More Than a Dream (9 page)

Elizabeth found herself playing the simple tune and singing along with the music. ‘‘Jesus loves me! This I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong; they are weak but he is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me!’’ She didn’t bother to dash away the tears that for some unknown reason streamed down her face. ‘‘Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! The Bible tells me so.’’

Her hands stilled. Her head bowed. ‘‘Lord, I know that you love me. But the question is, do I love you . . . enough?’’ Her whisper floated on the breeze that lifted the sheer summer curtains and dried her tears. ‘‘Can I ever love you enough? You say to love you with all my heart, soul, strength, and mind. How can I do that?’’

Her hands wandered back to the keyboard, this time finding their way to hymns that flowed one after another as if joined by a chain of notes. Darkness crept into the room, dancing with the music, peeking at her from the other side of the piano, spinning and dipping like a little girl lost in the loveliness of song.

When the last note drifted away, her father’s voice brought her back to the room, to the moment. ‘‘Thank you, my dear. I had no idea how much I needed that.’’

‘‘Me too.’’ She reached up and, picking up the sheets of paper, rose and handed him the letter. ‘‘From Thornton.’’

‘‘You don’t mind if I read it?’’ Phillip reached for the letter.

She shook her head. ‘‘Did I make the right decision not to follow Thornton to Africa?’’

‘‘I believe so. You didn’t love him.’’

‘‘I know. And I knew it then. Good night.’’ She bent down and kissed his cheek.

It is so easy to wonder,
she thought as she climbed the stairs to her room.
Did I do not only the right thing but the best thing? Best
for Thornton as well as for me?
She continued pondering as she got undressed.
I’m just sorry Thornton got hurt in the end. He wasn’t
supposed to fall in love with me. We were only pretending
.

She and Thornton Wickersham, Pastor Mueller’s nephew who had attended Carleton for his final year, had agreed to act as though they were falling in love so that the girls at Carleton would leave him alone and her mother would quit trotting out eligible young men for her. All Annabelle wanted was for her daughter to marry, preferably well, and become a concert pianist—instead of a doctor. Elizabeth desired neither, believing she could not manage both a medical practice and a family complete with husband.

She sighed as her full cotton batiste nightgown slipped over her head. Why was it that people got their feelings hurt so easily?

Looking back, she had to admit she and Thornton had enjoyed many good times together. And now there was no one with whom to share ice cream or croquet or bicycle riding or walks down by the river. Most of her friends had already married. She corrected that. Her two friends. And they had moved away. She’d not taken time during college to make new friends, instead concentrating all her efforts on her studies, working for her father, and assisting Dr. Gaskin whenever he asked.

Before turning out the gaslight, she read one chapter and one psalm in her Bible, a habit she’d formed while in grade school after a missionary came to their Sunday school. He’d told them how important it was to learn God’s Word while they were young and challenged them to stay in His Word daily throughout their lives.

The missionary had been from Africa.

So why not teach Thorliff to play croquet? He’s a good baseball
player. Surely he can learn to hit a wooden ball on the ground
.

With that thought in mind, she said her prayers and rolled over, the moonlight tracing intricate shadows on the floor of her room, a mockingbird singing, perhaps mistaking the bright moonlight for sunshine.

I’m thanking you, Lord, for the school you will send me to and
for the chance to learn patience
—she rolled her eyes at that one—
and for the full knowledge that you know what is ahead. I just wish
you would give me a glimpse
.

With her mother now in charge of the accounts at the newspaper and Thorliff working all summer, Elizabeth had no reason to rush in the morning, so she ate her breakfast out under the oak tree in the backyard. When she finished, she cut some deep red roses for the house, arranged them in vases, and set one on the narrow table in the entry hall, another on the piano, and a third on the dining room table.

Not knowing what to do next, she went into the kitchen. ‘‘You need anything from the market?’’ she asked Cook.

‘‘No. I’ve already been.’’ Cook gave the pie dough on the table another pass with the rolling pin.

‘‘Oh. Do you need some help around here?’’

‘‘Not that I can think of.’’ Cook flipped the dough into the pie plate. ‘‘All your things ready for graduation?’’

Elizabeth ticked them off on her fingers. ‘‘Dress is pressed and hanging ready, thanks to you. Also petticoats. Menu planned for the reception afterward. Guests invited.’’ She looked up. ‘‘Anything else you can think of?’’

Cook added the home-canned peach pie filling. ‘‘No, nothing.’’

In reality her mother had been the one to plan the reception. Had it been left to Elizabeth, she’d have been content with the one at the school.

‘‘Just think, as of tomorrow afternoon, I will be a college graduate.’’ She leaned against the doorjamb.

‘‘And that is a major accomplishment.’’ Finished crimping the edges of the pie, Cook trimmed the crust and slid the pie into the oven, wiping the perspiration from her forehead with the edge of her white apron. She returned to the floury board and began rolling again.

‘‘If there is nothing you need, I think I’ll take a book outside. I haven’t read for pleasure for so long, I’m not sure I will remember how.’’

‘‘I’ll bring out lemonade.’’

After fetching
The Red Badge of Courage
by Stephen Crane from the library, Elizabeth made herself comfortable on the chaise lounge in the shade and read the first page. By the third page, her eyelids felt as if they were attached to fishing weights. She forced herself to read another page and had no idea what she’d read before the book flopped on her chest and her eyelids refused to rise again.

‘‘So here’s our sleeping beauty.’’ Her father’s voice brought her back from a lovely stroll along the river, a handsome man beside her. Who he was, she had no idea because she hadn’t been able to see his face.

She stretched both arms above her head, too far to trap the yawn that caught her unawares. ‘‘Oh, I was having such a nice dream.’’

‘‘With a Prince Charming, no doubt.’’ Phillip took the chair at the table and drained the waiting glass of lemonade.

‘‘That was mine.’’

‘‘Too bad. I was working while you were snoozing away the day. Thorliff is joining us for dinner, so you might want to freshen up a bit.’’ He reached over and lifted a fallen leaf from her hair. ‘‘I’m glad to see you resting. You’ve earned it.’’

He pulled her up with one hand, and together they strolled into the house.

‘‘What are you doing this afternoon?’’ Elizabeth asked Thorliff a little while later as they were eating the peach pie still warm from the oven.

‘‘Working at the paper.’’ Thorliff wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Do you know how to play croquet?’’

‘‘No.’’

She turned to her father. ‘‘I think he should learn, and I should be the one to teach him . . . today.’’

Phillip gave her one of his my-daughter-can-have-her-way-today-since-she-is-about-to-graduate-from-college smiles and nodded to Thorliff. ‘‘The princess has spoken. Surely you wouldn’t mind an afternoon learning to play croquet? You are due a day off anyway.’’

‘‘But I was going to write on . . .’’ Thorliff stared from the complacent smile on Elizabeth’s face to the helpless shrug of his employer. ‘‘All right, if you say so.’’

‘‘You needn’t act like you are being punished. After all, it’s a game for fun.’’ Elizabeth folded her napkin and stuck it into the silver napkin ring by her plate.

‘‘Give it all you’ve got, son. She is a good teacher but a go-forthe-jugular player.’’

‘‘Now, Phillip . . .’’ Annabelle shook her head and looked up toward her eyebrows. ‘‘Don’t listen to a word he says, Thorliff. He so loves to tease.’’

‘‘Have you ever won a game off her?’’ Phillip looked over his glasses at his wife, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

‘‘No, but then we all know how abysmal I am at anything athletic. She got all her prowess from you, dear.’’

‘‘Well, I haven’t won more than one or two matches since she was ten. She hits me into the rose garden or the fishpond every time. Did you know lilacs are mean and vicious creatures that delight in flaying shirt sleeves and hide?’’

‘‘Father, you are going to scare Thorliff off, and then you will have to take his place.’’

‘‘Spare me, Lord.’’ Phillip clasped his hands and looked heavenward.

Elizabeth, the twinkle in her eyes matching that of her father’s, held out her hand. ‘‘Come on, Mr. Bjorklund, surely you have not lost heart.’’

He stood and pushed his chair back up to the table. ‘‘If I don’t return, you know where to find me, ensnared by the lilacs or still hunting my ball in the pond.’’

‘‘Oh, never fear. It’s easy to rake them off the bottom. The pond isn’t that big.’’ Her merry laugh preceded him out the kitchen door and into the backyard where the wickets were already in place.

‘‘Have you really never played before?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘Guilty as charged. We don’t have many smooth lawns like this on the farm, in fact no lawns at all. I did learn to play badminton up at school.’’

‘‘Well, I’m afraid skill in one does not contribute to skill in the other. Which color do you want?’’ She pointed to the mallets and balls in the wheeled wooden cart.

‘‘Ah, blue.’’

‘‘Good. Red is my favorite. The purpose of the game is to roll your ball through each of those wickets.’’ Her hands waved the pattern to follow. ‘‘And through those final three to hit the peg before I do. On the way if you hit my ball with yours, you can knock me out of the playing field, thus my father’s comments about the vengeful lilac hedge or the waiting pond. A good player tries to keep the other off the field as much as possible.’’

‘‘I can see that.’’ Thorliff contemplated the playing area, the tip of his tongue massaging his right cheek. ‘‘Could you please show me how to tap the ball? Surely there are tricks in that too?’’

‘‘Of course. I’ll start from the beginning. You hold your mallet so . . .’’ She positioned her hands on the stick of the mallet. ‘‘Then you make contact with the ball like so.’’ Her ball rolled obediently through the first three hoops. ‘‘Now you try.’’

Thorliff stationed his feet like she had, held the stick the same, and tapped the ball, and it rolled through two hoops and out before the third. ‘‘Hey!’’

‘‘You have to hit it straight on.’’ She tapped her ball again and it rolled toward the next hoop, stopping close to straight on.

‘‘May I have a few practice shots?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ She leaned on her stick, the mallet providing a good brace. ‘‘Hit away.’’

After five or six practice hits Thorliff announced himself ready to play.