Edwina (11 page)

A
fter the thirteen hours spent on two planes, one layover only
forty-five minutes, Edwina was exhausted. The flight attendant woke
her when they landed in Chicago. She rose on weak legs and pulled
her small carry-on from the space above her head, the last person
off the plane.

Then there was the matter of the three hour
bus ride back to South Bend, Indiana and a twenty-minute cab ride
to Niles. The familiar surroundings did nothing for her sore and
wounded heart. She’d gone over and over in her mind why she found
herself so desperate to get home. To what? To whom? Oh there had
been one or two men asking for dates, most of them library patrons,
but none she felt inclined to spend time with.

Because I’m safe here. I
know every waking moment what I will be doing. Every hour is
accounted for.
Edwina wanted to cry.
Certainly it was overtiredness from the hours traveling alone. She
wished Cecelia could have come along. Yet, somehow she knew that
God was pushing her.
God I don’t know what
you’re doing... but it sure hurts
.

Slinging off her worn shoes, she dropped her
bags at the door and hit the bathroom. The sight of her small
shower and tub sent her into new fit of tears. She did want a
different life. But how did one do that without changing their
entire personality?

After slipping into a pair of worn pajamas
Edwina crawled into her single bed and snuggled down. Bertie wasn’t
there to comb out her hair. Tears fell on the pillow as her blood-
shot eyes closed and shut out the world.

By morning, she was ready to jump out of her
second floor window. Rain was coming in the bedroom window,
sluicing down the bookcase. It must have been open the entire time
she was gone and had soaked the walls and several of her favorite
books.

Crying harder, she wanted to pray, but
nothing would come out. She pulled each book from the case. Her
fingers turned red and blue and black from the ink running from the
covers. The pages were wilted and crinkled. Laying them out flat on
the wood floors, she let the tears fall freely. It was good to cry
when one was overwhelmed. She’d read that in a health magazine. And
heaven knows she’d had enough stress these last two weeks to last a
lifetime. Perhaps she was made for her practical, common sense
lifestyle.

But she had taken the trip. By herself. And
worked it out. She’d walked the hills of Scotland, resided in a
castle with a very handsome laird, hadn’t she? Even caused him to
laugh once or twice. Not to mention the fact that she had her hero
bio all set out for the story. Perhaps it had all happened so that
she could write her first novel. That must be it.

But why had she not considered the job the
Scot offered? It had been a life-changing offer and she’d turned it
down because... because she was afraid.

Chapter 20

T
wo months passed. Her old life was there for the taking. And
it was familiar and worn, just like her black flats, which she
still wore. She’d had the shoe repairman put on new soles.
Too bad I can’t renew my spiritual soul as
easily
, she mused one afternoon. It was
already the last week of July. Soon the Michigan autumn would set
in, then winter. She wondered which stack of books she would start
tonight. She had read voraciously since she’d returned home. It
seemed the only remedy for her sick heart. She’d wanted, more than
a dozen times, to write Bertie a note. But she didn’t dare open
that door.

Cecelia had come home from Italy penniless,
except for a trunk, which still sat unopened. Her father had given
her all his money through the years and was broke when he died. She
returned distraught; any income she hoped to have from her father
was gone.

Her sister’s
entrepreneurial skills had dashed to the fore- front, however, and
saved her when she became a television entity. In one fell swoop,
Cecelia had managed to obtain her own design show and was even now
planning to appear on
Oprah
, in Chicago, for all the world
to see and admire. And with her perfect beauty and design savvy,
she had rolled in the money without a bit of trouble.

Edwina almost admitted she was jealous. As
she sat at her desk opening mail, wishing she were better at
admitting her faults, her eyes fell on an envelope. It was from
Scotland. The Gillespies!

She had completely forgotten she’d promised
them a suite in one of Cecelia’s rentals. Oh dear! What to do? She
grabbed the envelope and tore it open. They were coming in
September. Would the offer still be open to visit Chicago?

On and on she read, the kind note mentioning
their excitement to see their son and the fact that they, even at
their age, were to visit the United States.

Something in her heart
fluttered. Was it hope? She had made a promise to the Gillespies
and with God’s help would keep it. She picked up the phone, then
remembered Cecelia was off visiting the producer of
Oprah
for her future
appear- ance. Edwina put the phone back in the cradle and finished
opening the mail. She put the special envelope to the
side.

Cecelia called, excited to share her news.
“I’m not only going to appear, but I can bring two guests to the
show with me. What do you think? I owe you after you took my
Scotland tour,” she said sweetly.

Cecelia was not a sweet-talking person—unless
she wanted something, which Edwina was sure she did.

“Oh no you don’t. I don’t have a television
persona. Thanks, though. But I do have a favor I need to ask of
you...” She winced, having just turned down a favor herself.

“What is it?” Cecelia’s voice changed, back
to her normal businesslike tone.

“Well, I met a couple in Scotland, at the
castle I told you about... and I told them you’d provide a room
free of charge. Just for a few days. They wanted to come to
Chicago, but didn’t have the extra funds.” Edwina talked fast since
Cecelia had a penchant for not listening to anyone talk but
herself. “I really do owe Alex Dunnegin the favor, Cecelia.”

“Oh, is that all? Of course, you must do your
duty. What day will they arrive? I have plenty of rooms now that
I’ve purchased the new building. And we will be ready with
ninety-six new rooms by the end of this month,” she said
proudly.

“Really?” Edwina was relieved. “I’m proud of
you Cecelia. You’ve made your way even without your father’s
income.”

“I told you I would, didn’t I?”

Edwina remembered the day. “Yes, you did.
Thanks for letting me have the room. I know you need to make the
money to pay the mortgage. . . .”

“Think nothing of it. Did I
tell you I negotiated an extra three thousand a month on my
contract with the television show? Not to mention my appearance
on
Oprah
will
prob- ably fill my rooms to capacity,
and
I will be able to introduce my
new design show.”

“How exciting, Cece. You really have done
well.”

“Well, back to the reason I called. I need
two take-ons for the show, and I thought of you first, Ed. Sure you
don’t want to try it?”

Cecelia was the only one who was allowed to
call her Ed. Besides, no one would ever be able to stop her anyway,
so Edwina had let it go. “No thank you.” She said firmly.

“I’ll try to think of someone else,” Cecelia
continued. “Hey, what about your two visitors? You say they’re
coming from Scotland? That’s an excellent idea! I can attract trav-
elers from overseas when they stop in Chicago. How perfect is
that?” Cecelia’s brain was burning.

“I can ask. They might consider it.”

“Well, let me talk to them. I’ll get them on
the show” she said squarely.

Edwina knew she would. “Let me get a hold of
them. I’ll write tonight and mention it. Don’t hold your breath,
though. Have some other ideas ready, okay Cecelia? I wouldn’t want
to force them, you know. They’re very quiet people.”

“Of course.” Cecelia said the words, but
Edwina knew she didn’t mean them for one second.

Later that night, sitting
in bed with her best stationery, she wrote a letter to the couple
and invited them to
Cecelia’s
Place
, the new building aptly named for
its owner. And as an aside, would they consider appearing on
Oprah
right here in
Chicago as her sister’s guests from Scotland?

“Oh, that sounds real
subtle,” She muttered, then folded the letter perfectly even at the
corners and sealed it in the envelope.
Lord, bless this letter
.

Lately she could feel her heart again. Every
day she wondered about Alex Dunnegin. Had he found someone? Could
she have done the job properly? She would always wonder.

Edwina laid the letter aside and picked up a
magazine. Flipping through and checking article titles, she decided
she’d had enough real-life stuff and needed a good movie. Just this
once, she would watch a two-hour movie and be late to bed.

Thumbing through the stack,
she found
The Count of Monte Cristo
and pressed the DVD into service. Two hours
later, she sat cross-legged staring at the screen. An innocent man
accused of wrongdoing suffered terrible atrocities in prison for
eleven years. God had provided a way out for the man, now called
the Count of Monte Cristo. He first sought vengeance and then
remembered his prison mentor’s words, “Do not commit the crime for
which you now serve the sentence. God said vengeance is
mine.”

The thought that we should make the most of
our lives, came washing over Edwina like she was drowning. She sat
on the sofa, unable to move and for the first time in her life

realized that she was wasting her life.
Edwina sobbed into her hands, crying out to the Lord to make her
life worthwhile.

Somehow during the night, she came to the
conclusion that she needed some time off and called in using one of
many available sick days.

Chapter 21

S
o
what to do? She was up at her usual time sipping tea sitting on the
seat in the three-windowed nook of her bedroom; she stared at the
occasional car that passed on the street below. She’d been so
practical as to save ten dollars per month by taking the second
floor apartment.

Right now she wanted nothing more than to
walk out her front door and find herself in a park-like vision of
the Garden of Eden. No more scrimping. No tromping up the narrow
stairs with groceries in plastic bags so heavy they left deep
gashes on her wrist.

And the shower. She hated her tiny three-foot
square shower with no tub; another five dollars saved per month,
she reminded herself. What had been the benefit? Five extra dollars
in exchange for a tub full of bubbles and warm, rose- scented
water? Hardly a trade-off.

And her newly discovered bit of humor and
frippery had disappeared. The banter she and Bertie had shared
still rang in her ears. Could she pick up the phone, she would
gladly spend the extra dollars just to hear in a strong Scottish
brogue, “Get on with it, lassie.”

Edwina realized she’d been stirring one level
teaspoon of sugar at the bottom of her teacup for who knows how
long and tossed the spoon down, chipping the garage sale mismatched
saucer. What was life if you couldn’t have at least one matching
cup and saucer? It didn’t have to be expensive, just matching.

She picked up the cup and sipped. The warmth
flooded her body; the feel of the cup in her hands flushed memories
out faster than she could process them. She was complaining about
every little thing. She knew she should be thankful, grateful, and
blessed, for she was—in so many ways. Her frumpy nightgown was now
stained with tea—again— because her hand was shaking.

“Whatever,” Edwina said and swiped at the tea
soaking through her gown.

She finished the tea and stood. It would do
no good to sit in the apartment and dream. Dashed dreams were
things she did not want to think about right at the moment nor did
she care to use one of her sick days in familiar surroundings.
Gazing at the sun filled windows, she realized for the first time
that her entire two week Scotland vacation had been worth every bit
of trouble.

Today she would use the extra gas in her
little used white Volkswagen and go to another town and walk. There
were hills in Michigan, but none like the blue-green ones in
Scotland. She needed to walk on some hills. Soon the winds of
autumn would change the season again, and for some reason she could
not abide the thought of a snow-covered winter, although there was
nothing more beautiful than a sunny day with every living thing
covered in sparkling snow or a moonlit white night.

St. Joseph. That’s where she would go. There
were hills there—sandy hills. Not the same, though it would have to
do. The beaches would be overrun with sunbathers, but she might
find a nice shady street and walk to Lake Michigan just to watch
people. If she were lucky, she might be able to snag a bench.

Take a lunch? Nope, not this time. No peanut
butter and grape jam sandwich today. She would stop at McDonald’s,
then have a triple decker ice cream cone at Kilwin’s in down- town
St. Joe.

Slipping into a worn pair of blue jean
shorts, something she hardly ever wore, she pulled on a red
sleeveless cotton tank top and slipped her toes into beach shoes.
That would have to do. She gathered her thick hair, now grown
halfway down her back, into a pony tail, then clipped it up atop
her head. Grabbing sun block and a towel, she headed out.