Your Dream and Mine (17 page)

“We could draw up an agreement, if you’d feel better about it,” he continued.

“It isn’t that,” she said. “It’s just that…” Another fork in the road, and a hard one, too. Perhaps the hardest yet. If she said no, she could be cutting off the opportunity of a lifetime. Someone to help her shoulder a dream that had become too unwieldy. Someone capable. Someone whose capabilities bolstered her confidence.

But if she said yes…Thomasina fed Trace another chocolate, and blinked when he nuzzled her fingertips. Gently. Coaxing her without words and setting her imagination on fire.
Why wouldn’t she say yes?
The burden was lifting from her shoulders even as the word tumbled about in her mouth.

“Yes!” She flung her arms around his neck, shouting, “Yes! Yes!”

Thrown off balance, Trace fell backward onto the snowy ground with a shout of laughter. The hood of Thomasina’s red coat slipped as she tumbled forward and scrambled unsuccessfully to keep from landing on him. Her hair spilled over his face. Fragrant silken waves, mingling with chocolate and lavender scents and sensations of soft curves and tangled feet and half-parted lips. His laughter died at finding those ruby red lips hovering so close. He caught a handful of her hair and held it to his cheek. “You’re beautiful, Tommy.”

His low-rumbled whisper was both agony and ecstasy. Thomasina wanted so to believe him. But the child of her past spoke with crocodile jaws, taunting warnings that twisted like a knife between ribs. She saw the vein throbbing in Trace’s temples, his eyes lit by an inner fire, his
breath catch as he waited for her to make up her mind and thought surely he would claim her waiting kisses.

The moment stretched until her taut nerves could not stand the suspense. She extricated herself from the heap of pine-scented needles and wet snow, got to her feet and brushed off her coat, face averted. “We’d better start back.”

She was to Trace all eyes and pink cheeks and red lips and mixed signals of come-hither and don’t-you-dare. Was he right in thinking defenses rushed would come up again once the flush of shared kisses passed? Or was he nothing more than a stubborn fool, waiting for her to make the first move? The tension traveled through him like lightning looking for a target. But he thrust his hands in his coat pockets, and stayed the course, reminding himself as he often did, that she had taken the initiative once before, and would again. When it felt safe to her.

Thomasina let her breath go slowly and thought of that fence she had crossed when she was twelve. There was still a fence—the tallest yet. She knew every knot hole in it from wandering its length, yearning for what lay on the other side, yet unable to cross without some indication that her welcome would be unconditional.

She and Trace returned to the house, the distance between them greater than it had been when they left. Yet they returned partners. Thomasina helped him with dishes and made fresh coffee.

Trace had never asked the source of her savings. Nor had she, in the past, volunteered the information. But as they sat in the living room, each confiding how much they could afford to invest, she told him about Nathan investing the money he and Flo had received, as foster parents, for her care.

“I’ve never quite felt entitled to it,” she admitted. “But they’ve been adamant about my keeping it. I think once the camp is up and running, they’ll be pleased with what their sacrifice has made possible.”

It was illuminating to Trace to realize what lay at the core of her dream. He wondered how much of her motivation for the camp lay with wanting to please her foster parents. Sensing it would be unwise to ask, he let it drop. They made plans in earnest as to what they would do if they managed to outbid Jeb Liddle and make the farm their own. Time passed quickly. Youth group was at seven. Trace stirred to his feet and excused himself to clean up. He drove Thomasina home on his way to the church.

“You could come with me, you know,” he said as he walked her to her door.

“Thanks, but I’d better not”

“Why not?” he pressed.

“Too many adults, and the kids will get nervous.” Thomasina smiled to mask the thinness of her excuse. “You’d better hurry. You’re going to be late.”

In the dark winter chill of the front porch, Trace stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, traced the full bottom lip she was crimping, then bid her good-night and left her battling doubts that crowded ever closer.

Was
she second best? Would she ever know for certain?

T
homasina and Trace met for breakfast as usual on Tuesday and Wednesday. The conversation centered around the upcoming auction. They talked business and brainstormed ideas and melded dreams for sharing Milt’s farm in the event it became theirs.

Trace had taken off the rest of the week to help Will get the machinery lined up and the miscellaneous items to be sold organized on hay wagons. There would be no more breakfast dates until after the auction. Or so Thomasina thought until she answered a knock at her door early Friday morning and found Trace in the foyer with a bakery sack in hand.

“I’ve got…long johns.” He fumbled with the punch line of what had become an inside joke.

Thomasina brushed a dark thread off her white trousers and smiled. Her fingers brushed his as the sack changed hands. “Iced in chocolate!” she said, peeking inside. “Yum.”

“Not so fast. Coffee first,” he said.

Thomasina laughed as Trace retrieved the sack. She ushered
him into the kitchen, aimed him toward the coffeemaker, then dashed up the stairs to finish styling her hair.

“I guess the youth group kids are going to be selling food and drinks at the auction tomorrow,” Trace told her when she joined him in the breakfast nook. “It’s a lastmoment thing, but Deidre saw it as a chance for them to make some money for a worthy cause.”

“Let me guess,” said Thomasina, helping herself to a pastry. “Her mission school?”

“Yes,” said Trace. “If the kids can earn their fare, we’re going to make a trip out to the school next summer, and spend a week, working on an expansion project. Do you want to come along?”

“As a sponsor, you mean?”

Trace nodded.

About as much as she wanted a bout of the flu. Phrasing her reservations tactfully, Thomasina said, “I’m sure it’s a worthy cause. But if we get the farm, we’re going to be pretty busy building cabins, and getting ready for the camp, aren’t we?”

“That’s the point,” said Trace. “We’ll get a firsthand look at a working children’s ministry from the ground up. Deidre’s sure the trip will be helpful in putting our own project together.”

Thomasina lowered her pastry, untouched, to her plate. “You told
her
about that?”

“It’s input from someone with experience,” he reasoned.

“Yes, but I didn’t think we’d mention it,” said Thomasina, an unpleasant tightness spreading across her stomach. “Not until we know one way or another about the farm.”

“Then tell Deidre it’s confidential,” he said, as if it were a small thing and easily remedied.

“
You
tell her.” Thomasina slid out of the built-in nook.
She emptied her coffee cup in the sink and turned to ask, “How long does this furlough of Deidre’s go on, anyway?”

Trace stopped spooning sugar into his coffee. One eyebrow shot up.

“What gives? You two seemed friendly enough at the party.”

“I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late.” Thomasina started for the door, shaking her hands dry as she went

“Tommy Rose,” he called after her. “Come back here.”

“Lock up on your way out.” Thomasina shot words over her shoulder. But her weakness for him got the best of her. She turned at the door and called back, “I’ll see you in the morning. Okay?”

If he answered, she didn’t hear him. Was she making too much of too little? Or was she justified in thinking he should realize without having it spelled out that Deidre was a sensitive subject?

All morning Thomasina wavered between righteous indignation and self-recriminations. Afternoon classes didn’t go well. The phone was ringing when she walked into her apartment. It was Trace. Her relief was a good indication of just how out of hand her feelings for him were. It was a physical lifting of her heart. So strong, it sucked the lingering sense of betrayal out of her, and almost drew tears.

“Milt and Mary are planning on coming tomorrow,” said Trace, his usual amiable self. “The temperature is dropping fast. The weatherman’s forecasting snow for tomorrow.”

“Milt’s lungs aren’t strong enough to withstand that kind of exposure,” said Thomasina, concerned.

“He and Mary don’t have to be out in the weather,” reasoned Trace. “They can watch the proceedings from the house.”

“Of course. I should have realized,” said Thomasina. “It’ll be good to see them. It’s been a long time. I never seem to have a few minutes just to stop by and visit anymore.”

“If you’re going to feel guilty over neglect, add me to your list, would you?”

“You’re feeling neglected?” asked Thomasina.

“In the worst way,” he teased. “How about coming out for a while? Everyone should be gone shortly. You can look the hay wagons over, see if there’s anything you can’t live without.”

“Is there lots of good stuff?” she asked.

“A group sale junkies dream,” he claimed.

“Be still, my heart.”

“Are you coming, then?” he asked.

“I wish I could.” Thomasina toyed with the phone cord. “But I have a paper due on Monday. I’ve spent every spare moment over the past week doing the research.”

“You were more fun when you had your nose in purple prose,” grumbled Trace.

“Cheap shot from the crayon box,” she said.

“Crayon box?” he echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Thomasina giggled, not knowing herself. They were all right again, that was all that mattered. He was lonesome for her. What more could she wish for?

Trace teased her awhile, music to her ears, then let her off the hook to do her paper. He named the hour he was expecting her in the morning and bid her good-night.

Thomasina made a sandwich and spread her books over the table and went to work on the paper. She’d been writing it in her head for the past two mornings on her daily commute from home to work to school and home. The words
flowed well. She had a rough draft completed by eight o’clock. Record time! A reward was in order.

Thomasina picked up the phone, then dropped it again. It would be more fun to surprise Trace. It wasn’t a preview of the “good stuff” that drew her so much as the need to answer in person the same impulse that had prompted him to phone.

Thomasina looked out the window and saw that snow was falling. She donned brown insulated coveralls and a matching coat with fur-trimmed hood. It was part of the “survival kit” she kept in her car from the onset of winter until spring thaw. With her hood pulled up, she could have been a farmer stopping for doughnuts at Newt’s Market. The wind buffeted her car on the ride out to the farm. She turned up the radio, and sang along.

Machinery of all descriptions lined the farmyard in march formation. The odd lumbering pieces were alien looking to Thomasina’s eyes. Light shone from the house and from the barn, too, in uniform yellow patches. She climbed out of the car, pastry sack in hand, then stopped short. Deidre’s van was parked beside Trace’s truck near the stone wall that enclosed Mary’s garden. What was she doing here?

Thomasina strode to the barn to disprove the tendrils of unease taking root in her heart. The air was cold, and smelled of aged lumber and dusty straw. She sneezed and set her sack down, took off her mittens and called to Trace. His name echoed unanswered down the long central corridor.

The hay wagons groaned, overburdened with tools, furniture, shop and household items. None of it held much attraction. Yet she lingered, handling things worn by age and use and other hands. Mary’s hands. Milt’s. There was
comfort in that knowledge but not enough to hold at bay the gathering winds of doubt.

He must be in the house. With Deidre. Had she been there earlier? Was that what he meant when he said “Everyone should be gone shortly”? So why was she still here? There was a logical reason. She would learn of it and think, well of course! Relief would come in a wave such as had gone over her when they put to rest with scarcely a word their difference of agreement that morning.
Or had they merely swept it under the rug?

The thoughts that followed were a dark soupy mix of suspicion and loyal defense. But the persistent whining of Thomasina’s inner child was to her heart what oil is to the squeaky wheel. Forgetting where she’d taken off her mittens, she thrust her hands in her pockets, returned to her car, took another pair from the glove box and cranked up the heat, reasoning she’d go to the house. But she couldn’t make herself do so. Not with the lights going out one by one until only the one in Milt’s bedroom remained.

Except it wasn’t Milt’s bedroom now.
Snowflakes blurred before Thomasina’s eyes. She didn’t hit the headlights until she reached the end of the lane, and the road back to town.

A hot soak in the tub helped Thomasina stop trembling. She was still far from calm. Had Trace misled her from the start? Was it the farm he wanted all along? The farm, and
Deidre.

You don’t know that.

Then what’s she doing there?

There’s an explanation.

With the lights off, all but one?

Denial bowed out, leaving her in a misery of unraveling confidence. Trace’s lack of demonstrative affections. His willingness to share the farm with no mention of sharing
lives. The flare-up that morning. Even his comments about Deidre and his budding interest in missions. Maybe Deidre wasn’t going back to the far west. Maybe, with a camp ministry in her own neighborhood, she would stay.

Thomasina drew a quilt around herself, hugged her knees and rocked. As she’d done when she was four. She caught herself at it, and stopped. She was not an abandoned child. She was a grown woman with God as her refuge. She should be looking for truth instead of wallowing in selfpity.

Thomasina went to the phone and dialed Trace’s number. It rang three times before the receiver was snatched from its cradle.

“Hello? Austin residence.” The voice was unmistakably Deidre’s. “Anyone there?”

“Wrong number?” Trace asked in the background.

“Must be,” said Deidre. “Let’s see—keys, gloves, scarf. Did I leave my purse in the bedroom?” Deidre’s voice faded, as she fumbled the phone, hanging it up.

Thomasina’s hopes went down with the phone.

Her mettle, well-tested in youth, hardened to steel. She held back her tears, slept through the night and awoke to the realization that there was a dream Trace hadn’t killed. The aspiration for a children’s camp was hers, not his. Was she not custom-made for this work? Unless God had changed His mind, then she would be failing Him and herself, too, by bowing out now.

Thomasina remembered telling Trace she’d bid him in the ground. Her mood was such she could do it without a qualm.

Trace was hopelessly parked in. Snow-crowned cars and trucks crowded the farmyard. They stretched down the lane and along the road in both directions as far as the eye could
see. Most of the household goods and sundry items displayed on the hay rack wagons had been sold. But Thomasina had yet to arrive. He’d been phoning unsuccessfully for an hour now.

Milt watched Trace hang up the kitchen phone. “Maybe she’s stuck on the road out.”

It had snowed all morning. But the wind wasn’t blowing enough to keep the crowd away. “If it is car trouble keeping her, someone will stop and help her.”

“Probably fiddling with her curling iron while we sit here stewing,” blustered Milt.

“Then quit stewing and eat your lunch,” advised Mary. She set a heaping plate of farm sale food in front of him. Deidre followed at her heels with a cup of coffee.

“Noon rush,” she said. “The barbecue’s going fast, and the kids are out of hot dogs. Or are there more in the fridge?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to check,” said Trace.

“Selling out the back window was a first-rate idea,” said Deidre. She patted Trace on the back with an empty cake pan. “You’re our shining hero.”

Moving his things into another bedroom so the youth group could set up their concessions in his room had been Trace’s idea. It was the largest bedroom, the window easily accessible to the farm yard. But because of his growing concern over Thomasina’s whereabouts, he hadn’t been much help to anyone today.

“We’re almost out of coffee,” Ricky yelled from the bedroom.

“Bother!” exclaimed Deidre. “Trace, you wouldn’t happen to have any…”

“Top left-hand cupboard,” he said.

“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!” She beamed at him and flew in that direction.

Trace pulled on his coat and went outside again. It was a huge, milling crowd. He looked in vain for Thomasina’s red coat among them.

An hour later, the hay wagons were empty, except for a few things yet to be claimed. The machinery was all sold. The land was all that remained, and still no sign of Thomasina. Trace had called Antoinette and sent her to the house. When that didn’t produce any results, he made fifteen people move their vehicles so he could get out. But he had no better luck tracking her down than had Antoinette.

Had there been an emergency? A patient? A friend? Her foster parents? He didn’t have their number, couldn’t even recall their last name. He was out of ideas as to where to look.

Trace heard the auctioneer announce that the bidding on the ground was to begin promptly at two. At a loss as to what to do, he stopped beside a hay wagon, rested his arms on it and comforted himself in the knowledge that God knew where she was. His gaze skipped over and came back again to a bakery sack sitting just inches from his hand. He had no reason to link it to Thomasina. Yet he reached for it and looked inside. Chocolate doughnuts. Two of them. Untouched. Beside the sack, half-hidden by a white bidding card was a familiar pair of red mittens.

The numbered card led Trace to the front corner of the barn where the auctioneer’s wife sat at a desk. She had a ledger in which she had recorded every number given out that day. Trace had gotten one himself earlier. The name assigned to the card he had found wasn’t Thomasina’s. He scanned the long list of bidding card numbers and accompanying names. Thomasina’s was there, the very last number assigned.

“How long ago was she here?” Trace asked the auctioneer’s wife.

“Five, ten minutes, Trace. No more than that,” she said.

Trace could only wonder at this change of events. But the bidding on the land was about to begin. Come what may, he would not allow himself to be deterred from his dream.