The Wedding Quilt

A lone figure moved up the steep side of the church’s wide sloping shingled roofline, loping toward the center of the building.

“The steeplejack,” Melissa said on her own breathless whisper. “He sure didn’t waste any time.”

“No, he didn’t,” Rosemary replied, her eyes taking in the lean lines of Kirk Lawrence’s broad shoulders and athletic body. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on the man. And no wonder. He hopped and jumped over the roof like the superhero Melissa had called him, his long, muscular arms swinging from the rafters, so to speak, as he took his first close-up look at the thing he’d come to wrestle with.

The steeple was a mixture of several different levels and several different foundations. Set at the front of the broad, rectangular, Gothic church building, it started out with an open square belfry, made from the stone they’d discussed earlier, intertwined with sturdy, arched timber-framed beams that shot up to form a tier, like the bottom layer of a wedding cake, over which sat a smaller section with louvered openings surrounded by stained-glass partitions and a smaller version of the same arched wood pattern. That section lifted toward and supported a spire made of thick iron beams that formed the tall shingle-covered cone. This tier was followed by an ornamental rusty iron cross that extended three feet across and four feet up.

The long front of the church was made of the same stone facing as the belfry tower, mixed with the timber framing that the original congregation had made with heavy columns and beams, the arched pattern of the wood crisscrossing throughout the stones, following the same pattern of the tower’s beams. The church was intact and sturdy; now it mostly needed scraping, painting, restaining and rustproofing. Which was why Rosemary had hired the steeplejack. He’d do most of it from his boatswain chair, inches at a time if necessary.

Kirk hauled himself up over one of the stone belfry walls, clinging precariously for a moment before lifting over into the open belfry room where an aged brass bell hung from a sturdy iron frame. From his vantage point, he looked out over the town, then down at the playground where Rosemary and Melissa, and now the children, watched him in fascinated wonder.

“Hello there,” he called good-naturedly, waving toward them, then holding out both arms as if to say he’d just claimed this spot as his very own. “What a view!”

Rosemary didn’t doubt that the view of the surrounding hills and mountains was impressive. She’d never been up in the belfry, but her brother, Danny, had climbed up there many times, and he’d told her he could see the whole town—indeed, the whole county—from there.

“It’s Spiderman,” a little boy called, jumping up and down in glee. “Miss Ruzmary, Miss Ruzmary, see Spiderman!”

“I see,” Rosemary said, smiling up at Kirk before returning his wave. Why hadn’t he simply taken the narrow stone steps just inside the church narthex that led to the bell tower? “That makes me dizzy,” she whispered to Melissa. “I’ve never been one for heights.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting up there with him,” Melissa said, laughing.

“Melissa Roberts, you have a new boyfriend.”

“Yes, but we’re just good friends—really. And, your steeplejack is sure easy on the eyes. Not at all what we expected.”

Rosemary had to agree with her. Kirk Lawrence was intriguing, good-looking and likable. And discreet. They’d talked at length for most of the afternoon, about his purpose here, about their mutual faith in God, about what the congregation expected from him, and he hadn’t questioned her once about why her father had treated her in such an ugly way during lunch. For that alone, she appreciated him.

She’d expected a middle-aged, leathery, bowlegged monkey of a man to come and do this job. Instead, she’d gotten Tarzan himself, a man who was at once dangerous because of the profession he’d chosen, and noble for the very reasons he’d chosen this timehonored way of doing things. Knowing he didn’t take shortcuts and that he was willing to risk everything for a dying art made her respect him even more.

“He’s not my steeplejack,” she said rather too defensively. “He’ll be gone before we know it and all the excitement will die down.”

“Then we’d better make the most of his visit,” Melissa said, rising to check on a whining toddler.

Rosemary grinned at her blond-haired friend, then looked back up to where Kirk stood surveying the tower and steeple. He was stretched over the short belfry wall, perched with one arm wrapped around a fat stone-and-wood column as he viewed the perilous height of the spire above him. Rosemary wrapped her arms around her chest, fighting the goose bumps that had risen on her skin.

He turned to stare down at her for a long moment, then quickly got back to work, measuring and calculating.

As she just as quickly got back to her own work of watching the children she loved. Only she couldn’t help but do some measuring and calculating of her own, from the corner of her eye—but her assessments had little to do with the wood and stone of the old steeple.

A few hours later, Rosemary walked into the living room of her home to find her father sitting in his usual spot in front of the television. Dan Rather was delivering an update of world events, and Clayton Brinson had the volume at full blast, as if he couldn’t afford to miss a word of what the broadcaster was saying.

“I’m going to the church dinner now, Dad,” she said as loudly as she could. “I left your supper on the stove—plenty of fresh-cooked vegetables to go with your fried ham. And—” she purposely came to stand in front of him now “—I made two peach pies. I’m taking one with me, and I left the other one for you. There’s coffee on the stove.”

Clayton’s only response was a deep-throated grunt. He still wore his khakis and undershirt. He’d barely left this room all day.

Rosemary leaned down to place a small kiss on her father’s forehead. “I’ll be home early.”

Clayton didn’t move a muscle. He just sat with his gaze fixed on the talking head on the television screen. His daughter walked out of the room and gathered her trays from the kitchen, then left.

Not until he’d heard the back door slam did Clayton turn, and then it was only to lower his head and close his eyes tightly shut. When he raised his head seconds later, his eyes were calm and cold again. He sat silent for a minute, then lifted a hand to touch the spot where his daughter had kissed him so tenderly.

“So you couldn’t get the old rascal to come on over?” Faye Lewis asked Rosemary much later.

“No, of course not.” Rosemary shook out the white cotton tablecloth to cover one of the many portable tables they’d brought out underneath the oaks and pines for a good, old-fashioned dinner on the grounds. “He can hear us from his vantage point—that is, if he turns down that television long enough to listen.”

“I’ll bet he’ll listen,” Faye said as she grasped the other end of the cloth to smooth it out. “He’s been listening all along, he just can’t hear in the same way.”

“He’s lost all hope, Faye,” Rosemary said, her eyes scanning the growing crowd of church members and townspeople who’d turned out to meet the mysterious steeplejack. “And I’m about at the end of my rope.”

“Steadfast, Rosemary,” Faye reminded her. “Remember, ‘for as much as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.’ You’re doing the right thing, the only thing you can for your daddy. You’re standing firm in your faith. Clayton will see that in time, and he’ll come around.”

Rosemary appreciated Faye’s gentle reminder. “I certainly hope so.”

Faye patted the cloth into place then began placing covered casserole dishes full of hot food on top of it. “Your father is a proud, stubborn man. He can’t deal with his grief, but I must say I’m shocked that he’d fight against it this long, and in such an extreme way. Clayton and I were always so close—Eunice was my best friend, after all. I miss her, but my grief is different from your father’s.”

Rosemary glanced toward her house, then quickly began pulling disposable plates out of a large plastic bag. “No, you didn’t turn away from God—or me—when it happened. Poor Dad, he used to be here every time the doors were open. He did it only to please Mother, though. He and Mom, with Danny and me trailing along.”

A commotion toward the edge of the crowd caused her to put away painful thoughts of her now-shattered family. She looked up to see Kirk emerging from his little trailer. He wore a clean white button-down shirt, fresh jeans and brown suede laced boots. His dark hair looked damp from a shower. His smile was fresh and enticing. He was working the crowd.

She lifted an eyebrow when the older woman poked her in the ribs and whispered, “Cute, ain’t he?”

“Yes. And charming. I’ve always heard Irishmen are very charming, and probably dangerous.”

“Well, the insurance adjuster would agree with you there. I hear the hazards of his work make him expensive to underwrite. The steeplejack’s occupation alone makes him dangerous, as far as having to pay out if he falls off that thing.”

“He won’t fall,” Rosemary said, knowing it to be true.

Kirk Lawrence seemed as sure of himself as anyone she’d ever met. He had the grace of an acrobat, and the concentration of a neurosurgeon. She’d watched him working this afternoon, taking measurements, touching the ancient stones and splintered wood, almost cooing to the towering steeple in his efforts to get a handle on his task.

“He might not fall,” Faye cautioned, “but I sure hope he doesn’t fail. We’ve got a lot of donations invested in this renovation.”

Rosemary playfully slapped her friend on the arm. “Ye of little faith! Just look at the man. He’s shaking hands and kissing babies like a politician. Why, he’s even got old Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s undivided attention.”

Faye squinted toward the spot where Kirk had stopped to bend over an aged woman sitting in a wheelchair, her tiny body covered from the waist down in an even more aged quilt. “Sure does. Let’s go see what he’s saying to her.”

“More, what’s she saying to him.” Unable to stop her curiosity, Rosemary followed Faye across the grounds to where Kirk had stopped in front of the old woman. She watched as white-haired Mrs. Fitzpatrick lifted a bony, wrinkled hand to clasp Kirk’s lean, tanned fingers.

“I knowed you was coming when I woke this morning,” she said, her wise eyes appraising him with sharp precision. “It was such a strong morning, all bright and crisp. The Lord saves special days like this one for special happenings. I knowed something was a’brewin’, but I jist thought it wuz something in the air.”

“I got here a little early,” he explained.

She wheezed a crusty chuckle. “Yep, and so did spring.”

Kirk grinned at that, then waited patiently for her to continue talking.

“I’m the oldest member of the church,” the woman told him in a whispery, leathery voice as she held up her tiny bun-crowned head with pride. “Eighty-nine. Emma Fitzpatrick’s my name, but they call me Aunt Fitz. You can call me that if you’d like.”

“I’d like, indeed,” Kirk replied, a twinkle in his eyes. “And I just might need your expert advice on how to go about working on this magnificent church and steeple. I’m sure you have lots of fond memories of this church.”