All Things New (Virtuous Heart)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  Debbie didn’t reply, so Rachael continued. “But we want to be fair. We’ll pay for the month’s deposit you mentioned putting on an apartment here if you want to look elsewhere since the job market is a bit depressed here right now. Er—I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but I called our Portland store. They do have an opening for a salesgirl. You might be able to work up to designing and teaching.”

  Debbie was so numb she could hardly write down the directions Rachael dictated. “OK. Yes. Can you repeat that phone number?” she made scratches on the pad. “Sure. Thanks, Rachael. I understand. I’ll be OK.”

  Rachael repeated her apologies and good wishes, but Debbie didn’t really listen. The idea was shattering. Give up her apartment? Take a job in Portland? But what about Angie and her baby? What about Andy and his college? These kids had problems. They needed her. She had come to the coast for a little vacation. Just a short break. She had no intention of moving. She couldn’t leave them to live more than 400 miles away. Suppose … Suppose … She couldn’t even put a name to the crises that might occur.

  Well, one thing was certain. There was no way she was going to abandon them like her mother had abandoned her. She—She—But Debbie couldn’t think what she could do.

  Yet she was all too aware of the depressing job situation Rachael had alluded to. Her movements stiff and jerky, Debbie picked up the phone and called the number she had scrawled on the pad. She tentatively made an appointment to go in for an interview next week. After all, she could always cancel it. The whole idea made her feel sick at her stomach.

  The receiver lowered of its own weight. Then she snatched it up again as it touched the cradle. She would call that woman back right now. What a silly idea to think she could leave the twins. Her finger raced to push the buttons. “I just realized I can’t make it.” That was all she needed to say.

  The irritating beep of a busy line greeted her. Well, she could call back in a minute.

  Debbie was still sitting, staring at the phone when Melissa, bright-eyed from her short nap, appeared at the door in a lemon yellow dress with a big white collar framing her elfin face. She carried her teddy bear apron and a yellow hair bow, which she held out to Debbie. “They never stay right when Daddy puts them in.”

  Debbie picked up several strands of the shining silken hair, twisted it into a tiny knot, and pinned the bow securely through it. Melissa shook her head experimentally. “It stayed! How’d you do that?”

  “Magic. I’ll show your dad how to do it for you.” They turned their attentions to making the miniature quiche lorraine tarts Debbie had decided on for an appetizer. Melissa filled the little fluted pastry shells with crumbles of crisp bacon and grated sharp cheese, then Debbie poured in a custardy mixture of eggs and milk.

  They moved the table from the kitchen to the living room so they could eat with a view of the ocean. Debbie let Melissa arrange the candles and the gift on the table while she ran out to cut a bowlful of small, red roses from the bush climbing up the south side of the cottage. There weren’t many in flower right now, so she added the best blooms from the bouquet she had arranged several days ago, recutting the stems under running water.

  Melissa observed her for a moment. “Why are you doing that?”

  “I’m making fresh cuts so the flowers can drink better. They’ll stay fresh longer.”

  “But why are you using old flowers?”

  Debbie shrugged. “I always do that when I can. I don’t know. Some people throw flowers out the minute they start to droop. I just can’t stand to waste anything. It seems that if there’s life in anything it should be given a chance. I don’t throw anything away until it’s really dead.” Melissa nodded and turned back to the table. Then an idea hit Debbie. “Melissa, go invite Byrl to our party while I put another plate on.”

  It would have been hard for Debbie to decide later which gave her more satisfaction: Greg’s surprise, Melissa’s delight, Byrl’s pleasure in being included, or her own pride in the evening’s success.

  Greg arrived at seven o’clock sharp. Melissa met him at the door and flung herself into his arms yelling, “Surprise, Daddy!”

  He looked confused over just what surprise she was alluding to until Debbie stepped into view wiping her hands on a lace-edged Victorian apron. He grinned. “Er, am I to understand there has been a change in plans?”

  “No change at all.” Debbie led the way to the living room. “We just decided to let the guest of honor in on it, that’s all.” She lit the tall white tapers that were stuck in glasses of sand because the cottage cupboards yielded no candlesticks. The glow from the flickering candles and the gentle sunset beyond the wide window turned the assorted dishes and glassware into Wedgwood and Waterford. Or was it the spirit of camaraderie that made the transformation?

  Melissa proudly passed the tray of bite-sized quiches, explaining how she filled them and drawing rave reviews above the clear, graceful notes of the Mozart horn concerto from Debbie’s CD player. When they went to the table the plates of creamy white sole garnished with green grapes and pink shrimp, the bright red tomatoes, the deep green asparagus spears, and the tweedy brown wild rice were equally delectable to eye and palate.

  They ate slowly, interspersing each succulent mouthful with light chatter. Although Byrl entered genially, Debbie often felt her cousin withdraw mentally into a far corner as if to observe and contemplate the proceedings. And Debbie knew the times Greg’s warm gaze met and held hers didn’t go unobserved.

  Earlier Debbie had piled her meringue crust high with a filling of melted sweet chocolate folded into whipped cream. Now she lit the five candles Melissa had stuck in the filling. “Happy birthday to you …” They all sang while Greg made a great show of huffing and puffing at the candles to entertain his daughter.

  “Speech, speech!” Debbie and Byrl demanded.

  “I’ve been working on that,” Greg said with a slow smile. “But I think I’ll save it for later. Large audiences give me cold feet.”

  “What is this, your contracts limit your television audiences to no more than a hundred thousand at a time or something?” Byrl asked.

  “Depends on the speech.”

  “Open your present now, Daddy!” Melissa pointed to the box that had held the center of the table all through the meal.

  Melissa held her breath and bit her lip in excitement while Greg prolonged the agony by untying the red ribbon with exaggerated deliberation. Finally the tissue paper fell away. “Oh. It’s perfect.” Greg held the eagle up to catch the detail of its workmanship in the candlelight.

  “It goes with the verse in the Bible.” Melissa clapped her hands and bounced up and down on the chair.

  “Sure, I remember. But it’s really incredible that you do. You’re some little lady, Punkin.” And he leaned over and kissed his daughter on the cheek.

  Byrl finished her swallow of coffee, then jumped up. “Come on, Melissa, let’s do the dishes so your dad can take Debbie out on the beach and rehearse his speech. He’s obviously in need of elocution lessons.”

  “What’s elocution?”

  “Come on, I’ll explain it to you.”

  Debbie slipped on her white jacket, but before going out with Greg she stuck her head in the kitchen. “Now be sure you cover all the leftovers tight with plastic wrap before you put them in the fridge.”

  Byrl gave her a scathing look. “I’ve never known anyone so compulsive in all my life. Will you get out of here!”

  They went. Their stroll took them up a faintly lit walk. The velvet darkness was broken by the twinkle of a few beach fires, a sprinkling of stars peeking around clouds, and an amber glow from the old-fashioned street lamps along the Prom. Greg’s arm, warm and secure, guided her to a secluded bench. They sat for a moment, listening to the roll of the breakers that were visible only as a hint of white on the dark horizon. “It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.” Greg’s voice was soft and slow, as if he were giving the matter careful consideration.r />
  “See, that means you’re getting better, not older.”

  He took her hand. “I’m hoping that things are going to get incredibly better soon.”

  The tightness in Debbie’s throat and stomach, the pounding in her ears was not at all what such romantic surroundings and Greg’s hopeful words were meant to produce. “I hope you’ll have a terrific year, Greg. But it seems you just can’t count on anything. You know that great teaching and designing job I told you about?”

  Greg looked crestfallen that the conversation had taken such a turn, but he listened attentively as Debbie told him about the disappointment of her phone call.

  When she mentioned the interview appointment in Portland, though, he broke into a broad smile. “But that’s wonderful! I know it’s selfish of me to be so happy when it’s a lesser job for you. But, Debbie—you’ll be in Portland. Nothing could be better!”

  She pulled away from him. “It isn’t the job. Don’t you see? I’ll be so far away from Angie and Andy. I told you about their problems. I even felt guilty coming away for a vacation. And I was right. Everything is falling apart for them. I need to be there!”

  “You’re exaggerating, Debbie. They’re adults. They have their own lives. Angie has a husband. Your father lives near them. I know you’ll miss them, but they’ll be fine.”

  “Fine! They’ll be fine! What do you know about it? Do you think I’d just go away—desert them like my mother deserted me? Leave them to make decisions on their own like she left me?” In her agitation Debbie had jumped to her feet and moved to the railing.

  Greg crossed the walk to her. He took her shoulder and turned her to him, but remained at arms’ length. “Debbie, are you still angry about your mother’s death?”

  “Well of course I’m angry. What do you expect? She was my mother. And she left. I needed her. And she wasn’t there.” Hot tears stung her eyes. She pulled away from Greg.

  “Yes. Anger is a perfectly normal stage of grief. Denial. Anger. That’s what we all feel at the first shock of losing someone we love. But, Debbie, you can’t stay there.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m supposed to feel!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture. I’m trying to help you understand. You don’t have to live with this anger. If you let yourself grieve for your mother’s death, you can forgive her for leaving you. Then you’ll come to acceptance. You’ll still miss her. You’ll still regret the time you didn’t have together. But you won’t be angry.”

  “You don’t know anything about it. Forgive her! You expect me to forgive—”

  “Oh, thank goodness! There you are.” They turned at the sound of Byrl’s voice. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  “What is it?” Greg asked.

  “I tried to comfort her, but I’m afraid Auntie Byrl just doesn’t have the magic touch. I was so afraid you’d be out on the beach, and I’d never find you.”

  “Byrl, what happened?” Greg’s voice was tight with apprehension.

  “Melissa. She has a terrible tummyache. I expect she just ate too much dinner, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  Debbie almost had to jog to keep up with Greg’s long stride. When they reached the cottage she made no attempt to follow him across the room to the sofa. Melissa lay curled in a small bundle of misery, her hand on her tummy, making tiny whimpering sounds. Debbie pushed herself against the wall, gripping her own abdomen, fighting for control of her emotions.

  Melissa looked up and gave her daddy a flicker of a smile. “Where’s Debbie?”

  “She’s right here, Punkin.” His look commanded Debbie across the room.

  She moved jerkily to the sofa. “It was an awfully rich meal for a child, and she was so excited—and after all the exercise earlier. It could just be indigestion.” Debbie forced herself to lay a hand on the little forehead. “She’s hot, but not burning. It could be the flu or something. Not knowing what to do is the hardest part of raising children.”

  “Do you think I should give her anything?”

  Debbie considered for a moment. “If it’s indigestion she’d probably just throw it up. The twins’ pediatrician always recommended ice packs. Let’s try that. If the pain continues, we’d better call a doctor. Do you have a doctor here?”

  Greg shook his head.

  Debbie turned toward the kitchen. She returned with a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a soft cloth. Melissa was moaning and tossing on the sofa. Greg knelt beside her, a look of defenseless agony on his face. “Where does it hurt, honey?” Debbie asked. Melissa put her hand just to the left of her stomach. Debbie placed the ice pack there very gently. “Now I’m going to give you a little piece of ice to suck. Don’t chew it or swallow it whole, OK?”

  In a few minutes the restless tossing stopped, and Melissa seemed easier. Debbie felt her forehead. “She feels cooler. I think we should get her to bed.”

  “I’m going to carry you home. OK, Punkin?”

  Melissa nodded and gave her daddy a weak smile. “Debbie come too.”

  Debbie grabbed a light blanket to protect Melissa from the night air. Byrl held the door for them. Together Debbie and Greg got Melissa into a pair of soft flannel pajamas and Greg gave her a teddy to hug while Debbie rearranged the ice pack. Debbie leaned over to kiss her good night. “Aren’t you going to tell me Peter Rabbit?”

  “Of course I will.” Debbie sat in the chair Greg pulled up to the bedside for her. “… ‘now my dears, you may go into the fields or down the lane. But be sure you don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden. Your father had an accident there. He was put into a pie by Mrs. McGregor’ …”

  By the time she got to, “… ‘He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes,’” Melissa’s relaxed, even breathing told them she was asleep. Greg snapped on a nightlight, and they tiptoed from the room.

  “Do you think I should stay?” Debbie was still looking back at the half-closed door. “I’d be glad to if you think she might need anything in the night. Really, I—”

  Greg shook his head. “My room is just across the hall. I’ll leave our doors open.”

  “But she might need … I—”

  “Debbie, you don’t have to be responsible for everybody. You aren’t abandoning anyone. Melissa will be fine with me. Just like Angela will be fine with her husband …”

  She didn’t want to hear any more. She ran from the cottage, straight to her room and slammed the door. What did he know? What did anyone know? Her mother knew. Of course she did. Mothers knew everything. And Debbie knew too—sometimes. But if she said No firmly enough it was as if it hadn’t happened. Just deny it. That was the trick. But she couldn’t always deny the pain.

  And he could never forgive. Some things could never be forgiven.

  Chapter 13

  By noon the next day Debbie was still seething over Greg’s attitude the night before. That he should presume to tell her how she should react to things. He didn’t even know how she felt about his own daughter, much less how she felt about her sister or mother. But then, Debbie didn’t really know how she felt about Melissa, either. Sometimes she felt as if the child were her own. But at other times she felt almost desperate to draw back from the clinging needs of the youngster. The demands of motherhood were so—so demanding. So constant.

  And not always fulfilling. Raising Angela had taught her that. She had tried to pour herself into her sister, to nurture her in every possible way. But the attempt had left Debbie feeling barren.

  And now there was Melissa. And she knew that in the end, any attempt at nurturing Melissa would leave her unfulfilled as well. Because Debbie knew she didn’t have a right to love Melissa.

  It took several attempts of Byrl’s exaggerated rattling the newspaper for Debbie to shift her attention back to the lunch table. “Oh, did you say something?”

  Byrl held out the paper. “Big hoo-hah in the paper. Citizen’s group up in arms about plans to build a casi
no in Seaside.”

  Debbie looked at the photo of an attractive woman with short dark hair addressing a large crowd. “Oh, that’s Margaret Larsen.”

  “You sound like you know her.”

  “Well, not exactly. I just feel like I know her since I was on the beach when her husband died.” She returned to the article. … Mrs. Larsen charged that fraud had taken place in high circles two years ago … vowed to disclose the cover-up … “That’s really great that she’s carrying on her husband’s work. What a memorial.” She finished the column and put the paper down.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Byrl said. “Seems no one would have known anything at all about the deal if some clerk hadn’t let the monkey out of the bag when Mrs. Larsen was cleaning out her husband’s office. Apparently the approval for the whole scheme was supposed to have been granted entirely on the QT, but Larsen thought the citizenry should vote on it.”

  Byrl tapped a pencil on the table. “If anyone asked me, I’d say money changed hands under the table …”

  Debbie blinked, trying to recall what that reminded her of. Probably some TV show, she decided with a shrug. “You know, Byrl, it sounds like Mrs. Larsen could use someone with your knowledge of effective assertiveness to help in her campaign.”

  “She probably could. Not sure I’d have time, though. When deadlines start looming I’m always reminded why they call them deadlines.”

  “Hm?”

  “Because either you kill yourself trying to meet them, or you’re dead if you don’t.”

  Debbie returned to the front page news. “Byrl! Did you see this next article?”

  “No, I didn’t get the paper back.”

  “Oh, sorry. But listen. ‘The license was to be granted to Ryburg corporation, Ryland Carlsburg, President.’ I don’t believe it. He told me all about his plans for a luxury hotel and the trouble he was having getting a permit. But that was all about environmental impact …”

  “And a huge casino on the beach wouldn’t impact the environment?”