by Anita Higman
Eighteen
I’m a mess. I’m an absolute mess. Calli wouldn’t even recognize me. Lark shut the door behind her and leaned against it for support. Even as a girl, she’d never been one for bouts of tears like some of her friends. With her sunny temperament, she’d always discovered lots of things to be fascinated with rather than moping for hours. But this wasn’t a breakup from a schoolgirl crush. This felt like some serious peril to her heart. Or had Everett meant what he said? That he just needed some time.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told Everett how I felt. But couldn’t he see it in her eyes anyway? A dull ache trickled through her. Not good. Okay, options. Paint, play guitar, Mocha Madness, pray, or call Calli. Or I could sip some Earl Grey tea and think of the needs of someone else. Those were all good things, but first maybe she’d just treat herself to another round of tears.
Then she remembered what Calli had said—that God might have planted Everett next door for a reason. But what if the real purpose was to help Everett in some other way? What if the falling-in-love part wasn’t destiny? Wait a minute. Do I believe in destiny? She groaned, wondering how her mother would respond. Maybe she’d say, “You know, honey, maybe you can’t see the whole picture. Maybe God is working things out, and you just can’t see it.”
Okay, time for some prayer. Lark slipped on her gray sweats and knelt by her bed like she did when she was a girl. She surrounded herself with boxes of tissues like a fortress and began, “Please help me.”
“Please help me,” Igor repeated in his cage.
Lark slumped onto the bed. “Can’t pray in my bedroom.”
“My bedroom,” Igor squawked.
Yes, I guess it is your bedroom. She smiled and shook her head at Igor. She decided to pray silently, and this time, mean it. Please show me the way, and if Everett is meant only to be my good friend, then give me the courage to face it. Then she thought of the severed relationship between the two brothers and prayed for a miracle of forgiveness and healing. Her own lack of responsibility and impulsiveness came to mind, so she asked for maturity in all areas of her life. She stayed on her knees until a peace washed over her like a warm bubble bath. Maybe talking to God has more to do with sincerity and trust than the perfect words.
Lark picked up the bedroom phone. Now for a good talk with her best friend. Calli’s phone rang a couple of times, and then she answered. “Hey, girl. I was just thinking about you for some reason. Sent up a prayer, too. What’s going on?”
“My emotions have been jumbled like they’ve had a few rounds in a blender,” Lark said. “But I’m better now.”
“Somehow I know this has to do with that neighbor of yours. You’re either going to have to move or marry him.”
“You don’t know how true that is.” Lark related the latest as Calli made noises of astonishment. “But I’ve given it to God,” she finally added.
“It’s all you can do,” Calli said. “But I still think Everett needs to be slapped upside the head for good measure.”
They both laughed.
“Wait a minute,” Lark said. “I hear a funny noise in Everett’s backyard. Hold on.” Lark ran up to the loft with the portable phone to have a look. “You will never believe this. You know how Skelly throws pots and pans sometimes?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Everett thought it was so goofy. But I can see him doing it. He’s got his backyard lights on, and he’s out in the cold heaving pots against his brick wall.”
“Oowwee. He must be in a bad way about his brother,” Calli said. “And, you know, maybe he’s wrestling with his feelings for you, too. Anger and love mingle in the same stream sometimes. I’ll pray for him. But I’ve gotta go, ladybug. My doorbell is buzzing, and I have a date with one of the finest Christian gentlemen in Arkansas. We’re doing my favorite thing.”
“Let’s see. Japanese cuisine where this samurai guy whacks up your steak in midair?”
“You got it.”
Lark chuckled. “You go for it, girl, and then tell me all the finer points later. Bye.” She hung up. Well, that wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. Usually Calli had more time to talk, but then she had a life, too. Calli certainly couldn’t be expected to be on call twenty-four/seven just to listen to all her latest romantic catastrophes.
She couldn’t help but wonder when one of them married someday if their friendship would change significantly. She would certainly miss their closeness. Their sisterhood. But even so, she hoped Calli had the most beautiful evening of her life.
Lark sighed and then stared down at the man who held her heart. Everett. How did it happen? Yes, somehow while she was busy helping Mr. New Guy out of his shell, he’d become Mr. Lifetime. She’d been minding her own business when love simply took her by surprise. Well, that wasn’t totally accurate. She had indeed meddled in his life, but the surprise part was true. He had left her breathless. And isn’t that what I’ve longed for?
Lark just hoped Everett was down there having a few good thoughts about her. Unfortunately, he had another pan in his hand, ready for a launch. What could he be thinking?
❧
Everett rose from his deck chair and threw a saucepan even harder than the first one. What a little minx. Ever since he’d moved next door to Larkspur, every component of his life had been negatively altered. None of the past miseries with Marty would have been dredged up had it not been for her childish game. He would have made the best of his time with his brother, and then Marty would have been on his way to Missouri in the morning.
Everett shivered even though he’d put on a heavy coat. He felt for his Palm Pilot, but it wasn’t in his pocket. He’d always kept his Palm with him wherever he went, but at the moment he couldn’t even remember where he’d left it. My life is getting seriously out of control.
Why did Skelly throw pots anyway? Seemed more insane than helpful. And it would eventually loosen up the mortar on his brick wall. He noticed all the dead mums around him, grunted, and trudged back inside. He felt so many intense emotions it frightened him.
Everett’s head reeled with a headache. Where was his bottle of medicine? Mental note: Buy five-year supply of painkillers. Or just move away from Larkspur. Same effect.
He couldn’t find the medicine in any of the usual spots, so as a substitute, he sat in front of his computer. Long time, no see, old friend. It’s great to be back in the pilot seat. He didn’t bother looking over at Lark’s office window. He refused to succumb to the temptation this time, and instead gazed into his real world. Ah, yes. The soft glow of the screen was like a reassuring friend. And he’d have a good, steady job soon. Maybe with some discipline he could make the rest of his life just as it had been.
Everett flipped on his stereo. Liebestraum by Franz Liszt was playing. Hmm. Not very invigorating to get the juices flowing. He changed CDs to Mozart’s Allegro. Now, that’s a little more like it.
But every time Everett stared at the screen for more than a minute, those big, brown, impish eyes of Lark’s seemed to be staring back at him. Full of sweetness. Then he summoned up a more recent expression of hers. At dinner with Marty, her glow hadn’t been so loving. In fact, her look at him had been reproving, or at the least, pleading.
He leaned back in his chair, making it moan. Even his chair seemed against him. Could Lark have been right? Had he been too tenacious with his views, and had his lack of forgiveness eaten away at his spirit? Granted, Marty and Greta had always relished in proving they were covered with some kind of invincible powder, and he’d always been more than willing to take up the role of the nay-saying, older brother, but all of that aside, had the accident truly been their fault? One unforeseen patch of ice causing them to careen into a ravine. Maybe the same thing would have happened if I had been driving. But then how could it have happened with me? As Marty said, I never took Mom and Dad anywhere. Had it been true? Had he been so busy trying to impress his parents with hard work that he’d forgotten to just be their son?
He f
lipped off his music. Oddly, he only listened to the classical music to stimulate his mind for higher productivity, not because he had a passion for it. He felt like a fraud.
Back to his headache and what felt like the beating of a bass drum inside his skull. Everett yanked open one of the top drawers on his desk, thinking he might have stuck his medicine inside. No medicine. Great. Instead he saw some crumpled documents inside. He rummaged through the pile. Hmm. Old insurance paperwork. Funeral expenses for Mom, Dad, and Greta. The brake job on my last car. Brakes. Why does that word always stick in my head? In fact, for the last several years, every time he heard that word, it was as if he were searching in his mind for a lost piece of a puzzle.
Brakes? My car. My family’s funerals. Mom and Dad’s car. My responsibility. That’s right. Once his parents had gotten elderly, Greta and Marty had watched over their house, but it had been his job to take care of his parents’ car. Had he forgotten about some car repairs? Brakes! That was it. He was supposed to have had their brakes worked on. Had he been too busy? Why had he blocked it from his memory. . .until now? Out of convenience? Hidden guilt?
Everett squeezed the temples of his forehead. He’d let his parents down, but more than that, perhaps the brakes were the real problem when the car went out of control. His body jolted back in the chair. A dead nerve seemed to twitch back to life. What’s happening to me? Maybe now I’m feeling the stinging guilt Marty has suffered for years.
Everett took out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. He put his hand to his stomach. All of a sudden he felt quite ill. He raced to the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet. Was it bad quiche? Maybe Lark was interfering with his stomach now. He already knew the answer as he leaned over for another heaving wave of nausea. The food isn’t the problem. It’s your life.
He allowed dozens of thoughts to drift in and out of his consciousness. His life had become just like his parents’ car. Careering off into an abyss. He’d missed so much. A relationship with his brother. The volunteer work he’d given up. Friendships he’d walked away from. He flushed the commode and wiped off his face.
And why had he insisted on closing up his heart all these years—the coldness masquerading as a good work ethic. To punish his brother? To destroy himself?
Or had he conjured up some magical thinking? He wondered if subconsciously he’d kept emotionally vacant in case that could keep life from zapping him again. And did his noxious mixture of emotions include anger toward God? So many questions.
Once his stomach settled, he knew what he had to do. Since he was already on his knees, he decided to stay there. God, where do I even begin with this prayer? How can You forgive me for what I’ve done to Marty? I guess people don’t have to be artsy to be irresponsible. Obsession with my career has accomplished that very well.
Everett continued his prayer, asking for forgiveness and guidance. Then he rose feeling different. He knew the cold, dispassionate cement he’d built around his heart was crumbling down. Okay. I guess I’ve got a job to do, and this time it won’t be at my computer. The relationship with his brother had suffered too long with a festering wound. The time had come for healing.
Just as he headed to the bathroom for a shower, the doorbell rang. Lark? Marty? He hurried to the door. When he opened it, he found a woman standing on the porch looking anxious.
“May I help you?” Everett asked.
“I’m your neighbor, Melba Sanders. Next door to Lark.”
“I’m Everett Holden.” He noticed the older lady had a pleasant smile and held a plant of some kind.
Melba reached out her hand to him. “Pleased to meet you.”
Everett shook her hand. “Same here. Would you like to come in?”
“Oh no, thank you. I just brought over this little ivy plant here to welcome you. I wanted to bring it last week, but I had a run-in with my gout.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Everett accepted the houseplant, which sat in a small, wicker basket. “Thanks for the plant.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. I would have baked you a cake instead, but I’m a terrible cook,” Melba said with a pleasant chuckle. “Yes, indeed. One of my floppy cakes is no way to meet and greet a new neighbor, I always say.” She titled her head as she took in a deep breath. “But I also stopped by to tell you Sam Wentworth, next door to me, is in the hospital with a broken wrist. Sam should be fine in no time, but I just wanted you to know. We all keep up with each other around here.”
Everett thought maybe he should help in some way. “Should I go and see Sam. . .in the hospital?”
“Oh, no need to go right now. Lark is there. But it’s nice of you to ask. You know, you’re going to fit in really well here, Everett. Yes, indeed.”
Once Melba had gone, her words still clung to him. No need to go. Lark is there. If there were ever a problem or a need, Lark would always be there because she was the kindest, most generous human being he’d ever known. Not to mention a woman with the sweetest kisses.
Now that Lark had gone to the hospital for a visit, the neighborhood did seem quiet. Too quiet. He missed her electric guitar adding her own wild additions to his classical music—two very distinct genres of music, yet they meshed in some strange and wonderful way. Just like we do.
Everett fell on his bed, exhausted from an overload of feelings. He gazed at the moonlike ceiling. He’d thought of himself as such a rock, but Lark had managed to tenderly smash his indomitable mind-set with her dainty, velvet mallet. One week in the shadow of those intense eyes and he was toast. Worthless to do anything but love her.
The fact remained, Lark would always be an artist-type with a grin brimming with impetuosity—a real loose cannon with some zany added to the fuse. But Lark was also the dearest woman he’d ever met. The only question that could possibly remain is—should I marry her?
Everett drifted in and out of sleep all night. In the morning, he awakened sweaty and tangled in his bedding as if he were Scrooge waking up from a horrific night of time travel. As his dreams gained clarity in his mind, Everett realized he’d indeed been like Scrooge—stingy with his money and with his feelings.
In one of his nightmares, he’d seen his epitaph: Here lies Everett Moss Holden III, a miserly bean counter, survived by no one. He’d tried to run, but as in most night terrors, it became impossible to even move a muscle. He’d thought, No. I don’t want to grow old alone. I want to give more—love more. Well, at least all my nightmares finally have some good use. He knew now his life needed some modifications.
Everett rose from his bed and sat down at the kitchen table to write out his apology to Marty. When he’d finished pouring out his thoughts onto the paper, he tore up the letter and decided to talk to his brother straight from the heart. He gazed into the living room at the piano. Who knows? Maybe a dose of forgiveness and some music will ease my nightmares and headaches.
He took a stroll to the coffee table to pick up Lark’s photo. He smiled as his hand went to his heart. Everett vowed that after he made all things right with his brother, he would take care of some business next door, as well. Maybe he’d even utilize a little spontaneity again. “Okay, Larkspur Wendell, prepare to be dazzled.”
Nineteen
Lark woke up thinking about Everett, and she wondered how a creative God planned on working out all the messy details of their lives.
She smacked her lips. “Oww.” Her mouth felt like a litter of dust bunnies had played all night in there. And had she aged ten years overnight? How in the world had she made it past age thirty without needing coffee in the morning? Suddenly she wanted some. A large amount. Right now.
After two large mugs of French roast and a visit to her tire swing, Lark made her way up to her studio loft. She was eager to squeeze some fresh oils onto her pallet and load her camel-hair brush with paint, but she knew the sketch on her canvas still lacked something she couldn’t quite grasp. The balance still looked off, and there was no intrigue. No joie de vivre. But maybe
God would give her the inspiration she needed today.
As she stared at her canvas, Lark detected a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked down into her neighbor’s backyard. Everett appeared to be putting up a birdfeeder. He dropped the huge thing on his toe and then hopped around in pain as seed spilled everywhere in his backyard. Lark gasped, wanting to help him. Everett patiently refilled the container, hung it up on the tree limb, and then sprinted back down the steep hill to his house. Why is he running? What is he up to?
Lark looked back at her work. Maybe she just needed some sugar reinforcement. Jellybeans. Yes. Lark glanced into her big glass bowl. Empty!
Okay. Calm. There was plenty of backup licorice in the desk drawer. She pulled out two sticks and let them hang out of her mouth as she chewed. Before long, she had both pieces consumed. Mmm. Creativity flowed more easily on a sugar high.
Did I hear the doorbell? Everett? Lark dropped her pencil in the jar and trotted down her spiral staircase to open the door.
“Skelly. How are you?” Lark tried not to show her disappointment.
He had a funny expression as he touched his lips. “Uhh. You’ve got—well, your lips and mouth area sort of look gray. Are you okay?”
Lark thought for a moment and laughed. “I’ve been on a licorice binge.”
“Oh.” Skelly grinned. “I don’t have time to come in, but I had some news. Jeremy made me a formal offer to be the chef at the church. It’s not a lot of money, but I think I would like it. What do you think?”
“Yes, it’s perfect. What a God-gift.” Lark hugged Skelly, noticing he’d put on some fresh clothes and he had a faint smile on his lips.
