Bygones (38 page)

A smile formed as she thought about the surprise she had waiting for Mom, thanks to Mrs. Davidson’s tutelage. Slipping from the cot, she tiptoed out the door and down the hallway. She peeked into the front room and spotted her mother in the rocking chair, head back and eyes closed. Satisfied she wouldn’t be caught, she returned to her room and opened the closet door.

On the floor, wrapped in old towels, waited the gifts she had made of stained glass. For Mom, a two-foot square of bright tulips,
with the sun beaming down from the upper left-hand corner. She had drawn the pattern and chosen the colors herself. Pride welled as she remembered Mrs. Davidson’s words of praise for her accomplishment. Beth’s heart lifted, imagining her mother’s pleasure. Mom loved flowers and bright colors.

Several smaller pieces also waited, all made of the same design—a frosted-center cross with brightly colored beams shooting from behind it. She had fashioned each in a different color scheme and had enough for Joanna, Kyra, Trina, and Deborah, plus one more. She had toyed with the idea of giving the last one to Henry, to thank him for his help. But given his recent actions, she was not about to follow through with that idea.

Folding the towel back around the colorful window, Beth wondered if this type of craft would sell well in the city. Mitch would have an opinion on that. She slid her mother’s gift back in the closet, closed the door, and picked up her cell phone, eager to discuss the possibility with him.

The phone rang four times before Mitch’s voice answered. The line was staticky, with wind noise in the background. He sounded harried.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” Beth greeted.

“Driving—snowsto—”

The connection broke in places, and Beth frowned, struggling to comprehend. “If there’s a snowstorm, don’t go out.”

“—ing home. I—to get there—ly.”

Beth sat on the edge of the cot, pressing the phone to her ear while she ran her free hand through her hair. “Can you hear me okay?”

“—es.”

“Then listen, okay? I need to talk to you about making stainedglass windows to sell in our boutique. When you’re not driving, call me back, okay?”

Between breakups, she heard his laugh. “Our—still on?”

“Our boutique?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course it’s still on. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“ —eason. Th—mom for me, huh?”

Dread settled in Beth’s stomach. “What about Mom?”

The line disconnected. Beth sat, stunned, thoughts whirling through her mind like the snowflakes she envisioned swirling by Mitch’s car. Mitch wanted her to tell Mom something. . .thank you, maybe. . .but why? When had he been in communication with Mom?

A sickening picture began to take shape. She shook her head, an attempt to keep it from forming. Despite her efforts, little bits and pieces of conversations with Mitch from the past several weeks whizzed back, dropping into place like puzzle pieces.

“So tell me, Lissie, where did you see that mantel clock?”

“Don’t worry, baby—we’ll get your antiques.”

“They’ve formed a community watch, huh? All the time? Well, yeah, of course not during church.”

And that weekend in Kansas City. At one point he’d chuckled for no reason she could discern. When she questioned him, he’d said, “Oh, I was just thinking how quiet it is in good ol’ Sommerfeld right now.” At the time she’d thought he was unfavorably comparing the tiny town to the bustling city. But now the choice of words—it
is
rather than
must be
—haunted her.

She leaped up, her heart pounding. Charging out of the bedroom, she sobbed out one word: “Mom!”

On Christmas morning Beth joined Marie in attending the special service at the meetinghouse. Her daughter looked so nice in a simply
styled blue skirt, white blouse, and loose-knit blue sweater, with her long hair pulled into a sleek bun on the back of her head. Not quite as conservative as Marie’s hunter green dress and white cap, but it thrilled Marie that Beth had selected the outfit herself, giving careful thought to what would be appropriate for the service.

The past week had been a time of talking, crying, and praying together that had bonded mother and daughter more firmly than ever before. Just last night, seated with Beth at the little table in the corner of Lisbeth’s kitchen, with the glow of the lantern illuminating the pages of Lisbeth’s Bible, Marie had guided her daughter through the steps necessary to become a child of God. When Beth prayed the sinner’s prayer, inviting Jesus Christ to enter her heart, Marie’s heart soared with a joy beyond description.

After Beth went to bed, Marie wrote a note to her daughter on the inside cover of Lisbeth’s Bible, wrapped it in shiny paper of the brightest red, and placed it under their Christmas tree with “To Beth, from Great-Aunt Lisbeth” on the tag. She knew Lisbeth would approve.

Gratitude filled Marie so completely, she felt she would burst from happiness. With God in her heart and Beth at her side, she could face her parents today with a sense of peace.

During the closing hymn, she stood between Beth and Joanna, holding their hands, linking her past with her future. With God at the center, everything would be fine. Of that, Marie was certain.

When the service concluded, she and Beth exchanged wishes of Merry Christmas with worshipers as they made their way out of the meetinghouse. Her gaze collided with Henry’s, and it lingered, her heart straining toward him. Although they had seen each other in the café every day since his visit last Sunday, they hadn’t spoken.

She longed to bridge the gap between them, especially now that her leave-taking was just around the corner, but a part of her feared
reaching out to him. If what she suspected was confirmed—that she had grown to love Henry in the past weeks—then leaving him would be impossible. The gap must remain, no matter how painful.

She allowed her lips to form the words, “Merry Christmas,” waited for his answering nod, then forced her gaze away. Taking Beth’s arm, she said, “Let’s get to your grandparents’ place, shall we?”

Neither she nor Beth spoke on the short drive to Marie’s childhood home. Turning into the lane that led to the house, she broke into a cold sweat. How she wished this homecoming was like the story in the Bible about the prodigal son, with the father watching, waiting, arms outstretched, an embrace and celebration at the end. Her gaze swept the house, the yards, the outbuildings. With a chuckle, she observed, “It all looks so much smaller.”

Beth sent her a sympathetic look. “You know, Mom, we could just go back to Lisbeth’s and have a quiet day together.”

Marie considered Beth’s suggestion but shook her head. “As tempting as that sounds, this may be my last Christmas in Sommerfeld. I really want to be with my family—my whole family—and I want all of them to at least meet you, see what a beautiful daughter I’ve raised.”

“Aw, Mom.” Although her tone sounded embarrassed, Beth grinned. She looked out the window and frowned. “Looks like we’re the only ones here so far.”

“They’ll be here.” Marie got a sudden idea. “While we’re alone, let’s snoop.”

“Snoop?” Beth released an amused snort. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Come on.” Marie swung her door open and stepped out of the car. A light covering of snow dusted the ground, but the sky was clear and bright, and no wind whipped from the north. “I’ll show you around—let you see my childhood playing spots.”

Beth grinned. “Okay.”

Knowing time was short, Marie chose her favorite location first—Dad’s woodworking shop. Linking arms with Beth, she guided her to the cement-block building behind the barn. “We kids were never supposed to play in here because some of Dad’s tools could be dangerous. But I never touched the tools, and he knew it, so he let me go in. It made me feel special.”

Releasing Beth, she turned the knob on the heavy wood door and swung it open. The hinges groaned in the cold, and a familiar smell greeted her, sending her back a quarter of a century. Marie closed her eyes and inhaled, allowing the odors of cut wood, leather, paint, and turpentine to fill her senses, igniting memory after memory.

“Mom?” Beth’s startled tone brought Marie’s eyes open. She turned and spotted Beth at one end of the long, homemade workbench that stretched along the entire north wall of the sturdy building. “You’ve got to see this.”

Marie crossed to Beth, and her jaw dropped when she realized what her daughter had discovered. Pictures—dozens of them—tacked to a board that had obviously been mounted for the sole purpose of displaying them. Marie touched the crisp, white pine board. It had been recently erected.

Stunned, she turned her attention to the array of pictures, recognizing every one. The photos she had sent to Aunt Lisbeth, arranged chronologically, starting with the snapshot of her and Jep on the steps of the courthouse where they had recited their vows and ending with the day of Beth’s graduation from junior college. Marie’s life laid out in silent snapshots.

She stared, unbelieving, her heart thudding out a message.
Dad, Dad, Dad
.

“Why would he have done this?” Beth asked.

The groan of the door intruded, stopping Marie from answering. She turned to face the entry, and her heart doubled its tempo. Her
father stood framed in the doorway, his face unsmiling.

“Dad.” Marie took a step away from the workbench, her fingers linked together. “I—I just wanted Beth to see the places where I spent time as a child. I didn’t—”

He moved over the threshold into the building, closing the door behind him. “I always trusted you not to touch things in here.” His voice rumbled, low and stern, yet Marie sensed no anger in the tone.

She gave a quick nod. “And I haven’t touched anything today, either. I didn’t abuse your trust.”

His gaze shifted from her face to the wall behind her, and his chin quivered.

Marie’s heart melted. “Dad. . .you took Aunt Lisbeth’s photos?” She made certain she spoke softly, gently, with no hint of recrimination.

“I did.”

“Is it because. . .?” She held her breath, waiting, hoping, praying.
Please, Lord. Please
.

Tears glittered in her father’s blue eyes. His face crumpled, and he lowered his head. His gaze aimed downward, he rasped, “I missed so much. I needed to—to somehow know you again.”

Marie heard Beth’s sudden intake of breath, felt her daughter’s hand on her arm. The desire for reconciliation was so strong it became a flavor on her tongue. Giving Beth’s hand a quick squeeze, she stepped forward, making the first move.

“Dad, I’m right here. And I want to know you again, too.” Her breath came in tiny spurts. “Can we let go of the past and start over?”

He stood so stiff and unresponsive, Marie wasn’t sure he’d heard her quiet words. Her heart pounding with hope, she waited.

Slowly her father’s gray head lifted, his tear-filled eyes meeting hers. His hands quivered, then inched upward, reaching, the hands open and inviting.

With a little cry of joy, Marie ran across the concrete floor and flung herself against her father’s chest. His arms came around her; his head tipped to rest on her white cap. Warm tears soaked the top of her head.

His “Please forgive me” and her “Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry” spilled out at the same time. They broke away for a moment to look into each other’s faces. They both released a brief laugh before embracing once again.

A second pair of arms came from behind Marie—Beth, joining the hug. Marie felt one of her father’s arms slip away, and she didn’t have to look to know it now enveloped her daughter.

Marie closed her eyes, memorizing the moment. The smells of the shop blended with the smell of snow trapped in her father’s suit coat. Beneath her cheek, she heard the thud of her father’s heartbeat; on her head, she felt the pressure of his jaw. The sting of cold against her bare legs juxtaposed the warmth of the embrace, becoming a symbol of the sting of resentment being replaced by the warmth of acceptance. Silently she praised her Father God for allowing her this precious time of communion, of connection, of bygones becoming bygones, of hurts melting away.

They stood in a tight circle, with Marie at its center, for long moments until finally, reluctantly, her father’s hold loosened and he stepped away. Looking down at her, he said, “I can’t let you go again without saying. . . I love you, Marie. You–you’re still my girl.” He grazed her jaw with thick, callused fingers. She clasped his wrist, pressing the broad hand to her cheek.

His fingers quivered. “Your mother has a dinner waiting. . .and presents.” His gaze turned to include Beth. “For both of you.”

Beth smiled. “Then let’s go in, Grandpa.”