Abide with Me

by Delia Parr

  She had only just begun her treatments. She still had eleven and a half months ahead of her.

  She might have felt better today if Jamie had not called in sick and he had been able to help her from her car to the office as he usually did. She would have felt better if she had been able to take Bill Sanderson out this morning to look at prospective homes, but she definitely would have felt better attending the Wheatley settlement instead of going for chemo.

  Fortunately, Madge showed up at ten-thirty with Jenny, as well as breakfast, and Andrea’s mood shifted a notch closer to happy and further away from the pity party she was having for herself.

  “I’m late as usual,” Madge quipped as she flashed her new wristwatch, “but it wasn’t my fault.”

  Jenny held up a hand. “It’s not my fault, either. I worked some overtime today, but I was home by nine and ready to go by nine-thirty.”

  “Pull up some chairs,” Andrea suggested. “I’m starving. I can’t wait to hear who gets blamed, as long as it isn’t me.”

  Jenny’s eyes twinkled, although she looked exhausted. “We were in the bakery when Madge’s alarm went off.”

  “And they all loved it,” Madge added as she set out paper plates, plastic cups, utensils, several white bakery boxes and an insulated carafe on top of the vinyl tablecloth that Andrea had spread out on her desk to protect it. “I think we’ve got every one of your favorites, plus here’s a container of yogurt. You need protein, too.”

  Andrea’s stomach growled. “Other than preferring miniatures, I don’t really have a favorite.”

  Madge grinned. “That’s why we got a few of everything they make in miniature.” She pointed to the three opened boxes. “Here we have miniature cinnamon buns, with and without walnuts. They all come with raisins. Next, we have an assortment of Danishes—blueberry, cherry, lemon and cheese. They won’t make peach until next month. Finally, we have minimuffins. There are bran, blueberry, orange crumb and cranberry-apple.”

  “There’s enough here to feed most of the women in Welleswood!” Andrea ignored the yogurt and sampled a cranberry-apple muffin while Jenny poured lemonade into their cups. “You two are really spoiling me.”

  Madge made a mock bow. “Nothing is too good for our princess.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes. “You still didn’t tell me who made you late.”

  Madge handed Andrea a napkin. “You did.”

  Andrea looked to Jenny for help.

  Her baby sister nodded. “Madge refused to leave the bakery until we had samples of every miniature they made, so we had to wait.”

  “The muffins weren’t ready,” Madge explained.

  Andrea blinked hard and swallowed the last bite of her muffin. “So because you decided to wait for the muffins, it’s my fault you’re late?”

  “Of course,” they replied in unison.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Andrea argued.

  “No it’s not,” Madge countered.

  Andrea cocked a brow. “You can’t be serious.”

  Madge shrugged. “What have you eaten so far?”

  “A cranberry-apple muffin.” She reached for a blueberry muffin, thought better of her choice and immediately grabbed a cheese Danish.

  “Ha! See? I was right! You wanted the blueberry muffin, but you wouldn’t take one because you didn’t want me to know I was right. Muffins are your favorite,” Madge crowed.

  “I don’t have a favorite.”

  “You have to have a favorite from McAllister’s. It’s almost a tradition,” Jenny insisted. “Spinners were Sandra’s favorite. The chocolate cake with the butter-cream icing is mine.”

  Madge nodded. “And mine are the éclairs, but only the ones stuffed with whipped cream, not the custard ones. Traditions, Andrea. They’re important, so just admit it. Muffins are your favorite.”

  Andrea polished off the evidence in two bites. “Either I’m a little daffy today or you’re making no sense at all. Do you have a fever or something?”

  “No, she’s fine. She’s making perfect sense,” Jenny offered. “As Madge sees it, you really like the muffins better than anything else, which meant she had to wait at the bakery for them. If she hadn’t, you would have been disappointed. So it’s your fault. If the Danish or the cinnamon buns were your favorite, we could have been on time. Got it?”

  Andrea burst out laughing. Only Madge could get away with such convoluted thinking, and only Jenny would be able to explain it. Better yet, Andrea decided as she looked at each of them, only sisters would know just how to bring a little sunshine and a whole lot of God’s love into her day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As always, the dog days of August blessed Welleswood with stifling heat and excessive humidity. No one was in the community more anxious than Andrea to see September arrive next week and let autumn snap the leash that held them all within summer’s sweaty grasp. Even though she had tried to change her perspective, the other leash that had kept her from living a normal life did not show any signs of disappearing.

  Last Friday, the day after her last weekly chemo treatment, she had gone to the hair salon. Her stylist, Judy, was on vacation, but Andrea could not wait. She had a new stylist cut her hair as short as she could and prayed the new growth would not feel like steel wool. That same afternoon, she had her final visit to the orthopedist and traded in her crutches for good. Her ankle and the muscles in her left leg, however, were stiff, and facing physical therapy three times a week for the next month certainly infringed on the freedom she had envisioned for herself now that she had a full month off between chemo treatments.

  On the Wednesday before Labor Day, she arrived at work a little earlier than usual and limped a bit on her way to her desk. She took one look at the chaos on Doris’s desk as well as her own and groaned. Not even that hideous flower arrangement was big enough to hide this disaster. And now her desk was a mess, too?

  Working side by side with Doris for the past six weeks Andrea had watched the woman with a combination of awe and disdain. Truthfully, Doris also had a remarkable mind. She could remember the slightest detail surrounding a real estate transaction, and the clients absolutely loved her. Unfortunately, she was also a veritable hurricane when it came to paperwork. In a matter of minutes, she could wreak havoc on the organized papers Andrea gave her. Obviously, leaving Doris alone for the afternoon yesterday while Andrea had gone to physical therapy had been a major mistake.

  “I can’t work like this. I won’t work like this. I shouldn’t have to work like this,” Andrea muttered to herself while she simply took the mess of papers from her desk and dumped them on top of Doris’s desk. “There! That’s my first executive decision of the day. My second is that Doris will sit here and put everything in order before she takes a step out of here today. Or touches the phone,” she added when she caught a glimpse of the light blinking the number nine on the answering machine.

  She sat down at her desk, pulled her daily planner from the drawer where she kept it from meddling hands and took out a fresh memo pad.

  First things first. She flipped the planner open to check the appointments for the day and gasped. “She wrote in my planner? In pen? In red pen?” Her pulse quickened and her cheeks flushed hot. “Nothing is sacred here anymore. Nothing is mine anymore,” she griped.

  So much for trying to hide her planner.

  She noted the reminder that today was Jamie’s last day. The meeting for the Shawl Ministry was tonight at seven, and she regretted, once again, letting Madge talk her into attending. She had one appointment with Bill Sanderson set for noon. Great. She had not had a client as fussy as this man for years, but at least he was her client and not Doris’s. Actually, Doris had three appointments scheduled for that afternoon, but none for the morning. No settlements today for either of them.

  She closed the daily planner, picked up a pencil and pressed the button on the answering machine to listen to the nine messages waiting to be retrieved. She wrote the number one on the memo pad, circled i
t and wrote as she listened to the first message: Mrs. Malloy, confirming two-o’clock appointment with Doris. Message two: Alex Boxley. Needs certificate confirming home-owners’ insurance for the Potter settlement.

  “Good. I can do that.”

  She continued through the next seven messages. Some were requests to see a listing. Two were requests to set up appointments to sign listing agreements. One was a hang-up. All of the messages had been left for Doris. None were for Andrea, except the Boxley call. Dismayed but not defeated, she listened to the last call and wrote automatically: Call from Doris. She’s having a body massage this morning. She’ll be in at one o’clock for her first appointment.

  She stared at the message and tossed her pen into the air. “A body massage? You left this mess in my office and you’re having a body massage?” She felt the tears well and held them back.

  The pen fell to the desk, bounced and landed point first on the back of Andrea’s hand. She yelped and rubbed the back of her hand. No real damage, but it sure did smart! “That about says it all, doesn’t it? This day is going to be pure torture. Nothing can save the day now. It’s already ruined.”

  As if on cue, the front door opened and Max Feldman came in with a vase of mixed flowers so big she could scarcely see the top half of his body. That was no easy task, given the three hundred pounds he carried on his frame. Her mood immediately shifted from agitated to overjoyed. “Flowers!”

  He peeked over the flowers and chuckled. “That’s why I’ve been in this business for thirty-four years. I make people smile every day. Arlene said to bring this over first thing. We’ve got so many deliveries to make outside of town, I probably won’t be back to the avenue again until suppertime.” His upbeat mood disappeared the moment he spied the artificial arrangement on Doris’ desk, and he paused mid-stride between the front door and the two desks. “Tell me you haven’t had to look at that for more than a day or two.”

  “Try six weeks!”

  “Six weeks? Whoever made that…no, never mind. I know where that came from. I’d better not say another word or Arlene will have conniptions. She’s friends with you-know-who.” He set the vase of flowers on top of Andrea’s desk and removed the clear plastic wrapped over the top. He paused to take a deep breath and smiled again. “You can’t do that with artificial flowers, can you? Enjoy. Don’t forget to add fresh water every day,” he instructed before he continued on his way.

  She was fairly certain the flowers had come from either Madge or Jenny or both of her sisters. They were such dears. It was just like them to send her flowers to mark the end of her weekly chemo treatments. She found the little envelope lying upside down, opened it, and read the card that had been inside. Then she read it again out loud. “To the best real estate agent ever! Thank you for selling our home. The Finleys.”

  She gasped. “The Finleys? Tom and Susan Finley sent me flowers?”

  She had not sold the Finley home. Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. She found the little envelope again and turned it over. She was right. The Finleys had not sent her flowers. They had sent them to Doris. Hurricane Doris. The Doris who was, at this very moment, having a body massage while Andrea was at work.

  Andrea shut her eyes and gripped the sides of her chair, but she had the awful feeling the day was sliding fast toward disaster.

  Determined not to be pulled into despair, Andrea had restored order to the paperwork that had been on her desk as well as Doris’s by midmorning. She had taken care of all the things she had to do for Jamie’s last day and faxed a copy of the home-owners insurance certificate to Alex Boxley. She had even put the vase of flowers on Doris’s desk and stored the ugly artificial arrangement in one of the conference rooms.

  When Jamie arrived, Andrea’s day began looking even better. She checked her watch and greeted him with a smile. “That makes it official. You’ve been on time every single day. I’d have to add ‘punctual’ and ‘reliable’ to that letter of recommendation I promised to write for you, if I hadn’t done that already.”

  He blushed. “Thanks, Mrs. Hooper. I—I really appreciate how nice you’ve been all summer.”

  “You make it easy,” she responded. “As a matter of fact, I have two copies of that letter right here.” She pulled two of the envelopes that she had paper-clipped together from the middle tier of the bin on her desk and handed them to him. “One is a sealed copy. Sometimes colleges insist on that. The other one isn’t sealed, so you can make a copy if you need one for your employer if you’re job-hunting next summer, or your counselor at school can make copies when you get around to applying to colleges. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

  His blush deepened. “Thanks.”

  “Have your Mom and Dad decided when you’re getting your skateboard back?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Not yet.”

  “Tell them to read the letter, too. Maybe it’ll help.”

  He dropped his gaze for a moment. When he looked at her again, he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “I was wondering if I could ask you to do a favor for me and for some of the other kids. I still feel pretty bad about what happened. You’ve been really nice about that. I really appreciate the letters of recommendation and all, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to help. I just…have to ask.”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “Ask me what?”

  “There’s a meeting a week from this Friday at seven o’clock. The town council is going to be talking about building that special section in Welleswood Park for skateboarders. I was wondering if you could come and if you’d speak up for us and say it’s a good idea.” He let out a sigh. “If you could. If not, well, we’ll understand.”

  His words had poured out so fast, she knew he must have rehearsed them for days. She had received a notice about the town meeting, of course, and Jamie had mentioned it every day for the past week. She had suspected he was going to ask her to speak out in favor of the new skateboarding facility, and she was ready with her answer. “I wish I could attend,” she replied. “Unfortunately, I’ve been invited to my sister’s new beach house for that weekend and we’re leaving early Friday afternoon.”

  He nodded stiffly. “Sure. I understand. My dad didn’t think I should have asked you.”

  She grinned. “Well, once in a while, dads can be wrong. Not often,” she cautioned. She took another envelope form the tiered bin. “I’ve already spoken to several of the commissioners, but I’d like you to take this letter to the meeting and read it to everyone for me. Can you do that?”

  He took the envelope and stared at it as if it were made of gold. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks, Mrs. Hooper!”

  “I’m not sure how much it will help, but all we can do is try to get all of you a safe place to use those skateboards of yours.”

  “I think it’s going to help a lot, having our own place to skate, I mean,” he gushed. His shoulders relaxed as if he had shed a heavy burden. “What do you have for me to do for you today?”

  “One errand, then you’re free for the rest of the day.”

  “Just one?”

  She nodded and handed him a fourth and final envelope. “I need you to take a deposit to the bank.”

  “That’s it? You’re sure?”

  “That’s it. The deposit ticket is inside.”

  “I’ll bring the receipt right back, unless you want me to ask them to hold it for you like last time.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  He caught her gaze and held it. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Hooper. I mean it. You’re a nice lady.”

  “And you’re a great volunteer. Now get moving. You know how long the lines get at the bank right before a weekend.”

  She watched him walk out the door. She would have given anything to be at the bank when the teller opened the envelope, saw the check Andrea had made out to him for $1,000, and asked him to put his account number on the deposit ticket and endorse the check. She had already cleared her plan with his parents, who had on
ly agreed to let Jamie accept the check if it was deposited directly into the savings account earmarked for his college education.

  Instead, she turned her attention to the appointment she had with Bill Sanderson and prayed the man might be a whole lot less picky about the home he claimed he wanted to buy in Welleswood. On the bright side, the celebrity status surrounding his misadventure had faded, and the shift from a negative thought to a positive one made her less apprehensive about their appointment today.

  She started reviewing the fact sheets for the two properties they were scheduled to see today. After making some telephone calls to resolve a few questions she had, she put all of the information into an orange folder, a color that designated potential properties a client had expressed an interest in seeing.

  “Some potential,” she grumbled. He was not going to like the first property, not that she did not try to convince him not to waste time visiting this one. The lot was too small, and there was not much either one of them could do about that. He was not going to like the second one, either. At least, he should not like it. It was a woman’s house, top to bottom, and definitely not a house for a middle-aged bachelor.

  She ran her fingers through her closely cropped hair and glanced at the two desks, which were now neatly organized, just the way she liked them. The very thought of Doris sailing into the office, fresh from her body massage, while Andrea was out on a wild-goose chase with Mr. Bill “Fussy” Sanderson, inspired a groan. Unless she covered each desk with shrink-wrap, there was no way to stop Hurricane Doris from hitting, short of changing the locks on the doors and sandbagging both entrances.

  “Lucky, lucky me,” she muttered. “I’m destined to spend the next month in Hurricane Alley unless…” She grabbed a sudden thought, found the catalogue for Office Genie and dialed customer service.

  “Office Genie. This is Genie Cassandra. Is there an office problem I can solve for you today?”