Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (17 page)

“Miss Tilly, I’ll have to talk to the gang, of course, but I’m sure a large crew of us would be thrilled to move in to your precious home. And you’re right. We’ve got carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and, of course, the menial labor like me.”

Joy painted Miss Tilly’s demeanor. “Wonderful, honey. Thank the good Lord. Oh, but did I mention it’s in Victory Heights? I know that’s far, but the bus runs there. That’ll be okay, won’t it?”

“I’m sure it will.” In her mind’s eye Rosalie pictured the path. It wouldn’t add more than ten extra minutes to their bus ride.

“Even though all the repairs are too much for my nephew, I’m sure he’d help too. He knows the place better than anyone.”

“That’d be great. I’m sure we’ll need all the help we can get.”

A glance at her wristwatch told Rosalie she should start her trek up the hill toward home. She wanted to share the amazing news with the girls before work. She couldn’t wait to see their reaction, especially Birdie’s. Maybe this would brighten Birdie’s day and patch things up between them.

Yet something held her on the bench. An uneasy sense that if she left this spot—and the presence of the woman sitting next to her—the bright joy she swam in for the last fifteen minutes would give way to her usual murky sadness. Like a child clinging to a mother’s hand, Rosalie didn’t want to let go of Miss Tilly and this rare contented feeling.

The breeze awakened, and a gentle shower of a cottonwood tree’s white fluffs floated over them, like a whispering snowfall. A new thought seemed to accompany them.

“Miss Tilly,” she said, brushing cotton from her hair, “I know you probably have to get back to work, but would you tell me a little about this garden? If you have time.”

Miss Tilly patted her lap. “Of course, honey. They can get along without me until the lunch rush.” She gazed at Rosalie in sympathy and understanding, rubbing a bit of cotton between her fingers.

“I love telling the story of this garden,” she began, her voice animated again. “During the Great War, this diner was owned by a New York entrepreneur, Charlie Whalen, who came here for the big World’s Fair exposition back in ’09.” She tapped Rosalie’s hand. “He saw our lovely city and had to become a part of it. That’s how the diner got its name, by the way, The Golden Nugget. You know, because that exposition—”

“The Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition?” Rosalie asked. “My grandma took my mother to the A-Y-P. She loved the Hawaii room. My dad always promised to take us to Hawaii.” Rosalie sniffed sardonically. How silly she’d been to believe his promise.

“My, wouldn’t that be nice? Anyway, they made quite a hullabaloo about the gold rush at the exposition, or so I’m told. I guess the gold rush is what helped make Seattle a bona fide city. But I’ve gotten off the point, haven’t I?” She chuckled at herself. “What I wanted to tell you was that Mr. Whalen didn’t fall in love with our city only. A young lady recently arrived with her brother from Norway also tickled his fancy—and won his heart. Soon the two were married.”

“And she’s the one who planted the garden?”

“That’s right. Savea—that was her name. What a lovely girl. There’s a photograph of her in the office. She had a cheerful smile, and even from the picture you can also tell she had shining blond hair and fair eyes. She planted the flower garden and lovingly tended to it.

“When the Great War broke out and Mr. Whalen left for the trenches, Savea had to take care of the diner all by herself. Then he died over there.” Tilly placed an aged hand on her chest. “Of course I didn’t know him, but I’ve heard all about him from Hans. You saw him, the one mopping the floor. He’s Savea’s brother. She died a few years after the Great War. Typhoid.”

“It’s a lovely story,” Rosalie said. “Sad but lovely.”

The sound of an airplane, probably an army transport from McChord Field, boomed overhead, breaking the peaceful silence.

“Yes, but Hans also shared a dark side to it.”

Rosalie leaned closer.

“Apparently after Charlie’s death, Savea became bitter. At first she tried to stay positive, but the pain got too heavy to carry. It was as if she let go of the only ropes that clung to happiness and tumbled into a pit of anger and resentment. She stopped tendin’ her garden—it all died. And she growled at Hans and any family who’d come to help her. Hans said she acted as if she’d rather be dead. Her heart was dead already.” Miss Tilly breathed in a deep breath, then freed it. “I wish I could’ve shared the Lord’s love with her. His grace. I think it was more her own bitterness that killed her, rather than the typhoid.”

A hummingbird darted to a hanging basket of geraniums. Its invisibly fast wings whirred, not unlike Rosalie’s thoughts. As she’d listened to the older woman’s story, many yearnings awakened in Rosalie’s soul about love, friendship, and following one’s dreams.

“You know,” Tilly’s voice softened, slowed, “I heard you girls talking earlier.”

Rosalie slumped, a ball winding tight in her stomach as she recalled her argument with Birdie. Of course Tilly heard them. They weren’t quiet about their quarrel, and Rosalie was the most vehement of all.
Such a temper. Why can’t I control it?

“I’m sorry about that. We were pretty loud. I—I wasn’t kind.”

“I forgive you. But you know, when you lash out, it reveals more than momentary frustration. I’m guessin’ there’s a deep hurt that makes you blow up at your loved ones. And, honey, the Bible says the root of all self-centered anger is sin.”

A gray cloud blocked out the sun again, leaving the vibrant flowers muted and bowing their heads. Rosalie shivered as the ball in her stomach rose to become an aching mass in her throat. Sin? She knew her temper was a problem, but sin? How could that be when the argument wasn’t her fault?

“Miss Tilly, I’m sorry, but you don’t know the situation. That no-good reporter, Kenny, splattered my name and identity all over Seattle without asking me.”

Silence rained around them. Miss Tilly didn’t answer.

And then something stirred—a knowledge in Rosalie’s heart that she’d been wrong to condemn Kenny. She thought back to the article, trying to remember exactly what it had said. Kenny had said he’d like to get to know her better. He said he’d enjoyed meeting her even more than Lana Turner. He said—he really hadn’t said anything harmful, had he? Sure, she didn’t like the attention the news story brought, but if Kenny Davenport purposefully tried to hurt her, he could have done it a dozen ways.

“Oh, Miss Tilly, you’re right. I treated Kenny awfully from the first moment I met him. He was so sweet when we danced. In that article he said I was beautiful, but all I could do was think of how I didn’t want people to see it—see me.” She wasn’t sure if Miss Tilly understood what she was referring to, but she needed to get the words out. “Birdie too. I really should apologize. I was wrong to be mad at her.” Rosalie breathed out, a hint of relief relaxing her shoulders. But the cloud still covered the sun, and her arms shivered.

Tilly wrapped a warm arm around Rosalie. “Honey, I’m glad you see that you weren’t justified in your anger toward your friends, but that’s only part of it. Have you ever thought about why you lashed out? Not what
they
did, but what lies within you?”

Rosalie’s hands trembled as the word Tilly had used flashed in her mind like a newsreel.
Sin. Sin. Sin
.

Moisture rose to her eyes. “Of course sin is the cause of my anger. I’ve treated people horribly. I’ve thought about myself before others. I used to go to church. I remember what the Bible says about sin.”

Did she bring me out here to condemn me? Didn’t she know I’ve been trying to make it right ever since Vic died—since before he died? But the guilt, the stress, never lifts.

“I try so hard, Miss Tilly. I know I’ve failed, but I do try to make it right. It’s never enough.” She dropped her head into her hands and unbridled tears wet her fingers. “I’m so tired of trying, Miss Tilly. So tired.”

As she said the words, a weariness weighed on her chest. It was different from the aching arms and back she felt after work. It was different from the tired feet after a night of dancing. It was deeper and never seemed to lift. Even a good night’s sleep, a smile from a friend, and shared laughter didn’t help.

“‘Come to me all ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest.’ Remember, honey? He will give you rest—not just for your tired bones, but for your exhausted heart.”

“But you don’t know what I’ve done. God must hate me for what I’ve done. How could He ever give me rest?”

“God’s Word says to confess our sins to one another. Have you told anyone where you’ve messed up? Have you let anyone else help you carry the weight?”

“No, how could I? Everyone would hate me.” She sniffed and looked at Tilly.

Compassion shone in her eyes, not condemnation. And even though Rosalie had just met her, she saw something special radiating from Miss Tilly’s face. She knew this woman would listen, would not judge or accuse, but would tell the truth. Would insist on the truth.

Miss Tilly seemed to read Rosalie’s thoughts. “Tell me, honey. And then, together, we’ll tell Christ.”

With a tearful voice, Rosalie choked out everything: how she was never in love with Vic, how she was afraid to tell him, how she called off the wedding—breaking a noble, loving man’s heart. As she spoke, a miracle surprised her. The miracle of a tender touch on her back—Miss Tilly’s soft fingers caressing, communicating something Rosalie couldn’t fathom. Love, but not Tilly’s love.
God’s.

Rosalie’d said this much, so she may as well test this new acceptance with the darkest, ugliest side of herself. “I cheated on Vic too, Miss Tilly. I kissed a sailor I didn’t even know and spent the weekend acting like his girl. I was lonely. I was mad that Vic had left and…it was just days after that when I heard he wasn’t coming back at all.” She expected the woman’s hand to stop its gentle touch, but it kept on.

“Everyone, including Vic’s family, thinks I was madly in love with Vic. And I’ve accepted their sympathy for the last year. Even Birdie and the girls. They all feel so sorry that I lost this wonderful man. But I didn’t deserve him, and I definitely don’t deserve their sympathy. I justified my lies in different ways, but now I see how wrong I was.”

All these months, she’d thought verbalizing her guilty deeds would cause her misery to multiply. She assumed the shame would strangle her, leave her devastated like a discarded waif. But instead, a small bud peeked out its newborn head, finding root in her soul. Hope.

She cautiously raised her eyes, and Tilly pulled Rosalie into her time-aged arms. It was hard to believe they’d just met. It was hard to believe she’d confessed all, and still this woman snuggled her close. The tears came, but with each cry she released, it seemed the wind picked the heartbreak up and carried it away like an old crusty leaf.

Then, when her past lay before her, naked and stark, with no more accusations and regrets, an irresistible urge to pray captured Rosalie.

Vic, Birdie, her family all had spoken the truth of how Jesus took her punishment when He suffered and died on the cross. She’d heard more than one sermon that had proclaimed we simply had to confess our sins, and God would be faithful to forgive them. More than that, He’d also take the punishment too. She didn’t understand a love like that, but it was worth trying out.

Take my punishment, Jesus.

Rosalie knew she deserved to be condemned for her sins; she’d always known that. But she thought she could somehow serve the sentence herself by doing good things, working hard, acting perfect. For the first time, she understood that her sin was too heavy for her to carry, too weighty for her to pay off. She needed someone else to carry it for her.

Her mom had sung of Christ’s “vast, unmeasured, boundless, free” love, but Rosalie had never thought it was for her. She had too much sin, too much darkness, too much pride. But now she knew His forgiveness belonged to her. And she belonged to Jesus.

“Jesus, thank You for accepting me when I don’t deserve it,” she whispered. “From this day forward I want to live for You.” She closed her eyes, soaking in the sun, which had returned to warm her.

And as she enjoyed the warmth of Tilly’s hug, Rosalie pictured Jesus holding her in the same way.

Her feet seemed to carry Rosalie up Queen Anne Hill on their own. She felt as if she’d lost a hundred pounds, and she couldn’t remember a day so beautiful or an inner peace so comforting.

As she approached their apartment building, Rosalie eyed the structure, no longer feeling the pain of knowing the place would be torn down. Through Tilly, God had provided something better. A new place for her and her friends.

Rosalie strode up the sidewalk, and a dark blue tarp caught her attention. Vic’s car had been parked behind the apartment building since he’d left. Before Vic died, she’d taken his “baby” out a few times—even given it a wash and shine. But since she heard he wasn’t coming back, she hadn’t touched this tangible reminder of her loss.

Rosalie strode around the shady side of The Queen’s Garden, through the dew-laden, tall grass toward Vic’s Ford. Her fears, so real since Vic died, now seemed distant. She wanted to face her unresolved ache over Vic—the guilt was swept away by Christ’s forgiveness—but her wound would take time to heal.