All Things New (Virtuous Heart) Page 2

  The clock on the mantel whirred and clunked—any ability it once possessed to chime had long since departed. But the oddly endearing sounds left a crack in Debbie’s refuge. It was time to get ready for church. Time to face a new situation. Time to meet a roomful of new people. Well, she had survived last night’s party—barely. Church couldn’t be half that bad.

  A short time later Debbie drove the 11 miles through beautiful green woodland to Cannon Beach, still arguing with herself. It was ridiculous to feel threatened by the thought of going to church. What place could be safer? And why was she worrying about safety anyway? She should be excited about this new experience. She was going to attend morning worship at a world-famous Bible study center. She had heard of the Cannon Beach Conference all her life. Besides, she never missed church. It was odd, really. But it seemed that the more cut off from God she felt, the more necessary church attendance seemed to be.

  She turned in at the conference grounds between two tall brick columns and surveyed the layout of the freshly painted, brick-red buildings with crisp, white trim. Which one was the chapel? Debbie glanced nervously at her watch. Going into a roomful of strangers was bad enough. Going in late was unthinkable.

  Several people were entering a long, low building across the grounds. That must be it. As Debbie hurried forward, banks of colorful flowers flourishing around the green plush carpet of grass cheered her on. Masses of yellow marigolds, red salvia, white alyssum, and intensely purple velvet petunias made a joyfully welcoming kaleidoscope. And offered the comfort of home. Debbie’s flower garden had always been her greatest joy. She loved growing things, nurturing tiny green shoots and seeing them flower into mature beauty. And she would never give up on the weakest, most forlorn seedling. I’ll just give it a chance, she would think. And she was often rewarded for her care.

  Debbie slipped into a back seat of the chapel just as they were finishing the first hymn. The next hymn was followed by announcements of the week’s activities: seminars on music and theology, family camp, women’s Bible study, teen beach service this afternoon, this evening a special reception in honor of Mrs. Adelaide Masefield, who would be their guest for the last night of the conference … As the list continued, Debbie looked around her. She liked the cozy feeling of the natural woods and red carpet. And at the front, two tall, narrow stained-glass windows reflected the work of the Creator with a design of flowers, trees, and sky.

  Her attention returned to the speaker as he introduced their special guest for the morning, head of the theology department of Pacific Evangelical Seminary in Portland. “His credits are many, including the fact that he received his Ph.D. from Harvard Divinity School and is still an Evangelical—which has to be proof of a firm foundation …”

  The audience laughed. Debbie shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. Why did announcements and introductions have to take up so much time? Who cared about the biography of some ancient academician? “He is the author of Joy in the Mourning, Dealing with Guilt and Grief, and A Little Lower than the Angels …” The list went on. Debbie crossed her legs the other way. “… and on top of all his other activities, he is a well-known television guest personality. So we are delighted to present to you this morning, Dr. Gregory Masefield.”

  Debbie’s purse slid to the floor, where it lay unretrieved. Her head came up, her lips parted, and she blinked rapidly several times to be sure that the tall blond man standing in the pulpit was really the same man she had met at a cocktail party the night before. No wonder he had been as uncomfortable in those circumstances as she had. She kept wanting to blink her ears to be sure it was the same voice. He had seemed so quiet and soft-spoken last night. The man in the pulpit spoke with such authority. He was dynamic without ever raising his voice. His text was “Created in the image of God,” and he laid out clearly what it meant to be created in the image of the Creator and how this should carry over into one’s respect for human life and one’s love for all people as God’s children. His knowledge of the Scriptures amazed her, as he quoted extensive passages without using notes or looking anything up. He ended with Deuteronomy 30:19, “I have set before you life and death … therefore choose life.”

  The congregation stood for a closing hymn and prayer. Debbie looked down at her hands and realized she had shredded the bulletin she had been holding. It was incredibly cold in the room. And yet her forehead was beaded with perspiration. Why did she keep going to church when the experience always made her feel so guilty? Besides, what did she have to feel guilty about? She believed in God. She believed she was going to heaven. It was just getting through this life that was the problem.

  She ducked quickly out the side door. She had no desire to offer a smiling handshake and bright compliments to the speaker. She wanted to get in her car and lock the doors. And drive back to Seaside very, very slowly. Maybe Byrl would be gone and she could be alone.

  One tug on the locked car door reminded her. Her purse still lay where it had fallen on the floor of the chapel. By the time she walked back across the grounds, the sanctuary was almost empty. Only a cluster of people remained, gathered around the morning’s speaker. She slipped in quietly, found her purse quickly, and was almost to the exit when a familiar voice stopped her. “Deborah Jensen. I thought that was you in the congregation. Wish I’d known you were a believer last night, I’d have taken you along to help me out with Hugh’s Buddhist.”

  “I wouldn’t have been much help—and I can’t imagine you needing any.” It seemed as though she should say something more. They stood by the open door where a blindingly bright bed of red and yellow flowers caught her eye. “The conference center is beautiful—especially the gardening.”

  “Have you seen the beach here—Haystack Rock? Now that’s impressive.”

  She shook her head. “No. This is my first visit to the Oregon coast.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s an hour yet until dinner is served … there’s time to take a quick look. You haven’t been to the Oregon coast if you haven’t seen Haystack Rock.”

  Debbie considered. Her first impulse was to mumble an excuse and run to her car. But no. She took a firm grip on herself. She had come here determined to break old habits, to build a new life. She was silly even to consider declining.

  “Sure. I’d love to. Want to take my car? It’s just over there in the lot.”

  “Great. I have to pick up my daughter first. She’s in the children’s program across the way.” He gestured to another big red building on the far side of the grounds.

  But Debbie’s eyes didn’t follow the pointing right hand, they flew instead to his left where, indeed, a plain gold band encircled the third finger. Did the fact he was married make him safer or more dangerous? Silly. Why should such questions come into the situation at all? They were only going to look at the beach, for goodness’ sake. Still, it took her a moment to adjust her thinking. So why had Byrl pushed her at him if he were married? Probably because Byrl considered any man fair game. Byrl didn’t know anything about him anyway, except that Parkinson House published his books, which were highly respected.

  Debbie suddenly realized he was waiting for her reply. “Oh, sure. Fine. What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Melissa. She’s six. They have an excellent children’s program here. She’s had a great week.”

  “How nice.”

  And Debbie kept repeating that over and over to herself as they entered the colorfully decorated children’s building. Nice. It was nice that Gregory Masefield had a daughter. It was nice that Melissa could go to the beach with them. Melissa was a nice little girl. So why did it require such effort to keep from backing away from the child? Why was it such an effort to smile at her?

  Melissa was as blond as her daddy, but no one could accuse her of having his inclination toward being quiet. She flew into his arms from across the room and giggled as he swung her to the dizzying heights above his head. Back on the ground, she tied the bows on the lace-edged white sunbonnet that matc
hed her organdy pinafore dress and squealed with delight when her daddy informed her of the plan to go to the beach.

  At the car, Debbie handed her keys to Greg. “You drive. You know where we’re going.” She was no more than settled in the passenger seat, however, than Melissa started to climb onto her lap. Debbie let out a little gasp and scooted as far to the side as her seat belt would allow. Apparently the child was accustomed to sitting in her mother’s lap. So where was she, anyway?

  “Not today, Punkin.” Greg pulled his daughter back. “I want you in your own seat with your own seat belt.” He deposited Melissa on the backseat and buckled her belt. Debbie relaxed.

  Greg followed a narrow, winding road that led away from town and up a steep hill. Near the top of the hill he parked. They walked the short distance to the crest of the hill, serenaded by the faint tinkle of wind chimes from the deck of a beach house and Melissa’s light, little-girl voice as she danced between them.

  “Oh!” At the top of the hill Debbie stood transfixed. Even though she was wearing sunglasses, she put her hands up to shade her eyes. The brilliant light shot through the clear sea air and flung handfuls of gleaming diamonds across the blue-white waters and the silvery sands.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Beside her, Greg surveyed the scene. “It takes everyone like that. When Merriweather Clark saw it, he recorded in his journal that he had beheld the grandest and most pleasing prospect that his eyes ever surveyed.”

  “Clark? As in Lewis and Clark?” Debbie struggled to recall her Northwest history lessons. “I didn’t know they were here.”

  “This whole coast is Lewis and Clark country. They call it the edge of history. Did you notice the sculpture back there?”

  Debbie tore her gaze from the panorama before her to look where Greg indicated. A wire sculpture of the buckskin-clad explorers, led by Sacajawea, their Indian guide, stood surveying the view that Captain Clark had so much admired almost 200 years before. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  “As if they were still standing there,” Greg agreed.

  Then Debbie turned again to look at the view the statue was enjoying. Landmark Haystack Rock stood sentinel in the waves with a mist at its feet. To the left, layer after layer of rugged coastal mountains, ethereal with banks of mist hanging between them, stood stacked one behind the other like cardboard cutouts for an elaborate stage setting.

  Greg took a step forward. His arm brushed hers. She moved away. “Haystack is one of the world’s largest freestanding monoliths and a protected wildlife sanctuary. Sea-gulls, puffins—all kinds of birds nest on it, and the base is covered with sea creatures. You can walk out to it when the tide’s—”

  “Daddy, Daddy!” Melissa’s voice floated to them from the beach below. “Listen. I can make the sand squeak!” She began moving in a wide circle, dragging her feet.

  “We’re coming.” Greg led the way down the steep, wooden steps to the beach. Debbie pulled off her shoes and tossed them beside Melissa’s abandoned white patent Mary Janes. Laughing, she followed Melissa around her circle, pushing her feet down hard with each step for maximum effect. Greg stepped out of his shoes and joined them. His larger feet produced an even louder sound. “They call it ‘singing sands.’”

  “They might call it that, but it sounds like squeaking to me.” Debbie abandoned the circle to squeak her way toward the water. “Since you’re so well informed, why do they call it Cannon Beach? Is one of the rocks shaped like a cannon?”

  “Good guess, but actually it’s named for a cannon that washed ashore here. A schooner shipwrecked on Tillamook Head before the lighthouse was built.”

  Bored with making the sands sing, Melissa danced on toward the ocean. Debbie watched as the child began playing tag with the waves, keeping just a jump ahead of them as they rolled up on the sand, then chasing them back out to sea where they belonged. Debbie stood frozen. The pain around her heart was so sharp she couldn’t move. The little sprite, dressed in white organdy, danced with freedom and delight like a bit of seafoam herself. Debbie couldn’t stand to watch. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away. And she couldn’t understand the ache inside her.

  Did the scene recall some forgotten memory? Had she once danced like this on a beach while her mother watched? Was she now, six years later, feeling grief for her mother’s early death? Or was she losing her mind? The painful void she felt inside was the same she experienced when she woke from her anguished nightmares. She had told her doctor about them, and all he had been able to suggest was the Trezadone. But she had no pills now. She had never before needed one in the middle of the day.

  At last a hubbub of noise and motion down the beach moved her attention from the oddly distressing scene. A cluster of horseback riders approached, laughing and chattering, the metal on their harnesses ringing above the noise of the surf. They were riding in the wettest part of the sand where the horses could have the firmest footing, so Greg and Debbie moved back to the dry, warm, squeaky sand to let them pass. For perhaps two or three minutes their view of the sprite-child dancing in the waves was blocked by the broadside of horseflesh.

  When the view cleared, Melissa was not in sight.

  “Melissa!” Greg shouted and darted forward.

  He was answered by a wailing shriek from what appeared to be a clump of sandy seaweed left by the retreating wave. Forgetful of his crisp white shirt and suit pants, he scooped the sodden bundle into his arms and cradled her securely.

  “The horses were in the way. The wave got me.” Melissa’s words came out in frightened sobs.

  “Don’t worry, Punkin. You’re safe now.” Her daddy smoothed the tangled hair back from the child’s brow and carefully wiped the sand off her face. Then he bent and kissed a smooth round cheek before turning toward the car.

  Debbie turned to follow, but her knees buckled under her. She was sitting on the warm sand of a sunny beach, but she saw only blackness. Blackness with red streaks. And the floating, twisted pieces of dismembered dolls. She was awake, but the nightmare held her. The cries of the broken dolls mingled with Melissa’s sobs and Greg’s shouting “Melissa!” And then Debbie realized the shout had been her own.

  “Debbie. What is it? Melissa’s OK.” Greg knelt beside her, one arm holding his daughter, the other around Debbie’s shoulder. “You sounded terrified. Don’t worry. Melissa had a bad fright, but she’s fine. Aren’t you, Punkin?”

  Debbie shook her head. What had happened? What must he think of her? She scrambled unsteadily to her feet. “No, I—That is, I don’t know what happened. I have this sort of nightmare …”

  Greg held her arm to steady her. “What is it? Were you frightened by horses or water or something as a kid?”

  “I—I don’t remember. But that sounds logical.” Oh please, let it be something logical.

  Greg led the way back up the beach. “That makes sense. If you were frightened as badly as you sounded, you likely wouldn’t remember it.”

  “Really? Is that true?” Was there hope? A rational explanation? They started right after her mother’s death. Dr. Hilde thought that was what caused them. But Debbie feared it was something worse. “Certainly. It’s quite normal for the subconscious to suppress something that’s too painful for the conscious mind to deal with. The trouble is, it can’t stay suppressed forever. Someday the pain or fear will have to come out and be dealt with. Do you think you might have almost drowned as a child?”

  “I don’t know. No one ever mentioned it. How can I deal with something I don’t even know happened?”

  “You can’t. You need to ask your parents.”

  Debbie shook her head. “Not easy. My mother died six years ago. My dad’s on his honeymoon.”

  “Brothers? Sisters?”

  “One of each. Twins. They’re four years younger, though. They might not know. I’ll ask Dad when he gets home.” Just the thought that there could be help, that her reactions could be “normal” was the most freeing thing Debbie had ever felt. She could have flun
g out her arms and raced up the beach. Yes, yes, yes! Let it be true. Please.

  Chapter 3

  “Mmmm, there’s something to be said for having Miss American Homemaker for a roommate—I never lived around a kitchen that smelled so good before. It’s a great way to beat the Monday evening blahs. What is it?”

  Debbie smiled. Even a day spent at the computer didn’t dampen Byrl’s habit of speaking in italics. “Salmon soufflé with cucumber sauce.”

  “Sounds divine. Where’d you learn how to do all this?”

  Debbie shrugged and began arranging clusters of green grapes and slices of pale orange cantaloupe on a plate. “Practice. I once cooked my way through the entire Time-Life Foods of the World series, until Angela discovered she’d gained four pounds and threw a fit. Then she went on some ridiculously restricted diet, so I had to try to concoct tasty dishes from a list of about seven allowable foods. I got pretty good at it.”

  When the buzzer sounded, she carefully opened the oven door and gently nudged the soufflé pan with a mitted hand. “Too much shimmy. Another seven minutes. You can wash the salad greens.”

  “Who, me?” Byrl made a face. “You forget I’m liberated from all that.”

  “Yeah, you’ll be liberated to McDonald’s. Wash.”

  Byrl good-naturedly picked up a bunch of leaf lettuce and turned to the sink. “I just can’t get over it. You really like the homemaking bit, don’t you?”

  “I loved the feeling of running a tight ship. I filled the house with beautiful music, delicious food, and happy people. What could possibly be more fulfilling?”

  Byrl shook her head as she flipped the green leaves under running water. “I thought that kind of thinking went out in the ’60s—the 1860s.”