The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  She leaned forward to look at it, and Nathan said, “Sycamore.”

  He slowed his Jeep to crawl along the perimeter of a muddy hole, and after that the road narrowed, leading through more trees to a wooden bridge.

  “Oh, good! A river,” she said. “Can we look at it?”

  He parked near the bridge, and soon she was leaning over the rail, listening to the silky whisper of water.

  “The Batsto,” he said. “Come, there’s more.”

  Her eyes had adjusted enough to see the dips in the road, and soon she caught sight of tumbled stones. “What’s this?” She laughed. “You found some ruins.”

  He took her hand. “Just for you.”

  The ruins lay quiet before them, nothing more than a rectangle of rough stone blocks, and he played his flashlight across the ragged walls. Some of the stones, frosted with concrete, rose in stair-steps to shoulder height; others, fallen remnants, had been stitched together with vines. Here and there, young cedars raised their darkened spires.

  He turned off his flashlight, and she gazed along the silvered contours of wall and stone until they melted into the shadows. She glanced overhead. “And we have stars.” The clearing was roofed with a sky so brilliant that it glittered. “I suppose you have stars in Alaska.”

  “Same ones. The Bear, the Big Dipper, the Milky Way.” His voice had a smile in it. “Only bigger.”

  “Of course. You’re beginning to sound like a Texan.”

  He bent toward her and she said hurriedly, “What’s this place called?”

  “Not sure. Logan said the meadows we drove through have the remains of Hampton Furnace. It dates back to the 1800’s, when they produced iron. This used to be a cranberry warehouse.”

  “Sermons in stones,” she said. “I wonder about the sermons here.” She propped herself against a low wall. “Maybe I like ruins because they remind me that only God is forever.”

  He picked up a handful of stone bits from the crumbling top of the wall. “And ruins imitate life, with its beginnings and endings.” He let the stones dribble through his fingers, dusted his hands off, and reclaimed hers. “Births and deaths.” His voice warmed. “Tonight you went in and set to work like a pro.”

  “Like I knew what I was doing? I prayed a lot, I can tell you.”

  “You handled Logan better than I would have. When he’s not stressed out, he’s quite a guy.”

  “Did you see his face? Such a mixture of love and worry while he was trying to protect his Greta.”

  “From the big bad doctor.”

  She laughed. “You were a model of restraint.”

  “You did well with Greta. That was a beautiful sight, the two of you working together.”

  “She did all the work.”

  “Yes, as far as delivering the baby was concerned.”

  He paused, and she pulled a dried tendril of vine from among the stones. “I guess I did some laboring of my own.”

  “I thought so.”

  She would never tell him what she’d been thinking. Lighten it up. She nudged him. “You saw a lot from your little chair in the corner, didn’t you?”

  “I certainly did.”

  She smiled to herself, thinking dreamily about the black-haired baby with Greta’s blue eyes, and suddenly a man was leaning over her, too close, with his hand lifted to her face.

  She cringed, ducking away, knowing sickly that she couldn’t escape.

  Nathan’s voice said, “Mollie. I wouldn’t . . .”

  She blinked. “I . . . I forgot. That it was you.”

  How could he put up with this?

  He didn’t seem offended. “Remember me,” he said, sliding his arm around her, but her lungs squeezed shut.

  Not a threat, she told herself. No danger here. Breathe.

  She leaned back against him, deliberately, to prove to herself that she could, and his long fingers traced the curve of her cheek. “I was proud of you tonight,” he whispered.

  He stroked her hair, smoothed back the loosened strands, and his hand lingered on the clip. “May I?”

  She nodded.

  He slipped off the clip and her hair fell around her face, and he brushed his fingers through it, light as a passing breeze.

  “You know what color your hair is?”

  “Kind of black?”

  “Sable. Named for a small Arctic animal—black fur with rich brown highlights.”

  “Sable fur coats? I’ve heard of those. Poor little critters are probably extinct.”

  “And there’s Sable Mountain in Denali’s park,” he said. “I’d like to show you that, someday.”

  The someday speech. She’d been afraid he’d get around to it.

  His hand paused on the nape of her neck and a longing crept through her. If she turned toward him now, he would take her into his arms. She’d be warm and protected and he’d . . .

  The longing froze.

  There in his arms, she’d have to tell him: ‘I cannot do this. Let’s just be friends.’

  He must have sensed her disquiet because he dropped his hand. “Well.” The tone of his voice, doggedly cheerful, made her ache. He handed her the clip. “I promised you a walk, didn’t I?” he said. “Let’s find out what’s up here.”

  He had a way of tucking his arm through hers that kept her close but not imprisoned. They circled the ruins, then walked along the curving road with wind rustling through the trees and leaves scuttling across their feet until they reached another bridge.

  This must be a different river, but the starlight had followed them, gleaming on the water below and clothing the bushes with mystery.

  She leaned over the railing to gaze at the rushing stream. “Would you want to take canoes along here?”

  “The teens?”

  She nodded, and he said, “Kayaks might work better. Dry as it’s been, we’d have to portage the canoes.”

  “I can hear Connie now: ‘You mean we’ve got to carry it?’ ”

  He laughed. “This might be a great place for a hike, it’s so wild. I’ll have to ask Logan.”

  “A hike would be fun.”

  “I’ll get a map. Want to check it out with me on Saturday?”

  She yawned. “No decisions after midnight. Make that a conditional yes.”

  “Good,” he said. “This is far enough.”

  He took her hand into his while they walked back, and she remembered how that hand had caught and cradled Greta’s baby.

  Had he caught his own little girl when she was born? An unforgettable experience. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind if she asked.

  “Were you there at Susie’s birth?”

  They passed a half-dozen pine trees before he answered. At last he said, “Susan wanted a hospital birth. She had some problems, and they wouldn’t let me near her.”

  “But you had delivered babies yourself.”

  “In that hospital, I was just the father. No status at all.”

  He fell silent, but it wasn’t the quiet companionship of the past few minutes. He must be thinking about his baby girl, and he was probably hurting. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought it up?

  Silently she answered her own question. No. She wasn’t going to tiptoe around the subject of Susan, and neither should he, even if they were just friends. She yawned again. Let it rest, for tonight.

  CHAPTER 23

  Too much, too late. To bed.

  ~Journal

  The next morning, Aunt Lin asked about the birth while they were eating a late breakfast, and Madeleine gave her a sketchy overview. But her aunt probed for details as if she were fascinated by the whole process, and she had a wistfulness about her that Madeleine recognized.

  Aunt Lin might never marry, might never have children, but she loved babies. This creative, hard-working businesswoman was more complex than she’d thought.

  Five minutes later, Aunt Lin’s focus had swung back to the Manor and the Blue Room. She said she had hired Remi to start work this afternoon and asked Madeleine to look for
wallpaper samples. Timothy would have some.

  Madeleine was paging through the wallpaper books in Timothy’s storeroom when she heard Nathan’s voice. He and Timothy must be standing at the counter.

  Had Nathan talked to Kent yet? She had remembered to pray for him.

  Timothy’s voice became more distinct. “I think she’s back in the storeroom. Mollie?”

  “I’m still here,” she called.

  Nathan pushed through the swinging doors, carrying a folded rectangle of paper, his eyes laughing.

  She asked about his meeting with Kent, and the gray eyes chilled.

  “He resented my interfering, as he put it, but he agreed to stop the forgery and give her a larger percentage.”

  He covered her hand with his. “I knew you were praying.”

  “You didn’t punch him?”

  “Not yet. Look at this.”

  He spread a topographic map over the washing machine. “Here’s Hampton Road, where we drove last night, and the grassy area with the ruins of Hampton Furnace. We missed them, but Logan said there’s hardly anything there. See this? It’s the Batsto River. The map doesn’t show the bridge, but here’s the other one we walked to, the Skit Branch.”

  She bent over the map, tracing their route with a finger-tip. “So the ruins from that cranberry warehouse are in here somewhere.”

  “Still okay for Saturday?”

  She smiled. “Sounds fine.”

  “And Friday evening, I’d like to take you to a concert. Local style.”

  “Vocal local yokels?”

  “Not quite. Mostly instrumental. Do you like guitar?”

  “Love it.”

  They agreed that he’d pick her up at six o’clock, and he said, “I dropped in to see the new baby. They named him Jared, and he’s doing well.”

  “Does he still look like his dad, with all that black hair?”

  “Very much so.”

  He bent close, as if he would put an arm around her, but Timothy rattled through the doors with his wagon, heading for the shelves. She asked whether she could borrow the wallpaper books and said goodbye to them both.

  Over lunch, she and Aunt Lin discussed decorating ideas, and her aunt wrote out a list of projects for Remi and Jude, since she’d be working in her office all afternoon.

  Remi arrived before Jude, and Madeleine showed him the Blue Room. He seemed ill at ease, and even when they stood by the fire place, he gave it only a cursory glance.

  He snatched the baseball cap from his head and tossed it onto a chair.

  “Mollie?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his sneakers. “I’ve got to tell you about something.”

  He lowered his gaze to the floor. “Your car.”

  What about her car? “It’s doing fine, thank you,” she said. “I might even get it painted at the Marrick Miracle Shop.”

  He shook his head. “The other night. When it didn’t start.” He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “My fault.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m such an idiot.”

  “You didn’t—?”

  “No, but I might as well have.”

  “What?”

  He stared at his feet. “I was changing the sparkplugs on Kent’s Bronco, and he hung around, watching me. Asked a bunch of questions. Like did I know any tricks to keep a car from starting.”

  His words came out in a rush. “I thought I was being so smart. I showed him how—just take out the rotor.”

  She gripped the back of a chair, feeling betrayed. “You didn’t wonder why he was asking?”

  “I had no idea, Mollie. But he’s always talking about you. I should have known.” He shot her a worried glance. “I hate myself.”

  “It made trouble,” she said slowly, “but the Lord kept me safe.”

  His eyes glittered. “That man is not what he seems to be.”

  “You found that out too?”

  He turned his head. “Someone’s at the door.”

  The knocking became a drum-beat. Jude.

  She let him in, and Jude followed her back to the Blue Room, saying, “Whose truck is that outside?”

  “Mine,” Remi said, “except for the dents.”

  “Way cool. With all-terrain tires.”

  “They’ve come in handy. So you’re working this job too?”

  “I sure am,” Jude said. “What are we doing, Mollie?”

  It took Jude and Remi the rest of the afternoon to cover the furniture and move the plates, glass, and china figurines from the fireplace shelves to the floor. She would catalogue each item, and tomorrow they’d start dismantling the elaborate structure around the fireplace.

  Near evening, Aunt Lin came out to the kitchen for a snack and looked at what they’d done, nodding with approval. She retreated to her office, saying she would probably work late.

  Since tonight was SING, Madeleine ate a quick supper, showered, and changed. Now she could relax and enjoy some good fellowship.

  Nathan arrived late. Even though he sat at the keyboard as usual, he played with his eyes half-closed, and afterwards, while she was talking with the teens, he stood off by himself, looking through songbooks.

  Finally everyone left. The chairs had been folded away and the table set back into place. Nathan didn’t seem to be feeling sociable, so she might as well leave.

  Timothy yawned. “Kind of tired tonight.” He yawned again. “If you don’t mind, I’ll let the two of you finish up. I’m off to bed.” The thum-thud of his sneakers faded into the darkened store.

  Nathan put down a songbook and turned to her. “Mollie.” He let out a groaning breath. “I have some bad news.”

  She leaned back against the sideboard, alarmed by his gaunt face.

  “Evelyn Bozarth—she died this afternoon.”

  Something inside her broke. She had to cross her arms over her chest to keep the pieces together.

  Not Evelyn. Not the woman who loved her Christ so dearly, who’d been doing so well, the woman who could have been a friend.

  He lifted a hand, let it drop. “Another stroke. Massive. She died while she was taking a nap.”

  “But I thought she was getting better!” Madeleine said. “I was going to go back and talk to her. And . . . and we had a secret.”

  He moved slowly to the table without answering, sank into a chair, and knotted his hands.

  She sat beside him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked despairing, more so than you’d expect for a doctor.

  “Evelyn’s blood pressure was fine the last time I checked.” He bent his head. “And it was fine when they took it this morning. The reports all indicated progress.”

  His voice flattened. “I missed something. She seemed more tired than usual. I should have picked up on it.”

  “What could you have done? Even if she were in the hospital?”

  “Changed her medication. Hired more nurses. Something.”

  Madeleine thought about his kindness to the woman, and a memory flared: the smile on Evelyn’s face as they left.

  “She knew, Nathan. She and I spoke together and . . . and I think she was saying good-bye.”

  He dropped his head into his hands, and after a long silence, he whispered, “I should have been there for her.”

  She studied him. Was this something beyond Evelyn’s death, something deeper?

  “Nathan,” she said softly, “is this about Evelyn or about Susan?”

  A shudder rippled through him. “I should have talked to the pilot. I should have seen how the plane was loaded. Careless. I should have been thinking about her and Susie, instead of that old woman.”

  “You’re punishing yourself.”

  “I deserve it. I should have . . . I tried to pull them out of the plane, but it was burning . . . and I was burning, and they wouldn’t let me go back, but I should have done something.”

  Her chest constricted with dread. Lord, help me! He’s so wrong.

  “Does Go
d hold this against you?” she asked.

  “Don’t know.” After a minute he said, “I guess not.”

  “Even if you had sinned, what would God do about it?”

  No answer.

  She put out her hand, rested it on the table between them. “Evelyn reminded me: He was wounded for our transgressions.”

  His hand moved toward hers, then slowly drew back, clenching into a fist.

  “Whatever happened,” she said, “can’t you forgive yourself? Isn’t Christ’s blood enough?”

  “It’s risky to fly at forty below.” His voice turned cold. “She insisted. I shouldn’t have given in. What kind of leadership is that?”

  “Nathan, let it go.” His pain was spreading into her, icy as her own fears.

  She waited, but he didn’t move or speak.

  She wanted to shake him or hold him in her arms or call Timothy to come and talk sense into his friend.

  But none of those would help. She stood to her feet, looking at the bowed head. She reached down to touch his hair and stopped. Not now. This was between him and his God.

  Would he destroy himself?

  She lifted her chin. Not while she still had the breath to pray.

  Take care of him for me. Evelyn was with her dear Christ now. Could Evelyn beg mercy for the man she had so admired?

  She turned to leave, and song-words marched into the room.

  Before the throne of God above

  I have a strong and perfect plea . . .

  The song continued as she drove through the darkened streets and into the darker forest.

  A great high Priest whose Name is Love,

  Who ever lives and pleads for me.

  Christ’s pleading would be better than anything Evelyn could say on Nathan’s behalf. Better than all her own dried-up tears.

  She dropped her purse onto her bed, and picked up a blanket and her Bible. Where was a place to pray, a place set apart? The library. That little brown couch.

  From the library windows, she could see only blackness.

  When Satan tempts me to despair

  And tells me of the guilt within . . .

  Tonight the Evil One would be seeking someone to devour. Nathan had such potential for ministry. Was he going to be smothered by his self-imposed guilt? More reason to pray.