The Gathering Place

by Thomas Kinkade

  “Perhaps there’s something we can do that will help him feel ready,” Carolyn said.

  “Maybe it’s something that Mark has to do,” Ben said, before he could stop himself. “Maybe being ready means he would finally be willing to sit down and talk, tell us why he’s stayed away for so long in the first place.”

  “That’s just the problem,” Carolyn said, suddenly angry. “Mark knows you’re waiting here, ready to pounce on him the minute he gets in the door. Of course, he doesn’t want to come back. Who would?”

  Ben felt his own anger well up inside and took a deep, long breath. She was angry with her son for the way he’d treated them, but she couldn’t let herself be angry with Mark, not when she blamed herself for Mark’s unhappiness and confusion. So instead, she got angry at him. Ben knew all this logically and knew he loved his wife with all his heart, yet it was still hard not to answer her with his own anger.

  Give me patience, Lord. This is hard, and it’s been a long time coming. There are things that must be said now. Help me say them.

  “Carolyn, you misunderstand me. I don’t want to attack Mark. I pray every day to have him here with us again. You know that,” he appealed to her. “But I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say that if he does come home, we must clear the air. We have to sit down and get at the truth with him. Why is he so angry with us, so wounded? How can we ever heal as a family if we just cover over the wound and pretend it isn’t there?”

  “What happened to forgive and forget? What happened to turning the other cheek, to unconditional love?” she demanded. “I want him to know that if he comes home, we’ll welcome him with open arms—no questions asked, no explanations necessary. I know why he left and I know why he stays away. Why do we need to drag ourselves through this all over again?”

  Ben held his tongue. Carolyn’s expression was bleak, her jaw trembling slightly. He didn’t want to push her any further.

  In the silence she seemed to steady herself. “Maybe after the holidays and the baby is born, if he still won’t come back, we ought to think about going out there to see him,” she suggested in a calmer tone.

  “Out to Montana?” Ben was surprised by her suggestion. “It’s an idea . . . but I’m not sure it would be the best thing, Carolyn. We’d see him physically, of course. But if he’s not ready to open up to us, it might be even more frustrating than not seeing him at all.”

  Her crushed expression told him he had not said the right thing. “Not for me, it wouldn’t be,” she said bitterly.

  Ben shook his head, hardly able to hear any more of this argument. He and his wife so rarely argued. Mark was almost always the reason when they did.

  “Carolyn, I miss him with all my heart. But I can’t see what we’d accomplish by running out to Montana if he’s not ready to talk to us. I know it’s hard, but I think we just have to have patience and pray that someday soon, Mark comes to his senses and is ready to make amends.”

  “Patience, of course. I knew you were going to say that,” Carolyn said harshly. She shook her head in frustration. “That might be good counsel for some family you’re advising but not for this one, Ben. Not for your own family. I just don’t know why you can’t see that.”

  Ben was at a loss for words, feeling the wind knocked out of him by her verbal blow. That was the bitterest part of this entire situation. It made him feel like such a sham, to walk around counseling others every day, when here at home, he was unable to help his own family with this painful problem.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said sadly.

  “So am I,” she answered quietly.

  Carolyn stared at him wide-eyed, unmindful, it seemed, of the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Ben was moved by the sight of her sadness. “Carolyn, please,” he began.

  The doorbell rang.

  “The pizza. I’ll get it,” Carolyn said, half-rising from her chair.

  “No, I will.” Ben lightly touched her shoulder and turned to leave the room.

  “I’m not feeling very hungry,” Carolyn called after him. “I think I’ll just go up.”

  He glanced back at her. He didn’t feel hungry now either. “You must be tired. Go on to bed if you like. I’ll be along in a little while,” he said softly.

  Carolyn passed him in the hallway as she turned to go up the stairs. She didn’t say anything. The doorbell rang again.

  Ben opened the door. It had begun to snow—fat, feathery flakes that clung to the delivery boy’s ski cap and jacket and already covered the top of the pizza box. Ben paid, then carried the box into the kitchen and set it down on the countertop. He wasn’t sure what to do with it now. At last, he wedged it into the refrigerator, wondering if either of them would want it tomorrow.

  He walked to the stairway and glanced up. The house was silent, a penetrating kind of silence that settles in when the only two people inside are in an angry standoff, he thought sadly. He didn’t see any light coming from the bedroom and guessed that Carolyn had gone straight to bed. He considered following her, then paused at the foot of the staircase.

  No, he needed to read or something. Work in his office maybe. No, a walk would do him good. Some exercise to work out the tension. Despite the snow, or maybe lured by it, he put on his down jacket, gloves, and a hat, and pulled out his thermal boots from the bottom of the coat closet.

  When he stepped outside, the white filled the air, whirling in the haze of the streetlights. The snow already covered the world around him, cars, tree branches, rooftops. It would stick, too. The first heavy snowfall of the season. Mark had said that there was already a lot snow out in Montana. But he’d grown up in New England, so he was used to harsh winters, Ben thought.

  Ben looked down and saw his boot prints on the sidewalk, the first to touch the pure white blanket. A snowfall like this usually made him feel optimistic, covering everything over with white, promising a fresh beginning. But somehow tonight the snow failed to work its magic. Some things could not be covered over. Should not be, his mind insisted. He knew that if Mark returned, the past had to be sorted out. They had to talk, all three of them. Why didn’t Carolyn see that?

  More importantly, why hadn’t he done a better job of guiding and helping his family with this problem? Many times it seemed they were making progress, as if with patience and time, they were working it out. Yet tonight it seemed that he had been deluding himself all these years. They had made no progress at all. He had failed all of them, even Rachel. They had all looked to him to lead them out of this shadowy, unhappy place, and he had failed them.

  He felt like a fraud, deeply flawed as a minister, spiritual leader, and healer. How could he counsel others when, for years, he’d been unable to find the solution, or even guidance from above, for his own family in this situation?

  At the end of the street, where three ambling lanes came together, a triangular plot of land had been set aside by chance or design as a small park. Edged by a few small trees and snow-covered bushes, three benches stood on the walkways, and in the middle, a snow-covered fountain, rimmed with icicles.

  Ben stood by the fountain, remembering bringing Rachel and Mark here after dinner on summer evenings when it stayed light until late. The ice-cream truck made a nightly stop at this corner. The kids liked to hide behind the bushes and make Ben catch them. Mark chased fireflies with a paper cup, then screamed with terror if he actually caught one. Rachel dropped flowers in the fountain and watched them float and spin in the swirling water. He suddenly felt as if he might cry and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Dear heavenly Father, he silently prayed. What have I done wrong? Please show me how to bring peace to my family and how to bring them together again. Please show me, Lord. Should we do as Carolyn says? Is that the right way? I just don’t know anymore. Everyone seems against me in this. How can I ever reconnect with my son if he doesn’t make any effort?

  He blinked, sensing the snowflakes on his face, clinging to his eyebrows and lashes. How long had he been standing the
re? He sighed and turned back toward the rectory. He reached the path to his front door, feeling frozen to the bone. His heart, too, felt heavy and numb. Not prayer, or even the new snow, the simple, stunning beauty of God’s artistry, had helped him tonight.

  “WOW, DID YOU SEE THE SNOW? I DIDN’T REALIZE THAT MUCH HAD PILED up.” Sara walked toward the windows at the front of the office and stared out at the street. It must have been snowing the whole time she and Wyatt had been working in the back on the layout. It looked like it would reach to her boot tops, and it was still falling.

  Wyatt walked up behind her. He was quiet for a moment. “Didn’t see much of this stuff in California. Almost forgot what it looked like.”

  “Where were you living? In Los Angeles?”

  He nodded. “I had a job on the L.A. Times.”

  “You left the L.A. Times to come here?” Sara couldn’t believe she had been so blunt. But Wyatt only laughed.

  “Seems like a dumb career move to you?”

  “I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t know you were on that big a paper. . . .” She stumbled over her words, not knowing what to say.

  “That’s all right. Sometimes, I think it’s a little crazy myself. But running the Messenger is just, well, inevitable for me. No matter where I traveled, or who I worked for, I always knew I’d come back here someday and run this paper.”

  “I see.” Sara nodded. “Of course. Your great-great-grandfather started the paper, right?”

  “First edition, June 30, 1852. The headline read, ‘Jebediah Wilkes Completes Trans-Atlantic Crossing.’ Wilkes was a local who sailed to England and back on a thirty-foot sailboat made here in town. When my great-great-grandfather asked why he did it, Wilkes said, ‘Because I’m a darn fool, just like everyone says I am.’ ”

  Sara laughed, and Wyatt smiled at her. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, she noticed. Something in Wyatt’s quiet, resigned tone was unsettling. He said taking over the paper was inevitable, but he didn’t sound as if it was something he particularly wanted to do.

  Or maybe that was a given. Maybe the plan had always been so much a part of his life that he took it for granted. Like being in a royal family or something.

  “Where else have you been?” she asked, her curiosity about him growing.

  “Oh, lots of places. Just about everywhere, I guess. Europe, of course, Turkey, the Middle East, Nigeria, India, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Australia, and New Zealand. Tahiti, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said lightly.

  “Russia, Japan, China—just Beijing, mainly. Taiwan, Hawaii—”

  “Okay, I got the idea. You really took pictures in all those places?”

  “That’s what I do . . . or used to do,” he amended.

  “Don’t you miss it?” she said.

  He met her gaze then looked out at the snow again. “I haven’t had time to miss it, yet. I guess I was getting a little tired of all the traveling, the pressure. It’s a certain kind of life. A lot of airports and hotel rooms. It can start to feel very unreal at times.” He looked at her. “Unlike this place. Feels like hardly a thing has changed since I grew up here.”

  Sara knew what he meant. But she didn’t think it was quite as simple as that.

  “Everything changes,” Sara replied. “It seems to me a lot has happened just since I came here a few months ago. People change. That’s the heart of it, I guess.”

  He glanced at her, a flash of surprise in his eyes. “Very true. Everything changes.”

  They stood there without talking a moment, both looking out at the snow. “I’d like to see some of your photographs sometime,” Sara said.

  “Sure. I have a bunch back at my father’s house somewhere. I’ll bring them in. By the way, that shot you caught of the kids at the tree lighting was pretty good.”

  Sara felt embarrassed by his compliment. Especially since he had asked her to revise the article about three times. “I was just lucky.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little trade secret. Getting lucky like that is about ninety-five percent of taking good photographs.”

  “I doubt it,” Sara said, with a laugh. “But thanks. I’m trying.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” He touched her shoulder in a friendly gesture. Sara turned and met his gaze. They stared at each other for a long moment. She watched something in his expression change, and she felt very aware of his closeness. What was happening here?

  Then his hand dropped to his side again, and he smiled. “Thanks for helping me tonight. I’m sorry I kept you so late. I didn’t think it would take this long.”

  “That’s all right.” She glanced at her watch; it was past midnight. She wasn’t surprised. Wyatt was a terrible judge of time and seemed to jump from one task to another during the workday. But when he sat down and finally focused on something, the entire roof could cave in and he wouldn’t notice.

  She went back to her desk and picked up her coat and knapsack. “I’m glad I have the day off tomorrow,” she said.

  “You’d better take the phone off the hook, so I don’t call you in for some emergency.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I didn’t even think of that.” She pulled on her jacket, then slung her scarf around her neck.

  “So you survived your first week. What do you think? Coming back on Monday?”

  “Sure, I’ll be back,” she said lightly.

  “Good. I didn’t want to scare you off. I’ve been tough on you, I guess. My sister said so, anyway,” he added.

  Good old Lindsay. She’d been in and out throughout the week, a quiet voice of reason and organization. She had helped Sara more than a few times so far. Wyatt seemed to depend on her a lot, too. More than he’d ever admit, Sara thought.

  “I’m okay. It’s not as easy as I thought,” she admitted. “But I’m learning a lot.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Your copy is getting better. It’s coming along.”

  “Thanks,” she said. It was a small compliment, but something. Her long hair had gotten caught under her jacket collar, and as she pulled it free with her hand, she found him staring at her again.

  “Where are you parked?” he asked suddenly.

  “Right across the street,” she said, pointing at her snow-covered hatchback.

  “Need any help cleaning off your car?” he asked.

  It was nice of him to offer, but she could tell he was only being polite. Besides, she didn’t have the heart to take him up on the offer. He still had more work to do before transmitting the paper to the printer, and he already looked exhausted, with his collar undone and his hair rumpled. The look worked for him, she thought, feeling a tug of attraction.

  “No, I’m fine. I just brush off the front and back, and let the wind do the rest.”

  “Well, all right. Drive safely,” he added, as she headed for the door.

  “I will. Good night,” she said finally.

  Sara crossed the street, her boots sinking into the snow even though the plow had passed by at least once. She stood at her car for a moment, taking a deep breath of the cold, bracing air. It seemed to clear her head instantly.

  She opened her trunk and pulled out her snow brush, then began to work on her car. The snow was light and powdery, easy to clear away. It felt good to be out and move around after sitting all day and night.

  Had Wyatt been flirting with her? No, he was just being friendly, she decided. Maybe he felt guilty after being so mean to me all week. He probably acts that way with everyone, she told herself. She shouldn’t think anything of it. Besides, he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to help her.

  She slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. Luke would have come out and cleaned the car for her, she realized. Then she gasped out loud. Luke had been expecting her to call him tonight, and she’d forgotten all about it.

  It would be okay, she told herself. She would reach him in the morning. After she slept late.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SARA WOKE TO SHARP KNOCKS ON HER FRONT D
OOR. SHE squinted at the clock on the table beside her bed. Half past eight. Who could be bothering her first thing on a Saturday morning?

  Milky rays of sunlight filtered through her bedroom curtains, the early morning light reflecting off fresh snow. She felt as though it were the middle of the night, then she remembered how late she had gotten home from work.

  The knocking continued. “I’m coming. Just a minute,” she called out in a grumpy tone. She pulled on her bathrobe. She pulled open the door to find Luke standing on the porch in a down jacket and thick insulated gloves. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were red from the cold.

  “Did I wake you? Gee, I’m sorry.” He laughed, not looking sorry at all. “I thought you’d be up by now.”

  “Usually.” Cold air seeped into the house, and she pulled her robe around her throat. “I got to bed really late last night. I had to work late. I’m sorry I didn’t get to call you.”

  “That’s okay.” Luke shrugged. “I guess I should have called, but I wanted to surprise you. Look what I found.”

  He stepped to one side, and she noticed a long wooden toboggan balanced on the porch rail. The long slats of wood were a golden pine color, curled at the end and trimmed in red paint.

  “Wow, that’s beautiful! Where did you get it?”

  “That shed behind my cottage with all the junk. I was looking in there for a snow shovel. Want to try it out?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve never been sledding.”

  Luke looked shocked. “Never? Not even once?”

  “We never really got enough snow in Maryland. Not like this, I mean.”

  “There’s enough today.” Luke’s grin grew wider. “No excuses.”

  Sara shrugged. It wasn’t exactly the way she had planned to start her Saturday, but how could she resist?

  “Go on in and get dressed. I need to fix the rope on the end of this thing,” Luke said, turning back to the sled.