“Playtime is over. Be a man.”
Clay sat still, pondering her words, trying to reconcile all that she’d said. It was what he thought he was doing for so long—being a man. Owning up to what he’d done. Wasn’t that what he was doing?
“This is the day the Lord has made, Clay. It’s the day that you start trusting Him more and you less.” She tilted her head toward another picture of Lloyd nearby. “As Lloyd tells me every day—be a good steward of your pain.”
Another walk, but this time it was different. Before, he’d taken them to isolate and maybe insulate too. Now, though, it was like he was exposed, out in the open, vulnerable to anything and everything.
Clay walked to the park where they’d sat on the swings. He watched them sway slightly in the breeze.
A father went by, his young son trailing him. As the father extended his hand back for his son, the little boy reached for it but missed and fell. Giggling, he got up and reached again but missed.
Had Clay been reaching for his Father’s hand and missing? Or not reaching for it at all?
At home, Clay picked up his house, swept and dusted. He put everything in order. But there was one thing that remained broken. The Ten Commandments. He sat on the couch, holding the frame in front of him. At what point had he started bowing to this and stopped bowing to the One who made it? The One who made him?
Next to him sat the Scotch tape. He remembered Cosie, all wound up in it, stuck from head to toe. He wondered if that’s what he looked like to God: a broken mess taped together by grace—grace that until now he’d rejected. Just like the law had been given to show him his sin, maybe the cracks stayed there to show him God’s grace. Hadn’t he seen the Leonard Cohen lyrics on Amber’s bulletin board? “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
He set the frame on his lap and started taping. Tears rushed to him again, but this time they were the summation of all that he was releasing, all that he was letting go of. His cracks were seeping with God’s love. God was able and willing to do for all those whom Clay had hurt exactly what he’d done for Clay. He let go of them, released them from his heart, unshackled them one by one, as he continued to tape.
He felt so . . . light.
The window he’d opened earlier was ushering in a gentle breeze. On the table, where his Bible sat, the pages flipped one by one as if by an invisible finger.
Finally he hung the commandments back on the wall, tape and all. And draped over the frame was the pewter cross—what made it possible to be broken and whole all at once.
ON TOP OF THE HILL in that old cemetery where George had buried Helen, Clay sat on the grass. From here he could see virtually the whole town. The late-November wind was brisk but not unbearable. Behind him, the dirt of Helen’s grave had settled into only a small mound. The headstone had not been placed yet. A single flower lay over the dirt, a few days old, nearly dead but clinging to its last stages of life. He wondered how often George came by here to visit her. In its wilted state, the flower seemed to say everything about how Clay’s life once was. But now, things were different.
“A cemetery?”
Clay smiled as he heard the footsteps approaching, crunching leaves in their wake. She was breathing hard.
“I knew you were weird, but this is weird even for you, and that’s saying a lot. A lot.”
She grumbled all the way until she was at his side. He patted the ground next to him and she sighed her aggravation loudly. “What is this, a séance?”
“Thanks for coming, Carol.”
She took her sweet time getting to the ground, still mumbling and scowling. Then she said, “I’ll shoot straight with you. I’m meeting you today totally out of morbid curiosity. And here we are. At a cemetery. I won’t lie to you—I’m a little frightened that I might end up on Dateline. I’m murdered by the straightlaced guy—because there’s always got to be irony—at a cemetery.” She sighed again. “So what do you want?”
“I’m sitting up here on this hill, in this cemetery, because I buried someone.”
Carol appeared truly scared as she slowly turned her head to look at the dirt pile behind them.
“Don’t worry. That’s Helen. She died of natural causes,” Clay said, enjoying the moment a little too much. “Here’s the deal, Carol. I’ve buried the old guy. The old me. The one you always thought was so . . .”
“Weird? Sideshow-circus-act weird?”
“Isolated. Legalistic. My convictions were right but my approach was perhaps a bit faulty.”
“Right.”
Clay took a deep breath. “I love her.”
Carol blew out her own breath. “Oh, boy. I gotta give you props for the symbolism of the whole . . .” She gestured at the tombstones. “But a grave is only so deep. It can only hold so much.”
“I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Too many to count. But she means everything to me. Everything. And I believe in love with all my heart. A guy I know, who married a girl named Helen, made me believe true love is also in the working out of the differences, to start as two and end as one.” He glanced at Carol. “Is she . . . is she doing okay?”
“Busy. Studying like crazy. Men falling at her feet. She’s had eight dates in four days. . . . I made that last part up to make you jealous because she’s a fantastic girl who deserves a lot of attention.”
Clay nodded. “I know she does.”
“Well, listen, if you want my advice, I’d say stop being so . . . uptight. I mean, there’s stiff as a board and then there’s stiff as dead, and then there’s you.”
Clay pulled at the grass. “I’m already working on that.”
“I can see that by the way we’re meeting at a cemetery, which oozes with coziness. Secondly, you’ve got to show her. I mean, really show her. Pull out all the stops. This is going to take more than dinner and a movie.”
“I’ve been working on that too.” Clay reached into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.
Carol’s eyes widened. “Please tell me this isn’t an ankle bracelet.” She took the box from him and slowly opened it. “You picked this out? By yourself?”
“You think she’ll like it?”
“Good heavens, man. She’s going to faint from shock. I expected something like a chastity belt with the word morality stitched on it.”
“I wanted to ask your permission.”
Carol’s gaze left the ring.
“I know, I know. I’m old-school. But the way I see it, you’ve looked after her since she got here. You’re like family to her. And she doesn’t have a dad. So I wanted to know . . . if I could have your permission to marry Amber.”
Carol’s mouth dropped wide open.
“And just so we’re clear,” Clay added, “this is way more terrifying for me than asking a father.”
Her eyes teared up and she slapped him on the back. “Clay Walsh, you never cease to amaze or surprise me.”
He kept watching her, hoping for any sign she might agree.
She handed him back the ring. “You don’t need my approval, honey. The truth is, as weird as you are, you’re the best thing to happen to that girl in probably her whole life.” She looked out over the city. “You’re a good man. Decent. Kind. Reliable.”
Clay laughed.
“She’ll be lucky to have you.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Go get ’em, tiger.”
“Thank you.”
“And listen, I’m no expert on the Bible. God knows I haven’t cracked that thing open since I hollowed one out to hide a gun in it. But if I’m not mistaken, I believe the whole idea of the thing is that man couldn’t ever save himself, no matter how hard he tried.” She shrugged. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
Clay put his arm around her shoulder. “That’s the whole point.”
Carol stood. “Now can we get outta here? This place is freaking me out.”
Clay stood too. “Not quite yet. I have one more favor to ask of you.
”
BOOKS AND PAPERS were strewn across the kitchen counter, table, and bed. She had note cards pinned up everywhere, including her bulletin board. She’d already been to study group this morning and would have another one tomorrow before work. Carol had been kind enough to help her by scheduling her hours around her school needs. And though she was disappointed, Trish understood that late-night partying was out of the question. Amber was focused—Bolivar had generously admitted her late, and she had a lot of catching up to do. She wanted this.
College life ended up suiting her. She was older than most of the students, but she’d made friends—though she’d been strong enough for once in her life to resist the attentions of some very cute guys in her class. She’d been asked out three times in as many weeks. Two of them were hotties, but she didn’t want Trish’s claim that she was a “cougar” to stick. Besides, she’d grown up. She’d tasted the best wine and didn’t want anything less. She didn’t know who God had in mind for her, but she knew the qualities to look for. For that, she would always be thankful to Clay Walsh.
She rarely saw Clay. He wasn’t at his shop much, and when he was, he stayed inside. She missed him terribly, knew he was a man with a lot of skeletons and a lot of healing to do. She wasn’t the one who was going to be able to bring that healing—she had her own to contend with.
But she had someone to run to now, and she’d been enjoying getting to know Him. He was interesting to her, not always clearly showing His hand at the times she wanted it, but making her realize it was there in an unexpected way the whole time. She found herself praying more and worrying less. There was a defined peace inside that called her attention when her heart fluttered with dismay or disappointment. And it often did. Sometimes she got lonely. Sometimes she got restless. Sometimes even bored.
Amber shook her head, trying to get her mind back into her studies. She had work to get to. And a lot of it.
Outside, there was a noise at her doorstep. Her door was open, with the screen shut. She didn’t see anyone, but then she thought she heard footsteps going down the stairs. Mr. Joe jumped off the couch to investigate. Then she heard a car horn, except it sounded old, almost like a warped record.
She opened the screen door. Below was George, at the bottom of the stairs, standing by an old car. Was that the vintage Rolls-Royce he’d been working on? It was gorgeous. And he was dressed like an old-time chauffeur.
He pointed to her stoop. She looked down, and at her feet was a small envelope.
Amber grabbed it and opened it, hardly able to contain her excitement. It was a handwritten note from Clay, a short attempt at some pretty bad poetry—a quote for her bulletin board.
The car horn honked again, and George hustled to the other side to open the door for her. He stood like a perfect gentleman. “Come on. Your chariot awaits.”
She should probably lock up or change into something a little more . . . Her head was spinning like crazy. She clutched the card and ran down the stairs, straight into the Rolls-Royce. It was gorgeous inside. George gently shut her door and hurried to the driver’s seat.
As they pulled away, Amber glanced up at Mr. Joe, who stood at the screen door wondering what was going on. She was wondering too.
She saw George put a CD in, and through a very nice sound system came the song she and Clay had danced to in the field. She couldn’t help the grin that nearly reached both ears. When she woke up this morning, this was the very last thing she’d expected. If this was his best effort at a romantic date, he’d already far exceeded her wildest expectations.
But . . . what was this? Surely more than just a peace offering. She knew him too well.
The Rolls-Royce stopped on Marvin Street, off the town square, where shops lined brick walkways. George was out of the car in a flash and opened the door for her, smooth and debonair. She looked at the sign above her. LuLu’s Nail Salon.
George, with the mannerly formality of a footman, gestured that she should go in.
Inside, Amber found a woman waiting for her. “I’m Jenny,” she said. She looked to be midthirties, but it was hard to tell—her nails were long and bright green, her lipstick hot pink. Feather earrings dangled all the way to her shoulders and her eyes were lined in aqua. “Come, sit.” She patted her nail desk and went to the other side to sit down, then took Amber’s hands. “Lovely hands, dear. Just lovely. Those long fingers! And beautiful nail beds.” Jenny stroked her hand as she said, “So what would you like done today? Your choice. It’s completely paid for. Reach for the stars. Whatever you’d like.”
Amber studied her hands for a moment. “Just make them look nice. Simple.” She smiled. “Clear polish.”
Jenny almost looked insulted. “Clear?” She gestured toward the wall of colors. “We have everything you could ever want. Some of them even glow in the dark. Also, I’m very good at the art. I can paint tiny flowers or zebra stripes. I once painted the entire alphabet on a teacher. We had to use her toes, too, but it was cute.”
“Clear.”
“Maybe a French manicure?”
“Clear.”
Jenny finally relented and started buffing and shaping Amber’s nails. “So . . . clear. That’s kind of boring. You don’t strike me as the boring type. In fact, if it were five decades earlier, I think you and I might be hippies. But I couldn’t do the earth tones,” she said, waving her nail file at Amber’s outfit. “I’d be tie-dye.” She continued buffing, her hand gliding effortlessly over the nail beds. “And you don’t really strike me as a girl who’d wear or not wear a color to satisfy the tastes of a man.”
“These days, true.”
“So you just like . . . plain?”
Amber shrugged. “I guess it’s kind of symbolic.”
“Oh? I love symbols. I can do flags. Peace signs. No-smoking symbols.”
“Have you ever had such clarity that even when nothing in your life was making sense, you trusted that it would all fall into place? That all your suffering was molding and shaping you into a person you never dreamed you’d be?”
“You mean like a Pilates class?”
Amber smiled. “Yeah. Like that. But for the soul.”
“Oh.” Jenny gently shaped each nail. “You’re one of those kinds. A deep thinker.”
“I’ve had a season of great disappointment,” Amber said, “which led to many things becoming . . . clear.”
Jenny appeared to be following. “Well then, I guess that makes sense. Especially if you consider the hottie that came in and paid for this whole gig a couple days ago.”
Amber smiled. “Cute, right?”
“Girl, smokin’. In that light-blue shirt with those eyes . . .”
“Light-blue shirt?”
“What?”
“No, I mean . . . it’s just that he doesn’t really do color. He wears a lot of . . . black.”
“Ah. The goth type.”
“And white.”
“Amish?”
“No, no. He’s just very simple in his tastes. I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t even know he owned a blue shirt.”
“So, this one—I’m impressed. Comes in, buys his girl a manicure. Now that’s romantic. Most guys enjoy the scenery but don’t help plant the trees.”
Amber laughed as Jenny grabbed the clear polish. She was going to have to visit Jenny more often. “He’s a good guy. We’ve had our ups and downs.”
“Hard to find, you know,” Jenny said. “I’ve been with this guy Ted for three years. He’s cheated on me four times, but what do you do?”
Amber leaned forward. “You get out, Jenny.”
Jenny looked at her, a curious interest in her eyes. But it flamed out in a moment and she shook her head. “I couldn’t ever leave Ted.”
“Why?”
“You know. He’s . . .” Her words trailed off. “Nobody has stayed with me very long, and Ted, you know . . . he’s stuck around.”
Amber touched her hand. “You deserve more than a guy who just ‘sticks around
.’”
“I don’t know that I do.” Her smile stuck like a press-on nail. She lifted Amber’s hands. “Well, it’s not fancy, but there it is, clear as day. Are you sure you don’t want some kind of pink wash over it? Or polka dots?”
“They’re beautiful, Jenny. Thank you.”
Jenny sighed. “All right.” She glanced out the window at the Rolls-Royce. “Looks like you’re in for a fun evening.”
“What’s your schedule next week?” Amber asked.
Jenny grabbed her book. “Pretty open. Especially on Tuesday.”
“Book me for ten.”
Jenny grinned. “Really?”
“Yeah. And I’m doing neon pink all the way.”
Jenny waved her hands in the air. “Yes, ma’am!”
“I want to tell you about someone I think you’re going to want to meet. Someone who sticks by you without condition. Just because He loves you.”
Jenny looked flattered. “No kidding. I’m all ears. Until then . . .”
“Until then.”
George held the salon door and then opened the car door. Amber hurried inside, so eager she could hardly contain herself. But George drove only a half block before stopping again. Amber peered out the window and saw it immediately: the beautiful green dress she’d spotted on one of her walks with Clay.
Inside the dress shop, a statuesque woman greeted her and introduced herself as Gloria, with such sophistication Amber wasn’t sure if she should respond. She looked around at the store. Plush white carpet and light-pink walls with cocktail dresses hanging on every one. The dressing rooms had thick, velvet curtains in place of doors. The chairs looked too expensive to sit in.
Gloria took her hand and observed her with a sharp eye, gauging her from head to toe. “A size four?”
Amber nodded.
“And a size-seven shoe?”
She nodded again.
“Right this way.” She was led into one of the dressing rooms. Gloria brought her the green dress, along with some matching strappy slingbacks. Amber quickly slipped on the dress and shoes. When she emerged, Gloria held out the tiniest emerald earrings, literally sitting on a silver platter.
Old Fashioned Page 20
