Bright Copper Kettles

by Candice Sue Patterson

  ****

  With languid motions, Dean swept the copper sheet in the path of the jeweler’s saw blade. He didn’t have any orders for a tea kettle at the moment, but he had to keep his hands busy or he’d go crazy.

  Bodies mummified in winter apparel passed by his windows. The sun retired, leaving a stripe of pink against the navy blue horizon. He’d have to get reacquainted with loneliness, get used to the glass cage where he watched life move on without him. Where it was safe.

  “Dean?”

  His head whipped around. Darcy stood in the open doorway, a bare hand clutching the knob. Her vacant left coat sleeve dangled at her side. A lump formed under her jacket where the sling had laid earlier that morning.

  He turned off the saw. The fine-toothed blade ground to a halt. “Come in.”

  She stepped inside. “I knocked several times but figured you couldn’t hear me over the saw, so I let myself in.”

  He nodded.

  She closed the door. “I—” Darcy paused as her eyes found the trunk in the corner. “Dean, I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  Always thinking of others first. He fixed on a knot in the old plank flooring and shook his head. “I’m sorry I did hurt you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I saw the car coming and chose to cross anyway. I knew the road was slick. It was stupid.”

  Hit by a car, yet she justified his actions. He didn’t deserve her, even if he had intentions to pursue her. Which he’d decided against now.

  Her footsteps neared. She trailed a hand up his arm to his shoulder blade, sending tremors across his skin. The heat from her touch welded to the fibers of his cotton shirt, trapping the warmth. He shifted away. This was hard enough.

  “Please, don’t be angry with me.”

  He inhaled a deep breath, gripping his workbench. “I’m not angry with you.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Dean swallowed the sand lining his throat. “You almost…you could’ve…” It was too much to voice aloud.

  “But I didn’t. God kept me safe.”

  He went to the shelf for his ball-peen hammer. What about next time? Would God choose to protect her then?

  “I’m on my way to the meeting. Will you go with me?”

  Dean’s plan was to hole up in here until James left town. An eerie sense of déjà vu swept over him. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t.”

  “Won’t.”

  “Why?”

  The pleading in her eyes was tempting. He kept his voice low, his fight drained. “Go on, Darcy. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I know you’re mad at God, Dean. I get it. It’s obvious.”

  She didn’t understand all he’d been through, what he faced. “You don’t get it.”

  “I do. You want answers as to why God took your wife and child from you.”

  “I’d also like to know why the man responsible for killing them is in my town right now celebrating the life of his family. I’m grateful for all life, don’t get me wrong. But don’t you find that a little twisted?”

  She looked away from him.

  “Now you understand why I don’t have anything left to give these kids. Or God.”

  Dean returned to his project and started up the saw. He fed the copper sheet to the rotating teeth. Three inches into the metal, the saw ground to a halt.

  Darcy held up the cord she’d unplugged from the wall. “No. I don’t understand. Everyone else might accept that excuse, but I won’t.”

  He didn’t know which he’d rather do right now, kiss her mouth or shove a sock into it.

  “You have plenty left to give, but you’ll never do it wasting your life alone in here.”

  Definitely the sock. “Go home, Darcy.”

  She threw down the cord, walked to the wall, and snatched a kettle off the shelf. Was she taking her consolation prize, or was she going to throw it at him?

  “What did this kettle start out as?”

  Dean braced himself, just in case. “What?”

  “Answer me.”

  Stubborn woman. He scratched his jaw. “A plain ol’ sheet of copper.”

  “How’d you make it?”

  Was this one of those trick questions women asked and no matter how a man answers, he was wrong? Darcy glared at him, brows curved like a school teacher demanding an answer from an insubordinate student.

  He crossed his arms. “I cut it, shaped it, cut some more. Molded it with my hammer and anvil.” He shrugged. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

  She hiked her chin. “Does it take skill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Patience?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does the metal always cooperate?”

  At the moment, his patience was exceeding its limit. “No.”

  “But you don’t give up on it. You keep working it until it does. When you’re finished, you have a gorgeous and useful piece of art.”

  He blinked.

  She placed the kettle on the table in front of him. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we take this outside and run it over with your car?”

  “What?”

  “Drop it from a tall building? Run it through the trash compactor? Just for fun. Come on.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “But don’t you see? God spent all that time creating us, cutting us, molding us, shaping us into the people He created us to be, polishing us until He can see His reflection…” Light glinted off the smooth, brown surface. “When He’s done, He has a vessel that’s not only beautiful but serves a purpose. One that’s useful to others. A vessel that reflects the light of His glory to the world. Is He then going to sit back and destroy it, making a sport out of the pain and suffering in our lives?”

  Dean stared at his reflection in the curved metal. If he were a vessel, the only thing he was good for was the scrap pile.

  Darcy wrapped her fingers around his. Tears shimmered on her lashes. “I don’t know why God brought that family here. Why lives with so much promise are cut short. Just like you’ll probably never know the reason God took your wife and child home. But the anger and bitterness you cling to make you an unusable vessel. And rest assured, you are God’s special treasure. His beloved creation. He’s not done with you. Don’t be done with Him.”

  The kettle held him mesmerized. God’s beloved creation? Something stirred inside of him. He didn’t know how long he stood there gazing at his distorted reflection before he realized Darcy was gone.

  10

  The streets glowed with halos from the old-fashioned gaslights. Snow dust glittered off pine garlands vined around lampposts and porch railings. Smoke billowed from rooftops, and the crisp air held a hint of vanilla. Dean passed the bakery, his boots crunching the packed snow blanketing the sidewalk. The town stood silent, not a person in sight. Peaceful.

  He burrowed his hands deeper into his coat pockets, inhaling the frigid air, releasing it in a cloud of white. Ahead, Darcy’s wreath beaconed from the church steeple. He couldn’t get her words out of his mind. Vessel. Where she was a Swarovski crystal vase, he was a tin cup.

  Maybe God was molding and polishing him for a greater purpose. Maybe not. Either way, Dean wanted to let go of the anger feasting on his insides. He’d worn it like a favorite sweatshirt so long, he didn’t know how to let it go. And he didn’t like this sudden braid of events in his life.

  The church door complained as Dean opened it against the winter air and entered the modest foyer. Warmth enveloped him, along with the spicy smell of cinnamon. Candlelight flickered on sconces along the walls. A child’s voice echoed from a microphone through the open sanctuary doors, followed by thunderous clapping. Dean hated being late.

  Bodies cramped like sardines lined the pews and snaked down the aisles. Standing room only. He propped his shoulder against the doorframe and scanned the room for Darcy.

  Pastor Barnes deep voice resonated from the pulpit. “This next story is not just about physical healing but spiritua
l healing as well. Where J.J. received the miracle of remission after his long battle with leukemia, his father, James, after living a life of alcohol addiction that cost a woman her life, found remission of his sins through Jesus Christ.”

  The pastor gestured for father and son to take the podium. Applause and shouts of joy exploded in the room. With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, James led his son to the microphone beside the pulpit. The child couldn’t have been more than six and had black hair like his father.

  While J.J. relayed the story of his cancer, James stood behind him, scanning the crowd. Dean’s stomach rolled. The last time he’d seen the man’s hollow eyes, he’d been in court, demanding a sentence James didn’t get. Dean’s enemy now carried a spark of something not previously present.

  James’s gaze fixed on Dean. The man’s mouth opened, eyes widened. James swallowed. Their stares bore into one another, and Dean swore he heard the man whisper I’m sorry. It should’ve been me.

  Tears welled in Dean’s eyes. The stuffy air and stifling truths suffocated him. He fled the hot church, sucking in a deep breath of icy air. A light, fluffy snow fell as he moved down the sidewalk. The Lord had forgiven James of his sins, welcomed him as a child of God. The men were now brothers.

  The realization made Dean dizzy. He leaned against a lamppost, bent over, and gripped his knees. He’d been so mad at God, he’d forgotten about the sacrifices God made for Dean. God understood the loss of a child. That’s why Christians celebrated Christmas—a birth that gave eternal life, freedom from sin. And just as death could not stop God from reuniting with His Son, Jesus, death couldn’t stop Dean from someday reuniting with his wife and son, either.

  Dean’s resolve unraveled. His burdens had grown too heavy.

  I will give you rest.

  Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. “They were my whole world,” he whispered.

  They’re safe with me. And so are you.

  Dean glanced down the empty street. “Where do I go from here?”

  Follow me.

  He struggled with lead-weighted steps, but finally made it home. Dean stood in the darkness, his back against the wall. A car horn honked in the distance. His heart stirred. Pulse hammered. Follow me.

  Dean flipped on the light and raked his fingers through his hair. The trunk sat against the far wall, calling to him. Dropping his coat to the floor, he stalked to it and lifted the lid. The flowery scent of Bethany’s perfume enveloped the space.

  The white satin gown shimmered in the light. Tissue paper rustled as he removed the wrapped items and piled them on the floor beside him. Nestled in the soft folds of the dress rested a gold star. Not just any star—the Wise Men’s star. The one from Darcy’s tree.

  Follow me.

  Dean laid it aside and brushed his calloused fingertips over the smooth fabric. His sweet Bethany had once danced inside this dress. Alive. Happy.

  Now she was gone.

  But another special woman, who lived just across the street, needed him to let go. He needed to let go. God forgave James. Surely, Dean could too. “Lord, forgive me.”

  His dam of indignation broke. With a repentant heart, Dean buried his face in the satiny fabric and wept.

  ****

  “These wreaths are lovely, dear. Thank you for your donation.” Sherry, the mayor’s wife, wrapped Darcy in a motherly hug.

  “I’m honored to help.” In that moment, Darcy realized how much she missed her mother. She’d spoken to Mom on the phone that morning, but the holidays weren’t the same without family in the flesh.

  This was her first Christmas without her parents since they’d retired to Florida. Mom had prattled on about the hot, sunny weather and how they planned to celebrate the holiday at the beach. The thought of Santa on a surfboard made Darcy laugh. Though she ached to see them, if they were happy, she was happy.

  “You go on, dear, and enjoy yourself. I’ll take care of all this work.” Sherry shooed Darcy from the platform. “The live auction starts at seven. I’ll see you then.” The woman smiled and winked.

  After the town had gathered to welcome the children four days earlier, everyone wore brighter smiles, greeted each other with more gusto—had a new appreciation for life. But tonight, Christmas Eve, Christmastown, Vermont lived up to its name.

  Darcy tiptoed through the crowd. The rumor spreading through town was that a big name celebrity planned to attend, and Town Hall wasn’t large enough to hold the mass of people who’d shown up to find out.

  At the last merchants’ meeting a week ago, all the local businesses decided to donate items to the auction, since Whitfield Copper wasn’t participating. The more money they could raise to help the children and their families, the better.

  The throng packing the streets was no better, but at least she could breathe. With the sun at rest, the evening sky faded to navy blue. Lampposts hummed as gaslights ignited sporadically down the street, reminding Darcy of fireflies in a wheat field.

  She continued down the sidewalk. The air was cool but not as frigid as usual. A nice night for a walk. Too bad she’d do it alone.

  Tourists filed out of shops, boxes and bags in hand. Children, bundled like Eskimos, waited in line at the petting zoo to meet Santa’s reindeers. Down the block, Darcy stopped to watch couples ice skate in the outdoor rink. Hats and coats of all colors weaved across the ice.

  She missed Dean. The last four days she’d muddled through her routine, teaching classes, wanting to call Dean, building a fire, wanting to visit Dean, petting her cat, thinking about Dean, reading a book, staring at Dean’s house through her front window… His car hadn’t left his garage the whole time. Not that she was paying that much attention. That would be crazy.

  On her way to Town Hall tonight, she’d decided to check on him and walked across the street, hoping he’d join her. The front window led straight into his lit workshop. Dean pounded away on a sheet of copper. Music escaped through the windows, though she couldn’t decipher what he was listening to. She could see he was engrossed in his work, so instead of knocking, she’d turned around and carried her sack of wreaths to the auction alone.

  Now Darcy strolled toward the church where a group of carolers dressed in Victorian-era clothing sang, “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem.” Their voices blended in beautiful harmony. She listened through a few more songs then stepped inside the church to tour the live nativity.

  The sanctuary-turned-stable looked much like she imagined it would’ve at Jesus’s birth. Straw rustled on stage as the donkeys shifted their feet. Sheep bedded next to two bowing shepherds. The room even smelled like a barn—warm animal flesh and a hint of manure.

  The Jespersons, a young couple she recognized from church, reenacted Mary and Joseph. Their newborn baby, Austin, played baby Jesus.

  Mary gazed at her baby’s face with wonder-filled eyes, proud Joseph kneeling beside them. Darcy hoped someday she’d get to experience the miracle of a child. Even if God had a different plan, she would relish the birth of His Son, the greatest gift of all.

  ****

  Dean paced the secretary’s small office. The auctioneer’s voice rambled through the PA system. Town Hall was hotter than the surface of the sun, and the thought of speaking in front of all those people made his stomach churn.

  The mayor and Pastor Barnes had both almost keeled over when Dean told them to count on his contribution this year. After settling things with his Creator, he’d burrowed in his workshop for four straight days, creating the piece to be auctioned tonight—his best work yet, thanks to the hand-delivered inspiration.

  The office door opened. “We’re ready for you, Dean.” The mayor adjusted his glasses.

  “Thanks, Mike.” Dean replayed his speech in his head, praying he wouldn’t forget the words when faced with the sight of all those people. Was Dad ever this nervous when he’d led the auction?

  The mayor took the stage and introduced Dean, explaining the history of Whitfield Copper and the significance of the business’s do
nation tonight. The crowd cheered, their applause thundering off the walls.

  Sweat beaded on Dean’s temples and neck as he advanced to the podium. Was Darcy here? Searching for her in the sea of faces was like searching for a red and white striped shirt in a Where’s Waldo? book.

  He cleared his throat, swallowed, and approached the mic. “First of all, I’d like to say what brave and amazing children we have with us tonight.” He pointed to Christmastown’s special guests and their families sitting on the front row. “Their stories have inspired me, as I’m sure they’ve inspired you, and challenged me to be a better man. Every child is nothing short of a miracle, and I pray that the proceeds of this auction will go to many families in celebration of life.”

  Applause hurt Dean’s ears. The auctioneer removed a white sheet covering Dean’s donation. The little man with the large voice lifted a four-foot copper star from the table. Not just any star. Dean had crafted a star like the one from Darcy’s tree—the Wise Men’s star.

  Follow me. His new mantra.

  Auction paddles raised all over the room. Two men in black suits stood next to the stage, holding laptops and cell phones, bidding for their call-in and online customers. The price started at fifty dollars and within five minutes had jumped to ten thousand. Dean stood amazed. The generosity of these strangers was priceless.

  The price continued to climb. Twenty thousand. Fifty thousand. Adrenaline rushed through Dean’s veins. The action in the arena was intoxicating.

  Two-hundred thousand. It all happened so fast, Dean couldn’t keep up.

  “One million dollars.” The room went silent and everyone searched for the male voice that promised it.

  ****

  “I’m p-p-proud of you, son.” Dad stretched a trembling hand toward Dean.

  “I’m not anything to be proud of.” He shook his dad’s hand in a firm grip. A blonde woman in a gray coat strolled past, and as he sidestepped his parents, she turned. Not Darcy.

  Where was she? Every woman he saw seemed to resemble her, but a closer look left him disappointed. She might not ever speak to him again anyway. She hadn’t called or come over since her accident. He didn’t blame her.