Love Has The Best Intentions (7 page)

Then she recalled the wisdom her mother had
shared on their wedding day, advice that had come in handy more
than once during nearly thirty years of marriage: “Remember, dear,
you’re not only marrying a farmer, you’re also marrying the land
and the livestock. Always think of it as a package deal.”

Rosemary nodded to Peter, and then grinned at
the grandchildren. “Guess what?” she announced. “We’re having
‘company’ for breakfast!”

The omelets ended up as a big casserole
cooked on top of the wood stove. The grandchildren helped their
mothers toast bread in the family room fireplace.

That adventure, however, was nothing compared
with the excitement of watching fifty peeping yellow balls of fluff
peck at feed in a makeshift pen in the kitchen!

Warm and well fed, the curious chicks were
soon hopping over improvised barriers to make a break for freedom.
The grandchildren shrieked in glee with each attempted escape. Even
Rosemary chuckled when Alyson’s husband sprawled on his belly to
recapture a fugitive behind the refrigerator.

When the power had been finally restored, and
order along with it, the ice had been completely broken ... both
outside the sprawling farmhouse and within. Easter dinner—a little
later than planned—was accompanied by happy chatter and lots of
laughter.

Afterward, as Rosemary surveyed the newly
scrubbed kitchen floor, Peter put a hand on her shoulder.
“Satisfied, honey? I know things didn’t turn out quite like you
planned.”

She leaned against her husband and sighed.
“Mother used to say that children, like chickens, always come home
to roost. But,
next
Easter, let’s hope only chocolate
bunnies provide the excitement!”

THE END

Harvest
Gold

Theresa zipped up Megan’s jacket and planted
a kiss on the furrowed brow of her youngest child. “No more frowns!
Tomorrow’s Saturday and you can help Daddy all day. Hurry, sweetie,
or you’ll miss the bus.”

Jerry and Amy trooped into the kitchen and
picked up their lunches. At the door, they turned to give her an
appealing look, both barrels.

Although her heart ached for them, Theresa
shook her head. “I know you love harvest season, but you’ve got to
go to school.”

Through the window, she watched them walk to
the gate in their new clothes. No hand-me-downs left to pass from
Amy to Megan. New shoes, new jackets. Glancing around the room, she
felt again an unpleasant tingle of shock at its unfamiliarity.

Theresa was loading the dishwasher when Bruce
strode in. She smiled at her husband. “How goes the harvest?”

“Great! Gorgeous fall day, hon. Make sure you
spend some time outside enjoying that high blue sky.”

After washing his hands, he poured himself a
cup of coffee. “All that water pressure still makes me jump—I’m not
used to living in such luxury.” Looking around, he took a sip. ‘You
must be in seventh heaven. All the stove burners work, the
refrigerator spits out ice at the touch of a button—”

Theresa felt a surge of irritation at her
husband’s blindness. “But this morning I mixed up our pancakes in a
stainless steel bowl instead of using Grandmother Evelyn’s
spatterware. I’m surrounded by things bought from a store, objects
without history. He could God do this to us?”

Bruce’s wind-reddened face creased in
concern. “Honey, we agreed that the most important thing is that we
all survived unhurt. We should be thankful, not angry.”

“Alive, but without a past.” Theresa added
soap and slammed the dishwasher door. “Family photo albums from
three generations, Grandpa’s love letters to Grandmother while he
was in Europe during the war—all ashes!”

“We’re alive,” Bruce repeated and gave her a
patient smile. “What if the fire had started while we were asleep
in our beds instead of safe at church? I know your grandmother’s
things meant the world to you, but she’d be the first to say that
they weigh pretty light on the scale compared to Jerry, Amy, and
Megan. The kids need us to be strong, Tee. Remember, they’re going
through a difficult time, too.”

Long after Bruce had gone back out to the
fields, Theresa sat and brooded. Although thankful that they’d been
protected from physical harm, she still felt an aching sense of
loss. The oak harvester table would seem like an alien in this
spanking new kitchen, but she missed its beautiful wood grain.
Bruce didn’t understand the importance of heirlooms or how much she
had cherished the tangible evidence of the unbroken cords which
created a family.

Gathering laundry in their bedroom, Theresa
kept her eyes averted from the space where her grandmother’s quilt
rack should be standing. Grandmother had designed the “Golden
Harvest” pattern quilt featuring delicate sprays of wheat on a
cream and blue background for Theresa’s wedding.

Her heart a stone in her breast. Theresa
lugged a basket filled with wet towels out to the clothesline
strung in the back yard. The scarred wooden poles had somehow
escaped the fiery holocaust which had consumed both the house and
her past. As she worked, Theresa tried to count her blessings but
her thoughts kept straying to her losses.

As the towels danced, she recalled her
grandmother’s wedding toast. “You name means ‘reaper’, Theresa.
God’s blessed you with a family that has truly sown the seeds of
love. Now you and your children will reap the benefits. Always
treasure the fruits of the harvest.”

But that harvest was gone, reduced to charred
timbers and soot. After her parents’ death in an automobile
accident, Theresa had gone to live with her grandparents, with
Evelyn serving as both mother and grandmother. Tears gathered in
Theresa’s eyes as she touched the only heirloom left to pass on to
her own children, Evelyn’s wedding ring. The band seemed almost
paper thin and too large for her finger, but she treasured this
last remaining link to her beloved grandmother.

Caught up in her unhappy reflections, Theresa
reached down for another towel, only to discover that the basket
was empty. Stretching, she looked around and decided Bruce was
right—the day was too beautiful to be spent indoors. She wandered
out to this barnyard where a wagonload of soybeans sat untended and
suddenly remembered being a little girl on her grandfather’s
farm.

Impulse quickly turned into action and soon
she sat perched on a shifting pile of beans. Running her fingers
through them, she recalled a childish fantasy that the beans were
jewels.

“I’m a princess,” Theresa said aloud. “I’m
very, very rich. I live in a castle and can buy anything I
want!”

But the glow of pleasure faded almost
instantly. A barnful of gold coins couldn’t buy back her
grandmother’s dishes or the lovingly stitched Golden Harvest quilt.
No amount of riches could bring her parents and grandparents back
to life.

In a silent cry, she asked,
God, how could
you do this to me?

Wiping away a tear, Theresa froze, staring at
her hand. The ring was gone!

She knew the precious band must have slid
from her finger while she sifted through the beans. Whispering
frantic prayers for assistance, Theresa scrabbled through the
soybeans, although she knew her quest was as hopeless as searching
for a needle in the proverbial haystack. As if mocking her anxiety,
the beans slipped merrily through her clawing fingers.

Weeping, she gave up. “Grandma!” she cried
aloud. “I’ve failed you! Everything’s lost. If you were here, you’d
say—”

Theresa stopped in mid-sob, realizing exactly
what her grandmother would say to such blatant self-pity. “Bosh and
nonsense, Theresa! You’ve got a loving husband, three healthy
children, and a new house filled with fancy appliances and you’re
bawling like a baby?”

“But a house isn’t a home, Grandma,” she
whispered. “You were the one who taught me that money can’t buy
happiness.”

Eyes closed, Theresa tried to imagine what
her grandma would say to that. Probably something along the lines
of “Making a house into a home is your job, Theresa. Doesn’t the
Good Book say that before the reaper, comes the sower? You’ve got
fertile ground, child. Start sowing!”

Someone, Theresa realized, needed to plant
the happy memory seeds. With careful nurturing, love would sprout
and grow strong enough to withstand life’s droughts and storms. She
sat stunned, glimpsing for the first time the glory of her
grandmother’s true legacy, a gift which could never be lost,
stolen, or destroyed.

She scrambled out of the wagon and ran toward
the house, her heart soaring like a kite riding the wind. No more
tears of self-pity. She’d fix a special supper and tonight they’d
have an hour of family storytelling before bedtime. Plans for a new
quilt were forming in her head. She’d call it “Loving Harvest” and
make one for each of her children.

Theresa paused to pat a passing barn cat.
“Every tradition,” she told it excitedly, “has to start
somewhere!”

THE END

Case in
Point

The woman’s head was bent, a silken shower of
hair concealing her features. Only the rigid set of the jaw was
visible, a hint of pale lips pressed together. The fingers of her
right hand nervously twisted an engagement ring, as though to
wrench the sparkling stone from its setting.

I smothered a growing feeling of
discouragement. The woman seated across the desk had retreated
behind an aloof curtain of privacy, shutting out the unpleasantness
of our meeting with the effectiveness of a soundproof wall.

In an effort to regain my client’s attention,
I rustled the papers lying under my fingertips and leaned forward
compellingly.

“Your husband’s attorney is going to have
some very personal questions for you on the stand, Dorothea. Are
you prepared to answer them?”

“I feel so shaky, Allyson. Is there any way
we could postpone this?” Dorothea Chapin evaded, meeting my gaze
for a brief moment before glancing away.

“It’s already been continued twice.” I
endeavored to speak with restraint, but a tension headache had
begun to massage my temples with painful fingers. The woman was
impossible! “You’re the one who filed for divorce. At some point,
you’re going to have to face the music.”

She murmured an inaudibly fretful reply and
pleated her handkerchief with coral-tipped fingers. I watched with
fascinated interest, expecting the fragile material to tear at any
moment.

It held and I returned to the list of points
enumerated on the legal pad lying on the desk. Locating the last
item, I placed my finger on it for emphasis. “Now as to the
question of maintenance, would you be willing to agree to split the
difference in our proposals?”

The verbal fencing continued. Mrs. Chapin was
adept at keeping up her guard while I tried to extract answers of
more than one syllable, probing beneath the defensive shell of
apathy for a concrete basis with which to work.

Under questioning, she insisted she currently
had no intention of compromising on the maintenance issue. She
deserved every penny she was demanding; she wanted him to
suffer.

In the next breath, however, there was a
faint murmur of worry over her husband’s back problem. His health
insurance didn’t cover the necessary therapy twice a week. I
ignored this interjection for the defense and continued to mine for
nuggets of information.

Domestic violence? No, he’d never struck her.
He wasn’t even the type to raise his voice when upset. Mr. Chapin
had the annoying tendency of retreating to his office at the
college whenever tension hovered over the household. At least that
was where she thought he was hiding. It was impossible to verify,
but she had her suspicions about a bleached blond majoring in
English...

Despite the concentration on the task at
hand, I found a fragment of my attention straying to the case as a
whole. Heart-wrenching divorces seemed to be the rule lately and
not the exception.

Mrs. Chapin was the newest member of my
divorce clientele. Although fashionably attired, her make-up had
been applied with shaking hands and the pallor of her features was
accentuated by violet shadows under the eyes. A dazed expression
hinted of many sleepless nights.

I tried in vain to conceal my exasperation.
Dorothea’s passive refusal to assist in clarifying her desires with
regard to settlement had been the biggest stumbling block to
negotiations in this case.

Dorothea Chapin remained motionless in her
chair, only the restless hands betraying her inner turmoil. Some
women reacted to the stress of divorce proceedings by retreating
into themselves, wrapping gossamer illusions around their delicate
psyches and avoiding situations that would force them into making a
decision. Others tried to overcome the strain with bright chatter,
strewing meaningless smiles and empty gestures during their
interviews.

Several of my clients had managed to deal
with the stress in a calm, positive manner, but Dorothea Chapin
lacked the necessary emotional fiber. Pain gleamed through the
chinks of her poise, giving the appearance of a porcelain doll who
had been dropped, its perfect features slightly cracked, damaged
beyond repair.

I checked my watch with a sigh. We had been
shut into my closet-sized office for over an hour and it was
difficult to judge how much of my patient briefing had filtered
through the numbing fog of Dorothea’s exhaustion. Pen in hand, I
ran a final check for any points which had not been covered,
successfully concealing apprehension about my pupil’s performance.
Like a doctor or nurse, one struggled to avoid becoming emotionally
involved with the sufferer. Divorce cases were similar to treating
a critically ill patient, the cure sometimes beyond my skill.