Authors: Sally John
Andie laughed with her.
The woman had a delightful laugh, like high-pitched wind chimes tinkling in the distance. She was short; her feet didn’t touch the floor. She wore tea rose pink—cardigan, blouse, and skirt. Pink lipstick. Pink rouge. Pink purse on her lap. No doubt she would call it a pocket-book.
Andie said, “My grandmother and I would go to the Art Institute in Chicago. We’d sit and look at paintings we liked and talk and talk.”
“My husband and I used to do that right here.” She turned from the picture to glance at Andie. Her eyes were large and watery powder blue behind square, silver-rimmed glasses. “He’s been gone ten years now.”
“I’m sorry. My grandmother has been gone fifteen.”
The woman bowed her head slightly.
Swell. Now Andie missed her babies
and
Babette. And, truth be told, she probably missed a husband who sat with her in wonder at works of art. But…was it even possible to miss something she’d never had?
She said, “How fortunate your husband shared in your enjoyment of art.”
“Well, actually, I shared in his. He was a painter, as a hobbyist. I didn’t know the first thing about art until he taught me.” She smiled. “I was not always the best student. Later in life we spent weekends at art festivals up and down the coast, selling his work.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It was. If I may ask, did your grandmother introduce you to art?”
“Yes. She was French and grew up in Paris. According to her, there was only one true art museum in the world.”
Like a little girl, the woman swung her legs back and forth. “The Louvre.”
“Naturally. I was at least thirteen before I knew not all painters came from France.”
Her laugh tinkled softly. “Oh, what a treasure of a grandmother!”
Andie smiled. “Yes, she was. I fell in love with art because of her.”
“Did you pursue it in a formal way?”
“I studied art history in college for a couple years before I married.”
“Falling in love with a man does tend to change things.”
“Mmm.” Not wanting to think about Paul, Andie gazed at the painting again. It washed over her and seeped into her heart. After several moments, she could no longer contain herself. Words spilled out impulsively. “Why is it so emotional?”
“Tell me what you see.”
“I see a young mother loving her children. Of course, from the title I know they’re her son and a relative. I see a moment of pure joy, of purest truest love, of the power of nurturing that only happens between mother and baby.” Her breath caught. “I think that moment is a two-way street. A mother not only gives, she
receives
. All that joy and love and nurturing even as she’s giving them away.”
“Ah. You see yourself then.”
Andie turned to her in surprise.
The woman smiled. “You’re a mother.”
“It shows?”
“Naturally.”
“I miss those days.”
“As do I.”
They both turned back to the painting.
After a time, the woman said, “Mary must have carried quite a burden of responsibility. I don’t suppose she knew at the age she is depicted here what her Son would do when He grew older, but surely His miraculous conception concerned her.”
“Mm-hmm. To say the least. She must have known His would be no ordinary life. I wonder if she was anxious over the unknown future? It seems since she was visited by an angel that she wouldn’t have a tendency to worry.”
“I’m not too sure. We all have our angel moments, when our deep hearts recognize His presence and care. Nothing quite as radical as what happened to Mary, of course. Do you know what I mean?”
Andie thought of the time not too long ago when she sat in church and heard the clear message that she was to fear not. Somewhere between her eardrum and her heart the priest’s voice had changed to a whisper from God. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, He was taking care of her.
She said, “Yes, I know what you mean.”
The white head bobbed. “Yes. Still I can fret and stew and be afraid of the unknown. Even about my children who are grown up and doing just fine. I think Mary had her bouts with worry. And then she would pray and remember Gabriel’s visit.” With something of a hop, the woman sprang to her feet. “Well, it’s time for tea. So nice chatting with you…?”
“Andie.” She shook the woman’s hand.
“I’m Jelly.”
“Jelly?” Andie couldn’t help but smile.
“Yes. It’s short for Anjelica. With a
j
. My grandchildren call me ‘Grammy Jam.’” She laughed, her face lit up with sheer joy. “Now, dear, I’ve taken up enough of your time, but you’re quite welcome to join me for tea if you like.”
Andie didn’t need to think about it. “Why, thank you. I’d like that very much.”
“There’s a lovely spot right next to the museum. Do you have photos of your children?”
As they walked toward the doorway, Andie gave the painting one last look. If Jesus had a mother who worried over Him, then surely He could sympathize with a fearful woman like Andrea Sinclair.
And love her.
Standing at the kitchen counter, Char hummed to herself and sliced cucumbers and peppers for a salad. Too wound up to sit still, she had volunteered to prepare a late lunch since none of them felt like going out.
From the sound of running water, Molly was still in the shower. Jo helped in the kitchen. Her long braid made a damp circle on the back of her T-shirt.
Char said over her shoulder, “Shall we eat inside? It’s cooler in here, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Jo removed plates from a cupboard and elbowed her arm. “Hey, you sound way too perky for being up half the night and not indulging in a nap like your two sensible friends did.”
“No. I sound way too perky for behaving like a complete idiot and for not fixing things with Cam yet. I do so worry for him. What must he be going through? But at the same time I feel this bubbly sensation, like I’m drinking fuzzy champagne nonstop.”
“Oops. Don’t compare the Molly Effect to champagne. She’d have a conniption.”
Char laughed loudly. “She’s not like that anymore. I mean, she hasn’t told us to get out from under the pile.”
“Not yet, anyway. I might have goaded her into considering it since I told her to do the very same.” Jo opened the refrigerator, leaned inside of it, and called out, “What do you think Cam will say?”
Char refocused on the vegetables and cutting board. “Well, I don’t think he’ll mumble to himself ‘Where’s the remote?’ The thing is, I truly do not know if he gives a hoot about our marriage or not. He may very well welcome a way out.”
“The question is…” A deep male voice resonated from the screen door.
Char whirled around, quite sure she was hearing things. Even when her eyes landed on the shadowy figure of her husband of seventeen years standing on the other side of the beach house front door, she wondered if he were a figment of her imagination.
“Cam?”
For Char the world shifted into slow motion. The knife fell from her hand and landed with a thump on the rug, its cool blade coming to rest against her bare foot. The effervescing bubbles popped one by one, and a sensation of her entire body deflating from within spread from her head to her fingertips, down through her legs to her toes. She felt her face freeze into creases of incomprehension.
“The question is,” he repeated, making no motion to enter, “do you give a hoot?”
She lifted a foot, moved it forward, and set it down. Then she did so with the other.
Walking across the room was like swimming in tar.
Eons later, she reached the door and stared at Cam.
He was still very tall, still very blond, still broad of shoulder. Still the friendly family dentist. Still her husband.
Did she give a hoot?
She was tired of duck soup, of him being uncommunicative, of him forgetting her birthday, of him being a couch potato, of him gaining jowls, of his belt buckle hiding under his belly. She wanted chateaubriand.
But there he stood. The fact that he’d made a spur-of-the-moment flight halfway across the country—after what she’d told him!—certainly approached chateaubriand.
“Oh, sugar! I do give a hoot.”
“So do I.” His lips formed a straight line. His arms resembled two boards at his sides.
“Will you please come inside?”
He opened the door, stepped through it, and guided the door to a soft close behind him. He halted and set a gym bag on the floor. Then his arms stiffened again.
Char burst into tears.
Above the noise of Char’s sobbing, Jo heard the refrigerator kick on and realized she still stood partially bent over in front of its open door, a bottle of salad dressing in hand. She straightened and shut the door.
Like witnessing the aftermath of a car accident, she watched, glued in horror. Her heart ached at the scene of Char’s collapse before a robotlike Cam. The physician side of her twitched to go help.
But this wasn’t a collision on the freeway.
Jo slipped quietly to the back of the kitchen-living room area and down the hallway to Molly’s room. She tapped on the closed door and then let herself in, whispering, “Sorry.”
Molly stopped toweling her hair and looked up. “What?”
Jo eased the door shut behind her and whispered, “Cam’s here.”
“What?” She lowered the towel to her shoulders. “Cam?”
“Yeah. He just showed up!”
“No kidding?” She sat on the bed and smiled. “Wow. Good for him. Good for them.”
“Except she’s falling apart.”
“I imagine so. She really did a number on him with that Todd business. What’s Cam’s demeanor like?”
“Like a rotund Santa-type who may never find jolly again.”
“This has got to be a glimpse into hell for him. Imagine being wakened in the night with such awful news and then traveling all this way. That says something for him. Even if she didn’t think he cared, he must.”
Jo nodded. “Before we saw him standing at the door, we were talking, probably loud enough for him to hear because my head was inside the fridge. She was saying she didn’t know if he gave a hoot, and then we heard him ask if she gave a hoot. She said yes, and he said he does too.”
Molly closed her eyes. “Thank You, Lord.”
“Amen, but Moll! They look so hopeless out there.”
“Then let’s pray.” She held out a hand.
Jo glimpsed that love again, God’s love streaming forth from her friend. No longer a trickle, it expanded into great waves that doused His fire. Like a little girl, she longed to splash in those waves and feel clean and giggle with joy. Molly knew the way.
Jo sat beside her, put out her hand, and saw Molly grab the bottle of salad dressing she still held.
They broke into simultaneous giggles.
And Jo knew nothing was hopeless.
Char held a wad of paper towels to her face. One sheet by itself was not going to absorb the unladylike stuff produced by her sobs. There wasn’t even a ladylike term for the sobs themselves. No two ways about it, they were gut-wrenching.
She still stood facing the front door Cam had walked through a few minutes before. Evidently he had come in far enough to retrieve the towels from the kitchen counter, but he now stood again between her and the door, the thick roll in his hand, not near enough for them to touch. He hadn’t said a word since entering. She couldn’t read his bland expression.
Confession and apology stumbled over each other, at times incoherently. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Nothing happened. I’m sorry. I left the restaurant right after I talked to you. Nothing happened!”
At last the crying slowed and she stopped talking. Cam hadn’t said a word since he’d stepped inside.
He cleared his throat. “But something did happen.”
Like a physical blow, his words nearly knocked her over. She went to the nearest armchair and sank onto it. Hugging herself, she rocked back and forth. She felt icy cold.
“Y-yes.” Her teeth chattered. “I flirted. I egged him on.”
Cam pulled the ottoman to the chair and sat on it. “I don’t understand.” His deep voice fell to new depths of bass and was toneless, as if he were tired beyond measure. “You talk to everyone. You flirt, you tease. That’s just you. You make people feel good. You’re the most outgoing person on the face of the earth. Why is this different? When did it become…egging him on?”
“Last year.” She knew exactly when. “After my birthday dinner. We were all playing charades and you went to bed.”
“That…wasn’t so out of the ordinary.” His hushed voice cracked.
Through blurred vision she watched pain etch itself onto his face. Everything sort of crumpled, his high forehead, puppy brown eyes, regal nose, and wide mouth. She was responsible for it.
But still… “I was tired of not feeling loved, of not being noticed. By you, Cam. By
you
.”
“Do you love him?” He skirted the underlying issue, but she followed his lead.