A Live Coal in the Sea by L'Engle Madeleine;

Author:L'Engle, Madeleine;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2016-08-22T16:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

Rafferty returned to Paris. ‘I’ll find someone to care for the—for Rose’s child until you—’

They left it there. Until. Until Camilla had her baby. Until—what?

Mac and Art came to Corinth together, meeting in Atlanta and driving from there. Camilla did not know who Mac was, who Art was. She looked at Mac’s eyes, clouded like dark amber, at his curly dark hair, his slight, tense body. It felt taut, resisting, as he kissed her.

She drew back, looked at Art, at the serenity in his face as he leaned toward her to kiss her, then put his arms around her in a loving embrace. She had thought she might recoil. Instead, she relaxed in his reassurance.

It was late, but they had all waited for dinner. Olivia lit the candles.

The heat bore down on them. The ceiling fan stirred the air and made it almost bearable. Art pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. ‘Paris was cool. Even Jacksonville is cooler than this, with the breeze from the river.’

‘England was cold,’ Mac said. ‘Frank and Bethann’s wedding was lovely, but we shivered.’

Camilla felt her own skin prickle.

Mac continued in a level voice. ‘I liked Frank’s wife. Too bad Luisa couldn’t come but she was in the middle of her residency and couldn’t get away. So it was just me and Bethann’s parents and sister and one aged aunt.’

‘Mac.’ Camilla interrupted. ‘There’s more.’

‘No.’ Olivia’s voice was shrill. ‘No. It can’t be done.’

Art and Mac looked at Olivia, at Camilla.

‘My father wants Mac and me to take the baby—my baby brother.’

‘No,’ Olivia said again.

Art leaned back in his chair. ‘Rafferty told me of this request. It is not to be considered lightly, and it is not to be considered at all, daughter, until you have had your baby.’

Mac had dropped his bags by the door. When they left the table he went to them, picked them up, turned toward the door, then back, taking his cases to the foot of the stairs and setting them down. A statement. A statement that he had come home.

Gravely, adding no advice, Art and Olivia left after breakfast.

Mac said, ‘Camilla, I have to go into the church. I have to pray. Do you want to come with me?’

‘Of course.’ Mac never pushed her. He let her move in her own direction, at her own pace.

She did not know how to pray. She was not sure she even knew how to be with Mac. They had made love the night before, wonderful love, during which time had no meaning and they were free of its tragedies. But night was over. She walked beside Mac to the church into the dim interior of the old building. The stained-glass windows were dull and needed cleaning. The woodwork, the pews, were brown. The walls had once been cream-colored but had darkened so that they blended into the brownness of the wood. It was comforting, rather than depressing. The church’s interior seemed to enfold them maternally. Mac was

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