Authors: Gloria Repp
Madeleine put away her notebook. Maybe she’d do that. She certainly needed wisdom. About Jude’s girl. And Kent . . . and the decoys. What was going on with them, anyway?
While they sang the closing hymn, she prayed for wisdom, and during the last verse, decided to talk to Timothy about the PC decoy. Maybe she had jumped to a conclusion.
They had planned another sew-in for the evening, but she didn’t want to wait that long. On her way out, she asked Timothy, “Will you be home this afternoon?”
“Sitting out on my deck,” he said, “soaking up some rays. Want to talk? I’ll send Hey-You over around 1:30.”
She thought he was joking, but not long after they’d eaten lunch, Aunt Lin called to her. “That dog of Timothy’s is sitting on the back porch. Do you have any idea why?”
Madeleine laughed. “I was planning to go see Timothy this afternoon, and he said he’d send the dog over, but I can’t believe . . .”
“Believe it,” her aunt said. “I’ve heard about that dog. He so smart I’d like to have him on my staff.”
As she stepped out of the door, Hey-You greeted Madeleine with extravagant tail-wavings. He gulped down her offering of a tuna sandwich and bounded into the woods.
Timothy was sitting on his balcony with a steaming mug and a book. He picked up a thermos and gestured toward the chair beside him. “Pour yourself some cocoa,” he said. “Sit down and cover up with that blanket. It’s chilly today.”
She settled herself under the blanket. How to begin?
“What’s on your mind, little lady?”
“It’s about Paula’s decoys. You get them direct from her and sell them for seventy-five dollars, right?”
“Right. I pay her sixty-five.”
“Apparently Kent is handling the rest of their distribution. Bria says he gives them seventy-five for each one he sells.”
Timothy shrugged. “He’s not running a business.”
“I understand.” She took a sip of cocoa. “What if he was selling the decoys for more than two hundred dollars and not telling her about it?”
“He couldn’t get that much. She’s not well known.”
“What if he was faking Paul Clampton’s initials on the bottom and selling them as antiques?”
Timothy thought about it, knitting his brows. “Paul Clampton is still a big name in South Jersey. Are the decoys identical?”
“Almost. Bria uses a hidden signature.”
“Scoundrel! He’ll never get away with it. Not for long, anyway.” He frowned. “The trouble is, when he gets caught, it’ll be the Clampton name that’s dragged through the mud.”
She hadn’t thought of that. “What do you think I should do?” Hurriedly, she amended her words. “I mean, what could be done? I really don’t want to get involved.”
Timothy turned his head to give her a considering look.
She gazed out at the trees, and the silence between them lengthened.
Maybe he would let her off the hook, change the subject, as he did when he knew she was uncomfortable.
Good, he’d started talking about Jude, how he’d come back from the canoe trip with questions about loving God.
She smiled. “Jude’s growing, isn’t he?”
Timothy’s smile agreed with her. “He found the passage in Matthew that speaks of the first commandment. Now we’re discussing the second. Do you know that one?”
Of course she did. “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
So he hadn’t been letting her off—he’d been sharpening the hook.
His voice was gentle. “Kind of sounds like a matter of obedience, doesn’t it? Getting involved.”
She dug her fingers into the blanket.
He picked up his book. “As a literary person, you might be interested in this.” He turned some pages, stopped, and began to read aloud:
“There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.”
He paused, as if waiting for her to say something.
She frowned. “That’s a rather broad statement.”
“The author explains,
If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal . . . lock it up safe in the casket . . . of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”
Piercing words. Don’t think about them.
She drank the last of her cocoa, and said nothing.
After a minute, Timothy said, “It may be that God plans to use you on the Castells’ behalf, little lady. Why not ask Kent about the decoys? Perhaps he can explain it as something besides plain skullduggery. Perhaps you can persuade him to stop.”
“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”
He leaned back in his chair and regarded her through half-closed eyes. “We all know he thinks highly of you. And your aunt.”
“It’s sickening,” she said. “I wish he’d go away and leave us in peace.”
“Perhaps he will, after this is over.” He gestured with the book. “That passage was just an opinion from C.S. Lewis. It’s more important to ask yourself: ‘What does my God think about the situation?’ ”
She nodded, but only to show that she’d heard.
This was too much. She didn’t have to do everything he said.
Fear inched down her spine, chilling each bone it passed. She hadn’t asked to be part of this, and she wasn’t going to . . . she couldn’t . . . tangle with Kent.
She pushed the blanket off her knees and stood up. “I’d better get back and check on our food for tonight. Thank you for the cocoa.”
“You’re very welcome.” Timothy stood too, pulling his jacket close. “Be careful, whatever you do.” He whistled for the dog. “Here’s your trusty guide to take you home.”
“I know the way,” she said, and immediately tried to temper her ungracious reply with a smile.
But the air seemed to have grown colder and more biting. Even after she’d reached the sheltering trees, wind tossed the upper branches of the pine trees, sending them askew. She huddled deep into her jacket.
“Lord,” she said aloud, “This whole thing scares me, and I don’t know why, but I’ve got to stay out of it. Why can’t someone else talk to Kent?”
That evening, Timothy was congenial as they worked on the new green buntings. He made her laugh, praised her chicken soup and the crusty rolls, and told her how much he’d enjoyed the pie. They discussed the history of Vienna rolls, and he informed her that in New England they were called bulkie rolls.
He didn’t mention Kent’s name or refer to the decoys. No doubt he was praying for her—an uncomfortable thought.
While she sewed, words trundled through her mind on an endless loop:
Love your neighbor . . . Love anything and . . . use you . . . persuade him . . .
Nathan came over from his office with paperwork and stayed for supper. His steel-blue sweater made his eyes a softer gray, and it seemed that he looked at her differently tonight, but perhaps she was imagining it.
The men talked about flying. They’d both owned planes in Alaska, and both had stories to tell. Then they talked about ruins. She described the old Dumont ruins and the place Jude had showed her. Timothy laughed, saying he should get her a reference book if she liked ruins so well.
She had to defend herself. “There’s
tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones.”
One of Shakespeare’s gems.
Nathan looked at her.
“And good in everything.”
“How’d you know that line?”
He shrugged. “Must have heard it somewhere.”
He talked for a while about the ruined mines he’d seen in Alaska, and then Timothy said he was kind of tired tonight. If they would excuse him, he’d go on up to bed.
She had one more hood to finish, so she said, “We’ll pick up things here. Sleep well.”
Nathan worked on his papers while she sewed the hood into place and topstitched the neck seam. She stacked the remnants beside the sewing machine and gave him a smile, ready to leave.
He came to her side of the table and put a hand on her arm. “Time to say good night?” He drew her towards him, and she went. His touch was gentle. Maybe it would be all right.
His face was warm against hers. “Mollie . . .” He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her chin. His lips found her mouth.
Nausea struck like a blow.
She jerked away. Her breath came in panting gasps. Her pulse pounded in her ears:
danger-danger-danger
. She clawed at him and he was saying, “What? What is it?”
She shook her head, whimpering, shivering. Cold. Cold. Too cold to breathe.
His arm went around her and his voice came low and soothing. “It’s okay, Mollie. You’re safe here. Breathe slowly. Breathe with me.”
She huddled against him, felt the rise and fall of his chest. She could do that.
“Good girl. As if you were singing. Take a big breath, expand your diaphragm. Again . . . Again . . .”
She breathed with careful attention, letting him hold her.
“Mollie, what did I do?”
The fear lingered, freezing her voice, and she couldn’t speak. She moved his hand to the scar on her arm.
“Brenn?”
She nodded.
“He hurt you?”
She shivered. “He . . . liked . . .”
She rested her cheek against the warm sweater, just for a minute, and he stroked her arm. He didn’t seem to mind that she’d treated him as if he were loathsome.
He stood quietly while she searched for words. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I . . . I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
What must he be thinking? One of those loonies that doctors run into from time to time. Stay away from this girl.
Shame flared, scorching her face, giving her strength to push away from him, and he let her go.
She stepped to the table, bracing herself against it. Please don’t let the trembling start again, not here, not in front of him. Lord my Rock, I need You.
She put away the scissors and the pin cushion, slid the rolls into their bag, and unplugged the slow cooker. No more talk. Just leave.
He watched, silent.
But now he was moving to intercept her.
Lord, help! I’ve got to get out of here without making a fool of myself again.
He took the slow cooker from her hands and set it on the table.
She risked a glance at him. Soft gray eyes, troubled.
“Don’t go just yet,” he said. “Dear heart . . .”
The tenderness in his voice gave her pause, and so did the old-fashioned endearment, an echo of Wyatt’s famous poem, Shakespeare’s sonnets. He had no idea how it would sway her resolve.
He slowly reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it.
“Let’s sit down,” he said.
She stiffened, and he must have sensed her fear. “I won’t . . .” he said in a broken voice. “I won’t hurt you. Come, pray with me.”
He led her to the sofa, and she sat beside him, cautiously, thinking that it had been a long time since she’d prayed with anyone. He linked his arm with hers, warming her hand in his, and it was all right.
Shakespeare’s hopeful words floated past:
Wilt thou kneel with me?
Do, then, dear heart;
for heaven shall hear our prayers.
Nathan bowed his head. “Father . . .” It was the voice of a son reaching out his hand to be grasped. “Father, we are in need tonight.”
He paused. “Pour your mercy upon us. You have a plan for Mollie in all of this. Hold her close.” He paused again. “Show us what to do. Please, I ask in Jesus’ name.”
He didn’t move to get up, and after a minute she leaned her head against the solid warmth of his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.
You have a plan for Mollie,
he’d said
.
Her thoughts leaped back to Timothy’s words:
It may be that God plans to use you . . . .
She shook her head, and Nathan’s hand clasped hers more tightly.
Your plan, Lord?
Was she supposed to do something about Kent?
What if she froze? What if it all came to nothing?
But how could she refuse to obey her forever-God with His forever-love? He knew her fears.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Lord, about Kent. Show me? I’ll do whatever You want.
Slowly she opened her eyes. Nathan, still unmoving, sat with his head bowed over hers. Such a kind person.