The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  Of course she did. “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

  So he hadn’t been letting her off—he’d been sharpening the hook.

  His voice was gentle. “Kind of sounds like a matter of obedience, doesn’t it? Getting involved.”

  She dug her fingers into the blanket.

  He picked up his book. “As a literary person, you might be interested in this.” He turned some pages, stopped, and began to read aloud: “There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.”

  He paused, as if waiting for her to say something.

  She frowned. “That’s a rather broad statement.”

  “The author explains, If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal . . . lock it up safe in the casket . . . of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

  Piercing words. Don’t think about them.

  She drank the last of her cocoa, and said nothing.

  After a minute, Timothy said, “It may be that God plans to use you on the Castells’ behalf, little lady. Why not ask Kent about the decoys? Perhaps he can explain it as something besides plain skullduggery. Perhaps you can persuade him to stop.”

  “What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded her through half-closed eyes. “We all know he thinks highly of you. And your aunt.”

  “It’s sickening,” she said. “I wish he’d go away and leave us in peace.”

  “Perhaps he will, after this is over.” He gestured with the book. “That passage was just an opinion from C.S. Lewis. It’s more important to ask yourself: ‘What does my God think about the situation?’ ”

  She nodded, but only to show that she’d heard.

  This was too much. She didn’t have to do everything he said.

  Fear inched down her spine, chilling each bone it passed. She hadn’t asked to be part of this, and she wasn’t going to . . . she couldn’t . . . tangle with Kent.

  She pushed the blanket off her knees and stood up. “I’d better get back and check on our food for tonight. Thank you for the cocoa.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Timothy stood too, pulling his jacket close. “Be careful, whatever you do.” He whistled for the dog. “Here’s your trusty guide to take you home.”

  “I know the way,” she said, and immediately tried to temper her ungracious reply with a smile.

  But the air seemed to have grown colder and more biting. Even after she’d reached the sheltering trees, wind tossed the upper branches of the pine trees, sending them askew. She huddled deep into her jacket.

  “Lord,” she said aloud, “This whole thing scares me, and I don’t know why, but I’ve got to stay out of it. Why can’t someone else talk to Kent?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Every time I turn around,

  someone has a problem.

  Me too! And I’ve got enough to deal with.

  Maybe old Dan’l has the right idea.

  Is it any of my business?

  ~Journal

  That evening, Timothy was congenial as they worked on the new green buntings. He made her laugh, praised her chicken soup and the crusty rolls, and told her how much he’d enjoyed the pie. They discussed the history of Vienna rolls, and he informed her that in New England they were called bulkie rolls.

  He didn’t mention Kent’s name or refer to the decoys. No doubt he was praying for her—an uncomfortable thought.

  While she sewed, words trundled through her mind on an endless loop: Love your neighbor . . . Love anything and . . . use you . . . persuade him . . .

  Nathan came over from his office with paperwork and stayed for supper. His steel-blue sweater made his eyes a softer gray, and it seemed that he looked at her differently tonight, but perhaps she was imagining it.

  The men talked about flying. They’d both owned planes in Alaska, and both had stories to tell. Then they talked about ruins. She described the old Dumont ruins and the place Jude had showed her. Timothy laughed, saying he should get her a reference book if she liked ruins so well.

  She had to defend herself. “There’s tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones.” One of Shakespeare’s gems.

  Nathan looked at her. “And good in everything.”

  “How’d you know that line?”

  He shrugged. “Must have heard it somewhere.”

  He talked for a while about the ruined mines he’d seen in Alaska, and then Timothy said he was kind of tired tonight. If they would excuse him, he’d go on up to bed.

  She had one more hood to finish, so she said, “We’ll pick up things here. Sleep well.”

  Nathan worked on his papers while she sewed the hood into place and topstitched the neck seam. She stacked the remnants beside the sewing machine and gave him a smile, ready to leave.

  He came to her side of the table and put a hand on her arm. “Time to say good night?” He drew her towards him, and she went. His touch was gentle. Maybe it would be all right.

  His face was warm against hers. “Mollie . . .” He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her chin. His lips found her mouth.

  Nausea struck like a blow.

  She jerked away. Her breath came in panting gasps. Her pulse pounded in her ears: danger-danger-danger. She clawed at him and he was saying, “What? What is it?”

  She shook her head, whimpering, shivering. Cold. Cold. Too cold to breathe.

  His arm went around her and his voice came low and soothing. “It’s okay, Mollie. You’re safe here. Breathe slowly. Breathe with me.”

  She huddled against him, felt the rise and fall of his chest. She could do that.

  “Good girl. As if you were singing. Take a big breath, expand your diaphragm. Again . . . Again . . .”

  She breathed with careful attention, letting him hold her.

  “Mollie, what did I do?”

  The fear lingered, freezing her voice, and she couldn’t speak. She moved his hand to the scar on her arm.

  “Brenn?”

  She nodded.

  “He hurt you?”

  She shivered. “He . . . liked . . .”

  She rested her cheek against the warm sweater, just for a minute, and he stroked her arm. He didn’t seem to mind that she’d treated him as if he were loathsome.

  He stood quietly while she searched for words. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I . . . I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  What must he be thinking? One of those loonies that doctors run into from time to time. Stay away from this girl.

  Shame flared, scorching her face, giving her strength to push away from him, and he let her go.

  She stepped to the table, bracing herself against it. Please don’t let the trembling start again, not here, not in front of him. Lord my Rock, I need You.

  She put away the scissors and the pin cushion, slid the rolls into their bag, and unplugged the slow cooker. No more talk. Just leave.

  He watched, silent.

  But now he was moving to intercept her.

  Lord, help! I’ve got to get out of here without making a fool of myself again.

  He took the slow cooker from her hands and set it on the table.

  She risked a glance at him. Soft gray eyes, troubled.

  “Don’t go just yet,” he said. “Dear heart . . .”

  The tenderness in his voice gave her pause, and so did the old-fashioned endearment, an echo of Wyatt’s famous poem, Shakespeare’s sonnets. He had no idea how it would sway her resolve.

  He slowly reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said.

  She stiffened, and he must have sensed her fear. “I won’t . . .” he said in a broken voice. “I won’t hurt you. Come, pray with me.”

  H
e led her to the sofa, and she sat beside him, cautiously, thinking that it had been a long time since she’d prayed with anyone. He linked his arm with hers, warming her hand in his, and it was all right.

  Shakespeare’s hopeful words floated past:

  Wilt thou kneel with me?

  Do, then, dear heart;

  for heaven shall hear our prayers.

  Nathan bowed his head. “Father . . .” It was the voice of a son reaching out his hand to be grasped. “Father, we are in need tonight.”

  He paused. “Pour your mercy upon us. You have a plan for Mollie in all of this. Hold her close.” He paused again. “Show us what to do. Please, I ask in Jesus’ name.”

  He didn’t move to get up, and after a minute she leaned her head against the solid warmth of his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  You have a plan for Mollie, he’d said. Her thoughts leaped back to Timothy’s words: It may be that God plans to use you . . . .

  She shook her head, and Nathan’s hand clasped hers more tightly.

  Your plan, Lord?

  Was she supposed to do something about Kent?

  What if she froze? What if it all came to nothing?

  But how could she refuse to obey her forever-God with His forever-love? He knew her fears.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Lord, about Kent. Show me? I’ll do whatever You want.

  Slowly she opened her eyes. Nathan, still unmoving, sat with his head bowed over hers. Such a kind person.

  She looked up at him. “I should leave now.”

  “You’ve been thinking?”

  “Something you said.” She leaned forward. “It’s late, and you have Clinic tomorrow.”

  She could see the reluctance on his face, but he let her go.

  She scribbled a note for Timothy—I will obey. Pray for me.—and pinned it onto his pin cushion.

  She wanted to sleep in the next morning, just a little, but Aunt Lin was up early, taking a shower and bustling around, as if she were eager to get back to New York.

  The wind had increased. “Listen to that!” her aunt said. “The way it tears at this house is downright eerie. They’re saying it might snow.”

  Her aunt left soon after, in spite of the forecast. They had briefly discussed what Madeleine could do while she was gone. The dining room. The parlor. Inventory the Blue Room. Plenty of reasons to stay inside and mind her own business.

  She had discovered three dead mice in the Blue Room traps when Bria knocked on the back door.

  Jude had come too. “No school today,” he said with a grin. “Teachers doing stuff.”

  “Perfect. I’ve got some mice for you to dispose of.”

  He emptied and reset the traps, using a piece of walnut as bait, and she wondered whether he would say anything about the girl.

  He glanced up. “I went to see her this morning. She don’t—doesn’t—look too good. She’s got a sore leg. Do you have any extra food?”

  “Take all the food you want. But what about her leg?”

  “She cut it. I don’t know how. It’s swelling up.”

  “Jude, she needs help. She can’t keep doing this.”

  Worry darkened his eyes. “I know. She won’t go home. Says she’d rather die.”

  Madeleine gazed across the room, crowded with sofas and chairs. The rug under her feet was thick and warm and dry. That girl was sleeping in the cold. It might snow.

  But this wasn’t her house. The girl wasn’t her responsibility.

  “Where is this place?” she asked.

  “Not very far.”

  The girl was hungry. Love your neighbor as . . .

  “Come on,” she said. “Help me pack up some stuff. We’re going over there.”

  She hurried down the hall with Jude scrambling to keep up with her. “Bria,” she called, “can you get me a first aid kit?”

  “Sure.” Bria stepped out of the dining room. “For the girl? From what Jude says, she’s going to be upset.”

  “She’ll get over it.” Madeleine started heating water in the microwave. “Jude, find some chicken in the fridge and make her a sandwich. With cheese. I’ll need a thermos too.”

  When the box was ready, she glanced at Bria. “Do you want to come?”

  Bria looked grateful, but she said, “Maybe I’d better stay here and keep working.”

  “Okay. Listen for the phone.”

  Once they were in the car, Jude gave her directions, taking back roads she hadn’t seen before. Finally he pointed out a driveway.

  “Let’s bring just the thermos to start with,” Madeleine said, glancing through the trees at the gleaming logs of a two-story home. Some cabin! It looked deserted.

  At the back, a deck extended toward the trees, and a second-story balcony formed a roof above it. They tiptoed up the steps until Jude paused. In the corner lay a pile of blankets.

  As they went closer, the blankets stirred, and a voice muttered.

  Jude bent down. “Hey,” he said in a low voice.

  A hand pushed back the blankets, revealing a girl’s pallid face and closed eyes. “Go away,” she said.

  Jude looked at Madeleine, and she said softly, “We brought you something good to drink.”

  The eyes opened, cinnamon-brown eyes that stared at her suspiciously. “Who’s she?”

  Jude dropped to his knees. “A friend. Come on. You need to drink some cocoa.”

  “Cocoa?” The girl pulled herself up onto an elbow, and red hair fell across her face. Stringy, as Jude had said.

  She took the cup from him and emptied it in short gulps. “I told you don’t bring no one,” she mumbled. She gave a little uhh of pain. “If it weren’t for this leg, I’d be gone by now.”

  Madeleine knelt on the deck beside her. “May I look at it?”

  “Nah. Just a cut,” the girl said, but her voice was faint. “Lemme sleep.” She dropped the cup and sagged back into the blankets.

  Madeleine shook her head. “Jude, she’s sick. She’s just going to get worse. And it might snow tonight.”

  A plan, half-formed in her mind, took on the hard edges of certainty. “I want to take her back to the Manor.”

  “But she’ll fight us. She’s all muscle.” He looked as if he’d already had experience with those muscles.

  Madeleine got to her feet, smiling. “Do you mean to tell me that one skinny girl is stronger than the two of us? Stay here. I’ll bring the car closer.”

  On her way, she phoned the Manor, and on the fifth ring, Bria answered. Madeleine gave her quick instructions. “Hi, could you vacuum that sofa in the Blue Room and get some sheets and blankets on it?”

  “You’re bringing her here?”

  “Yes. See you in a little bit.”

  The girl lay just as Madeleine had left her, and Jude still looked worried. “She’s going to be mad. She’ll kick and scream.”

  But, as Madeleine suspected, the girl no longer had the strength to kick and scream. She half-opened her eyes and moaned as they pulled her to her feet and helped her walk to the car.

  “Back seat,” Madeleine said. “I don’t think she can sit up.”

  The girl slumped into a corner, and they loaded the duffle bag and blankets in beside her. Jude sat there too, in case she fell over, and Madeleine drove with care.

  Bria met them outside and helped them get the girl inside to the sofa. Madeleine took off the heavy parka. She was, as Jude said, very thin. An older teen.

  “Does she have any other clothes?” Bria was eying the girl’s muddy jeans and sweater.

  Jude said, “There’s a duffle bag with stuff, but no nightgowns or anything like that.”

  Madeleine smiled to herself. A girl like this wouldn’t be caught dead in a nightgown. “I’ve got something she can use. Thanks a lot for helping.”

  Bria sized up the situation right away. “C’mon Jude. We’ve got work to do.

  The girl was still apathetic, her eyes half-closed. Madeleine washed her face and arms, stripped off t
he dirty clothes, and put her into a pair of warm pajamas. Around her neck hung a pendant on a greasy leather cord, and when she tried to take it off, the girl grabbed for it, so she left it there.

  The cut on the girl’s leg was almost three inches long, deep, and obviously infected. She bathed it carefully before spreading it with antibiotic ointment and covering it with a loose bandage.

  The girl accepted a mug of thick soup and swallowed the aspirin Madeleine gave her. Then she burrowed into the blankets until her head was out of sight.

  Back in the kitchen, Madeleine made sandwiches for their lunch, still thinking about the girl. Would a cut like that heal on its own?

  After they’d eaten, she looked in on the girl again. Now that her face was clean, you could see the freckles across her nose and the pallor of her skin—a pretty face. Her parents must be frantic.

  She stopped in at the dining room to help Bria and Jude pack boxes, but soon she caught herself staring out the window, wondering what to do.

  Timothy. He’d know.

  He answered the phone right away, and she told him what she knew about the girl and how she’d brought her to the Manor.

  “Your aunt is away?”

  “She won’t mind—at least, I hope not. The cut seems to be infected. Jude said she acts like she’s afraid to go home.”

  “She’s a teenager?”

  “Around seventeen.”

  “Sounds like a runaway.” He paused. “The Lord has probably sent her to you for His good reasons. Let’s see . . . that cut. Why don’t you talk to Nathan?”

  Perfectly logical, but she didn’t want to ask Nathan for anything. He had put up with enough from her.

  “Thanks, Timothy. Just wanted to get your opinion.”

  The girl was leaning against the pillows, drinking more soup under Bria’s watchful eye. She ate some toast but didn’t say anything besides, “Got any peanut butter?” Then she curled into the blankets and went back to sleep.

  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

  Madeleine worked with Bria and Jude for the rest of the afternoon, and the two of them left after an early supper, carrying a plate of food for Paula and Gemma.