More Than You Know (10 page)

Read More Than You Know Online

Authors: Nan Rossiter

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Family Life

BOOK: More Than You Know
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“She’s such a character,” Micah observed with a grin.
“She is, indeed,” Beryl said, nodding. “She helps keep everything in perspective.”
“Dogs’ll do that,” Micah agreed.
They stood by his car and he nodded to the two cars next to it. “I’m guessing by the New Hampshah plate,” he teased, “the cool Mini Coopah is yahs.”
Beryl laughed. “Yup! You sound like my sistahs.”
He laughed. “I usually try not to sound like a New Englander.” He opened his door and she saw the car seat in back. “A Honda wagon,” she mused. “I can’t remember the last time I saw one of these on the road.”
“It’s a vintage 1997,” he said proudly. “They don’t make ’em anymore. It has over two hundred fifty thousand miles on it. I‘ve thought about trading it in, but I’m having a little trouble letting go.” He paused. “It’s actually Beth’s car . . .” he added, his voice trailing off.
“I know what you mean,” Beryl commiserated. “It’d be like letting go of this old house—it’s so full of memories.”
Micah nodded and started to get in the car, but then leaned against the frame, hesitating. “Ber, I . . . I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” he stammered, “and I know you’re going to be busy . . . but . . .” He cleared his throat and shook his head. “What I mean is—”
“Micah,” Beryl interrupted with a smile, saving him, “if you get a chance tomorrow, could you call me—I know I’ll probably need a break from all this.”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She laughed. “Now, you better get going or Charlotte will be sound asleep.”
He waved as he pulled away and, with Flan standing by her side, watching him go, too, Beryl waved back and smiled.
“Ber, we found more stuff!” Isak called, hearing the screen door squeak and bang shut.
Beryl found them back in their mom’s office. Rumer held up a stack of white envelopes with a red ribbon around them, and Isak held up a small pile of lined notebook paper filled with their mom’s long, familiar handwriting. She handed the pile to Beryl and continued to sift through the drawer’s contents.
Beryl studied the top sheet. It was like all the others, but it was wrinkled and it had a stain on it—round like a cup. Beryl read silently:
I haven’t written anything in a long time—but an old friend came to see me today. He told me his wife had died. I told him I was sorry. At first, I wasn’t sure of his name—but, now, I know it was David.
As we sat together, I could see tears in his eyes....
“It’s very hard to lose a loved one,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He nodded as tears spilled down his cheeks.
The rest of the pages were held together with a rubber band and clipped to the top page was a blue envelope with their names written on it in their mother’s hand.
PART II
For now we see in a mirror, dimly;
but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then I shall know even as also I am known.
 
—I Corinthians 13:12
15
B
eryl pulled her leg up under her as she sat in one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch. Taking a sip of her tea, she looked at the pond reflecting the pink and orange sunset stretching across the sky and leaned back, listening to the peepers and feeling oddly content.
“Do we need the porch lights?” Isak called.
“Not yet,” Beryl called back. “Candles would be nice, though.”
“Got ’em,” Rumer called from the kitchen. Moments later, her sisters joined her on the porch, Rumer bringing the candles, already lit, and Isak carrying glasses and a newly opened bottle of wine.
“Can the beasts come out?” she asked.
Beryl nodded and Isak held the door open. The old bulldog waddled out, plopped down at Beryl’s feet, and promptly lifted her leg over her head. “Not if you’re going to do that, though,” Beryl warned, nudging Flan with her foot. Flannery looked up indignantly, snorted, rested her blocky head on her paws, and looked gloomy. Thoreau, meanwhile, curled up happily on Rumer’s lap and purred loudly as she stroked under his chin.
“Okay,” Beryl said, taking a deep breath, “are you ready?”
They nodded and, with the candles flickering in the warm evening breeze, she opened the blue envelope, slipped out the stationery, and began to read—her voice soft and clear and, to her sisters, sounding remarkably like their mom’s.
To my beloved daughters—who are dearer to me than life itself!
It’s very odd to sit down at this old kitchen table—the scene of so many fond memories—and write a letter, knowing you probably won’t read it until after my time on this lovely old earth has passed—but who knows how things will turn out?
Perhaps the good Lord will spare me and allow me to tell you these things instead—though I don’t deserve to.
My life has been blessed, dear ones. Not only have I been given three lovely daughters to fill my days with joy and wonder, but in my lifetime, I’ve loved—and been loved by—two good men—yes, two!
Your father was everything to me, and when he died, I was devastated. I didn’t know how I would manage—how I would carry on and raise three little girls alone. But the Lord held me close in those dark days and gave me the strength I needed; I pray every day that you, too, will find Him to be a source of strength and guidance, no matter what trial you’re facing.
I never expected to love again, but when David came into my life, I was surprised and swept away. Ours is the story I leave behind. Try as I might, though, I’m afraid bits and pieces are missing—as my memory has already begun to fail. Only recently has it occurred to me that you will come across these pages one day—and then you will know me fully—and I pray you will forgive me, just as I pray God will forgive us both.
Don’t be sad for me, dear ones! I’ve lived and loved with all my heart! And I will always love you—much more than you know!
Mum
Beryl handed the thin blue page to Rumer and waited while her sisters read it for themselves; then she pulled the rubber band from the stack of papers on her lap and took a deep breath. “Still ready?” she asked with raised eyebrows. They sipped their wine and nodded.
It’s funny how one knows, deep down, when something’s wrong. At first it was just little things—like trying to remember a name, or a word, or where I’d put something—but lately it feels as if long shadows, the kind that fall across the backyard late in the day, are slowly creeping across my mind. I can’t bring myself to say the words, but in my heart, I’m terrified that the lovely, silken days of my life will be lost in these long finger-like shadows—that my voice will grow silent, and a strange darkness will close in around me, stealing all that is dear. It is my fervent hope and prayer, however, that—by writing down my most intimate memories—they won’t be lost in the shadows forever.
As I write now, I find it so very difficult to believe that I could ever forget the first time I saw him—it is as clear to me as if it happened yesterday. It was one of those steamy August evenings when the air is so heavy all you can think about is standing in front of a fan or plunging into icy water. Unfortunately, there was no time for such frivolities; it was my second night working at MacDowell and I’d been assigned to serve dinner. I was late, and the hall was already crowded and busy. Some of the staff had unexpectedly taken off to go to a three-day concert in upstate New York, so we were very shorthanded. John pointed to my tables and I hurried over to deposit steaming bowls of garlic mashed potatoes and oven-warmed platters of rare roast beef on the rustic oak table boards. It was then that I saw him, sitting near the open windows, talking with another artist and sopping up his salad dressing with one of the hot, crusty rolls we serve. The late-day sunlight fell across his face, illuminating cheerful laugh lines that crinkled around his eyes. He was roguishly handsome—his nose angled straight and narrow, his chin chiseled and square—the combination giving him the look of an aristocrat. His hair was long, parted to the side, and fell carelessly over his eyes, and the back was cut in a thick dark wedge, forming a duck’s tail against his sunburned neck. As I watched him, he reached up to brush it back with one sweep of his long brown fingers—a gesture I would grow to know very well and, later on, when I was missing him most, ache to see again. Both men looked up when I set down their food and he smiled, his dark blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Flustered and still trying to catch up, I said I’d be right back, hurried away, and returned with a blue ceramic bowl filled with grilled summer vegetables, swimming in melted butter, and a gravy boat brimming with rich brown mushroom gravy, which, I discovered later, was a hearty meal in itself when sopped up with those warm, buttery rolls. I set these down, noticed their glasses were empty, and asked if they’d like some iced tea. They both hesitated, looking perplexed, as if they hadn’t realized they didn’t have anything to drink, and I thought to myself:
It’s not a hard question.
“I forgot to bring a bottle,” his companion said, “so I guess I’ll have tea.”
“Don’t be silly,” the aristocrat replied in an accent that fit him perfectly but caught me completely off guard. “I must have something on the table.”
He started to push back his chair, but I interrupted, “I’d be happy to get it for you . . .” And then—surprised by my own impulsiveness—plowed on, “I-I just need to know your name.”
He looked surprised as he eased back into his chair. “It’s Gilead . . . David.” I nodded, and as I hurried over to the long table that served as a makeshift bar, I couldn’t help but think of the lyrics to one of my favorite old hymns, “There Is a Balm in Gilead.” It didn’t take long to find a bottle of Merlot with his name scrawled in long, elegant handwriting on the luggage tag hanging around it. I reached for one of the corkscrews lying on the table and, because I didn’t have much experience with opening wine, I accidently screwed it in on an angle; fortunately, I was finally able to pry it out in two pieces—without dropping in any cork crumbs!
I brought the bottle back to the table and tried to appear nonchalant as I poured, but I needn’t have worried; they were so caught up in their conversation they didn’t even notice me, at least not until I picked up his salad plate and sent his fork clattering to the floor. He retrieved it and, with a smile, placed it gingerly on top of my pile. “Got everything now?” he teased.
“I think so,” I said, laughing. When I looked up, his eyes caught mine and I hesitated, feeling the heat of my body rush to my cheeks. We both seemed caught up in that moment . . . until his friend broke the silence.
“Sorry to be a pest, but when you have a chance, do you think we could have some more of those rolls?”
“Of . . . of course,” I stammered, trying to regain my composure—my heart pounding and my mind wondering what in the world had just happened.
After dinner, he didn’t linger for coffee and dessert, as so many of the other artists did, and I only happened to see him through the open window as he headed down the path toward the studios. The sun was setting, silhouetting his tall, slender frame, and I noticed that his gait was uneven—then I realized he was using a cane.
The rest of that evening dragged on endlessly in the oppressive heat. When I finally arrived home, the entire house was asleep, including my poor mom, who’d dozed off with her book in her lap. I shook her gently and asked if she wanted to stay, but she said no and I hugged her and watched as her car bumped up the driveway. I turned off the lights, tiptoed up the stairs, and slipped into the girls’ room. Rumer was already in a twin bed by then because little Beryl needed the crib, but she’d been very grown up about it—happy, I’m sure, to be treated like her big sister. I gently kissed their warm foreheads, whispered their prayers, and retreated to the bathroom for a quick shower. The cool water rushed over my shoulders, but the relief was only temporary as I was steaming by the time I’d dried off. I collapsed onto my bed and stared into the darkness, trying to unwind. My thoughts drifted to the Englishman . . . and I couldn’t help but wonder why someone as young as he appeared to be using a cane.
Finally, I fell into a fitful sleep—tossing and turning and dreaming—reliving the night terror I longed to put behind me. But there it was, as real as ever—Tom’s truck rolling, falling—until I awoke, screaming—tears streaming down my cheeks, my heart pounding. I covered my face, muffling my heartbroken sobs, and rolled onto my side to look out at the hazy moon, trying to discern what was real. A small figure appeared in the darkness beside my bed—little Isak, barely five, hair mussed, eyelashes glistening with frightened tears. “Mama?” she whispered, her tiny finger lightly touching my hand. “Why are you crying?” She climbed onto the bed and I felt her small, warm body and smelled the sweet, clean scent of her hair. I stroked her smooth cheek as she snuggled next to me and I whispered, “Don’t worry, honeybee.” She drifted off, immediately unburdened, but I lay awake for a long time, listening to thunder booming in the distance.
 
MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire, was the home—and idea—of the great American composer Edward MacDowell and his pianist wife, Marian. Edward had often credited the tranquil setting of the farm—purchased in 1896—as the reason for his success, but when he became gravely ill, he expressed his desire to see the farm become a retreat for other artists, and Marian immediately set to work making his dream come true. The plan was dubbed The Peterborough Idea, and a fund, established in Edward’s name, received national support; over time, thirty-two studios were built—each a private retreat in which an artist’s creativity could flourish. Edward lived to see his dream realized in the summer of 1907 when the first fellows arrived and, before long, artists of all disciplines—painters, writers, poets, and composers—from all over the country were applying for the eight-week residencies offered by the prestigious MacDowell Colony.
To me, however, MacDowell was simply an answer to a prayer for work that I found in the Help Wanted section of the
Monadnock Ledger.
It was a blessing that kept me busy and kept my mind from dwelling on all that might have been. Even though Tom had life insurance, the money wouldn’t last forever, so soon after he died, I began looking for work. Because I had three little ones at home, my availability was restricted; on top of that, the only sitters I could afford were my mom and Tom’s mom—because they were free and because they were willing to help in any way they could; but I couldn’t burden them all the time. In the beginning, they took turns watching the girls, but soon they decided they’d much rather babysit during the day than late at night, so I asked John if I could change my hours. He must’ve known my situation because he was always accommodating—and patient when I was late, which was often. Looking back, I can’t help wondering at God’s amazing providence.
Isak shifted uneasily in her chair. “Okay, I’m sorry to interrupt here, but Dad is killed in a tragic accident, Mum’s life is turned upside down—she’s devastated, has to find a job, raise three little girls alone—and she’s still amazed by God’s providence?!” Isak’s voice was incredulous and edged with anger. “How is that amazing providence?! Wouldn’t it have been more providential for God to let Dad survive?” She shook her head defiantly. “I definitely wouldn’t have had the same reaction—in fact, I honestly don’t know how Mum kept her faith . . .” Her voice trailed off, her eyes glistening.
Rumer put her arm around her sister and Beryl swallowed, trying to think of an answer. “I don’t know, Isak. I don’t think Mum blamed God. Everyone faces tragedy and sadness in life, but God doesn’t make bad things happen.” She paused. “He promises to be with us when we’re going through them, though, and I think that’s where Mum’s faith came from.”
Isak wasn’t convinced. “What about having a plan for good? I don’t see the good in His plan for Mum.”
Rumer nodded sympathetically. “I guess we don’t always get to see the good because we don’t get to see the effect a tragic event has on other people. Ber, what did Mum call it?”
Beryl smiled. “God’s tapestry.”
Isak rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine. “Whatever. I still think a better plan would’ve been for Dad to live to see us all grow up.”
Beryl looked back at the page. “Should I keep going?” They both nodded and she pulled the candle closer and found where she’d left off.
My assignments in those early days varied, from serving meals to working in the kitchen, depending on the need, so it wasn’t unusual for me to not cross paths with residents for several days, especially if I was working in the kitchen. Needless to say, I didn’t see the Englishman for nearly a week, but then my assignment changed to delivering lunch.
Although breakfast and dinner are served family style in Colony Hall, lunch is an entirely different affair. After breakfast, hickory picnic baskets are lined up in the kitchen and filled with sandwiches, soup, cookies, and hot coffee. Afterward they’re quietly delivered to the residents’ porches so that, when they’re hungry at midday, they only have to go as far as their front door to find sustenance. It’s a favorite tradition at MacDowell, and one that allows the artists to work through the day without interruption or human interaction. Oh, how I could’ve used a day like that!
On my first day delivering lunch, I was surprised to find many of the residents sitting outside, basking in the late-summer sunshine. Most were working on their projects outside, but some were just working on their tans! I couldn’t blame them—it was one of those beautiful blue-sky days. The oppressive heat from the week before had pushed out to sea and the sweet summer breeze whispered of September. It was a treat for me—an aspiring writer, who had absolutely no time for writing—to have the opportunity to chat with artists and writers who were living the kind of life of which I dreamed! Everyone was welcoming and friendly and open to human interaction; as a result, lunch was late to several of the artists at the tail end of my route. I hoped no one would complain and, to this day, I think it’s a wonder John never fired me! When I finally reached the most remote cabin on my route and lifted the last hickory basket from my backseat, I turned and saw him standing there, leaning on his cane.
“Thank goodness!” he said. “I was beginning to fade away to nothing.”
I handed him his basket. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” His eyes sparkled mischievously and he set the basket down and reached up to push back his hair. It was then that I realized he truly depended on his cane. “Do you want me to put it on the porch for you?”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I can manage—thank you, though.” He leaned down to pick it up again and I noticed a long, angry scar that cut across his ankle.
“What happened to your leg?” I blurted out; then, surprised by my impertinence, blushed. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”
“It’s quite all right,” he said with an easy smile. “It’s an old injury—and a long story.”
I nodded and glanced at my watch, knowing I should go, but at the same time feeling drawn to stay.
“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning on his cane.
“Mia,” I replied.
He smiled. “Thanks for lunch, Mia.”
I nodded, loving the way he said it.
 
The summer days slipped by and I continued to deliver his lunch—late! And he continued to tease me about being famished. Our daily exchanges seemed innocent, but I sensed something unsaid—unacknowledged—smoldering like an underground fire waiting for a bit of oxygen to bring it to full flame; I could feel its heat when he teased me and I could see it in his eyes, and although I missed Tom desperately, those fleeting moments with David made my heart feel lighter.
I began to wonder when his residency would end, and on a rainy afternoon in late September, I found out. I parked beneath the huge old oak tree that was next to the cabin, looked up, and noticed a trail of white smoke whispering from the chimney. I peered through the windshield, hoping the downpour would let up long enough for me to make my delivery. My wiper blades slapped back and forth noisily, and the rain pounded on the metal roof, seeping in along the windshield and leaving a clear rivulet trickling across my dusty dashboard. I looked up and saw him standing on the porch, grinning, with one of his palms up—as if asking, “Well?” I turned off the car, reached into the backseat for his basket, and, counting to three, threw open my door and ran for cover, almost slipping on the top step.
He reached out to catch me, but I managed to stay upright and he laughed. Then he looked down at my wet dress and realized I was shivering. “You’re going to catch pneumonia,” he said. “Come in and warm up.” I carried the basket inside and set it on the table.
“It’s so raw and rainy—I thought a fire would take the chill out of the air.”
I walked over to it and held my hands out to soak up its warmth and then turned to warm my back. “It feels wonderful!”
He hesitated. “You really should take off those wet things.” I raised my eyebrows and he smiled impishly. “I mean . . . I have a robe.”
I shook my head and laughed. “That’s very tempting, but I better not.”
He nodded, looking a bit relieved, and then, remembering the picnic basket, peered inside. “How about some soup? That’ll warm you up.”
I was starving, but I shook my head. “No, thanks—it’s your lunch.”
“I’m not much of a soup person.”
I laughed. “Well, in that case, I’ll have some.”
“Good,” he said, pulling out the thermos. “How ’bout half a sandwich?”
“Oh, no—I wouldn’t want you to fade away to nothing,” I teased.
“Ah—touché!” he said with a grin.
While he poured steaming tomato soup into two mugs, I looked around the room. It was simply furnished with mission furniture and a small matching table with four chairs for dining. The mullioned windows were tall and clear, and on a sunny day, I imagined the studio was airy and bright. The fieldstone fireplace filled the entire end wall, and above it hung a beautiful painting of the Old Man of the Mountain. Being a native of the great state of New Hampshire, I was very familiar with the iconic image and I paused, admiring the scene. Then I noticed another painting propped on an easel in the corner. It was a landscape, too—and I immediately recognized the setting, and walked over to it.
“This is beautiful!” I murmured.
He followed me, balancing one of the mugs in his hand. “Do you think so?”
I nodded and realized he was focusing on not spilling, so I held out my hands and he gratefully relinquished the mug to me. He studied the painting critically. “I was working on it outside earlier and it started to rain. It’s not easy for me to break camp, so it got wet—I should’ve known better.” I nodded, suddenly realizing how many trips he must’ve had to make with only one free hand.
“I love the sunlight behind the trees and the way the light and shadows stream across the canvas, drawing your eye to the cabin . . . and I love that old oak tree—it’s so big I think it must have been here during the Revolution.”

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