Betwixt Two Hearts (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  Eleanor walked to the quilting machine and ran her hand over Violet’s current project. “This one is smaller than the other ones I’ve seen. I like the colors.”

  Too small. This quilt had been the hardest. It should have been bigger, to record a long life with a wife and family. Instead, it was small and… lonely. Who would want a quilt made for a boy who’d died at 19 years old, nearly 75 years ago? She joined Eleanor and touched at the small flag and cross.

  “Karl didn’t live long enough to fill up a bigger quilt. He died in 1944, in Normandy.” She pointed. “Those blocks record the rest of us, and our parents and grandparents, but there wasn’t much to say about his own life.”

  “He was your brother?”

  “Yes, my favorite.” She smiled, remembering the many kindnesses of her older brother. They’d etched themselves into her mind—her heart—over the decades, and she’d written them in his book, not wanting Karl to be lost. She and Olof were the only people who remembered Karl now, and poor Olof’s memories grew fuzzier every day.

  She turned to Eleanor. “This is what I need your help with. All these journals…” Violet gestured at the tote. “They need to be typed up. I wrote those out by hand, before I had a typewriter. The blue tote has typed pages that need to be re-typed into the computer, and what’s already in the computer needs to be edited and organized.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “All that is family history?”

  “We’ve been around since 1908,” Violet said. “In America, anyways. I didn’t record much about the time before that. Do you think you can do it?” She couldn’t leave it in this kind of mess. She’d been entrusted with these stories, and even if no one else cared, she had to get them recorded for posterity—whether posterity wanted them or not.

  “I’ll do my best. That’s a lot of history!

  “Four generations of Anderson family life,” Violet said. “But the fourth generation is starting to multiply faster than I can sew or write, so I’m falling behind. Will this room work for you?”

  “This is your quilting room! Can’t I just do it at the kitchen table or in the living room? I can carry my laptop computer anywhere.”

  “Are you sure?” Violet asked. “If you’re sure, we could keep these totes in a corner of the living room and you can just take out what you need.” Relief lightened her spirits. As important as the written history was, Violet craved the time alone in this room, with God and her history quilts, rolling back and forth along the quilt, guiding the head of the quilting machine, humming and praying silently—and sometimes, not so silently. She’d have to remember there was another person in the house. She didn’t want to startle Eleanor.

  “It’s working out great. I’m loving Aunt Violet. She’s telling me all sorts of stories about you.”

  Violet leaned in, grateful for the annex’s modern doors, so unlike the solid wood ones in the main part of the farmhouse. Eleanor was silent for a few minutes, and she eased back, hoping she hadn’t been detected. It must be Kathy. Too bad the girl didn’t use speaker phone.

  “No, really. It’s nice here. I have your old bedroom, and even your old dresser, with lilac shelf paper in the drawers. You should see the lilac trees that you and Uncle Olof planted. They’re huge! He remembered planting them, too.”

  Eleanor continued after a shorter pause. “He’s good. Aunt Violet says it was one of his good days. He looks like a much older version of Uncle Gary.”

  Kathy must have had more to say this time. Violet could hear Eleanor moving around the room, opening and shutting drawers, sitting on the bed and walking over the squeaky floorboard by the window.

  When she started talking again, her voice was sharper. “That’s why I have to stay here, Mom. My job didn’t go away because Gary’s not there. He needs me now, to do a lot more than just the takeoffs and some office work. I’m getting to do some of what he usually does. He’s teaching me about the business, and I’m liking it!”

  A brief wait this time. “I know you love me, Mom, and you want what’s best for me, but I like it here. I like my job, and I like this part of our family. Oh! I forgot to tell you. On Tuesday mornings, I’m going to be playing the piano for the golden oldies sing-along at the nursing home where Uncle Olof and Gary are. Did you know Gary was doing that until he got hurt?”

  It sounded like the call was ending. Violet stepped away, ready to slip into her own room, just catching Eleanor’s next words.

  “I’ll be there. I wish you’d come here for a visit, though. Everyone would love to see you. Just think about it, okay? I love you. Bye.”

  “Good morning, Aunt Violet!”

  She leaned in to receive a hug from Constance. “Good morning, dear. Eleanor’s parking the car. She dropped me off in front.”

  “There she is.” Brian smiled at Eleanor. “I’m glad the two of you made it, in this weather.”

  “Oh, yes,” Violet said. “We wouldn’t miss church.” She was going to make sure Eleanor didn’t miss church, as long as the girl was staying with her.

  “The church is always full when there’s a blizzard,” Penny said. “Everyone has to demonstrate their hardiness and devotion.”

  “And they’re not above calling the slackers to ask why they missed church,” her fiancé put in.

  “It’s pride.” Violet handed him her tote bag so she could shed her coat. “It’s not just going to church in the blizzard, but making sure everyone sees you strapping on your snowshoes.”

  “I’d be pretty proud of myself if I had to wear snow shoes to get to church,” Eleanor said. “Aunt Violet was telling me about going to the old church in the winter, when everyone lived in the farmhouse. It sounds a lot harder than just driving my nice warm car down a plowed highway, and they had perfect attendance!”

  Everyone looked at Violet, and she felt her cheeks warming. Maybe she’d exaggerated a teensy bit, but it wasn’t pride to take pride … er, to be glad that one’s family had a good attendance record.

  “Anyhow, whatever their true motivation, the church is present and on time during bad weather.” Penny hooked her arm through Brian’s.

  The sermon was on pride. Penny leaned across Eleanor to point out the information in the bulletin and jerked her hand away when Violet slapped it.

  “Shh. Sit still.” She heard the stifled giggles and was tempted to pinch them, as she had their parents for such behavior.

  “Hello, Olof.”

  “Hello.” He extended a hand, and Violet shook it. Another one of those days. The good ones were getting further apart. At least he’d been able to talk to Eleanor last week. Maybe, if Kathy came, he’d remember her.

  “Would you like to go down to the living room? There’s a little girl looking for someone to play checkers with. Do you like checkers?”

  “She cheats.” Olof handed her a book. “Have you read this?”

  “Yes, it’s a good book.” It was an old TV guide. She set it on the dresser and wheeled him to the lobby, praying he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the visitors. Most of the elderly residents lacked company; Olof had enough for all of them.

  He spied Sarah, of course, and ignored the rest of them. “Violet! What are you doing over there? We need to go home.”

  “I want to play checkers.”

  He wavered. “We need to go home.”

  “Come on.” Sarah got behind the wheelchair and pushed him toward one of the game tables. “Let’s play checkers.”

  “Okay, but no cheating.” He placed the checkers in one long row on his side of the board. “Is that right?”

  “Let me fix it.” Eleanor stepped close and tried to adjust them. “They alternate, on the black squares.”

  He slapped at her hands. “I can do it! Violet and I are playing checkers. Go away. Go home.”

  Violet hoped Eleanor’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt. She’d had to grow an extra layer of skin herself in the last year or two, as Olof’s filter deteriorated. “Be nice, Olof. This is Eleanor. We’re going to watch TV fo
r a while.”

  “Bye.” He didn’t take his eyes off the board.

  “Why does he call Sarah Violet?” Eleanor asked. “Does he think she’s you? I read a bit about Alzheimer’s after our last visit here, and the article said what you did—he thinks he’s a child, looking for his mom or wanting to go home.”

  Eleanor had researched it. Violet patted her arm. “Exactly. He’s not always in the past, though. Sometimes when we come, he recognizes me but not her, so I introduce her as Sarah, and he’s nice to her. Sometimes he doesn’t remember either of us.” She nodded at the wing chairs. “We can keep an eye on them from here. Carl and Constance went down to check on Gary. On days like today, he’s eight years old. If I tell him I’m Violet, he doesn’t believe me, because I’m an old lady. To him, Violet is his little sister.”

  “And Sarah just plays along? That’s kind of… creepy.”

  “Ha.” Penny spoke from behind Violet. “You don’t know Sarah. She would play games with anyone—any game—24 hours a day, if she could, and she’s always loved Uncle Olof.”

  “She loved him because he couldn’t get away from her,” Violet said. “She’d push him around in his wheelchair or climb in his lap and read books to him, long before she could actually read the words. It’s just how she knew him.” That was a while ago, though. He was so unpredictable now.

  “It’s my turn. You just went.” Sarah pushed at Olof’s hand. The old man grumbled but complied, waiting for the girl to move her checker.

  “Okay, you can go now.”

  “She’s competitive, too,” Penny commented. “She’s not going to let him win.”

  “Is it always this empty?” Eleanor asked.

  “Most of the residents take a nap in the afternoon. Olof doesn’t.” Violet shifted in her chair, avoiding the stare of an elderly man in high-waisted jeans and suspenders. The collar of his plaid shirt stood out around his skinny neck, not shifting with the movement of his head as he strutted toward them. He’d stalked her last time she was here, too.

  Sarah jumped two of Olof’s checkers, and her crow of triumph rang through the room, drawing indulgent smiles and a few sleepy mutters.

  “Hopefully, I’ll never have to be here,” Violet said. “Thanks to Penny, I have a home at the farmhouse as long as I need it. She and Brian are going to live there for a little while, and then they might rent it out to one of his sisters. So, there will be someone around.”

  “We won’t leave you there alone,” Penny said.

  “When are you getting married?” Eleanor asked. “I haven’t heard a date yet.”

  “We wanted a spring wedding, so we can have it outside, but the more I’m around brides and their mothers, the more I want to elope.”

  “Too many mosquitoes in the spring, and you can’t trust the weather. “Violet turned a shoulder to the man, praying he was just passing by. “And you can’t elope. You’ve put too much into this bridal business of yours. You have to have a nice wedding. It won’t hurt you to wait a few months.”

  “The shop is amazing.” Eleanor glanced at the man and back to Penny. “You’d never guess from the outside what it’s like inside. I went with my college roommate to a bridal shop in Chicago. It was so elegant we were afraid to touch anything. Yours is elegant, but it’s more comfortable.

  “Country chic.” Violet said. “That’s what she calls it. It does look nice.”

  “Thank you. Dad will finish up the landscaping in the spring, and in a year or two, when it’s all grown in, it’ll be a showcase. First impressions matter, you know, especially with mothers of brides, who are expecting to pay a thousand dollars for a wedding dress.”

  “Ole, what are you doing over here?” A middle-aged woman in Tinker Bell scrubs hurried toward them. “This is Miss Anderson. She’s Olof’s sister.”

  “Ja.” He spit the word out. “It’s her… da sister. Da hussy. Traitor.” Violet pressed back in her chair, frightened by his venom. His toothless mouth and thick accent garbled the words, but there was no mistaking the hate. He leaned closer. “Tramp! You’re out dere in da field, consortin vit Jerry -”

  “Ole! Stop that! I’m so sorry, Miss Anderson. Come on, Ole.” The aide raised her voice. “Mary! Can you come help me?”

  Violet’s breathing slowed as the man turned his anger on his caregivers.

  “What was that about?” Eleanor stared after them. “Do they have violent patients here?”

  “Are you okay, Aunt Violet?” Penny crouched in front of her.

  No, she wasn’t okay. She’d never been called a tramp before. The absurdity of the accusations finally brought a chuckle. “I’m fine. I don’t know who Jerry is, but I promise, I’m not consorting with him or anyone else, especially in a field in January.”

  David picked out the elegant, simple melody of “King on a Donkey” as the ushers passed the communion plates. Angela Ridgewell sat at the end of the back row, alone, staring out the window. Had she heard the message about extravagant grace? He should mention her to Pastor Jack, so he could follow up.

  Or was that his responsibility? He could ask one of the women to do it, but a pastor couldn’t shirk fifty percent of his work because he didn’t want to minister to women—or more specifically, a particular woman. In public, in the company of the rest of the church, he couldn’t use discretion and “best practices” as excuses. He just didn’t want to do it. Honesty counted for something, right?

  He brought the song to an end as the ushers returned the plates. The closing song, “Grace Greater Than Our Sin”, with its catchy waltz rhythm, might touch Angela, unless the bloody parts bothered her. He caved in on the last line. The woman was here, all by herself, and he had the Gospel to share.

  “We’ll meet you at Charcoal Grill. We know you’ve got people to talk to, and your dad and I could use some coffee.”

  Confirmation. David made his way down the side aisle and stopped at the sight of Angela in conversation with Larry. His friend sat in the aisle ahead of her, turned around, listening to whatever Angela was saying. Maybe he’d be at the restaurant sooner than he’d thought. Even as he turned to go, she stood and strode away. Larry, rose, brows drawn together, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “How’d it go?” David waited for Larry to exit the row. “What did she think of the service?”

  “Angela? She didn’t say.”

  “She was talking to you!”

  “People do that,” Larry said. “Even people who aren’t my clients.”

  “She must have said something about it.” David looked at the other man, exasperated. “I was hoping she heard the sermon. She really needs the Lord.”

  Larry stopped walking and turned around. David rocked back, to avoid a collision.

  “In all your classes, at UMD and in this seminary, do you have any classes in human psychology? How do you plan to be a counselor? Just read Bible verses at people and tell them to suck it up and trust God?” He grabbed David’s elbow and pulled him through the crowd, into the library. “She needs Jesus, but I think she needs something else, too.”

  David opened his mouth to argue, but Larry held up a hand. “He is sufficient, but guess what… He uses me, too, and other kinds of doctors.”

  He’d never seen Larry angry before. David dropped into a chair. “Yes, He does. What do you mean about Angela?”

  “Something’s going on. I don’t like to interfere, and if she was my patient, I couldn’t. But I’ve known her since we were kids. I might go talk to Meg. Cal won’t get it, and I don’t know if Meg will. They’re both pretty single-minded.” He sat opposite David. “Their mother was a mess. Still is, as far as I know.” He chuckled. “That’s not a professional opinion—just my childhood memories of her.”

  David leaned forward. “You mean she’s suicidal or on drugs or something? A mental illness?”

  “I don’t know.” Larry stood and extended a hand to pull David to his feet. “You going to lunch with mom and dad?”

  “They’re waiting
for me at Charcoal Grill.”

  “By the way, have you met your match yet?” Larry grinned at his joke. “Were you able to overcome that unfortunate first impression?”

  “Yes! It’s a long story, but we have a date for Tuesday night. I think it’s going pretty well.”

  “How can it be a long story? Didn’t you just get her information a week ago?”

  “It’s been an eventful week.” David pulled on his coat. “Don’t worry. I’m not rushing things.” He shrugged. “There are a couple things—not red flags, but maybe yellow. Like a traffic light.”

  “My mom thinks a yellow light means you should accelerate to get through before it turns red,” Larry said. “Personally, I step on my brakes at that point.”

  “I’m somewhere in between. I’ll proceed with caution.” Maybe it would be better to step on the brakes, though, and wait for a green light. God’s green light.

  David liked scholarly Old Testament sermons, but this professor managed to turn vibrant, God-breathed history into dusty lists and statistics. He closed the laptop and propped his feet on the coffee table. It was all important, even the genealogies and numbers, gruesome deaths and family history—much of it dysfunctional. God included it in Scripture, after all. He wrote it all out, in great detail, and then He repeated it in Chronicles. Professor Voe expected David to memorize all of it.

  Tomorrow night, he’d talk to Eleanor about her faith. She’d been vague, and Christians weren’t supposed to be vague. Had his profile made his intentions clear enough? Being a pastor’s wife would be different from being an engineer’s wife. He tried to picture her as a pastor’s wife and himself as a pastor. The two of them, with a quiverful of little PK’s, all dressed up and shiny on Sunday morning.

  It didn’t float, and he didn’t think the children were the problem.

  David leaned back and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to serve God, more than anything else, with all of his being. He wanted it more than he wanted a wife and family… more than he wanted anything the world could provide. But lately, whenever he worked toward that goal, there was something in his path. His grandma would call it “a check in his spirit.” Pastor Jack might call it spiritual warfare.