The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  His lips touched hers.

  She choked. Nausea grabbed at her throat and panic thudded through her veins and her heart was going to explode and she had to fight. Fight him off. She beat at his chest—make him go away.

  “Mollie!”

  She was drifting, drifting off to her safe place. From there she could watch what happened and nothing would ever hurt again.

  Gentle hands on her shoulders. A warm voice. “Mollie, breathe.”

  Was it safe? She tried a quick, short breath.

  “Big breaths, big and deep, remember?”

  She breathed, trembling with the effort. Breathing was good. Stay here, breathe and stay safe.

  “Mollie, open your eyes.”

  She whimpered, but she left the safe place and risked it.

  “Look at me,” he said. “Look at my eyes.”

  Gray eyes. Kind gray eyes.

  “Who is this, Mollie?”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Mollie. Open your eyes. Such beautiful eyes—fire and ice.”

  She had to open them. This wasn’t Brenn.

  “Look at me,” he said again. “Say my name.”

  She forced her lips to move. “Nathan.” She held onto him, still shaking. “Nathan.”

  Not again, Lord! I thought You had delivered me.

  After a minute he said, “Better?”

  She nodded into his shoulder.

  “I hate this for you, Mollie.”

  And she hated it for him. He shouldn’t have to deal with the results of her foolish choice. She had to make him see that.

  She brushed back a stray wisp of hair. He had a life of ministry ahead, and he didn’t need someone like her to slow him down.

  She would tell him, but first . . . She reached up to touch his face, one last time—the weathered skin, the smile creases, the eyes she loved to watch. Her fingers paused on the burn scar. He was free of guilt now, and he should be free of her.

  Lord my Rock, make me strong for this moment.

  She took a step backwards and firmed her voice. “It’s no use, Nathan. I’m damaged goods. Let me go.”

  His eyes were shining. Hadn’t he heard? He was moving to her side.

  He picked up her hand, turned it over, and wrapped it with his own. “I would rather say this with moonlight and roses, but you need to know it now.”

  His gaze rested upon her, luminous and solemn. “I love you, Madeleine Dumont.”

  She took a quick, nervous breath, and filed away the precious words to think about later—not now, because her resolve was crumbling.

  He’d used her maiden name, as if she were still that other person. A whole woman. He didn’t realize that she’d always be broken, the wife of Brenn.

  He didn’t need to know what Brenn had done, but he had to understand that she wasn’t worth his time.

  She started to shake her head, and he said, “Come and sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  On the couch she sat a careful distance away, but he moved himself close, as if he didn’t want a single inch between them. “When I went to Philly, I talked to someone about your case—”

  “—My case?”

  “Yes, I described—”

  “—You described the patient’s symptoms to your colleague and the two of you decided on a course of therapy and . . . and now you’re going to—”

  “—Mollie! This isn’t your fault. You need help.”

  “How do you know it’s not my fault? He said I provoked him.”

  “He lied.”

  “I can be very provoking. You don’t know me.”

  “Yes I do,” he said. “Connie’s pink sunglasses. I watched, and I saw your heart.”

  “But that was before . . .”

  “You’re still who you are, Mollie. And whether I get to kiss you or not is beside the point.”

  “Is it?”

  Her hair, secured only by pins, had started to come down, and he looped a strand of it behind her ear. “My friend said that with patience—”

  “—Right, be kind to the poor addled girl, and patient. You’re good at that already. I won’t have you hanging around for the next couple of months or years being kind. Hoping that maybe the next time you try to kiss me I won’t fall apart. I told you, I’m tarnished.”

  “Mollie,” he said, “I love you.”

  She had to stop him. She couldn’t let him delude himself.

  She put out a hand blindly, encountered his knee, and snatched it back. “Listen to me. You’ve had enough heartache already. You need a nice sturdy girl with no hang-ups. Take one of those back to Alaska and get on with your life.”

  Surprise flickered across his face. “What makes you think I’m going back to Alaska?”

  “I know it. The Lord has a ministry for you there. I’ll get over my little problem eventually, or maybe I won’t. That’s in the Lord’s hands. But I will manage just fine.”

  “You’ll be fine without me?” His voice went ragged. “Is it true?”

  Pain welled up from the hollows of her bones. Don’t ask me that.

  She turned, intending to say something kind and pacifying, but misery drove her to clutch his arm. “Don’t you understand? He’ll always be there, between us. What he did has changed me, and I don’t know how to change back, and every time we . . . I can never . . .” She bowed her head. “You deserve a whole woman.”

  Silence. She tried to breathe.

  After a moment he said, “I understand what you’re telling me. If necessary, I can live with that. But I love you, Mollie. There is a future for us. Don’t send me away.”

  She closed her eyes. Don’t waste your time. That’s what she should say, right now.

  As if she had spoken aloud, he said, “This is worth fighting for. Someone told me that once and encouraged me to fight.”

  He took the pins out of her hair, one by one, and buried his face in the tangle. “I won’t kiss you again until you’re ready. Not until you come to me and ask.”

  He paused, his voice rimmed with steel. “But we will fight this together, and the Lord will show us how, and we will win.”

  She didn’t deserve this man: so loving, so determined.

  Tears filled her eyes and overflowed in a warm, trickling stream, and his arms encircled her, as if to hold her safe and ward off all her fears.

  CHAPTER 25

  I don’t know what to do about him—

  I can’t trust my foolish heart.

  But there’s Tara, and her need is clear.

  Tell me what to say to her, Lord.

  ~Journal

  Elevenses. Tea in the middle of the morning was a British tradition, wasn’t it? The girl must have read about it somewhere.

  Madeleine turned into the driveway, and her hopes rose. The brown truck was gone. Perhaps this time they could sit and talk without having to make a wild dash through the woods.

  Tara appeared behind the sagging screens of the porch but didn’t come any farther. Grounded again? She waved vigorously, and as Madeleine waved back, heading for the porch, she tripped over something in the weeds. It looked like the frame of a car, long and low with four humps, solid enough that she wished she’d noticed it.

  Tara grabbed her for another hug. “I’m not allowed to go one foot out of the house,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.” She leaned back and laughed. “I’ve crunched the cookies again, haven’t I? Is that what you brought?”

  “I didn’t know how many you got to eat from the last batch.”

  “Right. Uncle Sid thought they were for him. That got Dixie plinkin’ mad, I can tell you. She tried to make some herself, but they turned out like rocks. C’mon.”

  She took Madeleine’s arm and guided her through a cluttered front room to the kitchen. Aunt Dixie must like yellow. Her kitchen had yellow walls, yellow cupboards, and a yellow-painted floor—a dingy yellow, mottled with fly specks and food stains. Even the trash can was yellow.

  Tara pulled out a yellow pla
stic chair. “Sit down, and I’ll make tea and we’ll do our elevenses proper.”

  She gave Madeleine a worried glance. “I have tuna sandwiches instead of those cookie-biscuits. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” Madeleine said. “Much more interesting.”

  Tara set the kettle to boil and took a covered plate from the cupboard. “Here we are, safe and sound. Tell me how Mac is doing. And Jude, and everybody.”

  Before Madeleine could answer, she held up a hand. “Wait! I need to explain something. About my name.” She sighed. “My mother named me Salome Tara—she liked pretty names—but my dad called me Sally. These people do too, but in my heart, I’m Tara.”

  Madeleine smiled. “I understand.” So the girl hadn’t been lying about her name. What about the pendant?

  Tara arranged Madeleine’s cookies and the sandwiches on plates, sat down across from Madeleine, and said gravely, “You may ask the blessing.”

  After Madeleine finished, Tara unwrapped her sandwich, saying, “I hate to tell you, but Uncle Sid is out in the woods somewhere, drunk as a coon.”

  She frowned. “He’s, um, different when he’s drunk. If he comes in while you’re here, don’t let him get you into an argument. Just smile—he likes you—and agree with him. Then he’ll go away.”

  Madeleine nodded. Perhaps they wouldn’t get their quiet talk after all. She took a bite of her sandwich. “This is tasty,” she said. “What’s in with the tuna?”

  “Pickle relish. And peppermint. I grow it in a pot next to my hideout. How’s Mac doing?”

  Madeleine told her everything she could think of about the cat. Then, since they might not have much time, she told her what Jude had said about the pendant.

  Tara’s eyes flashed. “But it’s mine! My dad gave it to my mother, and she loved it—she wore it all the time. After she died, I went looking for, it but Dixie said she was going to keep it. For luck.”

  “For luck?”

  “Because of the tree.” Tara sniffed. “She doesn’t even know what it means. I looked it up on the computer at school. It’s a Celtic symbol for harmony in the universe.”

  She chewed on the last of her sandwich. “Dixie kept it hidden because something about it spooked Uncle Sid, and when I left, I took it. It’s mine.”

  What would Jude think of all this?

  “Does your aunt know you took it?” Madeleine asked.

  “She hit me a couple times, but I wouldn’t admit it, so she can’t be sure. I think she’s forgotten. Can we have cookies now? Would you care for tea, my lady?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  A door slammed, somewhere behind the kitchen, and the light went out of Tara’s eyes. A minute later, her uncle stood in the doorway.

  “Smile,” she said in a low voice.

  He held onto the doorjamb. “Hello, hello! It’s the pretty girl again. Did you bring cookies?”

  Madeleine smiled. “I did. Would you like one?”

  “Not now. Thought you’d come back so I could fix your car.”

  He reached into his jacket. “Got something here.” His red-rimmed eyes blinked with concentration as he pulled out an old soup can.

  He brought it close to his face, looked inside for a minute, then stepped forward and banged it onto the table.

  Madeleine eyed it. The can was badly burned and its label almost gone. What made it so remarkable?

  He nudged out its contents. Black ash skittered toward her, and a clump of partly-burned wooden matches fell onto the table. They were held together by charred strands of wire.

  He scratched at the whiskers on his chin and stared at her. “You ever seen anything like this?”

  “No.”

  “You know where this here tin comes from?”

  “No.”

  “I do. And I’m going to make me some money off it. Sally, girl, we’re goin’ to be ridin’ high and easy.”

  Tara chewed on her lip.

  His voice picked up a threat. “What’d you say to that, girl?”

  “Sure, Uncle Sid.”

  His words glided on, as if oiled by the alcohol. “You don’t believe me, do you? I’ll show you.”

  He swayed, put out a hand, and lowered himself into a chair, bending so close that Madeleine could smell the liquor on his breath.

  “You know Kent Sanders,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Sure you do. These days, he hangs around with all the grand folks down by Tabernacle.”

  He poked the can with a blackened finger. “You’re going to take this and give it to Sanders. Tell him it’s a present from his ol’ buddy.”

  She leaned away. “I don’t see him very often.”

  Tara sent her a worried glance.

  The man frowned. “You’re telling me you don’t want to get your pretty hands dirty—like me—is that it?”

  He rubbed his hands together, and a shower of ash drifted onto the table. “Here.” He reached into the trash, pulled out a cracker box, and dropped the can inside. “There. All set.”

  Madeleine didn’t move toward it.

  He pushed it closer. “Do as I say, woman! Take it.”

  Tara made a small, agitated movement, and Madeleine picked up the box.

  Her uncle levered himself upright.

  Good, he was going to leave now.

  He looked down at her. “Don’t you think you’ve been visiting long enough? Sally has work to do. And you have a job to do for me.”

  Madeleine exchanged a regretful glance with Tara and got to her feet, but her thoughts had untangled themselves.

  Sid and the pendant—the sight of it spooked him? His brother was Tara’s father? And he got it from where? Sid knew something about that pendant, and if he weren’t so drunk, she could get him to tell her. Next time.

  She had to tilt her head back to stare into the man’s eyes, but she felt six feet tall.

  “Mr. Marrick.” She addressed him in the firm, courteous voice she used with her students. “If you want me to do this job, then you will answer some questions for me when I come back. Remember that.”

  Anger sparked in his eyes, soon replaced by uncertainty. “A pretty woman with spunk—now I like that.” He swayed toward her.

  She gave him a warning look. “Agreed?”

  “Guess so.” His eyes agreed too.

  “Goodbye then,” she said. “Tara, I’ll see you later.”

  The way to the front door was clear, and she left before he could decide to come after her. Getting out into the sunlight gave her such a feeling of release that she understood why Tara escaped to her hideout whenever she could.

  She stepped across the iron frame, marched to her car, and locked herself inside, conscious that he was watching her from the porch. Rather than backing down the driveway, she turned her car around, swerving to avoid the engine parts, and finally left the house behind.

  A minute later she’d reached Salty Spung Road, and as her nerves began to uncoil, she reviewed what she’d learned. Tara seemed to feel that she had as much right to the pendant as the Castells. How could it be the same one?

  What about Kent and Sid? An unlikely pair? Perhaps not.

  She glanced at the cracker box beside her. Dirty thing. What could she do with it?

  No ideas, right now. But she had promised, and somehow, she’d get it to Kent.

  It was past noon by the time she arrived at the Manor. She changed into the cranberry shirt Nathan liked, and while she was finishing up the deviled eggs, he phoned to say that he’d be there in a minute.

  She met him at the door, and he took her into his arms as if they’d been parted for weeks. “Mmm,” he said into her hair. “Will you wear it down today?”

  She laughed. “That’s easy.” They walked arm in arm to the kitchen and she said, “Do you want to eat now or pack a lunch?”

  “Both.”

  “I thought so. Here, you’re good with knives.” She handed him a knife and had him slice the bread an
d left-over roast beef.

  “Grapes? Cookies?” she said. “Anything else?”

  “Do you have any of those specialty hard-boiled eggs?”

  “Done.” This was going to be a happy day, she could tell already. An invigorating hike with good conversation. And she could share her worries about Tara.

  By daylight, the Hampton area looked disheveled and weedy, with the furnace ruins invisible, but the tall sycamore still stood on guard, and she gave it an affectionate glance as they passed.

  They parked in the same place as before, and Nathan, map in hand, walked back along the way they’d come until he found a sandy track that branched off into the woods. “Logan said we might want to look at this one too—it follows the Batsto for a while. Even has an underwater bridge. I’d like to see that sometime.”

  They passed the warehouse ruins and the bridge over the Skit, and continued along another sandy road, bronzed with pine needles, that grew soft under her feet.

  Whenever the road forked, he consulted the map, and she was glad he’d brought it, because after a while all the roads looked the same. The landscape varied—widely-spaced pines set in dappled sand; ragged, skeletal pines; slim, close-growing pines—but always pines. The forest had its usual effect on her, and she began to hum a tune under her breath.

  He picked up a fallen branch and tossed it out of their way. “How was Tara this morning?”

  “Not very happy when I was asked to leave.”

  “Her aunt?”

  “Uncle.” She reached into his backpack for a bottle of water. “Besides being drunk, he was rather agitated.”

  She described the scene with the soup can, and he looked thoughtful. “So you’re going to give it to Kent?”

  “Not a chance. Their little tiff has nothing to do with me. I’ll get it to him somehow, but that’s all I agreed to do.”

  “How about Remi?”

  Remi would be at church tomorrow. He could take it off her hands. “That’s a good fix,” she said.

  The pines on their right were mixed with oaks and thick underbrush, and once in a while she caught a glimpse of the river. Swamp maples grew along its banks, alight with red leaves.

  Clouds hung low, but it was warm enough that she rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. Good thing she’d left her jacket in the car.