by Janette Oke
Marty nodded and managed a smile. “Prayin’? Thet seems to be all yer pa an’ I do. Sometimes even in the middle of the night we spend us time a prayin’. This has been hard on yer pa. I worry ’bout him sometimes.”
Marty stopped and Belinda reached out again to take her hand. She worried about both of them. She had never seen anything as difficult for Clark and Marty as the rift in the family circle.
The meetings began with the special speaker in the small country church. Arnie went to the first meeting and then declared himself too busy to go back on successive nights. Anne could go if she wished, he said, but he had other things he needed to do.
But Luke went. Every night he could possibly get away—even on those nights when his doctoring duties made him late for service—he rushed to finish his work, dressed quickly, and went to join the others. He had been feeling a “dryness”—a need for spiritual refreshing. The strained relationship with Arnie had cut him deeply. He knew instinctively that only God could meet his inner need and, ultimately, mend the broken family relationships.
Eighteen
Changes
As much as Belinda would have liked to do so, she could not avoid either Rand or Jackson. As soon as she was back in town, Jackson was either at the bedside of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth or in the small office where Belinda picked up her nursing needs and left her daily chart.
He always smiled and teased a bit, and asked for dinner dates or evening walks. Belinda put him off the best she could, but she knew that one day soon there would be some kind of showdown if she didn’t escape.
Rand, too, was a problem. Nearing completion on another house, he had hinted once or twice that as soon as it was finished, he would like to begin work on a house of his own. At first Belinda had been surprised, but then it seemed reasonable enough that a builder would make himself a place to live rather than continue to pay rent at the local boardinghouse. She had smiled and commended him.
Then one day Rand followed up on his intentions. “Could I drop by some sketches, so thet ya can do some lookin’?”
“Well . . . I . . . I,” she began, but Rand only smiled and said he’d bring over the sketches the next evening.
Belinda went to work the next morning feeling desperate. Had Rand really meant what she feared he might? Had she been giving him the wrong impression? She hadn’t intended to. She needed . . . she desperately needed some time away from all this.
She pushed her troubled thoughts aside as she entered her patient’s room. She did not wish to bother Mrs. Stafford-Smyth with her problems. “Ya look very chipper this mornin’,” she informed her charge, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth responded that she was feeling much improved, too.
After Jackson came and had completed his regular morning check, Belinda turned to her patient. “I’m going to slip down to the dining room for a cup of coffee with Dr. Brown,” she said very matter-of-factly, though Mrs. Stafford-Smyth smiled knowingly and Jackson gave her a broad grin as he held the door for her.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he noted when they were alone in the hall.
Belinda only smiled. “I’d like a full and honest report on our patient,” she informed him.
“Oh my,” he laughed. “I had hoped that you found my company irresistible.”
Belinda did not say any more about Mrs. Stafford-Smyth until they were seated at a corner table with steaming cups of coffee and fresh morning muffins before them. “Mrs. Stafford-Smyth talks daily about returning to Boston,” she began. “What I want to know is this: is she well enough to travel?”
Jackson’s eyes lit up. “I’m sure that traveling would not in any way be a hazard,” he answered truthfully, then hastened to add, “providing of course, she has able assistance.”
“And would you call me ‘able assistance’?” asked Belinda with a teasing tone.
Jackson set his coffee cup back down and stared at Belinda. “What are you saying?” he asked.
“Mrs. Stafford-Smyth has been after me for some time to travel home with her,” responded Belinda. “I have been puttin’ her off . . . but recently I’ve been thinkin’ it might be a nice change.”
Jackson looked shocked, but he seemed to quickly regain control and even managed a smile. “Perhaps it would,” he answered. “You have been quite . . . quite confined, haven’t you? A little break for you might be nice and then when you return . . .” Jackson did not finish his sentence.
“How long do you think you would be gone?” he said instead. “A couple of weeks?”
“Thet’s . . . thet’s not quite what Mrs. Stafford-Smyth has in mind,” answered Belinda evenly. “She wishes me to stay on as her private nurse.”
Belinda saw the shadow pass over Jackson’s face and linger in the depths of his eyes. “But surely you’re not even considering . . . ?” he began.
“Yes,” Belinda nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“But . . . but . . .” began Jackson, “you can’t be serious.”
Belinda did not waver. “Why?” she asked simply. “I talked to Luke about it last night. He says thet Flo is quite able to handle the office duties now. He said you had been particularly intent on trainin’ her—”
“I was intent on training her,” Jackson said abruptly. “I’ve been most anxious to relieve you of your constant nursing . . . but not so that you could go to Boston. Only so you would be free to consider . . . consider other things.”
The silence hung heavy between them. Belinda, uncomfortable, toyed with her teaspoon, unable to look up at Jackson.
“How long?” he asked at length.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “It depends on how things go. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth has even mentioned my bein’ a travelin’ companion fer her trips abroad—”
Jackson groaned. “After all these years,” he said softly. “After all these years of waiting, and you are asking me to go on waiting while—”
Belinda’s head came up. “No!” she said quickly. “No!”
She looked directly into Jackson’s face. “I have never asked ya to wait, Jackson. Never. Waiting was . . . was yer idea. I’m . . . I’m dreadfully sorry if ya’ve had the wrong . . . the wrong impression about . . . about us. Yer a dear friend, Jackson, an’ . . . I . . . care deeply fer ya, but I don’t . . . haven’t ever meant to make ya think thet . . .”
She stumbled to a stop. Jackson sat before her with an ashen face, saying nothing. He reached a shaking hand up to rub his brow. At length he was able to lift his eyes again to Belinda’s.
She was also sitting silently, the tears unwillingly forming in the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Jackson. Hadn’t planned to do so. She felt heartless, even though she knew the fault was not really hers.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she whispered softly.
Jackson reached across the table and took her hand gently in his. “My dear little Belinda,” he said in not much more than a whisper. “You’ve always tried to tell me . . . haven’t you? But I refused to listen. Refused to believe that it wouldn’t work out . . . in time.” He paused a moment to sort out his thoughts and then went on softly, “Go ahead. Go to Boston. And if you ever get tired of it . . . or if you ever change your mind, I’ll . . . I’ll be here . . . waiting.”
“No, Jackson, please,” broke in Belinda. “Please . . . please don’t wait anymore. I . . . I couldn’t bear it. I . . . I feel thet so much of yer life has already been spent in waitin’.”
Jackson’s laugh was strained, but the sound of it relieved the tension in the air. “You make me sound like an old, old man,” he chided.
Belinda shook her head in confusion and flushed. “Of course I don’t mean thet,” she hastened to say, gently withdrawing her hand. “It’s jest . . . jest . . .”
Jackson nodded, looking as if he truly understood what she was saying. Even that nearly broke Belinda’s heart. Oh, she fervently wished—hoped—he would stop waiting for her and find someone else.
It was no easier breaking the news to
Rand. He had come over that evening with the sketches he had promised. After pouring two glasses of lemonade, Belinda reluctantly followed him, with his sketches, to the picnic table under the large elm trees. Rand spread the drawings out before them.
“I want ya to go over ’em carefully,” he said, excitement in his voice. “Anythin’ thet ya like, jest mark and then we’ll do up another sketch combinin’ it all together.”
Belinda drew in her breath. “I’m . . . I’m really excited about yer house, Rand,” she said slowly, “but I don’t know how much help I’ll be able to give.”
At Rand’s questioning gaze she hurried on, “You see, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth is able to travel now, and she has asked me to accompany her back to Boston.”
“To Boston?” echoed Rand. “Thet’s a fair piece, as I understand it. How long’s it take anyway?”
“Fer the trip? I . . . I’m not sure but . . .”
Rand began to fold the sketches, then changed his mind and spread them out again. “Iffen we have it figured out before ya leave,” he said, “I could start gettin’ things under way whilst ya was gone. Then when ya git back—”
“But Mrs. Stafford-Smyth wants me to stay on,” Belinda admitted hesitantly.
“Stay on? What ya meanin’? Stay on fer how long?”
“In . . . indefinitely,” Belinda said, her voice low.
“But ya didn’t agree to anythin’ like thet, did ya?” asked Rand in disbelief.
“Well, I . . . I said that I would consider it and . . . and recently I have thought thet . . . thet I would like to,” Belinda finished in a rush, her chin coming up.
“But . . . but what ’bout us?” Rand asked hoarsely.
“Us?”
“Us! Our plans?”
“Rand,” Belinda said as softly as she could, “you and I have not talked about any ‘plans.’”
Rand flushed and rustled his sketches. “Well . . . well, maybe not . . . yet,” he stammered. “The timin’ wasn’t right. I had to git me some means first. But ya knew . . . ya knew how I felt about ya. Thet as soon as I was able I’d be askin’ . . .”
Belinda shook her head slowly, her eyes clouded. “No, Rand. I’m afraid I didn’t know. Maybe I should’ve, but I’ve thought of you as a dear friend—”
“A friend?” hissed Rand. Then he drew himself up, a set look on his face. “It’s the doctor, ain’t it?” he insisted. “I knew . . . I knew the minute I saw thet guy he was trouble.” Rand’s eyes sparked angrily.
Belinda reached out to lay a hand on Rand’s sleeve. “No,” she said abruptly. “No.” She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “Jackson has nothing to do with how I feel about you. I . . . I . . . care deeply about you, Rand. If there was . . . anyone . . . anyone I would . . . would like to share a home with . . . it would be you.” Her lips trembled as she spoke. “But I’m not ready. I . . . I’m jest not ready.”
“Yer two nieces have been married fer a couple’a years already,” Rand reminded her, then added almost bitterly, “Seems thet by the time a woman reaches yer age, she should be most ready to settle down . . . to know ’er own mind.”
Belinda turned away. His words seemed unfair . . . even if they were true. Most young women were married before they were her age. She thought of her nieces. By all reports Amy Jo and Melissa were both very happy. Belinda was happy for them. But she wasn’t Amy Jo . . . and she wasn’t Melissa. She still didn’t feel ready for marriage. Or maybe she just hadn’t met the right young man. She didn’t know. She was so confused. Maybe there would never be a young man in her life. Well, that was better than trying to live her life with the wrong one. She turned back to Rand.
“I’m very sorry . . . really. I wouldn’t have misled you for the world. I . . . I . . . you are special to me . . . as . . . a . . . friend. It’s jest . . . jest thet I don’t care in . . . in thet way.”
Rand took Belinda’s hand. But Belinda resisted his effort to draw her toward him.
“Okay,” he finally conceded. “Go ’long to Boston. Guess I can busy myself on another house. No rush on this one. But when ya git back . . . we’ll . . . we’ll talk about it.”
“Rand,” argued Belinda. “I . . . I might stay for a long time . . . several years. I might not ever come back.”
“We’ll see,” said Rand darkly as he rolled up the sketches. “We’ll jest have to wait an’ see.”
“How soon can you be ready to go?” Belinda asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth the next morning.
“Am I being evicted?” the woman asked good-naturedly.
Belinda smiled. “No! I thought ya were anxious to be on yer way home, and I asked Dr. Brown yesterday over thet cup of coffee if ya were ready to travel. He assured me there was no reason for ya to stay on here one moment longer than ya want to.”
By the time Belinda had finished her speech, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was beaming. “And you’ll go with me?” she asked.
“I’ll go with ya,” promised Belinda, feeling much relief in just saying the words.
“And stay?” asked the elderly woman.
“And stay!” responded Belinda. “At least fer a time.”
“Good!” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. She seemed like she was truly looking forward to having Belinda with her. The two of them got on well. And Belinda was surer than ever that she needed a change—as did two young men whose expectations she did not share.
Luke went to the farm for a visit with Clark and Marty. Marty knew the moment she looked at his face that something important had happened, but it wasn’t until they were seated around the comfortable kitchen table sharing their coffee and doughnuts that she dared to comment.
“Ya look like a heavy weight’s been lifted off yer shoulders,” she observed.
Luke smiled. “Not my shoulders—my heart,” he said.
Marty’s face brightened. She knew Luke had attended every meeting he could, staying behind to share in the prayer times whenever possible.
“Those meetings were just what I needed to get things back into proper focus again,” he admitted.
Marty nodded. She had found the special services a time of spiritual encouragement and refreshing, as well. In fact, she and Clark had talked and prayed together one night until near morning, and finally had been able to leave the matter of the family tension in the hands of a masterful God.
“I’m on my way over to see Arnie,” Luke went on, and Marty looked at Clark, hardly able to contain her pleasure. God was already answering their prayer.
“To tell ’im ya forgive him?” she asked quickly, eagerly.
Luke looked surprised. “Forgive? I have nothing to forgive him for. No . . . I . . . I am going to beg my brother to forgive me,” said Luke soberly, and the tears began to fill his eyes.
“But . . . but I don’t understand,” said Marty. “Arnie was angry with you . . .”
“And for good reason,” Luke explained. “I had no business to be butting into Arnie’s life, assuming I knew what was best for his son, demanding he see things my way.” By the time Luke had finished his speech, tears were coursing down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to be arrogant . . . and . . . and self-righteous, but I was. I just hope and pray that Arnie can find it in his heart to forgive me.”
Marty looked at Clark. His eyes were also filled with tears. He reached out and took the slender, strong hand of his doctor son and squeezed it gently. She could tell he was unable to express his thoughts because of his deep emotions.
Marty wiped at her eyes and blew her nose. When she could speak again she took Luke’s other hand. “We’ll be prayin’,” she said. “Yer pa an’ me’ll be prayin’ the whole time it takes ya to talk to yer brother.”
But Clark had found his voice. “I think we should start now,” he stated simply, and after they had bowed their heads together, Clark led the little group in prayer.
Luke and Arnie each talked about the incident later from his own perspective. Both said that the meeting of brother with brother was the most emotional thing
they had ever been through. After Luke’s initial confession and plea for Arnie to forgive him for his arrogance and interference, Luke suggested they pray together. At first Arnie was guarded and defensive, but as Luke began to pray, Arnie, too, was touched with his need to restore his relationships—first of all with his God, and then with his family. Soon he, too, was crying out to God in repentance and contrition.
They wept and prayed together, arms around each other’s shoulders. By the time they had sobbed it all out to God and to each other, they both felt spent but, at the same time, refreshed. Nothing was said about young Abe. Luke knew it was not his decision, and Arnie knew he would need to deal with the matter soon and honestly.
Arnie did not put off the matter of Abe’s arm for very long. In his head he realized that already too much time had passed since the accident, and he recognized and admitted to himself that the arm was continually worsening. After talking it over with Anne, he called Abe to the kitchen where he and Anne sat at the family table.
Arnie swallowed hard. It was not easy for him to speak honestly with his son about a matter that was so painful and had caused so much heartache.
“Yer uncle Luke has been to see us,” he began. When he hesitated, Abe looked from his father to his mother with some fear in his eyes. With effort, Arnie hurried on. “He . . . he’s . . . he’s concerned ’bout yer arm.”
Abe let his glance fall to the offending limb, but his gaze did not linger. Arnie noticed that the boy drew the arm closer to his side.
“Fact is . . . fact is . . .” Arnie found it hard to keep the tears from his eyes and voice. “We’ve known fer some time thet the arm wasn’t healin’ right. Luke tried to tell me . . . but I wouldn’t listen.” Arnie paused to clear his throat and then said, “Luke told me at the time thet ya needed surgery to . . . to right the arm . . . but I . . . I . . .”
But Abe stopped him, his eyes wide with amazement. “They can do thet?”
Arnie looked at the boy, not sure what he was asking.