by Juliette Fay
“When I am lost and weary, Lord, you make for me a shelter of your love,” sang the cantor, the notes trailing sweetly over the congregation. Janie slid her hand along the pew bench to Tug’s. So grateful, she thought, as their fingers laced together.
Everyone rose when Father Jake read from the Gospel of Matthew:
And on entering the house, the Magi saw the child with Mary, his mother. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
When Father Jake closed the book and set it aside, everyone took their seats again and he began his homily. He spoke about the readings and the incalculable impact the birth of this one child had on the course of history. He was somewhat scholarly, but sprinkled in a humorous comment here and there for the purpose of retaining some, though certainly not all, of their attention. He took a breath, and Janie supposed that he would wrap things up and move on to the consecration. But instead he did something his parishioners rarely experienced from him. He began to speak in the first person.
“What I find myself marveling at is that men came from so far away to find a tiny baby. No one else seemed to anticipate this momentous event, except for a mere three people, foreigners from the East. This story would have been shocking to the Jews who were hearing it. The first people to believe in the miracle of Jesus were not Jews! They were not even neighboring Gentiles. They didn’t have the same skin color or customs or worldview. They were the most unlikely sources of grace imaginable. Yet grace Him they did, with their gifts and, more importantly, with their faith in him.
“Why is that? What does it mean? And who are their present-day equivalents? Who are the unexpected people who show up from time to time in our lives, bearing rare and valuable gifts? Who goes far out of their way to reach us? Who are those unlikely souls who seem to understand what a miracle each of us is?”
Father Jake stopped for a moment, presumably to allow the congregation to ponder these questions. But Janie sensed that he wasn’t really aware of what was before him, people clustered on wooden benches, some listening intently, some politely waiting for Communion, some impatient for the service to be over. He was pondering the questions himself, in the silence of his own solitary world. Then he went on.
“The Magi in my life have always surprised me. They have often been people I initially felt I had nothing in common with. Sometimes I didn’t even like them. But they came bearing gifts. Of wisdom, of acceptance. One or two came to give me a kick in the pants.”
The congregation, many of whom had tuned in at this unexpectedly personal turn in his comments, chuckled appreciatively.
“And some left as suddenly as they had arrived. They returned to their respective homelands or continued on their own journeys. I miss some of them.” He smiled to himself, as if some private memory had interrupted his thoughts. His eyes flicked up, scanned the crowd for a moment, and lit for the briefest possible moment on Janie, then quickly darted away. “But we all have to find our way toward whatever miracles await us. And to perform miracles, when it’s in our power to do so.
“Maybe the most important question is: how do I serve as Magi for others? How generously do I give my gifts—and not just to the obvious recipients in my life? How far out of my way do I go to recognize and pay homage to miracles? Not very far some days. But on good days, just far enough.”
A FEW DAYS LATER, an idea came to Janie that was so strange she had to push it away for a while. But it returned to her over and over, at odd times, such that it became familiar, if not any less unorthodox.
“Could you take the day off on Monday, the fourteenth?” she asked Tug one night as they unloaded the dishwasher.
“The anniversary of Robby’s death.”
“Yeah.”
“It’d be understandable if you wanted some space,” he said.
“I don’t want any space. I need your help.”
She told him her idea, and it took him a few minutes to digest. Then he shook his head. “Janie, girl,” he said. “You are something.”
She called Aunt Jude and then Emmett’s sister Fran. When they regained their composure, they agreed.
MONDAY, JANUARY 14
It’s a lot colder here on the Cape than it was back in November. But it was sunny today, and we were prepared with warm clothes and blankets. It’s such a relief not to be in Pelham. Not to be thinking unbearable things like “I was probably sitting in this very chair when it happened.”
I’m glad I thought to bring Aunt Jude. Robby’s death happened to her almost as much as it happened to me, just by virtue of how much she loves me. And she keeps things from getting too quiet. She has a knack for that.
It was good to be by the ocean. Emmett and I sat next to each other in our beach chairs. He looked at his watch a lot, and I knew what he was doing, but I didn’t try to stop him. I’m sure I couldn’t have, anyway. Dylan wore his swim goggles. Everyone has their way.
And then Emmett took my hand, and I knew that was the moment, a year ago, when it happened. I squeezed his worn old hand, and we cried.
A million things went through my head. Malcolm and his sister. Uncle Charlie holding his newborn baby. My mother and her quilting squares. Too many memories of Robby to count.
Fran held Emmett’s other hand. Carly sat with Aunt Jude and played with her jewelry. Dylan climbed into my lap and we rocked. Tug stoked the fire, but then he went still for a while, gazing out at the ocean.
We’re all on loan. The only thing that makes sense is to be together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THREE WOMEN HELPED ME grow this novel from its seedling days, reading it as I wrote it and handed it to them in chunks that sometimes ended mid-scene. Alison Bullock, a talented author, taught me many things, including that if I am going to break the rules, I should know what the rules are. Her collegial generosity was boundless. Megan Lucier put up with me taking more than my share of airtime to discuss this book during our weekly walks. Her edits often ended with highly motivating remarks such as, “GIVE ME MORE, NOW!” Catherine Toro-McCue, who has known me the longest, was the most surprised at the odd and sometimes bizarre inner workings of my imagination. She also came up with the most interesting questions.
Emi Battaglia, Ruth Sullivan and Liz Welch offered good advice and were generous with their contacts, even without knowing me well. Their willingness to give an unknown novice a leg up was very encouraging. Dan Greenwood, a contractor friend, gave me a tutorial on porch building. All factual details are to his credit; anything that sounds like faulty construction is my mistake. Amanda Demersky was my respiratory therapist reference and gave me excellent words like “tachypneic” to work with.
Jih-ho Donovan put me in touch with her sister, Mih-ho Cha, who gave me some very fortuitous advice in sending me to Theresa Park of the Park Literary Group. I think of Theresa not only as my Fairy God-Agent, but now also as a friend. No new author could ask for a better guide through the strange wonderland of the publishing industry.
Executive Editor Lucia Macro has been wonderful to work with. Enthusiastic and responsive, she was spectacular at figuring out what was missing. It’s a better story thanks to her.
My father, John Dacey, a prolific nonfiction writer, read the finished product and gave it the thumbs-up, as did my friend Anne Kuppinger. Anne and my brother-in-law Paul Allen became delightfully, almost compulsively, involved in trying to come up with a good title for this story. Paul sang me songs over the cell phone on occasion.
Kristen and Keiji Iwai, my sister and brother-in-law, gave me the benefit of their vast professional knowledge by coaching me on photographic suggestions for the book cover.
I also received invaluable help with publicity, not to mention rock-solid confidence in my eventual success, from my great friend Julia Tanen.
My children, Brianna, Liam, Nicholas and Quinn, received somewhat less than all of my attention and mental energy during the writing of this book. Never
theless, they were wonderfully enthusiastic about it. Their interest and pride in my line of work is an unexpected bonus, and highly motivating (especially that dreaded question, “What page are you on?”).
Tom Fay, a man of great honor and kindness, has nonetheless harassed me mercilessly to write something—anything—throughout our eighteen years of marriage. It is to him, to his faith in me, and to his willingness to take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese whenever I needed a few extra hours, that this book is lovingly dedicated.
About the Author
Juliette Fay received a bachelor’s degree from Boston College and a master’s degree from Harvard University. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and four young children. Shelter Me is her first novel.
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BY JULIETTE FAY
Shelter Me
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photographs by Radius Images/Alamy
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SHELTER ME. Copyright © 2009 by Juliette Fay. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061977824
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Juliette Fay
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher