by Nan Rossiter
Finally, feeling the sudden need to breathe fresh air, he opened the bedroom door, and—purposely avoiding the kitchen—walked toward the front porch. Before he could make it outside, he encountered his brothers Grayson and Chase, along with Liam, talking to their uncle Mike—their mom’s younger brother, who was the spitting image of a young Dutch—in the living room. Gage shook hands with all of them.
“Mom make you go in and talk to him?” Chase teased with a half smile.
Gage eyed his youngest brother, wondering if the same request had been made of him. “I don’t have much to say.”
“Do you know if any of the arrangements have been made?” Mike asked, eyeing Grayson, who still worked the farm with Matt and Eli.
Grayson nodded. “She wants to have the wake Monday night and the service Tuesday morning.”
“That’s pretty quick,” Mike said, raising his eyebrows.
“That’s how we do things around here,” Chase said wryly. “We don’t mess around—it’s all business, all the time.”
Gage listened as the conversation turned to their mom and her capacity to carry on, and they all wondered if she would be just as strong after losing the love of her life. Grayson and Chase thought she would, but Mike—who’d known her all her life—wasn’t so sure. “She’ll put up a good front,” he said, “but her sorrow will be lasting and deep, just as it was with Cale.”
Gage nodded, and then excused himself, saying he needed to check on the whereabouts of his dog. He walked out into the steamy August heat, expecting to find Matt and Eli, but the porch was empty. He continued across the yard, and when he didn’t see Gus, he frowned. He called him and peered into the open doors of the barn, the heady sweet scent of hay enveloping him and taking him back in time. He looked up at the rays of dusty sunlight streaming through the old glass windows and wondered how many hay bales he and his brothers had tossed up into the hot, airless space. Even now, he could feel the prickly twine on his hands. Except for the buzz of flies trapped in the windows, the barn was quiet.
He went back outside and walked past the line of John Deere tractors and implements, noting that their old red New Holland baler—with several parts on the ground—must be broken, which was probably why the grass was so high. He whistled for Gus and called his name, but there was no sign of him, and he began to wonder if his brothers’ hounds had mischievously led his unsuspecting pup off somewhere and left him.
“Gus!” he shouted, starting to worry. He walked over to the pasture fence, and looked across the field, dotted with cattle grazing lazily in the hot summer sun. Some of the wiser ones had congregated under a stand of trees and were lying on the grass, chewing their cud and swishing their tails at the flies. Just then, Gage saw the two hounds nosing around the water trough, and he waited hopefully to see Gus appear, too, but when he didn’t, he walked toward them. “What did you two rascals do with my dog?” he asked, but they just wagged their tails innocently and lay down in the cool shade. “This is crazy,” Gage muttered. “Where the hell is he?” He walked in the opposite direction, past the house again, and Chase came out on the porch with a beer in his hand.
“Haven’t found him?” he asked.
Gage shook his head. “No. I have no idea where he is.”
“I’ll be right out,” his brother said.
Gage walked on, feeling stupid. His family was all here, mourning the loss of his father, and he was out looking for—and worried about—his dog. “C’mon, Gus,” he muttered. “Show yourself . . .” As he rounded the corner of the house, he heard a commotion and looked up to see a flock of panicked loons rising above the trees, their wings whistling as they beat the air, and he suddenly knew where his dog had gone. He looked across the field at the big, muddy cow pond and saw Gus splashing happily in the water. A wave of relief swept over him—even as he shook his head in dismay.
“Found him!” he called to his brother, who’d just come out again.
“Good!” Chase called, waving and going back inside to retrieve his beer.
“Gus!” Gage commanded, and the wayward Lab looked up, splashed out of the pond—the bottom of which he’d stirred into a muddy froth—and raced toward him, loping like a porpoise through the swaying grass, and then, before Gage could stop him, he shook his entire body from head to tail, sending mud and water everywhere!
“Nice,” Gage grumbled, looking down at his clothes, but when he looked up at the beaming face of his carefree dog, all he could do was laugh. “I can’t take you back to the house like that, so it’s the hose or the river . . .” And since Gage wasn’t eager to go back to the house yet, he said, “I guess it’s the river for you.”
Gus trotted happily alongside Gage as he followed the once-worn path to the river that ran along the south pasture. He passed the place where his dad had, so long ago, gotten his tractor stuck, and continued over the rolling landscape to the spot in the river where the rushing water fell into a deep swimming hole. “Okay,” he said, and Gus plunged into the cold, clear water, all the mud on his legs and paws and fur swirling away. Under Gage’s watchful eye, he splashed around for several minutes until Gage was sure he was clean—albeit still wet—and then they turned and walked together in the direction of the gnarled, old oak tree he and his brothers had long ago dubbed the “Tennyson Tree.” The majestic tree stood on a grassy knoll overlooking the entire farm. It had endured years of sun, wind, and rain . . . and even two tornadoes. It was under this tree that Cale was buried.
43
WHEN RUTH LINDSTROM LOOKED UP AND SAW MAEVE STANDING AT THE end of their pew, her whole face brightened into a smile and she poked her husband to make room. It had been several weeks since Maeve had made it to church, but for some odd reason, the stars had aligned that morning—she hadn’t had to work and she hadn’t been lazing in bed beside Gage—so when she’d felt the nudge to attend, along with additional pressure from Harper the night before (who loved going to church because she usually saw her friend Rudy there), she couldn’t say no. Her dad stood up, kissed her cheek, let her into the pew, and sat down beside her. Sitting between her parents, Maeve felt like a little kid again, and when she turned to see Harper in the same position—between her parents—right behind them, she winked. Harper grinned and winked back.
Maeve scanned the bulletin to see what was planned for that morning and was delighted to see the sermon would be delivered by the younger of their church’s two ministers, Jennifer Whipple. Even though Maeve didn’t go to church very often, when she did go, she always loved Jen’s insightful sermons and this one, titled A Gentle Whisper, immediately piqued her curiosity. She’d heard—and ignored—plenty of gentle whispers in her lifetime. Maybe it was time she listened. She gazed out the window, watching a robin hop along the branches of a dogwood tree, looking for berries, and thought about everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
She and Macey had packed up a few of her necessities, but because they didn’t know who would be looking after the chickens—and there was a chance she’d be the one—they’d kept their packing to a minimum, at least for now. Saturday evening, while Ben and Macey went out to dinner, The Pepperoni Pizza and Root Beer Book Club had their long-overdue meeting, and Ben heard from Gage again. This time, he called and he told Ben his dad had passed away, and since the service was planned for Tuesday, he wouldn’t be back to work until at least Wednesday. Ben had told him to take all the time he needed, and then asked if it would be okay for Maeve to stay at the cabin to look after the chickens. Gage had agreed, but when Ben hung up, he admitted to Macey that he’d sounded a little reluctant—all of which, Macey had, under duress, shared with her sister.
Maeve continued to watch the robin, her thoughts drifting now to the evening before with Harper, which had turned out to be just the distraction she needed. Her niece had been reluctant to finish their book, Because of Winn-Dixie, without Gage—who’d listened to the beginning with them, but Maeve said she didn’t know when Gage would be able to liste
n again, and Harper, because she was eager to find out what happened to India Opal Buloni and her beloved—albeit wayward—dog Winn-Dixie, agreed. In the end, they not only finished the book, they also stayed up late to watch the movie—both of which were, in Harper’s words, awesome!
“Aunt Maeve, how do you find so many books about orphaned girls who all end up finding what they need?” she’d asked when Maeve tucked her in next to Keeper, after Macey and Ben had already gone to bed.
Maeve had smiled at the simple—yet profound—question. “Maybe, because it’s also what a thirty-six-year-old girl needs to hear once in a while,” she’d said laughing.
“Are you comin’ to church tomorrow?” Harper had asked hopefully.
“If I wake up in time after this late night,” she’d replied, kissing her niece’s forehead.
“Night, Aunt Maeve,” Harper had said, smiling sleepily. “Thanks for our book club.”
“Night, kiddo,” she’d replied. “You’re welcome.”
Later, when she’d gotten back to the cabin and checked on the quiet chicken coop, she had—even though it was late—texted Gage to express her condolences, and she’d been surprised when she saw the little dots that meant he was writing back, but his reply was simply Thanks.
She’d stared at it. It was better than nothing, she thought, but then, the tears she’d been holding back all day spilled down her cheeks. So much had happened, all at the same time—it was as if the endless years of her own hesitation and lack of conviction had spiraled into a perfect storm. Grandy, her beloved grandmother, had always told her that God’s timing was perfect, but Maeve couldn’t see how his timing was perfect in this unbelievable mess. If Mason had come into her life just one day later, she’d be with Gage in Tennessee right now—she’d be there to support him and finally meet his family. . . . But, then again, if she’d been in Tennessee when Mason came one day later, he wouldn’t have found her . . . and what an incredible loss that would be, so maybe God’s timing was perfect. “Oh, jeez,” she’d muttered. “Who knows what’s right?” She’d shaken her head in dismay and then buried her face in Gage’s pillow, breathing in the scent of him and whispering, “Oh, God, please don’t let me lose him.”
That morning, she’d woken up to the predawn raucous sound of Pilgrim crowing, shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee, and gone out in her slippers to feed them—her singular reason for being there. “Good morning, ladies and gent,” she’d said softly, just like Gage always greeted his tiny flock. She’d reached into the nests and found three warm eggs. “Good girls!” she’d praised, just as he would say, but then she’d deliberately closed the gate behind her—blocking their freedom. There was no way she was going to let anything happen to them while they were in her care!
Sitting in church now, she felt a gentle tug on her hair that also tugged her back to the present. She realized everyone was standing to sing the first hymn, and when she stood, she looked back at Harper, the culprit, and teasingly raised her eyebrows—but Harper feigned innocence and pointed to Ben. Maeve eyed her suspiciously, and then joined in singing “Amazing Grace,” feeling oddly as if it was meant for her.
After the hymn, one of the deacons made his way up to the pulpit to read from the Old Testament a passage from 1 Kings, familiar to Maeve from her Sunday school years. It was about God appearing to a very reluctant Elijah, and what made it memorable from her childhood was that he hadn’t spoken to his wayward servant in any of the dramatic ways one might expect—a powerful wind, an earthquake, or a fire. He had spoken to Elijah in a gentle whisper.
Maeve settled in to listen to the sermon, hoping—somehow—it would speak to her, and from it she might discern what God wanted her to do. Was it crazy to think this? Perhaps, but there had to be a reason she’d felt nudged to come to church that morning.
The young minister stepped up to the pulpit, leafed through the tremendous Bible that rested there, and read the lectionary passage from the New Testament—Psalm 85. When she finished, she looked up and smiled. “Sooo, my friends, do any of you see similarities in our two readings this morning?” She paused and looked around the congregation. “Yep,” she continued, chuckling, “I can absolutely see . . . from the looks on your faces,” she teased, “that you noticed that both the Old Testament and the New Testament readings are examples of God trying to communicate with us! In Psalm 85, he is speaking . . . and in 1 Kings, he is whispering! This is important to remember because, in this very church, we are all about God trying to communicate with us—in fact, we even have a banner that says, ‘God is still speaking!’ Unfortunately, however—for us—even though God is always trying to communicate with us, quite often, we aren’t listening. While he’s trying to tell us there’s more good news to hear, we are more concerned about other things. Even as we sit here, I bet more than a few people have been wondering what they will have for dinner tonight . . . or if the Braves will win their game this afternoon . . . or maybe their minds are on a myriad of other legitimate concerns and worries.”
Maeve smiled as she listened; Jen’s words were spot-on and she could definitely relate to being distracted when she was supposed to be paying attention—just look at how her mind had wandered when the service was beginning. With renewed resolve, she tried to stay focused on the sermon, and Jen continued to share stories and funny anecdotes about what happened to God’s servants—both biblical and in her own family—when they didn’t pay attention. She expounded on the belief that although “the faith of the church is more than two thousand years old, its thinking is not. Each generation is called to make faith their own.” And in the end, her simple but profound lesson cast light on the benefits of finding time to “be still . . . to listen . . . to let God reveal himself . . . and to know he often speaks in unexpected ways. He may speak to you through the voice of a friend or mentor . . . or if you’re paying attention when you’re out in nature—replenishing and nurturing your tired soul—he may speak to you in the swaying dance of the willows . . . or in a gentle whisper in the wind. You just have to be listening,” she said softly, and then smiled. “Amen.”
Maeve smiled, too, and murmured, “Amen.”
After the service ended, they walked down to fellowship hour, and Harper, immediately spying Rudy, towed her mom and aunt over to say hello to Cora. They all exchanged big hugs, and Harper bumped fists with Cora’s two boys, Frank, who was a six-foot-four rising sophomore and already a star basketball player on his high school’s varsity team, and Joe, who was younger than Rudy, and loved video games almost as much as his brother loved basketball. While Macey, Maeve, and Cora chatted, the two girls went over to the kids’ table for snacks and, while sipping lemonade and munching on cookies, hatched a plan and returned to test it on their moms.
“Cora, can Rudy sleep over tonight?” Harper asked, as her friend looked on hopefully.
Cora frowned. “Child, haven’t you learned you’re supposed to check with your mom first? And don’t you have school this week? Because my tribe all goes back on Tuesday . . . thank goodness!” she said, winking at Macey.
With raised eyebrows, Macey waited to hear Harper’s reply.
Harper turned to Macey. “Mom, through my friend Rudy, I heard God speaking . . . and he said Rudy should sleep over tonight.”
Macey and Cora both chuckled, impressed that Harper had been paying attention to the sermon. “Did he now?” Macey asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Harper replied solemnly.
“I guess we better listen then,” Macey said, smiling. “Rudy is more than welcome to stay over, so long as it’s okay with Miss Cora.”
Harper turned back to Cora. “Is it okay?”
Cora smiled. “Far be it from me to not listen when God is speaking,” she replied.
“Woohoo!” Harper said, embracing Rudy.
Just then, Maeve—who’d stepped away for a cup of coffee—rejoined them. “Somebody’s excited,” she said, smiling at Cora and Macey.
“Indeed,” Cora said, laughing. “Oh
, to be young and sleeping over your best friend’s house.”
“Amen to that,” Maeve said, laughing.
44
“I WISH YOU HAD COME TO CHURCH WITH US THIS MORNING,” LIBBY SAID, climbing the porch steps. “Everyone would’ve loved seeing you.”
Gage was sitting in one of the chairs on the front porch with Gus at his feet. “They’ll see me tomorrow,” he replied, taking a sip of coffee while Gus thumped his tail in greeting.
Libby knelt down to stroke Gus’s soft fur, and in the bright sunlight, Gage noticed the smile creases around her eyes, and realized, suddenly, she was getting older. How had he not noticed before?
“Well, my dear boy, will you please do one thing for me?” she asked.
“Depends,” he teased, knowing from experience to never commit to an unknown.
“I would appreciate it if you would go see Dutch.”
Gage frowned. “Aren’t you bringing him to the service?”
“I’m not sure. It depends on how he is that morning. He has good days and bad days, so we’ll have to wait and see.”
Gage nodded. “Does he recognize anyone?”
“Sometimes.”
“Okay,” Gage agreed. “I’ll go see him.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“You can if you’d like,” he said with a gentle smile.
“Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand. “We’ll go after lunch.”
Gage nodded. “Do you need help with lunch?”
Libby shook her head. “I’m just going to set out the meat and cheese platter and some rolls. You kids can all make your own sandwiches . . . and there’re three different kinds of pie, too, including Mrs. Fergusson’s chocolate chess pie—have you ever had it?”
Gage looked up in surprise—he hadn’t heard the words chocolate chess pie in years, and then after he’d mentioned it to Maeve, she had decided to make one . . . but then all hell had broken loose in their lives and he’d never had a chance to try it. “I’ve only had chocolate chess pie one other time—the time Dutch took Cale and me to Nashville to see Garth Brooks.”
