The Perfect Blend (16 page)

Desperation at the duck pond

A
ww.

This is the gooey, sweet happy ending, right?

Sailing on the strength of our newfound love, Will and I put all the paperwork together and send me off to reveal my life's ministry to my parents, who stand instantly behind their brave little daughter and send me off to fulfill my ordained purpose.

The part where everybody sighs because boy loves girl, girl loves boy, innumerable obstacles have been overcome, God's in His heaven and all's right with the world.

So would you mind explaining what went wrong?

I'm not quite sure how I ended up here, sitting in my car outside the Seattle Asian Art Museum at Volunteer Park, staring at the duck pond.

Let me rephrase that. I know
how
I got here, I'm just not sure
why
I got here.

Will and I took my parents out to dinner this evening. Of course, I thought it would come as a surprise to them that we were—and I still can't quite hide my astonishment when I use these words—in love. Mom said she knew way back at the first dinner. That would be even before I knew it. Seems intuition isn't a life skill just for baristas—moms have it in spades. We told them about Higher Grounds and, true to Will's prediction, they were behind the idea with enthusiasm.

Will offered to stay with me as I told them about the loan part. Actually, he insisted on it. I wouldn't let him. For all my Maggie Bootstraps bravado, Diane was right—this time I needed to stand up on my own two feet. To stand on my faith and the sovereignty of my God. It's God who will make this work, not Will's protection or professionalism, even if he does play the hero exceedingly well.

So, I took a deep breath, parted ways with Will under some pretense (which really meant for him to go someplace and pray like crazy until I called) and went back to my parent's house for coffee. There, as boldly as I knew how, I laid out the financial details. I went through all the selling points, just like Will and I had rehearsed. I employed every bit of salesmanship I possess. I showed them spreadsheets and sales charts and even my mission statement. I wowed them. I could
see, by the end of my presentation, that they understood my passion for the idea and the eternal value of it.

Which is why I nearly choked when they said no to cosigning the loan.

How could they say no? They're my parents, they love me, they want what's best for me and they say no?

They had all kinds of good, parental reasons. “I think you should do this thing,” my father said, “but I won't put you—and your mother and I—into that kind of debt to make it happen.”

“But Dad, it's my purpose, I
know
it is.”

“I believe that,” he said, grabbing my hand. “I'm sure this is your dream. But it's not ours. We have five children to see safely into the world, not just you. We have to think of that. And Maggie, so much debt? So young? You'd be so much better off saving up for this. If God wants it to happen, it will happen, when you're ready.”

“But,” I retorted, feeling like I'd heard way too many
no
s lately, “what if you
are
the way it's supposed to happen. I'm ready. I'll never be more ready. I can't get the loan without you.”

“You are young and life is long,” my mother replied, taking my other hand. I used to love it when she comforted me with that saying. It's what she would say when I was worried I'd never find what I wanted to do in life. Now I know exactly what I want to do and I hate the sound of the platitude.

Another set of
no
s.

Which means Higher Grounds could take years to happen.

Which means Stephen Markham could hand me the largest rejection in the history of banking. Or at least in
my
history of banking.

I cannot possibly see why God would allow this. Why give me the vision and then snatch it out of my hands?

I was sure I'd start sobbing the minute I left their house. Without even making a conscious decision to do so, I drove the car toward Volunteer Park and started up the hill. I kept waiting for the tears as my car wove its way up the winding road to the art museum parking lot, where you can see for miles. Do you remember the story of Abraham? God asks him to take his son Isaac and climb up the mountain to sacrifice him. Sacrifice this incredible blessing of a child that God had earlier promised him. To do this thing that seemed to destroy everything God had promised for Abraham's future.

I'm sitting here in my car in the art museum parking lot, waiting. Staring at those unsigned loan applications, hoping an angel will show up any second now to tell how it will all work out.
Really, Lord, now would be the ideal time to show me the far better plan You've got in the works.

Nothing.

After half an hour of tearless emptiness, I do the thing I was supposed to do right away—I dial Will.

He answers the phone in one ring. Neither of us even bothers with “hello.”

“They said no.”

“I can't believe it.” Shock pulls his voice tight.

“They won't cosign, Will.”

“Let me talk to them. You said they'd say no the first time. They just need time to think it over. I can rerun a different payment schedule…”

“No,” I interrupt him, “It won't change. They're dead against it. They didn't even like the idea of my taking out a loan, much less one big enough that I would need their help. I can't ask Mom and Dad to sign onto this loan again. They've given me their answer.”

“Where are you?” I hear Will locking up his office in the background. He's coming for me.

“Outside the Asian Art Museum. The duck pond's really quiet this time of day.”

“You mean at Volunteer Park? Up there?”

“Somehow I just sort of ended up here.” I'm so tired all of a sudden. My arms and legs feel heavy with a surrendered sort of emptiness. An image which makes no sense.

“Stay there. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Ten.”

For all my dislike of it, Will's overprotective-hero stuff would feel really good right now. I want to curl up in the shelter of someone more sensible. “Okay.”

I find a bench and wait, praying and watching the ducks poke around on the pond. I realize I'm not calm at all. I'm quiet—an immovable sort of quiet, but it's more of a deer-in-headlights kind of frozen than it is anything approaching a calm.

“I simply cannot believe,” he says as he bounds out of his car to hug me, “that God would bring you all this way, pull us together, place you in this class,
do all this,
only to have it go all wrong.”

“You said it yourself—risk has costs and people get hurt.”

He says nothing, just holds me very tight.

“You know,” I say, trying to brighten my voice, “Markham could still say…yes.” I barely get the
yes
out, the line feeling foolish. We both know the odds of approval now are painfully slim.

Will blows out a breath and we both sit down on the bench beside the pond. He stares up at the darkening sky. “I should have stayed with you. I think I could have convinced them.”

“No, you couldn't have.”

Will looks at me, “But they love you. They loved the idea. I saw their eyes light up when you told them about it. How could they say no to you?”

I suddenly realize this is how to explain my family. “That love you wondered about? The way we fight but still love each other? This is the same thing, I suppose.” It clarifies itself right before my eyes, softening the disappointment even as I say the words. “Love isn't all yes and the opposite of love all no. We work it out with each other. We say what we mean, hold on to our opinions—even when they clash—and keep loving.” An odd metaphor hits me and I erupt in a limp, sad giggle. “I was going to say it's not all black or all white, it's gray, but somehow that makes no sense since I'm Black and
you're Grey and…” All my efforts to remain hopeful ball up into the back of my throat.

Will pulls me to his side, but I can't sit still. I have to fight the storm in the back of my throat or I'll drown.

“You know,” I say, my words gaining speed as if running to keep ahead of the threatening tears, “I met this wonderful man who was so sure he could make my crazy dream line up into nice neat columns. But it won't. For a moment, you made me forget what a wild risk this was. And I realize, now, how much safer I felt when it was a wild, crazy, God-given risk. Then you started to make it real. You showed me how to build this risky vision into a real business. A solid business that could support my calling. You've done so much for me. I know so much more than I knew before.”

“It was my privilege. My calling, even.” He says, his own voice tight from my struggle.

“And those are good things. Good things are still in this. We have to keep looking for the good things.” I'm talking myself out of the gloom now, pacing as if the disappointment is stalking me from behind. “It looks bad. It looks really, really bad. But it's not over until Markham says no, right? It's not truly over until he gives me an answer. So I've got to keep going, don't I?”

I look at Will, but he doesn't say anything.

“I mean, there's a difference between risk and foolishness. There's a difference between the plan that can't work and God's plan you can't see. God
is in the habit of asking people to risk failure all the time.” I begin ticking risky Bible business off on my fingers, still pacing. “Noah building an ark, Abraham, Mary, that prophet guy who made the starving woman use her last bit of food to feed him, Peter stepping out of the boat to walk on water….”

Will stands up, baffled. “You never give in and you never give up, do you Maggie Black?”

“I'm trying. I don't have a lot to go on here.”

He catches me at the end of another paced lap and says the one thing I need to hear most.

“Who knew I'd love you most of all when you don't have a leg to stand on?”

“Yeah,” I say, giving into the strength of his embrace. “I'm thinking that's pretty much how it looks.”

Ten whole seconds

W
ill was right, you know.

I
am
Maggie Bootstraps and I don't go down without a fight. Sure, the odds are wildly against me. But you know me. I grit my teeth, brew a double-shot latte and dig in for the uphill climb.

I stayed in class and fine-tuned my business plan. I submitted my loan application last Thursday, just like everybody else. I'm braced for impact, but I'm not dead in the water yet. It's Monday and Will presented every application to the loan board at 10:00 a.m. today, with his approval or rejection.

Except for mine, of course, which I presented to Steve Markham at 11:00 a.m.

I bought a fabulous new handbag for the occasion. I brought coffee. I brought mock-ups of menus and ads, photos of the espresso machines. I
focused every ounce of salesmanship I possess on Steve Markham.

Stephen J. Markham, vice president of lending, according to his business card. He had the meanest office I'd ever seen—not even a family photo to break up the gray, corporate callousness. An unbelievably serious guy in an unbelievably serious suit. He looked as though he scraped small businesses off his shoes before he went home at night.

He just kept listening, silent as a statue, flipping through the business plan as I walked him through it. The man could be a robot; his face was that emotionless.

I got two words out of him the entire hour: “Good coffee.”

I was shooting for “yes, approved.”

 

It's looking bad. Very bad. Still, if God can move mountains, God can move Steve Markham. I've said that over and over to myself as I wait on a park bench outside the bank. The only humane thing about the whole process is Markham agreeing to let Will convey the bank's answer.

It was Will's idea and was perhaps the greatest act of love I have ever known.

Will walks out of the bank, slow and erect. He's hated every single second of this and I know that. I love him for sticking it through.

My goal was ten seconds. I make it. Ten whole seconds pass between the moment Will shakes his head and the moment I burst into tears.

What does Will do? He lets me cry all over his suit jacket, even after he handed me his handkerchief. “I have a friend at the bank who says, ‘I don't get paid to say yes. Saying yes is wonderful. I get paid to say no because saying no is work.' This particular no is excruciating.”

“Yeah, well, saying it beats hearing it, I can tell you.”

“Not by much. I hate this, Maggie. Can I just put that on the record? I hate every single bit of this.”

“I know.” And I do. Will tucks my shoulder under his arm. I notice it looks like it's going to rain soon and I decide it's fitting. My dreary day should have dreary weather. We're both silent for a moment. Will's hand strokes my arm and he leans down and plants a couple of quiet kisses on the top of my head.

I lost.

I fought and fought with everything I had and I lost Higher Grounds. At least for now.

It aches like someone shot a cannon through my chest.

After a time, Will catches my chin with his free hand and looks into my eyes. “You put up a brave, fine battle and I love you for it. I love you for taking it on and seeing it through. For dreaming such a big, impossible plan. You make this whole business enormously complicated, do you know that? I'm supposed to love some nice, sweet, compliant little British thing who puffs up my male ego. Instead, I get you overhauling my insides and tackling huge tasks and making no sense at all.”

“I make all kinds of sense,” I reply, feeling a tiny bit lighter. “I just don't make
your
kind of sense.” I settle back onto Will's shoulder, letting out a huge, shuddering sigh.

“What are you going to do now?”

That's the question of the hour, isn't it? The rain begins to fall and we take a moment to listen to the soothing sound from under the awning where we are. I absentmindedly fold his handkerchief into a neat little square on my lap. What am I going to do now? After another sigh, I give the only answer I have. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“You're not going to go off and build an ark or anything, are you?”

“No,” I giggle, poking him.

“Not going to attempt a parting of Puget Sound, not going skulking off to some foreign dignitary asking him to ‘Let my people go,' or go marching around Portland seven times blasting any trumpets?”

“No,” I say, laughing openly now.

“You're not going to tell me I ought to start composing Hail Margarets or that we have seven years of feast and famine on the way or that I should keep a sensible distance between you and all slingshots when surrounded by angry Philistines?”

I'm laughing
and
crying now. It feels horrible and very freeing at the same time.

“Because you see, I'm quite sure I've reached my tolerance level for risk. For the entire decade perhaps. I'm going to have to be excruciatingly sensible for at least two years in order to recover.
This hideous love business. Hits without any warning whatsoever. There ought to be an alarm or some such thing.” He wraps his arms around me and I drink in how good it feels. “Margaret Black, I wish I understood you as much as I loved you.”

“Ah, William,” I say, adopting a sorry version of his accent. “Where'd be the fun in that?”