Cedar Creek Seasons (15 page)

“You’ve come a long way.”
She heard her mother’s voice.
“When you were three, you thought we were cooking and that you had to crack all the eggs.”

Remembering, Chesca giggled. As a little girl, she’d covered her eggs with hearts, stars, and curlicues that in no way resembled the almost geometric designs her mom used.

“Why do you always do it that way?”
Chesca had asked.

“Because for centuries, Babcia’s village in Poland decorated their eggs like this. Every village had its own special pattern. “
Her mother had caressed a shiny finished egg with one finger.
“But they all celebrated the same resurrection—as we do.”

Chesca’s eyes moistened. How she missed her parents and grandmother, especially this time of year, which they made so special. For the thousandth time she wondered why a drunk driver had to end their lives too soon. Still, the saber-edged pain she’d suffered as a college freshman now softened into gentle bittersweet moments like these. “Mom, you and Dad and Babcia are celebrating with Jesus now. The very best kind of Easter.”

The egg trembled in her fingers, and a tear rested on her flea-market-treasure table. For a long moment, she paused then sat up straight. “I know you’d want me to celebrate, too.”

In spite of March weather. In spite of an off-the-wall cantata codirector. She picked up the pencil-pin again and finished the first layer of designs.

Babcia made her reddish dyes from beets, her yellow from onion skins, green from mosses, and black from walnuts.

“Sorry, Babcia. My life is complicated enough.” Chesca dissolved Easter kit yellow tablets in one water-filled Cool Whip bowl and purple in another, adding vinegar. She plopped the decorated egg into the yellow one. With several dyeings, the egg would turn gold, and she’d accent the next decorations she drew with purple—an egg fit for a King.

Instead of pencil-pinning traditional patterns on her next egg, however, she drew cartoonlike bunnies. She grinned. Her German-born father, who sometimes felt left out of the annual Polish Women’s Eggs-travaganza, would approve. A man of deep faith, he, like many of his countrymen, loved the fun side of Easter. He bought her a big bunny every year, and when she’d completed these eggs, Chesca would display them along with the papier-maché eggs he’d been given as a child. With Cedarburg’s German history, she expected to find more. Maybe at the Cedar Creek Settlement Shops?

Lost in yesteryear’s glow, she’d almost forgotten Seth’s sins. She certainly forgot she’d changed her cell ring tone to the “Hallelujah Chorus”—until it sounded at full volume from her pocket.

The fun bunny egg flipped from her fingers and crunched on the floor.

W
ould his call go to Chesca’s voice mail again? Was she really that mad?

He devoured the last bite of Bellyful Burger and gazed around the Hi-De-Ho, hoping somebody would play fish songs and cheer him up. Maybe he’d order another burger.

He’d meant to tell Chesca about the donkey. But he’d only sealed the deal with a farmer friend—for free, yet—three days before, and with parent conferences this week, he’d forgotten.

Okay. Maybe he’d wanted to surprise her. Impress her with the lengths to which he would go to make this cantata the best ever.

Instead, everything went wrong. Stupid—he should have expected trouble when he learned that really was the donkey’s name—had acted accordingly. As had Matt. He didn’t know which one dug in his heels more.

Even worse: Taryn. Since their breakup, she’d disappeared, spending most of her time in Chicago, he’d heard. God delivered him from what could have proved the worst mistake of his life. But she’d turned up again. In Chesca’s choir, of all places.

Janet, beside him, tapped her pad. “You look like you need a big piece of cherry pie, triple-dip à la mode.”

Strangely, neither an additional burger nor dessert sounded good. “Nah.”

Her jaw dropped to her apron. “You don’t want cherry pie? Must be serious. Woman trouble?”

“Not exactly.”

“Huh.” Her hands went to her hips. “This has something to do with that classy little choir director you brought here.” She leaned forward, searching his face. “Or is it that blond again, the one you used to drag here that repolished the silverware and glasses?”

“Um—both, actually.”

“
Both?
Son, you don’t need cherry pie. You need a passport.” Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” sounded from his cell. He checked it. Chesca. “Uh, Janet—”

“Hey, I’m goin’. I don’t want to get hit with shrapnel.” She bustled back to the kitchen.

Neither did he. Throwing a silent “Help!” to heaven, he held the phone to his ear. “Hi!”

Too loud and cheery. Like a game show host.

Silence.

“I mean, uh, hello, Chesca.” Better. He hoped.

“Hello, Seth.”

Arctic tone, but at least she called him back. “I wanted to apologize for bringing Stupid to the rehearsal.”

A pause. “Look, Seth, I know your friend probably doesn’t know how to act in a church, but—”

“Matt? Or the donkey?” His laugh blared into the phone before he could stop it. “The donkey’s name is Stupid.”

“Oh.” One little syllable, lethal as a grenade pin.

He rushed on before she could detonate. “Anyway, I should have discussed using a live animal with you beforehand. I’m sorry. Really. The next time—”

“
Next
time?” Her tone implied he would include King Kong in the Palm Sunday parade.

“The next time I try something a little unexpected—”

“A little?”

“May I please finish a sentence?” Oops, he’d used Teacher Voice.

Heads turned in neighboring booths. Janet, filling water glasses, shook her head.

Silence again. Then Chesca said, “I’m sorry. I haven’t given you much of a chance to explain, have I?”

The answer to that question would be yes, but he knew better than to say it. He cleared his throat. “I should have warned you ahead of time, but I think Stu—er, the donkey—will add authenticity.”

“True.”

Aha, he’d finally won a point.

“But what if that animal dumps Jesus in the aisle again? It will spoil the whole cantata. Worse yet, what if he kicks somebody? Hurts one of the children?”

“The farmer said he’s usually gentle, just gets a little stubborn sometimes. We have to realize he’s not a regular churchgoer.” No chuckle on the other end. He thought quickly. “We can minimize the kids’ contact with him.”

“Just how are you going to do that?” She wasn’t buying this “we” business. “All they wanted to do today was pet the donkey.”

“I’ll build a holding stall in the sheltered area near the back of the church where we can keep him before and after his scenes. The kids can visit him only at specified times.”

“His own dressing room?” Her voice thawed a little. “Are you going to paint a star on the gate and send him roses on opening night—er, morning?”

He heard the tiny smile in her voice. “If that’s what it takes to keep him happy.”

“You’ll have to do the same for the church janitor.” Her tone tightened again.

Uh-oh
. “Did he call you?”

“No. After rehearsal, while you were tugging the donkey back to the trailer, the janitor blocked my side-door getaway and treated me to a half-hour lecture about the sanctity of the church carpets.”

Yikes. He hadn’t thought about that. “Guess we lucked out today.”

“
You
lucked out. But that doesn’t mean next rehearsal—”

“I’ll take care of it.” She still sounded ticked. But she’d referred to their “next rehearsal”—she wasn’t going to quit! His heart sang. “I’ll figure out some way to protect the carpet.”

“Promise?” Still ice in that voice.

He switched to his British accent. “I promise. On my word as a gentleman. Perhaps we should rendezvous to ponder the fine points—and not so fine—of our first rehearsal?”

“I suppose.” Her frozen tone softened to ice cream consistency.

Why the accent melted women’s angst, he didn’t know, but it came in handy. Though she couldn’t see him, he gave a slight bow. “Princess, may I have the honor of taking a cup of tea with you after your shift at the Cozy Cuppa Monday next? Or we could go to the truck stop.”

“No truck stop.
No
coffee.”

“Okay.” He blinked, startled out of his English persona. “I’ll see you there around five thirty.”

He flicked his phone and gave Janet a thumbs-up then pointed at his mouth. She began piling ice cream on his celebration piece of pie.

Whew. Thank You, Lord
.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to handle Taryn. And when he might tell Chesca about the lambs.

C
hesca didn’t want to meet Stupid. But Seth insisted. “Connecting with cast members ensures their cooperation. You’ll like him, I promise.”

Their Cozy Cuppa planning session had proved far more productive than she’d imagined—not to mention his occasional intense blue glances that sent a surprise tingle through her even now…. So she found herself behind the church, face-to-face with the donkey. He looked even less enthusiastic than she felt.

“Back off.” Seth waved a hand at Stupid’s fan club. “You can take turns petting him in a minute.”

Chandler ducked under Seth’s restraining arms. “Scratch him behind the ears, Miss Chesca. He likes that.”

“She’s a scaredy-cat.” Zoe gave her a look of scorn.

Frowning, Seth shook his head at the girl, took Chesca’s hand, and guided it toward the donkey’s head. Though his touch quickened her pulse, she couldn’t help pulling away.

“Does—does he have fleas?” She mentally calculated the number per square inch.

“The farmer said no, but I made a big flea collar, just in case.” Seth pointed to the band of smaller ones he’d joined to stretch around Stupid’s neck. He took her hand again. “Just pet his nose.”

The children watched her. Zoe watched her. Chesca petted the donkey. Much softer than she’d anticipated. He pressed his nose against her fingers. She gave his floppy ear a tentative scratch. Was it her imagination, or did the animal’s expression look less wary?

“See? He’s a nice guy.”

Why Seth’s eyes should shine through his glasses with such approval, she didn’t know. But she liked it….

“When do we get a turn?” Zoe’s snippy voice punctured the magical moment.

“In a sec. I want to show Miss Chesca something.” He gestured to Matt, who had just arrived. “Would you hold onto Stupid while we talk?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” Matt gave Seth a fake grin.

“Thanks.” Seth handed him the halter, lined up the children, and steered Chesca inside. “See. I told you I would take care of everything.”

“What is that? Burlap?” The hallway, sanctuary aisle, and carpet in front of the altar had been covered with coarse brown material.

“My 1970s orange carpet.” Seth beamed. “I’d ripped it out of my apartment—my landlord and I worked out a deal to keep costs down for a new rug. I recycled the old one here—just flipped it over. The back’s a nice neutral color that, with a little imagination, could be construed as sandy ground, don’t you think?”

Yes, she could see that. He must have worked an entire evening doing this. “It looks heavy enough to protect the carpet. But did you ask Pastor Hoke—?”

“Yep. He might have to coax the decorating committee to leave it there for the next few weeks, but he likes the donkey—and the fact this didn’t cost a penny.” Seth resembled a little boy who’d scored a hundred on his spelling test.

“Great job.” She had to force her eyes away from that smiling, über-handsome face. “But we should get going.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “I’d better rescue Matt before he messes with Stupid’s good mood.”

Her own disposition traveled miles from that initial disastrous rehearsal. Having laughed through the score the previous Saturday, the choir now appeared ready to work. After warm-up, she reviewed the cantata’s sticky spots while Seth directed drama traffic. His voice crackled, “Ready!” through his microphone, she waved the organist into “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” and the choir’s symphony of voices commenced.

They actually finished the Palm Sunday scene without incident. She couldn’t see how the drama was going behind her, but at least interruptions involved only confusion about who should have done what. No rodeo in the church aisle. No bad language from beast or man. Actually, little language at all. Seth and she had decided that, with little time left before Easter, they would minimize dialogue—and memorization.

They stopped between songs so Seth could coach Jesus and the Three Stooges—er, disciples—for the Gethsemane scene. “Play it as if this is your last night on earth,” he told Jesus. “You’re thinking the unthinkable for the Son of God—what it’s like to die.”

His words so moved her that she almost forgot to signal the basses’ entrance. Bless them, they came in anyway. Their solo line in “‘Tis Midnight and on Olive’s Brow” resonated throughout the sanctuary. Then, as the lights went down, the women began their haunting “ahhhh” as a backdrop for the Gethsemane scene. Lovely. Meanwhile, Jesus and his followers were to pray, illuminated only by a dim spotlight. Keeping the tempo, Chesca glanced behind her. Matt sprawled against the altar rail, his shaggy head propped on one muscled arm. He did resemble a big fisherman, exhausted after a hard day’s work. While the other Stooges sacked out with Matt, Jesus—she couldn’t remember his real name—looked all the more alone and vulnerable, hands gripping his bowed head in the faux moonlight. Even with characters wearing jeans and sweatshirts, the effect was superb.

Chesca waved in the altos and tenors, their combined sound wringing her heart. Surely it would affect the Easter congregation the same way…. Why had she panicked last week? Mrs. Metzger was right. She and Seth contributed different gifts, but God was weaving them together into something special. Could—could He also be bringing them in sync for other reasons? She spread her hands and pulled them toward her chest in a decrescendo, and her choir softened their tones into achingly beautiful unison. Even in the shadows, her hands looked so small compared to Seth’s. She recalled how his big, gentle paw guided hers to pet that absurd donkey, the almost tender look he’d given her through those funny tortoiseshell glasses. Yearning washed over her, nearly as precious and painful as the music the choir was singing … wait a minute.
Which
music were they singing?