When Tomorrow Comes

by Janette Oke

  All too soon the concert ended, and Christine returned to reality. As they stood with the rest of the audience to offer one final applause to the orchestra, Christine felt both elated and let down. It had been such a wonderfully renewing and stimulating evening that she had hated for it to finish.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to her escort. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it.”

  He did take her hand then. Just long enough to give it a light squeeze. Then he released it again.

  “It was,” he agreed, “and doubly so for me, just watching your face.”

  She found herself flushing and was glad for the diversion of making their way through the exiting crowd.

  He didn’t ask where she’d like to go. She could tell he already had a restaurant in mind. It was softly lit with rich, plush seats and deep carpeting on the floors. She thought it must be terribly expensive and was about to protest when she remembered that this was his night of celebration. She would not spoil it for him.

  They ordered coffee and dessert, the chocolate mousse. The coffee was rich yet mellow. Christine immediately deemed it the best coffee she’d ever tasted. He laughed. “Are you just comparing it to the hospital fare?” But she shook her head.

  They visited easily in the elegant surroundings. He spoke of his work and inquired of Henry and Amber. He also asked about her work and how things were going at Hope Canteen.

  “Your aunt seems to be a delightful person,” he continued, and Christine launched into a description of her extended family.

  Eventually he told her that he was the youngest of four children, born and raised in Calgary. His oldest brother was a university professor, his other brother an attorney, and his sister was married to a minister. She, with her husband and three children, had moved to Victoria. Those being the only grandchildren, the grandparents were missing the little ones.

  From snippets of the conversation, Christine came to understand that his was one of the “old” families in the town.

  This was confirmed to her when he told her where his folks lived and that his father had been in real estate and development, taking over the business from his father before him.

  “Some of the buildings on Main Street were my grandfather’s doing,” he said simply without obvious boast.

  He really is very pleasant, thought Christine as she listened to his account of family life. And good-looking. His eyes were especially nice. Very blue, framed by dark lashes. His hands were long and slim, like the hands of a pianist—or a surgeon. Christine was surprised she hadn’t noticed these things before.

  “I’d love to have you meet my folks,” he continued, and Christine felt her stomach lurch.

  Meet his folks. She was pretty sure she was not accustomed to their kind of living. She had been raised in the North in rather primitive surroundings, the daughter of a police officer. She was used to things being rugged and rustic. She was used to making do and going without. What could she possibly have in common with people who had helped build a city? The very thought frightened her. She tried to force a smile and murmured something like, perhaps one day, or some such noncommittal words, but she did hope that the day would not be soon.

  True, she now had a job in a sophisticated city office and managed just fine. True, she presently lived with her Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Mary who had one of the nicest homes in Mount Royal. But it wasn’t her home. She would go back to the North at the least opportunity. She wouldn’t even need encouragement. And she was still hoping with all her heart that such opportunity would eventually come.

  “It’s been a lovely evening, but I really should be getting home.”

  He did not argue. “I still can’t believe I’ll actually be working days now—except when I am on call,” he commented as he led her to the car door held open by the valet. “It’s going to seem like I’ve been given my life back,” he quipped.

  Christine slid into the passenger side, and the valet closed her door. He moved around to Eric’s side and, with a slight bow, held the door for him. Christine saw money change hands and the valet back away with a cheery, “Thank you. Good night to you, Dr. Carlton,” as he tucked the bills in his pocket. So he is known at this fancy restaurant, Christine thought.

  It was rather a quiet ride home. Perhaps he is all talked out.

  Perhaps he is weary after a long day, Christine surmised. In truth, she was glad for the chance to gather her thoughts.

  “It’s a shame this was the last concert of the season,” he said, half turning toward her. She wondered where his thoughts had been. “They don’t start again until September.”

  Christine had seen the announcement in the program.

  “Well, we sure can’t wait for that. What would you like to do?” he asked.

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure what you mean,” Christine managed to answer.

  “Am I being presumptuous? I was hoping you had enjoyed the evening.”

  “Oh, I did,” she said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

  “Just the music?” There was teasing in his voice again. She wasn’t sure whether to tease back or be serious.

  “No . . . not just the music,” she admitted shyly. “Every part of the evening.”

  “Then you will agree to go out again?”

  She cast a glance his way. He wasn’t teasing now.

  “That depends. If . . . if I . . . if we both think it wise and . . . and desirable, then—”

  “I think it would be wise . . . and desirable.”

  They were already pulling up in front of the house. The porch light was still on and a dim light shone out from the hall window, though Christine saw no light in the living room. They must have already retired.

  “Then . . . perhaps you’d like to call me,” she said softly, “and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’ll do that.” He grinned and opened his door.

  When he came around to Christine’s side, he opened her door and waited for her to step out. “You’re not leaving me your purse or a hankie or something so I have an excuse to call tomorrow?” he joked.

  She shook her head. His easy banter made her wonder just what she should take seriously. Perhaps a doctor needs a sense of humor—just to make it through some of his days, she decided.

  He tucked her arm in his and led her up the sidewalk. “I understand this is where your aunt fell.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen to you, would we, so I’ll just have to hold on tight.”

  “My aunt fell on ice,” she rejoined, but even as she said the words she heard him chuckle.

  Christine drew out her key, but she had no need of it. The door had been left unlocked.

  He stepped back. The overhead porch fixture splashed down light on his head, making it look as if he was wearing an unusual halo. His face was shadowed, but she could hear the earnestness in his voice, even if she could not read his eyes. “I don’t know when I’ve had such a pleasant evening, Christine. I felt like the luckiest guy in the hall tonight, and I’d like to do it again—real soon.”

  “There are no more concerts—remember?”

  “We don’t need a concert. We’ll make our own music. At least we can go out to dinner—or picnic, or for a walk. Something. Anything.”

  She nodded. He must have seen the nod in the semidarkness, for he whispered, “Good. I’ll call you.” Christine watched him walk away with a light step before she gently closed the door.

  It was quiet in the house. She flicked off the porch light and proceeded up the stairs to her room. Her head was whirling. What was happening? In some ways he seemed so serious. In others so . . . so casual. She wasn’t sure just how to interpret his manner, his intentions. She had a lot of thinking, a lot of praying to do before she could know her own mind.

  She turned on the light to her room and began preparations for bed, but her mind was still totally preoccupied. She had to carefully think some things through before her emotions came into play. Sh
e had made a bad mistake before in a relationship. She did not wish to go down that kind of path again.

  He does have faith in God. That was the place to start in her inventory. She would never allow herself to be involved with a nonbeliever again. But what else did she really know about him? Henry liked him. That was another big plus. She trusted her big brother’s judgment of people.

  He seems to have love and respect for his family. That was good. Family was very important to Christine.

  He has a sense of humor. She supposed that was good, though she sometimes found it difficult to know if he was serious or teasing.

  He’s from a well-established, probably wealthy, family. That was not a plus in Christine’s thinking. That part scared her. She could picture a mother, prim and sedate, lips tightly pursed, daring some slip of a girl to try to take her son away from her. She could imagine a stern, money-driven father, hands folded over an ample chest, peering out with cold eyes at another young gold digger out to get her hands on a share of the family wealth. It was not a pretty picture. Christine shook her head. She wanted no part of it.

  Hastily she pulled her nightgown over her head and knelt to say her evening prayers. But she found it hard to concentrate. She liked Eric Carlton, she really did, but she was afraid of his family’s wealth and prestige. How could she ever live up to the expectations that his family likely would have for her?

  She said “Amen” but wondered if she had really talked to God with her rambling, troubling thoughts, or had she simply repeated by rote things she had been saying for many nights?

  She turned out the light and climbed into her bed, her thoughts still in turmoil. I don’t know why I said he could call, she chided herself. This little charade can go nowhere. I must find the courage to tell him so when he phones.

  And with her mind firmly made up, Christine pulled the covers up to her chin and tried to quiet her troubled heart so she could sleep.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  Uncle Jonathan summoned Christine to the phone. When she lifted the receiver to her ear and said hello, the first word she heard was, “Dinner?”

  “Eric?”

  “Actually, this is Bob.”

  She recognized his voice. Had she thought more quickly— and dared—she could have responded, “Bob, I’ve been waiting for you to call. I’d love to.” Just to give him a bit of his own medicine. But Christine was not one for that kind of joking. She merely flushed and felt confused.

  “It’s Eric,” he said in a more serious tone when she had no reply. “How about dinner?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight—if possible. If not—at your earliest opportunity.”

  “Not tonight. I have plans.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She was tempted to tell him that tomorrow would not work either. In fact, she expected to be busy for the rest of her life. But she knew she had to explain to him in person that there was no hope for a relationship. She dreaded the thought. She’d rather just run away and never need to face him again. But that would be the coward’s way out.

  “I . . . yes . . . I guess so. Tomorrow will work.”

  He must have known from her voice that she was hesitant, but he did not make comment.

  “May I pick you up at six?”

  “Six will be fine.”

  “Would you like fine dining—or something more relaxed and contemporary?”

  “I . . . I really don’t know . . . about the contemporary, I mean. What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a new café on the south side where the younger crowd goes. It is quite casual.”

  “That sounds fine.” She really didn’t wish to wear the same suit two dates in a row.

  “Great. See you at six.”

  Christine was troubled as she hung up the receiver. Was that really the way one was supposed to feel when accepting a date? She picked up her sweater and called to her aunt and uncle, “I won’t be late,” and left the house. The streetcar ride was not nearly long enough to quiet her jangled nerves. She entered Hope Canteen still feeling jittery. Jane, one of the other volunteers, was there to meet her. She seemed excited and grabbed Christine by both shoulders. “They’ve done it. They’ve done it,” she said.

  Christine could not imagine what had been done.

  Just then Paula raced up with a broad, happy smile.

  “Finally,” she said. “Finally it has happened. We’ll get some real direction here.”

  Christine stepped back, disengaging Jane’s hands. “What are you two talking about?”

  “They have hired a chaplain—finally,” Paula enthused.

  It was good news. All the volunteers had been praying for a full-time chaplain to run the program. They felt that to really do an effective job of ministry, they needed leadership.

  “Is it one of the pastors who has been volunteering?” asked Christine.

  “No. No, this is someone entirely new.”

  “When does he start?”

  “He’s here—now. He’s already got a little office. He’s been talking to the volunteers. He says he wants to discuss things with each of us—just to get the feel of the place. You know. What’s been done. What we hope to see accomplished. How we view the ministry. All that.”

  At last Christine smiled. It really was wonderful news. That was what they had been hoping for—praying for. A solid ministry— not just a coffee service.

  “He’s talking with Tommy right now.”

  Oh no. Not poor Tommy. Did Tommy even know what was going on? Surely this new chaplain would understand that Tommy really was an asset to the ministry. It was true he took occasional teasing from some of the young fellows, but once they got to know him, they seemed to accept him for who he was in spite of his handicaps.

  “He wants to see you next.”

  Suddenly Christine felt nervous butterflies winging to and fro in her stomach. She couldn’t have said why, but she felt even more uncertain than she had when she had gone for her job interview. She was to be next. What if this new chaplain decided she wasn’t a good fit for this work? What if he took them on a path they were not willing to follow? What if he was expecting to run a coffeehouse instead of a ministry of hope? Could she continue to offer her services where all that was handed out was comfort foods and idle chatter?

  For the first time Christine realized just how at home she had become in this ministry. She still grieved that the world was at war, but it had been some time since she had struggled with whether she was one who should go overseas. Without her even realizing that it had happened, God had put her mind at peace. For the moment, she was right where she should be. She was serving just as she should serve. This was a wondrous revelation, one that brought a surge of joy to her heart. She should, all along, have trusted Him to lead her. She had prayed for His direction, hadn’t she? Then why should she be surprised that He had led? “Not all of God’s leading comes with detailed instructions or great fanfare,” she remembered hearing a pastor once say. “Sometimes it is that still, small voice. And perhaps— just perhaps, we are not even aware of the voice. Just the sense of peace.”

  And that was exactly what had happened to Christine. That beautiful sense of God’s peace. God’s presence. God’s acceptance of where she was at in her life and what she was doing.

  “The absence of an inner conflict is one of life’s richest blessings,” the pastor also had said. “And it comes only from the hand of God.”

  That was it. She could trust Him. She could. As long as she honestly sought to walk in His paths—she could trust Him.

  So why am I fretting now about this new chaplain? she asked herself. Isn’t God in charge here too? Christine took a deep breath and moved forward to take up her evening responsibilities and maybe even bring some encouragement, new faith, to someone in the crowded room.

  As usual, she breathed a prayer, “Lord, lead me tonight to someone who has a heart open to you. When I make that connection, give me the right word
s to speak. May I speak with wisdom and love. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  She had just carried a tray of coffee to a group of noisy young men when Jane ran up to her. “It’s your turn. He wants to see you now. He’s in the room we used to use for storage.”

  Christine ignored those butterflies trying to get their wings in motion and walked toward the former storage room. It wouldn’t make much of an office.

  The door was closed. She rapped and heard a man’s voice bid her enter. He had a journal of some sort spread out before him, and he was busily writing in it. At the sound of her step, he lifted his head, then lowered it again to check his notes. “Miss Delaney, I believe.”

  She nodded. He was awfully young. Much too young to give proper leadership to such an important ministry. They had hoped for someone experienced. Someone solid. Older.

  She swallowed and nodded her head again.

  He smiled, stood, and extended his hand. “I’m Tim—Timothy Marcus,” he said.

  She was surprised at his firm handshake and open manner. She could feel calluses in the palm of his hand. Straight off the farm was her unexpected thought. She wasn’t ready to say if that was good or bad. Would he be able to build rapport with all these young people? Then she remembered that many of them were straight off the farm too.

  “Won’t you take a seat,” he invited, and Christine sat down.

  She hardly recognized the former storage room. It had a fresh coat of light paint, making it look larger, more inviting. She could see that the desk was well used, but it too was freshly painted. A small chest with four drawers served as a filing cabinet, and the three chairs in the room were unmatched but looked serviceable. He even had a picture on the wall, of Jesus walking on the water. The caption read, “He can calm any storm if you’ll let Him in your boat.”