“It’s no wonder you’re excited about your career as a designer.”
“Well—that’s a mixed blessing. I won’t really be able to develop my own projects when I’m working eight hours a day on other people’s things.” Besides, the point of it all was to create a warm, beautiful atmosphere for people she loved. Not just to make things for money, but she didn’t try to explain.
When their beachcombing bag was full, they turned their backs to the ocean and crossed the broad expanse of sand toward land. Just before they reached the dunes Debbie spotted a bright gold Frisbee abandoned by some child, half buried in the sand. “Catch!” She flung it at Greg.
He stretched out his arm almost lazily and caught it with easy grace. Then with a barely perceptible motion he tossed it to Melissa, who squealed and dashed at it with both hands. “Very good!” he called as she caught it. “Now send it to Debbie.”
The golden platter spun round and round the three-cornered circle with Melissa giggling every time she dropped it or sent it too far afield for Debbie to catch. But Melissa soon tired of the game and went off to dig in the sand.
Debbie’s attention was distracted momentarily by a white seagull gliding against the bright blue sky. “It’s yours!” Debbie turned to Greg’s shout just in time to see the Frisbee coming right at her. She screamed and covered her head with both arms. Feeling incredibly silly as the missile fell to the sand at her feet, she picked it up and laughed. “That’s why I never could play baseball in grade school—I was always afraid of the silly ball.” She didn’t want to admit that for an instant she had thought of a model airplane zeroing in on her.
“And I’ll bet they never could teach you to keep your eye on the ball, either.”
“You’re right. Do you have any idea how impossible that makes playing tennis?” Determined to get even, she hurled the Frisbee back at him with a forceful fling of her arm. The results were embarrassingly disappointing. “Why does it wobble?”
He picked up the disc and tossed it back to her effortlessly. “Use more strength in your throw—the wind makes it harder.”
Not wanting to admit that that was exactly what she thought she had done, Debbie gritted her teeth and tried again. Wobble. Plop.
Greg picked it up with a grin that Debbie found maddening. “You’re using your whole arm. Just flip your wrist. Here, like this—” He gave her the Frisbee, then, still holding her hand, guided the throw. The Frisbee flew into a gentle arc and settled on a clump of beach grass.
But neither of them saw it land. Greg increased the pressure on her shoulder to turn her to him. The melting she felt had nothing to do with the warmth of the sun.
Until his lips touched hers. “Shawn! No!” Her fingernails scraped the side of his face.
Greg jumped back, his hand to his cheek.
Debbie looked at him in horror at what she had done. “Oh, I’m sorry. So sorry. I—” She turned away, clutching her stomach.
“Debbie.” Greg’s voice was calm, gentle. He took a step toward her but made no move to touch her. “Who is Shawn?”
“A boy I knew years ago.”
“A boyfriend?”
She nodded, her eyes on the ground. “We dated all through high school. He was Young Life president. He … I … He …” She shook her head. It was impossible. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say.
“He went too far?”
“It should never have happened. He was this big Christian leader. He knew how I felt—what I believed …”
Greg sat down on the nearest dune. “And I’m a Christian leader. And you can’t trust me either?”
Debbie sat down several feet from him and began doodling in the sand.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, but there isn’t really anything more to say.”
“Have you had other boyfriends since then?”
“No. That was just when Mother got sick.” She paused to think. “As a matter of fact, it was the very day I found out she had cancer. I never had time for dating after that.”
“You took over your mother’s place in the family?”
She nodded. “Pretty much as soon as we knew she was sick. Then completely after she died. Someone had to take care of Angie and Andy, of course. And I’d always been good at cooking and things like that.”
“And then college?”
“Yeah. I’d been planning to go away. I’d picked out a college in Boston. But then that was impossible, of course. So I went to Boise State.”
“And did brilliantly.”
She shrugged. “I got A’s. But they didn’t really mean much. I still felt—empty.”
They were quiet for a while. “Where’s Shawn now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” The bitterness in her voice was a shock. “I never saw him after that night. There wouldn’t have been time even if I’d wanted to. And of course I didn’t want to.” She jumped to her feet and started back toward town.
She had gone on this walk hoping to sort out her feelings, maybe even come to terms with her relationship with Greg and Melissa. Not only had she failed miserably, but the situation was now far more confused than before. Perhaps her initial instincts had been right—hiding was the only safe plan.
She was some distance down the beach when Greg caught up to her. “Debbie, will you give me a chance to prove that it doesn’t have to be like that? Some men can be trusted.”
Yes, she thought. By other women. Some women merit trustworthy men. She shook her head and started to answer him when she caught a glimpse of Melissa tossing a feather into the breeze and chasing it. The ache to nurture overwhelmed all her other fears. And these two were a package deal. Did that mean she must lose Melissa too?
Chapter 8
“Letters for you,” Byrl called from the kitchen when Debbie closed the front door with a more dispirited thud than she had intended.
“Letters? As in more than one?”
Byrl tossed two white rectangles to her. Debbie stuffed all the turmoil of the afternoon deep down inside her, as she had long ago learned to do, and concentrated on the familiar world conjured up at the sight of her father’s and sister’s handwriting. Byrl sat across the table reading her fan mail, sorting it in two stacks—love and hate. Debbie’s cry of dismay was so sudden in the quiet room that Byrl got a letter in the wrong stack. Someone was going to get a very puzzling form reply to the letter they wrote to Byrl Coffman.
Debbie held the letter away from her, blinking. “Angie. She’s going to have a baby.”
“When?”
“Mid-March.”
“That’s great. But you don’t sound very excited. I would have thought you’d be over the moon for your baby sister to have a baby. You’re going to be an aunt.”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course I’m happy for her. If she’s happy.”
“Well, does she sound happy? What does the letter say?”
Debbie looked at the sheet of floral paper she was still holding at arms’ length. “Yeah. She sounds happy. Delirious, actually.”
“Well then?”
“I don’t know. I mean, what if something goes wrong?”
“Oh, no! Not the fussbudget routine again. I remember the big Thanksgiving dinner—one of the few times I actually made it to a family bash. Angela cut her finger. You made me take her to the emergency room, for goodness’ sake!” Byrl shook her head in exasperation.
“We were cooking poultry. You have to be very careful about salmonella.”
“If you were going to freak out, the least you could have done would have been to take her yourself.”
“I had the dinner—”
“Spare me.” Byrl held up her hand. “All I’m saying is that you always overprotected her.”
“It was my job to take care of her. And I did too. But now … I hope she’s ready for this. She and Ron haven’t been married very long.”
“Well, if she doesn’t want it, she doesn’t have to hav
e it. There are alternatives.”
Debbie pretended she didn’t hear Byrl as she turned to her other letter. Her father and Leonora were back from their honeymoon. He said getting a new wife and a grandchild in less than a year made him feel at least 10 years younger. And he suspected he would need to be to cope with it all.
Her father didn’t sound worried about Angela. But then he wouldn’t, would he? He was a man. Besides, their dad had never worried about any of them. He had put in 10-hour days at the store, then come home for supper and the newspaper. Worrying had been Debbie’s department. It was a good thing nothing had happened to her. She couldn’t imagine what would have happened to any of them if it had.
But was there something that had almost happened? She remembered that she was supposed to ask her father about that when he got home. Had she had a near-drowning or witnessed an automobile accident or something like that? But that seemed silly. She would remember if she had. Greg had just been grasping at straws—pulling stuff from his counseling books to make her feel better. Nothing to bother Dad about.
Byrl dropped her last envelope on the table. “What’s for dinner?”
“Aren’t you going out with Alex?”
“He said he might be around later. That’s fine with me. No strings, you know.”
Debbie opened the refrigerator and stared into it blankly. All the leftovers stared back at her from their tidy, airtight wrappings. She couldn’t even think what she was supposed to be doing. Should she be with Angie? If Byrl would drive her into Portland, she could get a flight to Boise—
“You’re wasting electricity. Environmentally unfriendly.”
“Huh?” Debbie started at Byrl’s remark. “Oh, yeah. Um, how about cheese and crackers?”
Alex arrived in time to join them for the last of their snack. “Well, good news. The move to Portland may be off. Just had a talk with the head honcho. He tells me Ryburg may break ground on its project by the end of the month.”
“Ryburg?” Debbie put her cracker down. “You mean you work for Ryland Carlsburg?” First Gayle, now Alex. Did Ryland control everybody?
“That’s it. The espresso shops are a good investment, but I like more action. I’m Carlsburg’s right-hand man. Whole right arm if the truth were known.”
“Does that mean he got final approval for his project?”
“He called from Salem this afternoon. Says it’s as good as in the bag. Seems the last barrier has been removed.”
“Well, I guess I’m glad.” Debbie hesitated. “I mean, I’m glad for Ryland and for you and for all the people who will enjoy the hotel. But I hate to think of these cottages being torn down. This really feels like home.”
“Hey, can’t let sentiment stand in the way of progress. Think of what it’ll do for the local economy.” Alex got to his feet.
“Don’t wait up.” Byrl shot Debbie a glance over her shoulder as she led the way out the door.
For once Debbie didn’t feel like sewing when the kitchen was back in its pristine condition. So she curled up in her favorite chair in the living room and picked up the novel she was reading. She had been overwhelmed last winter when she’d seen The Potting Shed on TV. Now she finally had a chance to read more of Graham Greene’s work, but she was having trouble getting into The Power and the Glory. Already, though, she had been impressed by how easily the characters spoke of matters of faith with no trite phrases, so she pushed on.
It wasn’t long before the story of the priest who “wondered whether he was even fit for hell” captured her imagination. Greene’s characters took life before her as living, breathing people. She sat reading, her feet curled under her, for two hours. When she looked up she was amazed to see that it was dark outside. The chill in the room made her shiver. She started to jump up to turn on more lights, then almost fell, gasping with pain. She couldn’t straighten her legs out. Hours spent walking in the sand, followed by a long period of sitting in a restricted position in a cold room had combined to produce a case of severe muscle cramps.
She rubbed the backs of her legs until the friction warmed them and she could move. There was only one thing to do for this. The cottages shared a hot tub and sauna in a small building in the backyard. A massage from the steamy hot, whirling water was exactly what she needed. She twisted her long hair into a loose top knot and climbed, stiffly, into her powder blue swimming suit.
She wrapped herself in a long white, terry robe and hurried with awkward movements across the lawn to the spa room. After flicking on the soft gold ceiling lights and turning on the motor to send the water in the small pool surging in pulsating circles, she dropped her robe on a lounge chair and lowered her aching muscles into the steaming water.
“Ahhh.” Her whole body turned into a jellyfish as she relaxed with the penetrating warmth and massaging motion. She slid forward until her shoulders and head were supported by the edge of the tub. She let herself drift …
“Don’t you realize that could be dangerous?” A reproving voice penetrated her euphoria.
She opened her eyes and blinked to focus them. “Greg. What are you doing here?”
“I saw you come in and I came to talk to you. It’s a good thing I did. If you’d slipped over sideways, I could have found you floating facedown.”
Debbie caught her breath at the look of concern on his face. “Oh, I don’t think so. I was just relaxing—sore muscles from all that exercise today.” Then she realized he was wearing a robe.
“Debbie, I won’t if you don’t want me to. But would you mind if I joined you in the pool—on my own side?”
She looked around. No one would hear her if she screamed. He had asked her to trust him. Could she do it? He was waiting, standing just inside the door, his black flannel robe firmly belted. If she said no, he would simply turn and go. And she could return to her relaxation.
“It’s OK. Come on in.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Only then did he toss his robe onto the deck chair and cross the redwood floor to the hot tub. “You said you wanted to talk to me?” she asked when he was settled into the steamy water.
“To apologize really. For today at the beach. I didn’t realize I was rushing things so.”
“Oh, please don’t apologize. I know I was being very silly.”
“No. You aren’t silly at all. Your honest reactions are very normal.”
Normal? He had used that word on her reactions before. “Well, I guess that depends on your idea of normal. Byrl thinks I should be locked up.”
She had meant it as a joke. But he didn’t take it that way. “Listen to me, Deborah. You’re at a Fourth of July parade. A firecracker goes off. The man standing next to you pulls you to the ground and throws himself on top of you. What would you do?”
“I’d call the cops. Have him up for assault.”
“Right. But if you knew he was a combat veteran who’d been trained to protect civilians in case of attack, what would you think?”
“That he was well trained and I’d be glad of his company if there were any terrorists around.”
“Yes, you see. For a trained combat veteran his reaction to that firecracker was laudable—and normal for him.”
“Oh, I see. Shawn was my war.”
“That’s right. And any protective actions you take in triggering circumstances are, for you, normal.”
She nodded.
“The question is, do you want to stay shell-shocked? Or will you let me help you recover?”
Debbie felt the situation was just as clear as the clouds of steam fogging the room. She could see no way through. “Where’s Melissa?”
“Asleep.”
“You left her alone? What if she wakens?”
“Left her a note.”
“She can read?”
“Drew a picture. We have a code. But it’s time I got back to her.” He stood, water running from his black swimming trunks. “Think about what I said.”
Debbie
shivered as the cold night air from the open door hit her. But it was nothing to the chill of her own thoughts. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know … Each rotation of the whirlpool seemed to increase her agitation. It had relaxed her muscles, but her mind was tight as a high tension wire. Could she open up to Greg? And what was there really to tell if she did? She knew there was no rational explanation to her reactions, even if he thought differently. He said he could help. He’d been a counselor. But he didn’t know she’d already had counseling.
Chapter 9
Hearing a male voice on the telephone the next morning was like touching a fence and discovering it was electric. Then Debbie almost cried with relief. It was Ryland. “Oh, are you back? I saw Alex. He said things were going well for you.”
“Yes, they are going well. But I won’t be back for a few days yet. I’m calling from Salem to be sure you haven’t forgotten me. I want to take you out to celebrate when I return.” “That sounds like fun. It’s nice to hear from you. Very nice.”
And Debbie continued to tell herself that the empty spot inside her was relief as she saw neither Greg nor Melissa during the next few days. The turmoil she had known settled into a dull ache—a constant throb that she was all too accustomed to coping with. She knew Greg was developing a study manual to accompany his newest book, Created in His Image. And sometimes as she worked at her designs in the living room she would for a moment think the clackityclack of Byrl’s computer was Greg’s long fingers on the keyboard.
Debbie! her mind shouted. You can’t trust him. And you don’t care anyway.
You are obviously sick, she told her mind. So don’t shout at me about your problems!
And even as she bickered with herself, the one thing she couldn’t deny was that her arms ached to hold Melissa. She could almost imagine that Melissa was her child. Melissa could almost fill the void inside her. And yet she had no right to try to mother Melissa.
She got up with a sigh and turned to the day’s tasks. She had discovered years ago when she began keeping house that the inevitabilities of life were not, as the saying went, death and taxes. They were laundry and dishes. She smiled as she remembered the motto her mother had hung over the washing machine at home: This is the day the Lord hath made. Rejoice and do laundry in it.
All Things New (Virtuous Heart) Page 8
