Their Small-Town Love

by Arlene James

  Sighing, he took himself into his neat, roomy kitchen and put together an early dinner of canned hash, canned green beans, canned carrots and saltine crackers, washing it all down with a canned cola in front of the television in the den next to his bedroom. Perhaps that was the problem, he mused, looking at the soda. Maybe, without his even realizing it, his whole life had been canned, neatly packed into a very small but somewhat flimsy container.

  And maybe he was just in an odd mood because of the funeral today. Yes, that must be it. Surely, with a little time, this unsettled feeling would pass.

  Not willing to seek out company but dissatisfied with what he found on the TV, he picked up a novel he’d been meaning to read and carried it to bed with him. When he closed the covers, dawn was pushing back the night, and the problem that had niggled at him for hours burst fully realized into his mind.

  Suddenly he knew that he should have stayed with Ivy yesterday or, better yet, kept her with him. He should have invited her out to dinner, should have taken her over to visit with Hap, anything instead of leaving her all alone after the funeral of her niece on her last night in town. He should have invited her to join the family for church this morning and dinner afterward. He should have honored her bravery with complete support. He should have prayed with her and for her and told her again how much he admired her determination to overcome her past and make up for her mistakes.

  But he had done none of those things. He had not even prayed about his own troubling disquiet last night, for fear of what he might hear God telling him, of what he might learn about himself. What was he frightened of, that Ivy’s past would somehow harm his position? Or of his feelings for her and what those feelings might do to his heart and his world?

  Feeling small and foolish, he got up to make himself a pot of coffee. Then he sat on a stool at the old, scarred butcher-block island in his kitchen and apologized to God for being such a self-centered idiot.

  “Forgive me, Father,” he whispered after several minutes of intense prayer, “for letting my fear get the better of me. Why should I fear when You are with me? Show me what the right thing is and help me do it always. Amen.”

  He got up to shower, shave and make himself presentable before driving over to the motel early. He walked straight to Ivy’s door, but after knocking for a good ten minutes, he had to accept the fact that she was not going to answer.

  Trudging to the apartment, he let himself in through the back door and found Hap pouring milk over a bowl of cereal in the long, narrow kitchen.

  “Well, good morning,” Hap rasped. “You’re getting around early. Want a bowl?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Have you seen Ivy? She doesn’t appear to be in her room.”

  “Ivy checked out around eight last evening, son,” Hap told him.

  Lurching sideways, Ryan slumped against the cold, metal, industrial grade countertop. She’d left not three hours after he had dropped her off.

  “I thought you knew,” Hap went on, brow furrowed. “She said she had to head to the city and get ready to start her new job.”

  Ryan shook his head. “No, I—I thought she’d wait until today.”

  Hap rubbed his hoary chin. “Guess that’s why she left the envelope.”

  “Envelope?” Ryan straightened.

  “On the counter in the front room,” Hap said, nodding in that direction.

  Ryan didn’t wait for further explanation, just pushed past his grandfather and strode rapidly across the dingy dining room, past bedrooms and bath, to the lobby. Turning away from the sitting area, he went to the registration counter. There he found a plain white envelope with his name written on the front in neat, flowing script.

  He lifted the flap, extracted a single folded sheet of lined paper and unfolded it.

  “God bless you, my friend,” it read. “Once more the Jeffords have shown me what following Christ truly means. Please keep an eye on my sister, Daniel and the boys, and thank you again for all that you’ve done to make this time easier for us. Ivy.”

  Ryan stared at the few words. They felt terribly like a final goodbye, as if she never expected to see Eden—or him—again.

  He slid the paper back into the envelope and tucked it into his coat pocket, telling himself that this was his answer. Surely this was God’s will and all for the best, but to his surprise he could not quite believe it.

  Maybe, he admitted to himself, because he didn’t really want to.

  Chapter Ten

  A male voice crooned and warbled in milky tones which surely owed as much to electronic manipulation as God-given talent, but Ryan did not get up and cross the room to change the dial of the small radio sitting on the sill of his office window, where the reception seemed best.

  No, this was not about the music, this was about…Ryan really wasn’t sure what this was about, frankly, but he’d been listening for the past week and a half, ever since Ivy’s show had debuted on the first Monday in April. He had to admit that Ivy knew what to do with a microphone. She sounded as natural as if she were actually in the room with him but with a slight air of authority and expertise. This was an Ivy he’d never met, an Ivy he was growing to admire.

  Kenneth Spicer, the high school principal and Ryan’s boss, opened the door and walked in. “Hey, Ryan, what do you think about this fund-raising request by the PTA?”

  A short, stocky man with dark, thinning hair, Spicer was perhaps two decades older than Ryan. Pitching back in his chair, Ryan linked his hands behind his head and propped his feet on the near corner of his desk.

  “I’m inclined to give it the go-ahead,” Ryan said. “I don’t know how many people will be interested in a public reading, but I happen to like Shakespeare myself, and it’s apt to be as close to a real staging as we’re likely to get around here. Could be fun.”

  “Could be dull as ditchwater, too, but I don’t see what it can hurt to give them the theater for the evening.” Spicer raised his brows. “If, that is, you’re willing to act as auditor.”

  Ryan had begun to notice recently how often Spicer pushed off his responsibilities onto him, not that he minded particularly. Kenneth had a family at home, after all—well, a wife anyway, their children being grown now. Still, it seemed that Spicer often went home while he, Ryan, stayed behind to monitor some school function. Ryan almost refused this particular duty, just to let his superior know that he didn’t like being taken advantage of, but then he thought better of it. One of them had to be there, or the school board would deny the use of the facility. Why shouldn’t he audit the Shakespeare reading when he might enjoy it and Kenneth definitely would not?

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Before Ryan finished speaking, the song playing on the radio ended and Ivy’s familiar, throaty female voice came across the wire.

  “This is Ivy and Friends in the one o’clock hour. Thank you for joining us. Today’s theme is romance, just what every hardworking woman wants from her man, right, ladies? And who better to inspire us than our last artist? We’ll be taking your calls after the break to discuss what women find romantic.”

  Spicer made a sound somewhere between a snort and a humph, hitching one hip up onto the far corner of Ryan’s desk. “Romance. I can tell you what my wife finds romantic; my doing the dishes. At least that’s what she claims.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Seems to work for my brother-in-law, Ty.” Actually, the Jefford brothers had gotten a kick out of how often and eagerly one of the richest men in several states helped their sister clean her kitchen.

  Sobering, Spicer nodded toward the radio, which was playing a commercial at the moment. “Is that the Ivy Villard show?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The principal gave his head a little sideways jerk. “You sure you ought to be listening to that here?”

  “Why not?”

  “Isn’t it, you know, kind of racy?”

  Ryan glanced at the radio, wondering what Kenneth had heard that he had not. “I don’t think so. I certainly haven’t
heard anything I’d call racy.”

  “Well, it’s just that her shows are always rather raunchy, aren’t they? At least that’s what I’ve heard. Actually,” Kenneth muttered, “that’s the least of what I’ve heard.”

  Ryan sat up abruptly, his feet hitting the floor. “What have you heard?”

  Kenneth’s smiled turned lascivious. “I, um, wouldn’t want to repeat it, frankly.” Then, of course, he did, ending with, “It was a regular orgy all the time, or so they say.”

  Unable to believe what he had just heard, Ryan got to his feet. Parking his hands at his waist, he twisted first one way, then another before declaring flatly, “I cannot believe you would actually repeat such a thing.”

  “Hey,” Spicer said, his face coloring, “what’s the big deal? It’s just us guys.”

  “Yeah, what’s a foul rumor between guys, especially when it’s an outright lie?”

  Kenneth slid off the corner of the desk. “How would you know that?”

  Catching his temper by the merest edge, Ryan swallowed hard and tried to tame the lash of his voice. “I know Ivy. I know what she’s been through and what she’s done, and I admit that some of it I wouldn’t have approved of, but there are chunks of my own life that, in hindsight, I can’t approve of, either. What’s more, I imagine if you’re honest, you’d have to say the same thing. Everyone would, to some degree.”

  Principal Spicer frowned. “How is it that you know her so well?”

  “She grew up here, same as me. And we had the chance to catch up with each other over Easter.”

  Kenneth Spicer shook his head. “I’m told this information came from her own family, and if you can’t believe them, then who can you believe?”

  Ryan caught his breath. It had to be Olie, of course, although how any father could do such a thing to his own daughter, Ryan did not know. To Principal Spicer he said, “In this case, I think you’ll find that the source of this filthy rumor is one disgruntled family member and that the rest of the family vehemently disagrees. They, I believe, will stand by her. In fact, I’d stake my life on it.”

  “If you’re not careful,” Spicer muttered, heading for the door, “you could be staking your career on it.” He turned at the last moment and shot a warning look at Ryan, saying, “You might want to think about which old friends you catch up with from now on.”

  Ryan stood there, rocked. Without the least warning, a savage anger roared through him. Unaccustomed as he was to such emotion, he didn’t know what to do with it. He wanted to shake Kenneth Spicer until his teeth rattled.

  Suddenly, Ryan remembered the seething, brittle edge that he had heard in Matt Barston’s voice the last couple of times they’d talked, and understanding as clear as the anger abruptly swamped him. All at once, he knew exactly what Matt must be feeling. It was as if, in perfect hindsight, Ryan could identify Matt’s every nuance of tone and gesture. Dropping into his chair, Ryan propped his chin against one upraised palm and ordered his rioting thoughts.

  He still did not know how much of the gossip about Matt’s wife was true, but he certainly knew now what righteous anger felt like. To have someone you cared about slandered in such a hateful, repugnant, even salacious manner when you knew the truth of the thing, was enough to…

  Ryan sat back with a plop, his thoughts rewinding. Cared about? He gulped. Well, sure he cared about Ivy, he told himself. He cared about anyone who suffered unjustly, anyone at all.

  But maybe he cared about Ivy a little more than he’d realized. He certainly cared about her more than he cared about her sister or her father or Matt and Devony Barston. Not that he didn’t care about those people, of course, but with Ivy it was different. With Ivy it was somehow more intense, more personal.

  Her voice came back on the radio. “Hello, this is Ivy. Thanks for calling. State your first name and, if you want, where you’re from, then make your comment or ask your question.”

  “Yeah,” said another female voice, “this is Lissa, and I have a question. My boyfriend’s idea of romance is to go out with the boys, then show up at my place and fall into my bed. I’ve told him it ticks me off. I mean, what about a nice dinner or a movie first? But he keeps on doing it. How can I get him to stop?”

  Ryan closed his eyes, moaning a silent prayer that Spicer was not listening to this. Seconds ticked by before Ivy said, “You kick him to the curb, that’s how.” As the caller sputtered about love and how guys will be guys, Ivy went on. “What he’s doing to you is disrespectful, and you have to respect yourself before you can command a guy’s respect. That means never going to the bedroom with some man who doesn’t want you and respect you enough to put a ring on your finger first. When he wants and respects you enough to pledge his life and fidelity to you, that’s real romance. That’s how God designed the thing. Without that, all you’ve got is sex and being used. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  Sitting up quite straight now, Ryan snapped his jaw closed. As Ivy went to another music selection, he grinned.

  “That’s my girl,” he said to the radio, and marveled at how much he suddenly wanted that to be true.

  Now nobody could say that Ivy Villard did not stand on her convictions. She could have taken the easy way out just now, fallen back on old habits and expectations, embraced the modern culture and pleasure for its own sake. She could have even dismissed the whole thing, made light of it with a joke and hustled the caller off the air without taking a stand one way or another. Instead, she had said what needed to be said, and God bless her for it.

  Ryan again thought of Matt. What a coward Ryan was not to stand up for an old friend he had always known to be an outspoken, upstanding Christian. Maybe he did not know Devony or her story, but he knew Matt. Had he even taken the time to discuss his concerns with his old buddy? No, he’d been too embarrassed even to broach the subject. Worse, had he so much as bothered to take a look at the Web site Matt had asked him to? He didn’t even have a feeble excuse for that one.

  Feeling like the worst heel, Ryan searched his desk for the slip of paper with that Web address on it. Please, Lord, he prayed, don’t let me have thrown it away. Although he had no memory of stashing it there, he finally found the thing under the blotter. A few minutes later, he sat looking at photos of a private boarding school tucked into the hills north of Tulsa.

  A Christian institution called The Moriah Academy for Boys, in reference to the area where God had led Abraham in order to test him with the commandment to sacrifice his son Isaac, the school operated entirely from donations and took only boys with troubled pasts seeking to “remake themselves as God wills.” The institute boasted a long list of accomplishments backed up by testimonials, news accounts, facts and figures. A recent monetary gift had allowed the school to expand, and it sought Christian educators with “a heart for demonstrating God’s forgiveness.”

  A heart for demonstrating God’s forgiveness.

  If that didn’t describe Matt, Ryan didn’t know what would.

  He recalled an incident from their youth when Matt’s gym locker had been mistaken for that of another boy by a group playing a destructive prank. They had soaked Matt’s workout clothes in molasses, destroying some of his gear, which Matt’s family could ill afford to replace, and booby trapped the locker with a balloon that exploded when the door was opened. A flying knot of rubber had nearly put out Matt’s eye. It had lacerated his cheek and required stitches. The boy who had been the intended target of the prank had been so insulted that he had flown into a rage and knocked down two of the ringleaders.

  Matt, with blood dripping off his chin, had helped them both up, accepted their stammered apologies and been a perfect gentleman about the whole thing. Those two boys had later shown up at a church youth rally with Matt and were both now serving as deacons in the church.

  How, Ryan asked himself, could he have forgotten that? The Matt he knew was a Christian strong enough to live what he believed, and that was what Ryan wrote about him now in the on-line
recommendation form. He could only pray that it was not too late to do Matt some good.

  Feeling better than he had in days, Ryan got off the computer and reached for the satellite phone that he carried in his jacket pocket. He dialed the number that he’d listened to Ivy give out repeatedly over the past three days, praying that he had enough time to get through before he had to teach his next class.

  He quickly found that he had to turn off the radio in order to make a satisfactory connection, but he was able to listen to her field responses to the last segment of her show on the telephone. Some callers were derisive about the advice Ivy had given to Lissa, advising Ivy to “get real.” Some were supportive. Nearly all were female. One male caller went off on Ivy about how women expected it all to be “one way,” how they demanded romance, then left a fellow with nothing but bills. Ivy calmly told him how sorry she was for his bad experience and suggested that escaping such grasping females had been a blessing in disguise.

  When Ivy announced that they only had time for a couple more calls, Ryan thought he might not get through, but then a voice informed him that he was next, and seconds later, Ivy said, “This is Ivy. Let’s hear it before we have to go to break.”

  He floundered for a heartbeat, unsure if she actually meant him or not, but then he figured out he was on the air. “Uh, hi. This is Ryan, from Eden.”

  “Ryan!” she exclaimed. “Hey, thanks for calling!”

  He smiled at the glad surprise in her tone. “Yeah, I just wanted to say that, as a guy, I totally agree with your answer to Lissa earlier.”

  “Did you hear that, ladies?” Ivy said. “There are still men in this world who want a woman who respects herself.”

  Ryan turned his chair around, putting his back to the door and went on. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “When are you planning to visit your alma mater again?”

  The airwave transmitted an instant of silence before Ivy laughed. “Folks, you’re listening to a proud graduate of Eden Memorial High. Unfortunately, I can’t say when I might make it down your way again, Ryan, but tell everyone hello for me, will you?”