by Tamara Leigh
Pain darts behind my eyes, and I catch my breath.
“Are you all right, Kate?”
I squeeze my eyes closed.
“Migraine?”
“Trying to be. Might have to adjust my HRT.”
She sighs. “You really ought to look into the patch.”
She’s right. The patch’s steady release of hormones is said to be effective against migraines, but its presence would mean advertising my problem to the world.
I creak my lids open. “If it gets bad, maybe I’ll give it a try.”
“Just don’t let it get too bad.”
“I won’t.”
“Back to your future husband. If someone truly loves you with the kind of love capable of weathering the storms inevitable in marriage, your inability to give him biological children won’t matter.”
Meaning Christopher’s love wasn’t that kind of love. I know …
When Belle’s face wavers, I realize my eyes have misted.
She squeezes my hand. “Trust in the Lord, Kate—in His will for you—and He’ll provide.” As if to attest to her own answered prayers, she curves her free hand atop her bulge.
I draw a deep breath. “So what should I do about Michael?”
“Let him go so he can pursue Maia, if that’s what he wants.”
“Just hand him over?”
Belle does a double take. “You don’t hand over old boyfriends, Kate. He’s not secondhand clothing.”
I smile. “I suppose not. Still, they like each other and—”
“No matchmaking. Back out of the relationship, and let happen what may.”
“But—”
“If they think you’re stepping aside in order to throw them together, they’ll feel manipulated.”
Like Michael felt when I first attempted to steer him toward Maia.
“But without my blessing—”
“Kate!”
“—they may feel they’re betraying me.”
She pins me with wide-open eyes. “Just get out of the way, and let nature do its thing.”
My shoulders slump. “Okay.”
But there’s no “okay” about it, I realize as I catch Michael’s eye then his smile. Despite those business cards of his, I like him. If only I could love him …
“Can we talk, Maia?”
Silence.
“Helloooo?”
Silence.
“Come on. I know you’re in there.”
“Yeah.” Maia’s voice drifts through her bedroom door. “So?”
I press my face nearer the doorjamb. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
I know I’m overstepping, but I try the knob—locked. “Okay, we’ll talk through the door.”
“I’d prefer not.”
“Then open the door.”
“No.”
“Maia, I’m sorry about church. Well … not sorry sorry, but sorry. I didn’t know Brother Leo was preaching on that. Not that I shouldn’t have. I mean, he does post upcoming sermons, but I don’t pay much attention to them. Anyway, I understand how uncomfortable you must have felt.”
“I doubt that, Miss Goody Two-shoes.”
I rattle the knob, and to my surprise, the door creaks inward. Aha. I push it wider and meet Maia’s gaping gaze, where she sits hugging her knees in a corner of the bay window. Still wearing red …
I smile and give a little shrug. “Guess the latch didn’t catch.”
She scowls. “I want to be alone.”
“I’d really like to talk.”
“About?”
I venture a step inside her room. Wow. Though I’ve always imagined her bedroom resembling a harem, with floaty-floaty things hung from a canopied bed, plump cushions strewn about the floor, and candles set around, I was way off. Soft elegance is more the tone.
“What is so important that you have to invade my privacy, Kate?”
“I feel bad about what happened. I mean—”
“Spit it out.”
Why didn’t I lie low for a while? “As I was saying before you let me in—”
“I didn’t let you in.”
“Well, before the door opened.”
“With a little help from Kate.”
“Anyway—” I say through gritted teeth—“I just want you to know that I feel bad.”
“About?”
I don’t know what comes over me—actually, I do—but before I can zip my lips, I snap, “Oh, grow up!”
Her jaw drops.
Where is a roll of all-purpose duct tape when you need one?
I cross to the bay window and plop down in the corner opposite Maia.
She draws a shaky breath. “I can’t … believe … you said … that.”
“I’m sorry. It was very un-Christian of me—”
“Hypocrites, all of you! Judging others, counting yourselves better than those who don’t believe that silly little Bible of yours.”
Silly? Hardly. Little? Compared to what?
Maia shakes her head. “I’ll bet half the married men at your church are unfaithful to their wives. And the other half? Give them time.”
Obviously, Brother Leo lit a fuse that could detonate what’s beneath if I’m not careful. Ignoring the coward that urges me to tiptoe out of here, I send up a prayer for God to give me the right words.
“You’re right, Maia.” I slip my feet out of my sandals and cross my legs. “Christians can be hypocrites.” Just like everyone else.
Though she glowers at me over the tops of her knees, something flickers in her eyes.
“However, most of us try to be better, more Christlike. Yes, we stumble, but we drag ourselves up, dust off our backsides, and try again. Over and over.”
A frown creases her brow, and I pause, hopeful she’ll say something to confirm that my words aren’t going in one ear and being spit out the other. When she doesn’t, I reach across the window seat and lay a hand on her knee. “Christians are still human. Still sinners.” Which is what Belle once told this sinner.
“So why bother with all this Christianity junk if it doesn’t make a difference?”
“But it does make a difference,” I exclaim a bit too passionately. “Er … what I’m saying is that though the acceptance of Christ doesn’t make us perfect, being saved changes us.”
“Saved from what?”
Hell. No, let’s see if I can put it in a more positive light. “Saved for eternal life.”
“As opposed to eternal hell.”
“Uh … yeah.”
Maia considers me. “I believe that religion is merely a means of controlling the masses.”
Okay, so evangelism is not my strength. I draw my hand back. “Religion, perhaps, but not Christianity.”
“Whatever.”
I roll my shoulders to ease the tension. “If you’re as unaffected by Christianity as you’d like me to believe, why did you attend church today?” Yes, I’m pretty sure Michael was the motive, but what if there was something else? Something she may not be aware of? “I mean, why today and not the other times I’ve invited you?”
She stares, and I could just shake her.
“Isn’t there something in here—” I lay a hand to my heart—“that wants to know a greater purpose in life? To be loved?”
Her bottom lip quivers.
Ooh. Maybe we’re getting somewhere. “To be forgiven?”
Her eyes pool.
Yes! “To be free of the burden of guilt?”
She gulps.
On a roll. “To be—”
“Oh, Kate!” She comes across the window seat so fast that the top of her head clips my chin, causing the back of my head to strike the window.
Yeow!
With a shudder, she wraps her arms around me and presses her face to my shoulder. “I felt dirty! And I don’t want to feel like that. I mean, if a woman can’t hold on to her man, is it my fault? Why do I have to be the bad guy? It’s not as if I’m the one who’s married.” She shakes her head. “
Besides, if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.”
I raise a hand, awkwardly lay it on her head, and give a little pat.
As if realizing that she’s laid herself bare, Maia stiffens; however, she doesn’t retreat. Some moments later, she murmurs, “I thought I was going to die sitting there next to Michael, condemnation oozing out all around him.”
“Condemnation? What are you talking about?”
She pulls back and stares at me out of mascara-smudged eyes.
Wow. Who would have thought that Maia Glock was a candidate for tear-proof mascara?
“He knows, doesn’t he? You told him!”
Ah. “About your …”
“Affair. Go ahead, say it.”
“No, Maia. I didn’t tell him.”
Though I expect relief, disappointment settles on her face. “Oh.” A moment later, her disappointment transforms into such confusion that her brow folds up like an accordion. “But I thought that was why he …”
“Why he doesn’t show an interest in you?” I sigh. “Rather, why he tries not to show an interest?”
She settles back on her heels. “What are you saying?”
“Michael fights it, but he’s as attracted to you, as you are to him.”
One moment her mouth is softening; the next, it’s tight-lipped. “Who says I’m attracted to him?” She shoves back into her corner. “He’s your boyfriend. Though I know I’m not the most moral person, I would never—”
“It’s okay, Maia. I—”
“It’s not okay! You think I’m after Michael, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.” Well, maybe I do … “It’s just that—”
“You really have a low opinion of me.”
“Maia …”
“Thanks a lot! Miss Goody Two-shoes versus the devil with the blue dress.”
Red dress. Red dress.
“Maia—”
She jabs a finger in the direction of the door. “Out!”
With my teeth, I pin down my tongue. With my throat muscles, close down my vocal cords.
But she just has to jab the air again. “I said out!”
“Look! Do you or don’t you want Michael?”
Oh … no.
After a stunned moment, Maia drops her feet to the floor and rises. “Get. Out.”
Belle is not going to be happy. But I’m not matchmaking. I’m stating a fact, one Maia would discover eventually. And it would hardly be neighborly not to inform her of my pending boyfriend-less status.
I stand. “I’m breaking it off with Michael.”
Her lids narrow. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing. It’s just that we’re not … compatible.”
“Out!”
You blew it, Kate. Really blew it …
Sunday, May 6
Dear Lord,
What was I thinking? What happened to guarding my tongue? WHAT IS MY PROBLEM?!!! Lord, please help me to take my Bible to heart, to apply Psalm 19:14 every time I open my mouth—that my words will be pleasing and acceptable to You. Big order, but I could really use some help down here.
As for my love life, if You’re not going to help out, I really will have to swear off men—ONCE AND FOR ALL. So I’m asking You to somehow … someday … somewhere bring me someone with whom I can spend the rest of my life. Though you’re always with me, I’d really appreciate a loving earthly relationship. A man who not only loves me more than the idea of a biological child, but who loves me just the way I am. Speaking of which, in looking through past journal entries, I see that I asked you to keep the business cards coming. You do know that I meant those related to my business and not my looks? Of course, you do.
Apologetically yours,
Kate
PS: And now for a little time in your word! Could you help me keep my eyes open?
’ll tell Michael. Really. Tonight when he takes me out for another late dinner. Or maybe when he picks me up. Wouldn’t want him shelling out money under false pretenses. Not that we couldn’t go dutch.
Regardless, it’s got to be done. Unfortunately, that’s what I’ve told myself every day this week, and now it’s Friday, which marks the passing of five days since Maia last spoke to me.
“Miss Kate?”
With a startle, I find myself standing alongside Jessica’s hospital bed. “Hmm?” I smile at the little girl who has returned for more surgery—this time on her arm.
“It’s great.” She pats the portfolio that contains renderings of the burn unit.
As I stare at her, I marvel at Dr. Clive Alexander’s God-given skill—deny it though he may—which has gone a long way toward restoring her face.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Oh, yes! Maybe tomorrow I can come see it for myself.”
Saturday. Perfect, as I’d planned on working, and it would be nice to have a child’s perspective. “I’d like that.” I turn to her mother. “Provided it’s all right with your parents.”
Andrea smiles. “And Dr. Alexander.” She ruffles her daughter’s hair.
“I’ll ask him when he checks on me.” Jessica glances at the clock. “He should be here soon.”
And that’s my cue to shove off. But first … “Can I pray for you, Jessica?” It’s not something I do often due to my own awkwardness—much easier to tell someone I’ll pray for them and tag the prayer to the end of my bedtime prayers—but it seems a natural thing to do.
“Oh yes, please.” Jessica clasps her hands in readiness.
I bow my head. “Lord, I praise You for all the blessings You’ve given Jessica. I thank You for Your healing and the skill You’ve provided Dr. Alexander to do Your will. Lord—”
I lose my place at the sound of the door opening and feel that terrible, unwelcome discomfort at being caught doing something I should not be ashamed of. And I’m not!
In a loud, clear voice, I finish, “Lastly, I ask that You place Your angels around Jessica and guide Dr. Alexander’s hands during the surgery.” And if he’s offended, too bad. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Andrea and Jessica say with gusto.
Ready or not …
“Dr. Alexander!” Jessica exclaims.
Do I have a sense for this guy or what? Steeling myself for disapproval, I look over my shoulder at where he stands just inside the room. He smiles at Jessica propped against the pillows, but the turn of his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes.
He steps forward. “I apologize for the interruption.”
“You didn’t interrupt. Miss Kate was just praying for me—and you!”
“So I heard.” As he nears, I raise my chin to receive his regard; however, he steps past. No skin off my nose. Of course, according to Gray, I could use a little skin off my nose—
I have got to stop worrying about my looks!
“Jessica, I’ll stop by tomorrow and, if you’re feeling up to it, give you a tour of the domed room.”
She turns her smile from Clive to me. “Yes, please.”
I swing away.
“Ms. Meadows?”
I halt. “Dr. Alexander?”
His eyes travel down me, making me aware of my state of dress—loose green T-shirt and paint-streaked overalls.
If only my hip-huggers hadn’t needed laundering.
“I’d like to speak with you.”
Probably wants to ban me from including him in prayer. “I …”
“I won’t be but a few minutes.”
“All right.” I point to the door. “I’ll be in the hall.”
A few minutes become five … then ten. Not that I begrudge Jessica her doctor’s attention, but one really must marvel at doctors’ sense of timing, which differs so significantly from those who wait upon them. Every minute that passes, the tighter my nerves draw. And as for the time that could be better spent painting—
Hmm. It’s not as if he doesn’t know where to find me.
I push aside the plastic sheet and enter the winding hallway. Imagining the transformation t
o come—mountains, lakes, meadows—I smile. Of course, it’s still a ways off.
“Lord”—I blow a breath up my face—“help me make this deadline.”
On the threshold of the domed room, I halt. Now this is progress. I look around and imagine the reaction of children to the smiling faces that welcome them. Dare I be so bold as to think accepted, eager, comforted?
That last thought draws my eyes to the kneeling boy and girl I completed last night. They face each other, heads bowed—
er, bent …
Hands clasped—
er, reaching … as they pray, er, contemplate.
And what, pray tell, are they contemplating?
Strategically placed wildflowers on which butterflies have lit. Quite clever, if I might again be so bold. So, too, are the crosses I slipped in. Though you have to search for them, they’re in the spaces between the children, the folds of their clothing, the rivers that cross landforms, the waves upon the ocean …
I sigh, relieved that, thus far, I’ve received no censure. Of course, Clive can hardly object to what he doesn’t know. And the longer he avoids the burn unit, the more I’ll be able to work in the symbols of hope so badly needed by the children who will fill this empty space. By the time the good doctor notices—if he notices—the work will be too far along.
At the point of becoming dangerously smug, I realize my mistake in allowing impatience to cause him to seek me here. If he looks too close … if he discovers I’ve gone against his wishes—
I swing around and retrace my steps. Halfway down the hall, I hear the rustle of the plastic sheet that lies beyond the next two curves.
I wring my hands, turn back toward the domed room, wring my hands again, and glance over my shoulder as footsteps echo around the corner ahead.
Don’t just stand there! Intercept!
Doing an about-face, I manage two steps before he comes around the corner. “Dr. Alexander!”
He halts. “Are you all right?”
Realizing I’m still wringing my hands, I jerk them to my sides. And if that isn’t suspicious, I throw my palms up. “You startled me.”
“You didn’t hear me coming?”
“I …” I tap my forehead. “Deep in thought—you know how artists are.”
“Not really.” He tilts his head to the side. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Jessica’s mother was anxious about tomorrow’s surgery.”