Bridge to Haven

  Dylan made a formal introduction. Abra offered the suitable salutations, embarrassed that she sounded like a frightened child.

  Lilith turned on Dylan. “Are you completely out of your mind? How old is this one? Fifteen?”

  This one?

  Dylan laughed it off with a shrug. “I forgot to ask.” He looked at Abra and raised a quizzical brow.

  “Seventeen.” It wasn’t too much of a lie, since her birthday was in two weeks.

  Dylan’s mother glared at her like a laboratory technician examining a plague-causing germ under a microscope. She gave a sound of disgust. “Another tangled web to unweave. I like to write about scandals, not be in the maelstrom of one.”

  “No one cares about her.”

  “Your father called and said the police came to see him. And then I got a call from a man wanting to know where you were.”

  “When was that?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Anyone call since?”

  “No.”

  Dylan gave her a smug smile. “Like I said. Nobody cares.”

  Abra felt Lilith Stark’s cold blue eyes on her again. “Why wouldn’t anyone worry about you?”

  Dylan answered for her. “She doesn’t have any parents.”

  Lilith Stark ignored her son. “What do you say I give you some money? Dylan can put you on a Greyhound bus and send you back to wherever you came from.”

  Abra felt a moment of panic and looked at Dylan. Would he do it? How could she face the people of Haven after what she’d done? Everyone would say, “I told you so.”

  “I’m keeping her, Mother.” Dylan sounded furious.

  “What is she? A pet?” Lilith studied him. “You usually go for willowy blondes, Dylan. What do you see in this girl?”

  “It’s not something I can put into words. She’s just got . . . something.”

  “And how long will something last this time?”

  “As long as I want.”

  “Always your answer, Dylan.” Lilith picked up diamond-studded reading glasses. “I give this affair a month.” She flipped through a book. “Fine. Keep her. She can stay in the blue bedroom.”

  “I want the guesthouse.”

  Lilith pulled her glasses down her nose. “All right. The guesthouse. She’s your cousin, daughter of my sister.”

  “You don’t have a sister.”

  “Who would know?” She glared at him. “I don’t want anyone thinking I approve of seedy affairs under my own roof.”

  Dylan laughed, really laughed. “I won’t mention the banker from New York or the artist from Mexico or—”

  “Careful, Dylan.” Her eyes narrowed. “This is my house.”

  “And you know how much I adore and admire you, Mother.” Undaunted, Dylan chuckled. “Seedy affairs are the way you make your living. Oh. I need some money. I’m all out.”

  “I’ll give you money. After you work for it.” Lilith leaned back and gave him an indulgent smile. “I have a big party scheduled for Saturday. I expect you to attend.”

  “Who’s coming this time?”

  “Everyone, of course.”

  Dylan grinned at Abra. “You’re in for a treat, baby. All those country bumpkins back in Haven would die to be in your shoes right now.”

  “Speaking of shoes . . .” Lilith looked with distaste at Abra’s and wrote something on a tablet. She tore off the page and handed it to Dylan. “Call Marisa and have her do something with your little friend.” Lilith grimaced. “She looks like something the cat dragged in.”

  “We’ve been riding with the top down.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “How much can I spend on her?”

  “The sky’s the limit.” Her bright-white smile was the same as her son’s. “The bill will be sent to your daddy.” Her attention drifted briefly and then fixed on him again. “Oh, and another thing, darling. Take her to our doctor and make sure she has protection.” Her expression filled with heavy meaning. “If you create another little problem, Dylan, you’ll be the one making and paying for all the arrangements this time around.”

  The telephone rang. Lilith clamped a bejeweled hand on the receiver. Her voice changed when she answered. “Darling, what juicy bits of news do you have for me?”

  Zeke sat forward on Mitzi’s couch as she handed him a delicate porcelain teacup and saucer. “You look like you could use something stronger than tea, Pastor Zeke. I’ve got some good brandy in my cabinet—only for medicinal purposes, of course.”

  Her wry tone made him chuckle. “Tea is fine, Mitzi.” He watched the old woman cross the room. She’d lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose. She eased her thin body carefully into the faded-red velvet chair near the front windows. Her ankles were swollen, her fingers twisted with arthritis. Ian Brubaker was filling in for Abra at church, and while he had retained all the skills of a concert pianist, Zeke missed the lighter touch Abra had learned from Mitzi. Mitzi had a wonderful way of sneaking in humor now and then—to the consternation of Hodge and a few others. “How are you, Mitzi?”

  She gave him a droll look. “I’m just fine and dandy, Pastor Zeke. Have Peter and Priscilla had any word on Abra?” When he shook his head, she sighed and rested hers against the back of her easy chair. “I was afraid of that. Teenage girls can be so stupid.” She gave him a pinched look. “I ought to know. I was one once.”

  “Abra might call you before she calls anyone else.”

  “If she does, I’ll let you know, but I can’t promise I’ll tell you what she says or where she is, if she asks me not to.”

  “She trusts you, Mitzi. So do I.” He’d always liked Mitzi. Hodge seemed to be torn between mortification and pride. He adored his mother, but said she drove him insane at times. He admitted once he never knew how his hardworking, somewhat-shy, prim and proper father had even met her, let alone married her. Not that he wasn’t glad it had happened, being the only product of the union.

  Zeke knew Mitzi as a woman of wit and wisdom, one who might seem flighty if not so solidly grounded in faith. Life experience didn’t always bring wisdom. In Mitzi’s case, it brought a great deal more. She said she’d been passionate in sin, but she was even more so in repentance. She had the gift of compassion for outcasts to prove it. “I will never ask you to break Abra’s trust, Mitzi.”

  “I know. I have a list of names I could call that Dylan Stark, but I won’t. Who is he, anyway? He appeared out of nowhere, and I got a whiff of sulfur smoke from the pit. Where did he come from? Do you know anything about him?”

  Mitzi had made the tea strong and hot and laced it heavily with honey. “He’s Cole Thurman’s son.”

  “Oh. The wolf’s cub.” She looked at Zeke with those wise old eyes. “Poor Abra.” She shook her head and stared into her cup of tea. “She’s in for a rude awakening.” She sipped her tea. “How’s Joshua?”

  “Grieving. Working hard. Taking long walks in the hills. He doesn’t sleep much.”

  “Sounds like a chip off the old block. Even when you know the train is coming, you don’t always know how to get out of the way, Zeke.” She looked ready to cry. “I worry about that boy of yours.”

  “He has strong faith.”

  “He’ll need it. It could be a long time, you know.”

  “I still have hope.”

  “You hold on to that. God isn’t finished with Abra, even if she wants to be finished with Him.” Her smile held the old hint of mischief. “I’m going to pray she remembers every single line of every hymn I made her learn.” She chuckled. “I’m sure she’ll want to forget, but I believe God will bring it all to mind when she most needs it.” She tapped her temple. “It’s all right there inside her head, Zeke. God can use it.”

  Zeke leaned back, relaxing into the cushions of the old settee. “Sounds like you knew this day was coming.”

  She sipped her tea again. “Abra and I may be decades apart, but we have a lot in common. Besides, aren’t you the one who told me nobody is born a C
hristian? The war over a soul begins before a baby even draws breath.” Mitzi put her teacup and saucer on the coffee table. “I can’t walk all over town like you do, or wander the hills like Joshua, but I sure can sit right here in my easy chair and pray all day long. The devil can take that and shove it. I may be the oldest dame in town, Zeke, but I haven’t taken my armor off since the day I put it on.” Her aging face crinkled with a gentle smile. “And I’ll tell you something else. I’m not the only one in this town willing to come alongside you and Joshua to go to battle for Abra. I’m not just talking about those other two grieving souls, Peter and Priscilla. Abra has friends in this town she doesn’t even know about.”

  Zeke hoped so.

  He stayed for another hour.

  He had come to comfort. He went away comforted.

  CHAPTER 7

  Stone walls do not a prison make,

  Nor iron bars a cage . . .

  RICHARD LOVELACE

  1955

  Jack Wooding’s son drove into the construction site, windows down, radio blaring the Doris Day hit “If I Give My Heart to You.” Abra flashed into Joshua’s mind, bringing a stab of pain with her.

  She’d been gone over a year and no word from her. Peter had contacted the police after the first week. Chief of Police Jim Helgerson went out to Shadow Hills and talked with Cole Thurman, who said he didn’t know where his son was or who he’d taken with him when he left. Why not call his mother, Lilith Stark? He handed over the telephone number. Lilith Stark said she hadn’t seen her son in several months. He was an adult, responsible for his own life, but she doubted he would take any girl who wasn’t willing to go with him. Who knows? Maybe they got married.

  Chief Helgerson told Peter there wasn’t anything more he could do. Runaways had a way of disappearing for as long as they wanted. They could have been married in another state by now. He didn’t have the time or resources to keep looking. “If she wants to come home, she’ll come home.” The chief’s words were hardly cheering to anyone who loved Abra. Even Penny worried about her.

  The last anyone heard about Abra came from Kent Fullerton. The high school football star came home from college at Christmas and called Penny. He’d seen her sister at a beach party in Santa Cruz. It had to have been just a few days after she’d left Haven. When Joshua heard, he went by the Fullertons’ to talk with Kent. “I asked her if she wanted to leave. Before I knew what hit me, I was on the floor with a broken nose. I think that guy would have killed me if a couple of my friends hadn’t pulled him off. I have this to remember him by.” He touched a scar on his cheekbone.

  Joshua’s nightmares returned with a vengeance.

  “Will you give me all your love? Will you swear that you’ll be true to me?” Doris Day’s voice sang out, the truck idling as Jack’s son delivered some paperwork. Joshua clenched his teeth at the lyrics and wiped sweat off his brow. What kind of promises had Dylan made to Abra? Had he kept any of them? Did Abra still feel the same way about Dylan, or had the infatuation worn off by now? Were they still together, or had he dumped her someplace? He thought of war-torn Korea, starving girls left on their own, and how many GIs he had treated for venereal disease. He sent up another shotgun prayer for God to watch over and protect Abra.

  Joshua fitted a freshly sawed board into place and pulled his hammer from his tool belt. He found pleasure in the scent of sawdust, the grain of the wood, the way each piece fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. The Doris Day song had ended, and now Rudy Eckhart, working a few yards from Joshua, was singing along with the Chordettes: “‘Sandman, I’m so alone; don’t have nobody to call my own. . . .’” Thankfully, street bulldozers started up, drowning him out with the racket of grading new sites for the next phase of Pleasant Hills.

  Trucks rumbled in, loaded with concrete and ready to pour slab foundations. Joshua and his crew would be busy framing those houses in the weeks ahead, then putting in doors and windows and installing siding while subcontractors went to work on roofs, wiring, and plumbing. The insulation and trim came next, followed by the plaster guys and painters. The electricians and plumbers finished off their work before bathroom and kitchen counters were installed. More subcontractors arrived to lay carpet and flooring. Once the hookups to water and sewer were done, the bosses would get the punch list and check for any deficiencies or issues that needed to be addressed. Before that day came, Joshua would do his own walk-around inspection.

  A piercing whistle stopped the hammering. “That’s it for the day, gents!” Jack waved the handful of checks his son had delivered from the home office.

  Rudy gave a cheer. “Hey, guys! What do you say we go on over to the Wagon Wheel and soak up a couple of ice-cold beers? You coming with us this time, Freeman?”

  “I’ve got a prior engagement.” Joshua slipped his hammer into his work belt as smoothly as a gunslinger holstering his Colt .45.

  “News flash, everybody!” Rudy shouted to the others stowing tools and heading for Jack. “Joshua has got himself a date tonight!”

  Joshua laughed. “A date with a roof early tomorrow morning.” The church had needed a new one for several years, but money was scarce. He had connections and enough money put aside to get the job done. Dad, Gil MacPherson, and Peter Matthews would be part of the work crew.

  “Don’t you ever stop working, Freeman?” Rudy yelled.

  “I’m off all day every Sunday.”

  “And spend it in church. All that singing gives me a headache.”

  One of the men called out, “Hearing you sing ‘Earth Angel’ gives me a headache!” Others laughed.

  Rudy broke into “That’s All Right” and imitated Elvis’s infamous hip moves. Men booed and shouted protest. “What’s the problem, Eckhart? Got ants in your pants?”

  Laughing, Joshua collected his check and walked with his buddies toward their parked vehicles. Everyone had plans for the weekend. Two were going out to the coast to fish. One had a hot date with a girl he’d met in a bar. Another said his wife had a long honey-do list, and if he didn’t get it done before his in-laws arrived, he’d be living in the doghouse. Two others liked Rudy’s idea of meeting up at the Wagon Wheel after showers and having a couple of cold beers and steaks to celebrate payday.

  Joshua stopped off at the church on his way home. He wanted to make sure the roofing materials had been delivered. Irene Farley’s old Plymouth was parked in front. She’d been the church secretary for as long as Joshua could remember. Dad called her “the FLM”—first line of ministry—because her warm telephone voice brought more than one weary soul into church on Sunday, if only to meet the lady with the sweet voice. Mitzi’s roadster was parked in front, too, which meant Dad must have been doing visitation outside the town limits.

  Bundled stacks of asphalt shingles, a box of nails, and rolls of black tar paper and copper flashing had been left on the lawn between the church and the fellowship hall. Two extension ladders leaned against the church. The hardest part of the job would be stripping the old shingles. The debris would be dropped and loaded into his pickup. Hodge Martin would make the runs to the dump.

  The door to the church office stood open. Irene glanced up when Joshua walked in. “Well, howdy-do, Joshua!” She smiled when he leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. Dad’s office door was slightly ajar. He heard the low mumble of a woman’s voice. Dad never met with a woman unless Irene was in the front office, and even then, he never closed his door all the way.

  Slouching into a chair, Joshua chatted with Irene while he waited for Dad to finish with his counseling appointment. He was surprised when Susan Wells came out, her eyes red and puffy. Susan blushed when she saw Joshua. She said a quick, pained hello, thanked Irene, and headed for the outer office door. Dad followed. He put his hand on Susan’s shoulder before she could escape and spoke in a low voice. Susan stood still under his touch, but didn’t raise her head. She nodded once and left.

  Irene looked at Dad. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “Sh
e’s learning what it means to trust God.” Dad thanked Irene for staying late. Gathering her purse and some files, she said she’d see them both Sunday morning.

  Joshua followed Dad back into his private office. “You look exhausted, Dad.”

  “So do you.” Dad smiled. “Ian Brubaker sent the supplies over. Do we have everything we need?”

  “Yes, but promise me you won’t go up on the roof again.” He’d almost slid off last time, barely managing to catch his heel in the gutter.

  “I planned on handling the pulley.” He picked up his jacket. “What do you say to dinner at Bessie’s?”

  Joshua cocked his head and studied his father’s face. Irene said he’d been in his office for over an hour. “You like Susan, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  It was a decisive statement. Joshua started to ask if he meant that in a personal way, but his father interrupted his speculations. “Just leave it at that.”

  Joshua stifled his curiosity. “I need a shower before we go out to dinner.” He wondered how Mom would feel about Dad’s interest in another woman.

  Dad took his Cardinals baseball cap from the hook by the door. “I’ll walk down now and get us a booth.”

  “I’ll be quick. Order whatever the special is.”

  “No hurry, Son. I’ll wait until you get there.”

  Joshua went home and stood under the stream of cool water, washing away the dirt and sweat of a hard day’s work. He kept thinking about Dad and Susan Wells. Dad was still a man in his prime. Had he finally met someone he might consider marrying? Joshua dressed in fresh Levi’s, a button-down short-sleeved shirt, and loafers and decided to pay closer attention to their relationship.

  He pulled into a space around the corner from the café. The bell jangled, and Bessie called out a greeting as he walked in. “Two Freemans! My lucky day! You both eat like horses!”