Duchess (26 page)

She shook her head. “My joy? No.”

“Our lives are not accidents. God has a plan, and it's so big and so good, He can take out all the mistakes and our hurts and weave it together to bring our life to full fruition. But we have to trust Him.”

“I trusted God before. He abandoned me.”

“I trusted God and He sent me you.”

She had no words for that.

He walked out past her, to the pond. The swans were out, paddling. Finally, he said, “Did you know that swans mate for life? They will follow each other, land on the same pond, and if one of them dies, the other grieves, just like a human.”

“Rolfe and I are not swans.”

He folded his arms across his chest. Nodded. Finally, “Do you remember that night when I told you that I knew what you needed?” He reached down and slipped his hand into hers. “I told you to hold on.”

His grip was warm, solid.

“I think you need to know that your hope hasn't been in vain. That there will be a happy ending. That when the show is over, you will hear applause.”

“Isn't that what we all need?”

He said nothing, just held her hand until Irene called him back to the house.

He'd started it all. Put the dreams in her heart, made her believe she could be someone.

So she went to the cemetery and found Dashielle's marker in section seven of Hollywood Memorial Cemetery, a vast lawn of markers, with a view of the lake.

Sitting in the quiet lawn, amid lush sycamore trees, their arms in a curlicue to the sky, the fragrance of the last days of summer in the air, she imagined Dash's laughter, saw his smile.

“Your son finally has a father, Dash. He's a good man. You'd like him.” He probably would like Spenser. Especially the way Spenser had held Irene's hands as they stood at their wedding altar, smiled into her eyes, and told her he'd love her forever. They'd made a private party of the reception, in the backyard off the house, inviting the sunshine and the memory of Dashielle into the day.

It had healed her too, to dive in to the wedding plans, rejoice with Irene as they found a gown, ordered the orchids, and designed an intimate guest list. Grayson came, stag, and danced with Rosie on the patio to the orchestra they'd hired. “I missed you, Rox,” he said into her ear, and his tenor could always make her believe it.

Fletcher attended, and Rosie earned her own applause as she kept it cordial. “One of these days you'll have to return my calls,” she said only for him as she handed him a glass of champagne. “And, I promise, you need to clear Rooney out of my office.”

“Already done,” he said, but she hadn't had the desire to head back into the studio.

She'd heard he'd cast Jane Fontaine's rival, her sister Olivia de Havilland, for the role of Melanie. Louella Parsons had a half-page column on the sparks between the two.

No, Rosie wasn't in a hurry to head back to the gossip, the budget arguments, the vying for roles and screenplays.

Not when her gaze fixed on the headlines in Europe. Like Germany's recent invasion of Czechoslovakia.

She'd penned a letter to Sophie but hadn't heard back.

Not that it mattered. Rosie had no intention of returning to Europe.

“I don't need you anymore
.”

Yes, well, she didn't need him either.

Still, Spenser's words gnawed at her.

“I think you need to know that your hope hasn't been in vain. That there will be a happy ending. That when the show is over, you will hear applause
.”

Maybe. Because she'd had her share of applause, but she couldn't deny she always craved more. That when the applause died, she could taste her emptiness.

It didn't help that Sammy and Irene packed up with Spenser a week ago and headed to the ranch where he'd begun to film
Wuthering Heights
. They promised to return every weekend.

Rosie missed them so much the ache could tear her asunder. The house echoed with long-ago voices, memory lingering in the corners.

She got up, pressed her hand on Dashielle's marker, and then walked down the row, reading the epitaphs. B
ELOVED
W
IFE AND
M
OTHER
. F
RIEND
. O
UR
L
ITTLE
A
NGEL
. Some with quotes, others verses. She stopped at one, read the inscription.

B
LESSED ARE THE MEEK: FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH
.

The verse nudged a shadow inside of her.

“I knew her. Geraldine House. Wonderful lady.”

She turned at the voice, found a man around her stepfather's age wearing a dark suit, a fedora, and gripping white lilies in his veined, tissue-paper hands.

“Are those for her?”

“No,” he said. “My girl is down the row, four more headstones.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He shook his head. “She's been gone for about seven years now. But I like to remember what we had. It helps.”

“And Geraldine?”

“She was a nurse at the hospital where Esther stayed during her last days. No one knew it, but she had the cancer, was nearer to glory herself. I saw her grave only a few months after I laid Esther to rest. So I visit her too.” He took off his hat, stopped for a moment at the grave.

Rosie felt paralyzed, not sure if she should move.

Finally, he lifted his head. “And who are you visiting?”

She shook her head. “No one.”

“Just wandering the graveyard?”

She smiled. “No. I—my, husband I guess you'd call him, is over there. Dashielle Parks.”

“Parks. Yes. Nice headstone.” He looked away then, his expression strained.

“What?”

“Nothing. It's just, I never see any flowers there.”

She made a face. “I—I don't visit often. We weren't—I mean…” She looked away. Oh, what did it matter? “We didn't love each other.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She glanced at him. “It's not like that. I cared for him. But we had other reasons for marrying.”

“A child?”

She swallowed. “No. A dream.”

“Oh. I see. And did your dream come true?”

“I'm not sure. I think so. But maybe it was the wrong dream.”

He kneeled before Geraldine's grave, tugged out a daisy from his meager bundle. “Or maybe it's not over yet.”

“Oh no, it's over.”

He made a funny noise. “You're not dead yet, are you?”

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

He stood up. Gestured to the headstone. “Do you know what that is? To be meek?”

“I heard it once, yes. About ten years ago. When I was in the hospital, a nurse—” She paused, stared at the marker. “Where did Geraldine work?”

“Over in Oakland. At Highland Hospital. I admit I was surprised to see her here, but perhaps that is God's way of reminding me of His goodness.”

“His goodness? You lost your wife.” She didn't mean for it to come out so sharp.

But he gave her a sad smile, the patience of a grandfather in it. “I haven't lost her. I know exactly where she is. And where I'll be, in time.”

Oh.

“Why do you ask?” he gestured to the grave.

“Geraldine House. I—I think I might have met her. Maybe. I don't know. But a long time ago, a nurse at Highland Hospital said something to me, about being meek, and finding your inheritance.”

He wore something of wisdom in his eyes. “Indeed. Only in the paradox of life do we find the truth.”

“I don't understand.”

“We believe that to find our happiness, we must control our destiny. But Christ proved the opposite. Jesus was God, and yet He became meek, humble, obedient, trusting His Father's plan even though it meant His death. But by surrendering and trusting, He saved the world, for anyone who would receive it.”

A faint memory wisped up, of Christmas bread and a night of wholeness.

“Why would He do that?” She crouched before Geraldine's grave. “Why would Jesus surrender to God when He knew He'd die?”

“Who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross.”

“What joy?”

The man stared at her. “Us. We are His joy. Jesus delights in loving us. We are His inheritance, the prize He pursues.”

“Jesus doesn't love me.” She shook her head. “He can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have nothing to give Him.”

“Of course you don't. Do you think faith is an equation? That God only hears your prayers if you earn it? We can't possibly do enough to earn God's favor.”

She stood there, her throat burning. She knew that well enough. “I don't know what I did to make God angry, but everyone I've loved has been taken from me. My father. My brother. My…husband.”

“I thought you said you never loved him.”

“I had a husband before Dash. Him, Guthrie, I loved.”

“I see.” The man looked at his bouquet, studying the flowers. “You didn't do anything to make God angry. He's not in the business of punishing His children. He might discipline them, but the suffering is for the sake of redeeming and restoring.”

He stared away, past her, down the row. “I don't why you went through what you did. But I do know this: I can suffer alone, or I can hold on to God in my pain. I can be meek and trust Him to make something good out of it. Only Jesus can heal the wounds, only Jesus can fill up those dark places with light, with understanding. Only He can quench our thirst for hope.”

Spenser's words drifted back to her. “
God has a plan, and it's so big and so good, He can take out all the mistakes and our hurts and weave it together to bring our life to full fruition. But we have to trust Him
.”

“The nurse told me that when we inherit the earth, we inherit everything God has for us, on earth, and in heaven. His blessings. His love. His destiny.”

“Yes. And the only way to inherit that is through meekness. To admit that you've made mistakes, ask for forgiveness and allow God's grace—His forgiveness—to wash over you, again and again. To let His destiny for your life take over. To change you from a person of death to a person of hope.”

Hope. Yes, if she leaned hard into herself, took a good look at her past, she could see it, Spenser's words. “
You have hope, Rosie. That's what keeps you going. That immortal hope deep inside you
.”

The man turned to her. “If I've learned one thing in Hollywood, it's when fame loses its attraction, and the approval of others loses its hold on your heart, when Jesus becomes most important in your life, that's when you'll hear the only applause that matters.” He pulled out a lily from the bouquet, handed it to her. “Lovely to meet you, Miss Price.”

She stared after him, nonplussed, as he ambled down the aisle, finally stopping at a headstone. She turned away, allowing him his privacy.

And let his words soak into her.

Admit that she'd made mistakes. Yes, oh, yes. “
People have such a great capacity to make mistakes, to derail their entire lives
.” Rolfe had said that, and she knew it to be true.

She closed her eyes. She feared meekness. Because what if God let her fall? What if He betrayed her?

Hadn't He already?

Or…had she betrayed Him? She'd blamed God instead of asking for help. She'd run from Him instead of holding on. She'd rejected Him instead of trusting Him.

Destiny.

She heard Geraldine, her voice as clear as it had been nearly ten years ago, as if she walked right into her head.
“Your destiny may be more glorious than you think, Miss Roxy. You just need to let go of it. Be meek and find your inheritance
.”

Yes.

She pressed her hand to her mouth as her eyes watered. Yes.

She found herself in the grass, right there before Geraldine's grave, her hands pressed to the verse scripted in the marble.
Please forgive me, Lord, for my stubbornness. For not trusting You. For all the ways I've destroyed my own destiny
.

She closed her eyes, exhaled.

Please, help me to be meek
.

And right then, sitting in the graveyard, she found herself lifted, filled, a heat she'd never before experienced touching her bones, her soul.

She drank it in, let it nourish her.

So this was what inheritance felt like.

Full. Deep. Whole. Sweet. Peaceful. She let it fill her and heard as if for the first time, the cheering of the birds from the trees. The applause of the wind.

She looked up, toward the end of the row, but the man had left, only a bouquet of flowers at the base of his beloved. But the breeze shifted the flowers at the base, reaping a new fragrance into the autumn day.

Rosie didn't know exactly what being meek looked like, but she kept seeing Rolfe at the Christmas party, adrift on some distant thought.

And his words.
“I know God has a different path for me. I was just shying away from it. My Gethsemane moment, perhaps
.”

His Gethsemane moment. A moment of doubt? Fear? Asking the question Christ asked about the need to sacrifice?

Sacrifice what?

She didn't want to guess, feeling she might already know the answer.

And it was this answer that prompted her to visit the Methodist church, where they'd held Dashielle's services, and obtain a Bible. The preacher pointed her to the Psalms, so she started there.

She read a little every day, in the morning, watching the swans.

“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy name.'”

The birds chirruped from the sycamore tree, the squirrels watched her, nuts in paws.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits.”

She could be on stage, perhaps, reading lines. But she closed her eyes, breathed out the words, feeling them from her soul. “Who forgiveth all thine iniquities…”

Forgiveth.

“Who healeth all thy diseases…”

Like broken hearts, and tragedies.

“Who redeemeth thy life from destruction…”