“Not a problem, Eleanor. And please, call me Marvella.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She held tight to the doorknob.
“I do believe it’s time we had a chat.” Marvella wriggled her way around the girl and walked into the room. “Woman to woman.”
Eleanor closed the door behind her. “What is it you’d like to chat about?”
She took a seat in one of the chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. It was really a cozy room. Marvella smiled. Oh, how she’d loved decorating each room in their beautiful home. She patted the chair next to her. “Come sit.”
“All right.” But the rigid set to her shoulders was back.
“Why don’t you start with what put you in such a snit this afternoon after Mr. Hill arrived.”
Eleanor gasped and sputtered. “I ... I...” She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t in a snit.”
Marvella leaned back in the chair and crossed her hands under her bosom. “There’s no need to get defensive. I’ve been known to be in a snit myself ... from time to time. You should ask Milton.” She put her fingers to her lips as she laughed. “But, dear, it isn’t good to bottle up all your feelings inside. The storm clouds have been chasing themselves across your face ever since you arrived.”
Eleanor wilted and blinked several times.
“Now, now. No need for tears. Unless you really need to let them loose, then I won’t stand in your way. But I’m here for you. Just as I’ve been for countless other young women over the years.” Marvella gripped the girl’s hand and squeezed.
And then the floodgates opened. Tears fell from Eleanor’s big, blue eyes, dampening her cheeks. She gripped Marvella’s hand like it was a lifeline.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” the young woman sniffled. “Everything seems to agitate me. Even those who are trying to help me.”
Marvella nodded, pressing a soft handkerchief into Eleanor’s lap. “I know it’s hard to believe since we’ve only knowneach other a short while, but Milton and I care about you, and your father.”
Eleanor let go of Marvella’s hand and pressed the white square to her face. “I can see it. But I can’t understand why. I’ve not been pleasant. For heaven’s sake, both my father and I argued with you and your husband about Father’s work.” She shook her head, her blond hair shining in the afternoon light.
“Oh tosh.” Marvella laughed. “That was not an argument, dear. Just a good, old-fashioned exchange of ideas. Conversations like that help us grow and think about things differently.”
“That’s just it.” The words burst out of her guest, seeming to catapult her from her chair. She began pacing her room. “After that conversation, and the one this afternoon with Mr. Hill, I don’t know what to think anymore. For years I’ve believed what Father said. What he’s taught about conserving the land. But now I can’t stop thinking about farmers and ranchers and food.” She let out a huff. “And all this God talk. You, that Carter Brunswick, the Judge ...”
Marvella studied Eleanor Briggs for a moment. Her heart broke, seeing the consternation and fear so plain on the young woman’s beautiful features. But in her experience, not many entered the kingdom of God without a fight. And that’s exactly what Eleanor was doing. Fighting God. “I know it’s not easy figuring out what you believe.” She folded her hands in her lap and arched her eyebrows. “But it’s worth it in the end, especially when you come to Jesus, finally seeing that He was the one drawing you close the whole time.” She stood and crossed the room to Eleanor and slipped an arm around her waist.
Eleanor didn’t stiffen at the contact, but she refused to meet her gaze. “You sound like my mother.”
Marvella smiled. “She must be a fine woman.”
Grief flashed across Eleanor’s features. “She was.”
Ah.
Marvella squeezed her tighter. “Go on.”
Eleanor shook her head, sobs choking her throat. Then the tears came in earnest, a wild tempest of sorrow. Marvella kept her thoughts to herself, not wanting to push her young friend too hard. Grief wasn’t something that was easily dealt with. Marvella knew that all too well from her own mother’s passing years ago.
Finally, Eleanor pulled away and wiped her face again. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“No apologies needed, my dear. Sometimes a good cry sorts out a multitude of issues.”
“Not this time, I’m afraid.”
Marvella tipped her head. “What is it?”
“I just ... I wish I understood why my mother had to die. Why didn’t God hear my prayers to keep her alive?” Her eyebrows dipped, and her jaw tightened. “I don’t understand why God hates me.”
Well, that was unexpected. Marvella sent up a prayer, asking for wisdom, when she was interrupted by Eleanor.
