All Things New (Virtuous Heart)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  Melissa snuggled into the curve of her daddy’s arm, put her head on his chest, and went to sleep like a kitten curled before the hearth. “I don’t believe it,” Debbie said. “She does run down.”

  “Sometimes it happens. And the nice thing is, once she’s out, she’s really out. She sleeps as hard as she plays.”

  Debbie sighed with the contentment that only a warm fire and a full stomach could produce after an active day. She started to shift to an easier position on the sand dune when she felt Greg’s arm circling her shoulder. His hand clasped her arm. She rolled away. Then sat up. “I’m sorry. So sorry! I don’t know what I’ve done, but—” Her heart pounded in her ears. Her palms were sweaty. “I—I came for Melissa’s sake. That’s all. I—I didn’t mean anything.”

  Greg looked alarmed at her reaction. He carefully shifted Melissa to a more comfortable position on the blanket and sat up, moving away from Debbie in the process. “What is it? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I—I—” Debbie swallowed and looked around. They were on the beach. Why had she thought she was enclosed in a car? She could have sworn she felt a steering wheel poking her ribs. Now she saw it was only the root of the old log. She tried to control her trembling, but her hands still shook. What was this? Greg was so safe. She had been so sure he was safe. She felt sick at her stomach. No man was safe. She should have known. Not even a well-known Christian leader. Especially not.

  The flickering glow from the fire highlighted the strong bones of Greg’s face, accenting his crisp, blond hair and deepening the intensity of his eyes. But the face she saw wasn’t his. It was much younger, softer. The hair brown, shoulder length. The eyes confused, hurt. She put her hands over her eyes to shut out both faces. “Don’t touch me. I didn’t want that!”

  “Debbie, I don’t understand.”

  Greg’s calmness contrasted with the frustrated, offended voice that rang in her mind. “Oh, Greg. It’s you.”

  “Of course, who did you think it was?”

  “I—I don’t know. I—” She bit her lip.

  “Debbie, what’s the matter with you?”

  “With me?” Suddenly she flared as she looked at the situation before her. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just not in the habit of being cuddled by married men.”

  “What? You couldn’t possibly believe that. How—?”

  “One.” She pointed to the sleeping child. “Two.” She pointed to his wedding ring. “Three, ‘Mrs. Masefield.’”

  Greg looked blank. “Mrs. Masefield?”

  “That’s what they said Sunday.”

  “Oh, of course.” He hit his forehead with an open-palm gesture. “My mother. She’s an organist—well-known in these parts. She played for the closing service of the conference, then went back to Portland.” He sat for a moment staring into the fire. “Gayle was killed in a car wreck just over two years ago. She was a lawyer—had been in Salem for her biggest client—coming home in the middle of the night. Went to sleep at the wheel on the freeway.”

  They sat in silence for several moments as Debbie worked through the emotions this new information produced. Part of her was pleased that this man wasn’t married. Part of her was terrified that the safety wall she thought had existed between them was wiped away. But most of all, her feelings were for Melissa. Debbie looked at her. She was so small, sleeping so soundly curled in the fetal position. Her features were so soft and innocent in the golden firelight. It took all Debbie’s control to keep from diving across the blanket and scooping the child protectively into her arms.

  The very thought of it produced such an aching void inside Debbie she wanted to stuff her fist down her throat to fill it. All the years she had spent raising her sister, trying to find fulfillment in the meticulous attention she gave to Angela, but never being able to quell the ache. Then having Angela go off and marry …

  Here was another child: sweet, innocent, motherless. Here was someone who needed her nurturing. In that moment she felt as securely bonded to Melissa as if they were tied together with actual cords.

  “Time to get Melissa to bed.” Debbie jumped at the sound of Greg’s voice. She had forgotten he was there. “Can you manage the picnic things so I can carry her?”

  “Sure. No problem.” No, the equipment was no problem. It was light. It was Debbie’s heart that was heavy. Nurturing Melissa would mean building a relationship with Melissa’s father. A situation that was complicated by the fact that he seemed more than willing. And most complicating of all was the fact that part of Debbie was willing too.

  But back in her room she looked at her reflection in her dressing table mirror. The deep blue eyes with the surprisingly long eyelashes and heavy, dark brows looked levelly at themselves. “How can you keep forgetting that you aren’t what he thinks you are?” But what was she?

  The problem wasn’t what Greg thought. It was what she thought. And she didn’t know.

  Chapter 6

  Debbie sat up in bed after only a few hours of sleep. She wasn’t screaming or crying, but the ominous air of a bad dream hung in the room. She looked at the little white tablets on her nightstand. She could take one and sleep dreamlessly. Well, no, that wasn’t exactly true. Dr. Hilde had explained that she would dream. She just wouldn’t remember it when she woke up. That was what she had just done anyway, without the pill. And she didn’t feel very good about it. She would almost rather face the terror than live with the sense that something nasty had happened. Something she couldn’t remember.

  She closed her eyes and a remembered face came at her from the dark corner of her room. The same face she had seen on the beach last night when Greg put his arm around her. “No. Go away. I don’t want to think about you.”

  Debbie switched on her bedside lamp. The light fell on her Bible. Long ago she might have turned to its pages for comfort as her mother had taught her to do. Certainly she would have prayed. The long-forgotten memory of the comfort she had once known made her clutch her chest. But now she was cut off from all that.

  Oh, she still believed. She still went to church regularly. She said the confession. She repeated—and believed—the Apostles’ Creed. She even took Communion. And she knew it worked for everyone else. If Byrl would let her, she would gladly explain the plan of salvation to her cousin. And she fully believed Byrl would find a fulfillment that literary success, power politics, and a string of men hadn’t brought her. Deborah Ann Jensen was the only one not worthy of pardon.

  A thin gray dawn outside told her that actual sunrise was still a couple of hours away. It looked cold and damp out there, but the small cottage felt confining—as if it were holding in all her frustrations, pushing them in on her.

  She pulled on a sweatshirt, then a jacket over the top of that as protection from the weather, and slipped out the back door. At first she walked at a brisk pace, outdistancing her problems and embracing the invigoration of being the only one on the whole beach at that hour. She had to share her world with no one but the seagulls.

  Maybe that was the answer. Sharing her world with Greg, Melissa, even Ryland, produced nothing but confusion and frustration. Why not just escape into her design work and forget about it? Even as her mind formed the thought, she knew it was impractical—those people were here. And they wouldn’t go away so simply. But for the moment the idea was so appealing she decided to grasp it and enjoy the release of not having to worry.

  She breathed deeply of the moist, fresh air and jumped over the low balustrade of the Prom onto the soft sand. As she climbed a gently rounding dune growing with long, coarse grasses, she realized she was in the area of yesterday’s accident. She shivered at the memory, wondering how the man was and hoping the shock hadn’t been too terrible for his son.

  Almost at the top of the dune, her foot struck something hard in the sand. Thinking it was probably a child’s beach toy, she stooped to dig it out.

  Debbie shook the sand off the flat, six-inch square plastic box and stared at it, wondering what
she held. Then she remembered seeing it in the father’s hand as he and his son bent over the controls of the plane. The horror of the moment returned to her. She instinctively ducked as if something were coming out of the sky at her and dropped the controls as if she had discovered a smoking gun.

  Then she realized how silly she was being and picked it up again. They would want it back. She could take it to the hospital or newspaper office or something—they would know who the man was.

  She slipped the control into the pouch of her sweatshirt and went on over the dune toward the water. Although the windswept sand was clear of any ominous red stains, her mind was still on the accident. Then she realized that the control couldn’t have been dropped by the father at the moment of the accident. It was on the far side of the dune, not where they had been flying the plane. She paused a moment and looked back at the scene. Yes, she was sure.

  Well, someone else must have picked it up and carried it off—probably a child who soon lost interest in playing with the buttons and then buried it in the sand. What a fluke that she ever found it. Talk about a needle in a haystack. One of those things that could never have happened if she’d been looking for it.

  She turned back once more to look at the site and discovered she was no longer alone on the beach. She waved as she recognized Ryland’s windblown curls. “Hello. Are you a morning person too?”

  “Not usually.” He fell into stride beside her. “I had a lot on my mind this morning.”

  “Thinking about your project?”

  He nodded. “Trying to think up new strings to pull to get it approved. How such pigheaded, blind fools can get elected to office—” He laughed and placed a hand casually on her shoulder. “But you’ll straighten them all out when you’re president, won’t you? Are you thinking of running for an office next election?”

  Debbie didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in frustration. How could one offhand remark haunt a person for so long? And now she couldn’t tell Ryland it was just something she had said to get rid of a drunk. He had been the drunk. She shook her head and sighed. “That was only intended as a witticism.”

  “Pity.” He shrugged. “Land developers need all the powerful friends they can get—especially when they’re of the beautiful female persuasion. I think I told you, we lost a most effective advocate in that area. Oh, well.” They walked on together quietly, listening to the roar of the surf. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider? There’s a vacancy on the city council now.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, haven’t you seen today’s papers? The man who died on the beach yesterday was a councilman.”

  “What? Died!” Debbie gasped. How could Ryland say that so calmly?

  “He was dead on arrival at the hospital. That solid spruce plane crashing into his skull made quite an impact at the speed it was going. Bad luck that it hit his temple.”

  “Dead.” She took in a deep gulp of air. “That means I saw a man die right before my eyes. It just doesn’t seem possible …” Her hand brushed the front of her sweatshirt, and she remembered the little black box she was carrying. “Look what I found in the sand.” She drew it out and held it with two fingers as if it were loaded. “It looks like equipment for that plane. Do you think it might be?”

  Ryland took it. “Where did you find this?”

  Debbie waved vaguely toward the sand dune. “Over there. Do you think they might want it?”

  “Hmm, I suppose the family might. Shall I take care of it for you?”

  “Please. I feel as if it were a murder weapon.”

  Ryland laughed as he stuck the control box in his pocket. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any suggestion of foul play.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that … Oh, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Want to go home?”

  She nodded.

  He took her to her doorstep. “Will you be all right?”

  Debbie forced a smile. “Of course. I’m just being overly dramatic. I don’t deal well with death.”

  “No one does.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll call you later. Maybe a few days, though. I have to go to Salem.”

  She escaped into the cottage, but its coziness held no refuge from the horror she had witnessed the day before. Byrl sat at the breakfast table holding out The Signal with inch-high banner headlines: COUNCILMAN LARSEN DIES IN FREAK ACCIDENT ON SEASIDE BEACH.

  Debbie took the paper with cold hands. “Civic leader Duane Larsen was pronounced dead on arrival at the Seaside hospital yesterday from injuries received when the model airplane he was flying went out of control …” The vivid picture in Debbie’s mind replaced the printed words. She had no need to read an account of what happened, so she skimmed to the bottom of the column. “Larsen is survived by his wife Margaret, son Rick, 12, and daughter Megan, 7 …”

  Debbie skipped to a companion article of interviews with local citizens. “He’ll be sorely missed. Duane was one of our most valiant crusaders for public causes.” “He will be long remembered for his fight against the casino-gambling forces seeking to get a foothold in our area.” “Larsen’s death leaves a vacuum that won’t be easy to fill. The antigambling movement is leaderless for the time being.”

  Debbie crumpled the paper. It was so senseless. How could something like that happen in an ordered universe? No matter how distant her relationship might be, she did believe God existed. An all-powerful God who had permitted this to happen. How could He stand by and allow such things? She threw the paper to the floor. “I need to talk to Greg.”

  She found her neighbor still reading his morning paper. “How can it be?” Her voice was accusatory as she pointed to the lead story. “You’re the theologian. Can you make sense out of such things? Do you have any answers?”

  Greg looked up slowly. “None you haven’t heard before, probably: That God doesn’t cause evil, but He permits it because we are living in an imperfect world; that what looks like chaos here will look like perfect order in the next life when we see God’s plan in total; that God can use even evil things to bring about His purposes.” As he spoke he poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.

  Debbie cupped the mug with her fingers to warm them. “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. And I suppose it’s all perfectly true. But it comes out sounding like a lot of pie-in-the-sky platitudes.”

  Greg didn’t wince at her attack. He’d probably heard that before too. “I think one of the best approaches is to look at the other side. Why do so many wonderful things happen? Even to people who don’t deserve them? For every child born deformed, look at how many are born beautiful and healthy; for every person killed in a freak accident, look at how many have narrow escapes; for every awful thing that happens to someone undeservedly, look at the number of good things that happen equally undeservedly.

  “The answer is grace. God’s unmerited favor to all His creation. It’s the source of every good and wonderful thing that ever happens. That, of course, doesn’t answer why evil and terrible things happen. That answer is much less pleasant, although no less true—”

  Debbie nodded. “I know. Sin.”

  “Yep. At the very root of all unhappiness—although the person suffering from it may not be the sinner himself. The possibility of evil must exist for us to realize good; just as dark is necessary for us to understand light. Without evil in the universe we wouldn’t have a choice. And God doesn’t want to be served by puppets.” Greg shook his head and laughed. “Whoa. Sorry, you didn’t come over here for an instant theology degree. I’m afraid I get that way when I’ve been out of the classroom too long. Have I helped at all?”

  “Yes, you have. Like you said, no easy answers. But plenty to think about instead of just reliving that scene on the beach. Thanks.” She set her coffee mug down and stood up.

  Greg walked her to the door. “Anytime. Maybe I should hang out a shingle: Gregory T. Masefield, Consulting Theologian. Wonder how much I could charge an hour?”

 
Debbie’s little giggle was the first happy sound she’d made all morning. It changed the feeling of the air around her. Byrl was still at the breakfast table when Debbie returned to the cottage. “Well, you look considerably happier than you did half an hour ago. Decided to quit being fussy about outmoded things like marital status?”

  “Oh, I haven’t told you. He’s not married after all. His wife died more than two years ago.”

  Byrl clapped her hands together. “See, what did I tell you? I honestly don’t understand why you were so hung up about it. But since you were, I’m glad it’s worked out. Wonder why he still wears his ring?”

  “Because he loves her, of course. Perfect woman. Perfect relationship. You don’t quit loving someone just because they aren’t there anymore. And, of course, there’s Melissa. I don’t know, it just seems proper to keep his wedding ring on when he has a child.”

  “Proper! Oh, you funny thing, you. You really are frozen in the past. Don’t you know the rules have changed? A meaningful relationship, that’s what’s important. Not a piece of paper some priest did voodoo over.” Debbie started to protest, but Byrl went on, “Fortunately, Alex doesn’t worry about such outmoded ideas. His suite at the Shalimar is gorgeous. And he’s extended his stay for another two weeks. Then he wants me to move into his condo in Portland with him until his company starts some big construction project here. I had been thinking of going on down to San Francisco when our lease is up on the cottage, but now I don’t know—he’s a very tempting hunk.”

  Debbie didn’t reply. It would be useless to try telling Byrl that Truth doesn’t change just because society’s ideas do. But it would be interesting to point out how outraged she’d be if a man referred to her as a tempting chick.