I would, finally, cry out to God, and ask
for his help. I had not yet met Cal Judd.”
Rose shuddered at the mention of Cal Judd. She could absorb
no more of Tabitha’s revelations today, so she glanced at the clock on the
fireplace mantelpiece. “Goodness. We have been here for hours. Shall we break
off for the day, Tabitha?”
Tabitha nodded her agreement. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes,” Rose replied. “As soon as the girls leave for their
work and the house quiets.”
~~**~~
Chapter
5
Rose and Tabitha seated themselves in the same places they
had occupied the day prior.
Breona, her black eyes dancing with intrigue, placed a tea
tray between Rose and Tabitha.
“Thank you, my dear Breona!” Rose exclaimed. “How very
thoughtful.”
“Ye was both bein’ as parched as th’ ground in July
yisterday.” Breona wiped her hands on her apron. “Will ye be talkin’ fer hours
agin t’day?”
Rose glanced at Tabitha. “Perhaps. We shall see how it
goes.”
“Shall ye be needin’ onything from me?”
“No, dear one, but thank you for asking.”
Having received no word or hint to assuage her curiosity,
Breona shrugged and left the great room, closing the door behind her.
“Did you sleep well last night, Tabitha?” Rose inquired. Her
own sleep had been restless and her dreams uneasy, disturbed by the details
Tabitha had shared with her.
“Yes. I am surprised at how well I slept, actually,” Tabitha
responded. “To be truthful, the sharing of my past with you is causing me to
appreciate God’s grace toward me so much more than I had.”
She glanced up at Rose from under downcast lashes. “I think
I had not realized that I still felt a great deal of shame about my past. And
yet, as I spoke of the things I had done, the woman I used to be, the shame
seemed to . . . slip
away. Does that make any sense?”
“It makes sense to me, Tabitha,” Rose replied. “I believe
that God’s children cannot testify to his gracious forgiveness in our lives
without first acknowledging that for which he has forgiven us.”
Rose tapped her pen on the notebook already filled with so
many lines and mused, “I wonder if those individuals who have lived ‘good’
lives do not sometimes struggle to see their need for God’s grace and
forgiveness.”
“Well, I certainly do not struggle to see that need,”
Tabitha sniffed.
She and Rose laughed a little.
“Shall we begin again?” Rose asked. “Perhaps at this point
you might move your story ahead, closer to when Jesus met you.”
“That is a good proposal, Miss Rose. I do not wish to dwell
overmuch on those evil years.” Tabitha’s brows drew together. “I will take up
my tale not long before I was moved to Denver.”
Kansas City, 1907
I stared from my second-floor room to the busy street below.
I was not really taking in the sights; rather, I was allowing my thoughts to
wander . . . allowing them to fret and grow anxious about the
future.
Eleven years had worn their way through my life. For eleven
years I had performed, complied, and obeyed as Opal required. I was now
twenty-six years old, a well-practiced prostitute, utterly dead in my heart.
Yet somehow, I had managed to maintain a “lively” enough pretense on the
outside to suit Opal’s purposes these many years.
But now Opal was ill. Her skin, once beautiful in its
porcelain clarity, hung from fragile bones in paper-thin folds. She looked
every year of her life—and more.
She is dying , I made myself acknowledge . I
have seen the signs before; I recognize them .
Indeed, over the last decade, I had watched two of Opal’s
girls march toward death in similar fashion. Opal was dying of consumption .
The harbingers of death by the dread disease were clear
enough: A cough that would not abate, that sent the older woman into spasms
where she could not catch her breath; coughing spells that more and more
frequently ended in blood-soaked handkerchiefs; a persistent fever. And Opal
had
for his help. I had not yet met Cal Judd.”
Rose shuddered at the mention of Cal Judd. She could absorb
no more of Tabitha’s revelations today, so she glanced at the clock on the
fireplace mantelpiece. “Goodness. We have been here for hours. Shall we break
off for the day, Tabitha?”
Tabitha nodded her agreement. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes,” Rose replied. “As soon as the girls leave for their
work and the house quiets.”
~~**~~
Chapter
5
Rose and Tabitha seated themselves in the same places they
had occupied the day prior.
Breona, her black eyes dancing with intrigue, placed a tea
tray between Rose and Tabitha.
“Thank you, my dear Breona!” Rose exclaimed. “How very
thoughtful.”
“Ye was both bein’ as parched as th’ ground in July
yisterday.” Breona wiped her hands on her apron. “Will ye be talkin’ fer hours
agin t’day?”
Rose glanced at Tabitha. “Perhaps. We shall see how it
goes.”
“Shall ye be needin’ onything from me?”
“No, dear one, but thank you for asking.”
Having received no word or hint to assuage her curiosity,
Breona shrugged and left the great room, closing the door behind her.
“Did you sleep well last night, Tabitha?” Rose inquired. Her
own sleep had been restless and her dreams uneasy, disturbed by the details
Tabitha had shared with her.
“Yes. I am surprised at how well I slept, actually,” Tabitha
responded. “To be truthful, the sharing of my past with you is causing me to
appreciate God’s grace toward me so much more than I had.”
She glanced up at Rose from under downcast lashes. “I think
I had not realized that I still felt a great deal of shame about my past. And
yet, as I spoke of the things I had done, the woman I used to be, the shame
seemed to . . . slip
away. Does that make any sense?”
“It makes sense to me, Tabitha,” Rose replied. “I believe
that God’s children cannot testify to his gracious forgiveness in our lives
without first acknowledging that for which he has forgiven us.”
Rose tapped her pen on the notebook already filled with so
many lines and mused, “I wonder if those individuals who have lived ‘good’
lives do not sometimes struggle to see their need for God’s grace and
forgiveness.”
“Well, I certainly do not struggle to see that need,”
Tabitha sniffed.
She and Rose laughed a little.
“Shall we begin again?” Rose asked. “Perhaps at this point
you might move your story ahead, closer to when Jesus met you.”
“That is a good proposal, Miss Rose. I do not wish to dwell
overmuch on those evil years.” Tabitha’s brows drew together. “I will take up
my tale not long before I was moved to Denver.”
Kansas City, 1907
I stared from my second-floor room to the busy street below.
I was not really taking in the sights; rather, I was allowing my thoughts to
wander . . . allowing them to fret and grow anxious about the
future.
Eleven years had worn their way through my life. For eleven
years I had performed, complied, and obeyed as Opal required. I was now
twenty-six years old, a well-practiced prostitute, utterly dead in my heart.
Yet somehow, I had managed to maintain a “lively” enough pretense on the
outside to suit Opal’s purposes these many years.
But now Opal was ill. Her skin, once beautiful in its
porcelain clarity, hung from fragile bones in paper-thin folds. She looked
every year of her life—and more.
She is dying , I made myself acknowledge . I
have seen the signs before; I recognize them .
Indeed, over the last decade, I had watched two of Opal’s
girls march toward death in similar fashion. Opal was dying of consumption .
The harbingers of death by the dread disease were clear
enough: A cough that would not abate, that sent the older woman into spasms
where she could not catch her breath; coughing spells that more and more
frequently ended in blood-soaked handkerchiefs; a persistent fever. And Opal
had
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