“To where, Hugh?”
“To everything—to the big time, the inner circle, the corridors of power, fame and fortune, Washington society. So . . . is it a go? Will you?”
“I can’t give you an answer yet,” said Loni. “I just got home. I’m tired. My life has been turned upside down in the last few weeks. I can’t process all this right now. It’s too sudden. I need to take a deep breath and think it all through.”
“We’ve been talking about this for a year or more.”
“We haven’t talked about it. You assumed. I need to think about everything you’ve said.”
“Sure, no problem. Just don’t take too long. We need to go see my folks next weekend and then get moving on buying a house and making wedding plans. A week before the election would make dynamite press.”
Silence hung in the air as Hugh pulled into Union Station.
“And once all this starts happening,” said Loni softly, “you expect me to quit my job?”
“Of course. You will be a congressman’s wife. Responsibilities, you know.”
“Such as?”
“Cocktail parties, dinners, entertainments, travel, speaking. I want you to be a significant part of it all. You are smart, savvy, and beautiful besides. Your looks will be the greatest asset my political career could have. I mean, how far would John Kennedy have risen without Jackie?”
Loni felt her jaw drop as Hugh pulled into a parking space. He jumped out, grabbed her suitcase, and set it on the sidewalk.
“Well, I’m glad we got everything settled,” he said. “Have a good visit with your grandparents. I’d walk you in, but I’ve got a meeting I can’t be late for. We’ll start making plans the second you’re back.”
Loni stood on the sidewalk a minute more, watching Hugh drive away. He had never once mentioned the word love.
54
The Green Fields of Home
SOUTHERN PENNSYLVANIA
In her intentionally nondescript rental car, Loni drove through town and into the farmland beyond without concern of attracting stares from the residents of the close-knit Quaker community of her upbringing. The train ride to Philadelphia, followed by the drive into rural southern Pennsylvania, had been full of so many thoughts and emotions that she could not have described her feelings had she tried. The excitement of Hugh’s voice as he went on about his dreams had jarred with dissonance against everything she was feeling. Yet she knew it would be useless to explain it to him. He was on cloud nine. There was no reason to burst his bubble with realities—such as that she happened to like her work and had no intention of moving to Wisconsin.
Loni drove up to the familiar farm-style house where she had spent the first eighteen years of her life.
When her diminutive grandmother came to the door, this time it was Loni who broke into tears and sought Mrs. Ford’s embrace as if she were a girl again.
Loni’s request to stay a few days could not have struck more deeply into her grandparents’ hearts. Hearing Loni say she needed to come home for a while brought tears to their aging eyes. She told them everything that had happened, repeating much she had written in her letter, then about recent developments and David and her hasty departure. She then showed them Hugh’s ring and told them of the drive to the train station, before closing the small box and stuffing it back into the pocket of her jacket.
“My, but you have had a busy week!” said Mr. Ford.
“Did you give your young man an answer?” asked Loni’s grandmother.
“No, Grandma,” replied Loni. “It was so out of the blue and . . . well, it seemed more self-serving than romantic. I’m not sure I want to be his trophy wife.”
“What is a trophy wife, dear?”
Loni smiled. “A poor choice of words, Grandma. Let’s just say I haven’t decided what to tell him.”
“Do you love him, Alonnah?” asked Mr. Ford.
“I don’t know, Grandpa. I guess that’s what I have to find out.”
The following morning Loni stunned her grandparents by asking if she could accompany them to Sunday Meeting. Overjoyed at the prospect, they were delighted at the ease and friendliness with which she greeted old family friends and relatives, even stooping down to give aging Betsy Schrock a warm hug. The dour woman had not grown a good deal sweeter over the years, but Loni greeted her as if they had been great friends. Most surprising to Loni was the warm reception given her from almost everyone there.
A feast followed at the home of Mr. Ford’s brother, where Loni renewed connections with her two childhood friends, cousins Jacob and Rilanda, and innumerable others—many first cousins, like her, now grown, but many seconds and thirds and variously cousin-removed youngsters who stared up at her with wide eyes.
Around the huge table they listened in rapt attention as she recounted the story of her discovery of her Shetland roots through Chad Ford’s mysterious wife, Alison, and of the Tulloch family and its history. Even the children at the four card tables in the adjacent room strained to listen to the tall, striking blonde as if she were a Scandinavian princess of royal pedigree. And with half her bloodline originating in the Shetlands, perhaps she was exactly that.
Never again would Loni consider herself a stranger in the community. She had indeed come home again, and in the fullest sense.
By the time the day was over, Loni felt a quiet sense of contentment, having reconnected to a past she now realized she treasured. As last she was able to apply Maddy’s prescription as she and her grandparents revived their long-standing tradition that evening, enjoying hot chocolate and popcorn together. Loni told them more details about her recent trip, about the village and the remarkable inheritance.
Loni awoke on Monday to the sun shining through the familiar curtains of her room. She was at peace, though with no resolution presenting itself to the uncertainties looming on the horizon of her future.
By that afternoon she was ready to ask her grandparents’ counsel. Again the three sat down in the living room. Expanding on what she had told them previously, Loni tried to lay out the options before her.
“I guess what it boils down to,” she concluded, “is whether I should keep the inheritance at all.”
“You can’t just give it away, can you, dear?” asked Mrs. Ford.
“Not now that I have signed the papers. It’s mine. Once the inheritance taxes are paid, however, I would be able to sell everything for a low price and let someone who is more deserving carry on as owner of the estate.”
“You’re thinking of selling to one of the two men you mentioned?” asked her grandfather.
Loni nodded. “I suppose I could sell it to anybody, but it seems right that it go to one of the island’s men.”
“From what you have said, even if you sold at much lower than market value, it would still make you a rich lady.”
A quizzical smile came over Loni’s face. “I can’t really think of it like that,” she said. “I would happily sell it for a fraction of its value—I will have to ask Maddy about the legalities of that. Even that would give me far more than I will ever need, and I would be able to provide for you as well.”
“Don’t worry about us, Alonnah,” said Mr. Ford. “We are well provided for. Our tastes are simple, and our needs are few.”
“No Mediterranean cruises?” asked Loni with a smile.
Mrs. Ford chuckled. “We are happier under this roof together than anywhere in the world.”
“Nevertheless, I need to know you will never want for anything. They are fond of talking about duty over there, and I have a duty to you. I’ve not paid enough attention to it up until now. That is going to change.”
“We appreciate that more than you can know, Alonnah,” said her grandfather.
“Anyway,” Loni went on, “my other option is to retain my ownership and figure out some way to administer the estate. That’s the difficult question—whether to put everything in someone else’s hands, how much to be involved, how much I would have to be there. They have
an old-fashioned term for what is called a factor. Essentially it means business manager. Back in the days of lords and ladies and dukes and earls, the rich landowners all had a factor who took care of their estates. That’s more or less what I’ve already hired David Tulloch to do. On the other hand, the people of the island are accustomed to their lairds being one of them, someone they know. So you see how complicated it is. I need wisdom about what to do.”
The room fell silent. When at length he spoke, her grandfather’s voice was filled with careful thought and consideration of all the issues Loni had laid before them. Loni recognized the tone immediately from her childhood. She was about to drink from her grandfather’s well of wisdom. She knew that no word would originate out of his own opinion or would offer counsel in accord with what he might wish. Rather, he would concern himself only with what was right, what was prudent, and what would be for Loni’s long-term best interests.
His first words, however, surprised her. It was not the sort of analogy he often used.
“There is a saying in sports,” said Mr. Ford. “Let the game come to you. In other words, don’t push, don’t press too hard. As the Word says, ‘let patience have its effect.’ Farmers must live by the same principle—let the seasons come, let the sun and rain, even the frost and snow each do their work in due course. Wait for the rain.”
He paused thoughtfully.
“There are times,” he went on, “when our own impatience urges us to act quickly, prematurely, impulsively. Yet often the urgency to act is counterproductive if one has not waited for the rain, so to speak. There are times to act decisively. There are other times when the best thing to do is nothing—to wait. I call it active, expectant waiting.”
He smiled and looked Loni affectionately in the eyes. “I’m sure you remember the saying I am very fond of,” he said.
Loni returned his smile. “I think so,” she said. “That God is never in a hurry.”
“You were listening!”
“Probably more than you realize, Grandpa. Actually, more than I realized either.”
“My sense, Alonnah,” Mr. Ford went on, “is that this is a time for you to wait, to rest, and to remember that in quietness and confidence God will be your strength. That waiting may be long or short—two years or two days. The duration of the season of waiting is not so important as that we release the grip of urgency, that we ‘let go and let God,’ as the old saying goes. To wait means to relinquish our own hold on the reins of destiny. Give God the reins. The time for decision will come. For now, let the peace of being at home enter your spirit and do its work. I’m sure you also know my favorite verse of Scripture.”
Again Loni smiled. “Of course—Proverbs three.”
“‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths.’”
A long silence followed.
“He will make your way clear, Alonnah, in His time. Trust Him. Let God’s game come to you.”
Loni rose and gave her grandfather a warm embrace. “Thank you, Grandpa. That is true wisdom. I receive what you say. Now I know why I came to you.”
55
The Boulder, the Creek, and the Meadow
The next day, thinking that the following morning she would return to Washington, wearing running shoes, jeans, and a sweatshirt with its sleeves cut off, Loni left the house about eleven.
She walked through fields to the Quaker school and then sat a while on the front steps. She was coming to terms with many things.
At length she rose and continued on, walking briefly through the small town before returning to her grandparents’ home. Reaching their mailbox, she turned and climbed a low wooden fence across the country road from the long driveway back to the house.
Soon she was making her way along a well-worn path between a fenced field of six-feet-high corn on her right and a lush green expanse on her left, where grazed fifty or more tan Jersey cows. Beyond that spread untold acres of golden wheat. This path was the shortest route to her uncle’s house and had been used by generations of youngsters running back and forth between the two houses, cutting the three-quarters of a mile drive to just under half a mile. Loni’s memory filled with images of scampering from one house to the other with her cousins Jacob and Rilanda who, even during the most painful days of childhood, had always been kind to her.
She had almost forgotten what fields of ripening corn and wheat smelled like. There was nothing like the fragrance of farmland, she thought, when the sun beat down on the earth, unless it was the smell of the woods after a spring rain.
Ahead, her uncle Herb and aunt Evelyn’s tall house rose out of the fields like a landlocked lighthouse of white. Two other dwellings sat on the large family tract, homes for Jacob’s family and that of his younger brother, Eli. A third unmarried brother lived in the main house with Herb and Evelyn and had by now, with nephews as his work crew, assumed most of the work of the dairy and crops. Jacob and his eldest son carried on the Ford family woodworking tradition in two modern workshops.
A thousand memories flitted through Loni’s brain like the random flight of butterflies. Everything looked just the same . . . yet was also completely different to the eyes of her adulthood.
Had she waited too long to return to this place of childhood? Yet perhaps the fields of memory needed time to heal. Perhaps their soils required years to lie fallow to see what new flowers and trees might blossom from the long-buried roots of the past. For in coming to terms with one’s past, timing is everything. Growth of new memories cannot be rushed.
This was the appointed time. The fallow fields were ready to blossom anew in her heart. Gratitude now came flourishing out of the purified soil of bygone years. The pains of the past can be transformed into happy memories for one determined to dwell in that re-creating miracle. Such a one Loni had become. The gray skies and gloomy horizons of former heartaches were slowly being imbued with all the colors of a newly radiant sunrise.
Such nostalgic seasons of renewal bring pain and happiness intermingling in an intricate dance, now one taking the lead, now the other. Every sight, every memory, thus brought a smile to Loni’s lips as well as moisture to her eyes. Each in its own way was healing to her soul.
She reached a familiar fork in the path, paused, then turned to the right.
The course she now pursued led to a densely wooded grove of birch and pine three-quarters of a mile ahead that stretched east and west for several miles and gave way beyond it northward to hilly and, in places, rugged terrain.
She wondered if her grandfather still haunted their favorite fishing spot on the small river that came down out of the hills. At least it had seemed like a river to her young eyes. It was called Disappearing Creek for its propensity to disappear for stretches at a time in thick undergrowth, behind huge boulders, even occasionally underground before tumbling again into the light of day to widen and splash through its gravelly bed, forming here and there deep pools where, if one knew their ways and was patient and skilled in the fly-fishing art, decent-sized rainbow trout could be pulled from it. How the fish navigated the disappearing waters, no one knew, but the lively little stream, almost a true river during the spring snowmelt, was the favorite destination for the fishermen of their community.
Loni emerged from the trees some time later. There was the river in front of her, just as she remembered it. It was indeed a creek and not a river. Funny how much larger it had appeared all those years ago.
And there was their favorite fishing hole two hundred yards upstream.
She broke into a run. Why didn’t she think to bring her rod? She had seen it hanging in the barn, probably where it had been gathering dust for fifteen years or more since she had last used it. Perhaps she and her grandfather could come back later in the afternoon. Dusk was always best for trout anyway.
She reached the hole and scrambled up the tall boulder with the creek winding around its base, creating the deep, dar
k pool where the fish lurked in the shadows.
From the high perch of this rock she used to sit for hours on end watching her grandfather wield his rod and line, manipulating his hand-tied flies with exquisite delicacy and patience, coaxing, luring, beguiling the trout to come closer and have a taste. She had learned everything she knew about fly-fishing from years of watching his every move, every flick of the wrist, every scarcely perceptible tug of the line, every glance of his eyes. She had watched it all from her perch on the overhanging boulder, not moving a muscle lest her reflection distract their quarry . . . watching until that magical moment at nine when her grandfather looked up from the bank of the stream and said, “Climb down, Alonnah. I think it’s time for you to try it.”
Her grandmother and grandfather had taught her far more than she had been capable of realizing when she was young. She was finally discovering how much their example had been instilled into her. She had gone to Scotland seeking her roots. Yet all along she had roots here too, deeper and closer and more personal roots. She had not appreciated them fully before now. But that was changing. Scotland opened her eyes to a legacy that had been right in front of her all along.
She sat for a long time reliving many happy times, remembering her first catch—only four inches but one her grandfather had praised as if it had been a thirty-pound Atlantic salmon.
Climbing down from the boulder, Loni struck out up the hill on the opposite side of the stream. Though she had come this way a hundred times, she always varied her route slightly so that no one would find her own special hideaway. The instant she had discovered it at eleven or twelve, it became her private place of solace and refuge.
A walk of ten more minutes, after squeezing between several tall boulders, brought her into a tiny secluded meadow about twenty feet from end to end with just one hole through the leafy canopy above that let a single shaft of sunlight down onto the grassy floor. She had come here to sit for hours, watching the irregular pattern of light slowly moving across the ground with the westward course of the sun.
The Cottage Page 26