“I’ve seldom ever talked about it—or thought about it—except in theoretical terms.”
That gave me pause. “Why not?”
“My youth pastor when I was in ninth grade.”
My curiosity was fast overcoming my distress. “He made you take a vow of celibacy?”
He shook his head. “Sam Collier. A General Patton–esque man with all the people skills of Attila the Hun.”
“Sounds pleasant.”
“He was actually perfect for the job—imagine ten guys like me in the same youth group.” I crinkled my nose in sympathy. “He was former military, actually. And he had this really infuriating ability to predict just how stupid my next idea was going to be.”
“And he’s the reason you’re still single at age thirty-six?”
“Thirty-seven in a few weeks.” Scott leaned his head back on the headrest and seemed to be picturing the scene. “One of the guys in our group asked the colonel—that’s what we called him—what he thought about divorce, and he told us what he thought about marriage instead. He said, ‘Gentlemen, my best advice to you is never get married. Respect marriage. Fear marriage. And absolutely do not get married!’”
“What?”
“He had a point. There were so many marriages, even in my church, that were falling apart, that he told us we should only consider getting married if we were absolutely, fiercely determined to fight for it with all our worth for the rest of our lives. And if we didn’t have a kind of warrior’s zeal and compulsive commitment to give to it, we should run from it as fast as our scrawny legs could take us.”
“So he wasn’t an optimist, is what you’re saying.”
“He was a math guy—he knew the stats and they weren’t in our favor. And most of what I’ve seen since then has proved him right.”
“So you’ve followed his advice—been a good little boy?”
“I was a stupid teenager who did some really stupid things,” he said. “But after I grew up a little, I had a couple more serious girlfriends and gave his theory some thought.”
“Get very far?”
He shook his head. “Every time I stopped to wonder if I was willing to invest in a lifelong battle to keep the relationship alive, I decided I didn’t love her enough or I didn’t want marriage enough.”
I let the silence stretch, mostly because I had no idea how to fill it.
“And now?” I resisted the urge to clap my hands over my ears and sing loudly enough to drown out his response. I was a little nervous.
“And now,” he said, “I’ve reached the ripe old age of thirty-six . . .”
“Nearly thirty-seven.”
“. . . and I’m in a bit of a predicament.”
Here it was. “Predicament?”
“Having found someone I’m willing to go to war for.”
My stomach somersaulted. Not the confession I’d expected. “And that’s a predicament because . . . ?”
“Because I want it with all my might,” he said, his eyes lighting with intensity and determination, “but I don’t know yet if you’re up for the battle too.”
“I see.” The voices were rising in my mind again.
He sighed and leaned his head sideways on the headrest, staring at me. “Still no Scarlett?”
“I think she might be giving you the time to change your mind.”
“She can stop whenever she wants, you know.”
I nodded. “I’ve never been very good at battles, Scott. I’m the type who runs for the cellar, not the armory.”
“I’m in no hurry,” he said.
Years of cynicism streaked toxic stains across the genuineness of Scott’s gaze. I wanted to believe him—with every insurmountable scar of my past.
“I don’t know how to trust you,” I said. I saw his gaze cloud over and a muscle work in his jaw. “That’s not what I mean,” I rectified. “I know I can trust you. But it’s your . . . your . . .”
“Love?”
“Your love,” I said, and the word sounded foreign and unwieldy on my tongue. “It’s your love I have trouble with. And if I can’t believe that . . .”
He turned toward me in his seat and looked at me like the answer was written in hieroglyphics on my face. “What will it take?” he asked in a voice whose huskiness matched mine. “How can I convince you?”
I bit my lip and shook my head, begging him with my eyes not to hate me for my uncertainty. “I don’t know.”
There was a flicker of frustration in his gaze, quickly quelled and softened with a patience that humbled me. “I’ll keep trying until I get it right,” he said, and I knew from the edge in his voice that my hesitance was hurting him.
“I’m sorry, Scott.”
“There’s no need.”
His hand was gentle as he cupped my face. His smile held something deep-flowing and sure. “You should get some sleep,” he said. “You’ve got a couple big days coming up.” His voice was still a little tight, but his eyes were soft and ember-warm.
“You’re right,” I said, reluctant to leave him but relieved to defer the conversation. “And I’ve got an early morning tomorrow, so . . .” I looked into the serenity and depth of his smile, and I wondered what I’d done to earn his love. But Trey was waiting for me in my apartment, probably half-asleep on the couch by now. “I’d better go. Trey and I still have some catching up to do.”
“Glad he’s here?”
“I can’t even tell you.”
“I like him, Shell.”
“And all you’ve seen is his caveman side!” It felt good to smile.
“He loves you. That’s all I really need to know.”
“I’m so . . .” I paused. How could I explain to him the fullness of my heart? “I’m so very grateful to know you, Scott. To . . . to have you in my life. And Shayla’s. I just want you to know that. Whatever happens.” I reached up to touch his face and let my fingers drift over his features. What had I done to deserve this man who made me laugh and think and wish for an impossible future?
He took my fingers from his face and kissed my palm. “Good night, Shelby.”
“Good night, Scott.”
21
THE ACTORS WERE strangely calm as they went through their final preparations—makeup touch-ups, costuming, line reviews, and all the other minor details that grow to enormous proportions in those minutes preceding the opening scene. Some actors lightened the mood with quiet banter, talking about the teachers and friends who would be in the audience that night and trying to predict what their reactions would be. Seth and Kate had found two chairs in a corner of the room and were talking through Joy’s dying scene despite the chaos all around. Their eyes were closed as they very slowly, very emotionally, went through their lines. After a couple of minutes, Kate reached out and, eyes still closed, found Seth’s hand. It was one of the most moving sights I’d witnessed—two high school students sitting in a crowded changing room, tears in their voices, feeling the pain of another man’s loss.
I tended to the actors between walkie-talkie calls from the soundmen, the props crew, and the ticket-sales ladies. Aside from a few small glitches, things were going smoothly. My stomach was knotted and my mind was in overdrive, but I felt an energy and excitement I’d seldom known before. This moment had been months in the making, and despite my deepest qualms, I had a feeling it was all about to pay off.
Meagan came rushing back to let us know the auditorium was full and the ushers were closing the doors. I gathered the actors in a huddle for a final moment together. Their eyes were bright and eager. We prayed for the performers, asking that they would enjoy each moment on the stage regardless of anything that might occur, and I added a special prayer that the wardrobe doors would open on cue. Just in case. Not that I didn’t trust the builder. Then we walked backstage in a flurry of silent anticipation and waited for the lights to rise.
Seth was finishing the play with a monologue that was at once his story and his faith. “God loves us, so he makes us th
e gift of suffering. Through suffering, we release our hold on the toys of this world, and know our true good lies in another world.” He scanned the audience with weary, hopeful eyes, unfathomably confident despite his age and fragility. “We’re like blocks of stone, out of which the sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of his chisel, which hurt us so much, are what make us perfect. The suffering in the world is not the failure of God’s love for us; it is that love in action. For believe me, this world that seems to us so substantial is no more than the shadowlands. Real life has not begun yet.”
Seth didn’t wipe away his tears. He didn’t flinch away from the audience’s eyes. He stood his ground. Tall. Proud. Certain of the truth he spoke and emboldened by his own healed wounds. He finished his last line and let the words settle; then he turned and exited the stage in slow, unhurried steps. I met him in the wings and ordered him to bend down so I could hug him properly. I felt his tears against my cheek and wondered at the depth of this young man whose quest for truth had somehow redeemed the fury of his pain. He seemed a healed person, and C. S. Lewis, whose faith had reached beyond the grave, had contributed to making him whole.
Once the lights came down, the actors erupted. They jumped on each other and punched the air and slapped high fives until I yelled to them to line up for the curtain call. Of course, we didn’t have a curtain—only lights that came up with the brilliance of victory. I watched as the actors marched to the front of the stage one by one, beaming smiles on their faces, and took a bow. They were the newest conquerors of the theatrical world, and their happiness was contagious. The audience urged them on to three more bows, then I used my walkie-talkie to order the room lights up and the doors open.
I’d never been on the receiving end of performance praise before, so it was all a bit overwhelming. Scott gave me an enormous bouquet of roses and gerbera daisies arranged tightly in a wide green paper cone as the Germans often did. Trey told me he’d spent the afternoon making his first German cheesecake, with ingredient help from Bev, and it was waiting for me at home. I gave him a hug that made something in his neck pop. There were flowers and chocolates and notes of congratulations and so many pats on the back that I lost track of who was giving them. It took half an hour for me to coax the actors back into the changing room, where Nancy would collect their costumes and wash them for our next performance. They carried on a nonstop commentary about the evening while they undressed behind the sheets we’d hung for privacy. It was all high-spirited and adrenaline-fueled and thoroughly entertaining.
Nearly two hours later, I sat at my dining room table with Scott and Trey across from me, but my entire, undivided attention was on the first piece of cheesecake I’d eaten in six months. Actually, I was on my third piece, but no one seemed to be counting.
“Trey, my friend, you’re my hero,” I said as I shoveled another bite into my mouth.
“You know, Shell, I just realized there’s one thing I haven’t missed about you.”
“Her zingers?” Scott asked.
“Her eating habits,” Trey said.
I swallowed and gulped down half a glass of milk. “It’s the nerves,” I explained. “Imagine what this scene would have looked like if the performance hadn’t gone well!”
They both smirked, and I was struck again by their similarities. Though there were major differences, too. One of the greatest of those was their energy level—Trey was Tigger, and Scott was . . . Scott was everything I wanted. I choked a little and had to gulp more milk.
“I’ve got to hit the sack,” Trey said, pushing back from the table. “This jet lag’s a killer.”
“What he means,” I translated for Scott, “is that we’re sitting in his bedroom, since the couch is longer than Shayla’s bed, and he’d really like for you to leave and for me to go to bed so he can get some sleep.”
“Nice that one of you got the diplomatic gene.” Scott was feeling comfortable enough around Trey to be sarcastic. I thought that was a good sign.
“Hey, don’t hurry on my account,” Trey said. He grabbed his toothbrush and went off toward the bathroom.
Scott came around the table and pulled me into his arms for a long hug. “You were wonderful,” he said right next to my ear.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Coming again tomorrow?”
He pulled away and took his time tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You bet.”
“You make me happy—have I mentioned that?” I squashed an impulse to look around for the person who’d said the words. I had a sneaking feeling it had been me. My mouth was developing a mind of its own these days, and it made me a bit skittish.
Scott smiled a little dangerously and kissed a spot beneath my ear.
“Not that kind of happy,” I said, trying to sound bored.
He stopped kissing me, and I immediately gave myself a mental kick in the butt. “Really?” he asked.
“Actually, that kind of happy too.” I was blushing like a twelve-year-old, so I did a quick check to make sure I hadn’t developed braces along with teenage hormones.
“So how’s the battle coming?” Scott asked.
I gave it some thought. “I’m contemplating it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup.”
“From the cellar or the armory?”
I had a vision of a narrow shaft of light piercing the darkness of a dim and musty space.
“The cellar. But I think the door might be cracked open.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just a teensy bit,” I added, not wanting to raise his hopes.
He smiled in a warm, dimpled assault on my few remaining shreds of sanity and wished me a good night.
I hurried through the door and threw my book bag into the nearest chair.
“Trey?” There was a worried edge to my voice as I looked around the living room, then headed down the hall. “Where are you?”
Trey had called the school during the morning and left a message for me to come home as soon as possible. The receptionist had found me holed up in the staff room, feverishly checking items off my endless to-do list. Mop the stage floor? Check. Write cards to the actors? Check. Sedate Meagan? Check. The moment she said “emergency,” I was out the door and headed for my car. There was nothing dramatic about Trey, and if he used that word . . .
I was halfway down the hall to the bedroom when a smell from the kitchen halted me midstride. It was a familiar odor, the type that made an otherwise-bright day feel bruised.
“Trey?” I said again, unwilling to take a single step toward the kitchen.
He came out into the hallway, all casual and calm, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Shell! You’re home!”
I squinted my suspicion. “Where’s the emergency, Trey?”
He shrugged.
Two steps brought me close enough to smack him in the shoulder with my purse, suddenly sure that I’d been duped. “Do you have any idea how crazy my day is?”
“I’m sorry.” He was almost contrite. “But would you have left school if I hadn’t made it sound important?”
“You are such a . . . What’s this about?” I demanded, hands on hips. My teacher voice didn’t seem to faze him at all.
“You.”
The aroma coming from the kitchen was getting stronger. And making me more leery. I pasted on a casual smile. “Tell me that smell isn’t what I think it is.”
“Come here.” He grabbed my hand and led me into the dining room.
I stopped short when I saw what he’d done. The table had been moved aside, and in its place were two chairs, a coatrack, and a floor lamp, all of which were draped with one of Shayla’s fairy sheets.
“Couldn’t find four matching chairs?” I asked, as if the fact that the construction was there at all were the most normal thing in the world.
“I figured we needed a couple of higher corners now that we’ve grown up and all.”
“You realize I have a play performance tonight
, right?”
“Yup.”
“And you realize I have, oh, about forty-three thousand things to do before that happens, right?”
“Yup.”
“And yet you called me away from school under false pretenses to stage a Huddle Hut revival?”
My voice had risen to an incredulous pitch, and Trey held up his hands in self-defense. “You wouldn’t have come if I’d told you the truth!”
“Correct!”
“Except that this is more important than the list you spent half the night writing,” my brother said. The certainty in his eyes scared me a little.
“Trey . . .”
“Be quiet and crawl under,” he said, turning on his heels to head toward the kitchen.
“There’s an expiration date on childhood traditions, you know!” I called after him, eyeing the lopsided Huddle Hut with a mixture of nostalgia and frustration.
“How ’bout your attitude?” came Trey’s voice from the kitchen. “Is there an expiration date on that?”
“I’m going back to school.”
“Stay put! I’ll be right there.”
“I’m not staying put and I’m not eating whatever that is I’m smelling.”
“Get in the hut and we’ll discuss it.”
It felt stupid to be having a conversation in two rooms, but the kitchen smelled like pain and the Huddle Hut looked counterfeit and Trey’s scheme—whatever it was—felt morbidly intriguing, so I really couldn’t figure out what I should do next. I stood there and yelled, “This is making me nervous!” toward the kitchen.
“Get in the hut!” He was in drill-sergeant mode.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”
I looked at him like he’d lost his mind when he came sauntering out of the kitchen with two steaming dishes in his hands. “We’re reliving a brotherhood milestone.”
In Broken Places Page 30
