As had become their custom, while the men ate dessert—peach cobbler with store-bought ice cream—they talked over the day’s accomplishments and Anthony assigned tasks for the next day. Marty listened in, awed by how easily Anthony handled the responsibility of leading the team. Since he’d usually worked away from home in Indiana, she hadn’t witnessed him in his role as boss until now. Pride swelled through her. He was knowledgeable and professional yet also humble, and it seemed obvious to her that the men respected him. They engaged in teasing camaraderie with one another at times, but when Anthony gave them instructions, all teasing fled and they listened intently. Even Lucas.
Anthony dismissed the men for the evening, and they filed out, chatting and laughing. Anthony picked up the empty casserole dish and carried it to the sink. “The supper was real good tonight, Marty. Thank you.”
She turned on the water to rinse the dish. The tomato sauce had already dried to a crust around the edges. “Did you get enough to eat? Maybe I should have made two casseroles. There’s not even a bite left.”
“It’s all gone because it tasted so good.” He flicked a look over his shoulder, as if ascertaining they were alone, then leaned down slightly. “Charlotte’s a sweet girl, but she hasn’t learned how to season things when she’s making bigger batches. It was good to eat your cooking tonight.” He straightened and shrugged. “By the time we’re done with this project, though, I bet she’ll have learned a lot from you.”
Marty bit her lip. Charlotte wouldn’t have a chance to learn from her if they returned to Kansas early. She circled the table, stacking the plates, while Anthony followed and collected the silverware. He’d never helped with cleanup before. Why was he doing it tonight? They reached the sink at the same time, and when they lowered their loads, their hands brushed. Anthony smiled at her. A bashful, somehow boyish smile that carried her back to their courtship days. Her lips twitched into an answering grin, and she turned her attention to rinsing the plates.
As she opened the door on the dishwasher, he leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “How’d the procedure go for Brooke today?”
“Okay, I guess.” She lined up plates in the bottom rack. “They said they didn’t have trouble inserting the catheter, and she wasn’t in a great deal of pain afterward.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” She scooped up silverware and began sorting the pieces in the holding cups. “I’ll take her in next Tuesday for her first chemotherapy infusion. Plan on me being gone all day. The doctor told her they’re going to give her a mix of carboplatin and pac…pac…” She grimaced. “Paclitaxel? I think I’m saying it right. They added the second one because of the tumors they found in her abdominal wall.”
He frowned. “She’ll probably be pretty sick.”
Marty nodded, her stomach twisting. “Dr. Dickerson said she’d be the sickest a couple days after the treatment. He’s scheduled nine treatments for now, three weeks apart.”
“Why so far apart?”
“It gives her some recovery time in between, so she isn’t sick all the time.”
He nodded slowly. “So she’ll be doing the treatments all the way into next year.”
“The last one is scheduled for the end of January.”
“But then she’ll be better?”
Marty paused and met his concerned gaze. “That’s what we hope.”
“No, Marty, that’s what we pray. Right?”
Marty’s chest went tight. She finished arranging the silverware, pushed the tray in, and started placing the glasses and dessert bowls in the upper tray. “She’s not just doing chemo, though. She read a book about the benefits of yoga, so she ordered a mat and a couple of DVDs. She’s got a whole lineup of vitamins to take every day, and she says from now on she won’t eat any red meat, dairy products, processed sugar, white potatoes, or wheat flour.”
Anthony’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s left?”
Marty chuckled. “Quite a lot, actually. Organic fruits and vegetables, brown rice, fish, nut butters…” She frowned. “I forgot about her list when I made the shepherd’s pie. I used fresh green beans and tomatoes from Lansing’s farmers’ market, but she won’t want the ground beef, potatoes, and cheese.” She started toward the fridge. “I better find—”
Anthony caught her arm and drew her to a stop. “Let her tell you what she’d rather have. No sense in fixing something different, only to find out she doesn’t want it or isn’t hungry at all.”
He was right, and she should appreciate his reasonable suggestion, but she was aggravated with herself and embarrassed for not thinking before taking food Brooke wouldn’t eat to her trailer. Some caretaker she was. “Can I at least look and see what I have in case she asks me to fix something?”
He let go, and she hurried to the refrigerator. If nothing else, she could slice some fresh tomatoes, steam the rest of the green beans, and broil one of the chicken breasts she’d taken from the freezer for tomorrow’s chicken fettuccine. If Brooke would eat chicken. Chicken wasn’t red meat, was it? She closed the door and stood, gripping the handle and biting her lip. It would take a lot more effort to fix special foods. If Brooke was sick from chemo, she wouldn’t be able to shop and prepare meals for herself. Brooke needed Marty.
The same worry that had plagued her since Brooke’s admission about a casino swooped in again. What was the right thing to do—tell Anthony or not?
Anthony
Anthony watched Marty’s face. Clearly something was bothering her, just like Charlotte had said. Not that the young woman had tattled. When she brought the afternoon snack to the worksite, Anthony had asked if Marty and Brooke were back yet, and Charlotte smiled and said, “Yes, Brooke is resting, and Marty asked for some thinking time. So I’m letting her be.”
Thinking time…About what?
He’d been doing a lot of thinking, too. More than he could understand. About Ronnie and girls like her—and boys like Elliott—who didn’t have good homes and didn’t have anyone to guide them. He couldn’t understand being raised that way. His childhood home had always seemed safe and secure, and his parents raised him to respect God. Dad said respect for God was the best thing anybody could learn because respect for God led to good decisions in all areas of life. Was Marty thinking about Ronnie and Elliott, too? Maybe thinking about what he’d said about being foster parents? He’d meant fostering babies so Marty could have the chance to love on an infant, but Elliott’s comment about how nobody wanted teenagers haunted him. Would she be interested in helping a teenager—or maybe more than one—get a better footing in life?
They couldn’t do it now. Not in this trailer. And not until they’d bridged the gap between the two of them. What kind of example would they set if they were at odds with each other all the time? Since the night Ronnie snatched Marty’s bag and Marty held on to him in fear, she’d been a little better about talking to him. When she wasn’t with Brooke. But if they came together about fostering teenagers, wouldn’t that give them more reasons to talk to each other? To grow together instead of staying apart?
“Marty.”
She jumped and turned from the fridge.
“Is there something bothering you?” He pushed away from the counter and crossed the linoleum to her. He cupped his hands around her upper arms. “If there is, I’ll listen. I’ll do my best to understand.”
She gazed up at him, her lips slightly parted and her eyes round and filled with uncertainty. Was she afraid of him?
He swallowed. “I want to help. If I can.”
She seemed to search his face, as if trying to believe him. She stayed quiet for several more seconds, and he stayed quiet, too, even though it was hard. If she was thinking the same as him, it would mean they weren’t as far apart as he’d feared.
Finally she nodded. A jerky nod. “There’s something I should tell you. But promise you’ll�
��think about everything that will be affected…before you answer.”
His pulse pounded with hope. “All right, Marty. I promise.”
28
Anthony
“This resort…Brooke plans to have a casino here.”
Anthony sure hadn’t expected something like that to come out of Marty’s mouth. He shook his head to clear what he’d anticipated. “I thought there’d be restaurants. Hotel rooms. That sort of thing.”
“Those will be here, too, and different kinds of shops. But there will also be a casino. In the old bank building.”
His favorite of all the buildings still standing on Eagle Creek’s main street. He was putting his hand to restoring a building that would be used to entice people to squander their money. He coughed a short laugh. “I need to sit down.”
Marty trailed him to the living area and stood at the end of the love seat, chewing her thumbnail, while he sagged onto a cushion. “She told me about it today while we were driving to the doctor’s. She’s sorry she didn’t say anything about it…before. She didn’t realize it would matter.”
Of course Brooke didn’t realize. Casinos and gambling and whatever else took place in what his mother would have called a “den of iniquity” were most likely normal parts of her big-city world. Marty had never talked about Brooke being a gambler—except in her business dealings, taking chances on properties—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t. Maybe she just hadn’t written to Marty about it.
He planted his palms on his knees and looked into his wife’s worried face. “I—”
She jerked her hand away from her mouth. “Remember, you promised to think about it before you said anything.”
Yes, he had. But his brain was so fuzzy he couldn’t form a sensible thought.
Marty perched on the edge of the opposite cushion and pinned her gaze on him. “I know we were taught that gambling isn’t a good way to make money.”
“ ‘The desire of the slothful killeth him; for his hands refuse to labour.’ ” Anthony automatically recited Proverbs 21:25, one of the verses he’d been required to memorize before he joined the fellowship.
She nodded. “Yes. But Brooke wasn’t taken to church. Her mother didn’t believe in God. So Brooke wasn’t taught the things we were from the Bible. We can’t hold her to the same standard as someone who was brought up in faith.”
God, not Anthony Hirschler, was Brooke’s judge. So he wasn’t worried about Brooke’s standards, other than wanting her to come to salvation, the same as he wanted for every lost person. But he needed to think about his standards, to pray about what God would have him do. Which was worse—working on a building that would someday be used as a casino or leaving Brooke without the help she needed right now?
Closing his eyes for a moment, he listened for clear direction, but no voice whispered through his heart. Dad had always told him, “If you don’t know which way God is pointing, then stand still and wait until He tells you.” Anthony knew better than to run ahead of God. So he would wait until the Lord clearly spoke to him, and while he waited he would labor with his hands, as he’d been taught was productive and honorable.
Brooke
The Monday before her first chemo treatment, Brooke styled her hair in its poof, applied makeup—heavier than she’d worn before her diagnosis, because her pallor needed it—and slipped her fuchsia summer suit jacket over a white lace tank. She checked her reflection, focusing particularly on the patch of jacket covering her port. She didn’t want it to show. It didn’t. She gave a satisfied nod.
She looked professional. At least from the waist up. The matching skirt for her suit still hung in the closet. She could pin the waist, but she didn’t want to. Consequently, her pumps would stay in the closet, too. She’d donned blue jeans and tennis shoes instead. Practical for tramping through the old buildings. And of course, given her occasional unsteadiness, sneakers were a safer choice. Not that she would share that with the team of investors.
Entering her kitchen, she glanced at the clock on the stove. Eight forty-five—fifteen minutes before they were due to arrive for their walk-through. Her stomach trembled, and she pressed both palms to her middle. “Steady, girl. Stay positive.” Eyes closed, she spoke aloud, giving herself the pep talk she’d want to hear from a business partner if she had one. “Point out the patio and pergolas behind the trailers, the new tin roofs on the buildings, the rebuilt boardwalks, the new double-hung windows that resemble the old ones but have a point-two U-factor—top of their class for energy efficiency. Remember to smile. Keep them focused on what’s been done instead of what hasn’t.”
She grimaced. She wished what was already done outweighed, or at least equaled, what was still undone, but if someone mentioned how much work remained, she’d remind them there were sufficient months available to finish the project and open the resort on time. She hoped they’d take her word for it and not check the progress against the written plan she’d distributed the night of the investment meeting, because if they did, they’d see how many of her intentions didn’t match the actuality.
“Smile. Stay positive.”
She poured herself a glass of juice, fresh squeezed from organic oranges, but took only a couple of sips. Her stomach wasn’t up to juice. Or food. Or conflict. A soft beep-beep from the intercom alerted her to cars outside the gate. She quickly pressed the code to open the gate, drew in a slow breath, ran her hands down the front of her jacket, then stepped out the door to greet her visitors.
Apparently the investors had decided to carpool, because only three cars pulled onto the grassy parking area. They exited the vehicles, a dozen men wearing business suits and impassive expressions. They didn’t fool her, though. Beneath those masks of detachment, excitement bubbled within them. They loved making money, the same way she did. Now to convince them wealth waited at the other end of the soon-to-be-paved street.
“Good morning.” She made her way from man to man, greeting them by turn with handshakes and the brightest smile she could muster. “Thank you for your willingness to be flexible and work around my schedule. I know you’re eager to see how things are coming together here at the Spalding Resort. So I won’t delay you with chitchat. Let’s go have a look.” She set off for the buildings, trusting they would follow.
As she led the group up the dusty street, she listened to the sounds of power tools, men’s voices, and the slap of lengths of wood dropping onto solid floors emerging from behind the walls—music to a renovator’s ears. The evening before, she’d instructed the Mennonites to go about their business and pretend the investors weren’t there, and she had no doubt they’d continue working without pause. She wanted the men behind her to see the team in action, approve her selection, and believe in this project as much as she did despite the unexpected dry rot found in the old bank building and in one corner of the old mercantile.
The early August sun beat down hard, heat and humidity high even so early in the morning. The men swiped their glistening foreheads with the backs of their hands or tugged at the collars of their shirts. Marty had offered to have cold drinks available, but Brooke declined. If the investors were comfortable, they’d stay longer. She wanted them to peek, approve, and depart.
While they peered through windows or stood back and surveyed the buildings, she delivered her planned spiel, surreptitiously gauging their reactions. Although several of them lowered their brows or held their lips in a downturned position, she didn’t sense any major concerns. She stopped in the shade of the lap-sided building’s porch roof and folded her arms over her chest.
“Well, that’s it. Everything’s looking good, isn’t it?”
They murmured, nodding, gazes scanning the street. Relief eased through Brooke’s chest. Home free.
“Aren’t we going to be allowed to look inside any of the buildings?” The question came from Tucker Boyle, a banker from Lenexa, who was new to Br
ooke’s circle of acquaintances.
Ronald Blackburn, a longtime associate, harrumphed and maneuvered his bulky frame to the front of the group. “I believe I’d enjoy taking a look inside, too.”
Brooke’s lips trembled with her effort to maintain a casual smile. “As I’m sure you can hear, the construction team is hard at work. I’d rather not disturb them. Especially since I don’t have enough hard hats to go around.” She forced a light laugh. “Construction areas aren’t exactly the safest places to explore.”
“But things are progressing on schedule?” Mr. Blackburn’s beady eyes fixed on Brooke.
Brooke wouldn’t lie. Lies had a way of finding you out and destroying trust. She’d built a reputation for honesty, and she wanted to keep it, so she chose her words carefully. “These are old structures, some dating back to the Civil War. One can encounter unexpected issues in buildings of any age, but I’m sure we’re all aware that it’s more likely to happen with historical buildings.”
“So you’ve encountered…issues?”
She stifled a sigh. “Yes. One.”
Mutters rose from the group.
Brooke wished she could lay the blame on Mr. Blackburn, who’d insisted on hiring the original inspector. They wouldn’t have been blindsided by the dry rot if the man had done his job correctly. But blame casting wouldn’t change anything. She held up both hands. “However, I have a qualified construction team in place, and I fully trust them to handle whatever challenges they uncover.”
She linked her hands behind her back and allowed her gaze to drift across each of their faces. “It might take them a few minutes to gather up their tools and remove any barriers that could prove troublesome for your safe progress, but if you’d like me to ask the workers to ready the buildings to allow you to explore the interiors, I’ll do so.” She held her breath.
Mr. Blackburn shook his head. “Let them work. We’ll plan a tour of the buildings’ interiors when we make our second visit. November second?”
Ours for a Season Page 22
