Chapter Seven

The next day, winter made itself known. Snow had fallen in a thick coat during the night, covering the landscape as well as the streets of Copper Mill. Paul was outside snow-blowing the driveway and sidewalk as Kate watched from the window of their bedroom. A cup of hot coffee steamed between her hands as she sipped. The loud snow-blowing machine sent an arc of white onto the front yard as Paul walked along behind.

He had been out there for a while and was just about done with the job when the county snowplow came by, leaving a ridge along the edge of the driveway. Paul stood upright, then his shoulders slumped as he looked at the long mound that now blocked the driveway.

Kate chuckled to herself before returning to her studio and the task at hand. She set the cup of coffee back on its saucer and picked up her pencil.

When she’d returned home from the Mercantile the day before, she’d been delighted to discover that UPS had left a large box on the front stoop. Her light table had arrived a day early. Considerably smaller than the table she’d ordered from Sam, this table had a glass top with a light underneath that made it possible to see how the colored glass would look in bright sunlight. She’d had it out of the box and assembled by suppertime.

She sat at it now with a large sheet of paper before her and her laptop computer alongside it. She’d been looking up pictures of different objects for her surprise for the church and had finally settled on one in particular. She didn’t want Paul to suspect what she was doing, so when she’d seen all the snow, she’d been glad to know he would be outside giving her a little time to begin her design before Paul left for work.

She was immersed in her drawing, enjoying the moment, sipping her coffee and then sitting back to decide whether she liked the placement of this or that item, and erasing and redrawing as needed. She didn’t want to make it too intricate, since that would eat up more time than she wanted, but she also wanted a sense of realism for the piece. It was a delicate balance, but one that she enjoyed finding.

Her thoughts turned to her talk with Sam Gorman the day before. He’d added a couple of pieces to the puzzle that was Patricia Harris—most notably that the reason she’d never had another child was because of Ray’s infertility. Kate wondered if Marissa knew that detail. The young woman certainly hadn’t mentioned it, but, Kate supposed, most men wouldn’t share such intimacies with their daughters. What was it Sam had said about Ray’s blue eyes? They drew you in with their caring. Kate hoped people could say the same of her when it was her time to go.

“What are you working on?” Paul stood at the door, his cheeks red from the cold.

Kate hadn’t even heard him come in much less open the entry closet to put his winterwear away. Quickly she shut the laptop and turned her sheet of paper face down. When she faced him, she saw that his eyebrows were raised in question. She cleared her throat.

“It’s nothing...Just a new project.”

He took a step into the room, grinning. “Can I see?”

“Oh no!” she said a bit too loudly.

He stopped walking and looked at her. “Why not? Are you hiding something?” he asked in jest.

“Don’t be silly. It’s just...You know us artists. We want to wait for the big unveiling.” She raised her hands in an awkward “Are you buying this?” gesture.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that so? I can let it go...I guess.”

“Thanks, honey,” Kate said. “It’s something special that I want you to see when the time is right.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.” He walked over to her and kissed her forehead, then pretended that he was going to sneak a peek. She smacked his hand.

“Just kidding!” he said as he reached for her cup instead and took a sip of the steaming brew. “It’s so cold out there! Did you see what that plow did to all my good work? Talk about frustrating!”

“I did. Poor baby.”

“So much for my ideal life.”

“You keep learning this lesson, don’t you?” Kate said.

“I guess some of us never learn!”

“Speaking of never learning,” Kate said, “did you ever figure anything out with the Wilson brothers and their dog, Toto?”

“The dog’s name is Scout,” Paul said. “And no...Actually, Eli and I were going to head over there later this week. The younger brother is digging in. I don’t get it.”

“You’re not alone on that front. I’m still trying to figure out Patricia Harris too. She has no parents or husband or extended family to speak of, yet she’s completely shut me out so I can’t help her. It’s as if she’s afraid of something.” She reached out for her coffee cup, taking it from her husband’s hands and setting it on the light table.

“Don’t take it personally,” Paul said.

“And how about you, Pastor—are you taking your own advice?”

“I think the Wilson brothers enjoy the attention they get by keeping this feud going,” he admitted. “Jack actually moved out of the house with the dog, to their aunt’s house. Carl is threatening to sneak in and kidnap the animal. I thought it was all talk, but these two are serious.”

“All for some prize money?” Kate said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Paul shook his head. “I wish I were. Eli and I are going to take another shot at reasoning with them. If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what we’ll do. Brothers shouldn’t treat each other this way. In all my years of counseling, I’ve never had this much trouble getting through to two people.”

“Why don’t you go talk to Nehemiah about it?” Kate suggested. “We live nearby now. You should take advantage of that. Besides, you know he’d love a visitor.”

Nehemiah Jacobs, the previous pastor at Faith Briar, had been Paul’s mentor growing up and into his adult life. There was no one’s opinion, other than his own father’s, that Paul valued more.

“You know,” Paul said, the light of an idea dawning as he looked into her eyes, “I should get Nehemiah’s advice on it.”

“Oh really,” Kate deadpanned.

Paul gave her a wry grin. “I love it when I get good ideas like that.” Like a mountain climber on a frosty morning, he took a deep breath of air. “I’ll go see him just as soon as I check in with Millie. You know how she gets if I’m tardy!”

He bent for another kiss, which Kate happily returned, and then he headed to the church.

IN TENNESSEE, winters oscillated on a yo-yo string of highs and lows. By the time Paul got to Chattanooga to see Nehemiah Jacobs, the temperatures had risen to the midfifties. The snow that had covered everything was melting, and the runoff was flowing through the city streets in a shimmering sheen. Paul made his way up Dodson Avenue and pulled into the lot for Orchard Hill, the assisted-living facility where the seventy-nine-year-old former pastor now made his home.

Tucked beneath the hills of the Smoky Mountains, Orchard Hill looked more like a grand home than a medical facility. Divided windows lined the front near the entrance, and white pillars gave the place an almost regal feel.

Paul could see several of the residents inside, gathered around the grand piano that was the focal point of the front sunroom. The television in the corner sat silent. Paul made his way inside the door and to the piano room to the left. Men and women with varying degrees of graying hair sat mesmerized by the ragtime sounds that the pianist brought forth. She was a dark-haired woman with bright red cheeks, and she reminded Paul of a gypsy.

Nehemiah Jacobs listened from the couch nearest the window. His eyes were closed, yet a smile touched his wrinkled face, and he was swaying ever so slightly with the rhythm of the music. Paul took the seat beside him, and Nehemiah opened his eyes.

“Look who’s here!” he said, sitting upright and clapping Paul on the knee. “What brings you to Chattanooga, Paul?” Several heads turned to see who was talking.

“You do, actually,” Paul whispered. “I could use a visit with my old friend, but it looks like you’re enjoying a nice concert.”

Nehemiah’s gray eyes turned toward the piano, and he nodded. “She comes every Wednesday. She’s more punctual than the trains in France. This week it’s ragtime. Last week it was classical. She has a large repertoire.”

The woman who was sitting in a wheelchair closest to the front gave Nehemiah a scorching look, then she added the universal “shushing” signal with index finger to lips.

“Do you want to stay and hear the rest of this, or shall we take our talk elsewhere?” Paul asked.

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Nehemiah said. “She gets bent out of shape by most anything. But maybe we should go talk in the dining room.”

Paul and Nehemiah stood to leave, then weaved their way through the wheelchairs and walkers that dotted the room. Despite his age, Nehemiah still got around without the aid of either. He said it was simply his stubborn nature not to submit to such contraptions, but Paul was sure it was that same stubborn nature that made him as fit as he was. He still walked two miles every day, either outside when the weather permitted or on the treadmills the facility had in its physical-therapy section. He also faithfully followed the vitamin regimen his wife, Rose, put him on years before when she was alive. And every morning he did the calisthenics routine he’d first learned in the navy during World War II.

In part, his example was the reason Paul had taken up running. It wasn’t that he wanted to live as long as Nehemiah. The old man was always sure to remind him that “to die is gain.” The thing that inspired Paul was the quality of life the man still enjoyed.

The two men made their way to the dining room, which was directly behind the piano room. It had several tables with white cloths; each table had already been set for the next meal. The room extended off the back of the building so that there were banks of windows on three sides, and it overlooked a pond where swans and geese made their home in the warm months. Paul could see children on the opposite bank playing in the melting snow.

Paul chose a table nearest the back window and sat facing the view. “Is this good?” Paul asked.

“Perfect.” Nehemiah settled into his seat. Then he pointed toward the door to the kitchen, where a coffee station was set up. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” Paul said. “Still take it the same way?”

Nehemiah nodded.

Paul got up to make two cups of coffee. He returned with the steaming cups and took his chair.

“Those kids play there all the time,” Nehemiah said, his eyes still fixed on the children outside the window. “Makes me wish I had some snow pants.” His smile belied his words. “Still, it’s good to watch them having fun. Sometimes I wonder if they don’t play there just to give us old folks a show.”

His statement reminded Paul of the Wilson brothers. He cleared his throat and said, “That brings me to one of the reasons I came to see you today, Nehemiah.”

“Oh?” The old man took a sip of his coffee.

“I was hoping you could give me a bit of advice. I always value your wisdom.”

“I don’t know that that’s the best idea.” Nehemiah laughed. “There’s a reason the cliché ‘old fool’ exists, you know.”

Paul leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

“Go ahead.” Nehemiah’s tone turned serious, his eyes meeting Paul’s. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously troubling you.”

Paul thought for a moment before speaking, then he said, “There are two brothers—Jack and Carl Wilson. Do you know them?”

“I know Zeb Wilson. I think he was their dad. I vaguely remember the boys. They don’t go to Faith Briar, do they?”

“No,” Paul said. “Getting them to church is a bit beyond my reach. Right now I’d be happy if they could get along and not kill each other. Eli Weston called one day about some neighbors who were arguing loudly. Wanted me to come mediate.”

“The Wilsons?”

Paul nodded. “Seems they’re both laying claim to ownership of the same dog.”

“So, buy another dog,” Nehemiah said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“The problem is, whoever gets the dog gets a five-thousand-dollar prize. I haven’t been able to get anywhere with them; they go round and round to the point of exhaustion. The youngest has even taken the dog and moved out of the house. Have you ever come across anything like it?”

“Oh, I’ve seen much worse,” Nehemiah said with a laugh. “It’s amazing what greed will do to a person. It’ll twist you inside out if you let it.”

“I’ve tried reasoning with them, but that gets me nowhere. I’ve thought about talking separately with each of them, but I don’t know what good it would do. Each just accuses the other of lying...” Paul sighed. “You see my dilemma?”

Nehemiah sat in thought for a long time, his eyes trained on the children. Paul thought he’d forgotten the subject, when he finally turned back to him. “Seems to me,” the old man began, “you need to heed the words of James 1:5 that goes something like ‘Pray for wisdom and God will give it to you.’ It’s as simple as that, Paul.”

But it didn’t sound simple.