Wings of a Dream (25 page)

I balanced the cup on my knees, still cradling its warmth with my hands, grateful tears sprouting in my eyes.

She eased the teacup from my hands and wrapped her arms around me. “I’ll listen if you want to talk.”

I didn’t think I could, but I poured out the sad tale of Arthur, of trying to be still and listen to the Lord’s direction, of my confusion over the sheriff’s words and Frank’s imminent homecoming. I’d left home believing I had the Lord’s blessing to follow my dreams. Now I didn’t know if I had any dreams to follow, let alone any direction from the Lord.

Irene’s head tilted as if she listened for or to something far away. Maybe she heard the children’s ruckus overhead. Maybe she heard the voice of God. “I know it’s hard for a young woman like you to believe, but I once dreamed of a very different life for myself than the one I live.”

Although she’d listened to my story without expression, I knew my shock at her statement showed clearly on my face.

Irene chuckled. “You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but in my younger days, I had a beau for every day of the week.”

I smiled.

She laughed harder, her round girth shaking like the bowl of Jell-O I’d eaten at Arthur’s aunt’s house. “It’s true. I didn’t give George Latham a second look back then, with his droopy eyes and his never-ending piety. Good gracious. I had intended to marry someone handsome and wealthy. Someone who would lavish me with fine things. Someone fun!”

Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I wanted . . . I don’t really know what I wanted. I just knew it wasn’t him. But life has a way of surprising you sometimes.” A dreamy smile appeared on her face.

“And?” I prompted.

She looked surprised, as if she’d forgotten anyone else shared the room. “It took time. You see, he had to wait for me to find real faith in the Lord, not just an It’s-expected-of-me Sunday attendance.”

My back stiffened.

“My favorite sister died of tuberculosis. Her death devastated me. Other beaus either came and petted me and told me everything would be fine or they stayed away, not knowing what to do. Only George offered me real hope. The Jesus kind. And he didn’t just say the words. He showed me by his actions. Then he showed me where to find the words in the Bible. The more I read, the more I understood that God wanted my whole life. Everything. Even my plans and dreams.”

“So God told you to marry Brother Latham?”

“In a roundabout way, yes. But I couldn’t fall in love with George until I’d fallen in love with Jesus.”

“But I already know the Lord. So what does that mean for me?”

Irene’s eyes held mine. “It means when your life belongs to God it doesn’t belong to you anymore. It means sometimes life turns out different than you plan. He will guide your paths, as it says in the Proverbs. But you have to trust that He has your good in mind and follow where He leads.”

“He led me to Arthur.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe He has something different in mind for you.”

“But I’m not like you and Aunt Adabelle and Mama. I can’t bear the thought of living out my life on a farm. I need people and adventure. That’s what I was made for. I know it is.”

Irene didn’t reply. Janie’s cry broke the tension of silence.

Irene stood. “Follow the path that the Lord has laid out before you. If you listen for His voice and obey it, everything will turn out fine—in the end. Now, let’s go celebrate Christmas.”

As the children bounded into the room clutching their gifts, I realized that God had not forgotten or abandoned me. He’d shown that by sending Irene—His special Christmas gift just for me.

A
s it often did back in Oklahoma, the weather warmed the week after Christmas. I sat in a rocker on the porch, the sewing basket dormant at my side, unspoken anticipation of the new year filling my heart. Nothing could be as bad as the past months we’d endured. Between the Kaiser, the Spanish flu, and the loss of so many of our soldiers, everyone had waged war against an enemy.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, soaking up the sun and the sound of the children playing. Ollie skipped rope, chanting a rhyme she’d brought home from school.

“I had a little bird; its name was Enza. I opened the window and in flew en—” Her voice and the thump of rope stopped.

“Who’s that?” James whispered next to my ear.

I looked. Only a shadow of a figure really, far away down the road. I closed my eyes again.

“Daddy!” Ollie’s shriek lifted me from my seat. She left her rope and bounded down the road. I clutched the porch post as I watched the man’s bag fall to the ground. He ran to meet her, swinging her up into his arms and holding her close.

James rushed down the steps and then stopped, turned back to me.

“Go on.” I shooed him away, as if it didn’t matter. In truth, my stomach clenched. Dan’s tentative steps toward his brother nearly drove the last bit of breath from my body. How would I leave these children? Would Frank send me away this minute? Should I begin collecting my things and saying good-bye?

Then I thought of all Frank had lost, of how little this resembled the family he’d wanted to return to. He and I shared one bond, at least—loss.

The boys wandered past the front gate—first James, then Dan, the two of them much more shy about meeting their stranger-Daddy.

I lifted Janie, who was eager to be included. Tears slid down my face, though I told myself I had no reason to cry. Frank would take care of his children, and I’d be free to move to any city I wanted.

He knelt on the ground now, hugging his boys to him. Then he looked up. In spite of the fact that I couldn’t see his face distinctly, I saw the longing in his gaze. I held my breath, afraid to shatter the moment, yet afraid the moment would shatter me.

Straightening my shoulders, I carried Janie past the gate. We stood in the road, the little family walking toward us. Dan clung to one of his daddy’s hands, Ollie to the other. James danced back and forth in front of them.

“It’s Daddy, Bekah. It’s Daddy!” He sang the words over and over again while I listened to the suck, suck, suck of Janie’s thumb in her mouth. I shifted Janie’s weight to my other hip.

Emotion flickered across Frank’s face, twitching his lips and tightening his jaw. “You must be Miss Hendricks.” Eyes the color of a storm-darkened sky, and just as intense, held me mute.

“Rebekah,” James corrected. “That’s what she told us to call her.”

I couldn’t read Frank’s expression. Was he displeased with me? Wary? Grateful? Maybe just exhausted and sorrowful. His gaze slid over to Janie. He held out his hands. She jerked away, her arms tight around my neck, her mouth filled with whimpers.

“I’m sorry.” I tried to smile.

His arms dropped to his sides. Ollie and the boys grabbed at his hands. Janie turned for another peek at the man she didn’t recognize, thumb in her mouth, eyes big as saucers.

“Don’t be scared of your daddy, Janie.” I jiggled her as I wrinkled my nose in her direction. She unplugged her mouth and laughed, just as I’d intended. I took a deep breath and stepped toward Frank. He reached for her again. She clung to me. I peeled her off, handed her into his calloused hands.

She stared at him for a moment before Ollie pressed close to her daddy and smiled into her sister’s face. “It’s Daddy, Janie. Daddy.”

Janie reached out baby fingers and touched Frank’s face, gently, timidly. Then the grin we all knew so well broke out like sunshine on a gray day. Moisture rose in Frank’s eyes. I turned away.

“I imagine you’re hungry,” I said, staring off toward the beginnings of sunset.

He cleared his throat. “That I am, Rebekah. That I am.”

My hands refused to be steady. Frank had come home—and I had no idea what that meant for any of us. Part of me reveled in the elation that Janie had wanted me, not her daddy. But in the next moment, I felt guilty. How awful for your own child to not know you. I glanced at Janie, content on the ground near my feet.

The high pitch of the children’s voices and the deep rumble of a man’s reply drifted in through the kitchen door, but I couldn’t discern the words. I cut lard into the last of the flour for biscuits while bacon sizzled in one big skillet and gravy bubbled in a smaller pot. After I slipped the biscuits into the oven, I stood back and surveyed my work. Hot and filling. I was becoming a pretty good cook.

I dragged Janie with me to the back porch cistern for a bucket of water while my heart pulsed an unsteady rhythm. At the kitchen door, Frank lifted the heavy bucket from my hand.

“Thank you,” I gasped as he set the bucket on the table without a word. It seemed a familiar gesture, not the exaggerated kindness one extended to a stranger.

The smell of bacon and biscuits hung thick in the small room. I handed Janie to her sister, wrapped a dishtowel around my hand, and pulled the biscuits from the oven. The clatter behind me intensified as everyone took their places at the table. Ollie doled out forks and cups as Frank’s laughter filled the room. Real laughter, birthed from joy. My skin tingled in spite of the warmth. Any man who could laugh like that couldn’t be cruel. Maybe he’d let me stay. At least until I figured things out.

“Ollie, grab the butter from the cooler.” I heaped Frank’s plate with food and soon heard the small butter plate clink onto the tabletop. Frank’s voice died away. The others quieted, too.

I whipped around. “What’s wrong?”

Frank sat perfectly still, his fist gripping his fork and holding it upright, a napkin tucked beneath his chin. Only his jaw moved, tightening and loosening. I followed his gaze to the newly churned butter. The fancy G pressed into the top remained undisturbed.

I remembered Mama telling me how Daddy had carved her a butter mold the first year they were married. Had Frank done the same? It was such a small thing, really. Why hadn’t seeing the children or the house stirred that same kind of emotion in him? They were much more of his history with his wife than a carved butter mold. Yet maybe that mold represented more than I knew.

I reached across the table and picked up the butter dish before filling a second plate. Frank blinked a few times before noticing the food in front of him. Then the moment passed. With my own plate in hand, I took the chair opposite Frank. He bowed his head. We all did the same.

“Great and gracious God—” His voice caught and silenced.

I peeked from under my lashes. The children’s heads raised, their eyes squinting open, first at their daddy, then at each other, finally at me. I laid a finger over my lips and bowed my head again, praying they’d do the same.

We waited. I wondered if Frank had fallen asleep. Too much longer and all the food would be cold. Then he took a deep breath. “Thank you, Lord, for this food, and bless the hands that have prepared it. Amen.”

It was as if he’d held his own conversation with God—privately—and then let us in on the last bit. Or had he just needed time to compose himself? If nothing else, the man intrigued me.

Through supper, the children chattered on about Ol’ Bob and the chickens, the sheriff and the Lathams, the doings in town, church, and school. Aunt Adabelle and their mother hovered over the conversation unmentioned. We didn’t speak of the influenza, either. It was as if we’d all made a pact to forget it, to act as if it hadn’t changed everything—not just for us, but for so many others, too.

I cleaned up the dishes while Frank carried the children to bed. After I dumped the dishwater on the flower beds and spread the damp cup towel across the bushes to dry, I settled myself in the parlor, wondering if Frank would join me there.

He seemed unsure as he walked into the room, hesitant as he eased into a chair. Like a guest in an unfamiliar home.

“Here’re your newspapers.” I handed him those I hadn’t yet used to make fires, hoping to put him at ease. I picked up one of my aunt’s magazines for myself. Pages rustled, turned, quieted as we avoided each other’s gaze. The mantel clock counted off minutes with loud ticks.

When Frank cleared his throat, I looked up in expectation. After a stiff smile, he lowered his eyes to the newspaper again. When the clock chimed the hour, we both stopped reading. Nine o’clock.

He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Rebekah.”