Last week, we shared Chapter Three of the terrific novel, Through the Open Window by talented novelist Anne Faye. Join us each Monday as we watch this incredible story unfold.

• Chapter Four
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Two
• Chapter One

Chapter 5

The sun streaming through my windows woke me up Sunday morning. It looked like it was going to be another warm day. That would be good for the party. I spent the morning doing some housework, and then Lady and I headed out for our morning constitutional. When we got back, it was time for me to get ready for the party.  I looked up the address on the internet. Mike lived pretty close to Forest Park. I was known for getting lost when attempting to find new places, but I figured that I should be able to find his house without too much difficulty. I showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and put on some earrings and makeup.

“What do you think, Lady?” I asked the only observer in the room. She cocked her head to the side and looked at me with her big brown eyes. “Yeah,” I sighed, “That’s what I thought, too.” I patted her soft head. “Oh, well, it is better than the sweats I had on yesterday. It will have to do.” I gave Lady some chewy treats. “I’ll be home later. You be good.” I grabbed my keys and headed out, wondering where this day would take me. It wasn’t that I necessarily found a group of six and seven year old boys intimidating. After all, I worked with children every day. Still, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of my role in this day. What was I supposed to do? I would have to just wait and see.

I turned off the main street and into a residential neighborhood. Mike lived in the historic district – a section of beautiful old Victorian homes. I had only seen the ones that were on the main road. I never realized how many more homes were set back on side streets. It was like entering a whole different world, taking a step back in time. Springfield was the first big city I had ever lived in. Coming from a small town, I suffered from culture shock when I first moved here. I was struck by the contradictions. Abject poverty and relative affluence lived nearly side by side. You could be driving through a fancy section and then find yourself someplace you wouldn’t want to be alone at night within a matter of minutes. It was just a matter of knowing where to go and where not to, and that took some time to figure out. Mike’s area was definitely one of the more privileged ones.

When I pulled up to his house, he was attaching balloons to the mailbox. His house was huge! It was three floors, with huge columns framing the entranceway. There was a fountain right in the middle of the street, surrounded by a garden! While I imagined it would be even prettier in spring, it was still breathtaking. Mike waved to me as I got out of the car.

“Hi, Lucy, I’m so glad that you came! A few of the guests have begun to arrive.”

I nodded, smiling. “This is some place you have here.”

“I told you!” he said. “I grew up here. The house has been in my family for almost a hundred years. My parents moved to South Carolina a few years ago and they left the house to me. When my sister’s ex-husband left her, she and the kids needed some place to stay so they moved in as well. I like it better that way. It was really way too big a house for just one person. Come on inside. I’ll introduce you to everyone and show you around the place.”

“Here. This is for Tommy,” I said, handing him the present I was carrying. “I hope he likes it.”

“I told you that you didn’t need to bring anything!”

“That’s OK. I wanted to.”

“Thanks. It was very thoughtful of you.”

We walked up the stairs and through the stately front door. There was a huge entryway complete with hanging chandelier and massive staircase with a gorgeous stained glass window at the landing. “This is amazing!” I said.

“You haven’t seen anything yet!” he responded. He led me to the right where there was a large living room with mahogany paneling. Our next stop was the dining room, followed by the den and the library. “I think the library is my favorite room so far,” I remarked.

“Yeah, mine, too, at least on this floor. My grandfather loved collecting books. All the classics are here. He had a number of first editions as well.”

I sank into a comfortable armchair and looked around at the bookcases full of books just begging to be read. “I could spend all day here,” I sighed.

“I know what you mean,” he agreed, “but right now we need to go find my sister and see what we can do to help. Come on,” he extended his hand to help me out of the chair. His hand was warm in mine – too warm. I let go quickly. “We’ll go to the kitchen,” he said nonchalantly, apparently oblivious to the sudden case of nerves I was now experiencing. “I’m sure we’ll find Sara there.” We headed out of the library and around the corner to where the kitchen was set in the back of the house.

“Mike, there you are!” a clearly frazzled woman greeted us. “I wondered where you disappeared to. All the kids are outside. Can you please go keep them entertained?” she pleaded.

“Sara, this is Lucy. Lucy, Sara.” Mike said as he headed out the back door.

“Hi!” Sara said.

“You look really busy. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, thank you,” she pushed some stray hairs from her face. “Could you please open up the chips and pretzel bags and put them in the bowls.”

“Sure.” I went to work. “Do you want me to bring them outside?”

“Yeah, that would be great. It turned out to be such a nice day; we decided to have the party outside. We’re usually not that lucky in November.”

I brought the chips and pretzels out to the picnic table. I stopped for a moment to watch Mike. He was running around the large backyard playing football with a whole gaggle of little kids. I think that it was all of the kids against him. At least it looked that way. They were all trying to tackle him. He appeared to be enjoying it.

I headed back in to help Sara. She had me bring out sodas and plates and cups and all the other party fixings. “Thanks for your help,” Sara said as she joined me outside. “These parties are a lot of work, but the boys enjoy them so much. I think we are all set, though, at least for the moment.” She noticed me watching Mike, “He’s great with the kids, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed. “They all seem to be having a great time.”

“I’m really lucky to have him as a brother. I don’t know if he told you or not, but I would be lost without him. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t taken me in after my husband left. He’s been so good with the boys.”

“Yes, Mike had mentioned that your husband had left you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s OK. It’s been a while now. I have the kids to take care of so I can’t really wallow in self-pity. I’m getting over it – trying to move on.”

“I know how that is,” I acknowledged.

“Mike told me you had recently moved here. From Vermont, was it?”

“Yes, northern Vermont.”

“Well, welcome to Western Massachusetts. I hope you like it here.”

“I do,” I nodded. “It’s really starting to feel like home.”

“Mike must like you a lot. He almost never brings a girl home.”

“Oh, we’re just friends. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. Mike said that you could use another adult to help out.” I suddenly felt very self-conscious.

“No, no, not at all. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m glad that you’re here. I appreciate the help, believe me!” she smiled at me. I noticed that she had the same striking blue eyes as her brother. “Oh, look, there’s the pizza delivery truck coming up the driveway. Will you help me carry the pizzas over?”

“Sure. I’m right behind you.” The smell of pizza caused all the little boys (and the one big boy) to come running over. “Lucy, let me introduce you to the birthday boy. This is Tommy.” Mike rested his hands on the shoulders of a little blonde haired boy. “Tommy, this is my friend Lucy.”

“Hi, Tommy! Happy Birthday!” Tommy buried his head into Mike’s leg.

“He’s a little shy around strangers,” Mike said. “This is my other nephew Johnny,” he said. acknowledging another slightly bigger boy with brown hair and glasses. “Johnny, say hello.” Johnny waved as he starting eating his slice of pizza.

After pizza, it was time for presents. Tommy was clearly in his glory. He and his brother worked as a tag team, opening cards and taking the presents out of gift bags. Tommy was so excited! “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” he said to everyone there. “I can’t wait to start looking through my cards to see which ones I got!”

Mike had moved over near me. “Wow, he really does love those cards, doesn’t he?” I said.

“I told you! That haul should keep him busy for quite a while.”

“He’s a cute kid. They both are.”

“They get that from me!”

“You have quite a high opinion of yourself,” I teased.

“Ouch!” he said, smirking. “I think I’ll go help Sara get the cake ready.” He turned and headed into the house, only to return a few seconds later with a cake with a lighted number six candle on it. He began singing “Happy Birthday!” and the rest of us all joined in.

“This cake is delicious, Sara, thank you!”

“You’re welcome. I didn’t make it, though. I took the easy way out and got it from the grocery store.”

“Well, it’s very yummy. I love cake and ice cream.”

“Me, too!” Sara said. “I fully intend to eat another piece tonight after the boys go to bed! You hear that, Mike? I’m claiming the leftovers.”

“Not if I get to them first!” Mike retorted.

“You guys sound like my brother and I, at least when we were younger!” I laughed.
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Mike said.

“Yes, I do. His name is Bill. He’s older than me by a few years. He and his wife moved out to Arizona a couple years ago. I don’t get to see them much.”

“Well, Mike is my younger brother,” Sara retorted, “and as much as he hates to admit it, I can still boss him around!”

“I just let her think that!” Mike responded with a twinkle in his eye.

Parents started arriving to pick up the party guests, and soon the party was over. Johnny and Tommy retreated to the den to check out all the new presents while Mike, Sara, and I handled cleanup. After everything was picked up, Mike invited me to check out the rest of the house.

“Come on, I’ll show you the part of the house I live in,” he said. “We can take the back staircase.”

“You mean you don’t live down here?” I asked as we climbed the narrow stairs.

“Well, I do, but I mostly leave it to Sara and the boys. I have an apartment upstairs. I converted what would have been the servants’ quarters into a space I can relax and work in.”

“Did your family ever actually have servants?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I think my great-grandparents might have, but none that I remembered. We had free reign of the whole house when I was growing up. It was a house you could have adventures in! The boys have a good time exploring it now. They just know to stay out of my studio if I’m working.”

We stopped on the second floor. “This is where Sara and the boys sleep. There is also a second kitchen on this floor. I sometimes sneak down here in the middle of the night for a snack, especially if I’m working on a project and need some fuel,” he paused. “One more flight of stairs to go.”

“Welcome to my attic paradise!” he exclaimed as we got to the third floor.

“This is beautiful! Look at those windows!” There were three huge arched windows that allowed the attic to be bathed with light. It was a mostly wide open space with one corner used as a bedroom. The bed had not been made and was covered with clothes. Another corner was used as an office, and the rest of the room set up as an artist’s studio with works in progress all over the place. Up against the wall were some blank canvasses and shelves lined with paints and cans full of brushes.

“May I look at your paintings?” I asked.

“Sure. I’m just going to tidy up a bit,” he said as he moved in the direction of his bed. “I’m sorry – my room is a mess. You’ve probably noticed by now, I’m not a very neat person! I’m more of a clean-up-for-company sort of guy. I didn’t think I would be bringing you up here today. I thought for sure that Sara and the kids would scare you off!”

“Are you serious? They’re great. I like your sister a lot, and the boys are so cute. They couldn’t possibly scare me away!” I moved over toward the paintings. Mike’s art was full of vibrant colors. There were portraits and still-lifes and even a painting of a dog. The painting on the easel was of an old-fashioned city street. He had small photographs taped all around the easel.

“What are you working on here?” I asked.

“It is a painting of downtown Springfield about 100 years ago.” He finished making his bed and then joined me by the easel. “Look at these photographs. I made copies of them down at the history museum. Aren’t they amazing?”

“Yes, they are,” I agreed.

“It’s incredible to see how much life has changed in a century. Those people walking down the street in these pictures are just busy going about their daily lives. They couldn’t possibly have imagined the world we live in today. I can’t help but wonder how different the world will be in another 100 years.”

“It’s true. Life changes so quickly.” I pointed at the work of art. “ I love what you are doing with the painting. I like the bright colors you use. It makes all your paintings seem so warm and happy. All your work is great,” I added, looking around the room.

“Thanks!” He responded. “I hoped that you would like them.” Mike looked at me intently. Our eyes met. I walked away to go look out the window.

“This is quite a view you have here,” I said. From the window I could see all of their yard and most of the street. Some kids were riding their bikes.

“Yes, sometimes when I’m at a loss for inspiration, I just come here and stare out until something comes to me. It usually does. The natural light is great for painting by, as well,” he added.

I could feel his presence behind me. I had the sudden urge to turn around and kiss him. Where was this coming from? I’m not looking for romance. I’m not looking for romance. I kept repeating it over and over in my head. I forced myself to keep staring out the window. This whole male / female friendship thing was going to be much harder than I imagined.

“I was wondering if you would let me paint you?” he asked, breaking into my thoughts.

“Seriously?” I asked, shocked. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather paint my dog? I’d be happy to bring her over for you. I’m sure that she would make a great model,” I suggested, trying to keep the conversation light.

“I’m sure that she would, but, no, I’d much rather paint you. Standing by the window like that with the light hitting you just so – you have a very interesting face.” Hmm. Interesting face. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Would you let me?”

“Oh sure, why not?” I responded, not at all sure. “What girl wouldn’t want to have her portrait painted?” What on earth was I doing?

“Great!” he smiled. Stay right there – right where you are. I just need to get a blank canvas.” I just kept looking out the window, not knowing what to make of the whole situation. The afternoon had just taken a very unexpected turn. Time felt like it was moving in slow motion. I could hear Mike moving things around the room. He returned to the easel a couple minutes later and removed the street scene he had been working on. He placed the blank canvas on the easel, grabbed some tubes of paint and a couple of brushes, and then turned to me.

“Are you OK? You don’t look so good.” He looked worried.

“I’m fine,” I replied, not quite truthfully. “I’ve just never been in this situation before. I feel very self-conscious.”

“Do you want me to not do the painting? I don’t have to. I admit I get a bit carried away sometimes. I see something that I think would make a good painting and I feel compelled to get it down on canvas before it disappears.”

“I guess I understand that. It’s like with writing – when you have to get the idea out on paper.”

“Yes, exactly,” he nodded in agreement.

“Alright,” I smiled. “Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I’d like to take a couple photos if I could.” He held up a camera. The light will change quickly. I’m going to try to get a quick study done, but I’d like something to work from later.

“Sure, go ahead.”

He looked at me and the window, studying us both. It was strange how he looked at me. It was like he wasn’t even looking at me – he was looking through me – as if I wasn’t even there. “Here, try this.” He pulled over a chair. “Sit down. You’ll be more comfortable.” He walked over to his bookshelf and pulled down a book. “You can look at this if you’d like. It’ll make it easier to sit still.” It was a book about Van Gogh. “Do you like Van Gogh?” he asked as he sat back down at the easel.

“Honestly, I don’t know much about him, other than that he cut his ear off. I took an art history class in college, but it was mostly focused on Renaissance art.”

He took a couple photos and then he began to work on the painting. “I love Van Gogh’s paintings, especially his later works that are so bright and full of color. I try to use color like him.” I flipped through the pages as Mike worked. It did help make the time go by. I recognized some of the paintings, but many were new to me. Every now and then, I would look up a bit to see Mike working. It was as if he were in a trance, working with such passion to get the colors on the canvas. I had never seen anyone be in a zone like that. It was as if the whole world had vanished around him and it was just him and the canvas and his subject. I realized that was what I was. When he did look at me, it was as if I were an object, no different than the bowl of fruit that was sitting there on the table or the street scene in the photograph. I had the distinct feeling that I could be sitting there with my clothes off and he wouldn’t even notice, not that I was going to take that step, of course. It was an odd feeling, being there in the silence. Mike hadn’t spoken since he started working.  I wasn’t sure if I should speak, or not. I was afraid to break the spell he was under.

The light in the room began to grow dim. I could see the last rays of the sun as I looked out the window. I wondered when Mike would notice. He kept working for a few more minutes, and then he looked up at me. The spell was broken. “It’s getting dark. I should stop working,” he acknowledged. “How did you like the book?”

“It was interesting. I see what you mean about the colors. It’s incredible how much his art changed from the beginning to the end. I had never realized how young he was when he died.” I stood up and stretched. “I also never realized before how hard it is to try to stay still.”

“Yeah, when I was in art school, we had to take turns being the models. I never enjoyed it that much. I always preferred being behind the canvas.”

“Can I see the painting?” I asked, pointing to the easel.

“Sure, come on over. I’ll turn the light on so you can see it better. It’s not much to look at yet,” he admitted, “It’s just the underpainting.” Nevertheless, I could see the beginnings of what the painting would become. Mike had captured the light coming through the window and the basics of my face. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what to think – it’s definitely a work in progress.”

“You’re very diplomatic,” he laughed.  “I told you it didn’t look like much, yet. I’ll work from the photographs I took. It will get better. I promise.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know much about art. I’m just used to seeing the finished products – not the work that goes into them.”

“That’s OK – there’s no need to apologize. It’s kind of like writing. You start out with a first draft, but then you keep working and working and eventually you end up with something that’s pretty good.”

“That might be true for you. If I was making a painting, I could keep working on it forever and it would never turn into anything but a mess. I have no artistic ability, at least not in that area.”

“See, so many people think that about themselves, but it’s just not true. I’m a firm believer that everyone can draw and paint if they want to. You should come to one of my classes sometime. Try it out. I’ll prove to you that you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. Right now, though, I think I should be going home.”

“Oh, OK. Just let me clean up a bit and I will walk you out.”  I watched him as he washed his brushes and his hands. “I have to get the paint out of the brushes right away or else it will dry in them and then it is such a pain to try to get it out.”

We headed back downstairs. I could hear the boys playing. Sara was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea, looking at a magazine. “Hey, I wondered what had happened to you two. I thought that you had left,” she said.

“Mike was showing me his studio upstairs,” I answered. I didn’t mention the painting.

“Oh, that’s nice! I don’t go up there too much. I can remember how messy Mike kept his room when we were kids. I’m scared of what I might find up there.”

“It’s not bad at all. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I reassured her.

“Would you like to stay for supper? We’re just going to be having leftover pizza, but you are welcome to join us,” Sara said.

“Thanks. That’s very kind, but I think I’m going to go home.”

“OK, well, thanks again for your help with the party. I hope that we’ll get to see you again.”

“Thanks. It was nice to meet you, too.” I turned to head out the front door. Mike followed behind me.

“I’ll get the door for you,” he said as he reached to open the door. “Thanks for letting me paint you. I had a nice afternoon.”

“I did, too. – I guess I’ll see you at the library?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” he answered. “Have a good night!”

“Good night.”

The door closed behind me as I stepped into the cool late afternoon air. I took a deep breath and let it flow through me, right down to my toes, and then walked slowly to my car. What in the heck had just happened? I honestly didn’t have a clue. Mike was one of the most inscrutable people I had ever met. He was kind and honest and obviously totally in love with life and his work. He had passion, a quality I had rarely seen up close. Most people I knew, myself included, just kind of meandered through life. He soaked it up, drinking it in. I liked being near him. His zeal for life was infectious. As much as I hated to admit it, and as much as I swore to myself that I wouldn’t, I was starting to have feelings for him that went way beyond friendship. Yet as I fervently attempted to remind myself, to him, I was just a friend.

I drove home. The radio in the car was playing way too many love gone wrong songs. I had had enough of those to last a lifetime. I turned off the music and listened to my own thoughts. Life was getting complicated. I hadn’t wanted that to happen. I wanted simple. I had moved here to get away from complicated. Why on earth couldn’t life be simple?

*****

Up in my room, I pulled out the small box in the center drawer of my bureau and opened it. There it was. My wedding ring – the reason life couldn’t be simple. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to get rid of it. I held it in my hand for a while, sat on my bed and cried. Lady curled up next to me. “Hey, pretty girl.” I petted her. “What am I going to do?” She didn’t have any answers but she did lick away the tears on my face. It was good to have a friend.

Join us next week for the next chapter of Through the Open Window.  Can’t wait for more?  Check out Through the Open Window at Amazon!

I did what ever self-respecting book-addicted bookworm does and checked both Amazon and The Catholic Company.  Seeing that it was going to be three to four weeks for shipping, I shamelessly emailed Lisa for the Mary Moore’s contact information, thinking of things I could bribe her with to get a copy sooner.

Lisa Hendey, proving her candidacy for living sainthood, offered me an extra copy she had AND she mailed it to me so I received it prior to a big trip that would give me a rare pocket of reading time.

As it turns out, I didn’t need a big pocket of time.  I read it in a day.

(Part of that was because of unexpected help with my kids, mind you.)

In my defense, I’ll be rereading it, just as soon as I get it back from my sister-in-law and then my best friend.  I’ll be going through it slowly and marking it up on my next trip through it, though I’ve already started thinking about the ideas in it.

This is the kind of book that won’t make it to your bookshelf because you’ll be too busy referencing it.  Then again, maybe it will…but I don’t think my copy will ever get any dust on it.  While the ideas seem easy to remember, there are many of them, and they’re packaged in the kind of short chapters that both busy parents and frazzled readers can appreciate.

Moore writes from the trenches, and she offers ideas that don’t make me roll my eyes.  Reading this book is like having a good friend give you her favorite tips and then offer to watch the kids while you think about them.

Though Moore won’t come over and watch your kids, you may find your approach to raising your kids is a little different after reading her book.  You might, in fact, find yourself renewed and inspired just enough to get you to try some of the excellent tips she gives.

Enjoy this book, and after you’ve read it, stop back and let me know what your favorite part of it was.

Copyright 2010 Sarah Reinhard

Last week, we shared Chapter Three of the terrific novel, Through the Open Window by talented novelist Anne Faye. Join us each Monday as we watch this incredible story unfold.

• Chapter Three
• Chapter Two
• Chapter One

Chapter 4

The next few days I settled into a routine. I would go to work, come home, go for a walk, and then write. I had to admit, I was enjoying it. The writing was therapeutic and once I got typing, I really got into a rhythm. I was meeting my daily word quota of 1600 words. Some days, I would even go over, typing late into the night. I was writing my story, and much of it was straight out of my life, but I was writing it the way it should have been. I was writing it the way I would have liked things to have been. That was the beauty of fiction, after all. I could change characters and events. Heck, I could even make my own character nearly perfect. Who said I couldn’t be drop-dead gorgeous with auburn hair and striking blue eyes? It was my world. I could do whatever I wanted.

But memories sometimes got in the way. Digging up the past meant the past was always on my mind. I would dream of Alan and our time together. In my dreams, we were young and he loved me. We were happy. Then I would wake up, and remember. And it would all come back.

*****

I saw Mike a couple times during the week at the library, but we hadn’t really had a chance to talk. He was busy writing. I was busy working. I did, however, make a point of checking the NaNoWriMo bulletin board regularly. I would post my totals and check the others that were posted, making a special effort to see how Mike was doing. He was catching up on his totals. He must have figured out something to do with that sci-fi novel after all. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had worked me in as a character. Was I really an alien? The prospect was intriguing. He had also left some encouraging messages for the rest of us. “Keep up the good work!” he wrote on several postings, including mine.

Saturday was a beautiful day outside, one of those rare November days in New England when the sun was shining, the air was warm, and one could get by with only a light sweater. New Englanders know those days are to be savored because the skies will soon be grey and snow could come at any time. I didn’t have to work, but I did have to run a few errands, including stopping by the library to pick up my paycheck. I was surprised to see Mike there. I figured he would have other things to do on such a gorgeous day. I decided to walk over and say “hello.”

“Hi Mike!”

“Hi.” He looked up, “Hold on just a second? I need to get this thought out before it leaves my brain.” I decided to let that go without saying the smart comment I had in my mind. Instead, I sat down and waited patiently.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “You know how it is. The words start coming and you don’t want them to stop. You have to get them down on paper.”

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you are in a groove.”

“No, it’s OK. I’m happy to see you! I’ve been spending all this time here and haven’t had the chance to talk to you at all. I’d look in the children’s room and see you working, but I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. “I knew that your boss was upset with you the other day when you were late coming back from lunch. I didn’t want to get you in more trouble.”

“Thanks,” I smiled. “You can always come in and say hello, though. Rachel won’t have any problem with that.” He had no idea just how happy Rachel would be.

“So, what are you up to today?” he asked. “You’re not dressed for work.” I looked down and self-consciously realized I had on my bang-around sweats.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I have the day off. I only have to work every third Saturday. I was just out running some errands. I stopped by to pick up my paycheck.”

“That’s an important thing to do.”

“Absolutely! Anyway, it is too nice a day to be cooped up in here.”

He looked out the window. “You know what? You’re right!” He closed his laptop. “Hey, have you ever been to Forest Park?” he asked.

“No, actually, I haven’t.” Forest Park was a huge park in Springfield. I had driven by it lots of times, but had never stopped in.

“Do you want to go? It’s one of my favorite places. I’d love to show you around.”

I was so surprised, I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Um, won’t your girlfriend mind? I realize it’s not a date or anything, but does she care if you go places with other women?” I asked.

“What girlfriend?” he countered with a puzzled look.

“Jennifer?” I said. “At the kick-off party, Chelsea told me that you two were together.”

“Chelsea doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Jennifer and I have been friends for years, but not like that. I’ve known her since high school and we do spend quite a bit of time together, but her boyfriend is in the army and is stationed overseas. She just hates being alone, so I take her out to eat or to the movies every now and then.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I feel stupid. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I got up and started backing away. “I should just get going.”

“No, don’t. I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with Chelsea. She should keep her mouth shut about things that she knows nothing about. I really would like to take you to the park. I’m going to head there anyway, and I’d enjoy having some company.”

I thought about it. Did I really want to do this? Did I want to start down this road, not knowing where it might lead? Was I ready for this? I looked out the window.

“Please. It’s a beautiful day,” he said.

“OK.” I said.

“Great! Come on.” He grabbed his laptop and we started moving toward the door.

He held open the door for me as I got into his car. The car was incredibly messy. It looked like a man’s car! “Just move that stuff out of the way,” he said. “You can toss it in the backseat.” I picked up several empty water bottles and old papers and threw them in the back so I could sit down. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to be driving anyone around today. Usually, I try to clean up the car a bit if I know someone will be riding in it.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The ride was short. As he drove, I looked over at him. I really liked looking at him. He had such a kind face. I even liked the laugh lines around his eyes! I liked his voice, too. It had a soft, soothing quality to it.

“How’s your novel coming along?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

“It’s coming along alright, now at least,” he said. “I had to scrap my original idea and start over.”

“Really? Isn’t that against the rules?”

“No, not at all. Sometimes, you have to scrap what you’re working on. Sometimes, you just can’t get it to work. I know people who have spent the whole month working on a project, only to give up on it the last week. Then they work non-stop for the last few days and manage to meet the deadline. I never should have tried to write a sci-fi novel. I’m not sure what I was thinking. It violated the whole ‘write about what you know’ principle that I usually hold to. At least I realized it fairly early in the month.”

“So, what are you writing about now?”

“You’re going to laugh,” he said as he glanced at me. I wondered what he thought of me. I really wished that I had worn something else. It wasn’t like he was dressed up – just jeans and a sweater, but he wore it well. I looked like something the cat dragged in.

“No, I won’t laugh. I promise.”

“I’m writing a story about the library.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been spending so much time there. I’ve been trying to truly get into the environment.”

“So, what’s happening in the story?”

“There is a librarian who is shelving books one day when an envelope falls out of one of the books.  She picks it up and finds a letter inside the envelope. It’s a love letter, written more than 30 years ago. The rest of the story is her trying to return the love letter to its original owner. It’s a romance and mystery rolled all in one,” he paused. “At least I hope that is what it will end up being.”

“It sounds great. I’d love to read it when it is done.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to see about that. I’ve never let anyone read anything I’ve written in these novel projects.”

“Really?”

“Really. I just couldn’t bear the thought of someone ripping all my hard work to shreds. It’s funny. I’m an artist, right? I went through art school where professors specialize in criticizing you to the point that you never want to pick up a paintbrush again. Even today, I know not everyone will like my art. It’s not easy, but I’ve built up a thick skin in that area. I can take the criticism. But with writing, I’m not that confident. Criticism would hit too close to home. If you read it and hated it, I would be so sad.”

“You don’t know, though. I might love what you have written. You could be the best writer ever and you’ll never know it because you weren’t willing to share it.”

“That’s true, I suppose, but I could also be the worst writer ever, and that,” he said emphatically, “I would rather not know!”

“Well, you are truthful. I’ll give you that much. If you change your mind, the offer still stands. OK?

“OK,” he said. “Look, we’re here.”

And so we were. We drove through the tree-lined entrance to Forest Park, and he parked the car near a big field.

“I thought we might go for a walk, if that’s alright with you,” he said as we got out of the car.

“Sure. I love to walk! It is such a beautiful day. We aren’t going to get many more like this.”

“That is so true. Winter is right around the corner.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me! I’ve lived in New England my whole life, and I still don’t like winter. I like snow. I think it is so pretty, but I like to look at it from inside a warm house while drinking hot cocoa. I hate the cold!”

“Well, we need to enjoy today then.”

We walked along quietly for a bit. Strangely, the silence didn’t feel awkward. I felt so comfortable, so safe with Mike. I truly couldn’t explain it. I hadn’t felt that safe in a very long time, if ever.

“The park isn’t very busy today, is it?” I broke the silence.

“No, you should see it in the summer – there are people all over the place. Even then, though, there is enough room here so that you can usually find somewhere to be alone if you really want to be.”

“How big is the park?”

“You know, I’m not sure, exactly. Over 700 acres, I think.”

“Wow, that is big!”

“Yeah, it is one of nicest places in Springfield.”

“What are those things?” I asked, pointing to some large metal sculptures on the side of the road.

“Those are for Bright Nights – it’s a big holiday light display that is put on each year here. It’s great! People come from everywhere to see it. It opens up the day after Thanksgiving, but it is better to wait until there is some snow on the ground. Then the lights really look spectacular. I take my nephews every year. They really enjoy it, but the truth is that I do, too. Maybe I could take you this year?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered.

We rounded the corner of the field. Mike pointed over to the left where there were some white trellises standing guard. “There’s a rose garden over there. It’s absolutely gorgeous in the summer.”

“Sounds nice. I’d love to see it when it is in bloom.”

“Yeah, this isn’t the best time to see the park. It’s really at its peak in the spring and summer, or even in the early Fall when the leaves are all in color.” Now, all the leaves were on the ground and crunching under our feet as we walked.

“I’ve always enjoyed the sound of leaves crunching in the fall,” I said.

“It is a good sound! I’m much more fond of the leaves here than I am when they are in my yard and I have to rake them!”

“I know what you mean! There’s a huge oak tree in my back yard. It was great in the summer. I would grab a book and sit in the shade and be as happy as could be. I’m going to have to pay for it now, though. I came home from work one day last week and discovered it had dropped all of its leaves. Now my yard is covered! I had planned to rake them today, but I don’t think that will be happening.”

“Well, if you’d rather be raking . . .”

“No, not at all!” I laughed. “This is much better!”

We continued walking down a hill and took a right around a corner when the path split.

“We are heading down toward the duck pond,” he said.

“Sounds good!” I agreed.

“There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Mike began.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I was wondering where you are from. The other day when we were talking at the library, you mentioned you had volunteered at the library ‘back home.’ I was wondering where ‘back home’ is.”

“I’m from a little town up in northern Vermont. I grew up on a farm.”

“Vermont? That’s pretty country up there – very peaceful. I’ve often thought I’d like to build a log cabin and live in the middle of nowhere like that. But, look at me. Here I am in a city!”

“You’re right. Vermont is very pretty. I liked it a lot, but small town life can wear on you after a while. Everybody knowing everybody can be both a blessing and a curse,” I admitted. “My parents are still up there, though. I miss them.”

“So, what brought you to this neck of the woods?” he asked.

“I guess I just needed a change of scenery. I was looking to start over someplace where no one knew me.”

“Why did you pick here? I mean, I’m glad that you did, but Springfield wouldn’t be everyone’s first choice. There are a lot of other places in the world.”

“Honestly?” I paused. “I knew I wanted to stay in New England. As much as I dislike raking and the cold that winter brings, I’m definitely a four-season type of girl. So, with that in mind, I threw a dart at a map of New England to decide where to go.”

“And it landed on Springfield?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Well, at least the second time. The first time the dart landed right in the Atlantic Ocean! I decided that wasn’t a good choice, especially since I’ve never been very good on a boat.”

He laughed. “I agree. I think that you made a wise decision to throw the dart a second time.”

“Yeah, it’s worked out alright. I was able to buy a small house on the Springfield / East Longmeadow line and I got the job at the East Longmeadow library. The rest, as they say, is history.” I answered. “What about you? Have you always lived here?”

“Most of my life,” he said. “I went away to college in Worcester and then did a year as a Jesuit Volunteer down in Philadelphia. Since then, though, I’ve been here. I commuted to UMass when I was going to school for my Master’s degree.”

“Jesuit Volunteer, huh? So, you’re Catholic?”

“Yes. Irish Catholic. You? I noticed you wear a necklace with Mary on it.”

“The necklace is from my Mom. She gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I’ve worn it ever since. I’m Catholic, too, although honestly, I haven’t set foot in a church in quite a while. God and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately. ”

“Hmmm. I went through a stage like that, too, a while ago. The good thing about both God and the Church, though, is that they both are waiting and willing to take you back whenever you’re ready.”

“You sound like a priest,” I said. “Should I start calling you Fr. Duncan?”

“No,” he shook his head and laughed. “I did think about becoming a priest, though, when I was younger.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I met a girl and fell in love. It was right after I came back from Philadelphia.”

“So, what happened to the girl?”

“Oh, she was young . . .”

“Well, being young doesn’t mean it can’t last. What happened?”

“We dated for a while. We had this incredible romance. I had never experienced anything like it, before or since. I thought for sure she was the one for me. I asked her to marry me and she said ‘yes.’ We planned to wait until she was older. She wanted to finish her education, which I definitely supported, although I missed her terribly when she was gone. I would drive to New York to see her whenever I could get away. In the end, though, it just wasn’t meant to be – at least not for her. She met someone else at college and married him a couple of years later. It’s been years but I’ve never been the same. I’ve never been able to forget how I felt when I was with her.”

“Have you dated since then?” I asked.

“Oh, of course,” he hesitated, “Well, to be truthful, not that much. I’ve never really met the right woman. I have lots of friends who are women, but I’ve never found anyone I wanted to have a long-term relationship with. My mother keeps telling me to find a ‘nice girl’ and get married. She has even been suggesting that I try an on-line dating service. I keep telling her I’m happier alone! Besides, I have my sister and my nephews to take care of. I’m certainly not lonely.” He looked at me with a pained expression. “I shouldn’t have told you all this. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“No, not at all. I know what it’s like to have someone you love hurt you. Sometimes it does take a long time to recover. I’m not looking for love right now, either,” I answered truthfully.

Mike seemed relieved. “Well, it’s still nice to make new friends.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

We came up to what looked like an old house in the distance. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing.

“That’s the Barney Carriage House,” Mike answered. “It’s used for banquets. It used to belong to Everett Barney. He invented clips that could attach ice skates to shoes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he owned most of this land. He had a great big estate here. They knocked it down when they were putting in the highway.”

“If his house looked anything like this Carriage House, it must have been amazing. I love old houses. It’s too bad they had to tear it down.”

“I love old houses, too. I think that they have a lot of character. I always imagine that they have a story to tell.”

“You seem to know a lot about this park,” I said.

“I spend a lot of time here. It’s good to know something about the place where you live.”

We had reached the end of the park so we turned around and began retracing our steps.

“It’s starting to get cooler,” I remarked as I wrapped my arms around me in an effort to keep warm.

“Yeah, the sun sets early these days. We’ll all be suffering from lack of sunlight pretty soon. One of the few advantages of getting older is that the winter does pass more quickly. It will be spring before we know it.”

“You’re right! I can remember as a child, the days went so slowly. Waiting for Christmas took forever. Now, all the days seem to pass in a blur.”

“I know! My younger nephew, Tommy, is turning six this week. He’s been waiting forever for his birthday – counting down the days for the past two months. He’s having his party tomorrow. He’s so excited! He can’t wait to see what kinds of presents he’s going to get.”

“What does he want?” I asked.

“Pokémon cards, mostly,” he answered. “It’s his latest thing. They go through these stages when they are just obsessed with one thing, and they basically live, eat, and breathe it for a while. Then one day, they wake up and move on to something else. It’s hard to keep up sometimes.”

“Do you know anything about Pokémon?” I asked.

“Not enough to keep up with them! I’ve read this book all about the different Pokémon to them about a hundred times, but I don’t really understand the game.”

“Yeah, I don’t either. They had a tournament at the library a little while back. I watched the kids play, but I couldn’t figure out what they were doing. They seemed to be having fun, though.”

“Hey, would you like to come to the party tomorrow?” he asked. “It’s at one. We’ll be having pizza and cake and ice cream.”

“Oh, I think I’d be out of place, don’t you?”

“No, you wouldn’t. My sister’s real nice and wouldn’t mind having another person at all. You don’t need to bring a gift. Just come and keep me company. It would be great to have someone to talk to while I’m helping supervise all those little kids. Besides, you said you like old houses. I live in one built in 1899. I think you would enjoy seeing it. Please, say you’ll come.”

I thought about it for a minute. “I guess it would be OK. Another good reason not to rake! Besides, I’m a sucker for cake and ice cream.”

“Great!

“I feel like we have only been talking about me,” he said. “I don’t know much about you except that you come from northern Vermont.”

“That’s alright. There truly isn’t that much to know,” I told him.

“Did you go to college?” he asked.

“Yes, I did. I went to the University of Vermont for a couple years. I didn’t finish, though. My mom got sick and I had to go back home and help take care of her and help my Dad with the farm. She had breast cancer. It was rough going, there, for quite a while.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been tough.”

“It was, but thankfully she is much better now. She’s been in remission for about three years.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Did you ever get to go back to school?”

“No. Life just kind of moved on. It was never really a priority. I loved college, but I could never decide what I wanted to do. I took classes in everything. I enjoyed all my classes, well, except science – I was never destined to be in the medical profession, that’s for sure! But there was never one area that spoke to me more than another. I couldn’t pick just one to focus on. That’s why I like working in the library so much. There are books on every topic imaginable. Whenever I want to learn about something, I can just pick up a book and study. Maybe someday I’ll go back and get my library science degree. I don’t know. It depends where life takes me.”

“I think you should. Of course, I am somewhat prejudiced, seeing I spent eight years in college and now teach in one,” he said.

“Yes, I can see how you would be.”

We were almost to his car when it started to rain. “I’ll race you,” he said. We ran our hearts out on the way to the car. “Ha! I won!” I shouted a bit too enthusiastically as I touched the car a second before him.

“Yes, but I have the keys to the car!” he retorted, holding them up and waving them tauntingly as the rain came pouring down.

“Oh, come on! Open the door! It’s wet out here.”

“Oh, alright,” he said reluctantly. He unlocked the doors and we both climbed in. “It was funny to see you out there in the rain.”

“You have a poor sense of humor!” I informed him as I tried to wipe some of the water off of me.

“Here, I’ll put the heat on – it will help you dry off,” Mike said as he took off his glasses to wipe off the raindrops.

“How did such a beautiful day turn into this? It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” I mused as we drove back to the library.

“You know the old saying. If you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait fifteen minutes. It’ll change.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s true,” I agreed. The heat in the car did help. By the time we got back to the library, I was reasonably dry, only to have to face going back in the rain to get to my car.

“I’ll park next to your car, so you won’t have too far to go.”

“Thanks! That’s kind of you.” I paused before I got out of the car and turned to him. “Thanks for today. I had a really nice time – well, at least until the skies opened!”

“I did, too. I’m looking forward to seeing you at the party tomorrow. Oh, that reminds me, I need to give you my address. Hold on.”

He scribbled it on a napkin he had in the back seat. “Here,” he handed it to me.

“Thanks, it would have been hard for me to get there without this! I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I climbed out and dashed into my own car. It didn’t take me long to get home. It had been a good day, a very good day. Mike was different from the men I had met before. Of course, it helped that he really wasn’t looking to get involved with anyone, either. That made him safe to be around. Could a man and woman just be friends? That was the eternal question, wasn’t it? I admit, I didn’t have much experience in that area – at least not since puberty. I suppose I was about to find out. I was willing to give it a try, anyway. If things got too uncomfortable, I could always gracefully bow out of the relationship.

I took Saturday night off from writing. Instead, I curled up on the couch with Lady beside me and watched a movie while I worked on a quilt. I didn’t watch much TV – a show here and there, but I enjoyed my Saturday night movie nights relaxing with my sewing. My mother had taught me to sew by hand when I was a little girl – nothing fancy, just some simple stitches and a little embroidery. She could make the most amazing quilts. Mine were what could most kindly be termed “serviceable bed coverings.” My stitches would never be small enough, and my blocks were nothing if not simple, but I loved it. It took me about a year to complete a quilt, but that was OK. I enjoyed it, and my mother was always kind enough not to criticize my efforts. Like my mom, I liked hand sewing, the rhythm of the needle going up and down through the layers of fabric. It was soothing, relaxing and therapeutic. It was my artistic expression. I had never been good at drawing or painting, but I could piece scrap fabrics together and sew straight lines, and in the end come out with something beautiful and useful. That was a reward in and of itself.

I enjoy movies, too, although not as much as books. Still, a good movie allows you to lose yourself in the story. A great movie might even make a heartbroken girl believe in love again, at least for a couple hours. My favorites were old black and white classics – movies with stars like Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire; anything with Katherine Hepburn. Musicals were fun also. How many times had I seen The Sound of Music? I knew all the songs by heart, and that famous line “When God closes a door, he always opens a window.” My mother always used to tell me that whenever I got discouraged. It may be true, but somehow it seemed like God often made you search for the window.

Join us next week for the next chapter of Through the Open Window.  Can’t wait for more?  Check out Through the Open Window at Amazon!

Interview between authors Donna-Marie Cooper O’Boyle and Patti Maguire Armstrong

DONNA-MARIE: Patti, thanks for taking the time out for this interview. Your book looks lovely and as I said in my endorsement, it is “simply delightful!” I loved reading the manuscript and felt that even though it is written for third to sixth-graders it is engaging and also relatable to parents as well. Hopefully, it will be a book shared and discussed between them. I have a feeling you know something about growing boys! After all, you have 8 of them, right? You have ten children, don’t you? Do you think you could tell us why you wrote this book in the first place?

PATTI: “Why” is a funny question for a writer, as I’m sure you know. It’s all about inspiration.  When I started writing, I never could have told you where the story was going or how it was going to end. It seemed to unfold as I wrote.   That being said, there was also a personal desire on my part to explore the questions and confusion related to prayer.  People that lose their faith, often do so either because they stopped praying or because they felt their prayers went unanswered.  Parents tell their children that God hears our prayers, but it is a much tougher lesson to teach that we don’t always get what we want when we pray.

DONNA-MARIE: I’m glad that you wove your exploration of prayer within your book to help the young understand the power of prayer as well as to demystify it for them. I’m sure that you have experienced both joys and challenges in raising a large family. Would you like to share any of your experiences with us? Perhaps something that may have inspired you to write this book in the first place?

PATTI: Yes, raising a large family does affect your view of the world. Life is busy, full of activities and full of questions as you try to explain life to your kids and model it in a Godly way to them.   Even though the story is fiction, it was also very much a slice of my life.

DONNA-MARIE: I thought so. Do you see big differences in your boys growing up versus your girls?

PATTI: Oh, yes.  My boys seem to never stop moving. They are always up to something to, which makes parenting a challenge.  When I just had four boys, a complete stranger once came up to me and said with a chuckle: “Don’t worry, when they are teenagers, boys are much easier than girls.” My girls are 16 and 13 now.  They actually are pretty good kids although once in a while we will butt heads.   After I had 4 boys, I felt so blessed to also have the experience of dresses and dolls.  But then getting 2 more boys has once again infused our home with a second chapter of fun and activity (and broken things!)

DONNA-MARIE: God has certainly blessed you! I know you have other books too. But, did you enjoy the writing process of this book, Patti? You said this book is very much “a slice of your life.” Did it perhaps come naturally from any real life experiences within your own family when you were growing up or from your family now that you may want to talk about?

PATTI: I wrote the first draft of this book 15 years ago.  My three oldest boys served as the model for the characters.  I always knew how my characters would act because I pinned their personalities on my own kids.  They absolutely loved reading it back then as it came along because they felt it was a story about them. Now, my oldest are 26, 24, and 22. They loved reading it again when I pulled it out and brushed it up. My son, Luke who co-authored the Amazing Grace for Survivors with me, went over it and offered suggestions. I had to laugh when he wrote about one line: “Put in an exclamation point there. I would have said that with an exclamation point.”

DONNA-MARIE: What do you hope your readers will take away from this book?

PATTI: I hope they will live the story. It’s an example of praying even when you don’t understand where God is taking you. It’s also an example of living the Christian life with prayer and trust, or at least trying to trust when it’s hard.  Amid disappointments, confusion, the challenge of wanting to belong and wanting to feel important, bad choices, hard choices, and coming to grips with what is really important–these are all issues that are explored and I hope the reader will find guidance through the story.

DONNA-MARIE: How about the parents? Do you hope to reach them too in some way?

PATTI: This is a fun read-out-loud book with your kids. I often read to my kids at bedtime long after they are old enough to read themselves. Sharing a book together always lends itself to a shared experience and encourages conversations about these topics.  Even if the parents don’t also read it with their children, they can trust that it’s a book that reflect their own values and be one more tool to reinforce the lessons they are trying to pass on.

DONNA-MARIE: Is there something else you’d like to share with readers that I haven’t touched upon?

PATTI: Yes, although the book can just be an enjoyable read, I’ve also put vocabulary and discussion questions for each chapter at the back of the book so it can be used in classrooms and homeschools.

DONNA-MARIE: Could you please tell us a bit more about that?

PATTI: I put vocabulary and discussion questions for each chapter in the back of the book. My thinking was that this gives the book the additional quality of being well-suited for school use either in the classroom or at home. Even if it’s just a parent reading it with a child or a child reading it alone, the questions can be used to open up dialogue with kids on aspects of life and faith. As for the vocabulary, most of the words are frequently used among adults but teachers usually discover that kids don’t often have a grasp on words that we take for granted as being understood.

DONNA-MARIE Finally, Patti, how can we get your book?

The book sells for $9.99.  You can ask your local bookstore to order it or you can go to the Bezalel Website at http://www.bezalelbooks.com/ .  Bulk orders for classroom use are also available by emailing the publisher Cheryl Dickow at cheryl@bezalelbooks.com.

DONNA-MARIE: Thank you very much for your thoughts, Patti. I pray that your book does well and helps to inspire countless families!

PATTI: Thanks Donna for doing this interview. We once both shared with each other what a blessing it is to be writing Catholic books.  It’s part work, part mission and very rewarding and fun as well.

DONNA-MARIE: Yes, it is such a blessing, very rewarding and fun too! Patti, it’s been enjoyable hearing about your writing process and learning more about your book. Thanks again. God bless you!

Copyright 20010 Donna-Marie Cooper O’Boyle

Last week, we shared Chapter Two of the terrific novel, Through the Open Window by talented novelist Anne Faye. Join us each Monday as we watch this incredible story unfold.

• Chapter Two
• Chapter One

Chapter 3

The sun was shining when I woke up Saturday morning. I showered, got dressed, pulled on a sweater, and took Lady for an early morning walk. As she pulled me around the neighborhood, I could see the whole story playing out in my mind. It was like watching a movie. The whole novel was there. I just needed to figure out someway to get what was in my mind out onto the paper. I didn’t know if it would take 50,000 words. It didn’t matter. I just needed to get it out. If only there were someway to download what was in my brain straight to the computer. That would make life easier. That wasn’t the point, though, was it? The point was to actually go through the process of writing.

I got home and turned on the computer. Where to begin? I once read that the first line of a novel is the most important. It should grab the reader and leave them begging for more while at the same time shedding light on the story to come. That is a lot to ask of a few words, isn’t it? What if the author doesn’t know where the story is going? Thank goodness real life doesn’t have to come with an opening line. I would be in such trouble!

In my life, I had probably read thousands of “first lines.” Let’s see – “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I think that was already taken. “It was a dark and stormy night.” Isn’t that the way Snoopy always started his tales? No, those wouldn’t work. I decided to go with the old standby – “Once upon a time.” I could always go back and change it later. Once I started writing, the words came easily. It was such a release just to let out all the thoughts and emotions that had been weighing on me so heavily for the past eighteen months. Before I knew it, two hours had passed and I had written over 2000 words. I was impressed. That was a good start!

*****

Monday when I went to work, I noticed the National Novel Writing Month bulletin board by the community room. A few participants had already posted their names and word totals. I scanned the listings to see whether Mike had posted his. He hadn’t. I decided to post mine. What could it hurt? I grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote “Lucy – 3200 words” and tacked it up on the bulletin board. Then, I headed off to the children’s room.

It was story time day. I love story time day. I run a group for preschoolers and their moms. The kids are so much fun. There is one little girl who comes along with her grandparents. It really seems to be the highlight of their week. That makes me feel good.  Each week, I pick books about a certain theme and plan a craft to go along with it. This week, we were focusing on pigs. I was going to read the ever-favorite Three Little Pigs along with Pigs on a Blanket. We were even going to sing Ten Little Piggies – a take off of the more famous Ten Little Indians. For a craft, we were making paper plate pigs, complete with curly tails. I always feel like I’ve accomplished a good thing when story time is done.

When I was heading out for my lunch, I noticed Mike sitting in the cafe area, working on his laptop. He was working diligently, typing away with remarkable speed. He must have sensed me watching him because he turned around and smiled. That smile – no wonder it melted all the girls’ hearts.

“Hey, Lucy! How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?”

“Great! I saw your total up on the wall. You’re doing really well. I’m glad that you decided to take the plunge,” Mike said.

“Yeah, I’ve been enjoying it” I admitted.

“See, I told you that you would.”

“Well, the month is just getting started.”

“True, but I think that you are going to do just fine. I look forward to seeing more of your word totals up on the board.”

“And how many words are you up to?” I asked.

“Honestly, I’ve gotten off to a rough start. Writing science-fiction isn’t as easy as I had hoped. I’ve read lots of sci-fi. I thought I would be able to create a new world without much difficulty, but nothing is materializing at the moment. I’m only at about 1500 words. I have some work to make up. That’s what I’m doing sitting here, trying to force myself to write. At home, there are too many distractions.”

“And here I am distracting you.”

“Don’t worry about it – I like that kind of distraction,” he said. I couldn’t help it. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Well, I need to grab some lunch and then get back to work, so I should be going.”

“Do you want to sit with me to eat your lunch?” he asked.

“Won’t I bother you? I thought you said that you wanted to write,” I reminded him.

“I do, but like I said, this story is going nowhere in a hurry. Maybe talking to you will help give me some ideas.”

“OK, seeing that it is in the interest of keeping your novel moving forward,” I said. “Let me get my lunch. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

I went to the break room and took my lunch out of the fridge. I also checked my appearance in the mirror. Mmm. I straightened out my hair and pinched my cheeks. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any makeup on me to freshen that up. It would have to do. At least I had my favorite shirt on. I always thought the green in it brought out the green in my eyes. Why did I care, anyway? This wasn’t a date. He was just being friendly and trying to keep from working on his novel. I was a convenient procrastination tool, that was all.

I went back to the table Mike was sitting at. He had put his laptop away and was staring out the window. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

“Oh, I was just studying the people in the parking lot. Being a people-watcher is a good hobby for a writer. You never know when one of those people might make a guest appearance in a story. I think I just spotted someone who might make a good alien in my sci-fi novel. Everyone is fair game,” he replied.

“Even me?”

“Yup, even you!”

“Oh no. You’re making me reconsider having lunch with you.”

“Don’t worry. I promise to describe you in only the most flattering terms.”

“Good to know,” I responded. “Here, I picked up a soda for you in the back room.” I handed him the can. “I hope Coke is OK.”

“Sure, that’s great. Thanks.”

“Would you like half of my sandwich? It’s peanut butter and jelly, or maybe an apple?” I held up the fruit.

“No, thank you. I can’t have you starving on my account. Besides, I ate right before I came here. “Oh, OK.” I put down the apple and took a big bite out of my sandwich.

“So, what is your job here at the library?” he asked. Unfortunately, my mouth was full of peanut butter and I couldn’t respond. I motioned for him to wait as I tried to swallow as quickly as possible.

“I’m an assistant librarian in the children’s section,” I answered when I could finally speak again.

“That sounds like an interesting job,” he said.

“It is. I like it a lot.”

“You’re good at it, too. My nephews loved the Halloween party that you put on.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t just me, though. All of the children’s librarians were hard at work that day. It is fun to work with the kids. I had seen you with the boys. I had wondered who they were.”

“They are my sister’s kids. Her husband split a couple years ago. The scum decided he didn’t want to be a father anymore. So, I try to help her out as much as I can. I watch the boys when she is working.”

“Wow! Not many young men would do that,” I said.

“I’m not that young. Plus, I really don’t mind. I like being with them. They are very entertaining!”

“Yeah, the kids I meet here at the library are pretty entertaining, too.”

“I like spending time at the library. I love the smell of old books,” he said.

“No way! Me, too!” I laughed. “I thought I was the only one! My friends growing up always thought I was a bit strange for sniffing books.”

“Don’t listen to them! They don’t know what they are missing!”

“Maybe you’re right. Anyway, this is my first job working in a library. I feel lucky to have it. I was a volunteer in my library back home, but this is the first time I’m getting paid for something I enjoy doing so much. Most days it doesn’t even feel like work.”

“I know what you mean. Most days what I do doesn’t feel like work, either.”

“What, exactly, is it that you do?” I asked.

“Would you believe me if I told you I was an undercover FBI agent?” he responded with a straight face.

“Really?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” he laughed. “I’m kidding. The look on your face was priceless, though.” I tossed my rolled up tin foil at him.”

“So what do you do?” I asked again.

“Seriously, I am an artist. I work for myself. I also teach a couple classes at a local college and at the Springfield museums.”

“Oh, so that’s why you have the time to be sitting here in the middle of the day working on your novel.”

“Yup. I’m a lucky man!” he replied.

“What type of art do you do?”

“Painting, mostly. I do portraits, murals, still lifes. I’ve even done pet portraits – whatever people are willing to pay me to do, really. I can’t afford to be picky. I’m just happy to be painting and getting paid for it,” he paused to drink some soda. “I like teaching, too. It’s fun to help people discover their hidden artistic talent.”

I looked up and noticed Rachel looking at me from the children’s room. I also caught sight of the clock on the wall. My lunch break had been over fifteen minutes ago. Oops!

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go. I need to get back to work before my boss kills me.” I hurriedly gathered up my trash.

“Well, we don’t want that to happen,” he said. “It would be horrible to have a murder at the library.”

“I’ll see you later,” I said as I walked away.

“I hope so,” he responded.

I rushed back to the children’s room. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. I didn’t realize how late it was.” I started sorting some books to be reshelved.

“That’s OK,” she said. “I saw you out there with the good-looking Mr. Writer Man. How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing alright.” I responded.

“He’s doing better than alright if you ask me,” she said with a smug look. “Are you going to go out with him sometime?”

“He hasn’t asked,” I answered. “We’re just friends.”

“Just friends, huh? You weren’t looking like ‘just friends’ to me.”

“Well, we are,” I stated emphatically. “I told you, I’m not looking for a man. Anyway, from what I’ve heard, he already has a girlfriend.”

“That’s too bad,” she sighed. “I suppose it’s not surprising that a man that fine would have someone special. Still, there’s no ring on his finger. All’s fair in love and war. I say that he is still fair game.”

“Rachel, you’re awful! I’m not going after another woman’s man,” I said indignantly as I walked away to get back to my work.

Join us next week for the next chapter of Through the Open Window.  Can’t wait for more?  Check out Through the Open Window at Amazon!

Audrey, please briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

What inspired you to create the Kissing Hand series?

The Kissing Hand was never meant to be a series. It evolved into a series because of the separate incidents that each led to its own story.

Because I became too ill to remain in the theatre, I spent a great deal of time with my young children in the parks. It is there I witnessed the mother and cub raccoon share their Kissing Hand moment. When my youngest was frightened of going to kindergarten, I gave her a kiss in her hand like the mother raccoon had done and told her to put it on her face when she needed it. Because it helped so dramatically, we’ve continued to do it to this day. It was after my daughter’s first day of school that I decided to write The Kissing Hand for others to share that special moment with their child.

Do you have additional stories about Chester in the works?

There are several more Kissing Hand books in the works. The next book to come out will be Chester The Brave.

Tell us about The Writing Penn and the impact it has on your work.

The Writing Penn was created to help children fall in love with writing. It offers not only secrets I have learned that have made my writing better, but introduces children to the secrets I am still learning. I want every child I come in contact with to want to race to a piece of paper and start writing for the rest of their lives. The letters I receive from children have helped me to put my illness in the background and joy in the foreground.

The thing that impressed me the most about The Kissing Hand and Chester Raccoon and the Acorn Full of Memories was the way the illustrations and narration worked so wonderfully together.  The tone of Mother Raccoon–her care and tenderness–comes through so well.  These are books you can feel as well as read.  How did you come up with such wonderful characters?

I work very closely with my artists so that the words and pictures are seamless. I often change my writing after I see one of the pieces of art. The pictures spurn new ideas that enhance my story, the same way my story spurns new ideas for the artist. I think artists are amazing and all of my books are better for their work.



Copyright 2010 Lisa Barker

As the saying goes, one of these things is not like the other. But if you love Maud Hart Lovelace’s Betsy-Tacy Books as much as I do, you know that Mankato, the town that inspired the books’ setting, is a powerfully attractive destination. Truth is, I’ve yet to meet a Betsy-Tacy fan who does not long, on an almost primal level, to spend some serious time in Deep Valley.

So what exactly are the Betsy-Tacy stories? On their most basic level, they are a series about a girl and her best friends, living in a small town in Minnesota at the turn of the last century. (The books, though fiction, are largely autobiographical; Lovelace based nearly all of the characters on people she knew.) Betsy and Tacy (and, later, their new friend Tib) get into all of the gentle scrapes that you’d expect of three imaginative but good kids growing up under the gentle eyes of their families and neighbors.  What’s really great about the series, though, is that the girls grow up.  Along with the four books about the girls as children, there are six more: four of them cover Betsy’s high school years, in which she navigates the waters of dating and discerns her writing career; one book focuses on the tour of Europe that she makes, alone, in her early twenties; and the final book, Betsy’s Wedding, tells how she marries her intellectual and creative equal, the brilliant Joe Willard.

My own acquaintance with Betsy and Tacy came through my mother, who had read the books herself as a child in the 1950s.  It took one volume of their girls’ experiences, complete with Lois Lenski’s charming line drawings, for me to become Betsy and Tacy’s staunchest seven-year-old fan.  When I was a freshman in high school, I re-discovered Betsy through the high school novels, and it was like revisiting an old friend who had grown up as surely as I had.  At fourteen, Betsy did the same things I did: she wrote in a journal, developed a massive crush on a seriously cute guy, went to dances and football games.   Though the high school books were out of print, I cobbled together a complete set thanks to library book sales. The copies were ragged on the edges, with library stamps and suspicious-looking stains on the pages, but that didn’t matter. What mattered – then as now — were the stories themselves, and the characters who quickly became some of my dearest friends.  Now, at the age of thirty-six, I have realized that there are no other books I’ve re-read as often as I’ve re-read these.

Why?

For one thing, this series is a tribute to the power of community.  Deep Valley is a town where everyone knows your name, but in the nicest way.  Though Betsy and her friends dream of seeing the Great World, as they call it, there is nothing about Deep Valley that is hostile to their imaginations.  There is none of the provincial narrow-mindedness that is often found in stories of small towns, no gossiping neighbors who defeat Betsy and her dreams of becoming a writer.  It’s also a community where local history is known and respected, where kids can play alone on the Big Hill without fear.  Growing up in Silicon Valley, in 1960s suburban tract home, a little bit of me ached for the bucolic paradise of a small rural town, where Betsy and her friends could pick wildflowers and go sledding.  Even now, I rather envy it.

Betsy is also, in the stories, surrounded by a smaller community of family and friends.  Her family is cozily close-knit; her parents take their three daughters on a yearly pilgrimage to the place where they married, and they let each girl grow up at her own pace, following her individual dreams.  Betsy is also a part of The Crowd, a group of high school students of both genders who gather to sing around the piano and go on picnics.  There are no Mean Girls in the stories, no boys who pressure their girlfriends to cross boundaries they don’t want to cross.  And though Betsy does, her sophomore year, date the wrong boy for her — someone who makes her tamp down her natural ebullience and alter her personality — she learns her mistake before she is too far invested in him, and before she has irrevocably damaged her healthy sense of self-worth.  If only all teenage girls were so lucky.

On another, most primal level, I loved – and love — these books because they are so upbeat.  When I was a teen, I was distressed by most young adult fiction.  It was so dark, rife with family conflicts or physical abuse or characters who found themselves in sexual situations that were still years in the future for me.  Though there is certainly a virtue in fiction that holds up a mirror to the complexities of real life, and though I don’t as a rule believe that teens are not ready to be exposed to difficult subject matter, I also think that in the churny waters of adolescence, there’s a place for books that are, simply, happy – books where bad things happen but are resolved with no lasting harm, books where family and friends are a part of the circle that keeps us whole, not antagonists who undermine our emotional wellness.

And, as a writer myself, I admire Lovelace’s craft.  Her writing is dynamic and sprightly, and though she talks often of sentimental matters, she does so with a freshness that holds up beautifully, sixty years later.  And it’s impossible not to love the irrepressible protagonist.  Betsy is a deep thinker and a writer, but she’s an incurable optimist as well; she has, at many points in my life, lifted me out of the blues and into a sunnier frame of mind.

As I write, Betsy-Tacy fans everywhere have a new reason to be happy: the complete series is now back in print.    Last fall, Harper Perennial reissued attractive double volumes of the six high-school-and-beyond stories, complete with the original drawings.  (I guess it’s time to replace my battered library copies.)   As I wandered around our local Borders store a few months back, I came upon the new edition of Heaven to Betsy/Betsy in Spite of Herself on the display shelf – a crisp new paperback, showing Betsy and her friend Tacy dancing hand-in-hand on their way to high school.  And as I looked at it, I actually felt envious of all of those who would get to pick up the book, open the cover, and enter, for that magical first time, the cozy, perennially youthful world of Deep Valley.  When it comes to fiction, there really is no happier place to be.

Check out the Betsy-Tacy Books and Support CatholicMom.com

Copyright 2010 Ginny Moyer

Last week, we shared Chapter One of the terrific novel, Through the Open Window by talented novelist Anne Faye. Join us each Monday as we watch this incredible story unfold.

• Chapter One

Chapter 2

I was shelving books in the juvenile paperbacks section when I looked up and saw Mike walking down the aisle toward me. He had a big smile on his face. In spite of myself, I smiled back.

“Hi! I’m surprised to see you in the children’s section.”

“I hope you don’t mind me stopping by like this. I was hoping that you would be working today. The librarian at the desk said I could find you back here.”

“No, it’s no problem! What can I do for you? Did you need help finding a specific title?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I came by to give you a copy of that book I was telling you about. He held out the well-worn book in his hand. “I had an extra copy at home and thought that you might be able to make use of it.”

“Oh, wow, that is really thoughtful of you,” I said as I took the copy of the book. “You didn’t need to make a special trip just for that.”

“No, but I wanted to. It really wasn’t any trouble.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Hey, can you take a break? Do you want to grab a coffee or something?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry. I just got here a few minutes ago,” I lied.

“Oh, OK, then. Have you decided if you are going to come to the party Thursday night? I really hope you will.”

“You know, I don’t think that I am going to be able to make it.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said disappointedly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around then. I still hope you’ll do the writing project.”

“I’m still thinking about it,” I said. “Thanks again for the book.”

“You’re welcome.”

I watched him walk away.

*****

I had noticed that my boss Rachel had conveniently made her way over to my section of the library so she could casually eavesdrop on the conversation.

“And who was that beautiful specimen of a man?” she asked after Mike was out of earshot.

“Oh, that’s Mike. He is the head of that novel-writing group I was telling you about,” I said. “Is he good looking? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, right. You hadn’t noticed. You’d have to be blind not to notice,” Rachel said. “So, what was that party he was talking about?”

“It’s a kick-off party for the novel writing month. Everybody is supposed to come dressed as their favorite literary character in order to ‘get them in the mood’ for writing.”

“And Mike is going to be there. He’s obviously sweet on you, so why, exactly, aren’t you going to this party?”

“I don’t think he is interested – he is just friendly. Anyway, I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

“And why on earth not? In the six months you have been working here, you haven’t talked about going on a single date, or any men at all. Now an amazing-looking man comes in here and invites you to a party and you don’t want to go? I just don’t understand.”

“I can’t really explain it. I just don’t want my life to be complicated. I’m still trying to get settled in around here,” I said.

“Well, if you ask me, your life could use some complication. I think you should go to the party. Having a good time certainly wouldn’t kill you,” she said as she returned to the desk to help a patron who was waiting there.

*****

Rachel means well. I know that. She is the closest thing I have to a good friend in these parts. She’s a few years older than me, married for ten years with two little girls. Her life is crazy busy, but good. Every time she talks about her daughters, her eyes just light up. I have to admit, I’m a little jealous. I would really like her life, but mine just didn’t turn out that way. Some people are just lucky, I  guess.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should go to that party. There will probably be enough people there so that Mike won’t even notice I’m there. Maybe I could make some new friends. Maybe I would actually have a good time. When was the last time I actually had a good time? To be honest, I couldn’t remember. It had been quite a while. Of course, that also meant I had to come up with a costume.

I arrived at the library a few minutes before the party was about to begin. I sat in my car seriously questioning my sanity. I considered putting the key back into the ignition and turning right around. But I told Rachel I was coming and I knew if I backed out, I would never hear the end of it. So, I gathered up my courage, and my carpet bag, and stepped out of the car.

There were several people at the party, but I saw Mike as soon as I stepped into the room. He had a straw hat, a torn shirt, and patched overalls with a paint brush in his hand. And he looked just as handsome as he had the other night in his pullover and tweed coat. He was talking to a woman dressed like Cleopatra. I should have turned and ran, but a woman dressed as Hester Prynne from “The Scarlet Letter” came over and offered me some punch. “Thank you,” I said.

“You look nervous,” she said.

“I’m a little out of my element.”

“Well, you look great!”

“Thanks!”

“I’m Chelsea. Is this your first time here?”

“Hi! I’m Lucy,” I said, shaking her hand. “Yes, this is my first time. Is it that obvious?”

“Yes! I had the same terrified look on my face last year when I came for the first time. I wasn’t sure what I was doing with this group either, but they are a great group of people, and the writing is fun. You never know what stories are lurking inside of you until you actually try to get them out on paper.

“Look, here comes Mike now. He heads up our group. Have you met him?”

Before I even had the chance to answer, she was yelling over to him.

“Hey, Mike, come over here! There’s someone here that you should meet!”

I could feel my cheeks turning red with embarrassment. If I could have, I think I would have sunk into the floor.

“Hi Chelsea! Hi Lucy! I’m so glad that you decided to come after all!” Mike said warmly.

“Oh, so you two do know each other,” Chelsea said.

“Yes, we had the pleasure the other night at the meeting,” Mike replied.

“Great! Well I can see that there are other people I should be handing out punch to. It was nice to meet you, Lucy, but duty calls!” and off she went.

Mike turned to me. “Wait – don’t tell me who you are. Let me guess! ‘Anne of Green Gables’ – right?”

“Wow, I’m impressed! Not many men would recognize ‘Anne!’”

“Well my sister absolutely loved her. She had all the books and the movies and an ‘Anne’ doll. My parents even took us on a family vacation up to Prince Edward Island just so Sara could see all the places talked about in the books. Have you ever been there?” he asked.

“No. I’ve always wanted to, though.”

“You should. Not just because of Anne either. It is just an absolutely beautiful place.”

“Hopefully, I’ll get there someday.”

“Well, you look great as ‘Anne,’” he said.

“Thanks! I figured with the red hair and all. . . I hated my red hair when I was young, just like ‘Anne.’ Somehow, being like her made it a little easier to take.”

“I’ve always been rather fond of red hair myself. It makes a woman stand out in a crowd.”

My cheeks were starting to match my hair.

“Thank you. I’ve always been fond of Tom Sawyer.” Did I actually just say that?

“Yeah, it’s a great book – one of my favorites when I was kid. Do you want to help me paint a fence?” he asked, holding up his paintbrush.

“No,” I laughed. “I think I’ll pass. I don’t want to get my outfit dirty!”

“Oh, that’s too bad . . .Well,” he said, looking around. “I suppose I should go mingle with the other guests. I’ll talk to you later. OK?”

“OK.”

He turned away, then turned back. “Did you get a chance to look at that book I gave you?”

“Yes, actually I read the whole thing. I brought it with me tonight to return it to you,” I reached into my carpet bag.

“Wow! You read fast. You don’t need to return the book. I told you, I had an extra copy. If you don’t want it, you can pass it along to someone else sometime.”

“OK, thanks.” I placed the book back into my bag as I watched him walk away. He greeted a few other people and then returned to his place next to Cleopatra.

Chelsea came back over to talk. “Mike is something, isn’t he? I couldn’t help but notice how you were flirting with him.”

“Oh, really, was I? I really wasn’t trying to.”

“You wouldn’t be a woman if you didn’t! Every woman flirts with Mike, and he flirts with every woman! But he’s spoken for. Cleopatra over there, also known as Jennifer, has claimed him.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Oh yeah, they’ve been together for a while.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” she said. “Mike’s so friendly. He’s really easy to misread.”

“No, it’s OK. I’m just getting tired. It’s been a long day. I think that I’m going to go home and go to bed.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stick around and meet some more of the people in the group?”

“No, thanks. I’m just going to get going.”

“Well, I’ll be hanging around the library during the coming month. I hope I get to see you!”

“I’m sure you will. I often feel like I live here!”

“Alright, have a good night,” she said.

“Good night.”

*****

When I got home, I took off my costume, put on my comfy sweats and curled up with my dog. I love my dog. No matter how bad a day I’ve had, she’s always thrilled to see me. She comes running over the second she hears me turn the doorknob with her tail wagging a mile a minute. I got Lady from the local animal shelter as soon as I moved here, both for companionship and protection, although admittedly she is not very scary. She’s all black – half Lab, half Terrier. She basically looks like a miniature Black Lab. Unfortunately, she also suffers from illusions of grandeur. She’s only fifteen pounds, but she thinks that she is a big, bad dog, especially if she encounters a cat, or a squirrel, or, heaven forbid, another dog, on our daily walks. She turns into her alter-ego, Ms. Barky. Mostly, though, she’s very quiet and sweet and unassuming, and she loves to be near me. She sleeps right next to me in bed at night. I have a dog who loves me. Why on earth would I want a man? No man I had ever met has ever been so loyal or faithful.

I was a bit relieved that Mike was involved with someone. However, I was a little disappointed, too. Despite what I had told Rachel, I had thought he might be interested in me. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me like that. But, if what Chelsea said was true, and I had no reason to believe that it wasn’t, that was just how Mike looked at women. He was a natural-born flirt and I was just another woman to flirt with. Ugh! I knew I had no reason to be upset, but I buried my head in my pillow and went to sleep.

*****

The next day was Halloween. My task for the day was to help out with the children’s Halloween party. I had traded in my “Anne” outfit for a more traditional witch’s costume. The library was having a costume contest and giving out candy. I was reading age-appropriate scary stories and singing songs – “Five Little Pumpkins” anyone? It really was a lot of fun. Surprisingly, Mike showed up with two young boys dressed as “Yoda” and “Anakin Skywalker” from “Star Wars.” They both looked to be about six or seven years old. Were they his children? I wondered. He hadn’t said anything about children, but that didn’t mean anything. After all, it wasn’t like we had gotten into each other’s life stories. I was too busy to talk to him at the party. He waved and I smiled and that was all. He and the boys must have left when I wasn’t looking, because at the end of the party I looked around and they were gone.

Halloween night was quiet at my house. I bought tons of candy because I had no idea how many trick-or-treaters might show up at my door. In the end, I only ended up with eight. I suppose that’s not surprising considering I live at the end of a dead-end street. It was just as well. Lady barks like she is possessed whenever anyone rings the doorbell anyway. Of course, now I had an obscene amount of candy left with no one to eat it but me. Not a good plan; at least not if I wanted to retain any semblance of a waistline. I’d have to figure out something to do with the candy – maybe I would donate it to the library – we could give it out there for prizes or something. In the meantime, there were some Tootsie Rolls just calling my name. It was Halloween, after all, and what’s Halloween without at least a little candy?

I sat down with a notebook and pen. If I was going to do this novel experiment, I needed to come up with a plan. It had been a long time since I had written anything. I had loved writing as a child. I would make up stories with my dolls and then write them out. They led such interesting lives, at least in my nine-year-old imagination. When I was in sixth grade, I actually began work on a children’s book called “Fairyland.” It was about a girl who discovered an underwater world inhabited by fairies. I was convinced it was going to be the next Alice in Wonderland! I would work on it in school when I had free time. After about a month, however, my teacher said that I couldn’t work on it anymore at school. That was the end of that particular project.

As a teenager, I had filled up notebooks with romantic stories and teenage angst. My favorite birthday gift when I was fifteen was a beautiful journal full of blank pages. It had seemed so full of potential. I couldn’t wait to start pouring out my heart. That journal had been followed by several others. I had a whole box of them buried in the back of my closet. From time to time, I had considered burning them – one big giant bonfire of my past. But, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hadn’t written in my journal since the day of the fire. In a lot of ways, I felt like my life ended that day. The darkness fell. That young woman with the fanciful stories was officially gone forever. Life would never be the same, but I was trying to start over.

I had hoped the move would be what I needed to rejoin the living. It had helped in some ways. I mostly kept to myself, though. I lived alone with Lady. I went to work. In my free time, which I had way too much of, I would go for a walk, lose myself in a book, or work on my quilting – anything to keep from thinking. It didn’t work. I called my parents every once and a while. I knew my mom missed me. She kept asking me to come home. She didn’t understand why I had left – not really. How could she? I had never told her the truth. I thought that maybe if I could start writing again, maybe I could bring back some of the person that I used to be. Maybe some of the pain could start to heal.

So, what could I write about?  Could I even find 50,000 words to put down on paper? The book Mike had given me said to make a list of the things you liked in stories and a list of things that you didn’t like. I suppose I could safely rule out science fiction. I was never the create-a-fantasy-world-on-the-fifth –moon-of-a-planet-to-be-named-later kind of girl. Maybe I could write a mystery. I liked mysteries. I wasn’t sure if I could figure out how to make the clues, however. Anybody with half a brain would probably solve my mystery on the first five pages. I also liked medical stories. I could go for a good hospital drama anytime. Of course, I don’t know the first thing about medicine other than what I’ve seen on TV or read in a book. I suppose that would lend a certain lack of authenticity to my tale. I also loved romances. I loved stories with happy ever after endings, where the man and the woman are madly in love and go riding off into the sunset. There is a reason that they are considered fiction. I never understood why someone would write a book with an unhappy ending. Life is full of enough unhappy endings. I read books to escape, not to be reminded of pain and suffering. I don’t know whether I could write a “happy ever after” story. I certainly didn’t have much experience in that department. Oh man, this was getting me nowhere. I was supposed to start writing the next day, and I didn’t even have an idea. This was going to be a losing effort if there ever was one. What on earth was I thinking?

And then, it came to me. I knew what I had to write about. So what if it wasn’t going to be exactly what one might call fiction. I would change the names. Who would know? No one was going to read it anyway. This was just for me and my heart. I went to bed. For the first time in a long time, I was looking forward to the next day.

Join us next week for the next chapter of Through the Open Window.  Can’t wait for more?  Check out Through the Open Window at Amazon!

We are thrilled to introduce our next online novel, Through the Open Window by talented novelist Anne Faye.

About the Book: Lucy Lyons is a woman trying to escape her past. Content to work as a librarian and live alone with her dog, all she wants is a simple life with no complications. When she decides to take the plunge and begins to write a novel during National Novel Writing Month, she gets much more than she bargained for. Her writing will not only force her to face her own secrets, but will also put her in the path of a handsome artist who shares her love of the written word. “Through the Open Window” is an engaging novel about second chances and the secrets we all keep.

About Anne Faye: Anne Faye is a homeschooling Catholic mom who writes from her home in Western Massachusetts. In her free time, she loves painting, quilting, and going for long walks with her dog. This is her first novel. Visit her blog at http://annefaye.blogspot.com

Chapter 1

I sat in the back of the room surveying my surroundings, clutching my notebook, desperately trying to fade into the woodwork. These people were writers! Conversations about plot concepts and writing techniques were going on all around me. What was I doing here? My boss Rachel had convinced me to come after I had casually mentioned seeing the flyer. I was in way over my head. I stood up to attempt a quick escape, but then the meeting leader came in and closed the door behind him. I was trapped. I slunk back into my seat and hoped no one noticed.

“Welcome to the National Novel Writing Month Support Group! For those of you who don’t know me, I am Mike Duncan, your humble leader and fellow sufferer as we travel through this grand writing adventure. To you gluttons for punishment who are returning from last year, I praise your bravery and tenacity of spirit. To you new members, I hope that you find this month-long journey as exciting and fulfilling as the rest of us have. At the very least, at the end of it, you will have a great story to tell.”

Mike was tall with sandy hair, a goatee, glasses and a kind smile. A couple of times he glanced in my direction and I wondered if he could see the look of fear in my eyes. He continued talking about the rules of NaNoWriMo. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write 50,000 words during the month of November. You need to shut off your inner critic and just write. Don’t worry about the quality – just write. Try to get your word count out each day, so you don’t end up with a huge word debt hanging over you that you are trying to make up the last day as you type for ten hours straight, consuming nothing but pure caffeine!” The people around me nodded and smiled knowingly. “Meetings will be held weekly at the library to get together and vent or get help on plot problems you were trying to work out. Word counts can be posted on the bulletin board that will be left up outside the Community Room entrance. Feel free to share your progress with others. A kick-off party will be held October 30th. Come dressed as your favorite character from a novel as a means of getting into the literary mood! If anyone has questions, please stay. I’ll be available to talk after the meeting.”

The group slowly but steadily filed out. I lingered behind as Mike was gathering up his things. My first instinct was to run, but something compelled me to gather up my courage and walk forward.

“Hi! I’m Lucy. I work here at the library.”

“Oh, do you? I’ve always thought it would be fun to work at a library. I love libraries.”

“Me, too,” I laughed nervously.

“So, have you written a novel before,” he asked.

“No, not at all. I haven’t done any creative writing at all since I was in high school, and I’m sad to say that was quite a while ago. How about you? How many times have you done this?”

“This will be my fifth year.”

“Five?! Wow! Have you had any of your novels published?” I asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I just do it for the creative challenge. It’s like when people run a marathon. They train and train just to see if they can do it. This is like that, except I don’t need to train for a year and it doesn’t require as much exercise!”

“What do you write about?”

“Things I know about mostly. I’ve written about schools I’ve gone to, places I’ve worked. Except, in my stories, it’s my world. I can make people do whatever I want. I can combine people I know and make them into someone new. It’s really a whole bunch of fun. This year I thought I might do something different, though. I was thinking of maybe attempting to write a sci-fi novel.”

“Really? I have no idea what I’d write about,” I said. “I’m not even sure why I came to this meeting. I have to admit the whole idea sounds a bit crazy. I was actually trying to sneak out right before you came in.”

“Ah, I see. I blocked your well-timed escape,” he laughed.

“Yes, exactly!”

“Well, something must have drawn you here.”

“I don’t know. . .it just sounded intriguing. Part of me has always wanted to write a book, but I’ve never really felt like I could do it. Books have such power. I’ve always loved to read and escape to other places ― pretend I was other people. I don’t know that I could create a world that other people would want to escape to.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “It does sound intimidating when you put it like that. But that is the beauty of NaNoWriMo. Nobody is asking you, or expecting you, to write the Great American Novel. You saw all those other people in here tonight, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, eighty percent of the stuff that any of them write next month will be lousy, absolutely awful. You probably couldn’t pay someone to waste their time reading it.”

“Does that include what you write, also?” I teased.

“Oh absolutely! I have a drawer at home full of manuscripts that are mostly drivel. But every now and then, when I’m writing, I’ll get into this amazing zone where the ideas just come and the words flow and it is just pure magic. That magic makes all the drivel worth it.”

“Do you really think that I could do it?”

“Sure you could. Anyone can. There is no secret formula. You just need to be willing to sacrifice some time for a month to sit in a chair and write whatever comes to mind.”

“I still don’t know,” I mused. “I’m not even sure where I would begin.”

“Do what I do. Pick places and people you know about, changing the names and identifying details of course. You want to still have friends when the month is over! You’ll be amazed how a story will just start coming.” He paused. “There is a great book by Chris Baty called No Plot? No Problem! He’s the guy who came up with the idea for NaNoWriMo in the first place. He offers some really good suggestions about getting started and how to survive the month should you choose to take the plunge. They probably have a copy of it right here in the library. You should check it out.”

“Maybe I will,” I said as I glanced down at my watch. “Wow, I didn’t realize how late it was! I’m sorry to have kept you so long.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was my pleasure. I’m always happy to help someone get started on a writing adventure.”

“Well, thank you,” I smiled. “You have been very kind,” I said as I turned to head out the door.

“Wait!” he called after me. “Are you going to come to the party Thursday night? Whether you decide to try writing a novel or not, the party will be fun. When else can you get together with real life versions of your favorite literary characters?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“OK. I hope I’ll see you then.”

*****

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but think over the events of the evening. Did I really think I could write a novel? Did I actually want to try? What would I write about? Mike said that I should write about something I knew. Mike had such beautiful blue eyes. I caught my breath just thinking about them. OK, I needed to stop thinking about his eyes. I wasn’t looking for a new love interest. I wasn’t looking for love at all. Besides, a guy like that must have a love interest of his own anyway. Even if I went ahead with the project, I decided I would do it without the help of the support group. I didn’t want to see Mike again. I didn’t want life to get complicated.

Join us next week for the next chapter of Through the Open Window.  Can’t wait for more?  Check out Through the Open Window at Amazon!

Copyright 2010 Anne Faye

To begin reading Sweet Dreams chapter by chapter click here.

Cakes by Design’s Most Popular Recipes

Bailey’s Irish Cream Cake

Cake:

4 oz unsweetened chocolate

½ cup light brown sugar

1 cup butter, softened

6 Tablespoon and ¼ cup Bailey’s Irish Crème

3 eggs

2 cups all purpose flour

1 teaspoon. baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

2/3 buttermilk

Preheat oven 350

Grease and flour two nine inch cake pans. Set aside.

In small pan, over low heat, add chocolate, Bailey’s Irish Crème and brown sugar. Stir often until chocolate is melted and mixture smooth. Do not allow mixture to boil. With mixer, blend butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time. Mix until light and airy. In another bowl, measure out dry ingredients. Sift. Alternately, add the dry ingredients and milk to the egg mixture. Add the slightly cooled chocolate mixture. (Too hot and it will fry the eggs.) Mix until combined. Pour into prepared pans.

Remove from oven. Let cool ten minutes. Brush with ¼ cup of Baileys.

Icing:

1/4 cup whipping cream

3 T. Bailey’s Irish Crème

1/3 cup butter softened

1 ½ Tablespoon Lindt cocoa powder

2 cups of Confectioner’s sugar

Chocolate and White Chocolate Lindt chocolate bars grated.

Blend butter and Bailey’s Irish Crème. Slowly add cocoa powder. Add confectioner’s sugar, then slowly add cream—just enough to make it spreading consistency.

Ice cake.  Take grated chocolate and ‘push’ it evenly along the lower portion of the cake. Pipe trim around top later. Fill in the center with the rest of the grated chocolate.

Emma’s Coffeecake

Cake:

2 ½ cups of all purpose flour

2 ½ teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

2/3 cup butter

1 ¾ cups sugar

1 ½ teaspoon vanilla

2 eggs

1 ¼  cups milk

Preheat oven 375 degrees

Grease and flour sheet cake pan.

With mixer, beat butter until smooth. Add sugar and beat until smooth. Slowly add eggs one at a time. In separate bowl, measure out flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to mixture, alternating dry ingredients with milk. Add vanilla. Mix.

Pour into prepared pan. Bake 15 minutes. Remove and crumble topping over top.

Topping:

2 Sticks of melted butter

2 cups flour

1 cup sugar

2 teaspoons cinnamon

Confectioner’s sugar for coating.

Mix together and place in refrigerator for 15 minutes. Remove. Take a fork and crumble the mixture.  Top cake.

Return cake to the over for 5 more minutes. Cool on wire rack. Sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar. Cut into large squares.

Father Joe’s Favorite Hot Cross Buns

Buns:

4 to 4 ½ cups all purpose flour

1 package active dry yeast

¾ teaspoon cinnamon

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

Dash ground cloves

¾ cup milk

½ cup butter

1/3 cup sugar

3 eggs

2/3 cup raisins

1 beaten egg white

Preheat oven 375 degrees

Combine the following into bowl: – 2 cups flour, yeast, cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. In a pan heat milk, butter, sugar and ½ teaspoon salt until reaches 120-140 degrees and butter melts. Add milk mixture to dry ingredients. Using a paddle attachment, add eggs one at a time. Mixing after each addition. Beat on high for 3 minutes. Stir in raisins and remaining flour.

Turn out onto a floured surface. Knead until soft, dough. About 5 minutes. Shape into ball. Place in greased bowl. Turn once. Cover. Let rise in warm place for 1 ½ hours.

Punch down dough. Turn onto floured surface. Cover. Let rest 10 minutes. Divide dough into 20 portions. Shape into smooth balls. Place balls 1 ½ inches part on greased baking sheet. Cover and let rise until double. 45-60 minutes.

Using a sharp knife, make a crisscross hatch on the top of each ball. In small bowl combine beaten egg white and 1 Tablespoon of water. Brush egg mixture over rolls.

Bake 12 to 15 minutes or until golden brown. Cool slightly on wire rack. Place a piece of waxed paper under the rack. Drizzle icing on top. Let harden.

Icing:

1 cup sifted confectioner’s sugar

¼ teaspoon vanilla

1 Tablespoon milk or cream

Combine all ingredients. Beat for 2 minutes with electric beater. Adding more or less sugar for desired consistency.

For more wonderful inspirational fiction by Katherine Valentine visit her website or Amazon’s selection of Katherine Valentine novels.

To begin reading Sweet Dreams chapter by chapter click here.

Discussion Questions

1. At the opening of our story, Emma is faced with her husband’s disappearance and no resources. Have you ever been confronted with a seemingly insurmountable problem? What was your first reaction?

2. Many of Emma’s friends and neighbor’s shy away once Jerry’s disappearance and the missing bank money becomes public. What makes people abandon friends and family when things get tough? Have you ever felt uncomfortable meeting with a friend whose life has come undone?

3. God sends many people in response to Emma’s needs. How do their roles differ? Why was each needed?

4. St. Paul wrote that “faith without works is dead’. Discuss the role our careers play in our spiritual lives.

5. When did Emma begin to recognize God’s response to her needs? How did Emma work in tandem with God to realize the dream that had been placed on her heart? How did others help to bring that dream to fruition? Have you ever asked God to reveal how a special gift or talent could be used to further His kingdom?

6. Emma speaks about the poor among us and how they are often looked upon by society. How do you see the poor? Would you be able to live among them if
called to do so? What would be your reaction be if a street person offered a kiss on your cheek?

6. Discuss the difference between Emma and her son’s reaction to Jerry’s return? Could you have found the forgiveness exhibited by Emma? Has anyone every hurt you so badly that you find it impossible to forgive?

7. Ted lost his first wife to cancer and wonders if he should ask Emma to marry him, afraid that he could not bear to go through that pain again. What was Father Joe’s response? Can you picture yourself inviting someone into your life who is suffering from a terminal illness?

8. Emma’s Last Will and Testament cut Benjamin out of a monetary inheritance: yet she left him a wonderful legacy of faith inspired deeds. Discuss the legacies that we should strive to leave our children.

Congratulations to our friend and CatholicMom.com columnist Heidi Hess Saxton on the recent release of her wonderful book

. When asked to endorse Heidi’s book, I said of it,

, noted author

Hess Saxton has given Catholic families and parishes everywhere a tremendous treasure.  References from the Catechism, inspirational quotes from the saints, and suggested family activities make this a perfect faith formation tool for children and parents alike.” Having had the opportunity to read and share this beautiful book, I am now more convinced than ever that every Catholic family, school and parish should have a copy of this fantastic resource.  I’m happy to share the following interview with Heidi Hess Saxton and to give My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories my highest recommendation.

Q: Heidi, congratulations on the release of My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories. Please briefly introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

Hello! Thanks for helping me promote my new book — it was truly a labor of love, and I hope it blesses lots of families. Craig and I were married in 1999, and we foster-adopted our children Christopher and Sarah in 2002, when Sarah was six months old and Christopher was 2-1/2. I was delighted when Thomas Nelson approached me about compiling this book of stories, because it gave me a chance to include a lot of information that I wanted to pass along to my own kids.

Q: I LOVE your new book and can’t wait for our readers to explore it! For those who haven’t yet had an opportunity to read My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories could you please share an overview of the book?

My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories is a comprehensive (400+ pages!), full-color volume of stories from the whole Bible (including the deutero-canonical books). I wrote little introductions to each story, but the entire story is taken directly from the NRSV. Each story includes a prayer to use during Bible story time, tidbits of information to help you get a better understanding of the story, and a cross-referencing tool that lists Scripture and Catechism passages that are especially appropriate to read with that story. I also included a little section at the front of the book to help families cultivate a habit of family prayer.

Q: What makes this book different from other typical children’s Bible story books?

Unlike most story books, My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories includes stories from the entire Bible, especially those most important to Catholics. Although Thomas Nelson is an evangelical publisher, they worked with me to make sure the book has an authentically Catholic “voice,” incorporating Church teachings, especially on the sacraments and the saints. Because the text comes directly from Scripture, it gives children a chance to hear the beauty of the text for themselves – and the passages are kept short, so as not to be too overwhelming. And I deliberately included notes for parents, so they can learn right along with kids!

Q: What type of research went into the formation of this wonderful resource?

I drew extensively from my graduate theology studies at Sacred Heart Major Seminary in Detroit — however, I learned to love the Bible from the first thirty years of my life, especially the years I spent in Bible school as an Evangelical Christian. I have in my library an extensive collection of Scripture study resources — you should have seen the mountain of books on my desk while I was going through the project! I have to say, compiling this book gave me a chance to read these stories in a fresh, new way.

Q: What are some of the ways in which you foresee the book being used by Catholic families and educators?

One of the greatest challenges facing catechists and parents is educating children when we ourselves don’t feel completely up to the challenge. The cross-referencing features of each story will help educators to study the material at their own pace, as deeply as they are inclined to do. The index is also cross-referenced to the liturgical calendar, so you can readily look up the story that corresponds to the readings. Above all, it will help educators integrate Scripture and prayer, both of which are needed to maintain a vital Christian life.

Q: What do your two adorable kids think about having their own special book, written by their mom?

They’re cute. They walk around the house with it (I only have one copy so far), and at church they run up to people, flashing the title page (before I get a chance to do it!)

Q: What was different about writing for children rather than writing for adults? Did you test drive the book with your own family prior to publication?

The greatest challenge was finding a voice that would work for the whole family (although the book is targeted at the 6-9 age group). I didn’t want older kids to be bored, or little kids to be lost. That’s why the multiple sidebars helps — you can read as little or as much as you want. Honestly, I had to do it so quickly there wasn’t a lot of “test driving” ahead of time … but I’m enjoying reading it through with them now, with all the beautiful artwork!

Q: Please give our readers an update on your great Extraordinary Moms Network.

I continue to post on it regularly, and people continue to find me …. I’m hoping this book will draw even more readers, and encourage them in their vocations. I have a special page dedicated to resources that tie into the book – websites and other online resources to help families dig deeper into the stories.

Q: With all of your publishing and writing successes, what’s next?

Although I have a few ideas brewing, I don’t have any firm plans right now. Life is very much like a book, full of chapters and plot twists. It isn’t always possible to project what is going to happen from one week to the next, is it? I’ve always loved writing and sharing my faith with other people; as a wife and mother, I can’t always spend the kind of time I’d like with this. This year, my children’s school has occupied the lion’s share of my time, and it looks as though I may soon be headed back to school myself. I’ll update my plans on EMN as they become available … stay tuned!

Purchase My Big Book of Catholic Bible Stories and support CatholicMom.com!

Last week, we shared Chapter Fourteen

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen

March, 2009

To the fellow pedestrians jamming Main Street that frightfully cold winter day, few would have taken heed of the lady slowly threading her way towards St. Gerard’s for morning mass. Although nicely dressed in a wool coat, handmade scarf and stylish, yet not expensive leather purse, there was not a hint of her personal great wealth which at the moment was considerable.

March’s bitter bite nipped at her throat. She tightened her collar, holding back the urge to quicken her pace.  She had been warned not to exert any undue physical force.

Instead, she kept a steady pace and trained her eyes on St. Gerard’s twin towers, using it as a compass.  She felt the familiar catch in her throat. Her journey had begun on the steps of this beloved house of God, a journey that was quickly coming to an end.

She took hold of the metal railing, the cold seeping through her gloves. She’d pay dearly for this later as it was certain to trigger her arthritis that had suddenly showed up at her sixtieth birthday along with the now constant pain in her chest. But she dare not try to ascend the stairs without support. Waves of dizziness increased with exertion, something that was to be expected since the heart disease had progressed, Ira had said.

“Is there nothing else that can be done?” she had asked Ira during yesterday’s visit. It wasn’t that she worried about the state of her health. She had made her peace with God a long time ago. She worried about Ted.

Dr. Ira Fields was not just her physician; he was long time friend. He had shaken his bald head. His eyes grew moist.

“I’m afraid not, Em. If you had just come to me twenty years ago when you first began to experience these symptoms, we might have been able to stem the progress of the disease.”

She had always meant to, but the pain would go away for months at a time and then she would get busy at the bakery. The idea of taking hours off for tests and doctor visits always paled beneath the need to see to the business that gave so many hope.

She studied him with deep blue eyes that never wavered. “So, this is it, then?”

He took her hand, unabashed tears running down his checks.

“If you were in your forties, I might suggest a heart transplant, but now…”  He let the sentence hang.

“How much longer do I have?”

He hesitated. There was no real way to tell, but she pressed on.

“There are things that I must settle. I need to know how much time I have left.”

“I would get your things in order quickly,” he said, gathering her into a tight hug.  “Emma Smith, you are going to be greatly missed by a whole lot of folks.”

“Death cannot separate my love. I will always hold them dear,” she assured him.

It took him several minutes before he could compose himself to ask, “Will you tell Ted?”

These last few years together had been such an unexpected gift. It grieved her to see the pain increasingly reflected in his eyes. He had known since their wedding day that time would be short, so they had made the most of it, traveling in their RV to country fairs and quilting shows—a new passion of Emma’s. Donny and Maria now ran the bakery. Emma peeked in from time to time.

“Yes. He’s agreed to honor my request not to allow any extraordinary measures to be taken when my time comes. I’m not afraid of death, although I have to admit, I’m not too keen on the process.”

He nodded. “I’ll see that your wish is honored on my end. Do you want me to tell Arlene?”

Emma’s greatest regret was that she would not be here to help Arlene through her own crisis. The breast cancer they had thought beaten had metastasized. She was now in the final stages of liver cancer.

“I think that would be best.”

Emma stepped through St. Gerard’s massive wooden doors. The morning regulars, as those who faithfully attended daily Mass were called, were quietly seated in their established pews, fingers slowing running along various colored and shaped rosary beads; their eyes closed in silent prayer.

A sanctified stillness filled the sanctuary this time of morning. Her friend Ava Cook use to call it a ‘holy hush. It was like being wrapped in God’s love. It never failed to soothe her soul in times of crisis and in Emma’s life there had been many.

Several of her bakery employees were seated along a center pew. It warmed her heart to see so many had returned to their faith.

But this morning, she sensed that they had come specifically to pray and it touched her deeply. She laid a hand on the shoulder of the man seated closest to the aisle. His face, deeply lined, a roadmap of the hard life that he had traveled before landing on the back porch of the bakery. He looked up. She touched that face lightly and smile. He nodded then went back to his prayers as tears spilled down his checks.

She made her way towards the third pew to the left of the altar, the seat that she had occupied since the first day she had entered this church eighteen years ago. Ava had nearly dragged her to here that day. All that had transpired due to that moment continued to amaze her. God’s grace had known no bounds.

Maria looked up with deep concern. Another dear friend. Another gift from God that she had come to cherish.

Emma smiled gently. There was no need for words. Maria’s face sobered. She clutched her rosary tighter and went back to her prayers.

Ted and Jenna were seated alongside Maria. Ted squished over to make room. She settled in-between the pair. She lowered the riser then reached out to squeeze Jenna’s hand. The young woman fought for control. She looked down at the missilette clutched in her hands. Tears stained the page.

Ted’s eyes were moist as he reached out to caress her face. He nodded without comment. Both had expected this morning’s doctor’s visit would not bring good news which is why she had insisted on going alone. She needed time to think things through.

Suddenly, Jenna choked back a sob, gasping for breath. “Oh, Miss Em, how will we go on without you?”

Emma squeezed her hand more tightly and pointed towards the cross.  “You will do as I have learned to do through some of life’s most difficult trials. You will lean on Him.”

Emma’s eyes filled with sudden wonderment as the memories of His faithfulness shone through.

“And if you do, He will take you places that you could never have imagined.”

May, 2009

Emma Smith’s funeral had been well attended. One reporter had estimated that over five hundred people had crowded St. Gerard’s and overflowed into the street. Traffic was backed up for miles.

No woman had ever been so loved by the people of this small community, especially by those whom she had helped restore their lives.

Several times, Father Joe choked with emotion as he had given the brief eulogy. (“Keep it short,” Emma had insisted.)

Occasionally, his eyes would brush lightly across Benjamin. He knew that Ted had apprised him of his mother’s condition and had urged him to visit. But Benjamin never came. Although Emma had never voiced it, Father Joe saw the deep sorrow flash across her eyes whenever his name was mentioned; yet she never said a word against her son. That was so like Emma. Never a harsh word for anyone.

Ted was seated in the front pew. His eyes red-rimmed; his body hunched over in grief. Maria sat to his left, also trying to work through the heavy sorrow of having lost her dearest friend. Her one consolation was that Emma was now with the Lord whom she had served so faithfully.

Jenna forced back her own grief to comfort Harley who had lost the only grandmother she would ever know.

“There, there, my sweet. She’s not gone.  Just transformed. We will see her again,” she whispered, eyes focused on the cross. Lean on Him echoed in her heart.

In the third aisle sat Dr. Ira Fielding. Beside him was his son, Phillip who had come to take his mother’s place. Arlene lay heavily sedated in a room on the cancer ward at Mercy Hospital. It was just a matter of weeks before Ira’s beloved wife would join Emma on the other side.

Behind them, every pew was packed solid with mourners. Politicians, church leaders and socialites sat shoulder to shoulder alongside those whom Emma had worked so hard to save who openly grieved, unconcerned for the uncomfortable stares. They’d grown accustomed to disapproving looks, but not to the depth of remorse that they felt at having lost the woman who had helped them reclaim their dignity and rediscover God’s greatness within.

Let others stare all they want, they thought.

Father Joe told the people that words were inadequate to sum up the life of this incredibly dedicated woman. She had turned a tragedy into a triumph, using the only gift she possessed. Her ability to create beautiful, delicious cakes. A simple task that many would have dismissed. But not Emma. She believed two things.

First that God loved her and would never forsake her. And second, that it is through the valleys that we discover the fullness of the treasures hidden within.

After the graveside service, mourners made their way back into town. A luncheon was being hosted by the Elm Street Soup Kitchen. Those who would normally be served had forgone their noontime meal so they might honor the woman who had changed so many lives. By example, it would be their pleasure to serve, as she had served others down through the years.

People filtered in and began to settle along the rows of tables that had been carefully set with linen tablecloths and folded napkins. They knew Emma would have approved. She believed in giving one’s best.

Slowly, the hushed stillness of the cavernous space gave way to laughter and recitations of moments shared with Emma Smith.   The most vocal, were those who had graduated from Cakes by Designs.

One man remembered. “Every time I’d get discouraged, Miss Em would come up and say, ‘If God could raise me up, He’ll do the same for you. Don’t give up on Him or yourself.”

Even Ted, whose heart had been shattered when his sweet Em had breathed her last, was beginning to smile as others began to roll out long, forgotten memories.

“Remember the time the town tried to shut down our first bakery?” Donny asked the crowd surrounding their table.

“I sure do,” Jeremy said, now the Director of the kitchen staff at a school for troubled teens. “A developer wanted to plow down the old buildings and erect some expensive condo’s.”

Fred, who had been passing out his business cards for his catering business, took up the story. “Miss Em was madder than a hornet, and she rounded up every bum she could find and marched on City Hall.”

“And now look at what’s happened,” Donny said, gleefully. “That entire street of abandoned buildings has been revitalized into a vibrant downtown district.”

A moment of silence followed.

“I remember the day Ava dragged Em here,” Rich said, his eyes sparkling with the recollection. Rich was retired now, but still came everyday to help serve. There were some things you just couldn’t retire from, he said.

“She came in toting an expensive purse and dressed in designer’s clothes. Of course, I didn’t know her story then. Ava filled me in later how her husband had left her destitute. But at that moment, I figured this would be her first and last visit.

“But she hung around and later marched over to Harry and asked if she could help with desserts.” He smiled with the memory as his eyes misted with tears. “And she continued to supply them. We’re certainly going to miss her.”

There was a soft chorus of ‘Amen’s” as that thought resounded in all of their hearts.

Benjamin had foregone the luncheon. He was sharply aware of the disapproving stares of his mother’s friends since he had not returned when Ted called to say that she was nearing the end.

He hadn’t bothered to explain that it had been a pivotal time in his career. After being cheated out of his share of the Nantucket project by that rogue of a partner some years ago, he had lost the lion’s portion of his savings. The only hope he had of achieving the financial wealth that he so desperately craved (and thought his due) was to sharply increase the worth of Channing and Channing Investment Bankers of which he was a shareholder.

Big profits, however, meant taking big risks which in the beginning had made Alfred Channing and his Board of Directors a little nervous. But Benjamin quickly proved himself by incurring returns in excess of fifteen to twenty percent.

Everyone had been happy, especially Benjamin whose entire financial future was wrapped up in Channing and Channing’s stocks.

But even the most meticulous plans sometimes go awry as was the case when he convinced the Board to approve a two billion dollar purchase of a mortgage company. One week after the paperwork had been signed, Channing and Channing was notified that a federal investigation was being launched. They suspected that the mortgage company had falsified loan applications.

Company stock plummeted. Benjamin was reduced to living off his annual salary and his carefully plotted career was now in jeopardy.  Alfred Channing’s new protégée—a Princeton graduate with an MBA from Harvard was rumored to soon be his replacement. And when that happened, Benjamin would be blacklisted. His career over.

Unless, he could come baring gifts. Like Cakes by Design.

As the only heir to his mother’s estate, he was certain to be the sole owner, and unlike his mother, Benjamin was not governed by social conscience.

He had already drafted a plan that detailed how the current business could be multiply by fifty, even one hundred satellites facilities scattered across the country in every intercity. The earning potential was limitless. Then there was the civic aspect. All those miserable people off the street, given jobs, leaving downtown areas to be revitalized. More profits.

It was something that the three conglomerates (that just happened to be Channing and Channing’s greatest rivals) would be most interested in acquiring.

Appointments had already been set for next week, amble time for him to study his mother’s financial records and put together a formal presentation including charts and profit projections spanning the next ten years.

The other selling point he planned to stress was Cakes by Design’s public service image. Something that might help to keep the media’s focus off other, less than civic minded projects like tankers that ran aground; salmonella outbreaks in food plants while companies fought to remain self-monitored; hazardous materials that was shipped to third world countries to circumvent expensive governmental protocols.

If things went the way he planned, it was highly probable that it might spark a bidding war among the three banking giants. It made him dizzy with delight just thinking about it.

Yes, he smiled, strolling past the downtown shops, things were definitely looking up. After his meeting with the lawyer, he planned to purchase that Jag XK that he’d been admiring. Why not? He could afford it.

His mother’s attorney, Paul Shea had scheduled the reading for two o’clock. He would have preferred they taken care of business directly after the funeral. Just another frustrating thing about these small towns. No sense of the value of one’s time. And his mother actually wondered why he never came home to visit?

He slowed his pace, wandering in and out of shops, slightly surprised to discover how much the area had improved since his last visit.

Trendy boutiques juxtaposed with equally trendy cafes. There was a bookstore that specialized only in mysteries and a health food grocers that carried exotic fruits and fish that was ‘organically harvested’, whatever that meant.

He worked his way down the Main Street until he came to the residential district. On a lark, he headed towards his mother’s cottage and was pleased to see that it had been wonderfully maintained.

How much would it fetch, he wondered? Maybe he should check it out with the local realtor. He’d want to put it on the market as quickly as possible. The cottage brought back memories of his father who had died a few weeks after that fateful meeting.

He hadn’t attended the funeral. He had seen no need. In fact, he wouldn’t have bothered to attend his mother’s funeral if it hadn’t been for the reading of her will that was scheduled at two and which Shea refused to just fax to his Boston lawyer. Instead, he insisted that Benjamin come to his office. Just like his mother to choose some back woods lawyer that had no concept of today’s high paced world. What a waste of valuable time.

The lawyer was just another example of how his mother’s lifestyle was an enigma to him. It always had been. Here was a woman who had a profitable business. She could have purchased a home in a fashionable neighborhood.  Perhaps one of those high end communities that he had seen coming into town, the ones with a golf course, five star restaurants and spas.

Instead, she had settled here. Even if the town had experienced a revival, it would never be more than the playground for want-a-be’s. People pretending their lifestyles reflected style and affluence.

How could anyone waste their life like she had? All that wealth at her fingertips, yet she treated it as though it didn’t mattered.

Well, that wouldn’t be a problem with him, he mused, heading back to town. He knew exactly how he would use that money. In fact, he had a luxury villa already picked out on the Cote d’Azur.

He arrived at Paul Shea’s office precisely at two o’clock as instructed and was ushered into the conference room by Heidi, Paul’s wife and secretary.

“Paul’s on the phone but will here shortly,” she said, then offered him a cup of coffee which he declined.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “Your mother was a wonderful woman. She’s going to be greatly missed.”

“Yes, so it seems. Would you please tell Mr. Shea that I have a plane to catch and can’t be left waiting?”

“Of course,” Your highness she thought.

Heidi had heard stories about this one. She was not one to give credence to gossip, but from what she could see, the stories had been right on.

The twit wasn’t the least bit sad over his mother’s death. That was obvious. If anything, he was treating it as a mere inconvenience.

I have a plane to catch and can’t be kept waiting…

It gave her no pleasure to admit that it was just like people said. Benjamin Smith had been an ungrateful, self-centered boy who had grown into an equally ungrateful, self-centered man.  It made you wonder how a dear woman like Emma Smith could have given birth to the likes of him. Maybe he had inherited most of his father’s genes. Now there was a sorry piece of baggage.

Paul Shea, standing at just five foot two inches tall, was nearly dwarfed by Benjamin who stood at six feet. There was nothing lacking, however in the way Paul handled himself. Many within the legal profession referred to him as the ‘pit bull’. In fact, there were some who refused to accept any case against those handled by Paul Shea.

“Let me begin by saying that I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,” he said. “Emma Smith was a remarkable woman. Like so many here in town, I feel it was a privilege to know her.”

Benjamin nodded, but remained silent. Paul took a chair opposite him at the long, mahogany table and indicated for him to take a seat.

“Will we be waiting for Ted?” Benjamin assumed since they were married, that his mother must have left him something of her estate.

“Your mother settled things with Ted awhile back through a trust, so he won’t be joining us,” Paul began, as he opened a manila folder. He withdrew a legal size shaft of papers then donned a pair of reading glasses.

“May I ask what that trust entailed?”

“Trusts are sealed legal documents. I’m cannot discuss its contents.”

Paul watched Benjamin trying to work through that and wondered what he would have said if he knew that Ted’s inheritance was a small monthly amount. A mere pittance of Emma’s true wealth. Ted had refused to accept anymore.

“What about the cottage?”

“Your mother bequeathed that to Maria.”

“The Hispanic woman?” Benjamin snapped. “My God! What possessed her to give the cottage away to her? She’s not even family.”

Paul had learned a long time ago that silence was a very effective tool in showcasing one’s distaste. He welded it now like a laser, locking his cold, hard stare on Benjamin’s disgruntled face.

Finally, he said curtly, “She was one of your mother’s best friends.”            “Friend but not family,” he shot back. “Well, we’ll see about this. I’ll have my lawyer back in Boston look over the will. I’m sure they can find a way to right the situation.”

Paul thought back to the day when Emma had called to revise her will. Ira had just given her the news that the end was near. They met that morning before Mass to go over the details. Paul had happily obliged and with the thoroughness that had made him a legend, he made certain that Emma’s last wishes could never be revoked.

“My plane leaves in an hour,” Benjamin said, clearing impatient to have things done with. “Could we speed it along?”

Without comment, Paul removed the Last Will and Testament of Emma Smith and pushed it across the table.

Benjamin greedily scanned the document as Paul watched his face slowly from expectancy to disbelieve to outrage.

“I don’t understand.” He slammed the document on the table. “This says that the business has been restructured into a non-profit and is now under the authority of the Board who oversees the Elm Street Soup Kitchen.”

“That’s correct. The paperwork was filed several months ago and approved. Cakes by Design has been running as a not-for-profit enterprise ever since.”

Quickly seeing his plans crumble, Benjamin jumped up, his face red with rage.

“I won’t accept this! I’ll hire a battery of the best lawyers I can find and have this overturned.”

“Then you’ll be wasting a lot of money,” Paul said, coolly, not at all perturbed by Benjamin’s outrage, nor the innuendo that his law firm was second rate compared to a bastion of high end city lawyers.

“No court of law will overrule Emma’s decision. It was made when she was of sound mind.”

‘Sound mind? You must be mad! No mother would do this to her son if she were of sound mind. I’m sure she was influenced by a host of people with agendas of their own like that priest, Father Joe and or her blue collar husband or that Spanish woman.”

“This document has been notarized by Emmett Pickens who sits on the state Judicial Committee. And he is willing to testify that Emma Smith was of sound body and mind the day that she signed this and that it was of her free volition. Now, I think that would be evidence enough that even a high powered Boston law firm would be hard pressed to dispute in a court of law.”

“This is a conspiracy by this backwards town,” he screamed, all sense of his carefully structured persona had vanished. Suddenly, he looked as wild as the people his mother had worked so hard to help.

“They knew that I wasn’t around to protect my mother’s interest so they took advantage of a lonely woman.”

“You weren’t around. Yes, that was true and something that greatly saddened your mother, but lonely?” He shook a head of thinning hair and smiled. “Not Emma Smith. She was the most loved woman I have ever had the privilege of knowing.

He leaned in, clasped his hands and leveled a cold, hard stare. “Your mother’s decision was based on more than just your needs. It was based on the needs of those she has ministered to all these years. The ones she felt that God had sent her way. The lost, the lonely the improvised all of which are helped to find reclamation through the program she designed, a program that in order to continue must be given over to people filled with compassion.”

“In essence, you’re telling me that she cared more about strangers than she did her own son?” he spat out petulantly then sank in the chair to contemplate his dreams and hopes turning to rubble.

“I can’t believe that she left me nothing,” he murmured, still unbelieving.

It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Yet it was which meant that very soon he would be without a job, replaced by some new, equally power driven executive. It was the only kind that Channing and Channing hired. Then what? His reputation was shot. No one would hire him. His only hope of redemption had been his inheritance.

Paul removed an envelope from his folder and passed it over. “She left you this.”

A modicum of hope returned to his eyes. Maybe she had left him something after all. Not as much, perhaps, as he had wished, but even a small inheritance was better than nothing. Enough to get him on his feet. Decide on a new course. There was still myriad ways to make a fortune. All he needed was a little seed money.

“I’ll leave you alone to go over it,” Paul said, standing to leave. “If you have any questions, I have been instructed to place a call to Father Joe.”

Benjamin looked at him quizzically.

“I’m right outside if you need me.” Paul said without explaining then quietly took his leave.

Benjamin studied the envelope addressed to My Beloved Son, Benjamin. With shaky hands he tore it open. Inside was a handwritten letter.

My dear Benjamin,

By now, Mr. Shea has told you of my decision to turn Cakes by Design into a not-for-profit organization that will be governed by the Elm Street Soup Kitchen’s Board of Directors. During our last conversation, we spoke about my company and your vision to take it public. Your focus was on expansion and profit, whereas mine was on the ministry that had evolved and which must go on after I am gone.

Eighteen years have passed since the day our lives took a radical change. It pains me that you were unable to forgive your father for what he had done, especially since this very trial was the vehicle that God used to reveal a higher good.

Looking back, I see the series of events and people that streamed across my life once I surrendered myself into His care. Through it, I uncovered the great treasure buried within my soul and the service that would help others discover their own greatness.

I understand your anger. You were only eighteen. But I had hoped and prayed that over time, you would come to seek God’s grace and begin your own journey.            The message hidden within can only be revealed through an open heart that seeks to be of service to his fellowman.

You sought wealth which is not to be condemned. Riches when placed in the hands of those who align themselves with God’s principles have enormous potential to change the world for good. Riches can feed the hunger; provide shelter for the homeless and support programs that enrich this precious gift of life.

But you sought wealth as an amulet against the harshness of life. Perhaps for a short time it might have provided protection but the danger lies in its ability to blind you to the mission that God has sent you here to perform.

For within each of us there lies a talent which we are meant to discharge for the betterment of our world. For some, this gift is revealed early on in life through a leaning towards a particular career for God considered all employment a sacred act.

But for others, that gift remains dormant until a great storm shakes the very foundations of out lives. It fills us with fear, revealing our inadequacies until we cry out to God for deliverance.

At that moment, God reveals Himself through a new course of events and individuals that He sends to answer our call. We begin a marvelous new journey that emboldens faith and give us access to the miracles written about in His Word.

You sought money, influence and power as a hedge against life’s vicissitudes. I learned to relinquish my future into God’s hands.

You sought restoration through the world. I held fast to God’s pledge that He would ‘… turn all things to good’.

And He has.

He took a simple gift and fashioned it into something far greater than I could ever have imagined. Now this gift is enriching so many lives—from our customers who enjoy what we create; vendors whose livelihood has been enriched by supplying our needs; and the precious lives of the men and women who had lost hope as they rediscover the divinity within.

You, too, possess a great gift, my beloved son. Seek it. Then align yourself with God’s great plan. I promise that you will never be without an endless supply of resources. God loves to reveal His great love towards us by honoring the prayers of the faithful.

I may not have provided the inheritance you feel you deserve, but in my love, I have provided the one of greater worth.  The wondrous, miraculous journey that begins when we are stripped of our ability to save ourselves and must rely solely on God for our care is the greatest inheritance of all.

It was purchased on the Cross.

It is the place where God’s awesome power to save is revealed and where we find both peace and purpose in our soul.

Go with God.

Love,

Mother

Join us next Monday for a few “extras” to help you enjoy and reflect upon Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen

I am pleased to share the following Catholic Book Spotlight interview with Mark Hoffman, co-author of the wonderful new picture book Lolek – The Boy Who Became Pope John Paul II.

Please briefly introduce yourselves and your family to our readers.

My name is Mark Hoffman and my wife Mary and I live in Harbor Springs, Michigan with our 4 children and at any given time pet chickens, dogs, gerbils, rabbits, hamsters, crayfish and zebra mussels. We were both raised Catholic, I have three brothers and Mary had eight kids in her family. We have an art gallery named Hramiec Hoffman where we sell Mary’s oil paintings, note cards, gift items and books. The motto of our gallery is “Where your purchase is always a gift” because we donate a portion of our income to many charities.

What prompted you to create the beautiful book Lolek – The Boy Who Became Pope John Paul II?

Pope John Paul II had been and continues to be a prominent figure of inspiration in both of our lives. The Hramiec household was especially devoted to him as Mary grew up. We knew that his life was a story that we wanted to preserve and share with the children of the world in the hopes of continuing the legacy of faith, humility, fortitude and love that he left. We wanted to document the incredible life this man led and present it at a child’s level. He affected our world in so many positive ways and continues to be a motivating factor in the lives of adults and children alike.

How does this book differ from other biographical books for children on the life of our beloved Holy Father?

This storybook is a 56 page illustrated hardcover, that not only tells the story of his childhood, but also encourages children to be leaders, making it a wonderful gift. The illustrations captivate even the very young, enabling them to listen to the message.  The reading level is targeted at the 8-12 year old age group, but many older children enjoy the extra information at the back of the book. This book is also used as a reference because there is an illustration of a rosary at the end accompanied by the prayers and instructions on how to say it.

How did your own faith journeys impact upon your interest in creating this type of book?

We are devout Catholics and proud of our faithful heritage. Any struggles or joys in our life are met intuitively with prayer and thanksgiving.  An integral part of raising our children is leading by example, just as we ourselves still use role models.  John Paul II has been an incredible role model in our lives and Lolek – The Boy Who Became Pope John Paul II has become an inspiration for our children as far as morality and leadership.

What reaction have you received from families who have enjoyed reading Lolek’s story?

We are proud to say that our feedback thus far has been enthusiastically positive. We love hearing that our book has been purchased for baptisms, first communions and birthdays. These are important milestones and we are thrilled and thankful that we can be a part of these special times.

Towards the back of the book, you include a few special extra features – can you please say a few words about those?

We included instructions on how to say the rosary, encouragement for children and details about what to do if they feel a calling from the Lord for a religious vocation. We could not fit all of the materials that we had created at the end of the book, so they can be found as “free downloads” on our website.

Do you have any plans for additional books in the future?

Our plan is to continue writing and illustrating inspirational stories for children, we will begin a new project after most of the marketing is finished for Lolek.

How can readers see more of Mary’s lovely artwork?

We are pleased to welcome visitors to our shop at 6915 M119 in Harbor Springs, Michigan where we also have note cards with illustrations from “Lolek”. You may also visit our website www.hramiechoffman.com or to call Mark at any time to purchase items or find out more about upcoming projects, artwork or books. (231) 526-1011.

Are there any additional thoughts or comments you’d like to share with our readers?

We are so grateful and blessed to have been able to produce this storybook. We are especially thankful to those who have chosen to support our efforts by purchasing this book; it enables us to continue living our lives through gospel values and spreading Pope John Paul II’s message of hope and inspiration to the children and adults of the world.

Purchase Lolek – The Boy Who Became Pope John Paul II and support CatholicMom.com!

Last week, we shared Chapter Thirteen

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen

A Chicago snow storm had socked in O’Hare. Although the overhead metallic voice bouncing along the corridors assured passengers that flights would resume shortly, seasoned flyers knew that in airport vernacular that could mean anything.

While others sought a place to hunker down until service was resumed, Emma was too keyed up to sit. She draped a new carbon blue cashmere coat over her arm—purchased to match the Mosook wood tweed suit that she wore— and started out in the general direction of her connecting flight.

It all seemed so surreal. Just a few hours ago, she had been seated before a Congressional Committee gathered to address the growing numbers of homeless in major cities throughout America. Rip Lewis, her state’s congressman and loyal supporter of the work being done at Cakes by Design, had arranged for Emma to speak.

She caught her reflection in the darkened panel of glass outside of Pegasus Restaurant & Taverna. Average height although she had lost a half inch. Part of the aging process, she’d been told at her last physical.            She was fifty-five.

She still had a thick mane of hair that she kept tied back, off her face from habit, working with food all these years, and hazel eyes that still carried a spark although the crow’s feet were thickly gathering at the corners.

She swiveled slightly, trying to connect the reflection of a woman dressed in a two thousand dollar suit with the one who spent most days in sweat pants, tee’s and a white apron. Was this the woman who had spoken with such authority to a panel of the country’s most prominent elected officials?

She shook her head at the unreality of it all.             It had been like an out of body experience.

A bank of senators was seated in an elevated semi-circle while she sat below behind a large table. A microphone was attached. She had to lean forward to make herself heard while a crowd of photographers scrunched on the floor snapping photos.

She had heard her voice, stating facts in an authoritative voice that no one dared to dispute; explaining how Cakes by Design had evolved from the ovens of a soup kitchen into a ten thousand square foot facility that now employed over one hundred individuals—bakers, cake decorators, dishwashers, packers, drivers, office workers—all of whom had been taken from off the streets.

She concluded by citing the positive effect it had had on their downtown area.             “Instead of the devaluing properties values which was prophesized by many in the beginning, our program has helped to cleanup the streets, and I’m proud to state that the downtown that had once been filled with boarded up buildings and a hangout for prostitutes and drug lords has been totally revitalized into a bustling business district.”

When she finished, the senators rose and applauded.

Later, she had even joked with Senator Ted Kennedy when he asked if there was still time to place a cake order for his staff’s Christmas party.

“Absolutely, senator. If I have to, I’ll bake it myself.”

Imagine!

Where had this self-possessed, confident woman come from? It seemed like only yesterday that she was crying herself to sleep, fearful of what would become of her and Benjamin.

So much had happened since then.

God-incidences. She smiled and the woman in the window smiled back.

There was no other way to explain it. As Father Joe had once told her, if we head in the direction of our dreams, knowing that those dreams were seeds of greatness planted by God and allowed Him to lead, He will take us to places that we never dreamed possible.

Well, that certainly was true in her case.

She had taken the simple gift of baking; hung it on a dream of someday opening a bakery; handed it over to God and look what He had done. Not only had her dreams been fulfilled, but they had rippled out, to touch the heart and souls of many.

Arlene called it her Sweet Dreams.

A warm, glow filled her heart at the image of her dear friend’s face. Arlene had made it through the experimental drug program. The last tests showed the cancer was gone. The experimental drug program had worked.

Yes, placing oneself in God’s hands was a wonderful place to be, she pondered as an electric cart carrying an elderly couple beeped behind her. She slid out of the way and resumed her walk.

It would be several hours before the runways would be cleared so she decided to browse through the airport shops. There were still a few people left on her Christmas list.

At Mont Blanc, she purchased a Meisterstuck Classique pen in a black leather case for Donny. He could use it on his first book tour.  Basic Elements of Cake Design was due out next month.

It gave her such pleasure to see how far he had come. At times, she would spy him bent over a student, explaining some technique and remember back to that day in her kitchen when he had come to rescue her. His hands had shaken slightly, tremors from a life of alcohol abuse. Although his mastery at cake design was evident, his eyes had the vacant look of so many who had spent years on the street.

But now look at him! He was married to a lovely wife who played the organ at the Congregational Church. They had two daughters. Darlene now five and Marcia three.

Emma couldn’t be prouder of all that he had accomplished and was hard-pressed to align the former Donny with the new, who ran the bakery and the culinary school with the perfect balance of efficiency, compassion and accountability. His students adored him and couldn’t be more thrilled that ‘their Mr. D’ was now a published author.

A few stores down, Emma stumbled upon Mindworks’ inviting entrance with its huge multicolored building blocks affixed overhead that spelled out TOYS. She still hadn’t found the right gift for three year old Harley Raymond. Maybe she would find something here.

Four years ago, Harley’s mom, Jenna had turned up at the Elm Street Soup Kitchen. Jenna’s parents had kicked her out of the house. She was eighteen and pregnant. Rich sent her over to the bakery where Emma put her to work behind the counter, serving customers.

Having once been abandoned herself, Jenna found a special place in Emma’s heart. She told Father Joe that it was as if God had sent her a daughter in place of the son who no longer wrote or called. And when Harley was born, Emma took her to her heart like a granddaughter.

Nearing the store, Emma watched a beleaguered mother forcefully drag a child in full blown meltdown out into the main thoroughfare. Once inside, however, she understood why the child had not wanted to leave.

Scattered among racks of brightly colored boxes and dazzling displays was a cornucopia of games and toys.  Emma paused by an interactive demonstration to watch a towheaded boy master the newest video game. The boy didn’t appear much older than Harley.

“Excuse me.” She stopped a salesperson wearing a flashing, lighted name badge.  “I’m interested in something for a three year old girl. She’s not into dolls or pretend tea parties. What would you suggest?”

“Does she like animals?”

Emma smiled. “She recently ‘borrowed’ a neighbor’s puppy.”

The salesperson broke into a wide grin. “Then I have just the thing.”

Ten minutes later, Emma was strolling to the overhead beat of Burl Ives wishing everyone A Merry, Merry Christmas, feeling quite happy with herself. In her hand was a shopping bag with Poo-Chi, an electronic canine companion who used light, sound and touch sensors to respond to commands.

Outside the terminal, the snow had stopped. Mammoth trucks were plowing clear the runways. She glanced at the departure board and saw that many of the flights were being rescheduled. She changed directions, feeling it wise to head over to her departure gate which necessitated several walking escalators and a shuttle.

By the time she arrived, a heavy tiredness had swept through her body. She desperately needed to find a seat and rest but thick blocks of businessmen had taken up all the seats. Carry-on’s, attaché cases and notebooks scattered at their feet leaked into the aisles, taking on the look of a refugee camp.  She boosted up on tippy toes in search of an empty chair.

A man in a navy sport coat with pepper and salt grey hair offered his chair.

“I could use a little exercise,” he said, gathering up his things.

She thanked him profusely and sank down. Her heart was beating erratically and she could feel herself sinking, as though a hatchway had been opened, and she was about to fall through. Seconds later, a familiar pain began to tighten like a vise around her chest.

She reached for the vial of pills that she kept in a special compartment of her purse. With shaky hands, she snapped open the lid and placed the nitroglycerine tablet beneath her tongue then became very still until it began to take effect.  Although the sudden opening of the arteries would produce a monster migraine later, she was grateful that the med’s had stopped the angina. The last thing she needed was to be carted off to the emergency room…that is…if she were to make it.

Ira had diagnosed her with advanced coronary heart disease and admonished her for not having come to see him sooner. She had meant to, she told him, but there were always other matters taking precedent. Besides that, she hated doctor’s offices although she didn’t express that to Ira.

She decided to keep things mostly to herself. Only Father Joe and Maria knew of the diagnosis. She had held it back from Ted. It had taken so long for them to get to a place of quiet affection and love that she didn’t want to spoil it. No, she would keep it from him as long as she could.

But for now, she would do as Ira had instructed, cut down her hours, take things a little bit easier. Change her diet. Maria had already seen to that. No more buttercream cakes or rich éclairs.

She closed her eyes, feeling her chest open up and the pain subside. No need for alarm. Lots of people had her condition and went on to live productive lives. And she must go on. There was still so much left to do.

Ladies and Gentlemen. May I have you attention please? We have just been advised that the runways have now been cleared and Delta’s flight 1562 has just been cleared to board.

A ruckus cheer nearly levitated her right off her seat.

Ted met Emma at the airport. She had been sick twice on the plane from the migraine. Ted took one look at her and quickly found a wheelchair, ignoring her protests.

His cruiser was parked by the front curb although Emma had made it well known how she felt about him using a state car for personal business.

“It’s not personal. I’m on the lookout for crime when I park,” he said.

He quickly got her settled in, then hustled back inside for her luggage and was back within minutes.

“I’ll have you home in no time,” he said, sliding in behind the wheel. “You just lean back and take a short nap.”

Rush hour traffic clogged the interstate like a  hairball stuck in a sink drain. Little was getting through. Ted swore under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to sit up. A swell of nausea forced her back down.

“A little traffic jam,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.”

He waited until her breathing was even before switching on the cruiser’s lights. God help him if Emma woke. She’d lace into him good for the improper use of emergency equipment, but as far as he was concerned, this was an emergency. Emma was not looking well.

Cars separated like the red sea and in record time, he had her back at the cottage and was handing her off to a very concerned Maria.

“I’ll take her from here,” she said.

“Stop that! The both of you!” Emma said, slapping away their hands and had an instant flashback to the day that she had brought Ava home from St. Andrews. Neither liked being fused over.

” I’m perfectly fine. Just a headache is all. Nothing a dose of Tylenol and a good nights’ sleep won’t cure.”

But Ted knew that it was more than just a simple headache. He had seen how she grew breathless when she walked up a small flight of stairs. And the sudden fatigue that would roll across her face with the slightest amount of exertion, leaving her drained and pale

For a woman who had once been filled with boundless energy, this new lassitude deeply worried him, especially since he was a cop and had come upon his share of emergency calls to help ambulance crews vacate seriously ill patients from less than desirable neighborhoods.

He said a quick good night, then headed back to his car, only to turn around to wait until he saw the light go on Emma’s room.

Sleep well my darling…

He suspected coronary disease even thought just the thought gave him the shutters. He tried to stem his fears by reciting the wealth of new drugs and procedures that were available for heart patients like coronary bypasses; Angioplasty with stenting; ACE inhibitors; blood thinners; beta blockers; bypass surgery.

It needn’t be a death sentence, he assured himself.

Besides, Emma was in her early fifties. The new thirty according to the news media. Whatever was zapping her strength could be fixed, right? This was the day of medical miracles.

He had tried to discuss his concerns with Ira, but as he suspected, the doctor wouldn’t divulge a patient’s confidence, even if the patient was deeply loved by both.

Of course, he could have asked Emma directly, but hesitated fearful that she might interrupt it as trying to ‘manger’ some portion of her life. He knew where she stood on that. Emma was fiercely protective of her independence on all venues. He understood. It had come at a hefty price.

But he just couldn’t sit by and do nothing. Or, should he? Could he bear the pain of watching another woman he loved die?

He rapped the roof of the cruiser then slid in. Pulling out, he steered straight towards St. Gerard’s.

Ted knew where to find Father Joe. It was Senior Bingo night.

He parked the cruiser, jogged down the front path and headed inside the Parish Hall. He found Father Joe carefully moving a long table dressed in a plastic tablecloth and filled with desserts, many which Ted recognized as having come from Cakes by Design.

Father’s new assistant, Father Tom was holding up the other side.

“I know it might seem logical to the uninitiated that you should setup the dessert table by the kitchen. Less footwork setting out the pastries,” Father Joe was telling the young cleric as they sidestepped towards the stage. “But you’re dealing with seniors and if there’s one thing I learned in my forty years of priesthood it is this. Seniors and food stick together.”

“So, .if you…”

“If you don’t want to scream yourself hoarse, calling out numbers clear across the room, then put one next to the other,” Ted finished, grabbing an end of the table.

“Exactly!” Father Joe said, as they moved the table into position beneath the stage. “Whew.  Either I’m not as young as I used to be, or that table has gained a few pounds. How are you Ted?”

He took Ted’s hand and gave it a healthy shake.

“Good. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. Father Tom would you take over? I left the cash box next to the cage. The cards are inside. A quarter a piece or five for a dollar and don’t let Martha Hennessey tell you any differently. The woman is always trying to squeeze an extra card out of me,” he told Ted.

“What brings you out on a Bingo night?” Father Joe asked as they wound their way through the darkened halls, heading towards his office. “You haven’t been to one of these since our blessed Ava died.”

Ted’s smiled with the memory. “She sure did love her Bingo.”

“That she did.” The priest removed a key from his black robes and opened his office door. He switched on the lights. “Have a sit, Ted. Can I get you anything? I still have some of that twenty year old scotch you gave me last Christmas.”

“Sure. I could use a drink.” He sank into the sofa as Father Joe removed the liquor from a tall cabinet, set it on his desk then took down two glasses.

“That bad, ugh?”

Ted exhaled, shook his head and studied the ceiling. “I planned to ask Emma to marry me on Christmas Eve.”

“Congratulations! It’s about time.” He handed Ted a glass. “That calls for a toast.  To you and Emma. May your marriage be a long and happy one.”

Ted just stared into his glass.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”  The priest pulled over a chair.

Ted looked up, grief-stricken. “She’s sick, Father. She hadn’t told me what’s wrong, and I haven’t thought it appropriate to ask. I figured that she’d tell me in her own good time. But I have a sixth sense about this. All those years on the force. You get so that you can read people. Emma’s holding something back and whatever it is, it’s serious.”

Father Joe’s heart swelled with anguish for this good man. Ted’s instincts were right on. Emma had told him about her heart condition. It hadn’t taken him by surprise. Like Ted, he had seen Emma growing weaker over the last year.

The situation took him back to another time. Ted’s wife was in the throngs of loosing her battle with cancer. It had nearly torn him apart.

“And you don’t want to propose because if it is serious, it’s like déjà vous.”

Ted ran his hands through his hair. “I hate myself for it, but…yes. You saw what Elaine’s death did to me. For two years, I watched her slowly die. I’d hold her in my arms as the pain ripped through her frail body, pleading with God to let me exchange places. I don’t know if I could go through that again, but on the other hand, I love Em. God….how I love her.”

Ted looked up, a tortured soul.

“How could I not want to be there for her? She’s been there for so many others. Heck, she was even there for that no account husband of hers.”

“Not many would have done what she did, I’m sure, even risking jail,” Father Joe agreed then his voice grew sober. “But your love for Emma isn’t based on a sense of charity or obligation, is it?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know…” Ted stood up and began to pace. He was not a man accustomed to explaining his feelings. “A hundred reasons, I suppose.”

“Name one.”

Ted shrugged. “I love her gentleness. The way she treats everyone with the same kindness and compassion. I love the way she smiles, especially when it’s aimed at me,” he admitted shyly. “Makes me feel like I’m the only man alive.”

“I think for her, you might be.”

Ted leaned against the window frame. A new moon rested on the spire of a tall evergreen, its silvery light draped the branches like tinsel.

“Why would God set me up again to love a woman who might be seriously ill?”

“Would you rather never have meet Emma?”

“No!”

“Look, Ted,” he said, joining him at the window. “You’ve had the privilege of loving two extraordinary women. Elaine’s work with the mentally handicapped improved the lives of so many children. And Emma’s work with the homeless is just as incredible.

“You ask why God would allow you to love two women who were seriously ill. You ask it as if it were a burden, a trial too painful to get through. But what if these headaches are really a form of ministry that is very dear to God’s heart?”

Ted shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“These women are extraordinary. Both have lived Christ’s message. What if the Father knew their lives would one day be cut short, and He wanted someone by their sides, holding their hands, giving them comfort. Someone He could count on. That wouldn’t desert them in their time of need. Someone to carry their cross, like St. Simeon who was pulled out of the crowd to help our Lord?

“And what if that someone…was you? Would you refuse the call?”

“I’d like to think I could accept it. But…” Ted bowed his head fighting back a cascade of emotions churning deep inside.  “But what if I can’t make it through it again? What if I fail Emma?”

Father Joe placed his hands on Ted’s shoulder. “You listen to me Ted Hawker. There are a lot of things in this life that I have no answers for, but this I do know.  If you love Emma as much as you say, then you must trust God to give you the strength that’s needed. He will not fail you. You have His Word on it.”

Christmas Eve

It was a picture card, perfect Christmas Eve, Emma was thinking as she and Ted strolled towards St. Gerard’s for Midnight Mass, their arms entwined like young lovers.

A light snow was falling, coating the town in a sugary, white confection. The homes along the avenue, including hers, had lighted candles in every window and doorways awash in garland and festive wreaths; and many with a Christmas tree in a picture window.

As they neared the downtown area, she thought about the dinner planned for tomorrow at the soup kitchen and shivered with excitement. She and Maria, along with a dozen merry elves, had wrapped enough warm winter coats to clothe every man, woman and child that visited the facility tomorrow.

“Are you getting cold?” Ted asked, reaching over and pulling up her collar.

“No, just excited. I was thinking about tomorrow’s meal at Elm Street. I hope that Donny had enough time to finish the dinner rolls.”

The kitchen tables of Cakes by Design were filled with pastries, cakes, cookies and Christmas bags of ‘take-home’ treats. All would be dealt out tomorrow by Santa.

He gave her a reassuring hug. “I’m sure that his crew has it covered. Donny’s never let you down before, has he?”

“Not Donny,” she said, gripping Ted’s arm tighter. She lifted her face towards the heavens to let the snow flitter across her face. For an instance, she was a child again, enjoying the magic of a white Christmas.

“This is going to be the best Christmas ever. I can just feel it.”

“So can I. That is… of course…if I get the present I want the most.”

“I’m sorry. I was going to buy that Harley you wanted, but I couldn’t find a box to fit,” she said, joining in the fun.

Ted paused and reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a small, velvet box. Emma felt time stop.

“Oh, Ted…”

He knelt down in the snow and took her hand.

“Emma…darling…I’ve loved you since the first day we met. You were dressed in sweats. Your hair was falling in your eyes and you cradled Donny’s bleeding and bloody face…”

Emma laughed. “Only a policeman would begin a marriage proposal by remembering a crime scene.”

He smiled. “Yeah, maybe, I should rethink that opening statement. But what I meant to say, was that I was smitten from the get-go.”

“Oh, you were?” she asked playfully.

“Em, I’ve come to love you more and more with each passing year, but the time never seemed right to ask for you hand. There was the bakery and it kept growing…”

“And then Jerry…” she added.

He nodded. “But we’re not getting any younger, Emma and I don’t want us to loose what time we have left.”

Emma searched his eyes. “You know don’t you?”

“That you’re ill? Yes. I suspected that something was seriously wrong awhile back.”

She withdrew her hand. “Then you know that I can’t accept your proposal. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“What wouldn’t be fair…” he said, reaching for her hand. “Was if I had to live without you by my side, waking up each morning together in the same bed. Sharing all the intimacies that a married couple shares.”

She shook her head and tried to pull free. “I can’t let you do this.”

“I’ve thought long and hard about this, Em. I won’t take no for an answer.” He held tight to her hand. “You are what I want most for Christmas and everyday afterwards for the rest of whatever time God allows us to share.”

Ted slipped the ring on her finger.

“Be my wife, Em.”

Their eyes met and in that moment, Emma knew that the love they shared would bridge whatever might follow.

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen

Copyright 2010 Katherine Valentine

Have you heard of the Fairy Tale Novels?

I’m so excited that we’re able to bring you this amazing giveaway this month, just in time for Valentine’s Day (not that I need an excuse to rave about my favorite books, mind you).

So far, there are four books in the series (and I can’t be the only fan who’s waiting impatiently for the next one).  Here’s a bit about each of them:

The Shadow of the Bear

“One winter night as they sat at home, there came a knock at the door.” 
– Grimm

Once upon a time, in New York City, two girls meet a mysterious stranger, Bear, who comes to their door one winter night. 

Who is Bear? Is he a seemingly homeless young man who has an unusual love for literature and poetry? Or is he a thief who hangs with the local drug dealers? Has he befriended the girls for sinister purposes? For impulsive red-headed Rose, Bear becomes their only friend in a hostile city: to shy older sister Blanche, Bear means danger for their family. And what is Bear’s connection to the abandoned church next to their high school, and the unsolved murder of a Catholic priest?

As Bear slowly wins their trust, taking the girls on a surprise trip to the Met and helping Blanche go to her senior prom, Blanche begins to believe that this rough-edged stranger is hiding a heart of gold. And yet, as events unfold, even Rose must admit that Bear is keeping a dangerous secret from them.

A classic fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm comes to life as two very different sisters, timid Blanche and daring Rose, seek to discover Bear’s identity and secret mission in a suspenseful adventure that brings each of them face to face with their own weaknesses and possible death.

Read Chapter One of The Shadow of the Bear.

Black as Night

“… a girl as white as snow and red as blood with hair as black as night…”
– Grimm

Blanche Brier is alone for the summer in New York City, separated from her family.

And her summer job inadvertently brings her a jealous enemy and unsuspected terror.

She finds temporary shelter with seven friars, but it’s not clear to Blanche how she can escape the evil that’s stalking her.

After Bear and his brother, Ben (a.k.a. “Fish”), discover that Blanche is missing, they cut short their European trip and begin to scour New York City looking for Blanche.  But the same malevolence that is lurking over Blanche seems to be hunting them as well.

With the lively help of the seven friars, Blanche struggles to sort out the ominous and apparently disconnected events that continue to build until it seems that all hope is gone. 

Yet during this time, the desires of her heart are being clarified – and so are Bear’s.

A black night.  Honest faith.  Tested love.

Read Chapter One of Black as Night.

Waking Rose

“Once upon a time…” 
– Grimm

“I love him more than poetry… I love him more than song.”

Ever since he rescued her from Certain Death, Rose Brier has had a crush on Ben Denniston, otherwise known as Fish.

But Fish, struggling with problems of his own, thinks that Rose should go looking elsewhere for a knight in shining armor.

Trying to forget him, Rose goes to college, takes up with a sword-wielding band of brothers, and starts an investigation into her family’s past that proves increasingly mysterious.

Then a tragic accident occurs, and Fish, assisted by Rose’s new friends, finds himself drawn into a search through a tangle of revenge and corruption that might be threatening Rose’s very life.

The climax is a crucible of fear, fight, and fire that Fish must pass through to reach Rose and conquer his dragons.

Read Chapter One of Waking Rose.

The Midnight Dancers

Why live in the light, when the night seems so irresistible?

Rachel Durham, 18, is tired of her father and stepmother’s staid morality and pristine prosperity.

The summer of her senior year, she’s more than ready for a walk on the wild side, and the door opens – literally – when she and her eleven sisters (and stepsisters) discover a secret passageway out of their historic home on the Chesapeake Bay.

At night, boys in boats and a forbidden island beckon from the shore, and Rachel and her sisters jump aboard.

The night becomes Rachel’s true world, and her daytime life becomes a disposable mask.

Her puzzled father tries to tow his daughters back into line by enlisting the help of Paul, a med student with a seasonal job juggling at the town festival.

But Paul realizes that simply blocking the girls from their midnight parties isn’t going to solve the family’s problems.

So he embarks on a risky balancing act to gain the girls’ trust – and to make Rachel see that splitting her life between night and light is a dangerous dance.

Read Chapter One of The Midnight Dancers.

I raved about them over at my blog a while ago, but what inspired us to organize this giveaway was hearing about hard times for this favorite author of ours.

Regina Doman is a very special Catholic homeschooling mother, author, speaker, and editor at Sophia Institute Press.  Recently, her 6-year-old son was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. Unfortunately, her family’s current financial and insurance situation leaves little, if any, room to cover the projected ongoing costs of managing this illness.

Knowing what a supportive community this is, we want to ask you to help, first and foremost, with your prayers.

If you find that you need a gift for a birthday or a Valentine that’s sure to endear you to that avid reader in your life, would you consider purchasing one or more of her books?  It helps Regina’s family most if you buy them through her website, but they are also available from a variety of other booksellers.

We’re going to give away all four of the Fairy Tale Novels, one each to four lucky winners. Leave a comment by January 31, and we’ll randomly draw winners.

Here are other ways you can use your purchasing power to help Regina’s family:

• This month, Hillside Education’s Helping Those in Need page is focusing on Regina’s family. There are some good buys and people can help a struggling family at the same time. The links are small so you need to look closely for the links that say Handmade Items, Books Used, Books new, etc.
• Homeschool Connections will donate 50% of all live courses and $30 for every subscription (recorded courses). People can email homeschoolconnections@gmail.com to let them know to credit their enrollment or subscription to Regina and her family.
• Ask your bookstore, library, youth group, homeschool group, school, and book club to consider buying Regina Doman’s Fairy Tale Novels.  I actually did this over the summer, and my librarian thanked me; it turns out they are always looking for good YA titles (and especially ones they can label Christian, in our area, though I wince when I hear that — these are books that DO NOT shove Christianity down your throat, though it’s so much a part of how they’re written).

Enter your name below and consider growing your library (or the library of someone you love) by purchasing the Fairy Tale Novels!
//

The contest is now closed. Thanks for your participation and generous response to this.

Congratulations to our winners:  Monica (comment #62), Barb Patterson (comment #61), Andrea J (comment #68), and Peggy Cortez (comment #6).

Thank you to guest columnist Mary-Eileen Russell for sharing the following Catholic Book Spotlight interview with Donna-Marie Cooper O’Boyle, author of the newly released Mother Teresa and Me Ten Years of Friendship.

Donna, as someone who was born and raised Catholic, can you describe some of the influences in your childhood which made an impression on you and helped you to persevere in the faith at a time when many of your generation were leaving the Church?

Thank you for this interview, Mary-Eileen. To answer your question, I was very influenced by my mother and her mother (my grandmother) growing up. They kept me grounded in the faith. My other grandparents were deceased by the time I was born. Of course, my father helped with our formation too, but my mother spent all of her time with her eight children and made sure we stayed on the straight and narrow while my father worked endless hours to support us. My mother prayed the Rosary with us growing up and my grandmother had many sacred images around her home. She also loved Pope John Paul II so much and had his picture everywhere in her home. She was Polish, after all! So, every time we visited her, we saw all of those images, pictures, and religious items all around her home. I’m sure it had a powerful effect on me – it has certainly stayed with me.

Your meeting with Blessed Mother Teresa, as you describe in your new book, was nothing short of providential. Can you talk a little about where you were in your spiritual journey at that time and how the meeting with one of the greatest saints of the 20th century came at just the right moment in your life?

God certainly had a plan. I couldn’t have planned any of it myself if I wanted to! But, as you say, the meeting certainly must have come at the exact time that God wanted it to. Of course, I never imagined anything was going to unfold from our first meeting. How could I? I merely took it all in and thanked God for it and then afterward, I continued on my way through the trenches of everyday motherhood and all it entailed. I have recounted how my life unfolded after meeting her in this book.

One of the things that struck me when reading your book is the connection between the spiritual motherhood of a nun like Blessed Teresa and the biological motherhood of a Christian wife and mother, like yourself. Can you tell us how the spiritual guidance of the saint helped you to deepen your own understanding and commitment to your vocation?

That’s a good question. I did see similarities between our vocations. I do talk about that in my book and actually in some of my other books too. I like to weave Mother Teresa’s wisdom throughout my writings to help inspire others. Mother Teresa was never a biological mother, of course. However, she mothered the world, really. She became a mother to us all.

Mother Teresa’s spiritual guidance helped me profoundly. I couldn’t even begin to express it. Her letters and conversations with me when we were together and over the phone too were always just what I needed to hear. I took all of the blessings straight to my heart and applied them to my life. I feel that our good Lord would like me to share the blessings with others and that’s what I try to do in my book: Mother Teresa and Me as well as in my other books.

It has become obvious that motherhood has become denigrated in our society. I think that books like yours, not only the new one but your past works, are helping to rebuild the sense of dignity that once belonged to Christian mothers. Do you think that there is a connection with Mother Teresa’s menial work with the poorest of the poor and the mundane tasks that are the lot of most mothers?

Yes, I agree and I speak about the denigration of motherhood quite a bit, but I always throw in a heap of encouragement for mothers today. I like to give them a pat on the back and lots of inspiration for their journey. Thank you for your kind words about my books and works. I hope and pray that they do help to rebuild the sense of dignity that was always an integral part of the vocation of motherhood. I am told by my readership that they are being fed by my books and that they are discovering the sublimity of their vocation of raising little saints to Heaven. I am heartened to see a resurgence of Catholic and Christian Moms who are taking their vocation seriously and devoting the time to raising their children properly and with love in their “domestic churches.”

Yes, there is a connection with Mother Teresa’s “menial” work among the poor (and you’ll read examples of this in my book) and the “mundane” tasks of mothers. The secret to sanctity and to true happiness is in seeing that these little acts of loving service are huge in God’s eyes. Many of the saints, including St Therese of Lisieux have spoken about the little things. I write about it a great deal. It’s those little things when done lovingly and devotedly that actually open the gates of Heaven for us and others!

Donna, you are a Lay Missionary of Charity. Could you explain what belonging to that confraternity entails and how it enhances your vocation as a wife and mother?

Yes, sure I will. Being a Lay Missionary of Charity is not being part of a confraternity. It is being a part of a Religious Order. It’s like a Third Order. It’s a call to holiness in the lay life, just as any other Third Order is. But the charism of this lay Order is one of seeing Jesus in everyone we meet which is really what every Christian is called to do anyway.

I’ll quote from my book here: “As a Lay Missionary of Charity, I lead a normal life as a lay Catholic person but with a specific mission and purpose according to private vows I have taken to live a life according to the charism of Blessed Mother Teresa. The lay Missionary of Charity Movement is deeply prayerful and imbued with the spirituality of Mother Teresa and the Missionaries of Charity. The specific mission of a lay Missionary of Charity is for the salvation and sanctification of our families, for the movement, and for the poorest of the poor all over the world. The vocation of a lay Missionary of Charity is simply to express to others by word and example the influence of God’s love, peace, and joy in our lives. This is accomplished throughout our daily lives and within encounters with all we meet. We are mindful of Blessed Mother Teresa’s words: ‘Love begins at home, in our movement, and in our family.’ We follow Mother Teresa’s inspiration that “works of love are works of peace” and that small things done with great love are very pleasing to Our Lord. Mother Teresa stressed that we should ‘be only all for Jesus through Mary. Let us be pure and humble like Mary, and we are sure to be holy like Jesus.’”

To answer your question regarding how being a lay Missionary of Charity enhances my vocation as a wife and mother, it’s the understanding of the call to holiness and the awareness that God is sanctifying my vocation as I give it all to Him. Of course, any prayerful person can achieve sanctification in their family, by God’s grace without being a member of a Third Order or a Lay Missionary of Charity. However, being a part of an Order has the benefit of graces attached to it, especially from the founder’s intercession, in this case.

You have had the rare privilege of corresponding with a living saint, living in your lifetime, that is. Donna, can you discuss the reality of being with a saint, and becoming close to a saint, as compared to the false view of saints that many people have? I sense that some Catholics regard saints, especially saintly nuns, as being unapproachable and remote. Please tell us how this is not at all true!

Certainly, Mother Teresa was a very real person with her feet planted firmly on the ground. She was knowledgeable about matters going on around her in the culture and the world. She had seen everything – from all kinds of devastating poverty and disease in Calcutta and many parts of the world to the lack of love and the breakdown of the family in the western world. She didn’t shirk or run from any of it – she faced it square on – not with her head up in the clouds – and she dealt with it with God’s love and mercy to each person she came into contact with. She was extremely approachable, immanently real. She was my friend, mentor and “mother!”

Saints were real people like you and me – all differing personalities and each possessing unique gifts. What makes them saintly is their desire to follow the will of God completely with full surrender. That’s what I saw in Mother Teresa, her full surrender to God’s holy will in her life. She wanted to satiate His thirst for souls. She has told us that we are all called to holiness and that “it is not a luxury for a few, but a duty for us all.” In all of our walks of life, we are called to be saints too. That’s what I try to get across in my book: Mother Teresa and Me.

Mother Teresa and Me Ten Years of Friendship
By Donna-Marie Cooper O’Boyle
Published by Circle Press
ISBN # 978-1-933271-28-6
Soft cover, 5.5 x 8.25, 192 pages, $14.95
Can be purchased at www.donnacooperoboyle.com, Circle Press, book stores & Amazon.com

Copyright 2010 Mary-Eileen Russell

Frankly, by the time I met my husband at the age of 34, my heart had so many battle scars, it was a wonder that I had anything left to offer him.  Each of us had memories and habits to overcome.  And by the grace of God, through the sacrament of matrimony, we built a life together, choosing each day to trust in the fidelity we had promised to one another.  A decade has passed, and we are still learning what it means to give of ourselves completely in authentic, life-long love.  Some days I wonder if I will ever catch up to my husband, who exhibits heroic virtue in the areas I am weakest, such as patience and compassion and gentleness and self-control.  It really can be trying … then again, I’m sure I’m no picnic.

Because of our respective pasts, some scars run so deep that there is really no getting rid of them entirely, though marriage has in a very real way been a sacrament of healing as well as vocation. Every once in a while a twinge resurfaces. Which raises an important question:  When such memories resurface, what is a faithful soul to do? What does fidelity demand?

Have you ever wondered this? If so, pick up a copy of Elena Maria Vidal’s The Night’s Dark Shade. When the heroine’s fiancé and father die in battle, so crushed is Lady Raphaelle that nothing is left for her but duty. Day after anguished day she trudges along and hopes for … if not the best, at least a measure of peace. Instead she finds herself trapped by circumstances, surrounded by “good Christians” who do not reverence the cross, bear witness to the goodness of creation, or regard pregnancy as a gift to be embraced within marriage.

In the words of King Solomon, there is truly “nothing new under the sun.” Although Vidal’s latest novel is set in medieval France, The Night’s Dark Shade is richly textured with two perennial truths: From one generation to the next, faith and love are tested by any number of devilish counterfeits.  And each in turn discovers that the surest pathway to happiness lies not in surrender to the sham, but in resistance.

Vidal has a loyal following of readers because of her lyrical, thoroughly Catholic treatment of medieval French history. Her first two novels, Trianon and Madame Royale, offer unexpected glimpses into the life and faith of Marie Antoinette and her extended family.  The Night’s Dark Shade examines a different period of history, and yet this book also raises important questions and draws connections that are as relevant now as they were hundreds of years ago.  Well worth reading.

The Night’s Dark Shade and Elena Maria Vidal’s other novels are available through Amazon.com or directly through the publisher; be sure to peruse her blog, Tea at Trianon, as well.

Copyright 2010 Heidi Hess Saxton

I’m thrilled to share the following Catholic Book Spotlight interview with Meredith Gould, author of Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar?Jewish Roots of Christian Worship.

Q:  Meredith, you and I go “way back” and I’ve been a fan of your writing for many years.  For those who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, please briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

I’m a sociologist who never anticipated becoming a working writer and author of seven published books. Despite oodles of scholarly training, I make every effort to provide information in accessible and amusing ways.

I actually started out as an line illustrator, stumbled into a decade of college teaching (Sociology), had a career state government, and held a senior management position at an ad agency before being invited (read: yanked) into a tumultuous spiritual journey. Imagine being a Jewish girl called by Christ Jesus while working at a yoga ashram. Very confusing…in a clarifying kind of way!

Although I’d already been writing about holistic health and the spirituality of everyday life for magazines, I could not have predicted writing entire books about faith and religious practices. Nor did I ever imagine I’d feel called to write about Catholic cultural identity (e.g., The Catholic Home: Celebrations and Traditions; Faith & Family columns) and then, the Jewish roots of Christian worship (e.g., Come to the Table: A Catholic Passover Seder; Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar?) I consider myself a fine illustration of the adage, “We plan; God laughs.”

Q:  Congratulations on the recent publication of Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? Can you give us an overview of this special new book?

Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? introduces readers to the Jewish roots of Christian belief and religious practices in liturgical churches. I explain how biblical and historical Judaism influenced liturgy; the design and décor of church sanctuaries; and zoom in on Baptism, Eucharist, and Confirmation to illustrate what from Judaism has endured as these sacraments have changed over time.

Basically, I invite Christian readers to view worship and the sacraments through the lens of first century Judaism. This, by the way, tends to be my own perspective as someone raised Jewish who sought and received the sacraments of Christian initiation as an adult.

Wanting to make this book something individuals and groups could use, I include questions for reflection and discussion with every chapter, as well as exercises cleverly titled, “Try This.” Readers will find a glossary of Hebrew terms and Jewish concepts. I also reprinted key documents about Christian-Jewish relations issued over the past forty years by the Roman Catholic, Lutheran, and Episcopal churches as well as Jewish-Christian study groups. It is my most fervent prayer that readers study these documents with great care and take them to heart.

Q:  At what type of audience is this book aimed and how does it differ from your previous work for Catholic audiences?

For reasons far too complex to trot out here, ecumenical reconciliation has become as important to me as interfaith understanding. Roman Catholics, Orthodox Christians, Lutherans, and Anglicans (i.e., Episcopalians in the United States) share core beliefs about being Christian. We also share core religious practices, practices that are rooted in Judaism.

In this new book, I hope to share what I’ve studied, learned, and lived with other Catholics as well as those in other Christian communions. As always, my primary audience is the general reader, especially those entrusted with the sacred task of raising loving, compassionate, thoughtful, and intelligent people of God.

Q:  I happen to have a large group of Jewish friends, and in fact play Mahjong twice a month at our local temple.  During our games, I’ve learned so much about the Jewish roots of our faith from my friends in casual conversation.  Why is a book like yours — and a greater understanding of our roots — greatly needed by Catholics?

Mahjong?!?  If you lived on the east coast, you’d be playing Canasta or Poker!

Unless you’re hanging out with rabbis or chazzans, you’re probably learning more about Jewish culture and ethos than about the structure of worship and evolution of sacred practices. As a result, you’re probably discovering how Catholicism’s deep commitment to social justice, respect for life, and belief in the sanctity of family is anchored in Judaism.

My ambitious goal in Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? is to help readers first recognize and then appreciate Judaism’s legacy as it shows up in cultural artifacts (e.g., holiday traditions) as well as worship (e.g., liturgy, blessings, prayers) and the sacraments. My belief that this awareness is greatly needed by Catholics is reinforced by years of visiting parishes to deliver talks based on The Catholic Home. It never quite matters how my parish visits are promoted, those attending always want to know more about their Jewish heritage. I’m happy to tell them!

Q:  Are there a few significant suggestions you might give to Catholic families to assist them with greater understanding of Judaism’s impact upon Christianity and passing this appreciation along to their children?

With absolutely no modesty whatsoever, I suggest Catholic parents read and use my book to understand scripture and history in a more complete and nuanced way. I think they’ll find that the reflections and exercises at the end of each chapter can be easily adjusted for use with children of all ages.  And, I’ll have the audacity to add that Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? is an excellent companion to The Catholic Home, the book where I started making these connections for readers – and myself, for that matter.

Here’s what parents need to realize from the get-go: Jews and Christians shared a common God, faith, and religious practice for nearly a century after Jesus died. We continue to share more similarities than differences, although neither Christians nor Jews typically view it this way.

We cannot honor Our Lord’s invitation to love one another until we understand what we share and then convey that to our children. As a practical matter, I believe simple things like mentioning how the tradition of reciting blessings before and after meals, or praying our thanks to God when we wake and when preparing for sleep come from Judaism are easy ways to illustrate Judaism’s enduring legacy.

Q: How did the writing of this book impact upon you as an author and as a Catholic woman?

Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? had been kicking around in some form or another for nearly seven years before finding a publisher. During that time, at least one secular and a couple of Catholic publishers questioned whether there was a market for such a book. Two years ago, Nancy Fitzgerald, then an editor at Church Publishing, Inc. and now with Skylights, immediately grasped the value of bringing this information to a lay audience.

While this is not a memoir per se, I do write about my experience of being raised Jewish and embracing Catholic Christianity as an adult. In the “Foreword” and “Afterword” I describe what happened to and for me while writing this book. In sum, I was totally unprepared for the primal grief I felt while researching the history of when and why Jews and Christians became not only separated from, but pitted against, one another.

More than once I was challenged by the material to ask myself what others seem compelled to ask, “why Catholic?” I, of course, have a slew of snappy answers which occasionally show up in blog posts at More Meredith Gould (http://meredithgould.blogpost.com).

Q:  What types of reactions have you received from those who have read the book?

Well, my mother, who had a career as a Judaica editor, thinks it’s an important contribution and, believe me, she’s a tough critic. Reactions? I’m delighted by positive reviews, especially when they come from experienced, knowledgeable religious educators.

I especially love when readers tell me how much they’ve learned and how their worship experience has changed as a result of reading my book. Lots of conversations begin with, “I never realized that our [whatever] came from Judaism.”  Possibly my favorite comment came from a priest who frankly admitted, “We never learn this stuff in seminary.” His kudo is right up there with, “You always make me laugh.”

As you might imagine, I’m distressed whenever I receive “traitor to the tribe” comments from other Jews or “why don’t you just become Protestant” comments from Catholics who wish I’d ignore less-than-admirable moments in church history.

Q:  I know you keep incredibly busy!  Do you have any future projects in the works these days?

I’m fond of pointing out that being a mid-list author does not pay the mortgage, so I have an equally focused commitment to writing about health care and wellness, especially patient-centered, participatory medicine. Surprised?

Lately, I’ve been characterizing myself as a healthcare “infomediary” because of my uncanny ability to translate jargon-heavy medical research and healthcare information into reader-friendly materials for consumers and practitioners. I’m currently keen on infusing more education about ethics and moral theology into the healthcare industry. It’s my never-ending attempt to make worlds overlap rather than collide!

Next book? I vowed I would never ever do this again, but that was me being delusional. In reality, I’ve started a book about the spiritual value of fear. It will be a little book. Who could tolerate a big book about fear?

Q:  Are there any closing thoughts or comments you’d like to share with our readers?

Not only do I always have more to say, but I also tend to repeat myself. With no shortage of personal angst I’ll note once again that the shattered world of Christian-Jewish relations and ecumenical relations must be repaired. By us. God’s beloved children. And I thank God for the gifts and opportunities I’ve been given to participate in this healing work.

Order Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar?Jewish Roots of Christian Worship and support CatholicMom.com.

Visit Meredith Gould’s website.

Last week, we shared Chapter Twelve

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve

Benjamin had researched his mother’s business and knew that she was pulling in a sizeable chunk of change. So, he had just assumed that her house would be located in the Shiloh Point, their old neighborhood or one of the more trendy subdivisions sprouting up around town.

Instead, she directed him to a downtown side street, just a few blocks away from the detestable apartment house that he had briefly called home. Granted the area had been restored. The town had even re-bricked the sidewalks. Collectively, it was a pleasing enough neighborhood, including his mother’s small cottage style home, but hardly what he had expected with someone of her wealth.

He dutifully followed her up the curved front path that led to an expansive front porch. He took a quick glanced at his watch, gauging how much time he had before Alfred Channing would expect his call and felt the first stirrings annoyance. He must convince her to see things his way, but how? She seemed completely uninterested in the financial gains.

As he stepped inside the house, he was struck by a flash of genius. He was keenly aware of her need to mend their relationship. Simple. He would use that as an incentive. His spirits immediately lifted. He was back in control.

“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” she said, setting her purse on a side table. “I’ll let Maria know that we’re here.”

“Will this take long?” He wanted to get this over with, call Channing and catch the first flight out.

“Not long at all. I’ll be right back. You just sit down and relax,” she said, patting the top cushion of an overstuffed chair. “I’ll ask Maria to bring you in a glass of ice tea.”

He exhaled in exasperation watching her disappeared down a long narrow hallway. He was too keyed to sit and began to take in the room.

Photos lined the fireplace mantel. He leaned in, studying the faces.  The only one he recognized was that of Ted Hawker.

He removed the photo to study Ted Hawker’s face and decided there was absolutely nothing about the man that was even remotely attractive; yet it had been clear by Ted attentiveness that they were more than just casual friends

Another case of his mother settling, he decided, setting the frame back on the mantel. Only this time, she had settled for a policeman instead of a man of refinement like a college professor or a doctor. Granted, she had begun to age. Choices were bound to decline, but she still was an attractive woman and a successful business owner. Surely, she could do better.

Another photo showed his mother with an older woman standing at the rail of a cruise ship.  There was something vaguely familiar about the woman, but he couldn’t place her.  Oh, well, it really didn’t matter.

“Benjamin?” A small woman with dark, chestnut hair and olive skin was standing in the door that connected the dining room to the kitchen. She spoke with a slight Spanish accent. Must be the Maria person.

“Your mother asked me to come get you. She’s in the room at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you.” His lips moved into what he had intended as a smile, but came off more like a grimace. Resigned to having to play the dutiful son until he could convince her to see things his way, he walked down the hall. The bedroom door was ajar. He knocked.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear. Come in.”

The shades had been partially drawn to soften the intensity of the mid-afternoon sun. A hospital bed took up most of the space and the air was heavy with the thick odor of antiseptic and sickness.

“There’s someone here who has been waiting to see you.”

“We really must finish our conversation before I leave,” he said, taking in the web of tubes that ran from a bank of machines to an emaciated man beneath the sheets. There was no way he was coming any closer.

Apparently, his mother was no longer satisfied with taking in people off the streets. Now she was taking the sick into her home. The whole think reviled him. These people carried all kinds of diseases.

“Come closer.” She waved him over to the side of the bed.

“I’m fine where I am.”

The man reached out a boney hand and whispered in a horse voice, “Benjamin? Don’t you recognize me?”

“Recognize you?” This really was tiresome.            “Mother, I do need to speak to you alone. I don’t have much time. My plane leaves in a few hours.”

“It’s me,” the man persisted. “Your father.”

His father?!! He looked at his mother in open disbelief.  She nodded.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Benjamin barked, backing further away. “Do the authorities know that he’s here?”

“He’s dying, Benjamin,” Emma said, softly. “He just wants to make amends before it’s too late.”

“You didn’t answer my question, mother?” His voice had turned to steel.

“No, they don’t know that he’s here,” she said, clearly disappointed by his response.

“You’ve harboring a wanted criminal. A felon. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you’re in, or for that matter, the trouble you may have put me in as an accessory?”

“Please, son. Can we just talk?” Jerry pleaded, trying to lift his head.

“He’s doesn’t have much longer to live,” Emma said. “Can’t you find it in your heart to speak with him for just a few minutes?”

“I don’t care if he’s seconds away from being taken out of here in a body bag,” Benjamin blazed, refusing to even look at him. “He’s still wanted by the FBI and just by my presence, albeit prompted by an innocent request by my mother to come visit her charming little cottage, I could be implicated in the charge of harboring and abetting a criminal.”

His mother’s face turned hard. “I invited your father to my home so he could die with dignity, not in some prison ward. And if you had an ounce of common decency, you would sit down and talk to him,” she fired off. “He wants to ask for you forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Benjamin laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

“I know what I did was wrong,” Jerry began as Emma helped prop him up with a pillow. “I know the pain I put you through. You’re mother told me all about it. But please try to understand. I never really meant to hurt either one of you. I was scared and if I could change things, I would, but I can’t. You must believe me when I say that I never stopped loving you. I need you to know that.”  Jerry pleaded, tears tumbling down his checks. “Please forgive me, son.”

“You can apologize until you take your last breath old man, but I will never forgive you for what you’ve done.”

“Benjamin, please reconsider. Your father has suffered enough,” Emma said, watching him pull a cell phone from his suit jacket.             “What are you going to do?”

“I’m calling the police.”

“You can’t!” Emma grabbed for the phone.

He held it high, out of her reach then stormed out into the hall.

“I’m at the home of Emma Smith,” Benjamin told the police dispatcher, stepping into the kitchen, startling Maria who was setting out a tray of pastries.

“What’s going on?” she asked Emma who had charged in tight on his heels.

“He’s turning Jerry in. Please, don’t do this,” she pleaded.

He ignored her.  “I would like to report that she has given sanctuary to a wanted felon. His name is Jerry Smith and he’s wanted for stealing a quarter of a million dollars from Madison Bank and Trust in 1981. My name? I prefer not to give it.”

He ended the call and for the first time, Emma saw what the others had always seen but what she had refused to believe. Benjamin was a self-centered, egotistical ingrate void of any compassion or social conscience.

“What’s the matter with you?” she railed. “Your father needs your forgiveness. Why is that so hard for you to give it to him? Do you know how many times I’ve had to forgive you?”

“Me?” he laughed. “I didn’t run off and desert my family.”

“Oh, didn’t you?”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that suppose to mean?”

“What about hanging in there when we were forced to move out of our home and into that apartment? What about just once….recognizing the sacrifice I made? Do you have any idea how hard I worked to give you a place to sleep and food on the table? You didn’t even have the common courtesy to attend the graduation party I threw for you, nor have you bothered to come home for any of the holidays.

“But I found it in my heart to forgive you for all of it. You can at least find a modicum of sympathy to forgive your father. He made a mistake. It’s that simple. We’ve all made them at one time or other in our lives. Can’t you find the compassion to allow a broken, suffering man to die in peace?”

He rested a hand on the back door knob, his face an angry mask.

“Die in peace?” he laughed. “What kind of peace did he ever give me? Because of him, I was made to be pitied by my friends during my senior year of high school. The year that was suppose to have been the best time of my life.  He stole that from me. Instead, it was filled with shame for what my father had done and the friends that I lost because of it. Not to mention the hovel that we were forced to call home. No. I don’t owe him anything, mother. Not a thing. In fact, you might say that it’s payback time.”

“Pay back for what? He was scared. You heard him say that. He didn’t see any other way out. Granted, what he did caused us both a great deal of pain, but we have to find forgiveness in our hearts and look at how things turned out. Our needs forced me to use my talents as a baker and now look at how God has turned it around and used it to help others. And look at what God has done in your life. You’re the vice president of an important investment bank. You’re well respected.”

“Not for long if word gets out that my father is a common felon.”

Her hand tighten into a fist. She wanted to slap him soundly across his impudent face. Instead, she drew a deep breath and silently prayed that she might find the words that would allow her son to relinquish the past.

She stepped forward. “Your father made a mistake. Please, just let it go.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. Benjamin flung open the door.

“You tell that man that I’m given back exactly what I received from him. Complete indifference to any pain or suffering he might be experiencing now or in his ostensibly short future.”

With that he fled through the backyard.

Maria placed a hand around Emma’s waist. She knew intimately the suffering a son could cause.

“Let him go, dear friend. It’s in God’s hands now.”

Ted was first to arrive on the scene. Several unmarked cars followed shortly after. Within seconds, an army of men wearing bullet proof vests and burnishing assault rifles stormed through the house.

“There’s no need for this,” Ted told them calmly. “The man you’re looking for is in the back room confined to a hospital bed. He’s not going anywhere, gentlemen, so you can holster your weapons.”

The leader waved a hand in the air to indicate where the suspect could be found. The others followed.

Ted whispered to Emma, “I assume that Benjamin called this in.”

“He ran out the back door,” Maria volunteered, before letting go a string of words in Spanish that needed no interpretation.

“I’d better go in and see to Jerry,” Emma said.

Ted grabbed her arm.            “Stay here. Let them do what they need to do. They’ll be plenty of time to talk before they take him away.”

“Is there anyway that we can convince them to allow him to stay?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Ted said, resting his hands on his hips. “There’s a warrant out on him. They’ll have to take him in. They have no choice.”
“Where will they take him?” Maria asked, as Emma sank down into a kitchen chair.

“For now? Probably to Mercy Hospital.  They have a ward set aside for state prisoners. After they assess his condition and confer with the doctors, they’ll either elect to hold him there, or move him to the prison hospital in Newtown.”

“How could Benjamin be so cruel?” Emma wondered out loud.

Ted squeezed Emma’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Em. I’m afraid not everyone has your gift of compassion or your ability to forgive.”

“I have to admit, when he first showed up, I wanted to retaliate. Like Benjamin, I wanted to turn him in and make him suffer.”

“Why didn’t you?” Maria asked, slipping into the chair alongside Emma.

“He was all alone,” she explained. “Granted, what he put me through was no picnic, but at least I had friends. You two, of course. And Ava, the Fields. Father Joe. Then later, all my friends down at the soup kitchen and then the bakery. Jerry had no one.”

“Did he tell you where he’d been all these years?” Ted asked.

“South America.”

“And the money?”

“He gambled it away. Won some. Lost some, but was always able to pay off his debts. Then he ran into a bad space of luck. Lost a considerable sum of money at cards to some very unscrupulous men. They threatened his life. So, about seven months ago in desperation, he decided to sell a kidney in order to pay it off.”

“He what?” Maria asked, aghast.

“He felt he hadn’t any other options.”

“Yeah, but to sell a body part.” Maria shuttered.

“Gangs south of the border don’t fool around. Those guys mean business,” Ted offered. “In fact, beheading is one of their choice deterrents. Jerry had ever right to be scared.”

Maria exhaled loudly and made the sign of the cross. “I thank God everyday that I am now a citizen of this country.”

“The operation went fine,” Emma continued. “He made enough to settle his loan and was scared enough never to gamble again. Then a few weeks later, a deadly infection set in his remaining kidney. The Mexican doctors recommended that he return to the states for treatment. He entered a hospital in Houston under an assumed name, but the doctor’s there couldn’t offer him any better prognosis. They said his only hope was a transplant, but since he didn’t have access to health insurance, his chances of getting one was nil unless he could come up with the cash. But even then, they wouldn’t have been able to operate until they had the infection under control. Meanwhile, time ran out.”

“My, God, this sounds like a made-for-TV movie,” Maria said, shaking her head.

“Officer Hawker?” A heavily armed man, wearing a vest with an FBI emblem stood at the doorway and waved Ted over.

“I’ll be right back,” he told them.

Maria waited until the officer was safely out of earshot. “But how did Jerry find his way back here?”

“When he was in the hospital in Texas, he saw the piece CNN ran on the upcoming award’s ceremony. It showed my picture. Jerry knew there was no hope of him surviving and decided it was more important to get his soul in order.  So, he hitched a ride with some truckers and that’s how he landed here.”

Emma bowed her head in grief. “I’m so saddened that Benjamin wouldn’t forgive his father. It would have meant so much to Jerry.”

“He received your forgiveness,” Maria reminded her. “That should count for something.”

“I wonder if they’re going to arrest me, too.” Emma turned to Maria. “If they do, will you call Donny? Maybe between the both of you, the bakery can keep going until I can figure out something.”

She had spoken about friends. Those at the bakery were more than friends, they were her family, and she couldn’t rest knowing that her actions might have put their futures in jeopardy.

“They’re not going to arrest you,” Ted said, reappearing. He nodded towards the hallway. “That was the lead guy. I’ve worked with him before. There won’t be any mention of you in his report. As far as his unit is concerned, by acting on a tip they found a criminal who had taken sanctuary in a home unbeknownst to the owner.”
“Oh, Ted. Thank you,” Emma cried, throwing her arms around his neck.

Ted felt the warmth of her gratitude and his heart began to melt. “You’re welcome. I’d get that hospital bed out of here, ASAP. There’s bound to be a follow up report.”

She nodded through the tears, knowing that Ted had put his career on the line for her. She tenderly kissed his check.

“Ma’am?” The agent reappeared at the door. “We’re taking him out now. Do you want to say goodbye?”

“Go ahead,” Ted said.  “We’ll wait in here.”

Jerry was strapped to a gurney.  His hands were handcuffed to the rails. She reached through the bars and covered his hand with hers. He looked up and tried to smile through the increasing pain. The morphine drip had been removed for transport.

“I’ll never forget your kindness, Em. I didn’t deserve it,” he said. Choking back tears, he shook his head. “I really blew it, Emma. I gave away my life in search of money and possessions when all along I possessed the greatest gift of all—a family, love. If only I could go back and do it all again, knowing what I know now. But I guess that’s not a second chance God is willing to allow.”

He struggled to sit up and held fast to her hand. “Promise me something.”

She nodded.

“Promise me that you’ll try and make Benjamin understand that family and friendship is what’s really important. It’s not about how much money you make, or status goods that you accumulate.”

He looked up into the distance. “Because in the end, it’s all about love.”

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve

Copyright 2010 Katherine Valentine