“If you say so!” laughed Loni. “Speaking of my encounter with your sheep, thank you for cleaning my shoes. How did you get them smelling so fresh? There was no trace of . . . well, you know what they had on them.”
David laughed. “We farmers and shepherds have our tricks of the trade to deal with the smellier aspects of our work.”
“I will have to learn your secret. Anyway, I appreciate it. I had about written those shoes off.”
She removed the green windbreaker and began wandering about. “Oh, fleece!” she said, stopping at another display of outerwear. “I love fleece, and everything on this rack is on sale.”
“So which is more important, color or price?” asked David.
“Color, no contest. But price is a close second. I would never pay a hundred dollars for a fleece vest no matter how beautiful, but neither would I buy an orange one that was on sale for ten.”
“Very complicated!” laughed David.
“Shopping for clothes is a science,” said Loni.
“I am beginning to see that. As much as I may have observed certain things, I have to say this is a first for me.”
“What?”
“Accompanying a woman on a shopping spree?”
“I hope it won’t go so far as a spree. Oh, but I do like some of these vests. Hmm, what do you think of this one?” said Loni, pulling out a fleece on its hanger and holding it up.
“Pink?” said David. “I didn’t take you for pink.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I know pink is sort of the ultimate feminine color, but you are . . .” David stopped. “Something tells me I should quit while I’m ahead!” he added.
“A wise man knoweth when he has contracted foot-in-mouth disease.”
David roared, attracting glances from throughout the store. “Very perceptive!” he said.
“Pink is admittedly a tricky color,” said Loni. “Some pinks are awful. But when it hints of lavender, then lovely subtleties emerge.”
“Ah, now you are speaking my language—the subtle pinkish hues of heather and its mystery.”
“Maybe that’s why I like it. And look—this pink goes exquisitely with the windbreaker.”
“I’m not sure it will be the right thing when you’re wrestling a mud-splattered sheep to the ground.”
“You insist on making a rustic of me!”
“Like I said, give me time,” said David, adding the fleece to the windbreaker he was holding. “All right then, a rain hat, boots . . . oh, here are rubber mackintoshes and not in yellow. If you showed up in the village wearing one of these, with wellies on your feet, you would instantly be accepted by the entire fishing community.”
“They would laugh at me!”
“Okay, maybe that’s a bad idea. Still, humor me—try one on. And the boots.”
“All right, but just for fun.”
With an armload of rain gear, Loni walked toward the dressing rooms. A few minutes later David heard giggling coming from inside. Soon Loni appeared wearing knee-length wellies and a rubber rain hat and a huge raincoat that extended down over the tops of the boots.
“You insisted!” she said. “But you have to admit, this is a little over the top.”
David could not help but laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this really is a picture worth a thousand words.”
“No one is going to take me for a fisherman! Do you have your camera?”
“I’m never without it.”
“Then we have to get a picture. Maddy will crack up.”
After suitable posing and much laughter, David managed to capture the spirit of the moment.
“Now let me get out of these things!” said Loni.
“I don’t know,” said David. “It’s growing on me. I could see you on the deck of a fishing boat, rain in your face, shouting out orders to your crew.”
“That’s not going to happen!”
They left the store an hour later, Loni outfitted in her new waterproof angle-high hiking boots, thick warm pink fleece vest, and light green Gore-Tex windbreaker, along with a pair of tough warm leather gloves and a wide-brimmed rain hat, a pair of jeans, and carrying a bag of a few additional items.
“You will definitely be the most color-coordinated and attractive young lady on Whales Reef,” said David as they emerged onto the sidewalk.
“That was fun,” said Loni. “You make me laugh.”
“I hope that is a good thing.”
“A very good thing. I didn’t laugh much as a girl. It always feels good.”
“How about a cup of coffee or tea?” said David. “Then I’ll show you around the city. Just down the street is one of my haunts when I’m here—The Cappuccino Club.”
“Cappuccino . . . really? In the Shetlands? I would love a peppermint latte.”
David laughed. “Don’t let the sign on the door fool you. Somebody probably thought the name sounded clever. Mostly it’s a tea shop.”
“Do they serve coffee?”
“Sure. But I doubt it will be up to your standards.”
“I’m game to try it.”
They dropped off Loni’s purchases at David’s car, then walked to the coffee shop. Loni ordered a latte but was surprised how quickly it came.
They found a table and sat down. Loni took a sip from her cup.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed.
“Not good?”
“Whatever it is, this is definitely not a latte!” she said with a grimace. “This is just bad coffee with skim milk in it.”
“That’s what they think latte means—regular coffee with cold milk.”
“Not espresso?”
“They have no idea what the word even means.”
“But that’s what cappuccino is. And skim milk—nobody puts skim milk in coffee. I wish I could make you a true latte—it’s strong espresso coffee—really strong but full of flavor, with steamed milk or half-and-half. Absolutely delicious if done right. By the way, are you responsible for the bag of Starbucks at the Cottage?”
David nodded. “I had to order it. It arrived the day before you did.”
“That was incredibly thoughtful. I have to say, Starbucks brews a richly flavorful cup of coffee. But I have been trying to get used to tea as well.”
As they left the shop thirty minutes later, Loni recognized a taxi parked on the street. She peered through the window. The man sitting at the wheel was out of the car in an instant.
“Lassie, lassie!” he said, embracing her with a warm hug. “Ye’re the last person I expected tae see!”
“Hello, Mr. Sinclair,” exclaimed Loni, “how wonderful to see you again.”
“Ye’re lookin’ bright an’ cheery since I last saw ye.”
“I am feeling much better about life,” said Loni. “I was pretty gloomy that day.”
“I wouldna call it gloomy, lass—ye jist had a lot on yer mind an’ wasna sure what would be expected o’ ye. I’m glad tae see that the answers tae oor prayers are makin’ themselves known.”
Glancing back and forth between the two, David hardly knew what to make of Loni’s greeting and conversation with a man who seemed an old friend.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “I would like you to meet David Tulloch, chief of Whales Reef. David, this is Rev. Richard Sinclair.”
“I’m happy tae meet ye, sir,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’ve heard o’ ye—I hae yer two books at home. ’Tis an honor tae meet ye.”
“Thank you, Rev. Sinclair.”
“If ye’re a friend o’ the lassie’s, it’ll just be Dickie, if ye please. An’ that goes for yersel’ as weel, lassie,” he said to Loni.
“Thank you,” said David.
“An’ are yer island folk takin’ good care o’ oor Miss Ford?”
David smiled and glanced briefly at Loni.
“They are indeed . . . Dickie,” she said, answering for him. “I am learning many things about the Tullochs, and about myself.”
“I’m happy fo
r ye indeed, for that’s the most important kind o’ learning o’ a’. If a body’s learnin’ aboot himsel’, everything else will fall into place. Oh, here’s my fare noo. Best o’ the day tae ye both. I’m right pleased tae make yer acquaintance, Chief. I hope I might be privileged tae see ye again.”
Loni and David resumed their walk along the sidewalk.
“A personable man,” said David. “A minister and a taxi driver—an intriguing combination.”
“Not half so interesting as a chief and shepherd who writes books,” said Loni.
David smiled sheepishly.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were an author too?”
“It’s not the kind of thing you go around talking about.”
“I would think you would be proud. Writing a book is an enormous accomplishment. And you’ve written two.”
“Actually I’m in the process of putting the finishing touches on a third. My publisher is expecting it soon.”
“Wow. That’s what I mean—what an accomplishment. Now that I think about it, I did notice your name when I was in the Wildlife Shoppe in the village. The name didn’t register at the time. Why keep the fact that you are an author secret?”
“I don’t necessarily try to keep it a secret. Sure, I am proud of my work. But you don’t go around telling people, ‘Hey, I write books!’”
“Hardy probably would.”
David smiled at the thought. “That is a very humorous image,” he said, chuckling. “Yes, he probably would at that.”
32
Complex Spiritual Roots
“It was obvious that your taxi-driving friend cares deeply for you,” said David as they left the city to begin the return drive to Whales Reef. “How did you come to know him?”
“He met me at the airport with his taxi and took me to Mr. MacNaughton’s office, and then to Whales Reef,” replied Loni. “He was the first Shetlander I met.”
“From the sound of it, you could not have done better.”
“When he and I were on the ferry on the way over to Whales Reef, I was so nervous and feeling alone that I asked him to pray for me. I’d never done anything like that in my life, though I know my grandparents prayed for me. In those few moments I knew that he sensed what I was going through. Then later when we parted at the Cottage, he gave me such a tender and loving look, almost like . . .” Loni stopped as an unexpected lump rose in her throat. “Sorry, what I was going to say was that it was almost like the look of a father. I’m an orphan, you know. I never knew my father or mother.”
“Right—you told me that earlier,” said David softly. “You said your grandparents raised you?”
Loni nodded.
“And they were Christians?”
“We were Quakers . . . or are Quakers. They are very devout. What I am, I don’t know. I suppose that’s another thing I am trying to figure out. I consider myself a Christian. But as to labels, I wouldn’t know what to call myself. I haven’t been active in church since leaving home. I have no denominational ties, except of course to the Quaker community where I grew up. But I haven’t been to church with my grandparents in fifteen years.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” said David, “or intrude where you don’t want me. I know you value your privacy and—”
“No, it’s fine,” interrupted Loni. “Say whatever you were going to say. If I expect you not to keep secrets from me, I need to take my own medicine.”
“What I was going to say is that I know very little about the Quaker faith. I’ve read about George Fox during the tumultuous 1600s and know that most of his followers immigrated to the American colonies. As to what Quakers actually believe, I am woefully ignorant.”
“I don’t know that I am a very reliable source,” said Loni. “I grew up in a small conservative Quaker community—not representative of modern Quakerism as a whole. The Society of Friends, as it is called, has evolved into a liberal and socially active movement. Though they are a tiny minority, a few pockets of conservative Quaker churches hold to deep spiritual foundations closely tied to its historic roots.”
“Fellowships like that of your grandparents?”
Loni nodded.
“What do they believe, then?”
“Mostly, I suppose, along similar lines to the historic ideas and doctrines of Protestantism. Most fundamentalist Quakers would probably consider themselves in the mainstream of conservative Christian thinking. They do not differ significantly in doctrine from Baptists or Presbyterians or Anglicans or whatever. I think it’s mostly a difference of emphasis. Quakers focus on individual and personal response to God, which every man or woman has to discover in their own hearts. I’m probably not saying it like my grandfather would. But that’s my perception. The church and the Bible are important, of course, but for Quakers not as foundational as the personal and inner revelation of God’s Spirit.”
“Interesting. Catholics rely on the church and its tradition. Protestants base truth on the Bible. And Quakers come along with an emphasis on individual faith.”
“Maybe something like that. Quakers use the term the Light Within. For Quakers, responding to God’s inner Voice is at the foundation of faith. But I am no expert. The people in the Fellowship back home consider me a backslider. I was always a black sheep.”
“Why?”
“Long story. I’m not altogether sure. Someday I hope to get to the bottom of it. I think it had to do with my father leaving the Fellowship too. But after he and my mother were killed, my grandparents didn’t talk much about the past. I don’t know the details.”
“Secrets, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“So you’re the backslider of the community?”
“Imagine me coming home for a visit, dressed modern, driving my red Mustang through the farm country, weaving in and out of horse-drawn Amish buggies—our Quaker community is in the middle of Amish country. Yes, I’m afraid I raised a few eyebrows. Now I feel bad for the grief I caused my poor grandparents.”
“You actually drove a red Mustang?”
“A convertible—I forgot to mention that.”
David laughed. “A Mustang convertible and sharing the road with horses and buggies. That is hilarious!”
“My grandparents didn’t think so. I learned to visit them at night and keep out of sight.” Loni sighed thoughtfully. “That’s what makes all this so complicated. It’s about more than an inheritance. The very fact of my being here stirs up the unknown of my past. Who were my parents, who was my mother, where did she come from? Suddenly here I am in the very place where my mother’s grandfather was born. Trying to put that into the perspective of my American Quaker heritage, and then figure out what I believe as a Christian myself . . . I’m not sure what to think.”
“I am beginning to see that your coming here has more far-reaching personal significance than simply inheriting a house and some land.”
“Much more!” rejoined Loni. “And what should I also discover but that there are Quaker connections to the Auld Tulloch. You should see the books in his study. They could belong to a Quaker minister.”
“I had no idea,” said David. “I am not aware of Quaker affiliations in our family.”
“In a way it is all coming full circle. In Ernest Tulloch’s study I am connecting with the very tradition my grandparents instilled in me.”
“Amazing when you think about it.”
Again Loni grew thoughtful.
“When I was young,” she said after a moment, “I was fond of a book about two girls. One of them had a special meadow where she would go to be alone. It seemed so quiet and peaceful. About a mile from our house, there was a stream where my grandfather took me fishing. I would sit up high on a big rock and watch him. When I got a little older I started going there myself. Exploring one day I discovered a tiny clearing in the middle of the woods. I thought I was in heaven. It became my own special place just like in the book, an oasis of peace where I could go after school when the other chi
ldren had been cruel to me and where I could cry and think and dream. I kept going there for years. Sometimes I would see animals. But mostly it was just to be by myself.”
“What did you think about?” asked David.
“I don’t know, girl things, who I was and where I had come from.”
Again Loni was quiet.
“The woman I work for professes herself an atheist,” she continued after another minute. “For the first time I find myself wondering how comfortable I should be with that. If I am going to call myself a Christian, do I need to take it more seriously? Should my faith play a more significant role in my relationships? I have never asked such questions.” She drew in a deep breath. “This is embarrassing to be talking so much about myself. I’ve never done this with anyone. You already know more about me than Maddy and Hugh or anybody.”
“Maddy—your boss?”
Loni nodded. “Madison Swift.”
“And Hugh . . . your boyfriend?”
“Something like that.”
“Then I consider myself privileged to have been the recipient of your openness. Please, no cause for embarrassment.”
They reached the end of the road and stopped to wait for the ferry.
33
Where Leads the Quest?
“Do you mind if I ask a favor?” said Loni as they waited.
“Of course not,” answered David.
“After all this talk about church and faith and God . . . I think I would like to go to church tomorrow. I’m afraid I would be too self-conscious to go alone. Would you go with me?”
A grin spread over David’s face.
“What?”
“I was just thinking how that would set people talking.”
“Why?”
“I’m not an every Sunday churchman sort of guy, not to mention the fact of the chief and new laird arriving together—that would be noteworthy in many eyes.”
“I’m a little surprised by what you say—about yourself, I mean.”
“To borrow what you said a minute ago, a long story.”
“My curiosity grows.”
It took David several moments to respond.
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