by Lyn Cote
The soft expression enhanced her natural loveliness. Even in sweats, she looked willowy, elegant. Had he ever seen a more honest expression of enjoyment? Pleasure warmed him.
With a loud satisfied sigh, Molly sprawled at the base of the refrigerator and thumped her tail twice as though saying, “At last!”
Thea laughed out loud.
The musical quality of her laughter charmed him. Everything about her is so graceful and sure. He felt himself grinning, a large, sappy grin, but he couldn’t help himself.
As Thea’s laughter melted away, she folded her hands in front of her and looked at him.
He regarded her in return. That gesture, her folding of hands, spoke so much about the lady. She eyed him expectantly. Say something to her, stupid. Don’t just stare. “Hungry?”
She raised her eyebrows and glanced around the spotless counter and stove. “I didn’t feel like cooking.”
“I cook.” I sound like an idiot.
“You do?”
“Yes, when Molly stopped at my door, I was just going to whip up a mushroom omelet. Would you like to join me?”
His invitation floored Thea. She voiced the only clear idea in her mind, “That sounds delicious.” Does he really want me to have supper with him or is he just being polite?
“Well, would you like to go back with me?” He shoved his hands into his pockets.
To Thea, he sounded uncertain. I should say a polite no. A chorus of the day’s negative words jabbered inside her head. Her stomach twisted with hunger.
Peter frowned. “Maybe it’s a bad time. Were you expecting someone—”
One thought bobbed to the top of Thea’s mental hubbub. If you turn him down, you’ll have to eat alone—in this empty house. He may never ask again. A polite phrase flowed from her lips. “I’ll be happy to have supper with you.” She eyed him uncertainly. “Should I bring something?”
“How about jam?”
In her agitated state, she couldn’t think why he’d want jam with a mushroom omelet. “Jam?”
“I’m going to make toast, too.”
“Of course.” Relief whistled through her. She had jam. “How about wild strawberry? I made it myself. Or wild raspberry?”
“They both sound great!”
At his obviously genuine enthusiasm, she reached into the cabinet and brought out two small glass jars. Within minutes, Peter had helped her over the low fence that separated their properties and they walked into his lodge, the private residence at the camp.
Thea glanced around the familiar property for any changes. She detected none until she stepped inside the lodge kitchen. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel appliances. “All new!”
“I wanted the best for my mom.” Peter helped her off with her coat. “They’ll be living here full-time this summer.”
Peter’s words reminded Thea of all the contention over the camp again. Molly’s need and Peter’s presence had banished her loneliness and made her forget the controversy.
“Please sit down, Thea.” Peter motioned toward a chair at the rectangular kitchen table. “I hate eating alone, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Still she felt as though she’d strayed onto enemy territory. But why don’t I just declare neutrality? This new idea grabbed Thea. If she remained neutral, what could a quiet supper together hurt?
“Then sit down—or don’t you trust my cooking?” Peter joked as he washed his hands.
Thinking of all the economical, nutritious, boring food awaiting her at home, Thea grinned and wrinkled up her nose. “It has to be better than mine.”
“I bet you cook like an angel.” Peter smiled, then turned to the stove.
Thea settled onto the pine chair. This engaging man spouted compliments as easily as he breathed. A mental picture of Peter plying his charm on Grandmother Lowell amused her. “I didn’t know angels cooked.”
With one hand, he cracked two eggs into a glass bowl, another two, then two more and began to whisk them. “Haven’t you ever eaten angel food cake?”
“That is such a stale joke.” But his warmth and friendliness brought an easy smile to her lips.
“I’m practicing my juvenile humor for this summer.” Making swift tat-tat-tat sounds, he sliced fresh mushrooms with a French chef’s knife, just like a cook on TV. “How did you think my announcement this morning went?”
Thea didn’t know what to say. Why didn’t he see his announcement this morning had amounted to throwing down the gauntlet? Something told her Peter wouldn’t understand her dawning desire to stay neutral.
He turned, nibbling a mushroom slice. “What do you think about adding a little provolone?”
Thea glanced up at him. “What? I wasn’t listening.”
“You look worried. Is it about the omelet or the camp?”
She leaned forward. She’d never met anyone as confident as Peter before. “Why aren’t you worried?”
He stopped munching. Opening the double-door refrigerator, he took out a round of white cheese and a carton of orange juice. “I don’t worry much. Do you worry a lot?”
The question brought her up sharply. “Doesn’t everyone worry?”
“What do you think? Take your time.” He shredded the white cheese, then slid two plates into the oven to warm and handed her tableware and glasses for two.
While she set the table, she pondered “worry.” “I don’t think I worry more than the average person.” Her tone sounded unsure even in her own ears. He studied her and she squirmed inwardly.
“How much does the average person worry?” He asked the question as though posing it before a college class.
Thea turned it back on him. “You said you don’t worry much. How much do you worry?”
“Not much.” He grinned provocatively at her. “I believe worry is a negative drain on a person’s life.”
“I never thought about it that way.” His words brought an interesting picture to mind. As she played the pipe organ at church, someone sucked air from the bellows. Her music quavered, then died.
Peter melted butter in the skillet, then poured in the whisked eggs. They sizzled cheerfully. The rich aroma of melted butter made Thea’s mouth water. With keen anticipation she watched him sprinkle the mushrooms over the eggs, then the cheese. He motioned to her to press down the lever on the toaster. He folded the eggs over gently, flipped the omelet once, divided it into two, then moved the pan off the burner. Within minutes, Peter set the omelet, toast, and orange juice on the table. Everything appeared so professionally done, she almost asked where the parsley garnish was.
Peter sat down across from her. After saying a brief grace, he lifted his glass to her. “A toast to good neighbors.”
As Thea smiled and lifted her glass, her grandmother’s final words came back to her, “You stay away from that Della. He’s up to no good.” But I’m not taking sides! The heaviness inside her lifted, then vanished.
Peter prompted, “You’re supposed to touch your glass to mine, neighbor.”
“Oh! Sorry.” The gesture made her feel shier, but she touched her glass to his. His dark eyes smiled at her over his glass. This caused a sudden tightness around her ribs, making it hard for her to inhale.
“Now eat up. There’s nothing worse than a cold omelet.” He grinned and took a forkful.
His aura of assurance was having its way with her. She nodded and followed suit. Her first bite delighted her. “You’re a great cook.”
“Just a simple omelet.” He slathered a slice of toast with her bright red strawberry jam and took a bite. “Mmm. Your jam is delicious.”
In spite of herself, she felt her cheeks warm at his compliment. “Thank you. I enjoy berry picking.”
“Are there many strawberry patches around here?”
She swallowed a delicious mouthful of buttery eggs. “I’ll show you if you like.”
“I’d like that, but I think this summer is going to be a pretty busy one for me. Now, have you come to an opinion about the nega
tive effect of worry?”
She touched her napkin to her lips. “I see your point, but I think what I’m feeling is really caution, not worry.”
“Caution?” He appeared to consider the word. He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I’ve fought for and earned everything I have. Caution won’t get you anywhere in this world.”
Instead of the controversy, why couldn’t they discuss something interesting? She wanted to ask him what kind of music he enjoyed. Opera? She imagined his deep bass voice singing the opening bars of “The March of the Toreadors.” He had that air about him— cocky, convinced of his own strength. Thea paused with her fork in midair and gave in. “Didn’t you hear any of what was said to you today after the service?”
“I heard it all. I just didn’t take it all seriously.”
“Why not?” How could he just discount the uproar he’d single-handedly created?
He put his fork down and began gesturing with his hands. “Because there are always naysayers. Don’t you think I should be more concerned about what God thinks?”
She resisted responding archly, So what does God think, Peter? Instead she spoke slowly. “Sometimes people think they know what God wants, but they have made mistakes. How can you know this camp is what God wants?”
“Some people do make mistakes. But I’ve asked for God’s guidance year after year. I began planning the camp when I was only fourteen. Doesn’t nearly twenty years of praying and trying to follow His will count? I can’t believe. God would bring me this far only to let me be defeated.”
Thea picked up her fork and took a small bite. He might be right. If God had helped Peter focus on the same goal for twenty years. But…Finally she said lamely, “I see what you mean.”
He gazed at her. “Pastor Carlson is going to ask the church board to call for an immediate congregational vote on supporting my camp financially and in every other way.”
“So soon?” She stared at him. This man never stopped.
“Why wait? You said I needed to get local cooperation. That was good advice. That’s what I’m asking for.”
Asking for cooperation? He was asking for opposition. Why couldn’t he just take time and let people get used to the idea? “That’s asking for a lot here.”
“Then God will have to help me out. Will you pray for me, Thea? For my camp? Nothing is too hard for God.”
She nodded hesitantly and lowered her eyes. She would pray, but not simply for the success of this camp which she still couldn’t decide to support actively or not. Was this really God’s will for Peter, or just his nonstop determination? What do you do with a man like this? She made a wry decision. She’d pray that Peter would have the strength of Samson and the wisdom of Solomon because he certainly didn’t have the patience of Job!
She longed to warn him one last time, but her words would hold no weight with him. Peter was committed. He just didn’t understand how determined others in this community could be.
She sighed silently. She’d decided to remain outside the dispute, knowing full well it would be a struggle to resist Peter’s charm. And even so, neutrality didn’t guarantee her protection. In the upcoming storm, Thea had the feeling that she’d be a leaf tossed and tumbled by powerful winds.
Four days later on Thursday evening, Thea perched in the shadows in the back of the crowded church.
“So you see my plans are quite detailed,” Peter declared as he stood beside the overhead projector. Behind him, a large white screen displayed two neatly lettered columns of figures. One side in black marker showed the camp’s assets. The other side in red listed its needs and their costs. Peter smiled at the rows of church members.
Thea observed the smile, but couldn’t analyze how the man could put so much confidence and energy into a simple uplifting of the corners of his mouth. Maybe it was more. Maybe all of him smiled.
Near the front, Mrs. Magill moved irritably in her pew. “Looks to me like you don’t need our money. You own the camp free and clear.” The old woman, dressed in her usual flannel shirt and baggy slacks, grumbled, “Why don’t you just borrow what you need? You don’t have a mortgage to pay.”
“I don’t believe in a Christian mission paying interest. I think it’s a waste of donors’ money. As an investment counselor in Milwaukee, I know that bankers never lose money.”
A small smattering of laughter greeted this. In contrast, Thea felt a tightening inside. She’d known Peter was a successful man, but an investment counselor sounded so imposing.
He grinned. “Not that I have anything against bankers or their donations.” More laughter.
One person present intrigued Thea. Thad, Vickie Earnest’s older son, slouched on an aisle seat near the front, his mother, then brother to one side of him. Thad was sixteen, and he only attended church when forced to on Sunday mornings. Greeting him then usually earned one a monosyllabic grumble. How and why had Vickie persuaded him to come?
Thea tried to accurately gauge the currents swirling around her. Some people responded to Peter; some passively observed. Would Peter get church support or not? Obviously everyone present knew of the brewing controversy, but so far only Mrs. Magill expressed periodic barbs. Mr. Crandon, the leading opponent, didn’t attend their church, so couldn’t be present. Sitting behind Thea in the last row, Mrs. Chiverton had so far remained silent. Thea hadn’t been able to figure that out. Why wasn’t the fidgety woman complaining?
“Now, not all the needs of the camp are monetary. I’ll also need volunteers to do hands-on work with the boys.” Peter clicked off the projector and motioned for the lighting to be raised.
Vickie Earnest waved her hand. “How old do the volunteers have to be?”
Peter turned toward her. “Well, the average camper will be between the ages of eight and twelve, so volunteers should be at least sixteen.”
Vickie turned to Thad. “See you are, too, old enough to help.”
Thad lunged to his feet and stormed up the aisle past Thea. All eyes followed him. The church doors slammed behind Thad, echoing ominously.
Thea understood the boy’s pain. Why would Vickie, an otherwise sensible mother, call attention like that to her teenaged son? Didn’t she realize how sensitive boys his age were?
Memories of a few occasions from her own teens briefly flashed through her mind. Whenever she’d asked her grandmother not to embarrass her by saying personal things about Thea in public, all she’d ever gotten was, “Don’t be concerned about what other people think. Most of them are fools anyway.”
“Althea!” Mrs. Chiverton’s shrill voice shot up Thea’s back like an exploding ice cube.
Thea leaped to her feet and spun to face the old woman. The sight that met Thea’s eyes left her speechless. She’d thought Mrs. Chiverton had addressed her with her full name, which had been Thea’s mother’s and her grandmother’s. But Mrs. Chiverton had not been talking to Thea, but her grandmother.
Mrs. Chiverton, with her platinum blond wig pushed slightly askew, scurried to the rear entrance and fluttered around Grandmother Lowell, who was in her wheelchair and accompanied by a male nurse from the care center. He piloted the wheelchair the few steps down the aisle to Thea.
Thea stammered, “Grandmother—I never expected…If you had told me—”
Her grandmother cut Thea off with a lift of a hand. Another imperious motion directed the nurse to park the wheelchair next to Thea’s place.
The nurse muttered to Thea, “We thought she’d have another stroke if we didn’t get her here.”
Thea leaned down, concerned. “Grandmother, do you think it was wise to come tonight?”
“I had to. I knew I couldn’t count on you to put a stop to this.” Her grandmother’s words sounded more slurred than usual due to her obvious agitation. Mrs. Chiverton flittered around her lifelong friend in excitement. “Stop fussing, Louella,” Grandmother snapped under her breath. Mrs. Chiverton quivered to a halt. Thea hurt for the little woman. Why couldn’t
Grandmother be kinder?
“Here, Althea.” Grandmother handed Thea a note. “Read this for me.”
Thea accepted the paper, dread churning inside her. She didn’t glance at the words on it, only stared into her grandmother’s obstinate expression.
Thea wanted to refuse. She liked Peter. She’d decided to remain neutral in this debate. But what could she do? Refuse to read the statement? Show a lack of respect to her invalid grandmother?
Thea bowed her head for a moment in prayer, then stepped into the aisle. As always, speaking in public brought a warm blush to her face. She glanced at the front of the room, but did not look directly at Peter. She cleared her throat, then began, “My—”
A nudge from behind stopped her. Looking back, she saw that this wasn’t good enough. Her grandmother was insisting she go to the front. Thea’s blush burned her cheeks. She marched to the front row and turned.
In a voice devoid of emotion and avoiding any eye contact, she said, “My grandmother would like me to read this. ‘Dear friends at the Church Among the Cedars, I have made the effort to come tonight because the issue of whether or not our church should formally support this new venture is such an important one. While this camp may be of God, it is an untested venture. Its future is uncertain since a zoning challenge is certain now. I would suggest, dear friends, that a decision—either way—is too early to be merited. Why not let this remain a matter of personal conscience? Thank you. Althea Lowell.”
In the ensuing silence, Thea retreated to her place beside her grandmother’s wheelchair and sat down. As the words had passed between Thea’s lips, all the blood, all the life, had flowed out of her. I’m a grown woman. Why do I feel like a cowed child?
Her grandmother’s ploy was transparent to Thea. A reasonable call for a delay should disconcert Peter and keep for Grandmother the moral high ground. If Peter disagreed, he’d be branded pushy, opportunistic. And by mentioning the zoning, Grandmother had validated the rumors which asserted that Peter was changing his land use and would be faced with a county board challenge.
Finally Pastor Carlson rose and strode to the front. “Peter, did you have anything more to say?”
