Phoebe and the Rock of Ages

by Becky Doughty

  No. No, she was not ready for whatever he had to say. From what Juliette and Gia said about him, it didn’t seem likely that he’d changed one iota from the man who’d all but run her out of church all those years earlier. Granted, he didn’t look the same anymore, but as she knew quite well, looks could deceive.

  Phoebe opened her address file and did a search for Cal’s wife. Sure enough, there she was. She’d been on Phoebe’s mailing list since the very beginning, since shortly after she launched her website. In fact, it would have been right around the time she’d had her first showing at Expressions Studios in the Midtown Galleria downtown, a section of the old train station that had been converted into a variety of shops and restaurants. Phoebe had picked up several names from that event and although she couldn’t picture the woman’s face, it seemed like Alice Masters might just be one of her oldest fans. And the fact that she had Cerulean hanging on her wall helped ground Phoebe a little.

  She put on some Julien Dore, sashaying slowly back to the easel as the smooth boy-next-door voice crooned in French from the speakers mounted on the wall above her work station. He begged her to tell him about summer, about her long absences, about the emptiness that destroys. The French words wrapped around her, comforting her even as they made her suffer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It had been a good week. Trevor wrapped the navy blue towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower. He laughed at his reflection in the mirror. “You need a haircut, dude.” He scrubbed his fingers through his curls, then grabbed another towel out of the cupboard to use for shaving. He wanted to look his best tonight.

  It had been a good week, he insisted again. And musically, it had. He’d written four new songs and all four of them were finished, already mastered, album ready. They’d come to him so quickly and already so well-formed in his mind that the editing and mastering process had been a cake walk.

  It had been a good week spiritually, too. He’d prayed and fasted Tuesday and Wednesday, and even though he hadn’t stopped praying, he’d felt no change in the direction the Holy Spirit seemed to be leading him. And when he’d spoken again with Vic and Juliette on Wednesday night, they’d prayed with him again and both confirmed that they believed he would be doing the right thing to go to Phoebe to ask forgiveness first, and then go from there as the Lord led him.

  It had been a good week…except where Phoebe Gustafson was concerned.

  Trevor had called her that night. The call went straight to voice mail, so he’d left a message. “Phoebe, this is Trevor Zander. We met at the gas station a little over a week ago. I carried your gas back to your car for you. Then I followed you to your sister’s—well, I didn’t follow you. I was going there, too, but we didn’t know we were both going to the same place, so it seemed like I was following you. You probably thought I was stalking you. But I wasn’t; just clearing that up. I was following you on accident but going the same direction as you were on purpose…. I don’t even remember why I’m explaining all this to you. Ignore all that. Here’s the reason I called: I’d like to get together with you. I have something I’d like to talk about with you and I promise to be more coherent. Would you give me a call when you get a chance?”

  He’d hung up and thrown his phone on his bed, utterly disgusted with himself. He wouldn’t call him back if he were her.

  He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t. He tried again Thursday afternoon, and this time when it went straight to voice mail again, he was prepared. He stated his name, the day and time he was calling, and asked if she’d like to go out for coffee later that evening. When she hadn’t returned his call by eight p.m., he stopped checking his phone to see if it was actually working.

  Apparently, since he got redirected to her message box every time, her phone was off or she’d lost it. So he emailed her that night before he went to bed, in essence, reiterating his phone messages to her, but asking her about getting together Friday night for dinner.

  He’d watched his inbox all day but nothing had come back from Phoebe, nor had she returned any of his phone calls.

  That afternoon, after he’d saved the final version of a song called A Falling Out With You and closed up his studio for the day, he rang up Juliette for advice. “I know I’m probably being pushy about this, but I have a strong sense of urgency in my heart, Jules. I can honestly say it’s no longer about me getting relief from the burden of my guilt and shame—God freed me up from that long ago—but I really sense that Phoebe needs to hear me say I’m sorry and to ask her forgiveness.”

  “I do think you’d be wonderful together, even if you only end up as friends—I’ve thought of little else since you told me, Trevor—but I think you’ll need to tread really carefully right now.” Juliette sounded weary over the phone, or worried perhaps. “But you should know that she’s in one of her moods. She’s not talking to anyone right now, so don’t be discouraged if she doesn’t respond the way you’re hoping.”

  “One of her moods? What does that mean?” Had he set her off? Had she remembered who he was and withdrawn again the way she’d done almost fourteen years ago?

  “It’s hard to explain. She does this every once in a while.” Trevor could hear a tapping sound in the background; he must have caught her still at work. “She’s typically so easy going and cheerful—if a bit in your face—but I think half the time it’s not how she genuinely feels.” Juliette stopped typing and breathed out a long sigh. “I have a feeling it might be pretty exhausting, so she shuts down and goes off the radar for a few days.”

  “Off the radar?” Trevor grimaced; he was turning into her echo.

  “Yeah. No phone. No email. Sometimes when she does this, she won’t even answer her door, even though we know she’s home.”

  Now it was Trevor’s turn to be concerned. He picked up a rubber stress ball he used to exercise his hands and squeezed it several times. He’d gone through a season in his life when he’d behaved similarly, right after his encounter with Phoebe when he’d been so awash with shame and guilt. He’d continued to work at the church as though nothing had changed, as though the world was still at his beck and call, when all the while, under his beach boy smile and waffle weave polo shirts, he felt like the walking dead. On his days off, he’d close himself up in his apartment, not seeing or talking to anyone, sleeping longer and longer hours. He stopped reading his Bible when he was alone, stopped praying, stopped talking to God altogether. And it was during that year, as his mind became less and less occupied by things of God and more and more occupied by matters of self-loathing and self-indulgence, that Trevor opened the door to the swirling vortex of pornography.

  Until one day, he’d fallen on his face before God. He stopped asking God to help him find Jo so he could make things right. He stopped asking God to help him not visit the porn sites anymore. He stopped asking God to fix everything back to the way it was.

  Instead, he asked God to forgive him for being so self-centered, for playing God, and for representing Christ so falsely. And he asked for wisdom and the courage he’d need to do what he knew was right, and then he went to the leaders of the church where he worked, explained what had been going on and repented of his sin. He’d then resigned his position as youth intern and had accepted a referral to counsel with a couple from another church. “The problem with resigning right now is that you will also lose all accountability,” the pastor had explained when he insisted Trevor get counseling. “We understand if you want to step back or even away from this job and church, but we implore you to plug in somewhere else.”

  Trevor had, indeed, plugged in somewhere else. He’d met with Tom and Michelle Peterson who’d introduced him to Victor Jarrett as an accountability partner, and the two had been like the brothers neither had ever since.

  “How long does the whole off the radar thing usually last?” he asked.

  He thought he could hear the frown in her voice. “Actually, it’s been longer than normal for her. And at such a
weird time, too. No one has seen her since the hospital room early Sunday morning right after Tim got there. She group-emailed the whole family on Wednesday to say she was sick and didn’t want to spread germs, but we all know it’s a cover. Phoebe doesn’t get sick.” A moment later she added, “Maybe sick at heart….” The sadness in her voice was too heavy and the words drifted into silence.

  “What’s going on?” Trevor asked, but as much as he might want to deny it, he thought he already knew. Whatever had happened to Phoebe’s baby, Phoebe no longer had the child. Maybe being around a newborn was more than she wanted to endure.

  “Would she open the door for me?” he asked. He’d called twice and emailed, too, letting her know he wanted to see her. He knew it would be pushing things with her, but if what Juliette was saying was true, and if what he thought was going on was correct, he may be the only person Phoebe could talk to. He might be the only person in her life who knew about her own baby.

  “I don’t know, Trevor.” She sounded doubtful, but she spoke slowly, as though carefully considering. “We’re really worried about her, but Granny G has insisted that we not force her right now. She claims she doesn’t understand the why of it, but Granny G says my dad used to have to take alone time to process things and she thought perhaps Phoebe was doing the same. She likes to say, ‘Birth and death always gives us pause to think.’” Juliette released a puff of breath into the phone. “It’s been more than a pause, that’s for sure. She hasn’t even seen the baby yet.”

  That last sentence was all the confirmation he needed. “Do me a favor, will you? Are you heading over to Vic’s when you leave the office?”

  “I’m closing up as we speak. He’s meeting me at my place. My neighbor, Mrs. Cork—Mr. Bobo’s mom—is having us over for dinner.”

  “Yes. I’ve met her at church when she comes with you, right? Does she know Phoebe?”

  “She does. And she thinks Phoebe is divine. Her word.” Juliette chuckled, easing Trevor’s mind a little.

  “Perfect. Here’s my favor. Would you three cover Phoebe and me in prayer tonight? I’m going to clean up and head over there. Something you said has me believing she may need to hear from me sooner than later. I have to at least try.”

  Juliette hesitated. He couldn’t hear anything on the other end of the line, so he continued. “I won’t force anything on her, don’t worry.”

  “You know what, Trevor? I trust you. I trust that you’ve prayed about this and I trust you when you say you believe you are doing the right thing. I trust you with my sister.” She sighed again—the conversation was rife with sighs. “I just don’t trust her with you.”

  “She already promised my virtue was safe with her.” He grinned, recalling the way Phoebe’s eyes flashed when she teased him.

  “I’m not worried about your virtue, either,” she said, although he thought she might be smiling. “I’m worried about your heart. So I’m going to agree to praying for you and Phoebe tonight. Perhaps not for what you want to see come of this plan of yours, but that God will protect both of you.”

  “I understand. But it’s a plan I believe in, Juliette. I have to try.”

  “It’s a plan I believe is risky. For both of you.” But she agreed he should try, nonetheless.

  Now here he was, preparing for the possibility of a night out with a woman who hadn’t even agreed to speak to him. And suddenly, it seemed like the stupidest plan in the world.

  His phone beeped with a text message alert. He snatched it up off the counter; it was only from Vic.

  Praying for you, man. “Be strong and courageous and act; do not fear nor be dismayed, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you nor forsake you until all the work for the service of the house of the Lord is finished.” (1 Chronicles 28:20) Remember: This began in the house of God where you began your service to him. He will see you through until it’s finished.

  Trevor took a deep, steadying breath and filled his palm with shaving cream. He still had time to make it a good week in every way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Phoebe had set aside her paintbrushes almost an hour ago and now worked with the pads of her fingers, the edge of her palm, the ridges of her knuckles, drawing the cobalt and indigo hues together, blending and smearing, the lines curving into broad, sweeping strokes that haloed the bronze and honey flesh tones of the woman on her canvas. A blood red sash draped casually across the woman’s high, small breasts, wrapping all the way around her so the end fluttered gracefully over her groin and thighs in a rather sensual attempt at modesty. Phoebe had painted the woman’s face turned away, as though unaware she was being studied, and the long fingers of one hand splayed across the feminine plane of her flat abdomen.

  This one, the first in the series, already had a name. Scarlet.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Alice Masters, wondering why Cerulean had touched her so. She’d entered an astronomical amount on the painting in the silent auction, a bid no one else even came close to, and Phoebe had just assumed the buyer was some wealthy and eclectic art collector or an equally wealthy donor who needed a charity to contribute to and liked the painting well enough to take it as a reward for their generosity. To learn that it was the wife of a small town grocer who had probably sacrificed at least a little to come up with the funds sat uncomfortably with her…and yet, it seemed fitting somehow, too, that the woman who now had a painting of Phoebe’s sacrifice had surely known sacrifice of her own.

  Would Cal’s wife see—and understand—the passion and pain behind this new series…this extension of that first painting? Had Cal recognized the connection? Had he seen the similarity in the women posing on each canvas—the postures, the lowered eyes, the contours of the face, the neck and shoulders, the presence and wonder of nature in each depiction of a woman in various stages of pregnancy?

  Beatrice Martin’s smoky voice crooned in French about dark nights and secrets hidden in the past, and carrying on, and waiting…waiting…without breaking.

  Phoebe stood back and evaluated the painting—the heavy-handed technique she’d used presented a subtle undercurrent of discomfort and unease so in opposition to the graceful movement of the female form on the canvas. It wasn’t complete; when the oils had set up a little more, she’d come back in with a fine-tipped brush and add defining lines and understated contouring.

  Someone knocked on her door, startling her. She glanced down at her paint-spattered attire and then decided she didn’t care. “Tant pis!” she muttered her frustration in French. “I’m an artist and this is how I do art.” She headed for the door, wiping her hands on a paint rag as she went. “You’ll just have to deal with it,” she declared to whoever was on the front porch. At least she was no longer crying, too. The finger-painting had soaked her anguish up right through her fingertips.

  Another knock, this one a little more insistent.

  “Coming!” she called out over the loud music, not happy about being disturbed while the muse still lingered. “Give me a second!” She marveled at how much paint she’d gotten on her hands, on the long once-white smock she wore to protect her clothes. A streak of sienna was smeared across the top of her right foot.

  She yanked open the door…and froze.

  Trevor Zander. Looking for all the world like he’d just showered and shaved and was ready to preach a Sunday sermon to a world of sinners.

  She slammed the door so quickly, she almost caught the hem of her smock in it. The air rang with the sudden and intense silence, and then her heart started up again, her pulse pounding like a kettle drum between her ears. Why, oh why hadn’t she looked through the peephole first?

  Her hands flew to her hair, smoothing it away from her face, but it was too late. He’d already seen her looking like something the cat dragged in. Thank goodness she’d changed out of her pajamas today…although, her sleepwear would class her up considerably compared to what she wore under the paint-splattered smock. Old gray leg
gings with frayed hems, an over-sized Mid-U tee shirt Juliette had left on accident a couple years ago, her hair piled in a loose knot on top of her head, the stray curls that insisted on falling around her face held at bay by a red paisley bandana wrapped biker-style around her head. No makeup, no jewelry, no shoes, and slouchy socks to boot. Nice.

  What in the name of all that was good and holy was Trevor Zander doing here? On her doorstep? Had one of her sisters sent him to check on her? But why would they do that? Why not just come themselves? She couldn’t begin to imagine his reason for being outside her front door.

  She waited, wondering if he’d just go away.

  Nope.

  “Phoebe? I’m sorry to just show up like this, but I tried calling. I emailed, too. I didn’t know how else to get a hold of you.” He cleared his throat; she heard it even through the heavy door. He sounded nervous—and well he should be! “I really want to get together with you, and I was hoping—well, I was hoping at the very least that you’d be home tonight so we could connect.”

  What was he going on about? Phoebe frowned and shook her head, completely vexed at his presence, his presumption, and most of all, his faultless appearance in the face of her disarray. She couldn’t think what to say to him. She was at a complete loss for words.

  “Phoebe?”

  She would not open the door to him, that was for sure. But she couldn’t just pretend she didn’t know he was out there. On the other hand, if she simply ignored him, he’d get the message and leave, wouldn’t he?

  “Look, I know this is not the way to go about doing this, but I—well, it’s kind of urgent that we talk.” His voice had dropped, but it came through clearer. He must have stepped closer; maybe he was even trying to speak through the peephole!

  Hadn’t he seen the way she looked? Wasn’t it more than evident that she was in no condition to receive company? To talk? And what woman in her right mind would open the door to a practical stranger who stood on her doorstep begging to be let in? Like the big bad wolf. The thought made her snicker, and she quickly covered her mouth, hoping he hadn’t heard.