All Things New (Virtuous Heart)

  Copyright 1997

  by Beacon Hill Press of Kansas City

  ISBN 083-411-674X

  eISBN 978-0-8341-2908-5

  Printed in the

  United States of America

  Cover design: Paul Franitza

  Cover photo: Superstock

  All Scripture quotations not otherwise designated are from the New King James Version (NKJV). Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission.

  Library of Congress-in-Publication Data

  Crow, Donna Fletcher.

  All things new / Donna Fletcher Crow.

  p. cm. — (Virtuous heart series ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 0-8341-1674-X (pbk.)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3553.R5872A79 1997

  813'.54—dc21

  97-13728

  CIP

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Therefore, if anyone is in Christ,

  he is a new creation;

  old things have passed away;

  behold, all things have become new.

  2 Cor. 5:17

  Donna Fletcher Crow is a veteran author and speaker. She has written numerous works of fiction including The Fields of Brannockburn, To Dust You Shall Return, A Gentle Calling, Treasures of the Heart, and The Castle of Dreams. Awarded “First Place, Historical Fiction” in 1993 by the National Federation of Press Women for Glastonbury, Mrs. Crow is also the recipient of numerous other literary awards. She is the mother of four children and resides with her husband, Stanley, and daughter (still at home) in Boise, Idaho.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 1

  The rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean washed the broad stretch of pale sand beyond the beach house. A thin line of gold and peach hung for a magic moment between sea and sky, then slipped into the water. Standing on the beach house deck, Debbie smiled. Why didn’t the sea sizzle and boil when the sun sank into it?

  Behind her the clink of ice in glasses and the bright, brittle laughter of her cousin’s party called Debbie from her fantasy. She gripped the railing for just a moment. She had to go in. All those people having fun. She was supposed to be one of them. This was what life was supposed to be like. What hers would be like now. She lifted her chin and fixed a determined smile on her face. She could do it.

  As she pushed her way through the waves of cacophony she thought of being 10 years old and going off the high diving board at swimming lessons. She had done it. She had survived. A stinging in her abdomen reminded her that she had belly flopped. But she had done it.

  “And what do you want to be when you grow up, gorgeous?” The dark head of the man she had almost walked into loomed over Debbie. The pale contents of his glass sloshed dangerously as he spoke.

  Debbie took a deep breath and selected an appetizer from the tray before her. This was the high diving board. A belly flop would be better than climbing down. “I’m going to be the first woman president. And don’t you forget it.” She flipped her dark hair and pushed her way further into the room, her long, floral skirt gently brushing her ankles. She found a relatively quiet corner by an open window and took a deep breath of the fresh salty air. But the shiver that followed wasn’t entirely from the fact that even in mid-July the evenings were cool on the northern Oregon coast.

  “There you are, darling! I might have known you’d be hiding yourself in the darkest corner available.” Her cousin Byrl got a forceful grip on Debbie’s arm and led her determinedly toward the milling guests. “I want you to meet this divine man—” Byrl interrupted herself with a giggle. “Oh, I guess that’s sort of a pun—you see, he’s a theologian. But never mind—he doesn’t look the least bit dry and stuffy. You just never can tell about people, can you?”

  Byrl interrupted her monologue to smile at a guest. The smile broke into splendor when she saw that the tall, redheaded woman was bearing a copy of Byrl’s book. “Congratulations, Miss Coffman, your new book looks marvelous. Will you autograph it, please?”

  While her cousin played gracious-guest-of-honor-and-noted-author, Debbie looked at the women around her. She had received introductions to most of the guests when they came in. She couldn’t remember the names, but what each one did had been emphasized: photographer, interior decorator, lawyer, computer programmer … Well, they had made it in the “real world.” So could she. Six years spent in a sheltered cocoon didn’t have to determine her whole life.

  “I just know you’ve got a best-seller here. The title is marvelous.” Byrl’s fan beamed at her freshly autographed book. “If It Feels Good—genius title. I love it!” She clutched the thick volume to her breast.

  “Thank you. I do so hope that all my readers will find the book a liberating experience. As we go into a new millennium it’s terribly important that we don’t drag any outmoded mores with us. Each person finding her own values, listening to her own inner voice—” Byrl stopped and laughed at her own intensity. “Well, I won’t climb up on my soapbox just now, but I do hope you enjoy the book.” Byrl looked around blankly, as if trying to remember where she had mislaid something. “Oh, Deborah. Come along now, or we’ll lose our quarry.” They started to move, progressed at least three steps, and were interrupted again.

  “Byrl, I want to take you to meet our new copy editor.” Debbie recognized the lanky, silver-haired man in a black turtleneck as Hugh Parkinson, Byrl’s publisher.

  “Hugh, darling! What a marvelous party. And your new beach house is fabulous—what perfect timing to combine the launch of my book and your housewarming.” Byrl kissed her publisher on the cheek.

  “Yes, Judy in publicity was worried that people wouldn’t be willing to drive out from Portland for the party. But I convinced her they’d drive from Portland, Maine, to meet Byrl Coffman.”

  Byrl laughed and kissed him again. “And to see Hugh Parkinson’s new beach house.” She linked her arm in his as they started to move away. “Debbie, darling, you’ll forgive me for running off with Hugh. You’ll be fine on your own. It’s the Adonis by the bar—all golden and head-and-shoulders above everyone else.” She pointed in a sweeping gesture to a man in a camel hair jacket. “Go introduce yourself.”

  The general movement of traffic was in the direction of the bar, and Debbie could hardly just stand there in the middle of the room, so she moved with the flow. What did Byrl expect her to do—go up and say, “Hello, Adonis. I’m Debbie. Byrl sent me”? Of course, that’s exactly what Byrl would do.

  “What can I get for you?”

  Debbie started at the waiter’s voice. She didn’t realize she was already up to the bar. “Oh, do you have Mystic peach?”

  The waiter turned to look over his collection of mineral waters. A hand gripped Debbie’s left elbow. Even through her long-sleeved blouse it felt warm and slightly sticky. “We meet again, gorgeous. It must be karma.” The man she had escaped earlier breathed on her neck. “Black hair, white skin, blue eyes … Mmmm, my favorite. What are you doing after the party?”

  Debbie was rescued by the waiter asking, “Would you like anything in that?”

  “May I suggest a sprig of mint?” The voice came from above Debbie’
s right shoulder. She looked up to see Byrl’s Adonis-designate holding an icy drink with fresh green leaves floating in it.

  “Why not?” She grinned. “Might as well splash out.” That other man was still right behind her, so Debbie focused on the Adonis. “I think Byrl told me you publish with Parkinson too?”

  “That’s right; Parkinson House is broad-based if it’s anything.” His smile was ironic. “How about some fresh air?”

  French doors led onto the side lawn where Japanese lanterns glowed red, gold, and green from the trees. Her companion was quiet, but Debbie didn’t mind. It was a pleasant change not to be obligated to return bright chatter or to duck oily passes. They walked to the edge of the lawn and stood gazing out across the broad beach to where they could just see the rolling surf in the last of the silvery light. “You’re a fan of Byrl Coffman, are you?” her companion asked.

  “Oh, dear. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never read any of her stuff. I’m her cousin. We’re sharing a cottage just up the beach for the summer.”

  “Ah. And is that working out well?”

  “It has to. I don’t have anywhere else to go for the moment. I’m starting a new job in September, but until then …” She shrugged and walked slowly toward the beach. Her companion followed, several paces behind, apparently concentrating on his own thoughts. She appreciated the space he gave her as the panorama of rolling surf spreading before her drew her to reflect on the ebb and flow of life.

  It was really incredible to contemplate that this was the first party she had attended in six years. When her mother first became ill she had given up all extracurriculars to help at home. Then her mother died, and she assumed the full brunt of raising Andy and Angie, her twin brother and sister, and keeping house for her father, who spent long hours working at the furniture store he owned in Boise. She had only taken time out to attend classes at the local university to earn her degree in fabric design. And somehow, six years had washed away in the channel of that sheltered flow.

  But the ebb came suddenly, leaving no delightful tide pools of discovery, only barren beach. Angela married her high school sweetheart, Andy went off to college, and surprise of surprises—their father remarried. Debbie supposed most women of 24 would have been thrilled to be freed to a life of their own, but she was lost. She gave herself a little shake and took a sip of her drink.

  “Welcome back,” her contemplative companion greeted her.

  “Oh, I guess I was rather far away. But I think you left first.”

  “Did I really? Sorry. I’m afraid that’s an abominable habit of mine. I’ll have to confess this isn’t my kind of affair, but it’s something of an occupational obligation. Let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Greg.”

  She hesitated. It’s only a handshake, for Pete’s sake. What’s the matter with you? She got a firm grip on herself and offered her hand. “I’m Debbie Jensen. I—”

  “Hello, darlings!” Byrl blew into their quiet circle. “I see you found each other.” She eyed their fruit drinks. “I knew you’d suit. But I must warn you, Hugh is headed this way—I think he just unearthed a Buddhist or something for his resident theologian to cross swords with.”

  Greg groaned and turned to the call of duty.

  “Well, now. Did I do you a favor or did I do you a favor?” Byrl gloated. “What did I tell you? Isn’t he an Adonis?”

  Debbie shrugged. “He’s OK, I guess.”

  Byrl gave a gasp that was half astonishment, half contempt. “You’re hopeless. I always knew too many years of homemaking would rot your mind.”

  Byrl turned from her impossible cousin to join a group whose minds worked more in harmony with her own. And this left Debbie free at last to escape back to the quiet cottage.

  She had gone less than half a block along the Promenade, though, when she heard footsteps behind her. She slowed her pace, thinking that whoever it was would go on by. Then she gritted her teeth in frustration as her solitude was interrupted when the steps fell into pace with her own. She looked up at the tall dark man who had tried to pick her up earlier.

  “Hello, Pretty Woman. How about letting Ryland Carlsburg escort you home?” Debbie turned to look at a dog scampering up the beach so she could pretend she didn’t see the hand he extended. “You kept melting away at the party. I didn’t want to miss a chance to get acquainted with the future first woman president.”

  Debbie groaned inwardly. Was she being punished for her flippancy? “Well, you’ll have to arrange an interview with my campaign manager. I’m sure you’ll understand. I found making my maiden speech exhausting.”

  Ryland smiled broadly and winked. “I’ll follow up on that. I’m a firm believer in the policy of having friends in high places.”

  Bright chatter never came easily to Debbie, and this situation just didn’t seem worth the effort. She walked on in silence toward the cottage.

  Ryland became suddenly interested when he saw her accommodations. “Excellent location, isn’t it? Pleasant walk to town. Are you enjoying the view?”

  She shrugged. “It’s fine. Byrl and I are just renting it for six weeks.”

  “And next year—how would you feel about staying in a luxury hotel on the same spot?”

  “Luxury hotels aren’t within my budget.”

  “Ah, but I can see that you get special rates. My company plans to build one right here. Seaside’s been changing—slowly—the last 10 or 15 years. But now it’s time for a whole new look—a whole new class of vacationer. And Ryburg Corp. will be at the head of it. Just as soon as we can get the medievalists on the city council to approve. You’re not the only one with ambitions, Madam President.”

  She hurried up the front steps, but before she could reach the door Ryland Carlsburg picked up her hand and kissed it. He left her standing open-mouthed on the doorstep.

  Debbie turned, trembling so hard she could hardly get her key out of her pocket. She fled to the bathroom and turned the taps on full blast. Making little choking noises in her throat, she scrubbed and scrubbed at her hand. She kept on until her skin was red and sore. There, that was enough. Now she could enjoy her bath—get rid of all the tensions the evening had created in her.

  Turning from the sink, she filled the tub with steaming water and four capfuls of Byrl’s aromatherapy herbal wash. She yanked her clothes off, so anxious to get in the water she hardly noticed that she pulled the top button off her blouse in the process. Ahhh. She lay back in the water, soaking her hair as well.

  Gradually she began to relax. And the dark cloud of depression that she had hoped the party would chase away rolled over her. How could she have failed so badly? She had been so determined. She was intelligent, healthy, well-educated, reasonably attractive, only 24 years old. There was no reason she couldn’t make a new life—be a new her. She had lived like a nun in a convent for 6 years. But there was no reason she couldn’t put that behind her. Achieve her own identity. All those bright, successful women at the party had done it.

  And after all, she had already landed a dream of a job. She was incredibly lucky to be promised the position of fabric designer and teacher at Rainbow Land when the woman now in that position left. What else could possibly fit her education and all those years of experience sewing at home so well? But had she left home too precipitously?

  Byrl’s invitation to share a beach cottage had seemed like a godsend. Her nomadic cousin needed a quiet place to turn out the series of columns on two centuries of women in America, which she had sold to Working Woman magazine. And Debbie needed a transition home before she moved to her own apartment and started work. She would have felt like a chaperone on a honeymoon staying with her father and his new bride—even though they had assured her she would be welcome.

  As she looked back over the evening, though, Debbie couldn’t help but wonder if the whole idea had been a terrible mistake. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she go to a party and have a good time like any other woman? If she couldn’t even go to
a book launching party, could she hold down a responsible, creative job? Would she be able to break out of the cocoon she had sheltered in for so long?

  She was still asking herself those same questions when she slipped into her flannel granny gown and pulled her quilt up to her chin. She had been asleep only a short time when the dream came again. Dolls. Beautiful, golden-curled baby dolls with blue eyes. Soft, delicate peachy skin. But then they started to cry. Cry and twist. And break. Broken dolls. Pieces floating and writhing. The cries increased to screams.

  She sat up, her face wet. The screams were her own.

  But even awake, the cries didn’t stop. And the broken dolls continued to contort in her mind. What was wrong with her? She must be losing her mind.

  She reached for one of the little white tablets her doctor had given her when she told him about her sleeping problems. Make them work. Please. Just for tonight.

  Chapter 2

  Debbie drew back the seafoam green drapes covering the picture window that looked out over the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Dr. Hilde’s pill had done its work, and Debbie had finally slept so soundly she hadn’t even heard Byrl come in from the party. Byrl would sleep for hours yet. But Debbie loved the misty early mornings. She felt cozy, protected. Back in her cocoon.

  She nestled in her quilted bathrobe in a corner of the sofa, sipping coffee from a mug, the fat Sunday Oregonian unopened on the coffee table. Before her the white-edged, silvery waves washed the pale sand with their eternal rhythm beneath a blue-gray sky. The whole scene was scrimmed with a light haze like a soft-focus photograph. Near the water’s edge two early strollers followed at a leisurely pace behind a large, bounding dog, while an occasional seagull swooped down to settle on the concrete balustrade of the beachfront Promenade.

  Relishing the scene before her, Debbie was glad Ryland Carlsburg hadn’t constructed his luxury hotel on the spot yet. She hoped he never would. But then she shouldn’t be so selfish. Just think how many more people could be enjoying this scene in a hotel offering the same vista that the five cottages on this lot enjoyed. But still—it wouldn’t be the same …