It did not budge.
You heard me, Jesus! You answered the cry of my heart!
Strength and hope swelled within her. Oh, my God, thank you! I surrender myself to your Lordship, and I surrender this day to you. In all things, Lord, I surrender!
She decided to leave early for the shop, for she could not face her Palmer House family at breakfast—not without first having dealt with her improper relationship with Lola.
Sarah washed and dressed for work. When she was done, she sat on the edge of her bed and opened her Bible. The Scripture she sought was percolating within her spirit before she found it. She read aloud from Galatians 5:
“Stand fast therefore in the liberty
wherewith Christ hath made us free,
and be not entangled again
with the yoke of bondage.”
Nodding, she declared, “By your grace, Lord, I shall stand.”
She left the house that morning while the household was in the dining room having breakfast. As she strode toward the trolley stop, she repeated, “Stand fast. In the liberty. Wherewith Christ has made me free. Be not entangled again. With the yoke of bondage.”
On the trolley, she whispered, “My God, I am your willing, obedient daughter. In all things, I am yours. Please help me to stand fast today and fully conform to your will.”
When she unlocked the empty shop and stepped inside, her first determination was to make a clean breast of everything with Corrine. She prayed, “I shall not fight these battles alone any longer, Lord. I shall seek wise counsel and support from my family—my brothers and my sisters—and I shall follow the leading of your Holy Spirit.”
Corrine arrived for work ten minutes ahead of time.
“Corrine? May I talk to you?”
Sarah’s friend drew near her, hesitation in her steps.
Sarah stared at the floor. “I do not deserve your help, but I wish to ask a favor of you.”
Corrine sighed. “I would do anything for you, Sarah. Anything that does not displease the Lord.”
“I shall not ask you to compromise yourself—you have my word. What I ask is, could you . . . would you stay an extra hour with me today?”
Corrine was wary. “May I know why?”
Sarah wet her lips. “You were right, Corrine, to warn me, and I was wrong to reject your counsel. Lola was not a good influence upon me, nor I on her. I shall not blame her—how can I? My own stubborn choices put me in the way of temptation and sin. However, today I must say goodbye to Lola.
“I realize that I shall grieve and wound Lola’s heart, so, I-I would ask that you stay and help me remain true to my resolution and not give in to her entreaties. And . . . I do ask your forgiveness for the cruel, hurtful manner in which I have treated you.”
Corrine patted Sarah’s arm. “I forgive you, Sarah. And I shall stand by you.”
“Thank you, Corrine. I love you so.”
THE DAY CREPT BY AT a snail’s pace, and Sarah’s newfound confidence began to slip. She was worried and uncertain, fighting the same battle again and again—how (and if) she could break off her relationship with Lola. Each time she began to waver, she returned to Pastor Carmichael’s words from the previous evening:
You refused these men forgiveness, not realizing that your unforgiveness gave Satan a foothold in your heart. Your wounds festered over years of abuse, and you became angry, filled with rage—an uncontrollable of rage that erupted whenever you were offended. And when your anger fed upon new transgressions—both real and perceived—Satan’s hold on you grew stronger.
Your anger strengthened to the point that you passed judgment upon an entire class of people, upon all men. If you did not hate men, if you were able to form a godly attachment to a man, would Lola have ever tempted you?
“No,” Sarah admitted to herself. She relied, too, upon an additional piece of wisdom Pastor Carmichael had shared last evening.
You may need to forgive those who have injured you many times, Sarah, each time exercising your will over your feelings. Like the layers of an onion, as you peel off one layer of offense, another will show itself as surely as the enemy returns to tempt us with sin.
Concerning Lola? Continue to repent before the Lord; follow through with your decision to break off your friendship with her. Make it quick and final. Be watchful. Be diligent. Guard your heart with great care.
Sarah bent her head and prayed. “Lord, I repent of my wrong relationship with Lola. I give my broken feelings to you; I declare that, with your help, I shall sever those ties today. I trust you to see me through this ordeal, Lord. Amen.
“And my Lord? I forgive Richard for sinning against me. As you forgive me time and again for sinning against you, I continue to forgive him. I ask that you soften his heart. Send someone to tell him of Jesus and bring him to a place of godly sorrow and repentance. I ask that you save him, Lord, as you saved me. He does not deserve your mercy, my God, but neither did I. I forgive Richard; I shall not allow the devil to divide my heart. I shall not give him portion or place—not a foothold, not a toehold, not the nail of a single one of his claws.”
Throughout the day, she forgave and prayed for Willard Abernathy. She forgave Judge Brown for lying to her and taking her to Corinth instead of to his home. She forgave him, although he had gone missing when Dean Morgan assumed ownership of the houses and was, by all accounts, presumed dead.
It may be of no help to Judge Brown if you forgive him, but it will heal you, Sarah, Pastor had said. Forgive every offense and every individual as you recall them.
Following Pastor Carmichael’s advice, Sarah worked with meticulous attention through a list she had drawn up of men she could remember from her time in Corinth. Many of them had been “regulars” at the clubs. Partway down the list she saw the name Armand Schumer and sucked in a breath. Sarah would never forget her encounter with Schumer and his wife soon after Michaels’ Fine Furnishings opened . . .
WORD HAD GOTTEN AROUND Denver that the owners of the new shop, Grant and Joy Michaels, employed two women from “up the mountain.” Grant, Joy, and the shop’s employees had endured a number of protests and other methods of censure—those delivered in person.
“I should like to be shown your selection of lace tablecloths,” the customer had declared in a loud voice. The matron arched a haughty brow and waited for assistance to come to her while her husband, with an air of bored compliance, lifted glasses to his eyes and studied a wall painting hanging near them.
Sarah had stepped to the woman’s side, smiled, and gestured toward the rods hung with neatly folded table linens. At that moment the woman’s husband turned toward her, and Sarah gasped. She whirled away, her hand to her mouth to cover her shock, but the damage was done. He had recognized her—and she him. A laughing, cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Standing behind his wife, the wink he threw Sarah went unseen by that woman.
Sarah composed herself and, ignoring the man, continued toward the table linens. As Sarah pointed out the styles and sizes in stock, the woman scrutinized her, and her mouth turned down in derision.
“Tell me, young lady. Are you one of those women come down from that little town up the mountain? One of those women living in Martha Palmer’s house?” The question had been intentionally strident, clearly spoken for the benefit of others than Sarah to hear as well.
Sarah had not moved, but she did not know how to answer, and Corrine, who had been ringing up a purchase, froze. Joy, who had also overheard the question, tried to excuse herself from her present customer.
Finally, Sarah had squared her shoulders. “Yes, ma’am, I am ‘one of those women.’ Now,” she turned stiffly toward the display of table cloths, “what size cloth would interest you today?”
The woman’s nose lifted higher. “Well! I simply did not believe it when I heard it. Employing women of ill repute in what is advertised as a respectable establishment! I wish to see the owner immediately.”
Sarah set her lips together as Joy h
urried to her aid. Joy composed herself as she reached the matron’s side.
“I am Joy Michaels, the owner of this establishment. May I be of assistance, Mrs.—?”
“Mrs. Schumer,” Sarah provided.
She had been angry when she answered Joy. Angry and growing angrier.
“Mrs. Schumer, is it? How may I help you today?” Joy asked.
The woman had cast Sarah a wary glance. “I do not believe I introduced myself.” She frowned. “I know I did not introduce myself.” She turned to Joy. “How did this . . . this woman know my name?”
Joy was perplexed. “I, well, I am certain I do not—”
But Sarah had answered the question. “I know your name, Mrs. Schumer,” Sarah replied, “because I know your husband, Mr. Schumer.”
“I am sure you are mistaken,” Mrs. Schumer had expostulated. “I am aware of all of my husband’s acquaintances.” The matron raised her finger and wagged it at Sarah. “—and you may well claim to know him, but I am certain he does not know you!”
She had ended on a loud note of triumph.
Sarah had not been cowed. Ignoring Joy’s hand squeezing her arm, she had retorted, “Oh, I do assure you, Mrs. Schumer, that I am well known to Mr. Schumer. Of course, I refer to the biblical manner of knowing. After all, I am one of those women. Oh, yes. He ‘knows’ me all right. Not that I ever had a choice in the matter!”
Joy had stepped in then and sent Sarah to the office, and Sarah had not witnessed the dawn of Mrs. Schumer’s understanding or her mortification. But it was in that moment, in her confrontation with Armand Schumer, that Sarah’s long-simmering resentment had ignited into a full-fledged hatred of men.
She had gone out the shop’s back door and fled to Palmer House, convinced that Joy would sack her and that she would be asked to leave Palmer House forthwith. Rather than go into the house, Sarah had stumbled across the front porch and taken shelter in the house’s gazebo. There she had collapsed, sobbing her heart out.
That was where Mr. Wheatley, sprier by a decade back then, had found her.
He had plopped down on the seat near her and, patting her shoulder over and over, asked, “Now, Sarah girl, whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing!” Sarah had declared.
“Pshaw! Come, now. Tell this old man what has hurt you. You can trust me.”
And the startling truth had been, Sarah had trusted him. Perhaps, due to his advancing years, she did not count him as a danger or, perhaps, his always kindly manner had won her over. All Sarah knew was that she had found herself weeping into the front of Mr. Wheatley’s shirt, and he had held her, gently, until the storm passed . . .
WHY, MR. Wheatley is the only man I have ever confided in, Sarah realized.
Wiping unexpected moisture from her face, she again looked at her list and the name: Armand Schumer. Pastor Liáng was right—I have been living in self-deception for years. Why, I never actually forgave Mr. Schumer; I only put him out of mind.
In truth, I added his name and his sins to the list of trespasses I was hiding in my heart—a list I was storing up in order to justify my anger toward all men.
“O Lord God! In the name of Jesus, I forgive this man, and I forgive his wife, too. She did not know, Lord, what a despicable, unfaithful husband he was until that day. Please, Lord, help her. Help her to forgive him, for her own sake. I pray that you pour your grace and mercy upon her . . . and upon him. I thank you, my God, for helping me to forgive and let go of these offenses. Thank you for taking this terrible burden of judgment from my heart.
“And please, dear Lord? Give me strength for the battle ahead of me today. How I need you!”
AS CORRINE’S REGULAR work day drew to a close, Sarah grew anxious—and her agitation began to make Corrine nervous.
“Will Lola come to the front or the back door, Sarah?”
“The back,” Sarah whispered.
“Do you wish me to answer it for you?”
“No, but do remain with me, please.”
“Of course.”
“I think it wise, too, that we close the shop at four, so we do not run the risk of a customer happening upon . . .”
“I agree, Sarah. That would be best.”
“Oh, Corrine! How? How did I fall so far?” Sarah sank down upon a chair and wept bitterly.
“Be strong, Sarah. The Lord is your Rock. He will be your Courage.”
LOLA’S LIVELY RAP ON the back door came at ten past four.
Sarah swallowed hard. Jesus, please help me!
She unlocked the door, and Lola bounced inside, her smile bright. “Hello, sweetheart!”
Aware that Corrine was watching, Sarah cast her eyes to the floor. That was when Lola became conscious of Corrine’s presence.
“Oh. Hello . . . Corrine.” Lola glanced from Corrine back to Sarah and realized, too, that Sarah had not greeted her. “What is wrong, Sarah?”
Sarah clasped her fingers together and looked into Lola’s wary face. “Lola, I must tell you something, something difficult.”
Lola frowned, and her breath quickened. “What?”
“Our friendship has . . . strayed onto a wrong path, and I-I must end it. I am sorry to have led you on, Lola, but I-I cannot see you any longer.”
Every syllable strangled Sarah—and she saw that her every word was a dagger in Lola’s heart.
“You are joking. You must be—I know you love me.”
“I do love you, Lola, but this kind of love is wrong. I have repented of it before God, and he has forgiven me, but now I must say goodbye to you. Please. Do not call me or come here again.”
Lola’s features crumpled. “Sarah? No. No, you cannot be serious! I love you!”
“I am so very sorry, Lola.”
Covering her mouth to hold back a sob, Sarah ran through the office door into the shop, leaving Corrine and Lola together. Lola made to follow Sarah, but Corrine carefully closed the door after Sarah and stood against it.
“Sarah is grieved to her core that she has hurt you, Lola; she did not want to.”
“Did not want to hurt me? You know nothing! She has killed me! Move aside—she will change her mind. She must. I know she loves me as I love her.”
Lola put her hand on Corrine’s arm to push her aside—but Corrine covered it with her own.
“Lola. Please look at me.”
Lola turned an anguished face to Corrine.
Corrine, shedding tears of her own, whispered, “Sarah has made her choice. Please honor her decision.”
Lola’s empty gaze regarded Corrine for many agonizing seconds before she shook off Corrine’s gentle hold. She said nothing further, but stumbled through the back door, closing it quietly behind her.
Chapter 19
Sarah went directly to her room following dinner and locked herself in. No one at the table had asked her about the previous evening or mentioned where they had gone or what they had done while Rose and Pastor Carmichael waited for Sarah to come home.
Few of the household had spoken to her at all other than to say “hello” or “pass the potatoes, please.” But they had watched her when they thought she was not aware and had averted their eyes when she glanced their way.
Sensing that Rose may have already filled them in, Sarah blushed in hot shame.
Mr. Wheatley had not looked away; he had nodded encouragement in her direction. At the same time, he could not hide his sadness at the situation.
I have let them down, all of them. Me, who had the prideful audacity to think myself an example to the younger girls, a helper Miss Rose could lean on. Nothing could be further from the truth.
And Sarah’s difficulties were not at an end. Yes, she had obeyed the Lord and severed her association with Lola. She had seen that heartrending decision through—but this time tomorrow, following dinner, Rose would convene the house.
Sarah had agreed to confess her sins to her sisters and brothers in Christ and ask their forgiveness.
Sarah shuddered. How can
I face them? How will I be able to tell them the truth? How will they react when I lay bare the vile state of my heart, the ugliness of my sins?
I said I would do it.
But I cannot.
Sarah wrestled all night with what was before her. Sleep was out of the question, so she paced, walking up and down her room, struggling with what was ahead, what she could neither elude nor circumvent.
In the earliest hours of morning, she stood at her window and, not unlike another night long ago, Sarah looked out into the shadows. Only a skiff of snow lay upon the ground here in Denver, this first week of December. No icicles hung from the eaves. Out beyond the gate to Palmer House, the streets were not heaped with ice and frozen, filthy slush—not as they had been on that night from her childhood.
Still, like that night so many years past, she thought, I shall run away. I shall leave—now, this morning, before the house awakes. I have a little money set by. I shall go some place where no one knows me.
Sarah packed quickly, taking only what she absolutely needed and what her bag would hold. Then she dressed herself for the cold, adding a woolen petticoat for warmth and putting extra socks on before she donned her boots.
She tiptoed down the wide staircase to the black, echoing foyer. By touch, she found her coat, hat, and scarf hanging on the hall tree. Making barely a sound, she put them on.
When she was ready, she took up her bag and approached the front door. She knew it well, even in the dark: It might stick a little, but it was not likely to make much of a noise. In any event, Mr. Wheatley was the only occupant of the first floor, and his hearing was not as keen as it once was.
Sarah turned the lock. She grasped the door’s handle and twisted it, pulling the heavy door toward her. As the door opened halfway, it encountered an object in the corner behind it, unseen in the darkness of the wide foyer.
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