Sometimes the best way to help people is to let them go through the difficulties. Bailing them out would short-circuit their life lessons.
“I’m sorry, Ivan.”
“What for?” Ivan was running water over a large pot.
“I’m only trying to help.”
“I know.”
Brinley watched Ivan squirt dish liquid into the large pot. He swirled the soapy water with his hand.
“Let me help load the dishwasher.” Brinley reached for the door.
“The dishwasher is broken.” Ivan dropped forks and knives into the large pot that he had turned into a wash basin.
“Oh.”
“It has been broken for years.”
Years? “Why is it still here?”
“There’d be a hole there if we take it out.” He paused. “And I don’t know how to remove it.”
“That’s easy. I’ll call Toby—”
“No. Don’t call anyone.”
Brinley remembered overstepping with the plumber. “I’m sorry.”
Ivan stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands on the dishcloth hanging off the door pull below the sink.
“I’m the one who should be sorry. Ever wonder why I didn’t date for six years? I can’t afford it, Brin. I can’t bring a girl to this dump. I can’t let her see where I live. And here you are.”
And here I am.
Brinley tried to choose her words carefully. It seemed to be a touchy issue. What could she say to ameliorate his angst? Maybe something Yun would say? Well, Yun would refer back to God.
“What do you think your Bible would say about it?” Brinley caught herself by surprise at what came out of her mouth, but it seemed to surprise Ivan more.
“My Bible?”
As if he was asking, “What do you know about my Bible?”
“I was thinking that when I had tea with your grandma on Friday, she talked about the Bible a lot. Seems to me it would have the answer to your po— uh, problem.”
Whew. Good thing she didn’t say poverty.
“The Bible says I should trust God.” Ivan started washing the silverware. “I’ve been trusting God for years and still things have been bad for us.”
“Let me try to understand this,” Brinley said. “Trusting someone implies trusting his take on things, right?”
“Pretty much.”
“Therefore, trusting God means trusting His take on things.”
“You said that.”
“Maybe you need to wait it out.”
“Meaning what?”
Brinley stepped closer to Ivan. Rubbed his flannel sleeve. His arm was rigid underneath. She kept stroking his arm until he eased up.
“You know Dad and I do a lot of renos—renovations—up and down Coastal Georgia,” she said.
“I have no idea what you do, Brinley, other than sales. What do you do exactly?”
“Well, our family has two companies. Brooks Investments is based in Atlanta and is international. I’m quitting my job in Dad’s marketing department there, actually. Don’t tell Dad yet. When he comes home from Paris next week, I’ll talk to him about it.” Brinley sighed. “But when I’m in town here, I love doing stuff with Dad in his other company. Brooks Renovations. Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t matter. Dad flips houses as a hobby, you know.”
“Flips? Like buying and selling?”
“Yes. We go to these houses. Maybe they have good bones, but the houses could be wrecks otherwise.”
“Like this one.”
“Worse.”
“Is that possible?”
“Better believe it. Sometimes we have to gut the whole structure and rebuild from the foundation up. All that takes time. Sometimes I disagree with Dad about how we should fix the house. But in the end, I trust his judgment. I trust his take on things. So I wait and see what he does. And usually he’s right. It almost always turns out better than I thought.”
“Your point is?”
“Don’t you get it? My dad is not perfect and I trust him and he comes through. Imagine if you trust your perfect God and He comes through. If He’s God, He’s perfect, and He’s always right. Imagine the results.”
“Yes.”
“So trust your God. Wait it out. It will turn out better than you thought.”
Silence.
“Say something, Ivan.”
“I’m speechless.”
“Why? Did I say something wrong about your God?”
“No.”
“Then what? Don’t look at me like that.”
“You said that if God is God, then He is perfect and He is always right.” Ivan was inches away from Brinley’s face. “If He is perfect and right, I can trust Him for the situations in my life.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“If He’s perfect and right, why are you not trusting Him for the salvation of your soul?”
Now it was Brinley’s turn to be silent.
“Is that not logical?” Ivan pressed.
Slowly, Brinley nodded. “I guess it is. In my mind, I see what you mean. In my heart, I don’t feel it.”
“Brin, salvation is not by feel. It’s by faith in God.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“And I’ll think about what you said too.” Ivan let her go. “Now how about I wash these silverware and you dry them?”
“Sounds good. Where’s a clean dish towel?”
“In that drawer over there.”
Brinley opened the drawer at the island. The dish towels were clean but frayed at the edges. When she tried to close the drawer, it caught. It looked like the drawer slides were grimy and some parts had worn out. She couldn’t get the drawer back in place.
“Let me get that.” Ivan stepped in and jiggled the drawer. He slammed it shut. “Nothing sheer force can’t fix.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe I’ll get you a can of WD-40 for Christmas.”
“That would be a nice domestic gift.” Ivan laughed.
Brinley blinked. Domestic?
Chapter Twenty-Four
The percussion of pattering shoes opened Ivan’s eyes. Coming down the stairs into his basement studio, his domain, his man cave, Brinley stepped onto the worn carpet. She didn’t seem to notice big old ugly stains beneath her dress shoes.
“That was beautiful.” Brinley walked toward him. “What is it?”
“Something I’m composing.”
“For?”
You. “Just a tune.”
He had sneaked out of the after-lunch conversation to get some breathing space. His basement was where he could unwind from a long day, his favorite place to cool off. He had been up since five o’clock studying his Bible to get direction from God for his life. He had written some more of his song for Brinley. He and Grandma Yun had arrived at Seaside Chapel at nine o’clock because he had an early rehearsal with the string ensemble for the offertory. Sunday School and service and then the whole tension of having Brinley in their house for lunch had all worn him out.
He could use a nap. But couldn’t until Brinley and Aunt Ella had left.
“They’re done gabbing up there?” Ivan asked.
“I told Aunt Ella we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. She’s eating her last cookies. Speaking of which, Yun said gingerbread is your favorite.”
Only Grandma’s gingerbread.
“She said she’ll give me the recipe someday.”
“Someday?” Ivan laughed. “Yeah. Wait for it.”
“I wish I could cook. I’m reheating frozen food all week.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” Ivan almost reached for her, but he decided not to because they were alone in the basement and he didn’t want to get into trouble with impropriety. Better let her stand there. “You can always learn, Brin.”
Brinley shrugged. She opened up the paper napkin in her hand to reveal two nesting cookies. “Want some?”
“Can’t. My hands are clean.” Ivan picked up the violin agai
n. “Can’t get grease on this. It’s not mine.”
“Not yours?”
“Nope. This belongs to Conductor Petrocelli. Jean Baptiste Vuillaume made it in 1850.”
“What did you play previously?”
“An assortment of violins.” He didn’t want to say more.
He felt that Brinley didn’t need to know he had to sell his Gagliano to pay off part of the three mortgages on Grandma’s house. The second mortgage was Grandpa Otto’s fault, but the third was his to deal with Grandma’s broken hip and the subsequent hospital bills and physical therapy not covered by his music studio insurance.
If he had the SISO job then, they would’ve been better off. But it was two years too late when SISO finally hired him as one of the first violinists. When the concertmaster left for greater venues, he had to compete for her position. Thank God he got it now and their income situation had improved.
Ivan was relieved when Brinley said nothing. He watched her break off a third of Grandma’s homemade cookie and lift it toward his mouth.
“Open up,” she said.
Are you kidding me?
But he did what she told him to do, and she stuffed the piece of cookie into his mouth. She didn’t touch his lips or chin or cheek at all. Her movement was graceful, like she had done this before. He felt a bit jealous.
Of what? Of whom?
But why would he be jealous? Unwarranted, he chided himself.
Nothing could ever happen between him and her. Different worlds. Different circles. Different beliefs. Grandpa Otto used to stress how important it was for the husband and wife to be on the same spiritual page—
What did I say? Husband and what?
He stood there, violin in hand, speechless at what had crossed his own mind, all the while chewing on a piece of cookie that a woman he had only gotten close to for fewer than three days had hand-fed him. Granted, they’d known each other in passing for about a year. But they hadn’t been on first name basis until the week before.
It felt so wrong.
“Want more?” She broke off another piece.
“No. Thank you. I’d better not.” He swallowed the last bit of crumbs. “Want to hear my composition?”
“Absolutely.”
Ivan put his chin on the violin chin rest. He began to play Pleasant Days as Brinley ate the rest of the cookies. He improvised a bit but she didn’t seem to notice.
In the middle of it he lost track of what he was doing. The rest of the tune in his head was ebbing into forgetfulness. After the thirty-fifth measure the music manuscript blurred and all he could see was Brinley standing right in front of him, holding the rest of the cookie in her hand.
He stopped playing.
“I’m still working on the rest of it.” It was somewhat true.
“I like what you have so far. Sounds like a quiet walk on the beach in the morning with a cup of coffee.”
“Seriously?”
Brinley nodded. “What is it called?”
“Pleasant Days.”
“There you go.” Brinley bunched up the paper napkin. “Are you going to write the accompaniment?”
“Yeah. Or maybe turn this into a sonata for two violins.”
“You play it well.”
“Thank you.”
“I wonder how that would sound on a Strad.”
Ivan shook his head. “Petrocelli is only letting me play one composition on the Strad for tomorrow night’s auction.”
“Oh, the fundraiser is tomorrow. I forgot. Just as well that we cancelled lunch tomorrow. Busy day for you.”
“Yeah. And I’d better rehearse that piece too.”
“So we’d better leave.”
“No. No. That’s not what I mean.” Ivan placed the Vuillaume into its case. “I practice every day. Maintenance, you know. So it’s not a big deal if I don’t rehearse this afternoon.”
“You make the violin look easy to play.” Brinley smiled.
Ivan shrugged.
“Might you do something beyond SISO? Leave St. Simon’s?”
Ivan hesitated. That’s a loaded question.
“Once upon a time I thought I did. I can’t go back. And I can’t think that far now. I need to focus on SISO and my music studio.” And taking care of Grandma, the whole reason he was stuck on this island.
Brinley looked around. “Is this your music studio?”
“I know it’s small, but it’s thriving.” Ivan snapped shut the violin case. He pointed to a wall of glass doors behind which were music stands and an upright piano. “This used to be one giant room, but I walled it off over there. That’s sort of semi-soundproof.”
“That’s where you teach violin.”
Ivan nodded. “All day long, year round, except Thanksgiving and Christmas. Our Christmas break is longer because I can’t juggle all these SISO performances and rehearsals and teach violin at the same time.”
“SISO keeps you busy this time of year.”
“Through New Year’s Eve.” Ivan plucked a flyer off a cork-board on the wall. “Here are all our performances if you want to come and listen. Some are open to the public. Some are private soirees.”
Brinley took the paper from him, read it, then folded and pocketed it. “Do you have many students?”
“Enough to keep me busy though some of them are not coming back after the Christmas break. I’ll have to try to get new students in the spring or for next year.”
“Not coming back?”
“Violin isn’t the easiest instrument to learn. They hear me and they want to play like that. It takes years to get there and sometimes people, especially kids, lose their patience.”
“I used to hear Grandpa Brooks on his Strad.”
“The Lord Sterling Strad? The one that’s now in a safe place where nobody can play it?”
“I know what you said. Musical instruments are not meant to be locked in vaults.”
She was listening!
Brinley nodded. “I think when the SISO Museum of Musical Instruments is done, I’ll loan some of them to it. What do you think?”
“Some? How many Strads do you have?”
Brinley didn’t say. “Grandpa would have traded them all—except the Lord Sterling—for the Damaris Brooks.”
Wow. She is so outside my league.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brinley woke up with the sun when the beams beat down on her covers. From her brother Dillon’s bed, she watched two—no, three, but no more—brown pelicans fly by. Over many summers in her childhood, she used to see flocks of them flying up and down the Atlantic coast. These days if Brinley saw a few flying together, it was yet another sign of progress in recovering the species.
She plopped her feet on the heated hardwood floor in the bedroom, smaller than hers next door now occupied by Aunt Ella. Brinley had locked all the doors and windows and had warned her to stay put. The nurse would be coming in at ten to administer Aunt Ella’s medications. Then it was up to Brinley to take care of her until Aunt Ella’s caregiver returned from her own Christmas break.
Brinley brushed her teeth and showered quickly. She threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. She peeked into her old bedroom to find Aunt Ella still asleep. Good. She was concerned she had run away again.
She padded downstairs to forage for breakfast. Before she could even reach the kitchen, she smelled the fragrant aroma of pancakes. She quickened her steps.
“Cara! What are you doing here?” Brinley gave the housekeeper a quick hug at Mom’s La Grand Palais 180 range. Mom wanted the best range and hood though she never cooked in her life. In the end it was for Cara’s use and Brinley and her siblings’ benefit.
“I can’t let you eat last week’s frozen food. I brought you some food for the next several days. I’ll bring you some more at the end of the week.”
“Cara, you don’t have to.” Brinley wasn’t sure how to tell her. Didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “I should’ve called you yesterday.”
“Abou
t what?” Cara flipped the pancakes.
“I want you to have Christmas and New Year off, Cara. Spend time with your husband and kids and your new grandbaby. So I’m having a personal chef come in twice a week until you come back.”
“A personal chef?” There was some sort of edge to Cara’s voice that Brinley couldn’t make out.
“She’s not taking your place, Cara. She’s going to make sure Aunt Ella and I have food for some of the days we don’t eat out. Then you’ll be back and she’ll be gone.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. And you know I always keep my promise.”
“I know, but it’s no trouble at all for me to drop off a few dishes.”
“Who cooks those dishes?” Brinley opened a cabinet door to retrieve a dinner plate. She placed it on the granite counter next to the stove.
“Well, I do.”
“Exactly. So you’re at home cooking for me when you’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I mind.” Brinley watched Cara place several pancakes on her plate. Her mouth started to water when she smelled the buttermilk.
Yet she wished Cara had not come. “Like right now. Shouldn’t you be having breakfast with your husband?”
“I’ve been here at six o’clock every morning since you were a little kid.”
“Except at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Go home, Cara.”
“Not until I make you pancakes for tomorrow morning.” Cara poured more batter in the pan.
“I hope that God blesses you for your caring spirit, Cara.”
Cara stopped what she was doing. “God? You believe in God now?”
“I don’t have a problem with God. It’s Jesus I can’t get past.” Brinley found organic maple syrup in the refrigerator.
“Do you want that heated up?” Cara asked.
“No time. I’m famished. Do you have coffee?” Brinley sat down on a barstool at the island, poured cold syrup on her hot pancakes, and dug in.
She remembered how Ivan had thanked God for the food, but she wasn’t sure if God would hear her prayers if she did the same. Maybe it had more effect if Ivan or Yun said it instead of her. She’d ask Yun about it this afternoon when they met for tea.
Share with Me: Seaside Chapel Book 1 Page 14
