She got to her feet and began pacing her office. You can’t feel responsible for some numskull tossing a rock through Luke’s windshield.
Oh, yes, I can, she argued with herself.
What was going to happen next—something even more dangerous? A person who would do something like that won’t be happy being ignored, she knew. They’ll just go out and find a bigger rock. And the next time Sara could get hurt.
But this isn’t just about Sara’s safety. Or even Luke’s, for that matter. It’s the principle of the thing—my own waffling principles, Emily thought grimly.
Betty Bowman appeared in the doorway, carrying a leather portfolio with a gold clasp. “Am I the first one here?” she asked.
“The very first, not counting me,” Emily replied.
Even though it was Saturday, the campaign committee had scheduled a meeting; it was the only time they all had open. Emily hoped it would be quick. She still had work to do here and wanted a few free hours at home, just to catch up on real life.
Betty was dressed smartly, as usual, in a tweed suit, a burnt-orange turtleneck of fine-gauge wool, and a silk scarf. She was probably rushing back to her real estate office after the meeting, Emily realized.
In contrast Emily wore comfortable khaki pants, jogging shoes, and a navy blue and white striped sweater. Her hair, still damp from the shower, looked even more untamed than usual. Even if she spent the entire day trying, she would never look as polished as Betty, but that was all right. She was past the stage of feeling insecure about her looks. She liked her own casual style; it suited her.
“Dan Forbes bought that little cottage on your street,” Betty said. She opened her portfolio and took out her thick agenda book. “Did I tell you?”
“He told me. I ran into him in the neighborhood the other night.”
“We’re having the walk-through today. He’s closing on Monday.”
“That was fast.”
“He needed a quick turnaround. His house on Bayview sold in a day. Everything goes in a flash up there. Luckily, it all worked out. I think he’ll be in by the end of next week.”
“Really?” He hadn’t mentioned anything about it when they spoke on the phone the other night.
I’ll have to stop by and say hello, Emily thought. Bring a plant or something. It’s the neighborly thing to do. . . .
Warren Oakes walked in, looking grimmer than usual, Emily thought. Then Harriet DeSoto, Frank Hellinger, and Doris Mumford.
Warren, the campaign chairman, began the meeting, addressing a list of topics he had drawn up.
“Item One: Replacing campaign signs on the access roads coming into town. I checked out there this morning, and it looks like the wind blew half of them down again,” he reported.
It was an endless battle keeping the signs up, but Warren never seemed daunted, Emily thought. He was nothing, if not persistent.
“Item Two: Your schedule for the next few weeks needs work. You need to get out more, talk to more groups, drum up more support.” He checked his notes. “What about your speech to the Rotary? Have you finished it yet?”
Emily nodded. “Just about.” She handed out copies of her most recent draft. “It’s basically the stump speech with a few extras, some praise for funding the Harvest Festival and the new equipment for the playground. Talking about our shared vision for the village. That sort of thing.”
“What about this McAllister situation?” Warren asked, skimming the speech. “It’s all everyone’s talking about. You’ve got to say something.”
“He’s right,” Betty said.
“I didn’t get to work it into that draft,” Emily explained. “But I agree, I need to address it.”
She looked down at her hands, surprised to see them steepled together in front of her, as if she were about to pray. So she did. Help me, Lord, she whispered in her mind. Then she gazed up at her committee.
“I think I need to step out and support it,” she said. “Maybe even before I see the Rotary.”
For a long moment nobody spoke. Warren’s bushy eyebrows came together over his scowling face. Betty looked at Harriet with a questioning expression, and Harriet looked down at the table. Doris seemed absorbed in twisting her wedding band on her finger.
“You can’t be serious. That’s a joke, right?” Frank said.
“I’m perfectly serious,” Emily assured him. “I’ve felt uneasy about this from the start, and now something has happened. Last night at the cottages, somebody tossed a rock through Luke McAllister’s windshield with a threatening note attached. No one was hurt,” she added. “But it’s time for me to take a clear position. Past time, I’d say. I want to support it.”
“Well, then, you’d better expect a rock through your windshield next.” Warren sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Can’t you see, Emily? If people are so angry that they’re harassing McAllister, voicing support is the worst move you can make.”
“Might as well hand Charlie the election,” Harriet added quietly. “He’s baited the trap, and you’re about to walk right into it.”
“Look,” Emily said, “this isn’t about playing politics. It’s about values and the real difference between voting for me or voting for Charlie. I’ve done some research, and I think this project is worthwhile and should go through. I think that once everyone has the facts, most will support it, too. This is a town of essentially good, decent people. I know they’ll do the right thing.”
“Nicely said.” Warren extended his hands and clapped, a dull sound in the quiet room. “Too bad there’s only about three people in town right now who would agree with you—or vote for you if you made that speech outside this room. And that includes McAllister.”
“He can’t vote, he’s not a resident,” Harriet corrected him.
“He owns property and pays taxes,” Emily said, astounded.
“Needs to be his legal address for six months. It’s on the books. Check for yourself,” Harriet said with a shrug.
“Real estate values are going to take a nosedive if that project goes through. Have you thought about that?” Betty asked.
“That’s not necessarily true.” Emily had expected this from Betty, friend or not. “Luke dropped a package of information off for me yesterday, and I read it through last night. These centers are all over the country and don’t appear to have any effect on property values, in the long run.”
“Meaning five years from now?” Betty sat back and tucked her silk scarf into her jacket. “Honestly, Emily . . . be realistic.”
“I know Charlie has gotten under your skin with this thing. He’s rattled the entire town. But this isn’t the only issue in the campaign. You’ve got to shift the focus somewhere else, where you can show him up,” Harriet coached her.
“Get a little distance from this, Emily. It’s an emotional issue, but it’s not really that important,” Warren argued in a more persuasive tone. “Is this project going to provide services to any of our residents? No. In fact, it’s only made them angry. So what’s the point of sticking your neck out?”
“Warren is right. This isn’t the time to take the high ground. You’d be smarter to back off,” Doris advised.
“You can beat Charlie now, and then help McAllister later,” Frank added.
“I can’t just sit back and say nothing for the next six weeks,” Emily countered. “It’s just not right.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not right,” Warren said. “We’ve all worked very hard on this campaign, given up our valuable time and energy. I thought we were a team. Now you want to drive right off a cliff and take the rest of us with you. Is that fair to us?” he demanded.
Emily didn’t answer at first. She looked at the faces of the others, realizing they all agreed with Warren. She swallowed hard. Was she being selfish? Crumbling under Charlie’s pressure, falling for his tricks?
Luke’s project was not vital to the well-being of the village, that much was true. But the small-minded, negative spirit it had arou
sed was harmful and went against everything Cape Light stood for.
Why was that so hard to explain to them—and why did she feel so foolish and ineffectual trying?
“You need more time to think this over. You’re worn out. It’s been a long week,” Betty gently suggested. “Why don’t you have copies made of the information Luke gave you, so we can all look at it?”
Trying to give me a graceful way out, Emily thought. Betty was such a good negotiator. She knew how to hold a deal together.
“Good idea,” Warren assented. He could see he had not really moved Emily from her position, but was willing to settle for this compromise. “You don’t see the Rotary for almost two weeks. You have plenty of time to figure out what to say,” he added.
Emily sighed. Just when she thought she had made her mind up and stood on solid ground, everything shifted underneath her again. But she didn’t feel as if she had any chance of overruling them on this now.
“All right. I’ll run off some copies on Monday and get it out to all of you,” she promised. “We’ll see what you think then.”
After reviewing a few more routine matters, the meeting concluded. Everyone left quickly, looking drained and downbeat, Emily thought. As if she had already let them down.
ONE THING WENT RIGHT FOR EMILY THAT EVENING. DR. ELLIOT VISITED Lillian, so Emily was spared yet another confrontation with her mother. Instead, she finished up the housework she had put off all week and set off on a long run. But she wound up cutting it short. She felt so tired, weary down to her very soul. And empty, too.
She returned to the house, poured more food into the cats’ bowls—they each seemed to be eating about twice their body weight per day—and got ready to go to bed. Out of habit, she picked up the Bible on her night table and opened it to the marked page. She read a chapter from Philippians and paused when she came to the words “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
She tried to find comfort in the familiar words. But tonight they just didn’t ring true for her. She didn’t feel the resonance, down deep in her heart, renewing her and putting her back on track. The words on the page seemed to be just words, type on a page, the deeper meaning sealed from her. She couldn’t penetrate their mystery or release their power to help her.
She closed the Bible and began to pray. Dear God, why is everything so hard for me? Why is everything so confused? I can’t seem to figure out what to do about anything. Everyone seems so disappointed in me—or angry. Or both, she conceded.
What am I doing wrong here? What is the point of tying myself in knots to get reelected? Or arguing with my mother about Jessica and Sam at every turn? And even thinking about what happened with my baby—I feel as if I’m just banging my head against a wall. Nothing changes. I feel so stuck. Everything just seems so . . . futile.
Her litany of complaints sounded so empty and negative. She stared into the dark, the shadowy shapes of her room, simultaneously familiar and strange in the cool moonlight.
Even prayer wasn’t helping her tonight. Where was her gratitude? Her perspective? Had she lost her bearings so completely that she had lost the thread of her faith as well? In her heart she knew she wondered why God wasn’t helping her. She knew she doubted. Herself and God.
No wonder I’m alone, without a husband or family of my own, she thought. No wonder I’ve never found my daughter. I don’t deserve all that. I’m a hypocrite, with a lot of opinions and judgments about the way the world should be but no courage to act. Well meaning but ineffectual. Just like my father.
Trying to please everyone, I’ve turned into a talking suit, a sellout, a phony. Emily felt the dark impulse to quit the election entirely. I just can’t do this anymore, she said to herself.
She tossed in her bed and yanked the cover over her shoulder. But if she did lose, what did she have left? Nothing. An empty house and two cats. An invalid mother who was impossible to please. Her sister, God willing, would soon be married and immersed in her life with Sam. A life that will make mine look even more barren in comparison. Is that what she had to look forward to?
Sometimes she felt as though she wanted to run away and never come back. For a few moments, she allowed herself the guilty pleasure of imagining it. Then finally, she sat up to set her alarm clock. She had nearly forgotten.
Church tomorrow, with her mother. Lunch at the house on Providence Street afterward. Hour by hour, she would get through the day.
And then the next and the next after that. . . . She closed her eyes again, and her thoughts ran on as she tumbled into a colorless sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
MRS. WARWICK. EMILY.” TUCKER TULLEY NODDED in greeting as they entered the church on Sunday morning. Emily smiled back; for a split second she hadn’t recognized him out of his uniform.
He handed each of them a program and led them to an empty pew. Her mother liked to sit in a front row, looking directly at the pulpit. Once they were settled, Lillian leaned over and whispered, “Where’s Gus Potter? He always handles the left aisle.”
“He’s ill again. I think it might be pneumonia,” Emily whispered back. “He’s in the hospital, getting some tests. I heard they may have found some trouble with his heart.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard.” Her mother looked down at her foot. “These new shoes are terribly uncomfortable. The left is rubbing my heel. You’ll have to return them.” Without further comment she opened her prayer book and began to read.
A typically compassionate reaction, Emily thought wryly. Then again, her mother wasn’t in a very good mood today. She and Dr. Elliot had argued last night. From what Emily gathered, it was more than the usual intellectual fencing that seemed to be the basis of their friendship. This was different, a disagreement over whether the town should block Luke McAllister’s project. Dr. Elliot was for the project and her mother, against it, of course. The argument had gotten so serious, he had left before dessert. “I was shocked,” her mother had told her. Emily, however, was not surprised. The issue seemed to put the best of friends at odds.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Jessica walking into the church. Sam was sitting near his parents, and though there was space, Jessica didn’t try to sit near him. Good grief, Emily thought, that’s not a good sign. She had already decided that she wouldn’t even try to bring her mother and sister together this morning. No one needed another round of that snub routine again.
Reverend Ben greeted the congregation and started the service. Though Emily tried to focus, her thoughts began to wander.
Her spirits had been so dark last night. This morning she felt more herself but somehow dull, as if everything inside her were going numb. Some part of her that had always fought and held out hope was giving up.
Then the Reverend Ben’s deep voice caught her attention. Was it already time for the sermon? Her thoughts had taken her far away, but now she could hear what he was saying. “. . . and I was reminded of a simple proverb that rings consistently true. ‘Actions speak louder than words.’ ”
Emily sat up a little straighter. She knew who said it, and when, as did most in the room. Where was Reverend Ben going with this? she wondered.
“The words stuck in my mind all week long,” the Reverend continued. “And it occurred to me that God has told us the same. ‘Actions speak louder than words.’ Specifically, the kind of action he wants us to take in our lives every day. As we find in the gospel according to St. John, ‘By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.’
“And again, in Corinthians you will hear the same, even more eloquently perhaps: ‘And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three, but the greatest of these is charity.’
“What does that mean—‘the greatest of these’?” Reverend Ben paused and looked down at his notes, then back at his flock. “This is the key, the beating heart of being a Christian, the essential, identifying characteristic. This is the thing that all Christians must do . . . or must try to do. But is that i
t? you might ask yourself. Just to love one another?”
He nodded slowly. “Simple, right? Just one single request. It’s like telling your children that you’ll give them a thousand dollars a week allowance and all they have to do is make their beds. Or take out the garbage. That isn’t very much at all for that great reward, is it?”
Emily listened keenly, watching the Reverend glance around at his audience. “Nothing to it, you say,” he continued lightly. “And on a beautiful sunny day when your job is going well, the bills are paid, and there are no family problems on your mind, it’s easy to love the world and everyone in it. To be cheerful, kind, generous, considerate.
“But does God say, ‘Love one another when you feel like it. When you’re in a good mood. When you’ve got the time’?” the Reverend asked. “Does he say, ‘It’s okay. You just do it when it’s convenient for you. I don’t mind.’ Does the Lord tell us, ‘Just love the people near and dear to you—your family and friends? Or the ones who give you respect and affection, the ones who agree with you? It’s fine with me if you don’t love, or even like, the others.’ ” The Reverend shook his head and continued. “Does the Lord say, ‘It’s fine with me if the rest of the time you’re short tempered and angry, if you treat your neighbor with envy, contempt, suspicion, intolerance. . . .’ ”
Emily glanced over at her mother. Her gaze was fixed on the Reverend, but instead of the composed, thoughtful expression she usually wore when she listened to his sermons, her expression was a tight, sour frown.
“ ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ ” Reverend Ben repeated. “Let us pray today that the light of the Holy Spirit will fill our hearts and inspire us to be known by our acts, and our acts will reflect the Holy Spirit of love.”
Emily watched Reverend Ben leave the pulpit, his eyes bright, a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead. His words had stirred her, touching so many places in her life. But instead of stirring up more guilt and worry, something dark and heavy inside had subtly shifted. It wasn’t that she now had an answer to the questions that plagued her. It felt more like a door swinging open just a crack, a thin shaft of light cutting through the shadows. It was the recognition that she needn’t give up hope. She could find an answer.
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