Reprise

By Lela Gilbert

She had everything she ever wanted. Why was she so tempted to throw it away? From the author of Prelude and Interlude, Reprise concludes this exciting trilogy about one woman's challenging quest for enduring love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Jun 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781418560003

Lela Gilbert

  Lela Gilbert is a Gold Medallion–winning freelance writer/editor of more than sixty books, including the award–winning Blind Spot: When Journalists Don't Get Religion. She is a contributor to the Jerusalem Post, Weekly Standard Online, National Review Online, and other publications. She is an adjunct fellow at the Hudson Institute and resides in California and Jerusalem.  

Book preview

Reprise

Reprise

Lela Gilbert

Reprise_0003_001

REPRISE

Copyright © 1995 by Word Publishing. 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—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, with out the prior permission of the publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Gilbert, Lela.

Reprise / Lela Gilbert.

p. cm.

ISBN 0–8499–3482–6 (Trade paper)

ISBN 0–8499–3878–3 (Mass paper)

I. Title.

PS3557.I34223R46 1993

813’ .54—dc20

93–22516

CIP

Printed in the United States of America

5 6 7 8 9 OPM 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Dylan and Colin.

Contents

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1

For our fears, give us courage

In our tears, find a song.

For our doubts, grant conviction,

Where we’re weak, make us strong.

Turn our faults into blessings,

Turn our griefs into praise.

And for dark hours of sadness

Give us bright, golden days.

Elisabeth Surrey-Dixon’s crown of blonde hair gleamed among the many candles, and her smile out–shone every light in the room. The words her new husband Jon Surrey-Dixon had just read were those of a simple verse she had written—a verse that captured her dearest vision for their future together. Apparently it reflected Jon’s dreams too, because he had framed it, along with a portrait he had taken of Elisabeth with his best camera, and had given it to her as her wedding present.

In the splendor of the moment, the poem was both touching and appropriate. To look beyond the immediate romance of the wedding would have seemed cynical, even to the most hardened observer, and the thought of the verse being prescient or even prophetic never crossed the mind of any of the wedding guests. Everyone had chosen to forget the unpleasantries that had marred the past of both the bride and the groom. If they came to mind at all, they were assumed dead, buried, and about to be resurrected as blessings in the garden of perpetual marital bliss.

Jon Surrey-Dixon—professional photographer, former hostage, and bridegroom—had finally found his way to the altar with Elisabeth Casey—former model and writer of books, affectionately known to him as Betty. The two of them had survived a nightmarish year of separation, courtesy of the Lebanese Islamic Jihad. Hoping for a hefty ransom, Middle Eastern terrorists had kidnapped Jon and held him, blindfolded and bloodied, in Beirut. The tragedy had begun just four days before their original wedding date.

Betty had waited for Jon through months of uncertainty and emotional distress. Now, at last, her faith in his ultimate deliverance and return to her waiting arms had been rewarded. Now, on a flawless spring day, the long-postponed wedding had unfolded perfectly. And now, having read Betty’s poem aloud at the reception, Jon kissed the bride on her forehead and lifted his glass to the guests.

One last toast, he smiled, his eyes bright with happiness. Or maybe I should say one last prayer. Here’s to all of you who stood with Betty throughout my captivity. May God reward every one of you for your kindness to her—and to me. We will never forget you and all you’ve done for us.

Jon’s words were received with quiet smiles and a murmur of assent. Everyone knew that it had been an agonizing year for both of them. Jon had been beaten and locked up, deprived of food and comfort, with little hope of survival. Betty had been left at the mercy of the media, an odd assortment of opportunists, and the ever-aloof U.S. State Department. A few such recollections seemed to remind the wedding guests that it was a miracle the nuptials had ever come about at all. Jon’s sobering words also seemed to announce the end of the reception.

Standing at Jon’s side, Betty was the personification of joy, hope, and optimism. Bedecked in ice-blue silk and pearls, she simply couldn’t stop smiling even when she tried. Again and again, she and Jon hugged and kissed their friends, loved ones, and relatives. They also persistently refused to answer any inquiries about their honeymoon. Although they had originally planned a trip to London, an unexpected wedding gift from Betty’s father, Harold Fuller, had given them second thoughts. Harold had generously provided airline tickets to Hawaii.

It just sounds so peaceful, Betty said to Jon as they were gathering the last of the presents. After weeks of getting ready for all this, I feel like lying in the sun, listening to the ocean, and accomplishing absolutely nothing for a while. What do you think? I want you to decide.

Jon hardly hesitated. We’d be doing a lot of running around and sightseeing in London instead of relaxing, wouldn’t we? We’ll have the London tickets, so we can use them later. I’m with you. I think I’d rather relax. Let’s go to Hawaii.

Of course I’ll have to buy a new wardrobe . . . Betty’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at Jon for a possible reaction.

That’s okay, he smiled, a bit patronizing. All you’ll need is a bottle of sun screen and a bathing suit. That shouldn’t be too expensive.

What about shorts? Tank tops? T-shirts? And a little something for those romantic tropical evenings?

Like I said, a bathing suit and sun screen. I guess you might want to take along a sun dress, he added benevolently.

Men! Betty shook her head as she collected several identical glass salad bowls and repacked them in the appropriate white gift box. She mentally inventoried her wardrobe. Whatever got her through the hottest California summers would probably be useful in Hawaii. She could use the more citified items she’d bought for London later on.

And so, two days later, Mr. and Mrs. Jon Surrey-Dixon boarded a United Airlines 747, buckled themselves into their seats, and began their first adventure as husband and wife.

A quick survey of the plane revealed an array of colorful shirts stretched across bulging middle-aged midriffs. What do you think we’ll be doing when we’re that old? Betty poked Jon in the ribs, distracting him from his Modern Photography magazine. She pointed toward a well-heeled, fiftysomething couple across the aisle, holding hands as they slept beneath matching airline blankets.

Whatever we’re doing, we’ll be doing it together. That much I know for sure. Jon dismissed Betty by kissing her on the nose. He then returned his attention to an apparently fascinating article. From what Betty could gather, peering over his shoulder, it was an in-depth discourse about camera apertures.

She glanced out the window and down at the Pacific Ocean, sparkling thirty-five thousand feet beneath them. Her thoughts were as calm as the sea. A warming sense of reality arose within her. She was really here, really sitting beside the man of her dreams, really married to him, really starting a brand-new life with him. She studied his now-familiar profile, a quiet smile playing around her mouth. His angular face was relaxed; his intelligent eyes as blue as the sun-spangled sea below.

Reflection carried her back across the years. Her first marriage had lacked feeling; it was almost mechanical. How could she have thought she had loved Carlton? Jon was so much a part of her, so much in tune with her. He was like her other half. In retrospect, Carlton seemed like a cardboard cutout of a person—nothing but facade. She shook her head in disbelief. How could I have married Carlton? What was wrong with me?

What? Jon looked up. Why are you shaking your head? What have I done? He closed his magazine in mock contrition.

Betty was caught off guard. Oh I was just thinking about . . . oh, nothing Jon.

What? Now I’m curious.

Oh, I was just thinking about my first marriage and about Carlton. I just can’t believe I married a man I hardly knew!

Jon studied her face for a moment. His eyes narrowed. You aren’t drawing any unfavorable comparisons between him and me, are you?

Only unfavorable to him, Jon. Not to worry.

He smirked and shrugged. Reopening the magazine, he soon became engrossed in a colorful chart detailing pertinent facts about film, light, and lens speed.

I wonder what his early days with Carla were like. An uncomfortable emotion rippled through Betty. Jon rarely mentioned his first wife. In all the time she’d known him, he had said very little about his feelings for her. Betty knew almost nothing about their relationship, except that Jon had been deeply disappointed in it. Carla had apparently withdrawn from him, turned critical, and become involved with another man. Now Betty found herself wondering just how much Jon had loved Carla at the beginning. Had she been everything he’d ever wanted? Had they sat together on some honeymoon flight, hand in hand, looking into each other’s eyes?

Betty shivered. For some reason, she had never given a thought to Jon and Carla’s honeymoon. Suddenly, the thought of it made her extremely uncomfortable. There must have been kisses, embraces, laughter, and warm looks. She shivered again, glancing at Jon and his magazine. Come to think of it, why was he reading a magazine? Why wasn’t he talking to her, holding her hand, gazing into her eyes?

She decided to walk to the restroom. Don’t create a problem where there isn’t one, she reprimanded herself as she shoved open the lavatory door. For all you know, they were just as distant as you and Carlton. On the other hand, no one had ever been that distant before!

Betty made a conscious decision to dismiss Jon and Carla’s honeymoon from her mind. It wasn’t something she wanted to discuss with him. In fact, it wasn’t anything she wanted to know about, now or ever. So she filed it somewhere in her mind’s most remote vault, determined to leave it locked away henceforth.

She experienced a twinge of fear as she dismissed Carla and Jon’s married life from her consciousness. Everybody worries about things like that, she reassured herself. Besides, I’ve got him now. And he loves me more than anyone has ever loved me before. That’s all I need to know.

As another day faded into twilight, Hanalei Bay was awash with watercolor hues of violet, indigo, and deep green. Kauai’s tropical air was heavy with moisture, and tumbling clouds occasionally splashed massive drops of rain onto the Pacific’s tranquil surface. The sea was the temperature of the air, and the air was the temperature of young bodies throbbing with life.

Jon and Betty stood waist deep in the quiet waters, their arms encircling each other, lost in their happiness. Their first days together, with the exception of Betty’s wandering worries during the flight to Honolulu, had been wonderful.

This, Betty told herself more than once, is the real thing! We’re really here. It’s actually happening. I can’t believe it . . .

It seemed that every time she turned to catch a glimpse of Jon’s face, he was already looking at her, a soft expression dancing around his eyes. He was incandescent in his joy, and his smile flooded her with warmth. The delay of the wedding, his interminable captivity, all the doubts, all the lonely days and fearsome nights had been worth the wait. Here was something new to her experience—love that was at the same time peaceful and passionate.

It could be argued that the time the Surrey-Dixons had spent apart had served their relationship well. They had suffered more than ample opportunity to consider each other’s character, to weigh the pros and cons of their style of interaction, to assess the future with clear, cold eyes. Their separation had removed them from the hypnotic effect of sensual attraction. Indeed, so removed had they been from the daily habit of one another’s company, that at times each of them had considered ending the agony of their love affair’s suspended animation.

Could he have put pen to paper, Jon might well have written from his Beirut cell, Betty, don’t wait another day. Get on with your life. He would have gladly let her go, wanting to free her from what he saw as her obligation to him, wanting to free himself of his incurable heartache.

And she, in despairing doubt, would have sometimes said, I can’t stand it any more—I can’t go on. Please forgive me. More than once she had cried out, Look, God, just write me out of this never-ending story. If you can’t figure out how to finish the book, then find somebody else to star in it!

Yet, somehow, they had managed to endure, to abide the delay, to hang on to what little hope they’d managed to retain. And now, here they were, bronzing beneath the hot Hawaiian sun, playing in the aquamarine surf, absorbed only in each other and in their gratitude for having made it through.

Jon was a bright, artistic man. He had a marvelous joie de vivre but was not content simply to enjoy the stimulation that normal life offered. He liked to explore and record symbolic moments of people’s behavior—international occasions, political upheavals, the impact of one person upon another and of people upon nature. His work took him all over the world, camera in hand, in search of new perspectives on global life. Perhaps because of his personal reserve, he didn’t always speak of the things he viscerally understood about people. At times he didn’t even speak when he probably should have.

Jon was content to observe without comment. Instead, he often chose to communicate through his photography, speaking with powerful, eloquent images. Jon Surrey-Dixon loved Shakespeare and enjoyed toying with poems of his own in private moments. But socially, as well as professionally, he was a man of fewer words than thoughts.

Betty, on the other hand, was well acquainted with words. With far more than a Sunday crossword puzzler’s curiosity, she was deeply devoted to words—both their sight and their sound. She enjoyed placing them in interesting sequences and found several literary outlets for expressing most of her innermost meditations. She had written poetry all her life and was quite capable of labeling the myriad emotions that moved, like kaleidoscopic patterns, through her heart. Because words came so easily to her, she could not comprehend being at a loss for them.

However, in those days, words were not of much concern to either Betty or Jon. They walked, slept, ate, and embraced through carefree days of intense satisfaction. As they learned more about each other, the stunning similarities in their points of view delighted them. They had always enjoyed the fact that they had such complementary opinions. The common ground they shared was a fertile field.

But they also began to find the differences in their approaches to life. Neither of them felt particularly alarmed by these dissimilarities, but they were there nonetheless. Most of these had to do with communication— what seemed proper and necessary and what did not; what should be said and what should remain unspoken. When emotions were at stake, Betty was quick to voice her feelings, unless she feared she would offend. Jon was equally quick to fall silent, unless speaking was unavoidable.

In any case, with only ten days to savor, there was little time for deep deliberation. There were Zodiac boat excursions around the Na Pali coast to be made—wild, water-soaked rides across rollicking seas. There were leisurely drives to tropical glades and helicopter expeditions that lifted them above dizzying pinnacles and plunging chasms. Jon and Betty shared meals of fish and fruits, prepared and served in every conceivable way. Evenings, they dined in fabulous restaurants beneath star-strewn skies, the air fragrant with flowers, the sea whispering in the distance.

In their suite, the two of them adjusted, without a great deal of awkwardness, to the miracle of being together night and day. They laughed as they bumped into each other. They excused themselves politely, attempting to share the clothes closet and the bathroom counter, and the hair dryer.

Tears stung Jon’s eyes when, in the middle of the night, he unexpectedly found Betty’s hand in his. He was overcome with tenderness and lay awake, humbled with gratitude. He sleeplessly watched the paddles of the ceiling fan send faint breezes into the darkness, stirring Betty’s hair and softly moving the bed sheet that covered her bare, suntanned back.

The next morning Betty marveled at the sight of Jon in the kitchen. He was expertly fussing with water and cups and spoons, sending the pungent fragrance of fine Kona coffee into the morning air. When he saw her, he opened his arms without a word, gathering her into his arms and holding her in silent affection.

And so the days passed. The evening before their departure, Jon and Betty walked hand in hand along the water. Barefoot and a little sorrowful that their time in paradise was coming to an end, they had little to say. The water was crystalline as it washed over their feet, and Jon stopped abruptly when he saw a perfect pink seashell lodged in the sand. He quickly scooped it up into his hand, washed it, and handed it to Betty.

Let’s keep it forever. Maybe it will help us remember these wonderful days together.

How could we ever forget? Betty whispered, touching the shell with her fingers.

"People forget, Betty. They get busy. They travel. They get distracted. They make mistakes. We have to choose to remember. Times like this make all the rest of life worth living."

I’ll never forget . . . Betty turned to look back at the footprints in the sand, her blonde hair sweeping across her face, tangled by the afternoon trade winds. I’ll never forget that