“Won’t do any good. She’ll just run off again. Kids like her…” He turned his gaze to the alleyway and sighed. “If she’s picked a sleeping place around here, I might see her again when I come back to take the class.” One corner of his lips twitched. “Melanie said you signed me up, so I guess I’ll be coming back.” The amusement fled. “If I see Ronnie, I’ll try to talk her into going to a shelter. Since I used to stay in one, she might listen to me.”
Brooke touched his arm, and he looked down at her. Compassion glowed in his dark eyes. She blinked back tears. “You’re very kind, Elliott.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. She witnessed appreciation in his gaze.
She grabbed her purse from the car and dug out a twenty-dollar bill—the only cash she was carrying. “For now, put this with the sign in the alley and let’s hope she finds it. It’ll get her a meal or two at least.”
He took the bill and stared at it, then lifted his gaze and met hers. “You’re kind, too.”
Twenty dollars wasn’t nearly enough to meet all of Ronnie’s needs and Brooke knew it, but she thanked Elliott anyway. She watched him as he trotted to the alley, Ronnie’s sign and the twenty in his hand. Someone else might pocket the twenty when he moved out of sight, but she trusted Elliott to leave it for Ronnie. Despite his rough upbringing, she believed he possessed an honest heart. Clearly he also possessed resilience to overcome hardship, just as her high school counselor told her she had eighteen years ago. Maybe she was resilient, but she’d also had a friend who modeled a different kind of life—something Brooke could emulate.
What about Ronnie? Did she have resilience? If she didn’t have someone like Marty to show her a different way to live, what would her life be like in the future? Brooke didn’t want to contemplate the answer.
Eagle Creek
Brooke leaned against the counter and frowned while Marty transferred the pork roast, potatoes, and carrots from the roasting pan to a serving platter and bowls. “This is about the most incongruous situation I’ve ever seen.” She huffed and flapped her hand at the bowl of vegetables. “You won’t go out to eat on Sundays because it’s against your religion”—she made air quotes—“to make someone work. But here you are, laboring to put dinner on the table for eight people. And of course not a man in sight to help. Why is it okay for you to work, but nobody else can?”
Marty shrugged, the gesture so unconcerned it raised Brooke’s aggravation a notch. “Cooking is my job. We have to eat on Sunday, so—”
“Hmph. Seems a little imbalanced to me.”
Marty clicked her tongue on her teeth. “My, my, are we feeling hangry?”
Brooke gritted her teeth. She’d been in a foul mood since she’d returned from Kansas City yesterday, and the sermon they’d heard in church that morning about a shepherd seeking a single lost lamb hadn’t improved her temper. Was anyone out there trying to save Ronnie? Or wasn’t she as important as a stupid sheep?
She snorted. “Not funny. Hangry? Where’d you learn that term, anyway?”
Marty carried the platter of meat to the table and returned for the vegetables. “Lucas picked it up somewhere. Would you bring the basket of bread, please?”
Brooke scooped up the basket heaped with crusty rolls and held it away from her body the way she might hold a snake. “So it’s not against your religion to let me help, huh?” She plopped the basket next to the meat platter. One roll spilled from the basket and hit the tabletop. Crumbs flew. Brooke sighed. “Leapin’ lizards…Bring me a paper towel, would you?”
Marty snatched a paper towel from the holder and gently shifted Brooke out of the way. She put the roll in the basket and swept the crumbs into the paper towel.
Brooke folded her arms over her chest. “I could’ve done that, you know.”
“I know.” Marty dropped the wadded paper towel into the trash can. She opened the refrigerator and took out two pitchers—one of water, one of fruit-infused tea if she’d followed her usual practice. As she headed for the table again, she glanced at Brooke. “Everything’s ready. Would you mind ringing the bell?”
Brooke hated the sharp clang from the old brass bell Anthony had mounted outside the trailer’s back door. Loud noises always grated on her nerves. She headed for the front door. “You know, Marty, I’m really more tired than hungry. I think I’ll go lie down for a while. See if I can sleep off this…” She didn’t know what to call the feeling that held her in its grip. This melancholy? Anger? Frustration? Maybe all of them at once.
She no longer recognized the gaunt, pale face reflected in her mirror. Her clothes hung on her, making her feel as if they belonged to someone else. Her days of leading corporate meetings and securing properties seemed like a distant dream. Would she ever be Brooke again—the strong, motivated, successful powerhouse that commanded respect and admiration? Or was she doomed to be as displaced as Ronnie?
Marty hurried across the floor to her. “Are you sure? I bought the pork roast from the grass-fed section of the meat counter. The sweet potatoes and carrots came from the farmers’ market, so there were no chemicals used on them. I even bought some gluten-free rolls so you could have bread with your dinner.”
Brooke stifled a groan. Marty’d gone to so much trouble to accommodate her. She added guilt to her list of uncomfortable feelings.
Marty placed her hand on Brooke’s arm. “Not eating won’t help you build your strength.”
As if food could give her the strength she needed to become herself again. She stepped free of Marty’s touch. “I’ll eat later. Right now I need…” An urge struck with such force her body began to quiver. Behind Marty, at the end of the eating bar, the Bible Marty had carried to church lay next to the bulletin from the morning’s service.
She turned Marty in the direction of the back door. “Ring the bell before everything is cold. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Marty appeared dubious, but she went to the back door and stepped out onto the stoop. While the obnoxious bell clanged its “come to dinner” message, Brooke picked up the Bible and bulletin, hugged them to her chest, and slipped out the front door.
36
Brooke
Brooke filled the stereo’s six slots with instrumental CDs, adjusted the volume button to low, and hit play. Piano music—love songs from movie scores—flowed from the speakers. She made a nest of the sofa throw pillows and settled in with the afghan across her legs. Then she lifted Marty’s Bible from the end table and placed it in her lap.
According to the bulletin, the minister had used the first seven verses from Luke fifteen as the basis for his sermon. The Bible’s table of contents directed her to the right page, and she brought up her knees to prop the book higher. She began to read. Aloud. Because it helped her fuzzy brain stay focused.
“ ‘What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?’ ” She grimaced. When the preacher read from his Bible that morning, it hadn’t sounded like a Shakespearean play. She might need to read the verses more than once for them to make sense.
Drawing a deep breath, she leaned over the Bible and read the entire section about the lost sheep. The story segued into a much shorter but similar story about a woman searching for a lost coin and rejoicing when she found it. The next line promised a third story, this one about a man and two sons. Ah, the prodigal son story. She couldn’t recall where, but it seemed she’d heard the story before. She decided to read it anyway, to refresh her memory.
The story—the younger son’s selfishness, his wild living, and his subsequent descent into taking his meals from a hog trough—made her squirm. The pictures in her head too closely matched what she’d been envisioning for Ronnie. She pushed aside thoughts about the homeless runaway and put her full attention on the story.
She nodded in approval when the boy made the choice to go home, and her heart gave a little leap of joy at the father’s plan to host a welcome-back party. Her voice dropped to a rasping whisper as she read, “ ‘For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry.’ ”
Brooke placed both palms on the open Bible and leaned back against the pile of pillows. She closed her eyes. She’d always had an active imagination. Slipping into daydreams had allowed her to escape the harsh realities of her childhood. As a property flipper, she’d relied on her imagination to help her envision what a dilapidated building could be. Now, behind her closed lids, she pictured the boy in filthy, threadbare clothes plodding up the hill toward his boyhood home. She saw the joy on the father’s face when the son came up the path, and her lips lifted in a smile when the father went running, arms open, to receive the son home again.
Her chest ached with joy at the welcome playing in her head. How would it feel to be given such a homecoming? Despite her active imagination, she couldn’t conceive of it. Her hands slid from the Bible, and her arms crossed over her chest. Eyes crunched tight, she hugged herself, seeking the emotions the boy must have felt when his father’s arms closed around him. But only sorrow claimed her.
She pulled up her knees and pressed her forehead to them, folding herself into a ball and crushing Marty’s Bible in the process. Rocking herself, she bit down on her lower lip to hold back sobs. The deepest longing she’d ever known tugged at her, tormented her, encircled her the way the father in the story had encircled his son with his arms. From the time she was eight years old she’d told herself she didn’t need anyone. She was strong. She was capable. She was independent. She’d proved it, too, by single-handedly building her business, living on her own, and traveling all over the country without a companion. But right at that moment, she would give away every penny in her personal and business bank accounts to know how it felt to be loved the way the son in the story was loved by his father.
The sofa cushion shifted. A warm hand guided her head onto a soft shoulder, and an arm curled around her, holding her in place. A firm yet tender hand rubbed circles on her back. Brooke gasped. “F-father?”
“Shhh…” Marty’s soft voice whisked past Brooke’s ear.
So Marty’s arm cradled her. Marty’s hand stroked her back. How foolish to think a father would draw her into his embrace.
Brooke pulled in a shuddering breath and sat up, dislodging Marty’s arms. She swiped the moisture from her face with her hands. “What are you doing here?” Her voice emerged hard and ragged, partly from her dry throat and partly from embarrassment. How long had Marty observed Brooke hugging herself and rocking like a frightened child?
Marty gestured to the plate sitting on the side table. “I brought you something to eat, but you must not have heard me come in.”
No, she hadn’t. Between the music and her imaginative foray, she’d been oblivious to someone else’s presence. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry.” Contrition showed in her eyes. As did worry. Marty rubbed Brooke’s shoulder. “Do you feel sick? Should I get you a nausea pill?”
A Zofran wouldn’t fix what made her stomach ache. “No, I…” Her gaze landed on the Bible, still open in her lap. The pages looked as though someone had wadded them in her fist. She cringed. “I ruined your Bible.”
Marty picked it up and smoothed her hand over the thin pages. They flattened somewhat, but deep wrinkles remained, resembling a craggy expanse of land. “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”
Brooke couldn’t help but worry about it. She’d permanently scarred Marty’s Bible. The way her mother’s cold treatment had permanently scarred her heart. She touched the crinkled corners of the pages with her fingers. There was no fixing the pages. Was there hope to repair this hole in the center of her being? For weeks she’d sought joy. Joy like the father experienced when his son came home. Joy that made one want to dance and sing and celebrate. The desire writhed within her, reaching to grasp the elusive emotion that had been alien to her for her entire life.
She lifted her gaze from the Bible to Marty’s face. “If I were lost, would you go looking for me?”
Marty’s eyes widened. “Of course I would.” She took Brooke’s hand and squeezed. “You’re my best friend. I love you, Brooke.”
Tears distorted Brooke’s vision. “Thank you. I love you, too. You’re the sister I never had.”
“And, Brooke?” Marty’s tone remained quiet, kind, tender, but her fingers on Brooke’s hand trembled. “I love you enough to tell you…you are lost. But there’s a Father who’s waiting for your return. A Father who’s calling your name. A Father who loves you and wants you to be part of His family.”
Brooke sniffed and rubbed her nose. “You’re talking about God, aren’t you?”
Marty nodded. “Remember when you asked me to help you find joy?”
Of course she remembered. She also remembered Anthony’s intensity as he read from his Bible and spoke about God’s love for man. But somehow it hadn’t seemed available to her. It made sense that God would love Marty and Anthony and the other Mennonites. They were kind, giving people who had lived clean, moral lives. They were lovable. But how could God love someone with her background? The child of a promiscuous alcoholic who wasn’t even sure which of the men she dated had impregnated her, a child who went to school with uncombed hair and dirty clothes and unbrushed teeth, a teenager who thumbed her nose at authority, a woman who never darkened the door of a church or gave God a thought other than to occasionally murmur His name in frustration. She didn’t deserve God’s love any more than the wayward boy in the story had deserved his father’s love.
She gasped, then gaped at Marty. “The boy…and the father…”
Marty tipped her head. “What?”
Brooke tapped the Bible with her fingertip. “In here…”
Marty turned the open book so the words were right side up. She seemed to scan the page. “Oh, Jesus’s parable about the prodigal son.”
Brooke might not have read the story from the Bible before today, but she knew what a prodigal was—someone who defied his family. The description fit. She nodded. “Is…is…” She swallowed, gathering courage. If Marty said no, Brooke’s heart might be shattered. “Is the father in the story…God?”
The ribbons dangling from Marty’s cap danced with her enthusiastic nod. “Yes.”
Brooke placed both hands over her chest. Beneath her palms, her heart beat with hope.
Then Marty made a face. “Well, he isn’t God Himself—”
Brooke’s hope began to plummet.
“—but a representation of God the Father.”
Hope fluttered to life again. “And the boy?”
“The boy represents any sinner who’s wandered far away. Jesus told the story so people would understand that God is waiting for anyone, no matter how foolish or rebellious or sinful they are, to come to Him. God the Father will welcome any repentant sinner with open arms.”
Open arms…In the story, the father opened his arms and embraced his smelly, dirty, caked-with-sin son. He looked past the sin to his beloved child. If the father represented God, and the boy represented repentant sinners, then it stood to reason that God would be able to look past Brooke’s smelliness and—her heart pounded so fiercely she marveled that it didn’t leave her chest—see her as a beloved child. If she was willing to repent.
She closed her eyes and considered her life. Her successful career. Her well-padded bank accounts. Her beautiful town house in one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Kansas City. Her Lexus and other extravagant belongings. Her full yet somehow empty life. Popping her eyes open, she reached for Marty’s hands. “I want God to rejoice over me, saying ‘the lost has been found.’ What do I do?”
A smile broke across Marty’s face, and
tears spilled down her cheeks. “It’s very simple. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ Believe that God sent Jesus to the cross to take the penalty for your sins. Ask Jesus to cleanse you of your sins and ask Him to be your Lord and Savior. And all of heaven will rejoice with God the Father that the lost has been found.”
Brooke bowed her head. Her soul reached out in faith. She envisioned God the Father opening His arms, and she fell into His embrace. Love enveloped her while a sweet aroma filled her nostrils—the scent of joy. She breathed it deeply.
Anthony
Anthony closed his Bible and led the group in prayer. While the fire snapped and an owl hooted from somewhere in the trees at the edge of their little clearing, Anthony prayed for each member of his team by name, lifting up any requests they’d given him or asking a blessing over them. He prayed for Charlotte, Marty, and Brooke. His chest fluttered, gratitude about Brooke’s decision to follow Christ still fresh. He might not have had the privilege of leading her to the Lord, but he would play a role in growing her in knowledge of the Scriptures. He took the responsibility seriously. The prophet’s words from Isaiah fifty-five, the chapter they’d read and studied that evening, found their way into his prayer.
“Let us ‘go out with joy, and be led forth with peace’ as we follow Your will. Amen.”
The others, including Brooke, echoed the amen. Nate, Charlotte, Myron, Lucas, and Todd rose from their places around the fire and turned toward the trailers. Todd paused and looked back at Elliott. “You coming?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Todd reversed his direction and headed back to the fire. “Then I’ll stay, too.”
Earlier in the day, Elliott had requested a private chat with Brooke and Anthony. Anthony wouldn’t tell Marty to go inside—his business was her business—but “private” probably meant Elliott didn’t want the other workers listening in.
Ours for a Season Page 28
