All Things New (Virtuous Heart)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  “Not much.” Greg pointed to a clearing before them where she could see the dark form of rocks in the blue water. “That’s Ecola State Park, trail’s end—maybe a quarter of a mile.”

  “Ecola. Sounds like an Indian name.”

  “It is. Means whale or big fish. Part of our Lewis and Clark heritage. They had a salt works at Seaside and heard about a big fish that washed ashore over here. Captain Clark and Sacajawea and some of the others came across Tillamook Head to see if they could buy blubber.”

  “You mean this is part of the Lewis and Clark trail too?” Debbie looked down at the path under her feet. “Did they get their blubber?”

  “You do expect a fellow to be up on his history, don’t you?”

  “Well, you’re the teacher. How does he expect us to learn, huh, Melissa?”

  “Was the whale dead, Daddy?”

  “Yes. Probably killed by a storm. It was winter. And yes, they got their blubber. As I remember it, the whale had already been apportioned among the Tillamook Indian villages, but they were able to buy blubber and whale oil.”

  “Are you sure you’re a theologian and not a historian?” As Debbie walked on, she tried to put herself in the place of Sacajawea, trying to feel the forest floor through animal skin moccasins, trying to imagine the weight of a papoose on her back. She stopped. How did she know that, she wondered? Then she realized, the pictures of Sacajawea in her Idaho history books always showed the Indian women with an infant strapped to her back. “Did she really do all this with a baby?”

  “Incredible, isn’t it? But her husband was member of the party, so I suppose it seemed natural for her.”

  “Now I remember.” Debbie’s most recent reading of Northwest history had been in junior high, so it was rather vague. “He was a French Canadian who went along as interpreter. He won Sacajawea in a poker game or something, didn’t he? And then married her.”

  Greg nodded. “She was only a child when she went hunting with her Shoshone people and was stolen by another tribe, then sold as a slave.”

  “What an amazing life!”

  “But didn’t she ever get to see her mama or daddy again?” the little voice from atop Greg’s shoulders sounded very worried.

  “I don’t know if she ever saw her parents again, Punkin. But when Lewis and Clark were going through Shoshone country they needed to buy horses and supplies. The negotiations weren’t going so well until Sacajawea met their chief. He was her brother.”

  “And needless to say, they got their horses.” Debbie finished the story.

  A few minutes later they emerged from the winding forest path to the radiant sight of Indian Beach at the foot of the cliff below them. A small, secluded beach with dazzles of gold sunlight dancing on waves that rushed up to the sand. Huge black, gothic rock structures stood defiantly in the ocean like the remains of an ancient civilization, white foam whirling against their sides.

  “Want down?” Greg asked Melissa, but she shook her head, so she finished the trek triumphantly on her father’s shoulders, like a maharani riding an elephant at the head of Hannibal’s march.

  They left the forest behind them and walked out onto the flat, grassy knoll high above the ocean. Debbie was thrilled by the beauty of the scene until a nerve-rasping noise chilled her. It took her a moment to realize that it was the sound of a gasoline-powered model plane. Before she could stop her reflex, she threw her arms over her head and ducked. Then laughed nervously at her own foolishness.

  “That accident still getting to you?” Greg joined her, watching the plane soar, its three-foot wingspan outsizing the many birds who made their home in the park.

  “Like the combat veteran who dives to the ground when a firecracker goes off? I don’t really think so. I just have hyperactive reflexes. But I feel as if we should warn those boys how dangerous those things can be.” Three teenage boys shared turns at the controls.

  A few moments later an argument broke out between two of them. “Don’t ever do that! It’s rotten sportsmanship and unsafe!” the long-haired blond shouted.

  His companion, in a bright red shirt, laughed. “Unsafe?”

  “To the plane. Want to crash it in the ocean?”

  The third boy took the control from his protesting friend. “Here, if you’re going to punch him, let me have this. You’ll both crash the thing.”

  “Never mind, I’ll bring it in.” The red-shirted one produced his own control. He proceeded to bring the plane in on a smooth glide.

  But the safe landing didn’t pacify the long-haired youth. “Now look. When you want to fly the thing, ask for the control. If you get smart again with your own override, I’ll smash it on the rocks. And your thick skull too!”

  “Are they going to fight, Daddy?” The little voice was a reminder of the unsuitability of the scene for a child, so they left the hobbyists to battle it out and followed the trail along the edge of the cliff to the sunny park dotted with groups of picnickers.

  Debbie eyed the feasts of the numerous diners. “Ooh, I’m starved.”

  “And a good thing too.” Greg beamed. “I’d hate to think my carefully laid plans had gone for nothing.”

  “What?”

  “While you, my Sleeping Beauty, were undoubtedly still cozy between your covers, we were out and about. Weren’t we, Melissa?” Melissa giggled and nodded. “One thing about this kid, she knows how to keep a secret. We tucked a lunch basket from the deli in the trunk of my car before we brought it over this morning.”

  Debbie felt enormous relief. She had wondered about getting home. She couldn’t imagine walking all that way over the hill again. “But how did you get back?”

  “Remember Charlie the plumber? He services several places on the mountain—cabins back in the woods with aging plumbing. He met us and took us back. These outings require the logistics of a major military campaign.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you how glad I am we don’t have to walk back.” Debbie flopped down on the lush green grass. She closed her eyes for what couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. And opened them to find a banquet spread before her. “Wow! Magic!” She rolled to a sitting position.

  The sandwiches were Lebanese mountain bread stuffed to the bursting point with ham, turkey, beef, cheeses, lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes. And they were accompanied with deviled eggs, pickled beets, sweet purple plums, huge chocolate cookies, and a Thermos of lemonade. “This is incredible. You do know how to order a picnic.”

  “They had a great-looking chocolate fudge cake. It broke my heart that they couldn’t cram it in the basket too.”

  “Well, next time have them put the cake in first. After all, what’s important?” She spoke lightly, but part of her mind couldn’t help wondering if there would be a next time. She couldn’t keep up the battle forever. Sooner or later …

  But as she leaned back on the sun-warmed blanket something else was tickling her mind. A question she couldn’t quite form into words. Yet something was keeping her mind from being as contented as her stomach. She looked at Greg as she puzzled. It didn’t seem that the annoying insect of a thought had anything to do with him. And yet … Something of importance had happened. It was the feeling of having forgotten someone’s birthday but not being able to remember whose … of knowing you’d promised a friend you’d do something but couldn’t remember what it was.

  But then, if it didn’t have anything to do with Greg, it couldn’t be very important, could it?

  Melissa’s energy level was, of course, restored first. The last crumbs of the picnic barely disappeared before she wanted to go exploring. Greg just groaned and stretched his long form out on the blanket newly cleared of the repast.

  “I think I spotted some blackberry bushes just beyond the trail over there.” Debbie nodded her head toward a mound of tangled green bushes. “Bring the basket. We’ll go gather blackberries while your daddy has a rest.”

  Greg gave a lazy grin in approval of the plan as Melissa skipped toward the trail. Debbie
hurried after her. “I’ll be Flopsy. Do you want to be Mopsy or Cottontail?”

  “Who’re they?”

  “My goodness, don’t you know Peter Rabbit?” When Melissa shook her head Debbie realized this child’s bedtime stories were sadly in need of an enrichment program. The branches laden with fat, rich blackberries glistened like ebony in the sun. As they piled the fruit into the basket Debbie began: “Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter. They lived with their mother in a sandbank underneath the root of a very big fir tree …”

  She glanced down at Melissa and saw that her fingers were rapidly getting as black as the inside of the basket. “Don’t squeeze them, honey. Just pull gently and pop them into the basket—or your mouth.” Even as full as Debbie was after lunch, the succulent berries were irresistible. She slipped a couple in her mouth before continuing, “… so one day their mother said, ‘Run along, now. But don’t get into mischief. I am going out.’ Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail were good little bunnies. So they went down the lane to gather blackberries …”

  “Just like us!”

  “That’s right.” The sun was warm on Debbie’s back and head, the surf rolled on the beach below the cliff, and she was filled with a sense of rightness and peace that she wanted to clasp to herself forever. The privilege of introducing a child to Beatrix Potter was something very precious. Others could wrestle with the issues of war and peace, world hunger, and human rights—someone had to—but her ministry was closer to home, and, in a microscopic way, the issues were the same. “… His mother put Peter to bed. She made some chamomile tea and gave a dose of it to Peter. But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.”

  “Yes, we are good bunnies!” Melissa said with a mouth stained a dark purple/black to show she had followed Debbie’s example of sampling the wares.

  “And I’m the Big Bad Wolf.” A gravely voice came from behind them.

  Debbie laughed. “I see your daughter isn’t the only one whose education has been neglected. There’s no Big Bad Wolf in The Tale of Peter Rabbit—just a big bad Mr. McGregor.” Hands on her hips, she surveyed Greg through narrowed eyes. “And somehow, you don’t seem typecast for the role.”

  “If you saw my woeful attempts at gardening, you’d be certain of it.”

  Debbie held the brimming basket out to him. He took a handful, eating them like popcorn as she said, “I commiserate. I had such great ambitions, but all my vegetables died. Even zucchini, and everybody in the world can grow zucchini. I didn’t feel quite so bad about my corn, at least I had the excuse that our soil was straight sand, and corn needs rich loam.”

  A little, nostalgic smile played around the corners of her mouth as she continued, “Now flowers are a different matter. I had great daylilies and daisies and mums. And I kept on with the beds of pansies, columbine, and snapdragons Mother and I planted together. Partly because I loved them and partly because I felt they should be Angie and Andy’s heritage too. I can’t imagine growing up without having snapdragons to clip on the ends of your fingers in the summer.”

  “You could always substitute black olives.” Greg wiggled his fingers as if sporting impromptu puppets.

  “That was one thing Mother never allowed. But I let the twins. Olives just don’t taste as good any other way. Besides, there’s a kind of logic to it. You have five olives on your fingers, then you eat one, and that leaves four—maybe I’d have a better sense of math today if my mother had worried less about table manners.”

  “I don’t think your mother left much room for improvement.” Greg had become suddenly serious.

  “My mother! What do you know about her? About the mess she left?” Debbie turned and stalked back toward the picnic spot.

  Greg caught up with her at the top of the path. “Debbie, I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I don’t know anything. But I wish I did. I wish you’d open up to me.”

  “No you don’t. Ignorance is bliss. Besides, there isn’t anything.” She shook the blanket with heated energy, then folded it with meticulous precision.

  Greg waited until her composure returned. “Er, how about a run into Cannon Beach? You haven’t been downtown, have you?”

  Like Seaside, the little town of Cannon Beach was only one street wide. They walked the length of the town on the wooden verandas of old-west style buildings feeling as if they were on a movie set. But no western movie was ever decorated so riotously. Wooden tubs spilled their contents of bright pink and white petunias at the strollers’ feet while hanging baskets overflowed above their heads. Melissa looked longingly at the pink and white awninged candy shop, but Greg shook his head. “Not now, Punkin. There’s something better up ahead.”

  Gift shops and art galleries beckoned to them with promises of pleasant browsing, but it was the heady scents from the bakery next to the old-fashioned ice cream parlor that lured them in. “They make the world’s best chocolate eclairs here.” Greg pointed to the cases overflowing with goodies.

  “Is that based on personal research?” Debbie asked.

  “Sounds like a worthwhile project.” Greg took a number for order of service. “But when you find the ultimate you know it.”

  Debbie caught her breath at the note of double entendre in his quiet voice. Even as she smiled, a trickle of fear ran down her spine. If he knew … Had she made a terrible mistake in determining to enjoy the day? “No matter how ultimate they are, I couldn’t possibly eat a thing right now.”

  “I know. We’ll take them home for supper.”

  “Do you always plan such well-balanced meals?”

  “Only when I’m dieting.”

  “Well, at least we have the blackberries. Oh, and I’ve got some sourdough bread and low fat cheese,” Debbie said.

  “And are you always so well prepared?”

  “My senior year in college I received home management credit for my work at home. I had to be prepared for the department head to drop in any time and see what I was serving for dinner. I was a nervous wreck all term just knowing she’d pick the one night I’d burned the stew and was out of lettuce.”

  “Did she?”

  “She only popped in once. It was roast chicken with fresh green beans, so my honor was safe.”

  The aproned girl behind the counter called Greg’s number. Soon they were on their way back to Seaside, Melissa sitting guard by the white pastry box in the backseat.

  “I think we can manage to keep out of the eclairs for a couple of hours, but after that you take your chances.” Greg told Debbie as she jumped out of the car at her cottage.

  When she opened the kitchen door a fat mosquito entered with her and began buzzing irritatingly around the room.

  “Just you wait. I’ll get you.” Debbie rolled up an old newspaper and began swatting. But the saucy insect escaped her best shots. She tossed the paper on the table. It fell open to reveal the headline she remembered all too well announcing Councilman Larsen’s death.

  With the thick black letters bringing back visions of that catastrophe and the buzzing sound still flying around her head, the idea that had eluded Debbie all afternoon slipped into focus. The boy at Indian Beach accused his friend of overriding the controls on the plane. Was it possible that the freak accident that killed Duane Larsen wasn’t an accident?

  Chapter 11

  Debbie blinked, trying to assimilate the implications of such a thought. But surely the authorities would have taken charge if there had been the least hint of foul play. And there were all those witnesses—there must have been at least 25 people watching. Yet the paper had carried not a single suggestion of anything irregular.

  Well, Ryland had been there. She would ask him what he thought when he got back from Salem—if he called her as he said he would. The mosquito landed on her neck. Debbie slapped it, squashing blood all over her fingers. The sight made her shiver as it blended with remembered red stains on the sand.

  When she
picked up the newspaper she saw what it had covered. Byrl, as usual, had left a note saying not to wait up for her. She should write one note and put it out every evening, Debbie thought. After all, they all said the same thing. But of more interest was a letter from Angie. Debbie wanted to give her full attention, so she set it aside for a minute while she drew a nice hot bath. She would probably have to read between the lines to determine how Angie really felt about her pregnancy. Debbie wanted to be sure her sister was sure. All she had ever wanted was the best for Angie. Debbie would do anything—she had done everything—for her sister’s happiness. Nothing must spoil it now.

  Debbie sank back in the hot, bubbly water and opened Angie’s letter. After reading only a few lines and glancing at the border filled with hasty sketches of hearts, flowers, and smiles, she knew the letter had been written in a state of euphoria. Angie’s joy simply leapt off the page as she told in great detail about her new maternity clothes, their plans for the baby, what Ron said, what the doctor said, how she planned to decorate the nursery …

  “… Tell Byrl hi for me. How do you like living with a celebrity?

  Love from your fat sister,

  Angie”

  Debbie let the letter drop by the side of the tub. Well, OK—that certainly did seem to be right for Angie. But she was so young. Angie wasn’t much older than …

  But, good grief, Angela did go on a bit. Didn’t say a thing about Dad and Leonora, or the house or the weather.

  Angie’s letter also made her long to hear from Andy. Her tall, lanky brother with the mop of brown hair that always fell in his eyes never wrote letters, but they usually called each other occasionally. The last time she had talked to him was at their father’s wedding in June. And Debbie had sensed a little dissatisfaction in him then. In the bustle of family comings and goings there had been no time to really talk. Maybe if she dressed quickly she could take time just to call and say hello.