She stood for several seconds, gazing directly into his eyes. She didn’t smile. She didn’t move. She didn’t tear up. She didn’t even breathe. Then air whooshed from her parted lips. “Let’s eat. After we’re done, I have something to show you.”
9
Marty
Marty carried their empty soup bowls, spoons, and cups to the sink. She returned with a rag and gave the table a quick scrubbing even though neither of them had dripped broth. Not once. With such intense focus on carrying their spoons to their mouths, no wonder. They hadn’t even exchanged a glance after Anthony prayed.
Her stomach whirled, and it wasn’t because of the soup. Stupid emotions, anyway. She’d been counting down the hours until she could open Brooke’s envelope with Anthony, and now that he was here—earlier than expected—anxiety seized her. Get me out of here. The thought or prayer or command, whatever it was, blasted through her mind again as she picked up the sealed envelope from a little basket at the edge of the counter.
She carried it to the table, two handed, pressing it against the modesty cape of her dress. She slid into her chair and then laid the envelope flat on the table. With trembling fingers, she pushed it slightly toward Anthony.
His blue-eyed gaze drifted to the envelope, and a puzzled scowl instantly formed on his face. “What’s this?”
“How should I know?” She winced at her sharp tone. She drew in a calming breath and forced herself to speak evenly. “It came in Brooke’s last letter to me. I didn’t open it because…” She pointed at the message written on the outside. “But now you’re here, so…” Using her fingertips, she pushed it a scant half inch closer to him.
He hitched up on one hip, straightening his leg, and slid his hand into his trouser pocket. He pulled out his pocketknife, opened it, and picked up the envelope. He shot her a questioning look. “Do you want to…”
Could neither of them finish a sentence? She crossed her ankles, slipped her hands beneath her knees, and curled her fingers over the edge of the wooden chair seat. “No. Go ahead.”
With one smooth motion, he used the slim blade to slit the top of the envelope. He took several seconds closing the knife and returning it to his pocket. Marty fidgeted, battling the urge to grab the envelope and empty the contents across the table. But as much as her hands were shaking, she’d probably end up scattering them all over the kitchen. So she waited for him to lift it again and tip it. One gentle tap, and several pages of what appeared to be typing paper plopped out onto the table. Brooke’s neat handwriting filled the top sheet.
“Looks like it’s a really long letter.” Anthony set the envelope aside and pulled the stack of paper close. He looked at her again. The uncertainty in his expression probably matched hers. “Do you want to read it, or should I?”
“Go ahead.”
“All right.” He cleared his throat, as if preparing to deliver a speech. “ ‘Dear Marty and Anthony, you’re probably wondering why I am writing to both of you. Please be patient and you’ll understand by the time you reach the end of this letter. As Marty knows, I started a business called Dreams Realized shortly after I graduated from college. At first, I purchased run-down houses and flipped them. When I’d gained enough capital and a reputation to go bigger, I began purchasing run-down business properties, rebuilding them, and selling them. Each sale netted me a greater profit. I’ve been very successful.’ ”
His eyebrows rose, and he whistled through his teeth. “She’s pretty ambitious, isn’t she?”
Marty nodded. “She didn’t have much when she was growing up. She was always hungry for…something more.”
“Sounds like she got it.”
Material things, yes. But sometimes Marty didn’t believe Brooke was really happy. Not underneath, where it mattered. Something the two of them had in common. She bobbed her chin toward the letter. “Keep going.”
He smoothed the paper with his hand, then leaned close to the page. “ ‘While I built my company, I harbored my personal dream—to retire by age forty, take my hard-won earnings to a beach, and spend the rest of my life enjoying the spoils of my efforts.’ ” Anthony aimed a disapproving frown in Marty’s direction. “She intends to go from industrious to lazy?”
Defensiveness stirred in Marty’s chest. He didn’t know what kind of childhood Brooke suffered. “What does it say in Matthew? ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’ ” Odd how easily the words left her tongue when her heart felt so numb to God and His Word.
Contrition flooded his features. “You’re right.”
“Besides, she isn’t going there out of laziness. She wants peace. She said the sound of the surf is the prettiest sound on earth.” Melancholy struck. The prettiest sound to Marty would be her own baby’s first cry. She hoped at least Brooke could one day enjoy her prettiest sound. She pointed at the letter. “Keep reading, please.”
He bent over the page again. “ ‘Now my latest acquisition offers me the chance to see my dreams realized. I recently purchased a sixteen-acre plot of land in northeast Kansas, less than an hour’s drive from the center of Kansas City. In the 1800s and early 1900s, a bustling town resided there thanks to paddleboat traffic and the mining industry. Thousands of pounds of limestone were carved from the ground and sent to various places to be fashioned into headstones, fence posts, or blocks. Of course, some limestone was kept and utilized in the community. Several buildings still stand in the now-abandoned town—a tribute to the ingenuity of early construction workers.’ ”
Awe bloomed on Anthony’s face. He tapped the page. “This is interesting. Can you imagine building something that still stands more than a hundred years later? The structures my company puts up…they’re well built, with the best materials I can find. But the wood will rot a lot faster than these buildings made of limestone blocks will crumble.” He sighed. “What a legacy those builders left behind. I wouldn’t mind seeing the buildings she’s talking about, examining them and trying to figure out how the long-ago builders put the structures together without the use of modern equipment and power tools.”
Marty stared at Anthony, her heart stuttering. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so open with her. She’d been given a peek at his soul, and it softened her toward him. Bonded her to him. She unlocked her hands from their grip on the chair and brought them up. She grazed his sleeve with her fingertips. “Maybe you’ll get to someday.”
He offered her a quick, sheepish grin. “Maybe.”
She linked her hands on the tabletop. “What else does she write?”
He turned his attention back to the letter. “ ‘Sadly, the Civil War and World War I took a toll on the town, and its population of three thousand dwindled to five hundred. By the early 1940s, the town once known as Eagle Creek was, effectively, a ghost town. The last resident died in 1963, and the town has sat empty, subject to vandals and weather, for several decades. I intend to bring it back to life. A dozen investors have joined with me in seeing my vision for Spalding—yes, I intend to give it a new name—realized.’ ”
Anthony flipped the page over, eagerness lighting his features. Marty found herself watching his face while he continued to read.
“ ‘Its location, nestled near a paved roadway, the Missouri River, and Brush Creek, is an ideal getaway spot. Enclosed you’ll find maps, blueprints, black-and-white photos, and detailed plans—’ ” He lifted the letter and fanned the other pages across the tabletop. He scanned them briefly, his eyes aglow, then jerked his gaze back to the letter. “ ‘—for breathing life into the soulless community. I’ve already arranged for the wells to be unplugged and electrical and gas lines repaired. I’ve hired a landscaping crew from Kansas City to clean up the overgrown trees and shrubs, and a fence builder to enclose the area with a six-foot-tall ornate iron f
ence complete with a coded gate to prevent future vandalism. So restoration has begun, but the most important part of turning this former ghost town into a beautiful resort area lies in securing a construction team. Anthony, I would like to hire you as the contractor to restore Eagle Creek to its former glory.’ ”
Marty gasped. Brooke couldn’t— She wouldn’t— Her thoughts were too scattered to complete. She clamped her hand on Anthony’s wrist and stared helplessly at his stunned face.
Anthony
Anthony gulped. His muscles went weak, and he dropped the letter. Marty’s grip on his wrist was so tight it almost hurt, but he welcomed the reminder of her presence. It kept him from blurting his thought—this friend of hers was a troublemaker, trying to peel him away from his community and everything he held dear. Yet somehow the prospect of restoring buildings that had stood for more than a century, putting his hands to something that would likely stand for another century, intrigued him.
He pressed the page flat against the table and licked his dry lips. His voice sounded like sandpaper on steel as he read the next paragraph. “ ‘I would like to have a team assembled by mid-July at the latest, with a goal of completing the project within eighteen months. This would allow for a New Year’s grand opening. Please examine the enclosed documents. Call me if you have questions. Let me know as soon as possible if you aren’t able to come, because I’ll need to search for a suitable replacement. But’ ”—he paused to let his galloping pulse settle down—“ ‘I want you. I trust you. You’ll find a proposed compensation document in the packet. If the amount isn’t suitable, let’s negotiate.’ ”
Marty let go of his wrist and shuffled through the pages. Her sharp intake of breath signaled when she found the document. She held up the single sheet of paper. Anthony looked at the amount stamped in bold print, and his mouth fell open. Brooke was obviously very successful if she could offer him such a large sum. He’d have to divide it up by eighteen months, figure in salaries for his team and living expenses for his time away, but he suspected his company would receive a more than adequate profit. His concerns about replacing the quarterly tax payment fled, but he chewed the inside of his lip as a new worry struck. Should he leave Marty for such a long time?
A single paragraph on the letter remained unread. He peeled his gaze from the proposed compensation and focused on Brooke’s closing words. “ ‘One more thing, you two—come together.’ ” He jolted and glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to find Brooke there, reading his mind. He zipped his gaze back to the letter. “ ‘If I might be straightforward with you, being apart for that length of time won’t do your marriage any good.’ ”
Anthony grimaced. The short separations hadn’t done them any good. But how did Brooke know that? Maybe he should have asked to read the letters Marty sent over the years. He grunted under his breath before continuing. “ ‘You’ll need someone to cook for you and your construction team. It makes more sense to have Marty prepare your meals than to cater in food three times a day or hire a cook.’ ” He couldn’t argue against her reasoning. “ ‘If you haven’t wadded this up and tossed it aside already, thanks.’ ”
Marty laughed softly and shook her head. “I can hear her saying that.” The fondness glimmering in her eyes both pleased and pierced him. She was feeling. But not for him.
He lowered his gaze to the letter. “ ‘Peruse the project plans. Talk it over. Pray about it, if you want to—seems like that’s something you would do. Then let me know. But I hope you’ll say yes. I want you both to play a role in seeing these dreams realized.’ ” She’d signed it “Love, Brooke,” making the entire thing sound more like a friendly request than a prospective business deal.
Marty was staring straight ahead, lost in thought, so Anthony remained quiet and let his thoughts roll free. The money was tempting. Instantly, 1 Timothy 6:10 blared through his mind—“For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.” He shook his head, sending the reminder away. He didn’t love money. Of course he didn’t. But having it when he needed it, like when he had to make quarterly tax payments, helped a lot. He liked the idea of having extra he could add to the basket when they did their special offering for missionaries. And what if—
He snatched up the compensation proposal, his pulse doubling its tempo. If they kept their expenses to a minimum, could they save enough to apply for adoption? Could this be God’s way of opening the door to Marty and him bringing a child into their home? But a year and a half away from their community, from their house? What about his men? The ones who had families wouldn’t want to be away from their wives and children for so many months, and taking the entire families along would add to their expenses.
Anthony slowly paged through the documents, maps, blueprints, and images Brooke had sent. The photos of the dilapidated buildings and drawings of an artist’s idea of how the town’s main street could look captured his attention even more than the payment proposal. To be able to bring these buildings back to beauty and purpose. This was an opportunity that would likely never come again. But he needed his team. He couldn’t do it on his own. Not in only a year and a half.
As much as he wanted to be part of Brooke’s project, as much as the money appealed to him, he couldn’t say yes. There were too many things in the way. He turned to Marty and started to share his thoughts with her, but she spoke first.
“We have to go.”
He gave a start. “What did you say?”
Slowly she angled her face until she looked directly into his eyes. Moisture brightened her pale blue irises, making them look like dew-touched periwinkle petals. “It’s the first prayer He’s answered in…so long.”
Anthony frowned. She wasn’t making any sense.
She slid her hand across the distance between them and linked fingers with him, something she hadn’t done in more months than he could remember. “Yesterday I prayed. I haven’t prayed in—” She ducked her head for a moment, biting her lip, then met his gaze again. “I gave up praying because it seemed like God wasn’t listening. But yesterday I prayed, a selfish prayer but a prayer all the same.”
He nodded. He understood selfish prayers. “What did you ask for?”
“To get away from here.”
His heart lurched. He tightened his fingers on hers. “Away from me?” The question grated past his suddenly dry throat.
She shook her head hard. “From here. This town. The constant reminder that I’m different from every other woman in our fellowship.”
He sighed. “Marty, I—”
“It hurts so much, Anthony, to see mothers with children, with babies. To encounter women with blossoming bellies.”
He already knew that without her telling him, but at least she was talking. Sharing. Opening up. It was more than she’d done in a long time. So he let her talk.
“So I asked—no, I told God. I told Him I needed out of here.” She gestured to the papers spread over the kitchen table. “And here’s the answer.” The tears swimming in her eyes spilled over and ran in two trails down her flushed cheeks. “Let’s go, Anthony. Let’s go…heal.”
10
Marty
What a foolish notion. If she hadn’t healed in her community, surrounded by the people with whom she worshipped and fellowshipped and worked side by side, how could healing come far away from everything familiar? Yet deep down, the place once known as Eagle Creek tugged at her. Marty swallowed the knot of longing filling her throat and squeezed Anthony’s hand. “Please…”
Anthony grimaced, as if a pain gripped him. “I don’t know, Marty. I’ll admit it sounds like an interesting project.” He ran his fingers over the line drawing of tall, stately buildings with decorative crowns and ornate door and window casings the way she’d seen Dawna caress baby Audrey’s cheek. �
�But would my men want to be away from their homes for so long? And what about our house here in Pine Hill—who would take care of it?”
Marty gazed at the name Eagle Creek written in Brooke’s neat handwriting. A verse tiptoed through the back of her mind. She couldn’t grasp all of it, but she thought it included words spoken by God to the children of Israel. She lurched for her Bible, which still lay at the opposite side of the table where she’d left it Wednesday evening. She flipped to the concordance and searched for a specific word. She released a little gasp when she found what she wanted, and she paged eagerly to the beginning of the Bible. When she located the passage, she turned the Bible to face Anthony.
“Look. Read this.” She pointed to Exodus 19:4.
He frowned, but he leaned forward and read aloud. “ ‘Ye have seen what I did unto the Egyptians, and how I bare you on eagles’ wings, and brought you unto myself.’ ” He lifted his puzzled gaze and met hers. “So?”
Marty huffed. “Eagles’ wings. Eagle Creek. Don’t you see? It’s our place of deliverance.” She couldn’t find the words she needed to explain the feelings coursing through her, but somehow she knew—she just knew—she was meant to go to Brooke’s abandoned ghost town. Something of importance waited for her there. Why else would God have chosen to open a door in response to her plea for escape?
Anthony slowly straightened and dropped one arm over the top rung of the chair back. For long minutes he sat motionless, silent, his brows pulled low. Then, without a word, he jerked his face toward the clock hanging on the soffit above the sink. “Seven twenty…Is the time the same in Kansas?”
Marty stacked her hands on her bodice. Her heart pounded so hard she felt the beat against her palm. “No, it’s an hour behind us. Why?”
He shifted her Bible aside and began leafing through the papers Brooke had sent.
Ours for a Season Page 8