by Chris Fabry
She stopped and turned. He leaned over and opened the back door for her. “I’m not leaving here without you. If for no other reason than your dad would kill me. Look at the sun—it’s already down. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes.”
Her purse was in the car, her cell phone inside it. She probably couldn’t get service out here, it was so remote. No one was on the road and it was getting dark.
She got in the car, sitting in the back. For ten minutes they rode in silence. Then Eddie flipped on the radio and listened while she stared out the window, a tear running its way down her cheek.
Neither spoke for the rest of the ride.
Finally, when he pulled up to her house, Eddie said, “You’re not serious about this?”
“Yeah, I am. If you can’t respect what I want . . .”
Eddie snorted. “You say I’m acting like a teenager, but you’re the one who needs to grow up, Rose.”
Rose jumped out of the car and slammed the door.
Eddie rolled down the window and shouted, “How about I find a real woman who knows how to show me she loves me? ’Cause we’re done.”
Rose stumbled into the house as Eddie’s car roared away.
“Rose, what’s wrong?” her father said behind her.
She was crying too hard to speak.
CHAPTER 8
JED SPOKE TO HIS MOTHER periodically and she asked him to visit—if he had time. They were growing apart, as a natural process, but he could hear the pain in her voice, the pain of losing her husband and a son who was living independently. He surprised her one day before the concert at the Jordan Vineyard and they ate lunch together and talked about safe things. He told her about the venue but tried to paint it for what it was: a nice gig in the country without a lot of expectations. Then she grew quiet.
“What is it?” Jed said.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me.”
“I don’t feel that way. I want you in my life.”
“And I want to be part of helping you become who you were meant to be, but I don’t want to get in your way.”
“You’ve heard about Stan, right? That he let me go?”
She nodded. “Because of the label’s decision.”
“You know about that, too?”
She wiped her mouth and took a drink of sweet tea. “He called after he talked with you. He was concerned.”
“If he was so concerned, why didn’t he stick with me? That’s what friends do.”
“It’s business, Jed. You know that. It’s not personal.”
“It feels personal.”
She thought a moment and it seemed to him like she was pulling up a bucket from some deep well of her life. Finally she said, “That this happened to you is not the most important thing. Life sneaks up and smacks you when you least expect it. It happens to us all. The most important thing is how you handle it. Your response to the struggle.”
Like his dad’s song, Jed thought. A line from a song on his father’s first album Jed had sung when he was learning to play.
Life will take its swings
and life will not hold back
So you gotta dodge and weave and keep your feet
and try to stay on track.
“I’ve been thinking I might give carpentry a try,” Jed said. “Maybe take some time off from music. Still write and play, but let things come to me. There’s a contractor I know who—”
“Jed, you’d be a great carpenter—you learned a lot from your dad. But that’s not what you were made to do. You know that, don’t you?”
“You’re my mother. You have to say stuff like that.”
“I also was onstage. Sang with some of the best and watched the rest. I’ve seen those who have it and those who just want to have it but don’t. The hungry ones. You’ve got the natural talent that can’t be taught. The intangible quality of a star. And you have the drive, I think. But you also have the heart. A genuine goodness. You can do this without having it change who you are inside.”
“You sure about that?”
“I know it.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what Stan told me I didn’t have. Heart. Passion. Inspiration. He says my songs . . . How did he put it? They just sit there without moving people, I guess is the way to say it.”
“He’s right.”
Jed looked at her with a furrowed brow. “Some encouragement you are.”
She smiled. “You’ve gone as far as you have on your talent and legacy.”
“Meaning people listen to me because they liked Dad’s music. He said that, too.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant you’ve reached a point where you need to make a decision.”
“About what?”
“Will you settle for the success you’ve had and call it good, or will you reach for something more? Something deeper? And how will you define success? Number one hits? Another contract? Lots of money in the bank?”
“Dad had all of that and was miserable for much of his life.”
“Exactly. Will you learn from him? Use the manure of life?”
He cocked his head at her.
“It’s something your father used to say. Most of life is manure. The challenge is learning to manage the stink and get the benefit from what grows out of it.”
“The barnyard philosopher.”
They both laughed and it was a welcome relief to the conversation. Then his mother opened another can of relational questions.
“Anything going on romantically?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Jed said.
Another smile, but this one was sad. “After the life your father and I had, I don’t think anyone could replace him. I’m open to it, if God would have that for me, but I’m not asking him to fill that void with anyone but himself.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve given up on women.”
“So soon? Totally? Irrevocably?”
“Janis and I were serious for a long time in high school. You know that. But we were so different. And when she went to school . . .”
“What about Tracey?”
“Sweetest girl I’ve ever met. She wasn’t ready to sign up for what my life is becoming.”
“Not interested in being a carpenter’s wife, huh?”
He laughed. “Maybe if I became a carpenter, she would be interested.”
“So what are you looking for?”
“It’s not like I’ve made a list. I don’t have eighty things a girl must have—”
“But if Janis and Tracey weren’t the ones, you have an idea.”
Jed sighed and put down his fork. “First I want to be the right guy. But I also want to meet a girl who will take me deeper with God than I can go on my own.”
“That’s a pretty tall order for somebody with no list.”
“I think I’ll know her if I ever see her.”
“And how’s that going to happen?”
He thought a minute. A picture flashed in his mind—some girl he had never seen with a knockout figure and a smile that could light a dim barroom. Long hair—or short; he could go either way on the hair.
“I think I’ll know her because she’ll make me want to sing a new song.”
“Be careful about holding this woman to an impossible standard.”
“You asked.”
“I’m just saying—if you’re looking for a woman to inspire you, just be careful not to put too much pressure. Inspiration doesn’t come from outside, it comes from inside as you look at the world.”
“Is that another one from the barnyard philosopher?”
“That was his and mine.” She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “In other words, don’t wait for a girl to make your heart come alive. That’s not her job.”
“Sounds like a song, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe it is,” his mother said. “And it sounds like you’re not giving up on women.”
“Sure I a
m,” Jed said, smiling.
CHAPTER 9
THE TOMBSTONE OF LILY JORDAN sat on a knoll overlooking the pond on their property. Family graveyards were more intimate and meaningful than a big plot of land with stones everywhere, and Rose had been glad when her dad had decided to let her mother rest by the vineyard. It was the spot where her father wanted to be buried as well.
Rose looked at the dash between when her mother was born and when she died, grieving how little of it she’d gotten to experience with her. Her mom had left her letters to open at each birthday until she was twenty-one, but those had ended now. More than ever, it felt like Rose was on her own.
The breast cancer had spread to the lymph nodes before they discovered she was sick. She had hung on until after Rose’s birthday, and then some. But in the end, though they tried to shield Rose from the pain her mother was going through, the disease had taken over and her mother bore little resemblance to the cheery woman who looked out from the pictures in Rose’s baby book.
There was so much she wanted to ask now, so much to say, and these trips to her grave helped Rose process life. She knew she wasn’t actually talking with her mother and she never heard answers from the grave. There was just a strange comfort in speaking aloud here and saying things she couldn’t tell her father.
“I don’t know why this Eddie thing has me tied in knots,” Rose said to the tombstone, arranging the dandelions and daffodils she had picked that morning to bring here. “He’s not a good guy. You probably knew that seeing him in elementary school. It just took so long for me to see it and I don’t know why. Even now that I’ve seen it, part of me wants to run right back, and I know that’s stupid.”
Rose stood and went around to the other side of the stone on the freshly cut grass and sat in the shade of the oak tree. The breeze lifted the branches overhead.
“I know what you’d say. I’ve read it enough times in your letters. ‘Be the person God wants you to be and run toward him. If anybody is keeping up, ask his name.’ I thought Eddie might be like that—he’s been in church with us since he was little. Dad says being in church doesn’t make you any more of a Christian than . . .” She stopped. “You know what he says. I don’t have to repeat it.”
Rose stared at the back of the gray stone. Her father’s grave would be right next to her mother’s one day, and that gave her a chill. The possibility of losing her father had been an overpowering fear after her mother died. She had to be with him at all times, which meant being in school brought anxiety. What if something happened to him? Like Scout Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, Rose had conceded the necessity of school and he promised not to die.
A couple years after that, Rose had a Sunday school teacher who had taught the story of Lazarus. Rose had excused herself and gone to the bathroom to cry. Later, the woman took Rose for tea and asked questions about her mom. That was the crazy thing—after she died, nobody would bring her up, but Rose wanted to talk, wanted to remember. Half of the fear was that she might forget too.
“I don’t have good answers about your mom. I think death stinks, if you want to know the truth.”
“One of the ladies at church said everything works for good, even the death of someone you love.”
“Who said that?”
“Mrs. Bailey.” A prim, proper woman with an encyclopedic knowledge of Scripture.
“The worst thing that’s happened in that woman’s life is a hangnail. She tosses verses like that as if she’s throwing the first pitch at a church softball game. These truths aren’t slogans or bumper stickers to lob at people who are hurting. And you’ve had a deep hurt, kiddo. You ever get mad at God?”
“No.”
“You know where you go for lying, don’t you?”
Rose smiled.
“You don’t have to pretend with God. Read the Psalms. Pretending means you cheat both you and God of real life, and that’s what he wants to give. Get all the feelings out and ask him to help you heal.”
“Did my mom die because I did something bad?”
Her eyes were crinkled and sad-looking. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s run through my mind.”
“Rose, this is not your fault. None of it. God’s not punishing you—this is a wound he’s allowed and I don’t think you’ll ever have an answer this side of heaven. But hang on to this: the same God who allowed Lily to leave is the one who said he would never leave you.”
“I’d rather have my mother back,” Rose said.
“That’s good,” the woman said. “That’s honest and real and would probably get you kicked out of any class Mrs. Bailey might teach.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I lost my own mother when I was about your age. I struggled for years. Ran away from God. Stuffed my feelings, the whole bit. But in God’s kindness, he welcomed me back. And I think he let me go through that so I could comfort somebody else—like you.”
Now, here at her mother’s grave, Rose thanked God for people who hadn’t so much taken her mother’s place but had held her up while she walked through the pain.
“You always said that good things come to those who wait, Mom,” she said. “I guess I’ll keep waiting for the right guy, and if he never comes along, at least I’ll be close to God.”
She rearranged the flowers one more time before she left.
CHAPTER 10
JED DROVE THROUGH the rolling countryside on that crisp fall day. The farmland looked like it was being tucked in for winter, and the trees had turned rusty, but there were hints of life, patches of green here and there. Jed didn’t know why God set things up this way, that they had to die in order to live, but it was true.
He studied the MapQuest printout against the steering wheel as the road narrowed. Stan’s card that had been ripped up was now taped together and paper-clipped to the top of the page.
He was beginning to think he had missed a turn somewhere when he passed a sign that said, Sharon, Population 2,221. What had his life and music come to? He wanted to play big venues but here he was entering a town that was tucked away in some forgotten corner of the world.
The vineyard was bustling with activity when he pulled past the barn to park and his brakes whined, the pads getting a little too close. He was early for the gig, so he walked around to get a feel for the place and the people. Lots of kids and younger parents; that was good. And lots of food.
There were pumpkins and cornstalks and hay bales everywhere. He saw a booth for grape stomping, which made him smile. Lights were strung overhead and he couldn’t wait to see the place after dark with the moon above and a crowd of people. It wasn’t the Grand Ole Opry, but it paid. Then some doubt crept in. Would he be playing tiny fairs and festivals and church youth groups the rest of his life?
He passed an apple cider stand and the smell of the hot cider brought back a cinnamon-toasty memory, a good one of his mom and dad together at a pumpkin farm when he was little. Just the three of them, and nobody knew who his dad was with his hat pulled down low and a fresh shave. They had run through the corn maze and Jed had turned to see the two of them kissing. He laughed and made fun of them, but somewhere inside, he felt warmth at the sight of them together and touching and kissing.
His father had given him a Styrofoam cup of cider and put a splash of cold water in to make it palatable. Jed could still taste that cider after all these years.
He spotted gourd bowling and other games spread through the farm like a carnival. Wagons filled with people for hayrides. Parents struggled with strollers on the uneven ground and toddlers walked stiff-legged, looking back and falling.
The smell of caramel apples and cotton candy made his mouth water, and the wine-tasting table drew him like a fly to honey. There was something for every age.
“Jed?” someone said behind him. A sweet voice. He turned and saw her walking through a maze of tables and chairs. She didn’t glide, wasn’t a specter, but the way she appeared with the sun glinting off her blonde h
air made her look like a vision. She wore a white scarf and sweater and her face took his breath away. Was it too much to call her angelic?
“Are you Jed King?” He’d never imagined an angel with a slight drawl.
“Yes,” he answered stiffly, like he was reading from a script but couldn’t get out any of his lines because his heart was pounding so hard. When he’d heard her voice on the other end of the phone line, he’d cast a mental picture of her, but she did not look like his mental picture of a farm girl.
“I’m Rose Jordan,” she said, a hand on her heart. And she smiled. The whole world seemed a little brighter as he looked at her through sunglasses. “We spoke on the phone?”
“Right, right,” Jed said, smiling and taking off the sunglasses.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, reaching out a hand. Her little drawl showed up in the word nice that came out close to nass. Just enough to let him know she was a country girl and didn’t need to hide it. She was what she was. Firm grip to the handshake too.
He searched for something to say. “This is your place, then?”
“My dad’s.” The way she said it was so gentle, a mix of respect and honor. Like she was proud of both the land and her father because they were a package deal.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. He was talking about the farm but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The hazel eyes. The dimples when she smiled. How old was she? Was she wearing a ring? He couldn’t believe he was thinking these things so quickly, but there it was.
“Well, he’ll want to know you’re here, so . . .”
He watched her, in awe of everything about her, the way she walked, the confidence in her step. He’d seen a lot of beautiful women, but there was something different about Rose. A quietness and peace and gentleness. No, angelic was just right.
She didn’t turn as she walked. “My father’s name is Shepherd, but everybody calls him Shep.”
The man looked to be in his sixties, with a weathered face and receding hairline. He was quarreling with some contraption that was set up near the start of the hay maze.
