A Bungalow For Two

His brows furrowed. “No, Frannie. I can’t. I’m not ready for that.”

“Not ready for what? Mingling with the rest of humanity? What’s wrong with you, Scott? Why do you avoid people? Who are you hiding from?”

Scott pushed back his chair, sprang to his feet and strode over to the window. “You don’t understand, Frannie.”

“Then explain it. We’re friends, Scott, and yet I feel like you’re a stranger.”

He gazed out the window, then back at her. “Someday I’ll tell you everything. But until then, you have to trust me. That’s all I can say right now.”

CAROLE GIFT PAGE

writes from the heart about issues facing women today. A prolific author of over 40 books and 800 stories and articles, she has published both fiction and nonfiction with a dozen major Christian publishers, including Thomas Nelson, Moody Press, Crossway Books, Bethany House, Tyndale House and Harvest House. An award-winning novelist, Carole has received the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award and been a finalist several times for the prestigious Gold Medallion Award and the Campus Life Book of the Year Award.

A frequent speaker at churches, conferences, conventions, schools and retreats around the country, Carole shares her testimony (based on her inspiring new book, Becoming a Woman of Passion) and encourages women everywhere to discover and share their deepest passions, to keep passion alive on the home front and to unleash their passion for Christ.

Born and raised in Jackson, Michigan, Carole taught creative writing at Biola University in La Mirada, California, and serves on the advisory board of the American Christian Writers. She and her husband, Bill, live in Southern California and have three children (besides Misty in heaven) and three beautiful grandchildren.

A Bungalow for Two

Carole Gift Page

No soldier in active service entangles himself

in the affairs of everyday life, so that he may

please the One who enlisted him as a soldier.

—2 Timothy 2:4

In loving memory of Jason Michael Williams.

February 13, 1981–April 11, 2001

With a heart for God, a passion for life,

great devotion to his family and friends

and an insatiable appetite for adventure,

Jason touched countless lives in countless ways.

All who knew him loved him.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

Andrew Rowlands was dreaming. An odd dream really. He was about to be married to the lovely Juliana Pagliarulo, but he couldn’t find his darling daughters. Surely the wedding couldn’t begin without them. He darted among his smiling, well-attired guests, inquiring, “Have you seen my daughters?”

No one had.

And then amid the cacophony of voices and laughter swirling around him, he heard a familiar voice.

“Daddy?”

It was his oldest daughter, Cassandra, in a mauve bridesmaid dress. She came slipping through the crowd with her handsome husband, Antonio, Juliana’s son. In her arms Cassie carried a precious bundle, Andrew’s first grandson. “Be happy, Daddy,” she said, giving him a hug, and squeezing one-month-old Daniel between them.

“I couldn’t be happier than I am today, Cassie. I’ve got all my family around me.”

He spotted his second daughter in the throng. His dear Brianna with Eric Wingate, her dashing groom. Beside them stood their soon-to-be-adopted daughter, Charity, looking like an angel in pink chiffon. Andrew strode over and swung the precocious two-year-old up in his arms. “How’s my beautiful little Blue Eyes?”

The child tossed back her blond ringlets and laughed. “I not little, Gampaw. I big girl!”

Matching her laughter, Andrew kissed her shiny hair, then set her down. “Yes, you certainly are Grandpa’s big girl!”

“Oh, Daddy, isn’t she the prettiest flower girl you ever saw?” Brianna said in her lyrical voice.

Andrew winked at his daughter. “No prettier than the bride who’s going to be her mother.”

Brianna swept into Andrew’s arms with a tender embrace, her ivory-white wedding gown swishing around her.

“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered, stepping back and blowing Andrew a kiss. “Isn’t this a glorious day…the four of us having a double wedding?”

“Wonderful!” Andrew crooned. “Nothing better than standing at the altar with my ravishing bride and my precious daughter and her intended.”

“We’re all going to live happily ever after, Daddy. Happily ever after…”

The dream darkened after that. The festive crowd in the wedding chapel receded behind a mist of swirling shadows. A storm was gathering, with voluminous clouds rolling over a shrouded earth. The noise was deafening, drowning out the sounds of celebration rising from the chapel.

“Where’s Frannie?” Andrew shouted through the gloom. “Who’s seen my youngest daughter?”

The murky darkness cleared, as if someone had pulled back a curtain, and Andrew saw her, his beloved Frannie, who had cared for him like a mother hen. She was dressed in black and kneeling at her mother’s grave, the grave of his cherished Mandy, gone seven years now.

Andrew held out a hand to his daughter. “Frannie, come! The wedding’s about to begin. Your sisters and I are waiting for you.”

She stared back with tears in her eyes. “No, Daddy. I can’t! I won’t!”

“Honey, please! It won’t be the same without you.”

“How can you do this, Daddy? How can you forsake Mom and marry a stranger? I’ll never forgive you, Daddy!”

“No, Frannie, it’s not like that.” Andrew reached out, but the shadows closed around his daughter, and she was gone.

“Come back, Frannie! I don’t want to lose you, sweetheart…!”

Andrew woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. Thank goodness, it was just a dream. A silly dream. Everything was okay. Normal as an old shoe. The double wedding had gone off without a hitch nearly two weeks ago, the first of July. And just last night he and Juliana had returned, happy and exhilarated, from their Caribbean honeymoon.

Now he was here in his own home again, surrounded by everything familiar, waking as he always did to the summer sun streaming in his bedroom window. But this time, there was one major exception. Lying in bed next to him was his sleeping bride, the sun casting gold ribbons across her ivory face and bare shoulder.

The warm sunlight reminded him that all was well in his life. Better than it had been in years. He had so much for which to be grateful…a devoted wife and two daughters happily married with families of their own.

He had kept his promise to Mandy. “Find our girls good husbands,” she had told him during their last hours together. It had been her dying wish. “And find a good woman for yourself, Andrew. You’ll need someone to look after you.”

Yes, he had done that too. God had given him his exquisite Juliana.

And now, with his two oldest daughters married, that left just one daughter. Frannie, his youngest. A chill rippled though him as he recalled his unsettling dream. Those shadowy, nightmarish images had captured his underlying concern for Frannie. She had taken Mandy’s death the hardest. With everyone else in the family married, she seemed so alone, at loose ends, drifting. Surely one of these days the right man would come along for her. It was one of Andrew’s most fervent prayers.

And until then, he didn’t want Frannie feeling abandoned, just because he had a brand-new family to fuss over. But the truth was, he would have his hands full with his vivacious Juliana and her grown daughter.

If ever a young woman needed a father, it was shy, skittish Belina. She had already endured enough trials and heartaches for a lifetime—the car crash, her father’s death, her own disability and disfigurement. But with surgery, counseling and rehabilitation, she had come a long way over the past two years.

Andrew hoped against hope that Frannie would take Belina under her wing and become a real sister to her. Of course, Frannie was stubborn and headstrong and didn’t warm to just anybody. She was possessive and overprotective, too, but that was partly Andrew’s fault. He had been so needy after Mandy’s death, he had allowed his youngest daughter to pamper and mollycoddle him. While he had thrown himself into his ministerial duties at the church, she had taken over the cooking and household chores like a faithful little trooper.

Even when his two older daughters began making lives for themselves, Frannie was the one who dug in her heels and refused to budge. She was going to stay home and take care of her daddy, no matter what. No wonder she had resisted the idea of him bringing home a new bride and stepdaughter.

But Andrew was just as determined as Frannie. With Cassie and Brianna married now and establishing homes of their own, he would encourage Frannie to find in Juliana and Belina the motherly and sisterly companionship she missed.

It was a long shot, to be sure. In temperament, Frannie and Juliana were like oil and water. Add to the mix Belina’s reclusive personality, and you had a recipe for trouble. But, as he had learned long ago, with God all things were possible. More than once, Andrew had staked his life on that Scriptural principle.

Another unmistakable reality confronted Andrew. The Rowlands household was going to be a very different place from now on. How drastically it had changed in the past seven years, starting with Mandy’s death, then Cassie’s marriage, then the double wedding of Andrew and Juliana and Brianna and Eric. And now Brianna had moved out just as Cassie had, and Juliana and his new stepdaughter had moved in.

Andrew rolled over and gazed again at his sleeping bride. Lightly he caressed a strand of her shiny black hair that rippled over the pillow. He yearned to sweep her up in his arms, but she looked so peaceful, he was reluctant to startle her.

It still hardly seemed possible that God had blessed him with two remarkable women in one lifetime. Naturally, Juliana was nothing like Mandy; they were as opposite as night and day. Mandy had been quiet, self-assured, delicate, refined. Juliana was fun-loving, flamboyant, larger than life.

Andrew rested his arms under his head and looked up at the ceiling. Over the years he had grown so accustomed to talking to Mandy in his mind that it was a hard habit to break, even with Juliana lying beside him.

Mandy, he mused with a wry half smile, can you believe it? Here I am with Juliana. My wife. She isn’t like you, nothing like you. But, oh, I love her. It doesn’t mean I loved you any less. No one can replace you, Mandy. But Juliana’s a delight. She’s full of laughter and exuberance and song. She’s impetuous and unpredictable.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever keep up with her. I’ll never corral her spirit, but that’s part of why I love her. She isn’t you, Mandy. I knew you like I know my own soul, and I’ll never forget you, darling. You taught me what love is all about, showed me how to open my heart and cherish a woman. Because of what you taught me about life and love, I believe I can make Juliana happy. Do I have your blessing, Mandy? I’d like to think I do.

Juliana’s drowsy voice inquired, “Andrew? Are you okay?”

With a start he looked over at his wife. She had propped herself up on one elbow, her ebony hair cascading over her milky-white shoulders.

“Sure, I’m fine,” he said, running his fingers over her arm. How could he confess to his lovely bride that he had been carrying on a mental conversation with his long-deceased wife?

“You looked so deep in thought. A million miles away.”

“Yes, at least that,” he conceded.

“Pleasant thoughts, I hope.”

“Absolutely. What else on a sunny morning with my new bride beside me?” He reached over and gathered her into his arms. She nestled her head on his bare chest and he caught the scent of magnolias. How good she felt in his arms. He could hold her like this forever!

Being a man over the half-century mark in years, he hadn’t expected to feel such a rush of what could only be described as youthful emotions. What a power there was in love. Falling in love was an indescribable intoxicant. With Juliana in his arms, he felt ageless, invincible; there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish. He turned her lovely face up to his and kissed her soundly.

When she caught her breath, she murmured, “Andrew, dearest, what a wonderful way to start the day. Maybe we should skip breakfast and spend the entire morning—”

A determined knock on the door jarred them both.

“We’re sleeping,” Andrew called out, stifling his vexation.

“Not anymore!” The door eased open and Frannie peeked inside, her long blond hair flowing around her shoulders. She was wearing a tank top and cutoffs that showed off her golden tan. “Time for breakfast, you sleepyheads. It’s almost nine, and you never go past 8:00 a.m., Daddy.”

Andrew released Juliana, and she slipped down modestly under the covers.

Andrew cleared his throat uneasily and folded his arms over his bare chest. “We were thinking of skipping breakfast this morning, sweetheart.”

“No, Daddy, it’s not good for you to skip a meal. Besides, I have a surprise for your first morning home.” Frannie breezed inside with a serving tray and set it on the bedside table.

As Andrew hoisted himself up, he caught the inviting aromas of bacon and coffee. “Honey, it smells wonderful, but—”

Juliana sat up, too, tucking the sheet around her shoulders. “Breakfast in bed? Oh, Frannie, you shouldn’t have.”

Frannie beamed. “It’s nothing really. Just bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast. Daddy’s usual.”

Juliana gave Frannie a stricken look. “Oh, dear, your father shouldn’t be eating such things! Think of his cholesterol!”

Andrew reached for a slice of toast. “My cholesterol is fine and dandy, thank you.”

Juliana lifted her chin truculently. “I don’t care what you say, Andrew. A man your age should not be eating such fatty foods!”

“What do you mean, a man my age? What’s wrong with my age?”

“Nothing is wrong with your age. But I intend to see that you live several more decades.”

“By depriving me of bacon and eggs?”

Frannie snatched up the tray. “Listen, I could get you both something else. How about some cereal and yogurt?”

Juliana tossed back her waves of coal-black hair. “Thank you, Frannie. I will tell you the truth. I rarely eat breakfast. Maybe a little fruit now and then.”

Frannie stepped back toward the door, her countenance darkening. “I’ll remember that tomorrow, Juliana.”

“Dear, please do not worry about your father and me. I will get our breakfast from now on. I am sure you have more important things to do.”

“Nothing more important than taking care of my dad.”

Andrew winced at the disappointment etched in his daughter’s face. “We just don’t want to put you out, honey.”

“Your father is right. You work too hard. From now on I will fix breakfast.”

“That’s not necessary, Juliana. Daddy likes me to get his breakfast. Besides, I know just how he likes it.”

Juliana flashed her most winsome smile. “But now it is time for me to learn.”

Why did Andrew have the uneasy feeling he was witnessing a battle of wills, and he was the prize? With her trained voice and Italian accent, Juliana’s words sounded almost lyrical. But Andrew could see them hitting Frannie like barbs. “You have had to take care of your father long enough, dear girl, and you have done a wonderful job. But you have your own life to live, and it’s time your father let you live it.”

“Wait a minute!” Andrew declared, raising his hands in a conciliatory, if not defensive, gesture. He could see trouble coming at him like a stampeding bull. “Hold on! Let’s get this straight. I’ve never said Frannie couldn’t live her own life. And I certainly never asked her to stay home and take care of me.”

The misery in Frannie’s eyes deepened. “You didn’t have to ask, Daddy. I did it for Mother.”

Andrew groaned. His awkward attempt to defuse the situation was igniting a firestorm too hot to handle. “Doll baby, your mom never would have expected you to sacrifice your life for me.”

Frannie’s big blue eyes clouded. “Sacrifice? Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Daddy, I thought you liked the way I took care of you!”

“I did, honey. I do! But I want so much more for you. Juliana’s right. You need a life of your own.”

Frannie balanced the tray and gripped the doorknob. Her lower lip quivered. “Don’t beat around the bush. Just say it, Daddy! Now that you’ve got a new wife and daughter, I’m not needed around here anymore!”

Before Andrew could muster a reply, Frannie pivoted and marched out the door, slamming it so hard behind her, the walls rattled.

He threw back the covers and was about to go after his daughter, but Juliana stopped him and coaxed him back into bed. “You can’t go after her dressed like that, Andrew. Let her be. She will get over it. We are a new family now. We all have adjustments to make. It will take time.” She snuggled against his chest and he caught the delectable scent of her hair.

“Time?” he murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. That heady, intoxicating feeling was sweeping over him again. “My darling bride, do you suppose we have time for…” He let his words trail off as Juliana raised her face to his and kissed his lips with an ardor that left him breathless.

“My darling Andrew,” she said in that throaty, beguiling voice of hers, “for you, there is always time!”

Chapter Two

Panic was growing inside Frannie like mushrooms in the dark. In June she had received a handsome commission to sculpt a bust of Longfellow for the La Jolla Children’s Museum—due by the end of summer. It was already July, and all she could do was sit and stare at a mound of lifeless clay.

Try as she might, Frannie couldn’t muster a shred of creativity. Her mind felt dry, numb, dead. She wondered if she had ever had a creative thought in her life. Had she ever experienced that flaming impulse to create something from nothing, or nearly nothing? Had she in the past actually molded fine sculptures—not masterpieces, of course, but still quality work—from heaps of wet, shapeless clay?

Where was the artist she had been just a few short weeks ago? How could her talent have fled so swiftly, so completely?

Every time she thought of sinking her fingers into that formless mass, she remembered something else she needed to do—some mindless chore or task that wouldn’t usually demand her attention. With a sigh of resignation, she would drape the clay with a wet cloth, as if covering a dead body with a shroud. Then she would escape to another part of her house and fiddle with something, or busy herself in the kitchen, or stare out the window, or pester her father in his study—anything to keep from facing the task at hand, the challenge of pulling life and form out of that silent blob of gray earth.

Today held the same lack of promise. Right after breakfast, Frannie had gone to the sunroom to work. She had pored over a dozen drawings of the old poet and sketched several hurried renderings of her own. Then she had kneaded the clay until her fingers ached, until she admitted at last that she wasn’t in the mood to create. God help her, she had lost her vision for the work.

Once, days or weeks ago, she had felt that creative impulse in her fingers, in her mind, in her heart. But now it was gone. An empty place remained, a vacuum, a hollow in her soul that nothing seemed to fill.

She had heard of writers and artists hitting a dry spell, suffering writer’s block and questioning their talent. But it hadn’t happened to her. At least, not for several years. Not since…yes, she remembered now…not since her mother’s death seven years ago.

For two years after her mother died, she hadn’t been able to create a thing. She was seventeen at the time, fresh out of high school and just beginning her freshman year at San Diego State. Majoring in art, of course, as she had always planned. But every time she thought of creating something—a painting, a drawing, a vase or a piece of sculpture, she felt a knot of pain in her heart.

It was as if the idea of creation, even producing something as mundane as an object of art, signified a birth. The paradox was that her heart was deluged with the reality of death. But at last, praise God, when she began her junior year of college she experienced a breakthrough. Her creativity returned in a rush. She changed her major from art education to fine arts and completed her B.A. two years later.

And in the five years since then, her skill and reputation as a sculptor had grown. She was even teaching a night class at San Diego State…and the commissions were coming often enough that she had bankrolled a tidy sum in her savings account.

Yes, her life these days had been good, very good. Even though her evenings were devoid of romance, her routine had been satisfying and stable…. Until the last few weeks, when Frannie’s world turned topsy-turvy—the day her father brought home his new bride and stepdaughter. Since then, nothing had been the same.

Take today, for example. In the past (B.J.—before Juliana), Frannie would have risen at seven and fixed her father’s and Brianna’s breakfast. The three of them would have sat around the table chatting about their plans for the day. They would have held hands and prayed together before going their separate ways.

But now that Brianna was married and setting up housekeeping in her own country estate, Frannie was lucky to see her once a week. And Cassie, with her new baby, stopped by even less often. Even when her sisters dropped in to visit, they chatted only about their happy new lives and then were quickly on their way. They were so busy and preoccupied, they were totally unaware that Frannie felt lonely and left behind.

It wasn’t that the house was empty now. Frannie could have tolerated that. She had never minded long periods of solitude. The silence sometimes even stirred her creative juices. Peace and quiet were welcome friends.

But, in fact, the old Rowlands’ homestead wasn’t silent; it was as bustling as ever. It reverberated with noise and voices and music and laughter. But except for her father, the sounds belonged to strangers, not to the people Frannie loved.

In truth, even her father was different now. The dynamics had changed. He was a man absorbed with pleasing his wife. Where Frannie’s happy home had once comfortably contained a father and three daughters, now her father was half of a newlywed couple occupying the premises. And each had a daughter. To complicate matters, Frannie and Belina were virtual strangers and had no desire to be anything more.

These days, Frannie’s home was filled with Juliana’s laughter and songs. In her youth, Juliana had performed on the New York stage and in the opera houses of Europe. Now her full, lilting soprano wafted through the Rowlands house a dozen times a day…as Juliana cooked and cleaned, as she taught voice lessons to eager children and led a women’s Bible study twice a week in the parlor. Juliana was obviously determined to become the quintessential minister’s wife—a fact Frannie resented.