In Broken Places (3 page)

Trey ushered his customer out of the store and returned to the table where I sat in front of an empty plate. “Still living in the pantry?” I asked.

He smiled. “It’s not a pantry, Shell.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure there are apartments for rent in town.”

“And I will look into those,” he said patiently, “just as soon as I pay off the stove and the bathroom remodel.”

“How many of your customers actually use that bathroom, Trey?”

“Not many. But those who do absolutely love the Italian tile and French art.”

My brother the aesthete. He’d slept on a cot in a tiny room at the back of the bakery for the past few months to save enough money to transform a cesspool of a bathroom into an international artistic delight. Buying an imported industrial stove, I could understand. It was the kind of investment an astute businessman would make. But a bathroom? I shook my head in despair, neither for the first nor for the last time, I was sure.

“Want more?” he asked, eyeing my empty plate.

I shook my head. “I’m holding out for a decadent dessert later.”

He observed me closely and I felt again that warm flow of recognition. We sparred a lot. We loved more. And when Trey looked
into me like he was doing right now, I knew that my darkest demons were not only safe, but understood.

“Made a decision yet?” He’d been the first to know about Shayla.

“Yup. I think I’ll keep voting Republican unless Roseanne Barr runs again.”

“Good,” Trey said. “I was worried something stupid like becoming a mom might interfere with your political wranglings.”

I sighed. “Dana and I went to see her a week ago.”

He put his fork down and clasped his hands in front of him. “And it’s taken you this long to tell me about it?”

“I’ve been . . . Trey, if you could see inside my brain right now, you’d be calling the guys in the white jackets.”

“What’s she like?”

For the hundredth time, my mind went through an inventory of Shayla’s most endearing features. “She’s beautiful. Luminous. Artistic. Precocious. Sweet . . .”

“So not a chip off the old block is what you’re saying.”

“She seems to be everything he wasn’t.”

“And . . . ?”

“And . . . Trey, I’m terrified.”

“Good. Then you’re getting the big picture.”

“I like my life,” I said on a sigh.

Trey raised a dubious eyebrow.

“I do!” I repeated with greater conviction. “I like that there’s only me in it. I’m the only one making decisions and living with their consequences. And I’m the only one decorating my house and paying my bills and picking out DVDs. Just me. It’s not selfish; it’s effective management.”

“Yup.”

“It’s a good life, Trey. I do what I want when I want, I eat what I like, I go where I please. . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

“My life is just the way I want it.”

“Sure.”

“Stop agreeing with me!”

“All right. I disagree.”

A brimming silence passed between us. “What part do you disagree with?”

“Oh, you know. The great-life, just-the-way-I-want-it part.”

“You don’t think my life is good?”

“I don’t think your life is as good as you think it is. There’s a difference.”

I let his words sink in, tasting them like one of his exotic concoctions before voicing my reaction. “So you think I should go ahead with it.”

“I think you shouldn’t let your ‘perfect life’ stand in the way of something meaningful.”

“But Trey—”

“I know, Shell.”

“She’s his. His, Trey.”

“And for reasons I won’t even try to understand, he wanted her to be yours.”

“I’d rather inherit his watch. Seriously. I really liked his watch. You know, the gold one with the filigree and the chain and—”

“Yeah, Shelby. I know the watch.”

“They need my answer soon. So they can look for other options if I don’t take her.”

“How soon?”

“A week or two. I might be able to buy more time if I bribe Dana with some of your
esclep di pol
. . .”

He smiled. “I hate it when you try to speak French.”

“I love that you hate it.”

“Do it, Shell. What do you have to lose?”

His question dumbfounded me. “Uh . . . let me see now.” I made an I’m-calculating face. “Yup. Just as I thought. Everything. I’ve got
everything
to lose.”

“Okay, so think about how much you have to gain.”

“Like what? How can I possibly know if there’s anything to gain from any of this?”

“You can’t. Not until you dive in.”

“This is me, Trey. I’m not good at diving. And certainly not at diving blind.”

“Look on the bright side. You’ve lost five pounds in two weeks. Shayla might be the best diet plan you’ve ever attempted.”

“But what if she becomes just the latest one I’ve failed?”

“And this,” Gus said, “is Lady Shayla’s bedroom.” He rolled her suitcase across the room and turned to us. “It’s little, but it’s cozy. And that bed right there—” he pointed toward the small bed below the room’s sole window—“is the most comfy bed in the whole town of Kandern.”

Bev spoke softly by my side as Shayla and Gus tried out the bedsprings. “I made up both beds for you, so you’re all set for now. There’s no hurry to get the sheets back to me. I’ve stocked your kitchen cupboards with the essentials, and there’s a water kettle and fresh bread on the counter. That should get you through ’til morning.”

So this was home. The past twenty-eight hours of travel and discovery had been a prelude to this. I glanced around the small apartment with the stark white walls and large windows, taking in the hand-me-down furniture and lacy white curtains, and the
exhaustion of too much stress descended on me like a lead-filled blanket. I wanted to sleep—desperately so. But I also needed to absorb some of the realness of this moment.

The ride to Kandern from the Frankfurt airport had been memorable, punctuated with multiple near-death experiences caused by Gus’s enthusiastic driving. It had taken all the self-control I could muster to keep from throwing my body over Shayla’s as a sort of human shield against the collision I knew was bound to happen sooner or later. Driving on a German autobahn was much like playing bumper-car tag at ninety-five miles per hour, but Gus, Bev, and Shayla had seemed oblivious to the danger. While the two adults had carried on a hearty conversation, Shayla had slept, her body warm and supple against my arm.

“That’s Europa-Park,” Gus had said after a couple hours of driving. “You’ll have to take Shayla there.”

“What is it?”

“An amusement park. Costs an arm and a leg to get in, but it’s great fun. The school goes every year. We put our problem kids on the worst roller coasters and see if we can scare them straight.”

“Gus . . .” Bev shook her head—again—and turned to whisper, “He exaggerates.”

“I’m sittin’ right here. I can hear you, darlin’.”

“Only when you want to, love.”

As we got nearer to Kandern, the Johnsons described in detail every point of interest we passed, but my mind was more on fear of death than on churches, ruins, and distant mountain peaks. Every time Gus turned to point at something, I pushed an imaginary brake pedal and prayed we wouldn’t become the losers in a Porsche-versus-old-beater crash. It was a relief when we finally took the Müllheim exit and merged onto smaller roads that hugged the vineyards.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Bev said. “I’ve got a pot roast cooking and plenty of caffeine to perk you up! Oh, and there are two families in town who have some furniture to donate, if you want it, so we might go out this afternoon and see if it’s your cup of tea or not. How does that sound?”

I smiled at her kindness and reached over to stroke Shayla’s hair, hoping she’d wake slowly from her deep, jet-lagged slumber. “You’ve gone to so much trouble,” I told Bev, moved by the Johnsons’ solicitousness. “If you’d rather just drop us off at our place and let us muddle through on our own, that’s fine too.”

“Nonsense,” Gus said. “You’re our special guests and we take that kind of thing seriously in the South . . . even if this is southern Germany. Besides, if we leave you alone, you’re likely to sleep the day away, and that’s just begging for jet lag to beat you. Nope, we’re going to get you through your first day in style, Shelby Davis. It’s the least we can do for important people like you!”

I observed the countryside as we drove the last miles to the beginning of my new life. The towns were small, some no larger than villages, and it seemed there wasn’t a straight road to be found in them. We curled down main streets that wove along streams and tree lines, crowded at times by too-close homes in various shapes and sizes that made the roads and sidewalks appear impossibly narrow.

I loved the gentle slope of hills, the rhythmic lines of vineyards, and the surprising contrast of ancient and modern. Some barns looked centuries old and on the verge of collapse, but they were often flanked by homes so avant-garde in design and color that the two seemed to belong on separate planets. There were small
Gasthaus
restaurants everywhere, and I longed to stop at one and try my first German meal in a courtyard under a canopy of rustling vines. But Bev and Gus had different plans for us, and we rushed
toward Kandern in a blur of speeding traffic and overlapping narratives to arrive at their home just in time for lunch.

Shayla woke with difficulty from her too-brief nap, clinging to my neck as I pulled her from the backseat and whining weakly every time I tried to put her down. Bev ushered me into their home and directly to an armchair, where I collapsed with Shayla, grateful for the high armrests that helped me support her weight. Though Shay’s eyes were half-open, her mind was clearly still on pause, so I was content to sit there with her in my arms, listening to the Johnsons as they scurried around the kitchen in preparation for our meal. A few minutes later, while a whistling Gus took an electric knife to the pot roast, Bev joined me in the other room.

“Remind me how long you’ve had her?” Her eyes were compassionate as she watched me trying to balance Shayla and the before-lunch drink she had brought me.

“Six months,” I said to Bev, amazed at how permanent such a recent situation already felt.

She smiled and absentmindedly used her dishcloth to polish the silverware she was laying on the table. “What an amazing story you two share,” she said, her Southern accent melodious and sweet. “And what a miraculous thing that you’ve chosen this place to start your lives together.”

“Only because of you, Bev.”

“Are you kidding? When Gus asked me how I’d feel about watching Shayla while you’re teaching, it’s like God said, ‘There you go, Bev. There you go. You wanted to feel useful, and here’s your chance.’ I tell you, Shelby, the hardest part of this missionary thing is being away from my kids and my grandbaby. Shayla here, bless her little toes, is going to make it all a lot more bearable for me.”

“And for me. This single-mom routine is more complicated than I realized.”

“You’ll figure it out. There are tricks we moms develop that make life a lot easier.”

“Like always carrying a Disney Band-Aid in my purse?”

“And never mentioning what’s for dessert before she’s finished eating the rest of her meal. That’s another winner.” Bev shook her head in amazement. “A new mom—in a new country. There’s only so much ‘new’ a person can handle before it becomes a tad overwhelming.”

“I passed that point about six months ago.” I laughed. “And now I’m adding a new job and a new language to the mix. You think I might be overdoing it a bit?”

Bev chuckled. “And you haven’t seen the last of it. The students at this school are—how shall I put it?—unique.”

“I figured they would be, with missionary parents and international backgrounds.”

“Actually, in most ways, they’re not that different from American teens. They get in the same kind of trouble, believe me. But they’ve dealt with a lot heavier stuff than, say, a fifteen-year-old kid from North Dakota. So they develop some pretty interesting coping mechanisms. That’s where the unique part comes in. Old souls and quirky minds make for a great combo. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that uniqueness reached entirely new heights when they’re involved in a creative project.”

“Like acting in a play?”

“Exactly. So you, my dear, are in for a treat.”

“I’ve never directed a play before, Bev.”

“Gus hadn’t ever been a custodian before either, but he caught on pretty fast. Though I’m sure directing plays is a whole ’nother ball of wax.”

My worry was exacerbated by the fog of jet lag. “I don’t know, Bev. I’ve taught English for twelve years, so that part won’t be
anything new, but . . . theater? I tried to tell them that I wasn’t qualified when they gave me my assignment, but no one seemed overly concerned about it.”

“Shelby, honey, a person learns two lessons mighty fast at Black Forest Academy. One, there’s no business like God’s business. And two, what you used to do, think, and be is entirely irrelevant to your presence in this place.” She snapped her dishcloth at me and flashed a conspiratorial smile. “But don’t tell anyone I warned you.”