Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
That Christmas day was to be a memorable one, for many reasons, but primarily because of what happened at its very end, when all of them—Gabe, Finn, Lizbet and the children had opened gifts, eaten breakfast and proceeded to church, all in a happy bunch of woolens and laughter and more of Finn’s awful singing.
There, they’d heard John’s sermon and sung hymns of the season and greeted everyone who had made their way to the gathering, despite the gray clouds clustering on the southern horizon.
For the first time since the passing of his wife and daughter, more than three years before, Gabe had not chosen to sit in his usual out-of-the-way place; he sat beside Lizbet, clean-shaven, hair neatly combed, wearing his best clothes.
If there was whispering or pointing of fingers, neither Gabe nor Lizbet took notice.
Lizbet concluded, for her part, that the serious dressing down John Avery had given his congregation previously had shamed the judgmental ones into silence.
Or perhaps they had simply stayed home, too scandal ized to attend a church that was clearly careening off into the dark abyss of unforgivable sin.
It was telling, Lizbet had reflected more than once, how little resemblance these people bore to the One whose birth they had gathered to celebrate.
After church, it was back to the Statehood Hotel, John accompanying them this time, for a wonderful meal of turkey and all the traditional trimmings.
Twilight was almost upon the town of Silver Hills and its surroundings, of course, when none other than Henry Middlebrook approached the table.
He looked ominous, and there was a glint of bitter triumph in his tiny eyes. Fortunately, the dining room was packed, and the children were across the room by then, chatting with some of their schoolmates.
Before Middlebrook could speak, both Finn and Gabe were on their feet, with John following suit, and it was clear from the way the three men held themselves that they had not risen out of respect, but because they were prepared to put up a strong defense.
“I see you sat together in church today,” Middlebrook said, in an ugly, insinuating tone. “I’m surprised there wasn’t a protest.” His hard gaze flickered to John for a moment, then touched on Lizbet, and she squirmed under it. “I might even call it a miracle.”
“You were there,” Gabe said evenly, and there was something in his voice Lizbet had never heard before. Something not to be trifled with. “Seems to me, the real miracle here is that the roof didn’t fall on your head.”
Middlebrook gave a mocking little huff of a chuckle and let his gaze rest on Lizbet again. “He’ll never love you, you know,” he said, and she was afraid it was true. “He’s a dead man, for all practical intents and purpose. Might as well have been buried with his wife and child.”
Gabe started forward, but John stopped him, gripping his arm with a hand that routinely forged molten iron into horseshoes and sled runners and wheels and axles.
“Henry,” John said, in his ponderous, preacher’s voice, “get out of here and leave these people alone. Your behavior is reprehensible, and don’t think the Lord won’t take note of it, because He will.”
Henry bowed his head slightly at John’s words, but he still looked pleased with himself as he turned and walked away. After all, he was soon to be married to Marietta, and the producer of an actual moving picture. He had plenty to be smug about.
It was only after he had gone that Lizbet realized the whole place had gone silent. John’s voice had certainly been heard, throughout most, if not all, of the dining room.
And she was mortified, feeling all those eyes upon her. Upon everyone at their table.
Furthermore, as terrible as Henry’s words had been, the ones about Gabe never loving her, they were most likely true.
As if in reassurance, kindly people came forward.
Men patted shoulders and murmured words of friendship to Gabe and Finn and, of course, John.
Women patted Lizbet’s arm and the tops of the children’s heads and said gentle things.
So, to Lizbet’s relief, it appeared that not everyone in Silver Hills believed her and Gabe to be blatant sinners on a greased track to hell.
The ride back to the farm was a quiet one, by contrast, and for Lizbet, Christmas was essentially over.
The children, burrowed down in blankets, fell asleep.
Once they reached home—when had she started thinking of the farmhouse as home? It was a temporary place of residence—Finn and Gabe each carried a sleeping child into the house.
John, who had come along, riding his horse behind the sleigh, escorted Lizbet inside, where she hung up her coat and gloves and tried to shake off the things Henry Middlebrook had said in the hotel dining room.
She made a great clatter, starting a fresh pot of coffee, knowing Gabe and Finn would do the evening chores and be cold and tired when they came inside.
“He needs you, Lizbet,” John said, surprising her so that she nearly dropped the tin of ground coffee beans and the spoon she was using to add them to the pot.
“Gabe Whitfield is one of the finest men I’ve ever known, and that’s saying something, because I’ve been around.
My daddy was a tent preacher, and he dragged my mama and me and my brothers—” He paused there, smiled wearily.
“Matthew, Mark and Luke, those are their names, if you can believe it—from one side of this great nation to the other. Roaming the countryside like that, a man meets just about every kind of person, and out of all of them, Gabe stands out like a lighthouse on a dark, stormy sea.”
Coffee preparation completed, admittedly by rote, Lizbet suddenly lost all the starch in her knees and dropped into a chair.
“Did you know about the dollhouse?” she asked.
John drew up a chair and sat down across from her.
“Yes,” he said gently, reaching out to give her hand a brief squeeze.
“Originally, he was building it for Abigail. When she and Bonnie died, he put it away, unfinished, and I don’t believe he went anywhere near it again until he decided Frankie ought to have something nice for a Christmas present.
He brought it into the house and refurbished it. ”
“It’s beautiful,” Lizbet almost whispered. “But now it’s going to remind him of the daughter he lost every time he looks at it.”
“What matters here, Lizbet,” John replied, “is that he hauled the thing to the house, carried it inside, and worked on it every night for weeks. That’s where there’s a crack in the wall, and there’s light shining through it.
Gabe’s tired of being miserable. He’s ready to break down that wall, but he needs you to be there, literally right there, so he knows he has someone to live for. ”
“How do I do that?” Lizbet asked fretfully. “Gabe is so solitary. He doesn’t want anyone to see how badly he’s hurting.”
“He has to open up,” John insisted, though with tenderness for his friend’s dilemma. “He’s got to realize that he can’t get through this alone.”
“You’re his best friend,” Lizbet reasoned. “Couldn’t you reach him?”
“I’ve tried,” John said, with a sigh. “If we get too close to the crux of the matter, he withdraws into himself, slams the doors and fastens the window latches. It’s you he needs, Lizbet. On some level, past my ability to understand or explain, he’s been waiting for you.”
“But what do I do?” she reiterated. “How can I help him, John? I’ve seen that sorrow in his eyes, sensed how far-reaching it is. It really is a wall, and I saw him disappear behind it today, after Henry Middlebrook said the things he did.”
“Henry’s words were harsh, no question about it—it’s beyond me why a person would go to church Sunday after Sunday and then turn around and act the way he does. But those very words, awful as they were, have caused another crack in Gabe’s defenses, a vital one, and that might be what saves him.”
The coffee boiled, and Lizbet let the grounds settle for a few minutes before pouring cups for herself and John.
They were sipping in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, when Finn entered, covered in large flakes of snow.
Lizbet looked past him. “Where’s Gabe?”
Finn looked worried. Why hadn’t she noticed that until now?
At her question, he glanced briefly at John, then turned his attention back to Lizbet. “Something’s happened with Gabe. I’m not sure what it is.”
Lizbet froze. “What do you mean, ‘something happened’? Is he hurt? Sick?”
Finn looked reluctant, and he’d gone a little pale. “No,” he said, which was not enough information to suit Lizbeth.
“Finn Whitfield, tell me what’s going on!”
Finn let out a long breath. “Gabe’s gone up to the graveyard. I told him he ought to come inside instead, since the weather’s about to take another turn and its so dark, with no moon, but he wouldn’t listen. It was as if he didn’t hear me, in fact.”
“I’m going to find him,” Lizbet said, untying her apron and heading for the coat hangers beside the back door.
John rose to his feet. “Are you sure, Lizbet? Maybe it would be better if Finn and I went instead?”
“I’m sure,” she said, wrapping herself in her coat.
John’s face was full of emotions he was unlikely to turn loose. “I’ll go with you. Show you the way.”
Lizbet nodded her agreement and yanked open the door, letting in a rush of frigid air.
When Finn started to follow, she ordered him to stay with the children.
He didn’t argue.
John bundled up quickly. He lit a lantern, since it was dark as dark, any moonlight snuffed out by the thick snowfall, and led the way across the yard, past the barn, and halfway up the hill behind it.
Gabe’s boot prints were visible in the snow.
“You can go the rest of the way on your own,” John told Lizbet, once they’d stopped, holding the lantern above their heads.
Not as confident as she had been before, Lizbet was wringing her hands. “What should I do, John? What should I say to him?” she nearly pleaded.
She needed an answer.
“Do you love Gabe Whitfield?” John wanted to know.