“Where will the meeting be?”
“At my church, Freemont Community. Pastor Alan has agreed to let me host it there. Since the congregation has pledged to back me financially, at least I know there will be supporters in attendance, enough to hopefully balance the naysayers.” He fell silent for a long moment. “Will you come, Rebecca? Will you give me your support?”
“I . . . I truthfully don’t know that I can.” She felt a knot tightening in her throat. “We’ve already talked about this, Mark. I thought you understood.”
“I do.” His eyes roved over her. “I was just hopeful, that’s all.”
Soon Jeanie had refilled their coffee cups, plunked down two steaming bowls of clam chowder and a plate heaped with golden-crusted cheese bread. Rebecca held her breath, hoping her former classmate wouldn’t begin talking about her “celebrity status” again. Thankfully she didn’t.
As Mark bowed his head and closed his eyes to give silent thanks for the food he was about to eat, Rebecca shifted again in her seat. She flicked her gaze about the restaurant. Had anyone noticed? It appeared they hadn’t. She wasn’t sure why praying in public made her uncomfortable, but it did. When she and Missey were growing up, their parents often asked the blessing before meals in restaurants, but that was all in the past. As was her faith in God’s mercy.
She shook her head, as if shaking off the unpleasant reminder that God had indeed withheld His favor from her.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, a little voice inside of her spoke. Self-pity will only keep you from moving forward. Maybe talking with Mark might help.
“Mark?” she said after he’d finished praying.
“Yes?”
“When we finish eating, can we go somewhere more private to talk?”
“Sure. Anywhere. Just name the place.”
“Your car will be fine. There’s a nice view of the water where you parked the car, and all I really need is a bit of privacy.”
“You got it.”
She met and held his gaze. They exchanged lingering smiles. Yes, somehow it felt right now. Somehow she trusted Mark enough to share the rest of her story with him about her marriage to August.
Later, inside his car, Rebecca said without preamble,
“During those months while I was involved with the movie I . . . I fell in love with the principal actor, August Lorenzo.” Looking straight ahead, she gazed out over the bay. The sun blazed against a cloudless westerly sky. Small pleasure boats dotted the white-tipped water.
“I remember reading about him, seeing short clips on TV.”
She turned to meet Mark’s gaze. It remained closed, guarded. “Yes. I suppose almost everyone knew about him at one time or another.” She smiled at the memory. “My friends and acquaintances tried to tell me that I was too young and too inexperienced to be cavorting around with a big name movie star, but that didn’t matter to me. I loved August more than life itself. I knew beyond the whisper of a doubt, we were meant for each other. Besides, my parents and Missey were supportive, so I figured that’s what counted in the long run. Later we were married in the backyard . . . it was a gorgeous day in May . . . like none other . . . ”
He touched her hand. She turned to look at him. Sudden warmth flooded his eyes. “Oh, Rebecca. I never thought—”
“No, no.” She cut him off. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me—. Just try to understand.” And if I stop talking now, I might lose my nerve and not finish.
“I will. Go on.”
“When . . . when August was shot and killed last year by a crazed fan—well, I assume you know the story as well as almost everyone else does—my entire world fell apart. He was everything to me . . . Wendy, too. We were totally devastated.” She swallowed hard.
“Did the two of you live in the Glasgow house after you were married? Is that why the place means so much to you?”
She wrapped her purse strap around her finger. “We stayed in August’s motor home, the one he usually took with him on tour or for location shoots. Our storybook wedding on the property, though, with all our friends and fellow cast members there, the wonderful days and nights working on the set . . . those are the memories that drew me back here, Mark. And no one can ever take them away from me.”
His eyes bore into hers.
She couldn’t look away. What were the emotions she saw in those warm brown pools? Pity? Concern? Tenderness, even?
“I feel like such a jerk,” he said in a low voice. “I should’ve known.”
“A jerk? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“I didn’t even make the connection between your last name and August’s. Not even when I signed the rental agreement and saw your signature there, plain as day.”
“A lot of folks don’t. But that’s how I prefer it. Even when August and I were married, I tried hard to keep a low profile. I’m sure many of his fans weren’t certain whether he was married or not, and if they were, I saw to it they knew little if anything about me.”
“I can understand why.”
Grateful, she smiled. “August and I spent nearly the last decade hobnobbing with the VIPs at their private parties, but it wasn’t the real me. In fact, that was the only part about our marriage I didn’t like. Then . . . then after he was killed, I decided I’d had enough of the world’s craziness. All I wanted to do was come back to Freemont where I could better sort things out . . . feel safe again. I guess I’ve always been a small-town girl at heart, and now I want that kind of life for Wendy, too.” She blinked against the tears welling up in her eyes and averted her gaze. Through a watery film, she stared unseeingly at a seagull as it pecked at something on the wind-worn ground.
“Look at me, Rebecca. Please.”
She did, only to be held captive by the depths of his dark eyes.
“Your explanation helps put things into perspective,” he said hoarsely. “I appreciate your telling me all this.” He appeared as if he were about to say more, but instead, he reached out and squeezed her hand. Warmth flooded through her. She savored the comfort, his apparent understanding—but was equally relieved when he withdrew his hand.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s hard to talk about it . . . but each time I do, I think it gets a little easier.”
“Good. Talking usually helps.”
“You’re not going to insist that I should get over it and move on with my life again, like so many of my friends back in California kept saying?” she asked. “Isn’t that what you tell all the grieving widows who come to you for counsel?” And what about your God and your commitments and all your religious talk? Are you going to insist that I let go of my anger with God, too?
He fixed her with a riveting look. “No. I’m not going to push you like the others have. You have a right to your grief. Everyone’s unique. No two people are the same. You must work through your healing in your own time, your own way. It’s perfectly normal to feel the way you do.”
Relief swept over her like rays of sun emerging from behind a dark cloud. She lifted her gaze, met his eyes. “Thank you,” she said in a half whisper. “You’ll never know how much I needed to hear that.”
His answering smile was as intimate as a kiss.
Chapter Six
“So that’s the long and the short of it, folks,” Mark said, sweeping his gaze across the sea of faces peering back at him inside the sanctuary. “I want to reassure you I’ll have all the necessary safeguards in place. I’ll make certain the halfway house has met all the special use criteria required by the health department and county and state. Furthermore, I’ve left my business cards on the table by the narthex, so if anyone has further concerns after the meeting and wants to phone me, please do.” His smile felt frozen to his face as he renewed his determination to make eye contact with every person there at least once during the meeting. Some stared back at him indifferently. A few others smiled openly, nodding in apparent agreement.
Then there was Rebecca sitting in the back pew directly behind Madge Thompson
, the Chamber of Commerce manager. Sweet, beautiful Rebecca with her blond hair as soft as an angel’s and a rosy glow highlighting her cheeks. At the sight of her, his pulse thrummed inside his head, making it difficult to concentrate. He regretted deeply he couldn’t sell the property to her. But business was business, after all. With effort, he pushed his distracting thoughts aside.
“So before we adjourn,” Mark continued, “I’d like to take as much time as necessary to answer your questions. As I indicated at the start of the meeting, there’ll be two ways to do that. The first is to jot down your question on the slip of paper the ushers gave you when you first arrived and drop it in the basket when it comes your way in another few minutes or so. The second is to simply stand up, introduce yourself, and ask openly.”
“I’ll start off.” Norm McIntosh lunged up from his seat about half way back and stated his name. “Now that you’ve placated us with all your assurances, Doctor, what guarantees that everything will be all right after the house is actually up and running?”
Mark inhaled deeply and collected his thoughts. Was Norm McIntosh coming at this from purely a civic-minded concern or more from a personal one? Ever since Mark and Norm’s daughter had split, the man had had a chip on his shoulder the size of the state of Texas.
“Mr. McIntosh,” Mark continued, collecting his thoughts, “as a practicing psychiatrist and board member at Northwestern Hospital, I can assure you that the house will be professionally staffed and maintained. The dozen or more clients—by that time, they’ll no longer be considered patients—will receive the best supervision possible. At the same time, they’ll be encouraged to live as independently as their conditions allow. The purpose, as I said, is to help them make as smooth a transition back into community life as possible.”
Another man, one whom Mark didn’t recognize, stood up abruptly. “Not over my dead body!” he exclaimed. His beefy face was growing redder by the second, contrasting with his head of thick white hair. He paused to introduce himself as Arnold Voigt, then continued. “To be perfectly honest, Dr. Simons, I don’t trust these loony tunes any farther than I can throw them! They need to stay locked up in the wards where they belong, not come here and desecrate our quiet, historic town! Besides, there’s a grade school less than a mile from the old Glasgow place. How safe will our children be with a dozen or more mental patients living that close to them?”
“I agree!” a middle-aged lady interjected, getting primly to her feet. “Oh by the way,” she said, turning to the others in the church, “for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Matilda Rivers at
3041 Oak Street. I’ve served on the board for the Arts Commission for close to twenty years now,” she added, tipping her chin. “And just in case you’re not aware of it, Dr. Simons, I want to inform you there’s a petition being circulated in town to try to stop all this nonsense you’re proposing! I, for one, was among the first to sign it.” “And your objections, Mrs. Rivers?” Mark asked. A petition, eh? His stomach sank. This is going to be an even greater challenge than I’d anticipated.
“Years ago I lived in another town where a halfway house took over our once lovely neighborhood,” she answered. “The house was a facility for people with mental problems, just like you’re intending to build here in Freemont. I believe there were four or five men living in it.” Her lips thinned. “One knocked on our doors almost every day until he’d find someone who was home and would let him stick around there for a while. He even offered to do odd jobs, but nobody would hire him. And how could you blame them—? He was without a doubt the shiftless type. The real problem was, though, he kept insisting he couldn’t get the medications he was supposed to be taking, and that made him furious. Everyone in the neighborhood was getting plenty nervous, let me tell you. He always seemed to run on a short fuse, and we never knew just what he might do next. Matter of fact, we didn’t trust any of them.”
“And how was the facility staffed?” Mark asked. Off to the side, he noticed the ushers collecting the baskets.
“There was supposedly a supervisor checking in on them each day,” the woman replied, “but soon that dwindled to every third or fourth day. Even though there were supposed to be activities and work programs for them, they appeared to spend most of their time without supervision.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Rivers, that would not be the case at the halfway house I’m proposing. I’ll be checking in everyday of the week, weekends included, and reviewing any medication needs with the staff RN. There’ll be a qualified staffer on the premises twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And yes, there’ll also be work programs and well-planned activities, and someone will be there to make sure they are correctly maintained. Again, this will be a top-notch, professionally staffed facility.”
“Well, I disagree with all three of you who’ve spoken up,” said the church secretary, who introduced herself as Margaret Eglund. Mark felt some of the tension in his neck muscles ease. At least there was one person here who was willing to speak out in his behalf. “I think those opposed to Dr. Simon’s proposal are prejudiced against the poor souls in our society who are in some kind of need or trouble. Be it out of fear, hate, or misunderstanding, I’m not sure.” She inhaled deeply, toying with the button on the collar of her blouse. “But one thing I do know, they’re failing to show their love of Christ when they respond that way. Remember Jesus’ story in Scripture about the woman at the well. That’s what we must bear in mind whenever we’re tempted to make snap judgments about others.” A murmur of consent rose up from the handful of other church members scattered throughout the group, while the opponents just shook their heads and frowned.
“Everyone has a right to their opinion, and the right, also, to express it,” Mark said. “That’s exactly why the county has required me to hold this meeting, and why, too, I wholeheartedly agree with doing so.” Please, Father. Please give me the discernment to know how to proceed. “Are there any further open comments?”
Silence fell. Mark waited a few seconds longer. “Okay, now for the rest.”
The usher strode to the other side of the podium and handed him the basket.
Mark answered each question as candidly as he could. Most, he realized with a relief, were minor variations of the concerns already expressed. But when he opened the last piece of folded paper and scanned it silently, he felt the blood drain from his face. Hands shaking, he tucked it in the pocket of his sports coat as unobtrusively as possible.
“I appreciate everyone’s comments and questions,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “What I’d like to do next, after I’ve filed my application with the county, is host an informal get-together in the front yard at the Glasgow place, a coffee hour, let’s call it. I expect that’ll happen in another few weeks. Anyway, I’ll be sure to get out more flyers, plus see that a piece gets published in the local papers.”
“Another meeting? What for?” someone asked from near the back of the church.
“I’d like to bring some of the prospective clients—your new neighbors, hopefully, by sometime next spring—so you can have the chance to meet them personally. I’d encourage you all to come back, so you can talk with them. Come with open minds and hearts. I’m sure this next meeting will help clear up any further misunderstandings.”
After no one raised any further issues, Mark forced another smile and said, “Thanks, folks, for your interest today. Let’s adjourn for now, but do plan on joining me again and your future neighbors next time.”
Rebecca remained seated while the others filed down the center and side aisles towards the narthex of the church. “Future neighbors” she heard a woman’s voice hiss from somewhere behind her. “Can you imagine the man being so presumptuous to say that?”
“No, I can’t,” another woman answered in a stage whisper. “Takes a lot of nerve, to my way of thinking.”
“You betcha,” a male voice put in.
Lost in her thoughts, Rebecca allowed the prickly comments to fade
to the back of her mind. She glanced about, still in no hurry to leave. It felt so strange to be sitting inside a church again—and for a flash, she wondered why she wasn’t bolting instead. Although she and August had attended church together sporadically back in L.A., she had no use for it now. Not even for a community based meeting, such as this one.
Yes, there were so many places, tangible and intangible, where she could not allow herself to revisit again. For instance, the church on the other side of town where her faith in the Lord had first been sown in early childhood, then gradually nurtured. The inner chamber buried deep within her that bade her to forgive the woman who’d killed August. Yet her heart felt cold, like stone, and forgiveness would never come. And the only places she had longed to return to since August died were her wonderful old Glasgow house, plus the secret places in her soul that held fast to her memories.
What felt even stranger now were the jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions tumbling about inside her head. Mark seemed so sincere in what he was attempting to do. In many ways, she ached for him. Still, she couldn’t fully accept Margaret Eglund’s lofty proclamations about the love of Christ, proclamations she knew in a heartbeat that Mark subscribed to wholeheartedly. What about God’s love for the merchants in this town who so desperately relied on the tourists who were drawn to the Glasgow place? Many of them were struggling to maintain businesses that had been in their families for a generation or more. And on a more personal note, how could a supposedly merciful God snuff out August’s life so suddenly?
Still in a daze, she finally got to her feet and threaded her way between the pews to the center aisle. She gave a start as someone from behind tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around. Benny! She blinked twice, mouth gaping. The sight of his dark brown bushy beard streaked with gray, shoulder length single braid, and laughing dark eyes were a balm to her soul.
“Hey, doll!” He hugged her, then drew back. “Don’t look so surprised. I told you I might decide to come.”
A House Divided Page 8