by Janette Oke
“But what will Carter—”
“I’ve already told Carter. He says he’d love to have you share our happy moment. He was so sweet about it. He will even shop for a dress for you. He insists—he says he’ll pick one just made for you.”
Angela had to sit down. She was glad to find a chair nearby. She couldn’t guess what Carter would choose for her. An ugly dress that looked frumpish and demeaning—or a stylish gown to remind her of what she could have had. Either way, she was not looking forward to seeing the dress or taking part in this wedding.
Trudie was still babbling. “And he said he would look after everything. And, oh—you should see the house! Carter has had it completely redone. It’s gorgeous! And I am to have help—in the kitchen and with the cleaning. Not Gus, of course. Gus has been dismissed. There’s a new cook coming from the city. Carter says he is sick and tired of flapjacks and fried bacon.” Trudie stopped to laugh as though the comment had been witty or cute.
Poor Gus, thought Angela. I wonder if Charlie knows. Poor Charlie.
Trudie went on and on about the wedding, about the house, about Carter. Angela tried to listen but her thoughts kept wandering. Louise had stopped ironing and was listening with wide eyes. Even the young Sara had let her garment fall into her lap and was sitting still, taking in the one-sided conversation.
Angela continued to knead the dough, giving it such a thorough rolling and pounding that she wasn’t sure it would have the strength to rise.
At length Trudie slowed down. “Well, I must run,” she bubbled. “I have so much to do.”
“But I thought Carter was doing it all,” responded Louise with youthful frankness.
“Oh, he is—at least all of the big things. He has saved me so much, the dear, but I still have a multitude of little things to attend to. Oh, I’m so glad that you are to be my bridesmaid, Angela. It’s going to be such a wonderful day.” And with those words Trudie left in a flurry, just as she had arrived.
“Did I say I would be her bridesmaid?” Angela asked her two sisters, shaking her head.
“I don’t know,” responded Louise, “but I sure would. Wow! It’s going to be so exciting. And a new dress. Do you s’pose it’ll be from the city?”
“I have no idea,” spouted Angela as she dropped the last roll of dough into the big pan and smacked it hard with her floured hand.
“You are going to do it, aren’t you?” asked Sara.
“Of course. For Trudie. As a friend.” And then she added, to herself, for I fear that in the days to come Trudie will need every friend she has.
———
Angela watched Derek carefully in the days following his mishap and was finally convinced he had suffered no permanent injury. But what a scare he had given them! Gradually she ceased protesting each time Thomas suggested some heavy task for the boy. Derek didn’t want to shun responsibility and looked at Angela with embarrassment when she tried to divert his tasks to herself or to one of the girls. Still, it was hard for Angela to go on as before and even harder to keep silent when she saw Derek grab his glove after a day in the field and climb onto his horse for a trip to some neighbors.
Don’t slide. Don’t slide, she wanted to call after him.
Seeing her anxiety, Thomas always tried to ease her concern. “The boy is fine. I’ve watched carefully and he’s just fine.”
Angela knew Thomas was as concerned for Derek as she was, and she tried to assure herself that Thomas would know whether or not there was any reason for further worry.
Eventually Derek returned to haying, manning the heavy forks, and sweating his way through the hot and dusty summer.
Angela found herself taking frequent trips to the hayfield with the excuse of bringing her brothers a cool drink or a light snack. Other years it had been Sara’s job, but this year Angela wanted to keep an eye on her young brother.
On one such trip she stopped to feel the heads of Thomas’s experimental grain. They were filling out, but Thomas admitted disappointment in his new seed.
“It’s not quite right yet,” he said. “I need to bring in another strain that has more resistance to the hot summer winds.”
“You mean you have to start all over?” Angela queried.
“Oh, no. Not all over. It takes years to produce just what you are looking for—and I haven’t given it much time.”
Angela slid her hand over a shock of the new grain, wishing again that Thomas might be freed to work on his seed instead of being saddled to the cares of the farm. She moved on, her shoulders heavy with concern.
As she passed Charlie’s shack, Charlie rose from his front porch and greeted her.
“How is he, girlie?” he asked. Angela flushed. She hadn’t realized her missions had been that obvious.
“Fine,” she responded. No sense denying her purpose in making trips to the hayfield.
Charlie walked along with her to the house and settled himself on the cool back porch.
“You want some cold buttermilk?” Angela offered, and Charlie was quick to accept.
Angela took the lunch dishes to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of buttermilk.
Charlie sipped slowly. His thoughts seemed to be far away.
“Been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately,” he said at last. “Guess you heard thet Gus is out of a job.”
Angela nodded.
“Feel sorry fer Gus. Been wonderin’ iffen there’s room in thet little shack fer two old duffers.”
Angela pictured the two little rooms. It seemed a bit crowded to her way of thinking.
“Been thinkin’ thet a fella could build on another bedroom,” Charlie went on. “Right out thet there side toward the east.”
Angela nodded again. It seemed workable.
“Maybe Gus would like to spend some of his money on it,” Angela suggested.
“I’d forgot all about his money,” mused Charlie. “Shucks—with all thet money—what’d he ever want to live with an old geezer like me fer?”
“Because you’re his friend,” replied Angela.
Charlie nodded then, turning the empty glass in his hands. “I’ve been doin’ some more thinkin’ too,” he went on.
He was silent so Angela prompted. “About?”
“About yer ma and pa. Their religion. What they used to say. You know what?”
“What?” asked Angela.
“I even been tryin’ to live like they did.” He straightened his shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. Then he seemed to sag.
“Guess I don’t know enough about it—’cause I keep gettin’ all tripped up. Just when I think I got the hang of behavin’ proper, I go an’ do somethin’ all wrong. Don’t know how your folks kept all those rules straight.”
“You think that their—their faith was a bunch of rules?” asked Angela softly.
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. No—it wasn’t rules—not as you think.”
Charlie seemed confused, and Angela wasn’t sure she could explain it properly.
“It doesn’t start with rules,” explained Angela hesitantly. “It starts with the heart.”
Angela remembered kneeling at her mother’s knee as a child of seven. She, too, had thought she could be good by keeping the rules, but her mother had explained that it wasn’t her self-righteousness that would prepare her for heaven; it was her trust in the Savior who had paid the penalty for all her wrongdoing.
“It starts with the heart,” Angela said again, placing her hand over her own heart. “We are all sinners. We can’t be—be good enough to earn our way into heaven—none of us. God knew that. That’s why He sent His Son Jesus to pay the penalty for sin. He said that the wages for sin was death. That part He didn’t change. But instead of making each one of us die for our own misdeeds, He allowed Jesus to die for us—for all of us. But even though the—the penalty has been paid, it’s of no effect unless we accept it. It’s like getting a—a present that you don’t accept. Like you—and the will. It said that
you could have the land—but you wouldn’t take it. You can do the same thing with God’s pardon. You have to accept it like a freely offered gift—with thankfulness.”
Charlie was silent while he pondered the words.
“That’s all?” he asked at last.
“Well, not quite. I mean, when we admit we’re sinners, then we ask for His forgiveness and accept His gift—like I said. Then He does the rest. He cleanses us. The Bible says He gives us a new heart—a clean heart—so that we can keep His rules.”
Angela groped for an explanation that Charlie might understand. Through the window she spotted a pot on her kitchen stove.
“See that pot,” she said, pointing her finger. “If I pushed it over the heat and it boiled over—what would spill out on my stove?”
Charlie hesitated, chewing on a corner of his mustache. “What’s in it?” he asked slowly.
“That’s it,” replied Angela excitedly. “Whatever is in it spills out. That’s the way it is with us. That’s why we can’t be consistently good if our heart is evil. As soon as things get a—a little too hot for us to stand—the evil spills out. We need to be cleansed. King David prayed, ‘Create in me a clean heart, O God.’ We all need that first. Then what you call ‘the rules’ sort of come in.”
Charlie waited for her to explain.
“Even after we’ve been cleansed we need His help,” went on Angela. “We can’t do it on our own—none of us. We ask for His help—daily. Why, I remember my pa praying every morning that God would give him wisdom and power and patience for the day.”
“He did that?”
“And so did Mama. In fact, I think she did it many times throughout the day. I heard a prayer on her lips so often.”
Angela fell silent as her thoughts turned back to her mama’s whispered prayers.
“Is thet all?” Charlie asked at last, his voice low and solemn.
“Well, the Bible says we are to be baptized—as our testimony to the Lord. And believers read the Word and pray often to get to know God better.”
Silence again.
“Go to church?” asked Charlie
Angela nodded. “The Bible says not to forsake the gathering of ourselves together for praise and fellowship,” she confirmed.
“I figured as how they’d get thet in there somehow,” mused Charlie.
“You don’t like church?”
“Know’d too many hypocrites,” responded Charlie.
“You are not responsible for the hypocrites,” Angela assured him. “They must answer to God for their own deeds. You are responsible only for you.”
Charlie seemed to be chewing on the matter as he continued to gnaw at his mustache.
“An’ thet’s what yer folks taught ya?” he asked.
Angela nodded.
“No wonder I couldn’t git it to work on my own.” He laid a gnarled hand over his own heart. “I ain’t been changed none in here—and boy, I sure do need me some changin’ on the inside iffen I’m ever gonna do any changin’ on the outside.”
“We all do,” admitted Angela softly.
“Ya got an extry Bible?” Charlie surprised Angela by asking.
“We all have Bibles. Mama saw to it that we each got one for our eighth birthday. As we grew up we could hardly wait till it was our turn.”
Then Angela thought of her mother’s Bible with its marked passages. It would be better for Charlie. Her mother had written little comments and explained certain scriptures. She went to get it and handed it to Charlie. He accepted it hesitantly.
“I’ll take special care of it,” he promised. “I know it’s a heap special to ya.”
Angela nodded. “If you have questions,” she said, “speak with Thomas. He’s much better at explaining these things than I am.”
“You done jest fine,” Charlie told her. “Now I guess it’s up to me.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Trudie’s Day
Trudie’s wedding was set to take place right after the morning church service. The girls were going to dress for the ceremony at the Merrifields’. Angela had come to terms with taking part as Trudie’s bridesmaid, but she was not pleased at the prospect of wearing a gown purchased by Carter Stratton. She would have offered to pay for it, but her common sense told her that this might squander the family’s income for the entire year. Instead, she suffered the humiliation in private, making no comment even to Thomas.
The sun was shining and the breeze gentle as Trudie and Angela hurried to the parsonage following the last amen. Trudie, so excited she was giddy, told Angela breathlessly that she still had not seen her wedding dress.
What if it doesn’t fit? Angela asked herself. In that event, there was little time to do any alterations.
“Carter made me send all my measurements in a sealed envelope to the seamstress,” Trudie babbled. “Oh, I’m so nervous, I can scarcely think.”
So what did he do about me? Angela wondered. She had been asked for no measurements.
When the girls arrived at the house, Mrs. Sommers had Trudie’s dress spread out on the parson’s bed. It was truly a magnificent creation. Angela had never seen anything so beautiful. The satin shimmered in the sunlight that spilled through the bedroom window.
“Oh!” cried Trudie, “look at it! It is—it is beautiful—just like Carter said.”
If Trudie had not already been so excited, she may have wept. As it was she giggled like a child, and Mrs. Sommers had to prompt her to hurry and change into the wedding gown. Angela was full of misgivings about what the dress she was to wear would be like, but when she saw it, she was stunned. It was absolutely perfect.
The soft blue satin had folds and folds of skirt. The bodice was fitted and the sleeves puffed and then fitted from the elbow down. A row of delicate pearl buttons in the back went from hip to neckline. Angela wondered distractedly how she would ever get them all fastened in time for the ceremony. She asked someone to go get Louise to help. In the bedroom she slipped out of her summer voile and into the soft depths of the satin.
The dress fit to perfection, accenting her slim waistline, her creamy skin, and her deep blue eyes. She could not believe her reflection in the mirror.
“It—it’s beautiful,” she whispered, and for one awful moment she felt that she would never forgive Carter Stratton. Then Louise burst through the door, panting from her run across the churchyard. Her eyes opened wide and she gasped at the sight of Angela.
“You look like a blue angel!” she cried.
“Don’t talk silly,” Angela said curtly. “I need you to button me. There are more buttons back there than I can count.”
Louise set right to work on the buttons. Even so, Trudie was already waiting, fully gowned and coifed, by the time Louise had Angela buttoned up.
“Oh, Angela. You look beautiful!” Trudie cried. “The dress fits as if it was made for you—oh, how silly of me—of course it was!”
“Thank you,” returned Angela. “What a beautiful gown. And your red hair looks stunning.”
Trudie flushed. “Then I guess my wedding will be the most charming event in the county,” she responded. “Both of us look magnificent.”
They made their way the short distance across the grassy lawn to the little church. Angela could hear the organ playing.
Nervousness brought a flush to Angela’s cheeks. She had never been in a wedding party before. She stepped to the back of the church and waited for the cue from Mrs. Merrifield; then she began the slow procession toward the altar. On her arm were white camellias and blue forget-me-nots. A spray of baby’s breath was tucked in her loosely coiled hair.
As she neared the front of the church her eyes met those of Carter Stratton. He nodded ever so slightly and gave her one of his measured smiles. Angela dropped her gaze. She wasn’t sure of the message in his eyes and she did not want to understand it.
All heads turned when Trudie appeared at the rear of the church. Eyes glowing, she came down the aisle on her father’s arm,
her fullskirted gown swishing against the sides of the pews. Her head bobbed under the satin and lace of her veil.
Oh, God, breathed Angela silently. May she always be this happy.
Trudie reached the front amid murmurs of awe, and Pastor Merrifield stepped forward to begin the ceremony.
Angela stood as if in a trance. She watched and listened in a daze, but soon someone nudged her and she realized that Trudie was now Mrs. Stratton. An arm was extended to her and she took it. She hadn’t paid any attention to the man standing next to Carter Stratton and to her surprise she saw that he was a total stranger.
“I’m Carter’s cousin on his mother’s side,” the young man whispered to her as they walked back down the aisle together. “And you are Miss Peterson?”
Angela nodded her head.
“Carter said that I’d be pleased to escort you,” he continued, “but that was an understatement.”
Angela tilted her head and studied him, wondering if he had the same controlled charm as his cousin. But instead Angela saw warm, humorous eyes, held in check by proper manners.
“And your name is?” she prompted.
“Bradley Whitteker,” he responded. “You may call me Brad.”
“I think I shall call you Mr. Whitteker,” Angela returned, but there was teasing in her voice.
They went directly from the church to the Sommers farm. Ladies that Angela did not even know scurried about loading long tables with sumptuous-looking dishes.
The wedding couple and their attendants were ushered to the head table. There were bouquets of flowers everywhere. Angela eased her skirts gently around them. She did not want to chance any kind of soil on the expensive gown that belonged to Carter Stratton. Carter gave a short speech of welcome to the guests, then seated his bride and took his place beside her.
Angela had to admit that it was an impressive event. Everything was done in the most elaborate fashion possible. Her escort behaved himself as a true gentleman and provided her with interesting conversation, seasoned well with a dash of wit. To her surprise, she found herself enjoying the meal rather than enduring it.