ONE AFTERNOON GARETH came by Shadowlawn with flowers, fruit. As he was leaving, Brooke said, “Mitsuiko reminded me I have been remiss.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have been so kind to us—”
“My pleasure entirely,” Gareth interrupted.
Brooke smiled. “Let me finish. She said I should have returned your graciousness, invited you to dinner some evening.” She tilted her head to one side questioningly. “Would you like to sample Japanese cooking? I believe that is Mitsuiko’s main purpose; she would like to show off her culinary skill.”
“Why, yes, I would. Very much. Thank you.”
“You must realize this will be Mitsuiko’s treat. I confess I cannot boil the proverbial egg. I’m quite hopeless in the kitchen. It’s not something I’m proud of, it’s just the truth,” she added. “I thought you should know that.”
“In the interest of truth between friends, right?” Gareth grinned.
“Exactly,” she said, smiling. “Then shall we say next Thursday?”
That evening Gareth arrived to find Brooke dressed in a Japanese kimono of lustrous, cream-colored silk. The obi, a wide sash circling the waist, was a deep coral shade. Her hair was twisted up from her neck and secured with two long teak hair sticks.
“Mitsuiko insisted I play hostess in traditional dress.”
“I’m glad she did. You look”—Gareth faltered, wondering how to tell her how beautiful and exotic he thought she looked—“quite lovely.”
Mitsuiko had placed a low table and two pillows out on the screened-in porch. Flickering candles in glass holders set on the screen ledge cast a soft glow. As they seated themselves on opposite sides of the table, Mitsuiko began bringing in the various dishes one at a time in her quiet, smiling manner. Everything was presented arranged artistically on separate plates. Nothing was heaped on plates, as Gareth had seen bountiful Southern dinners served. Each course was almost a sample of the wide variety of Japanese delicacies—thinly sliced carrots, cucumbers, a clear soup, a main dish of tiny shrimp, mushrooms, vegetables, a narrow piece of white fish, individual bowls of rice. Cups of soy sauce were placed at the left of each place for dipping.
Although everything tasted strange and new to Gareth, he tried it all, aware that Mitsuiko was watching anxiously, and not unaware of the amusement in Brooke’s eyes. When the tea was brought at the end of the meal, Gareth praised Mitsuiko heartily. She murmured her thanks, ducking her head shyly. It was obvious she was enormously pleased that her dinner had been such a success.
“You must let me return your hospitality,” Gareth said as he prepared to leave shortly after they finished. “Not that I could match anything like this. But my sister Lynette has suggested several times that I bring you out to her house, Spring Hill.”
A shadow passed over Brooke’s face, and she said, “I hope you understand, Gareth, but I’m not going out socially just yet.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “I am just passing on Lynette’s invitation. I didn’t mean to pressure you.”
“I know, and I do appreciate both the thought and your understanding.”
He looked as if he were about to say more, thought better of it. Soon, thinking she looked a little tired, he said good night and left. Standing in the doorway, Brooke followed the taillights on his truck until it went around the bend in the driveway and disappeared.
Her sense of uneasiness about Gareth’s more and more evident feelings for her sharpened. She could not deny any longer that their relationship had gone beyond friendship. She hadn’t meant for this to happen, had never dreamed of such a thing. Long ago she had decided that kind of love was out of the question for her.
It was her fault, she thought, sighing. She had been lonely for so long. Then unexpectedly Gareth had come into her life. Maybe she should have stopped it before it reached this point. But she had so enjoyed his company. They had so many mutual interests—gardens, flowers, music, art. His warmth, spontaneity, was so different from some of the men she had known in a limited way before. Certainly from the Japanese men, who were so careful, reticent, secretive. Gareth was a direct contrast. He was so American, so warm, generous, open.
He had been eager to share his thoughts, talk about his feelings. In his own words, truth and trust were the main ingredients of any relationship. If they didn’t exist, nothing lasting or worthwhile could happen between two people. Remembering when he had said that, Brooke felt stricken. Truth, at least not the complete truth as far as she was concerned, had not yet been revealed. Would it be necessary?
Even as she pondered and worried a little about this, Brooke had not expected to have to face it so soon.
August came, the end of summer, with the last profusion of flowers and fruit from Avalon. Gareth came more and more often, bringing the abundance of his labor. They had known each other a little over four months.
Then one evening when they were sitting together in the lovely lavender dusk on the porch at Shadowlawn, he could no longer keep what he was feeling to himself. Before she could stop him, he had poured out his heart.
“I’ve known almost from the first that I love you, Brooke. I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid I’d frighten you, that you would think I was too impetuous, too shallow … but I am so sure of what I feel, I had to say it. I love you.” He reached for her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it.
“Oh, Gareth, I’m touched—flattered really—that you should feel this way about me. But there is so much you don’t know—things that if you did know, would make you realize that what you think you want can never be.”
“Why do you say that?” he demanded. “I know all I want to know, all I need to know. I love you. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“We’ve only known each other this summer.”
“Does length of time really make that much difference? We’ve spent hours together, talked … Some people go their whole lives long and never know what we have shared in these few months.”
“Yes, but—” Brooke hesitated, then said, “Listen, Gareth, there are things you should know about me. Things I haven’t told you. Then maybe you’ll understand. If I tell you a little about … my circumstances.” Gently she pulled her hand away, and reluctantly he released it. Then he leaned forward, ready to listen.
“I planned to become a missionary. Like my parents, whom I admired very much. I entered nurses’ training. It was—rather it proved—too rigorous for me. My health broke and I had to—” She paused. “My parents were told I might die.”
Gareth started to say something, but she put a finger on his mouth, shook her head. “Please, let me finish. I was sent to a sanitarium in the mountains, much like the Alps—snow-covered, air very clear and cold. We patients were bundled up and placed outside on lounge chairs. It was supposed to be very healing, invigorating. It was there God told me, ‘No.’” Her smile was sad. “Yes, God sometimes speaks even to someone like me. It was almost audible. I was lying out in my cot, desperate and sick, praying. I wanted to be well so I could get back to my training. And then it became very clear that was not God’s will for my life, that I would have to find some other way to serve him.”
Gareth reached for her hand again, but Brooke tucked it into the sleeve of her kimono and continued. “Months went by and I made better progress than the doctors had anticipated. However, they were very honest with me. I would never completely regain my health. I would always have to be careful; there would always be the possibility of a relapse. I couldn’t expect to live a normal life, the kind of life most women hope to have—marriage, children. That’s why you must not think of that kind of love with me, Gareth. It cannot be.”
“I don’t accept that,” Gareth said firmly. “Love is miraculous. Love has healing powers of its own. I love you, Brooke. More than anything in the world, I want us to be married. I want to take care of you. I want to make you happy, to protect you. I don’t expect anything of you. I just want us to be together. That’s all.”
“But Gareth,” Brooke gently protested, “you don’t know what that might involve. My health is unstable—I’m fine now, better, much better than when I came, but you can never really say—and I’m older than you, Gareth, by quite a few years, I imagine. I could never be a real wife, give you what you deserve—a real home, children …”
“None of that would matter if I had you,” he protested. “Don’t you see that, Brooke? Can’t you tell how much I love you?”
She shook her head sorrowfully. “Gareth, you’re so dear and impulsive, and I love you for it. I understand what you’re saying, and I know you mean it now … but have you ever heard the quotation ‘The longing of the moment seems the essential; one is apt to forget the eternity of regret’? It would break my heart, Gareth, if years from now—or even a year from now—you would regret your reckless proposal.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Never,” he declared vehemently. “This summer has been like something out of a dream—a dream I’ve had all my life, I think. One I never thought would come true.”
Brooke drew out her hand, and her fingers touched his chin. She looked deeply into his eyes and said, “The Japanese believe in fate, Gareth, and timing. If we had met earlier—perhaps. Too much of my life has gone by. For years I’ve lived as if I were an invalid. Such a different life than yours, and—”
“It doesn’t matter about the past, the disappointments, the dreams that didn’t come true—yours or mine. You’re here now and I’m here, and by some marvelous coincidence we met. Maybe that’s why you didn’t become a missionary. God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? Maybe being a missionary was your idea, not his. Maybe we were supposed to meet, be together.”
Brooke smiled indulgently. She knew there was no use trying to persuade Gareth to accept what she felt was the truth, the impossibility of their future. But there was a wistfulness in her eyes as she looked at him, his broad shoulders, his vitality, his youthful strength. She kept silent, however, recalling the Japanese quotation “Happiness is like a butterfly, lightly resting then flying off, not to be held or grasped,” and tried to keep the moment. For now it was enough that this wonderful young man, with all his vigor, enthusiasm, loved her … for this moment. After all, that was all anyone could be sure of … this single moment in time.