“Mornin’, missy,” Colleen said with a smile as bright as an Irish dawn. Colleen was the daughter of two Irish parents who came to the United States from Belfast and who taught her that life was all about attitude. Colleen believed that being cheerful to others was the only way to live.
“Good morning,” Sarah replied. “How is Father Michael today?”
“Father is jes fine. Plenty of my good cookin’ is fattening him up. I’ve been getting him back inta living. Ever since his wife passed, he’s been dyin’. Everybody says so. He jes needs my kids around. Ain’t nothing that brings life back to a body like children. They keep a body young and they give purpose to every sunrise.” Colleen grinned a crooked-toothed smile. Her blue eyes flashed in her freckled, heart-shaped face.
“That’s wonderful, Colleen.”
“Yep. I got this house running like a top. Keeping them busybodies outta here has really helped. Nobody can get well if they’re bein’ pressed upon by a bunch of ninnies who can’t handle their own lives.”
“But that’s part of Father Michael’s job. To counsel his flock,” Sarah said.
“They can flock elsewhere until Father is fit and fine again. Till then, I’m keeping the door shut to visitors,” Colleen said, ramming her fist fiercely against her hip and glaring at Sarah.
“I hope I’m not lumped into that group,” Sarah said.
“No, ma’am.” Colleen beamed and led the way into the living room. Normally, the heavy burgundy drapes were drawn, but not this morning. Sunlight flooded the room, and through the French doors, Sarah could see yellow and orange marigolds had just been planted. Apricot-colored impatiens were clumped next to pink begonias. Sarah turned to Colleen. “You’ve been busy.”
“Sometimes, it’s best to feed the soul before you feed the body. Father does it with prayer. I do it with flowers.”
“So true,” Sarah replied.
“Don’t be talking about me behind my back,” Father Michael warned, entering the room.
“Anything we said, we would gladly repeat.” Sarah smiled.
“Don’t,” he said, and sat down heavily in his favorite, very worn recliner.
“I’ll get the coffee,” Colleen said, scurrying out of the room.
Sarah scanned Father Michael’s face. “You look good. Your color is back.”
“I’ve been to Hell and back ever since that woman came to roost here with that brood of hers,” he grumbled through a tightly clenched jaw.
“Father. How unkind of you.”
“I don’t care.” He slammed his fist on the chair arm. “Do you have any idea what she makes me do?”
“No.”
“She’s here at six o’clock with half those kids of hers. I hear her ordering them around. Pots and pans are rattling and banging. No one could sleep through that racket. She has the audacity to wake me up and hand me a jogging suit and tells me that I have to go for a walk before breakfast. When I come back she ushers me into the bathroom where she’s already got the shower going. Then she marches me to the table and feeds me so much food, I can’t move for an hour. Now here it is nine o’clock and she expects me to start taking business calls.”
He leaned forward and whispered, “She’s trying to kill me, I tell you.”
“She’s doing just as the doctor told her to. You have to start exercising and eating right.”
He frowned and looked at the garden.
Sarah noticed his expression soften a bit. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
“It’s exactly the way Mary used to plant that little patio. Exactly.”
Sarah allowed him to indulge in his memories for a moment longer. “And by the way, Father, since when am I a ‘business meeting?’”
“Isn’t that why you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
He tapped his temple. “I’m psychic.”
Sarah laughed. “And what do you think it’s about?”
“I don’t know, but I hope it’s a strategy to get that...that woman out of my rectory and take her children with her.”
“Father, she and everyone else at St. Mark’s are trying to save your life. You aren’t dead yet, and since you’re stuck here on earth, I want you to have good health while you’re here. Besides, we have a lot of work to do.”
Father Michael knitted his fingers together in a prayerlike fashion, and cocked his head. “Now what duties of mine are you taking over?”
“Architect. Construction General. Designer. Though I will need the pulpit for ten minutes or so on Sunday.”
He shook his head. “Elaborate, please.”
“The church is falling apart. So is the staircase in the school, as you pointed out. The school needs a bit of refurbishing, but not as much as the church. The roof needs new shingles. Bricks need tuck-pointing. The pews are wobbly. The terrazzo is cracked, the carpet is worn, the paint is peeling. Here,” she said, opening her folio case. “I made a list. Along with drawings for a total renovation.”
Sarah stood up and withdrew her poster-size drawings. She’d done her homework and had swatches of pew pad coverings stapled to the sketches. She had paint chips, carpet samples and shingle samples. Carefully, she laid the presentation out around the room, leaning the drawings against tables and on the sofa. Drawing by drawing, she led Father Michael through the steps she would take to renovate the church.
When she finished, Father Michael was in awe. “Why, Sarah, it’s just beautiful. I never thought that taking the cry room out would make such a difference. And these colors!”
“I want the church to be happy and to elicit joy. Once the windows are scrubbed clean of soot, they’ll sparkle, and the colors will dance around the nave.”
Father Michael was so enthusiastic he rose from his chair to feel the fabric swatches. “How beautiful this emerald-green is. And the mustard-gold. How will you ever decide?”
“That’s the fun of it, watching the paint go on, and the new lights being installed. When the lighting is in, I’ll take the samples into the church and we’ll decide.”
“It’s all so...” he started to say, and then, as if deflating like a balloon, he folded back into his chair “...so expensive. St. Mark’s can never afford such an undertaking.”
“I think we can,” she said, taking out the second set of smaller drawings she had just completed. “We’ll start the fund-raising with a summer festival.”
She placed these drawings on the floor in sequence, so they could see the festival as a patron would. “On the Fourth of July we have thousands of tourists who come here just for the parade. If we started our festival immediately after the parade before people left town or went up to Lake Michigan, we could garner a good number of those people.”
Father Michael nodded in agreement. “Smart thinking. I see here there’s a Ferris wheel. How are we going to get a Ferris wheel?”
“I found a carnival company in downstate Illinois that will come here. They only have three rides. Ferris wheel, carousel and a little train ride for toddlers. They’ll provide a ring toss, milk bottle pitch and a pick-up-the-duck game. I contacted them by email last night, and they had a cancellation for the Fourth. I’ll put up their advance fee, and they will give thirty-five percent of their revenues back to the church. The rest of the booths, we provide ourselves. We have lots of parishioners who would help build the booths and who would want to sell their crafts, artworks and baked goods.”
“These booths are beautiful, but how can you get them constructed that fast?”
“First of all, we use folding tables as the basic foundation. I’ll have a carpenter build the high framework. Then Mary Catherine and I will paint the booths to look like faux storefronts. I’ve called the art galleries downtown, and since they’re closed on the Fourth, they all told me they’d each buy a boo
th and stock it with artwork. I think Scott Abbott will put some books in a booth and sell his bags of coffee. He’ll work the booth himself. The church volunteers could serve barbecue, hot dogs, fried chicken, corn on the cob and homemade blueberry pies. In the booths we would sell baked goods and Louise Railton’s ice cream. There would be handmade items, like the quilts from Mrs. Beabots’s quilting group, The Bee. I want unique, one-of-a-kind items. Local artists could sell their paintings and pottery.
“I’ll charge the merchants for the cost of a booth. Then a percentage of what they sold would go to the church.”
“Do you really think we can raise enough money for the renovations?”
“Not all of it. But this would give us a jump-start. Once we raise this money, we’ll build fervor among the parishioners. Hopefully, there will be some who will donate large amounts. If we raise enough money, we might be able to get a loan from the Indian Lake Savings Bank.”
He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “I don’t know. This is so much work. You have to advertise...”
“Here are the fliers. Here’s an ad for the newspaper. And I’ve also decided the church needs a website.”
“Website?”
She waved her hands in front of her face. “Don’t think about it. Just trust me. I know how to do this.”
“It just looks so overwhelming to me.”
“That’s because you don’t feel well,” she offered politely.
He glared at her. “It’s because I’m old and don’t care anymore. That’s what you really want to say now, isn’t it, Sarah?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“Well, then. That’s cleared up. What would you do if I refused to give my permission?”
She lifted her chin confidently and smiled. “I’d do it, anyway.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ARTS IN THE PARK was considered by Indian Lake townsfolk to be the kick-off of the summer tourist season. Every Thursday night during the summer, bands from around the county performed free of charge in the band shell at Lily Park. This tradition began a hundred years ago, when there was only a large, white gazebo down by the water’s edge, and the band consisted of only fifteen musicians. During World War II, the city shored up the aging gazebo’s foundation and gave it a new roof and shingles, but at the end of the Vietnam War era, the poor thing collapsed. The very wealthy McCreary family donated money to the city for an acoustically designed band shell with a state-of-the-art sound system to be erected across Lily Lake Drive. The band shell would be built on a hill where there was no threat of rising lake waters to destroy the foundation.
It was still chilly this early evening in June when Sarah drove Mrs. Beabots, Maddie, Liz and Isabelle to the park. Each brought her own folding chair, a sweatshirt or jacket, and plenty of bug spray, just in case. Sarah packed an extra cotton throw for Mrs. Beabots—the cold night air seemed to bother her more these past few years.
On this night, easels displayed local artists’ works. The Tom Milo Big Band was warming up and testing the speakers. Sarah and her group walked down the pavestone path toward the sloping hills where people were already sitting on benches, blankets, tarps and folding lawn chairs, munching on popcorn that was sold from a red cart. One of the local women’s sororities sold homemade cookies, lemonade, iced tea and bottles of water. Another men’s club sold saltwater taffy by the bag and chocolate-covered peanut brittle, which everyone knew was handmade by Louise Railton, the owner of the Louise House Sweet Shoppe. The Indian Lake Middle School Art Club kids were going around from group to group selling everything from car wash tickets to slices of pound cake.
As they unfolded their chairs, Sarah offered to treat everyone to popcorn, lemonade and cookies. Maddie bought three bags of saltwater taffy and passed them to her friends.
The sun hung low on the horizon and shot the earth with ribbons of pink, red and purple, and a gentle spring breeze lifted the newly leafed out branches of the maple, walnut and oak trees. Sarah closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh air and listened to the sound of her friends chatting amongst themselves. She had only missed six or seven opening nights in the park in her lifetime, and most of them had been when she was away at college. Her parents told her they had brought her to the park every week for the concerts even when she was an infant. Back then, some of the concerts were pretty amateur, usually due to high school quartets or small bands using the concerts more for practice than performance. There were other bands and even orchestras that had knocked her socks off and made her skin tingle.
Sarah had always loved music, and learned to play the piano when she was six. She was a natural, her mother had told her, but there was more to music than just following notes on a page. She remembered her mother saying, “Sarah, listen while the musicians find their groove. Close your eyes and listen while they step to their path. You can do that, too. Each of us has music of a kind to give to the world. You will find your song someday.”
In that moment of memory, Sarah missed her mother so much, her heart ripped just a little bit more.
Only Mrs. Beabots saw her tiny tear. She reached out her hand while still talking with Maddie and patted Sarah’s knee. Mrs. Beabots gave Sarah a side glance and a nearly imperceptible nod, letting her know she knew quite well that Sarah was missing her mother.
Maddie was also aware of Sarah’s mood. Always the one to bring things back around to the present, Maddie said, “Hey! I think that’s Luke Bosworth over there.”
At the thought of Luke, Sarah snapped to attention. “Where?”
Mrs. Beabots watched Sarah. She didn’t scan the crowd for Luke as the others did. Mrs. Beabots already knew Luke would attend the concert. She had been the one to give him directions and the other details. She suggested it would be great fun not only for him, but also for his children.
Mrs. Beabots smiled to herself. Things were working out quite satisfactorily.
* * *
LUKE, ANNIE AND TIMMY entered the park and sat on the hillside opposite Sarah and her friends. Luke had brought two blankets for them to sit on, windbreakers for the kids and juice boxes.
“Look, Dad! They’re selling popcorn!” Timmy piped up.
“We just had dinner,” Luke said.
“But we didn’t have any dessert,” Annie countered, eyeing the little boy on the blanket next to them who was munching on a cookie.
“Since when do you get dessert?” Luke asked.
Timmy pouted and kicked a small stone. “Never.”
Annie walked right over to the little boy with the crew-cut blond hair and the cowlick in front. He had a sprinkle of freckles across his nose just like she did, and very light blue eyes. He was almost cute, she thought. Almost.
“Hi, I’m Annie. What’s your name?”
“Josh,” he said dismissively. He went back to his cookie.
Annie was undeterred. “Did your mom bake those cookies for you?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Josh kept eating.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
He glared at her. “I’m not sharing.”
“I didn’t ask you to. But where did you get it?”
Josh smiled, now that he knew Annie didn’t want to take his cookie like his little sister always did. “They sell them here,” he said. “Next to the popcorn cart.”
“I bet it’s expensive.”
“No, only a quarter. Or five for a dollar.”
“Really?” Annie was delighted. “Well, thanks, Josh.”
“They sell saltwater taffy here, too. It’s the very best, but my mom won’t let me have candy.”
Annie’s mouth drooped despondently. “My dad, neither.”
“Bummer,” Josh said.
“Yeah.” Annie went back and sat down next to her father, who had his arm around Timm
y’s shoulder.
“I have a dollar, Dad. Can I buy us some cookies?”
“A dollar. Where’d you get a dollar?”
“I earned it.”
Luke’s head jerked back. “You what? How?”
“I helped Mrs. Taylor put the supplies away on Sunday afternoon at camp, and then Timmy and I dumped the trash. She gave us each fifty cents.”
“She asked you to do chores?”
“No, Dad. We asked her. We saw that she has a whole bunch of little kids and taking care of them can really cause a mess. So we volunteered to help her. It was her idea to pay us.”
“Little kids?” Luke tried to stifle a laugh. He thought of his own children as little kids. They were already thinking of themselves as the big kids.
“So can I go buy some cookies?”
“How about popcorn, instead? It’s healthier. Your mother wouldn’t want you to have sugar this late at night.”
“Dad, it’s seven o’clock,” Timmy argued.
“Precisely,” Luke said.
“Okay. Popcorn is better than nothing,” Annie conceded. “Could I get the cookies for tomorrow?”
Annie wore a stubborn expression, one he often saw in his own reflection. She was a great deal like him in many ways. Taking charge. Standing firm. Never backing down from a fight. Luke realized he was not going to win this argument. “Sure.”
Annie and Timmy scampered off down the hill and onto the walkway that encircled the band shell.
* * *
SARAH SAW THE children approaching and stood up. “Hi, Annie. Hi, Timmy,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Hi, Miss Jensen,” Annie said.
“You can call me Sarah.”
“My dad said that’s disrespectful,” Timmy said with a very wide grin. “We’re going to buy popcorn and cookies.”
Maddie stood up. “Sarah, why don’t you introduce these children to everybody.” She put her arm around Sarah’s shoulder and returned a smile to Timmy.
“I’m so sorry. Maddie Strong, Liz Crenshaw, Isabelle Hawks and Mrs. Beabots, meet Annie and Timmy Bosworth.
Love Shadows Page 11