by Nancy Moser
“No.” She hadn’t meant to say it. She hadn’t wanted to say it. But she’d said it.
“What do you mean, no?”
Yeah, Claire. What do you mean, no? She examined her motives. “I…I can’t do it. I gave all that up.”
“Which proved you could. You’ve had a nice sabbatical, but now it’s time to go on with your life.”
“But I was sent here.”
“By the way, where is here?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Forgive me for saying this—” impatience overflowed Dark’s words—“but you’re acting foolish. You wanted to follow Jesus, and that’s commendable. But now He’s placed this commission—for a church—right in your lap. He wants you to take it.”
Darla’s brazenness made her sit up straighter. “He does, now does He?”
“Well, yeah. He certainly wouldn’t want you to give this up.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No.”
Claire rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t call to be confused.”
“Sorry. I can’t help that. Call the man. What can it hurt?”
“Maybe…”
“You got a pencil?”
She found one and took down the number of Dwight Avery.
“I’d better go, Claire, but I’m glad you call—hey, why did you call?”
Her reason had evaporated and she couldn’t recapture it. “I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“Anytime. I mean it. Call Avery, okay?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Claire hung up, completely drained. Why was God doing this to her? Offering her a big church project—which she’d longed for—for big money, when she wasn’t supposed to be doing any commission for anybody or any money. Why couldn’t anything be simple?
Tears threatened. She needed sleep but feared she’d get little. And yet when she stood, her legs were rubber. Did she even have the energy to make it up the stairs?
No need. There was a place to sleep right here. The chair Sim had straddled was out of place, but Claire turned it around and set the other two chairs in line. Three chairs in a row.
A makeshift bed.
She lay down, using her arm as a pillow. Then she cried herself into a fitful sleep.
Sim pulled the sheet over her shoulder. Merry’s couch was more comfortable than the chairs in the library.
But not that much more comfortable.
On the way to the house she and Merry had really hit it off. And though they’d gone right to bed, she felt a bond with the young woman that she hadn’t felt with Claire. Merry was a fellow survivor. She knew grief. She knew pain. She knew anger, and bitterness, and frustration, and hatred.
Merry let Sim be Sim. She didn’t try to change her or analyze her. And more than anything, she didn’t try to help her. Sure, she’d given her a place to sleep, but there was no intense need to be Sim’s savior. Claire expected too much, wanted to give too much. She was too desperate in her need to help.
It was creepy.
Sim turned over, and with the movement her thoughts of Claire changed. She pictured her all alone in the library. Sim hadn’t planned to leave her alone. It just happened. Merry offered a place to sleep, and Sim would have been a dope to refuse.
Wouldn’t she?
She buried her face in the pillow. She’d still see Claire at the library during the day. Neither of them was really alone. They both had Merry as a friend. And there were Blanche, and Ivan, and Harold.
Harold.
Sim squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the memory of Harold cowering, his eyes searching hers, asking her, Why?
She hadn’t wanted to do it. She tried to miss him. It was the boys’ fault, not hers.
You. You hurt him. And you hurt Claire.
Suddenly, the need to be near Claire consumed her. Although she didn’t like Claire’s God-talk, somehow in the woman’s presence, Sim felt safer, as if there were answers floating all around her…if only she could reach out and grab the right one. There were no answers alone in this room.
Sim threw the covers back and sat up. She got her pack and shoes and tiptoed downstairs. In Merry’s kitchen she wrote a note, propping it against the coffeemaker.
Sim slipped in the back door of the library and carefully clicked it shut. There was no light in the attic. She wasn’t sure whether she should wake Claire or just go to bed and talk to her in the morning.
It was after midnight. She decided on the latter.
Sim went into the library, heading to her bed of chairs. But when she turned the corner, she saw they were already set in a row. And occupied.
Claire must have sensed her presence because she looked up. Sim.”
“Hi.”
“You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
Claire got up, stumbling. “I was just trying out the chairs.”
“What do you think?”
“They’re not bad.”
“No, they’re not.” Sim dropped her pack on the floor. “And if you don’t mind, I’m really tired.”
Claire backed away. “Sure. Certainly. I’ll…I’ll see you in the morning?”
“I’ll be here.”
Claire’s smile made everything feel right. Or at least better.
Eleven
Let love and faithfulness never leave you;
bind them around your neck,
write them on the tablet of your heart.
Then you will win favor and a good name
in the sight of God and man.
PROVERBS 3:3-4
CLAIRE WOKE UP AND REMEMBERED.
Sim was back, and with her presence, Claire’s confusion eased.
A little.
She rolled onto her back. She’d come so close to leaving Steadfast and going back to her old life. What would have happened if Sim had returned only to find Claire gone for good? Sim was independent and tough—and she would have gotten tougher as she endured yet another rejection.
Thank You, Lord, for helping me stay. Forgive me for my weakness and my doubts. I still don’t understand how all this is supposed to work, but I guess I have to trust You anyway. You’re the boss.
Her prayer was immediately followed by a second memory. She’d been offered a project that was beyond the scope of anything she’d ever done. With a religious theme. For big money. If she accepted the project, was she betraying her initial sacrifice?
Thanks a lot, God. Is this some kind of test?
She got dressed and went downstairs to wake Sim. At least Merry was privy to their presence now, so that pressure was off—though they would have to keep up the pretense for everyone else.
She found Sim lying on her back, her arms folded across her chest. Although Claire realized she’d made a lot of mistakes in her handling of the girl—mainly coming on too strong—she must have done something right. Sim was back. That was the important thing.
She nudged her arm. “It’s morning.”
Sim opened one eye, then closed it. “So it is.” She looked at her watch. “It’s seven-thirty It’s late.”
“Since Merry knows we’re here there’s no need to rush out.”
“True.”
“You want the shower first?”
“You go ahead.”
Claire headed for the back room. “I feel like celebrating. Let’s eat breakfast at the Plentiful. My treat.”
And that was that.
Merry was ready to rap on Sim’s door, but she found it ajar. The sheets lay rumpled on the couch. Sim’s backpack was gone.
Merry headed downstairs. Had Sim gone to the library early to keep up the pretense? There was no need. From now on, she could ride to work with Merry every day.
Suddenly, she stopped on the landing, her imagination demanding her full attention. Something didn’t feel right. Sim was a runaway. Was she gone? Really gone?
Merry realized she was holding her breath. She rushed downstairs. She flipped on the kitchen light.
A piece of paper leaned against the coffeemaker. She snatched it up. Thanks for the couch, but I need to go back to the library.
Merry sighed. Sim was safe.
She should be relieved.
But she wasn’t.
Obviously the bond between Sim and Claire was stronger than they let on.
Why did that make her jealous?
Sim was nervous about going to breakfast with Claire. So far her homecoming had been low-key, and Sim liked it that way. She didn’t want a lecture or a renewed strategy session about how they should work harder to discover exactly why God had sent them both to this place. Couldn’t Claire just let it happen? Did she have to analyze everything to death? Sim was back. Couldn’t that be enough?
Apparently so. Claire was a different woman at breakfast. Gone was all lofty talk of finding their purpose. In its place was someone who talked about normal things like movies, and school, and her favorite foods.
Claire was an okay lady. And the biscuits and gravy were awesome.
It was going to be a good day.
Back in the library, Sim and Claire watched Merry’s car drive up. Sim’s stomach knotted.
“You as nervous as I am?”
Sim looked at Claire. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“It will only be awkward for a moment.”
“Promise?”
Claire didn’t answer.
As they watched Merry climb the front steps, Sim had a change of plans. “I need to see her alone first. Go get the water for coffee or something, okay?”
Claire picked up the pot. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She headed to the rest room, leaving Sim alone.
Merry had her keys out but didn’t have to use them. She came inside. “This is strange, coming to work and having the door unlocked.”
“Claire’s making coffee. But we left the lights off.”
Merry switched them on. They could see each other clearly. “You left.”
“I came back here.”
“Why?”
It was hard to explain. “I couldn’t risk not being here.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sim glanced at the restroom. “I couldn’t risk not being here if Claire’s right about God…about us being brought here for a reason.”
Merry nodded and took a long breath. “The couch is there for you, anytime you need it. And I’ll be here too.”
“Thanks, Merry.”
Sim walked toward the stacks where she had work to do. Merry called after her. “But let me know what you find out from God, okay? I’m doing a little searching for purpose myself.”
“You’ll be the third to know.”
There. That wasn’t so bad.
It took Sim half the morning to get up enough courage to approach Harold’s chair—and even then she had to make two passes at it because each time she came close, Harold showed her his back.
The third time, she didn’t back off. She stood next to the chair. Harold looked up and pulled his book closer.
“Mr. Shinness, I have to talk to you.”
His eyes flared. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child! Away, away!”
Sim looked around, hoping no one was listening. “I deserve that. That’s why I’m here. Throwing your groceries, pelting you with apples…it was wrong. And I want to apologize for all of us.”
“A pair of stocks, you rogue!”
Sim extended both arms. “Make haste, and put me in yon stocks.”
Harold hesitated, then smiled and shook his head.
Sim smiled with relief. “Sorry. I’m not up on Shakespearese. Do you forgive me?”
Harold looked at her a moment, then unfolded his body and nodded. “Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.”
“You got a deal.”
Ivan lowered his arm from placing a tile and glared at Sim. “Shush, girl.”
Huh?
Ivan pointed to Sim’s mouth. “That whistling. This is a library, don’t you know.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Ivan went back to the tiles. “What’re you so happy about anyway?
Sim shrugged. “Stuff.”
“Hmm.” Ivan’s face screwed up, like he hadn’t thought about happy for a long time.
Sim studied him. “Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy is for kids and clowns, not for old cauliflowers like me.” He peered at her nose ring. “That thing has got to hurt.”
Sim ignored his comment. She glanced at Blanche, who was busy at a computer across the room. “Why does she always call you a vegetable name?”
“Because she loves me.”
“She does?”
Ivan straightened a tile with his index finger. “She just doesn’t know it.”
“Do you love her?”
He glanced at her. “Why should I?”
“Because you’re her old sugar snap pea.”
Ivan smiled. “Good one, girl. You’re a regular greengrocer.”
“You’re not married then?”
“Was. For fifty-two years.”
“Wow.”
“You bet your sweet whistling, wow.” Ivan sighed. “Hardest and best thing I ever did.”
“Is Blanche married?”
He shook his head. “Bob died the year before Martha did. We used to play cards every Friday night. Two couples.”
“One couple now.”
Ivan squirmed on the stool. “Blanche doesn’t think of us as a couple.”
“You said she loves you.”
He pointed toward the computers. “That Net-thing is taking her away from me.”
Sim thought for a moment. “Fight for her.”
“Ain’t that simple.”
“Does she know how you feel?”
“She should. I’m here every day with her. What more does she want?”
Sim looked from one to the other. “But you’re over here and she’s over there.”
“Close enough.”
“Maybe she wants romance? Candles and flowers. Stuff like that.”
He shook his head. “Blanche is too old for that schmoozy stuff.”
This was ridiculous. “I may not know much about love, but I do know you can’t court a lady with you sitting on one side of the room and her on the other.”
Ivan picked up a bowl of tiles and shook them. “That’s her choice, not mine. If she wanted to, she’d take time to know how I feel.” He set the bowl down with a clatter. “Now leave me alone, girl. And stop that whistling.”
Sim headed back to work, but suddenly detoured down a far book aisle. She had an idea…
Late afternoon, Bailey Manson came into the library. As usual, his clothes were impeccable. Merry wondered how long it took him to get dressed every morning. She should challenge him to a race. She’d probably win—makeup and all.
Bailey strolled to the counter. Merry kept her eyes elsewhere.
“You can’t ignore me forever.”
She still didn’t look up. “I can try.”
“One of these days, you’ll have to pay attention to me.”
“No, I won’t.”
He flicked the tip of her nose so she looked up. “And today’s as good a day as any. How about a date, Merry? Dinner?”
“With you?”
“Well, yes, with me. Who did you think I was asking for, Ivan?”
“Two artichokes in search of a salad.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She was weary of fending him off. “We’ve been through this.”
“I know, I know. You’re a widow. You don’t think you’re ready.”
“That’s only one reason.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She tapped a stack of note cards into place. “Don’t force me to tell you the real reason I keep telling you no.”
“You think I can’t handle it?”
He planted his feet. “Go on. Give it your best shot.” Bailey’s face revealed he wasn’t as sure of himself as he put on.
Merry lowered her voice. Her first thought was to hit him hard by mentioning Jered and what she considered Bailey’s lack of parenting skills. But that was something better discussed in private.
“I’m waiting.”
Merry had to think of something else. It didn’t take long. “I’ve heard about your exploits, and I do not wish to be another chink in your cog.”
“Chink in my…? What are you talking about?”
“I’m not an easy woman.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She tried again. “I’m a widow.”
He leaned over the counter to whisper. “If you were married, I wouldn’t be asking you out.”
“That’s reassuring. But I don’t think… I may be single, but I’m not loose.”
He put a hand to his chest. “Am I asking you to be loose?”
“I’ve heard that’s the kind of woman you prefer.”
He stepped back, then toward her again to whisper, “Who’s saying this drivel?”
People. And from what Merry had seen, Bailey did little to discourage it. His women, his clothes, the fact that he hated living in Steadfast and used his restaurant as a way to lift himself higher than anyone else—it all played into the image. “I can’t remember at the moment.”
“Then don’t give me a hard time. I’m not a Casanova, sweeping women off their feet.”
No, but you are tiramisu, and I don’t even know how to spell it.
“So how ‘bout it, Merry? Want to go out with me?”
“Not now, Bailey.” She looked to the desk. Maybe it was best to quell all his hope. “And probably not ever.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Maybe you should remember that there aren’t that many eligible bachelors in Steadfast.”
He showed her his back.
Claire looked up and found Bailey standing over her table.
“Hey, Bailey.”
“Morning, Claire.” He handed her an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Your paycheck. One night’s wages.”
She stuck it between the pages of a book on the Sistine Chapel.
“Aren’t you going to look at it? Don’t you want to know how much it is?”
