Your Dream and Mine (14 page)

“I told you,” she said shortly. “I want to run a camp for at-risk children.”

“Why?” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘why?’”

“I’m trying to understand your motives, that’s all,” he said evenly.

“What’s hard to understand about wanting to help children?”

“You
are
helping children. Grown-up ones, too. It doesn’t take a camp for that.”

“It does, if you want to reach a lot of children at the same time,” she said.

He crooked an eyebrow. “Quantity versus one-on-one quality?”

Her rose-petal lips thinned. “You’re twisting my words.”

“No, I’m trying to understand your logic,” said Trace. “Who was it that gave you this camp idea, anyway? Your folks?”

“Nathan and Flo have nothing to do with it.”

Noting her defensiveness, he reminded her, “You said you owed them.”

“I do,” she said. “But that isn’t the reason. It’s been my dream for a long time.”

“You have to do a little planning to make a dream come true.”

“So your dream is superior to mine because you planned a little better? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. Though if an idea won’t stand up to a little scrutiny…”

“It stands up just fine!”

“Simmer down, I wasn’t trying to start an argument,”
he said. “I’ve said my piece, you’ve said yours. Or is there more?”

“No,” she said, and turned away.

“Good.” He got between her and the door lest she retreat, leaving him in limbo yet another week. “Maybe we can move on now.”

“Toward what?”

“Church, for starters,” he said, thinking it the perfect olive branch. But to his disappointment, she frowned and ducked under the arm he’d spread across the door.

“Come on, Tommy Rose!” he growled. “Don’t make me admit you’re the only reason I’m going.”

“If that’s the truth, you may as well stay home.”

She went inside and closed the door before he could tell her it wasn’t the truth. The truth was even stranger. Ever since he had met Thomasina, he’d grown aware of that living force within her that set her apart. It was almost as if his life had made a seventeen-year loop, and dropped him at a familiar juncture in the road.
‘The other road,’
was the quiet whisper. But when he ventured a step in that direction, there was Thomasina with her arms spread wide, not to embrace but as a barricade. It put him in mind of her protective instincts the dark morning they’d met. She’d been right about that. In theory, anyway.

But how could she be right now? While he was honest enough to admit that she stirred passions in him out of step with her ideals, he respected her scruples and the character undergirding them. Felt inside that he had, without knowing it, been waiting all of his life for her, only to see her slipping away.

I don’t ask for much, God. Can’t you give me a little help here?

Ricky honked from the curb.

“Go on over to the house. I’ll be there in a minute,”
Trace called to him, then sank down on the top step, wondering what it would take to coax God into his corner for some coaching on how to reach Thomasina. His spirit stirred with swift reproof. God wasn’t confined to corners.
Tommy’s or his.
It was self-serving to think that He would be. As self-serving as thinking, if he played his cards right, he’d be on hand to sweep up the pieces when Tommy fell on her pretty face, trying to turn a farm into a children’s camp.

That
was
cold. There had to be another way. There was. He saw it everyday in Thomasina, even as he lamented the very spark of divinity that drew him. Trace sat a long while, stirring through the answers to questions he had not intended to ask.

T
homasina watched for Trace to move out to Milt and Mary’s farm. But the days passed with no sign of moving boxes. She grew familiar with his habits and patterns as her anger faded and she listened to him come and go. Her hurt diminished, too, making it harder, though all the more necessary, to keep up her guard. Necessary, because her attraction to him jeopardized more than her bruised heart, it jeopardized her hopes and aspirations. Doubts were on the move. And it wasn’t just the knowledge that her dream would rob Trace of his. It went deeper than that How deep, she wasn’t sure, for probing it was too much like putting her hand to the plow and looking back.

“It’s a big decision you’re making, honey,” Flo said one evening as they talked by phone. “But God opens doors as you come to them. If this camp is His work for you, you can be sure He’ll lead you along, step by step.”

If?
The word stuck in Thomasina’s mind like a burr, for she hadn’t shared her apprehensions with anyone. Did Flo doubt her ability, too? She waited and prayed for guidance.
As if in answer to her prayers, Flo and Nathan called, and suggested she enroll in classes related to camp ministry.

“You’ll make some valuable contacts at Bible college while you’re learning,” said Nathan.

“But how can I work, go to school and get a camp off the ground?”

“One step at a time, baby,” soothed Flo. “God will give you the strength.”

Thomasina called Lincoln Christian College for a fall schedule, and enrolled the following week. Returning to school required some major adjustments. She cut back on her work schedule in order to have time to study, and still her days were so crowded, she saw almost nothing of Winny and Pauly. It bothered her, particularly when Antoinette called one evening, needing a sitter, and she wasn’t free to offer. Antoinette was understanding about it and in time the crippling inertia that had beset her ever since she’d severed ties with Trace faded.

Having returned to school himself, Ricky came one afternoon a week and mowed Thomasina’s yard. Even though he thought it beneath him, and swore he’d dye all of her curtains purple if she ever told anyone, he could be coaxed by dollar signs into staying to run the sweeper, dust and do laundry while she hit the books.

“I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-purple,” Thomasina promised each time she wrote out his check.

Ricky was a bright spot in her treadmill of school, work and too little free time for the people she enjoyed. He was also a reliable source of information. It was he who told her that Trace had been a chaperone for the youth group’s in-line skating outing which had ended a mile out of town when Deidre, also a chaperone, fell and broke her ankle.

“Trace said she got a kick out of the get-well card I sent
her,” confided Ricky with boyish pride. “I made it on the school computer.”

Trace said.
Thomasina filed those words in her burr drawer, right next to Flo’s
If.

“I have her folks’ address if you want to send her one,” finished Ricky.

Two days later, Thomasina sent Deidre a card just to prove to herself how very little she cared what Trace said, then got her heart stepped on the next morning when Trace showed up at her door to tell her that the Realtor would be showing the house that afternoon.

Other showings followed, with Trace updating her intermittently. Briefly. Politely. No baiting about her chocolate fetish, where she chose to do her laundry, or her taste in books.

Late in September, a sale pending sign went up. Trace phoned when she was out, and left a message on her answering machine, letting her know the potential buyer planned to live in one side.

“He and his wife have a house in town to sell. They don’t intend to move until it’s sold, so you’re free to stay. It’ll save them looking for another renter,” he added. “I’ll let you know where to send the rent check, once we’ve closed.”

A new landlord. The clean break.

Thomasina told herself that it was time, that the weaning was done and she was fine. Then one gorgeous October Saturday, just two weeks before the auction, she pulled into the parking lot at Spanish Cove for a long overdue visit with Milt and Mary, and there was Trace, helping Deidre into his truck. Her heart kicked salt in her wounds. The leaves lost their golden sheen and the air its invigorating autumn nip.

Thomasina parked a good distance away, giving them
plenty of time to clear out. She was so busy watching Trace’s brake lights flash at the distant corner, she pushed the lock on the car door only to realize her car keys were still in the ignition.

Stomach sinking, Thomasina muttered to herself and tried the other door. It was locked, too. Her spare set was at home. She called a nearby service station from Milt and Mary’s apartment.

“Bad timing, Tommy Rose,” said Milt, after she had hung up the phone. “Trace was just here. He could have rescued you, and you wouldn’t have had to pay.”

Rescued?
He’d nearly wiped her out with the realization she had gained no ground in getting over him. Thomasina tried to slow the backslide of her heart healing as Mary passed along news she’d picked up from Trace and Deidre’s visit.

“Trace’s sister, Tootsie, is home for a couple of weeks.” Mary smiled and pushed a stray lock of hair toward the silver strands coiled so neatly at the top of her head. “She’s having a party for their parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary.”

“Deidre’s helping,” Milt chimed in. He winked and added, “Or making time with your ex-landlord—I’m not sure which,”

“Deidre and Trace?” said Mary with a questioning glance in Milt’s direction. “They’re just friends, as far as I can tell.”

Thomasina supposed anything was possible. Look at the two of
them,
adjusting so well to their new surroundings. She visited awhile and paid the man from the service station for coming to her rescue. Once home, she browned meat and chopped onions for the luxury of a few tears, and dumped them into a slow cook spaghetti sauce.

Late in the afternoon, Trace’s truck turned up the driveway
just as Thomasina strolled out on the front porch with a textbook. Heart lurching, she pivoted, walked back through the house, and hauled a chaise longue to the far side of the largest tree in the backyard and settled in to her studies.

Winny and Pauly found her there. They begged her to play with them. Thomasina had a ton of studying to do. But she hadn’t seen them in such a long time, she couldn’t bring herself to send them home.

At Winny’s request, she carried the dollhouse out on the back porch. They played a good long while, then Winny wandered across the yard to a patch of mums near the carriage house and announced she was “picking flowers for Momma.” Not to be outdone, Pauly followed.

Trace’s shop windows were open. The song playing on his radio was the tender love song that had played just moments before everything had gone so wrong the day of the air show. Did the words conjure forever afters with Deidre now? Perhaps they always had. Thomasina took her studying inside to get away from the music and the images it conjured.

Trace switched off the radio. Tootsie had turned the planet upside down, arranging tonight’s party for their parents. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten on the decoration committee, but here he was, cutting out a shamrock with his jigsaw and painting it the customary shade of green.

A lot of fuss, considering the only reason his father had proposed to his mother at the Shamrock was that the host at House of Beef had lost their reservations on that evening forty years ago. Nevertheless, Tootsie was determined to recreate the setting.

It took the better part of two cans of green spray paint to get the job done right. The paint was supposed to be
fast-drying. Trace propped the shop door open to help it along, and went inside to shower for the party. He had thought earlier in the week about inviting Thomasina along. But she hadn’t given him any reason to think she’d go to the end of the sidewalk with him, much less to meet his family from far and near.

Trace showered and dressed and was letting himself out through the laundry room when he spotted Winny and Pauly on the back porch. They were hunkered low. Winny had a paint can in her hand. It looked familiar enough to make his pulse leap. Warily he asked, “What’re you two doing?”

“Decorating. See?” said Winny proudly, and stepped out of his way, swinging her hand to indicate Tommy’s dollhouse!

“Good golly, Miss Molly! Tommy’s going to have a stroke.” Trace grabbed the paint can out of Winny’s hand. “You kids better run. Quick, before she sees what you’ve done.”

Pauly tripped, getting down the steps and away. Winny burst into tears as she scuttled after him. Trace felt like bawling himself as he stooped and inspected the damage. Green dribbles ran through Thomasina’s dollhouse like crocodile tears. Splotchy green floors. Even the roof was green. Trace hated to be the one to break the news. But he couldn’t very well go off and leave her to find it on her own. He retraced his steps though the laundry room and knocked on Thomasina’s door.

“Tommy? Are you there?” He put his ear to the door. She didn’t answer. But he could hear her stirring about. “Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this but…you better come out here.”

Something in his voice must have evoked alarm. She
bolted out the door and stopped on the threshold of the porch. Her hands flew to her throat. “Oh, no!”

“I’ve got some paint thinner in the shop. Get some rags and I’ll help you,” he offered.

“It’s too late. It’s dry.” Thomasina moaned. “What on earth…? What were they…? Where’d they get paint?”

“It was mine,” Trace admitted. “I was working on something and left the shop door open. I never thought…”

“Of course not,” she murmured.

The tragic set of her mouth went through him like a knife. “That Antoinette!” he fumed. “If she would just look about for them every now and then! I should have told her a long time ago to keep those kids at home.”

“Don’t, Trace,” Thomasina said quickly. “I don’t want to risk hard feelings.”

“How do you expect the kids to learn if they get away with this kind of stuff?” he asked.

“Promise you’ll stay out of it.” She lifted brown eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Please?”

“If you ask me…”

“Please,” she said again.

“Whatever.” Torn between shaking her and kissing away her bravely held tears, Trace shoved his hands in his pockets and did neither.

She bent her knees and filled her arms with miniature furnishings that the children had removed before “decorating” the house. Still retreating, thought Trace with a sinking heart as the door closed behind her. The least he could do was get the eyesore out of her way.

Trace hauled the dollhouse to the carriage house and glanced at his watch. Tootsie was expecting him to help greet the guests. Yet he was reluctant to leave when his carelessness had played a part in the children’s mischief. Remembering the pictures in his glove box, he slipped them
into his pocket, crossed the backyard and porch and knocked on her kitchen door.

“Tommy?”

Getting no answer, Trace tried the door. It swung open. Thomasina was seated in the built in breakfast nook, spooning chocolate icing straight from the can, her feet propped on the opposite bench. She lifted her watery gaze, met his and froze. Everything from her coral-tipped toes up went pink.

“I brought you something.” Trace waved the packet of photos.

She drew a long indecisive breath. Just when he was sure she’d send him away, she shifted her feet to the floor in silent invitation. Relieved, he sat down on the spot her feet had warmed.

“They’ve been in my glove box for months,” he said to fill the silence. “I kept forgetting to give them to you. Wouldn’t have remembered now, except I was looking for my cuff links when—oh, the deuce with it. That’s a lie. I came back to see if…Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. But her eyes lifted no higher than his hands as he slid the pictures across the table.

“I’m sorry, Tommy. I shouldn’t have left paint where they could get it. Though if you don’t mind my saying so, this isn’t going to fix anything,” he added, and reached for the icing can.

“Get your own spoon,” she grumbled.

“I like a cake with my icing.”

She answered his bid for a smile, though it was brief and didn’t quite reach her eyes. Still, she snapped the lid on the icing can and carried it to the sink, along with her spoon. Trace watched her hands squeeze out the dish rag. He caught the faint scent of waning perfume as she came back
with it, washed off the table and dried it, too, before sitting down again to look through the pictures.

“I dropped the film off at the mall the day of the show.” Trace shifted in the seat, wishing she’d say something. He fought the urge to wipe the smudge of chocolate off her chin, as she made her way through the photos. Most were of the air show. But there were a few of strangers. Christmas pictures. He saw her expression gentle as she lingered over them. “Are these your folks?” he asked.

“Yes. This is Nathan, opening his scroll saw.” She turned the photograph his way. “That’s what I got him for Christmas.”

“Your dad made the dollhouse?” Trace asked.

She nodded. “When I was twelve.”

“Twelve? It seems that’s about the time Tootsie outgrew dolls,” said Trace.

“I’d never had much interest in dolls until Nathan gave me the house.” She picked at the corner of the photo envelope, struggling to explain. “No one had ever made anything for me like that before. For no reason, I mean. It wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or anything. He just did it because…because he wanted to.” She lifted her lashes and met his eyes a moment. “Nathan is my foster father.”

“So that’s why you—” He stopped himself, uncertain about questioning just when she opened up enough to volunteer some information about her past

“Why I what?” she said.

“Call them by their given names.”

She nodded. “I knew them as neighbors before I knew them as foster parents. They were comfortable with Nathan and Flo, and so was I,” she said.

Trace watched as she returned the pictures to the envelope, then got up to fill a pan with water and put it on the stove. He thought the subject was closed. The electric
ignition on the burner clicked. She leaned and blew until the blue flame jumped to life.