by Nancy Moser
Was her speechlessness a by-product of hearing the truth?
Darla took advantage of her silence. “Few people can do what you do, Claire. It’s a God-given gift. You’ve said as much.” She took a breath. “Remember when you gave me that hand-knit sweater for my birthday?”
“The one you put in your closet, never took out of the box, and never wore?”
“That’s the one.”
“You made me mad, Darla. That’s was an expensive, beautiful sweater.”
“I know. It was rude. I’ll wear it the next cold day. But to the point…how do you think God feels when you take the gift He gave you and put it in the closet?”
“I took it out of the box. I did use it.”
“For a while.”
Claire stood to pace. “But I thought the temptation of the commission was just that—a temptation to return to my old life. A test to see if I still cared about money and fame.”
“I think you already proved you don’t care about those things.”
“But going back and taking it—”
“Would prove you do care about appreciating and using the gift of your talent. Hey, Claire, do it for free, or take the money they pay you and give it to some mission in India. Sign someone else’s name. I don’t care. But come back and do the work. Your work.”
Claire couldn’t believe the surge of excitement that overwhelmed her. Could she go back? Could she return to her art?
Then practical matters raised their hands. “Where would I stay, Darla? I sold—”
“Oh, please. You can stay with me.”
Her mind swam. She hesitated long enough to send up a prayer. Yes, Lord? Is this what You want me to do?
Before she could formulate a cognitive answer, she heard herself telling Darla yes.
Again, what a glorious, glorious word.
“Say a prayer for me, Darla.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?”
Claire found Harold reading in the living room. He looked up from his book. “You’re glowing like a hundred-watt bulb.”
She moved to stand beside his well-stocked bookshelves. “I’m happy.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ve made a decision.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I talked to someone back in Kansas City. She approves.”
“Is that important?”
Claire fingered the top of a book. “I didn’t think it was, but it is. Darla’s not just my colleague; she’s my friend.”
“Then count yourself as having at least two of the latter.”
She nodded her thanks. “I’m leaving Steadfast.”
He put the book down, and she told him about her decision to accept the commission.
“I do think it’s time you leave here.”
Although she wanted his approval, his words seemed rude.
He must have seen the shock in her face. “I don’t mean to be brusque, but when you talk about your art, your entire face lights up. That glow is from God and cannot—and should not—be denied. I haven’t seen that glow in you until now. Not while working in the library, nor even when you’ve been with Sim.”
It was a blow. She moved to a shelf and let her fingers skip over the bindings of the books as her memory skipped over the events of her time in Steadfast. Staying in the attic, meeting Sim, meeting Merry, Bailey, Blanche, Ivan, Harold… And just as her fingers only skimmed the covers of the books without delving into their rich content, so her memories proved she had only skimmed over the people of Steadfast, without delving into the rich content of their lives. If she removed her hand from the books, they lost nothing. If she removed herself from the people of Steadfast, they lost…
Pride invaded the room. “It’s been a waste. I haven’t done anything here.”
“Nonsense.” Harold put his book down and pointed out the window to the backyard. “It’s like all the pruning you’ve been doing for me. Maybe God had to do a little pruning on you. Cut you back so you could grow stronger, with even more blooms and branches. Although it’s a hard process—and even seems negative at the time of the pruning—in the long run, it’s for the best.” He took a deep breath, then faced her. “Consider it a compliment. Like a gardener, God cuts off the dead branches, but He takes the time to prune the good ones, to make them better. Stronger.”
“I like the sound of that. And I hope you’re right.”
“Your life and art weren’t wrong or dead. They were good, but they could be made better. Giving up everything and coming here got you to the point of saying yes to the big question, right?”
“Yes.”
“It got you to quit playing your life to other people and start playing it to an audience of One.”
Claire gasped. “That’s the phrase I thought of this morning!”
Harold smiled. “I wish we could claim it, but the Danish theologian Søren Kierkegaard came up with it first. He says we’re all players to an audience of One.”
Claire shivered. “Oh my. That’s so perfect.”
Harold closed the book. “The point is, would you have said yes if you hadn’t been pruned?”
“Maybe.”
He dropped his chin.
“All right. No. Probably not. At least not for a while.”
“Exactly. God knows what it takes to move us toward the center. His center. And sometimes He has to stir things up to get us to quit dancing around the edges and take a strong step toward Him.”
Claire smiled. “You do have a way with words, Mr. Shinness.”
“Glad to be of service.”
She sat across from him. “Before I go, I do want to say good-bye to Sim and Merry.”
“As you should.”
“But I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“After all my big talk to Sim about my being brought here for her, her being brought here for me—I’ll sound like a fool.”
“But, O, how oddly will it sound that I must ask my child forgiveness!”
“Shinness?”
“The Tempest, act 5, scene 1. The audience of One, Claire. He won’t think you’re foolish. He’ll be proud.”
Ultimately, what else mattered?
Jered couldn’t stand not knowing. He stopped at a gas station, dialed the operator, and got the number for the hospital.
“Bailey Manson’s room?”
“Please hold.”
“Hello?”
At the sound of his father’s voice, Jered didn’t know what to say. His dad sounded okay. A little tired, but considering…
“Who’s there?”
Jered wanted to answer but couldn’t.
“Jered? Is that you?”
He broke the connection.
Sim had trouble concentrating. She couldn’t get Jered out of her head.
Something was wrong. No one had seen him in two days, and she had a terrible feeling. She’d even run over to Jered’s house and banged on the door, but no one answered.
Sim was no angel, but she recognized that Jered was on a path to bad things, shady people, and dangerous places. Although Moog and Darrell were currently content with drinking a few beers and tossing a few apples, she knew that wouldn’t satisfy them forever. They would seek the bigger thrill, the larger crime. Were the three of them together, planning something even now?
What Jered should be planning was his music career.
How terrible to have a dream that no one else believed in. Sim didn’t have a dream yet, but she knew what it was like to have people push. Her dad wanted her to be a businesswoman, but Sim wasn’t interested in deals and numbers. She liked people. She wanted to do something with—
Do something.
Sim stopped with a book halfway to a shelf. She let the thought repeat itself. Do something.
She put a hand to her chest. Help Jered achieve his dream.
Sim put the book away and stood in the stacks a moment. She didn’t know for sure if her nudging was from God or herself.
Sim approached Merry. “Can I make a long-distance phone call?
Merry raised an eyebrow, looking way too hopeful. “Are you calling home?”
Sim shook her head adamantly. “No, no, I still don’t want…” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If she made the call, her aunt and uncle might find out where she was.
“Sim? Who are you wanting to call?”
“It’s a secret. A good secret.” She raised her right hand. “I promise.”
Merry eyed her suspiciously but handed over the receiver. “Have at it.” She walked away, giving Sim a backward glance.
Sim took a deep breath and dialed information for Kansas City.
Jamison Smith rocked in his executive chair and nodded at the phone. “Yes, Sim, I promise not to tell your aunt and uncle you called as long as you follow through with your promise to call them as soon as we hang up.” He snickered to himself. Little did the girl know he had caller ID. He glanced down at the number and reached for a pen to jot it down. Where was that pen?
“If you ask me, your uncle’s an arrogant tripe who acts way bigger than his britches, and I don’t owe him any favors. If we weren’t neighbors, I’d have nothing to do with him. I don’t approve of you running away, but as long as you’re staying with other relatives… I don’t involve myself with domestic squabbles.”
“Thanks, Mr. Smith. I’ll have my friend, Jered, get ahold of you and set up a meeting. I really appreciate it.”
He finally found a pen and positioned it to write down the phone number. “I’m not making any promis—”
The caller ID was blank. Jamison tapped on the display. It remained blank.
“Mr. Smith?”
“I’ll be waiting for his call, kid.” Jamison hung up. He turned his chair so he could see the skyline of Kansas City. Should I call Forbes and tell him the girl called? He looked back to the malfunctioning phone. If only he’d gotten a number.
He shrugged. Without the number, what good would it do to call? Besides, Forbes was an annoying creep. He didn’t deserve more than a neighborly nod, driveway to driveway.
Jamison went back to work. It was good to keep a promise—even to a kid.
Sim felt great, as if she’d just earned some brownie points. The only question was, who was keeping track? Did God care about such small acts of kindness?
She hoped so.
Twenty-two
For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness
and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves,
in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.
COLOSSIANS 1:13-14
A NEW MORNING CAME, and Claire knew it was time. Time for things to draw to a close, time for lives to move on. Hers, and everyone else’s. She’d imposed long enough.
She was pouring her second cup of coffee when Harold came into the kitchen. He did a double take.
“What?”
“You look more… confident this morning. More determined. Flushed with excitement.”
Claire put a hand to her cheeks. They did feel a bit warm. “I must be a good actress, because my insides are tied in knots.”
“Confident, determined nervous knots?”
She took a sip of coffee, enjoying its bitter bite. “I’m going to the library first thing, to say good-bye.”
Harold nodded once. “You want some company?”
Claire laughed at her relief. “I feel like a little girl getting her dad to come with her on the first day of school.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Then I’ll say what every dad has said at every such moment: Everything will be all right.”
“And I’ll take up the kid’s part: Promise?”
“Promise.”
As Merry was doing the breakfast dishes, she suddenly thought of Bailey and realized she hadn’t thought of him for a full twenty-four hours. Was he home or was he still in the hospital? The fact that she didn’t know was disconcerting. She found the hospital’s phone number and called.
“Is Bailey Manson still a patient?”
Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up and grabbed her keys.
A nurse came in for Bailey’s breakfast tray. “You ready to go home?”
“I was ready yesterday.”
“Patience, patient.” She pointed to the half-eaten food on the tray. “I thought you’d be finished.”
He shoved it an inch. “I am.”
She smiled. “Don’t you like our oatmeal?”
“No comment.”
She took the tray. “You can get dressed now. We’re just finishing up the paperwork.” She took a few steps toward the door, then turned. “Who’s picking you up?”
His reaction was the same as if she had asked him to name the capital of Kazakstan. “Uh, I’m not sure.”
“You do have someone coming, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
She lowered her chin, then left him ready, but unable, to go. His car was at home. His son hadn’t visited, called, or answered the phone. Steadfast didn’t have a taxi service. How was he going to get home?
He pulled the phone into his lap, but his mind was a blank. “This is ridiculous.”
Yes, it was. Bailey Manson, local restaurateur, was stuck in the hospital with no way home and no one to call to take him home. No buddy, no relative.
No nothing.
He shook his head. It couldn’t be true. He wasn’t this pitiful.
Was he?
His hand gripped the phone as he realized his life was full of acquaintances: people he talked at but never to, people he swept by but never touched. He’d set himself above and apart, and now, when he needed contact, he found the cupboard bare.
His chest tightened and he grabbed at his hospital gown. Yet he knew the pain didn’t stem from any physical defect, but from a deeper disease. One that was far more deadly.
“You arrogant fool.”
It was odd, hearing his own whispered voice condemn himself. But the title was true, and it had dire consequences. He’d ostracized himself from his son. He’d lost the best chef in the region. And he’d repeatedly ruined any chance of having a relationship with Merry. All for the same reason.
Because he was an arrogant fool.
One, two, three strikes you’re out.
He covered his eyes, shocked by his own tears. He was out, all right. Nearly all the way out. Dead out.
I’m so sorry. I’ve been so wrong.
“Bailey?”
At the sound of Merry’s voice, he looked up.
She came toward him. “What’s wrong?”
He swiped away his tears. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” She pointed toward the hall. “A nurse said you’re going home?”
He started to yank the covers back so he could swing his legs over the side of the bed, then realized he was only wearing a hospital gown. He smoothed the covers. “I was just going to get dressed.”
She angled toward the door. “Oh, I’ll leave then.”
“No!”
Her eyebrows raised.
“I mean…” He smoothed the top of the sheet a second time. “Oh, great Gatsby”
She returned to the side of the bed. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt this way before.”
“What way?”
He could only risk a glance. “Vulnerable.”
“Well, I’ll be.”
He looked up. She’d crossed her arms.
“Stop gloating.”
She laughed. “I will not. I’ve earned this gloat and intend to make good use of it.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
She put a hand on his forearm. “Oh, Bailey, I don’t want to be too hard on you—you just having had surgery and all—”
“Oh, why not? What’s another slice or prick or stab?”
She gave him one of her loo
ks. “You do have a tendency to come off as the Prince of Steadfast.”
“I was going for King.”
“But we don’t need a king or a prince—nor want one.”
“What do you want?”
“A friend.”
His throat tightened, making him unable to speak.
She squeezed his arm. “I’ll leave you now so you can get home.”
He grabbed her hand. “I don’t have a way home.”
He accepted her shocked look.
“Could you be my friend and take me?”
“I’d be happy to, Bailey. As a friend.”
In the car on the way to Bailey’s, the subject Merry dreaded came up.
“I can’t believe I haven’t even heard from Jered.”
How much should she say? Could she say? “Actually, no one’s seen him, Bailey. Ken and the other officers have even been looking and—”
“The police?”
“It’s nothing serious.”
Bailey ran a hand along the dash. “He shouldn’t have run. He shouldn’t feel responsible.”
“But he was responsible. I saw him do it.”
Bailey’s head jerked. “You saw us arguing?”
“When did you argue?”
“The night I had the attack. We were arguing when I had the attack.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “We aren’t talking about the same thing, are we?”
She shook her head.
“What did you see him do?”
It was easier to tell the whole rather than pick and choose particular points. She told him about Jered destroying the shrine.
“I didn’t realize you knew each other more than ‘hi’ and ‘bye.’”
“We don’t, other than the few times I helped him look up information about the music business at the library.”
“Ah. The kind, attentive adult, encouraging his dream.”
She hated the edge in his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with having dreams, Bailey. We’d all shrivel up and die if we didn’t. Jered has his music, you have the restaurant, and I—”
“You?”
Compared to starting a restaurant or becoming a singer, Merry’s dream seemed inconsequential, like comparing a diamond to cut glass.
“Tell me.”
How did we get on this subject? She drove faster. “My dream is to go through a day and not think about surviving.”
