by Gayle Roper
“Come on. Give it to me.” Mom wrapped her arms around the bag.
“No.” Abby twisted to pull the bag free, and a spasm of pain shot across her lower back. It was enough to steal her breath and make her leg buckle. She leaned against the car for a minute, eyes pinned on her mother, daring her to try and take the bag. She blinked back the tears and told herself pain was all in the mind. She forced herself to walk to the steps, put a hand on the banister, and started pulling.
She pictured Helene the physical therapist standing at the top of the stairs calling, “Push through, Abby. You can do it. Just push through the pain! You did it before. You can do it again.”
After forever she reached the kitchen, put the food in the refrigerator or freezer, and folded the bag. She slid it neatly into the opening by the refrigerator where she’d decided to store such items. She said not a word to her mother who was unloading the two bags she’d carried. Abby knew there were more bags in the car’s trunk. She also knew she couldn’t handle the steps again, not when it was all she could do to simply stand.
She walked down the hall to the bathroom and rummaged through her bottles and vials for the strongest pain medication she had. She dropped two tablets into her hand, downed them with a glass of water, and went to her room without saying good night. The medication soothed the pain, but it was still a restless night.
It was barely past sunrise when she dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and slipped out of her room, taking care not to waken her mother. Picking up her Bible, she went out to the porch. She’d planned to sit at the table reading and praying, but the water called her name.
When she reached the edge of the dry sand, she sank down in the beach chair she had brought along. It was one of the low chairs, just a few inches off the sand. It was the best she could manage with her Bible in one hand, the chair in the other, and no hands left for her cane. She’d just have to struggle when it was time to rise, hoping and praying she didn’t twist her back again. It was either manage to get up or crawl back to the house.
Wouldn’t Mom like that.
Abby stared at the waves, soothed by their movement and sound, marveling at the contradiction they were: constant yet always changing. Sort of like life. Even when someone died, life went on for all those left behind. A different life certainly, but still the constant of breath in, breath out, the ceaseless churning of the mind absorbing information and spitting out conclusions, the inevitable complications of people touching your emotions, your heart.
Oh, God, what do I do about Mom? I love her. I do. But she’s wrong about my frailty. I admit I’ve got problems, dear Lord, lots of them, but I’m not weak. I’m ignorant, confused, uncertain, hurting, but I am not fragile. I refuse to be fragile. Knowing You makes me strong. You can even make me wise. Oh, Lord, please do!
She opened her Bible to Psalm 102 and read the comforting words. “Hear my prayer, O LORD; let my cry for help come to you. Do not hide your face from me when I am in distress. Turn your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly.”
Turn Your ear and answer, Father. There’s the matter of that note. Why does someone dislike me enough to write something ugly like that? I don’t understand it.
She flipped back several chapters to Psalm 54. “Hear my prayer, O God; listen to the words of my mouth. Strangers are attacking me; ruthless men seek my life—men without regard for God.… Surely God is my help; the Lord is the one who sustains me.”
Strangers are attacking, Lord. Protect and sustain me. Restore my memory. Let me be able to help by remembering Karlee’s accident. And when I get all upset about not remembering, calm me down.
She turned to Psalm 94, a favorite during her long recuperation. She needed the assurance of its promises again. “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O LORD, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.”
Abby leaned forward in her chair, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees as she wrapped her arms about her legs. Her struggle with her mother felt like the stuff of epics. The hit-and-run and the note felt like acts in the eternal drama of good versus evil.
In contrast, last night’s debacle had been pure farce. There was nothing noble about it. Just thinking about it made her flush scarlet even as she had to giggle yet again at Lane’s expression when the paint hit. She knew she could never face the married Winslows again. She even wondered how she could look Marsh in the eye after her performance.
“Hey, Abby.” As if thinking of him had conjured him up, Marsh appeared at her side with two mugs of coffee. He held one out to her.
“Hi.” She took the mug, studying the scene of Seaside’s boardwalk printed on it rather than look at him. It amazed her how important this man’s opinion of her had become in such a short time. It actually scared her that he might think her an idiot.
Marsh sank to the sand beside her low-slung chair. He too studied his mug. Then he looked out to sea. “I must apologize to you.”
Startled, Abby turned to him. “You? I was the one—”
“For Lane.” He took a sip. “I’m sure you heard her nasty remarks.”
“You mean cripple?”
He nodded.
“And slumming?”
He sighed. “I thought so.”
“I also heard how shocked your father was, and I heard you tell her to be quiet.”
Marsh’s mouth quirked sardonically. “As I recall, be quiet is too polite for what I said.”
She found she could smile too.
“Of course you more than got back at her.” Marsh looked at her over the rim of his cup, eyes twinkling.
Abby squeezed her eyes shut as if she could block her mind-reel from replaying the scene. “I didn’t do it on purpose. You do know that?”
“Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t. First off, you’re too nice, and secondly, no one is clever enough to time something like that to the precise second.”
“I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“Probably not.” Then his mouth started to twitch. He fought it a minute, gave up, and smiled broadly. Then he started to laugh, great gusts of hilarity escaping him. “She ran into the bathroom, threw her clothes in the wastebasket, and climbed into the shower. She was there so long I thought she’d scrub her skin off.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Then she wrapped herself in a huge beach towel and ordered my father to find her some clothes.”
Abby could imagine Lane, eaten with anger, stalking about the apartment, her hair wet and dripping, her makeup gone. “What did he do?”
“He didn’t know what to do. I gave her a pair of my shorts and a T-shirt to wear home. She took the shirt but refused the shorts. She pulled her slacks out of the trash.”
“Were they wrinkled?”
“Very. Now why does that make you smile?”
Abby slapped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head. “It’s too catty of me. I hope it wasn’t a favorite shirt.”
“Nope. I knew I’d never see it again.” Marsh sifted sand through his fingers. “You were right, you know. Poor Dad. Lucky me.”
Abby looked at him closely. “You don’t mind that you lost her?”
“It’s a bit awkward that she’s married to my father—”
“I would think that’s an understatement.”
He nodded. “But I thank God every day that she’s not my wife.” He looked at her and gave a shy half-grin. “Especially recent days.”
Abby flushed and ducked her head, pleased beyond reason at the comment. She looked out to sea and drank her coffee.
“What about you, Abby? Do you still miss Sam?”
It was Abby’s turn to hide her nervousness by playing in the sand. “It’s sad, but I don’t miss him anymore. I feel bad about that. He was a nice man, and he deserves to be missed. Now Maddie.” Her throat closed; she had to clear it before she could go on. “I’ll miss her until the day I die.”
Marsh reached out and took her hand, and at once she
felt comforted. They sat in silence for a minute, neither making any move to unlink their hands. Then he asked, “Can you tell me about Sam?”
Abby took a deep breath. “He was a strong personality. He was also very good looking, very charming. I was eighteen when I met him, and I was bowled over. I found it amazing that he was taken with me and comforting that he always knew what was right for me, for himself, for the world. Life didn’t look so frightening with him there to solve all the puzzles and answer all the questions.”
“Your parents liked him?” Marsh asked.
“They did. They felt he would take good care of their baby girl. We married the day after I graduated. The first couple of years I was very happy. Cozy. Sam was attentive and kind. Then as I slowly began to think for myself, he felt threatened. As my relationship with the Lord deepened and matured, he felt uncomfortable. It upset him that I thought things or wanted to do things he didn’t. I’m not certain why. I wasn’t trying to undermine him or his position.”
“Maybe he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. Maybe he needed you as his acolyte, not his equal.”
She thought about Marsh’s comment for a few minutes but couldn’t decide whether she agreed or not. “Maybe. Who knows? I do know that we would have stayed married in spite of the tensions. We wouldn’t have been joyously pleased with each other, but we wouldn’t have been seriously displeased either. There never would have been cause for divorce.” She waved her hand in a vague circle. “And who knows—he might have changed, loosened up.”
“I’m sort of surprised your mother liked him.” He made the comment warily, like he wasn’t sure what her reaction would be.
Abby grinned. “You’re thinking of how fond she is of you.”
“Yes, though I don’t think fond is quite the right word.”
“She liked Sam a lot. It hurt her terribly when he died.” Abby stared at their clasped hands. “I think what she liked most was that he would keep me the pliant, pleasant daughter I’d always been.”
“Who wants pliant?” Marsh gave her hand a squeeze. “Though pleasant can be very nice.”
She screwed up her face, contrite. “Pleasant seems to have gone missing lately. I lost my temper at Mom again last night.” It felt like a confession.
He studied her face. “Why?”
“Aren’t you going to tell me how terrible I was and quote, ‘Honor your father and your mother’ at me?”
He shrugged. “Maybe sometime later when I find out what happened, but right now I’d like to know why.” He took her empty cup from her hand, setting it in the sand. “I figure you feel guilty enough without my help.”
She studied his profile as he twisted the mug back and forth in the sand, drilling it deeper with each twist. “You’re a very nice man, Marsh Winslow.” It was as close as she could come to articulating how much she appreciated his assumption that she had a good reason or at least some reason for her behavior.
He just smiled and waited.
“She was taking over again. She wanted to pay for all the food.”
“And you didn’t want her to?”
“It’s my house. I’m the hostess. I buy the food.” Her voice was dogmatic and more than a little defensive. She waited for his rebuttal.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” he said, completely disarming her.
But there was more to confess. “Then she didn’t want me to carry any of the grocery bags upstairs.”
He raised a finger. “Let me guess. You insisted.”
“I grabbed the bag away from her when she reached for it.” Abby grimaced. “Sort of like a mad little kid yelling, ‘It’s mine!’ ”
He tilted his head, eyeing her. “But you very much regret behaving like that.”
“I do. I really do.” She was so thankful he understood. Here she’d told him she’d been a rude idiot, and he still held her hand. No doubt about it, he was one in a million.
He smiled at her with a special warmth that made her chest tighten. “In fact,” he said, “I admire you greatly for standing up for yourself.”
She loved him; she knew it. Anyone who thought her a reasonable, thinking woman capable of wise choices was without doubt the man for her.
“Believe me,” he said. “I know how hard it is to go up against a strong parent.”
Abby nodded. Senator Winslow was like a steamroller flattening anyone who got in his way or who disagreed with him. Except Marsh, who had stepped onto his own path and made his own choices.
“When I told Dad I wasn’t going into politics, he was very unhappy. He had always wanted me to follow in the family business. When Lane came along, obsessed with the same idea, he became even pushier. I took a year off from graduate school to campaign for him in the last election, and I did very well. I even enjoyed it. He thought he had me. So did Lane. When I said I still planned to go to seminary and hoped to teach there as a career, Dad was furious. Not only had I defied him, I had also become too religious, an embarrassment.”
“But you stood firm,” Abby said, proud of him for his courage. “You held your ground.”
“Because I knew what God wanted of me, and I was committed to follow Him wherever He led.”
Abby heard the pain in his voice. “Following the Lord cost you your relationship with your dad, didn’t it?”
“To a large degree. I disappointed him terribly. Then he married Lane, and that strained things to the breaking point.”
“So he lost you by his own choice and gained Lane.”
“That’s about it. She’s added a whole layer of difficulty to an already complicated situation.” He looked lost. “I hate it. I miss him.”
Abby reached out, laying her free hand on his cheek. “I wonder if he has any idea what a genuine treasure he threw away when he settled for that counterfeit brass ring.”
“Excuse me.” The voice intruding was cool to the point of chilling.
Abby jumped, dropped her hand from Marsh’s cheek, and spun to see her mother standing behind her. “Mom, you startled me!” She tried to slip her other hand from Marsh’s, but he tightened his grip until she could escape only by making a scene.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said pleasantly.
“You might think about getting ready for work rather than wasting time sitting on the beach,” Mom said without looking at Marsh. “I have your breakfast on the table.”
Abby looked at her watch and blinked. “I had no idea it had gotten so late.”
Marsh stood, reaching out for Abby’s other hand. She offered it, and he pulled her effortlessly to her feet. He stepped close, smiling. “Go ahead, Abby. I’m going to sit here for a few minutes. I’ll bring your chair up when I come.”
With a nod Abby turned to her mother and found her watching Marsh with a cool, almost antagonistic stare. Abby sighed. She and her mother started across the sand together, walking slowly so Abby wouldn’t slip. Halfway across the beach Mom spoke.
“You’ve got to stop meeting that man. He’s all wrong for you.”
Twenty-eight
I UNDERSTAND THERE’s a beautiful new children’s librarian around here somewhere, Miss. Could you help me find her? I think I’d like to check her out.”
Abby spun. “Sean!” She laughed up at the handsome doctor. “What are you doing here?”
Standing next to the small tables and chairs made Sean Schofield look even taller than he was. His navy slacks and navy plaid shirt made the gray at his temples stand out against his tan face. No doubt about it; he was an impressive man.
He looked around, clearly interested in her little kingdom. “I figured you saw me at work. It’s time for me to see you in your milieu.”
Milieu, Abby thought as she waved her hand toward her work area. He actually said milieu. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that word in a regular conversation before. And he had been impressive before.
“Well, this is it.” She gave him the VIP tour, which took about three minutes.
“I like the
se best,” he said, sitting down in front of one of the computers. He clicked the mouse to begin a new game. His concentration was intense, and he smiled every time the computer said, “You’re so smart.”
“Not too hard for you, was it?” Abby asked with a laugh when he finished.
“Nah. I went to kindergarten on a scholarship.”
With no warning a little redheaded boy sitting at a nearby table with another boy jumped to his feet. “You stink!” he yelled at his friend and grabbed his blue chair. “Youstinkyoustinkyoustinkyoustink!” He lifted the chair over his head, clearly planning to bring it down on his friend’s head.
Abby threw herself across the table, grabbing the boy about the waist with one arm and the chair with the other hand. She spun him away from the table and felt his body vibrating with intense emotion. His breathing was harsh, fierce. She held his back to her front and talked softly into his ear.
“Put the chair down slowly, okay? That’s a boy. Slowly. Slowly. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“Yes, we do!” he cried even as he lowered the chair. “I want to hit him!”
The chair’s chrome legs touched the floor, and Abby put her hand over one of the boy’s where it held the chair. “Let go of the chair, okay? Just open those strong fingers and let go. That’s right. Let go. That’s the way. Good.”
She could feel the boy still shaking, but it wasn’t the wild, uncontrolled vibrating of a couple of minutes ago. She thought it safe to release him around the waist, but she wasn’t willing to let him go completely. He still felt like a ticking bomb.
She slid her arm from about him, and when he tried to bolt, she grabbed his hand. “Come on. Let’s sit over here and talk.”
She led him to a pair of little chairs in front of an aquarium and gently pushed him down into one. She took the other, still holding his hand. “I’m Mrs. Patterson. Who are you?”
The boy mumbled a name as he stared at his feet. He tried to break her hold on his hand but couldn’t no matter how hard he pulled and twisted. She hadn’t taught elementary school all those years without learning a trick or two about restraining recalcitrant children.