All Things New (Virtuous Heart)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  The sunset came subtly, in delicately diffused shades of grays, mauves, and muted corals—a cotton candy world. Greg held out his hand. At that moment none of the old warning bells could hold her back. She placed her hand in his and smiled at the strength of his clasp.

  They paused at the railing of the Promenade. “See the clouds on Tillamook Head?” Greg nodded toward the great green mountain projecting into the ocean at the south end of the curving beach. “Do you know why there are always clouds up there, even when it’s clear and sunny on the beach?”

  Debbie looked at the frothy white topping that hung on the mountains like angel hair on a Christmas tree and awaited a scientific explanation about vaporization of spray hitting the rocks and condensation at the cooler elevation. But she was surprised. “Cloud giants live up there. It’s their job to hold onto the clouds.”

  Melissa clapped and giggled. “Do they hold fairy princesses captive?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to hike over there someday and find out. If there are any captives, maybe we can rescue them.”

  Melissa danced ahead of them along the walk, then stopped to look out over the water. “I think there’s a boat out there, Daddy. Can I look in the scope?” Melissa stood on tiptoe before one of the telescopes mounted along the Promenade, trying to peer in.

  Greg fished in his pocket for some change and brought out an assortment of pennies, nickels, and quarters, but no dimes. “Let me.” Debbie swung her shoulder bag forward and began digging in its depths. “The fact that these things operate on a dime gives you some idea how old they are.” She produced a silver coin.

  Greg helped focus the lens, and Melissa narrated the scene before her. But Debbie continued digging in her purse. Billfold, notebook, lipstick … Something seemed to be missing. Only she couldn’t figure out what it was. Deciding it must be her imagination she snapped the bag shut.

  They were well on up the Prom when it hit her. Her compact. She stopped and began digging once more through her bag. “What’s the matter? Lose something?” Greg turned back to her.

  “My compact. It must have rolled clear under the bench when I dumped my purse at the tea shop. Rats! They’re closed now too. I guess I’ll just have to call them in the morning. My mother and I used to love to poke around in antique shops together. I gave that to her the last Christmas …” She bit her lip.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be safe. If we didn’t see it down there on our hands and knees, it’s doubtful anyone else will notice it.”

  Debbie nodded, and they turned again toward home. Melissa clung tightly to Debbie’s hand, dragging her feet slower and slower. “Melissa’s almost asleep on her feet. My mother always said shopping was the most tiring work in the world. Although I’m not sure you could call what we did real shopping.”

  “Want me to carry you, Punkin?” Greg bent to his daughter.

  Melissa shook her head and clung to Debbie with both hands. Debbie nodded. “I’ll carry you.”

  Melissa nestled in her arms, the little blond head snuggling on Debbie’s shoulder. “She’s going to get heavy,” Greg warned.

  “It’s OK. It isn’t far.”

  Quietly, so only Debbie could hear, Greg said, “She seems to have a mother fixation. She didn’t get enough mothering when Gayle was here. Now she’s really lost. I do my best, but—” He shook his head.

  A hollowness in his voice told Debbie that Melissa wasn’t the only one who missed the dynamic woman who was gone from their lives.

  At Greg’s cottage Debbie laid Melissa on her bed and carefully removed her shoes so as not to rouse her. She untied the silver balloon and let it float up to the ceiling, then pulled the soft quilt up to the tiny, pointed chin. She brushed the fine, pale hair back and bent to kiss the smooth forehead. After a moment’s lingering gaze she pulled herself away.

  She was startled to find Greg standing just outside the open door. “Would you come on a hike with us Saturday? I’d like to hide behind my daughter and say she needs you, but I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I do too.”

  The vision of the sleeping child was still bright in Debbie’s mind. Now she turned to the strong, yet gently quiet man beside her. They were both so vulnerable in the pain they had suffered. Why did everything have to take her by the throat? It was so inconvenient not to be able to talk at a time like this.

  “Hike?” she got out, hoping he wouldn’t notice how strangled her voice sounded.

  “We’re going to check out those cloud giants on the top of Tillamook Head. Remember?”

  Indeed she did. “I’ll come armed,” she said and sped away before Greg could offer to walk her over to her cottage. Try as she might, she couldn’t find any armor he couldn’t penetrate.

  Chapter 10

  The dream came softly, yet with great clarity. She was alone by the beach, sitting on a rock surveying a scene of intense beauty. The sand spread out an unearthly white, and the breakers rolled in bluest splendor before her. She slid lightly from the rock and strolled up the beach, her heart exulting in all she saw. She ached with the desire to share the moment. To share it with someone who was as special to her heart as the scene was to her eyes.

  She woke, gasping for air through her constricted throat. Then the dream flashed before her, as vividly as she had dreamed it. Stark desolation washed over her. Could one die of emptiness? This dream of aching beauty was far worse than her nightmares of brokenness and violence. The anguish much greater as the scene of remembered beauty became one of abandonment. Bleak and barren.

  And then, through the fog of despair, she thought of Greg.

  Greg. He was the person she could share all the goodness and beauty of the world with. Greg.

  Engulfed by a great sense of peace, rightness, and completeness, Debbie slept.

  The dream was still with her when Saturday arrived and they started up the forest trail over the mountain. Lush foliage arched overhead to a blue-tinted cathedral ceiling. Sun fell in gold-mottled pools on the fern-and-moss-covered forest floor. Tiny sounds of birds, chipmunks, and beetles came to Debbie above the crash of the distant surf breaking against the rocks at the base of the cliff. Every breath filled her lungs with refreshing, woodsy air. Even though the ascending trail was steep and rocky, Debbie’s feet barely touched the ground. The newness and wonder of her discovery floated to her on a magic carpet. She was in love.

  Greg was her Someone. Someone to share life’s beautiful moments. But what about the not-so-beautiful? What about the outright ugly? The ugly that filled more than moments. Would Greg share that too? Did she want him to? Could she let him?

  She turned to look at him, just a few feet below her on the trail, his long legs striding up the path as if it were level, his golden hair reflecting glints of leaf-filtered sunlight, his clear blue eyes quietly surveying all around him. How would those eyes look at her if he knew? She shook her head firmly. No. Just deny it. The pain would go away. For a while.

  She ached to be able to tell him what he meant to her. To tell him the good parts and bury the bad. She knew that if she put her hand to her chest she would feel the lump that was forming there from the dammed-up words. But perhaps he sensed them in part because he didn’t speak when he reached her side. He just slid his arm around her waist and guided her gently on up the trail. And she let him do it. Bury the bad, she repeated to herself. That had always been her answer. There was no reason she couldn’t continue with it. She would enjoy her day and worry about the consequences later.

  But could she? Could she keep her fears bottled up? Could she keep Greg from guessing how she felt and thereby doubling the potential problems? Could she enjoy the day in such confinement? Well, she would have to, wouldn’t she? There was no alternative. And Deborah Jensen had always managed to do what had to be done.

  Melissa, water sprite turned wood nymph, danced up the trail ahead of them, her little voice joining those of the woodland creatures in the high, clear air.

&nbs
p; “Don’t get too far ahead of us, Punkin.” But Greg’s warning was unnecessary. Around a bend in the trail they found her, squatting stock-still before a dead stump. It was upright, but red and soft with decay, encrusted with moss and lichen, numerous small plants and ferns growing out of it. One side was hollowed out like a grotto.

  “It’s like a little house,” Melissa whispered, her eyes shining.

  Debbie dropped to her knees beside the child. “That’s exactly what it is. It’s a little house for bugs and tiny animals. I wouldn’t be surprised of a little mouse or maybe a very small bunny lived in there. See that soft green moss in the back? That’s probably his bedroom. And the toadstool is his table.”

  “But where is he now?”

  “At the office, of course,” Greg joined in.

  “Oh, Daddy!” Melissa giggled and frolicked on up the trail.

  Greg extended his hand to help Debbie to her feet. She brushed the decayed wood chips from her knees with her left hand, unwilling to remove her other from his grasp. A little further up the trail a clump of shamrocks grew green and bright over a mound beside the path. “Makes you think they would be complete with leprechauns and pots of gold, doesn’t it?”

  But Greg’s reply showed how far his mind had strayed from the fantasy scene before them. “Debbie, what do you think of the idea that it’s the quality of the mothering that counts, not the quantity?”

  The question took her by complete surprise. She stopped for a moment and looked at him. His face was inscrutable, but she could only assume he was looking for compliance with Gayle’s philosophy. The brilliant, beautiful wife who had balanced career and mothering so successfully that husband, child, and client still found her irreplaceable two years later. She felt like the heroine of Rebecca—finding red silk R’s embroidered on all the linens as constant reminders of the departed, adored wife. The question was like one of those fakey tests school guidance counselors gave. You could always see how you were supposed to answer them to get the scores you wanted.

  She took a deep breath. Well, there were some things you couldn’t keep hidden forever. She might as well give him an honest answer. “I’ve always thought it was a convenient cop-out for people who would rather be doing something else. There can’t be much quality if you’re not there. Every child deserves to come home from school to find someone baking cookies for them once in awhile. You have to be there to do that.”

  “But that’s not possible for some people.”

  “No. But those aren’t the ones who try to justify their choices, are they? Besides, I thought we were discussing my idea of an ideal world—not the state of the economy.” She hadn’t meant her reply to sound so defensive. She strode on up the trail wondering why she had reacted in such a prickly manner. She slowed her steps, allowing him to catch up to her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. The thing is—childhood is so precious—every moment of a child’s life. I just feel very sorry for mothers who miss it—especially those who choose to.”

  “Surely you’d feel sorrier for those who don’t have a choice?”

  “No. One regrets bad choices more than anything else.” The forest silence closed in on them.

  “But if that’s how you feel,” he sounded confused, “why—”

  “Daddy, Daddy! It’s a dragon!”

  Melissa didn’t sound frightened, but the alarming words sent them hurrying to her side. They laughed when they saw the dragon: a fallen log with snags of hanging wood forming teeth above a red tongue from a decomposing branch. Fluted lichens grew the length of its back, making effective scales.

  “Well, of course the cloud giants would keep dragons. He’s probably their favorite pet.” Debbie looked at the woods growing like layer upon layer of green lace, mushrooms and ferns tangling with the exposed roots of trees and bushes, moss covering everything like a bright green terry cloth towel. “It’s easy to believe this forest is enchanted, but now we know the cloud giants are friendly. Nothing evil could live in such a beautiful place.”

  “That’s right!” Melissa’s voice held a note of relief that revealed just the tiniest concern for what they might encounter.

  They crossed a corduroy bridge made of hewn branches placed side by side to cover a potential mudhole. Even in early August the ground was spongy from moisture in places. “No wonder it’s so lush,” Debbie said.

  But Greg didn’t reply. It was obvious he was deep in thought. She could almost hear the wheels of his mind turning. “Debbie, I don’t understand—”

  “The lighthouse!”

  Debbie didn’t turn to Melissa’s shout. She sensed Greg wanted to say something to her. And she wanted to hear it. But he shook his head. “Later.” Then he sighed. “And to think I was worried that she’d get too tired on the hike.”

  They came out to the clearing beside the trail where Tillamook Rock Lighthouse stood offshore. “I wish we could go there!” Melissa cried.

  “Next to impossible.” Greg shook his head. “I don’t think anyone goes there now. They haven’t used it since the ’50s.”

  “When was it built?” Debbie asked.

  “About a hundred years ago. I’ve read that, according to lighthouse keepers’ logs, storms would sometimes throw large rocks through the lights and walls. Fish would be thrown more than a hundred feet into the air and onto the decks of the lighthouse. Can you imagine being out there at a time like that?”

  Debbie shuddered. “I’m not sure I can even imagine being out there on a calm day.” She surveyed the white foam spewing over the rock, nearly a hundred feet above sea level. “God would have had to create someone very specific for that job.”

  Greg shook his head. “No more so for that one than for any other. Every job has someone just right for it. But not everyone tries to find that special niche.” He was quiet for so long Debbie thought he was through and wondered how she should reply to that. Then he added, almost as if to himself, “Sometimes people rush ahead on their own. Then they have to wait for Him to pick up the pieces. That can take awhile.”

  Debbie started to shiver but hid it as a shrug. She wasn’t sure this was a comfortable conversation. “I wonder. How do you know what’s right?” And how do you get back on track when you’ve derailed? she wanted to ask but didn’t.

  Greg started on up the trail, walking slowly. “I suppose the best answer I can give you is time. The Holy Spirit never rushes anyone. He has all the time in the world—after all—He made it.” He paused and grinned. “But seriously, if you feel a sense of being pushed and hurried, it’s doubtful that it’s from God. A very wise man who’s in heaven now taught me that—after I’d rushed ahead.” He took a deep breath. “We always mess up when we take command of the reins—or steering wheel—or whatever.”

  Debbie held her breath, wishing he would go on. If he would tell her about the mistake he made once, maybe she could understand him better. But he was silent.

  They reached the crest of the Head and started down the other side. “Melissa, don’t run!” Debbie shouted as she heard the sound of little feet padding too quickly on the soft earth. “Please, don’t run!”

  Her pleas were answered with a giggle that sounded almost like one of the tiny, high-pitched bird chirps from the trees around them.

  “Melissa.” Her father’s voice commanded with force, but no harshness. “Sit down and wait until you can see me.”

  “OK, Daddy.”

  Around two twists of the trail they found her perched on a mossy stump looking exactly like a small elf in her green shirt. Debbie and Greg sat beside her leaning against the stump. Debbie stretched out her sneaker-shod feet and sighed. “Uh-oh, I think this was a mistake. I didn’t know sitting down was going to feel so good. I might not get started again for a while.”

  “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

  His words made her think of their earlier conversation. “You never rush people, either, do you?”

  He looked at her with that special warm smile of his that cam
e from his eyes rather than from his lips. “Try not to.” Then he added. “But sometimes I’m afraid I’m a slow learner.”

  Even Melissa was quiet for a long time. Debbie felt an almost overpowering urge to lay her head on Greg’s shoulder and go to sleep. Maybe she would dream again. And this time he would be there with her. But she didn’t trust her dreams. It was better to stay awake while the reality offered all she could ask for. Later she would take her chances on dreams.

  “Ooo, there’s a bug on your hand!” Melissa drew back.

  Debbie looked down at a large red, black-spotted ladybug crawling toward her wrist. She held her hand out toward a fern. “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.” With a sharp puff of breath she blew the bug onto the plant.

  “Are ladybugs lucky like crickets?” Melissa asked.

  “Sure. They eat nasty bugs like aphids.” Melissa gave a satisfied nod. Debbie was glad she didn’t ask for more of the rhyme. Your house is on fire and your children will burn never seemed like a suitable nursery rhyme. She looked around. “This is such a beautiful little vale. I’d like to put a glass dome over it and take it home like a giant terrarium.”

  Greg pushed himself to his feet. “We’d better move before rigor mortis sets in. Tired, Punkin?” Melissa nodded. “Up you go, then.” He tossed her effortlessly up on his shoulders. She folded her arms around his head like a hat. He smiled at Debbie as she scrambled to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure, I’m fine. But if I’d said, ‘no,’ would you have offered me a ride too?”

  “Well, it might slow us down a bit. But I’d do my best.”

  Debbie laughed and scampered on down the hill, refreshed after the rest. Here the trail was carpeted with minuscule pinecones and bordered with mushrooms that were smooth on top and wonderfully fluted underneath like square dancers in ruffly petticoats. “Is it much farther?” she asked.