Under a Summer Sky (2 page)

F
rom the moment he pulled her up from the sandy pavement and looked into her light sea-green eyes, Noah felt his world shift, and as he watched her run over to join her friends, he murmured the name they’d called her:
Laney
. Suddenly, he felt like love-struck Tony in
West Side Story
—except this time the most beautiful sound was Laney.

His brother gave him a nudge and started to jog away. “You coming?”

“Huh?” Noah looked up, remembered where he was, and trotted after his brother. His heart pounded—as it always did before a race—and he looked around, hoping to see her again, but Laney—not from Woods Hole—had been swallowed up by the sea of people. “Damn!” he muttered, shaking his head.

Micah looked over. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know her last name.”

“Well, just run slow and maybe she’ll catch up. Then you’ll have an excuse for me beating you so bad. Or, if worse comes to worst, she was wearing a Bowdoin T-shirt—you could drive up to Maine and find her.” The gun sounded, and Micah took off. “See you at the finish,” he called.

“You little sh . . .” Noah said, laughing and chasing after him.

As he ran along the familiar course, Noah fell into an easy stride beside his brother, and his mind drifted back over all the summers he’d spent on Cape Cod—all except one. The summer he’d turned seven his world had been turned upside down, and instead of on the Cape, he’d spent it at a cabin his dad had built on the Contoocook River in New Hampshire. He still remembered looking out the window of the old Chevy pickup as they crossed the Sagamore Bridge and headed north.

The ride had seemed to take forever, and it hadn’t helped that the radio kept playing the same songs over and over. One song in particular had puzzled him, and to this day, whenever he heard it, he thought of that long-ago ride.

“Why did someone leave a cake out in the rain?” he’d asked.

His dad had shrugged. “I don’t know—it’s a silly thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Noah had replied. “I don’t understand why he couldn’t get the recipe.”

His dad had shaken his head. “I honestly don’t know, Noah, but you can change the station if you want.”

Noah had leaned over and fiddled with the knob until he found a country station that was playing a haunting song about a lonely lineman, and he leaned back to listen.

“Good choice,” Asa Coleman had said with a smile.

Eventually, Noah had grown to love New Hampshire almost as much as Cape Cod—especially hiking its mountains—but the Cape would always be where he went to find solace. The first time he’d seen the ocean in winter he was seventeen, struggling with college decisions and trying to discern what God had planned for his life. The frigid January morning had started out like any other: he’d gone outside to warm up the old pickup—that was now his to use—ran back inside, rubbing his hands together, wolfed down the bowl of lukewarm oatmeal his mom had left for him, grabbed his backpack and jacket, pulled on his hooded cross-country sweatshirt, and headed out the door. But for some reason, when he reached town, he hadn’t made the turn toward school; instead he’d just kept driving . . . and he hadn’t stopped until the gas gauge was hovering on
E
and he was looking up at Nauset Lighthouse. He’d climbed out of the truck, pulled his hood up, and stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking out at the rugged, weather-weary coastline. Buffeted by the howling wind, he’d watched the waves swell up from the gunmetal gray surf and crash down in angry white foam, relentlessly pounding the frozen bulwark of sand. At that moment, he’d been overwhelmed by the majesty and magnitude of God’s power, and he’d felt small and insignificant in comparison, but as he continued to watch and listen to the ocean’s fury, he was filled with a sense of peace . . . and he’d suddenly known with absolute certainty what he was meant to do with his life. After that day, whenever something troubled him, Noah went to the ocean—it was like visiting an old friend.

By the time Noah and Micah crested Nobska Light, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and six miles later, when Micah picked up the pace along Falmouth Heights Beach and they raced down Grand Avenue—delighting the crowd with their effort—the sun was high in a cloudless, summer-blue sky.

“Next year,” Micah said with a grin, trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Noah teased, reaching out to shake his brother’s hand, knowing all too well his victories were numbered. They walked around, cooling off, and Micah stopped to ask an official who’d won.

“Joseph Nzau,” the man answered.

“And for the women?” Noah pressed.

“Joanie Benoit.”

“I knew it!” Noah said with a grin.

They walked over to the water station, and Noah looked around, hoping to get a glimpse of Laney. “Want to go for a cooldown?” Micah asked, pouring a cup of water over his head.

“In a few minutes,” Noah answered, crushing his cup and tossing it in a garbage can.

“Think she came in yet?” Micah asked.

“Who?”

“You know—the girl from Bowdoin.”

“I dunno,” Noah answered casually, trying to make it sound like it didn’t matter. A moment later he said, “All right, let’s go,” and trotted away from the stream of runners coming in. After all, it was silly to think he’d see her again in this crowd; besides, she probably had a boyfriend. And on top of that, he was starting seminary school in a couple of weeks, and the last thing he needed was to get caught up in a relationship—especially if it was long-distance.

“Are you sure?” Micah called after him, surprised by his brother’s sudden departure and change of heart. He ran to catch up with him. “Maybe she doesn’t go to Bowdoin—maybe it’s not her shirt. Maybe she goes to Harvard or MIT.”

“It doesn’t mat—” Noah started to say, but then he caught a glimpse of the young, petite woman with the brunette ponytail walking across the field.

Micah followed his brother’s gaze and shook his head. “That’s all right. I wanted to get a banana anyway . . .”

Noah barely heard him.

“H
ey!” he said, catching up.

Laney looked up in surprise. “Oh, hey . . . how’d it go?”

“Good . . . you?”

“Just finished.” She reached up to tuck some loose strands of damp hair behind her ear. “I only had to walk once,” she added with a grin.

“That’s great.”

“It’s a pretty run. I’d do it again.”

“I’ve been running it since I was sixteen.”

“Wow—that’s great!” She looked around. “Where’s Micah?”

Noah motioned toward the refreshment tent. “He went to get something to eat.”

“Did you beat him?”

“I did, but not by much,” he admitted with a grin.

She nodded, trying to think of something else to say. “And . . . did you see Joan?”

“No, but I heard she won again.”

“She’s amazing.”

Noah nodded. “Yeah.”

“She’s an alum of my school. She graduated in ’79—right before I started.”

“So you
do
go to Bowdoin,” he said, nodding at her shirt.

She glanced down to see what she’d pulled over her head that morning. “Yup.”

“What brings you to the Cape?”

“I’m finishing an internship at the oceanographic institution.”

“That’s a prestigious place.”

She nodded. “I’m majoring in marine biology, so it’s been a perfect fit.” She paused. “How ’bout you?”

“Me?” He hesitated, considering his answer and wondering how much she knew about the school from which he’d just graduated . . . or the one he was about to attend. Some folks were turned off by religion, but he didn’t have any idea what her feelings were, so he took a deep breath and threw caution to the wind. “I just graduated from Gordon, and I’m starting at Andover Newton in a couple of weeks.”

“You’re going to be a minister?” she asked in surprise.

He laughed. “Yup . . . crazy, huh?”

She searched his eyes and shook her head. “It’s not crazy,” she said softly. “I think it’s a wonderful profession.”

He nodded. “Well, that’s good. I mean . . . I’m glad you approve.”

Just then, her friends ran by. “Hey, Laney, we’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I’m coming . . . just a minute.” She turned back to him. “Well, I guess I better go.”

Noah nodded, and then realized he still hadn’t introduced himself. “I’m sorry . . . I should’ve . . . I mean . . .” Flustered, he shook his head at his inability to speak coherently and started over. “I’m Noah.”

She smiled and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Noah—future man of the cloth.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

“Laney,” one of her friends called, “we’re heading back to the car. . . .”

Laney looked over and nodded. “Well, I guess I really should get going, or I’ll miss my ride.”

Noah suddenly realized he was going to miss his last opportunity. “Would you . . . I mean, you wouldn’t happen to . . .” He smiled and shook his head again. “What I’m trying to say is—are you hungry?”

She eyed him skeptically. “Hmmm . . . I usually don’t go off with someone I just met.”

“Well, it’s just that Micah and I are going to The Pancake Man—it’s a post-race tradition. Our dad usually goes too, but he’s home nursing a knee injury so he didn’t come. They have great pancakes, and . . . well, it’s not like you’d be going off alone with someone you just met. You’d be going off with someone who’s studying to be a minister . . . and his little brother.” He paused and then added, “And we can give you a ride back to Woods Hole after.”

She laughed. “Well, when you say it like that . . .”

“Have you ever been to Pancake Man?”

She shook her head.

“What?” he teased, feigning disbelief. “It’s a Cape Cod institution—you can’t say you’ve been to the Cape if you haven’t been to Pancake Man.”

“Well . . .” she said with a grin. “I guess I better go then.”

“Great!” he said, feeling his heart skipping like a stone across the waves. Then he hesitated uncertainly. “Wait—you meant with us, right?”

Laughing, she nodded, and her smile stole his heart.

Laney loved The Pancake Man. She and Noah sipped black coffee while they waited for their orders to come, and she told them about the peach hotcakes and peach French toast her gram made, adding that hotcakes—as they were called down south—were definitely the best comfort food on earth, especially when served for supper. Micah contended that scrambled eggs were right up there too, but he eventually conceded that pancakes were probably better—especially on a snowy winter night. Noah listened intently, swept up by Laney’s funny, outgoing personality—and decided, right then and there, that he’d love nothing more than having hot, buttery pancakes with her on a snowy winter night. When their orders came, Laney had no problem downing her entire stack of plate-size buttermilk pancakes. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” she said, swirling her last bite through a puddle of maple syrup, innocently unaware of how impressed they were as they struggled to finish their Pigs in a Blanket—a coronary-clogging dish that included several links of sausage wrapped up in pancakes.

When they got back to Woods Hole, Noah walked her to her door.

“That was fun,” she said.

“You made it fun. Thanks for coming.”

“Thank
you
for inviting me. I’m glad I got to experience the famous Pancake Man.”

“You know,” he said, “there are several other Cape Cod institutions you should experience while you’re here.”

Frowning, she teased, “Well, where’ve you been all summer? My internship ends Friday and then I’m going to Georgia for a week.” She watched a gloomy shadow fall across his face and added, “But I might be able to do something one evening . . . and maybe Saturday if I stay an extra day.”

“That works for me,” Noah said, his boyish smile returning. “And my family is having a party on Saturday if you’d like to come.”

O
n Monday, wearing faded jeans, a blue Gordon College T-shirt, Nike running shoes, sunglasses, and still sporting a scruffy beard, Noah knocked hesitantly on Laney’s door.

“Hmm . . .” she teased, eyeing his casual attire. “You don’t look much like minister material.”

He smiled, taking in what little there was of her short denim cutoffs, smooth, tan legs, and snow-white tank top. “And you make me wonder if I
am
minister material.”

They stopped at an ice-cream shop in Woods Hole, and while Noah studied the menu, considering an indulgence called chocolate desire, Laney ordered a small cup of peach ice cream. “Are you sure that’s all you want?” he teased. “It can’t possibly be enough for a girl who can eat a whole stack of buttermilk pancakes.”

“Well, I didn’t just run seven miles.”

The waitress handed Laney her cup and then handed Noah a monstrous brownie sundae swimming in hot fudge and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. Laney shook her head as he licked his whipped cream. “You want some, don’t you?” he asked with a grin.

She laughed. “Well, maybe just a little whipped cream.” He plopped a large spoonful—including his cherry—on top of her ice cream, and she laughed. “Wow! Thanks.”

They walked along the waterfront, licking their spoons. “So,” she said, “how do you know so much about Cape Cod?”

Noah swallowed a bite of warm brownie. “We have a house in Eastham, and I’ve spent almost every summer out here. The rest of the time we live in New Hampshire. My dad’s an English teacher, and my mom works with special ed kids at the elementary school.”

“Really?”

“Yup, why?”

“My parents are both teachers too, although my dad was supposed to be a farmer.” Noah gave her a puzzled look, and she elaborated on her family’s farming history.

“Hence the peach ice cream?” he asked, nodding toward her cup.

“Yup—I love peach ice cream. My gram makes it for my birthday every summer.”

“So is that your calling—a peach farmer?”

She sighed. “Well, that’s the hard part. When I was little, I promised my grandfather I’d help him run the farm someday, but since then, I’ve come to love the ocean and aquatic life, so I could definitely see myself working in marine biology. But I also love little kids, so I could also see myself teaching.” Her face grew solemn. “Then again, I
do
love the farm . . .”

“Hmm . . . sounds like a tough decision.”

“I keep waiting to have an epiphany.”

Noah hesitated. “Well, at the risk of sounding religious, have you prayed about it?”

Laney shook her head. “I usually pray for guidance, but I can’t say I’ve prayed specifically about this. I guess I always think God has bigger things to worry about.”

Noah shook his head, as if he’d been expecting her answer. “That’s just it—people think their problems aren’t important enough. I mean God already has a lot on his plate, right? World hunger, war, getting the Red Sox into the World Series . . .” He grinned. “I’m just kidding on that last one. But folks think that just because we humans can only handle one or two crises at a time, that’s how God works too; but it’s not. He can handle all problems—no matter how big or small—and he can handle them
all
at once. I’m sure you’ve heard the verse: ‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.’ Well, that’s just what He’s trying to tell us—that he doesn’t play on our level—that his playing field is much bigger than ours.”

Laney was impressed by his passion and knowledge. “I guess I never really thought about it that way.”

Noah smiled. “And, by the way, I think you’d make a great teacher. You have such a warm, easygoing personality—kids would love you.”

“You think so?”

“Mm-hmm,” he replied, taking another bite of brownie.

“How about you?” she asked.

He looked up in surprise and swallowed. “Me?”

“Yes. How’d you know you wanted to be a minister?”

“Oh,” he said, relieved by her clarification. “Well,” he began, carefully considering his answer. “I guess it started when I was in high school. I was very involved in our youth group. We were always helping people or raising money to go on trips to help people. Every other summer we went on a mission trip. One year we helped rebuild a cabin in West Virginia. Another time we cleaned up a vacant lot in a poor section of Philadelphia and turned it into a vegetable garden. Other summers we worked as counselors at a Bible camp. We were always doing something—shoveling walks, visiting old folks, having bake sales. Our minister had a knack for coming up with creative ways for us to help others, and I came to realize that those times were the times I felt happiest . . . and most content.” He looked over. “I honestly believe we’re put on this planet for a reason—and not a self-serving reason. I think we’re supposed to find a way to help . . . a way to make a difference.”

She studied his profile in the soft light of the late day sun. “You must have a pretty strong faith.”

Noah licked his spoon and smiled. “Not always. There’ve definitely been times when I’ve wondered if God hears my prayers at all. At one point, I even questioned His existence. Now I just question my ability to hear what He’s trying to tell me.”

“Have you always found it so easy to talk about?”

He shook his head. “No, I used to keep my faith to myself. I was afraid people would think I was some kind of crazy religious zealot, but then I realized I was—like the Bible says—keeping my light under a bushel. I’ve come to believe that God is interested in every detail of our lives—even the little things. I have a friend who prays for good hair days and good parking spots.” He laughed. “And she usually gets them. I think what God loves most is having an intimate relationship with each of us, and I want to help people understand that. ”

Laney had never met someone her age that seemed so grounded and comfortable with who he was . . . and she loved that he wasn’t afraid to share his faith. Her grandfather was like that too.

On Wednesday, wearing a blue oxford shirt that matched his eyes and stone-colored khakis, Noah tucked a bouquet of freshly cut black-eyed Susans behind his back, smoothed his hair, and knocked on Laney’s door; and when she opened it, it was all he could do to keep his clean-shaven chin from hitting the floor—she looked stunning.

“Hi,” she said with a shy smile.

“H-hi . . . wow!” he stammered. Her peach-colored sundress accentuated every delicate curve of her body, and her shiny, dark hair fell freely past her shoulders. “You look . . .
amazing
.”

She could feel her cheeks flush. “Thanks. So do you. In fact, you might even pass for a minister.”

Remembering the flowers, he pulled them from behind his back. “These are for you.”

“Wow—thanks! You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said with the boyish smile she was growing to love.

She held the door open. “Come in while I put them in water.”

He followed her inside and saw boxes piled everywhere. “I guess you really are leaving.”

“I know—it’s a mess,” she said, filling a plastic cup with water. “I don’t even have a vase.”

Noah noticed an old ten-speed leaning against the wall. “Hey, if you come to my family’s party this weekend, bring your bike.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be bringing everything because I’m heading home right after.”

“Oh, well, let me know if you need help.”

She looked up from arranging the flowers and glanced around the room. “I should be okay. It looks worse than it is.”

Ten minutes later, Noah parked the truck on a side street near historic downtown Falmouth, and they walked toward the famous landmark restaurant, The Quarterdeck. He held the door for her, and she teased, “Gee, I could get used to this.”

“I hope you do,” he said, following her in.

The hostess led them to a table in the corner near an open window, and Laney looked around, admiring the old restaurant. “This is really nice,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you like it,” he whispered back with a grin, opening his menu.

A waitress appeared to take their drink orders, and Noah looked questioningly at Laney, but she looked uncertain. “Are you having a drink?”

“Yup.”

“A drink-drink?”

He grinned. “I’m studying to be a minister . . . not a saint.”

She laughed and turned to the waitress. “I’ll have a glass of white wine.”

“And I’ll have a Rolling Rock,” Noah added. When the waitress left, he teased, “Are you sure you’re old enough to have a drink-drink?”

“I think so, but you never know around here—they keep changing the drinking age. I have a friend in Connecticut who’s come of age twice already, and they’re talking about raising it again.” She paused uncertainly. “What is the drinking age in Massachusetts?”

“Twenty.”

She nodded. “I’m good then. I’ll be twenty-one on the thirty-first.”

“That’s my dad’s birthday.”

“It is?”

“Yup.” He paused, thinking. “He’ll be forty-one.”

Laney looked puzzled. “How old are you?”

“I turned twenty-two on June twenty-first.”

“So your dad was . . .” She tried to calculate in her head.

“Young,” Noah said, finishing her sentence. “My dad was young—he was nineteen when I was born.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Well, back then, people started families at a much younger age.”

Noah’s eyes grew solemn. “That’s not it.” He paused. “But it is a long story. . . .”

Laney nodded, not wanting to press him, and when he didn’t continue, she looked down at her menu. “So what’s good?”

“Everything,” Noah said, his smile returning. “The chowder is really good, but if you come out to the house on Saturday, you’ll get to have the best chowder on earth.”

“Whose chowder is that?”

“My dad’s . . . well, it’s really my great-grandfather’s recipe. My parents are having one of their famous gin and chowder parties—it’s a family tradition . . . and a lot of fun.”

“Sounds tempting.”

“It would be really great if you came.”

Laney looked up, her eyes sparkling. “Well, what should I have tonight if I’m going to be having
chowdah
on Saturday?”

Noah laughed. “How about the
lobstah
?”