The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

The next morning, as soon as they’d eaten Aunt Lin said, “Did you ever do anything with that locked room?”

  She didn’t want to go back in there, not ever, but since her aunt had asked, she told her what they’d found and slowly followed her up the stairs.

  She watched from the doorway while her aunt walked into the room. “Look at all this,” Aunt Lin said softly, turning from side to side. “It’s incredible. She kept everything.”

  She picked up an elephant from the Noah’s Ark parade. “Henrietta mentioned her boy. He died young, I gathered. But I’d no idea . . .”

  After a minute, she put the elephant back onto the shelf. “Collectors would love to get their hands on these things.” She opened the cabinet and gazed at the train set. “Almost new, isn’t it?”

  Madeleine nodded. Something was making it difficult for her to talk. She backed into the hall.

  Her aunt looked thoughtful. “This explains some of Henrietta’s strangeness. How sad!”

  They left the room in silence, and as they passed the storage room, her aunt said, “Those decoys—I’m thinking about using your research in a magazine feature, maybe with a cover too. Timothy’s got decoys for sale. Why don’t you buy one and ask a lot of questions?”

  “I’ll do that,” Madeleine said. “I learned that Paula Castell carves them.”

  Aunt Lin hesitated and finally said, “She might not be much help, but you could try talking to her.”

  Madeleine nodded. Sometime she’d tell her aunt about the visit, but not yet. “Do you know Dan'l Forbes?” she asked. “I met him the other day. He used to make decoys.”

  “Good for you,” Aunt Lin said. “Why don’t you take ours over there and see what he has to say?”

  Yes, and she’d take him some cookies, too.

  Dan’l greeted her politely and eyed the decoys with interest, but it was the cookies that seemed to surprise him. Of course they had to have a dish of tea, he said, and how did she know that “chocklit chip” was his favorite, and was she writing a book too?

  A couple of writers had come to visit him, he said—a man from New York with shiny shoes, a woman who was terrified of snakes, and “that Kent fellow.”

  While they drank their tea, he told her how he’d turfed out cranberry bogs, harvested cranberries and blueberries, picked pine cones, moss, and greens for florists. She thought it all fascinating but hoped he’d soon get around to talking about the decoys.

  Finally he picked up one of the mergansers, turned it over to look for a name, and talked about old Harry Shourds and his son. “I don’t think either of them made this one. See how the wing tips go off to the side?”

  She asked why the decoys were so light, and he explained the hollowing-out process, calling them “dugout bodies.” He paused, gave her a sideways glance, and asked whether she’d been to visit Paula Castell.

  “Sort of,” Madeleine said. “We didn’t talk much.”

  He nodded. “One of her bad days, prob’ly. You’re lucky you saw her at all. I’ve heard she locks herself into her room for days at a time.”

  And Jude was good at unlocking doors.

  Madeleine ventured to ask what had happened, and Dan’l didn’t seem to know much, just that her husband had disappeared and no one, not even the police, could find him or his car.

  He plucked a cookie from the stack beside his cup, studied it, and took a small, careful bite. “The whole thing took her hard, though, since her old grandpa died just a couple years back. Taught her everything about carving decoys. She’s good.”

  “She mentioned her grandfather.”

  “Paul Clampton? Best I ever knew.” He turned to the doorway. “Someone just drove up. That writer guy. Keeps comin’ back.” He heaved himself out of the chair with a sigh.

  Nothing wrong with the old Piney’s hearing.

  “He must enjoy talking to you,” she said.

  “Nope. Likes my decoys. Took a bunch of pictures.”

  She got to her feet. “Thank you very much for the tea. I’d better finish my errands.”

  She wanted to ask whether the Manor’s decoys were valuable, but he’d forgotten about them, and Kent would talk on and on.

  “Hey, Dan'l, you in there?” Kent’s voice sounded impatient.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’—just keep your shirt on.” The old man trudged through the front room and held the door open for her.

  “Hello!” Kent’s frown vanished. “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting,” she said. “And you?”

  Kent glanced at Dan'l and raised his voice as if the old man were deaf. “I’m looking for Remi. Have you seen him?”

  Dan’l looked toward the cabins behind his house. “Nope.”

  “He’s not there. I checked. Has he been back today?”

  Dan'l shrugged. “Not my business. Don’t know what the boy does and don’t care, long as he pays his rent.”

  Kent gave him a look of mingled impatience and contempt, but Dan'l ignored him.

  The old man sauntered past them, nimbly avoiding the holes in the steps, and took an axe from inside one of the car bodies. He swung it with a practiced hand. “Guess it’s time to cut me some wood.”

  He lifted a thick chunk off the woodpile as easily as if he had picked up a cookie, placed it on a chopping block, swung the axe high, and split the wood neatly in half.

  Madeleine watched, fascinated, but Kent made an exasperated sound and stalked down the porch steps. As he raised his voice with another question, she took the opportunity to get into her car and drive off.

  Why would Kent take photos of the old man’s decoys? For his book?

  CHAPTER 11

  That locked room haunts me.

  It feels like a tomb in there.

  It makes me think.

  I’d rather not.

  ~Journal

  The next day, Aunt Lin had to drive to Philadelphia, but she promised to be home before suppertime. “And Kent wants to come over again, with Remi. Would supper on Friday night be okay with you?”

  Madeleine shrugged. But if she was going to cook a meal, why not have someone more interesting? “Invite that doctor too, why don’t you?” she said. “We might as well feed all the local bachelors at once.”

  Her aunt looked intrigued. “I’ll do that. Kent’s going to bring the photos he took at Widow Bentley's Attic.”

  “Remi took them for me,” Madeleine said. “I’m curious to see how their glass compares with ours.”

  “You have the mind of a true researcher.” Aunt Lin paused in the doorway. “Since this is cranberry country, do you think you’d have time to make a cranberry-something dessert?

  “I’d be glad to,” Madeleine said, and her aunt left with a smile.

  First, buy groceries. As long as she was in Hammonton, she bought a stepladder, along with paint and poster board.

  Next, a visit to Timothy’s store to find out what prices he wanted on his signs.

  The placard said AT LUNCH, but he opened the door with a welcoming smile. When she mentioned the prices, he said, “Let’s go into the office so I can check.”

  As they passed the display case, she paused to take another look at the decoys.

  “You need to see them up close,” Timothy said, and set them on the counter.

  She picked up the mallard. “What beautiful colors,” she said, “especially this blue patch on the wing.” The wing tips didn’t go off to one side or the other, so Dan'l would approve.

  She turned it over but couldn’t find Bria’s signature. “Aunt Lin told me to buy one,” she said at last, “and I think this is it.”

  “Good choice,” Timothy said.

  In his office, he made a note of her purchase and wrote out the prices she’d asked for. From under the table came the sound of light snoring: Hey-You, curled into a shaggy hump.

  “I meant to tell you,” he said, “I thought your French bread met all the criteria. It tasted good too.”

  “I’m glad to hear
that. Hey-You was the only one who liked my first try—he thought it was a stick.”

  “Not so easy? Even for you?”

  “I need a lot of practice,” she said. “Last night I tried a Challah braid. I didn’t bring it because it would have failed the appearance test.” She laughed, remembering. “It looked like a couple of balloons twisted together.”

  His smile was sympathetic. “Can you stay a minute?” He sat down at the table, which was spread with newspapers, saying, “I’m just doing a little polishing here.”

  After he’d moved a tube of cream out of her way, he set to work on a brass bookend that was shaped like a duck’s head. “Have you been back to see Dan’l?” he asked.

  She sat across from him. Maybe the doctor would wander in, and she’d tell him that Jude’s cat had survived his dire prediction. “I went yesterday,” she said, “and showed him the decoys we found. He’s kind of roundabout with me, but I learned a few tidbits.”

  “He’ll warm up,” Timothy said. “How’s the Manor project coming?”

  “We’re still making discoveries. Jude opened the locked room. It looks as if it hasn’t been touched for a long time . . . Cousin Henrietta’s boy.” The sorrow in that room flicked across her. “I think she kept it as a shrine to his memory.”

  “She did. For years and years.” Timothy’s voice held a deep sadness. “Henrietta often spoke to me of her grief. She could not let go of the child.”

  Madeleine’s throat began to ache. She knew about memories, how they could cling, how they could torment, how they could fill you with longing.

  To see his face once more. To hear him laugh . . .

  She bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

  Timothy must have noticed. “I liked your father,” he said. “A genuine, godly man. Did the two of you do things together?” He spread polishing cream on the duck’s neck with a blackened cloth.

  She’d never been able to talk about Dad. Perhaps now? The store was empty, and Timothy’s quiet smile gave her courage.

  She rested her elbows on the table and told him about the hikes they’d taken, the jokes they’d shared, the skills she’d learned from him.

  “And he taught me the Bible too,” she said. “I belong to Christ because of Dad.”

  Timothy’s wrinkled face shone. “I’m glad to hear that.” He put down his cloth. “Tell me, do you think your father is happy?”

  She sighed. People always asked that, and then they would say—as if she needed to be convinced—that he was in a far better place.

  “Of course he’s happy. But I’m not. I’m miserable.” Hurriedly she added, “Not that I’m angry at God. I suppose He has His reasons.”

  She gazed down at the smudged newspapers. What she said was mostly true. She hadn’t talked to God very much since her father died, and even less since she’d married. That part of her seemed to have shriveled.

  She fidgeted with the nearest sheet of newspaper and tore off a corner. She crumpled it into a ball. “I try not to think about Dad, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I just hurt. ”

  “I know.” His voice was gentle. “You will hurt for the rest of your life.”

  She stared at him. What a terrible thing to say.

  “It’s what you do with the hurt that matters.” Timothy picked up a clean cloth.

  “What do you mean? Sublimate it?”

  “You can nurse your grief, like Henrietta did, but it will cripple you. Or you can ignore it, but it will harden you. Or you can accept it.”

  “Accept it?” she said. “I don’t have any choice. I have to accept it.”

  “That’s resignation. Not what I meant.” He polished on the duck’s neck for a minute. “Remember, Sunday, when we were talking about God? Our God—your God—does marvelous things. If you can accept this from His hand, He will change how you look at it.”

  “So I won’t hurt?”

  “You won’t hurt in the same way.” Timothy leaned forward. “Grief is a wall that each of us runs into, sooner or later. The wall has a door. You can walk through the doorway and live, or you can stay on this side of it and wither away.”

  She listened, trying to ignore the turmoil inside her. Maybe she shouldn’t have talked about Dad so much.

  “Here’s how it looks,” Timothy said. “On the front of the door is a sign that reads: His work is perfect. And when you say, ‘Yes, Lord,’ and walk on through, you find another sign: The Lord is my Rock and my Fortress and my Deliverer.”

  She could see the doorway in her mind. “So how do I . . . ?”

  “Talk to God about your hurt,” Timothy said. “Remember, He’s your loving Father. Tell Him that you choose to accept this grief from His hand.”

  Timothy grew still, looking away. “It’s hard. But not as hard as trying to deal with it by yourself.”

  So he’d been there.

  After a moment he looked back at her, his brown eyes steadfast. “Read Psalm 18, the first couple of verses. It helps me.”

  She tried to say, ‘I want what you have,’ but her jaw locked, her lips stiffened, her words froze.

  Timothy seemed to understand. He flourished his cloth over the duck’s head with finality and pulled himself to his feet. “I’d better get to work. Let’s put your decoy into a bag.”

  As he wrapped the decoy in tissue paper, he said, “I’ll tell you a quick story. I knew someone who lost his family in an accident. He left his job, moved to the other side of the country, and buried himself in good works. He became a hard and bitter man. But one day he walked through that doorway, and it changed his life.”

  Timothy handed the bag to her, and she followed as he limped to the front of the store. He took down the AT LUNCH sign and pulled the door open. “You want to be strong, little lady? This is your first step.”

  Strong? How did giving up equal strong?

  The weight of grief pressed down upon her, painful as a sharp-edged block of steel.

  Hey-You was wagging his tail and Timothy was saying, “About those decoys—remember to check with Paula Castell.”

  She managed a coherent answer. “I went last week but didn’t get very far.”

  “Her children like you,” he said. “She’ll talk eventually.”

  His gaze was affectionate. “Come see me again,” he said, and all she could do was nod.

  By the time she reached the Manor, the weight had settled so deeply into her chest that she could hardly breathe.

  Groceries. She started inside with two small bags, stopped on the porch to fish out her key, and a scratching sound made her glance overhead.

  The cat dropped from the tree onto the railing and arched his back into a stretch, looking proud of himself. He must have found her open window.

  She stroked his head, wishing she could pick him up and cry into the soft fur, but she had long since run out of tears.

  He trailed after her into the kitchen. She should feed him. And she had groceries to put away, meals to plan. Bria and Jude were coming to work.

  Not now . . . the weight . . .

  She dragged herself up the stairs and along the hall to the boy’s room. She leaned against the doorframe. How many times had his mother stood here, thinking about her child and aching to have him back?

  Her own grief was crushing the air from her lungs. She dropped onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. “Lord, You did it. You took him away.” The words trembled in her mind, laden with pain.

  “Lord, help?” Silence pooled around her, a waiting, compassionate silence.

  She took a ragged breath. “Okay, I accept this from Your hand,” she whispered. “But I don’t understand why You did it. I don’t understand how it’s perfect. I don’t understand any of this . . . and that’s all right.”

  She lingered in the silence, letting it enfold her.

  The weight slipped off, the pain eased, and she understood one thing: He had heard.

  Slowly, with a sense of wonder, she got to her feet and found that she co
uld breathe more freely.

  She left the room, closing the door behind her, and the cat’s inquiring face peered at her from the top of the staircase. “I’m coming,” she said.

  He stopped, one ear flickering, and looked down the steps. She heard it too, someone knocking. Bria?

  She ran downstairs with the cat bounding ahead of her. By the time she reached the hall, he was crouched on the Chippendale desk, looking like one of his wild ancestors. She gave him a pat on her way.

  She pulled the door open, ready to smile at the whole world. “Hi, Bria! I’m glad to see you!”

  Bria gave her a curious glance, but she smiled back. “What needs to be done?”

  “A lot! Can you believe I’ve still got groceries in the car? I bought us a stepladder too.”

  After everything was put away, she showed Bria the pottery vases she had found, and the girl examined them with interest. “These were painted by hand,” she said. “I think the artist signed them.”

  She put a finger on a scrawl that seemed part of the design. Sure enough, it reappeared in the same place on each vase.

  “All artists should sign their work.” Madeleine hesitated. “Why doesn’t your mother sign hers?”

  Bria shrugged. “Doesn’t care.” She traced the curved lip of the vase. “But I do.”

  “You sign the decoys? I looked for your signature but didn’t see it.”

  Bria looked embarrassed. “I just paint a swirling sort of B on the wings.”

  “Good for you,” Madeleine said. “Your work is excellent, and your name should be on it.”

  “Thank you,” Bria said. “What should we do with this pottery?”

  Madeleine surveyed the dining room. “Let’s pack all of this stuff into boxes and then we can clear off the table.”

  Jude soon arrived, carrying a sheet of paper. “I made you a map, Mrs. Burke.”

  “Mollie,” she said. “That’s my name from now on. We don’t have to be formal.”

  “Mollie?”

  “It’s what my father called me.” She could say his name more comfortably now.

  “My dad used to call me Peanut,” Jude said. “Here, take a look at this.”