Authors: Gloria Repp
Timothy was pleased with the signs, and even more so with the bread and the tarts. After she helped him to hang the signs, they went into his office. He made tea and opened a jar of blueberry jam for the Challah while she looked over his sewing project, spread out on the table. They sampled the Challah, discussed its texture, and he made notes as they ate.
“You’d never know,” she said, “but I came to work.”
“You put me to shame,” he said. “Domestically speaking, I’m behind. Ripping out zippers takes a lot of time.” The store bell jingled. “And so do customers.”
He left, and she set up her laptop. First she’d do some research and then print out that paper.
She was reading about the Jewish traditions for Challah when the doctor strolled in with a handful of papers.
He put them on the table, saying, “There you are!”
“Here I am.” She gave him an appraising glance. Jeans and a blue denim shirt. Eyes bright, but face worn. Maybe he’d been up all night with that emergency.
“I phoned the Manor and no one answered,” he said. “Do you have a cell phone?”
She had to smile at his indirect approach. “Is this another embedded request?”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
After they’d exchanged numbers, he said, “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last night.”
“All that good food going to waste?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.
He gave her a wary look. “I wanted to be there.”
Timothy spoke from behind them. “She brought me leftovers. If you’re especially helpful, I might share.”
“I’ll change the oil in your truck—how’s that sound?”
“This is turkey with stuffing, and cranberry tarts. Surely you could fix the windshield wipers too? They make a grinding noise.”
“It’s a deal.”
Timothy sat down behind the sewing machine, and the doctor went to get himself some tea. “What’s this?” He’d found the rest of the Challah braid.
Timothy said, “Ho-hum. Another item for me to proctor. Only delicious. We’ve already dissected it, so you may help yourself. There’s jam too.”
“Doesn’t need jam,” the doctor said through a mouthful, bringing a piece back to the table. As he pulled up a chair, his cell phone rang. He glanced at it. “I’m on call today.”
He spoke into the phone, asking whether someone was still breathing and had they called an ambulance. Then he picked up his papers. “See you later,” he said, and helped himself to another piece of Challah on the way out.
It had been thoughtful of him to apologize to her. Was he always so hungry?
Timothy began pinning pieces together, pink fleece this time. “So how did your dinner party go last night?”
She told him about Kent’s criticism of the Castells and his slighting remarks about the local people, expecting Timothy to say how ignorant Kent was, or how shortsighted.
Timothy sewed a seam and then gave her a thoughtful look. “I see a new peace in your eyes, little lady, and I think you’ve walked through the doorway we talked about. Am I correct?”
She nodded, and his quiet smile came as a gift. “Not to say it will be easy,” he said, “but you’ll find that you’re not as crippled by your grief. You’ll be more free to do what God’s planned for you.”
God’s plan? Something to think about, later. What about Kent?
Timothy picked up a long zipper, stared at it, and dropped it onto the table. “My nemesis. I’ve wasted more time on these things.”
He glanced over to the clock on his desk. “There’s a tour bus coming by in few minutes, so I won’t get any more done today.”
An idea had taken shape as he spoke. “How about we have a sew-in?” she said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday—maybe late afternoon and evening?”
His face brightened. “Like a barn-raising?”
“Almost. If we work together on those buntings, it’ll go a lot faster.”
“Especially if you do the zippers.”
“I’ll bring supper in a slow cooker.”
He started to protest, but she said, “Something easy,” and they settled on a time and a menu: chili and cornbread. He’d provide the drinks and paper plates.
On her way back to the Manor, she planned the food in more detail. Bring Tabasco in case he liked his chili hot. Not too many onions, and hold the green peppers this time. Cornbread would be quick and easy.
Maybe she’d try out her next project, a Sally Lunn cake. It was a rich, yeasted cake, studded with currants and dusted with powdered sugar. Timothy would like that.
She scribbled out a list as she drove. Why hadn’t he given her an opinion about Kent? Perhaps, respecting her strong-and-independent wishes, he wasn’t going to tell her what to think.
Sunday morning at church, the first thing she noticed was the midwife’s absence. Charlotte’s client must be having her baby this morning, or maybe it had happened last night. Madeleine smiled to herself. After working at the birth center in Roanoke, she would never forget the excitement of being part of a birth.
The same small group had gathered, and Timothy spoke again from Isaiah chapter 40. He started reading at verse 12:
Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand?
and ended at verse 18:
To whom, then, will you compare God?
“What’s your God like?” Timothy asked. “Is He like the idols these people made, something that will rot in a few years?”
He put his Bible down on the podium. “I asked you the same thing last week. Have you thought about it?”
He went on to speak of God’s everlasting love, and sadness tugged at Madeleine. This sounded like Dad. He’d say, “My forever-God has forever-love.”
Jude was nodding agreement.
Timothy smiled at them all. “This is my God,” he said. “The mighty Ruler of the universe who loves me, even me. And nothing will change His love.”
Rock-solid love.
The Lord my Rock
took on a new meaning.
That afternoon, when she carried in the slow cooker, Timothy was already sewing. He pulled himself to his feet. “Do you need help with that?”
“Find me a place to plug it in, that’s all.”
She went back to her car for the cornbread and cake. Would the doctor wander in? Yesterday, he’d looked as if he ought to take a good long nap and then go fishing, or whatever he did to relax.
“Smells good,” Timothy said. “I need to put our drinks in the fridge. I brought along some birch beer for you to try—it’s made from birch roots. I’ll be right back.”
While he was gone, the bulletin board over his desk caught her eye, and she paused to read the green banner that stretched across the top.
Remember his marvelous works that he hath done; his wonders, and the judgments of his mouth. ~ Psalm 105:5
A good verse. Like the song, “Marvelous Works, Marvelous God.” She began humming it as she studied his thumbtacked collection of postcards and photographs. Timothy must have a lot of friends.
One photo caught her eye: Nathan Parnell beside a sturdy-looking blonde who was laughing at the camera. She held a small blonde girl in her arms. The caption gave their names: Susan and Susie.
The humming died in her throat. She knew he’d been married and had a child, but no one ever said where they were, just as no one ever asked her about Brenn.
Slowly she moved to the end of the table, gazing at the scattered shapes of blue fleece. She wasn’t going to wonder about Susan—why should it matter? She was going to get busy and pin these pieces together and enjoy Timothy’s company.
He returned a moment later, and she sat down at the sewing machine to do battle with a zipper.
They had worked for at least an hour before the doctor came in, carrying his laptop. “Such diligence inspires me,” he said.
She looked up from the machine. “This is a sewing party. Don’t tell me you sew too.”
“I sew up people, all the time. Last night it was a boy with a six-inch cut in his leg.”
She snipped her thread. “And I don’t suppose you can rip it out and start over again, can you?”
“Unlike writing.” He set up his laptop halfway down the table, next to her chair. “I’ve ripped this chapter apart, a couple of times. Can’t seem to get it right.”
“What’s your deadline?”
“Have to mail it by Wednesday. I can’t believe I’m not done yet.”
She wasn’t going to write it for him. It was his project, and, competent as he was, it might be good for him to struggle a bit.
She picked up another pair of front sections, basted in the zipper, and began to stitch it into place. By the time she finished, Nathan was typing, but slowly.
She showed the zipper to Timothy. “How’s this look?”
“Capital! I can hem those sleeve and mitten sections. Would you like to check the one we finished and trim the seams?”
“Here’s the machine,” she said, and took the bunting to her chair.
Nathan spoke to his computer screen. “I wonder if it might be better to phone the editor and say it’s not coming together. She’s probably got more submissions than she can use.”
“Don’t,” she said, surprising herself. “You have to write about this—it’s important.” She turned the bunting inside out while she thought. “It’s worth fighting for. Too many people think of Alaska as a wild, beautiful place where you can grow dreams as big as cabbages.”
He leaned back in his chair, listening with a quizzical look on his face.
“They need to know about the Inuit people, that the much-celebrated, stalwart native has his problems too.” She shook out the bunting. “Furthermore, you have an authentic voice. You’ve got a wealth of firsthand knowledge. Don’t let it go to waste.”
Had she convinced him? Why was he having so much trouble with this?
He looked back at the screen, frowning, so she said, “Let me see your first paragraph.”
He slid the laptop toward her.
She did a running commentary, which sometimes helped her students. “Good opening anecdote—Denny’s family. What next? Yes, the data on alcohol-related deaths. Suicides. Young male Alaska Natives. And the focus groups.”
“That’s where I start bogging down,” he said.
She studied him, wondering whether he had a peculiar species of writer’s block. “The solution is right there in your subconscious. Do you need a nap?”
“I took one this afternoon.”
“No excuses, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The expression on his face was so piteous, she couldn’t help laughing. “You’re not supposed to call me that. Here, this is how you do it.”
Since he was left-handed, it took only an impulsive moment to pick up his hand and put it on the mouse. “Position cursor . . .”
She kept her hand on his and guided the mouse to the beginning of the next paragraph. “Engage brain.”
She removed her hand. “Now type:
What I want to say here is . . .”
The corners of his mouth turned up. She watched as he typed, paused, and finished the sentence with IMPOSSIBLE TO ARTICULATE.
“How’s that?” he said.
“Now you’re being obstructive.”
“Do you give such personal attention to all your students?”
“Only those with special needs.”
He grinned. “Show me again—what’s that I do with the mouse?”
So he’d felt it too, that leap of connection. A mistake on her part.
She reached for the pinking shears and spoke in her teacher’s-voice. “Some people will try anything to get out of work. You promised to work hard.”
“I stand rebuked.” His eyes were unrepentant. “But can’t you give me a suggestion for this part?”
She moved the laptop closer and looked again at what he’d written. “How did the focus groups work?”
He told her, and she asked, “Was Denny involved? Were you?”
“Yes, he was a group leader, and I was one of the attending doctors.”
“Perfect. Put that in—it’ll fit right there—and it should help.”
He typed for a while, and she finished her trimming.
“How’s this?” he said.
She read it. “Just right. You get a gold star.” She read further. “Culturally-based interventions . . . this is interesting. And Denny’s ideas . . . what he did. Nice quote here about the elders’ council . . . tribal council . . . advocacy. It flows well.”
She paused. “Here, about the group discussions, you already told us that.”
“I’ll take it out.”
“Now,” she said, “all we have left is the ending. It’s going to be sad, but it will clinch your point.”
She began reading again. “Good approach, the two men talking in the bar. About Denny, he’d just been in there for a quick drink. But where’s the rest?”
“Mollie . . .”
The way he said her name, it was almost a groan.
“Denny’s plane crash?”
He nodded.
She leaned back and gazed at him. “It’s more than that. Can you tell me?”
He was silent for too long, didn’t look at her. What boundary had she trespassed?