Love in Unlikely Places

by Linda Byler

  “Hurricanes go through here, don’t they? Plenty of carpentry going on.”

  Emma toyed with her drinking straw, watched the swirl of ice in the dark tea, and half wished that a hurricane would come through tomorrow and blow her off into oblivion.

  She ordered a small salad, choked on a slice of cucumber, then laid down her fork and asked to be excused.

  “Emma,” Eva said quickly.

  “I’ll be alright. I’m not hungry. I’ll just find a bench somewhere.”

  “Where will we find you? Do you know your room number?”

  “I have this,” she held up the card that would open the door to her room.

  She made her way blindly across the room, her lifted shoulders and hurried gait giving away the tension of her afternoon. Matt leaned back in his chair, watched her go with eyes that gave nothing away, but Eva saw the twitch of his lips, the downward turn at the corners, and was not surprised when he lifted a blue men’s handkerchief out of his pocket to blow his nose very quietly.

  Emma moved along the sidewalk without seeing, bumped into a lamp post and stopped, a hand going to her forehead. She grimaced at the exploding pain, looked around in embarrassment, hoping no one had witnessed it.

  And then she sat on a bench, overlooking the channel as night enveloped the town by the ocean, the street lights shining their reflection on the dark water. She allowed her mind to become still and quiet before she bent her head to her knees and began to accept the loss of her castle in the air.

  CHAPTER 18

  EVENTUALLY, SHE WANDERED BACK TO THE HOTEL, A SQUARE BEIGE-COLORED structure that rose above the smaller houses of business, the blue neon sign with orange letters erasing the authenticity of the small harbor town.

  She tried to sleep, but her room was stifling, choking out the bit of living breath she had left, so she showered, dressed in a clean blue dress, as light as the sky, twisted her hair into a ponytail holder, and let herself out the door, careful to keep the plastic card in her pocket. She moved across the walkway and down the steps, then out onto the street, now mostly empty. Strangely, she was not afraid, not in this cozy seaside town filled with friendly tourists.

  She walked along the sidewalk, sniffed the salty air appreciatively, then remembered her walk on the beach with Ben, the afternoon and its humiliating aftermath, the dead silence in the truck. For once, Eva had been speechless, and luckily, Elvin kept all his smart remarks to himself. But once she found a park bench beside the water of the bay, she folded herself into it and gave way to tears.

  She cried quietly, reservedly, as if she was afraid to let go, afraid she would howl and wail at the loss of her dreams. What if, though? What if a year went by and Ben saw the error of his ways, repented and came clean, lived with a deep chasm of remorse? Then what?

  She shook off this thought, recognized the tempter’s smooth wheedling tone. Her feet on solid ground now, she realized she’d never be able to trust Ben, even if he were to repent and beg her forgiveness. She could never go back.

  A large white boat came slowly along the channel, lights everywhere, the occupants sprawled on chairs or hanging from the railing, talking and laughing as they moved slowly past, leaving a V of ripples in their wake.

  She wiped her eyes to see more clearly, honked into the soggy Kleenex, then sniffed as someone sat beside her.

  Just stay over there, she thought, as she gave her nose a final swipe. She shivered. It was decidedly wet and chilly, here by the water. She should have brought a sweater. She glanced at the person beside her, surprised to realize it was Matt.

  “Matt.”

  “Thought you might need company.”

  She gave a low laugh.

  “I’m not real good company myself.”

  “I figured.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bent. She saw the glistening light on the wet dark curls. No hat.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she offered.

  “Yeah.”

  She sat back, shoved her feet below the bench and wrapped her arms around her waist, seriously chilled now.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “Getting there.”

  “You want my hoodie?”

  “Then you’ll be cold.”

  He was already on his feet, pulling it off, then turned to hand it to her. She snuggled into it gratefully, wrapped it around herself, lost in the scent of his woodsy, earthy cologne.

  “Better?” he asked, before sitting on the farthest edge of the bench.

  “Definitely.”

  Emma appreciated his silence, his lack of any attempt to entertain or distract her. He merely sat with her, watched the lights on the water, the occasional boat slip past with only a muffled sound of the motor, a small splashing as the water hit the sides of the walkway. The stars were only visible directly overhead, the yellow light from the street lamps effectively dimming them. Behind them, late stragglers made their way to their consecutive rooms or homes, quiet conversation or only the sound of shoe soles on cement accompanying them.

  Emma had no desire to return to the cloying emptiness of her room, or to sit here on either side of a park bench in the damp chill of this unforgettable evening. She told herself sternly that it was time she went home with her family and stayed here, stayed in close proximity to everything her parents had taught her about hard work, dependability, and most of all, to live constantly seeking God’s will.

  Matt cleared his throat.

  “Do you want to talk about it, Emma?”

  She gave a short, harsh laugh.

  “Why would I?”

  “So it was pretty bad?”

  “You saw him with her.”

  There was a dead silence at the opposite end of the bench.

  “You know,” he said finally. “What hurts the most is the sense of betrayal. It’s painful to know how much you love, did love, while the object of your affection tosses that away with the flick of a wrist. Just like that, it’s over, and you realize your love was one-sided, an impotent thing that was never meant to be. You hate yourself for your self-delusion, building air castles in your head. Believe me, I know.”

  Emma crossed her legs, said nothing.

  He continued. “So that said, let me ask you something.”

  She kept her silence intact. One foot bobbed under her skirt, the only sign of life from that side of the bench.

  “Do you believe in an English person being Amish?”

  “You’re not English.”

  “I am not Amish, either.”

  “You were born and raised in an Amish home.”

  “Raised. Not born.”

  “Big difference. You aren’t English, Matt. What our parents instill in our minds and hearts will be there till the day we die, I don’t care how we dress or what we drive or which label we apply to ourselves. It’s a culture, a way of life, a whole heritage that gets into our veins, runs in our blood. We really can’t help who we are.”

  “But what about my lineage? My DNA and all the genes that make a person?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m trying to see if the bridge will hold if I take the first step.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “I know I have no right, with my birth and the way I have been living. I also know it’s too soon. But after this night, I don’t when I’ll see you again.”

  He stopped. She could feel the tension, the line that hummed between them like a live wire. Dangerous and untouchable.

  “But if you will give me a chance to return to my home, to do some serious soul searching, would you ever consider me? I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the camping trip. I told myself to disappear, stay out of your life. But then Eva called, and I’m thrown right back in the ring. I know you have no interest, and would be happy to see me fall off the edge of the world, but I can’t go home without telling you how I feel. You don’t have to say anything now . . .”<
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  When her silence stretched awkwardly, he got up and began to walk way. He reached the sidewalk, turned right before she called out.

  “Matt?”

  He stopped, his back turned.

  “I can’t think straight. Come back? Let’s talk.”

  He came back, sat heavily on the bench, as if his legs would no longer hold him.

  “It’s going to take time.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I know you are. And it’s kind of you to consider my point of view.”

  She gave a low laugh, shook her head ruefully.

  “I know that Ben’s character is too questionable to consider a happy ending, ever.”

  Her voice thickened, caught on a sob. She tried to continue, to tell him the rest of what she was going to say, but found herself in so much misery, the tears unstoppable now. So she got up and started walking, not caring which direction she was headed, or what the outcome would be.

  He caught up with her, walked beside her without speaking, quietly handed her a large blue men’s handkerchief that was infused with the same woodsy scent that seemed to be his trademark.

  She took it gratefully, then stopped.

  “Let’s go back, okay?”

  “Back to the hotel, or the bench?”

  She laughed, then her voice caught on another sob.

  “I don’t know. The bench. I guess. Like two homeless people.”

  “We aren’t exactly homeless.”

  “I know.”

  This time, they did not sit far apart, but side-by-side, for warmth or for comfort, or for the unknown fact they simply needed each other to get through the night. They talked, then, not of the matters of the heart, but mundane subjects that brought a kind of comfort both craved. They talked about the beauty of the ocean, laughed about how odd they must look together to the occasional passerby, told stories from work, their families, their childhoods.

  After a while, there was a lull in the conversation, and Matt cleared his throat awkwardly. “Emma, I have to tell you something.”

  “What now?”

  “There is no Sheila.”

  “What?”

  “I mean there is, but we’re not dating, we never were. It’s like a ‘sort of’ lie. I guess because you were so upset about Elvin and Eva throwing us together. I stretched the truth so you’d be more comfortable. Sheila is an acquaintance, that’s all.”

  He grinned a lopsided grin, and she responded with a small one of her own.

  “It’s not funny,” she said sternly.

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “I am barely smiling.”

  “Look, sometimes a guy has to do whatever it takes, you know?”

  Emma sighed, looked into his eyes to search for hidden guilt or deception, but the only thing in his eyes was the golden light fringed by dark lashes. She wanted to be a little mad at him for lying, but all she could feel was relief that he didn’t have a girlfriend.

  The waters of the channel were as still as glass, the street lamps casting yellow cones of light across the surface. When Matt yawned, then stretched, Emma asked if he thought there might be an all-night coffee place somewhere. He grinned, checked his watch, and told her it was early morning. Another hour and they should have no trouble finding coffee.

  They found a tiny place, with only one square of yellow light from the window, a sign that simply had “Harbor” written in black letters on a blue background. The interior was dimly lit, with one small room that held a scattering of small tables, a high counter which housed a display of what appeared to be pastries. The aroma of fresh coffee was a heady smell that made Emma grab for Matt’s arm.

  “Mmm. Oh my word. This is serious coffee.”

  He grinned at her, then took her hand, squeezed it before immediately letting go.

  “Good morning! How’s it going?”

  “We’re good,” Matt said. “And you?”

  “Lovely. Wonderful. Great day to be here. Coffee?”

  “Two regulars.”

  They bent to survey the pastries, settled on a chocolate croissant and a cheese Danish. Emma was reeling with fatigue, chilled to the core, and wrapped both hands around the large cup of strong coffee and smiled back at Matt.

  “So we’re friends,” she said.

  “We are friends. At least for now?”

  “Remember,” she reminded him. “There’s this little thing called the will of God and we’re supposed to wait till we feel His calling. Or weren’t you serious about remembering your mother’s Bible stories?”

  He toyed with his stirrer before he nodded slowly.

  “Yeah. I am. But I’ve been pretty bitter for a long time. I told you, I’m not sure God will take me back.”

  “Not on your own merit. Jesus is the doorway.”

  “Yeah.”

  His features darkened, as if a shadow had passed over him, a certain weariness to the wide set of his muscular shoulders.

  “I don’t know. Even the name of Jesus is tossed around in the world like any other swear word, so to be . . . I don’t know. My Amish life seems so far removed from . . .”

  He stopped.

  Suddenly, he reached across the table, put his hand on both of hers, his voice catching when he said, “I don’t really know how to do this.”

  “Well, you can’t place me in the spot where Jesus belongs. You have to put Jesus first. You realize that’s why our other relationships failed—neither of us were really seeking God’s will.”

  He gave her a skeptical look.

  “Now you sound like an evangelist.”

  “Maybe. I’m just tired of things not working out, that’s all.”

  “Which means you’re hoping it will the next time?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know if there will be a next time. I need to get some rest. I’m going back to my family and my job and I’m just going to stay put for a while. No more adventures.”

  “Well, then I will do the same.”

  But the coffee shop held an aura of warmth and companionship, if not of romance. When they returned to the hotel to find a frantic Eva knocking on the doors of their rooms, they looked at each other and burst out laughing. “It’s not funny,” she shouted. “Where were you? Elvin is fit to be tied, Elijah is throwing up with the stomach flu, and we need to get on the road as soon as possible. Elvin’s boss says he needs him on a job as soon as he can get back—someone else called in with the stomach bug, too.”

  Anna was glad to have Emma back. She immediately told her about a mouse behind the sink and how the scratching sound was driving her mad. Emma found an old wooden trap in a drawer full of random junk, set it with a dab of peanut butter, and placed it behind the bottles of cleaning products. Anna was relieved, almost excited about the mouse’s upcoming demise.

  “God did not intend for mice to live in the same house as humans, the dirty little rotters.”

  “Oh, but they’re cute. Especially the deer mice, the brown ones with white feet,” Emma laughed, wielding her dustcloth across the top of the hutch in the kitchen. Two small vases held plastic artificial daises coated with a furry layer of dust, which Emma removed, took to the sink, and swirled in the dishwater.

  “Here, now,” came the strident voice from the kitchen chair. “Don’t you break my flowers. My niece gave them to me in September of seventy-nine, for my birthday.”

  Emma assured her they would not break and that they would look like new once they dried. Anna made sure that Emma replaced the stack of Good Housekeeping magazines from the nineties once the area was clean, as there was a recipe in the third one down that she hadn’t copied yet.

  Emma was happy, she realized. She couldn’t understand it, but she was willing to recognize this new sense of joy as a blessing, albeit a mysterious one.

  She still felt the sting of Ben’s betrayal, of her own miscalculation of his character, but in some ways she was glad she had arrived at the beach house right when she did. There could be no do
ubt in her mind now, no second guessing his intentions. No man, of any religion or without it, could justify those actions, so Emma found it easier to dismiss the summer and their brief relationship as one of learning.

  She’d been placed in God’s schoolhouse, given difficult assignments, and through it she was learning more about His plan for her life. More than ever, she felt like she’d been taken under the mighty wings of His love and rest.

  Anna Gibbs was a treasure, with her sweet puckered face and her increasingly humorous view of the world and its inhabitants. Anna knew she could make Emma laugh easily, which really brought her charming sense of humor to life, her little eyes sparkling as she spouted off and waited for Emma’s bubbling laugh.

  The morning was pleasant, the kitchen warm and sunny as the wind battered the brown oak leaves against the side of the white bungalow. The teapot was filled with the black Russian tea, sending out the herbal aroma she had come to enjoy. Emma used sugar, to Anna’s constant chagrin; the old woman would shake her head and saying no real tea drinker took sugar, only milk.

  “Stop, stop,” Anna shouted in her little bird chirp, watching Emma spoon the sugar into a steaming cup.

  “The sugar. You’ll get the diabetes. All you Americans have the diabetes. Too much sugar.”

  Emma was enjoying her morning tea at ten o’clock, the way they always did, and she was not about to drink it black for her sake, and told her so, reaching across the table to touch the arthritic old hands.

  Anna inclined her head, glared at Emma, and said she may as well go stick her head in the sugar canister and start chewing, which brought the results she’d been hoping it would. Emma shook a finger at her, while choking on a mouthful of tea, and Anna’s beady little eyes shone with pleasure.

  Emma worked her way through the small square rooms, washing anything washable in the sink, air drying the items on towels spread on the counter. She wiped and polished, ran the ancient vacuum cleaner that kept making odd pinging noises and spewing dust from places that were supposed to be tight. She shut it off, then peered around the corner to see if Anna was awake. This thing needed serious attention, and it was time Anna realized it.

  But the elderly lady was sound asleep on her recliner, her head resting on a plump pillow on the right side, the television turned so high it was uncomfortable being in the room. Emma walked over and sneaked the remote from her lap, had just found the volume button when she heard a crackly, “Give me that.”