Love's Story (20 page)

After Mrs. Bloomfield's departure, Jonah helped Meredith up the steps to her room.

When he had left her alone, Meredith did some soul searching. Thatcher's observations had given her some new insights.

Her father verbally abused her and discredited her talents and skills. Yet she sought his approval through accomplishments, the type a son might pursue, not the daughter he never wanted. Could she face the fact that she would never win her father's acceptance, that she should quit trying?

Having never known a mother's love, Meredith craved women's approvals as well. Oftentimes, her progressive behavior offended women. Jonah said she frightened them. But when she'd allowed herself to be vulnerable with Amelia, the woman had wholeheartedly accepted her, and now she had risked the same with Beatrice.

She sat at her desk, stared out the window, and thought about Thatcher's alternative. If she didn't have to prove anything, would she still be writing stories for
McClure's
? A still, small voice—one she had not listened to for quite some time—broke into her thoughts.

“Don't live for others, but don't live for yourself either. Live for Me.”

It was true, she had left God out of things when He should have been the center. She buried her head in her folded arms.

God, forgive me for my selfish groping. Forgive me for my hatred, my anger, my… vanity.

She let God convict and heal all the soreness. Afterwards, she lifted her head.

On Sunday, Thatcher visited Meredith with Mrs. Cooper's approval. They sat in the parlor.

“I've thought about what you said, that I need to do things because I want to, not to impress others,” Meredith said.

“And?”

“The statement has some merit, but doesn't it sound selfish?”

Thatcher's brow burrowed in thought.

“Let me put it this way,” Meredith said. “I know you are a Christian, but are you working in California because you're doing what you want or you're doing what God wants?”

“You ask some tough questions.”

The room grew silent.

Finally, he said, “Both, I think.”

She lifted her injured foot to illustrate her point. “I've had plenty of time to do some serious soul searching. What I'm trying to say is I was seeking the praise of others. I don't want to do that anymore. But neither do I want to indulge my own selfish desires. I need to live for God.”

“That's admirable,” Thatcher said.

“Do you think so? You're serious about your faith?”

“Of course I am. Your question about selfish motives gives me something to think about.”

They smiled and gazed at each other, neither quite knowing what to say. It was one of those moments when souls mesh.

“Maybe we can help each other,” he said.

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“As Christians.”

“Oh.”

Thatcher fiddled with his hat, which lay across his knee. “I've been thinking I should go to church. I miss it.”

“Me, too.”

“See there. We've helped each other already.”

Meredith wondered if she should ask him again about the photograph of the woman. Would he tell her why he didn't want Jonah to take his photograph? If only she could trust him. She didn't want to ruin the special moment. Instead, she asked, “Do you think you'll ever go back to Chicago?”

“Perhaps someday. I'd have to be ready to make things right with Father.”

“When I go home, I'll apologize to my father.” She sighed. “Not that it will do any good. I'll put aside my expectations.”

“Do you have plans to return?”

“Asa, my editor, wants me to return before winter.”

Thatcher grew pensive.

That evening after Thatcher was gone, Amelia brought a sealed envelope to Meredith's room. “A message boy brought this.”

“Thanks.” Hesitant, not knowing what to expect, Meredith opened it and read:
“Stories circulate around town. We think you're a tramp. Go back to New York where you belong.”

Meredith gasped, and Amelia, who had waited by the door, stepped into her room with concern. “What is it, dear? Bad news?”

Disappointed and hurt, Meredith handed Amelia the paper. The older woman's eyes quickly scanned the contents.

“This is outrageous! Whoever wrote such a thing is the one that needs to leave town. Don't you worry yourself about this demented person, whoever he is.”

“He?” Meredith murmured.

Amelia calmed. “That's the bad thing about someone who does things backhandedly. It makes you crazy trying to guess who did it. But we shouldn't accuse anyone. It's probably not at all who we think it might be.”

Meredith nodded. Journalism demanded evidence. “Could you look in that bag for my Bible?”

“Surely I can.” Amelia's hips swayed determinedly as she crossed the room. Her lips pinched, she searched for the book. “Here you go, dear.” She hovered over Meredith. “I'll run along, but I'll check on you before I go to bed.”

Meredith clung to her Bible and nodded.

Amelia tiptoed from the room as if she treaded on holy ground.

T
he following Saturday evening, Thatcher rode into Buckman's Pride, got a room at the hotel, and ordered a bath. After he shaved, he wrestled back his wavy hair, donned his best tan leather vest, brown pants, and boots. The hotel provided him with a hot, tasty dinner of clam chowder and fried chicken. Once his stomach was full, he started out for Mrs. Cooper's.

Meredith's plans to leave California before winter pressed him with an urgency to do some serious courting. After that, he would propose, only properly this time. He chuckled over the memory of his last one, feeble as it was. She sure was pretty when she got mad. He would start his new courting campaign with an invitation to attend church with him tomorrow.

As he walked, the setting sun provided enough light for Thatcher to admire a carefully landscaped yard, which included a flower garden. Overcome with a sudden romantic urge, he plucked a handful of flowers. He would do things properly tonight.

Mrs. Cooper answered the door, took one look at the bouquet, and gave Thatcher a conspiratorial smile.

“Mr. Talbot. What a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

“Is Miss Mears at home?”

“Yes, she is. She's in the sitting room. Go on in.”

With his bouquet of flowers held just so, Thatcher went to the parlor. He entered with a confident step. He opened his mouth to greet Meredith, but quickly snapped it closed.

On the sofa sat a prettily posed Meredith, a man pressed up against her.

Thatcher clenched his fists and felt the flower stems snap.

Meredith stared at him, her eyes going from his face to the sagging bouquet and back to his face.

Finally she said, “Mr. Talbot.”

Thatcher did not miss the use of his formal name nor the uncertainty in her tone of voice. He couldn't even reply.

Meredith stumbled to her feet. The man beside her lurched forward, offering Meredith his arm. They stood there, staring at him, she with her vulnerable expression, the man with his hand supporting Meredith's elbow.

“Thatcher, I'd like you to meet Charles.”

A quiver flicked Thatcher's cheek. He bumbled forward, awkwardly sticking out his hand. The man introduced as Charles looked at the flowers thrust out at him. Thatcher snatched his hand back and offered the other one. “How do.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Charles said.

Is he going to give me the flowers or not? I've never seen Thatcher act so strange. This is beginning to get awkward.

“Let's all sit down,” she said with stilted friendliness.

“No. I have to go.” Thatcher gave a small nod, turned on his boot heels, and fled from the room.

Meredith took a few steps after him, her mouth agape.

The outer door banged.

“What was that all about?” Charles asked.

“I'm not sure,” Meredith said. She turned back to Charles. “I think you scared him off. He's either very jealous or very mad about now.”

“Why didn't you tell him I was your brother?”

Meredith's hand clasped over her mouth. “I bumbled that, didn't I?”

“Do you want me to go after him?” her stepbrother asked.

“No. It's better this way.”

The two settled back onto the sofa. “Want to tell me about him?”

“I think I'm falling in love,” she said.

“Mm.” Charles's eyes narrowed. “Father was right to be worried about you.”

“I still cannot believe that Father cares anything about me.”

“He does. I know he doesn't show it. But when you left, it crushed him. He said it was like losing your mother all over again. He broke down and cried, begged me to come after you.”

“I'm frightened. It's what I've always wanted, but now I'm afraid to face him.”

“It will take time and patience.”

“Do you think he'll get angry when he finds out I'm not coming right home with you?”

Charles shrugged thoughtfully. “I don't know.”

“I have to finish this story.”

He patted her hand. “Do what you have to do, sister.”

Back in his hotel room, Thatcher plopped on the bed, his arms behind his head, and glared at the ceiling. What a coldhearted woman. How dare she question him about the picture in his pocket when all of the time she had a gentleman friend in New York City?

What a fool he had made of himself. If it was the last thing he ever accomplished, he would wipe the memory of that traitorous woman from his mind. He had come to town to attend church services. Maybe God was stopping him from making a terrible mistake.