Chapter
Twenty
Christine patted her hair in place and checked the mirror once more. It was not a smiling face that stared back at her. She looked strained. Tense.
There have just been so many things to think about, she argued with herself. The wedding plans are making me tense and edgy.
Boyd must have noticed it too. When he had dropped her off at her boardinghouse the evening before, he had accused her of being straight-laced and old-fashioned. “Too stiff to tie your own shoes” was the way he had put it. Christine had been hurt by the remark but had tried not to let it show.
He was still pressuring her to move to the Kingsley house. Christine was still stubbornly clinging to the right to follow her conscience. It put a continual strain on the relationship, and Christine felt anxious. In the back of her mind was a niggling fear—one that cautioned her to tread carefully. But always, she quickly smoothed it away. Things would be so much better once they were married.
Boyd had decided they would continue to live with his father. Christine had moments of disappointment, but she knew it made sense.
“No use letting the big house go to waste while we pay rent for some dinky, dingy apartment. Besides—my dad’s an easy guy to live with.”
It was true. Mr. Kingsley made it easy for Boyd to live with him. He made no demands nor enforced any rules. Christine had no indication that it would be any different with the two of them. Still, she had wished for a place of their own as they settled into marriage.
She had visited with her mother on the phone the evening before. The wedding dress was ready, and there was now only the matter of transporting it to the city.
She dusted a bit of face powder on her nose and patted at her hair again. She felt nervous, and she did not know why. They were just going to Boyd’s home to work on the invitations.
She glanced at the clock. He would soon be arriving, and he did not like to be kept waiting. She grabbed a sweater from a chair by the door and hurried from the room.
She was on the sidewalk when he pulled up. He waved her way and leaned across to thrust open the passenger door. “Got your writing hand all warmed up?” he asked with a grin.
Christine returned the smile and slid in beside him.
“Dad’s got a list as long as a broom handle,” he went on. “I think he knows everyone in town.”
“Oh my,” laughed Christine. “Sounds like I should have more ink.”
“I’ve a pretty long list of my own,” he continued. “How’s yours coming?”
“Mine isn’t long—not at all. Most of my friends are up North in the Indian villages.”
“Well, we sure can’t invite them—can we?”
It wasn’t so much the words as the way he said them that got Christine’s attention. Why couldn’t they invite them? What did he mean?
“Well,” she answered, lifting her chin slightly, “we could . . . but I wouldn’t want to ask them to make that long difficult journey.”
She saw his expression darken. But then he seemed to shrug his more somber thoughts aside.
“I just came from the florist,” he said, enthusiasm in his voice. “Wanted to be sure he’d have plenty of red roses in. Bloodred, I told him. Big arrangements in white baskets. All across the front. And matching flowers for all the bouquets and the boutonnieres.”
Christine felt a twinge of sadness. She had set her heart on an armful of lovely white daisies and blue forget-me-nots.
“We haven’t even sent out the invitations yet,” she reminded him.
“Meaning?” He sounded annoyed.
Christine shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought that . . . we haven’t even talked about flowers . . . or anything. It seems a bit early—”
“If you hope to get what you want, you have to order early.”
“Bloodred roses wasn’t really what I wanted,” she dared to say.
“And what did you want?” His tone was not gracious.
“Daisies.”
“They’re pretty,” she answered.
“They’d cheapen the whole wedding. I’m not standing up front with a bunch of daisies. You might as well use dandelions.”
She said no more. It would be red roses. She was sure they would be beautiful. But they would not remind her of open meadows—of singing birds and happy voices. They would not remind her of the North. Her little bit of heritage that she would carry with her into this new life.
“Dad and I have picked out the hotel for the reception. We have an appointment for Saturday to speak . . . What? Why that look?” he demanded.
“I thought the bride’s parents . . .”
“Normally, yes. But we knew your folks—his being a Mountie and all—would never be able to afford what we want.”
Then maybe you should change what you want, Christine wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. She had already pushed him.
“Come here,” he said and patted the seat up next to him. “What are you doing so far away?”
Without a word she slid over.
“You know,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I’m really looking forward to this. Not just the wedding day. Having you. For my wife.”
Christine felt her disappointment and frustration melting away. He really was very sweet. She would be so relieved when all the tensions of wedding preparations were over.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Let him make all of the arrangements if it makes him happy. It is, after all, his wedding too.
She felt lighter as she stepped from the car. She was ready now to begin on the wedding invitations. Even the list “as long as a broom handle.”
“You can work at the kitchen table,” Boyd said as he ushered her in. “If you have any questions, just holler. Dad and I will be in the den.”
So that’s how it was to be. Fine. She worked better alone anyway.
Now and then Boyd dropped by on his way to pick up a cold soda or find something to snack on. He always stopped and put an arm around her or toyed with her hair. Once he even placed a kiss on her forehead.
“How’s it coming?”
“I have to quit for now. I was just about to tidy up. I have to get . . .”
He looked angry, but he said nothing.
It was a silent ride back to the boardinghouse. When they arrived he pulled her close, but his arms were not gentle.
“After we’re married I’ll expect to have your company—for the whole evening,” he said.
“After we are married—you will,” said Christine, touched by his words.
“I’m tired of dropping you off and going it alone. My friends are beginning to see me as a killjoy. I don’t fit in with the stags—or the couples. Last night . . .” He dropped the sentence, making Christine stir to look at his face.
“What about last night?”
“Nothing.”
He seemed to change his mind. “Yeah—you should know. They all say I’m crazy. Crazy to tie myself to someone who doesn’t even know how to have a good time. Someone who thinks a Sunday church service is the outing of the week. They laugh when I tell them that will change.”
Christine pulled away. “That won’t change. Whatever gave you the idea that it would?”
“Please, Christine,” he said forcing her head back against his shoulder. “Don’t push me.”
“No—please—we need to discuss this. It’s important.”
She used all her strength to move back, giving herself a little space.
“What’s to discuss?” His voice was harsh.
“Well, first of all . . . I had no idea . . . you haven’t said you were still partying with your friends.”
“What did you think I’d do—at nine o’clock at night? Go home and go to bed?” The sneer in his voice felt like a knife in her heart.
“Maybe not go to bed . . . but at least go home,” she said, struggling to keep the discussion matter-of-fact.
“To sit and stare at the walls?” He sneered again.
The hurt and betrayal Christine was feeling nearly overcame her. She could barely speak, but she made herself continue.
“And my church—” She choked back tears. “My church will always be important to me. I have no intention of giving it up after I marry. I had hoped . . . have prayed daily . . . that you’d share my faith. No . . . not share mine . . . have one of your own. That you’d feel . . . understand how—”
“You’re not shoving that religion stuff down my throat. I thought I’d made that clear.”
The tears were falling freely now. “I’ve got to go,” she whispered and reached for the door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called after her. “We need to get those invitations finished.”
She did not answer. Did not even turn around.
She cried for most of the night. In the wee hours of the morning she slipped from her bed and turned her anguish into prayer.
She knew what she had to do, but that didn’t make it any easier. If she were honest, she would have to admit that she had realized it from the beginning. “Do not be unequally yoked together with unbelievers” rang in her heart. Why did she think she could go directly against what was so clear, what she had known all along, and not pay the consequences? Why did she pretend to be seeking God’s direction when she already knew what those directions were? Why had she prayed for His leading, then shut out the voice that would show her the way?
She had been foolish. So foolish. And now she felt weighed down with pain, with sorrow, with repentance. She could not undo what had been done, but she could prevent any further error. “Lord, please forgive me,” she wept. “Help me to do what I must do. . . .”
In the morning her eyes were red and puffy. It would be hard to conceal her night of tears from the world. She splashed cold water over her face and used a bit of makeup. It didn’t help much, but it was all she could do. Perhaps folks would think she was coming down with a cold. She certainly hoped so.
She made it through the day. She dragged herself to her room and changed her clothes. Boyd would be coming to pick her up. But she would not be going anywhere this evening. She dared not trust herself to carry through her new resolve with Boyd whispering sweet promises in her ear.
Tears flowing again, she studied the beautiful diamond, then slipped it off her finger and placed it in its black velvet box. She extracted the lovely bracelet from her dresser drawer and set it by the ring. She was glad he had kept most of his gift giving to flowers. At least there weren’t that many items to gather up.
When Boyd arrived, she was waiting for him. He pushed open the passenger door, but she did not climb in.
“I need to talk to you,” she said from the sidewalk, her voice shaky, serious.
“Climb in. We’ll talk.”
“No . . . no, I don’t want—Would you come out? Please. We’ll walk. Over to the park.”
“What is this?” He sat where he was.
“Please,” she said again. “I did a lot of thinking last night. Praying.”
“Oh, that. Look—I’m willing to forget all about that.”
“I’m not. I mean . . . I can’t.”
He swore. “I had no idea it’d shake you all up just because I still go out with the old gang. You expect me to be a monk just—”
“It isn’t that.”
“Then what . . . ? I get it. It’s the religion thing, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “It’s the religion thing.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay—hang on to your old religion. You’ll grow out of it. I don’t care.”
“I’m not going to grow out of it. Ever. You need to know that.”
He slid across the seat until he was at the passenger door. She stood before him, tears now streaming down her face. “I didn’t want it like this. To say this here—”
“Then get in.” He swore again. “You’re making fools of both of us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You need to finish up the invitations—not stand out here on the sidewalk—”
“I’ll not be finishing the invitations. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Then who do you think—?”
“I can’t marry you, Boyd.” Once the actual words were said, she felt a calmness wash through her being. The tears even stopped, though they still dampened her cheeks.
“What are you talking about?” He truly did not seem to comprehend her words.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You have my ring. . . .”
She extended her hand with its black velvet box. “Here’s your ring. I’m sorry.”
She was totally unprepared for the hand that flashed out and grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking her head so her face was turned upright. “You get that back on your finger right now,” he hissed. “You think you can make me the laughingstock of—”
Christine cried out, then bit her lip. With a quick twist she freed herself and scrambled away from his reach. She looked at the bracelet she was holding, threw it into the open door, then whirled to run back to the boardinghouse. She was in a panic that he might follow, but she heard only the screech of the car tires as Boyd sped away.
She cried through another night. This was far more dreadful than she had imagined. She did love him . . . in some strange way. In spite of everything, he was so . . . so courtly, so sweet when he wanted to be. So free with compliments and generous with his gifts. He had made her feel special. Loved. Desired. And she had dared to believe that she was good for him. Would eventually be able to change the dark moods, make up for what his life had lacked, show him the importance of having God in his life, and, with her patient love, draw him to faith.
How had things gone so wrong? There was only one answer. She hadn’t listened . . . and obeyed.
The next morning she prepared herself for work, bleary-eyed and sober. The emptiness of her ring finger was a constant reminder of the emptiness of her heart. When she entered the office, she saw on her desk the largest bouquet she had ever seen—of flaming roses. Boyd’s favorite. The card read, I love you, Christine. Boyd.
For a moment she felt remorse for what she had done. He was so tender. Sending his love when she had been the one to break the engagement. So considerate. How could she not but forgive, in return, his angry outburst?
In an instant, though, burning anger filled her being. He did not fight fair. He arrogantly assumed he could have whatever he wanted in life—on his terms.
Fortunately no one else had arrived yet, and she ripped the card from the bouquet, threw it in her wastebasket, and carried the bouquet to the little reception table by the wall. She would not smell them; she would not look at them. She would not claim them.
She sat down at her typewriter and began her work with a vengeance. As the day went on, her emotions subsided, and by the end of the day she was thinking more rationally—but no less determined that it was over.
Christine was in her own room when the usual time came for Boyd to pick her up. Mrs. Green knocked on her door to tell her he was waiting for her outside. To avoid a scene, she went down to meet him. She stiffened when she saw him, but he was so subdued, so gentle in his manner, and so handsome as he stood there that she willed herself to be polite.
“I . . . I came to get you, Christine. We need to talk.”
His tone was full of care for her. Full of remorse. But she stepped back a pace and shook her head.
“Please, my love . . . we need to work this out. Whatever . . . your problem, we can sort through it.”
Her problem. He was going to help her with her problem. Tears stung her eyes.
“It won’t work,” she said as firmly as she could over the lump in her throat. “We should have known it wouldn’t work. We are . . . too different. Have different values. Different dreams. I’m sorry. So sorry. It will not work.”
She saw the anger flash in his eyes again. She stepped back another pace. The black moods of this young man frightened her. She had tried to shut her eyes to the truth, to refuse to acknowledge it . . . but she had always known the deep-seated anger could threaten to explode at any moment.
“Please,” she said, lifting a hand, palm out, “don’t call again. There is nothing more to say to each other.”
She shut the door, flipped the lock, and leaned back against it, tears streaming down her cheeks. She would need to call her parents. What would they think of her? But I know they love me was her next thought. She wouldn’t be needing that wedding dress. . . .
She was called into Mr. Kingsley’s office. She sat in her usual chair, heart pounding.
“This is rather a touchy matter for me,” he began after clearing his throat. “A father doesn’t like to get involved in . . . in these matters. Boyd tells me you’ve . . . had a little misunderstanding.”
Christine certainly would not have described it that way, but she let it pass.
“Now—whatever this is—I’m sure we can get this worked out. . . .” He paused when he saw Christine was shaking her head.
“We’ve got those wedding invitations that need to get in the mail. . . .”
Like his son, he wasn’t listening.
“Mr. Kingsley, there isn’t going to be a wedding,” she said quietly but firmly.
“Now, Christine, all brides-to-be get the jitters. It’s only natural. You’ll feel—”
“No,” she said, standing up. “No. This isn’t bride’s jitters. I was wrong—totally wrong. I should have seen it. We . . . we just . . . it wouldn’t have worked.”
His brow was furrowing, his eyes narrowing. For a moment he reminded her of his son. “Are you saying you will not even consider a reconciliation? That you will not even give my son the benefit of listening to his side? He’s heartbroken—the boy. Never even went out last night. Heartbroken—and you won’t even discuss the matter with him.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He rose from his own chair. “I’m sorry too,” he said, his expression menacing. “I had no idea you were so stubborn. Such a . . . a fool. Boyd would have been able to give you everything. Everything.”
No . . . not everything, Christine’s heart responded. Not everything. He was stripping me of my self-respect. My peace of mind. My faith. I would have lived in fear. In subjection . . .
“Have Miss Stout settle your last paycheck,” the man said briskly.
“You mean . . . ?”
He looked at her. His anger seemed to have drained away, leaving in its place a tired, worn-down old man. “It would be awkward for all of us if you stayed on.”