Marty kicked off the sandals she’d chosen for the day and donned a pair of anklet socks and her tennis shoes, experiencing a pang of self-consciousness as she tied the laces. She’d never felt as though sneakers went well with her cape dresses and linen cap, but comfort had to override appearance. With Brooke’s card tucked in her little shoulder purse, she set out.
In nearly every yard of her neighborhood, barefoot children roughhoused, chased each other, or sat in shady patches beneath the limbs of trees. Laughter and chatter rang—the sounds of summer. Nearly all the children waved and called hello to Marty as she passed by, and she returned their waves but didn’t pause to chat. Not even with the pleading pigtailed pair selling lemonade from a cardboard stand on the corner. Guilt pricked, as it often did when she scurried past the fellowship’s children, but her emotions were still raw, although the intense heat of envy that had risen within her during yesterday’s visit with Anthony’s nieces and nephews now only smoldered. If she stopped to chat, though, and allowed herself to become enchanted by the little lemonade sellers, the fire would once again rage.
One of the verses she’d memorized before she joined the church taunted her, the words reverberating through her mind in beat with her footfalls on the sidewalk. “A sound heart is the life of the flesh: but envy the rottenness of the bones.” She knew the truth of the proverb. The perpetual ache in the center of her soul was most likely caused by her refusal to accept her childless state. How long had she prayed for the envy to flee, for her heart to heal, for the Lord to restore joy within her? For two years and two months, beginning the very evening the fertility specialist in Lafayette delivered the devastating news that Anthony could not father children and, by default, she would never bear any. Two years and two months of daily pleading for acceptance after a dozen years of pleading for a child. And then she’d stopped. If He hadn’t answered by then, He wasn’t going to, and she wouldn’t waste any more time on her knees, sobbing her pain to Someone who didn’t listen.
She reached the cinder-block post office and stepped up onto the square concrete slab that served as its front porch. The screen door stood open, propped in place with a rock the size of a homemade loaf of bread. Tiny bits of graphite glistened on the rock’s surface, seeming to dance as she moved past and entered the post office.
The town’s postmaster, Frank Chupp, was busy with one of the town’s few non-Mennonite residents, so Marty went to the far end of the counter to wait her turn. Non-Mennonites stuck out in Pine Hill as much as Mennonites stuck out in secular cities, and for the same reason—their attire set them apart. Marty’s gaze was drawn to the woman’s snug-fitting, sleeveless shirt that followed the shape of her expanded belly. A knot formed in her throat. How old was this woman? Judging by her smooth skin and rumpled ponytail, not much past her teens. Marty swallowed, but the knot of agony remained.
The woman turned with a sheet of stamps in one hand and her free hand cupping the underside of her belly. She came to a stop. A soft chuckle left her throat.
Marty lifted her gaze and discover
ed that the woman was smiling at her. She tried once more to swallow the lump of emotion filling her throat, but again she failed.
Caressing her stomach in circular motions, the young woman nodded, as if answering some internal question. “I know. It’s hard not to stare. I’m as big as a barn. And not due until August! I hope I last that long. The doctor says I should, but after last time…” She shrugged, and her hand drifted to the top of her stomach and rested there. “I guess most everyone worries when they’re expecting a rainbow baby.”
The girl had completely misinterpreted Marty’s reason for staring. Marty cleared her throat with a rough ahem! She planned to apologize for staring, but she surprised herself when a question emerged instead. “What does that mean, a rainbow baby?”
Sadness flickered in the younger woman’s blue eyes. “It’s what you call a baby born after you’ve lost one. My husband and me lost our first baby, a little girl, two years ago. Her heart just…stopped beating when I was a little more than five months along.” She blinked back tears.
Marty hugged her purse tight against her ribs. The pain in this worldly girl’s face too closely reflected the expression Marty viewed frequently in the mirror. What should she say? “I’m sorry.” How paltry. How trite. How useless.
The girl idly rubbed her hand back and forth across the top of her bulging belly. “Yeah. Thanks. It was hard. But I’m at seven months now with a boy, and everything’s looking really good, so…” She shrugged again, grinning. “We’ve changed all the nursery bedding from pink to blue. We’re ready for him when he gets here.”
Marty nodded, but she lost her ability to speak. Nursery bedding…How many little quilts had she made for other people’s babies? She should offer to make one for this baby. In rainbow colors. She licked her dry lips, gathering courage.
“I better go.” The woman waved her stamps. “I need to put these on the shower invitations and get ’em sent. Bye now—nice talking to you.” She headed out the door, her steps amazingly light considering the bulk she carried out front.
Marty stared after her, heart aching. How would it feel to send shower invitations for a coming child?
“Mrs. Hirschler?”
She gave a start and shifted to face the postal clerk.
He held up a handful of mail, including a large manila envelope. “Is this all you need, or did you want some stamps, too?”
She took the stack and glanced through it. The electric bill, an invitation for a business credit card, and an advertising postcard for wheel alignment by an automotive shop in Lafayette. To her surprise, the large envelope was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hirschler from Brooke. Since when did Brooke send letters to Anthony? And never had such a large envelope arrived from her longtime friend.
Marty had intended to stamp the card and send it, but after holding the unexpected arrival from Brooke, she decided to wait. “No, thank you, this is all I need. Goodbye, Mr. Chupp.”
She left the post office and headed for home, her steps quick and eager. The sun had climbed a bit higher, and the morning’s dew had all burned away. Perspiration formed on her forehead and made her prickly under her lightweight cotton dress, but she didn’t slow her pace. She passed the little lemonade sellers, the playing children, and a neighbor hanging towels on a line without acknowledging any of them—a breach in her small community. Curiosity propelled her forward. What had Brooke sent to her and Anthony?
At her kitchen table, Marty set the other mail aside and peeled back the flap on the large envelope. She peeked inside it and found two handwritten sheets of paper—Brooke’s standard letter, although she usually folded it inside a regular envelope—and a second, plump manila envelope just a little smaller than the big one. Marty pulled the envelope out first. On its face was a message written in all caps.
OPEN WITH ANTHONY PRESENT
She frowned. What was Brooke up to? In all their years of corresponding—which dated back to when they were fourteen, the year Marty finished her education and had no more face-to-face contact with her friend—Brooke had never even included a short message for Anthony. To send a full envelope set Marty’s curiosity buzzing. She tapped the thick packet on the table, temptation tugging hard to open it and read its contents. Anthony might not be home for weeks, and Brooke might need a response to something before then. Besides, how would Brooke know if Marty looked at it all by herself?
After several tense minutes of inward debate, Marty slapped the sealed envelope aside and removed the handwritten pages. She settled into a chair and flattened the letter on the table. Brooke’s penmanship was so beautifully flowing, Marty paused for a moment to admire the entire page before reading the words.
Hey, Marty, thanks for your latest letter. Always great to hear from you. Congrats on the new baby in the family. Funny how your pen cut deeper in the paper when you shared about Audrey Eileen. Still battling it, aren’t you? Well, I hope you’ll get over yourself enough to pour a little love on the new arrival. I don’t say that without sympathy, as you know (LYLAS), but I think you’ll do yourself a disservice if you don’t let some of that maternal loving come out somewhere. Enough on that.
Marty blinked back tears—part fond remembrance, part pain. Brooke had always been frank. Sometimes blunt. But whatever she said came from a genuine concern for Marty. The abbreviation for Love Ya Like a Sis reminded her how much she meant to Brooke. Neither of them had been blessed with a sister, so they filled that role for each other. Funny, too, considering their vast differences.
She sniffed and leaned over the letter again.
I’ve been busier than three people the last couple of weeks. Big doings for Dreams Realized. Remember how we used to talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up? You’d never say anything more than “a wife and mother,” which made me mad because those were the very things I didn’t want to be. I always said I wanted to own my own business and be rich enough to be able to pay somebody else to clean my house. Dreams Realized let me do it. It really is an amazing feeling to accomplish your goals.
Marty blew out a breath. She couldn’t begin to imagine living alone in a big city, operating her own business, meeting with bankers and land developers and other important people. Although Brooke had told her about countless acquisitions of run-down businesses she restored and sold at a profit, Marty had never really understood any of it. Truth be told, the whole idea intimidated her.
Brooke had always been braver, wiser, bolder—so much so that Marty’s parents had discouraged their friendship, worried that Brooke would be a bad influence. Brooke’s mother had worried, too, fearful Marty would pull Brooke into organized religion, something she abhorred. Well, Marty hadn’t become brash, and Brooke hadn’t declared her need for Jesus as her Savior. So all the worry from their parents was for naught.
Marty used her finger to trace the last line about accomplishing goals. The familiar ache of envy built in her chest. She was already envious of Dawna, of every other mother in the fellowship, and even of the young woman from the post office. She didn’t want the ugly emotion attached to Brooke, too. She pushed the feeling aside and focused on the letter.
I have to admit, though, this last deal stressed me out. Leapin’ lizards—
A blast of laughter left Marty’s throat. Brooke’s form of cursing always made Marty laugh, no matter how hard she tried to rein in her amusement. After all, cursing wasn’t supposed to be funny. But that phrase…Brooke had adopted it from lines in the junior high musical Annie. Brooke played a tough character named Pepper, and even though Marty hadn’t been allowed to try out for the musical, her parents had taken her to see her friend perform. After that, whenever Brooke was startled or upset, she blurted out “leapin’ lizards,” just like Annie.
With an abrupt ahem that cleared her chortles, Marty started the paragraph again.
I have to admit, though, this last deal stressed
me out. Leapin’ lizards, I’ve never been so tired, and I pretty much kept the antacid companies in business by eating a roll of pills a day—ugh, heartburn! I must have pulled something in my back, too, because it’s bothered me quite a bit. Yes, yes, I know you’re probably worrying. Well, don’t. I’ve already decided to schedule an appointment with a chiropractor to get my back fixed, and now that the dust is settling on the latest deal, I won’t be worrying so much, so I can quit with the antacids and regain my energy. I haven’t been to the gym in more than two weeks, so that’s on the agenda, too. That’ll do me the most good, I’m sure.
Despite Brooke’s glib instruction not to worry, Marty couldn’t squelch a rush of concern. Brooke never complained. Not as a child when she fell off her bike and skinned her knees so badly she could barely walk for several days, and not as a young teen when her mother’s most recent boyfriend beat her up for sassing him. Never had she hinted at any kind of illness. The symptoms must be severe for her to even mention them. Marty wished she still believed that God listened when she spoke to Him. If she did, she’d send up a huge prayer for her friend.
I’m sure I caught your attention with the packet you’re supposed to show to Anthony.
Marty’s gaze zipped to the sealed envelope and then back to the letter.
I’m trusting you not to break into it unless he’s sitting right there next to you. I want you two to read it together.
Ours for a Season Page 3
