Byrl picked up her mug. “See you later, darling.” She disappeared into her room to begin her day’s work while Debbie attacked the breakfast dishes with verve. They had agreed that Byrl would pay the lion’s share of the rent and Debbie would do the housekeeping, but she would have done it just the same no matter what the financial arrangements. Debbie never let a dirty dish stand on counter or in sink for more than 10 minutes. Nor did she ever leave a bed unmade or a floor unswept. And yet, she always wondered why an antiseptically clean house was never as satisfying as she thought it was going to be. Probably because she could never really get it clean enough. Just as she could never be good enough at anything.
She was just reaching for the can of Lysol when there was a knock at the door. Melissa stood there with an apron shaped like a teddy bear tied around her tiny waist. She held out a wooden spoon. “You said we could make cookies.”
Debbie thought briefly of the soft sculpture she had hoped to finish that morning, then turned back to the little upturned face. “OK.” She held the screen door open for Melissa. “Does your daddy know where you are?”
“Oh, sure. He said it was OK. Just so’s I didn’t disturb you. And if we bring him some cookies.”
Debbie pulled a stool up to the counter for Melissa to stand on, then turned on the oven and got out the ingredients. “I’ll measure things, and you dump them in the bowl, OK? Here, can you crack eggs?”
Melissa wound up with almost as much of the slippery egg white clinging to her fingers as in the bowl. While Melissa washed her hands, Debbie dug bits of shell out of the bowl and wondered if she should put in another egg to make up for what her little helper spilled. Then she decided this would likely be par for the procedure, so if they spilled an equal percentage of everything the measurements should come out right.
She leveled off a cup of white sugar with the side of her knife and handed it to Melissa. The child had successfully washed her hands, but the drying had been less thorough. Bits of the sweet white crystals stuck to her damp fingers, and she occupied herself with licking them while Melissa packed the brown sugar into a measuring cup with the back of a spoon. “Why are you doing it that way?” Melissa asked.
“To get an accurate measurement. Brown sugar is lumpy. It won’t measure flat if you don’t push it.”
Melissa was delighted when the sugar plopped out in the bowl still holding the shape of the cup. “Oh, just like building sand castles with a bucket!”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Debbie smiled. This was perfect. The perfect mother-daughter activity. She had always tried to get Angie to work with her in the kitchen, but her sister was always too busy with parties and school activities.
“Did you make cookies with your mama when you were a little girl?” Melissa asked.
“No—” Debbie stopped. She had started to say that she never had. But maybe there had been a time. Before her mother got sick. Before everything went wrong. But it was so hard to remember. Had there been good times?
She seldom looked back. It was too painful. Whenever she tried, she always hit a wall of anger that was like bumping a hot stove.
“Tell me about it.”
“Hm?” She jumped at Melissa’s simple request.
“Tell me about when you were little.”
“I don’t remember much about when I was your age.”
“OK. Tell me about when you were older. Did you go on picnics?”
Debbie could remember sitting in a circle with her friends, pulling sandwiches and apples out of brown paper. “Well, not exactly picnics. But I remember eating school lunches with my friends. They always had notes their mothers had tucked in with their tuna fish sandwiches. I never had a note because I made my own lunches. Then one day I had a note. ‘I love you. Have a nice day.’”
Melissa clapped her sticky hands. “Oh, good. Did your mama sneak it in to surprise you?”
“No. I put it in myself.”
Melissa’s face fell. “Oo, that’s sad.”
“Is it? I thought I was very clever. No one ever knew.”
Just then Melissa squealed and jerked her hand away from the counter. “Yuck! A bug. A nasty black one. Smash it.”
Debbie looked at the insect ambling across the countertop. “Oh, no, that’s a cricket. I never kill them.” She scooped it into her hand, held it loosely, and released it out the door.
Melissa regarded her with amazement. “Why did you do that?”
“My mother said crickets were lucky. Besides, I don’t like to kill things.”
Next Melissa knocked a saltshaker into the flour canister and reached in to retrieve it. She emerged, shedding flour all over the kitchen at the very moment Greg stuck his head in the back door. “I just came over to check—” The cloud of flour caught him in the face as Melissa waved to her daddy. He exploded with a sneeze. Then he surveyed the mess on the kitchen counter and floor. “Melissa, I told you not to be a pest. That isn’t necessary, Debbie.”
“Depends on what you consider necessary. How else is she going to learn?” She suddenly felt defensive. Words rushed out to justify her actions. “That’s how I learned, sitting on the counter and watching every move my mother made. Sometimes she’d see me doing something and ask, ‘How’d you know to do that?’ and I’d say, ‘I’ve seen you do it.’ …” Debbie’s mouth fell open as she heard her own words. Was that true? Had she had a relationship like this with her mother before—before … ? She must have. Debbie had certainly learned her domestic skills somewhere.
“Well, if you’re sure it’s all right.”
Debbie blinked. “Yeah. Sure. We’re fine.” With a swift mood shift she gave him a playful shove toward the door. “Now you just go back to where you came from. I’ll call if the pipes break, but this is my department.”
Greg grinned and retreated. “Just so you don’t forget that eating is my department.”
“What’s the secret formula?” Melissa asked when Debbie finished wiping the flour off the child’s face and arms. “You said there was a secret formula.”
“Wheat germ,” Debbie replied in a stage whisper, taking a jar out of the refrigerator. “We use less flour than the recipe calls for and replace it with wheat germ. It makes the cookies extra chewy and good for you. But don’t tell anybody, because nobody likes food that’s supposed to be good for them.” They giggled at the conspiracy.
In spite of the amount of chocolate chips and cookie dough they both snitched, they managed to produce a batch of tempting golden cookies, crisp on the outside, soft inside, and full of melted chocolate morsels. “Another secret is that it’s very important not to overbake them. Take them out as soon as they’re a light gold.” Debbie placed the cookies in the pie pan her small assistant held. “There now, take these to your daddy. Be sure you eat them while they’re still warm.”
“Is that another secret?”
“No, everybody knows that. And drink milk with them.”
Melissa nodded solemnly. “You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”
“You don’t think I’d let you walk out of here alone with all the loot, do you?” But before either of them could make a getaway, Byrl entered, following her nose to the kitchen. Debbie grinned at her. “You wouldn’t like them. It’s a very old-fashioned recipe.”
Byrl stuck her tongue out at her cousin and took a handful of cookies back to her desk.
In the Masefield kitchen Melissa carefully poured glasses of milk while Debbie washed some strawberries she found in the refrigerator. Just before calling Greg from his study, Debbie ran out and picked a handful of the bright orange and yellow nasturtiums that grew by the side of the house and put them in a low pot in the center of the table.
Greg’s face lit with delight when his daughter led him to the table. He devoured a cookie in two bites, then raised his glass in a salute. “To the domestic arts and the resident artists.”
Debbie lowered her eyes. The nurturing pull she had felt the night before returned with force. She thoug
ht of making a home for these two people in front of her. Making them cozy and happy: Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas decorations, Fourth of July picnics—all the fun and details of daily living that made life rich and beautiful.
But of course she could never take Gayle Masefield’s place. And the sooner she moved away from here the less torn she was going to be. Empty, maybe, but at least not torn. She wondered what kind of woman Ryland Carlsburg admired. He didn’t deserve as much as Gregory Masefield. So maybe she could be good enough for him. Maybe she would find out when he returned from Salem.
“… so you’d better go get a sweater.” Debbie jumped. What was Greg saying to her?
“Sweater?”
“Didn’t you hear a word we said? You nodded when Melissa asked if you’d come on a walk with us, so I thought we must be getting through.”
“Sweater. Right.” She jumped to her feet.
Chapter 7
It was a gloriously sunny day due to the cool wind that had blown all the early morning clouds away—or rather, blown them high overhead where wispy white puffs floated lazily against a bright backdrop and colorful, long-tailed kites dipped and soared with the seagulls. The ocean, which had been such an ethereal silver-blue the night before, was now an intense navy, hinting at its hidden depths while multiple rows of white lace frothed at its edge.
Long, thin blades of dark green beach grass bent in the breeze, and Debbie was glad for the soft red sweater she had pulled on over her denim skirt with the red and white gingham lining. She also enjoyed the comfort of having her hair tied back in a red bandanna under the straw hat she plopped on for sunburn protection.
They walked northward on white sand strewn with bits of broken shell. Pieces of crabs, clams, and sand dollars looked like bumps on dotted swiss fabric. Melissa ran this way and that, collecting a bouquet of seagull feathers while Debbie considered the man walking beside her. He moved with long, easy strides, both hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. She liked his off-white sweater with the well-worn leather patches on the elbows. He must have felt her survey, because he looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, then held out his hand. She took it, squelching the little voice of caution in her head with a stern, well, why not? She desperately needed to sort things out. And she knew all too well that running away wouldn’t accomplish anything. They walked on up the beach, swinging their arms in rhythm with their step.
A few hundred feet off shore a huge flock of birds was feeding, skimming just inches above the water, then diving for food and riding the waves before circling again for another course. Beyond the birds, several fishing trawlers were working the waters. “What are the seagulls feeding on?” Debbie asked after watching the birds for several minutes.
“Not seagulls—sooty shearwaters, actually—feeding on anchovies.”
“Anchovies?” Debbie laughed. “I thought those were oily little things that are great on Caesar salad and awful on pizza.”
“This is before they get to the cans, Landlubber.”
“So the boats are fishing for anchovies?”
“To be used on Caesar salads but not on pizza?” He grinned at her. “Fact of the matter is, they’re fishing for salmon. Anchovies are the primary food source in these waters for birds and fish. The salmon work on them from the bottom and the birds from the top. And just be glad you aren’t an anchovy.”
“With or without a pizza. Also not to be a salmon with the trawlers around.”
“Chain of life. Part of the plan.”
Debbie nodded. “Yeah. Pretty neat. Just so something like an oil slick doesn’t come along and upset the applecart—or the fish basket.”
“That’s right. Man is part of the natural environment, too, which is a point a lot of environmentalists miss. But man has to be careful how he uses God’s creation.”
Debbie considered for a moment. “So where would you say a luxury hotel on the beach would fit into that? It would make more men—and women and children, of course—comfortable. Make it possible for them to enjoy the beauties of nature more.”
“Would it? Or would it just allow the developers to make more money? Is there a lack of facilities here now?”
“Well, I don’t know.” She’d have to think about that.
“I don’t think vast tracts of land should be sealed away from the public. And generally timber and wildlife management are good stewardship. But environmental issues are just like any other—they need balance. Man’s needs should be considered along with everything else—like the timber worker with a family to feed. But we do have to remember that greed is part of man’s nature, and that has to be kept in check too.”
She nodded, thinking the topic closed as they walked on.
Then he said, “Gayle and I used to go around and around about this. You know she worked for Ryburg—trying to get Carlsburg’s building permits.”
Debbie was too surprised to reply. It had never crossed her mind that Gayle Masefield might have been the beautiful, brilliant lawyer who was greasing the wheels for Ryland. “She had been in Salem for Ryburg when she had her wreck?”
She hardly noticed Greg’s nod as she considered the implications. Ryland had encouraged her to run for office so she could take Gayle Masefield’s place? She was thinking so hard it was several moments before she realized she was staring at a flock of delicate brown and gray birds playing along the edge of the water. They ran in ahead of the waves on their sticklike feet, then followed the water back out again like children. Melissa instantly accepted their unspoken invitation to run with them, although the birds then moved a bit further up the beach.
Debbie smiled as she watched the child. “That’s great. She doesn’t seem to have any fears left over from falling at Cannon Beach.”
“I’m so thankful about that. I was worried. She’s had so many insecurities in her life, but she always seems to bounce right back.”
He meant her mother’s death, of course. Debbie was again overcome with a sense of compassion for the child. She slipped her hand from Greg’s and went out to join Melissa. Together they ran to keep ahead of the white foam as it swept up the beach, then turned to chase the retreating waves across the satiny sand, watching the water make little V shapes as it flowed over scattered pebbles.
Greg joined them, and Melissa turned to her daddy. “I want to find some seashells.”
“Further up the beach we might. There are usually some good ones where the river comes in.” Greg led the way. What with taking so much time playing and looking, their progress was slow, but when they neared the mouth of the Necanicum River Greg’s prediction came true.
“Look, Daddy! A sand dollar. And it isn’t even broken! Well, not very much,” she added when she saw the chip on one side.
“That’s OK. The design is perfect.” Greg examined the round, flat shell with a five-petaled flower stamped on its smooth top. “Do you know the legend of the sand dollar?”
“I don’t,” Debbie replied. “But I’d love to hear it.” She sank down on the warm, soft sand. “Any excuse to sit for a minute.” They had been going slowly, but their progress was steady and the little town of Seaside and its populated beach was way behind them. Here there were no homes fronting the beach, just huge, grass-covered dunes.
Greg knelt between them. Melissa bent her head over the shell in her daddy’s hand, watching closely as he pointed out each part. “This shell tells the life of Jesus. See the tiny star in the center? That’s the Christmas star that guided the wise men to Bethlehem. The petals around it are a poinsettia, the Christmas flower.” Melissa smiled and traced the pattern with one finger.
Greg turned the shell over. “But here the flower is the Easter lily. These five wounds,” he pointed to tiny holes in the shell, “are the wounds Christ suffered from nails and Roman spear.” Melissa put a hesitant finger to each hole.
“And then inside,” Greg snapped the shell in two and shook five small white triangles out into his hand. “Are five white doves waiting to spread
goodwill and peace.”
“Oh!” Melissa cried with surprise and took the pieces into her own hand.
“And, so, as the poem says, ‘This simple little symbol, / Christ left for you and me, / to help us spread His gospel / through all eternity.’”
Melissa turned to search the sands, but Debbie didn’t move. “Is that what you teach your theology majors?”
“More or less, yes. It’s the heart of the matter.” Their eyes held. Suddenly theological issues seemed very far away. “Deborah—”
“Daddy!”
Greg shrugged and offered his hand to help Debbie to her feet as Melissa ran to show them her treasure—a tiny white shell shaped like a volcano. Greg pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, and Melissa dropped the shell in it.
“And I thought I was the one who was always prepared. I’m impressed.” Debbie laughed.
“Experience.” He turned back to Melissa. “Sometimes you can even find periwinkles here. And there should be some unbroken crab shells.”
“Oh, good.” Debbie took Melissa’s hand. “Let’s try to find some nice ones. If we get enough I’ll do a collage—on burlap with tiny seed pearls … and stitch a seaweed effect with brown yarn … and lots of French knots …” The wall hanging took shape in Debbie’s mind as she spoke. “Maybe we could find a piece of driftwood to hang it from too.”
They all hunted at the edge of the water, up and down the beach, bent almost at 45-degree angles so as not to miss any treasures. “Here’s a new kind!” Melissa ran to show them the hinged halves of a razor clam.
Debbie looked at the prize for a moment, thinking. “I’ve got it. We can make angels. We’ll dress little dolls in long lace dresses and use these for wings. You can put them on your Christmas tree.”
Melissa jumped with excitement and dashed off to search for more. Greg shook his head. “You’re amazing. You never run out of ideas, do you?”
“It’s a disease. One idea breeds about six more. And I’m constantly frustrated because I can never keep up with all my projects.”
All Things New (Virtuous Heart) Page 7