"Hey, dude . . ."
She looks toward me and gives me one of those dazzlers of hers and waves. I wait as she makes her way to me. "I should have known I'd run into you here." I come alongside her, put an arm around her shoulders, and give her a quick squeeze.
"What are you doing here?" She looks around. "Is Tess with you?"
"Nah, she's at a fashion thing in New York and I, well, have I ever told you about bus roulette? You'll have to try it sometime."
She shakes her head and laughs. "I can only imagine."
"So may I buy you a cup of tea?"
She doesn't hesitate. "Sure, if I can show you my favorite bench."
"Bench?"
She nods, laughs. "C'mon, I'll show you."
Oh man, it's good to hear her laugh. To sense her joy even in the midst of the pain she's experiencing. It's one of the things I respect most about her. Her joy is in Him, not her circumstances. I feel that familiar soul connect as we head into the garden.
"There it is." She points to a bench facing the pond. "Run, quick, grab it before someone else does! Go!"
She pushes me forward and I jog to the bench and stake our claim. I lean back, stretch my legs out, cross them at the ankle, and rest one arm across the back of the bench. She comes and sits at the other end of the bench and seems to relax. "Cool. Nice view."
"It's the best view."
I nod. "You're the expert." We sit in companionable silence for a couple of minutes. But then, hey, why be silent when you can talk, right? "So what brought you here today?"
She shrugs. "I had the day to myself, which is unusual. I didn't feel too well this morning, so I went back to bed. When I woke, one of the staff . . ."
She looks at me and seems to cringe. Embarrassed, I think.
"Hey, I could have staff too, if I wanted. But who wants pesky people around all the time doing your chores for you, right?"
She laughs. "Right. Anyway, Hannah told me that my mother-in-law had decided to go to the valley for a couple of days. So I'm free!"
"Are you usually bound and gagged?"
She smiles at my joke and then shrugs. "It feels that way sometimes."
"Why?"
She looks out across the pond and seems to weigh her words. "My mother-in-law can be . . . challenging, I guess."
"Challenging?"
She is quiet and keeps looking at the pond. Then she turns on the bench so she's facing me and her eyes tell the story. "I don't . . . talk about it . . . much. I mean, just to Skye."
"What does Skye say?"
"Skye says she's . . . abusive . . . emotionally, you know?"
I nod. "What do you say?"
She cocks her head to one side. "Are you playing counselor now?"
I hold up my hands. "Nope. Not me." Then I'm serious. "We're just two friends sitting on a bench having a conversation about life. I don't mean to press you. I just . . . care."
"You're not pressing me." She sighs. "It's just a hard topic. I feel like I betray her when I talk about her."
"Well, maybe instead you just talk about your feelings—how you feel when you're with her."
"I feel"—she looks up at the huge eucalyptus and cypress trees swaying above—"unprotected. Nonexistent. Extinct."
"Dude . . ." I whisper.
She looks at me again and I see the tears swimming in her eyes. "A little crazy, huh?"
I shake my head. "No, not crazy. Intense."
She laughs through her tears. "Maybe I need a counselor."
"Maybe . . . How long have you felt like that?"
She looks back out and I watch her eyes track with the swans on the other side of the pond.
"It feels like forever. Brigitte came into my life when I was just thirteen. She filled a void for me, I think, after my mother died. It's hard because sometimes she seems so loving and thoughtful. She seems to care, but then . . . she changes. She'll say something and then deny it. I don't know. I just feel crazy most of the time."
"Yeah, there's a term for that. It's called crazy-making."
"Really?"
"Yep. You know, I can give you the name of a counselor, a colleague of mine." I hold up my hand. "Not because you're crazy. You're not. But he could help you navigate the relationship. If you're interested . . ."
"Okay, maybe."
As we sit there, a young family walks the path and stops in front of us. The dad bends and takes the hand of his little girl, she's maybe three or four, and she's a looker—all auburn curls, just like Tess. The dad points to something in the water and she squeals and laughs.
I watch the scene and feel the familiar longing . . . then I feel Jenna's eyes on me. I look at her and try to smile but fail.
"You'd make a great dad, Matthew."
"Thanks."
"Do you and Tess plan—" Her eyes go wide. "Wow. Sorry, I know better than to ask that kind of question."
I look at her and reach for her shoulder and give it a squeeze. "Nah, it's fine." I clear my throat. "I'd like to have kids—dreamt of it for years—but it's not Tess's dream." I shrug. "So, whaddya gonna do, right?"
She nods.
"What about you? You and Gerard never . . ."
"No. We spent a lot of years trying. But . . . we couldn't . . . he couldn't. We maybe would have adopted, but then I had the surgery and . . . Anyway, I don't think his mother would have approved. Now, it's too late."
We sit in silence for a few minutes and watch the family in front of us, each feeling our own pain. But there's something comforting about feeling it together.
"Hey, how about that tea?"
She turns and looks at me. "Sounds good."
So God imparts His grace both through believers and between them. Their one common center is God.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jenna
"LISTEN . . ."
"What?"
I lift my finger to my lips, "Shh . . ." I point in the direction of the garden entrance.
Matthew turns his head toward the entrance then turns back to me. "Skye."
We each finish our tea and set our cups down, then Matthew grabs the last almond cookies and puts them in the pocket of his jacket. His third order of cookies, I might add.
"Mmm . . . A little lint with your cookies is always good."
He grins at me. "Exactly."
We stand and he follows me out the exit. Skye sits with her dulcimer under her usual tree. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, with the small crowd that's gathered and listen to her play. I reach for my jacket and pull it close as the gray afternoon threatens rain.
Soon, the first drops fall and the crowd scatters. I reach into my bag and pull out my cell phone and a compact umbrella. I hand the umbrella to Matthew and motion for him to cover Skye and her dulcimer. "I'll call a cab. Want a ride?"
"Sure."
"Ask Skye if she needs a ride. She can join us."
Matthew takes the umbrella and holds it over Skye as she finishes playing her last song. I pull up the hood of my jacket and scroll through the contacts on my phone until I find Ahsan's number.
"Ahsan, it's Jenna Bouvier. Are you anywhere near the park?"
He tells me he just dropped his last fare and can be here in less than ten minutes.
"Perfect. We're at the tea garden. Thanks, Ahsan."
I hang up and join Skye and Matthew under the umbrella. Rain pelts us as we help Skye put her instrument into its case and then we huddle together and wait for Ahsan. Once he arrives, he puts Skye's dulcimer in the trunk, and Skye and I get in the backseat of the cab while Matthew climbs in up front.
I lean forward and put my hand on Ahsan's shoulder. "Skye, Matthew, I'd like you to meet my friend, Ahsan. And Ahsa
n, these are my friends, Skye and Matthew."
Matthew reaches out his hand and shakes Ahsan's. "Nice to meet you, man."
"Nice to meet both of you." Ahsan turns and reaches for Skye's hand and shakes it too.
Seated behind Ahsan, I can't see his face. But he turns back around and looks at me in the rearview mirror. "Mrs. Bouvier, I am very sorry. I read in the paper of your loss."
"Thank you, Ahsan."
"Where may I take you now?"
"Chinatown!" Matthew says.
"What?"
Skye laughs. "Leave it to Matthew . . ."
"C'mon. You're home alone for the weekend, I'm home alone for the weekend, and Skye, your gig just got rained out. Let's hang together over chow mein."
I look at my watch and am surprised to see how long Matthew and I spent in the tea garden. But he's right, where else do I have to go?
"You treating?" Skye eyes Matthew.
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and looks inside. "Uh . . ."
I laugh. "It's my treat."
"Then, I'm in." Skye's grin says it all.
"Me, too."
I laugh at them both. "Ahsan, you have to come too!"
"Mrs. Bouvier, your invitation is very kind—"
"Mrs. Bouvier? I bet she'd let you call her Jenna, or you could even call her dude—she answers to both, right?" Matthew turns around, looks at me, and winks.
I laugh again and it feels so good. "I've been telling Ahsan for years to call me Jenna. Ahsan, please join us."
"But Mrs. Jenna, I must work."
"I know. But I'll ask you to wait anyway, and pay for your time, because that's such a help to me, so you might as well wait inside rather than outside. Right?"
His smile is broad and his white teeth flash in the rearview mirror. "Such wisdom you offer."
"Good, it's settled. Hit it, Ahsan, the chow mein is calling!" Matthew reaches for his seat belt and buckles in.
Over our early dinner of chow mein and at least ten other dishes that Matthew ordered, we share life. Ahsan talks of his family in India, and Skye tells us of the friend who's taken her in. And we talk about God. We share a common passion—our love for Jesus unites us. The conversation, the time together around the table, ignites in me a desire for more. When I reach for my wallet to pay our bill, I do so with reluctance.
I hate for the evening to come to an end.
"Is Madame B still doling out an allowance?"
I don't answer Skye. I just take the bills from my wallet and place them with the check.
"Madame B?" Matthew looks at me.
Skye raises one eyebrow. "I'll leave the interpretation to you."
"Ahh . . ."
I look at Skye, embarrassed by her question—embarrassed by the truth she speaks. "Yes, so far, she's still giving me the monthly amount."
"So, she controls your spending?" Matthew sounds surprised.
Ahsan says nothing, but he takes it all in.
"Yes. She paid Gerard a salary, of course, so we had some discretionary funds, but not as much as you'd think." I look down at the table and feel my face redden. "She's always given me an allowance. Some cash. The rest is deposited into an account with my name and her name on it. I use a debit card so she can track my purchases. If I take cash from the account, she asks for receipts. I've learned what are acceptable expenditures in her eyes, and what are not. In some ways, it's a generous arrangement."
"And now that Gerard is gone?"
Leave it to Matthew to cut to the heart of the issue. "I don't know. We haven't discussed it yet."
Skye reaches over and pats my arm. "Either way, Jen, God provides and He'll do so for you."
Ahsan leans forward and looks at me. "Mrs. Jenna, because you keep your eyes on Jesus, you have run the race well. But now, the course changes."
Matthew and Skye nod, but I wonder at his meaning.
Our waiter comes, takes our bill, and the conversation shifts as we stand, put on our coats, and ready ourselves to leave. Once back in the cab, Ahsan looks to me. "Where to now?"
We determine our route—Skye gets dropped off first, then Ahsan will drop me off, and Matthew's stop is last. I'll pay Ahsan enough to get Matthew home. But when Ahsan pulls up into the Pacific Heights neighborhood, Matthew changes the plan and gets out with me.
Ahsan joins us on the sidewalk and I pay him, then Matthew reaches for his wallet and chips in. I lean over and give Ahsan a hug. "Thanks for joining us tonight. I continue to pray for your family."
"Thank you, Mrs. Jenna."
After Ahsan pulls away, I turn and look at Matthew, and then I look up to the house. Our presence won't go unnoticed.
"You being watched?"
"Maybe." I look up to the sky and see a patch of dim stars between the clouds. The rain has stopped and the air smells clean, fresh. "Beautiful . . ."
Matthew gazes at the stars with me for a few minutes and then looks back at me. "Hey, Lightseeker . . . want to take a walk?"
I look from the stars to him. "You know . . ."
"Yeah, but I didn't know if you knew that I knew, so I thought it was time I let you know that I know. You know?"
I laugh again. "I suspected." I glance back at the house. "Let's walk."
As we walk, the moon shrouded by clouds and the patch of stars visible overhead, I turn to Matthew. "You're the only one who knows."
"How does it feel to be known?"
I take a deep breath and exhale. Then I stop, look up at the stars again, stretch my arms out, and turn round and round. I lean my head back and watch the stars circle with me. Joy bubbles forth into laughter. "It feels wonderful!" I stop and look at Matthew. "It feels like freedom."
"It's just the beginning, Jenna."
I nod. I don't fully understand, but I want to believe him.
By the time we walk around the block and end up back in front of the house, I realize how tired I am. "I'd better go, but thank you for a wonderful afternoon and evening. I don't remember the last time I spent a day with friends—at least, my friends. I need more of that."
"We all do. One of the ways God speaks to us is through the body of Christ. We need to spend time hanging with other believers."
I nod. "I've missed that. Hey, how are you getting home?"
"I'll walk awhile and then catch a bus. I need to burn a few calories"—he pats his stomach—"It's been a full day."
"Okay. Thanks, again, Matthew." I turn to go, but he reaches for my arm and pulls me back. "Dude, wait. I have something for you." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two almond cookies. "Dessert!"
I laugh and then reach for the cookies. "Gee, thanks." I give him a quick hug. "Good night, my friend."
"Good night, Lightseeker."
I climb the steps to the front entrance, and with each step I take, the fatigue weighs on me. When I reach the front door, I turn and wave to Matthew, who's waited to make sure I get in.
As I reach into my purse for my key, the front door opens.
Hannah.
I glance back at Matthew and then step inside.
I beg you to renounce your own wisdom and self-leadings. Yield yourself up to God. Let Him become your wisdom. You will then find the place of rest that you need so badly.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Andee
I SLAM THE receiver down. "Idiots!" I stand, take a deep breath, and then stretch, turning my neck from one side to the other, and then from chin to chest and back. The conference call with the executive producers of one of the network morning shows didn't go well.
"You get what you pay for, people. And if you're not willing to pay well, you don't get me. Your loss."
I go to the kit
chen, reach for an espresso cup, and hold it under the maker's spout. As I do, I notice my hand shaking. I set the cup down, put my hand across my chest, and feel my heart racing. Okay, I get it—I've had enough already. "Oh, happy Monday!"
I go back to my office, grab my purse and briefcase, and head for the front door. I'll be a few minutes early for my meeting with the commercial broker who's showing me office space and buildings today. If he's any good, he'll be early himself.
I step into the elevator, push L, and watch as the numbers flash—30, 29, 28 . . . I glance at my watch and tap my foot. "Anytime today . . ." When the doors open in the lobby, I step out, glare at the doorman, and dare him to say good morning. But he knows better. Instead, he tips his cap to me and opens the door.
Smart man.
I head for the curb with the doorman in tow who whistles for a cab. Once inside the cab, I give the driver the address on Market Street and then lean back against the seat—the filthy seat. "Don't you ever clean this thing?"
Dark eyes stare me down from the rearview mirror as he raises a hand and taps the cardboard pine tree hanging from the mirror.
"Yeah, that helps." Whatever.
I reach for my phone, check my e-mail, scroll through my calendar, and then text a reminder to Cassidy telling her I'll be out when she arrives at the office today. The cab pulls to the curb, I take the appropriate bills out of my wallet, pay the driver, and get out. I stiff him on the tip.
I navigate my way through the business suit-clad crowd on the sidewalk until I reach the broker's office. I push through the glass entry doors and announce myself to the receptionist.
And then I wait.
And wait.
When Mr. Broker saunters into the reception area, I share my mood with him. "Are you interested in making a sale? If not, I'm happy to find someone who is. Do you know who I am?"
His condescending smile doesn't help.
He holds out his hand. "Ms. Bell, I do apologize. I'm so happy to be working with you."
I ignore his hand and cross my arms. "May we go?"
"Of course. We'll walk to the first site if that's agreeable?"
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