All The Blue of Heaven (Colors of Faith)

by Carmichael, Virginia

  “Mother,” she said, rubbing her temples with her fingers and wishing the heat would lessen, even just a little, “it didn’t take me an entire dinner conversation to come to that conclusion. It was only about two minutes from when he walked through the door.”

  Her mother sat up straight, her eyes slitted in anger. She opened her mouth to speak but at that moment there was such a crash that the window panes shivered in the casement frames.

  Allie leaped up, eyes wild with fear. “Janey!” she screamed and raced for the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  In her terror, Allie barely registered the sound of a deep voice calling her name. Memories of smoke and flames overwhelmed her. She ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, her throat closing around another scream.

  In what was only seconds, but seemed hours, she lurched to Janey’s door and twisted the knob, sobs racking her chest. She knew without doubt that they had only moments before the entire house collapsed, burying the little girl under tons of rubble.

  “Allie!” That voice came again, and strong hands gripped her arms. She fought her way toward Janey’s bed, unable to see in the unlit room. Her mind created thick smoke from the darkness. Imagined flames licked at her fine leather slippers and her skirts.

  “Allie, wait! It was thunder,” Thomas’s voice spoke into her ear, wrapping her in an embrace from behind. “Just wait a moment.”

  She twisted and fought, stomping on his toes and sobbing. “Let me... go! The fire... she’ll burn. ”

  “There’s no fire. You’re safe, Janey’s safe. Look!” One rock hard arm held her at bay as the other hand reached out toward the bed. “Just open your eyes and look.”

  Allie struggled weakl. With breath heaving and tears streaking down her cheeks, she slowly opened her eyes. In the lamp light from the doorway, Janey slept soundly in her bed. Allie’s legs gave way under her.

  “Shhhh,” Thomas murmured, lowering her gently to the ground. Allie crawled forward as his hands left her. Her breath came in ragged gasps and tears dripped from her chin. She gently touched Janey’s blond curls, ran a finger over her soft cheek. The little girl puffed out a breath in her sleep and shifted.

  “I can sit with Janey, Miss Hathaway,” Maggie said. Maybe she had been there all the while but Allie hadn’t seen her. “If she wakes, I will come for you right away.”

  Allie nodded, unwilling to let her gaze travel far from Janey’s tranquil face. She knew what a mess she must look. Her hair was wild around her head, eyelashes clumped with tears. She swallowed and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Come back downstairs and have some tea. Mrs. Gibson can make up a pot,” Thomas urged softly, his hand held out.

  Allie stood, her feet felt alien beneath her. She swayed for a moment and Thomas grasped her elbow. His warm hand felt soothing and invigorating at the same time.

  Back downstairs her mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a look of concern in her eyes. She cleared her throat. “Alberta, you must have some tea with extra honey. That will settle your nerves,” she said, as if the fright she had endured could be forgotten with a sweet, like when she was a child.

  Nodding, Allie turned toward the kitchen when there was a second crack of thunder. She cowered, her hands over her ears, eyes clenched tight.

  Thomas tightened his grip on her quaking arm, murmuring soothing sounds. “It’s a thunderstorm,” he repeated softly. “Nothing to fear.”

  “This will give us some relief from the heat, at least,” said Mrs. Gibson called from the kitchen doorway. She peered at Allie. “Heavenly days, Miss Hathaway! You look a fright.”

  Allie managed a small smile. That was probably an understatement.

  “Pale as ghost, look at you,” she clucked her tongue. “Come in and get some tea, you’ve got to sit down.”

  The sudden sound of pounding rain against the slate roof caused them all to raise their heads, listening.

  “Would you listen to that,” Mrs. Gibson said. “I’m glad Mr. Nelson fixed the gutters last week.”

  The deep and constant rumble of the pouring rain was the tonic Allie needed. It sounded like a cat purring, steady and comforting. She took a shuddering breath and smiled at Mrs. Gibson. “Thank you, but I think I will go watch the rain while the tea steeps.”

  “Watch the rain? From where?” Mrs. Gibson frowned, confusion covering her plump features.

  “The back porch,” Thomas answered. Of course he knew that. How many times had they watched the rain from that spot?

  Allie made her way through the kitchen to the long enclosed porch attached to the back of the house, carrying a short fat tallow candle in a metal stand. The empty row of straight backed rockers waited. The screen on the porch was streaked with water and the sound of the torrential downpour seemed to echo in the bare space. She lowered herself into the very last chair, her place since she was a little girl. The candle flickered and she nudged it farther into the corner where it was protected from breezes.

  Thomas took a white silk handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit coat and handed it to Allie. She took it gratefully, wiping her still damp face. As she patted her eyes, she was startled to recognize the smell of him, faintly woodsy with a hint of spice.

  He sat near her, silent but for the sounds of a slow, rhythmic movement as he rocked.

  A bright flash of lightening lit the dark porch. Allie cringed but did not cry out, bracing herself for the thunder that followed. She wondered if Janey had been roused by the sound of the rain.

  “Maggie said she would come down if Janey woke,” Thomas reminded her, as if he could read her thoughts. A rumble of thunder punctuated his words, increasing and then fading away.

  She nodded, and glanced at him just as another flash of lightening illuminated the porch. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the high back of the rocker. Dark brows were lowered as if he were troubled, a short curl of black hair fell against his forehead. Allie felt an overwhelming wish to light a lamp and examine his face while he could not see her. She wanted to trace the creases near his eyes and the strong line of his jaw, to discover the ways he had become a man in her absence. She shivered and looked back out at the storm.

  He was kind That was all. A good man who cared for anyone in need, even if they had once broken his heart.

  “I’m sorry... for my...” she began.

  “Please, don’t be. You have suffered a terrible shock.”

  “I wouldn’t have hurt her, I just needed to see she was all right. I realized it was just a storm.” Realized after he wrapped his arms around her and held her back from Janey’s sleeping form. Allie cringed, remembering how she kicked out at him. “I know mother thinks that Janey needs someone else, but I can care for her. What happened tonight has never happened before.” She hated the pleading tone of her voice but fear was welling up. They might take the little girl away for her own safety.

  “Have you ever told anyone what happened during the fire?” he asked quietly.

  Allie sucked in a sharp breath. No one had asked. Her friends and neighbors all went through the quake, saw the fires ravage their homes and businesses. The doctors and nurses treated her injuries, but did not probe into the specific incident that brought her to them.

  “No,” she whispered.

  There was a long silence filled only with the drum of the rain. Allie had just decided he was not going to speak again when he said,

  “My father was in the war between the states. I know he did not want to burden his wife and son with his memories. But he was a haunted man. I think it would have done him good to speak to someone about what he saw,” he said.

  Allie nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her.

  She knew what he was asking. But was she ready to share what had happened that morning? But if they all thought she was too mentally unstable to care for Janey, they would take her away. Her hysteria a few minutes ago was not the behavior of a good mother. Allie chewed her lip, und
ecided. He did not speak again for a long time, the sound of the rain their only conversation. The steady drip from the screens added a layer of sound to the dull roar outside. Allie inhaled deeply, wondering why she couldn’t remember the smell of the rain in San Francisco.

  Perhaps it was the semi darkness or the comforting murmur of the passing storm but she had never felt safer than at that moment, with Thomas’s strong presence by her side. She could hear Mrs. Gibson clattering around the kitchen some feet behind them. The words rose unbidden, almost of their own accord.

  “I... I had been painting all night.” She began, but felt fear clutch at her heart. She waited, closing her eyes, twisting his handkerchief between her fingers and beginning again. “Janey was asleep in our apartment across the street. We had a servant girl, a helper.” Allie’s voice trailed off as she remembered that the girl became an orphan that day. So many deaths, so much suffering.

  “It was early morning and my studio was on the ground floor, but faced the bay. It had wonderful light. There was hardly a day when the light wasn’t perfect. It was part of the magic of that place.” She paused, licking her lips. She felt Thomas’s attention in the way his body was utterly motionless, waiting.

  “The earthquake seemed to last forever but was really only a minute or so. I should have run out, not stopped to look back. But all my work was in there.” She clenched her teeth. It was agony to remember the quake but even more painful to admit her injuries were her own fault.

  “I tried to remove the rolled portraits from the carrier, just a few, an armful. But I took too long. The building on the other side had caught on fire immediately. It was a restaurant and the kitchen exploded in the first few moments. Smoke was pouring into the studio. Still, I tried to save something, anything.” She shook her head and swiped away a stray tear from the corner of her eye. It wasn’t a tear of sorrow, but anger. Anger at her own foolishness.

  His voice came to her in the darkness, low and rough with emotion. “It’s understandable that you would try to save them. I’m sure they were brilliant.”

  “No!” Allie’s voice was sharp, her tone rose with every word. “I went back because those were my investments. I didn’t care about the time or the work, but because they were money in the bank.” She paused, bitterness rising in her throat. “A bank is where I should have stored my earnings, but even there I was foolish. There was a loose brick in the studio. I wrapped the cash in cloth and hid it behind the seventeenth brick from the bottom. I thought I was being clever. It felt a little like having a pirate treasure hidden in the room.” Her voice dropped lower. “I couldn’t find the brick in all the smoke, so I went back for the paintings. I risked my life, and Janey’s happiness, for money.”

  Thomas was silent and Allie did not have the courage to look at the expression on his face. She knew it must show disgust equal to her own.

  “I grabbed four, maybe five, and tried to find my way back, but the smoke had become so thick that I was lost. Everything had shifted, my table and easel, paint tubes were all over floor. I felt along the wall, but I missed the doorway. I remember the moment I touched the back shelves again, and knew I’d had traveled in a circle. I was going to burn alive. The heat... was unbearable. I dropped the portraits somewhere. I tried not to breathe. My hair was burning, the soles of my shoes felt like they were on fire. All I could think of was Janey, and how she would be alone.”

  “I prayed. Well, no, I said some things to God. One of my last thoughts before everything went black was being angry.” Allie wondered why she needed to tell him everything. Maybe it was because no one had asked her before but she wanted to be completely honest.

  “A friend of mine from across the street, Mr. Sargent, knew that I was painting that night. He came to find me, dragged me out on to the grass near the back of the studio. I didn’t know how badly I was injured but I could feel my gloves had burned away, that I was in terrible pain. At that moment I remembered the feel of the grass under my fingers when we used to sit under the old oak tree near the barn.” She paused, lost in the memory of the shouts and the smoke and the pain. Thomas moved his hand slightly, as if he wanted to take her by the hand but decided against it.

  “He told me, later, that he thought I was already dead.”

  Thomas made a sharp sound in his throat and Allie glanced over. His eyes were still closed, a deep crease between his dark brows.

  She looked at her white gloves for a moment than began to tug them off. “I hide my hands as much as possible. I am glad that I had a habit of painting with old gloves when it was chilly in the studio, it probably saved them. But they’re still ugly.” Allie held up one hand, the deep pink scars puckered and twisted around the palms and over the backs. One pinky was thickened with tissue, another finger stiff and white.

  Thomas was still silent, but he had leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes rapt. He held out his hand. Allie obediently offered hers for inspection, wondering why she felt no shame in showing him her scars. He turned it over, tracing the ridges and roughened areas with a warm, gentle thumb. His touch was electrifying and for a moment she wished wildly that he was caressing her hand, not just examining her scars.

  “Your hands!” Allie exclaimed, leaning forward. “They’re different!”

  Thomas shook his head, confusion wrought on his face, then laughed out loud. “My hands are different?”

  “The bones are heavier, and this tendon is so pronounced.” She turned his broad hand over and back again. “Here, this muscle is much larger, isn’t it? The callouses are not as thick, but they are still there.”

  His laughter rang out, again, rich and deep. “Oh, the painter is still in residence. Only an artist would notice the change of years on a man’s hand.”

  Allie grinned, then felt her smile slowly sag. “This painter is retired. Perhaps I do notice some things, but I will not paint again.”

  Allie gasped as he snatched his hand from hers and jumped to his feet.

  “What do you mean?” His voice was filled with shock.

  “I... I will not paint again,” she repeated, her heart pounding in rhythm with the rain outside.

  “But why? Is it your hands? Perhaps we could find special gloves. You can order supplies, more paint and easels, surely,” he said, his tone almost desperate.

  Allie shook her head, her voice trembling as she said, “No, that fire destroyed everything. It must be a sign from God. If even one painting had survived, I could explain it all away. But the proof is too large. I aim to do what I should have done in the beginning and marry someone with Mother’s approval.”

  Thomas paced back and forth for a moment, his body tense. Then he ran a hand through his thick hair in agitation and turned to face her.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you believe God punished you for painting? Or,” he fixed his gaze on her, “for the way you chose to live out West?”

  Allie stood to face him, her voice tight with anger as she said, “I know what the gossips have been saying but my lifestyle was as blameless as it was here. I cared for Janey, painted, sold portraits, traveled a little, and taught two students. There was a never a time that I did not live the way a Christian woman should.” Her face was flaming but she hoped he couldn’t see it in the flickering candle light.

  Thomas groaned and slumped back into a chair. His head dropped into his hands and he sat motionless. Then he lifted his head and took a breath, reaching out to touch her hand.

  “Allie, please forgive me. It’s just difficult when other people speak what they insist is the truth.”

  “But you, you of all people, should know it is not,” she said, her voice barely over a whisper.

  “Yes, you’re right. Please say you forgive me,” he said, his tone an agony of remorse.

  Allie folded into the chair next to him, grief like a hot coal in her throat. “Of course. I cannot blame you for believing people who are here, when I have been gone so long.”

  “But why do you believe God is puni
shing you, if not for some sin?” He shook his head, confused.

  “I had a lot of time to think in the hospital, during the painful days I was healing. My mother asked me to stay, and I refused. I was so intent on becoming famous and earning a fortune. Janey has grown up in a studio, surrounded by oil paint and canvas, instead of around other little girls and boys.” She turned to him, eyes bright with tears.

  “Don’t you see? Everything I have worked so hard for is gone, every painting is burned. What other answer could there be?”

  “You think because you didn’t follow your mother’s wishes, or follow mine, that God destroyed an entire city?” His tone was incredulous.

  The way he said it, the whole idea sounded bizarre. “Well, I’m certainly not meant to spend my life painting. That much is clear.”

  Thomas stood and walked to the door of the porch, staring out into the dark night. The pouring rain had slowed to a steady patter.

  “Is this why you don’t sing in church?”

  She sucked in a breath, surprised.

  “I noticed” he paused, still looking out at the blackness, “because you always sang every hymn. Sang them in a sweet, clear voice I could hear all the way in the back where I sat with my parents. I think I went most Sundays just to hear you sing, Allie.”

  “My throat is still raw from the smoke damage,” she said, hoping he would not question her.

  “But that’s not why you don’t sing... is it?” He spoke almost to himself, his shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets.

  Allie wanted to lie, wanted to make him believe the best of her, but somehow the truth slipped out against her will. “No,” she whispered. She didn’t sing because she wasn’t speaking to God, in song or otherwise.

  “I don’t believe God meant to punish you, Allie. Terrible things happen all the time.” He took a bracing breath and turned to her. The candle flickered for a moment and his features jumped eerily. “I do believe that God brought you back to us. I also believe that you were meant to go to San Francisco. I never should have asked you to stay,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.