The Widow of Saunders Creek (31 page)

He nodded. “I wish I had a way to express how it made me feel.”

“You just did, Eli.” My heart soared at his joy with the painting.

“Want some coffee? Plenty of sugar, since you can’t drink my coffee any other way.”

“You could just learn to make a decent pot.” A wry grin slid across his lips.

“Ingrate.” I rolled my eyes and walked down the hall to the kitchen,
aware with each step that he was close behind. If I turned around suddenly, I’d be in his arms again. My face warmed at the direction of my thoughts. I started the coffee, using a few less grounds than I’d normally use.

He sat, stretched out his weak leg, and rubbed his thigh. “How late were you at the camp last night?”

“Till around four, I think.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eight. I bet I woke you up, didn’t I?”

Yes, but I was so glad he had. “It’s okay. I don’t want to sleep the day away anyway.” I pulled two mugs from the cabinet while the coffee brewed.

I grabbed the sugar and cream and headed to the table, where I sat across from him. “So you really like it?”

He grinned, spooning sugar in his coffee. “Corrie,
like
is so far from what I felt when I saw that painting. You have a rare talent.” He sipped his coffee. “Did Jarrod ever see any of your work?”

Shoving out a sigh, I nodded. “Before we got engaged.”

Jarrod had always told me he didn’t get it. I laughed at him for being unable to see beyond the obvious, but he was military. He saw everything in black and white, and I respected his perspective. And he truly tried to encourage me, but I knew he had no real passion for my work. So when we married, I put it aside and found new interests. It was enough that he had passion for me.

Eli reached across the table and took my hand. I looked at him and felt my stomach flutter the way a girl’s does when she likes a boy. The feeling took me by surprise, and I wondered if it showed on my face. “I
hope this is only the beginning of your return to painting. It’s a gift from God.”

“Some other people had a hand in the process.”

“Oh?” He sipped his coffee, then set it back on the table. I told him about Jerry donating the art supplies, the guy at the café whose name I’d never know sending lunch, and, of course, Jarrod’s mother.

“There’s still food in the fridge if you get hungry and don’t feel like going to town to eat lunch. We put most of it in freezer bags so I could wash the dishes and give them back.”

He laughed when I told him how people came and tried to get in to see the painting. “Lola ran interference, but it wasn’t easy keeping them out. You’re kind of a hero to these folks.” He had definitely been a hero to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that either.

As if on cue, Lola stumbled into the kitchen. “Can’t someone make morning stop for a few more hours?”

“ ’Fraid not,” Eli said, softening his words with that easy laugh of his.

“Thank God. Caffeine—eight hours of sleep in a cup.” She poured her coffee and walked over, bringing the pot with her. “I’ll be drinking the first cup as if I’m in a chugging contest.”

“You could have come home, you know.”

“And leave you alone? No way.” She closed her eyes and took in the aroma of her coffee.

“Sheesh,” I said. “You look like a coffee commercial.”

Ignoring my remark, she focused her gaze on Eli.

“So what do you think of Corrie’s painting?” Lola asked, perking up a little.

“I think God gave her a piece of His heart, and she put it on the wall.”

I sucked in a long, cool breath.

Lola lifted her mug. “Well said, Eli.”

The words he’d spoken were beautiful but left me feeling confused. “What does it mean to put a piece of God’s heart on a wall?”

He reached for the Bible that I had left on the table the day Sam gave it to me.

“Be my guest,” I offered. “It was your dad’s.”

He didn’t seem surprised as he opened it up and flipped through the well-worn pages. “Mom said she was planning to give it to you.” He stopped ruffling pages and turned the Bible toward me. “Psalm 91 verse 4,” he said. “Will you read it?”

I hadn’t looked at an open Bible in so many years, I felt a little embarrassed. I wanted to ask him to read the verse but knew I was just being stupid about it. “He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”

The words sounded strange, and the cadence felt unfamiliar on my ears. I flashed back to the image of my Gramps sitting in his corner wing chair, black book in hand, weeping from the beauty and comfort of the words he read in a Bible much like this one. But I had never understood. Give me
The Odyssey
or any of Shakespeare’s plays, and I could read for days, but the Bible … I just didn’t get it. Perhaps that was the reason for my spiritual apathy.

I tried on a smile. “That’s nice.”

I knew Eli wanted me to experience the same feelings of awe he seemed to have taken away from studying the mural, but I wasn’t feeling it, and he knew my face too well to be fooled.

“I like the Good News Translation,” Eli said. He lifted his iPhone from his pocket and slid through the pages until he found what he wanted. “Here. ‘He will cover you with his wings; you will be safe in his care; his faithfulness will protect and defend you.’ ”

“That’s lovely, Eli,” Lola said. “And exactly the feeling that painting gives.” She shook her head and looked at me. “Your painting is going to help ease some of those kids’ fear about their folks being in a war zone. How does that make you feel?”

I didn’t know for sure what to say. The two of them seemed to believe my motives were so much purer than they’d been. I’d just had an apology to make, and this was my Hallmark card. I still needed to process exactly how I had been able to give creative expression to Eli’s wishes for the wall. True, I was painting again, and, true, it filled a hole that had long been empty, even though I hadn’t realized it. But I didn’t want them to think I was going to preach through art. “I’ve never thought about painting religious pictures. I mean, I admit that this one was special to me because of the camp kids, and I sincerely hope they’ll draw some comfort from it. But now that I’m starting to paint again, I don’t know if I want to do a bunch of pictures of angels and demons and old Bible stories.”

Eli closed his dad’s Bible. “Corrie, art started in God’s heart way before He painted His first sunset across His newly created sky. The gift He gave you is so that you can give expression to the thoughts and feelings inside you. If you’re angry, paint that. If you’re sad, paint that. If you feel like laughing, try to put it on canvas. Does it really matter what you paint as long as you’re honest? Even though the mural shows God’s ability to love and protect His own, it doesn’t mean that as an artist you have to paint Bible stories.”

“You should show him what you painted the other night when Joe took me to dinner,” Lola said. “It worried me at first, but hearing you talk, Eli, I think maybe it was something she needed to get off her chest.”

“I’m intrigued.” Eli’s eyes captured mine. “What do you say? Mind showing it to me?”

“I don’t really think it’s something you’d like. I was having a bit of a meltdown.”

He smiled. “I’ve seen you have a meltdown.”

“You saw the aftereffects of my meltdown.”

Lola’s eyebrows rose. “Hangover?”

My lips twisted. “Yeah, my early birthday present. The gift that made me miserable and thwarted any desire to ever sip another drop of brandy.”

“Note to self,” she said. “Only nonalcoholic gifts from now on.”

“You had another meltdown?” Eli asked.

I gave a reckless wave of my hand. “It was after I got home from helping you clean the camp the other day.”

“Did I do something to upset you?” Eli asked. His voice was soft, as though my careless words had just taken hold.

“Eli … what could you possibly have done? You fed me filet mignon medium rare.”

“Wow,” Lola said. “You had me at filet mignon.”

Looking from one to the other, I felt like the Grinch whose heart had grown three sizes as mine swelled with love for the two people I trusted most in this world.

“Okay.” I stood, even though I worried about what he might think. “Come on. I’ll take you upstairs to the art room.”

“That’s what you’re calling your studio?”

I nodded. “It just seems like more of an art room than studio.”

“I’ll stay down here and cook breakfast while you take Eli to see it,” Lola said.

I led the way up the steps haltingly. I didn’t want to share that picture at all, but especially not with Eli. Eli followed me slowly. His limp seemed more pronounced this morning.

“Does your leg hurt today?” I asked.

“Just aches a bit. Rain must be coming.”

I opened the door to the art room, and Eli followed me to the easel.

I kept my gaze on the painting itself so I didn’t have to watch his expression.

Eli didn’t react badly. Most likely he had no idea what he was looking at anyway. When he finally spoke, his words surprised me. “So you prefer to create in the abstract instead of the realistic way you did the mural.”

“It’s the way I developed as an artist.” I paused, looking for the right words. “But this was more anger poured out on canvas, like you talked about earlier.”

He tilted his head and studied the painting, clearly trying to figure it out. His effort touched me more than I would have given voice to, but I was learning that Eli had even more layers than I’d imagined. “So we’re looking at something that has to do with Jarrod’s death?”

I nodded. “Most people wouldn’t have gotten that in a hundred years.”

“Well, if you weren’t mad at me, I have to assume your anger was about your loss.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I can do some pretty frenzied painting every time Mother calls. I could have just gotten off the phone with her.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.” He chuckled. I had grown to welcome the pleasant sound. “Tell me about this story you’ve painted.”

He focused hard on the painting, his hands stuffed into jeans pockets. Though I hated to tell him because I feared he might flip out, I had allowed the door to be opened and had pretty much invited Eli to walk through. “It’s a painting of Jarrod’s death.”

He didn’t react, which I thought was to his credit. “It’s honest.”

“I know I shouldn’t have painted it this way. It just kind of happened.”

Eli turned to me and took my hands. He kissed one and then the other. With a feather touch, he turned each over and discovered my palms with his fingertips. He moved upward until his fingertips pressed against mine. “God isn’t afraid of your honest emotions, nor is He afraid of how you express that anger in your art.”

I couldn’t hold back a laugh. I pulled my hands away and motioned toward the painting. “Even if it comes out looking like this?”

“Especially if it comes out like that. If we haven’t got any pain, we aren’t living. The need to express emotion is a sign of God’s mercy for a very imperfect creation. He’s not going to hold it against you.”

“Thanks, Eli,” I said, desperately aware that despite my gift for painting, words eluded me more often than not.

We left the room and walked toward the stairs. I shuddered when we walked past my bedroom. I’d been so busy the last few days I hadn’t been in the house that much, and I still hadn’t dealt with what had happened
to me the day of the reading. The door was wide open, though, and Eli stopped walking and stared at the far wall, which Billy’s painting still leaned against.

“Is that a new picture?”

“Yes, but I’m getting rid of it.”

“Why?” Clearly, he was too far away to see the figure in the attic window.

I hadn’t even told Lola about my frightening experience with the thing coming out at me. Apparently no one else had seen what I had. I remembered Sam’s words about how Jarrod would never want me to be afraid.

“Come in the room and I’ll show you,” I said. We walked to the wall, and I lifted it in both hands, holding it out for Eli to see.

“It’s a good likeness of the house,” he said. “Is it something the artist did that isn’t up to your standard?”

“Look at the attic.”

His eyes trailed to the image. “Who did you say painted this?”

I explained how Billy had come over the night Jarrod died and this is what he saw. “Aunt Trudy believes Jarrod’s spirit returned here that day.”

I had barely spoken the words when my hairbrush slid off the dresser and dropped to the floor.

Eli frowned. “Corrie,” he said, “you know better by now, don’t you?”

“I think so.” With a heavy breath, I told him about the frightening day of the reading. Even now, as I relayed the story, I felt a chill, as though the temperature had dropped by a few degrees.

“Corrie,” he said, “you know that’s not holy. And you know it isn’t Jarrod.”

I swallowed hard as cold waves of fear moved over me. I grabbed his hand and held on tight. “I
do
know.”

In a beat, the door slammed, a violent act of resistance by something that I now knew couldn’t be Jarrod. Slowly, the door opened to its full width and slammed again, showing an angry response to my rejection.

“Can you make it stop?” I whispered.

“Jesus can,” he said. He gathered in a breath and said a simple prayer: “Lord, You have the words that calm the storm. We’re nothing in our strength, but Your name won’t fail.”

The door opened and slammed a third time. Eli opened his eyes and calmly spoke into the room. “Demon, you have no place here. You have to go because of the name of Jesus.”

I held on to my breath, waiting, my heart pounding in my ears. “Is it gone?”

“Yes.” His confidence was calming, and I loosened my grip on his hand but didn’t let go completely. “It may try to come back,” he warned. “It’s been in this house for many years.”

My fear returned with a vengeance, and I tightened my grip again. “I think I better move.”

His hand tightened around mine. “You can do that, but if things start happening again and you’re alone, just call on the name of Jesus the way I did.”

“I’m not a preacher, Eli. I don’t really even know how to pray.”