Where Pastures Meet the Sky

By Andrea René Rudie

While flourishing in a vibrant life with her powerful but kind husband, Laurel suffers an unthinkable, tragic loss and finds her life and dreams for the future shattered. As she struggles to pick up the broken pieces and slowly regain a sense of normalcy, she finds her heartstrings pulling her gently back to the high pasturelands and the majestic timber-framed homestead of her childhood.

Growing up wild, free, and unfettered on the ranch of her beloved late grandfather had shaped Laurel's view of the world from the time she was a toddler. Experiences of her youth, the gentle wisdom of her grandfather, and the struggles she faced as a young teen are revealed. Now an adult, Laurel is suddenly faced with her past and its history, unveiling the most difficult life decision she had to make when she was just a seventeen-year-old girl.

Where Pastures Meet the Sky captures the heart of a teenage girl, the uncertainty of a woman navigating her way through middle age, and the life-altering blessings that are bestowed when one least expects them--in due season, through the quiet yet powerful arrival of redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685705121

Book preview

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Where Pastures Meet the Sky

Andrea RenA(c) Rudie

ISBN 978-1-68570-511-4 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68570-512-1 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Andrea René Rudie

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

About the Author

Dedicated to Mamma. Your love and wisdom still light my way.

A special thanks to my husband, Merlin James Halverson. Your support and encouragement gently pushed me to take my book across the finish line.

A debt of gratitude to Chuck Rissman—the kind gentleman who resurrected Clyde, our old 1952 Dodge pickup, and refused to accept one nickel for his dedication, time, and talent. Chuck, you will always hold a special place in the heart of our family.

Chapter 1

Women of a certain age tend to ponder decisions they've made throughout their lives, becoming their own prosecutor, defendant, and jury. With about as many years behind them as they hope to have going forward, they've usually done enough living to have ample experience, but this doesn't necessarily lend confidence as they wonder about the coming decades.

Middle age can poke holes of doubt in a person's good intentions, leaving them to question the gnawing possibility that they may have been warming the bleachers of an opposing team and wildly cheering the wrong players for a very long time. Filtered sun meant morning was well underway as Laurel drove south along the scenic Highway 101, flipping through an inner cinema, which seemed to wander unharnessed from one wayward trail to the next. She startled as a dark-blue pickup sped past her on a twisting double-yellow curve, a thirty-something driver focused intently on the road ahead. Laurel watched as he took a right turn without using a signal and disappeared down a steep gravel driveway, leaving nothing but a plume of grey dust.

Several years' worth of living alone resulted in the sort of solitude that made her feel somewhat like a tiny, weathered boat adrift in the sea without an anchor. Often waking in a vague shroud of melancholy, Laurel found herself brooding over something she couldn't lay blame upon; it was as if a convergence of life pieces had collided. Yet, as her day unfolded, the rhythm of work and immersing herself in the conversations of people made her feel nearly whole. Evenings and mornings had proven to be more difficult; the quiet stillness was familiar, but having the freedom to do exactly as she pleased wasn't worth an empty home, a vacant bed, and a breakfast table with no one to share raspberry jam on rye and all the possibilities that arrive with a new day.

Laurel meandered toward the little town, reluctantly eyeing the local Starfish Coffee Roasters turquoise sign, and pulled in the drive-up.

Tall drip with a bit of cream, please, she requested.

The barista handed over a steaming paper cup, and a thoroughly pierced cashier announced, Perfect, as Laurel paid for the coffee. Announcing perfect for absolutely everything was an annoying habit that millennials seemed to have. She felt herself give an invisible eye roll and fiddled with the wobbly cardboard sleeve draped around the cup like a solution for a problem that didn't actually exist. Laurel winced as she took a sip.

Once satisfied that Starfish coffee still tasted awful to her—a smell reminiscent of burnt rubber, or dear god, maybe an actual starfish—Laurel headed to the edge of the villa where the commercial buildings merged gently with the older residential neighborhood, their imaginary lines blurring as quaint brick-front buildings met with colorful clapboard and shingled cottages shining like pennies in the morning light. Porches burst with explosions of color, where the scent from rows of well-endowed flower baskets hung in the mild summer breeze. There was friendly but fierce competition in the seaside villa over whose yard had the most glorious blossoms during the short-lived coastal summers, which resulted in each tiny street saluting in its own prideful celebration.

Harboring an irritable-looking cat on her lap and still wearing her nightgown, Margot pulled a drag on her cigarette and waved as Laurel drove by. With the unintimidated pluck of an older woman, Margot had donned her husband's ball cap to tame her wayward hair while she perused the morning paper. Margot's unusual attire barely lifted Laurel's eyebrow anymore. One time she'd sported bikini bottoms and high-top rain boots, which sort of made sense because although it was July, the rain was pouring in torrents that day, and Margot needed to walk to the post office.

Laurel parked and scooted off the warm seat of her truck, gathered up a cardboard box filled with paperwork to drop by the CPA, and headed up an old concrete sidewalk, stepping carefully where sections of it heaved capriciously from ancient maple tree roots.

She stopped in front of a small two-story 1900s brick building. Lead-paned windows captured squares of sunlight, projecting them into patterns beside the steps; old copper trim capping the roofline had weathered to a soft green patina, which gave a nod to another era. Citrine-hued pots at the entryway housed vibrant nasturtiums, which tumbled carelessly onto the uneven sidewalk. A familiar squeak in the brass hinges and the lemony scent of her favorite shampoo enveloped Laurel's senses as she entered her little salon, which felt pretty much like a second home after all of the years she'd owned it.

Ivory and Oliver were engaged in lively conversation with their first customers of the day, shouting over a loud racket of whirring hairdryers. The Rolling Stones belted vigorously from the speakers, and the seating area was scattered with coffee cups, someone's forgotten sweater, and a crumpled morning newspaper, but Laurel gathered contentment from being around the eclectic group of people in her salon and the little seaside village she'd grown to love. She tidied the front desk, plunking the cardboard box down with a thud, and glanced at the schedule, which was already nearly full for the coming month.

Feeling a wave of relief, Laurel mouthed a silent hallelujah because a good income was never a sure thing in her line of work. Times were lean, and when people were broke, they rarely put a trip to the hair salon at the top of their priorities. Even her new hire, Ivory, was gaining some traction with a loyal following.

Ginger-haired Ivory gave Laurel a smile and waved with a hairbrush as she dried a freshly trimmed head of hair worn by a woman deeply engrossed in Coastal magazine. A sweet girl of Irish descent, Ivory had worked the summer tourist seasons and most weekends at a high-end hair and nail boutique up in Cannon Beach. The vacationers spent plenty of money but came in only a time or two then returned home. There were few repeat customers other than a handful of year-round retirees and half a dozen local artists who were generally too broke to buy nails or a hairstyle, nine months out of twelve.

At twenty-four, Ivory longed for someplace with room to cultivate a clientele and held a fistful of dreams that perhaps she could build a successful life of her very own and maybe set down some real roots one day. So, on a wish and a whim, she rounded up her girlfriend to go exploring and headed down the Oregon coastline where tiny sea towns dotted Highway 101.

After pulling into a small villa tucked away from the highway, she was mesmerized by streets of tiny storybook cottages with climbing roses along their picket fences. A handful of junk stores and the delightful discovery of scrumptious crepes at The Organic Hippie Cafe pulled at her heartstrings. When she spotted a darling building named The Little Brick Salon, her heart slipped up to her throat. She had to find out more.

The Tuesday after Ivory discovered the salon, she called and asked for an interview, which was, to her amazement, granted. She arrived precisely ten minutes ahead of schedule, wearing her very best grey slacks a decent cashmere sweater she'd found at a thrift store, and finished a professional look by hoisting her wavy red hair into an impressive French twist. After parking her old, weathered Honda sedan around the corner and checking her lipstick for the tenth time in the rearview mirror, she marched confidently into the salon where she presented a well-organized portfolio.

Ivory's hand trembled as she handed her resume to Laurel; the young woman had tested her own courage by asking a stranger for a chance to prove her worth. Laurel was a seasoned judge of character and liked Ivory immediately. She sensed the girl was broke and gave her the first month's station lease for free so she could get started.

Having come from very little, Ivory was raised in poverty with five siblings and parents too young to know any better. They'd tried to make ends meet by selling seasonal firewood to the tourists, a failing endeavor, so Ivory had some familial overcoming to do. And come hell or the creek rising, she was going to. She wasn't going to live her life wondering where the closest food bank was, or if there was enough gas in her car to get there. A person either pushed their way out of the cycle of misguided choices and low expectations, or they remained mired in them. Ivory was determined to have a life, the sort she'd seen others have, the sort where she could be warm enough, full enough, and not embarrassed by her filthy, tattered clothing.

After seeing his first haircut of the morning out the door, Oliver marched cheerily over to greet Laurel, his head cocked to one side and his thick hair freshly gelled into place. Today his magenta highlights were smoothed straight back, which made him appear as if he'd been caught in one of those high-powered dryers at the car wash. Oliver was adorable and unassuming and one of the best hair designers on the coast. Laurel loved his talent and designing skill, but mostly she loved him for simply being Oliver.

Just three years before while shopping at the nearby outlet mall, Laurel had become acquainted with the ways of Oliver. There was a colorful display of high-heeled suede pumps, and from several rows away, Laurel noticed a spikey head popping up and peering nervously around the store, then mysteriously disappearing below the shelves.

After several sightings of the human prairie dog, Laurel became curious and casually strolled down the shoe aisle pretending to be interested in a pair of cobalt heels. Glancing over, she noticed a long-limbed young man teetering precariously on a magenta stiletto with the other foot in the taking wobbly aim at the other shoe. Eventually, he corralled both feet and gazed down at them contentedly. Laurel realized he hadn't noticed her, and when he glanced up, the young man was startled.

I think they're beautiful, Laurel had said softly. I really love the magenta ones.

Looking relieved, the young man gave an awkward smile, showing a slight gap between perfectly white teeth. Thank you… I've been admiring these for weeks now, he said shyly.

And that's how Laurel met Oliver and learned that Oliver's favorite color was magenta.

The little salon was busy all day, and Laurel found herself immersed in various conversations. Clipping wayward strands and coloring roots was how her day usually went. Something about having your hair combed and shampooed must affect people like being slathered in lemon-smelling truth serum, Ben used to say, and there was a measure of accuracy in his words.

Laurel listened carefully that morning as Krystal, a plump, middle-aged high school teacher, quietly confided through tears that she suspected her husband of having an affair. As Laurel wove soft red through Krystal's wavy strands, she grabbed a tissue for her and felt her heart sink. Not because the news was a surprise, but because she already knew. Dan Blair was also a regular at the salon and had made more than a couple passes at Laurel over the years, which she'd easily brushed off. Two weeks ago when having his hair trimmed, Dan told her he was seeing another woman up in Tillamook and was planning to either end the affair or end his marriage to Krystal.

What does one do with that sort of knowledge? Laurel often wondered. How does a person honor the promise of being a confidante yet shoulder the burden of being the recipient of such secrets? Through the years, there'd been countless personal stories shared by people sitting in her chair, tears shed, plans hatched, and heartaches put into words, which floated up to Laurel's ears like fog rising from the low tide as the Broken spoke softly. Laurel kept the words safely and quietly tucked away as if she were some sort of a secret steward. She never told a soul, not even Ben. He'd throw his head back and laugh in his big booming voice and say, Who do you think I would tell?

The years at the salon gave her people to care for and grow to love, and the years took some of them away. Laurel had washed the hair of Kary Schuber as it surrendered to chemotherapy. She whispered a silent prayer over the gravely ill woman while at the same time feeling sick to her stomach. Laurel's own visceral response to the clumps of wet hair filling her hands was overwhelming. Kary had wept when Laurel