Chapter 19
Nineteen
convivial (adj.): relating to feasting, drinking, and good company
Two days later, I’m seated beneath a rustic chandelier fashioned out of deer antlers watching the minutes slug by, waiting for Ian to show.
I swirl a tea bag in my mug, bewildered.
Why does the proposition of meeting a man for a casual hot beverage put more of a shake in my hand than being left in charge of the town’s newspaper?
Sadly, tea options at the Trading Post aren’t nearly as tantalizing as the ones Ian crafts over at Sweet Reads. Right now, me and my swirling tummy could really go for the ginger-turmeric blend he calls Sunriver, with its just-right kiss of citrus.
The café is thrumming. So’s my mind. My eyes dart around the historically popular watering trough, from the regulars who guzzle and gab on barstools at the old Formica counter (I hear their coffee milkshakes are to die for), to the row of well-worn booths upholstered in vintage Western fabric, and then back to this more recently added section boasting more of a gin mill meets Starbucks sort of vibe.
Huh. So this is where all the stay-at-home moms dose on caffeine before taxiing kids from school to the next thing.
I angle my chair slightly so my back is mostly to the crowd but I still possess a covert view of the entrance.
What madness have I agreed to? Ian is small-town famous in Charity Falls.
He and I are about to become a burnt sacrifice on the local gossip altar.
At least Nina doesn’t work today. She puts in plenty of long days here, baking, cashiering, waiting tables, and being generally indispensable. I know I can count on my neighbor for discretion, but for the time being, I’d prefer to keep this little experiment under wraps.
Brilliant idea this was not, showing up fifteen minutes early to avoid a fuss over who pays, because now I’m stuck with time for second-guessing.
As if I didn’t already do enough of that last night after awakening at 2:30 in the morning with my sleep shirt wrapped uncomfortably around my waist, followed by ninety minutes of wide-eyed wakefulness, debating the wisdom of whatever this is I’ve agreed to here.
Outside, the crisp cornflower sky looks like freedom.
Somewhere beyond the businesses across the main drag, a flash of yellow sparks among the treetops.
The spire of a tamarack, its needles beginning to turn.
How have I never noticed it before? I could make a run for it. Worry about apologizing later.
Except, no. Ian’s a friend. I said a tiny little yes to something that can and most definitely will remain strictly platonic—because anything more is one hundred percent off the table for me. Right? Right.
Except that if he chooses to stand me up—and is that what’s happening here? Already he’s eight minutes late—I’ve said yes to rejection.
I slide fingers through my hair. It’s now twelve past the hour, time to come to terms with what is clearly a sign. I don’t need this kind of angst in my life. This is what I get when people-pleasing—or is it loneliness?—leads to regret. Add rejection to singleness, and what do you get?
A thing to be sharply avoided. A sharp thing.
Clearly, where relationships are concerned, God wants me to leave well enough alone.
I take a deep breath, release it long and slow.
So much energy goes into holding my boundaries and tensions.
Can I offer myself a moment simply to breathe, to settle in here?
What if I chose to give this moment my full presence, trusting I have everything I need?
I mean, I’m never without a divine companion who adores me in spite of any pathetic scrubby-juniper tendencies.
Talk rumbles around me. Book. I’m never without one of those either! Notebook? Pen? Check and check. See, I am well supplied.
On the cover of the little book, which I rescued from Sweet Reads’ bargain bin, is a glowing candle.
No bigger than the palm of my hand, the book contains a collection of short letters, the personal correspondence of missionary Amy Carmichael leading up to her death in 1951.
Already from the introduction I know Carmichael was a woman who said a lot of big yeses to God.
Yes to intercontinental travel long before it was a thing. Yes to living in an inhospitable environment, serving in India for half a century without ever once returning to her homeland. Yes to rescuing young women from temple prostitution.
So, yes to adventure. Danger. Singleness.
And yes to inspiring others through her many published words.
I open to the first page. Interesting. From what she writes here, you’d think it was the smaller yeses that gave her the most trouble.
The best training is to learn to accept everything as it comes, as from Him whom our soul loves. The tests are always unexpected things, not great things that can be written up, but the common little rubs of life, silly little nothings, things you are ashamed of minding one scrap.
Mundane little everyday decisions. Silly little nothings. To Amy Carmichael’s thinking, these are often the yeses that stretch us most.
But all is well if only we are in Him, deep in Him, and He in us our daily strength and joy and song.
Deep in him. Rootedness. Twisted Sister (not the band) comes to mind. Last night when Chase and I joined Dot and Tony for homecooked Thai food (bless her peachy little heart, she made a quesadilla for Chase), it was easy to diagnose that the plant’s troubles stemmed from shallow roots.
Warmth tingles through me, along with that heart-swelling sensation as if I’m about to birth a breakthrough.
I scribble some thoughts. Somehow this idea fits into the story of me. The unfinished story of me. Unfinished manuscript. Unfinished woman. Both works in progress.
Maybe that’s the point.
I’m so in my head I almost forget that sitting alone in a public place is supposed to make me uncomfortable. See this, people? It’s not that I’m antisocial.
Go ahead and attempt to label me, folks, but get it right. I am and will ever be, undeniably, a booktrovert.
“Lucy?” At the low rumble of a familiar voice, I jump.
“Oh, hey . . . Wyatt.” I straighten out my scraggly-juniper posture. Ponderosa! I must have fully succeeded in transporting myself, in dangling my toes in quiet waters, because the suddenness, the solidness of Wyatt standing before me, helmet in hand, stuns me. I attempt a casual smile.
“Well, what do you know,” he says. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you here before.” Today he’s fully uniformed—if you can call it that when the khaki fabric stops mid-thigh.
“Oh, I . . .” I cast another glance toward the entrance. It’s safe to say at this point that Ian’s a no-show. Probably got his days mixed up—at least this is the explanation that offers the largest measure of comfort. “I thought I’d try something new today.”
Something I thought was one thing but turned into something altogether different.
He tracks my gaze to the door. “Good for you! Don’t let me interrupt. You looked so deep in thought, I only meant to say hello. Besides, seems like you’re expecting someone.”
I set down my pen and close the notebook. “Not at all. One of us must’ve got the wrong day. So. Now I’m just . . . goin’ with the flow.”
Wyatt tentatively grips the back of a chair—the one meant for Ian. “In that case, do you mind? Although, I probably shouldn’t barge in on whatever you were—”
I slip a napkin into the Amy Carmichael book, stack it on top of my notebook, and slide the whole pile to a corner of the table.
Learn to accept everything as it comes. “Please, barge. Barge away.” I wave an open hand toward the empty chair.
“I’ve been self-conscious about monopolizing a whole table when the place is so busy. ”
There’s a scraping sound as Wyatt spins the chair. He straddles it to face me. “Thanks. You know,” he says with a low chuckle, “I’m still getting used to all this small-town stuff. Like how you keep running into people you know.” He leans forward slightly. “But this is a nice surprise.”
“Good luck keeping a low profile in your line of work.”
“I don’t really mind. I’m not one for hiding. In fact, ever since your article, a bunch of folks have come up and introduced themselves. Guess you made me sound approachable. So thanks again for that. Was it an interview, your meeting?”
I disconnect my gaze from his, which again invites nothing but honesty. Shaking my head, I focus on sipping my tea.
“Cool. A friend then. Sorry it didn’t work out.” He shrugs. “Their loss.”
I swallow down a too-big gulp of tea.
“You’re not a coffee drinker?” The tea bag now puddles on my saucer.
I huff a laugh. “Tea has its charms, for sure. Besides, I’m always detoxing. Drink way too much coffee at work just because it’s there. You?”
He lifts two hands in surrender. “I’m a cop. So I refuse to answer on the grounds that you might pigeonhole me as a cliché.”
Nope. Very little about this man is cliché. Last week he read one of his poems to our hodgepodge assembly of writers, and his style is like Bob Dylan meets Saint Augustine.
“On the . . . grounds?” I say.
“Ha. You’re pretty quick.”
Up close like this, I’m aware of the lack of symmetry in his eyes. One is slightly winkier than the other. Also, he’s got a tiny scar on his upper lip. For some reason I find these things endearing. I like that the real Wyatt, the one beneath the clean shave and uniform, is a little bit rumpled.
Commotion behind Wyatt draws our attention. Chairs screech. Voices escalate.
“And don’t come back until you’re man enough to drink coffee!” roars Zeke Watkins, the cantankerous patriarch of the family that owns this establishment, herding two slouchy middle school boys out the door.
I wouldn’t normally rubberneck, but old Zeke never minds an audience. Zeke Van Winkel, folks call him behind his back, given his grizzled beard and perpetual scowl. He’s small-town famous for making to-die-for cinnamon rolls and an occasional spectacle of himself.