CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“HAS HE CALLED YOU?” Pastor Blake asked. “Your ex-husband, I mean.”

At first, when she began meeting with Pastor Blake, Leslie had asked for counseling sessions twice a week. Then, as she felt better, the sessions were reduced to once a week. For the last month, they had met only twice.

“No. And I am surprised. In the past, if somebody threatened him, that made him all the more angry and dead-set. And if he had an attorney, or wanted to pursue some legal action, an attorney would have notified me right away, right?”

Pastor Blake shrugged. “I have no experience in this, Leslie. But I would guess that they would have—if only to intimidate their opponent.”

He reached over and drew the office window closed. There was a hint of snow in the air.

“And how are you feeling, Leslie? Any recent episodes?”

She shook her head no.

“I think I’m more nervous than I should be. I still get distracted over little things sometimes, but … no more panic. Maybe God fixed me.”

Pastor Blake smiled. He had previously acknowledged that God can do anything, can heal any illness, can provide any need.

“The bottom line, Leslie, is that He wants us to come to Him. But sometimes He doesn’t take us from the fire. He walks with us through the fire.”

He had told Leslie that along with having faith, God expects us to fully participate in seeking out the healing that we desire. We have to want it, a solution, and we should take advantage of the help that others offer.

“And sometimes, Leslie, the healing that God provides comes through sessions like this, and prayer, which makes a change in your mind and heart possible. It’s a bit of all of that.”

To Leslie, it felt as if they had discussed the panic attack situation to death, or nearly to death—the why, the how, methods of prevention, tips to deal with them, all the practical approaches to the problem. And now, while the sessions may be less needed at the emotional/prevention level, Leslie knew she needed a friend she could trust and confide in, who believed in her and could help her in her growing relationship with God. Pastor Blake was that friend.

He had all but acknowledged the shift a few weeks ago.

“You don’t need this anymore,” he had said. “But if our meetings help you, and I can advise and guide you, then that’s okay. Sort of like disciple making. Jesus wants us to do that. And I’m happy to be here for you.”

“Thanks.”

“So … how are things with Mike? Are you coming closer to a decision?”

Leslie knew he would ask. And she had not figured out a good answer.

“I don’t think so. I keep waiting for a sign. Something that will make it easy for me to decide. And so far, no signs. No skywriting. No wet sheepskins.”

“Have patience. You may not see a sign, but you’ll know when you know.”

Even the pastor laughed at his nearly clichéd response.

Leslie hurried down the stairs. Ava was having a sleepover with the Stickles, who were the most perfect de facto grandparents Ava—and Leslie—could have hoped for. The Stickles had two children of their own, fine children now living in California. They both made the return pilgrimage to Butler on an infrequent basis.

Ava was their perfect grandchild. She loved to color with them, and make cookies, and laugh hysterically at Mr. Stickle’s incredibly corny jokes, and watch the hours of home movies that Mr. Stickle had taken with an old Kodak 8mm camera. His son had them all transferred to videotape several years earlier. Ava loved those videos—as if Daniel and Henry were the brothers she never had, enjoying their birthday parties and Little League games as if they had happened just last year.

So tonight Leslie had a rare evening to herself. She had no plans other than having no plans.

As she walked past the windows of Alice and Frank’s, she noticed someone moving around inside. It was not late, but she didn’t expect to see anyone there. The grand opening was planned for the following Saturday. Media would be there. Cameron and her crew would be there—on Friday, actually, to shoot the interiors before the crowds came. Alice expected an overflow crowd.

The figure inside stepped into a pool of light.

It was Jack, holding a drill in his hand, wearing his tool belt low on his hips, a denim shirt, unbuttoned, with a tight white T-shirt underneath, highlighting his muscular build. His hair, a little longer than when they first met, was tousled just a bit, almost like it was planned.

Leslie wasn’t surprised at the way her pulse quickened when she looked at him. She didn’t have any real reason to talk with Jack—not specifically. But she found herself tapping on the door, lightly, as if saying that she didn’t want to raise a fuss.

Jack spun about, saw her, waved, and hurried to the door. “Just doing some last-minute picture hanging,” he explained as he locked the door behind her. “Alice had a list six pages long, and most of it had to do with matching her grand-opening wardrobe to the store colors. There were, like, a half dozen items for me to do on my punch list. And one was to finish hanging the pictures.”

Leslie felt tongue-tied and only smiled in reply.

“Maybe you could help. I never know if pictures are at the right height. Alice said ‘lower rather than higher.’ There are—” he looked over at the stack of vintage posters, from very large to medium-sized, leaning against the eggplant-colored wall—“four … no five more to go. Give me a hand?”

She agreed and grabbed the top picture—an Italian travel poster. A sticky note was fastened to the glass.

Far wall from the street … the moss green wall—centered.

“I guess that means this one,” Leslie said, pointing.

“Is that moss green? Or is it leaf green or mint green or tea green?”

“No,” Leslie said, almost certain, “this is moss green.”

The exact same color as Gramma Mellie’s diary. Amazing.

She held the picture up, at eye level, no higher. “Do you have a tape measure? We need to find the middle of the space—at this height.”

He ran his tape along the wall, Leslie made a bridge with her body, and he squiggled beneath her, their bodies close. She could have simply taken the picture off the wall.

Maybe Freud would say that I meant to do it this way.

Jack marked the center of the wall with a piece of chalk (“It comes off better than pencil,” he had said) and drilled a small hole, tapped in an anchorman, added a screw, and then gestured for the picture. He placed the picture’s wire on the screw.

Leslie stepped back.

“Level?” he asked.

“Up on your right—just a little. Perfect.”

The two of them made short work of the last few colorful posters and a beveled mirror with a thick frame that remained. When they were done, Jack slipped the drill into the holster on his belt, unbuckled it, and set it carefully on the floor.

“I guess that’s it, then,” he said.

She looked around at the totally renewed space, nodding in agreement. “Everything looks so wonderful. That mirror is beautiful and really adds sparkle to the entry area.”

“Alice has an eye for design,” Jack answered.

He brushed the back of his jeans with his hands and sat on the sleek cream suede sofa against the interior wall, the sofa that was flanked by two expansive dark wood bookcases, filled “with all my most favorite books,” Alice had declared. “They’re all for sale, of course, but they are my favorites.” The sofa was in the comfortable shadows of the store. Two chrome pharmacy lamps were fastened to the wall on either side of the sofa, neither of them turned on.

Jack took a deep breath.

Leslie took a seat on the sofa—not exactly at the other end, more like on the middle of the cushion next to the cushion that Jack was sitting on. It was a two-cushion sofa, not a love seat, but a full-length sofa, with only two long seat cushions. She could have sat closer; she could have sat farther away.

“This is such a perfect space,” she said. “At least the interior is. It’s both restful and energetic at the same time.”

“I agree. And what they have for sale makes me want to buy—and I’m not much of a shopper,” Jack said.

“The feather boas?”

“No,” Jack answered with a smile. “Actually, though, I am going to buy one of those cool robots over there. Reminds me of a toy I had when I was small.”

“Maybe that’s why I like everything here. It’s all familiar and comforting. That must be Alice’s gift—being able to make those kind of connections.”

Leslie turned to face Jack more directly. “Are you all finished? Is everything ready for the grand opening?”

“I think so.”

Leslie found that she couldn’t keep her eyes off his face. “Are you okay, Jack? Are things okay with you?”

This time, it was obvious that he wanted the question—that he wanted to tell someone that he was better. Not cured—he would never be cured. He would only be better. He would only be well, one day at a time.

“Yeah. I am. Things are going well.” He looked at his hands. “I mean, I’m still alone here, and I’m not flush with jobs or money, and it can still be a struggle at times, but I’m doing okay. Comparatively, I’m doing better than okay.”

He didn’t look at her. “And you? I heard about your ex and all that. Small town.”

“No, that’s okay. I expected you to hear about that. And that might not be a problem anymore. He hasn’t done anything. With the money from selling that safe, if he does go to court, I have the resources to handle that.”

“That’s good, Leslie. You and Ava … you should always stay together. She is such a great kid.”

“She is. Thanks.”

Jack looked up at her. There was expectancy on his face, she thought.

“Jack, I wanted to say that I understand. I mean, I’ve had struggles of my own. Different than yours, but something I’ve had to work through. All the anxiety over what I’ve had to go through with Randy … it’s had me in its grip. There have been times I’ve panicked and could barely function. That’s why I’ve been seeing Pastor Blake. He’s helped me. A lot. Helped me find my way to peace. Pointed me toward God.”

She paused, and when she spoke again, her words were gentler, more tender. “I want that for you, too, Jack.”

She stopped speaking and looked at Jack closely, trying to see if he was surprised, shocked, put off by her words.

None of those reactions registered on Jack’s face. He just looked back at Leslie with a softness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before.

She didn’t move … didn’t take her eyes from him. Their eyes stayed on each other for a very long moment, looking deep, looking beyond the words.

If they had been asked, neither of them would be certain whose hand moved first, but their hands did move, and they sought each other out. She could feel how hard and rough his hand was, how strong it was, how firm and enveloping.

He hesitated just a moment, then leaned toward her and embraced her—not so tenderly this time, but with more of a passion, with more yearning, more fiercely. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, feeling the angles and muscles of his shoulders and back and chest.

They did not kiss, though Leslie had hoped they might. He just held her. And she held him, feeling the warmth of another man, another man’s tenderness, another man’s passion.

They stayed that way for a long time.

Perhaps he let go first. Perhaps it was Leslie.

They came apart, and, holding hands, continued to look at each other—a look of confusion, just a little, but more of acknowledgment and communion, trust and relief.

Jack was the first to speak. “Thank you, Leslie … for caring, for believing in me. Thanks a lot.”

She squeezed his hand. “Jack …”

She wanted to tell him how very much she cared for him, that she loved being with him, that she felt so … right, being in his arms.

But instead she simply brought her small hand up to his cheek. She felt the gentle stubble of his whiskers. She saw his eyes grow even more tender. She leaned to him and kissed him, soft like a butterfly, on his lips, just for a single moment, then leaned back, stood up, and walked away, out to the front door, and down the sidewalk to her front door, knowing that his eyes were on her the entire time.

Amelia Westland Middelstadt

Butler, Pennsylvania

January 1, 1895

On this first day of the New Year, I scribe here a prayer that has been most precious to me all my days.

A PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD’S PRAYER

BY REV. H. HASTINGS WELD

Father in Heaven! Oppressed with sacred awe,

We bow before Thee; yet since Thy dear Son

Thus bide us pray, through Him we humbly draw,

In trusting love, before a Father’s Throne:

As seraphs honor Thee with tongues of flame,

Awakened be our tongues to hallow Thy great Name. 

And as in Heaven, rejoicing in Thy Will,

Myriads of angels on Thy Glory wait,

Thy great behests obedient to fulfill,

So upon earth be known Thy royal state—

Thy Kingdom come, until of men there be,

From least to greatest, none save those who worship

Thee!

Thy Will be done! When, stricken to the dust,

Affliction’s cup we pray may pass us by,

Still let us wait in never-failing trust,

Sure that Thou hearest when we meekly cry—

In patience our appointed courses run,

Always content that Thy Almighty Will be done.

Break to us each this day our daily bread,

Nor let earth’s fading good alone be given;

Feed us upon Thy Words in Christ our Head,

To find Thy Peace—the Living Bread from Heaven

Since in Thy Mercy only we can live,

Forgive us, Lord, our debts—oh, teach us to forgive!

Shield us, O Lord, from dark temptation’s power.

And guide our footsteps, lest they, erring, stray;

Deliver us in the dark and evil hour,

And turn our night, O Father, into day.

Shelter us, in Thine All-protecting Arms,

From specious sin’s attacks—from pleasure’s gilded

harms.

Thine is the Kingdom, Father, Thine the Love;

Redeemer, Son, the Grace, the Power are Thine;

Thy Glory, Holy Spirit, from above,

Descending, binds a Fellowship Divine.

Creator, Saviour, Sanctifier, deign,

Three persons, and one God, in all our hearts to reign.