The Meeting Place by T. Davis Bunn Page B

change.”
    Catherine completed stitching in her square. She rose to her feet and brushed the threads from her skirt. “I must be getting back. I have some supper preparations to make in case Andrew does return tonight, so I bid you all a good afternoon.”
    Smiles and murmurs followed her to the door, and Mrs. Patrick rewarded her with the words, “You are making into a good wife, Catherine Harrow. Andrew should count himself among the fortunate.”
    The compliment kept her warm throughout the walk along meandering snowbound lanes. The sky had cleared and the wind died, but now the temperature was dropping sharply. Though the sun was an hour and more from slipping behind the western hills, already the air bit sharp and hard on her face.
    These few afternoons each week spent with the village women meant much to Catherine, especially when Andrew was away. As she hurried down the lane toward home, the new-laden snow rose like delicate white dust behind her. Catherine found herself recalling something she had not thought of in years. Back when she had been a very little child, a woman of the village had been banished from the church for a winter. She had never been told the reason for it. But now, when she was struggling with the new experience of running a home and living with a man, she truly understood the need for the company of other women. Though the unfortunate woman’s name had long passed from memory, still Catherine felt a pang of sympathy and sorrow for what must have been an excruciatingly lonely winter.
    In the months since her marriage, she felt as though her whole life had undergone transformation. Not just her home, but her body and mind and heart were all being changed to fit around the presence of this man. She recalled from Scripture the passage about two becoming one, and felt the wonder of this anew. Catherine glanced at the surrounding white hills and sent a swift little prayer lofting upward. Bring my husband home safely .
    She was doing more and more of that these days, little words of entreaty or thanks. In the past, her prayers had remained locked into the same traditions as the rest of her worship, dictated by the church and formed around the attitudes of her staid and rigid father. But for three months now she had been studying the Bible every evening, joined by Andrew whenever he was not away on sorties and duty. Though much of what she read she did not understand, still there was a sense of slipping free of thought patterns and negative perspectives she had scarcely recognized before. God was still very much a mystery, but His presence seemed closer. Close enough to speak with whenever worries or joys, fears or love, emotions of all kind filled her heart to overflowing and she needed someone in whom she could confide.
    She quickly went into the house and lit the candle she kept burning in the window whenever Andrew went away. Part of her said it was an expensive folly, what with the cost of tallow. But day or night, whenever he came home, she wanted him to see the glimmer of the light that was burning for him and him alone.
    She completed her chores as quickly as possible, then glanced out the window. The day’s final light turned the shutters into sheets of solid gold. She peered through windows already frosted with the cold of coming night but saw nothing except the sunset’s gleam. Catherine walked to the chair by the fire and tried not to look at the empty seat across from her. She picked up the Bible from its place on the small table. Though her mind could scarcely take in the words, she found her mind and heart returning to peace as she read. She watched the flames dance in the fireplace for a time, knowing she should rise and eat her own lonely supper, but not yet willing to accept that Andrew would spend yet another night in the hills away from her.
    She placed the Bible back on the table and reached beneath its covering to the lower shelf, drawing out another