“You don’t hold with church, Mrs. Runyon?” It was Sunday afternoon, a day which had not escaped Grace’s notice. The question was so obviously nosy, personal, and none of his business that she bit her lip and took a deep breath and cleared her throat.
“Mr. Marshall,” she tried, to see if her voice was still working properly through her anger. Good. “Mr. Marshall, I can’t see that my religious beliefs are any of your concern.”
Randy’s thin nostrils flared. “In East Bay, everyone attends church on Sundays. We still hold to the Sabbath here, even if you—”
“Excuse me!” She held up her hand and glared right back. “I’m not interested in getting into a feud with you over this,” she told him when she regained control of her temper. “That was a pretty poor invitation to church if that was your original intention. Now, if you’d like to get to know me better, then, by all means, come on inside for a cup of tea. We’ll sit down and have a civilized conversation. You can tell me all about yourself and then I’ll tell you about myself.”
She stood her ground, chin up, refusing to look away from the dark glasses that shielded his eyes. Intuition told her Randy Marshall was not going to reveal any personal information. Well neither was she.
He backed down but not without making sure she knew he didn’t consider this matter concluded. “We attend First Covenant Gospel Church. The early service is at nine a.m., and the evening service is at six-thirty.” His lips thinned. “We would be pleased to have you accompany us this evening.”
She turned back to her puttering at the cottage’s foundation. She leaned down to pull a handful of weeds away from the next crack before she trusted herself to reply. “It just so happens, Mr. Marshall, that I shall be unable to attend church with you this evening.” She sat back on her knees then and smiled at him narrowly, brushing away a lock of hair that blew across her eyes. “But I look forward to attending morning worship with your family next Sunday.” She turned her back, dismissing him.
Getting the last word in was petty. But it felt so good. She grinned while she pictured Randy in a tall pilgrim hat and shoes with big, shiny buckles.
He was right though. One missing ingredient in the recipe of her new life had been church. She could try another way to worship than the comfort of Woodside’s tradition. Nothing would ever be the same again. She was the one who had to adjust if she wanted to fit in here in her new home. It was her choice.
Randy frowned on the walk back home. Instead of being furious at the way the woman had treated him, he felt as though he needed to apologize for his behavior. He had been surprised to see her bent like that, taking care to make repairs on his parents’ house, upkeep that Dad had once been proud to perform. Mrs. Runyon had been a surprise all around, all right. A widow woman wanted to buy the house the banker told them, immediately after that vicious ex-wife of Ted’s demanded he sell out and give her half the cash. A widow woman didn’t seem like much trouble to have next door. Randy hadn’t counted on a widow woman who looked and acted like Grace Runyon. Not elderly at all, but…trim and…fit. Maybe around his own age. Capable and independent. An answer to his brother’s prayers for childcare?
Randy doubted that Mrs. Runyon was aware of the gossip grinding away in East Bay. The joint owners of the resale shop where the woman had first acquired duds for herself and the house regularly visited Kaye’s Café. Randy stopped in to meet up with the other members of the co-op when he was able. It wasn’t long before anyone who cared to listen in on their conversation knew how the newcomer decorated her house as well as her person with offerings from the shop. He could hear their whispers even now:
“That old brown club chair, you know, that we had since old Mr. Woolver was…”
“And you know the dishes from crazy old…”
“I heard she doesn’t believe in church. How does that sit with the Marshalls?”
“You know that young man has her taking care of the little boy. Poor motherless thing…”
Randy didn’t care if everyone in town talked about his new neighbor but he had to stop the dissection of his family. They were not going to dredge up old hurts now. Not when things were getting back to normal and the co-op was back on its feet and doing well. Forcing the widow woman to appear in public at church was a start.
Grace knew she would further entrench herself in the Marshalls’ lives when she agreed to attend church with them. But did that mean she had to act more friendly? More neighborly? How could she let them, and the others, know that she was here because she wanted to be? Whatever the reason behind Randy’s invitation, she was curious and hungry to hear the Word of God preached. The next Sunday she walked soberly down the aisle and sat in the Marshall family pew.
Mrs. Ten Veldt, a row ahead of them, wasted no time in turning around and loudly whispering that she enjoyed seeing Grace wear her former favorite dress. “My dear, I knew at my age I was only growing wider and shorter, so”—she shrugged her shoulders—“I donated most of my wardrobe to charity.” She sniffed. “It looks good on you, too.”
What was she supposed to say to that? “Thank you.” She opened her hymnbook and coughed.
Contrary to Randy’s declaration, not everyone in East Bay attended church on Sundays. The pews at First Covenant were spotty with attendees.
When she informed Ted she had agreed to go to church, he told her it was easier for them to go with Randy.
“I tried to argue about going to New Fellowship where some of my friends go. Better music, more kids. But Covenant was my parents’ church and their parents before them. Great Uncle Harry was the pastor at one time. It’s hard for Randy to think about anything else. I guess it doesn’t hurt Eddy. I remember how hard it was to sit for forty-five minutes, too, until we went down for playtime. Everyone has to do it. But young families aren’t staying like they used to,” Ted said. “And, well, we’re traditional.”
Grace’s first impression of First Covenant was underscored by the scent of age. Dust motes glittered through shafts of light beaming through the high, murky-colored windows. The books in the pew were cracked with age and the few well-used pages of the common liturgy dog-eared and brown. The sanctuary felt clammy and neglected. The organ loft creaked as though housing the ghosts of a long-absent choir.
Crashing organ music wheezed from on high, making Grace jump. She rubbed goose bumps while Eddy hung on her arm like he often did with adults until a sharp rebuke from Randy stiffened his little spine. He sat stick straight against the hard back of the pew and stared straight ahead.
The first five rows of old wooden and handsomely carved pews were empty. That must have been the expensive rent district back when pew fees were charged. She hid a smile, set the hymnal on her lap, and reached across Eddy to pick up a yellowed pamphlet from the holder on the back of the pew in front of her and paged through it.
The organ swelled to a cranky volume and then cut off dramatically as the elderly minister shuffled to the altar from a side room to begin the service.
After her first worship experience in the staid Covenant Church, Grace could never explain to the Marshalls that she missed the fiery preaching of her hometown church, the thwack of the Bible on the simple wooden lectern that aroused anyone who dared to doze during the second hour of the service. Joyous faith was life in Woodside. It did not appear to be so in East Bay.
She laughed drily, inwardly. She might have tried to run away from life, from God, but she’d clearly not been thinking straight at the funeral. God was here, all right. He was sleeping in the front row. Would any other church be different? Grace shifted on her feet while she looked around and listened to the latest change in medication or planting garden story or pet news.
At least they didn’t seem to need to shake hands during the service and she could avoid the few who wanted to afterward by clasping her Bible with both hands and nodding a lot.
She returned in the evening to endure the second service with its accompanying curious looks, the dried hymns and monot
one sermons, and the repetitive litanies, her due penance for her behavior back in Woodside…with grace.
Chapter Five
“You cannot miss picking blueberries for anything,” Shelby Brouwer insisted. “We’ll be lucky to find some late raspberries this year, it’s been so dry. Asparagus, strawberries, cherries, raspberries, blueberries, peaches, then pears and apples.” She counted on her fingers, gleeful. “We have a freezer in the basement. We missed cherries and the early raspberry season already. Please, Grace, you have to.” Food was a constant topic since her appetite returned with a vengeance after the initial morning sickness and discomfort of her pregnancy.
Her expression changed to a frown, her moods jumping up and down lately. “I hated it that Davy wouldn’t let me out to the Cherry Festival.”
“What’s that?” Grace asked, intrigued. Her life in Tennessee had all been rounds, clinic, social visits, family. She’d never been interested in more than the flowers in her yard.
“After the Fourth is the National Cherry Festival. In Traverse City. The Cherry Capital of the World, you know.”
Grace laughed. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. But it sounds like fun.”
“Nobody told you about it, did they?”
“Everyone has other things to think about. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional. I don’t expect folks around here to coddle me, you know. I have to learn my own way around.”
“They’re practically keeping you prisoner.”
“It’s not like that. You of all people should know that Ted needs extra help right now. Next year, Shelby. It’s an annual event, I take it? I’ll take Eddy with me when we pick blueberries. It’s okay for him to come, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. We always take the daycare kids out for a trip.”
Shelby offered detailed instructions about the finer points of fruit picking and which orchards and gardens gave the best deals, which ones catered to tourists and which were for “real” Michiganders.
Grace’s head reeled with the admonitions and knowing for certain she was a dead ringer for a tourist, she and Eddy set out the next morning on their adventure.
The child enjoyed the exercise of walking out to the rows and plucking the fruit. At first. The August weather was sticky and hot and he soon became unusually cranky.
“Gra-ace. I’m done. It’s time to go home now.” His little blueberry bucket was only a quarter full. She didn’t want to stop picking yet and debated the wisdom of having an argument with a nearly five-year-old. Somehow she knew they both would lose.
She tried distraction instead. “Look, Eddy! A big grasshopper is on that bush. Listen to his chirping. He’s singing your favorite song.”
“No he’s not.” Eddy dropped the bucket. “It’s too hot.” He wiped a grubby, stained palm across his eyes leaving a streaky mask across his nose. “There’s hoppers at home.” He kicked at his bucket and pulled at Grace’s arm when she reached into the bushes for another handful of berries. “Let’s go home and jump in the pool!”
“Eddy—hold on there, big guy.” She picked up his bucket. “We’re almost done. Why don’t you go sit over there by Mrs. Overstreet for a little bit while I fill up your bucket, okay? It won’t take long. There’s her dog. You can pet him.”
She waved a hand to shoo away the little gnats away from her eyes. She was uncomfortable too, but intrigued by the great gifts of western Michigan. Mrs. Overstreet was a member of the co-op and clearly respectful of Eddy as the nephew of their marketing chief. She recognized him right away when they drove up, inquiring about picking for the day. Confessed ignorance of the fruit season gave the woman a chance to look her up and down, frowning, and Grace did not want to further irritate her by not getting a decent picking. Besides, they drove a half-hour south to find the recommended farm and she was sharing the picking with her friend.
Eddy trudged over to the tent occupied by Mrs. Overstreet. Grace waved hesitantly when the woman looked over at her. Was she breaking some child labor or neglect laws? Her neighbors picking on either side of her smirked and nodded at each other. She picked faster.
Randy came to the house that evening to take Eddy home.
“We were at blueberries today, Unca Randy! By Mrs. Overstreet. I played.” Eddy was in a much better frame of mind now that he had been given lunch and was splashing in his wading pool. He’d slept all the way home, much to Grace’s relief. He rarely took a nap and had obviously been tired that morning. Now he went giddyupping in his tiny brown swim trunks around the pool, water flying everywhere. Randy backed up, a smile barely making his mouth change shape underneath his dark sunglasses. He was dressed soberly as always, the perfect front man for the local marketers. He obviously took the responsibility seriously. Too seriously.
She invited him to join her on the front porch while Eddy dried off. “How’s Ted today?”
Randy did not look at her. She watched him swallow before answering. Not that she cared overly, but since the rest of the townspeople held him in such high regard, she supposed she should stay on his good side. Maybe they could reach a mutual understanding, some sort of respect, even if they didn’t actually get to the liking each other stage.
“They’ll be keeping him another day at the hospital,” he replied in measured tones. “More prodding and poking. He complains.”
Randy sighed. Then, for the first time, he showed his vulnerable human side to her. “We just wish someone would figure it out, but so far…” He shrugged.
She wasn’t sure how to take the change in attitude and kept her tone neutral. Just going for respect at this point, she reminded herself. No need for gory details. But no need to wound him, either. “I’m sorry. It must be hard on you as much as Eddy.”
Randy turned his head in her direction but Grace could not read his expression through the reflective lenses. He nodded while staring at his twined hands. They sat on the top step, leaning on opposite pillars to watch the sun inch lower on the horizon.
She lifted a hand to shift the hair on her sweaty neck. A truce? Is that what he offered? How far would he take it?
“Um, Randy, can I ask about the place? About the orchards? After being at Overstreets’ today, I was wondering what happened here, if that’s not being too personal.”
Randy pulled off the sunglasses and leaned back on an elbow to study her. His eyes were a faded imitation of Ted’s. The family resemblance in nose and cheekbone was obvious. Pain etched both their faces, each in his own way. Randy kept his steely hair military-butch short. He brushed his hand over the bristles.
“I don’t know what folks have been telling you,” he said while looking down at his hands.
She sat back and wrapped her hands around her knees. “I haven’t heard anything around town.” She smiled. “I don’t get out much besides church.”
Randy looked her way again, his lips pursed and a stern line between his brows. “I guess we’ve taken advantage of you.”
“Not at all.” Grace sat up straight. Eddy zipped up the steps between them, shivering. “Time to change your clothes buddy,” she said.
He stamped his brown feet and nodded his head up and down, then slammed the door behind him. She called after him, “Remember to leave your suit in the tub, Eddy. Not on the floor, okay?”
She looked at Randy, wondering whether to share a piece of her own history. “In fact it was an answer to a prayer to have some company,” she said instead. Maybe later. She wanted to know about the farm first. “But we were talking about the orchards.”
Randy faced the barren field that stretched past the big house along the rural road. Where rows of fruit trees once marched, only mounds of stumps and overgrown grass remained.
“This far north in Michigan is more cherry country,” he said. “Our father had a kind of apple he wanted to try, one from New England. It actually did very well and we had good yields. He passed away quite suddenly four years ago. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was a good man,
” Randy said quietly. “Neither Ted nor I really had any interest in working on the farm. He knew that and, yes, was disappointed but didn’t try and make us feel guilty about it. I went for a degree in business management and am happy to work with the fruit grower’s cooperative. Ted started his own consulting company. Ergonomics, efficiency in farm practices—you know.” Randy looked at her. “This place influenced us deeply even if we didn’t want to do the same kind of work Dad did.”
He tapped his glasses against his knee. “It’s natural to think your parents will last forever. We didn’t plan ahead too well. Anyway, Ted’s wife, Jilly—ah, ex-wife, that is—did management studies, too, at MSU. When Ted brought her here after they got married, she and Dad put their heads together. He liked her. It never even bothered him that she smoked cigars. She spoke well and was enthusiastic. At first, she did have some good ideas. We all discussed it, and he let her gradually assume management. Mom had been gone a long time by then.” Randy checked the screen door and spoke quickly, quietly. “I don’t know. Maybe he was just happy having a woman around again. Not that anything improper was going on.” He stared hard, challenging her to deny him.
She didn’t respond. He could tell her more if he wished. She wouldn’t encourage him, but she didn’t feel the need to stop him, either. Knowing something didn’t mean she had to make it part of her own life. But it might help her with Eddy if he ever asked about his mother.
“When the apple maggot got out of control, Jilly refused to see how serious the situation was. Despite the agent’s concerns, she would not order the treatment he prescribed. She tried to save money and go natural, but in the end we lost the trees here. Then it started spreading to the neighbors.” Randy grinned at her, humorlessly. “She wasn’t the most popular person in town at that time. In fact, the car accident that nearly killed Ted happened on the way home from a town meeting. Growers wanted her to take responsibility, make her pay damages. I always assumed she and Ted musta had an almighty row.” Randy shook his head, rubbing a callused hand over his scalp again. “Ted refused to say exactly what happened in the car. Jilly left town four months later.”
Healing Grace Page 4