“But you were telling me how well it—she—handles, and I’m dying to see for myself.”
Finally, he grinned, and tossed her the keys. “All right, but be careful.”
She almost laughed at the admonition when he’d been so close to liftoff just hours before. She hurried to the driver’s seat before he could change his mind.
He seemed bored as she drove the speed limit home, and kept pointing out features of the car she might have missed. He urged her to go faster, but she declined.
By the time they reached Cedar Circle, she was quite proud of her own ingenuity. “Well, Bill, I really had a nice time. Guess I’ll see you in church tomorrow.”
“That’s it?” he asked. “You’re not inviting me in?”
“No, it’s a little too late. I’m tired.”
He looked disappointed. “So how about lunch after church tomorrow?”
She started to ask him why he would want to take her to lunch, when their time together had been so underwhelming. Instead, she chose to lie her way out of it. “I can’t. I’ve already accepted an invitation from my neighbors.”
“Tomorrow night, then?”
“No, my kids will be coming home.”
“Next weekend?”
She was getting flustered at his refusal to take no for an answer. “Call me. I’m usually pretty busy, but…”
“Okay. I’ll call. I think we’re a good match, Cathy. I can see myself with you.”
“Oh, can you?” She tried to hide her amusement. “And why is that?”
“You’re my type. Classy. Professional.”
Female, she thought. “Well, I appreciate that.”
“No, really. People expect me to be with classy women. I like the fact that you’re a vet. That’s interesting. Pays well, too.”
Again, she wanted to laugh. So that was it. He thought she was wealthy.
“So I can call you?”
“Sure.” She realized what a blessing caller ID was. “Thanks for taking me, Bill. It was fun.”
He started to get out, but she stopped him, desperately trying to avoid a kiss goodnight. “No need to walk me to the door,” she said. “Really. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he said. He leaned toward her to kiss her, but she turned her head and his lips landed on her ear.
Quickly, she got out of the car and waved through the window.
She was giving up dating, she vowed as she got inside. There wasn’t a man alive worth wasting time with. Besides, she needed to put all her energy into praying for her daughter to find one decent man on this earth amidst all the losers—and making her sons into decent men instead of the psychos she had been running into lately.
She left the television off and allowed silence—which had never been her favorite sound—to minister to her like a welcome companion.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
While Cathy was giving up men, Tory was giving up writing. She had dumped her entire manuscript into her computer’s recycling bin, then defiantly pushed the button to erase it all. Systematically, she went about her house collecting all the paraphernalia relating to her writing. Her legal pads, her special pens, her books on technique, her tapes of writers’ conferences and seminars she hadn’t been able to attend. Then she gathered all the self-help books she had bought over the years, and as she did, she realized that none of them had really done her much good. She might be organized, she might know how to manage her time, she might know how to set priorities, but she had never reached her goals, and she wasn’t going to.
So she decided to choose new goals—first among them to have a house so clean it squeaked.
Barry watched her from the kitchen table where he was making a Play-Doh dinosaur with the kids. “Come sit down,” he told her, pulling out a chair. “Good grief, the house is clean enough.”
“It can never be clean enough,” she said. “I’m about to clean out the junk drawer. I’m going to be brutal, so if there’s anything in there you want to save, you might want to tell me now.”
“Honey, why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s Saturday,” she said. “And you’re home to help with the kids and I can get something done.”
“But you could be writing.”
“I told you, I’m never writing again.”
He shook his head. “Look, why don’t you just read that book and see what it’s like? Maybe you can learn something from it. Maybe God has a reason for this.”
“God does have a reason for it,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s to tell me that I’m not supposed to be a writer. That’s not my destiny.”
“Then why have you wanted it so badly?”
“Just because you want something doesn’t mean it’s God’s will.”
“But what if it is God’s will—but it’s just something you’re going to have to work harder for?”
“How can I work harder?” she asked, looking back up at him. “I can’t put any more time into it than I have, so that makes me really slow. When I started it, it was because I heard an editor on one of those writers’ conference tapes say they’re looking for World War II stories. Now that book is out, it’s a best-seller, and they’ll probably move on to something else—maybe the Civil War or the Medieval age. By the time I get anything written, it’ll be too late.”
“Then don’t write to the trends,” he said. “Write what’s in your heart.”
She breathed a laugh. “I don’t know what’s in my heart. I make things up, Barry. Besides, I don’t have the layers and layers of life experience that that author has. She’s probably been to France. She probably remembers the war. She’s probably had tragic affairs with passionate men. I’m just me.”
“But there are things you love, things you care about. Write about them. Write about things in the neighborhood. Heaven knows, there’s enough going on around here.”
“I don’t want to write about real stuff. I just want to make it up. Fiction, not fact.”
“But there is a lot of fact in fiction. Some of the greatest truths I’ve ever read were in fiction. Think of Jesus’ parables.”
She looked at Barry for a moment, surprised that he’d made such a profound point. Maybe he should be the writer, she thought bitterly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still finished with it.”
“Then what about the computer? What are we going to do with that? Sell it?”
“Nope. I’m going to start keeping recipes on it. And I’m cataloguing all my books so I can be as organized as a librarian. And the kids’ll use it when they start school. Don’t worry, I’ll come up with a new goal. I was thinking of building a greenhouse onto the back of the house, so I could start growing things. And I could dig up the yard and plant some tomato plants and lady peas. Okra.”
“You hate okra. And growing things is not your gift.” He pointed out the fake plants decorating every table and shelf. She had never been able to keep anything alive. As hard as she worked to perfect things, she couldn’t perfect nature. It had a mind of its own.
“Okay,” she conceded, “but maybe if I devoted myself to it, I could learn to grow things. If I had a greenhouse I could do it.”
“Tory, you don’t need a greenhouse, and you don’t need to plow the backyard. You have enough to do.”
“All right, fine. Then I won’t grow things. I’ll find something else.”
He looked at her as if he didn’t know what more to say to her, then ambled helplessly out of the room.
Tory dropped into a chair and covered her face with both hands. This was madness, she thought. Obsessive-compulsive madness. And she should know—she’d just finished reading a book on the subject.
Barry was right. She did have plenty to do without dragging out new hobbies. Her children needed her. Her husband needed her.
She took a deep breath, got up, and straightened the chairs. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the den, she saw the children lying on the floor watching a movie. Barry was sitting i
n his recliner, staring into space at thoughts she could only imagine.
“Hey, guys,” she said. “What do you say we go out tonight? It’s Saturday and we haven’t done anything in a while. We could go get ice cream and maybe head down to the river, stand on the footbridge, and watch the barges come through.”
“Yeah!” Spencer and Brittany said, jumping to their feet and bouncing like little windup toys.
Barry gave her a puzzled look. “Who are you?”
She grinned. “Don’t press your luck.”
He got up tentatively. “There must be some drawers you haven’t cleaned out. Some closets that need dusting.”
She got a pillow from the couch and threw it at him. He flinched. “Okay, so I was being obsessive,” she said. “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, and I’ve been making everybody miserable. But look at the bright side. The house is amazingly clean.”
“Passes the white glove test,” he agreed.
“Come on,” she said, trying to work some fun into her voice. “Let’s just get out of here.”
“You sure you have time for fun?”
“You’re about to lose your window of opportunity.”
“Come on, kids,” Barry yelled. “Let’s go while Mom’s in the mood!”
She picked up the pillow and placed it perfectly on the couch before she followed her family out the door.
CHAPTER
Twenty
The Smoky Mountain fog had lifted early today, and the mountain range on the other side of the valley of Breezewood was green and majestic. Sylvia felt energized after riding her mare, Sunstreak, through the undeveloped back acres of their property. She trotted back to the stables, her hair mussed from the wind and her cheeks pink from the heat.
Gently, she removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle, and brushed down the horse before returning her to her colt in the corral. Then, dusting her hands off, she headed around the house to check her mail. Again, the sight of the hills took her breath away. She had been born and raised in Breezewood, and when she left for any length of time, her eyes yearned for the sight of those hills. She wondered if Sarah missed their mountains yet, or if Jeff ever thought of coming back. If they did, they hadn’t mentioned it to her.
She opened the mailbox, hoping one of them had written, even though she’d talked to each of them on the phone just yesterday. She pulled out the bundle of bills and letters and advertisements, and fought disappointment when she saw that there was nothing from them.
“Sylvia!”
She looked up and saw Brenda coming. She waved and waited for her neighbor to cross the cul-de-sac.
“Time to visit?” Brenda asked.
“On a gorgeous day like this? I’ve been riding all morning. Just look at those mountains. Let’s sit on my porch where we can see them.”
Brenda followed her onto the porch and sat down on the swing. Sylvia took the rocker next to a pot of azaleas.
“So how’s Joseph?” Sylvia asked her as she flipped through her mail.
“Okay, I guess.”
Sylvia looked up. “You guess?”
Brenda’s smile was uncharacteristically weak. “Well, Dr. Robinson isn’t that sure. We’ve been seeing him twice a week for four weeks, and he keeps changing doses of medication. I thought Joseph would be better by now, but he always seems so tired and out of breath.”
“He’ll get better,” Sylvia said. “Just give it time. Be patient.”
“I’m trying.”
She flipped through the rest of her mail. The return address from Masaya, Nicaragua, startled her. “Carlos!” she said, picturing the man they had met last year.
“Who’s Carlos?” Brenda asked.
“A man in Nicaragua. Didn’t I tell you about Carlos?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sylvia looked off toward the mountains and smiled, remembering. “Well, last year, when we were there, Carlos’s wife Maria brought their son to Harry. He was having serious abdominal pain, and Harry diagnosed it as a ruptured appendix and operated on him.”
“Harry saved his life, then,” Brenda said.
“He sure did. And Maria was so grateful. After it was all over, Harry led her to Christ. Then she started weeping and telling us about her husband Carlos.”
“She wanted Harry to witness to him?” Brenda asked.
“Well, yes, but frankly she didn’t see any hope of Carlos’s conversion. He’s a baker, owns his own shop, and at the time, he was a real womanizer. Very handsome. Of course, Maria is very beautiful, too. But that didn’t matter. Carlos kept mistresses and spent a lot of time with them.”
“Poor woman.”
“Yeah. Only we started praying for him with her, and I shared with her all the Scripture I could find about being a godly wife. I helped her memorize the passage in First Peter about keeping her behavior excellent so the unbelieving husband could be won without a word. She was determined to have a gentle, quiet spirit, and to be a model wife instead of the victim he used to come home to.”
Brenda’s eyes misted over, and Sylvia suddenly realized that Brenda could relate to Maria, even though David had never been unfaithful.
“I hope you told her it takes a long time,” Brenda said. “The Holy Spirit has to do it.”
“That’s the thing,” Sylvia told her, leaning forward with enthusiasm. “The Holy Spirit did do it. About ten days later, Maria convinced Carlos to come to church with her so he could thank Harry for healing their son. The missionary who preached that day delivered a sermon that shot right into Carlos’s heart. He ran down to the altar and fell to his knees, sobbing.”
Sylvia saw the emotion in Brenda’s eyes as she pictured the scene, probably imagining David in Carlos’s place, and she remembered why she hadn’t told Brenda this story before. She had feared it would frustrate her spirit and make her question God’s silence to her own prayers.
“What a beautiful story,” Brenda whispered. “Did it change his life?”
“You bet it did. He’s very active in the church there, and Maria has kept in touch with me to let me know what a wonderful husband he’s become.” She looked down at the envelope and tore it open. “Carlos has never written to us himself. Harry will be so thrilled to hear from him.”
Her eyes scanned the first few lines. “Oh, Brenda! He’s committed his life to full-time Christian service. His church is raising money for him to come to the States to study in a seminary, so that he can go back to Nicaragua and start his own church.” She read further. “He wants to know how much money we think they’ll need to raise altogether for housing and food and tuition, and anything else that might come up that he hasn’t thought of. And he needs help deciding on a seminary.”
Brenda grinned. “What a miracle. It gives me hope.”
Sylvia dropped the letter on her lap and stared off into the breeze. “Yeah. That’s the joy of mission work. That’s why Harry wants to go back there.”
“Think of all the fruit Carlos is going to bear,” Brenda said. “All because Harry was there to save their son’s life, and you were there to teach Maria how to be a godly wife.”
Sylvia gazed down at the letter again.
“So have you made up your mind about the mission field?” Brenda asked.
Sylvia shook her head. “I’ve prayed about it. I’ve told the Lord that I don’t want to go. But I’ve asked Him to change my heart if He wants me to.”
“That’s fair,” Brenda said. “I’ll pray that for you, too.”
That afternoon when Harry got home, Sylvia gave him the letter. He shed a few tears of his own and started praying immediately for Carlos and Maria and the plans they were making. Then he got out his calculator and began figuring what it would cost them to come to America to study. He would be on the phone for days, Sylvia knew, trying to line up scholarships and grants and donations from people who could help put Carlos through school. They both knew that the little Nicaraguan church Carlos attended would not be able to raise the kind of money C
arlos would need.
Sylvia found her own mind racing with possibilities—and she knew that God had put those thoughts into her mind. He was showing her things she needed to consider, things she needed to offer, priorities she needed to acknowledge—but she knew she wasn’t ready yet. Sweetly, generously, Harry continued to give her the time she needed, and nothing more was said.
CHAPTER
Twenty-One
It had been five weeks since Joseph’s birthday party, and the medicine had not helped Joseph’s condition. They’d had twice-a-week visits to Dr. Robinson, and at every visit Brenda saw the strain and tension on the doctor’s face as he changed the medication or juggled doses, hoping to help things along. She’d kept Joseph as quiet as possible for the past few weeks. Even though she normally didn’t homeschool during the summer, she’d continued it with Joseph just to keep him still and focused on anything other than his failing heart. He slept much of the time, and during those quiet moments, she would sit on the bed and pray for him. She could see in the pallid color of his skin and the deep circles under his eyes, in his shortness of breath after any exertion at all, in the dizziness that came more often than it went, and in the swelling of his ankles, that he was only getting worse.
All this week he’d been moody and depressed, and she knew that he needed to get out, so yesterday she had made the announcement that they would be taking a field trip today to the Adventure Museum—one of her children’s favorite places. Joseph’s tired eyes had danced with excitement, though that seemed to be the extent of his celebration.
She had invited Tory, Brittany, and Spencer to come with them, hoping Tory could help by dropping them off at the door so that Joseph wouldn’t have far to walk. She planned to borrow a wheelchair when they got there, and she would push Joseph around so he wouldn’t have to exert himself as they went from one hands-on experiment to another.
But when she went into his room to see if he was ready, he was sitting on the bed with tears on his face and his sneakers in his lap.
“Joseph, what’s wrong, honey?”
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