Phoebe and the Rock of Ages

by Becky Doughty

  “What? You don’t believe in love at first sight?” Trevor asked.

  “Seriously? Or are you just being facetious?” Juliette laughed out loud. “Because I totally believe in chemistry at first sight. Absolutely. But love at first sight?” She shook her head brusquely this time. “Nope. Too many people are fooled by their hormones, my friend. Just because there’s chemistry it doesn’t mean love is a given.”

  Victor turned to her, his head cocked to one side a little. “Actually, I might have to argue that point with you, Jules.”

  Trevor grinned broadly and kept his mouth shut, curious to see how this would play out.

  “Ha. Really? You? Officer Dot-Every-I-and-Cross-Every-T? You really believe in love at first sight?” Juliette leaned back and looked down her nose at Victor, her eyes dancing with humor. “No way. Much too impulsive and unorganized for you.”

  The two of them locked gazes, and for a few moments, Trevor thought they wouldn’t even notice if he got up and left the table. But then Victor reached over and cupped Juliette’s cheek with a large hand. She blushed prettily and shot a quick glance at Trevor, as though suddenly remembering he was there.

  “I’d be willing to stand before a judge over this one. I fell in love with you the first time I pulled you over.” Victor spoke softly, his words intended for Juliette’s ears, but clearly not caring that Trevor heard him. “Granted, it took me awhile to figure out what was wrong with me—”

  “What was wrong with you?” Juliette squawked indignantly, but she didn’t pull away from his touch.

  “I’m just teasing you, baby. But I knew. I knew, even when I didn’t think it possible—”

  “You didn’t think it was possible to be in love with someone like me?” This time she did pull back a little, but Victor still had a hold of her hand and wouldn’t let her go too far.

  “You know, man, you might want to quit while you’re ahead,” Trevor guffawed.

  “Yeah,” Juliette agreed. “You’re starting to sound like Mr. Darcy again.”

  “But that’s a good thing, right? Isn’t he the hero of the story?”

  “Oh, you’re hopeless,” Juliette sighed. “And I love you for it.” She nestled back against his side and turned to face Trevor. “And you’re apparently hopeless, too. I’m still not sold on the love at first sight thing, but it seems to have worked out well for him,” she quipped, reaching up behind her to pat Victor on the jaw.

  “Quite well, indeed,” Trevor agreed, his chest filling with happiness for the couple across the table from him. “But in all seriousness, Juliette, it’s not much different than that silly scenario I just painted for you.” He paused for a moment and carefully considered his next words. “I’ve been alone for ages. I’ve had two girlfriends—one I thought might turn into something serious, but didn’t—and a few dates with women who were just friends.” He dipped his head toward Juliette in acknowledgment.

  “And a lovely date it was,” she quipped.

  “Moving on…” Victor prodded. Juliette giggled and patted his cheek again.

  “But I’ve spent my whole life praying for the woman God intended for me to marry, at first because my parents taught me to do so, but then because I thought it seemed like a good idea, especially in my early adult years when I didn’t think I was ready for a wife and family. I prayed for her, not about her. I wasn’t asking for her to be dropped into my lap. I never really asked God to reveal her to me.” He hooked his fingers into quotation marks at the cliché phrase. “I didn’t ask to know who she was or where I might find her.” He shot a grin at Victor. “I admit to complaining to God about being lonely and impatient, and even a little jealous as I’ve watched so many of my friends get married and start new lives with someone they love. Vic knows. He’s heard it all.”

  Victor nodded, but didn’t give him a hard time about it.

  “I’ve been praying for her. Because for years now—years, Juliette—I’ve felt God urging me to cover her in prayer. I’ve never felt so strongly about praying for someone, at least not for such a prolonged period of time. And certainly not for someone I haven’t—or hadn’t—met yet. But every time I’d start bugging God about how much longer he was going to make me wait, I’d feel the overwhelming need to pray for her. Not for me, for her.”

  Juliette studied him, her gaze now serious, as she listened.

  “It was the same urgency I felt today, you guys,” Trevor continued, his voice dropping, growing more intense. “I recognized it. I recognized the same spirit inside me, pushing me to go to God on behalf of this woman, Phoebe, whom I just met—and was immediately and overwhelmingly chemically attracted to, fair Juliette—and to pray for her in the same way I’ve been praying for the woman I knew would someday be my wife.”

  “Wow.” The word wasn’t one of disbelief or amazement, not really. It sounded more like acceptance even though it still didn’t all make sense to her. “Okay. Wow.”

  “And here’s the thing. It isn’t love at first sight, not in the Hollywood sense of the term. I know that. Yes, there’s chemistry or hormones or electricity—whatever you want to call it—and she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t any on her part. It was like live wires snapping between us. I had to stand on the other side of the room once we got to your place, because the current buzzing between us had me pretty much incapacitated.”

  “I wondered what was wrong with you.” Juliette’s eyes widened in understanding. “You hardly said a word and practically hid behind Victor until you two left.”

  Trevor grinned sheepishly. “There’s no practically about it. I unabashedly admit to hiding behind Vic. I was scared. Not of Phoebe, herself, mind you. The whole encounter scared me. It freaked me out how intensely I’d responded to her. You have to understand, Juliette. I’m not immune to women, and because of the job I do, I get lots of attention, lots of opportunities to respond, if you get my gist. I’m not being a vain braggart, please understand. It just comes with the territory.”

  Juliette snorted, waving a hand at him dismissively. “I know that.”

  “And don’t get me wrong. I’ve met some amazing women on the road, in different churches over the years. But I haven’t felt that—that—”

  “That zing?” she suggested.

  “Yeah. That zing,” Trevor agreed. “I haven’t felt that zing in a while. In a long time.” He shrugged one shoulder and spoke around a half-smile. “And then to learn that the woman at the gas station wasn’t just some stranger I was responding to, but someone already loved by people I love?” He lowered his gaze then, almost afraid to look at them as he stated what to him seemed so obvious. So validating. “It was like an Aha! Moment to me when I figured out she was a Gustafson Girl. I half-expected choirs of angels to burst into song and a beam of light to shine down from heaven, the voice of God himself saying, ‘Here she is. Here is the one I made for you.’”

  “Sure would be nice if he’d do that kind of thing,” Victor muttered. “Especially for us thick-headed men.”

  “Amen to that.” Trevor grimaced and lifted his eyes to Juliette again. “All I got, though, was ‘Pray for her. Now!’ So I did. And I’ll keep praying for her, just like I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.”

  “Which is pretty cool in my book,” Juliette whispered. “Very, very romantic.”

  “Good. I’m glad. But here’s the deal. I believe she’s the one for me; I really do. But I also believe that her soul takes priority over my heart, period. I don’t want to, but I’m willing to put aside my feelings—” He broke the sentence off and started again. “That’s stupid. Not even possible. Anyone who says that is a liar, just for future reference.”

  “Noted,” Victor grunted.

  “Let me rephrase that. I don’t want to, but I’m willing to hold off on acting on my romantic feelings, no matter how much they torment me, in order to focus on cleaning up the mess I made of things all those years ago. I’m willing to even walk away fro
m her if that’s what she wants. It might kill me, but I’m willing. However, I’m going to need your prayers, your support, and your accountability, both of you, so here I am.”

  “Here you are,” Juliette echoed. “And wow, I say again. Just wow.” She curled her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it a bit, pondering all he’d said. Finally, she said, “Okay. Well, I don’t want to jinx anything, but I feel like we should hug or something.”

  Trevor eyed her curiously. “Oh yeah?”

  “I mean, since we’re going to be family for real and all.” She stood and came around the table as he stood, too. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him tightly. “I’ll go to bat for you, Trevor Aidan Zander, but you’d better do things right or I’ll use that bat on you instead. Starting right around the kneecaps.”

  “Ahem. You might want to curtail the threats until the officer is out of earshot,” Trevor said sotto voce.

  “Ahem, yourself. I’ll be the one actually swinging the bat, my friend,” Victor retorted as he came around the table and clapped Trevor on the shoulder.

  Juliette stepped back and patted Trevor’s cheek. “You know, you may not yet be in love, but you’re definitely acting on love—or at least the decision to love—so who am I to argue with the whole love at first sight thing? I’ve heard even prearranged marriages between strangers work when the couple chooses to love each other, when they choose to act on love rather than waiting to be in love.” She stepped to Victor’s side and slipped an arm around his waist. “I’m behind you on this, Trevor. If there’s anything I can do, any way I can help facilitate anything, let me know. I’d love to have you as a brother-in-law one day.”

  Victor still had his hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “I’ve got your back, too, Taz.” He grinned, teasing again. “You’re a hopeless romantic, my friend. You always have been. Just a fool finally in love.” Then he grew serious again. “Can we pray for you now?”

  “Absolutely, yes! I thought you’d never ask.” The relief that washed over him at the offer was something akin to that moment he imagined when the thirsty man discovered the mountain spring. “Please.”

  Oh God, he murmured in his heart as Victor began to pray over him. I really am a hopeless fool, aren’t I? Was it possible he was actually in love, too?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  As she lay in the dark, the stillness close around her, Phoebe could almost imagine she heard Lily’s squeaky little cries; the whisper of memory made the very marrow of her bones ache. She drew her knees up to her chest, curling into a ball on her side beneath her billowy white bedding, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Crying only made her headache worse, but she couldn’t help it. Her mind refused to turn away from the images she’d conjured up from the darkened chambers of her heart.

  When she awoke again, the sky was a pale, early-morning gray, and her pulse pounded behind her eyes. She lay still, trying to remember what she had planned for the day—today would be Tuesday, right? There was nothing pressing until Friday when she had to turn in her first round of three book cover options to Vineyard. She already had two ready to send over and a third just needed font work. As much as she disliked working with Brandon because of his arrogance, he was remarkably photogenic and she had yet to have to do a re-shoot on any of the projects he modeled.

  Free to spend the day as she wanted, she decided she wanted to do nothing. She got up to use the bathroom, took one look at her reflection in the mirror, and headed straight back to bed.

  The clock still lay on the floor where she’d dropped it after pulling the cord from the wall, its face blank. She plugged it in, but when she went to set it, she realized she had no idea what time it was, so she just left it sitting on the nightstand beside her lamp, flashing its changing numbers at her. Her white comforter reflected the electric blue glow, and she watched it, mesmerized by the pulse of color in her otherwise white sanctuary.

  When a new wave of grief and guilt caught her by surprise, wrenching her out of her semi-trance, she burrowed down under the blankets again, hugging one of her pillows tightly to her as though she might be able to plug the gaping hole in her chest with it.

  Lily had turned thirteen on July 10th this last summer, only two days after Renata had told Phoebe, Juliette, and Gia about her pregnancy. The day the four sisters held hands and watched Baby Charise dance inside Renata’s womb during the ultrasound, almost as though she knew she was being filmed. Phoebe had somehow managed to keep it together, had smiled even though she could hardly catch her breath, and had celebrated with her sisters over tostada salads and iced teas.

  Phoebe remembered her own thirteenth birthday. Maman had made a chocolate hazelnut dacquoise cake—a family tradition from her own upbringing in France. “Every little girl who becomes a young lady must be celebrated with a real grown-up cake of the finest textures and flavors,” Simone always said, patting her daughters’ cheeks with flour-dusted hands. She’d made one for each of her three older girls on their thirteenth birthdays, and when Gia had turned thirteen, Phoebe, Juliette, and Renata had taken over Granny G’s kitchen and made one for their little sister in their mother’s absence.

  Phoebe’s stomach growled; she could still taste the layers of meringue and buttercream melting in her mouth. “Oh, Maman,” she whispered. “I need you.”

  Phoebe stayed in bed all day, getting up only to use the bathroom and to refill her water glass. She slept off and on as her system recovered from the abuse of the alcohol, but only fitfully, her mind toying with her vulnerable emotions. Her empty belly played along, and she dreamed that she’d swallowed something invasive, something seemingly insignificant at first, like a tiny seed, but it had taken root inside her. And like Jack’s beanstalk, it was now growing voraciously, out of control, tendrils twining round and round her bones, grinding them to nothing, piercing her heart, crowding and unfurling at the back of her throat, pressing against the inside of her skull until she thought it might shoot through the top of her head and straight to the sky where murderous hungry giants awaited her.

  She awoke to her own whimpers and pushed back her covers in a panic. The clock on her night stand still flashed cheerfully at her, the time on it contradicting the broad daylight flooding the room. It took her a moment to remember she hadn’t set it, had just plugged it in and let it run.

  She crawled out of bed, feeling hollow and weak, and made herself a cup of coffee. Her hangover headache was gone—Never again, please, Phoebe—and she was pretty sure the pressure behind her eyes was just from the congestion of crying. She couldn’t breathe through her nose, which made her extra grumpy as she was having a hard time appreciating the rich aroma of the freshly brewed java. That was almost as much a part of the experience of a good cup of coffee as that first sip!

  Phoebe could almost sense the coming of winter in the chill of the early morning. She took a quick shower and changed into a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved thermal tee, and then added a feathery-soft fleece hoodie to the ensemble. The floor was cold under her bare feet so she pulled on a pair of thick wool socks before heading downstairs with her cup of coffee. She needed something to eat—maybe a piece of toast.

  While she waited for the heel of bread to pop up—she really, really needed to go shopping—she eyed the mess she’d made at her potter’s wheel during her binge, but couldn’t work up the energy to clean it up. It would require a good amount of water and elbow grease, and she just didn’t have it in her at that moment. She grimaced at the ugly, misshapen stand she’d made for her bottle of Glenfiddich—where was that thing? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember where she’d left it.

  The toast popped up and she slathered it with too much Nutella she found at the back of a cupboard, and then took her meager breakfast to her desk to check her emails. She wouldn’t bother turning on her phone—she knew she’d have dozens of calls and texts to respond to, but she wasn’t ready to face anyone yet.

  Phoebe wasn’t ready to f
ace Baby Charise yet, and she knew that would be the reason for most of the calls.

  The clock on her monitor told her it was almost noon on Wednesday. She couldn’t believe she’d been out of commission for so long. No wonder it felt like her stomach was trying to gnaw on itself. Over the last three days, she’d had a gyro wrap and fries, a couple of Pop Tarts, and a piece of toast in between a bottle of fine Scottish whiskey and a couple of mugs of rich Italian coffee. She went online and ordered pizza for delivery so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, and then opened her email, releasing a cynical bark at the number of new messages waiting for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Interspersed between all the junk mail and posts she subscribed to was email after email from Renata, Gia, Juliette, Renata’s Reuben, and even one from Granny G. Most of them were politely-phrased requests to see her, wondering if she was all right, hoping she wasn’t sick. They all knew her tendency to disappear when she was under project deadlines, so a day or two without hearing back from her wasn’t uncommon. She always made certain to let someone know after the second or third day on a project, though, just so they wouldn’t show up unannounced and worried about her and chase away her muse. They’d all gotten used to it and were usually content to just prod at her from their end until she surfaced enough to notice she was being addressed. With a new baby in the family, however, she could imagine they were all starting to worry about her, even if they hadn’t yet made a big deal about her absence.

  Renata seemed to have no such reservations this time. Phoebe opened Ren’s most recent email from only an hour ago with the subject heading: Where ARE you?

  PHOEBE JOSEPHINE GUSTAFSON!

  Yes, I’m using your full name and in all caps. You won’t answer my calls. You won’t respond to my texts. You won’t come and visit. What is wrong with you? And don’t try to tell me you got sick from being at the hospital with us. You haven’t been sick a day in your life, so I’ll know you’re just lying to avoid me.