Pocketful of Pearls

by Shelley Bates

She came out of her thoughts with a jolt. “Yes?”

  “Phinehas asked you for more coffee.”

  “Sorry,” she apologized with a smile. She had to pay attention. It was important that everything be done just right, that everything be perfect for the Shepherd of her soul.

  She handed him his cup, filled with the special blend they kept for his visits and made strong and black the way he liked it. As he reached for it, he murmured a word of thanks and the back of his hand again brushed the side of her breast. This time there was no escaping it or rationalizing it away.

  She knew.

  He caught her eye a second time, over a conversation about the many ways money could be used in the service of God.

  Crippling pain in her knees made her stagger, and she fell into a vacant chair at the table. Her mother blinked at her.

  “Try not to be so clumsy, dear. When you bump the table, it spills the coffee.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  Dinah bottled the urge to run, to lock a door, to set off down the road and never come back. Instead she stayed at the table, toying with a slice of orange and pretending to listen to her aunt and uncle encouraging her mother to be strong for the Kingdom’s sake.

  If only Tamara were here.

  She and her little sister were seven years apart in age, and a thousand years apart in experience. Tamara had had to leave when she started to show, of course. You couldn’t have a family member in the house when they were shunned, anyway. It was just too difficult, not to mention the sheer logistics of trying to communicate over meals and laundry. Better that Tammy had gone to Spokane to Aunt Evelyn’s. Dinah had never met her father’s sister because she’d gone Out years ago, but Evelyn had taken the girl in with only a minimum of argument and invective hurled at Dinah’s parents over the Elect’s method of dealing with sin.

  At least it was dealt with. Real sins were, anyway. And you couldn’t get much more real than Tamara’s. It wasn’t just the fornication that had resulted in the pregnancy. It was the disgrace she’d brought on an Elder’s house. Dinah knew there were people who wondered if there was some flaw in their upbringing, some fault in Morton or Elsie that had made their daughter turn out so badly.

  If they only knew how strict that upbringing had been. How little room there was for flaws of any kind.

  Gradually Dinah became aware that the gaze of Phinehas lay on her, as tangible as a shadow and as cool.

  She got up, despite the pain, and began to clear the dishes. She ran hot water into the kitchen sink, squeezed some dish soap in, and buried her shaking hands in the clouds of bubbles.

  “Would you like me to come with you to the lawyer’s office Monday, Elsie?” her uncle asked.

  “Thank you, John.” Her mother’s dress rustled as she took Uncle John’s hand. “You’re the executor, of course, and I know what the will says, but it would be nice to have someone there with me.”

  “What does it say, Elsie?” Phinehas inquired.

  “Why, that the ranch is mine, of course. Nothing will change, Phinehas. You’re as welcome to use our home as your refuge as ever you were.”

  “You’re a marvel,” he said affectionately. “Always putting the servants of God first.”

  “Of course.” Elsie sounded a little surprised.

  “There are those who don’t, I’m afraid,” he said. “Those who are unwilling to give. What they don’t realize is how their behavior affects their reward in heaven.”

  “Isn’t it the truth,” Aunt Margaret sighed.

  Dinah kept her back to the dining room, submerged the skillet, and began to scrub it. He’d seen her unwillingness in her face. But her father had been dead only four days, and he’d come the moment he’d heard how vulnerable she was. She was a vessel of love. He’d come to give her comfort.

  That was all it was.

  Comfort.

  She finished the dishes and wiped up the counters, then dumped the remainder of the eggs into a bowl to feed to the chickens, who were partial to red bell peppers. As she pulled her quilted jacket off its hook, her mother gave her a puzzled look.

  “Where are you going, dear?”

  Where was there to go? Nowhere.

  “Out to the barn,” she said instead. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Elsie turned to the people at the table and extended her hands. Three people reached to take them, and she chose the warm, patrician clasp of Phinehas. “I declare, that girl spends more time in the barn than in the house,” she complained. “If it isn’t the chickens, it’s some project she’s got going. She should have been a boy, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about the heavy work.”

  Dinah closed the door on Elsie’s querulous voice. She really should be more charitable toward her mother. She wasn’t being very comforting, it was true. But Elsie had three people there to comfort her. All Dinah had was Sheba.

  Pain shot up her legs as she struggled to get across the yard without collapsing. In the chickens’ area of the barn, she sat heavily in the plastic chair. All was quiet. Schatzi still nested in her little niche in the hay. The hen would have been too agitated to settle if the vagrant were still behind the bales, so that meant he’d probably gone.

  Sheba came in through the hen door and walked across the floor like the Queen inspecting the troops. She paused at Dinah’s feet and looked up, waiting for an invitation. Dinah patted her knee and the hen flexed her powerful haunches and vaulted up into her lap, wriggling under the barn jacket to the warm, secure place beneath Dinah’s arm.

  She cuddled the bird, finding relief and comfort. Hugging the Silver-laced Wyandotte was like hugging a big silk pillow that talked back. Dinah would do anything for Sheba, including giving her the leftover eggs when all she wanted to do was bolt them down herself. Never mind that she’d made herself a full breakfast before she’d brought a plate to the vagrant.

  Sheba murmured something in the depths of the jacket and Dinah opened it. The bird backed out a little and then sat companionably on Dinah’s thigh, within the circle of her arm, keeping a vigilant amber eye on her kingdom.

  “Is it safe to come out yet?”

  Dinah jumped, and Sheba scrambled to her feet. The hen’s head swiveled toward the hay bales as the vagrant poked his head above them.

  “I thought you’d gone.” Dinah stroked Sheba’s feathers until she settled down again, but Dinah could still feel the tension in her feet as they gripped her skirt.

  Probably a response to the tension in her own body.

  “You asked me to stay here. I wasn’t sure if you meant it, but if it means getting more of those eggs, I’ll take the risk.”

  He was gazing at the bowl she’d meant for the chickens, and compunction nudged her. She hadn’t even thought about her promise to bring him seconds. The sight of Phinehas had driven him completely out of her head.

  She picked up the bowl and held it out to him. “They’re probably cold.”

  He climbed over the bales and she noticed that Schatzi didn’t move. How odd.

  “They’re protein,” he said. “Doesn’t matter whether they’re hot or cold.” In seconds the leftovers were gone. Sheba gave him the evil eye.

  Dinah felt rather the same. “You were supposed to share.”

  The hen hopped down, offended, and stalked out the hen door.

  “If she hasn’t eaten since Wednesday, I’d be happy to share with her.” He scooped the last particles out of the bowl with his fingers. “Besides, in her case there are more where these came from. I didn’t realize chickens ate eggs.”

  “They eat chicken, too. They prefer it baked.”

  “How can chickens eat other chickens?”

  “It isn’t personal. Like you said, it’s protein. Those eggs have to be built from something.”

  He folded himself onto a hay bale a little distance from her and regarded Schatzi, who gazed placidly back. “I am reduced to the level of a chicken,” he said sadly. “My only thoughts are for protein and not getting killed by th
e nearest predator.”

  “You’ve had trouble with predators?” She pulled her jacket more closely around her and made sure her black skirts covered her legs to the ankle.

  “Yes. The two-legged type. They had a bit of fun with my credit cards before I could find a phone and cancel them. I never realized before how difficult it is to find a phone that doesn’t require money.”

  “Do you still need to use one? There’s an extension out here.” She nodded toward the door, where the phone hung.

  “No, thank you. I’m obliged to be moving on.”

  “Not immediately.”

  She gathered her thoughts together for an idea that had just popped into her head fully formed. Or maybe it was the logical result of the last twenty-four hours. In any case, the more she thought about it, the angrier she got, and the better she liked it.

  He gave her a long look. “I don’t understand.”

  “How would you like a job, Mr. Nicholas?”

  He stared at her in astonishment. “I thought we discussed this before. Having a job requires a place to live, which requires rent, which requires a job. A vicious circle that defeats me at the moment.”

  “A place to live comes with it.”

  He got up and then sat again, as though his legs wouldn’t carry him far enough to get him out the door. “Please explain. The protein hasn’t kicked in enough to allow my brain to work.”

  “You need a place to live and something to do,” she said. “I need someone to do the heavy work around here that my father did up until the cancer made it impossible. Either I hire a boy from Hamilton Falls and have to deal with his social life cutting into his work time, or I hire you, ready and available to start immediately. What do you think?”

  “I think you would not be getting your money’s worth. I can no more do heavy work right now than that chicken there”—he indicated Schatzi, who had left another blue egg in the niche and was preening her feathers—“could pick up this bale of hay.”

  “A few solid meals would take care of that.”

  “And you know nothing about me except that I’m not very capable of managing a walking tour.”

  “Possibly. But whether you can manage a grazing lease and feed cattle concerns me more.”

  “I know more about chickens than cows, and that’s only because of you.”

  “You can learn. And it’s interesting you should mention the chickens. You don’t frighten Schatzi.”

  He glanced from the bird, who had finished preening and had hopped down to the feeder, to Dinah. “What has that to do with it?”

  “Schatzi is very easily frightened. But she’s not frightened of you.”

  He sighed, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “All the credits in the world, and I’m reduced to a character reference from a chicken.”

  “You’ve got ground to make up with Sheba, though, after not sharing your breakfast.”

  “I will endeavor to do that.” He sounded as if he were trying not to laugh. “Since Sheba’s opinion appears to matter to you.”

  “Sheba matters deeply to me.” She got up. “One thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “My aunt and uncle will be leaving Monday afternoon. I have no idea how long Phinehas will be here, but it could be several days.” She pushed the thought away. “You need to keep yourself hidden out here until I can tell my mother I’ve hired you. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  She led the way back to the tack room and heard his slow steps behind her.

  What am I thinking? He could hurt me.

  She fought back the panic. He had all he could do to get up and walk. And there was Schatzi, who had not been afraid. She took comfort in that and tried to calm the irrational fear.

  She pushed open a door and stood aside. Matthew halted on the threshold and gazed at the room.

  “Who is this for?” he asked at last.

  “When we had a hired man, he stayed here.” She avoided touching him as she passed and indicated the kitchenette. “You could do your own cooking if you wanted, but once everybody leaves it’s probably more convenient to eat with us. That’s the living room. The sofa’s kind of old, but it’s comfortable. There’s a bed through there, and a bathroom with a shower.”

  “I had no idea this was here.”

  Guilt prickled, and she shook it off. “Now that you’re no longer a vagrant, you shouldn’t be sleeping in the hay.”

  “I don’t know about that. Schatzi and I came to an understanding. But are you sure?” He turned to her with such an expression of pain that she stepped back in spite of herself.

  “Sure?”

  “That you want to do this for me. You’ve been so kind and I—” He stopped and made a gesture of futility with both hands. Emotion worked in his throat. “I have no way to repay you.”

  “You’ll be working,” she said briskly. She absolutely could not handle his emotion. She warded off his thanks with her tone. “I’ll bring your meals for now. You can use the time to build up your strength.”

  “Right.” He took a long breath. “Hidden away in luxury. I’ll be our little secret.”

  She stared at him, and the remnants of distress in his face turned to alarm.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “Nothing,” she choked out. Then she turned and, as pain lanced through her legs, walked as quickly as she could out the door.

  OUR LITTLE SECRET.

  Throughout the rest of the day, the words echoed in her head. By afternoon the voice was no longer that of Matthew Nicholas, but of Phinehas.

  You’re a vessel filled with love, poured out in secret.

  It took her two hours to prepare dinner—two hours of cutting vegetables and preparing spices, two hours in which she was far too busy to think or to acknowledge the fact that Phinehas was in the living room visiting with her mother and aunt and uncle.

  Your calling is strictly between you and me and God. Our secret.

  It was two hours in which to eat. She managed to sneak outside twice, under the guise of taking the compost out, and purge herself. After dinner, it took another hour to wash the pots and clean the kitchen. It was even necessary to scrub down the sink with cleanser and clean out the wells under the heating elements on the stove. All the while the spring of tension inside her wound tighter and tighter.

  Come to the secret place and let us worship together.

  She demolished most of the leftovers in the fridge, and afterward, in the upstairs bathroom, wondered how she was going to explain their disappearance. She’d always been able to blame it on Dad and his midnight snacks. She went down and considered cleaning the oven, too, but at nine o’clock her uncle came into the kitchen to get her.

  “Dinah, Phinehas is starting to call you our little Martha, you’re so busy out here. Come and be Mary for a while, and have a Bible study with us. It’s the Lord’s day tomorrow, you know.”

  She had no choice but to go.

  Fortunately, the Bible study lasted an hour and fifteen minutes, during which it was perfectly acceptable to keep her eyes on the Bible in her lap while she listened to Phinehas interpret the Scriptures. Her fingers, under her Bible’s worn leather covers, were rigid and cold.

  After a final prayer, she slipped into the downstairs spare room where her aunt and uncle were staying—Phinehas slept upstairs, in the large front bedroom that overlooked the river—and took a couple of blankets out of the closet. Then she pulled the last of the funeral leftovers out of the fridge. When everyone was busy getting ready for bed, she stacked the food and the blankets on one arm and slipped out to the barn.

  The chickens murmured when she passed them, but she didn’t stop to stroke Sheba as she normally did at night. Her feelings would communicate themselves to the birds and their eggs would be bumpy and stressed in the morning. She knocked on the door of the hired man’s apartment.

  “Mr. Nicholas?” she whispered.

  He opened the door, an indistinct dark shape. “Please, call m
e Matthew.”

  She’d rather not call him anything. “I brought you some blankets. And some casserole. It’s cold, but there’s a microwave in the kitchenette.”

  “Thanks very much.” He took them. “I’m sorry if I offended you earlier.”

  “Offended me?” There was no room in her mind for such petty things as offense. Not when the spring under her solar plexus was wound so tightly she’d begun to have difficulty breathing.

  “Yes. I think I said something that upset you. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t even remember what they had talked about. Silently, she went back to the house and climbed the stairs to her room.

  There was no point in locking the door.

  She hung up her dress and folded her underclothes neatly into their drawers, then got the embroidered white batiste nightgown from the bottom shelf instead of the comfortable black flannel one she usually wore in the winter.

  There was no point in getting into bed, either.

  The slow moments ticked by while people used the bathroom and brushed their teeth. The toilet flushed. Bedsprings creaked. The moon had moved halfway across the expanse of her window and she could hear Uncle John snoring when it came at last.

  Her door breathed open.

  The floors in the ranch house were solid and thick and did not creak. Neither did any of the hinges. She’d made sure of that.

  The lock snicked. The spring inside her uncoiled with a snap and she began to tremble.

  “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; thou hast doves’ eyes.’” The whisper was smooth and confident. “Say it.”

  She was silent while the spring uncoiled the rest of the way and she began to float.

  “Say it, Dinah.”

  “‘I would lead thee,’” she began, and her throat closed up.

  “‘And bring thee into my mother’s house,’” he prompted.

  There was no help for it. “‘And bring thee into my mother’s house, who would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.’”

  The moon was so lovely. She would float out the window and up into the moon.

  “Two months is far too long.”

  His breath was warm on her neck, but she was no longer in her body. She was drifting up toward the moon, so clear, so cool, so far away.