Lessons in Love

by Yvonne Lehman

  Megan lightly touched the curved iron railing, reminiscent of both the Federalist and English Regency styles, as she ascended the steps and then stood on the balcony bordered by the iron railing. She started to touch the ornate knocker but noticed the bell, so she rang it.

  She thought it was taking a while for him to answer. Perhaps he expected her at the back. Then she heard the sound of the knob turn and the wood door opened. There was no screen to separate them at the front. He was right there, with his platinum hair and that look in his eyes that her friends described as kindness. She got the impression it was perhaps sympathy.

  She didn’t need that.

  She looked away from whatever was in his blue eyes, a shade darker than Michael’s, a shade darker than the sky but just as clear.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped inside as he moved away for her to enter. She saw it then. The room was no longer furnished with Michael’s contemporary furniture; it was filled with antique furniture in disarray.

  She took a very deep breath and detected the odor of items that had likely been stored for a while.

  “What am I to do with this?” he said, drawing her attention back to him.

  She did not want to look at his face, his hair or his eyes, so her glance skirted toward him and then around the room. “I think that’s why I’m here.”

  That was supposed to sound playful, but she heard the discomfort in her tone, the forced words. She would simply look around for a while, so she moved to touch a couch with its beautiful pattern and tried to focus on it. For some strange reason it seemed blurry.

  Maybe it was the pattern, the color, the clutter or her eyes adjusting to coming from the sunlight into the dimmer room—or maybe it was germ infested from whatever had made Michael sick. She felt sick.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he said, as if he noticed something was wrong.

  Nothing was wrong. “No. I’m just thinking.”

  “All right,” he said slowly and she turned her face away from him lest she appear as pasty as she felt. “Like it’s been mentioned a few times...”

  Yes, this had been mentioned. First at breakfast on the back porch, another time at the cottage and later at Aunt B’s before the appointment had been made for her to give her opinion of what he might do with the interior to give it historic significance.

  Her mind didn’t seem to be working and she feared her knees were going to stop holding her up. She felt weak.

  She saw him move, and he said, “Let’s go in the kitchen, have something to drink, sit at the table and discuss this mess.” She heard his attempt at a small laugh. Was it about the mess. Or...her?

  Unsure what else to do, she followed the blur ahead of her.

  She and Michael had gone through the house. He’d asked what she would do if the house were hers. She’d read too much into that, apparently.

  She tried not to, but she thought of Michael. And missed him—or at least the man she thought he was. He’d been appealing, smart, fun. Now he was a man with a past he was trying to deal with. Had she really known him at all? What had she been to him?

  Who was Michael?

  Where was Michael?

  Why was this man here?

  What was this all about?

  She missed her grandmother.

  And she felt it coming. Like an overwhelming sweep of an ocean wave she’d seen at Tybee Island.

  Her control was going.

  One single sob came from her throat and then the waterworks began. He stepped into the kitchen, but she trudged past him and stumbled down the hallway to the back door.

  He said her name, but she shook her head. Or was it her whole body shaking? She lifted a limp hand to ward him off. If he, or anyone in the whole world, touched her, she would crumble.

  She might anyway. She opened the wooden door, then the screen and stepped out. He was right there, standing in her way and preventing her from going down the steps. She bumped into him as they both reached for the chair to pull it out from the table.

  His hand gripped her arm. “Just sit,” he commanded and she was too helpless not to obey.

  She dropped her tote bag, sat and laid her head on her arms on the table.

  And then she crumbled.

  Chapter 10

  Noah stood helplessly, his hands making fists then his fingers stretching as if in some kind of exercise program. That mimicked his feelings of helplessness. Do this, do that—he had no idea.

  She mumbled something.

  “Mitote?” He tried to mimic the word she’d said.

  “Tote,” she said. She sniffed and lifted her head enough to put her hand over her mouth and nose, but he managed to make out her words. “My bag.”

  “Oh, here it is.” It was a couple feet away. Glad to have something to do, he held it out to her free hand.

  Her shoulders lifted with each intake of air and her eyes kept blinking as she delved into the bag and came out with a napkin. She looked at it and moaned, tossed it onto the table and laid her head on her arms again.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “If you promise not to move.”

  “I c-can’t.”

  He didn’t know if she meant she couldn’t promise or she couldn’t move. But he’d chance it. He went inside and immediately returned. “Here. Try this.”

  She sat upright, took what he held out to her, used it, then blinked to dry her eyes while taking in great gulps of air. She was trying to say something. He hoped she would confide in him, let him console her, reassure her, although he felt totally inadequate. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her, waiting.

  She held out the wad in her hand. “This is a table napkin.” She sounded like someone with a very bad head cold. “Not a handkerchief.”

  “It was either that or the tablecloth.” He pointed to the discarded napkin. “Since you didn’t use this, I didn’t think a paper towel would be in order.”

  She attempted to laugh despite the waterfall flowing down her cheeks. “That’s—”

  She pointed and he lifted a fold of the paper napkin with the tip of his finger. Then he saw a familiar face. He opened it. “It’s SweetiePie.” He wanted to laugh at the caricature, but he was uncertain how she might take that. He stifled it and said, “That’s what she looked like when she came out of Symon’s creek and shook. Strange sight, seeing her and Mudd in the creek like that.”

  Megan nodded. “That’s why Annabelle wants to write about SweediePie and Budd. They used to be endemies.”

  He put his hand to his lips to keep from smiling at her attempt to make herself clear with a stuffy nose.

  After sniffing and taking a deep breath she tried again. “That was the day Symon and Annabelle fell in the creek. The cat and dog became friends. The moral of Annabelle’s story is that it’s much better to accept the differences in animals—or people—instead of judging by how they look.”

  “Must be something special in that creek,” he said and grinned, wondering if he might take Megan and jump in the creek with her. He didn’t like to think they might be “endemies.”

  His grin faded, however, when her breath came faster. He hoped she wouldn’t hyperventilate. He wasn’t sure if that would call for a paper bag to breathe into or resuscitation of a different kind. No, the latter was probably confined to the creek. He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought as he looked at the sketch.

  She shook her head. “That’s probably how I look right now.”

  “Oh,” he began and felt the words stop in his throat. He’d been about to say, “Far from it,” and it seemed the words in his mind fell over each other about what a beautiful woman she was and all the qualities he admired about her and if she were not so much in love with Mi
chael... Fortunately, the words piled up in his mind and he realized he should never, ever say them—not even think them. He didn’t really think them. They just happened to trip across his brain, unbidden.

  Her storm had lessened to a light rain that now dribbled down her cheeks. Her voice squeaked. “I don’t know why I did that.”

  “I don’t know how you couldn’t,” he replied sincerely. “This is the first time you’ve been in there since he left, isn’t it? There must be a lot of mem—”

  “No,” she said as the dribble increased. He might have to bring out a few more napkins. “There are no great memories of being in the house,” she said, which seemed odd to him. “I mean, we have been in there, talked about the house, even sat at the kitchen table and ate a sandwich one time, but we didn’t spend much time here. He really hadn’t been feeling well since Christmas. Also, I have accountability friends. And Aunt B to answer to.”

  Suddenly she moaned. “Oh, that didn’t come out right. It sounds like without friends, or someone keeping tabs on me, I’d—”

  “No,” he said, feeling she was even more wonderful by the moment. “Not at all. I’m well aware of the standards you and your friends have.” He thought he’d better soften that, in case. “But anyone can make a mistake. I guess we all do. But we have a heavenly Father who forgives when we ask.”

  She shook her head and he understood her mumble this time when she said, “What am I doing?” And he knew she wasn’t asking him, but herself. She reached for the SweetiePie sketch and folded it, then returned it to her tote.

  He realized she had a tender heart. At times she’d been aloof and he couldn’t blame her, but now he felt she’d just been bearing up under her loss. That wasn’t easy. He’d been there, done that. Maybe he should let her know.

  “You’re expressing emotion,” he said. “Something we guys are not supposed to do.” He could feel it now but sure hoped he wouldn’t. He hadn’t cried when he saw his buddies blown apart. Or when they took a bullet. The living ones just went through the motions of their training and did what needed to be done. They had to keep their eyes open and their wits about them and simply be soldiers.

  But after coming home, he’d drowned his sobs in a pillow many nights and at other times in the shower, always having music or television or noise in the background. But he didn’t want to say anything that might make her compare her loss of Michael with the loss of life on the battlefield.

  A heartache was not something to be compared or diminished. Everyone had a right to grieve over any kind of hurt or disappointment.

  “I don’t want you telling Michael that I’m falling apart,” she said. “That’s not it at all. I think seeing his furniture gone reminded me that he is gone. It’s like when I got the call about my grandmother.”

  She was looking beyond him and he dared not look directly at her, lest she decide not to confide in him. She was trying to explain, redeem herself in her eyes.

  “I closed my phone as Lizzie walked into the room. She asked what was wrong but I couldn’t speak. She did it for me and asked if it was about grandmother. I tried to make my lips move but they only trembled.”

  Noah saw fresh tears appear in her eyes. “I couldn’t even say that Grandmother had died. It wasn’t unexpected. I thought I could deal with it, knowing that she was better off and in heaven.”

  He nodded. “I understand. I’ve had times of believing I was handling things all right, too. But I wasn’t here for...the funeral.” Maybe identifying with Megan’s emotion is what made him feel emotional. He thought that was over and done, too. He looked down at the table, preferring to forget but remembering anyway. He wanted Megan to know he knew about loss. “I haven’t talked with anyone about this,” he said, “but now I realize I need to.”

  Megan cleared her throat. “Whose...funeral?” she asked.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Loretta’s,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d do it, but I cried much like you’re doing when I went to the graveyard where she’s buried. I even sobbed aloud.”

  He felt the silence. The stillness. Finally when he looked across at Megan, her eyes had dried but widened. Her mouth was open. She looked stunned.

  “Michael’s Loretta?” she said in an astounded whisper.

  Her actions made Noah sit at attention. What had Michael told her? Or not told her?

  He gave a quick nod.

  Her next question totally astounded him. Her words were strangled, struggling to escape her throat. “She...died?”

  Chapter 11

  Megan stared at Noah. His eyes darkened. His face paled.

  She held her breath, waiting for an answer that did not come. But hadn’t he already acknowledged that Loretta had died?

  Noah’s eyes closed for a moment, then he lifted his chin and breathed the words, “Oh, Lord.”

  She thought that was really a prayer and he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. He rose from the chair and went inside.

  Why?

  Was he crying?

  Why had Noah said Michael’s Loretta had died and Noah had cried aloud at her grave?

  Well, of course, he cried because he cared. Megan’s friends had cried with her after her grandmother died. That had been their way of relating to Megan, caring about her loss. They cried even though Grandmother had lived a full life and was ready to meet her Lord.

  What were the secrets Noah and Michael shared? Why had Michael said he was divorced if Loretta, in fact, had died?

  How did she die?

  Who was telling the truth? Michael or Noah?

  What was the truth?

  Confusion continued to pile up. Instead of getting more answers from Noah, she thought of more questions.

  If Loretta had died, then her assumption that Michael had reunited with her was all wrong.

  Megan reached for her tote, then remembered her emergency makeup was in her purse, which she’d left at home. She scoffed at how she’d planned to make a professional appearance. Instead, she’d shown her lack of control over her emotions. And no telling what her tear-soaked face looked like. Probably a clown’s with mascara streaks.

  Sure enough, when she wiped beneath her eyes it left black streaks on the napkin. Now, she felt rather ridiculous about having displayed such unrestrained emotion.

  Michael’s leaving without saying goodbye or giving a reason was a blessing because it happened before their relationship had become more serious. She knew that. But it hadn’t kept the tears from falling. What had she cried about anyway?

  Fumbling in her tote, she found her phone and punched the buttons. “Pick me up when you can,” she said when Lizzie answered. “And please bring my purse that’s on my bedside table. I didn’t put it in my tote.”

  “Sure. See you in a jiff.”

  She dropped the phone back into the tote and clutched the cloth napkin just in case the deluge began again.

  She didn’t look around upon hearing the screen door open. A cup of creamy coffee was set in front of her and Noah returned to the seat across from her with his cup.

  He didn’t say anything else, so she didn’t, either, after looking at the starkness of his face. She couldn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together. Had Loretta died after the divorce?

  Her breath caught when she wondered what else Michael hadn’t told her. She had to take in a few more gulps of air before she could ask, “Did Michael and Loretta live in this house together? Did she...” her voice became a whisper. “Did she die in there?”

  “No,” Noah said quickly. “Michael had an apartment. His mother lived here until she remarried and then Michael moved in here and returned to college. Or,” he said, “that’s my understanding of it.”

  She nodded. “That’s what he told me.”

  She knew Noah wouldn’t answer, but somehow the
question escaped her throat. “Was he...leading me on? Just giving the impression he wanted a future with me?”

  Noah’s brow furrowed as he looked at his coffee but didn’t pick up his cup. Then he glanced out at the backyard and simply shook his head.

  No, he couldn’t answer that.

  Neither could she.

  And she did not like the impression forming in her mind.

  At the same time, she didn’t want Noah or anyone turning this into some kind of drama. By becoming unglued, she’d negated any prospect of relating with Noah on a professional level, so she might as well make clear there was no need to relate on any other level.

  “I’m not heartbroken,” she said. “He never asked me to marry him. Our conversations were about changes, which house I liked better, if I wanted children, what I wanted in a man.”

  “Do you want to share your answers?” Noah asked.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I simply want closure on this and that’s what I’m doing right now. I realize I’ve put an end to you and me relating on a professional level. I want to put an end to talking about Michael. If he ever has anything to say to me, he can do so and I may or may not listen.” She nodded, punctuating that.

  “I beg to disagree. We haven’t even begun to relate on a professional level, and after seeing the SweetiePie sketch, I’m more intrigued than ever about your artistic ability.”

  A tiny smile curved his lips and narrowed his eyes, which held a hint of humor. Then he said, “Let’s pray about it.”

  Before she could say she often prayed about God’s will in her life, he bent his head and closed his eyes. With bowed head she watched him as he talked to God as if He were sitting there. “Help us know what is right and good and seek your will, Father,” he prayed. “You know what is in our best interest and we ask now for your guidance. Help us to listen and obey. Give us wisdom, Lord. Keep Michael and Megan in your care. Bless them. Give them peace. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Instead of this being encouraging, Megan felt inadequate, as if maybe she hadn’t really thought about the power of prayer. Most times, she fell asleep while praying. She and her friends prayed, but usually privately. And as far as Michael was concerned, she didn’t know what to ask for. For him to come back? To send a farewell note? To let someone know if he’s all right?