by Janette Oke
It sounded absolutely awful.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be in charge of your own life,” Judith continued.
“Yes. Yes, there is. That’s just the whole point. God is in charge of my life. I’m not to be taking things into my own hands and trying to work them out to suit my whims.”
“This is hardly a whim, Cynthie.”
“Well, it is. Really. It’s easy to think that I know what’s best for me. But only God really knows that. I need to … to just trust Him to work things out.”
Judith nodded in agreement. “But the dinner is still on?”
Cynthia nodded back. “The dinner—yes. But no funny stuff. No trying to get the two of them off by themselves or—”
“We’re not dealing with teenagers here,” retorted Judith impatiently. “Nobody’s going to try to shove these two mature adults at each other.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. It’s just this … this whole thing has me sort of on edge. I don’t want to jump in and interfere where I have no business. We need God’s will in this.”
“Listened closely last Sunday, did we?” said Judith, breaking off a section of her orange muffin.
Cynthia could not help but smile. She shrugged. “Okay. So I listened. I think the lesson might have been meant just for me.”
“Oh, I needed it a bit too. Cal reminded me of that on the way home.”
They looked at each other and shared a grin.
“We’ll do the dinner thing—” began Judith.
“And we won’t manipulate,” added Cynthia.
“And we’ll just see what happens with it.”
Cynthia nodded. “Deal!”
They turned to their morning pastries and ordered cups of fresh coffee. But it wasn’t long until Cynthia noticed an impish smile playing about her friend’s mouth.
“What’s with you?”
Judith tossed her head. “Nothing.”
“There is too. I can see it brewing.”
“I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be fun if it happened anyway? Without us. Well … maybe not totally without us. Maybe we’ll need to—you know—give just a wee nudge in the right direction.”
“Jude!”
“What? You know perfectly well that sometimes God expects us to do our part.”
Judith’s eyes were twinkling again. Cynthia knew she was teasing. At least she hoped so.
Chapter Three
Introductions All Around
Cynthia was so uptight that her hands felt clammy. The little glances she kept casting toward her father all the way to the Wrights’ house didn’t help, even though he seemed perfectly calm. He looked serene, relaxed. How can he feel so totally at ease with what lies ahead? she wondered rather illogically. Because, of course, he didn’t know. It was only Judith who shared her secret. Maybe Cal. Cal had advised caution. He must know a little about what was being schemed.
In the backseat Todd and Justin were fairly bouncing with excitement. Then Cynthia realized how long it had been since the boys had enjoyed such an outing. That was one more thing she missed because Roger was gone. They were no longer invited out to visit with other families. Not like they used to be when exchanging Sunday dinner invitations was a common occurrence.
Cynthia was wise enough to realize that her father’s marriage, should he ever decide to take the plunge sometime in the future, would not change that circumstance. She and her boys still would not be seen as a whole family. Acknowledging the reality made her feel almost panicky. Would she give up her father, only to be even worse off than before? Maybe she should try once more to get out of today’s dinner date.
But her father was already easing his Chevy into the Wrights’ driveway. A sleek black Olds already occupied the left. The other guests obviously were already being entertained.
Cynthia felt her stomach knot. But already the boys were clambering out of the car. The Wright boys were jumping up and down on the front steps, calling words of boisterous welcome to their friends. There was no turning back now. Cynthia steeled herself and opened her car door.
Cal Wright was standing behind his excited offspring. He opened the door with a broad smile to welcome his new guests. Cynthia entered the home to which she had been admitted so many times over the years, feeling uncomfortably like a stranger.
Judith had outdone herself, Cynthia noticed. Never had she seen the homey place so polished. No magazines carelessly tossed on the coffee table. No kids’ toys under the skirt of the sofa or peeking out from between the cushions. Every piece of furniture was gleaming. Cynthia could still smell the lemon of the furniture polish. And the carpet showed only a few indentations where visitors’ feet had made their way to easy chairs.
She must have worked all Saturday, Cynthia told herself and then remembered that Judith had Cal to help her. He was good with the vacuum, Judith had often boasted. Their eldest, Erin, was old enough now to be a real help to her mother with household chores also.
Still, Cynthia knew enough about family life to know that it took effort and organization to get the room so spotless, and even more effort to keep it that way from Saturday to Sunday afternoon. Judith likely had banned her family from the room.
Cynthia felt herself being gently nudged forward. Aware of her father’s hand in the small of her back, she moved into the room. Already Cal was saying, “This is Cynthia Longley,” and the man occupying the plaid chair by the fireplace was rising to his feet. Cynthia let her eyes meet those of the attorney and wondered if he could read her mind. Did he know that she had been part of a plot to pair his widowed mother with her father? She felt her face warm as she reached to accept the offered hand.
Her father’s turn to give the masculine hand a hearty shake meant that Cynthia, relieved, was able to turn away.
A slight rustle to her left brought her head around. A lively looking woman stepped through the door from the kitchen, a big apron wrapped around her small frame. Her face was flushed a rosy pink and her forehead looked slightly moist. But the honey-blond hair was perfectly coifed and a warm twinkle lit her blue eyes.
“And this is Mrs. Weston,” Cal was saying, indicating the bustling figure. Cynthia blinked. What was Mrs. Weston doing in Judith’s kitchen—looking like she belonged? Looking very motherly.
The woman came forward, indicating the big apron with a good-natured sweep of her hand. “Judith was kind enough to find me one of her mother’s aprons,” she explained, still with that twinkle. “Dinner smells delicious. I never could stay out of kitchens.”
She laughed, the sound soft and musical.
She wiped a hand on her apron before she extended it. “I do hope there’s no gravy on it,” she said with another chuckle. “You must be Cynthia, Judith’s friend. I’m so happy to meet you.”
Cynthia’s head was spinning. Had she been able to paint a picture of the perfect woman for her father, it would have looked just like Mrs. Weston.
She accepted the hand and managed to mumble something she hoped made some kind of sense.
“And this is Paul Standard, Cynthia’s father,” Cal continued. She watched in awed silence as her father acknowledged the introduction and exchanged easy pleasantries with the widow lady.
“If you’ll excuse me, Judith can use my help,” the woman said with a warm smile that included them all, and she disappeared again through the kitchen door.
Cynthia managed to find her senses. “I’ll … I’ll give a hand too,” she murmured to no one in particular and followed Mrs. Weston to Judith’s kitchen.
She was afraid to look directly at Judith. Surely her own eyes would betray her secret. Her astonishment. Her desire. She had promised not to meddle, and she had every intention of keeping that promise. Yet—it would be so hard. Not to encourage. Not to nudge a bit. Not to pry enough to find out just what her father was thinking about this new member of their congregation.
Cynthia found a small task and busied herself. The two ladies working beside her chatted as th
ough they were old friends. From the living room came the rumble of male voices, punctuated often by hearty laughter. Somewhere in the dim distance, children’s voices called to one another. Cynthia knew they were in the basement family room, but she paid little attention to the rise and fall of childish chatter.
Before Cynthia had fully gathered her thoughts, Judith was asking Cal to call the children. The meal was ready to be served.
There was a good deal of commotion as the children, all five of them, scampered up from the basement and washed their hands at the bathroom sink as instructed. As the eldest and the only girl, Erin seemed to automatically take over. Soon she had her charges lined up, still-damp hands tucked behind their backs or fidgeting impatiently at their sides as they waited for grown-up instructions about where to sit.
Judith had managed to get eleven chairs around her dining room table. Cal announced the seating arrangements, and with a minimum of bustle and noise under the circumstances, they all found their places.
“This is so nice,” spoke Mrs. Weston warmly after the grace was said, looking around with her bright smile. “I always wanted a big family. God didn’t choose to bless us with one, but this … this is next best. Sharing with others.”
“You have just the one son?” asked Cynthia’s father, who sat next to her, thanks to Judith’s arrangements.
“Just the one. But I couldn’t ask for a better one.” She gave her son a warm smile.
What else could a mother say? thought Cynthia. I’d say the same thing myself under similar circumstances.
“And I have just the one daughter,” her father continued the conversation.
Cynthia prayed fervently that he wouldn’t say she was the best he could possibly have. He didn’t.
“And two grandsons,” went on her father, proudly gracing Todd and Justin with a broad smile.
“Two grandsons,” the woman repeated. “Well, you certainly are one up on me there. I can’t wait for grandchildren. Must be so much fun.”
“Oh, it is. Keeps me young. And busy.” Cynthia’s father was still smiling as he looked at his boys.
“It must be so much fun,” the woman repeated.
Cynthia had the impression that Attorney Weston—P.C.—was stirring uneasily. She lifted her glance from her plate to give a brief peek in his direction. Yes, he did look a tad uncomfortable. He covered quickly by turning to Cal with a comment. Cynthia did not hear.
Judith had outdone herself with the meal. Everything was delicious and brought many comments from the diners. Even Todd exclaimed with young-boy frankness that “everything sure was good.”
The conversation flowed easily. Cynthia found herself straining to get in on more than one discussion at a time. Her father and Mrs. Weston chatted easily throughout the meal, often addressing a remark to the entire table. She heard manly chuckles and feminine titters and marveled at how quickly they seemed to become acquainted with each other. Now and then Cynthia cast anxious little looks toward Judith, but her friend usually seemed occupied with her conversation with P.C. Weston and Cal. Cynthia did overhear Judith’s favorite little joke about marrying Cal just so she could always be Wright. The attorney had grinned appreciatively.
Cynthia, seated between her two sons as she had requested, often missed bits of the conversation because of the chatter of her offspring and the Wright children. It was unnerving when she wanted to hear everything that was being said at the table.
After dessert the youngsters were excused and the grown-ups sat and enjoyed another cup of coffee. Conversation for the entire table was much easier then, and Cynthia enjoyed the chit-chat about current events and worldwide church news. She even voiced a few opinions, though mostly she was content to sit and listen.
She was the first to stir. Time was passing quickly. Her father always enjoyed a brief Sunday afternoon nap, a habit he had picked up since his retirement. At first he had done it, he said, to help the hours pass more quickly. Now he missed it if he didn’t get his fifteen- or twenty-minute “power-nap,” as he liked to call it. He would be getting restless if she didn’t make a move to bring the delightful occasion to a close.
“Let me help with dishes,” she heard herself saying to Judith.
“Nonsense. Cal will help me.”
Poor Cal, thought Cynthia. It looks like he’s already worked overtime.
“Really,” she insisted. “Let me give a hand.”
Mrs. Weston was rising to her feet as well.
“It won’t take long at all if we all pitch in,” she said, gathering up dessert plates as she spoke. “Now, that was a mother’s phrase if I ever heard one,” she joked, and they joined in her laughter.
It seemed very natural for the three women to busy themselves in the kitchen together. In no time the cleanup task was done. Cynthia discovered that she secretly wanted it to last a bit longer. She was enjoying the cozy atmosphere of common-interest chatter and a shared task with other women. It reminded her of the good times she used to have with her mother. No wonder her father was so lonesome. He lost the love and companionship of a truly wonderful woman, Cynthia mused. She also missed it. That special camaraderie. She hadn’t realized just how much until this moment. This moment of sharing, not just with Judith, but with this motherly woman who worked beside her.
Roger must have known, she found herself thinking. He had rather taken over after Mother died—coming to the kitchen to help, to chat, just to lean up against the counter and watch Cynthia fix a meal and casually discuss the happenings of the day. He must have known, she repeated inwardly. Now she did those tasks alone while her father entertained the boys.
But there was soon no reason to linger any longer in Judith’s kitchen. Pensively she hung up the dish towel just as Mrs. Weston removed the ample apron from her Sunday dress.
“This has been fun,” the older woman said, her voice indicating that the words were totally sincere. “I always longed for a daughter. Carl and I had planned a big family. We were so disappointed when that became impossible for us,” the woman confided with a wistfulness in her voice. “But—” she added, picking up her cheerfulness again, “Preston has been a good son. He has given me so much joy.”
He doesn’t even want you around, Cynthia began a mental dialogue. How could anybody not want you? She could feel anger begin to smolder deep within her.
There seemed to be nothing to do now but to gather up her family and go home. Home to the house that had not really seemed like a home since Roger had died. They just lived there. Put in long days—and even longer nights. She did not look forward to the return.
Cynthia managed to be the last person to exit the door. She gave Judith an appreciative hug. They were not given to being “maudlin,” as Judith called it, but Cynthia knew of no other way to let her longtime friend know how she felt.
“Thanks so much, Jude,” she whispered.
To Cynthia’s surprise, Judith held her for a moment. “So what do you think?” she asked in a return whisper.
Cynthia leaned back enough to see Judith’s face as unbidden tears dimmed her eyes. “I don’t know about Daddy,” she murmured, “but I’d take her home today.”
Judith grinned and gave Cynthia another squeeze. “Isn’t she just adorable?”
Cynthia could only nod. Her heart was too full for her to be able to speak.
“I was thinking,” her father said on the drive home. “We really should return the invitation. Your mother was very particular about being hospitable—you know, in doing the turnabout. She never felt settled until she had returned the invitation.”
Cynthia didn’t respond and waited to see where he was going with this.
“Been a long time since we entertained,” he continued.
Daddy, thought Cynthia, we’ve never entertained.
“Some folks are stepping out to a restaurant now instead of having people in their home. I still think that doing something at home is nice, but if you don’t feel up to going to all that fuss, we can just o
ffer to take them all out.”
“The Wrights?”
He nodded.
They drove on in silence while Cynthia thought about his words. She knew he was right. They should “do the turnabout.”
“Guess we could.”
“Maybe when we get home we can sort of pick a Sunday,” her father went on.
It was her turn to nod.
“Let’s do it next Sunday,” called Todd from the backseat.
“Yeah,” seconded Justin. Both of them were full of enthusiasm about their friends and the toys in the Wright household.
“Next Sunday might be too soon,” Cynthia cautioned. “It could sort of look like … like we wanted to hurry up and get it over with or something.”
“A couple of Sundays then,” said her father. He half turned to her. “Two Sundays between should be okay, shouldn’t it?”
She nodded again. “I’ll talk to Judith.”
“I was thinking,” said her father after a short pause. “Maybe we could invite the Westons too. They seem like real nice folks.”
Cynthia turned her head to look at him. You old rascal, she thought to herself, a smile catching the corners of her mouth. I’ll just bet you do. I saw the way you two chatted throughout the entire meal.
She looked out the side window of the car, no longer feeling threatened. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if—? But no—she would not allow her mind to jump ahead to such fancies. She would be too disappointed if it didn’t happen.
“I’ll call the Westons,” she said, hoping that the excitement she was feeling would not be given away by her voice.
She saw her own soft smile transfer to her father’s face.
It turned out to be three weeks before Cynthia hosted the Sunday dinner. When she had arrived home and studied her house, she had decided that she simply could not be ready any sooner. She had been neglectful. Though she was busy, in truth she had lost interest in housekeeping since Roger had died.
Now she looked about her with new eyes. Things needed a good cleaning. The carpets were soiled. The draperies needed to be sent out. There were marks on the hall walls that needed paint touch-ups. The kitchen wallpaper looked shabby. The fireplace needed thorough attention.