by Anita Higman
She looked upward at the starry host even though it was only the glitter-enhanced ceiling of Bloomers. God, it seems like I’m trapped now. What have I done? I’ll have a life, but I won’t really be living. Can somebody please let me out?
At one thirty Trudie parked in front of her sister’s house and headed to the front door. When she’d called Lane to see if she could give her a quick ride back home, Lane had not only agreed, but she’d seemed anxious to talk to her. Trudie leaned over to ring the bell, but Lane opened the front door before she could even press the button.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” Trudie handed her sister the keys. “Are you sure you don’t mind taking me home?”
“Not at all.” Lane locked up. “So, did you have a good day at work?”
“Tiring, but good.” Trudie noticed Lane was fumbling with the key in the door, and the fabric on her suit was jiggling. She was used to seeing her sister excited but never nervous.
Lane finished up and glanced back at Trudie as they walked toward the car. “I guess Mason must have dropped by at work.”
“Yes, he did.” It was easy to see what Lane was hinting at. “He asked me out, and I said no.”
“Oh.” Lane scooted behind the driver’s seat, looking somber. “Mason did call me later. He wanted to hire me as an image coach. I’ve never been more surprised in my life. I told him yes.”
“Okay.” Trudie could tell her sister was pleased, but for obvious reasons Lane was trying hard not to gush. She imagined Mason getting lessons on clothing and posture. Did he think I wasn’t going out with him because he needed improving? How could he think that? But then maybe he really was toying with the idea of keeping his options open with Lane if Trudie kept saying no to his invitations. Impossible. Those strategies didn’t seem to fit Mason’s character. “Did you explain to him about your change of heart? That you were no longer worried about dating someone who you worked with?”
“No.” Lane looked away. “I knew if I told Mason outright, he would suddenly realize why you’re refusing to go out with him. Then it would all look like my fault.”
Trudie could see some merit in her sister’s assertion, but she remained silent.
“You know, I didn’t sleep well last night. Which is why I didn’t get up early. But I had a lot of time to think this over. You know, what you’re doing for me.” Lane gripped the steering wheel. “And here’s what I decided...if you can give me just a little time to see if there’s any hope for Mason and me, then if there isn’t...I will walk away from him, no matter how I feel. I promise.”
Trudie nodded. She wanted to know how much time Lane needed, but she felt that question might be too pushy. “Thank you.”
“I forgot to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Before I take you home, did you want to stop in for a session? It’s still early.” Lane donned that beseeching look she used to get when they were teenagers. The one that was so hard to say no to.
Trudie thought for a moment. “I’m pretty tired from work. Rosalie had me unpack a lot of boxes.” She smiled. “Thanks, though. I’ll look forward to it another time.” And it was true. But at the moment, Trudie felt exhausted from work as well as disheartened about her sister’s news concerning Mason.
As soon as Lane had dropped her off at her apartment and she’d shut the front door, Trudie slid to the floor and rested her head in her hands. “Okay, here are the crazy facts of my life. My sister is in love with a man who once liked her but didn’t love her. Now I’m falling for the same man, and he appears to care for me too. But what we have isn’t quite love. At least not yet. So, God, does one real love trump two maybe loves?” Okay, the angels had to be snickering over that prayer. She could almost hear them howling with laughter.
Trudie scrambled up off the hard floor. I’ll make tea. Black currant—her mother’s favorite. But when she reached up to the top shelf in the kitchen panty to retrieve the box, a tremor ran through her fingers. She’d purchased the black currant tea months earlier, but she’d never really had the courage to drink it—to dip into such an intimate part of the past. It had been more than a decade since her mother had died. Surely she could reminisce. But wasn’t going over memories a meaningful act that should be enjoyed only by the innocent? She felt anything but innocent.
In spite of her reservations, though, Trudie lifted the box from the top shelf, opened it, and took out a bag. She heated a mug of water in the microwave and then set the bag inside. She watched as the color crimson curled its way through the water. The fruity aroma was so enticing, she could understand why it was her mother’s favorite.
After taking a quick sip, Trudie burnt her tongue and jerked the cup away. The liquid spilled on her blouse. Oh no. She tried wiping it off, but it was too late; her blouse was soaked with stain. Shaking her head, she poured the tea into the sink. Trudie gripped the edge of the sink until her fingers ached. God, I have lived with this shadow for too long. I know all those years ago, when I asked You to forgive me for any wrong I did in demanding that my mother make that drive into town, I know You forgave me. But I have never once pardoned myself. And I am so ready to do that.
Trudie released her hold on the sink, and like the untethering of a string on a kite, she felt her heart begin to release some of the past, the memories and guilt that had kept her spirit bound. She took in a deep breath. O Lord, I still miss her so much. Sometimes I can’t remember the smile on her face, but I can still feel the empty place it left in my heart. I’ve known pain that seems unbearable, unnaturally so. I learned how to grieve for my father when he went to heaven, but I have yet to mourn my mother’s passing.
Memories she thought were long since buried began to trickle back. Why had she accepted the strange notion that she didn’t deserve to grieve her mother’s death? Lord, my thinking was so faulty. I really need to... Before she’d even ended her prayer, tears came.
Trudie sat down at the table and let out all the pain—all the aching sorrows she’d never allowed herself to feel. Images of her mother’s death—the news of the accident, the numbness of the funeral, the silent stares—all flashed through her mind like the pages of a dark storybook. Just when she thought her heart had fallen quiet, another round of tears came. Finally she felt relief deep in her soul, felt freedom for the first time in twelve years.
Trudie rose from the table, a little weak in her legs but strong in spirit. She ran cool water over a washcloth, dabbed it on her face, and sighed. I feel sort of like an infant starting my life over. What should I do now? Maybe I need a sign.
The doorbell rang.
Chapter Seventeen
The door. I must look like a puffy-eyed monster. Trudie quickly checked the mirror, groaned, and then went to check the peephole. Two women with short red hair and freckles and big green eyes—obviously identical twins—stood just beyond her welcome mat, holding sets of colorful boxes. She wondered what was up with that. Trudie’s curiosity overcame her apprehension, and she opened the door.
“Good afternoon. Are you Trudie Abernathy?” one of the young women asked.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“We have a delivery from Mr. Wimberley,” they said in unison.
“Okay.” Trudie wondered if she should refuse the present, since Mason had already spent way too much on all the gifts of nightwear. But to say no would come off rude and ungrateful. Especially since the two women probably wouldn’t get paid if she shooed them away.
“These boxes are only part of the delivery,” one of the red-haired gals said. “The rest of your present is in our van. We need your permission to set up.”
“Set up for what?” Prepare to be romanced, Mason had said. Trudie’s heart beat a little faster.
“Well, my sister Lucy here and I, Marietta, have an entire art studio for you.”
“An art studio?” Trudie wasn’t sure if she should jump up and down or spiral into a panic.
“Yes, I’m going to set it up in the room
of your choice while Marietta sings to you.” They beamed as brightly as their boxes.
“Really?”
The redheads nodded.
Then Trudie noticed a van on the street with the words SURPRISES UNLIMITED painted on the side. They were indeed serious.
“Whenever you’re ready.” Lucy wiggled her eyebrows.
Trudie guessed the sisters would like to get rolling. Perhaps their boxes were heavy. Am I ready for this? Then she remembered asking for a sign. Maybe this is it. “Please come in.”
Before Trudie could even think through whether such a gift was appropriate under the circumstances, the two women stepped over her threshold. They smiled, ready to begin.
Where should she have them go? A little dazed, Trudie led them to the spare bedroom, and after several more trips from their van, Lucy began to set up an art studio. Then Marietta cleared her throat, blew into a harmonica, and began belting out “Starry, Starry Night.”
Trudie watched and listened, stupefied. Finally, she just couldn’t help herself and gave into a smile. Mason. He was at it again. What was she going to do with him? He would try to win her over, and at the same time his generosity and sweetness would break Lane’s heart. It was an impossible choice. There had to be a better way.
When the twins were finished setting up and singing, Trudie handed both women large tips. “Thank you. The songs were lovely, and the studio looks incredible. I’ve never been given anything like it.”
“You’re very welcome.” Lucy saluted her. “Surprises Unlimited...that’s what we’re here for.” She chuckled.
Then they all strolled through the hallway into the living room.
“Your studio was our most fun request, by the way,” Lucy said.
Marietta looked at her sister and then at Trudie. “But our most shocking request was when we delivered a jack-in-the-box...with a real Jack inside.”
Trudie laughed. After another moment or two of chitchat the twins said their good-byes and Trudie shut the door. She went back into the spare bedroom and leaned against the doorframe to take it all in. An art studio. Just like that, Mason had made it appear. What a strange new reality.
She ran her hand along the worktable, the easel, the oak taboret, and then the canvas cart, which was filled with canvases. She pulled out some of the drawers on the oak taboret. Oh my. There in the neat dividers were brushes, charcoal sticks, and tubes of oil and watercolor paints, as well as sketchpads and watercolor paper.
Trudie sat down on the padded stool and swiveled around. Mason must have spent a fortune. Could he already care about her that much, or was this a random act of kindness for a new friend? Surely that was it. But then when he said to prepare herself to be romanced, he didn’t appear to be referring to friendship.
She turned on the light over the worktable, thinking that even though she mostly painted in watercolors, Mason had prepared her for so much more. Perhaps someday she would expand her horizons. Then she noticed a small note taped along the side of the table. Trudie opened it and read:
God gave you the gift. Here are the tools to open it. Warmly, Mason.
Beautifully said. Then at the bottom was his home phone number. She leaned back in the chair. Who was this man? He seemed like an angel. No wonder Lane loved him. He was very loveable.
She fingered the dimple on her chin, still trying to get used to having an art studio in her apartment. It was perfect. Mason had thought of everything. But the space, as welcoming and inspiring as it was, seemed foreign to her. So many years before, her art had not only been an income, but an intimate expression of her inner life. It had been passionate, difficult, and pure joy. Would she ever feel those things again?
Trudie looked at her clean fingers. They used to get covered with charcoal, and she’d loved it. She really had forgotten what a blessing art could be. That door had been closed so tightly that even the people who’d known her over the years had barely remembered her interest in art. She hadn’t even shared that part of herself with the kids at the hospital. What a shame. But God was the ultimate Healer, and just as He was the only One to atone for sins and set people free, He was the only One who could give her back the yearning to paint. It hadn’t been God, after all, who’d kept her confined for twelve years; it had been the lies that had kept her caged—the belief that there could be no forgiveness for her.
She picked up a charcoal stick and a sketchpad out of one of the drawers. Just as she set them on the worktable under the light, the phone rang. Mason. What would she say? To refuse to go out with him now would seem ungrateful, and yet how could she? At the very least, she would thank him for his generous gift. She ran to the phone. To her relief, she saw that it was Lane calling.
Trudie picked up the portable phone in the hallway. “Hi, Sis.”
“Sis? You haven’t called me that since high school.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You sound funny,” Lane said. “Listen, I called with a surprise. It’s a good one. I think you’ll like it. At least you have to promise me you’ll like it.”
Now Lane had her worried. “Okay, I guess. What is it?” Trudie could hear the rumbling of thunder in the distance. They were due for some storm showers.
“I have never stopped thinking about you not going out with Mason, so I found someone else for you.”
“You’re kidding. Not another blind date?” Trudie groaned, and she didn’t mind one bit that her sister heard her.
“Now, Trudie, let’s keep an open mind. Think positive.”
“I am. I’m thinking positively that this isn’t going to work.”
Lane chuckled. “You are so funny. Listen, this guy is an artist from my church. Around thirty. His name is Wiley Flat. You are really going to like him. I know you’re a little tired from work, but I promise it’ll be fun.”
“I don’t think so.”
Lane cleared her throat. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me then.”
“Why do I have to forgive you?”
Hmm. Silence.
“Lane? Talk to me.”
“Wiley is coming over this afternoon.”
“Lane, how could you do this to me?” Trudie’s hand slapped her forehead.
“You seemed more forlorn than tired when I dropped you off, and so I—”
“I know you’re feeling guilty about Mason and all, but please don’t think you have to do this.”
“Listen, Wiley is just taking you out for coffee. That’s it. No more. Then you both can decide if you like each other well enough to go out again.”
I was born on the wrong planet. “But, but…” What could she do? “Oy.”
Her sister sighed. “Are you mumbling again?”
“Yes, I’m mumbling.” Lane had placed her in another precarious predicament. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to go out with Wiley, and yet if she refused him at the door, it would seem cruel. What should she do, besides lock Lane up in a room where there were no phones or calendars? That option sounded tempting. Why was it so hard to say no to Lane? She knew she’d donned those puppy-dog eyes of hers. Okay. Maybe coffee. This once. “I will agree to this under one condition.”
“You name it.”
Trudie put her hand on her hip. “That you will never set me up with a blind date again.”
“Wow, you haven’t been so spunky since you were a teenager.” Lane paused. “All right. I agree to your terms.” She chuckled.
Trudie softened a bit. “I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. But I need to manage my life a bit differently now.” Or at least God does.
“Hmm. I can appreciate that. Well, try to have some fun, and have an extra large cappuccino for me.”
Maybe she could make the best of it. “Sure.” Trudie sighed, looking into the hall mirror at her pale cheeks. “I guess I’m ready for that makeup session next week. I could use some color.” She could tell Lane was smiling on the other end.
“Trudie?”
“Yeah?”
“I think we’d
better hang up now.”
“Why?”
“Because Wiley should be there in five minutes.”
“Lane!”
“Love you.”
Trudie sighed, shaking her head. “Love you too.”
“Bye.”
Chapter Eighteen
Trudie listened to the rain outside as she hurriedly readied herself in the bathroom. The whole time she treated herself to little grumbling speeches about her sister. Hopefully she had officially put an end to Lane’s romantic manipulations. She knew her sister was just trying to help, but she was also aware that Lane was trying to assuage her guilt over Mason. It would be hard to stay angry with Lane, though, since Trudie had firsthand experience with the torturous ways of guilt.
Lane did have good taste in men—that was certain. So Wiley was bound to be a fine man, and she knew with even a little effort on her part, the date would go well. But for all the good qualities the man was certain to have, Wiley wouldn’t be Mason. And no matter how hard he tried, there would be nothing the poor man could do about it.
She turned back and forth in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at herself. She’d tried dabbing on a little blue gray eye shadow from a little compact she’d found in a drawer, but she couldn’t tell if the color made her look pretty or just bruised. And did that old perfume out of the same bottom drawer make her smell like baby powder or scouring powder? “Lane, I guess I do need your coaching,” she whispered to the mirror. “But no more help with dates.”
Trudie drummed her fingers on the marble counter. There’s a chance I look like a clown. Why couldn’t she tell? Certainly putting paint on one’s face was very different from brushing it on a canvas.
