The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  “What’s this?” She veered onto a faint trail leading off to their right. “I’d like to see more of the river.”

  Nathan followed her. “Could be a deer path, from what Logan said.”

  They had to push through barbed vines and brittle, leafless bushes, but they ended up beside a deep pool that looked like a fisherman’s dream. The river, swirling past, caught the light in topaz ripples. “Worth it,” she said, smiling up at him.

  On their way back through the brush, he took her arm. “Those scratches are almost gone, I’m glad to see.”

  “Excellent medical care,” she said. “And I heal quickly.”

  “You won’t have any scars.”

  “I hope not.” It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking.

  She brushed the twigs out of her hair and thought, Let’s not spoil this day by talking about Brenn.

  “So,” she said, “where in Alaska did you grow up?”

  He told her how his parents had homesteaded a piece of land that bordered Denali National Park. They’d hauled in supplies by dogsled or Super Cub, and his father had taught him to track everything from wolverine to moose, and he’d loved it all.

  She smiled to herself as she listened.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just picturing you as this little boy trudging to school through the snow—five feet deep, uphill both ways—with your slate under your arm.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t that long ago.”

  “Just kidding. What books did you have at home?”

  “We traded back and forth, and there was a library in town. But the ones I remember best were the Bible, a one-volume Shakespeare, and The Wilderness Homestead.”

  Shakespeare? That would account for a few things.

  A few minutes later, he said slowly, “I didn’t go to a real school until I was a teenager and we had moved to town.”

  “Your mother taught you?”

  “Until she left. After a while my dad decided I should have a more civilized life. I hated it at first.”

  “That’s when you met your Inuit friend, Denny?”

  “And Timothy. An important person in my life.”

  She nodded. “What was it about the raisins and porridge?”

  “My dad always cooked up a big pot of oatmeal. With just the two of us, it lasted for a week. He’d put in raisins, and they got big and bloated and I’d pick them out and feed them to our pet raccoon.”

  The look on his face made her laugh.

  As the road meandered on, he asked what her father had been like, and she told him about Dad’s ruffians and the hikes they’d taken, the canoe trips together.

  They arrived at another clearing, and she followed his gaze off to one side.

  “Railroad tracks?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Right where they’re supposed to be.” They followed a well-trodden path beside the tracks, which were clogged with grass, obviously unused, and she said, “The teens will like this, won’t they?”

  “I think so. We should run into the river again, up here.”

  A train trestle, with planks secured lengthwise between the rails, came into sight. “Another bridge?” she said. “I’m loving this place.”

  Up close, the trestle was bigger than she’d thought, built of massive, creosote-blackened timbers and huge iron spikes.

  They walked out across it to look at the river, gleaming as it curved away into the pines. She was wishing she’d brought her camera when the trees bent before a gust of wind and rain began to fall, spattering the boards.

  “C’mon,” he said, turning back. “Let’s see what’s underneath this.”

  A steep, cindered slope took them down to the river’s edge, and they ducked into a space beneath the trestle. The beams slanted above them, looking strong enough to gird a skyscraper, and the rain fell in quick, wind-driven bursts.

  “Good idea,” she said. “Snug and dry enough, and we can still watch the river.”

  He leaned against one of the uprights and put an arm around her. “I need to talk to you.”

  She didn’t like the sound of this.

  “Thinking about last night . . .”

  She’d rather not.

  “The kiss,” he said. “It seems to be a trigger for your panic attacks. Can you tell me why?”

  She turned her face into his shoulder. Did they have to discuss this? But he’d asked a reasonable question. Perhaps he should know . . . some things.

  He put a hand on her arm, stroked it lightly, and waited.

  “At night . . .” She took a shallow breath. “When he kissed me hard and rough, I knew . . . I knew . . . it was going to be a bad time.”

  His hand on her arm paused and then began again.

  Little dripping sounds came from the timbers, and the wind sent two crimson leaves skittering under the trestle. They glowed against the gravel like tiny embers.

  In a choked voice, he said, “Any other triggers?”

  She bent away from him. Why not pick up those leaves? Here was one more. Three pretty leaves—they’d make a bouquet.

  She took her time, tucked them into the pocket of his shirt, and looked sideways at him. He stood there, waiting. Patient as always.

  He drew her gently back to himself.

  She couldn’t bear for him to see what Brenn had done. How could she even tell him? But perhaps then he’d change his mind about her.

  “Fire.” Her breath came quickly, and she kept her eyes on the crimson leaves. “I am afraid of fire. Especially little bits of fire on little blue lighters.”

  He said nothing.

  She glanced up and saw the pain in his eyes. She could trust him with this much. “It helps,” she said, “to tell a nightmare.”

  But she had to lean back against him for support, had to speak reassuring words to herself: This is Nathan. Breathe.

  “Bones,” she said. “Bones and bone marrow—his specialty, you know. Ribs fascinated him. He liked to decorate . . . mine.”

  She put a hand on her ribs. “I have some scars. Burn scars, from where he . . .”

  The memory loomed, and she hurried on. “After a while, it got so I’d faint when he took out his lighter.”

  She began to tremble, and great racking breaths tore through her.

  Nathan groaned. He turned her to himself and wrapped both arms around her. She clung to him, pressing her face against his chest, and felt his heart thudding with hers.

  He said he loved her, said it over and over again while she wept, rocked her until she stopped trembling. He prayed aloud, asking God to pour out His grace upon them and show His mighty power in her life.

  Then he fell silent, stroking her hair, and at last she could lift her head.

  She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry about all these tears.”

  “Tears are good, Mollie. You’re coming back to life.”

  “I know you’re wondering why I let him do that.”

  She tried to fill her lungs with air but couldn’t seem to get enough.

  “He was strong, like you,” she said. “Not as tall, but thick with muscles, except for his bad leg. I’m so small he could hold me down with one arm. I learned not to fight.” She shuddered at the memory. “But I still feel like a coward.”

  “You’re not. You amaze me.” Nathan’s voice was muffled by her hair. “He had a bad leg?”

  “Something happened when he was young, to maim it. I wonder if I married him out of pity for his limp. He seemed such a fine person, so brave about his disability. I was a fool to trust him.”

  She half-turned, looking down at the muscled arm that held her. How was she to know that it would never pin her to a bed? Or this slender hand, that it would never cut off her scream?

  Her voice wavered, and she hated her weakness, but she had to say one thing more. “I don’t think I can ever trust another man, not in such a vulnerable relationship. I just can’t risk it.”

  His hand closed warm on her arm, and he didn’t answer.

/>   She stole a look at him. His eyes were shut, the lines on his face more deeply etched than ever, and she winced. “I’m sorry, Nathan.”

  “It’s true, I’m only a man,” he murmured. “Even worse in your eyes, I’m a doctor.” He paused, and then his voice grew stronger. “Perhaps you can’t trust me, but you can trust the God who rules me. Try that, Mollie.”

  She drooped against him. Why couldn’t he let her go? Such determination was exhausting.

  He kept his arm around her. “Here’s something I wanted to tell you. Ever since Timothy mentioned the book of Ephesians, I’ve been reading it over and over, trying to get it past my brain and into my heart. That’s what I read after we talked, Wednesday night. You’re reading it too, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “I like that first chapter. And the second one. I’m camping on the third one right now.”

  “That’ll help both of us. And Timothy’s got an Isaiah verse he’s going to preach about.” He smiled. “He tends to practice his sermons on me. Perhaps we could learn it together.”

  He pulled out a piece of wrinkled paper.

  Fear not, for I am with you;

  be not dismayed, for I am your God;

  I will strengthen you, I will help you,

  I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

  The comfort in those words seeped through her, and after a minute she looked up at him. “Let’s do it. I can hear Timothy saying, You want to be strong, little lady? Hang onto this.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I don’t want to be vulnerable.

  I don’t want to need anyone.

  He’s so good to me . . . but

  I must not let myself love him.

  ~Journal

  The next morning at church, Timothy looked at the two of them with a smile as he quoted the verse—their verse. He’d been talking about the faithfulness of God.

  “You’ll notice,” he said, “that God doesn’t promise a life without pain or suffering.”

  The little man looked more stooped than usual, and more wrinkled, if that were possible, but his voice was as strong as ever.

  “I’ve had a taste of pain,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be beaten and have bones broken. I was a new Christian, and I didn’t understand why God could let that happen when I was trying to serve him.”

  He paused to cough. “I still don’t understand God’s reasons for allowing evil—that’s His mystery. But it’s not because He doesn’t love me. Christ’s cross proves that. Even though He let a bunch of thugs beat me up, I can trust Him.”

  Nathan slipped his hand over hers, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  Timothy smiled, and coughed again. “Along with the hard things, God gives us His mercies. Sometimes it’s a reminder of His love, like this verse. Or it’s something beautiful He’s made. Or a good friend. I call them the gifts of His grace. They keep me going.”

  Madeleine smiled to herself. Yes, that verse was a gift. Last night, she’d written it out and tucked it into her Bible. She took out the slip of paper.

  Today more than ever, she needed it. Getting up this morning had been difficult. Even sitting here with Nathan on one side and Jude on the other, she had trouble concentrating. Why such lethargy? This was how she’d felt after a session with Brenn.

  Yesterday, the rest of their hike had been uncomplicated and happy. They’d eaten their lunch beside the river, had talked and laughed all the way back.

  Nathan hadn’t asked any more difficult questions. At the door, he’d held her for a moment, his hand resting briefly on her ribs, and she knew he was thinking about the scars there. They’d said a restrained goodbye.

  That evening, she couldn’t eat much supper, so she’d listened to Logan’s home-made CD, read through the whole book of Ephesians, and gone to bed early. Near dawn, her dreams became nightmares about Brenn. Because she’d told Nathan?

  She unfolded the slip of paper, read the verse again, and prayed silently. Lord my Rock, write these words on my heart. I still have fears, and I’m afraid of them. Deliver me! Only Your power can do it.

  She needed wisdom too. Jude had asked about her visit to Tara’s, and he’d bristled at Tara’s story. “Her dad gave that pendant to her mom? Impossible.” He reminded her of the knots in the leather cord.

  What should she do about this? Anything?

  Nathan left her side to play the closing hymn, and she stood with the others to sing “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” Never had the old song seemed more up-to-date.

  She had given Jude and his grandmother a ride to church, and after the service, Gemma lingered, talking to friends.

  Remi paused on his way out to ask whether he should come to work in the morning. “Please do,” she said. “We can use your help.” She lowered her voice. “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

  “Mollie, I owe you, big time.”

  “Someone gave me a box to be delivered to Kent. I’d rather not do it myself.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll give it to him.”

  “It’s kind of peculiar. I have it down in the car.” She glanced at the front of the room, where Gemma and Jude were standing. “Let’s go get it.”

  Remi didn’t comment when she showed him what was in the cracker box, but something in his face changed.

  He repeated the message and took the box from her, saying, “I’ll make sure he gets it this afternoon.”

  She ran back upstairs and found that Gemma and Jude were talking with Timothy, moving gradually toward the door.

  Nathan appeared at her side. “You gave it to Remi?”

  “Yes, and good riddance.”

  “And you’re coming to lunch with me and Timothy, right?”

  She smiled at him. “Right! I’m going to run Gemma and Jude home, and then I’ll meet you. Tell me again—where?”

  “Keeto’s, just a little way out of town on Route 620.”

  A quiet lunch with the two of them. Something to enjoy. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  In the car, Gemma arranged her cane, smiling. “I had a wonderful time at church, Mollie. Thank you.”

  From where he sat in the back, Jude said, “You got to talk to some of your old friends, didn’t you, Gemma?”

  “There’s nothing like old friends.” His grandmother turned to look at him. “I’ve been thinking about that yearbook, the one with your father in it. I’m sure I still have a copy. You might want to see it too, Mollie.”

  “He wasn’t about to retire, was he?” she asked.

  “No, it was a special Fifty-Year edition. They did a page featuring my son—Rhys—and a teacher who retired long ago, Hazel Marshon. She’d been his English teacher, and now he was teaching English too, in the same school district.”

  Gemma sighed, a remembering look on her face. “I knew Hazel. It was a terrible shame, what happened to her.”

  “What, Gemma?” Jude asked.

  “Her house was robbed and set on fire. She died in the fire.”

  “Did they ever find out who did it?” Madeleine asked.

  Gemma shook her head. “We heard a lot of rumors. Young punks, they said. I never did hear the official conclusion. ”

  She gazed out the window. “Rhys was upset, I can tell you. Hazel had been one of his favorite teachers. After they did the yearbook, he must have started thinking about it again, because he told me he was going to investigate. But then he died.”

  She waved a hand, as if to disperse the memory. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s happening at the Manor these days? Any more discoveries?”

  She told Gemma about the hats in the armoire, and their conversation veered to the Manor’s future. Gemma suggested a nice little tea room with specialty cakes, and as they helped her walk up the driveway to the house, Jude teased her about it.

  “Yes, specialize,” he said. “We’ve got all these cranberries growing around here. Roasted cranberries. Boiled cranberries. Cranberries on toast. Pass the sugar.”

  “You are a
rascal, young man,” Gemma said with her fond smile.

  Bria looked out the door. “Oh!” Jude said, “I almost forgot. Can you come see Bria’s hooded merganser?”

  Madeleine admired the distinctive white-crested decoy and greeted Paula, who smiled back without her usual vagueness.

  “Kent has another idea for our decoys,” Paula said. “He’s going to western Canada to study trees, and he’s taking a box-full to show some collectors.”

  So he’d decided it would be safer to sell phony antiques out West?

  Her smile felt like a phony too. “Has Kent always been a friend of the family?”

  Paula, sanding a headless duck, told how he’d been one of her husband’s smartest students and had left for the West Coast after he graduated.

  Paula turned the duck over to inspect it. “I knew his mother—poor Nancy. She often came to talk. She worried a lot about Kent. She had something wrong with her blood, and after her funeral, we didn’t see him again.” She smiled. “Until now.”

  Madeleine listened, thinking how sad it was to hear about the anxious mother from Paula, who trusted Kent so blindly. What had Rhys, the teacher, thought about him?

  She felt a creeping weariness. Enough about Kent. “Thanks, Bria, for showing me your new creation. I’d better go now. See you later, Jude.”

  Keeto’s was easy to find, thanks to its blazing neon sign and crowded parking lot. The two men must have been waiting for her in the Jeep because they joined her as she walked up to the door.

  Inside was a long, narrow dining room with a well-stocked buffet dominated by two black tureens of soup. At a nearby table sat a blonde woman and Kent.

  She ignored him as she headed for a table close to the windows, but she could feel the heat of his gaze. No! He wasn’t going to spoil her lunch.

  “It’s not the fanciest,” Timothy said, indicating the red plastic tablecloth, “but the ham is good.” He asked a blessing on their meal, and a thin-faced woman hurried over to take their order and Nathan’s credit card.

  “Go ahead and help yourselves,” she said. “Eat all you want. Drinks are on the buffet.”

  Madeleine filled a bowl with broccoli-cheese soup and chose a corn muffin. The men heaped their plates with sliced ham and vegetables that looked as if they’d been recently acquainted with a can.