Along Wooded Paths (16 page)

Still, that wasn’t her problem. Instead, Marianna’s eyes drifted back to the sketch of herself. She wanted to say something to Aaron, to tell him that she wasn’t upset that he’d drawn her, but she didn’t know how. She glanced to his sketchbook. What else was inside? Were their sketches of Indiana? Of his cabin?

Then another thought came to her. After she’d left, Aaron and Naomi had gotten close for a time. Were there any sketches of Naomi?

Marianna’s stomach turned. She placed a hand over it.
Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no reason for you to feel this way. You’re not even sure how you feel about Aaron.

That was true . . . so why did it bother her so to think of him with another?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ben sat with his guitar in front of the microphone, yet he couldn’t help but see the disappointment in Roy’s eyes through the window, where Roy sat in the technician’s room.

It had been a long few days. He and Roy had worked on getting Ben’s career back on track. They made plans on where to go, who to talk to. Then Ben got out his guitar. He’d started with some of his old stuff, just to see if he still had it. Thankfully Roy thought he did.

“There’s something different about your songs . . . or your singing. Maybe it’s different about you,” Roy said.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a maturity that wasn’t there before—a depth. It’s hard to explain.”

Ben had to admit he enjoyed playing again, especially in a studio. To see appreciation in Roy’s eyes. Yes, he’d enjoyed singing at small gigs, like at the restaurant at the West Kootenai store. The guests appreciated it, but it meant more in a way to see appreciation in the eyes of someone of Roy’s caliber.

So now Roy’s disappointment caused his fingers to stiffen and he fumbled with a few chords. Roy’s smile faded as he listened to Ben’s newest songs. And in the place of the excitement that had shone on his face . . .

A look of concern.

Roy took a breath. “Okay, the first song wasn’t bad, but the other two . . .”

“Lame. I know.” Ben’s hand spread across the body of the guitar.

“Well, we have your old stuff. We can revisit that. We can also listen to some demo tapes, see if there’s anything—”

Ben held up his hand. “Wait, wait.”

“What? You’re against demos now? There’s some good songwriters, up-and-comers I’ve had my eyes on.”

Ben ran his hand through his hair and the war raged inside him. Roy would love the special song he’d written. But . . . once anyone in West Kootenai heard the song, they’d know who he’d written it for. If Mr. Sommer had been worried enough to talk to Ben, many other folks no doubt would be talking too.

Ben sighed.

“Tell me, Ben. Talk to me. I’m not sure what you’re thinking.”

Ben lowered his head. Roy would love this song. And if Roy loved it, then they’d produce it. Once it was out, Ben would look like a fool. With Marianna’s beau in the picture . . . he’d be a laughingstock. He’d be a fool to sing about the woman he wanted to be his wife.

Especially if she chose someone else.

Ben was just about to tell Roy that maybe they should start listening to demos when a strange stirring filled his heart, and then a voice filled his mind. Not an audible voice, but a deep knowing:

Who gave you the inspiration?

Ben knew the answer. God did. Ben couldn’t put two syllables together on his own. And if God wanted him to sing it . . . he supposed it would be worth looking like a fool.

“Okay, okay.” Ben spoke into the mic. “I have another song.”

“Title?” Roy leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his neck, as if preparing not to be impressed.

“Ever’ Day of My Life.”

“Sounds like . . . well, ever’ other song out there.”

“Might be.” Ben pulled his guitar into the right position. “Or maybe not.” Then without waiting for Roy’s response he began.

Entered my cabin, all warm from the fire,

Muscles were achin’, worn out n’ tired

From hard work like granddaddy did—

Ever’ day of his life.

Looking through the glass window Ben could see Roy wasn’t impressed so far. Probably thought it was too Brad Paisley and not enough George Strait, but he didn’t care. Ben closed his eyes . . . and pictured Marianna.

Got my cabin deep in the woods

But need somethin’ more to call it all good

To fill the aching hole in my life—

Cuz every warm cabin

Needs a good wife.

You’re nothing alone, you’re everything together

Aches all fade when someone helps you weather

the hard times,

Come fill my heart, come fill my life—

Every warm cabin

Needs a good wife.

My granddaddy told me, “If you wanna be whole,

Son, find a good woman who fills up your soul.

Whose smile brings sunshine, whose laughter rings true—

’Cuz son, life ain’t nothin’ ’til you do.”

Then came the day I looked in your eyes,

I knew granddad’s words were heartfelt and wise.

Your smile, your laughter proved my grandad knew

A thing or two about life.

Your gray eyes a’dreamin’, your smile so warm

Could melt all the ice from the cold winter’s storm,

And by the March thaw, my soul came to life

When I asked gray-eyed girl to be called my wife.

You settled my heart, you warmed up my life

The day you agreed to be called my wife.

You said:

We’re nothing alone, We’re everything together

Aches all fade when someone helps you weather

The hard times,

I’ll enter your heart, I’ll enter your life

Every warm cabin

Needs a good wife.

Baby,

We’re nothing alone, we’re everything together

Aches all fade when someone helps you weather

The hard times,

You entered my heart, you entered my life

Every warm cabin

Needs a good wife.

Got a warm cabin, got a good life,

Got all I need

Ever’ day with my wife.

Ben finished the last chords and opened his eyes. Instead of sitting, reclined, Roy stood, his hands pressed against the glass.

“That’s it.”

Ben cocked his head.

“Yes!” Roy punched his fist into the air.

“So?”

“So I think I need to make some calls. We’ll do some shows and maybe Monday we can capture that.”

“Uh . . .” Ben cleared his throat. “Monday night I have a prayer meeting. I’d really like to be there.”

Roy nodded his head slowly, as if trying to take in the news. “Okay. We’ll have to look at our schedule. See what we can do. Can you play it again? I’d—”

Just then the door opened. A woman with dark hair walked in, and Ben’s heart jumped to his throat.
Carrie.
She was beautiful, just as he remembered. Tall and thin, with a heart-shaped face and long, dark hair that fell over her shoulders.

“Hey, Dad, am I interrupting?”

Ben watched as she looked through the glass and paused. With two steps she entered the studio door, swinging it wide. “No way. Ben! My dad told me you came by.”

Ben lowered his guitar to the stand, then he opened his arms for the hug he expected.

Carrie crossed the studio in three long strides and nearly fell into his arms. She’d always been affectionate—something he used to appreciate. She pulled him close and laughter spilled from her. Ben buried his face in her neck, and with the scent of her a hundred memories came back.

Carrie pulled back, taking his face in her hands. “I should be horribly mad at you, disappearing into the woods like that. I thought for sure when I saw you you’d be sporting a beard and a lumberjack’s plaid shirt.”

Then she dropped her hands and stepped back, eyeing him. Though her hands no longer held him, her gaze did. She still cared. He could tell from her soft smile. Did he make a mistake letting her go?

The answer was immediate.

No, he’d done the right thing. His relationship with Carrie had been anything but pure, and years ago she’d chided him for his newfound faith. She’d tried to bring him down, drawn him back. Her beauty couldn’t make up for the fact she refused to commit her life to God.

“Well, I do have a red, plaid shirt.” Ben chuckled. “That shirt is in the wash, but I shaved just for your dad.”

She laughed and gave his arm a soft punch, then she stood back and crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a sour look. “I was so upset when I came back the other night and Dad said you’d been here but didn’t wait around for me. You should have just stayed the night. You never know how the roads are.”

He shrugged. “I made it home fine.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid tonight we’re not giving you a choice. It’s a blizzard out there. I was out in the stalls with my horses and barely made it back. Thankfully Dad keeps all the lights on. I had to take a hot shower just to get warm.” She curled a strand of damp, dark hair around her finger. “You have to stay. We won’t take no for an answer.”

Ben nodded but didn’t answer.
Lord, keep me strong.

Ben looked around. Roy had left the control room and now stood in the doorway to the studio. He wore a smile, no doubt happy they were hitting it off. More than once Roy had told Ben he wanted a good guy like him for his little girl. When Ben explained he wasn’t as much good as forgiven, Roy didn’t seem to care. He’d seen enough creeps to know what he did—and didn’t—want for his daughter.

“Good idea.” Roy pointed a finger at Ben. “And while you’re here, we should just plan on recording tomorrow. I have some ideas I want to run by you. But Ben, you need to play the song one more time for Carrie.” Roy wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Honey, you need to hear this song. I think you’ll like it.” Roy winked at Ben. “It’s about a good wife . . . something I know you want to be some day.”

Aaron looked at the one sketch out of six he hadn’t given to Annie. He could have throttled Charlie for bringing it up—the one of Marianna.

“You should see how Aaron draws,” Charlie had said. “He made Marianna so real that it looks like you could talk to her.”

He’d had no choice but to show everyone the sketch of Marianna, and just so they didn’t think he’d only drawn her he’d pulled out the landscape sketches he’d done. Good thing he’d had those. Even better thing they didn’t know he had more of Marianna than anything else.

Opening up his sketchbook, he glanced through the sketches he’d done of her over the last year or so. There was one of her holding an apple pie at church. Another of her watching the children play at the barn raising.

Aaron remembered that day. She’d blushed as he’d approached. Her eyes had been wide, shining with loving appreciation. Was that only six months ago? It seemed years had passed since Marianna left.

He looked at the last sketch he’d drawn of Marianna, from when she was still in Indiana. She was looking through the train window. Her chin tilted up, showing her determination. Yet her eyes had been wide with worry, fear even.

Aaron’s heart ached. He missed her. He missed
that
girl. Something about Marianna was different now. At first he’d been excited to see her newfound joy, but with it had come other changes. She seemed so independent, striding off to work each day. And in the evenings she talked about her coworkers and customers as if they were friends. And the way she’d invited the Englischwoman in tonight . . . no one seemed bothered by it.

His chest tightened. He could hear his mother’s concerns playing over and over. Unfortunately . . . she was right.

Aaron closed the sketchbook, and then opened the small cardboard box he’d brought in his suitcase. Inside were twenty letters. He’d been faithful to write a few times a week. Well, except for the weeks he’d been so involved with Naomi. He’d planned on giving the letters to Marianna once he got here, but now he wasn’t sure.

He opened the box and reached to the bottom, pulling out the first letter he’d written.