When Grace Sings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She stood for a moment, seeming to examine him, and he made it a point to gaze back without flinching, even though her somber perusal made him want to squirm. Finally she moved to the bench and sat on the end. Shifting sideways so she could face him, she linked her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on his face.

  “First of all, I’m sorry you never felt loved. I can’t imagine anything worse. I didn’t have a big family, and I was jealous of the kids who had a mom and a dad and brothers and sisters. I always wished I could be part of a family like that. Even so, I wouldn’t have traded my mom for any other family in the world. I guess, even though it might sound a little weird, it was a good thing my birth mother threw me away, because the best mom I could hope for found me.”

  Briley gave a little start, a strange thought forming in the back of his mind. If his mother hadn’t booted him out, he’d have never met Aunt Myrt, the best person he’d known until coming to Arborville and meeting the Zimmermans. Tear down or build up? Alexa was talking, and he forced himself to listen.

  “I knew how much Mom loved me, and I was fortunate to have other people in my life—people from church—who loved me, too. Most of all, my mom always told me how much God loves me.”

  Aunt Myrt had told him the same thing. Over and over and over …

  “If I had grown up feeling like no one loved me, I’d probably be trying to find my self-worth and value in other things, like a job.” She sucked in a sharp breath and looked away for a moment, as if something had poked her in the ribs. When she turned to him again, her cheeks wore a rosy glow. “I’ve kind of done that myself with the B and B … trying to make it a success so my aunt Shelley and uncle Clete would think more highly of me. They”—she blinked away tears—“didn’t like me much when I first came to town.” She touched his knee, just a brush of her fingers. “So I understand why the article is so important to you. I really do.”

  He didn’t think his front-page article and her cooking for guests carried the same importance, but arguing would only prolong their conversation. He clamped his teeth together and remained silent.

  “But you’re looking for recognition in the wrong place. The people who hurt you? They didn’t care about you then, and they don’t care about you now. Do you really think your estimation will go up in their eyes just because your name appears under an article on the front page of a newspaper?”

  Defensiveness hit so hard he jolted. “Now, just a minute, I—”

  “But let’s say it does change their minds. Let’s say they look at your name on that page and they realize they were wrong—that you aren’t dumb or incompetent or worthless. Will that magically change you somehow?”

  He tried to interrupt again, but she kept going, either unwilling or unable to stop her flow of words.

  “Will that brief moment of reflection—of ‘Hmm, so I was wrong’—by people who aren’t even in your life anymore make any real difference? I don’t think so. Because, Briley, those people don’t define your worth.”

  The cocky teenager who’d resided under Aunt Myrt’s roof roared from the past and aimed a sarcastic arrow at Alexa’s heart. “Oh yeah? Says who?”

  “Says God.”

  He bolted to his feet and moved to the opposite side of the bench, where he glowered at her. He wanted to roll his eyes. He wanted to bark out a derisive laugh. He wanted to storm out the door and not look back. But he couldn’t. Some invisible, incomprehensible something—or was it Someone?—sealed him in place.

  She rose and turned to face him, her movements so slow she seemed to be pushing through a wall of water. “ ‘For God so loved the world …’ ” Her voice was quiet, reedy. He had to strain to hear her quote a scripture he’d memorized to earn a candy bar from his Sunday school teacher when he was thirteen years old. He recited it in his mind along with her. “ ‘That he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ ”

  She reached across the little bench and touched his wrist. “ ‘Everlasting,’ Briley. Did you hear that? What you’re trying to do won’t last forever. It will only give you momentary satisfaction—no longer than the amount of time it takes to read your name.”

  He ground his teeth together so tightly his jaw ached. He wished he could argue with her, but somehow the arrow he’d tried to fling had become a boomerang, spinning around and impaling him instead. The pain in his chest took all his focus. He couldn’t form a coherent thought.

  “I know you want to feel important. I know you want to feel loved.” Tears rolled down Alexa’s cheeks. Tears not for herself, but for him. “So listen to God’s words. Believe them. He loved you enough to send His very own Son to take the penalty for your sins. If you accept His salvation, you’ll have love—love that lasts through eternity. You’ll be God’s child, and there is no greater position than that.”

  Her fingers slipped around his wrist, a gentle tether pulling him toward the One Aunt Myrt had loved and served and tried so hard to make real to him. “God the Father wants to rejoice over you with singing, Briley. Will you let Him?”

  Longing spiraled through his chest. Will you let Him? And then Len’s warning about being taken in by a little Plain girl swooped into his memory. He was playing right into her hands. The longing unraveled. He yanked free of her grasp. “As I said, I’ll use fictitious names, but the story’s in. And that’s final.” He expected her expression to harden. For venomous words of protest to spew from her mouth. Maybe even for her to leap over the bench and pound her fists on him in rage. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had physically attacked him in anger or frustration.

  But she didn’t.

  Gazing up at him with tear-brightened eyes, she nodded. Then she sighed—an airy expulsion of breath that spoke of both resignation and acceptance. “All right. If you think that’s the right thing to do, I won’t argue with you. But, Briley?”

  He stiffened his frame, steeling himself against a new feminine ploy.

  “I’m going to pray for you. Not for you to change your mind about the article, but for you to change your mind about God. Because you need His love.”

  “You need His love, Briley Ray. It’ll transform you if you’ll only turn to Him.” Aunt Myrt again, rising from the past. He’d had enough. Without a word, he spun on his heel and pounded for the barn door. He gave it a vicious two-handed thrust that sent it screeching along the iron rail. Chill air, heavy with the scent of fall, filled his lungs, and for one moment he savored the fresh essence—the smell of the plains. The smell he now associated with the Plain.

  Growling at himself under his breath, he aimed his feet for the cottage. He’d pack. Pay his bill. Throw in some extra to compensate for the income his early departure would take from Alexa and Mrs. Z. Then he’d hightail it back to Chicago and count down the minutes until his long-held dream became reality. He would see his name on a front-page byline. He would!

  An unfamiliar car revved up the lane, stirring a cloud of dust. The car’s horn blared out, an intrusion to the otherwise peaceful setting, and the passenger hung out the side window while waving both hands. Was someone in the middle of some kind of emergency? He moved backward to give the vehicle space to pull in, and he almost stepped on Alexa, who’d apparently trailed him out of the barn.

  Before he could apologize to her, the passenger door flew open, and none other than Nicole Kirkley dashed directly at him, squealing at the top of her lungs. She leaped into his arms. “Briley, I won! I won!”

  Anna—Grace

  Anna—Grace might not like Paul Aldrich much, but it took less than an hour for her to fall in love with his son. Steven and the carpenter spent the morning putting the bathroom fixtures into place, and instead of helping his dad, Danny assigned himself as her assistant. With a seriousness that made her swallow giggles, he explained how to use half-inch-wide blue tape—painter’s tape, he called it—to mask off the tops of the baseboards and along the window and door frames.

  “You
don’t hafta put it along the ceiling this time since we’re gonna paint the ceiling, too.” Danny stood in the middle of the dining room with his hands on his hips and examined the newly Sheetrocked ceiling with a critical eye. “Dad had to take down the crown molding before he could fix the walls and ceiling, and that’ll save us some time. But he kept it, and Mr. Braun wants to put it back up.”

  As he tucked the remaining tape in the pocket of his overalls, he said, “You ever painted a room before?”

  She shook her head. “No. Never.”

  “Painting’s not hard. Just takes planning, preparation, and patience.” He aimed his businesslike gaze at Anna—Grace. “See, since the crown molding’ll cover up the place where the walls meet the ceiling, it won’t matter if the ceiling paint touches the wall. We just gotta make sure the wallpaper goes up almost to the ceiling line. Then the crown molding will hide the edge of the wallpaper and any little paint oopses.”

  What an adorable little man he was! Anna—Grace turned her back on him so he wouldn’t see her smile. She pretended to press a short stretch of tape more snugly to the door casing and then, when she’d gotten her amusement under control, she faced him again. “You know a lot about fixing up houses. Are you going to be a carpenter when you grow up?”

  Danny scratched his head. “I dunno. I like helping Dad. Mostly ’cause I just like being with him.” The boy grinned sheepishly. “He’s kind of my best friend even though he’s my dad.”

  Anna—Grace’s heart caught. The boy’s sincerity tugged at her. Paul Aldrich must not be all bad if he possessed the admiration of this darling little boy.

  Danny went on. “But Dad wants me to be what God wants me to be, and I’m not really sure what that is yet.” Hunching his shoulders, he giggled. “But sometimes I hope God’ll want me to be a baseball player. I like baseball a lot.”

  Anna—Grace didn’t bother to hide her smile this time. “If you play ball as well as you prepare a room for paint, you’ll be the best player ever.”

  Danny beamed at her. He swung his arms, brushing his blue-striped overall legs with his open palms. “So … ya ready to paint now? Dad’s got extra rollers and paint trays in the truck. He said we should go ahead and use them, too, when I asked him for the painter’s tape.”

  Anna—Grace cringed. “Can’t we use brushes?” Steven had purchased brushes.

  The boy made a face. “We could, but it sure goes slow. Rollers are better.”

  She hadn’t wanted to use the carpenter’s painter’s tape, and she didn’t want to borrow any of his equipment, but the boy seemed to know what he was doing. She sighed. “All right. I’ll have Steven buy some to replace the ones we use today, as well as the tape. Okay?”

  Danny offered a nonchalant shrug. “You’ll hafta talk to Dad about it. He told me to make sure you got whatever you needed to get the job done.”

  The man was certainly considerate. Was he as generous with all the people who hired his help? Seeing him through Danny’s eyes, she wished she could feel more comfortable around him.

  Danny trotted out to the truck and carried back fuzzy rollers on bent handles which he attached to long poles. He made her shake the can of primer until she thought her arms would fall off, and then he poured paint into low metal trays with slanting bottoms. With great patience he explained how to dip the roller in the puddle of paint and glide it over the slope to remove the excess before applying the paint-drenched roller to the wall. “If we drip, we’ll want to wipe it up real quick so it doesn’t ruin your nice wood floors. Dad didn’t have paint cloths in the truck.” He frowned at her. “Will you be careful?”

  She feigned great seriousness although laughter threatened. “I will. I promise.”

  “All right, then. Watch me for a minute, then you try.”

  She stood aside, linked her hands behind her back, and watched.

  He held his tongue in the corner of his mouth, his brow puckering in concentration. With smooth, even sweeps he painted an up-and-down path on the wall. Then he looked at her and smiled. “See? It’s not hard at all. Go ahead—you can do it.”

  Releasing a nervous giggle, she picked up the second pole and imitated his movements. When she managed to cover a small patch of wall with cream-colored primer without dripping on the floor or her clothes, Danny let out a whoop.

  “Woohoo, Anna—Grace! You’re doin’ great!”

  His compliment warmed her to the center of her soul. She turned to give him a smile and caught a glimpse of the boy’s father peeking around the corner at them. The expression on his face—a mix of deep pain and intense longing—melted her pleasure in one heartbeat. His gaze locked with hers. For long seconds they stared at each other while Danny whistled and went on painting, oblivious. Red mottled the man’s cheeks, and he finally ducked out of sight.

  A prickle of unease traveled across Anna—Grace’s scalp. If every person in Arborville made her as comfortable as Danny did, she’d choose this town as her home without a moment’s pause. But how could she stay in this town when Paul Aldrich lived here, too?

  Briley

  By noon Briley had everything packed and stacked beside the door of the cottage for transport to his car. He checked his wallet to make sure his corporate credit card was in its slot, and then he headed across the yard to the back door. Clete’s tractor—one that looked like it should have been retired twenty years ago—was parked under the elm tree at the edge of the stubbly field. Briley’s steps slowed and then stopped.

  Even though he’d walked this pathway countless times over the past weeks, the difference between Arborville and the city that had always been his home still startled him. He let his gaze drift over the dark, stubble-dotted soil stretching toward the horizon to the windbreak of scrubby trees in the north and finally settle on the tractor. Sunshine through empty tree limbs formed slashes of darkest russet across the implement’s red-painted body. The scene before him seemed surreal, almost like a painting.

  Although he’d been here long enough to know it was true, a disbelieving question still formed in his mind: Do people really live like this? He automatically reached for his camera to capture the image, but he’d already packed it. He allowed himself a few more minutes of absorption before forcing his feet to carry him to the house.

  The porch door hinges squeaked, just like the one on the back door at Aunt Myrt’s place. Had he ever remembered to oil them, the way she’d asked each time one of the kids slammed in or out? He didn’t think so. Back then he hadn’t cared much about pleasing anybody but himself. He gave a start. He hadn’t changed much. Shaking his head to dispel the thought, he entered the kitchen.

  Apparently Alexa had prepared a simple lunch today, because sandwich fixings—a few slices of bread wrapped in plastic, a package of slivered ham, and an open mayonnaise jar with a knife sticking out of it—and a rumpled potato chip bag were still sitting on the counter. A smile tickled his cheek as he remembered their teasing exchanges via his lunch box. He’d had fun. He’d miss it.

  Voices carried from the dining room, and he remembered why he’d come in. Pay your bill and move on, Forrester. He headed through the little passageway, and as he entered the dining room, laughter erupted around the table. An unexpected wave of jealousy struck. He wanted to be part of their circle. But hadn’t he made his choice? When he got back to Chicago, the other reporters would be jealous of him for landing such a controversial story. Pay your bill and move on.

  “Hey.” The laughter faded, and everyone turned to look at him. He aimed his attention at Alexa. “I need you to—”

  “Briley, did you hear the news?” Mrs. Z flapped her hand toward Nicole, beaming as proudly as if her goose had just laid a golden egg. “Nicole won the contest in Missouri, and an agent wants to take her down!”

  “Take me on, Mrs. Zimmerman,” Nicole corrected, and the group gathered around the table laughed again. All except Alexa, who pinned Briley with a sad, disappointed expression.

  He’d seen that same look on A
unt Myrt’s face too many times. It pierced him as much now as it had back then. He shifted to clear her from his line of vision. “Yeah, I heard. She told me out in the yard.” She’d almost squeezed his head off with her hug.

  “But I didn’t tell you everything.” Nicole turned backward in the chair and cupped her fingers over the top. She peered at him with wide, sparkling eyes, resembling the cartoon drawing of Kilroy. “The agent who wants to sign me on? He lives in Nashville, and he works with some of the biggest recording studios in the business. He said he can get me on the radio and singing at rodeos and doing fund-raising concerts. He said he heard a rumor about a new talent-search program for television, kind of like American Idol, to discover the next big country-western star, and he said he’ll put my name in for the first season.” The girl bounced in the chair, her voice rising into a near squeal. “And if I win it or even make it to the finals, I could get a contract with a record company!”

  “Wow.” Briley injected as much enthusiasm as he could into his voice. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

  Nicole’s father smiled at his daughter. “Kathy and I always thought Nicole had talent, but most parents think their kids are special. Even when they aren’t. Hearing that agent go on and on about her natural ability and unique vocal tone, well …” The man gulped, his face staining with pink. “It makes a father proud. Makes me want to break out in song.”

  Nicole giggled. “Please don’t, Daddy. I didn’t inherit my talent from you.”

  More laughter spilled, but Briley didn’t join in. He found no humor in squelching the father’s desire to sing for joy for his child. Alexa’s teary statement about the Father God wanting to sing over him with rejoicing roared through his memory. A lump filled his throat. Without conscious thought he glanced in her direction and found her gazing at him. Something in her eyes—sadness, yes, but something more—held him captive. He finally recognized the emotion. Compassion.