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What happens when Thalia, a dedicated, red-haired lady minister, opens her mind and heart to Jared, rugged but sensitive humanities professor from Utah? Although Reverend Hildreth is eminently successful in her chosen career, internally she is a mass of conflicting emotions, a lonely, insecure adult who knows that life is passing her by but lacks the courage to change its course.
Then Jared invades her routine, bringing not only a gift for sharing but a solid spiritual background which mystifies Thalia, as much as he intrigues her. After the death of his mother, when Thalia tries to comfort him, she learns to her dismay that he is already several steps ahead of her.
Their mutual attraction is apparent, yet Thalia notices only their differences. She is a born and bred Michigander, an ordained minister with a congregation and a Board of Trustees to answer to; whereas Jared is a died-in-the-wool Westerner with a strong Mormon background and a fealty only to his God.
Whence Comes the Rain pictures Michigan in all its natural beauty, but the book also describes Utah, which Jared shows Thalia to be her spiritual home. As he points out to her, they have more in common than differences.
And so it is with all of us. |
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The opening bars of Brahms' First fell on responsive ears, and Thalia's heart expanded in time with the beat of the timpani as it increased in volume, throbbing to the rhythm of the symphony within her. Pulsing with more intensity at each stroke, the drum's reverberations seemed to transfer her from mortal dimensions into a holier sphere such as she had experienced in her youth with the first fervor of spiritual awakenings.
Only in music, as melodies soared and fell, then climbed again, higher and purer, could she make this transition, this flight into a world that dared to transcend even adolescent dreams. The transition always frightened her, but she lent herself to it with rapture, sensing the munificence of the heavens, the glories of eternities revealed. She longed passionately to cling to these elusive impressions until the burning in her heart could be recalled at will, to form a sure knowledge of the idealism embodied in the scriptures.
But it did not last. Never beyond the final chords of the concert, though she sought for an unveiling of the mysteries with a devotion unmatched by any other effort in her disciplined life. The end of the movement came too soon, with a final fortissimo and a brilliant surge of melody from the strings. Ah-h-h-h, she breathed, almost satisfied.
Her breath stilled, her heart seemed to cease its beat, but shortly, she drew a tremulous breath, her eyes filled with tears, and the spell was broken. Music was only an escape, after all-an escape from her pedestrian way of life.
She seldom gave vent to her true feelings. She was, after all, a professional, one who counted in the community, one whose duty it was to counsel and guide others, and this gave her a sense of personal worth and a certain amount of prestige. She really wasn't unhappy, she hedged, just . . . vaguely discontented at times, when a feeling of restlessness overcame her and she sat still and observed the world around her.
It was the music, she decided, that brought out these emotions. But emotions like these were unworthy of a competent professional. She had chosen her way, long ago. It was too late for regrets. And besides, she liked her life as it was. Service to others. Free, independent. Her own person.
Yet, hesitantly, she had to admit that music gave her a glimpse of another world, an ideal world, perhaps. A state of perfection-or near perfection, at least-where one could have all desires fulfilled, no matter how adolescent.
A life in which one could dare to be . . . cherished. Loved.
Surely music compensated for other lacks in one's life. Listening to Brahms dissolved worldly trials. Almost. Not quite, she decided, as she felt the gaze of the man in the next seat centered on her ankle. Leave it to someone to spoil a perfect moment, she raged unreasonably. She determined to ignore him. Pulling herself upright, she tugged at her skirt and tucked her feet primly under her seat.
Despite her intentions, the man's presence was not easily overlooked. His size, perhaps. Or his bearing. Or the quiet composure. Something. Something she could not identify.
She had noticed him when she took her assigned seat. A handsome man, about forty, she guessed, graying in an interesting pattern about his temples. Thick black hair a little long on his collar. Tall, too, she estimated, and wide in the shoulders, since she had brushed against him when she sat down. But that gave him no right to stare!
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