In Search of Eden (43 page)

The floors were clean and polished, the doors decorated with flowered wreaths, but there was still a faint institutional air. It wasn't a
home,
no matter how hard they tried to make it seem like one. Still, it was nicer than most. She stopped at the door to 1015,
peeked inside, and tapped on the door.

An old white-haired man was dozing in a chair, the television on in front of him. It was a private room and obviously filled with quite a few of his own furnishings.

She went in and spoke softly. There was no answer from Reverend Webb but another deep breath.

An aide came in just then, a sweet-faced woman who looked at her merrily. “Honey, when he's sleeping, a train whistle won't wake him.” She took his arm and gave him a gentle shake. “Reverend Webb, there's somebody here to see you.”

He roused and, after a minute of reorientation, his eyes fell on her.

“I'm Miranda DeSpain, Reverend Webb,” she said. She spoke at a normal volume and was pleased when he seemed to hear her well.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Are you from the business office?”

“No, sir,” she answered. “I don't work here.”

He nodded but looked confused. She explained her visit. “Mrs. Ada Tallert gave me your name and said you might be able to help me with something.”

“My,” he said, looking surprised, “that's a name I haven't heard in years. Ada Tallert. Sit down,” he invited. “How is Ada?”

“I think she's well,” Miranda answered, perching on the edge of his bed. “She was living with her granddaughter. I went by to see her last weekend.”

Reverend Webb gazed past her head, and she knew he was moving through scenes from the past.

“What's your name again?” he asked.

“Miranda. Miranda DeSpain.”

“And what's your connection with Ada Tallert?”

“I was looking for information about my mother,” Miranda said. “She lived in Thurmond, and I understand she attended your church.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said. “But I'll try to help you if I can.”

She nodded and took a deep breath. “Her name was Noreen Gibson.”

The pastor brought his eyes from the distance and focused them on her. He nodded sadly. “One of Beck Maddux's girls.”

“That's right,” she said, and a shiver passed over her like a dark cloud.

“Now that you tell me, I can see it,” he said. “You're the image of her except for the dark hair. She had blond hair. Not white like Beck's but lighter than yours.”

Another fact she had never known. Her mother's hair had been dyed red for as long as she could remember. Now that she knew more about Mama's life, she wondered if her mother had dyed her hair so she would have no visible reminders of her father. She smiled at Reverend Webb. “I've been told that I favor her,” she said.

He rubbed his hand over his cheek. “You do.” He looked carefully at her face, then shook his head. “That was a sad business,” he said. “All around.”

She took in a deep breath and let it out. “Reverend Webb, about ten or eleven years ago, did my mother contact you or your wife?”

He frowned, and she waited, not breathing. He shook his head. “My wife died fifteen years ago, and I haven't heard from or seen Noreen since the day she ran off with that young man.”

Miranda felt hope sink down then. Like a great slab of iron let go in her chest, it sank down to her stomach and settled on the bottom.

“My mother had an important decision to make about the time I mentioned,” she finally managed to get out. “All we know is that she turned to someone she said she trusted. If it wasn't you, do you know who that person might have been?” she asked.

Reverend Webb's head shook, whether from palsy or intention, she couldn't tell. “I don't believe there was anyone who
cared two figs for those girls save Ada Tallert and the folks in the church. Certainly not their daddy, may God have mercy on his soul.”

“How many were in your church?” she asked. “Do you suppose I could find the membership records?”

He shook his head. “Church burned down, but everybody's gone now, anyway. Moved away or died. I wouldn't know how to find any of them. I don't expect your mama would have been able to, either.”

“You can't think of anyone she trusted besides Mrs. Tallert and your wife?”

He shook his head again. “They were forsaken by man, those girls. But loved by God.”

Miranda's eyes filled with tears. For her mother and Aunt Bobbie. For her baby. For herself.

“Have I helped you?” he asked, the cloudiness returning to his eyes. “I want to if I can.”

“You've helped,” she said. “You told me the truth. Thank you.”

“Let me pray for you before you leave,” Reverend Webb said.

She bowed her head. He put his shaky hand on top of it and prayed over her in formal King James English. A jumble of words that her mind could barely take in, but she felt the warm pressure of his hand. “Amen,” he finally said, and she raised her head.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and drove back to Abingdon in a fog, staring straight ahead but seeing the door to her hopes close slowly and finally. This, she knew, was the end of the trail. Every other avenue had fizzled out. This had been the last hope, and now it was gone. She would have to find a way to put this all behind her, but that would be very hard if she continued living here, knowing she was so close but not able to reach what she longed for. Perhaps the time had arrived, she thought. Perhaps it was time to start thinking about leaving.

Yet, she did not leave. She stayed, a sweet inertia taking hold of her like a deep dream from which she was loath to wake. Her summer rolled on like the gently folding fields and pastures around her, like a lazily flowing stream on which she floated, enjoying the scenery as it passed by. She worked at the Hasty Taste and learned all the regulars' names. She cleaned the funeral home and met the families of the people they buried. She spoke words of comfort and received their hugs and patted their hands. She walked the Creeper Trail and learned to recognize the flowers. She made careful drawings of them and pasted them in her scrapbook—blue violets and wild columbine, fire pinks and foamflowers, stonecrop and winter cress.

She and Joseph walked together to Damascus and back on a sun-baked Saturday morning. She fished with him in his secret place on Glen Cove Stream and caught a good-sized trout with a lure from his tackle box. She wore his waders and nearly sank. They laughed like children.

Every Wednesday and Saturday she shopped at the farmers' market. Ruth taught her how to make a pie crust. Each Saturday evening she joined Ruth and Eden and Joseph for music in the park. She helped Ruth weed and prepare her gardens for the annual garden tour. On the Fourth of July she played games and dunked Joseph by throwing a softball at a bull's-eye, then sat beside him afterward and watched the fireworks change the dark sky into confetti.

She got a library card. She was invited to Venita's daughter's baby shower. She went to church. Joseph, looking a bit sheepish, testified for her at her traffic violation court date, and the case was dismissed. She had coffee with Pastor Hector three times, and the last time they talked about Jesus. She wrote in her journal about people she was getting to know and who was seeing whom and whose daughter was having a baby and recipes and quilt patterns, and she bought some watercolors and started painting again. These were real things of real life instead of pictures of foreign cities and people.

She sat among Joseph's family in their pew on Sunday mornings and ate with them afterward, and after a while she forgot she was only pretending to belong here. But every now and then something would make her remember why she had come. Something would tap on her heart and warn her to pull the shutters tight and batten down the doors. A storm would eventually come, the inner voice said, and when it did, she would not be ready with every door flung open like this and her arms stretched out wide.

chapter
45

H
enry looked at Joseph with incredulity. “Strike while the iron is hot,” he said. “The early bird catches the worm. Time and tide wait for no man. Do you know what all these expressions have in common?”

Joseph nodded wearily, but Henry didn't give him a chance to answer. “They all mean
get off your duff and make something happen!”

Joseph grinned. Henry shook his head. “It's no laughing matter, son. This gal has been around nearly three months now. It's already July. It's obvious to everyone who sees you that you're two peas in a pod, and you haven't asked her out on a date yet?”

“We've done things together.”

“Son, do I need to draw you a picture? Fishing is one thing. Walking is another. But when you fix yourself up and take a woman out for an evening on the town, you're stating your intentions. Isn't it about time you did that? You shuffle and stutter around much longer, and she's likely to up and leave or take up with somebody else while you're still picking your moment.”

Joseph sighed. “All right. All right.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I'd already decided to invite her to dinner this weekend.”

“Well, then. That's more like it. Where are you taking her?”

“The Pepper Mill,” he began, but Henry was already shaking his head.

“No, son. You've got some lost time to make up for. I'm talking suit and tie and flowers and the nicest table at Caroline's and reservations at the theater afterward. And a walk in the park after that. I'm talking wine and dine. We need to get this party started, as the young folks say.”

Joseph laughed. “Henry, I never knew you were such a romantic.”

“Been married happily for forty-five years, boy. Learn from those who know. Now, I'm happy to do my part, but you've to got to do yours. When are you going to ask her?”

“Tonight,” he said.

Henry gave a nod of satisfaction and slapped him on the back. “Don't mess this one up, now. You might not get a second chance.”

Joseph hadn't been this tense since he was doing reconnaissance in Mogadishu. But now that he thought about it, even that had been easier. He'd had a weapon then. Now he had nothing but himself. Well, there was no use putting it off. He cleared his throat and approached the mission's objective. Eden, who knew everything, had told him she was here, in her favorite park, sitting beside the creek. “Hello, Miranda,” he said.

She looked up with a smile that eased his heart, but her eyes were clouded with care today. Perhaps she would tell him about it later on.

“Hello, Joseph,” she said. “I see you came again with gifts.”

He twisted the top off a bottle of sarsaparilla, handed it to her, then sat down beside her and opened his own.

“Thank you,” she said, taking a drink. “How was your work today?” she asked.

“About as good as it gets,” he said. “We busted a car thief who's been plaguing us all summer.”

He took a sip himself. He really didn't care for sarsaparilla. He'd be glad when they got past the impressing each other stage and he could go back to Mountain Dew.

“And still no more Travelers?”

He shook his head. He still had the feeling, but he had to admit there hadn't been any more trouble. “Nothing for months,” he said. “I guess they moved on.”

She nodded. “That's good.”

He decided to get to the point. “Miranda.”

“Yes?”

She lifted her pretty face to him, and suddenly he felt unsure. What if he was misreading everything? What if she wasn't interested in him at all? All his old doubts came back to haunt him. He might mess up a friendship. She might just say no. He hesitated a minute, then decided there was nothing to do but to press on through, although a felon with a gun wouldn't have seemed as terrifying as those cool blue eyes this minute. He started to ask, then choked. And he knew what the problem was. The evening Henry had pressed him to plan suited him about as well as a tuxedo did a monkey. He made a quick course correction and plowed on.