Your Dream And Mine

“Great. The cupboards are bare.”

“Your doughnut sack, too,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get it away from them before they made such a mess of your car.”

“You caught them in the act, huh?”

“Chocolate-fisted.” At Thomasina’s smile, he added, “They live in the little yellow house on the other side of the hedge if you want to take it up with their mother.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

“I was planning on grabbing a sandwich before work myself,” said Trace on impulse. “You want to come along?”

“That’s nice of you. Sure,” said Thomasina, appreciating the welcoming gesture.

“Let me put this stuff away. You can make your phone call while I shower, and then we’ll go.” He collected his remaining yard tools. “The phone’s this way.”

Thomasina trailed after him as he trundled the wheelbarrow to a shady old two-story stone carriage house. It had been converted to a two-car garage and a shop. There were windows. But the trees diffused the sunlight. It was shadowy inside, and several degrees cooler.

“There’s room in here if you want to park out of the weather,” he said as he led her past his pickup truck. “I keep the doors locked, so you won’t have to worry about the kids playing road trip in your car.”

“So that’s what they were doing.” Thomasina chuckled. “Creative of them. Thanks for the offer. I’ll take you up on it, come winter.”

“I’ll have an extra key made, then.” Trace led her to his workshop at the back of the carriage house and switched on a light. “Phone’s on the wall over there.”

“Thanks,” said Thomasina. “I’ll call about getting a phone, too. What’s the address again, in case they ask?”

Trace wrote it on a matchbook, then left. Thomasina picked her way to the phone through a maze of toolboxes, free-standing cabinets, saws, drills and other power tools. She phoned her supervisor first and got her work schedule for the following week, then called about having the phone line turned on.

The blended scent of sawdust, drying wood and oiled tools stirred poignant memories of her foster parents. Much of their nurturing had been done in a shop similar to this. Thomasina picked up curled wood shavings and held them to her face, her thoughts reaching back in time. Flo loved flowers and Nathan, and Nathan loved Flo and woodworking, and together they loved Thomasina after abandonment by her own mother and a winding road of short-term foster homes had placed her with a family next door to them.

“Thomasina Rose. What a beautiful name,” Florence had called when Thomasina dropped over the fence that first day. “A name to grow into. Do you like roses? I’ve got aphids on mine. Have you ever seen aphids? They’re like fear in a human heart—hard to see, but oh, my! What a lot of damage they’re capable of doing. Don’t be shy! Come have a look, dear.”

That summer, over lemonade and cookies and Bible stories, Florence introduced Thomasina to much more than aphids and gardening. She had introduced her to God.

“The world is His garden, my dear,” she had said one day, a trowel in one hand, a young plant in the other. “Sometimes He transplants His flowers. No one knows why. But I’m thankful He’s sent such a sweet rose to ramble over our back fence!”

After getting to know them, Thomasina was scared she’d get shuffled again and lose Nathan and Flo. Her social worker saw the change in her. She convinced Flo that she and Nathan were the very kind of people so desperately needed in the foster care system.

Soon thereafter, the switch was made. Nathan and Flo were walking talking funnels from heaven to earth, spilling all the love God gave them into restoring Thomasina’s lost childhood just as most teens were relinquishing theirs. But Thomasina’s thirsty heart was in no hurry for independence. She stayed with Nathan and Flo through two years of junior college and nurse’s training. More than foster parents, they became her heart-parents, her model for good neighboring, and at the core of her wish to establish a camp where wounded, broken children could be led to God, and find help.

Hearing children’s hushed voices in the carriage house, Thomasina snapped out the light in the shop. “Hello.”

The twosome who had made such havoc of her car stopped short at the sight of her, and traded wary glances.

“I’ve got boxes to carry inside and not enough hands. I wonder where I could get some good help,” said Thomasina.

“Are you moving in with Trace?” asked the little girl.

“No, I’m moving into Mr. Austin’s apartment.”

“What’s a ’partment?”

“It’s more than one home under a single roof. When I get moved in, will you visit me?”

“Is your ’partment like a playhouse?”

“Something like that,” said Thomasina, smiling. “Perhaps your mother would come, as well. It’s lonesome when you move, and nice to make new friends.”

“Momma’s already got a friend,” the little boy said. “His name’s Red.”

“Fred,” corrected Winny.

“Nuh-uh. It’s Red ’cause his hair’s red.”

“His hair’s red, but his name’s Fred,” argued Winny.

“Wanna bet? We’ll go ask Momma.”

The little boy dropped something on his way out. It was the battery to Thomasina’s phone. She put it in her pocket, locked the carriage house behind her and unloaded boxes until Trace returned. His hair was still damp from the shower. His work shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers emphasized his lean waist and narrow hips.

“This belongs to you?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.

Thomasina took the blue barrette from his open hand. “Winny’s, I think. They were here a moment ago. Curious fingers and power tools can’t be a good combination,” she added, seeing his frown.

“You wouldn’t think so.” Trace backed the truck out of the carriage house, then climbed out to slide the track door closed.

“A word to their mom perhaps?” said Thomasina when he returned to the truck.

“Antoinette’s thin-skinned these days, and not too good at taking advice, not even when it’s well-intentioned.”

“I was hoping we could be friends.”

“I doubt you’ll have much in common,” he said.

“I meant the children. Though you’ve piqued my interest,” admitted Thomasina with a sidelong glance.

“Antoinette lost her husband last winter. Car accident,” he added.

“What a shame,” murmured Thomasina.

“She’s had it kind of rough.”

“Being both mom and dad to two children. That can’t be easy. Does she have a good job?”

“She waits tables at a truck stop in Bloomington. A word to the wise?” he added. “Don’t encourage the kids unless you don’t mind having them underfoot. One friendly gesture, and you can’t duck ’em, scare ’em or beat ’em off with a stick.”

“I’m not entirely sure I approve of you, Mr. Austin,” said Thomasina, her head to one side.

“It’s Trace.”

“Trace, then. But I’m hungry.”

He answered her smile, and gripped the gearshift knob with a well-shaped hand. “Anything behind me?”

“All clear,” said Thomasina, looking out the back window.

Trace stretched his arm along the ridge of the seat, his hand grazing her shoulder as he backed toward the street Thomasina’s pulse quickened as his blue gaze glanced off hers. The truck cab seemed to shrink then expand again as he shifted his hand away and focused on the curve in the driveway.

“Any rules against hanging pictures?” Thomasina jumpstarted the conversation again.

“Not so long as you fill the nail holes when you move out,” he replied.

“It’s a deal,” said Thomasina, thinking all the while what a monkey she was, unnerved by a chance touch. She lapsed into silence as he reached for the radio dial.

Three blocks and half a country song later, Trace nosed the late-model pickup truck into a space in front of Newt’s Market. Groceries, Notions And Dry Goods must have been painted on the bricks decades ago. The bricks were faded, too. An old bench, a couple of pop machines and a trash container rested in the shade of the wooden canopy that ran the length of the storefront Trace held the door for her.

Thomasina caught the scent of his aftershave as she ducked past him and over the threshold.

The store was pungent with a blend of tobacco, fresh ground coffee and overripe bananas. A couple of children had their noses pressed to the candy case. Thomasina stepped around them, then stopped in the narrow aisle and let Trace get past her. The stained and worn pine planks creaked as he led the way to the back of the store.

The lady behind the meat counter greeted him warmly. Young and pretty, she cocked her head, looking Thomasina up and down.

“Thomasina Rose.” Thomasina reached across the counter to meet the woman’s outstretched hand.

“She’s my new renter,” Trace told the woman. “This is Emmaline Newton. She makes the best sandwiches in Liberty Flats.”

“I try anyway.” Emmaline flashed a freckled grin, then turned and called over her shoulder, “Uncle Earl? Come out here and meet Trace’s new renter.”

An old fellow with a shock of white hair and a whiskered chin sauntered out, welcomed Thomasina to Liberty Flats and disappeared into the back room again. The gray-haired dog on the floor woke up and limped around the counter after him.

“Got a checker tournament going on back there, do they, Emmie?” asked Trace.

“Yes, and I wish they’d wrap it up so I could get some help. What’ll it be today, Trace? Turkey or ham?”

“Surprise me.”

“Turkey,” said Thomasina.

“With all the fixings?”

“Why not?” agreed Thomasina.

Emmaline made their sandwiches on paper plates. She gave them pickles, napkins, a bag of chips and straws, as well. Trace sent Thomasina outside with change for the pop machine while he settled up at the cash register. Side by side they crossed the street to the park, and chose a table in the shade.

Thomasina noticed that he waited for her as she bowed her head and gave silent thanks for the food. The sandwich was made on fresh-baked sourdough bread. With all the cheese and lettuce and tomato and other goodies, it was impossible to make a neat eat of it. Thomasina spread a napkin on her lap, tucked another in her hand and gave up trying to control the drips.

“Get your phone calls taken care of?”

Thomasina nodded. “I’ll be at Milt’s tonight, but I talked my supervisor into a three-day weekend to complete my move.”

Trace extended the open bag of chips.

Thomasina took a handful Hearing a cardinal, she tipped her head and searched the trees.

“There,” said Trace, pointing.

“The honey locust or the ash?” asked Thomasina, still searching. “The ash! Of course! I see him now.”

“You know your trees.”

“Thanks to my folks. Flo knows them by leaves, and by wood, too. Better than Nathan even, and he’s a woodworker. You have a nice shop, by the way.”

“Thanks. Be nice if I had more time to spend in it.”

“What is it you do at the car plant?”

“Trim line.”

“Do you like it?”

“The money’s good, the work, fast-paced monotony.”

“If you had your druthers?” asked Thomasina.

“I’d rather be building houses,” admitted Trace. “My uncle’s a contractor. He got me started. Then the bottom dropped out of the industry. He couldn’t get enough jobs to keep us both busy.”

“So you went to the factory?” Thomasina asked, munching on a chip. At his nod, she added, “Building’s picked up in the last couple of years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. But you never know how long it’ll last. The guys with deep pockets can weather the slumps. A fellow just starting out can lose his shirt. What kind of building does your father do?”

“He’s retired,” said Thomasina without clarifying that Nathan was her foster father. “Foster” always sounded awkward to her. “Mom and Dad” never quite fit, either. Perhaps because she had gotten to know them as Nathan and Flo before they became her guardians. “Woodworking is just a hobby with him,” she said.

“It’s a good one if you like working with your hands.”

Thomasina’s gaze fell to his hands just as he crumpled the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in. They were strong hands, nicely shaped, and brown from the sun.

“What about you?” he asked. “Any hobbies?”

“Reading. Flowers. Yard sales. Children.”

He smiled. “Come from a big family, did you?”

“No.”

He glanced up when she quit talking. His eyes met hers, but to Thomasina’s relief, he didn’t ask questions. She brushed the crumbs on the table into a pile. “What about you?”

“Just Mom and Dad and Tootsie. My folks live in Bloomington now.”

“Tootsie is your sister?”

He nodded.

Thomasina licked mayonnaise off her thumb and started gathering up papers while he talked about his sister and her job with a computer corporation in California.

“I guess you’re wanting to get back to your moving,” Trace said, when she had tidied up the table. “Are you going to get to the big stuff today?”

“The furniture?” said Thomasina. “I don’t think I’ll have time today.”

“Do you have someone to help you? Brothers? Friends? Your folks?”

“My parents are in Arizona. But two boys in my building bought a purple truck last week,” said Thomasina. “I can probably talk them into helping me out for a tank of gas, a sack of hamburgers and change for the video games at the mall.”

“Teenage versions of our little neighbors, are they?” he said with a baiting grin.

“No. Friends.” Thomasina paused in pleating her napkin and looked at him from beneath half-cocked lashes. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way,” she added.

A scar had left a narrow indention at the corner of Trace’s eye. It blended into the fine lines that framed those darkly fringed bachelor button blues when he returned her smile. He glanced at his watch a second time, and got to his feet. “If you’re finished, I’ll drop you by the house.”

“That’s all right. I’ll walk home,” said Thomasina.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I want to stop by the post office and change my address. May as well pick up a sack of groceries, too. Does Emmaline carry chocolate doughnuts?”

“Still planning on making friends with the rug rats?” he asked.

Tough guy. Squinting in the sunlight, so innocentlike. Thomasina smiled and countered, “Couldn’t be you like them just a little bit yourself, could it?”

“They’re no worse than traffic jams. Root canals. Clogged drains. Purple trucks,” he said.

“What’s wrong with purple trucks?” inserted Thomasina.

“There’s only one color for trucks. See there?” Trace tipped his head back as the cardinal overhead chirruped in agreement.

“Oh hush, bird. Nobody asked you,” said Thomasina.

Trace chuckled, waved and sauntered across the street to his truck, gleaming red in the sunshine.

Chapter Six

The sun was going down as Thomasina arrived at Milt and Mary’s. She found Mary hard at work in the flower garden.

“Nice evening,” called Thomasina from the stone wall. “Is that a hummingbird there in the petunia bed?”

“Mmm.” Mary turned away, but not before Thomasina caught the glitter of tears in her eyes.

“Mary? What’s the matter?”

“I’m feeling a little blue, I guess.”

Thomasina dropped her canvas carryall on the low stone wall and moved closer. But Mary stopped her with an upraised hand. “I’ll be all right, honey. I’m in good company here. Why don’t you go on in and see about Milt?”

“You sure?”

Mary nodded, her face to the setting sun. Thomasina watched the rosy crown slip behind a blur of trees on the horizon. Shafts of light streamed across the heavens like countless arms uplifted in praise. Hallowed be Thy name. The prayer showered over her heart, quieting Thomasina’s anxiety as she retreated across the yard to the house.

Milt was in a chair by the bedroom window, talking on the telephone. He covered the receiver with his hand. “Get me a glass of water, would you, Tommy? I’ve been on the wire all evening, and I’m dry as cotton.”

When Thomasina returned with the water, he had ended his call. She took his blood pressure, his temperature and listened to his lungs before suggesting a bath.

“I guess I’m old enough to know when to scrub behind my ears. Sit down before you wear a hole in the rug.”

Thomasina sat. She returned her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff to her canvas carryall and pulled out her patient log. Her paperback book fell out, too.

“Wish somebody’d pay me to read on the job,” groused Milt, as she picked it up, crossed her legs and turned her log book to the proper page.

“Mmm.” Foot swinging, Thomasina took down the time, his heart rate, blood pressure and other routine information.

“Quit speaking, did you?” Milt spoke over the scratch of her pen.

“No, why?”

“Thought maybe I hurt your feelings.”

“No more than usual.” Glancing up from her record keeping, Thomasina saw him plucking at the sheet. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve had some things on my mind,” he mumbled. “Sorry I growled.”

“I was kidding, Milt. You didn’t hurt my feelings.” Thomasina grinned and added, “Grumbling comes with the territory.”

“Shouldn’t though. I was wrong about Will and the girls, too,” he admitted. “I gave them a pretty hard time about going behind my back and sending you here.”

He was referring to his behavior following his release from the hospital after a respiratory infection turned into pneumonia. Emphysema complicated matters, which was why his doctor suggested nursing home care. Milt dug his heels in, saying Mary was all the nursing he needed. His children knew better. They went behind his back and called Picket Fence, arranging for round-the-clock nursing.

Frustrated over having no say in his own life, Milt railed over his perceived betrayal at the hands of his son and daughters, and ranted at Mary for defending them. He vented his frustrations and wounded pride on Thomasina, as well. Mary acted as a buffer, apologetic to Thomasina and appeasing to Milt. But even she lost patience when Milt tried to send Thomasina packing.

“Enough is enough!” cried Mary, shaking her finger in his face. “You let the girl do her job, or I’m digging a hole in the flower garden and throwing you in myself.”

Milt took a long look at his worn-out wife and shut his mouth. He had been a different man since.

“You’ve been a big help to Mary and me,” Milt continued. “A friend, too.”

“Careful. I’ll ask for a raise,” quipped Thomasina.

“Hush, Tommy, and let me finish,” he ordered. “The thing about Will and the girls making decisions over my head is that only yesterday I was telling them where they could and couldn’t go, and what time to be home, and I wasn’t taking any back talk, either.”

With his words came a wrenching glimpse of the brevity of life. Thomasina felt the press of work she had not even spoken aloud about, much less begun, and watched as Milt pushed the curtain back.

“It’s about dark,” he said, squinting toward the flower garden. “What’s keeping her?”

Thomasina’s thoughts pivoted. “Are you two at odds?”

“Who?” rasped Milt. “Mary and me? No. What makes you ask?”

Mary’s tears. His trembling hand. His apologies, as if he could use a friend in his corner.

Thomasina said, “The tree in the front yard’s still standing. I thought maybe she told you she’d rather you didn’t cut it down.”

“You’re not paying attention, Tommy.” Milt let the curtain fall back into the place and said without preamble, “We’ve got an appraiser coming tomorrow. We’re going to have an auction, and sell the equipment and the land, too, if we can get what it’s worth.”

The breath went out of Thomasina. She would have sworn he’d give up his lungs, his arms, his legs, his very lifeblood before he gave up his land.

“I’m making the arrangements first,” Milt continued. “Then I’ll tell Will. The girls both live out of state. I’d rather tell them in person, but that’s up to them.”

“None of them want the farm?” said Thomasina.

“They never have in the past. If they’ve changed their minds, they can give fair market value and there’ll be no auction.” Gaze narrowing, he added, “If you’re thinking I owe it to them free and clear, just let me say…”

“I wasn’t,” Thomasina inserted hastily.

“In my book, giving them something they haven’t worked for is less a gift than a test of character, and I did my part in their character years ago. Anyway, I’ve got to have a little something set by to take care of Mary.” Milt jutted out his knobby chin, rubbed his bald head and waggled a finger in the general direction of his water glass.

Thomasina took it to the kitchen and filled it again. He spilled more than he drank, and dropped the glass, trying to return it to the table.

“Jeb Liddle’s been farming the ground for almost a decade now. He’ll bid,” he said as Thomasina stooped to pick up the glass and the scattered ice cubes.

“How many acres are there?”

“Why? Have you got a nest egg?” he injected on a lighter vein.

“Mostly in stocks and bonds,” she said.

“Ya, right. So what are you doing here?”

She shrugged off his disbelief and said with a grin, “Can’t a girl have a hobby?”

“Cute, Tommy Rose.” he chortled. “Grab a piece of paper now, before you get too sassy for list making. There’s something I want you to do for me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Your day off,” he said, nodding. “I know that. But while Mary’s fine with the plan, the details are making her weepy. I figure she’ll be better off nest shopping than getting all antsy over the appraiser prowling the place. I can’t very well ask Will to take her, now can I?”

“I’d be happy to take her,” said Thomasina. Seeing that Mary wasn’t the only one having a tough time with the details, she leaned forward and patted his knee. “Are you sure you’re all right with this, Milt?”

“I won’t say it’s easy. But it’s God who’s lifted us up and given us opportunities and God who says when it’s time to let go.”

“He’s said this?”

“Not in words. But the indications are there.” Milt took his time, pumping up on oxygen. “Yesterday, we both had doctor appointments. Mary had some cancer a few years ago, so she gets checked out now and then.”

Seeing him harden his jaw, Thomasina tightened her grip on the forgotten book in her lap and braced herself for the worst. He drew the curtain back again and said without looking at her, “She came out of the office, and I found myself noticing she was thin. Thinner than she’s been in a while.”

Thomasina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Milt.”

“No, it’s all right. The tests were routine. The lab called this morning, and the results were fine. But it was a wakeup call, Tommy Rose.” His bony throat wobbled. Tears gathered as he added, “I may be a stout-hearted old cuss, but I’ve got enough gray matter left to know it isn’t land or barns or a house full of trinkets making each day worth getting up for.”

Thomasina made a big business of studying the inside cover of her paperback. Her eyes were too full to read while he fought for control.

“The girls have families of their own now,” he said finally. “Will’s married to that lumberyard of his, and Mary agrees if we don’t make some decisions soon, the kids’ll end up doing it for us. It goes down the hatch a lot easier, makin’ them myself. Even hard ones. Like I said…” He trailed off a moment, then began anew, his voice growing stronger for the oxygen boost. “Seem to be spending a lot of time at doctors and pharmacies these days, so I reckon we’ll find a place in Bloomington where everything’s close by. An apartment, maybe where the upkeep is somebody else’s headache. Or a retirement village where they do the cooking and everything. Make it easier on Mary.”

“Sounds nice,” murmured Thomasina.

“A regular second honeymoon.” He checked the tear coursing down his seamed cheek, and beckoned with a gnarled finger. “I want you to look up some addresses and write them down for tomorrow, Tommy Rose.”