How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [53]
Without looking up, she says, “It’s a beautiful arts center.”
Yes, it used to be to me, too.
Carefully, she fingers my brochure like she’s pushing a pie crust into a pan. “How many did you bring?”
“Brochures? I have hundreds.”
Waving at the rack by the front door she says, “Put fifty of them there.”
She walks away, back toward the coffee-sipping customers and over toward the kitchen.
I gulp. It takes me a while to know what to do. I head outside, open my trunk, and grab a handful of brochures. That looks to be about fifty. I carry them inside. She’s nowhere to be seen. I place the brochures in the rack right under postcards for rental property, brochures for Grandfather Mountain, and neon-pink flyers for a weight-loss program.
A train’s slowing wheels sound in the near distance. For a moment, I consider jumping aboard and going someplace where life is easy. My next thought is that God’s hand should be able to hold me anywhere. Even here in this small town. And, according to Grandpa Ernest, if you have God’s hand to hold, what more could you want or need?
Inside my Jeep, I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I close my eyes to pray. Right now in this little mountain town, it feels as though God is closer than He’s ever been to me—except for maybe my childhood on the farm. I ask God to make people pick up the cake brochures and decide to buy cakes from me. Dozens of orders each week—that’s what I want.
Then I think to myself that this sounds a little selfish.
I wonder if God would agree.
Opening my eyes, I watch the train heading into the station. I pause and view its shiny colors and see the steam rising from its smokestack or whatever the chimney of a train is called. I feel a tender bond with my father even though he is miles away. There is something about trains that make him happy, especially locomotives. Maybe it is their ability to travel with ease through the valleys and peaks of the land; perhaps they make us hope that our lives can be lived on course, following a track that will take us to wherever we are scheduled to go.
Again, I lower my head, focus on the dusty dashboard, and then let my eyes close. I feel a little uncomfortable, yet natural, all at the same time.
“Help me know how to teach these kids.” I wait, nod. That seems right. Then I think of the fruits of the Spirit listed on the kitchen door at The Center. “And please… show me patience.”
I open my eyes, finished, and place my key in the ignition. Before starting my Jeep, I close my eyes one more time. “Patience, especially for Darren. Help me reach him. Make him not be so bitter,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like a waitress with a request for the short-order cook. “Please.” I make the word sound as soft as I can, as though I want God to realize that I can be grateful in spite of my frustration.
twenty-six
Each time my cell phone rings, I answer with anticipation that it will be someone in town who has picked up my brochure and wants to order a cake. I imagine a baking-challenged mother with a daughter who is getting ready to turn sixteen finding my brochure as she exits Southern Treats. “I can ask this woman Deena to make the cake,” she says to the coworker she has just shared a pot of tea with. Her voice contains relief that comes when one realizes she doesn’t have to bake. I’ve heard that voice in my own mother many times. I see this coworker, nodding and adding, as she peers at my brochure, “Wow, what a beautiful cake. I’ll have to order one for our anniversary next month.”
Instead of cake orders, Jeannie calls to say that Sally told her I’m doing well. I assume Sally’s visit brought her to that conclusion. It’s a good thing Sally isn’t able to read my mind, for I’m still thinking about Lucas and his new girlfriend far too often.
When my phone rings again, I’ve just dumped ingredients into my blender to make salsa.
Mom asks if I still have