Home Song

by Thomas Kinkade

  The problem was, Emily didn’t see it that way. Not in her heart. She shifted restlessly, then got up from her chair.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out something to say to the Rotary Club,” she promised.

  “But not in favor of McAllister, I hope.” Warren’s tone held a warning note Emily resented.

  “Oh, please don’t, Emily,” Doris added. “Betty’s right. There’s nothing to gain here.”

  “You’d be a fool to try,” Harriet said, her eyes narrowing. “And I never thought I was supporting a fool.”

  “Well, what’s it going to be?” Warren asked impatiently.

  Emily swallowed hard. This was it. Stand up against them—or watch them all walk out on her.

  “Okay,” she said. “While the race is going on, I won’t support Luke’s program.”

  She saw them exchanging looks of relief. Once again she had backed off, she realized. It was the sensible, politic thing to do. And it made her feel hollow and cowardly.

  “SO, YOU LIKE CAUSING TROUBLE FOR YOURSELF, DO YOU?” DR. ELLIOT STOOD at the bottom of the ladder, peering up at Luke through his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  Where in the world did he come from? Luke wondered. And what was he talking about? “Wait a second, I’ll be right down.”

  As he came to the ground, he saw a copy of the Messenger in Dr. Elliot’s hand. It was Saturday’s edition, opened to the editorial page, where the letter he and Sara had written appeared.

  “Oh, that.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I just wanted to set the record straight, that’s all.”

  “You did a good job of it, too. But you have enough on your plate without defending me as well.” Ezra gave him a curt nod. “I appreciate it, is what I came to say. It was good of you.”

  Luke felt embarrassed by Dr. Elliot’s gratitude. “It’s okay. It was nothing, really,” he said, bending to pick up a hammer.

  The property was filled with activity now that six teenagers from the program had arrived—two girls and four boys—along with two counselors. Sam had put them all to work, and the place had turned into a bona fide construction site. Hammers pounded and an electric drill started up.

  Ezra glanced around. “It’s gotten busy as a beehive around here. Where did you find all the help?”

  “Those kids are from the program,” Luke explained. “There’s a lot to do. We’re renovating the cottages as bunks. And we’re going to add a main building on that empty property back there, with classrooms and a common room, for lectures and group activities. So we need to dig the foundation soon, before the ground freezes.”

  “Sounds like a big undertaking,” Ezra said soberly. “I hope all this effort isn’t in vain.”

  So do I, Luke nearly replied, but he didn’t even want to recognize the possibility of failure.

  “We have the permits. There’s no legal way they can stop us.” He met Ezra’s thoughtful gaze, sounding far more certain than he actually felt.

  “Luke, something’s happened! You’d better come,” Digger suddenly appeared, running toward them from the other side of the property. “An accident. One of the kids.”

  Luke dropped the hammer and started running. Dr. Elliot followed. On the other side of Luke’s cottage they saw a tall boy sitting on the ground. Sam and one of the counselors were beside him. Sam was wrapping his shirt around the boy’s arm. Blood seeped through the thick layer of cloth.

  Luke felt sick at the sight, images of the shooting at Delaney Street flooding his mind. He stopped in his tracks, trying to get his bearings.

  Dr. Elliot rushed forward. “What he’d do, cut himself?” he asked, kneeling down next to the boy.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty bad, too,” Sam said. “It’s my fault. I should have kept a closer eye on him.”

  “No, it’s not,” the boy said. “You told me not to touch the machine, and I did it anyway.”

  “All right, we’ll figure that out later. Keep the pressure on it. And get it elevated.” Dr. Elliot glanced over his shoulder at Luke. “Let’s get him inside. Somebody needs to go out to my car and get my bag,” he said, pulling out his car keys. “It’s parked down on the drive, under the big tree.”

  One of the other boys trotted forward. “I’ll go,” he volunteered. Dr. Elliot nodded at him and handed over the keys.

  “Okay, get him up,” he said to Sam and the counselor.

  As they helped the boy to his feet, Dr. Elliot touched the boy’s shoulder. “You’re going to be all right,” he assured him. “What’s your name?”

  “Derek. Derek Wilson.”

  “All right, Derek Wilson. Let’s go inside and I’ll take a look at the damage.” Dr. Elliot led the way into Luke’s cottage. “Let him sit at that table, under the light. I’ll wash my hands. Somebody bring me some clean towels, will you?”

  The doctor’s bag soon arrived and he got to work, cleaning the wound and talking practically nonstop to his patient.

  “I knew a Derek once in school,” Dr. Elliot was saying as he prepared a syringe for a tetanus shot. “He wasn’t nearly as tall as you. Sort of a runty fellow, like me. But he was quite strong. Once we were hiking around in that marsh over there, and I fell into some quicksand.” He jabbed the boy’s arm with the needle. Derek blinked but didn’t say a word. “Well, Derek found a birch sapling and pulled me right out. . . .”

  As Luke stood by watching, he couldn’t help but be amused by the doctor’s rambling conversation, which seemed to be the perfect distraction for his young patient.

  A short time later Derek’s cut was sutured and covered with a gauze bandage.

  “I’ll be back in three days to check on him. If the cut starts to look red or puffy around the stitches, call me right away,” Dr. Elliot instructed Luke.

  “Thanks for helping me,” the boy said.

  “No problem. It could have been worse. If you don’t know how to use a tool, stay away from it until you learn,” he added curtly.

  “I hear you, Doc,” Derek said with a nod.

  Luke noticed Dr. Elliot’s surprised smile. “I’ll see you in a few days. We’ll talk some more.”

  The counselor led Derek back to his cottage to rest. Luke watched Dr. Elliot roll down his sleeves and pack up his medical bag.

  “You sure showed up at the right time.”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Dr. Elliot agreed. “If you have an emergency, feel free to call me. Otherwise, you’ll need to drive these kids to the Southport ER. That could be a problem.”

  “Yes, it could. Thanks for the offer.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve got nothing better to do,” he admitted.

  He snapped the bag shut and looked up at Luke. “That boy is bright. A good kid, too. He didn’t even fuss when I stitched him up. He’s got a heap of trouble stacked against him, though,” the doctor added, shaking his head. “He told me he’s been in five foster homes in the last three years. He ran away from the last one and was picked up for vagrancy. The real shame is, that’s probably just the half of it.”

  “No, the real shame, Doctor, is that compared to some of the other kids in the program, Derek had it easy.”

  Dr. Elliot slipped his jacket on. “I’m sure that’s true. Meanwhile, narrow-minded blowhards, like Charlie Bates, think they know it all and don’t have a clue.”

  He opened the door to let himself out. “You’re doing a good job here. Keep it up.”

  Luke smiled at him. “Thanks, Doctor. See you soon.”

  ON TUESDAY MORNING EMILY ARRIVED AT THE PEQUOT INN AT A QUARTER to eight, right on time for the Rotary Club’s monthly breakfast meeting.

  The members smiled and shook her hand as they entered, and Emily greeted most by name. She had dressed carefully in one of her best suits, a slim gray skirt and belted jacket. She even put on makeup and extra lipstick. On the outside, at least, she seemed the perfect candidate—poised, polished, and well prepared.

  The room filled up, but she waited by the door for Warren. Standing
alone in the inn’s lobby, she slipped her speech out of her purse to sneak a look. It was mainly her stump speech, dressed up a bit for this group. It listed her accomplishments during the past three years and described her goals and the special talents she brought to the job of mayor.

  Toward the bottom of the page, Warren had penciled in a few “suggestions” to address the New Horizons “problem.” Emily had revised and rewritten the section dozens of times. Coming out against the project would never sit right with her, no matter how she phrased it.

  But I promised them I would, she reminded herself.

  Emily turned abruptly and pushed through the door to the ladies’ room. She ran the cold water and wet a paper towel. Then sat down in a chair, the towel pressed to her head, her eyes closed. She felt very ill. It has to be nerves, she told herself, though it felt like something much worse.

  It wasn’t like her to be nervous or upset before an appearance, certainly not before a little breakfast speech like this one. She had given speeches with jet lag and the flu, and once did a TV interview an hour after having a root canal. She was a trooper.

  But here she was, rattled and dizzy and about to lose the little that was in her stomach.

  What are my alternatives here? Give the speech as is, even though the words will stick in my throat as I come out against the center—and then read all about it in the next edition of the Messenger. She had spotted one of Dan’s stringers. Or I could be honest and say I support it—and then take the heat from Warren and the others.

  Neither of her choices seemed the right one.

  What could she do? She checked her watch. They must be looking for her. Feeling desperate, she closed her eyes and began to pray. Dear Lord, please take pity on me. What should I do?

  A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Emily, are you in there? . . . Are you all right?”

  It was Warren. She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m fine. I’ll be right out,” she called back.

  She stood up and smoothed out her skirt. The nearby window was small and high—but not an impossible escape route, she thought wryly.

  She turned, forced one foot in front of the other, then opened the door slowly. Warren stood there, looking annoyed and nervous. “Are you all right?” he asked again, his tone impatient.

  She swallowed hard and began to nod her head, then felt—overwhelmed. As if she might scream or faint. Or both.

  Emily leaned forward, whispering in his ear. “I can’t do this. You have to make some excuse. Tell them anything. I don’t care.”

  He pulled back and stared at her. “What do you mean? You’re not giving the speech?”

  She shook her head and slipped her purse strap over her arm. “I can’t do it. . . . I don’t feel well. I have to go.”

  “You can’t just run out like this, Emily.” He grabbed her arm. “They’re all in there, waiting for you. What am I supposed to say?”

  Emily pulled away from his hold. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “You’re so good at putting words in my mouth. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

  Before Warren could reply, she swept past him and out the door, into the bright morning sun. She quickly got into her car and headed toward the village, her thoughts whirling. What had she just done? Had she lost her mind altogether? She’d never done anything like this before in her life. . . . Well, practically, she amended, thinking of the way she ran off with Tim right after high school.

  But that was different.

  Warren will be livid and the rest of my committee not much happier. How am I ever going to face them?

  What was happening to her?

  Emily turned down Main Street, but when she came to the Village Hall, she kept on driving. She drove all the way down to the harbor and the green. She parked the car and sat there a minute, then got out and started walking on the nearest path, with the water on one side and the green on the other.

  The green and town dock were quiet, except for a few dog walkers and women pushing strollers. Emily walked to the farthest bench and sat down. The day had started off sunny, but now clouds were gathering, blocking the sun. It’s going to rain. Just as well, she thought. We need some rain. Everything is so dry.

  Sea birds dipped and dived around the pier, and the wind that lifted their wings chilled her. She hugged her arms around herself and took a deep breath. She didn’t want to start crying, right here, sitting on a bench in the park, but she felt tears in her eyes when she blinked the wind away.

  “Emily . . . are you all right?” Emily heard the voice and felt the light touch on her shoulder almost simultaneously.

  She looked up and saw Reverend Ben standing beside her, the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked, sitting down next to her.

  “Hello, Reverend.” Emily felt embarrassed, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s nothing, really. I’m okay,” she said automatically.

  “You know, it’s all right to ask for help sometimes,” he said gently. “You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders—though you do a very good job of it most of the time, I will say.”

  She gave him a weak smile in answer, but couldn’t say anything more.

  “What is it? Something with your mother?” he persisted.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I was supposed to give a speech this morning, and I just couldn’t. I walked out on them. It was awful, really. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  He sat back, regarding her. “Doesn’t sound so horrible to me. You’re under a lot of pressure. Anyone can see that. Don’t be so hard on yourself all the time, Emily. Nobody expects you to be perfect.”

  “Perfect?” Emily sighed. “Lately, it seems I can’t do anything even half-right. Everyone is mad at me, or disappointed, or both. Everything in my life is going haywire. This election, Jessica’s wedding, dealing with my mother.” She cut herself off abruptly. “It’s just a big mess, that’s all. I feel so—drained.”

  “Have you prayed about this? Have you asked God to help you? He will, you know.”

  Emily sighed again and stared out at the water. Could she admit to Reverend Ben that even her faith had failed her lately?

  “Yes, I have prayed, Reverend. At least, I’ve tried. But I don’t know. . . . It hasn’t seemed to help. I feel as if I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I don’t even really care about winning the election,” she admitted quietly. “But I’m afraid to lose. My life is so empty. What do I have to look forward to?”

  The Reverend regarded her thoughtfully. “What do you want to look forward to Emily? What is it you’re really thinking of?” he gently challenged her. “Marriage? Children?”

  Emily stared at him, then shook her head. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not very likely.”

  “Anything can happen, Emily. You know that. Nothing is impossible for God.”

  She let out a long breath. The water looked so dark now, with the sun behind the clouds. The waves in the harbor were rough and choppy.

  “Do you think God is punishing you for giving up your baby? Is that what you’ve been thinking all these years?”

  Emily turned to him. “No, not at all.” She looked away again. “I think I’ve probably been punishing myself,” she admitted bluntly.

  “Yes, probably,” he agreed. “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”

  “It doesn’t seem to go any other way for me, Reverend, even after all this time. How can I be happy with someone and start over again, after what I did? It always gets in the way. I don’t think I’ll ever get married again. But maybe I can find my daughter. After the election I’m going to try,” she confided. “This time I won’t give up so easily.”

  “All right,” Ben said. He reached over and touched her hand. “I hope you do find her. But even finding your child won’t solve this completely for you, Emily. You can find her and still not forgive yourself.”

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nbsp; “Why should I? It was wrong, the deepest kind of betrayal—of my baby, my husband, and even me.” Emily fought to keep her voice steady. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever done, Reverend. I can never forgive myself.”

  “But you must,” Reverend Ben insisted. “Can’t you see? Yes, it was an error in judgment, a mistake. You were young and grieving after losing Tim. Your mother pressured you to do as she wanted.” He held his hands out to her, imploring. “It doesn’t even matter how it happened. That isn’t important.”

  “Isn’t it?” she asked. She knew the Reverend was trying to help her, but she felt numb to his words, numb to everything.

  “God understands, and He forgives you, unconditionally,” the Reverend assured her. “But when you refuse to forgive yourself, you put yourself above Him. Do you think you know more than God, Emily?”

  “Uh, no, of course not.” She shook her head, clasping her cold hands in her lap. “I know what you’re saying, Reverend. And I want to believe it. I just wish I could feel it deep inside, in my heart.”

  “Then open your heart to it, Emily. Think with your heart instead of your head,” he advised. “True forgiveness is beyond reason. It’s not something rational or granted because the other person is willing to admit they’ve done wrong. God grants it unconditionally, and absolutely. And this is how we must forgive each other. And ourselves.”

  Emily thought about it. Her mother would never admit she had done anything wrong when she had insisted that Emily give up her daughter. If what the Reverend was saying was true, then God had already forgiven her—and Emily needed to do the same. Rational or not, it probably makes more sense than waiting for Lillian to apologize, Emily thought wryly.

  The Reverend smiled at her, as if he could sense her emotions shifting. “You know, it’s often said that God never closes one door to happiness without opening another. But sometimes we sit staring at that closed door for so long that we don’t even see the other.”

  Seeing herself so clearly in the image, Emily had to laugh. “I’ll try to remember that one.”