Grounds to Believe

by Shelley Bates

  This was what came of playing with the wolf. This was what came of putting her own selfish desire ahead of what she knew was right. He’d bundled her back down the mountain and onto the bike like an embarrassed parent hustling a misbehaving child out of Gathering.

  Julia gripped his waist as the motorcycle dipped into another turn, and wished she were at the bottom of the lake.

  “Where do you want to eat?” he shouted over his shoulder, the wind grabbing the words.

  “I don’t care.” Maybe he wouldn’t hear her.

  No such luck. He probably read lips. “You don’t care where or you don’t care whether it’s with me?” he hollered. “What’s the matter back there?”

  She plastered on a smile and the wind immediately dried it to her teeth. “Nothing!” she shouted brightly.

  “Glad to hear it. I could use some home cooking.”

  “Some what?”

  “Home cooking! You know. Steak. Something simple.”

  Only a man would think steak was simple. “I don’t have any steak.”

  “I’ll settle for fried eggs. If I’m allowed in your apartment in the daytime?”

  Julia struggled to understand him. One minute she thought he was going to kiss her again, the next he had rolled away in disgust. Now he wanted to go home with her for lunch. A trickle of joy seeped through the confusion and humiliation.

  “Julia?”

  “Yes, you’re allowed.” It would be all right to invite him to lunch in broad daylight. After all, he’d been to Madeleine’s for dinner. Melchizedek himself was going to visit. He was no longer a Stranger, not really, and something like lunch was harmless. It wasn’t like she was inviting him in at night.

  He decelerated down the long grade into town. As they cornered into Gates Place she stiffened with a gasp of horror.

  “What? What?” Ross demanded. “Don’t do that, woman, you’ll make me lay this thing down.”

  “I can’t go home like this!”

  “Like what?”

  “Wearing jeans!”

  “Too late. We’re here.”

  He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. With a sense of relief so heady it was like a lungful of pure oxygen, she saw that Rebecca’s car was gone. She was safe for one more day. Could a person actually die from a heart attack brought on by guilt?

  Ross followed her up the stairs and into her apartment. She threw open the curtains and light flooded into the kitchen. He stood in the middle of the adjoining living room and looked around, taking in her pictures, her books, the half-finished embroidery draped over the arm of the couch, held down by the needle stuck in the upholstery.

  She opened the refrigerator door and pulled mushrooms and broccoli out of the crisper.

  “I’ll do that.” He took them and began opening drawers, looking for a knife.

  “That side.” She pointed. “You can cook, too?”

  “You think just because I’m a mechanic and ride a motorcycle I have no culinary skills? Mom ran an equal opportunity kitchen. Everything my sisters learned, I learned too. After that I graduated to laundry and the finer points of dusting china.”

  Julia tried to imagine Derrick or Owen doing laundry and dusting china and failed.

  “She was stuck on me having a real career for a while there,” he went on, “but she got over it. She thought I should be a lawyer or a doctor.”

  “A regular job has its benefits,” she pointed out.

  “I have a regular job. Most of the time.” Mushrooms fell in precise slices on the cutting board. “Nothing breaks down more regularly than heavy equipment.”

  When the water boiled, Julia fed linguine into it. It was a sin to envy a worldly woman she would never see—the future Mrs. Ross Malcolm. The man was not only gorgeous and an expert kisser, he could fix the car when it broke. He could cook. He could even dust china. She battled a sense of unreality. Why was he here in her kitchen? Why was she even entertaining the thought of his life skills when it was completely impossible that she would ever get to enjoy them?

  He isn’t Elect, she told herself. And even if he came to Gathering with her, even if he became Elect himself, he’d still be off-limits. She would be married to Derrick by then, with nothing to do but watch Ross get mobbed by single women every Summer Gathering, year after year, until he chose someone far more pretty and interesting than she.

  “Hey.” He bumped her shoulder.

  She looked up, startled, and felt her knees go weak at the warmth in those gray eyes, the way his long lashes veiled them as he looked down at her. Her breath backed up in her chest.

  “What do you want me to do with these?”

  She blinked as he indicated the neat stack of vegetables. “Oh. Um, sauté them. Thanks.”

  “Coming up. Where do you go when you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Stare off into the distance like that.”

  She blushed the unbecoming color of beets and turned down the flame on the boiling pasta. “I was having an out-of-body experience.” Wishing she were someone else.

  “Stick around. I like you in this one.” He smiled, and Julia felt her knees go as spongy as the mushrooms.

  Where, she wondered, was she ever going to find the strength to bring this to an end?

  Ross left shortly after they heard Rebecca’s car pull into the driveway.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said crossly when she’d fidgeted around the room like a fly trying to escape. “What’s wrong with having a man over to lunch?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that you can’t stay too long. It’ll look bad.”

  “I thought we went through this already. Do they think you’re going to elope with me after the entrée?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why does it look like you’re guilty until proven innocent?”

  Julia gave up trying to explain. Single women didn’t entertain a man alone. Period. Lunch had been okay. A couple of hours of conversation, no problem. But when the day stretched into late afternoon, people could think the worst, and often did. In her case it was particularly dangerous because it would look as though she were cheating on Derrick.

  Ross lived in a world where his behavior was his own business. He could do and say anything he liked. The sense of freedom she’d felt earlier was just an illusion. She lived in a fishbowl because she was the sister of the Elder’s wife.

  “All right, Julia. Have it your way. I’m gone.”

  “Goodbye,” she said softly on the landing. His eyes were level with hers, though he stood one step below. The memory of what had happened the last time they stood here filled the air between them.

  “Thanks for the pasta. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  What for? Why did he bother? “I won’t be home in the morning.”

  “I know. We could go for a ride when you get home.”

  “Not on Sunday, I’m afraid. And then there’s Mission in the evening.”

  “Of course.” He paused a moment as if to get his words in order. “You’re sure it’s okay if I come?”

  Her heart gave a leap and she struggled not to gasp or weep at the unexpected gift. He still meant to come despite her idiotic behavior! “Of course. Anyone can.” Thank you, Lord. I don’t deserve this.

  “Even bikers?”

  “Even them, hard as it is to believe.”

  “Can I pick you up? Say at a quarter to seven?”

  And roll up to the door astride a motorcycle? What a sensation that would cause. Such a thing had never happened at Mission in her lifetime or anyone else’s. But then, neither had she been accosted by a biker in the parking lot before, and look what had happened since then.

  “I don’t think so, Ross. How about I meet you there?”

  After a moment, he nodded. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  With a light touch, he smoothed her hair behind her ear and cupped her chin.

  “Ross…”

  “What?” His eyes were deep pools of sla
te framed by those incredible lashes.

  From somewhere she summoned the strength to say, “Please don’t.”

  “I won’t. But I still think you’re making a mistake.”

  He clunked down the steps, his boots heavy on each riser, and kept his back to her as he put on his helmet, fired the motorcycle up, and roared out of sight.

  Making a mistake about what? She turned and went back inside. He’s still coming to Mission. He’s still coming. It’s a miracle. Dear Lord, what was she going to do? She forced herself to calm down. Nothing. This is not up to you. You can’t save his soul, only he and God can.

  But who was going to save hers? She thought of his kisses. Derrick never kissed her that way. She’d read in the paper once that two people couldn’t really fall in love until they’d exchanged some kind of chemical in their saliva when they kissed. Was that what was wrong with her?

  Not that she was in love with him. She was just infatuated. This was what she got for playing with the wolf. God wouldn’t let her be tempted past bearing.

  The good Lord had pretty much pushed her to her limit, though.

  Sunday was a day of rest. After Gathering in the morning from ten till twelve, lunch for eleven people at Madeleine’s house to celebrate the news that Ryan could come home the following day, an afternoon with an energetic three-year-old who simply would not go down for her nap, and the drive back home to change due to a mistimed sip of milk, Julia was more than ready for it. But there was no hiding from the current of nervous energy that started up inside her around five o’clock, when she was finally able to shut herself into her apartment.

  This must be what drug addiction is like, she thought as she knelt by the bed, trying unsuccessfully to pray before Mission. Her skin felt as though it was just barely holding her together. Blood energized by adrenaline fled through her veins. She would never hear a word of Melchizedek’s sermon if Ross was anywhere in the room.

  I hope he doesn’t come.

  Oh, Lord, please let him come.

  God didn’t listen to such selfish prayers. She got up and threw open the closet door. She didn’t have a thing to wear. All her clothes looked dull and monotonous and, well, black. It was hopeless. The women of the Elect dressed to symbolize sacrifice, not to be attractive. And not for the first time, Julia wondered if that was really what God wanted from half His creation.

  The parking lot at the Mission hall was nearly full. She could get a seat on the center aisle, she thought as she hurried inside. He’d see her right away and come and sit with her.

  Or maybe not. She’d forgotten about Derrick. He would see the seat on the aisle and assume it was for him. But even if he got there after Ross, he would spend the whole service staring at them, making sure Ross didn’t so much as bump her shoulder. People would notice. People would talk.

  Oh, this was awful. She bowed her head and opened her Bible to Job and his patience during his trials.

  The advantage of sitting on the aisle was that she only had to lift her head a little to see people as they came in. Here were Madeleine and Owen, with Hannah between them. Owen flashed her a smile as they made their way to the front row. Alma Woods and her bevy of cronies came in afterward, bulky clothes rustling, T-strap shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. They sat in the third row, gossiping about everyone they saw as if it had been a month instead of a week since they’d done it last. The room was filling up now, and still he hadn’t appeared. She closed her Bible and laid it on the chair beside her. Someone in flat heels tiptoed past, trying to be quiet. Dinah Traynell, in a new high-waisted dress with a—good heavens. It wasn’t even homemade. Who was she trying to impress?

  A horrifying thought struck Julia. Her mother had quizzed her about Ross yesterday. Had she been spreading her guesses as truth? Were the single women feathering their arrows before Ross was even in the room?

  The Bells came in like a decompressing steam train, all noise and “shhhh!” as Linda and Jim herded all their children into the back row, closest to the washrooms. There was a step in the anteroom and Julia’s body tensed as if someone had wound her up like a toy. Boots. Bikers’ boots. She lifted her head as Ross stepped into the doorway—and blinked. Stared.

  He wore brand-new black jeans and a white collarless shirt, with a black Western-cut jacket. His jeans fit those long legs like a worn glove, making him look like a kestrel, sleek and fast, in a room full of threadbare crows. Julia felt her breath back up in her throat.

  New black clothes for Mission. Attention-grabbing clothes that were far too sexy, but new and black nonetheless. He was doing it for God, the best way he knew how.

  Silence swept over the room. Even the Bell children suspended their animation for a second, staring at the exotic stranger.

  He looked worldly and dangerous and completely comfortable. His heels struck slowly on the floor as he strolled the empty distance between the door and the back row of chairs. Let him see me. Let him sit with me. Owen turned, saw who it was and half rose from his chair. No! shouted Julia in her mind. With me!

  Clunk. Clunk.

  Never had it taken anyone so long to walk to a seat. He was behind her now, coming up the aisle. Would he see her? Would he see the seat beside her and know it was for him?

  Clunk. Clunk.

  Ross eased into the chair next to her and she breathed in an intoxicating whiff of cologne and fresh cotton and relief. Something inside her melted at the bigness of him, the controlled strength, the way both contrasted with the stark black and white of his ensemble. The avid stares of everyone in the room settled on the two of them like frost in an ice storm. She straightened her back.

  “Hey,” he whispered, smiling into her eyes. His shoulder bumped hers gently.

  “Hi,” she whispered back. He handed her her Bible and she took it. “Glad you could make it.”

  He settled into the chair, crossing one ankle over a knee, as he thumbed through the hymnbook someone had given him at the door. He stayed that way, seemingly absorbed in the words he was reading, until Melchizedek announced the first hymn. She needn’t have worried that he’d do something indiscreet, like kiss her hello, or that he’d try and talk in the Silence before the service. He was evidently sensitive to the behavior of others. He’d taken his cue from the people around him and acted as they did. Her respect for him went up another notch.

  They rose for the hymn and her voice dropped automatically into the alto part.

  The new day dawns, that millennial morn,

  The world and the flesh passed away.

  Sinners and saints are alike gathered here

  On the strand at the end of the way.

  And what will the final judgment be

  On the shores of eternity?

  Ross glanced at her and switched from melody to bass, their two voices blending, the notes crossing and overlapping to form a counterpoint to the melody sung by everyone else.

  Reality has new meaning now,

  And we learn the results of truth;

  Priorities change as we realize

  How much we had left to do.

  The charms of the world appear differently

  On the shores of eternity.

  Julia felt as if more than their voices were blending. They were making music together, a music that was more than the artificial creation of notes on the page. He hit a low B-flat that resonated deep inside her with a physical intensity. She vaulted up an arpeggio of four notes and he had to take a breath in midphrase, as if he’d lost his place.

  The Elect who have given their lives to God

  And lived out His Truth here below

  Will know what it means to stand on the shore,

  Reaping in joy what they’ve sown.

  For in sweet fellowship with Him they will be

  Throughout all eternity.

  Julia sat down with a gasp and bowed her head for Melchizedek’s prayer. She struggled to make sense of his words behind closed eyelids, but the attention of her whole body, her ears,
her very skin, was filled with Ross. When he shifted, her blood sped up. When his elbow touched hers, goose bumps broke out on her arm. She had never experienced this, never. He was like a roaring waterfall of sensation, and Melchizedek’s voice faded into empty vowels and consonants, signifying nothing.

  After the last hymn, Melchizedek announced that there would be a young people’s meeting the following Friday. “It will be at Jim and Linda Bell’s, and the topic I’d like you all to think about—” here he glanced from Dinah to Claire to the Kowalczyk twins to Julia “—is one concrete way we can silently witness for the way of the Elect. You may bring a guest if you like.”

  A guest? Melchizedek hadn’t looked at him, but Julia knew perfectly well he’d meant Ross. Once that happened, the gates would open and the invitations would start. He would have been accepted.

  As Melchizedek made his dignified way to the door to shake hands with people as they filed out, Ross leaned over to whisper. His breath fanned her ear, and she shivered.

  “Is he including me?”

  “I think so.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “I don’t know anything about witnessing for the Elect, silent or otherwise.”

  “I think he just means for you to listen.”

  “What happens?” They stood up and moved down the row of chairs, joining the flow of people heading for the door. Julia tried to explain.

  “Each of us—yes, even the girls, you don’t have to give me that kind of look—stands up and speaks on the topic—hello, Alma, I’m fine, thanks. Yes, this is Ross Malcolm. No, he isn’t that kind of biker, he rides for recreation. Ross, Mrs. Alma Woods. Then Melchizedek will do a wrap-up and message for about half an hour. Hi, Linda, this is Ross Malcolm.” Ross—the rat—turned that lady-killer grin on Linda in the middle of one of her breathy sentences, and she melted in a puddle on the spot. “Stop that.”