On Shifting Sand (55 page)

Brent took her picture off the mantel. “This was last year?”

“Two years ago,” Dorothy Lynn said.

“Do you have any idea what you were thinking about?”

“Not really.” But she did. The photographer had told her to look just beyond his shoulder and to imagine her future—all the adventures life would hold for a young woman born into this new century—and she’d thought about that single road leading out of Heron’s Nest, the one that took her brother and sister off to such exciting lives. Every time she looked at that photograph, she saw that road—except tonight, when she saw her future cradled in Brent Logan’s hands.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and though he was looking straight at the picture, Dorothy Lynn felt his words wash right over her, straight through the dirt and grime.

“Give me five minutes,” she said, eager to be some semblance of that beautiful girl again.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Ma showed no inclination of bringing the evening to an end, and Brent seemed even less eager to leave.
The night had turned too cool to sit on the front porch, so the threesome gathered in the front room, where Dorothy Lynn placed a tray laden with dessert and coffee on the table in the center. No sooner had Brent taken a seat on the sofa than Ma stretched and let out an enormous yawn.

“Why, look at the time. Is it nearly nine o’clock already?” She handed a large serving of cobbler to Brent and one half the size to Dorothy Lynn. “Honest folks ought to be in bed by this hour.”

“I don’t see how time can have any kind of a hold on a person’s character,” Dorothy Lynn said.

“I think your mother’s saying that there’s a natural rhythm to life and days.”

“That’s right,” Ma said, shooting him an unabashedly maternal gaze. “The good Lord has them numbered and allotted, and we ought to rest easy within the hours he gives. I never knew your pa to be up five minutes past ten.”

At the mention of Paul Dunbar, every touch of a fork took on a deafening clamor.

“Three months ago today,” Ma said, marking the anniversary of the day Pa left this world after a short battle with a vicious cancer. She returned her plate to the tray and stood.

“You’re not having any, Ma?”

“Why, I don’t know that I could keep my eyes open long enough to eat a bite. Not that I eat with my eyes.” She laughed—rather nervously. When Dorothy Lynn took her hand, she squeezed it. “No, I think I need to trundle myself off to bed. But don’t let this old lady interfere with your evening. You young folks go on and enjoy yourselves.”

Ma’s voice had climbed into a falsetto rarely heard outside of the Sunday choir, and while any other person might think she was trying to escape into her grief, Dorothy Lynn knew her mother better.

“She misses your father.”

“True, but she has other issues on her mind, like creating an excuse to leave the two of us alone.”

“Subtle.”

“Like a club to the side of your head.”

“Well, then . . .” Brent grinned with enough devilish appeal to shock his congregation and patted the empty sofa cushion next to him. “Seems wrong to let an opportunity like this go to waste.”

“This is not an
opportunity
, Reverend Logan.” She remained perched on the arm of the sofa—not quite out of his reach—and used her fork to toy with the sugary mass on her plate.

“It’s delicious.” He was down to one remaining bite.

“I know. I’ve eaten it all my life.”

“Are you as good a cook as your ma?”

She speared a thin slice of soft, spicy apple and nibbled it before answering. “Nowhere near. But that’s because Ma don’t hardly let me near the stove.”

“You never wanted to learn?”

“I know plenty.” She held her hand out for his empty plate, dropped it along with hers on the tray, and headed for the kitchen.

He followed, as she knew he would.

Ma had left the basin full of soapy water. Dorothy Lynn scraped the uneaten portions into Ma’s blue glass baking dish, then handed the empty plates to Brent, who, having rolled up his sleeves, began washing. Dorothy Lynn leaned back against the table, sipped the flavorful black coffee, and watched.

Theirs had been a proper courtship, fitting for a new, young minister and his predecessor’s daughter. He’d come to Heron’s Nest at the prompting of one of his professors—a lifelong friend of Pastor Dunbar who knew of the older man’s illness long before any of the congregation did. Soon after Brent’s arrival, he and Dorothy Lynn were sitting together at church suppers, walking the path between the church and her home, and taking long Sunday drives in his battered Ford. It was, he said, the only chance he had to drive, given the twisting, narrow roads of Heron’s Nest, but she’d learned the true purpose of such outings when he parked the car in a shady grove ten miles outside of town.
Nothing sinful—just some harmless necking—but enough to have set every small-town tongue on fire with gossip had anybody thought to follow them.

Now, watching him in her kitchen, some of those same feelings stirred within her, like so many blossoms set loose in a spring breeze. And yet there was an anchoring deep within, like a root growing straight through her body into the kitchen floor. She’d never known any home other than this, never seen any man in this room other than her father and her brother. Suddenly, here was Brent, looking completely at ease, like he’d been here all along. Like he’d be here forever. And the thought of both felt inexplicably frightening.

“I don’t think I ever saw my pa do dishes.” She hoped the introduction of her father would push away some of the thoughts that would have undoubtedly brought about his displeasure.

“He must not have lived many years as a bachelor.”

“Guess not.”

She drained her coffee and handed him the empty cup as the clock in the front room let out a single quarter-hour chime.

“It’s late.” Brent dried his hands with the tea towel draped over a thin rod beneath the sink.

“Just think, if I hadn’t been so late for supper, you’d already be safe and snug in your own home.”

“Well then, I’m glad. Gives us more time together.”

He was leaning against the countertop with both hands in his pockets. A lock of hair had dropped below one eye. She stared down at the familiar blue-and-white-checked cloth that covered the kitchen table and worked her finger around one of the squares. “Had some extra time with my ma, too.”

“I did.”

The ticking of the clock carried clear into the kitchen, the silence between them thick as pudding. She felt his eyes on her but kept her own downcast, even when she knew he’d come around the table—close enough that she could feel his sleeve brush against her arm.

She looked up. “What did you talk about?” As if she didn’t know, as if Ma hadn’t been corralling the two of them toward each other since the first Sunday Reverend Brent Logan came before the church board last winter.

He smiled. “Ecclesiastes. I’m drafting a sermon series. Wisdom for These Wicked Times.”

“Do you really think these times are wicked?”

“No more than they ever have been, I guess.” He’d come closer. Had the little lamp burned like the sun, she’d be consumed in his shadow. “But your ma has some pretty clear ideas about how to avoid the pit of certain temptations.”

“Does she? Well then, I’m surprised she left us here alone.”

“And I, for one, am glad she did.”

He hooked his finger under her chin and tilted her face for a kiss. “You know I care for you.”

“I know you do.”

He kissed her, long and deep—such a thing to happen right there in her mother’s kitchen. The strength of it wobbled her, and she reached down to the table to steady herself. Her hand brushed against the cobbler dish as she tasted the spiced sweetness on his lips.

“I probably shouldn’t take such liberties,” Brent said, drawing away.

“Then you prob’ly should be headin’ home.”

Before either could have a change of heart, she took his hand. “We’d best go out through the kitchen door, lest Ma get a splinter in her ear from listenin’ so close. I’ll walk with you to the path.”

He looked down. “You don’t have your shoes on.”

His grin broke the tension, and she lifted one foot, arranging her toes in a way that, to her, seemed provocative. “Are you scandalized?”

“Merely impressed.”

He led the way, holding the door open to the damp spring night and touching the small of her back as she walked past. Once they were off the narrow set of steps, she felt her hand encased in his. The warmth of it centered her. Together they walked around to the front of the house, her
steps instinctively taking them to the worn stone path that connected their home to the main road.

“Cold?” he asked.

“A bit.” She tucked herself closer to him.

“Can I ask you a question?”

There was little walking left to do, and he seemed to be slowing their pace to allow for conversation.

“Of course.”

“Where were you today? What kept you so late into the evening? I mean, when you came home, you looked positively—”

“Wild?”

“For lack of a better word, I guess.”

She looked up past him, to the velvet sky dotted with diamond stars. The tips of the trees looked like a bric-a-brac border.

“There’s a grove in yonder.” She pointed vaguely up the road. “Like a fairy clearin’ in the middle of the forest. Been goin’ since I was a little girl. And when I have myself a mostly empty day—” she shrugged—“I go.”

“And summon the fairies?”

“No.” She traced her toe along a ragged edge of stone. “I write.”

“Stories?”

Nothing in his face or voice mocked her, and if whatever she felt for him was ever going to turn to pure love, it would begin at this moment.

“Not so much. More like poems, I guess. Or even prayers. Whatever the Lord brings to my mind. And sometimes I have my guitar—”

“Guitar?”

They were at the end of the path, fully stopped. Dorothy Lynn tossed a wistful glance toward the darkened porch.

“Ma hates it. Says it’s not fit for a lady. It was my brother’s. He left it to me when he went off to the war, so I play it. At first just to help me feel closer to him. These days, I guess, just for me. And then sometimes what I write, well, it gets to be a song.”

She waited for him to protest. Or laugh. Or, worse, give her the
equivalent of a pat on the head and proclaim her hobby as something delightful.

“I’d love to hear one of your songs sometime.”

Dorothy Lynn let out her breath. “No one’s ever asked that of me before. Fact is, I never told nobody. Sometimes in the evenin’ I used to play for the family, just singin’ hymns and all. But never my own songs. I don’t think Pa would have taken to such vanity.”

“I’m not your pa. But I wish he were here. I’d like to talk to him. As it is, I’ve gone to the Lord, praying for guidance, for him to show me—” He broke off and took a step back, holding Dorothy Lynn at arm’s length. “Dorothy Lynn Dunbar, I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you. Do you remember that day?”

Even after nearly a year, she remembered it perfectly.

“You and Pa were workin’ on the baptistery—”

“And you brought us a bucket lunch from home. You were wearing a white dress with a pink sash.”

She remembered how Ma had practically pushed her out the door to run the errand. Always there had been this inextricable link between them—Brent under Pa’s guidance, Brent the object of Ma’s insistence.

“Sometimes I worry that I’ll get this all mixed up,” she said, “you comin’ along so soon after Pa took sick. Havin’ you here at night, in his chair, readin’ his books. It warms me, but—”

He interrupted her with what started as a quick kiss, probably just to stop her from her rambling, but she drew him close before he could pull away. There in the night he became a man different from any she had known as he lifted her clear off her feet, weightless as the mist.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

Award-winning author A
LLISON
P
ITTMAN
left a seventeen-year teaching career in 2005 to follow the Lord’s calling into the world of Christian fiction, and God continues to bless her step of faith. Her novels
For Time and Eternity
,
Forsaking All Others
, and
All for a Sister
were named as finalists for the Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction, and her novel
Stealing Home
won the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Carol Award. In 2012, she was named ACFW’s Mentor of the Year. She also heads up a successful, thriving writers’ group in San Antonio, where she lives with her husband, Mike, their three sons, and the canine star of the family—Stella.