Castles in the Sand (7 page)

Pugsy’s insistent yip woke Susan. It still felt odd to awaken in a chair in the middle of the day. Up until three months ago, she had been a stranger to sleepless nights and afternoon catnaps.

“What is it, Pugs?”

He quieted and tilted his head. At home he only barked when the doorbell rang. The noisy beach world confused him.

Movement at the window caught her attention. Susan leaned forward to see more clearly.

Good grief. There stood Gwyn Fairchild at the front door. Had she spotted Susan asleep? In a chair? In the middle of the day?

Thoroughly embarrassed, she straightened her skirt and smoothed back her hair into its bun. After a quick pinch to her cheeks, she forced a smile and opened the door.

“Gwyn! Hi!”

The other side of the screen door, her friend stared, unblinking, unsmiling, a bouquet of fresh flowers in her hand.

Susan’s stomach twisted. Natalie was to blame. Her sister-in-law could not keep her big mouth shut. She had blabbed everything about Kenzie to Gwyn.

Without a word Gwyn entered, wrapped her arms around Susan, and squeezed.

Half a foot shorter than the drop-dead gorgeous 5’ 10” paralegal, Susan returned the hug, her chin against Gwyn’s shoulder. “How on earth did you find—”

The squeeze turned fierce. “Knock off the cheery bunk. You’re exhausted and on a mini-retreat. That’s all Natalie told me.”

Maybe Natalie hadn’t spilled the entire story.

Gwyn released her. “I would never interrupt whatever is going on except that when Natalie told me you were here, she was absolutely furious.” The corners of her mouth went up gently. “You know how she can be.” She handed her the flowers. “For you. Shall I make us some tea? Go sit down and smell the roses. Are there roses in that bouquet? Pugsy, shoo along with your mother. I’m sure you understand by now I don’t like you in the least. I’ll find a vase.”

In her ever-elegant way, Gwyn pronounced the word
vahz
. Of course “cheery bunk” was said with equal aplomb in a cool tone that seldom varied in pitch. Continuing her small talk and not waiting for answers, she stepped into the kitchen area and began preparing tea. She moved like flowing liquid.

Susan returned to the chair by the window. If Natalie hadn’t disclosed all, then the story would hold. She played yet another rerun.
Yes, I am so tired, that bout with the flu and all. Couldn’t wait three more weeks for a break. Yes, Kenzie is still on her own, still singing with the band that plays alternative Christian rock music. Glory Traxxx. With three
x’
s. I don’t know why they spell it that way. She’d go back to Europe in a New York minute. Yes, she always planned on returning to school. Sometime
.

All of it true.

All of it so very exhausting.

Gwyn put the flowers in a crystal vase and set them on the kitchen table. When the tea was ready, she handed Susan a cup and sat in the other chair by the window. “Susan, I’m not very good at this.” Her cool tone wobbled.

“At what?”

“At being there for you. Or here, I guess I should say. You know, like how you’re always there for me. I’m not sure how to go about doing it.”

The tangled knot in Susan’s stomach had traveled upward into her chest. She could scarcely breathe.

Gwyn removed her heels and tucked her stockinged legs up under her knee-length skirt. Thick mascara and eyeliner defined her almost violet eyes. Every single lock of jet black hair hung perfectly together in a short bob. That was Gwyn, perfectly put together.

No. Susan knew better. She eyed the scar nearly invisible under makeup. It was a three-inch slash, parallel to her ear. The old wound reminded Susan that despite Gwyn’s outward appearance, inside she resembled a war zone under reconstruction.

“Gwyn, there’s nothing to do.”

“Of course there is. For now we’ll just sip our tea and wait for the others to come show me what to do.”

“The others?”

“The Martha Mavens.” She raised a brow. “I simply had to call for reinforcements. They’ll be along shortly. Have some tea, Susan.”

The last thing on earth Susan wanted to do was put on her game face, drink tea, and converse with Gwyn or others, even if they were the women who most closely resembled what she could call friends.

On second thought, that wasn’t the last thing she wanted to do. The last thing had already happened.

She sipped her tea.

Within the hour, the others Gwyn referred to descended upon the beach house like a storm-tossed wave that jumped over the seawall and flowed right on through the picket fence, across the patio, and under the door and windows. Susan’s very pores felt drenched with the overwhelming presence of the Martha Mavens.

Gwyn had nicknamed the group in honor of the New Testament woman. Martha was overly occupied with kitchen matters while her sister, Mary, ignored dirty dishes in favor of sitting at Jesus’ feet. The moniker was used tongue-in-cheek. Although it was Martha-type behavior that originally brought them together, what kept them truly linked over the years was a nearer resemblance to Mary. When all was said and done, spiritual concerns superseded the ability to bake a blue-ribbon lemon meringue pie.

A fact which always put Susan a bit on edge.

As the women entered the beach house, lifting the corners of her mouth required every ounce of strength.

I’m fine. Just fine
.

Tess Harmon entered first. Typical leader. Short bouncy hair, streaked a light brown, matched her personality. She spoke in short, energetic phrases, a useful tool for the director of women’s ministries at the church. Drake had nicknamed her “Boss,” a title she adored.

The twins followed. Seventy-seven-year-old widows, Leona and Mildred were identically cute and roly-poly with white hair and doe eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses.

Young Emmylou Bainbridge entered last, a shy Mississippian who had followed her Marine boyfriend to San Diego when she was seventeen. Thirteen years later, they were now married and…

Susan wanted to crawl into a hole. Emmylou was more than eight months pregnant. Her abdomen literally protruded into the room while the rest of her remained outside on the patio.

“Sit,” Tess commanded after Susan had greeted everyone with a hug.

Fighting the urge to flee to the bedroom, she once again did as she was told. Tess was more formidable than Gwyn.

Emmylou waddled over, her face beaming. “Susan, feel this.” She took Susan’s hand and placed it on her roundness. “It’s his foot. Isn’t that awesome?”

She nodded, tried to smile, and pulled back her hand. The impression of a hard little heel lingered in her palm.

Mildred’s arthritic legs caused her to teeter along like Emmylou. She slowly lowered herself into the other chair by the front window and fixed her big eyes right on Susan. “Now, dearie, we are not here to intrude. But let’s invite the Lord to visit.” Not waiting for an answer, Mildred—nicknamed the Prayer Warrior—bowed her head and said, “Father.”

That was all she said.

Susan clenched her fists until she felt the pain of fingernails digging into her flesh.

Sitting there in the beach house living room with her eyes closed, Mildred Murray prayed in silence for some time. At least Susan thought she prayed, although she really wasn’t sure. Maybe the woman simply listened. Whatever went on in those quiet moments, things happened afterward. Susan had witnessed the phenomenon more than a few times. The elderly woman personified Martha’s sister, Mary.

Meanwhile, the others quietly rearranged furniture, moving the loveseat nearer the two chairs by the front window. Leona and Emmylou sat on it with Pugsy between them. Gwyn and Tess sank nimbly to the floor like the yoga devotees they were. Then they all waited for Mildred to finish.

At last she straightened. The rosy glow on her face suggested she was a jogger just in from the brisk January air. A happy jogger at that. Her grin pushed cheeks back into many laugh folds.

She always appeared so after her prayer times. Susan described it once to Drake. He pooh-poohed that one’s face would actually change in a physical manner during prayer.

Mildred said, “The Lord is here, and He wants to bless us.”

She always announced that too. And then she waited for someone else to share whatever was on her mind.

Apparently Tess felt the nudge to speak first. “I’ve been thinking lately about how we Martha Mavens got our start. Gwyn, I hesitate to bring it up.”

“It’s all right,” Gwyn said. “Ten years have passed.”

Emmylou shuddered visibly. “It was the most horrific night of my life. Oh, Gwyn. I don’t mean that. I mean, it was for me, but it was something much worse for you. I don’t mean to make light of it.”

“Of course you don’t. But think of the good God brought from it.” Gwyn spread her arms. “The Martha Mavens.”

Tess said, “Right. I think that’s why it’s important to rehearse the past, like the Jewish people do with their history, so we don’t forget.”

A long silent moment passed.

Susan found her voice. “Drake and I were new at Holy Cross Fellowship that year.”

Mildred said, “Such a floundering group we were before he became our pastor! A bunch of fish flopping around in a dried-up sea. We women were hardly acquainted before that night. Our paths seldom crossed. Tess, you’d recently been hired as director of women’s ministries. And Emmylou.” She smiled. “You were a darling teenager, all moony over your Marine and working as our janitress. Leona and I hadn’t really gotten a chance to know you yet.”

Tess said, “Natalie wasn’t around much before then. But that night we were all there.”

Leona nodded. “Six busy little Martha bees. Tess, you were working late in your new office. Mildred and I were packing up gifts for missionaries in Peru in the ladies’ circle room. Susan, you were singing, practicing for a Sunday morning solo, and Natalie was trying to keep that old sound system going for you. Emmylou, you were vacuuming by the front door.”

They went quiet again. Susan wondered if recounting history meant speaking aloud the horrific details.

Gwyn broke the silence. “And I was being raped and knifed behind the building.” She touched the scar by her ear.

That answered Susan’s question.

Emmylou said, “When I turned off the vacuum, I saw you through the glass doors, all huddled in a heap. You should not have been able to crawl that far.”

“By God’s grace alone.” Gwyn paused. “And you came outside and screamed loud enough for everyone to hear.”

“Can we say the rest is history?” Emmylou turned to Tess.

She shook her head.

Gwyn said, “Let me tell it. I was semiconscious, but I know you all stayed by my side. Waiting for the ambulance. Talking to the police. And Tess stayed even through the night in the hospital. You took turns for weeks after caring for me in my apartment. I named you the Martha Mavens and eventually came to church and heard about Jesus, who sounded exactly like each and every one of you. What wasn’t to believe?” She smiled. “All right, now we can say the rest is history.”

Mildred held up a hand. “Except to add that all seven of us bonded in a special way through this experience. Since then we’ve been there for each other. Through the good times, yes, but most especially through the grievous ones. There were the deaths of my husband and of Leona’s.”

Gwyn said, “My divorce.”

“For me,” Emmylou said, “all those years of infertility tests and surgery and miscarriages.”

Tess said, “My son-in-law fighting overseas. And I might add for Natalie, her husband’s near-fatal skiing accident.”

Intimidation settled on Susan’s shoulders like a coat of heavy mail. She felt eighteen again, at Bible college, sitting in a circle of young women. They all took turns to pray aloud with great fervency. All, that was, except quiet Susie Anderson. She didn’t have a thing to say.

After a few such meetings, she realized that if she didn’t contribute at least a few words, the others would think her spiritually impoverished. A far cry from Bible college material capable of snagging an up-and-coming pastor for a husband.

And so she adopted her chimp chatter routine. Mimicking the more vocal students proved an easy assignment. Now, at forty-three, she no longer needed to pretend herself worthy. She had indeed snagged the guy and she was indeed the pastor’s wife.

A new set of expectations arrived with the marriage. The job description dictated she keep a corner of herself even more aloof than Susie Anderson ever had. Airing dirty laundry would never do. It encouraged congregants to lose respect for the pastor. Did it really matter that her husband never picked up after himself in the bathroom? Or excused himself from the table? Or offered a hand in the kitchen? No reason to share that sort of information. As Drake often said, she could make or break him in those little details.

But the job description also meant she owed something to the present conversation.

And so she said, “For me, there was Kenzie’s smoking at the school in seventh grade and later all those holes pierced in her ears.” Had she ever mentioned to any of them the tattoo she glimpsed beneath her daughter’s hip-hugging waistband? Probably not. “And, um, there was the time Drake had to cancel his trip to Israel.”