Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Anthony cleared his throat. “Would you mind going to your trailer, Todd? I need a few words with Elliott.”

  Curiosity flickered on the young man’s face, but he nodded and waved at Elliott. “See you later, buddy.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Elliott stared after Todd as if he didn’t quite trust him to leave. When the shadows had completely swallowed Todd, Elliott faced Anthony. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and linked his hands. “Thanks for sticking around. I wanted to…I dunno how to say it…” He hung his head.

  Anthony hoped the man didn’t intend to give notice about quitting. Elliott was a good worker—dependable and uncomplaining. Besides, he suspected Elliott needed to be around folks who treated him like family. “Are you unhappy about something?”

  Elliott’s head rose so fast his neck popped. “No. Not unhappy at all. I…I like it here. It’s peaceful.”

  Anthony nearly sagged in relief. He wouldn’t ask to quit, then. “What is it?”

  Elliott’s gaze flicked from Anthony to Brooke and back. “Well, I wondered if I could maybe”—he fully faced Brooke—“bounce an idea off you.”

  Brooke hunkered farther into the blanket she’d wrapped around herself like a tortilla around fajita fixings. “What kind of idea?”

  Elliott sat straight up on the edge of his chair. “I went to that class last Saturday—you know the one about making stained-glass art—and I did real good at it.” His voice held more excitement than it had the day the men found a dozen bull snakes coiled together under the floorboards in the old chapel. “I only made a little project, something that a person could hang from a hook in the window. Next week’s class we’re gonna make something a little bigger—big enough to put in a frame. I signed up for it, and if I do good with the bigger piece, I was thinking maybe I could make a whole bunch of stained-glass pictures and, if I did, maybe you’d let me sell them in one of the shops you’ll be setting up out here.”

  He shifted his attention to Anthony. “I’d still give you a full day’s work. I could cut and solder pieces of glass in the evenings, after supper. That is”—he zipped his gaze to Brooke again—“if Miss Spalding says it’s okay.”

  Only the top half of Brooke’s head showed above the blanket. She wore a stocking cap almost the same shade of blue as the blanket, and in the glow from the fire the little band of her exposed skin looked stark white. She should go in and rest. She needed to gain strength for the next chemo treatment, the one right before Thanksgiving.

  Anthony leaned forward slightly. “Elliott, how about you let Brooke give this some thought and get back to—”

  “Anthony, how about you let me speak for myself?”

  Marty choked on a giggle, and Anthony bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing. The firm voice coming from inside the blanket tortilla tickled him. Brooke always seemed to prove herself stronger than he expected her to be. He cleared his throat and held his hand toward her. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  She wiggled a little bit, bringing her mouth free of the blanket. “It’s a good idea, Elliott. I have every confidence that you will master the art of stained glass, and stained-glass art pieces are exactly the kind of product I envisioned being sold in the specialty shops.”

  Elliott’s smile grew almost as bright as the embers glowing in the bottom of the fire pit. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Brooke shook her head. “Let me finish.”

  Elliott sank back into his chair. “Okay.” The apprehension on his face matched the niggle of uncertainty in the pit of Anthony’s stomach.

  Brooke pushed the blanket flap down with her chin. “I still have a lot of thinking to do, and even more praying.” She glanced at Marty, and the two of them exchanged a smile. “But there’s a possibility the specialty shops won’t ever open.”

  37

  Brooke

  Brooke hadn’t intended to hint at a change of plans for Spalding until she had everything settled in her mind. She’d shocked Anthony and Marty as much as she’d shocked Elliott, and she regretted it. They deserved better notice than what they’d been given. But she couldn’t allow Elliott to build up a dream that might not come true. The young man had suffered enough hard knocks in life. She wouldn’t deliberately deliver another. She worked her arm free of the blanket and stretched it toward him. After a moment, he reached out and let her give his hand a squeeze.

  “I want you to continue taking stained-glass art classes to hone your skills. It’s never a waste of time to learn something new, and you never know how God will use your abilities.” She wasn’t sure where God was leading her to use her business skills, but something was brewing. The tingle she’d come to recognize as a new idea coming to life had awakened her in the middle of the night twice in the past week. This time, though, she knew the Source of the tingle. She wanted to be ready for whatever door He opened. She gave Elliott’s hand another squeeze. “Don’t lose heart, Elliott, do you hear me?”

  The young man nodded, but his woebegone expression intimated that he’d already lost heart. He pushed up from the chair and ambled to his trailer, his hands in his pockets and his head low.

  She sighed and pulled her arm back under the blanket. The night air seemed especially chilly with the coals dying out. She struggled to her feet. “Thanks for another thought-provoking study, Anthony. You’re a good teacher.” The light beside the Hirschlers’ back door sent out only a dim glow, but she still noted the flush of red staining Anthony’s cheeks. She’d embarrassed him, yet she surmised she’d also pleased him.

  Marty stood and gave Brooke a hug. “Let me walk you to your trailer.”

  Brooke shifted sideways a bit. She’d need to loosen up her wrapping before she tried to go anywhere. Or maybe she could lie down and roll. She and Marty had rolled down a hill or two in their childhood. She smiled, remembering the carefree days. “I’m fine. You two go on—have some alone time. Heaven knows you don’t get much of that with everything else you have to do out here.”

  Anthony rose slowly and pinned Brooke with a serious look. “Will we finish out here? Rebuilding the town, I mean. Have you changed your mind about bringing it to life again?”

  Brooke sighed. “I’m not entirely sure I can change my mind about that. I have a dozen investors expecting the Spalding Resort and Casino to open as planned. But…” The tingle worked its way up her spine and sizzled under her stocking cap. She shrugged. “I want to remain open to…other possibilities.”

  Anthony nodded. “Fair enough.” He slipped his arm around Marty’s waist. “Well, how about we do what Brooke said and—”

  “Miss Spalding?” Elliott stepped from the shadows and into the porch light. The angular lines of his serious face seemed sharper in the dim glow. He held out a fistful of bills. “I want to pay you back for that art class. It’s only right since I might not be making those windows for the chapel after all.”

  Brooke didn’t want his money, but neither did she want to shame him. She understood keeping a grip on independence—she’d never wanted to take anything from anyone, either. She searched her mind for a compromise, and she found one she hoped he would accept. “Elliott, are you familiar with the phrase ‘Pay it forward’?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, how about instead of you paying me back, you use that money and pay it forward instead?”

  His brow crinkled, and his hand lowered. “How?”

  “When you go to Kansas City on Saturday for your next class, try again to find Ronnie. Didn’t you tell me she’s probably hanging around in that area?”

  “Yeah.” He flicked a shame-faced look at Anthony and Marty. “Street kids usually pick a spot—what they consider a safe spot—so it kind of feels like they have a home.”

  Marty released a soft, sympathetic moan, and Anthony visibly winced.

  Brooke sent up a quick prayer of gratitude that despite h
er unhappy home, at least she’d never had to live in an alley. “Would you look for her again? We’ll all”—she tilted her head to indicate Marty and Anthony—“pray you’ll be successful. See if you can talk her into letting you buy her a bus ticket to someplace safe, like a relative’s house or maybe her former foster home. If she refuses, then buy her some groceries, a sleeping bag or heavy coat, things she’ll need to stay warm.” She hoped Ronnie wouldn’t end up spending the winter on the street. “That’ll pay me back. Better yet, it’ll pay me forward. All right?”

  He slipped the crumpled wad into his jacket pocket. “All right. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” She turned to Marty and Anthony. “Can we pray for Ronnie right now?”

  “Sure.” Anthony stepped closer, drawing Marty with him. He looked at Elliott. “Wanna join us?”

  To Brooke’s surprise, the young man strode forward without a moment’s hesitation. They formed a circle and bowed their heads. While Anthony asked God to keep watch over Ronnie and to help Elliott find her, Brooke added her silent prayer for the same thing. Anthony’s voice turned husky as he said, “Prepare a home for Ronnie…and for kids like her…where they’ll be safe and loved.”

  Brooke’s scalp exploded with tingles. She gasped and jerked upright, staring into Anthony’s startled eyes. “Leapin’ lizards, if I wasn’t wrapped up in this blanket, you’d be on the receiving end of the biggest hug of your life.”

  Anthony touched his chest, his eyebrows high. “Me? What’d I do?”

  She laughed, a joyful trickle she couldn’t have controlled even if she’d wanted to. “You said it. A home. That’s it!”

  Marty

  Thursday morning when Marty arrived to prepare Brooke a simple breakfast of steel-cut oats with fresh berries, Brooke was already in her recliner, laptop open, concentration etched on her features. Wrapped in a plush bathrobe, with fuzzy socks covering her feet and a tasseled, knitted cap in bands of purple, yellow, and green on her head, she didn’t resemble a business executive, but appearance didn’t seem to matter. By midmorning she’d created a list of agencies she would need to contact to turn the Spalding Resort and Casino into the Eagle Creek Shelter for teens who were homeless or rescued from human trafficking.

  “Eagle Creek?” Marty handed Brooke a shake she’d mixed up using coconut milk, frozen fruit, fresh baby spinach leaves, protein powder, and ground flaxseed. Marty thought the concoction looked terrible, but Brooke had developed the habit of drinking one every day as a snack. “I thought you wanted to rename the town Spalding.”

  “Yeah, that.” Brooke took a sip of the thick liquid through a straw, then set the glass on the side table. “Having a town named after me doesn’t seem all that important anymore. Besides, Eagle Creek has a nice ring to it. Doesn’t it sound like a great place to heal?” Her forehead pinched, and she idly stirred the shake with the straw. “What was that verse Anthony read a week or so ago about eagles? Something like soaring on wings?”

  “Isaiah 40:31. ‘But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.’ ” Marty quoted the verse, blinking back tears. She’d used a verse about being borne on eagles’ wings to compel Anthony to consider the move to Eagle Creek. Her heart soared knowing the town would retain its lovely name.

  “Yes, that’s it. Isaiah 40:31.” Brooke scribbled on the notepad balanced on the armrest. “That’d be a good verse to use in brochures and other marketing materials.” She met Marty’s gaze, and tears glimmered in her green eyes. “Renewing their strength—that’s exactly what I want this place to do for people.”

  It already had for Marty. She smiled. “Perfect.” She paused for a moment, chewing the inside of her lip. “But will you be able to manage both the homeless and those coming out of trafficking? According to Elliott, the number of homeless teens is pretty high, and trafficking must be just as bad, based on what we’ve seen on the news in the short time we’ve been here.”

  Brooke huffed. “If you want to depress yourself, read the statistics. One report estimated that five thousand homeless youth die each year from assault, illness, or suicide.”

  Marty gasped. She sank onto the end of the sofa. “So many…”

  “That number’s a small percentage of how many are living on their own, fighting for an existence.”

  Marty shook her head, trying to dislodge the ugly images forming in her mind. “I don’t understand how children end up on their own to begin with. Where are their parents?”

  Brooke’s smile looked sad. “Marty, not every family is like yours. Some homes are so awful the kids run away, figuring the street’s got to be better than what goes on in their house. Sometimes they end up on the street because they’ve aged out of the foster care system and there’s no place for them to go. There are entire families who end up homeless, and eventually they get split up—some going to this shelter, others to another—and the kids just…drift away.”

  Her expression turned grim. “According to an article I read last night, kids who end up fending for themselves are prime targets for traffickers. They get lured in with the promise of being taken care of, then end up being used. Others are forced into it, and still others enter it willingly, thinking it’s better than being on the streets all alone. It’s a really sad deal all the way around.”

  Marty crossed her arms over her churning stomach. “Makes me feel sick.”

  “Me, too.” Brooke’s eyes sparked. “I want to help kids get out of that awful industry and give them a chance to heal, but I also want to keep others from getting caught in the trafficking net. They need someplace safe to live, where they can at least receive a high school education, learn the skills they need to take care of themselves, and have somebody who truly cares about them. How else can they become strong, confident, productive members of society?”

  Tears flooded Marty’s eyes. She sniffed hard. “What a legacy you’re building. I’m so proud of you.”

  Brooke’s pale cheeks turned pink. “It feels good thinking that when I leave this earth, there’ll be something of value left behind.” Then she grimaced. “Of course, I’ve still got to sell the investors on it. That’s why I need as much statistical and practical information as I can gather. When I meet with them, I’ve got to be loaded for bear.” She turned her attention to the computer again, and Marty allowed her to work in peace.

  At noon Marty helped Charlotte serve lunch to the workers. She shared with the group what Brooke was trying to do. Myron asked, “How can we help?” Marty thought for a moment, considering the list of must-dos she’d seen on Brooke’s notepad. None of those seated around the table were familiar with organizing charities or dealing with businessmen, but there was one thing they could do.

  She smiled. “We can pray. There’ll be licensing and inspections, fund-raising, hiring a permanent staff, and probably a dozen other hurdles for her to leap, and she’s trying to do all that while she’s sick. So let’s pray for Brooke’s strength and for God’s will to be done in bringing this shelter to completion.”

  Every Mennonite team member vowed to lift Brooke and the shelter in prayer. Elliott made no such promise, but his serious expression told Marty he was thinking hard about ways to help.

  Marty returned to Brooke’s trailer after lunch. Brooke had moved from the recliner to the built-in hutch she used as a desk, and her laptop was still open. Marty suggested Brooke eat something and then take a nap.

  Brooke closed her eyes and groaned. “Marty, I’m still full from my shake, and I don’t have time to nap. I have this afternoon, tomorrow, Saturday, and Monday to work. Unless I use Sunday as a workday, too, and I don’t really want to do that. It is the Lord’s day.”

  Marty’s heart rolled over. Brooke was trying so hard to honor the One she now called Father. “It’ll do you good t
o take Sunday off and rest.”

  Brooke nodded. “I know. But then Tuesday is my infusion day, and I’ll feel too lousy to think, let alone work, for days afterward.” She fixed a frown on Marty. “What did you decide to do about Thanksgiving? Are you going to Indiana with the others?”

  Marty sat on a barstool close to the desk. “Anthony and I have talked about it several times. He knows you won’t be up to a long car ride.”

  “He’s got that right.”

  A bit of Brooke’s snark came through, and Marty couldn’t hold back a grin. “But he says we absolutely will not leave you here alone.”

  Brooke rolled her eyes. “What is he now, my keeper?”

  Marty placed her hand on Brooke’s wrist. “No, he’s your friend and he cares about you.”

  Her expression softened. “I know, and I appreciate it. But I don’t want to hold you back from celebrating a holiday with your family. I really think you should all go.”

  “And Anthony really thinks it’s best not to leave you on your own right after a chemo treatment. I agree with him. Still, he is hesitant to leave the two of us out here without a man around, so—”

  Brooke started laughing.

  Marty frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “He tickles me, that’s all.” She yanked the belt on her robe. “I’ve managed for eighteen years totally on my own. I think I could handle another few days while you all have Thanksgiving dinner in Pine Hill.”

  Marty folded her arms over her chest. “Anthony figured you’d say something like that. He’d like to remind you that in the past, you lived close to neighbors, and a call to the police would bring help in a hurry if you needed it. Out here is a completely different situation.”

  Brooke wiped her hand across her mouth, and her smirk disappeared. “You’re right. Or rather, he’s right. I am pretty isolated out here.” She propped her elbow on the edge of the desk. “So what did Mr. Fix-It recommend?”