More Than You Know

by Nan Rossiter

  “I forgot to bring a bottle,” his companion said, “so I guess I’ll have tea.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the aristocrat replied in an accent that fit him perfectly but caught me completely off guard. “I must have something on the table.”

  He started to push back his chair, but I interrupted, “I’d be happy to get it for you …” And then—surprised by my own impulsiveness—plowed on, “I-I just need to know your name.”

  He looked surprised as he eased back into his chair. “It’s Gilead … David.” I nodded, and as I hurried over to the long table that served as a makeshift bar, I couldn’t help but think of the lyrics to one of my favorite old hymns, “There Is a Balm in Gilead.” It didn’t take long to find a bottle of Merlot with his name scrawled in long, elegant handwriting on the luggage tag hanging around it. I reached for one of the corkscrews lying on the table and, because I didn’t have much experience with opening wine, I accidently screwed it in on an angle; fortunately, I was finally able to pry it out in two pieces—without dropping in any cork crumbs!

  I brought the bottle back to the table and tried to appear nonchalant as I poured, but I needn’t have worried; they were so caught up in their conversation they didn’t even notice me, at least not until I picked up his salad plate and sent his fork clattering to the floor. He retrieved it and, with a smile, placed it gingerly on top of my pile. “Got everything now?” he teased.

  “I think so,” I said, laughing. When I looked up, his eyes caught mine and I hesitated, feeling the heat of my body rush to my cheeks. We both seemed caught up in that moment … until his friend broke the silence.

  “Sorry to be a pest, but when you have a chance, do you think we could have some more of those rolls?”

  “Of … of course,” I stammered, trying to regain my composure—my heart pounding and my mind wondering what in the world had just happened.

  After dinner, he didn’t linger for coffee and dessert, as so many of the other artists did, and I only happened to see him through the open window as he headed down the path toward the studios. The sun was setting, silhouetting his tall, slender frame, and I noticed that his gait was uneven—then I realized he was using a cane.

  The rest of that evening dragged on endlessly in the oppressive heat. When I finally arrived home, the entire house was asleep, including my poor mom, who’d dozed off with her book in her lap. I shook her gently and asked if she wanted to stay, but she said no and I hugged her and watched as her car bumped up the driveway. I turned off the lights, tiptoed up the stairs, and slipped into the girls’ room. Rumer was already in a twin bed by then because little Beryl needed the crib, but she’d been very grown up about it—happy, I’m sure, to be treated like her big sister. I gently kissed their warm foreheads, whispered their prayers, and retreated to the bathroom for a quick shower. The cool water rushed over my shoulders, but the relief was only temporary as I was steaming by the time I’d dried off. I collapsed onto my bed and stared into the darkness, trying to unwind. My thoughts drifted to the Englishman … and I couldn’t help but wonder why someone as young as he appeared to be using a cane.

  Finally, I fell into a fitful sleep—tossing and turning and dreaming—reliving the night terror I longed to put behind me. But there it was, as real as ever—Tom’s truck rolling, falling—until I awoke, screaming—tears streaming down my cheeks, my heart pounding. I covered my face, muffling my heartbroken sobs, and rolled onto my side to look out at the hazy moon, trying to discern what was real. A small figure appeared in the darkness beside my bed—little Isak, barely five, hair mussed, eyelashes glistening with frightened tears. “Mama?” she whispered, her tiny finger lightly touching my hand. “Why are you crying?” She climbed onto the bed and I felt her small, warm body and smelled the sweet, clean scent of her hair. I stroked her smooth cheek as she snuggled next to me and I whispered, “Don’t worry, honeybee.” She drifted off, immediately unburdened, but I lay awake for a long time, listening to thunder booming in the distance.

  MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire, was the home—and idea—of the great American composer Edward MacDowell and his pianist wife, Marian. Edward had often credited the tranquil setting of the farm—purchased in 1896—as the reason for his success, but when he became gravely ill, he expressed his desire to see the farm become a retreat for other artists, and Marian immediately set to work making his dream come true. The plan was dubbed The Peterborough Idea, and a fund, established in Edward’s name, received national support; over time, thirty-two studios were built—each a private retreat in which an artist’s creativity could flourish. Edward lived to see his dream realized in the summer of 1907 when the first fellows arrived and, before long, artists of all disciplines—painters, writers, poets, and composers—from all over the country were applying for the eight-week residencies offered by the prestigious MacDowell Colony.

  To me, however, MacDowell was simply an answer to a prayer for work that I found in the Help Wanted section of the Monadnock Ledger. It was a blessing that kept me busy and kept my mind from dwelling on all that might have been. Even though Tom had life insurance, the money wouldn’t last forever, so soon after he died, I began looking for work. Because I had three little ones at home, my availability was restricted; on top of that, the only sitters I could afford were my mom and Tom’s mom—because they were free and because they were willing to help in any way they could; but I couldn’t burden them all the time. In the beginning, they took turns watching the girls, but soon they decided they’d much rather babysit during the day than late at night, so I asked John if I could change my hours. He must’ve known my situation because he was always accommodating—and patient when I was late, which was often. Looking back, I can’t help wondering at God’s amazing providence.

  Isak shifted uneasily in her chair. “Okay, I’m sorry to interrupt here, but Dad is killed in a tragic accident, Mum’s life is turned upside down—she’s devastated, has to find a job, raise three little girls alone—and she’s still amazed by God’s providence?!” Isak’s voice was incredulous and edged with anger. “How is that amazing providence?! Wouldn’t it have been more providential for God to let Dad survive?” She shook her head defiantly. “I definitely wouldn’t have had the same reaction—in fact, I honestly don’t know how Mum kept her faith …” Her voice trailed off, her eyes glistening.

  Rumer put her arm around her sister and Beryl swallowed, trying to think of an answer. “I don’t know, Isak. I don’t think Mum blamed God. Everyone faces tragedy and sadness in life, but God doesn’t make bad things happen.” She paused. “He promises to be with us when we’re going through them, though, and I think that’s where Mum’s faith came from.”

  Isak wasn’t convinced. “What about having a plan for good? I don’t see the good in His plan for Mum.”

  Rumer nodded sympathetically. “I guess we don’t always get to see the good because we don’t get to see the effect a tragic event has on other people. Ber, what did Mum call it?”

  Beryl smiled. “God’s tapestry.”

  Isak rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine. “Whatever. I still think a better plan would’ve been for Dad to live to see us all grow up.”

  Beryl looked back at the page. “Should I keep going?” They both nodded and she pulled the candle closer and found where she’d left off.

  My assignments in those early days varied, from serving meals to working in the kitchen, depending on the need, so it wasn’t unusual for me to not cross paths with residents for several days, especially if I was working in the kitchen. Needless to say, I didn’t see the Englishman for nearly a week, but then my assignment changed to delivering lunch.

  Although breakfast and dinner are served family style in Colony Hall, lunch is an entirely different affair. After breakfast, hickory picnic baskets are lined up in the kitchen and filled with sandwiches, soup, cookies, and hot coffee. Afterward they’re quietly delivered to the residents’ porches so that, when they’re hungry at mid
day, they only have to go as far as their front door to find sustenance. It’s a favorite tradition at MacDowell, and one that allows the artists to work through the day without interruption or human interaction. Oh, how I could’ve used a day like that!

  On my first day delivering lunch, I was surprised to find many of the residents sitting outside, basking in the late-summer sunshine. Most were working on their projects outside, but some were just working on their tans! I couldn’t blame them—it was one of those beautiful blue-sky days. The oppressive heat from the week before had pushed out to sea and the sweet summer breeze whispered of September. It was a treat for me—an aspiring writer, who had absolutely no time for writing—to have the opportunity to chat with artists and writers who were living the kind of life of which I dreamed! Everyone was welcoming and friendly and open to human interaction; as a result, lunch was late to several of the artists at the tail end of my route. I hoped no one would complain and, to this day, I think it’s a wonder John never fired me! When I finally reached the most remote cabin on my route and lifted the last hickory basket from my backseat, I turned and saw him standing there, leaning on his cane.

  “Thank goodness!” he said. “I was beginning to fade away to nothing.”

  I handed him his basket. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” His eyes sparkled mischievously and he set the basket down and reached up to push back his hair. It was then that I realized he truly depended on his cane. “Do you want me to put it on the porch for you?”

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I can manage—thank you, though.” He leaned down to pick it up again and I noticed a long, angry scar that cut across his ankle.

  “What happened to your leg?” I blurted out; then, surprised by my impertinence, blushed. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “It’s quite all right,” he said with an easy smile. “It’s an old injury—and a long story.”

  I nodded and glanced at my watch, knowing I should go, but at the same time feeling drawn to stay.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, leaning on his cane.

  “Mia,” I replied.

  He smiled. “Thanks for lunch, Mia.”

  I nodded, loving the way he said it.

  The summer days slipped by and I continued to deliver his lunch—late! And he continued to tease me about being famished. Our daily exchanges seemed innocent, but I sensed something unsaid—unacknowledged—smoldering like an underground fire waiting for a bit of oxygen to bring it to full flame; I could feel its heat when he teased me and I could see it in his eyes, and although I missed Tom desperately, those fleeting moments with David made my heart feel lighter.

  I began to wonder when his residency would end, and on a rainy afternoon in late September, I found out. I parked beneath the huge old oak tree that was next to the cabin, looked up, and noticed a trail of white smoke whispering from the chimney. I peered through the windshield, hoping the downpour would let up long enough for me to make my delivery. My wiper blades slapped back and forth noisily, and the rain pounded on the metal roof, seeping in along the windshield and leaving a clear rivulet trickling across my dusty dashboard. I looked up and saw him standing on the porch, grinning, with one of his palms up—as if asking, “Well?” I turned off the car, reached into the backseat for his basket, and, counting to three, threw open my door and ran for cover, almost slipping on the top step.

  He reached out to catch me, but I managed to stay upright and he laughed. Then he looked down at my wet dress and realized I was shivering. “You’re going to catch pneumonia,” he said. “Come in and warm up.” I carried the basket inside and set it on the table.

  “It’s so raw and rainy—I thought a fire would take the chill out of the air.”

  I walked over to it and held my hands out to soak up its warmth and then turned to warm my back. “It feels wonderful!”

  He hesitated. “You really should take off those wet things.” I raised my eyebrows and he smiled impishly. “I mean … I have a robe.”

  I shook my head and laughed. “That’s very tempting, but I better not.”

  He nodded, looking a bit relieved, and then, remembering the picnic basket, peered inside. “How about some soup? That’ll warm you up.”

  I was starving, but I shook my head. “No, thanks—it’s your lunch.”

  “I’m not much of a soup person.”

  I laughed. “Well, in that case, I’ll have some.”

  “Good,” he said, pulling out the thermos. “How ’bout half a sandwich?”

  “Oh, no—I wouldn’t want you to fade away to nothing,” I teased.

  “Ah—touché!” he said with a grin.

  While he poured steaming tomato soup into two mugs, I looked around the room. It was simply furnished with mission furniture and a small matching table with four chairs for dining. The mullioned windows were tall and clear, and on a sunny day, I imagined the studio was airy and bright. The fieldstone fireplace filled the entire end wall, and above it hung a beautiful painting of the Old Man of the Mountain. Being a native of the great state of New Hampshire, I was very familiar with the iconic image and I paused, admiring the scene. Then I noticed another painting propped on an easel in the corner. It was a landscape, too—and I immediately recognized the setting, and walked over to it.

  “This is beautiful!” I murmured.

  He followed me, balancing one of the mugs in his hand. “Do you think so?”

  I nodded and realized he was focusing on not spilling, so I held out my hands and he gratefully relinquished the mug to me. He studied the painting critically. “I was working on it outside earlier and it started to rain. It’s not easy for me to break camp, so it got wet—I should’ve known better.” I nodded, suddenly realizing how many trips he must’ve had to make with only one free hand.

  “I love the sunlight behind the trees and the way the light and shadows stream across the canvas, drawing your eye to the cabin … and I love that old oak tree—it’s so big I think it must have been here during the Revolution.”

  Rumer caught her breath and Beryl looked up in amazement.

  “What?” Isak asked, looking from one to the other.

  “It’s the painting,” Rumer said.

  “What painting?”

  “The one in Mum’s shop,” Beryl said.

  Isak looked puzzled, trying to remember.

  “The one over the fireplace,” Beryl continued, trying to jog her memory. “It’s that exact scene—a cabin with an old oak tree next to it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rumer nodded. “It has to be! Ber, go on …”

  Beryl traced her hand over the paper, scanning the lines, looking for her spot.

  “I want to remember my time here,” he said. “It’s been such a wonderful experience—even the lunch lady—who’s always late,” he teased. “I almost put her old Plymouth Valiant in front of the cabin.”

  I cradled the mug in my hands and laughed. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t—that would’ve ruined it.”

  He nodded toward the table. “I need to sit.”

  I glanced at my watch. “I can’t stay—but I keep meaning to ask you … when does your residency end?”

  He unwrapped the egg-salad sandwich and held out half to me, but I shook my head and took a sip of my soup. “Tomorrow,” he answered with a sad smile.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling as if the rug had been pulled from under me.

  “Mia,” he said, searching my eyes. “I know we hardly know each other—in fact, I don’t know anything about you—but, oddly, I feel as if I do.” He paused. “It’s almost as if … as if … we knew each other in another life.” He shook his head. “I know that sounds crazy—I don’t even believe in reincarnation. But I feel so …drawn to you—What is it about you? Is it your seeming zest for life? Is it how you—so easily—make me smile?” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it—but I dare say, I’m going to miss you … and your beautiful smile.” He laughed. �
�It’s foolish for a married man to say such things to a married woman, but it’s true.” I was stunned by his words … and by his admission—it had never occurred to me that he was married. I’d never seen a ring and, at the same time, I’d never stopped wearing mine. What a pair!

  I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry to hear it’s ending so soon.” I hesitated. “I’m going to miss delivering your lunch …” I smiled as I added, “… late!” I touched my rings and paused. “David,” I said, shaking my head slowly, “I’m not married … anymore.” He looked surprised and I struggled to explain—the words feeling strange on my lips. “I guess I never thought of taking off my rings … but, you see, my husband was killed in an accident.” As soon as I said the words, I felt hot tears stinging my eyes and, try as I might, I couldn’t seem to stop them—they fell like the rain outside the window.