Rain pattered softly against the French doors as Kayla helped Honor prepare dinner. A fire crackled in the living room. Two gentle melodies, rain and flames, nestling the home in a harmony of refuge and peace. When Peter and Adam had returned an hour early, she had found herself observing Honor as much as the men. This was how a woman in love greeted her man and did her best to erase the stain of a hard day. This was how she made her husband’s new ally feel welcome. This was how she cherished. This was how she gave. Yet as soon as Peter and Adam retreated into the study, Honor seated herself at the kitchen table and cradled her baby with both hands. Kayla did not ask if she was all right. The words were not necessary. Kayla set the table, and twice as she passed set a quick hand on Honor’s shoulder.
When Honor finally rose and began helping her prepare the salad, it felt the most natural thing in the world to give voice to her thoughts. “Forgiveness is a major issue, isn’t it?”
Honor’s hand poised in the process of washing a head of lettuce. “Of faith? Yes. Yes, it is.”
“What if I can’t?”
“None of us live up to the goal of perfection. But who knows, maybe you’ll prove yourself wrong.”
“I doubt that. Rather a lot, actually.”
Honor reached for the dish towel and made a process of drying her hands. “It is amazing what the Spirit can do to a person. Even bringing a heartsick and angry young woman to the point where she could forgive both a father for destroying her life and a mother for pouring ashes over the remnant.”
“But why bother?”
“That is the critical issue, isn’t it? We become accustomed to living with pain and rage. It is what defines us. We might not like it. But it’s the life we’ve been forced to claim as our own. So why change.”
Kayla took the lettuce and began peeling off leaves, while Honor’s words did the same to her internal state. Stripping away. One lie at a time.
“Then something happens. A problem we can’t face alone. A need we can’t fulfill. Something. And we have to go outside our-selves. Because if we don’t, we lose the chance to grow beyond where we are. Not just for the moment. Forever. We are granted a glimpse into eternity’s well. And we see that to drink from this means relinquishing things we both treasure and hate. Because it is the only way we can make room for the things we have denied ourselves.”
Peter and Adam arrived at the dinner table in a reflective mood. Kayla watched Honor taste the air, then relax as she found no hint of latent stress. Abruptly Peter said, “Allow me to pose a hypothetical.”
The entire table looked up, only to discover he was address-ing Adam, who said, “Fire away.”
“Let us suppose for the moment that there could be a gradual influx of new funds for Kayla’s project. Nothing immediately. But over time. How would you suggest she structure the change?”
Honor’s eyes mirrored Kayla’s surprise. Adam, however, seemed to find nothing unexpected in the question. He said, “Are we talking a fixed timeline?”
“Projected, but yes, all right. Let’s say we would aim at a definite commitment.”
Adam looked at Kayla. “Do you mind if I answer?”
“Do I mind? I don’t even understand what either of you just said.”
“How much do you need to get to profitability?” he asked her.
“You already know that. It costs us twelve thousand five hundred a month.”
“No, Kayla. That’s where you are now. It’s how much you require to function. What I need to know is, what would be the bare minimum required to get you running at a point where income covers costs.”
“Everything depends upon the drought.”
Adam remained silent as he studied the notes beside his plate. Finally he said to Peter, “The first task would have to be establishing a new business plan. Kayla’s financial structure is probably still based on before the double crisis of drought and robbery. So she’s got all these commitments still based on projects that were left half-finished.”
Peter asked, “Is he right?”
“Is he . . . I don’t . . .” She stopped. Took a breath. “Yes, I suppose he is. Partly.”
“Go on, Adam.”
“My guess is, the fake business manager told her to jump into everything at once. That was the only way he could be certain to get all the capital down to Africa, where he could steal it. Force her to dive into the deep end. He expected her to drown. Instead, she’s defied the odds and kept this thing going.”
Kayla exchanged another look with Honor. This was more than just a casual discussion. Or so it sounded to her. Kayla asked, “Are we talking theoretical?”
Peter coughed, but the previous day’s wheeze was absent. “Allow our young friend to finish.”
Adam said, “I would stagger the projects.”
“Starting with what?”
He turned back to Kayla. “What is your biggest money-maker?”
That did not require any thought. “Coffee. The growers have been there for generations. The supermarkets already have the space available for Fair Trade coffee.”
“What further investment does your coffee division need at present?”
“A new roaster. Two more trucks. Better sorting mechanisms. Equipment for the new start-up villages. Many other villages need deeper irrigation wells. A full-time coordinator to maintain quality during the growing season.” She had to fight for breath. “What—”
“So the coffee is covered. What would be next?”
She forced her mind to work. Or tried. “The biggest money-maker after coffee is cut flowers. Especially in the winter.”
“What about the drought?”
“One portion of the country has an excellent underground aquifer. And there are two lakes that haven’t gone dry. We need irrigation pumps and tents that trap the water and keep it from evaporating. Israel has invented a desert-style irrigation system that drips water directly onto each plant, wasting almost nothing.”
Adam said to Peter, “The study would have to be double-bound. There’s the profitability issue per product, and you’d have to determine how many villages benefit per dollar invested.”
“What if the lost capital could be replaced all at once?” Peter asked.
“I’d still urge her to stagger things out. Each of these is going to generate a ton of new work. There’s the issue of personnel, of keeping things in harmony, working with the buyers, regulating quality and output so she can guarantee a regular supply . . .”
Honor broke in with, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
The two men exchanged a glance before Peter replied, “The answer, my dear, is that we simply do not know.”
Kayla asked, “Can you tell me anything?”
Her father said, “Soon.”
“Adam?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after eight your time. Around one in the morning over here.”
“Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I’m supposed to be the one asking you that.”
“I sleep too much.”
“So you can sleep for the two of us.” Adam carried the phone back into the living room. He had woken from a deep sleep and instantly known he would be up for a while. He settled into a chair before the cold fireplace. He refrained from asking how she was doing. His mother hated that question. If he had to know, he would ask the nurses. But their answers were always the same by now. His mother was doing as well as could be expected. She was without pain. She was a wonderful patient, a blessing to everyone at the hospice. Adam had heard the comments so often he could recite them at will.
His mother asked, “So how are things?”
This was a good sign. On her not-so-good days, his mother’s interests were reduced to a quick hello, a sighed thanks that he phoned, an assurance of her love, and off again. “Things are really good.”
“I’m so glad. Tell me about England.”
“It’s cold here. The weather changes from hour to hour. The winter sun only rises about an inch above the horizon, and seems to skirt the treetops as it moves from east to west.”
“But it’s beautiful?”
“Yes, Mom.” At the sound of a creaking floorboard, Adam turned to find Kayla standing hesitantly in the foyer. She wore a quilted robe over gray flannel pajamas. Her hair was tousled and her feet bare. She had never looked more lovely. “Hang on just a second, Mom.”
Kayla said, “I thought I heard your voice.”
“Come on in.”
“I don’t want to disturb.”
“You’re not. Really.”
“Would you like a hot chocolate?”
“Sure.” He lifted the receiver. “Okay, Mom. I’m back.”
“Who was that?”
“A friend.”
“You’ve made friends already?”
“Yes. Good ones.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Have you had any more dreams?”
“Perhaps the time for dreaming is over.”
His next breath came with difficulty. “What makes you say that?”
Kayla must have heard the change, for she padded back into the room and rested her hand upon his shoulder.
His mother said, “I seem to come and go these days. I can hardly recall what we spoke about last time. The dreams, from where I lay, they seem like idle musings.”
“No, Mom. They were important.”
“Were they?”
“Very.”
“Then perhaps they were never intended for me at all.”
He felt a building pressure, a need to know so strong he pushed out the words, “Your first dream about me needing to travel to England came after I apologized. You said I needed to figure out why you sent me—”
“I did not send you, Adam. I felt that you were being called to go. Only you refused to accept the concept of being called.”
Adam took a firmer hold of Kayla’s hand. “I understand.”
“Do you really?”
“I think so.”
“Then everything is right in this old world of mine.” His mother’s breathing came in soft puffs, as though each required a special effort. “I think I had better rest. I love you, Adam.”
When he looked up, Kayla’s gaze held a depth and a calm as piercing as the night. She reached down and enfolded him in her arms. The quilted robe softened her embrace and blan-keted his vision.