The Painted Table(26)

Softly, Miss Eilert begins to sing, “Into my heart, into my heart, come into my heart, Lord Jesus. Come in today, come in to stay, come into my heart, Lord Jesus.”

The children squirm and don’t dare look at each other.

“Jesus loves you,” Miss Eilert says. “He wants to wash away your sins, and live in your heart, and be with you always. With Jesus, you will never be alone. When you are happy, He will be there. When you are sad, He will be there.” She pauses. Saffee senses that the moment holds inexplicable significance and that her entire life has purposefully led her to it. “If you want Jesus to be your wonderful Savior,” Miss Eilert says, “please sing with me.”

Miss Eilert begins the song again. With hands clasped, and audible only to herself, Saffee sings, “Come into my heart, Lord Jesus.”

And He does.

Although it is somehow more understood by her heart than her head, she knows He does. She feels an exquisite happiness.

Minutes later she steps outside and stands still in the gathering darkness. Even though she has often sought to be alone, she experiences a curious relief that she will never be alone again.

She hears the slow-moving, heavy church door close behind her. She looks up and sees menacing snow clouds. Her chest tightens. Within her is a new, wonderful, and undeniable presence of love. But in the air there is another presence that scorns the words she has sung.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



NANCY DREW





Turn off the light. I wanna sleep!” April mumbles.

“Gotta finish this page.”

“No! I’m gonna tell!”

Saffee snaps the book shut, just as Nancy Drew’s blue roadster is about to zip past the suspicious man with the scar on his left cheek. With a sigh, she turns off the flashlight and flings the sheet from her head.

Every window of the house is open but not a particle of stuffy air moves. Saffee squints across the hallway to her parents’ bedroom. Rats! The door is open. But it’s late; they’re probably asleep. She slides out of bed, careful not to let the springs squeak. Tiptoeing past their door, she hears her father’s whiffling snore. With pillow and flashlight, Saffee imagines she looks like her favorite sleuth and suppresses a giggle.

Faint rays of moonlight fall on the playhouse cover over the Norway table. Perfect. She crawls under, clicks on the flashlight, and plumps up the pillow for her head. An area rug that she and April have dragged in makes this a comfortable place to lie. As flashlight shadows play on the white fabric walls, Saffee and Nancy Drew resume a thrilling ride around hairpin mountain curves. Suspense mounts as headlights from behind grow closer in the rearview mirror. Saffee perspires.

Z-z-z-z. The high whine of a mosquito blood-hunt. Without taking her eyes from the page, Saffee swats at the pest with the flashlight. The annoying sound gathers volume. She trains the light at the underside of the table, searching for the little demon. Two of them. She slaps and misses. Watching for another chance, she wonders why her mother never paints the underside of the table. The latest topside color is buttery cream and she had carefully painted around the vine, leaving it, well, green.

Z-z-z-z. Saffee swats again. Another miss. Following the speedy buzzers, her eyes settle on lettering burned into the back of the apron above her and to the left. She has often read the engraved names of her great-grandparents on the apron’s right side, but has puzzled over these words that end with numbers: 128 and 3.

Maybe a cryptic message from Viking days?

She feels a bite on her thigh and slaps. Z-z-z-z. Missed again. Irritated, she gives the playhouse fabric a smart tug in order to lift the opposite side, hoping the hungry pests will fly out and away.

Crash! A pile of books and Joann’s metal box that stores hundreds of buttons land on the hardwood floor not far from Saffee’s head.

In the bedroom, a malignant voice whispers, “Joann! Joann!”

Saffee’s adrenaline spikes and she gives a startled yelp. She rolls to the right, out from under the table, only to become hopelessly entangled in sheeting and slide around on the skittering buttons. She struggles to free herself. Her right hand still holds the flashlight, its rays ricochet off the dining room walls.

Roused from the stupor of sleep, Joann stumbles into the dining room, her face a gash of fright. “Fire! Fire! Come, children!”

On her knees, Saffee still struggles to extricate herself from the shroud of sheeting. Joann impatiently gives her a downward shove. “Get under!” she orders. “It’s coming! It’s close!”

“Mother!” Saffee yells, dismayed at Joann’s delusion. “What are you shouting about? It’s nothing! Some stuff just fell off the table!”