Until the Harvest Read online

  © 2015 by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6961-4

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design

  Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency

  To Mom and Dad,

  thanks for loving me—

  always.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  About the Author

  Books by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Let both grow together until the harvest.

  Matthew 13:24–30

  1

  WISE, WEST VIRGINIA

  NEW YEAR’S EVE 1975

  HENRY PHILLIPS SLICED INTO THE VENISON STEAK on his plate and savored the rich meatiness of it. Mom always cooked his favorites when he came home from college, and this Christmas break was no different. He’d been enjoying being home so much he almost decided against broaching the subject of his music for fear Mom and Dad would launch into their usual speech about his education coming first, but he was itching to share the latest news.

  “Mort Jeffries asked me to come play at the Screen Door down on High Street. Guess I must’ve sounded pretty good.”

  His father raised one reddish eyebrow shot through with gray and chewed a bite of potato. “Oh?”

  That was all the encouragement Henry needed. “Yeah, he heard me fooling around with my fiddle on campus one afternoon and said I should come sit in with the band. Guess he thought I was good enough to play a night or two. Even got some tip money out of it. Man, those guys can play.” He put down his fork and used his hands to illustrate. “Mort gets that guitar going, and Benny plays the mandolin like he was born with it in his hands—almost as good as you. Sure wish you could come hear us.”

  His mother smiled and gave his father an inscrutable look.

  “Son, you know we don’t want you to let music distract you from your studies.” His dad buttered a roll and took a bite. “You’re talented in more ways than one, and getting an education should be your priority right now.”

  Henry tried not to roll his eyes. “I guessed you might say that, but somehow I thought—maybe this time—you’d see it’s not just dreaming. I actually made some money. And Mort said if I’d commit to playing with them regular, he might be able to work out something steady.”

  Dad sighed. “We’ve been over this before—”

  “Yeah, I know, and it’s always the same. School, school, school. Maybe you don’t think I’m good enough.”

  Mom reached over and squeezed his arm. Henry wanted to jerk away but knew it wouldn’t help his case.

  “I thought you were enjoying school.” Dad leaned back in his chair and studied Henry. He had a way of looking at him that made Henry feel like he was reading his very soul.

  “Yeah, I do like it. It’s just . . .” He spread his hands wide, as though reaching for something. “I feel so connected when I play. It’s almost spiritual or something, and the music flies out all around me, and . . . and I feel great.”

  Dad smiled. “I guess I know what you mean. Might be I should dust off my mandolin and see if we can’t make some music together after supper.” He glanced at Mom. “I know your mother would enjoy that.”

  “Does that mean it’s okay if I play more regular? I know I can do it and keep up with classes.” Henry tried not to sound too eager.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I know how you feel, and I know how hard it will be to put this dream on hold until you finish your degree.” Dad folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “Music is one of the purest things this world has to offer, but I’ve never let it get in the way of my responsibilities. I know you won’t, either.”

  Henry swallowed hard and pushed away his half-eaten steak. If his dad really understood, he’d know it was possible to get an education and play the fiddle at night. But he respected him too much to argue any more.

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  Dad smiled. “Good, now go get your fiddle, and let’s serenade your mother.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I promised the guys I’d go out with them tonight.”

  His mother frowned. “Which guys?”

  “Oh, just some fellows from high school. Most of ’em are home from college like me.”

  “You be careful. Some of those boys drink.”

  “Mom, you know I don’t drink.”

  His dad caught his eye and winked at him. “Our son’s a good man, Perla. We can trust him.”

  She looked from her husband to her son as she smiled and stood to begin gathering dishes. “Casewell, you always did have a knack for thinking the best of folks, especially the ones you love.”

  He caught her wrist and tugged her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Not always, my love, but I learned my lesson.” He kissed her elbow and released her.

  Henry was sometimes embarrassed at how affectionate his parents were, but he guessed it might be worse. Some of his buddies’ parents were divorced, and some didn’t even talk to each other. He stood to go find the keys to his dad’s old truck. Yeah, his parents weren’t perfect, but it sure could be worse. And maybe they didn’t have to know about it every time he played at the Screen Door.

  Henry woke the next morning with an abruptness that frightened him. Was that a sound? Had someone spoken? He shivered, even though he was snug under two layers of quilts. The sun had begun to color the sky outside his window. He shoved up on one elbow and listened. The house was quiet—too quiet. And too cold. He shivered again, but this time it was the chill air slipping around his shoulders. Dad should be making noise by now, turning up the furnace from its nighttime setting, chatting with his mother w
hile she started breakfast. Maybe they were sleeping in.

  Henry swung his bare legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a pair of dungarees, shaking in the cold. He tried to credit his uneasiness to the late night ringing in the New Year—it was 1976 now—and the nip or two of moonshine he’d sampled. He didn’t much like alcohol, but it would have been unsociable to abstain completely.

  He grabbed a sweatshirt with the name of his school emblazoned across it—West Virginia University. He’d need to head back in the next day or two. He’d begin the second half of his junior year on the seventh, but he had until the final day of break to turn in his paper on Soil Genesis and Classification. Man, who wouldn’t prefer playing the fiddle to that? Just thinking about it made him want to crawl back under the covers, but the silence of the house was too much. He finished dressing and headed for the kitchen.

  Mom sat at the table, her robe wrapped around her, bare feet tucked under her chair. Her feet looked almost blue. Confused, Henry laid a hand on her shoulder. She jumped up, sending her chair clattering to the floor. For a moment, Henry thought she was going to hit him.

  “I’ve already called Al Tomlyn. He’ll send someone shortly. I knew I should wake you, but I didn’t know . . .” She glanced down at her tightly cinched robe. “I’d better put some clothes on.” She shot a look at the bedroom door, and her face crumpled.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” His stomach churned, and it felt like his heart was trying to keep up with his speeding thoughts. “Why did you call the funeral home? Who died?” As the last word fell from his lips, the earlier feeling of disorientation closed over Henry like jumping into the swimming hole on a hot day. And he thought he might drown.

  Turning toward the door to his parents’ room, Henry took a tentative step. His mother grabbed his arm. “I can’t go in there,” she said.

  “Can I?” Henry wasn’t sure if he was asking his mother or himself. He took another step, and Mom released his arm. She tightened the belt to her robe, as though tying a tourniquet to stop—what? The pain?

  Henry pushed open the bedroom door. His father lay in the bed, blankets tucked beneath his arms, hands folded neatly on his chest. For a moment, Henry breathed again, and then the wrongness of the scene penetrated his thick brain. His father would never sleep like that. Dad would never stay in bed past six in the morning. Henry glanced at the clock on the bedside table, and his shoulders sagged when he saw it was twenty after six. As if everything would be all right if it were only five fifty-five.

  “Dad?” Henry’s voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Dad, time to get up.” He moved the last few feet to the bed and gently shook his father’s shoulder. The icy dread that roiled his stomach earlier gripped his heart. He laid two fingers on his father’s throat and felt his own pulse slow, as though trying to match what he was feeling—nothing. Nothing at all.

  Mom stood in the doorway, watching dry-eyed. “Son, the men from Tomlyn’s are here. Can you . . . ?”

  Margaret Hoffman bustled around Emily’s house, tidying things and making sure every surface gleamed. It wasn’t only to please her sweet employer; it was because every woman in the community—including Margaret’s own mother—would traipse through here just hoping to catch a speck of dust, an unmade bed, or a dirty dishrag. Emily was easy to please. It was the rest of the world that gave Margaret a hard time.

  She sighed and put the last of the breakfast dishes away. News traveled fast, especially when it was as sad as Casewell Phillips dying in his sleep. And as soon as the ladies of Wise could throw together a casserole or a cake, they’d be knocking on the door with their condolences. Poor Emily. Margaret couldn’t think of anything harder than losing a child, no matter if he was six or fifty-six. She squared her shoulders. Well, she’d been working for Emily since she was sixteen—five years now—and if there was anything she could do to be a comfort, she would be more than glad.

  “Margaret?” Emily walked into the kitchen, bracing herself against the backs of chairs like an old woman. She was nearly eighty, but she’d always behaved as though she were much younger.

  “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

  “I do. Somehow I’m not sure how to dress for . . . this.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “People will start coming any minute. Won’t they?” She turned wet eyes on Margaret, as though she had the power to change things.

  “Yes, ma’am, I expect they will. The house is about as ready as I can make it. Now, let’s see about getting you dressed in something nice.”

  Margaret hooked her arm through Emily’s and led her to the bedroom. She sifted through Emily’s closet, finally pulling out a plaid skirt and a simple blouse. “I think this will be about right. You can wear one of your sweaters over it. I don’t think it’s supposed to warm up much today.”

  “Oh, thank you, sweetheart. I’m not normally at sixes and sevens like this. But you know that. Don’t you?”

  “Oh yes. It’s not like you to be unsure of yourself.” And it wasn’t, thought Margaret, but losing a child so suddenly would set anyone off. They didn’t even know when Casewell died exactly. Was it in 1975? Or 1976? What would they put on the tombstone?

  A knock on the back door, followed by the squawk of worn hinges, interrupted her musing. She’d been meaning to oil that door.

  “Must be family,” Margaret said. “I’ll go tend to it while you finish dressing.”

  Emily nodded and rummaged through the drawer where she kept her underthings. For a slip, Margaret hoped. Emily would be mortified if she forgot a slip in her present state of mind. But she’d likely be even more mortified if Margaret hovered over her like a child.

  Closing the bedroom door, Margaret walked into the family room and found Henry standing with his head down and shoulders slumped. She’d heard he was in from college but hadn’t seen him. Normally, she wouldn’t be seeing him now. Emily always insisted on doing for herself over holidays so Margaret could be with her family. Not that she much enjoyed being with her family, except, of course, with Mayfair. Her sweet little sister was always a bright spot.

  “Hey, uh, Margaret? Right?” Henry straightened up a bit.

  Margaret nodded. “Your grandmother is getting dressed. She’s a little fuddled this morning.”

  “We all are,” Henry said, and for just a moment Margaret caught a glimpse of anguish, but then his face shuttered closed again. “Mom thought I should bring Grandma over to the house. Make it easier on everyone.”

  “That’s sensible,” Margaret said. She wondered if she should go on home but felt a surge of desire to be a help to the Phillipses’ family. “I could stay here and send anyone who stops by on over to your place.”

  Henry’s brown eyes warmed, and he almost smiled. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

  They stood staring at each other, and Margaret became aware of how she must look. She’d thrown on a worn blouse over green polyester slacks when Emily called early that morning. She knew she’d need to tidy the house so selected something shabby. Now she almost wished . . . But why? To impress a college boy who had been a year behind her in school? He wasn’t likely to notice her even on a good day, at least not for the right reasons. She had a round face absolutely covered in freckles, and a figure her father indelicately referred to as “good for childbearing.” Plus, her hair tended to frizz. None of which would impress the tall man in front of her with his wavy chestnut hair and broad shoulders. He scuffed one foot on the rag rug, and Margaret jumped.

  “I’ll go check on Emily.”

  Henry nodded and focused on a picture of his family that was sitting on the mantel. Margaret followed his gaze. The photo showed his parents with Henry and his sister Sadie on either side. Casewell looked like he’d been pleased with the world on that particular day. Margaret hoped he’d felt the same right up until he went to sleep the night before.

  After the funeral, Margaret tried to get her parents to take Mayfair home instead of subjecting her to the crush of mourners at th
e Phillipses’ house, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

  “She needs to be exposed to crowds like this,” Margaret’s mother said.

  Her father nodded as his lips tugged down. “She’s twelve now. We can’t treat her like a child forever.”

  Margaret sighed. No wonder it was hard for her to think of these people as Mom and Dad. Wallace and Lenore Hoffman were typically more concerned about appearances than they were the well-being of their children. Mayfair would retreat into her books for a week after being forced into a social situation like this. She could manage sitting in church between her mother and older sister, but circulating in a house full of people would be too much. Why couldn’t her parents see that?

  Mayfair’s shoulder touched Margaret’s as they got out of the car and walked toward the house. An impromptu parking lot had been created in a nearby pasture, and Lenore picked her way through the grass like she expected to encounter cow manure at any moment. Wallace tried to take his wife’s elbow, but she shot him a look and jerked her chin in the air. Margaret wondered what they were fighting about now.

  “There are too many people,” Mayfair whispered.

  “I know, sweetie.” Margaret tucked her sister’s hand into her own and pulled her tight against her side. “Maybe we can find a quiet spot for you to read. Did you bring a book?”

  Mayfair reached into the patch pocket of her skirt and pulled out a well-worn copy of Anne of Green Gables.

  “Good for you, coming prepared.” Margaret’s praise raised a timid smile. “Just remember, the angels are holding hands all around you. Nothing can hurt you while they’re here.”

  Mayfair gave a jerky nod and turned her head so she could watch the people entering the house through her peripheral vision. Margaret ached for her sister, wishing she could make life easier for her. Who knew? Maybe there really were angels, although she doubted it. She reached into her purse and felt for the handful of hard candies she always carried. If Mayfair’s sugar dropped too low, she’d need something fast, and Margaret prided herself on always being prepared.

  Henry ducked his head and aimed for the front door. He’d had enough of hearing about what a wonderful man his father was, how he was with Jesus now, and how he’d had a weak heart ever since he was born and was lucky to have lived this long. If anyone knew how great Casewell Phillips was, it was Henry. Someone even commented to his mother that it had been a blessing for Dad to die in his sleep. That was when Henry’s hands balled into fists, and his heart began to beat a drum in his head. It was leave or hit someone, and he didn’t want to disgrace his mother. Although he was getting closer and closer to not caring.