Rain Dance (6 page)

“What’s all this silverware mean?” she asked.

“It’s sort of a family tree. The top group belonged to my great-grandparents. These were a wedding present to my grandparents. The next set belonged to my folks, and these to Ben’s. They were given to us as a wedding present.”

She studied the utensils for a moment longer, shoving her hands back in her pockets as if unsure what else to do with them.

“Come upstairs, and I’ll show you my office. I don’t think I told you—I’m a writer.”

“That’s nice, but what do you do career-wise?” she asked.

“I write.”

I sighed to myself as we climbed the stairs. Her response was the norm. Many people view writing as a hobby. I hoped she’d see a professional when she looked into my office.

She asked about the big scrapbooks stacked on the floor. I explained how I sometimes worked with troubled kids in schools and churches and led them into writing as a way to help them express their struggles. Often the kids stayed in touch. Sometimes they sent me notes or copies of essays they’d written. I kept them because every time I read them, they taught me something.

Then she noticed the picture frames.

“Book covers.”

“Yeah. I let them motivate me when I’m stuck, discouraged, or get a rejection.”

“These are the covers of your books.”

I nodded. “They take my breath away every day I walk in here. Kids all over are enjoying the stories I write. It’s both wonderful and weird. You work hard and the dream comes true, but you can’t believe your words reach into so many lives.”

We continued the tour.

I chattered and she nodded, her eyes moving over each room as she took in the details. I tried to shut the door to the little room next to our bedroom, but she caught my hand.

“Whose room is this?” she asked, stepping into the taupe and white room.

“It was going to be the nursery. I was so sure.” Shame washed over me again for jumping so far ahead and decorating for a baby I’d never have.

She lingered in the room of dead dreams while I stood in the hallway. When she stepped out, I shut the door. The quiet click reminded me that this chapter of my life was finished.

For a moment we didn’t speak. There aren’t words for that kind of pain.

Relief washed over me when we started downstairs. How could she possibly understand my hopelessness? At least she knew she could conceive.

In the kitchen I offered, “How about a fresh cup of coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

“Feel free to make yourself at home.”

While I ground hazelnut-flavored beans and poured water into the coffeemaker, she wandered into the dining room again. I pulled out oversized plum-colored mugs, sugar, cream, and put a few homemade cookies on a plate.

I jumped when I heard her voice behind me. She held her arms crossed as far around herself as they’d reach.

“I’m cold.”

For the first time I noticed her feet—bare inside damp, paint-spattered sneakers.

“Wait here. I’ll get you a pair of socks.”

A blush rose in her cheeks and she looked down. “I don’t think I’ve ever gone out of the house looking like this.”

“Stacie, you look sensational—even when you’re ratty.”

I heard her choke out what sounded like it might be a giggle as I ran upstairs. When I came back down, I found her in the living room holding my Amish quilt.

“Who made this?”

“I bought it from an Amish woman. She lives just east of here and her name is Jenny. Her signature is on the reverse side.”

“I know her. She’s my aunt. I have one like it.”

“No way!”

“Yeah.”

“Is this cool or what?”

She gave a faint smile. “Or what.”

She set the quilt down and took the socks. I noticed she’d slipped off her shoes and put them by the door. Her toenails shimmered with burgundy polish. What would she think if she knew I wore Crimson Rose on mine?

I hurried to the kitchen when I heard the coffeemaker gurgle at the end of its brewing cycle. “I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen I picked up my silent dialogue with God

again.
What can I say to her?

“
Let Your light shine”

My shine feels a little tarnished. Please let her see You in spite of me.

“I hope you like double chocolate chip cookies.” I said when I returned to the living room.

She grinned, flashed her hand at me so that a large marquis-cut diamond caught the light, and said, “Next to diamonds, chocolate is a girl’s best friend.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

We both yummed in delight as the hot coffee melted the chocolate in our mouths, then peeked over our steaming mugs at each other.

“You got books!” She smirked, nodding at my overflowing bookcases.

I glanced at the collection that displayed my love of words. “I do. I don’t watch much TV. I prefer reading books and watching old movies.”

“Me too. I collect the oldies—
Roman Holiday, The Bishop’s Wife,
and
White Christmas
.”

“
The African Queen, The King and I
. . . next time you come, let’s plan a movie marathon!”

“With buttered popcorn.”

“You’re on.”

We sipped our coffee in silence for a moment. It wasn’t comfortable or uncomfortable—it just was.

“Do I see Koontz and Grisham on that shelf?”

“You do.”

“I like them too, but I assumed you’d be more into religious books.”

“I read books on faith, but I also enjoy being scared spitless by Koontz now and then.”

I was amused by the unspoken questions I knew danced in her mind. She had put me in a box I didn’t fit into.

“So have you read the latest Grisham?” she asked.

“Yes. Have you?”

“No, but it’s waiting for me at home under a pile of paperwork.”

We shared another quiet moment before she set her mug down. “Speaking of home, I’d better go.”

“Do you think we could meet for lunch soon?”
For Pete’s sake—why did I say that?

“Sure. When and where?”

Her answer zinged through me and her eyes looked as startled as I felt.

“Do you like Chinese or Italian, and how about Tuesday?”

“One o’clock at Wong’s sound good?”

“Works for me.”

“All right then.”

She walked across the room and slid her feet into her shoes. “I’ll return the socks Tuesday.”

I opened the door, and there sat her car with its front tire up on the curb. I giggled. “In a hurry to get here, huh?”

She blushed. “See ya, Jonica.”

“Bye.”

I watching her pull away, then shut the door. Our differences stood between us like silent sentinels, but our similarities shimmered like stars in a country sky—they were everywhere.

I couldn’t wait to tell Ben.

Stacie

The tears I couldn’t release at home poured out of me like floodwaters over a broken dam.

Jonica held me in a gentle hug and I found myself wondering how a stranger’s embrace could be comforting. I’d have lingered but, my nose started to run and I needed something besides her shoulder to wipe it on.

I realized no one had touched me since my dad brought me home from the ER. I decided it was not time to go there in my mind, so I turned my attention to her living room.

Sunshine danced off the polished wood floor—just right for little stockinged feet to slide across. Multi-colored braided rugs and a bright quilt added color. Mission furniture with dark green leather cushions sat at friendly angles, inviting conversation, and a fire burned in the fireplace. She handed me the tissue box and we blew our noses in unison.

My anger evaporated like the morning fog as the sun burned it away.

She asked if I wanted to see the house. I did. I knew each room would reveal to me a little bit more about this woman.

Ivory doilies and vases full of silk sunflowers, blue delphinium, pink roses, and white daisies softened the masculine furniture. Sage green candles that smelled like men’s aftershave, the gentle gong of the grandfather clock, and the faint smell of pizza all made it feel like a home. In the dining room the story of the shadow box full of silverware intrigued me.

I didn’t expect her to have a real office. In the short trip upstairs I’d envisioned a hobby room. Instead a built-in desk wrapped its way around two of the walls and held a pc with a large flat screen. On the counter above several lengths of file drawers sat a fax machine and a copier. I noticed her date book was full of highlighting and post-it-notes. A large whiteboard covered one side of the room. Here she was planning the timeline for a book.

The other wall held her framed book covers. I was a little embarrassed when I discovered she was a published author but let myself off the hook. After all, I didn’t do the children’s section of the bookstore.

The only other artwork was a large bronze statue of some children. The woman loved kids.

Of course there was a cross—not really art—but a silent symbol of her faith. There it hung; empty, wooden, haunting, and somehow beautiful. That and her open Bible confirmed my suspicions. A Christian. Most likely a God-lover and an abortion-hater.

She led me through each room, talking as we went. She noticed my raised eyebrows when I saw a room with twin beds and racecar comforters.

“This is where our nephews sleep when they come for overnighters.”

The other guest room bid me welcome. A chair nestled into the corner where an antique end table held a lamp. Another quilt covered the queen-sized bed, and white walls made the room both light and bright with sunshine filtering in through the lace curtains.

I liked the master bedroom best. Deep plum, soft tangerine, and sage green velvet blended in a soft swirl in the comforter. A painting of a man’s hand placing a wedding band on a woman’s finger hung above the bed. A sculpture of two hands entwined was more sensual than the most blatant art I’d ever appreciated. This room was about a whole lot more than procreating. Everything in this space said: lovers.

A bow window matched the one in the living room directly below us. Two overstuffed chairs filled the space, one a deep plum leather wingback, the other a match for the comforter. The cushions in both were slightly indented and appeared to be saving the sitter’s places. A stack of books sat beside each one. Even here, in this cozy setting, romance resided.

She tried to hide the little room from me. I didn’t let her. For some reason I needed to know everything I could about her. Stepping inside almost undid me. A room sat ready for a child who would never come. Pictures of Jesus with little children around Him hung on the walls. The colors were warm and neutral—unlike any I’d normally attach to a nursery, and yet they were perfect. A shadow of her grief walked over my heart. Why did her situation bother me so much? Before my feelings slipped again, we left the sunny room and hurried down the stairs.

I wandered into the dining room while Jonica fixed coffee. I stood again in front of the shadow box and shivered.
It ends here.

Goose bumps stood at attention on my skin. Between the cold and my nerves I felt my teeth start to chatter. I went to the kitchen and told Jonica about my chilly condition. She got me a warm pair of athletic socks. I had forgotten my coat and wore only my old deck shoes. Splotches of teal, purple, gold, and black paint stained the once white canvas, evidence of the time we redid our bedroom and bathroom. I was pretty sure I looked like a street person. For a moment I worried what Eve would say if I ran into her. I decided that would be no problem. She’d never recognize me.

Jonica said I looked great and meant it. I wondered,
“What
does she see that I can’t?”

We ate homemade cookies, drank coffee, and talked. I sat there thinking about my misplaced mission. I’d come with one goal—to cause her harm. Then it dawned on me. After days of feeling lousy, I felt safe.

This is supposed to be the enemy’s camp—I should flee before I’m taken prisoner of war.
Yet my own home offered me none of the comfort I found here.

Although her house was full of beautiful things, I knew it wasn’t her stuff. Whatever I was feeling reflected in her home, came from deep inside her and the confidence she had in her marriage.

In that moment the truth nearly crushed my already shattered heart. If Mike never came back to me, I’d never be at home again.

After discussing movies and books, then making a date for lunch, it was time for me to leave. As she opened the door, I heard her giggle at my parked car—a glaring testimony to my anger.

Glancing back at her standing in the doorway, as I turned my key in the ignition, I wondered,
How can we be so vastly different and yet so surprisingly similar?
I wanted to call Mike, and the anger at Jonica flared once more. I knew it wasn’t her fault, and just knowing that made me angrier. Someone had to be to blame for my loneliness.

I had no one to tell.

Chapter
5

Jonica

“Joni, you look like a cocoon wrapped up in there.”

I woke up to Ben tugging the blanket away from my body.

“Let me stay until I’m a butterfly then,” I mumbled, pulling back.

“Nope. It’s time for our walk.”

“Ben, it’s still dark out! Why can’t we go when the sun comes up?”

“I have a breakfast appointment, and isn’t this your day for lunch with Stacie?”

This was the day. Adrenaline rushed through my veins and my feet hit the floor. Pulling on my socks and sweats, I sang, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog . . .” After brushing my hair into a ponytail I announced, “I’m ready.”

I chattered during the whole walk. Ben agreed or squeezed my hand at the right times. The hope of sharing my faith with Stacie sent ripples of hyper-energy through my body. We finished our walk earlier than normal.

While Ben showered and dressed, I dusted the furniture on the main level, singing along to a Rich Mullins CD, and sliding on our wood floors in my stocking feet from tables to shelves.