Two Testaments (61 page)

“You’re nervous,” Gabriella teased.

“Yes, I think I am.”

“You will be wonderful. Only …” She pouted a bit. “Only don’t charm them too much, please. Remember, you’re taken now.”

He grabbed her and laughed. “Am I ever!” Then, “Gabby? Could you come to the chapel with me this morning? I want the girls to meet you.”

“Well, I wish you would have asked earlier. I could have gotten Sister Isabelle to take the children’s class for me.”

“Could you ask at breakfast? No, never mind. I’ll ask her. She won’t dare tell me no.”

“David!”

He kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry. She likes me more than you think!”

They dressed quietly, and then, as had become their habit in the first weeks of marriage, they sat cuddled together in the den and read from the Bible. Then David took Gabriella’s hands and offered up a prayer for those they loved, for the orphanage, and for this day.

“Dear God,” he concluded. “You see how much has happened since last year at this time. When I think that … that only a year ago I first laid eyes on Gabby. Well, You understand the emotion.” He held her tightly. “Give us Your grace for today. Amen.”

Snuggled in her bed, Ophélie watched the morning sky come awake with pinks and blues. She thought of the orphanage at St. Joseph; she missed her friends there.

She tiptoed into the adjoining bedroom, where her mother and Moustafa were still sleeping.

“Mama,” she whispered, “can we go visit Papa this weekend?”

Her mother shook herself awake. “This weekend? You were just there last week, honey.”

“I know, but I miss him. I miss everyone.”

Ophélie wished she had the courage to say it, the idea that had been floating around in her head for a while now. Perhaps they would think she was crazy. But she had this feeling …

“Mama?”

“Hmm, sweetheart?”

She liked to see her mother leaning comfortably against Moustafa. She looked so relaxed, without a worry in the world. Ophélie certainly didn’t want to make her mama frown.

“Have you ever thought about having another child?”

Her mother sat up suddenly and laughed. “Why, Ophélie! We’ve only been married a month. Give us a little time!”

Ophélie smiled. “I didn’t mean a baby. I was thinking about if you adopted someone.”

Moustafa and Anne-Marie exchanged glances. She saw the question in their eyes.

“What do you mean, Ophélie?”

“It’s … it’s Hussein. He is so alone. He is so afraid. He needs a family. I think we are the ones he needs.”

Gabriella still did not feel right sitting on the other side of Mother Griolet’s desk, looking through her files and papers and school notes. She wished her elderly friend were with her. But things were going well. The children were laughing in the courtyard, and the women were learning from David. Last year at this time … A lot had happened in a year.

The office walls were still filled with old photos of Mother Griolet and the orphans. But where several pictures had been taken down and given away, Gabriella had hung a wedding picture of herself and David, another wedding shot of Anne-Marie and Moustafa, a photo of Ophélie and David and her. And one of Jean-Louis, the Sisters, Mme Pons, and Mme Leclerc smiling happily at the reception. They were each holding a glass of champagne, and Sister Isabelle’s eyes were wide with mischief.

Gabriella felt cozy in her little office. At times the weight of responsibility she had taken onto her shoulders would frighten her, and a tear for Mother Griolet would come to her eye. That dear nun had imparted much wisdom to her within these office walls.

David’s santon, the white baker, stood on a shelf in front of the volumes that Mother Griolet had left him. Beside the baker, the old woman santon, with the bundle of sticks on her back, had returned to her original place. David had glued her back together. Gabriella liked to look at the two santons together and remember their secrets.

David came into the office at the end of his class and planted a kiss on her lips.

“How did it go?”

“Very well,” he said. “Fewer distractions than last year when that angel sat in my class.”

She stuck her tongue out playfully, then nodded to the santons. “Look, sweetie. There we are, growing old together.”

He picked her up out of her chair, kissed her, and said, “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

Hussein stood in the doorway of the farmhouse and looked around with wide eyes. It seemed impossible. He was going to live with Anne-Marie and Moustafa, as their ward. Ophélie’s brother. He could only shake his head. He didn’t know if he could ever get used to this new land. He thought of his mother, alone in Algeria with all her questions. If only he could know she was safe. If only he could bring her to France.

But that was not possible right now. Moustafa had promised that Hussein could write to her later, when things were calmer in Algeria. Perhaps someday he would be with her again. For now he was taking a very big step. It scared him to death.

Why would Anne-Marie and Moustafa want him? He was so different from them. And they were already different enough from each other. He thought about it for a long, long time. What was it that broke through walls of hatred and prejudice?

Maybe it was the love that pastor, M. Krugler, talked about in his meetings with the young people. Maybe he would be able to fit in there. He didn’t know. They were harki kids, and he was just plain Arab. The enemy.

He wondered again if he were making a big mistake. What would he become, tied to these people? There were no bloodlines. The hatred that had brewed and exploded in Algeria was not swept away with the end of the war. But what could he do?

Start over. Trust.

“Come on in, Hussein,” Ophélie encouraged him. He stepped through the doorway and let Anne-Marie and Moustafa take him in their arms. It felt good.

That night he lounged in the den with his new family, watching the embers of the fire change from blue to orange to red. The old trunk with its black casing sat in front of the couch. It intrigued him more than ever. He could not look at it without thinking of the other trunk, the one that had brought him to France—it had first been a prison and then a way of escape. Freedom, confining freedom. Maybe that was how life was supposed to be.

When mid-October came to Castelnau, the first pansies went on sale. Gabriella bought three trays from the florist in the village. She planted some in the courtyard, one tray by the dormitory, and another by the dining room. Then on a windy afternoon, with the mistral beginning to blow and the leaves on the vines a bright red, she walked alone through the town of Castelnau, past the fountain in the square and the olive tree outside Mme Leclerc’s apartment.

She came to the old cemetery where Mother Griolet was buried. It was filled with thick, massive tombstones that stood high and wide, engraved with names and dates. Occasionally a photo of a loved one had been placed on the tomb. A little farther out she knelt by the grave of Mother Griolet. In sharp contrast to the larger tombstones, her simple headstone read
For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.

Gabriella removed a small trowel from her pocket and dug in the soft earth. She planted a row of bright-yellow pansies in front of the stone. Satisfied, she stood, brushed the dirt from her dress, and watched the flowers bob their heads.

She peered at them closely. She thought indeed that she saw a face in each flower. The faces of those she loved: her family, Ophélie and Anne-Marie and Moustafa, the two Sisters, Jean-Louis, Mme Leclerc and Mme Pons, the children. And David. And then the twinkling eyes of Mother Griolet came into her mind.

Now unto Him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think …

She could almost hear the old nun’s voice floating out to her, full of hope and faith, carried in the wind.

… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,

the orchestra might offer an encore.

When a fine meal comes to an end,

it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

When a great story comes to an end,

we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer …

AfterWords—
just a little something more after you

have finished a David C Cook novel.

We invite you to stay awhile in the story.