But Madeleine was at the hospital, hovering over her son, and this man’s attention was total. His eyes held hers with a magnetic intensity that narrowed her consciousness to an intimate circle that contained only him.
The street door bumped closed and, startled, she broke eye contact. “Miss Quinn can ring you up out front,” she said breathlessly, and bolted into the sun-bright, welcoming safety of the front of the shop.
She made sure she was nowhere within speaking distance as Rebecca slid Donne into a green paper bag. She was well within hearing range, however, blocked from the biker’s view by the shelves.
“‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls,’” quoted Rebecca whimsically. She had years of practice in small talk with customers, walking the fine line between keeping her business successful and keeping herself separate. The Shepherds were firm about where that line was, and Julia was thankful for it. Beauty and safety lay inside the line. Chaos and sin prowled outside it.
“‘It tolls for thee,’” the biker responded. “Beautiful words. He wrote a lot of them.”
“That he did,” Rebecca agreed, handing him the parcel. “And some straightforward ones. ‘Hold your tongue, and let me love.’ One of my favorites.” Rebecca gracefully omitted the first words of the sonnet to avoid taking the Lord’s name in vain.
The biker didn’t seem to notice. “Your assistant’s pretty good at holding her tongue,” he said, neatly changing the subject and freezing Julia where she stood. “Not much on small talk.”
“Julia? Oh, I’ve never noticed that. But you need to understand, her family is under a lot of strain at the moment.”
Rebecca, for heaven’s sake. Stop giving out personal details. Julia stepped out from behind the shelving. “Miss Quinn, could you give me a hand in the back when it’s convenient?” she asked.
“Certainly, dear. I’ll be right there. Have a pleasant afternoon,” she said to the biker with a smile.
“Same to you,” he answered, the dimple appearing in his cheek. To hurry Rebecca along, Julia strode back to the used books, her sensible shoes unnecessarily loud on the wood floor. “And to you as well, Julia,” he added loudly as he pushed open the door.
Chapter Four
By nine o’clock, the day had softened into the lavender-edged twilight of a northern summer. Julia closed the front door of the bookshop and paused to turn the key in the lock. She liked working Friday evenings after Rebecca went home. The tourists were in a holiday mood, and the warm, welcoming light of the bookshop and its open door often tempted restaurant goers in after dinner. People killed time there while waiting for the movie to start down the street. Sometimes the young people of the Elect dropped in to gossip about one another, and once in a great while one of them even bought a book. The only time late shift bothered her was when there was a young people’s meeting or a hymn sing scheduled on a Friday night. Often she could talk Rebecca into calling on Jeremy Black, their part-time help, but sometimes she would just have to miss out and arrive late, after the singing was over and the hungry crowd had demolished most of the food.
The air currents moving down off the mountains cooled her skin after the warmth inside. The modestly long skirt of her dress—black, to signify the death of one’s wicked human nature—brushed her calves as she walked toward the lot where she’d left her car. Black stockings covered her legs, a symbol of a godly woman’s sacrifice of her vanity on the altar of obedience.
God’s peaceful spirit might lie in the quiet of the evening as she passed under the striped awning of the ice-cream shop, but Julia’s mind was full of worry and noise.
Ryan had been in her thoughts all day. Ryan and that biker. No, she thought hastily, just Ryan, lying weak and inert in the sterile hospital bed, his sock monkey the only spot of color beside him. It was no wonder she’d left the hospital crying on Wednesday. She’d dashed into the tiny waiting room a few steps down from the nurses’ station, after an urgent call had summoned her away from work.
She’d found her parents and Owen waiting anxiously on the uncomfortable vinyl couches. They weren’t the only ones keeping vigil for their loved ones. Madeleine had been sitting beside a young woman, her arm around the woman’s shoulder, saying something soft and low to her.
Owen got up and touched Julia on the wrist. “You made record time,” he said.
“I was scared. The message was that Ryan was in surgery. What happened? Who’s that?” Julia asked him, indicating Madeleine and the stranger with a lift of her chin. “What’s going on?”
“Her strength amazes me,” Owen said, looking at his wife. “There’s nothing any of us can do right now for Ryan while he’s in the operating room, but instead of going to pieces, what does she do? She heard that woman’s little boy was admitted with a growth on his neck, and she’s over there giving her crisis counseling.” Owen’s face was illuminated with love for Madeleine, rising like a warm tide behind his grief and apprehension.
“Do we know anything?” Julia whispered, her voice colorless. “What happened to Ryan?” If only she could do something besides stand here asking useless questions!
Owen sat, pulling Julia down next to him. “He had a relapse. Lina went to get a cup of coffee and the nurse called her back. He was passing blood.”
“What did they do? What—?” The fear was like a smothering blanket, cutting off her ability to put a coherent sentence together. “Is he—?”
“We knew they would have to operate eventually to find out what’s going on.” Owen’s gaze was locked on his wife, as if he could draw strength from her the way the young mother did. “But they’re doing it right now instead of waiting. The poor little guy. I’m never going to forget his scared little face as long as I live.”
Madeleine gave the woman across the room a hug and came over to her husband. Julia expected fear, the traces of tears on her face, but she was wrong. Madeleine was never so beautiful as she was in a crisis.
“The poor thing is deathly afraid of hospitals,” she said softly, winding her husband’s fingers in her own. “She can’t be there for her son until she gets past that. I hope I helped a little.”
“If experience is the best teacher, she couldn’t have a better one,” Owen replied, touching her cheek. “But what about you?”
“I’m all right. I just wish we knew something. I’m tempted to go find that sweet R.N. and get her to tell me if they found what caused the bleeding in his G.I. tract.”
Elizabeth squeezed her. “Now, now, dear. Have faith that he’ll be all right. God knows best.”
Some time later the swinging doors leading to the operating rooms had opened wide enough to let Michael Archer through. His scrubs were wrinkled and stained. Owen straightened, alert as an animal scenting danger, and dislodged Madeleine, who was dozing, exhausted, on his shoulder. She murmured, and as her husband’s alarm communicated itself to her, came fully awake.
“Michael!” Madeleine whispered. She got up and took a step toward him. Her shoe caught in the edge of the pastel carpet and she stumbled. Owen reached for her, but she pushed his arms away as though they were branches blocking her path. “Michael, what have you found? What caused the bleeding? Is Ryan all right?”
Dr. Archer had the kind of spirit and gentle demeanor that had made Julia trust him even as a little girl, coming to him for colds and bumps. His face, usually grave with a twinkle of humor behind it, was still and drawn as he looked into the white cameo of Madeleine’s. His eyes seemed to have sunk a little way into his skull, as though withdrawing from the pain he was going to have