Patchwork and Politics

by Christine Lynxwiler

  “That’s not how you messed things up for us, Megan. What you’ve done is allow your pride to keep us apart. We wanted to help you shoulder the load you’ve borne for the last three years, and you didn’t let us.” His deep voice was gentle, and love for his daughter was evident in his tone.

  Tears poured down Megan’s cheeks. “Daddy, I did it for you. For you and Mama. I knew what a scandal it was for y’all, but I hoped if I stayed away and didn’t have contact with you, people would let you forget it.”

  “People?” He reached over and pushed her hair off her face. “What people do you think are more important than our only daughter?”

  Megan looked at him, and sincerity was evident in his eyes. Had she misjudged things so badly? Was it possible that her parents had really wanted a close relationship with her even though she’d brought shame to them?

  In some ways, it was harder to honor that desire than it had been just to stay away. She’d thought herself as strong these last three years, but she was starting to wonder if she’d taken the coward’s way out instead.

  ❧

  Holt slammed his truck door and strode across the paved circle-drive in front to the colonial mansion. A couple of calls on his cell phone had verified that Marshall was at home this morning, playing tennis with his daughter.

  Going for an element of surprise, Holt bypassed the whole front door routine and slipped through the gate he knew was always unlocked. From afar, he stood for a second and watched the trim-looking older man lobbing the ball to the stunning brunette.

  As he approached, he decided to give them fair warning. “Marshall,” he called. “We need to talk.”

  Marshall Whitmore spun around, and the bright yellow ball bounced past him coming to a stop not far from Holt’s feet.

  Holt bent and scooped it up. Giving it a squeeze, he then began to toss it from hand to hand.

  Marshall’s eyes narrowed. “Talk? I thought you weren’t able to talk to me? Something about me not being in your district?”

  “What I’m here to talk about has nothing to do with my political opinions. This is personal.”

  Gloria started forward and as she got even with the net, Holt saw her paste a sweet smile on as if it were a postage stamp. Why hadn’t he ever noticed her phoniness before?

  “Personal?” Her voice was squeaky with anticipation. Apparently, she hadn’t replaced him yet, in spite of her dislike for his “hick” ways.

  “Yes, personal with your father.” She gave a practiced pout, and he realized he had some unfinished business with her, as well. “On second thought you can stay.”

  “Holt, have you come to your senses?” asked Marshall Whitmore.

  “Yes, Marshall, as a matter of fact, I have.” Holt continued to toss the ball up and catch it.

  “Well, good, I’m glad to hear that.” Marshall lowered the racket he’d been holding almost defensively and nodded. “Come on in, and let’s have some coffee. I’ll tell you what we need to do.”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s not going to work. Because I’ve come to tell you what we’re going to do. Or rather what you’re going to do.” Holt silently thanked God for his total lack of fear. After years of praying “Your will be done,” he was finally living it as far as his career was concerned.

  Marshall sputtered. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this. You are going to leave me alone. You’re going to leave Megan Watson alone. You aren’t ever going to pay anyone to follow us again. As a matter of fact, you’re going to forget we ever existed. Do you know why you’re going to do this?”

  “I don’t—” Marshall’s face was as red as the brick on the house in the distance.

  “Don’t even think about denying what you’ve done.” Holt squeezed the tennis ball with one hand. “We’re beyond that. Now we’re going to talk about the future. If you don’t forget about us, I’ll be forced to bring allegations against you for trying to force me to vote your way on important issues. I’m giving you a chance to turn over a new leaf.”

  Marshall was turning redder by the second. “Get off—”

  “As you can tell, I’m no longer following the things you taught me, back when you were ‘grooming’ me to become governor. No, you always said, ‘Never give an enemy a second chance.’” Holt gave the ball one more hard squeeze. “If you were me, you’d go straight to a reporter with these charges, wouldn’t you?”

  When Holt said the word reporter, the redness drained from Marshall’s face like a broken thermometer. He worked his mouth but nothing came out.

  “Let me just tell you like it is. I was elected to represent the people and vote their wishes. As long as their wishes don’t violate my conscience, I intend to do just that.” Holt had always thought politicians were supposed to take care not to be too firm in their stances. After all, fanaticism bred contempt more than familiarity ever had.

  The man standing in front of him had taught him that. But Holt found himself unable, and unwilling, to stand behind the invisible fence anymore.

  “With all due respect,” Holt said, praying for the right words, “you told me once that money talks. Well, God talks too. And He says you can only serve one master, Him or money.” He cleared his throat and plunged on. “God put me where I am today, not you. And whether you choose Him or not, I do.”

  Marshall didn’t say anything. Holt turned to Gloria who stood slack-jawed, staring. “Gloria, before I go I’m going to do you a favor, as well. You need to get a life. First, you need to learn what love really is, then you need to find someone with whom you can share it. Real love—the kind that can only come from knowing God—isn’t about political influence. Don’t marry some ‘hick’ because your daddy tells you to.”

  He was surprised to see tears in her eyes. She didn’t speak but only nodded.

  He tossed the tennis ball to Marshall, who stood dumbly and let it bounce by. With a nod, Holt turned and retraced his steps. Two down, one to go.

  Seventeen

  Catching her mother in the kitchen and her father playing with Sarah, Megan slipped away to her room. She locked the door quietly and sank down on her bed. Her head was spinning from the things her father had said. Was he right? Had her life been governed by foolish pride?

  Oh, God, please don’t let me make the same mistake again. Give me courage and strength. And, Lord, please give me wisdom. Tears burned a path down her cheeks. Father, I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to handle everything alone, and I can see the pain that has caused my earthly father. I can only imagine how much more my pride has hurt You, who could have handled my problems so easily.

  I should have confronted Ivo three years ago and trusted You to make him believe me. But I was afraid. And, deep down, I guess I wanted to prove him wrong instead of just telling him he was wrong about me. That was pride, wasn’t it? A wracking sob shook her body. What a mess I’ve made. Please forgive me. Through Jesus I pray, amen.

  She rose slowly to her feet and hurried into the bathroom to wash her face. It was never too late to change. That’s what her parents had taught her from the time she was tiny, and God’s Word taught the same thing. It was time she acted on that.

  She hurried to the closet and scanned the few outfits that hung there. Finally settling on one that had been her favorite three years before, she pulled it out and laid it on the bed. She was tired of being a coward. How had she forgotten the boy David? He’d understood that it didn’t matter how big the giant was, but only how big God was.

  ❧

  When Megan walked out onto the porch, her mother saw her first and jumped to her feet.

  “Megan!”

  Her father swung around from where he was squatted down playing dolls with Sarah on the wood planks. He lost his balance and sat down hard on his seat. A broad grin creased his face. “Knocked me clean off my feet, Girl.”

  “Why are you all dressed up, Mama?” Sarah scampered over to her mother’s side and reached out a tentative hand to the pale blue silk suit Megan was w
earing. “Your eyes look as blue as the sky.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled gently at her daughter and glanced up to meet her mother’s gaze. “Can you all stay with Sarah for awhile?”

  Megan watched in amusement as her mother gave her father “The Look.” That particular expression had a variety of meanings. Megan knew years of marriage told her father that right now it meant, “Take Sarah to play so I can talk to Megan.”

  When he nodded, her mother rewarded him with a look that plainly said, “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  Megan suppressed a giggle as she thought of how many wordless conversations she’d witnessed between her parents over the years. Would she ever have that kind of easy communication with anyone? She thought of all the comfortable silences she’d shared with Holt.

  As soon as her father and Sarah were walking across the yard, Megan’s mother turned to her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m just going to take care of some things I should have done years ago.”

  “You look beautiful.” Tears filled her mother’s eyes. “I’d despaired of ever seeing you like this again.”

  “Dressed up?”

  “No. At peace.”

  The two women embraced. Megan could feel her makeup start to run. She pulled back, swiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand, and giving a few rapid blinks to scare the offending tears away. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I have my cell phone. Call me if you need me.”

  “We’ll be fine. You’ve done a good job of raising Sarah. She’s a pleasure to be around.”

  Megan nodded. The words eased another brick of guilt off her heart. Maybe she hadn’t warped Sarah permanently by forcing her own self-imposed exile on her daughter.

  “Thanks, Mom.” She stepped into the house long enough to get her purse and keys, then she ran out to hug Sarah good-bye.

  “Mr. Holt told me a story once, and we pretended you were a beautiful princess locked in a tower. I think you really are.”

  Megan laughed. “Oh, he did, did he? Well, this princess is busting out.”

  Sarah turned to the section of grass beside her. “Lucy, do you know what she means?”

  Megan kissed her on the forehead and offered an air-kiss to the invisible Lucy. “I’ll explain it later, Baby. I’ve got to run.”

  She hurried to the van, and even though she wasn’t used to the high heels, it felt like her feet were barely touching the ground.

  So, Holt was right. . .freedom really is a state of mind.

  ❧

  Holt walked down the corridor formed by the gray tweed walls of cubicles. When he’d almost reached the right one, the sound of raised voices told him his target wasn’t alone.

  He spied a plastic chair sitting next to the water cooler nearby and sank down in it to wait his turn. In spite of the buzz of office noise, much of the conversation was easy to hear.

  “It took you long enough to come out of hiding. That in itself tells me you are guilty.” Anger laced the male voice.

  “You’re the one who. . .” The woman’s voice was somewhat softer, and Holt couldn’t completely make out either her words or her tone.

  He glanced at a small corkboard covered with cartoons, fastened by everything ranging from an actual thumbtack to a toothpick. Despite trying to concentrate on the funnies instead of eavesdropping, he couldn’t miss the man’s words. They were barely short of a shout.

  “My grandfather trusted you. And you betrayed him.” From his vantage point, Holt saw a couple of people poke their heads out of their cubicles and cast curious glances toward the direction of the heated words.

  The softer voice sounded soothing at first, then it too rose in unmistakable anger, and Holt gasped. It couldn’t be. . .

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it! I was betrayed just as you were. I would have done anything to make it right again, but you didn’t even come and ask me about it. In spite of our friendship, you assumed I was guilty, and you used your power as a reporter to make sure others thought it too. I’ve suffered for three years, thinking somehow I deserved it. . .” The familiar voice softened again, “But I didn’t. I didn’t deserve it anymore than you deserved what happened to your grandfather. I’m sorry, Ivo.”

  “That’s easy for you to say now. But can you prove to me you had nothing to do with it?” Holt got to his feet, ready to defend. But beneath the blustery anger Holt could hear the hope in the man’s voice, the desire to know that only one of his friends had betrayed him.

  “I. . .” Megan stopped short, and Holt knew that in spite of her new attitude, she would never tell Pletka the one thing that would convince him.

  He stepped to the door of the cubicle. “I can.”

  Megan’s face went as white as her blouse.

  The red-haired man spun around. “Who are you?”

  “You mean you don’t recognize me from your latest smear campaign? I’m Senator Holt McFadden.”

  Pletka sank down in his chair. “What do you want?” he sneered.

  “You asked for proof of Megan’s innocence. I happen to have it. And ‘what do I want?’ you ask? I want a retraction and an apology.”

  “I’m not apologizing to you. If you couldn’t stand the heat, you should have stayed out of politics.”

  “I don’t want an apology for me. I want one for Megan.”

  “Oh.” Ivo seemed to deflate before their eyes. He rubbed his eyes and ran his finger through his already disheveled hair. “Where’s your proof?”

  “Call your grandmother. That’s my proof.”

  Megan gasped. “How could you know that?” she whispered.

  Holt stared at her, taking in every detail of her elegant upswept hairdo and silk suit, right down to the strappy high-heeled sandals. She was pure class. But then she always had been. Even on the farm. He just hoped she could forgive him for butting in.

  “Know what?” Pletka sat up straight again, his reporter’s instincts kicking back in. “What do you know? And what does calling my babicka have to do with anything?”

  “She can verify what I’m going to tell you.” Holt was surprised at the twinge of sympathy he felt for the mixed-up young man before him. Another look at Megan’s white face sent the newly found pity scurrying to the back of his heart.

  “Holt. . .” Megan’s voice was trembling.

  “If you really don’t want me to, I won’t.”

  “Would somebody please tell me what you’re talking about?” The bluster was back full force in the reporter’s voice.

  “Go ahead,” Megan said with a nod.

  Holt turned to Pletka. “When Barry died, Megan sold everything they had and moved to her grandmother’s farm house. She also took over the quilting business.”

  Ivo snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Okay, I will. She took the money she had from the sale and divided it equally among the twenty investors. Ten of them were paid off at that time, with interest. But ten remained. The remaining ten have been receiving monthly payments from Megan for the last three years. She’s scrimped and pinched pennies, until a man about town like you would be ashamed to know the amount of money she’s been raising her little girl on. By doing that, she’s almost succeeded in paying back every penny people lost in Barry’s investment, plus interest.”

  Pletka’s ruddy complexion paled, his freckles standing out like blots of rusty ink on a sheet of white paper. He shook his head. “I can’t. . . Oh. . . That’s not. . .” He put his head in his hands and sobs wracked his body.

  Megan had stood frozen in place while Holt talked but she suddenly bolted forward. She stood behind Ivo and patted him gently on the back. “Ivo, your grandmother would love to hear from you. She prays every night that you’ll call.”

  He jerked his head up and turned to look at Megan. “She defended you, and I couldn’t stand it. I had to have someone to blame. Barry was dead, so I blamed you. She even tried to tell me later. I know now she was trying to make me see you w
ere paying the money back, but I wouldn’t listen.” The words poured out of him like an unstopped fountain. “These past few months, I’ve been going to a church here in town, and I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness, but then. . .” He stopped and looked at Holt.

  “Then Marshall Whitmore approached you about doing another story. Provided you with a picture that looked incriminating and made you think you were doing a service for your country by keeping Megan from corrupting an elected official.”

  Ivo nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked from Holt to Megan. “I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Megan nodded. “I’m hoping forgiveness is the order of the day.” She looked at Holt, and hope leaped in his stomach. Then she turned back to Ivo. “I should have confronted you a long time ago, and we could have avoided all of this.” She squeezed Ivo’s shoulder. “You going to be all right?”

  He nodded and patted her hand. “I’m going to call my babicka.”

  “Good.” Her smile encompassed Holt, as well, and the crazy events of the day just all seemed to melt away. “I’d better go. I left Sarah at the farm with Mom and Dad.”

  Holt raised an eyebrow. “Your parents are at the farm?”

  Megan nodded, and Holt could see the true peace in her eyes.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Holt said.

  “Wait.” Ivo stood and lightly embraced Megan. “Senator McFadden, would you mind staying for awhile? I have some things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  Disappointment covered Holt like a moldy blanket. What could he say? Yes, he minded terribly because he couldn’t wait another minute to be alone with Megan? “No. . .uh. . .that’s fine.”

  A small smile teased at Megan’s mouth, and a dimple flashed so quickly he wasn’t sure his imagination hadn’t played tricks on him. It was almost as if she could read his thoughts. She gave a little wave and stepped out into the corridor.

  “See you at the farm later,” he called.

  She nodded without looking back. Holt stood in the doorway and watched her glide away, swinging her tiny purse as she walked, until she disappeared from sight. He was tired of these constant good-byes.