Your Dream and Mine (3 page)

A
t the end of her shift at Milt and Mary’s, Thomasina returned to her apartment and began packing boxes for the move. The heat soon zapped her. She filled her white sedan with boxes and sofa cushions, and drove south to Liberty Flats.

Taking a few necessities to the upstairs bedroom, Thomasina made a bed for herself on the cushions, and slept better than she had in days. She awakened at two in the afternoon, showered and dressed in shorts and a pink oversize shirt. Ready to tackle unloading the car, she tied her hair back with a neon pink scarf and let herself out the front door.

Two towheaded, chocolate-smudged youngsters darted across Thomasina’s path and around the side of the house to where Trace was trimming bushes. The little boy kicked through the clippings as they fell to the ground. The little girl, half a head taller, tripped over the extension cord trying to copy his capers. The hedge clippers went dead.

“What’re you two doing back?” asked Trace, unaware of Thomasina’s approach.

“Momma said we didn’t have to come in yet,” said the little boy. His voice was nearly as raspy as old Milt’s.

“Well, you’re in my way, so scram,” said Trace, reaching for the rake.

“Cut
our
bushes,” said the little girl. Getting no response from Trace, she turned to her brother. “They’re tall as a house. Aren’t they, Pauly?”

The boy bobbed his head and sucked his thumb.

“Hear that, Win?” said Trace. He paused in raking clippings to cup a hand to his ear. “Cartoons are on.”

“Who’s on?” asked the girl.

“Magnet-Man. He’s the guy who’s going to clean house on those toy heroes you two have been collecting.”

“Nuh-uh!” said Winny, jutting out her lip.

Trace shrugged and tossed a pile of clippings into the wheelbarrow. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“You’re fibbing,” accused Winny. But the seed of planted doubt bunched her face into a pout. “Come on, Pauly. We’ll tell Momma.”

Trace leaned down to reconnect the trimmers, then straightened to find Thomasina standing a few feet away. Her gaze followed the children cross the yard where they disappeared through a narrow path in the hedge.

“Hi,” said Trace. “How’s the move going?”

“So far so good.” Her mouth tipped in response to his smile. “Who do I call about getting the paper delivered?”

He gave her the paperboy’s name, and offered to let her use his phone.

“Thanks. But I’ve got one in the car. By the way, I saw the tree at Mary and Milt’s is still standing. I’m glad. Mary’s partial to it.”

“Milt didn’t mention that to me.”

“She didn’t tell him. She doesn’t want to be the fly in the ointment.”

“That so?” he said.

Leaving well enough alone, Thomasina crossed to the curb for the sack of doughnuts she had left in the car. Someone had beat her to it. It was no mystery who. There were chocolate child-size fingerprints all over the seats, on her moving boxes and even on her cellular phone. She wiped the phone off only to find a dead line. On closer inspection she found the battery was missing.

Thomasina retraced her steps to where Trace was rolling up the extension chord. “On second thought, I’ll take you up on the phone offer. Mine’s not working.”

“If you’re going to leave your car out, you might want to lock your doors,” he said.

“I thought leaving doors unlocked was one of the perks in small towns.”

“Maybe in Mayberry. But the Penn kids are loose in Liberty Flats.”

She folded her arms. “Fine way to talk about your little helpers.”

“Helpers?” He laughed, his face shiny damp. “Good argument for staying single, don’t you mean?”

“Shame on you.”

Unrepentant, Trace dragged a brown forearm across his brow, then tossed the coiled extension cord on top of the hedge trimmings. “Anything else I can do to make moving day less of a hassle?”

“I noticed there isn’t a restaurant in town. What do people around here do for eating out?”

“You can get a sandwich made to order at Newt’s Market on the square. Pretty good one at that.”

“Great. The cupboards are bare.”

“Your doughnut sack, too,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get it away from them before they made such a mess of your car.”

“You caught them in the act, huh?”

“Chocolate-fisted.” At Thomasina’s smile, he added, “They live in the little yellow house on the other side of the hedge if you want to take it up with their mother.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

“I was planning on grabbing a sandwich before work myself,” said Trace on impulse. “You want to come along?”

“That’s nice of you. Sure,” said Thomasina, appreciating the welcoming gesture.

“Let me put this stuff away. You can make your phone call while I shower, and then we’ll go.” He collected his remaining yard tools. “The phone’s this way.”

Thomasina trailed after him as he trundled the wheelbarrow to a shady old two-story stone carriage house. It had been converted to a two-car garage and a shop. There were windows. But the trees diffused the sunlight. It was shadowy inside, and several degrees cooler.

“There’s room in here if you want to park out of the weather,” he said as he led her past his pickup truck. “I keep the doors locked, so you won’t have to worry about the kids playing road trip in your car.”

“So that’s what they were doing.” Thomasina chuckled. “Creative of them. Thanks for the offer. I’ll take you up on it, come winter.”

“I’ll have an extra key made, then.” Trace led her to his workshop at the back of the carriage house and switched on a light. “Phone’s on the wall over there.”

“Thanks,” said Thomasina. “I’ll call about getting a phone, too. What’s the address again, in case they ask?”

Trace wrote it on a matchbook, then left. Thomasina picked her way to the phone through a maze of toolboxes, free-standing cabinets, saws, drills and other power tools. She phoned her supervisor first and got her work schedule
for the following week, then called about having the phone line turned on.

The blended scent of sawdust, drying wood and oiled tools stirred poignant memories of her foster parents. Much of their nurturing had been done in a shop similar to this. Thomasina picked up curled wood shavings and held them to her face, her thoughts reaching back in time. Flo loved flowers and Nathan, and Nathan loved Flo and woodworking, and together they loved Thomasina after abandonment by her own mother and a winding road of short-term foster homes had placed her with a family next door to them.

“Thomasina Rose. What a beautiful name,” Florence had called when Thomasina dropped over the fence that first day. “A name to grow into. Do you like roses? I’ve got aphids on mine. Have you ever seen aphids? They’re like fear in a human heart—hard to see, but oh, my! What a lot of damage they’re capable of doing. Don’t be shy! Come have a look, dear.”

That summer, over lemonade and cookies and Bible stories, Florence introduced Thomasina to much more than aphids and gardening. She had introduced her to God.

“The world is His garden, my dear,” she had said one day, a trowel in one hand, a young plant in the other. “Sometimes He transplants His flowers. No one knows why. But I’m thankful He’s sent such a sweet rose to ramble over our back fence!”

After getting to know them, Thomasina was scared she’d get shuffled again and lose Nathan and Flo. Her social worker saw the change in her. She convinced Flo that she and Nathan were the very kind of people so desperately needed in the foster care system.

Soon thereafter, the switch was made. Nathan and Flo were walking talking funnels from heaven to earth, spilling all the love God gave them into restoring Thomasina’s lost
childhood just as most teens were relinquishing theirs. But Thomasina’s thirsty heart was in no hurry for independence. She stayed with Nathan and Flo through two years of junior college and nurse’s training. More than foster parents, they became her heart-parents, her model for good neighboring, and at the core of her wish to establish a camp where wounded, broken children could be led to God, and find help.

Hearing children’s hushed voices in the carriage house, Thomasina snapped out the light in the shop. “Hello.”

The twosome who had made such havoc of her car stopped short at the sight of her, and traded wary glances.

“I’ve got boxes to carry inside and not enough hands. I wonder where I could get some good help,” said Thomasina.

“Are you moving in with Trace?” asked the little girl.

“No, I’m moving into Mr. Austin’s apartment.”

“What’s a ’partment?”

“It’s more than one home under a single roof. When I get moved in, will you visit me?”

“Is your ’partment like a playhouse?”

“Something like that,” said Thomasina, smiling. “Perhaps your mother would come, as well. It’s lonesome when you move, and nice to make new friends.”

“Momma’s already got a friend,” the little boy said. “His name’s Red.”

“Fred,” corrected Winny.

“Nuh-uh. It’s Red ’cause his hair’s red.”

“His hair’s red, but his name’s Fred,” argued Winny.

“Wanna bet? We’ll go ask Momma.”

The little boy dropped something on his way out. It was the battery to Thomasina’s phone. She put it in her pocket, locked the carriage house behind her and unloaded boxes until Trace returned. His hair was still damp from the
shower. His work shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers emphasized his lean waist and narrow hips.

“This belongs to you?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.

Thomasina took the blue barrette from his open hand. “Winny’s, I think. They were here a moment ago. Curious fingers and power tools can’t be a good combination,” she added, seeing his frown.

“You wouldn’t think so.” Trace backed the truck out of the carriage house, then climbed out to slide the track door closed.

“A word to their mom perhaps?” said Thomasina when he returned to the truck.

“Antoinette’s thin-skinned these days, and not too good at taking advice, not even when it’s well-intentioned.”

“I was hoping we could be friends.”

“I doubt you’ll have much in common,” he said.

“I meant the children. Though you’ve piqued my interest,” admitted Thomasina with a sidelong glance.

“Antoinette lost her husband last winter. Car accident,” he added.

“What a shame,” murmured Thomasina.

“She’s had it kind of rough.”

“Being both mom and dad to two children. That can’t be easy. Does she have a good job?”

“She waits tables at a truck stop in Bloomington. A word to the wise?” he added. “Don’t encourage the kids unless you don’t mind having them underfoot. One friendly gesture, and you can’t duck ’em, scare ’em or beat ’em off with a stick.”

“I’m not entirely sure I approve of you, Mr. Austin,” said Thomasina, her head to one side.

“It’s Trace.”

“Trace, then. But I’m hungry.”

He answered her smile, and gripped the gearshift knob with a well-shaped hand. “Anything behind me?”

“All clear,” said Thomasina, looking out the back window.

Trace stretched his arm along the ridge of the seat, his hand grazing her shoulder as he backed toward the street Thomasina’s pulse quickened as his blue gaze glanced off hers. The truck cab seemed to shrink then expand again as he shifted his hand away and focused on the curve in the driveway.

“Any rules against hanging pictures?” Thomasina jumpstarted the conversation again.

“Not so long as you fill the nail holes when you move out,” he replied.

“It’s a deal,” said Thomasina, thinking all the while what a monkey she was, unnerved by a chance touch. She lapsed into silence as he reached for the radio dial.

Three blocks and half a country song later, Trace nosed the late-model pickup truck into a space in front of Newt’s Market. Groceries, Notions And Dry Goods must have been painted on the bricks decades ago. The bricks were faded, too. An old bench, a couple of pop machines and a trash container rested in the shade of the wooden canopy that ran the length of the storefront Trace held the door for her.

Thomasina caught the scent of his aftershave as she ducked past him and over the threshold.

The store was pungent with a blend of tobacco, fresh ground coffee and overripe bananas. A couple of children had their noses pressed to the candy case. Thomasina stepped around them, then stopped in the narrow aisle and let Trace get past her. The stained and worn pine planks creaked as he led the way to the back of the store.

The lady behind the meat counter greeted him warmly.
Young and pretty, she cocked her head, looking Thomasina up and down.

“Thomasina Rose.” Thomasina reached across the counter to meet the woman’s outstretched hand.

“She’s my new renter,” Trace told the woman. “This is Emmaline Newton. She makes the best sandwiches in Liberty Flats.”

“I try anyway.” Emmaline flashed a freckled grin, then turned and called over her shoulder, “Uncle Earl? Come out here and meet Trace’s new renter.”

An old fellow with a shock of white hair and a whiskered chin sauntered out, welcomed Thomasina to Liberty Flats and disappeared into the back room again. The gray-haired dog on the floor woke up and limped around the counter after him.

“Got a checker tournament going on back there, do they, Emmie?” asked Trace.

“Yes, and I wish they’d wrap it up so I could get some help. What’ll it be today, Trace? Turkey or ham?”

“Surprise me.”

“Turkey,” said Thomasina.

“With all the fixings?”

“Why not?” agreed Thomasina.

Emmaline made their sandwiches on paper plates. She gave them pickles, napkins, a bag of chips and straws, as well. Trace sent Thomasina outside with change for the pop machine while he settled up at the cash register. Side by side they crossed the street to the park, and chose a table in the shade.

Thomasina noticed that he waited for her as she bowed her head and gave silent thanks for the food. The sandwich was made on fresh-baked sourdough bread. With all the cheese and lettuce and tomato and other goodies, it was impossible to make a neat eat of it. Thomasina spread a
napkin on her lap, tucked another in her hand and gave up trying to control the drips.