Reflection (10 page)

“I'd forgotten about that.” Rachel set the photograph on the night table. “What year did he win the Nobel Peace Prize?”

“It was in ‘63. The only accolade he ever showed up to accept.”

Rachel smiled.

“He was not too popular with the government back in the fifties, though. ‘An inconvenient artist,' they called him. They balked at giving him a passport because they thought he was affiliated with Communist organizations.” Helen smiled sadly. That had been a difficult period, in many ways. She had been suffering from the deepest depression of her life. She wondered if Rachel had any memory of the sad, quiet, distractible grandmother she'd been during the girl's early years.

“Anyhow,” she continued. “Peter was very fortunate. His fame gave him the opportunity to have some political influence, and that was of tremendous importance to him.”

“I've been prowling through his books.” Rachel gestured toward the bookshelves. “Every one of them is either about music or politics. Except for the puzzle books.”

Helen laughed. “Too bad he hated the military. He would have been an excellent cryptographer. He certainly loved his puzzles.”

“So what about you, Gram?” Rachel asked softly. “Did you ever get to finish school?”

“No. I planned to, but I got pregnant with your father and that took care of that.”

“Oh, but it sounded as though you really wanted to learn. You had promise.”

“Well, I did continue to learn, though not in quite so formal a fashion. Peter taught me all he knew about music and composition. But we're talking about the 1930s, Rachel. There was little encouragement for women to be composers in those days, and tremendous pressure to be good mothers. So that's what I set out to be. A good mother.”

Rachel shook her head. “Doesn't seem fair,” she said. Then she scooted to the far side of the bed, leaning back against the wall to face her. “When did you and Grandpa move down here?”

“Well, Peter grew up here, you know that, don't you?”

Rachel nodded.

“At one time, his family owned a major part of the land around the town. They lost much of it during the depression. Their family home was over by the Jensen farm. Peter and I were living in New York, but we visited his family quite often. Even though I preferred the city at that time, I fell in love with this area down here, and of course Peter always had a soft spot in his heart for it. He needed that mixture—the stimulation of the city and peacefulness of the country. So in ‘33, his parents gave us this ten-acre plot, and we built this little abode on it.”

“'Thirty-three!” Rachel exclaimed. “I never realized this house was that old. It seems so contemporary.”

“Well, it's been remodeled a few times over the years, but back then people around here thought it was a bit out of place. They just chalked it up to the fact that Peter was an artist. An eccentric. He's the one who designed it, putting in all the glass. I've always loved the windows, how they bring the woods right into the house.” She looked ruefully toward the closed blinds. “I'm not so thrilled with them anymore in the middle of a thunderstorm, though.” The thunder was nothing more than a distant grumble now, and she could smile about it, shudder in mock seriousness. She sighed. “I missed living in the city,” she said. “I missed the concerts and plays and museums and excitement. But I was a wife and mother. It was time to give up my wild streak.”

“You gave up a lot for Grandpa,” Rachel said, and there was a touch of indignation in her voice. “Your education. Your own career.”

Helen looked down at her hands. For a moment she couldn't speak. “You and I are from different generations, Rachel,” she said finally. “It makes it hard for us to understand each other, I guess. I would have given up anything for Peter. I could never have paid him back for all he did for me.” With another sigh, she gripped the bedpost and got to her feet. The black curtain threatened her vision but lifted quickly. She smiled at her granddaughter. “Thank you for being so caring tonight.”

Rachel looked up at her from the bed. “You're welcome. I enjoyed our talk. And I'm sorry if what I just said upset you.”

Helen whisked away the apology with the sweep of a hand. Then she motioned toward the picture on the night table. “May I?” she asked.

“Of course.”

ONCE IN HER OWN
room, Helen felt very tired. It had been a long night, with too wild a mix of emotions. Fear, warmth, comfort, regret.

She put on her nightgown, crawled under the covers, and turned off the night-table lamp. In the darkness, Rachel's words came back to her.

You gave up a lot for Grandpa.

Helen reached up to turn on the light again. She lifted the photograph from the night table and examined it closely. She could see the excitement in the young woman's face, the love of life.

Rachel didn't know a fraction of what she had given up.

RACHEL PARKED HER CAR
on Water Street and walked toward the center of town, past the Starr and Lieber Bank on the corner, past the old gingerbread-trimmed library, which looked as though it could use some new paint. She was beginning to perspire in her long-sleeved shirt and white pants. She'd originally dressed in shorts but changed her mind after seeing herself in the full-length mirror. Too much flesh for a meeting with a Mennonite minister.

She stopped in front of the Mennonite church. It was larger than she remembered it and very white and plain against the green backdrop of the woods. The narrow arched windows were clear-paned, and a tall steeple pierced the summer sky. A perfect reflection of the church was mirrored in the still water of Huber Pond. Rachel shook her head with a smile, still unable to grasp Michael's connection to the building.

She shifted her gaze to the small brick chapel next to the Mennonite church. United Church of Christ, according to the sign on the front lawn. Across the street, her old Lutheran church was low and broad, its gray flagstone and red door pretty and welcoming. The last time she'd been in that church had been for her wedding.

There were twenty churches in Reflection. The statistic from her childhood slipped into her mind as she walked past the pond toward the row of shops along Main Street. Twenty churches, three banks, three schools, and one exceptional bakery.

Halper's Bakery was still there, right in front of her. She stepped through the door, wondering if she would find the brownies of her childhood inside the old glass cases. Sure enough, they were there, looking exactly as they had when she was a teenager. She'd often stop here after school to buy brownies for the boys and herself. They were flat, dense, and dark brown, topped with a thick slab of chocolate icing. Pure decadence.

She was the only customer in the store, and she smiled at the gray-haired woman who was busy behind the counter. “Two brownies, please,” she said.

“Be right with you, honey.” The woman was arranging sugar cookies on a tray. Her hands were gnarled and painful-looking.

The alcove above the cash register was mirrored, and Rachel grimaced at her reflection. She tugged at her hair. She'd left San Antonio too quickly to get a perm, and her light brown hair hung uncertainly in that limbo between curly and straight.

The woman walked around the corner of the glass case toward the brownies.

“I noticed they changed the name of Huber Pond,” Rachel said. “I haven't been here in a while.”

The woman glanced up at her as she opened the rear of the case. “They changed it a long time ago,” she said.

Something in her voice warned Rachel not to pursue the subject. She looked down at the brownies. “I used to buy these brownies all the time when I was a kid,” she said. “They were sinful. I'm so glad to see you still make them.”

The woman had picked up a sheet of tissue paper, but she stopped short of reaching into the case. Instead she cocked her head at her customer, eyes narrowed behind clear-framed glasses.

“Are you Rachel Huber?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” Rachel said, surprised.

The woman's features suddenly changed. Her nostrils widened, her lips paled and tightened. She started to reach for the brownies again, then seemed to change her mind. She set down the sheet of tissue paper, closed the door to the glass case, and walked quickly toward the rear of the little shop, where she disappeared behind a swinging door.

Rachel stared after her, perplexed. After standing there for a moment, she called out, “Excuse me?” but there was no response. She was about to leave when a young girl—a teenager—stepped through the swinging door.

“You wanted brownies?” The girl brushed a strand of blond hair from her eyes.

“Yes.” Rachel pointed toward the case and noticed that her hand was trembling. “Two of them, please.”

The girl extracted the brownies from their tray and slipped them into a bag, which she set on the countertop.

Rachel handed her a five-dollar bill. “Is she all right?” She nodded toward the swinging door and whatever room lay beyond it.

“She will be.” The girl didn't look at her as she rang up the sale. “Just got upset for a minute.” She handed Rachel her change, then shrugged awkwardly, the lock of hair spilling into her eyes once more. “Maybe you shouldn't come in here again,” she said. Then she turned on her heel and walked through the swinging door before Rachel had a chance to respond.

She left the bakery, her step now less light and unencumbered. She walked over to the pond, past the statue of her grandfather and onto the path that circled the water. The path dipped into the woods and then opened onto a small grassy area. Michael was sitting on a bench, and he stood when he saw her emerge from the woods.

She felt the grin spread across her face as she neared him. He had put on weight—not much, just enough that no one would think of him as scrawny any longer. His brown hair was touched with gray and receding slightly. The angles of his face were still clean and sharp, and even at a distance she thought she could see the warmth in his eyes behind his black, wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing khaki shorts and a black T—shirt, and she suddenly felt silly for her hot and conservative attire.

They reached for each other as she neared him, and for more than a minute they stayed locked in a wordless embrace. Rachel didn't want to let go. Her body shook with the effort of holding in tears, and she suddenly knew why her love for Phil had felt as if something were missing: her heart belonged to this man.

“Michel,” she said, although she had not thought of him by that name since their days in French-speaking Rwanda.

His laughter was soft against her cheek. “No one's called me that in a while,” he said.

When they finally pulled apart, Michael smiled as he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his fingertips. “Let's sit,” he said.

She nodded, reaching into her purse for a tissue. “This bench didn't used to be here.” She sat down, turning so she could look at him.

“No. They put it up a few years ago. I instigated it, because I love to sit here when I'm writing or reading. My office is right there”—he motioned toward the church on the other side of the pond—”so it's very convenient.”

She pulled one of the brownies from the bag and handed it to him. “What do you write?” she asked.

He took the brownie from her, grinning. “Haven't seen one of these in a long time. Thanks.” He took a bite, licked a crumb from his finger. “Sermons, mostly,” he said.

Rachel shook her head. “I can't believe it, Michael. When my grandmother told me you'd become a minister, I thought she must have you mixed up with someone else.” She slipped a piece of brownie into her mouth. It was abysmally rich, almost inedible.

“It was hard for me to believe at first, too.”

“How did it happen? Whatever—”

“We can get to that in a minute,” he interrupted her. “I want to hear about you first. Catch me up on everything. Are you teaching?”

She nodded. “High school. Special ed. And a little French.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” He looked relieved. “I worried you might have quit after…” He shook his head. “It would have been such a loss.”

“No, I could never give it up. I love it.” Teaching had become the strongest force in her life, her core. “I'm going to be one of those teachers who's still at it long after she should be.”

“That's the spirit,” he said.

A silence slipped between them. There was so much to say. She wasn't certain where to begin.

“I wish we hadn't lost touch after I left,” she said finally. “I was desperate to talk to you after everything happened, but you were still in Rwanda, and I felt as though I shouldn't try to get in touch with you because of Katy. Because you'd gotten married. I didn't feel as though I had the right to…you know.”

He nodded. “I wish you
had
gotten in touch with me. I tried to get your address from your parents and grandparents after you left, but your parents refused to tell anyone where you'd gone. They were extremely protective of you. And Helen and Peter didn't know.”

She was surprised to hear him call her grandparents by their first names, as though he knew them well.

“I know you started writing to Helen at Christmas a few years ago,” he continued. “She was really pleased by that. I thought once or twice of asking her for your address then, but I didn't want to stir up the past for you.”

She nodded. He'd probably been right not to contact her. She slipped the rest of her brownie into the bag, and he followed suit.

“How did we ever eat these things when we were kids?” he asked with a smile. “We must have been indestructible.”

Rachel cleaned the chocolate from her fingers with her tissue, her eyes on the still water of the pond. “So this isn't Huber Pond any longer,” she said.