Corner Of The Housetop: Buried Secrets

by Leen Elle

  "God sure must hate him."

  "No. You see, Job loved Heavenly Father with all his heart. And Heavenly Father knew that. So did Satan. Satan thought if he could hurt Job badly enough he'd turn away from God, which would in turn make Him suffer. God, however, knows everything about all of us. He knows our hearts and thoughts. He knew that Job would always love Him, so to prove the power of love and faith to Satan, God let Job suffer."

  Derek couldn't remember the word "love" ever coming up in Mr. Millstone's explanation, so Catherine's use intrigued him. "Did it work?"

  Chuckling a little, Catherine said, "Why don't we read some of it?"

  As she went on to read from the Bible, Derek leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself a little. When she read it was so much more lively than when Reverend Marks read. And he never seemed to find anything positive in the Bible. Mostly only fire and brimstone. Death and destruction. Talk about raining holy vengeance down upon the heads of the sinners seemed to be the only parts he looked at.

  Quite the opposite, Derek was finding that there was a lot of love and hope in the book of Job. It was reading that seemed to have been written for Catherine's sweet voice to recite.

  All too soon, Catherine stopped reading and closed her book. "Thank you for coming up."

  Sitting back up, Derek looked around as Beth walked out of the room. Was that it? There had to be more. That seemed a lot shorter than regular church. "Is that all?"

  "We can read some more if you want."

  He smiled at her. "Yes. I'd like to."

  Catherine sat up a little more and moved over on her bed. "Come sit over here so you can look at the book."

  Flustered, Derek wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want her to ask him to read any of it, but it seemed very embarrassing to admit that upfront.

  Seeing his discomfort, she smiled kindly. "It's all right if you'd rather stay over there."

  "It's not that. I just…don't read very well." Or at all, he added to himself.

  "It's fine. You don't have to read out loud." She motioned for him to join her once more, tipping her book down so he could look at the page.

  "Why don't we talk about my favorite scripture. It's John 3:16. 'For God so loved the world that he gave his Only Begotten Son that whosoever believeth in his name should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

  Picking a random spot on the page, he ran his eyes over the lines as she read, hoping it looked like he knew what he was doing. People never did anything particular when they read, so he supposed if he just stared at the book she'd never notice that he wasn't really following along.

  When she finished, she looked up at him. "I think that's a perfect gift."

  "'The world?' As in, everyone? He loves everyone?"

  Catherine smiled. "Heavenly Father does love everyone. No matter what."

  It was a concept Derek wasn't quite familiar with. In church they were taught that while Jesus loved everyone, God wanted the world to burn. Listening to the weekly sermon often led Derek to wonder why anyone would bother making so many things they hated so much.

  "What about evil people? And people who don't do what He wants them to?" he asked. "Does He love them?"

  "That's the wonderful thing about God. No matter how we feel about ourselves, or how others feel about us, He loves us. While everything else in our lives can seem to be testifying about how unworthy we are, if we're really quiet and listen passed those shouts, there's a small voice whispering, 'I love you no matter what.' Even if we aren't doing everything He'd want us to do, as long as we're trying, that's all He cares about."

  Derek just looked at Catherine for a moment. It was a very nice thing to think, but it couldn't be true. No one could love everyone in the world. How could the same person who loved and understood Martha Worthington, love and understand him?

  Smiling gently, Catherine closed her book. "It's something for you think about. All right?"

  Nodding, Derek started to stand up. He felt like he should thank her, but he wasn't sure what for.

  "What have I told you about bothering Catherine? She needs her rest," Jonathan's sharp voice snapped from the doorway.

  Almost jumping off the bed, Derek looked over at the man.

  It was obvious from his expression that coming home to find his least favorite person sitting on his wife's bed wasn't something Jonathan had planned on having happen. Striding into the room, he stopped protectively beside his wife. There was a dark glint in his eyes that made his handsome features look even more calculating and unreadable.

  "He wasn't bothering me," Catherine said in a sweet, yet firm voice, taking Jonathan's hand. "We were having Sunday school...of a sort. I asked him to come in. And why are you home so early?"

  "Reverend excused everyone early to tend their fields. The rain is getting pretty bad. There weren't many people there in the first place." Looking at the closed book in Catherine's hands, Jonathan asked sharply, glaring at Derek, "Have you finished?"

  "Yeah," Derek said shortly. "We're finished." If God loves Jonathan, ego, temper, and all, then He can't possibly fit me in there anywhere, he thought sourly, walking out the door.

  "Why are you so mean to him? It isn't like you to be spiteful."

  Derek stopped. It wasn't polite to eavesdrop, but he wanted to hear this. What was Saint Jonathan going to tell his delusional, little wife about this blatant misbehavior?

  Instead of Jonathan, Catherine spoke next, concern in her voice. "Darling?"

  There was a pause.

  "Darling, shh. It's all right. Shh."

  Curious, Derek peeked through the door. Jonathan was kneeling on the floor beside Catherine's bed, his head resting on her chest. She was holding him, her arms around his shaking shoulders, her slender fingers stroking his blond hair

  No. Derek did not want to see Jonathan cry. He didn't want to let himself even think that Jonathan was capable of tears. Walking down the hall as quickly as he could without tripping, he did everything he could to erase that scene from his memory.

  Let him cry, he thought viciously, throwing the stairway door open carelessly. Let him cry for every selfish, cruel thing he's done in his life. There aren't enough tears in the world for him to do that.

  With nowhere else to go, Derek went back to the kitchen. Beth was pouring water from the large, black kettle into the basin, humming to herself. "There's a bowl of peas that need to be shelled right over there."

  Taking out a clean bowl, Derek sat at the table with the peas and began his work in silence. It was a full minute before he could make himself speak. "Beth, do you think God loves everyone?"

  Looking up from her dishes, the woman looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose He must. Why?"

  Popping the peapod he was holding open and digging the peas out, Derek said, "I don't know. Just something Catherine said. I mean, if God really loved everyone, why would He make them suffer? And how can He love people who hurt other people?"

  "I'm a simple woman. Don't ask me to figure out how God thinks. Important people like Him have different ways of thinking than people like you and me."

  He dropped the peas into the bowl on the table. "All right. But then how does Catherine know things like that? I mean, anyone can write stuff in a book. How is she so sure it's true?"

  "You'd have to ask her that."

  "Do you believe it?"

  Stopping, Beth thought for a few moments. "My mother raised me to know that there is a God and that He does care for His people. That's as much as I can tell you."

  Going back to shelling the basket of peas to go with dinner, Derek sighed. Beth wasn't helping him at all.

  After dinner, Derek left the house, looking forward to going to sleep. The break in the heat brought on by the rains had long-since faded and now the warm air was making him sleepy. All he wanted to do was lie down.

  As he walked around the front of the house, Mrs. Worthington called to him from the porch. She and Mrs. Smithfield were on the bench, chatting. "Derek, c
ome up here."

  Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He still had Jonathan on his mind and he had to remind himself that getting an attitude with her wouldn't make him feel any better. "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Over this week we'll be getting ready for a little gathering on Saturday. I want you to make extra sure everything is perfect. Clip the hedges and the lawn. Repaint the fences. The porch and the carriage house could use a fresh going-over as well. I want it done by Friday morning. Am I clear?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And be quick about it when you get to the steps. I don't need to be tripping over you all week every time I try to step out my front door."

  "Yes, ma'am," he repeated, continuing on his path to the stables. The sooner he was by himself, the better he'd feel, as far as he was concerned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Humming to himself, his thoughts turning absently towards the sound of the rushing river, Derek wiped the last of the dust off the end table with his rag then shoved it back in his pocket. It was only Wednesday, and he'd barely touched the list of chores he had to do. Aside from feeding the horses and taking care of tidying the grounds for the party, he'd been put back in the kitchen by an official order from Mrs. Worthington herself. Combining that with the time he spent tripping over Abigail and Bartholomew, he had precious few private moments.

  "Derek, can we go swimming?"

  "No, Abigail."

  "Gabriel says there's a river that he goes swimming in."

  "That's nice for him."

  "Will you take me to it?"

  "I can't. I'm working."

  "Why?"

  He sighed. Derek couldn't remember that distant time when he'd thought she was cute. Over the past few days, she'd followed him around, asking him questions and trying to get him to play with her. A couple times Mr. or Mrs. Smithfield had happened by at just the right time to scoop her up and whisk her away. Whenever Jonathan was his would-be savior, all he got was a smirk and an, "I told you so," glance.

  An hour later, Abigail was still close behind him. "What are you doing now?"

  "I have to paint the fences."

  "Can I watch?"

  If I said no, you would anyway, he thought with annoyance, picking up the wooden bucket of white paint and walking across the driveway to the low gate by the flower beds next to the porch. Kneeling down, Derek began to paint the little boards.

  Sunday's storm did nothing to ease the humidity, which was carrying over into the week with a vengeance. Monday and Tuesday were almost unbearable. Or so Derek had thought until Wednesday started. Compared to Wednesday, the previous two days had been a winter frost.

  Sitting under one of the rose bushes, getting as much into the shade as she could, Abigail watched him, her huge eyes peering out eerily from under her golden curls.

  "Derek?"

  Scowling, Derek stared over his shoulder at Gabriel, who was strolling around the side of the bushes. "I'm busy. If it could wait."

  Abigail adopted Derek's glare, narrowing her eyes at the other boy. The only appealing attribute the girl had, in Derek's opinion, was the way she imitated his dislike and annoyance for Gabriel and Mrs. Worthington.

  "I was wondering if you knew where Blueberry's bridle is. Mrs. Smithfield wants to go riding, but I can't find it."

  "It's not on the shelf by his gate?"

  "No."

  He sighed. With his list of chores growing by the hour as Mrs. Worthington "remembered" things she'd meant to tell him to do, Derek did not feel he needed to follow Gabriel around, holding his hand through every mundane, unimportant task he felt he needed to undertake. Why the boy thought he was competent enough to even saddle Blueberry for a ride was far beyond what Derek could understand.

  Deciding it would be much more productive to just get Gabriel the bridle than to try and explain where it was or, taking even more time, explain how stupid he was for not having the sense to look where all the spare equipment was always kept Derek just stood up and started to walk towards the hill. When he noticed Abigail wasn't following him, he looked over his shoulder.

  The little girl was leaning over the bucket, her braids dangling only inches from the white paint's placid surface.

  "Abigail, leave that alone," he ordered sternly.

  She sat up quickly. "Leave what alone?"

  With a final, warning look, Derek strode up the hill, Gabriel following behind him. He wanted to get back as quickly as possible. He had things to finish, and somehow he didn't trust Abigail alone with the paint.

  "She's cute, isn't she?"

  "As a rabid bat," he replied flatly.

  "She seems to like you, at any rate."

  Not answering, Derek pushed the stable door open sharply. Mrs. Smithfield was standing beside Blueberry, her hand on his nose. The horse looked peaceful and complacent, his eyes closed. As Derek walked by, his right ear twitched and one eye opened for a moment before falling shut again.

  Making more noise than he probably had to, disturbing not only Blueberry, but Lady Sarah Mary Ruth, Derek took one of the extra bridles off the shelf in the last stall and walked back to Gabriel. "Need anything else?"

  Looking a little taken aback at the attitude, the boy said, "No. Thank you."

  "All the extra equipment is always in the last stall," he explained needlessly. "If you look there and still can't find something, then come and let me know."

  "All right."

  With the annoyance that was slowly growing in his chest, Derek felt an anger spark somewhere in the back of his brain. There was no reason for it that he could see, but it was there just the same. Pushing the door closed, he heard Gabriel apologizing to Mrs. Smithfield for him. That only fueled the dark rage that settled in his stomach.

  As he stomped across the field and down the slope of the hill, Derek began to calm a little bit. You're just angry because of Mrs. Worthington, he told himself. He was frustrated at having his house duties restored to him. Though he'd missed seeing Beth every day, he did not miss the dusting, the mopping, and the scathing comments from Mrs. Worthington. Having spent the previous two days back in that deplorable woman's company, Derek could feel a near-physical pull on the last of his patience. There was also the fact that the list of chores she had for him in preparation for the party was much more than anyone could have possibly gotten done on their own.

  When he'd expressed this thought to her she said, in her sugary voice, "Perhaps you'll just have to skip a meal or two to get them done then. However you feel you must work your schedule, you will finish your chores."

  To add insult to injury, Mr. Smithfield and Jonathan had been standing right in the room while she was scolding him for suggestion that something in her perfect, little world just might not coincide with the logic attached to the "real world."

  "She's batty," he muttered, walking around the side of the house. "She's batty, and I have to put up with her."

  For a moment, Derek smiled to himself when he saw that Abigail wasn't there, hovering over his bucket of paint. The moment passed quickly, however, as he realized that there was no bucket of paint either…

  "No." Looking around franticly, he called, "Abigail? Abigail, where are you?"

  There was no answer, not even the demonic giggle he was use to hearing when the girl thought she was doing something sneaky.

  "Abigail!"

  "Is something wrong?" Mr. Smithfield was standing on the porch in his fine coat and trousers.

  Startled, not having noticed the man, Derek shook his head quickly. "No, sir. I just couldn't find "

  The words died on his lips as he looked passed the porch railing to the carriage house. There was a section of white paint on the side of the building that stopped just a couple feet from the ground. Numbly, ignoring Mr. Smithfield, Derek walked around the end of the porch, the entire building coming into view. Not only were there swirls of white on the carriage house, but on the side of the main house as well. Along the short walk that led from one building to the other, there
were splashes of paint on the stone edging and in the grass.

  A cold feeling took hold of Derek's insides when he saw that the side door was open, and that there were small, white shoe prints walking up the steps and into the hall.

  "No," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. There was no way Mrs. Worthington wasn't going to blame him for this.

  Mr. Smithfield appeared around the side of the porch. "Derek?"

  "No way," he said more loudly, leaning against the wall. I'm dead. I'm dead. She'll kill me.

  "What on earth Oh my."

  Before either could say anything else, an earth-shattering screech resonated from the open side door. "DEREK!"

  His eyes closed slowly as he rolled his head back and hit it on the wall. "No."

  "Derek, get in here this instant!"

  Pushing away from the wall, Derek shook his head from side to side, his shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no avoiding her wrath. As he climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, Mr. Smithfield's heavy steps following behind him were the sealing sound of doom latching itself to Derek's very soul. This was going to be a lecture the likes of which the world had never known. He was sure of it. And then whatever punishment she would attach to it...

  When he walked into the room, Derek nearly laughed at what he saw. Abigail, covered nearly from head to foot in paint, was standing as much behind Jonathan as she could get, her white fingers curled in tight fists around handfuls of his expensive trousers, smearing them with paint. She peeked around his knee, her round eyes staring out from under her doll hair with unmasked fright. She looked as terrified as Derek felt.

  "Daddy!" Abigail ran across to the room, past Derek, and clung to her father's legs.

  Half expecting the man to push her away so she wouldn't get him dirty, Derek was more than a little surprised to see Mr. Smithfield scoop the girl up without hesitation. "What did you do?"

  "I was helping Derek."

  "Were you?"