Melissa giggled with delight and kicked her feet. Then she leaned back until her body was level, her hands gripping the chain high above—just as Debbie had remembered doing herself so many years ago.
The peach and apricot slid from the sky, leaving an ever-darkening gray overhead. More and more fires twinkled up and down the length of the sand. “Time to go, Punkin.” Melissa obeyed her father without demur. Rather than going back up to the Prom, they walked to the water and strolled along the edge of the damp sand where the footing was firmer, with Melissa, as usual, dancing circles around the adults. Then she dashed off to join a group gathered to watch a man and boy flying a radio-controlled model plane.
“Does she ever run down?” Debbie asked above the sound of the surf and the buzzing of the plane.
“I can hope. I always think something like a romp in the fresh air will make her easier to get to bed, but I’m afraid I tire out first.”
Again, Debbie wondered about the wife and mother that would leave such responsibilities. Daughters needed their mothers. What if something happened? Something the daughter couldn’t cope with?
Debbie must have still been thinking about such questions when she went to bed that night because she dreamed about her own mother. Herself and her mother, in the car, and her mother was laughing and quoting a nursery rhyme to her.
But then it wasn’t her mother. It was herself. And she was saying poems to Melissa. Shouting them, shrieking them, over and over between bouts of shrill laughter as the bumper car spun round and round. And then there were streaks of red paint slashed across the foil paper. And cartoon characters cavorting across the ceiling. And then the scooters piled up, and all the dolls and cartoons ripped and broke.
And Melissa was in there somewhere. Somewhere under the pile of scooters and shattered dolls. Debbie dug and dug through the wreckage, crying and shouting her name, and the name of all the Mother Goose characters—Jack and Jill, and little Boy Blue, and Jack be nimble … But she couldn’t find Melissa.
She woke up sobbing, her pillow wet. What did it mean? Greg had suggested her dreams might be from something in her childhood. Something she had forgotten. Had she perhaps been traumatized by an automobile accident? Even one in a book or a movie? A car wreck where children were hurt—or a baby killed? Had she witnessed such a horror—and then been so shocked she had forced herself to forget it?
Well, if so, she had done a very complete job of it, because she certainly couldn’t remember any such thing.
But there was one comfort. Horrible as the nightmare had been, now she could cling to Greg’s theory that there was a rational explanation. She wasn’t going insane.
Chapter 4
Charlie had proven himself to be a rare jewel of a plumber. Not only was the kitchen plumbing working, but all the mess of oily sand had been cleared away as well. If only the other stresses of the evening could be as easily scrubbed away, Debbie thought as she sat at the kitchen table, sipping her second cup of coffee the next morning. To her surprise, Byrl broke her unalterable rule of going straight to her computer as soon as she finished her granola. Instead, she poured herself another cup of coffee as well and settled in to talk. “Oooh, we had the most marvelous time last night.” She stretched luxuriously. “Alex is an absolute business genius. Remember that chic-looking drive-in espresso place we saw at that rest stop outside Portland? Well, Alex owns that. He has a bunch of them. Besides, he’s foreman of a big construction company.” She gave a euphoric smile. “Money, brains, and muscles.”
Debbie murmured an assent as she looked at Byrl. Byrl’s plaid bathrobe was belted around her naturally lean form, which she stretched to full length with her bare feet on the chair across from her. “And how did you and Adonis fare?”
Debbie fingered the tassel on the zipper of the pale blue, lace-trimmed robe that hid her gently rounded curves—curves that stopped short of chubbiness but would never qualify as fashionably bony. “We didn’t. Do me a favor. The next time you pick out a man to throw me at, please make sure first that he isn’t married. OK?”
“Married? Are you sure? He doesn’t act married.” Byrl laughed and ran her fingers through her short brown, wash-and-wear styled hair. “So where is the inconvenient lady?”
Debbie shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll be around soon.”
“Good, then we can murder her, and he won’t be married. See how simple it is when you put your mind to it?”
Debbie’s answering grin showed her perfect white teeth. “You’ve been reading thrillers again. Why don’t you go back to your power politics books?”
Byrl leaned forward. “Seriously, Deb. If he considers himself free, what difference does it make if he’s separated or divorced or whatever? Besides, he isn’t likely to attempt anything that would startle the horses in front of his daughter. So why be such an old silly about having a nice evening?”
Debbie didn’t answer. She knew better than to try to argue morality—or anything else—with Byrl.
But then her cousin came in with one of those incisive remarks that showed how she always got to the heart of the matter with her interview subjects. “You want him to be offlimits, don’t you, Deb? The only reason you haven’t run back to Boise already is that you think he’s safe because he’s taken.”
“No! That’s not true.” But she knew it was. She had been able to control her impulse to shudder whenever he touched her only by assuring herself that it meant no more than when her brother or father would offer a hand in assistance.
And, of course, that had to be the case. Dr. Gregory Masefield would never think of her in any serious way. Not if he really knew her. Now, Ryland Carlsburg—maybe he …
With such thoughts stinging her, Debbie did what she had always done. She took refuge in a creative project. The morning was gray and misty, perfect for spending indoors, anyway. She opened a box of fabric she had brought with her for just such an occasion and pulled out a bright print splashed with strawberries and daisies. She had been itching to turn that into cushions. She cut the print and a length of unbleached muslin into 16" squares. Then, sitting comfortably by the window overlooking the beach, she began stitching around each strawberry and daisy with tiny quilting stitches. When the outlining was completed she would slit the muslin backing and stuff each design with Polyfil to give it the puffy effect of trapunto quilting developed long ago by Italian artisans. As she worked, her needle made tiny metallic taps on her thimble and she could visualize the dinette of her little apartment … Cushions on the chairs, her collection of strawberry-patterned mugs hanging on one wall …
She would be fine there. Her new home would be safe. She didn’t ask herself safe from what? Nor did she allow herself to consider the fact that to be truly safe she would have to be safe from herself—and from God.
The next three hours flew as quickly as Debbie’s needle. When her stomach reminded her that it was lunchtime, she looked up to see a beach swept free of mists and washed in golden sunshine. The warmth pulled the vacationers from their rooms like an electromagnet. The beach was dotted with sunbathers, sand castle builders, model plane pilots, and kite fliers. Just outside her window on the Promenade children whizzed by on rollerblades and bicycles while dogs of every breed and description trotted contentedly on leashes. It was irresistible.
Grabbing a bright red apple and a chunk of tangy Tillamook cheese, Debbie headed out to the beach for lunch but turned around a few steps outside the door. It was never as warm as it looked at Seaside. She slipped on the yellow sweatshirt that matched the short skirt she was wearing and tried it again, remembering her sunglasses as well this time.
Now comfortable, she stood, wriggling her toes in the warm sand, crunching her apple and absorbing the exhilaration all around her: sparkling sun, cavorting children, winging kites. Especially the kites. Dozens of them filled the skyline the length of the beach: multicolored dragons—some that must be 50 feet long; rainbow-shaded windsocks with ruffling streamers; multitiered boxes … it l
ooked like a regatta. A red and yellow exotic bird soared near, whistling in the wind. A small red triangle flew over, making a nervous fluttering sound.
But amid them all, one kite in particular took her attention. It was three diamonds tied parallel to each other—red, white, and blue—each with its own long tail. Two strings controlled it from the outer edges of the kites, and the pilot flew it in a spellbinding pattern of spins, rolls, and dives. It made an enormous whooshing sound as it swooped low over Debbie’s head, then she held her hands to her eyes to watch it ascend again, dipping and darting across the sky until it flew right into the sun and she could look no more.
Then without warning, an erratic wind current dashed the proud craft to the sand where it lay in a dejected, crumpled heap. The aviator walked toward his fallen airship and a familiar voice called to Debbie, “Ah, just in time! Give me a hand, will you?”
Startled to realize that Gregory Masefield had been performing the exhibition that held her so spellbound, Debbie almost choked on her last bit of cheese. She coughed, then swallowed hard. “Sure. What do I do?”
Greg finished untangling the mass of crisscrossed strings. “Just hold the kites by the outer edge, about three feet off the ground.”
She obeyed, feeling the tug of the wind on the kites. Greg backed away, straightening out the lines as he went. When he reached the handles he called, “OK, when you feel the wind take them, let go.”
He pulled the lines taut. Debbie let go. The kite soared. “Oh!” She was enthralled. “What do you call it?” She walked to where Greg stood maneuvering the strings.
“Stunt kite. Just a small one. On a good day you’ll see some 12 or 15 diamonds long. But this is enough for me.”
“How does it work?”
“Watch. I pull one side to make it turn, then pull the other way for the opposite direction.” The kite responded gracefully to the demonstration as he made two complete circles, then sent it looping back the other way. “You can only do a few loops in one direction, then you have to reverse for it to untwist.”
Debbie looked at the length of cord that seemed to extend to the edge of the beach. “How far out is it?”
“Only about 300 feet.”
“Only? That sounds like a lot.”
“Not really. The world record is over 12 miles. Oops!” his attention went back to the kite as the red, white, and blue streak nose-dived toward the sand. Just before it crashed, he pulled it up once more into the bright sky. “We’ve got a good strong wind today so it’s very maneuverable, but it requires constant attention. Want to try it?” he held the wooden handles out to her.
“I’d love to! Is it hard?”
“Not at all, just be firm. Follow through on your movements. And don’t panic. Here, come stand in front of me.”
He was wearing only cream corduroy shorts. His tanned skin gleamed in the sun. She hesitated. Don’t panic, he said. Her heart pounded. Her palms were moist.
She didn’t move, so he came to stand behind her. She could feel his sun-warmed body through her shirt. Part of her wanted to run. Part of her wanted to stay. She didn’t do anything. “Now, put your hands over mine, and I’ll give you the strings.”
Do as the man says, Deb. You’re only flying a kite. Her hands felt numb, but she reached up and put them on his. A glint of sun caught his wedding band. The sight steadied her. Yes, he was unavailable. He was safe. With a firm, no-nonsense attitude she took the wooden handles that held the strings. “Oh! Oooo.” The kite tugged as if it would pull her up too.
“You’ve got your arms straight out. Pull them in as if you were driving a car.” Greg had moved aside. A comfortable several feet from her. “Now, pull on the red handle and push forward with the blue, and you can loop it.”
Debbie followed his instructions. “Oh! I did it!”
“Sure. Now pull the other way.”
The kite looped obediently. “That’s great! I never thought flying a kite could be so exciting.”
She continued for several minutes, soaring with seagulls, reaching for clouds, then the kite made an enormous swoop as a strong rush of wind caught it. “Oh, no!” the beautiful craft lay in a crumpled heap on the sand. “Oh, I crashed it. I’m so sorry. Oh!” She ran forward, tears stinging her eyes. Broken. It was broken and mangled like the dolls and toys in her dreams always were. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again.” A red streak spread over the tangled mass. She covered her face with her hands.
“Deborah, what’s wrong?” Greg’s hands grasped her shoulders and steadied her. “Take it easy. It’s only a kite.”
Only a kite? She looked at the pile of nylon and strings. The red streak was only a kite tail. Nothing more sinister. She fought to steady her breathing, to control her trembling. It’s only a kite. Only a kite. She repeated it over and over, forcing herself to look at the innocuous jumble. She managed a strangled laugh. “Oh, I thought I’d broken it.”
But Greg wouldn’t be put off that easily. “It’s more than that, isn’t it? Like when Melissa got caught in the wave? Do you want to tell me what’s troubling you? I might be able to help. I studied counseling before theology. I’d like to help.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I told you I have these dreams.”
“And you had one now? About the kite?”
“Yes. Only it wasn’t a kite. It was … I don’t know exactly. Blood, I think. It think there’s always blood.”
“But you have no memory of an accident? Yourself or anyone else bleeding badly? Maybe one of the twins when you were taking care of them?”
“No.” She put her hands back to her face. “No, no, no. I don’t know. Nothing makes any sense. Maybe I am going crazy.”
Greg took her hands and held them very firmly. “No, Deborah. Listen to me. You very definitely are not crazy. Something has happened to you. Something that is causing you terrible pain. The need to identify and deal with pain is very, very normal. But you must deal with it. It won’t just go away on its own.”
“I want to. I really want to. I just don’t know what to do.” There seemed nothing more to say. “Where’s Melissa?”
“Flying that dragon kite.” He jerked his head in the direction of one of the bright streamers Debbie had noticed earlier.
“All by herself?”
“She’s flying it by herself, yes. Dragon kites are weightless, they just find the wind and float on it—perfect for children. But she’s not alone. She’s with those older children from the cottage on the other side of yours. A nice family from Seattle.”
Leaving Greg to straighten out the kite, Debbie followed in the direction he indicated. She couldn’t decide whether being with Greg made her feel better or worse. The nightmares had been worse since she’d met him. She had certainly never before experienced them while awake. And yet his reassurances and offers of help were so comforting. How could she feel better and worse at the same time?
Was she doing the wrong thing to continue the friendship? He said whatever was bothering her had to be dealt with. But maybe not. She could always just go back to her sheltered, cocoon world. Well, not the same one she left, but she could build a new one. She didn’t have to face this pain.
Just the thought of escaping made the awful waking nightmare recede. That was it. She would just say hi to Melissa and return to her sewing. But when she got to the end of the kite string, Melissa wasn’t there. No one was. The handle had been buried deep in the wet sand, and the kite was flying itself. “Melissa!” she turned in alarm, scanning every direction. Where had the child gone? How long ago had she left? Nothing must happen to Melissa.
Debbie ran to a group of children building a sand castle. But the shining blond head wasn’t one of those bent over the structure. Could she have gone into the water? Visions of the sprite dancing in the waves at Cannon Beach gave her chills. The mosquito buzz of a gasoline-powered airplane directed Debbie’s attention to a crowd gathered by the dunes watching a man and boy fly the radio-operated toy.
Melissa stood with a group of children, clapping her hands as the plane whirred and looped saucily, chasing seagulls and kites with high-tech superiority. The 12-year-old boy holding the controls whooped his delight as the plane made a kamikaze dive at a flock of gulls pecking at a bag of spilled popcorn. The birds scattered with angry squawks.
Just as Debbie reached Melissa’s side the plane, which was midway around a wide circle over the beach, wobbled in its circuit, stood on its tail, then plummeted in a crazy tailspin. “Careful!” The father grabbed the controls and rescued the craft, pulling it out of its dive just inches above the ground. “Now, look—” The plane flew around in an easy arc while the father lectured his son on the importance of holding the controls steady, turning the dials smoothly and—
Several watchers shrieked as the plane suddenly seemed to develop a mind of its own. It shot upward with a furious speed. Debbie grabbed Melissa’s hand and pulled her backward. She didn’t like the biting screech as the plane turned. Screaming at an attack pitch, it made a direct bomber dive at the head of the man bent over the controls.
He never looked up.
“Dad! Dad!” The boy sobbed over his father while the plane motor coughed and sputtered, half buried in the sand.
The little group who had a few minutes earlier been casually watching a father and son enjoying their hobby now froze with horror as a red trickle oozed from the man’s temple and stained the pale sand. This was nothing that could be explained away as the streamer from a kite. This was real. But Debbie’s thoughts were all for Melissa. She grabbed the child and turned from the scene. Melissa wasn’t going to have nightmares over this if Debbie could help it. “Come on. Let’s go find your daddy.”
“What happened? Is the man hurt bad?”
“I don’t know. But they’ll take care of him. Would you like a Coke?” Melissa was slow to move. She wanted to see what was going on. But Debbie was determined to get her away from there. “Come on. Everything will be all right. Melissa, stop looking at that.”
All Things New (Virtuous Heart) Page 4
