In His Dreams, page 8
“What were you doing?”
She faltered, not wanting to hear Barb’s lecture. “Just looking up some information.” She stood. “Let’s go to one of the shops. I want to pick up a picture frame.”
“Picture frame?”
“For Bonnie’s drawing. I think she’d be excited to see it hanging on the wall. She can use some positive attention.”
“Looking up some information? Interesting.” Barb gave her a knowing grin. “I know. You can’t help yourself.”
Marsha nodded. She couldn’t.
Water swished over Jeff’s ankles, and he checked his rolled-up cuffs to see if they had gotten wet. He bent over and gave them another roll. “Shorts would be safer.”
Marsha grinned. “A bathing suit, safer than that.”
He saw a playful look on her face as she headed toward him, her arms extended, ready to give him a good push.
“Don’t you dare. My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
“I’ve accidentally sent money through the washer and dryer. No problem.”
Mischief sparkled in her eyes, and he changed his tack. Instead of running away, he charged forward and captured her arms beneath his.
Laughter bubbled from her throat. “I was only kidding. I wouldn’t have pushed you.”
“Sure. You say that now that you’re captured.” He drew her closer, to be safe, he told himself, yet he knew he loved the feeling of her in his arms.
She wriggled beneath his grasp, trying to get loose, but he held her even tighter, laughing. “How do you like it?”
She stopped squirming, her gaze meeting his.
Warmth spread from the pit of his stomach. How do you like it? He loved it—playful fun, a wonderful woman who cared about Bonnie, a summer’s day on a beautiful Great Lake. What more could he want?
Her gaze shifted, then captured his eyes again. “It feels nice. Really nice.”
The water rippled against his legs until the wake from a passing speed boat sent a foamy wave onto his pant leg. A seagull soared overhead, its shadow darkening the blue water. He couldn’t speak for a moment, caught in the depths of his imagination.
He didn’t know what to do, so he laughed and let her go. “I hope you learned your lesson,” he said, hearing the stupid words falling from his lips. He wanted to confess he felt the same. It was nice to play and laugh. It was great to feel alive again. So why hadn’t he until recently?
Marsha searched his face, then smiled, but a hint of disappointment flickered in her eyes, and he knew he’d fallen short of being honest. She turned and scanned the beach, a frown flooding her face. “Where’s Bonnie?
Hearing her question surprised him. She always looked out for Bonnie and, somehow, she’d missed what had happened earlier. “She went up to the house a while ago, but I think she wants to see her picture in the frame you hung on the wall. She’s very proud. She told me she wanted to play with Barb.” He tilted her chin, hoping to bring back her smile. “She asked if she could go, and I know Barb loves to play with her.” He dragged out the word love, longing to see her grin.
It worked. She shook her head and smiled.
“How did I miss that?”
Jeff took her hand in his and headed back to the beach. “You were thoughtful.”
“I have been.” Her gaze drifted toward the horizon. “Sorry.”
He released her hand to slip his arm around her shoulder. “No need to be sorry. We all have our days. For the past few days, I’ve been worried about Bonnie.”
Marsha stopped. “About what?”
The sand pulled from beneath his feet as they stood where the lake met the shore. “She needs kids to play with. She’s with adults too much.”
“Bonnie’s better with adults, Jeff.”
“Why would you say that?”
She lowered her gaze and shrugged. “It just makes sense to me.”
It didn’t make sense to him, but then many things didn’t.
Marsha stepped ahead of him, and he looked at her footprints as the wet sand turned lighter beneath her feet when her weight pressed away the water. He took a step and watched the same pattern, dark sand turning pale with the pressure of his imprint. “Footprints in the sand,” he said for no reason.
She paused, then turned and looked at their prints, her mind seeming miles away. “I love that story. I received a bookmark once with a lapel pin with three little footprints. I wonder what happened to that bookmark.”
Footprints? Story? “I’ve never heard it.”
“You’re kidding. Everyone knows that story about God’s relationship with us.”
He shook his head, asking himself how he’d gotten into the situation of listening to a story about God. But as he listened, he had to stop her. “So let me get this straight. When the man needed God the most, he saw only one set of prints. Right?”
“Right.”
“Then I’m not the only one who feels as if God walked away.”
Marsha’s eyes darkened, and she pressed her hand against his cheek. “No. He didn’t, Jeff. He’s promised to never walk away.”
“Then, where was He?” Her palm felt cool against his sun-warmed cheek, and he raised his own and pressed it against hers. “Explain it.”
Marsha’s eyes looked so sad, Jeff’s stomach twisted. Why had he spoken that way to her?
“You didn’t let me finish the story. When the man asked the Lord the same question you just asked, He said something like this. ‘My son, I would never leave you. When you were at your lowest, when you were in pain, you only saw one set of prints, because I was carrying you.’”
Jeff’s chest tightened and he dropped his gaze and saw their footprints side by side. He fought back tears that pushed against his eyes, seeing Marsha’s serious expression.
“Think about it, Jeff. You were never alone. You aren’t now.”
You aren’t alone. Marsha’s words from two days earlier flooded Jeff’s mind. He dropped a cereal bowl in the dishwasher, wiped the counter and filled his coffee cup for the third time. He should switch to decaf. He’d spent the night tossing from one side of his bed to the other, sometimes reaching out to wrap his arm around his dream.
Marsha had appeared again, glowing in the sunlit beach. They talked and laughed, and then she spoke of God again. Marsha and God. They both lingered in his mind as persistent as bees around apple cider. He recalled the day he and Marilou had gone to Franklin Cider Mill. They’d bought a jug of cider along with some deep-fried doughnuts. They’d poured cups of cider and had bitten into the warm, crunchy outer crust, then had to run for their lives. The bees had swarmed in as if invited to their party.
The memory made him smile. So did Marsha, but she’d also caused him to think, and he didn’t want to do that. He liked being angry at God. How else could he get even?
The stupidity of his statement knifed through him, and he leaned against the counter, grateful for the quiet moment while Bonnie was still asleep. Jeff thought of the footprint story—the angry man who’d looked at the lone set of prints and thought they were his. “I was carrying you,” God had said. The words tumbled in Jeff’s thoughts until he felt dizzy.
“Read your Bible,” Marsha had said days earlier. “Read First Peter.” They had owned a Bible—probably two, maybe even three. Marilou had read it in the morning. She’d read passages to him. But he hadn’t seen one since she’d died.
Or had he?
He wandered into the living room and scoured the bookshelf beneath the window. He crouched and let his gaze run along the book titles until it stopped at a navy hardcover with gold letters. Holy Bible. He extended his hand, then drew it back.
Jeff stood and wandered to the wide window looking out on the lake. He’d once believed that God directed his steps. If he still believed that, he would think the Lord had planned for him to run into Marsha that day at the ice-cream shop. Had that been providence? A coincidence?
His gaze drifted back to the bookshelf. First Peter. The verse Marsha had memorized came to him in snatches—suffer, restore, strong. He tried to put the words together like a puzzle. After you have suffered, God will restore you and make you strong. If only he could feel strong. It had been so long.
A sound from the bedroom caught his attention and Jeff turned back to the kitchen. Bonnie would be up soon and wanting breakfast. As he pulled out a bowl, he heard the pat of her feet in the hall. She walked into the room with a wide yawn, rubbing her eyes with her fists.
“Good morning,” Jeff said, remembering the neighbor had said Bonnie was pretty. She was pretty. He’d never noticed. Her hair had become darker than her mother’s but lighter than his and her eyes were the same as Marilou’s, a light brown that reminded him of sorrel. She had two small dimples that flickered when she grinned and her nose was shaped like his with a little peak at the tip.
Bonnie settled onto the chair and rested her cheek on the table.
“Please don’t put your head on the table, Bonnie.”
She didn’t respond, and he didn’t repeat it. Today, he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. He poured her cereal and milk, then wandered back to the window, watching the sun dance across the ripples.
As soon as she finished eating, he knew Bonnie would be bored—the same old pattern he’d come to accept. She needed a friend, someone to relate to, and he had no idea what to do except go back home where she did have a couple of younger children who played with her.
But he didn’t want to go home. Not now.
He heard Bonnie’s dish clang in the sink. “What are we going to do, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. How about playing with those markers Marsha bought you?”
She didn’t respond but wandered out of the kitchen in search, he hoped, of the colored pens. In moments, she returned and, while he ran the vacuum and dusted, Bonnie sat at the table engrossed in her drawings.
Peace settled over Jeff with Bonnie’s preoccupation. Marsha knew what she was doing when she’d bought the markers, and he’d been surprised to see Bonnie had some artistic talent. Perhaps, she had other talents he hadn’t noticed but, for now, he’d be grateful for this quiet time.
Bonnie came through the doorway, carrying a drawing. “Look.” She held up the picture in front of her with the tips of her fingers. “Aunt Marsha can put this in a frame, too.”
Jeff eyed the beach sketch with three people sitting on the sand, making sand castles. In the background, he recognized Marsha’s A-frame cottage. Three people again. She never drew one or two, always three and always Marsha.
Here it was three again, but at home? What would that bring? The summer fun would vanish. His life would slip into the usual rut, and then what? Bonnie would be heartbroken.
So would he.
Chapter Eight
Marsha slid from the car and lifted the bag of groceries from the backseat, disappointed that Jeff hadn’t arrived yet. He’d promised to hang the new kitchen light fixture and replace some light-switch covers. She could have done that herself, but he’d told her not to bother. Instead, she’d added some new border along the ceiling in the bathroom. It brightened the room with the new caulking and made it look fresh and different—just the way she’d felt lately.
A breeze blew across the water and up the hill, carrying the unique scent of the lake and warm grass. Nothing smelled quite like that wonderful aroma that helped her relax and feel free. She wished it could be bottled. She’d definitely stock up so she could take it home to the city with her.
As she neared the door, another fragrance wafted her way. Cinnamon rolls. Barb’s favorite. Marsha pulled open the screen door and drew in a lengthy breath of the warm spicy rolls. “Yummy,” she said, eyeing the batch cooling on racks.
“I felt in the mood,” Barb said, snipping the end off the tube of frosting and zigzagging it over the pastries. “I made coffee.”
“Thanks.” Marsha dragged her finger across the icing that dripped from the rack and stuck it in her mouth, then unloaded the groceries while Barb poured two cups of coffee.
Barb took her cup and a warm roll. “I’m going outside. No bugs today for some reason, and I’m enjoying the sun.”
“Probably the breeze,” Marsha said, slipping the cereal box into the cabinet. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
The scent of coffee mingled with the cinnamon smell and whetted Marsha’s appetite. She headed into the bedroom to slip off her slacks and slide into her shorts and sandals. No sense in wasting an opportunity to get a tan.
Before heading back into the kitchen, Marsha glanced out the back window, hoping to see Jeff. She shook her head at the empty driveway but mainly at her silly ogling.
Foolishness. She’d begun to feel like a teenager, running to the telephone when it rang hoping it was the boy who starred on the basketball team, but, in this case, Marsha’s hero was her brother-in-law. Or was it former brother-in-law now that Don was gone?
She pushed herself down the hallway and grasped the coffee-cup handle, then a gooey cinnamon bun. She took a chomp, letting the sweetness pull her from her thoughts. As she passed the table, she noticed a legal pad with Barb’s writing. Curious, she stepped forward, took another bite of the bun and let her gaze drift over the words.
Night sounds always scared Lorraine. She pulled back into the shadow behind the curtain, remembering that horrible night, the lonely night when it all began.
Another sound caught her imagination, and she shifted from the dark corner to peek through the lace at the shrouded moon. The man in the moon stared down at her through his own curtain of dark clouds.
Gooseflesh pricked her arms. That horrible night clung to her thoughts, that rainy night when her clothes clung to her as if hanging onto her for fear they might be torn from her. And they were.
Marsha caught her breath and drew away from the yellow lined paper. Though the sentences were well written, poetic almost, the images frightened her. She had expected Barb to write some pitiful rambling of a woman in love or a woman scorned, but not this. This was different.
What would Barb say if she told her she’d read a page of her work?
A noise came from behind her, and Marsha jumped and spun around. Bonnie came darting into the room, holding one of her drawings in front of her like a prize.
“Look what I made,” she said, as if she’d won a blue ribbon.
Marsha eyed the sketch, and, though simple, Bonnie’s talent could be witnessed in her ability to create perspective and to draw recognizable details. “That’s the cottage,” she said, studying the contours of her chalet.
Bonnie bobbed her head. “And that’s you.” She pointed to a woman and man standing beside her.
Marsha recognized Jeff easily by his physique and the playful tilt of his head. “Good job. You need some real paints.”
“I have real paints.” She held up her markers.
“I mean, watercolors or oils.” She gave second thought to oils and the damage they might cause. “Watercolors.” Marsha lifted her gaze and eyed the back door. “Where’s your dad?”
“He’s coming.” She wobbled her head and grinned. “His cell phone rang.” She took a couple of steps away before she noticed the cinnamon buns and shot toward them. “Can I have one?”
“Sure can.”
She grabbed a pastry and sped outside to Barb.
Marsha took a sip of her coffee, her pulse giving a skip as she watched the door, waiting for Jeff. Lord, tell me what’s going on. I’m confused and uneasy with what’s going on.
A moment later, Jeff strode inside, slipping the cell phone into his shirt pocket. His focus settled on the buns, then lifted to Marsha.
“Have one,” she said, taking another bite to steady her thoughts.
He looked so handsome today. His hair, usually neat, had been ruffled by the breeze and his tanned skin gave him a rugged look. His knit shirt clung to his chest, reminding her of his strength and masculinity. He no longer seemed the old Jeff she knew so well, but a new Jeff that had more vitality and charm, a Jeff that stirred her heart.
Marsha turned away. She felt confused and she hated the feeling.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jeff said, as if he noticed something was wrong.
Jeff was right, but Marsha didn’t understand what it was she struggled with. She knew it wasn’t a sin to find her former brother-in-law attractive. She suspected the Lord would be pleased that they were still good friends. Friends were precious. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re not punching a time clock.” She managed a grin.
He stepped closer and ran his finger just below her lip. “Icing,” he said, showing her the white smear he’d wiped from her mouth.
The pressure of his finger lingered against her lip, and she wondered what his lips might feel like pressed against hers. Then she stopped herself. Jeff was her former brother-in-law—and his faith was shaky. No matter how much she thought of him, she could never align herself with a man who didn’t have the Lord in his heart.
The thought saddened her. No one walked a Christian life by force. It had to be Jeff’s will. He had to open his heart to the Holy Spirit, and all she could do was pray that it happened for him and for Bonnie. Her niece needed to have a relationship with Jesus just as her mother had.
“Coffee, too,” Jeff said, returning to the kitchenette to pour himself a cup. He ambled back and sat on a stool against the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. “You’re quiet.”
“Enjoying the cinnamon bun,” she said, not wanting to mention her curiosity about Barb’s writing and definitely not wanting to tell him about her emotional roller coaster.
“My friend called and is coming up for the Fourth.”
Marsha twitched. A friend? Male or female? “Someone’s coming up for the holiday?”
“For a week. He’ll be up on Sunday before the Fourth. He’s bringing his daughter. I thought she’d be company for Bonnie and give you and Barb a break.”
He’s bringing his daughter. A man. Her shoulders relaxed, replaced by shame that she’d felt a twinge of jealousy. She couldn’t believe she’d become so attached to Jeff. “That’s nice, but you know Bonnie is no problem for us.”
