One Perfect Day - Chapter 1

One Perfect Day
FaithWords (October 22, 2008)


Chapter 1

Nora

Gordon, where are you?

Betsy, a middle-aged yellow Lab, looked up as if she had heard Nora speaking. The two — owner and pet — had been best friends for so long that the twins frequently teased their mother about mental telepathy — with a dog. Betsy thumped her tail and gazed up from her self- assigned spot at Nora’s feet.

Leaving the bay- window seat, where she’d been staring out at the moon lighting fire to the frost-encrusted winter lawn, which sloped down to the lakeshore, Nora crossed the kitchen to set the teakettle to boiling. Tea always helped in times of distress. She brought out the rose-sprinkled china teapot and filled it with hot water. Tonight was not a mug night but a “stoke up the reserves” night. If there had been snow on the ground, this was the kind of night, with the moon so bright every blade of grass glinted, when she would have hit the ski trails. An hour of cross-country skiing and she’d have been relaxed enough to fall asleep whether Gordon called or not. So, instead, she drank tea. As if copious cups would make her sleep deeply rather than toss and turn. Perhaps she would work on the business plan if she got enough caffeine into her system.

Betsy’s ears perked up and she went and stood in front of the door to the garage.

Nora’s heart leaped. Gordon must be home after all. But why hadn’t he called to say he was at the airport? His business trip to Stuttgart, Germany, had already been prolonged and here they were trying to get ready — with just four days until Christmas. The last one for which she could guarantee the twins would still be home. Her last chance for perfection. When he’d told her a week ago he had to fl y to Stuttgart again, the word “again” had echoed in her head. Betsy’s tail increased the wag speed and she backed up as the door opened.

“Mom, I’m home.” Charlie, the older twin by two minutes, and named after his father, Charles Gordon Peterson, came through the door in his usual rush. “Oh, there you are.” Grinning up at his mother, he paused to pet the waiting dog. “Good girl, Bets, did you take good care of Mom?” Betsy wagged her tail and caught the tip of his nose with her black- spotted tongue. “Smells good in here.” He glanced around the kitchen, zeroing in on the plate of powdered-sugar–dusted brownies. “Heard from Dad?”

“No.” Nora cupped her elbows with her hands and leaned against the counter. At five-seven, she found that the raised counter fit right into the small of her back. When they’d built the house, she and Gordon had chosen cabinets two inches higher than normal, since they were both tall. Made for easier work surfaces. “Go ahead, quit drooling and eat. There’s a plate in the fridge for you to pop in the microwave.” “Where’s Christi?” Charlie asked around a mouthful of walnut- laced brownie.

“Upstairs. I think she’s finishing a Christmas present.”

“Are we going to decorate the tree tonight?”

“We were waiting on you.” And your father, but somehow he always manages to not be here at tree- decorating time.
While Gordon was not a “bah, humbug” kind of guy, his idea of a perfect Christmas was skiing in Colorado. They’d done his last year, with his promise to help make hers perfect this year. Right. Big help from across the Atlantic. While Nora knew he’d not deliberately chosen to be gone this week before Christmas, it still rankled, irritating under her skin like a fine cactus spine, hard to see and harder to dig out. Charlie retrieved his plate from the fridge and slid it into the microwave, all the while filling his mother in on the antics of the children standing in line to visit Santa. Charlie excelled as one of Santa’s elves, a big elf at six feet, with dark curly hair and hazel eyes, which sparkled with delight. Charlie loved little kids; so when this perfect job came up, he took it and entertained them all in his green- and- red elf suit. He could turn the saddest tears into laughter. Santa told him not to grow up, he’d need elves forever.

“One little girl had the bluest round eyes you ever saw.” Charlie took his warmed plate out and pulled a stool up to the counter so he could eat. “She had this one great big tear trickling down her cheek, but I hid behind my hands” — he demonstrated peekaboo with his fingers — “and she sniffed, ducked into Santa, caught herself and peeked back at me. When he did his ‘ho ho ho,’ she looked up at him with the cutest grin.” He deepened his voice. “ ‘And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?’ ” Charlie shifted into shy little girl: “ ‘ I — I want a kitty. My mommy’s kitty died and she needs a new one.’ ” He paused. “ ‘And make sure it has a good motor. My mommy likes to hold one that purrs.’ ” Charlie came back to himself. “Can you believe that, Mom? That’s all she wanted. She reached up and kissed his cheek, slid off his lap and waved good- bye.” “What a little sweetheart.”

“I checked with Annie, who was taking the pictures, and got their address. You think we could find a kitten that has a good motor at the Humane Society?”

“Ask Christi, she’d know.” Christi volunteered one afternoon a week at the Riverbend Humane Society and would bring home every condemned animal if they let her. She’d fostered more dogs and cats in the last year than most people did in a lifetime. She’d found homes for them too, except for Bushy, an older white fluffy cat, with one black ear and one black paw. His green eyes captivated her, or at least that was the excuse for his taking up permanent residence. “I will. Be nice if there was a half- grown one with a loud motor.”

“Loud motor for what?” Christi, Bushy draped across her arm, wandered into the kitchen, a smear of Sap Green oil paint on her right cheek, matching the blob on the back of her right forefinger. Tall at five-nine, with an oval face and haunting grayish blue eyes, she looked every bit the traditional blond Norwegian. As much as Charlie entertained the world, she observed and translated what she saw onto canvases that burst with color and yet drew the eye into the shadows, where peace and serenity lurked. Christi would rather paint than eat or even breathe at times.

“A little girl asked Santa for a kitty for her mother” — he shifted into mimic — “ ‘ ’Cause Mommy’s kitty died and she is sad.’ ” “That’s all she wanted?”

“Gee, that’s what I thought too.” Nora motioned toward the teapot and Christi nodded. While her mother poured the tea, Christi absently rubbed the paint spot on her cheek. “There are three cats for adoption right now. I like the gold one, she loves to be held. The other two would rather roughhouse.”

“You think it would still be there until after school?” “I’ll call Shawna and tell her to hold it for you. Are you sure you want to do this? What happens if she doesn’t really want it?”

“Can anyone turn down one of Santa’s elves?”

“You’d go in costume?”

“Why not?”

“I could paint you a card.”

“Would you?”

“Sure, have one started. All I need to do is change the color of the cat. Luckily, I made it white, like Bushy here.” She rubbed her cheek on the cat’s fluffy head. “How long until we decorate the tree?”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Okay, you two start on the lights and I’ll finish the card. You want me to sign it for you?” Christi had taken classes in calligraphy and had taught her mother how to sign all the Christmas cards in perfect script.

“You know, you’re all right for a girl.” Charlie bounded up the stairs to his room, where all his herpetological friends lived. Arnold, a three- foot rosy boa that should have been named Houdini, was his favorite.

Nora handed Christi her mug of tea. “Take a brownie with you.”

“Thanks, Mom. You heard from Dad yet?”

“No.” Nora knew her answer was a bit clipped. “Something must be wrong.” Christi’s eyes darkened in concern. “Did you call him?”

“I tried, cell went right to voice mail.”

“So, he was on it?”

“Or he let the battery run out.” As efficient as Gordon was, you’d think he could remember to plug his phone into the charger. The two women of the family shared an eye rolling.

“He’ll call.”

“Unless he’s broken down someplace.”

“You always tell me not to worry.”

“Well, advising and doing are two different things.” Nora set her cup and saucer in the dishwasher. “Want to help me unroll the lights?”

“I was going up to finish that card.”

Nora checked her watch. “Ten minutes?” “Done.” Christi scooped Bushy up off the counter, where he’d flopped, and headed up the stairs, not leaping like her brother, but lithe and regal, the residuals of her years of ballet and modern dance.

Nora and Betsy headed for the living room, but when the phone rang, she did an about- face and a near dive for the wall phone in the desk alcove. “Hello.”

“Nora, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“There, you did it again.” She tried to sound harsh, but relief turned her to quivering Jell- O.

“What?”

“Apologize. Now I can’t be mad at you.” His chuckle reminded her of how much she missed him when he was gone.

“Where are you?”

“Still in Stuttgart. Art and I got to talking and I didn’t realize the time passing. I had to get some sleep.” “You’re up awfully early.”

“I know. Trying to finish up. Is the tree up yet?”

“What, are you trying to outwait me?” “What ever gave you that idea?” He coughed to clear his throat.

“You okay?”

“Just a tickle. Look, I should be on my way home this afternoon. I’ve got to wrap this thing up, but I told them the deadline is noon and I’m heading for the airport at three, come he- heaven or high water.”

“Well, don’t worry about the tree.” She slipped into suffering servant to make him laugh again. “The kids and I’ll get that done tonight.” It worked. His chuckle always made her smile back, even when he couldn’t see her. “They have school tomorrow, right?”

“Right. Last day, so there’ll be parties. I have goodie trays all ready to take.”

“You made Julekaka for the teachers again?” Nora chuckled. “Gotta keep my place as favorite mother of high- school students.”

“Is that Dad?” Charlie called from the stairs. “Tell him to hurry home. I have to . . .” The rest of his words were lost in his rush.

“Charlie says to hurry home.”

“I heard him. Give them both hugs from me.” “Do you need a ride from the airport?” She glanced at the clock. Nine p.m. here meant four a.m. in Germany. Good thing Gordon was a morning person.

“No, I’ll take a cab. I love you.”

“You better.” She hung up on both their chuckles. How come just hearing his voice upped the wattage on the lights? And after twenty- two years of marriage. As people so often told them, they were indeed the lucky ones. “Please, Lord, take good care of him,” she whispered as she blew him a silent kiss. She joined Charlie in the living room, where a blue spruce graced the bay window overlooking the front yard, where she and Gordon had festooned tiny white lights on the naked branches of the maple, which burst into fiery color in the fall, and the privet hedge, which bordered the drive. Lights in icicle mode graced the front eaves, while two tall white candles guarded the front steps. She’d filled pots with holly up the flagstone stairs and hung a swag of pine boughs, red balls and a huge gold mesh bow on the door. “Here.” Charlie handed her the reel of tiny white lights and pulled on the end to plug it in.

“I already checked them all this afternoon. Just start at the top of the tree.”

They had a third of the lights on the eight- foot tree when Christi joined them, setting the finished card on the mantel to dry.

“I didn’t put it in the envelope yet, so don’t forget this in the morning, or are you coming home before going over there? Shawna said she’ll put your name on the golden cat. She’s already been fixed, so she is ready for her new home.” Christi picked up another reel of light strings. “You need to put them closer together.”

“Yeah, right, Miss Queen Bee has spoken,” Charlie mumbled from behind the tree.

“You don’t have to get huffy.”

“You don’t have to be bossy.”

“All right, let’s just get the lights on.” All they had to do was get through this drudgery part and then all would be well. Gordon always tried to skimp on the lights too. Like father, like son. Silence reigned as they wound the lights around the tree branches, punctuated only by a “hand me another reel, please” and “ouch” when a spruce needle dug into the tender spot under the nail. Nora sucked on her finger for a moment to ease the stinging. Inhaling the intoxicating spruce scent brought back memories of the last years and made her grateful again for all the joys they’d had. One more thing to miss tonight, the rehash she and Gordon always did post–tree trimming, when the children had gone to bed, like Monday morning quarterbacking, only with more smiles and laughter. Much of the laughter came because of Charlie’s clowning around.

“What if she doesn’t like the cat?” Charlie asked.

“Then we’ll take it back,” Christi said matter-of-factly.

“By ‘back,’ I’m sure you mean to the Humane Society. Bushy would not like another cat around here.” Nora’s hands stilled. This she needed to clarify.

“Of course, Mom.”

Nora looked up in time to catch a head shake from her daughter and one of the “I’m trying to be patient” looks Christi was so good at. Why was it so quiet? “Oh, I forgot to put the music on. Messiah all right?”

When both twins shrugged, she knew they’d rather have something else, but were giving her the choice. She crossed to the sound system, hit the number three button and waited a moment for Mariah Carey’s voice to flow out. She’d play the Messiah after they went to bed. They’d all attended the “ Sing-Along Messiah” concert the second weekend in December.

At least Gordon had been home for that tradition. A bit later they all three stepped back with matching sighs. “All right, throw the switch.” She looked at Charlie, who had taken over that job years earlier. This certainly was a night for memories.

When the tree sprang to life, they swapped grins and nods. The ornaments were the easy part. By unspoken agreement, they decided to hang the ornaments, which they’d bought one per year on their annual family shopping trip and dinner- out tradition, higher in the tree to keep away from batting cat’s paws and a dog’s wagging tail. While the twins snorted at her sentimentality, she hung the ornaments they’d made through the years, some like the Santa face with a cotton ball beard, beginning to look more than a bit scruffy, but dear nevertheless. The ornaments that their Tante Karen had given them through the years on their Christmas presents brought up memories and set the two to recalling each year and what their interest had been then. Nora knew that her sister watched both the twins and the shops carefully through the year to find just the perfect ornament. When the twins had trees of their own, they would already have seventeen ornaments each to take with them. The thought made Nora pause. The home tree would look mighty bare. She hung the crocheted and stiffened snowflakes she had made one year and had given for gifts. Then three little folded- paper- and- waxed stars she’d made in Girl Scouts took their own places.

When they’d hung the final ornament, they stared at the box with the glorious angel that always smiled benignly from the top of the tree.

“Let’s leave that for Dad.” Christi turned toward her mother. “I agree.” Setting the angel just right with a light inside her to make her shimmer was always Gordon’s job — for years because he was the only one tall enough and now because they wanted him to have a part, no matter how many miles separated them.

Charlie shrugged. “I am tall enough, you know.” “I know.” Nora gathered her two chicks to her sides and they admired the tree together. “Thank you. I know it is late, with school tomorrow, but I really appreciate your helping the tradition continue.” She tried not to sniff, but her body went on automatic pilot.

Charlie’s arm around her back squeezed and Christi leaned her head against her mother’s. Together they turned and surveyed all the decorations; the mantel was the only thing that Nora changed year after year, and all was done but hanging the Christmas stockings. The hooks waited. Charlie picked up the fl at box that held the cross- stitched or quilted stockings and they each hung up their own. Nora hung hers and Gordon’s, while the kids hung the ones for Bushy and Betsy. “Now Santa can come.” Christi smoothed the satin surfaces of her crazy- quilt stocking, with every satin or velvet piece decorated with intricate embroidery stitches, cross- stitch, daisy chain and feather. “When I get married, will you make my husband a sock to match?”

“I will.” Just please don’t be in too big a hurry. Not that Christi was dating anyone. She often said she left all the flirting up to her brother, since all the girls were after him all the time. But Nora often wondered if Christi was a bit jealous, not that she would ask. Her daughter talked more with her father than she did with her mother. Unless, of course, it was a real female thing.

“Anyone for cocoa? The real kind? I can make it while you get ready for bed. I’ll bring the tray up.” “And brownies?” Charlie asked.

“Fattigman?” Christi loved the traditional Norwegian goodies Nora made only at Christmastime. “Of course, and since you’ll be getting home early tomorrow, you can help me with the sandbakles.” Charlie groaned. Pressing the buttery dough into the small fluted tins was not his idea of fun.

“ ‘He who eats must press.’ ” Christi sang out the line her mother had often repeated since the time they were little. Nora watched her two swap shoulder punches as they climbed the stairs. No matter how much they teased each other or argued, the bond between them ran deeper than most siblings. Gordon called it spooky; she figured it was a gift from God.
Time to make cocoa, as her family had called it. In her mind, hot chocolate came in a packet or tin. Good thing she’d picked up the miniature marshmallows. Betsy padding beside her, she returned to the kitchen to fix the tray. If only Gordon were here. Carrying the tray up the stairs was his job.

Copyright © 2008 by Lauraine Snelling

Beloved Captive - Chapter 1

Beloved Captive
Barbour Publishing, Inc (November 1, 2008)

Chapter 1

May 2, 1836

New Orleans

It was a terrible thing to wish.

With every roll of the carriage wheels, Emilie Gayarre fought the urge to pray that her arrival would come too late. The request she'd traveled so far to make stood a greater chance of being granted were she begging the funds from her father's estate rather than making the request to him personally.

Yet if she were made to return to Fairweather Key without fund to build a school for the children, Judge Campbell would see to it that the children were sent off to neighboring keys where the price for their education had already been paid. "If only the old grouch would pry open the coffers and do what's right."

"My friend is not an unreasonable man, you know." The Reverend Hezekiah Carter, her elderly traveling companion, reached over to pat her sleeve. "Perhaps you will change your mind and visit upon the morrow rather than rush to his side."

She'd been thinking of Judge Campbell when she spoke her musings aloud, but the words certainly had a bearing on her situation with her father. Emilie stayed her fidgeting fingers and swung her gaze toward her father's oldest and dearest friend.

How easy it would be to agree, to avail herself of a warm bath and a good night's sleep before attempting the visit she dreaded. But the letter had been marked urgent, the word sure in their insistence that the daughters of Jean Gayarre see to their father's last wish: an audience with him at the family home should he survive, and a reading of the will should he perish before their arrival.

"No, Reverend Carter," she said, even as she hated it. "Time appears to be of the essence. I'll not disappoint my father by delaying in meeting his last request."

Though I've sorely disappointed him in other matters.

The old preacher merely nodded.

As the carriage rocked over uneven streets, the earthly smells of the city pushed away the stench of the docks. To their right, a fruit vendor juggled samples of his freshest produce, while across the way a woman sold pastries right from the folds of her apron.

"Are you fearing your father tonight, lass?"

Emilie swung her attention to Hezekiah Carter. "Fearing?" She gave the question but a moments thought. "I don't suppose I ever feared my father, though I surely disliked him on occasion."

Leaning heavily on the silver-topped cane, the reverend shook his head. "A clever response, Emilie, but not a direct one." His piercing gaze challenged her. "Shall I rephrase the question, or will you rephrase your answer?"

She sighed. This man knew the Gayarres far too well. Any hope of deflecting the true meaning is his query disappeared under his persistent stare. "Indeed," she began, "I do wonder what awaits me, though I'd not call my feelings fear." Emilie paused. "I believe I am yet in awe of the man as much as I am reluctant to return to his home."

Reverend Carter reached across the space between then to grasp her hands. "Then it is well you chose not to face this alone."

"I chose?" A grin threatened. "Would that I'd known there was a choice."

He affected a surprised expression. "Dare I believe a woman of your quality would travel unaccompanied? One must be concerned with the dangers of ruffians who ply the shipping trade nowadays."

His grin joined hers at the reference. Some two years past, the reverend's own son was on if the ruffians. Now Josiah Carter's sole enterprise was to love his wife and his God, dote on his newly born son, and make his living saving others from the ravages of the Florida seas as a wrecker. Emilie smiled at the reminder of the man's transformation from infidel to husband. Her smile broadened when she thought of his wife, her half-sister Isabelle.

"A penny for your thoughts, my dear," the old preacher said.

"I was thinking about Isabelle and Josiah," she said, "and what an interesting life one lives when following God is one's priority."

"Indeed you speak the truth," he said.

Too soon the carriage rolled to a halt, and the coachman called out. A moment later the iron gates gave entrance to the courtyard, where the news of their arrival had brought a collection of servants running.

Her smile faded. In this home, she had first learned of Isabelle. An errant slip of the tongue by a gossiping housemaid had sent Emilie on a quest to find the young quadroon woman who shared her father. Here the plans were made for freeing this slave who was her half-sister.

Here, too, I will likely have to atone for the success of those plans.

Emilie tugged at her gloves to disguise the shaking of her hands. When the carriage door opened, she straightened her back and closed her eyes to offer an entreaty to the Lord that she might not be thrown in the Cabildo as befitting her crimes.

"welcome home mademoiselle."

Emilie opened her eyes to see Nate, the husband of Cook. "Thank you, Nate," she said with a genuine smile. "It's wonderful to see you again."

He tipped his hat, then lifted her down onto the cobblestones. "It's right nice to have you back here again."

One step into the courtyard, and Emilie's concern returned. The home seemed less of a home and more of a haven for the dying. Lamps that never went unlit were dark, and curtains in rooms that once invited guests to enter now stood closed.

"My father?" she asked of Nate.

"Up there waiting for you last I heard," he said as he gestured toward the second floor.

Reverend Carter glanced up at the darkened windows, then shook his head. "On the morrow, perhaps?"

"No." Emilie squared her shoulders, and head held high, she walked toward the front door. "I shall not wait until then," she whispered. Trembling fingers formed a fist, then with care rose to come near to knocking on a door that swung open on silent hinges.

Cook took two steps backward and clutched at the scarf at her neck, "Miss Emilie, Lawdy mercy and bless my soul. My prayers done been answered. You've come home!"

The housemaid's cry brought a half dozen familiar faces running. Each exclaimed as if a lost treasure has been suddenly found.

Emilie nudged past and walked into her father's home as if she were certain he would receive her. In truth, she had no idea whether Jean Gayarres would welcome her or whether he'd merely sent for his daughters to exact some measure of revenge. Or did he seek only Isabelle's counsel and not wish to see me at all save to banish me?

The question had lain dormant as Emilie boarded the vessel in Fairweather Keys, and until she saw the gates swing open and heard her footsteps echo in the long hallway that led to her father's room, she felt no need to disturb it.

Too soon, however, the lamplight chased her to her father's door. Just once could she remember breaching the sanctum that was Jean Gayarre's chambers. As a small child, she'd had the great misfortune to lose a button off her favorite doll's dress beneath the heavy cypress door.

A moment's worth of demanding ended when a hapless servant girl, no more than a child herself, had agreed to go in and fetch it. Even now the sound of the girl's soft knock echoed in Emilie's mind, followed by the creak of the door. Emilie remembered peering inside at the heavily curtained bed positioned before windows that were swagged and festooned with matching tassels and loops.

The servant girl had crept toward the button on hands and knees, and Emilie shadowed her despite warnings to the contrary. What great fun it seemed to a child of no more than six or seven.

And then a sound from the bed. Her father, his voice thick and nearly unrecognizable, called an unfamiliar name and then repeated it. "Sylvie, ma chere, c'est vous?"

Much as in the present, fear had held Emilie's lips shut tight and kept her feet glued to the floor.

"No, sir," the servant had said. "I'm D-d-daisy, sir. I k-k-keep the girl when my mama's busy."

A rustle of bed coverings sounded, and then a man rose. Bold as you please, he stumbled toward them without bothering to don a dressing gown or cover the stench of his breath.

"Sylvie," he repeated, ignoring Emilie completely, then swept the poor servant girl into his arms and deposited her behind the bed curtains. Only when the servant girl's bloodcurdling scream chased her from the room did Emilie flee.

After that, Emilie had never gone near the door again.

"Would you like me to go in with you?"

Emilie started at the sound of Reverend Carter's voice. "No," she said. "Thank you," was added as an after thought.

His nod was hasty, as was his retreat, despite the impediment of the cane. "I shall have Cook prepare a light supper for you," he called. "Perhaps some of her biscuits and red eye gravy."

In truth, the thought of food did not hold any appeal. Neither did opening the door, yet she must.

One hand on the knob and the other pressing against her furiously beating heart, Emilie somehow manages to find herself inside. She blinked hard to get her bearings. The same heavy velvet curtains were now drawn against the afternoon sun, casting a pall across the mountain of quilts piled on the grand bed. In the middle of it all, the skeletal form of Jean Gayarre lay propped on more pillows than could surely be comfortable.

"Miss Emilie, that you?" This from the girl who'd fetched clean water for her bath more times than Emilie could count. Yet she knew not the girl's name.

"It is," she said, tossing aside the reminder of her formerly self-centered life. Before she left, she would know this girl's names, but now was not the time to ask. Not with Papa watching.

And watch he did, his eyes clear and bright even as his face wore no expression. A week's worth of travel had not been in vain, for Jean Gayarre had not yet gone to his reward. His mouth opened and closed, putting Emilie in mind of a fish in want of water.

Was he working to find the breath that would order her from the room or welcome her home? A sound escaped from the old man's mouth, something akin to a baby's soft whimper. She held her finger to her lips, halting. "Don't try to speak, Papa."

"Ma belle fille," emerged from cracked lips in a breathless gasp.

She grasped his hand and held it, painfully aware of the lack of strength in his icy grip even as her heart softened at his tender greeting. "Oui, Papa, c'est moi. C'est Emilie."

The old man looked past her. "But where is…?"

"Isabelle?" she offered. "She was unable to make the journey."

To say more seemed unwise, so Emilie kept her silence and turned her attention to the bedchamber's condition. The windows were shut tight against the danger of draft, and a great fire had been laid in the massive fireplace, wrapping the room in oppressive heat.

With her free hand, Emilie shrugged out of her wrap and passed it off to the nearest housemaid. "Thank you," she said to the young woman's retreating back before returning her attention to her father.

"Never…thank…a servant," he said. "Makes them…"

The rest of his admonition was lost in a fit of coughing that left Papa struggling for each breath. Finally, the old man's eyes closed, and he rested. For a moment, she thought he might have breathed his last. Then he stirred. A look came over his face that could only be describes as disappointment.

"I summoned two, yet only one of my daughters has arrived." He paused and seemed to collect either his breath or his thoughts.

"Isabelle is abed with child, Father, and unable to travel," Emilie said.

"And you. You're Sylvie's girl," he whispered.

Sylvie. Emilie's gaze darted from the bed curtains as her heart lurched. Did her father remember that long ago day? What significance did this name hold over a man who would repeat it after all these years?

"No, Papa," she said as she forced her attention back on the old man's nearly lifeless form. "My mother was Elizabeth, your wife." She added what she hoped would be a smile in order to placate him. "I'm told I resemble her."

"Ha!" The force of his statement startled Emilie, as did the flash of anger on his face and his sudden move to rise up on one elbow. The motion sent pillows flying and caused a tray of what looked to be sweets to fall to the floor. As the servants surged forward to clean the mess, her father banished them all from the room.

The moment the door closed behind the last of the startled household help, Jean Gayarre fell back onto the remaining pillows. Emilie hastened to arrange them, then stopped when Papa motioned for her to move away.

Before she could step away from his grasp, Emilie felt her father's hand encircle her wrist to hold her captive. Despite his pallor and the exhaustion written in dark circles beneath his eyes, jean Gayarre still held some measure of his former strength.

"Indeed you resemble your mother."Brown eyes slid shut, and his grip loosened. "Tres jolie, my Sylvie was," the old man muttered as he pointed to the bedside table, then allowed his hand to fall to the coverlet as if the effort caused him the last of his strength.

"But, Papa, my mother was…" the breath died in her throat as she spied the lone portrait at his bedside. The woman smiling back at her from the bonds of the silver frame could have passed for Emilie's twin.

The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips - Chapt.1

The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips
FaithWords (November 5, 2008)

Chapter 1

ANDY MYERS DIDN’T want children. That was one of his conditions when he married my mom. No kids. Period. Case closed. You would think someone so adamant about not reproducing would have gone out and had a vasectomy, but Andy didn’t think that way. He didn’t want kids; keeping that from happening was my mother’s responsibility. When she failed, he immediately made an appointment for her at an abortion clinic in Indianapolis. He didn’t ask. He just assumed she would terminate my life before my feet ever hit the ground. She refused. He walked out. And I didn’t hear from him until I was thirteen. I think he sent money to my mother every month, at least while he was able. I’m pretty sure he did. The courts probably made him, and a cop like my dad wouldn’t risk going to jail, at least not over something as insignificant as money.

I guess that explains why I always hated my old man. Despising him was imprinted on my DNA just as surely as my dark brown hair and blue eyes. The girls always loved my blue eyes. More than one lost her moral resolve when I put those baby blues to work. I got my eyes from Andy. I think they may have been part of the hook he used on my mom. I’m not sure. My mom never talked about him that way. For that matter, she hardly talked about anything that happened before she and I moved to St. Louis from her hometown in Indiana when I was really little. I didn’t even know I had my dad’s eyes until I looked into them for the first time ten years ago. There was no mistaking the eyes, even with that thick sheet of glass between us.

I think of that hatred in a different way, now that I am on the other side of the equation, with a son of my own. And I think about Andy Myers a little different as well. You know, life is funny. If my life had gone the way it was supposed to, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now. I would be somewhere, assuming I survived as long as I have, but I wouldn’t be sitting on the beach of Lake Michigan, watching my wife and son play in the water and talking to you. When I stand back and look at my family in this place, we look like the happy ending of one of those Hallmark Hall of Fame movies my wife loves to cry through. My life shouldn’t have turned out this way, not that I’m complaining. But it strikes me as sort of hilarious to think that if my father hadn’t walked out on me, none of this would have happened. I hated him for what he did. Who would have ever thought it would have led to this?

It all goes back to when I was about the same age as my little boy. Back then my dad worked as a cop in Trask, Indiana. Believe it or not, my wife and I live there now. We moved there a few years ago, but that’s another story in itself. As for my dad, everyone in town knew him when he lived there.

That doesn’t mean they liked him, but they knew him. He grew up just outside of town, and made a name for himself as the star athlete in the local high school. In a school as small as Trask High, it doesn’t take a lot of talent to stand out from the pack. After high school, my old man got it in his head that a career in sports was in his future. He tried walking onto the Ball State football team, but didn’t make it past the first few days of practice. After Ball State, he tried a few of the local small colleges, without success. Eventually he quit college altogether and joined the navy before the army could draft him. Vietnam was still going on, so my old man figured spending a couple of years on a boat beat getting shot at in a jungle. My dad wasn’t a violent man, but he never lost that star athlete swagger he carried around the high school campus.

I’m not sure why he moved back to his hometown after the navy. I guess there are worse places to live. He met my mother soon after, but that didn’t turn out so well. Around the time the two of them got married, he joined the local police force. No one ever told me why my dad became a cop. I don’t know if a career in law enforcement was his lifelong goal, or if he just sort of fell into it. At this point, I guess it doesn’t matter. All these years later I occasionally hear stories about him, but I think that has more to do with the way his career ended than anything else. No one ever signed off from police work quite like my old man.

I came along less than two years after my parents got married. By then my mother was a single mom. My dad walked out on her when he found out she was pregnant. Now I could understand him leaving if she’d been out whoring around, but my mother wasn’t like that. No, my dad walked out because my mother made the mistake of giving birth to his child. Like I said, Andy Myers didn’t want children, and my arrival did nothing to change his mind. He was gone by the time I was born, and my mom moved the two of us to St. Louis not long after.

Like I said, when I was about the same age as my son, Andy Myers (and if it is all the same to you, I would prefer calling him by his given name. I’ve already called him “dad” more in the last few minutes than I have in my entire life) worked as a cop in our beloved metropolis of Trask. I don’t know if living alone was making him have second thoughts, but he started seeing another woman. He’d been with other women before Loraine Phillips, if you know what I mean, but those relationships were all very short- lived. Loraine was different. His time with her could actually be measured in months, not hours. The way he tells it, they weren’t so much dating as using one another to cure one another’s loneliness. That sounds like a load of bull to me, but, hey, it’s his life. He can tell himself whatever lies he wants. The two of them met in a bar, and they ended up in bed back at his apartment the same night. Again, that wasn’t exactly a remarkable event for Andy Myers. He thought of himself as six feet one inch, 205 pounds of sex appeal. And he had those killer blue eyes. Throw the whole package together, and look out. At least that’s what he says. He seems to think he was really something back in the day. But I don’t think getting Loraine into bed had as much to do with my old man’s charms as it did with her sexual appetite.

After that first encounter, he tried to play the gentleman and begin a real dating relationship with her. But the first time he went by her place to pick her up, she met him at the door wearing nothing but a twelve-pack of Bud and a seethrough gown from Frederick’s of Hollywood and started clawing at his clothes. I’m thirty-two, and it still creeps me out to think my own father told me this stuff, but he did. I guess he needed to. My story doesn’t really make sense without it.

That night pretty much set the tone for the rest of their relationship. They never went out on actual dates. For that matter, they never really had an in-depth conversation, either live or over the phone. They would go as long as two or three weeks without talking, but then she would call and ask my dad if he had time to drop by. He knew what that meant. And he never said no. At times he felt a little guilty about the whole thing, but the sex was good and Loraine never seemed to want much more than a purely physical relationship. Besides, with a body like hers, few men would have complained. Andy’s friends thought he’d fallen into every man’s fantasy: a hot woman, wild sex, and no strings attached. What could be better? He knew the answer even then, although he couldn’t admit it to himself.

Andy didn’t know Loraine had a kid until he’d been with her for several months. The boy was never around when Loraine called, and she kept any signs of him out of view when Andy came by. Her system worked pretty well until the kid walked into the kitchen one Saturday morning. Andy was sitting there, eating a bowl of cereal in his underwear, when the boy came up, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Phillips. What’s your name?” Finding a strange man sitting in his underwear in my kitchen when

I was Gabe’s age would have sent me running down the hall screaming for my mother, but the sight of Andy didn’t seem to faze Gabe. He sounded like he was running for mayor at eight years of age. I bet my old man nearly crapped his pants at the sight of him. Then the kid said, “You like Cap’n Crunch, too? It’s my favorite, but my mom hardly ever buys it. Says too much sugar is bad for me. But it sure does taste good.” Andy fumbled over his words and said, “Yeah, they’re real good,” or something like that. He always was a great conversationalist.

I don’t know which is weirder: the fact that Gabe wasn’t scared by a strange man in his kitchen, or that Andy wasn’t scared off by discovering the woman he was seeing had a kid. Neither one makes much sense to me. I guess I should be jealous of Gabriel Phillips since he was the only exception to the “no kids allowed” rule my dad ever made. I should, but I’m not. Not anymore. Andy told me there was a quirky, awkward charm about Gabe that drew people to him. He was a little guy, really small for his age, which he came by naturally—the kid’s dad wasn’t exactly Shaquille O’Neal. Once you got to know Gabe he didn’t seem so small; he almost seemed like an adult. Keep in mind, I got all of my information secondhand several years later, and time has a way of glossing over any faults and amplifying people’s good qualities. Be that as it may, Gabriel Phillips, I am told, genuinely cared about people, especially people others overlooked. People were just drawn to him. Maybe it was something supernatural. I’m not sure. But it sure cast a spell over my old man. Meeting Gabe didn’t make Andy run away. If anything, it made him more of a “boyfriend” than he’d ever been before. He started going by Loraine’s house on a more regular basis.

And not just for sex. He tried taking both mother and son out on something like dates. When Loraine feigned headaches, Andy still took Gabe. They went to ball games, or to the local hamburger stand, or wherever. Andy often said, “I’d never met another child quite like him.” And the first time he said it to me, I walked out on him. The last time they were together, Andy drove Gabe down to Cincinnati for a Reds game. Loraine was supposed to go, too, but she didn’t. I doubt if she ever said why. Maybe she didn’t want to be stuck in a car with the two of them for two hours each way. Or maybe, like me, she thought it a little strange that my dad took such an interest in the kid. Andy wasn’t trying to replace the boy’s father. Gabe already had one of those. I like to think maybe Andy saw in Gabe a little of what he could have had with me, but that’s more wishful thinking than anything else. And wishful thinking only makes things worse, not better.

About a week after the Reds game, Andy was fighting to stay awake while working the graveyard shift. The Trask police force was always woefully understaffed, then and now, which meant Andy had to pull all-nighters at least one week out of the month. On this particular night he couldn’t shake the cobwebs out of his head. It wasn’t just because of the late hour. He’d been over at Loraine’s house right before reporting for duty, and was still in the fog that sleep usually takes care of after such activity. He was so out of it that the police dispatcher didn’t get a response from him until she radioed a second time. “Trask 52-2,” the dispatcher said, “we have a 10-16 at 873 East Madison, apartment 323. That’s a report of a domestic disturbance at eight-seven-three East Madison, number three-two-three.” He switched on the car dome light and fumbled for a pen and paper to write down the apartment number. They didn’t have fancy in- car computers back then.

Andy suppressed a yawn, picked up his mic, and radioed back, “ 10-4, dispatch. Trask 52-2 is 10-8.” 10-8 means “in service.”

“10-4, 52-2 at two-oh-six. By the way, Andy, we’ve had three calls from the same location. You want me to get the sheriff’s department headed that way to back you up?” “Naaaahhhh,” Andy yawned and said. “Let me check it out first. Probably nothing. No sense dragging anyone else out at this godforsaken hour if we don’t have to.” The mic hung in his hand as he stared at the apartment address he’d written down. He cursed under his breath, then said to no one, “Good old Madison Park Apartments. What would an overnight shift be without at least one call from there?” He let out another yawn, arched his back in an attempt to stretch the fatigue out of his body, then started his patrol car. Andy and every other Trask police officer could make the drive to the Madison Park Apartments from anywhere in town in their sleep. Late- night calls came from there at least once or twice a week. The walls were so thin that when someone coughed in one apartment, the people next door shouted, “Shut the hell up.” Most of the emergencies turned out to be nothing more than blaring televisions or couples arguing a little louder than they should. Andy figured this call would be more of the same.

A handful of people milled around under the only working streetlight in the complex parking lot when Andy pulled in. A woman wearing an oversized T- shirt came running over as soon as he stepped out of his car. Immediately she started chewing on his ear. “What took you so long?! I called half an hour ago.” Andy recognized the woman everyone in town called “Crazy Cathy,” although she didn’t recognize him. At least not right off. About a month earlier he’d arrested her for public intoxication. One day around noon she’d gone for a walk down Main Street, bombed out of her mind, screaming obscenities at the lunchtime crowd going into the diner. She was notorious for that kind of stunt, which is why everyone called her Crazy Cathy, although Cathy wasn’t her real name. Even when she wasn’t drunk, she would walk around town, acting all nuts. All the kids in town thought she was hilarious, especially when she’d been drinking. They would yell things at her to try to get her riled up. She died a few years before I moved to town. The way I hear it, she wandered out into the street while drunk and was hit by a truck. That’s not much of a way to die, even for Crazy Cathy. But she was cold sober the night she got my old man out in the middle of the night. At least she appeared to be. She kept yelling at Andy, “I know no one gives a damn about what happens out here. You think we’re all just a pain in the ass.” Her call to the police couldn’t have been much more than ten minutes earlier, but time slows to a crawl when you are waiting for a cop to show up. Andy didn’t try to defend himself. He just kept walking across the parking lot, growing more coherent with each step. There’s something about the gravelly sound of a chain- smoking woman’s voice that yanks you back to reality. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s been one of those nights” was all he could say. “Like hell it has,” she yelled back. “You think your night’s been bad? You should have to listen to that kid carry on. He was screaming so loud it sounded like he was right there in my apartment with me. Sounded like something out of that damned Exorcist movie. Kid couldn’t have screamed any louder even if his head had been spinning around. Made my skin crawl. And it wasn’t the first time I heard that damn kid yelling. It gets worse every time he’s here. I called you people about him before. Called last week. But nobody did nothing.”

She didn’t stop yelling until Andy got to the stairway leading up the outside of building three. He did his best to ignore her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re going to have to stay down here,” he said to her as he reached the stairs. “Don’t get too far away because I will need a full statement from you as soon as I check everything out.”

Andy went about the business at hand. He went up the stairs of building three in search of apartment 323. Another neighbor waited for him at the top of the stairs. “Oh, Officer, I’m glad you’re here,” the woman said. To Andy, she looked like she may have been maybe twenty. As it turns out, she was a twenty- four- year- old single mother. Seems like half the population at Madison Park has always been made up of single moms. “My son came running into my room scared and crying, which is why I called,” she continued. “I started to go over and knock on the door myself, but I was a little nervous about doing it. I’ve met the guy a few times. Our boys play together when his son stays with him, but I don’t know him well enough to knock on his door in the middle of the night, especially after what my son heard.” “That’s probably wise, ma’am,” Andy said. He felt a little funny about calling someone “ma’am” who looked like she had just graduated from high school. “You said your son heard something that shook him up?”

“Yes, sir. My son, he’s eight. He came running into my room. He was shaking, he was so scared.” “I’ll check it out. You should go back to your apartment, miss. I’m sure everything is fine. There’s probably nothing here for your son to be afraid of, but if there is, I will take care of it. Which apartment are you in, just in case I need to get a statement from you?”

“I’m right next door in 325.”

With that, the woman went back into her apartment. Andy heard the dead bolt turn and the slide of the chain into the extra lock. “These people sure are jittery,” Andy said with a sigh. He’d never seen so many people get so shook up over a blaring television. Calls like this at this hour always turned out to be someone asleep in front of a blaring television stuck on the late, late show. Even before twenty-four hour cable networks, local stations broadcast late into the night, usually filling the dead air with old movies. Andy walked over to apartment 323 and listened at the door. He didn’t hear anything. No yelling. No banging. Nothing. He looked at his watch: 2:17 a.m. All the local stations would have switched from movies to test patterns by now. No wonder it was quiet. “Police department,” he called out as he knocked on the door. No response. He could see a light shining through the peephole. He knocked again, with more authority this time, and called out even louder to wake up the sleeper in front of the television, “Police. I need you to open the door, please.” As he waited for a response, he heard the muffled sound of a man’s voice on the other side.

Andy reached up to bang on the door again, when it opened. A man in his mid-thirties motioned him inside as he continued talking on the phone. “Yes. Yes,” the man said, “thank you, Father.” The man turned his back and continued talking on the phone as though no one else was in the room. Andy took a quick glance around. A brown couch with oversized cushions, along with a ratty recliner, were the only furniture in the room. Andy also noticed the living room didn’t have a television. He looked closely at the man on the phone. He was wearing a faded polo-type shirt and a pair of Levi 501’s, but no shoes or socks. He was walking around barefoot on the linoleum tile of his apartment. “Sir,” Andy said, “I need you to get off the phone.” “Amen. Thanks, Eli. Hey, I gotta go. The police are here now. Thanks for praying. Keep it up.” The man spun around to untangle himself from the extra long cord, then hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, Officer. I was just about to call. You were next on my list. He’s back here.” The man turned down the narrow hall toward the smaller of the two bedrooms. “It happened so fast,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone, “there just wasn’t any time. I ran in there as fast as I could, but by the time I got to him, it was already too late. I just had time to tell him good- bye and then he was gone.”

Andy felt like he’d walked into the middle of a conversation. The guy’s words didn’t make any sense and his demeanor just didn’t seem right. At least that’s how Andy remembered it when he told me about that night. He had trouble reading the guy, which set Andy’s nerves on edge. As a policeman, he prided himself on his ability to figure people out in an instant. I never thought he was as good at it as he did. “He’s in here,” the man said as he motioned into a small bedroom. Andy thought it odd that the man wouldn’t move past the doorway.

When Andy looked into the room, the entire floor appeared to be painted red. The room was pretty small, maybe seven feet by nine feet, and most of that was filled with furniture and toys, which made the scene look bloodier than it really was. The remains of a shattered goldfish bowl lay near the dresser, the bottom drawer of which stood open. A small boy, maybe eight years of age, was on the bottom bunk. His skin had a bluish gray tint to it. Even before he got to him, Andy knew the boy was dead. Blood soaked the pillow under the child’s head, with a smear running along the side of the mattress up from the floor. Andy’s feet slipped as he hurried across the room, his adrenaline kicking into high gear. Instinctively, he knelt down beside the child and felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. Then he laid his head on the boy’s chest and listened for sounds of breath, but didn’t hear a thing. “How long has he been out?” Andy shouted toward the boy’s father.

“Ten...maybe fifteen minutes. I...I’m not sure,” the man replied. “I don’t know how to do mouth-to-mouth, but I didn’t think it would do any good. I knew he was gone right after I got to him.” The man’s voice cracked just a little as he spoke. He swallowed hard and said, “I just knew he had already gone home.”

Andy shook his head and muttered something under his breath that questioned the man’s emotional stability. He reached under the boy’s body to lift him off the bed and start CPR. As he raised him up, the boy’s limbs hung limp and lifeless. Most of the bleeding had stopped, although a few drips fell from the back of the boy’s head. The pillow was soaked crimson and the boy’s hair and shirt were wet.

“My God,” Andy said as he looked for a place to lay the boy

on the floor. About the only time my old man ever mentioned God or Jesus was when he was really upset. Even then, they were nothing but words, not divine beings. “Holy, holy Christ,” he said as he laid the boy on the floor and squared himself around to try to revive him. He reached under the boy’s neck to raise his head up for the three quick breaths he had only performed on Resusci Anne, the CPR dummy, up until that day.

Only then did Andy take a close look at the boy. He looked him right in the face and it hit him. “Wait a minute. No...Gabe?” he said. Suddenly adrenaline gave way to nausea. A lump of bile hit him in the back of the throat as Andy fought to keep his composure. “Gabe?” he repeated. “You knew my son?” Gabe’s father asked. “How?” Andy kept staring into the boy’s face. “I’m a friend of his mother,” he replied but didn’t elaborate. “How did...” Andy cleared his throat and tried to speak again. I guess in all the excitement he forgot about trying CPR, not that it would have done any good. The kid’s lips had already turned blue and his body was slightly cool to the touch. “How did this happen?”

“I—I...I’m not exactly sure,” the boy’s father replied. “It all happened so fast. My boy had night terrors, and he would wake up screaming all the time. I guess you sort of get used to things like that after a while. They got even worse after his mother and I split up a while ago. I heard him screaming, but I thought I was the one having the bad dream. I woke up just in time to hear him fall. I ran in here, but I couldn’t do anything. I tried. Really, I tried, but I could feel his life slipping out of him, felt his spirit leaving. All I could do was kiss him good- bye and promise I would see him soon. Then he went home.” The boy’s father paused, then said, “Do you know what my son’s name means, Officer?” That last question really got to my pop. He didn’t know what the meaning of a kid’s name had to do with anything, especially with the man’s kid lying dead on a cold, bloody linoleum floor. My old man also found the dad’s lack of emotion rather odd. This was far from the first time Andy had dealt with a family member after a death, but this was the first time he’d seen a parent show so few signs of grief. A couple of years earlier he’d had to break the news to a couple closing in on retirement age that their thirty-seven-year-old son had died in a car crash. A doctor had to come to the house to sedate them both. But this guy was calmer than a televangelist during a tax audit. Maybe he was in shock. Everyone responds to death in different ways, that’s what I think. My old man, he wasn’t so sure.

“God is my strength,” the father went on. “Gabriel means ‘God is my strength.’ His mother wanted to name him Keith, after Keith Moon, the drummer from the Who. She’s a big fan of the Who. The name just didn’t seem to fit. I took one look at him and knew I had to name him Gabriel. It took me a few years, but I finally figured out why. God had talked to me through my son, Officer. Didn’t know it at the time. God was telling me to make Him my strength. Right now I don’t know what I would do if I hadn’t listened.” Andy made a mental note of how the father seemed to keep his distance from the boy. He never moved from the doorway as he spoke, while Andy stayed on his knees next to the body, his pants legs soaking up the liquid on the floor.

As Andy looked down, Gabe seemed much younger to him than eight— younger and smaller. The boy’s mother had once said something about how the other kids picked on him because of his size. Now he seemed smaller still. Andy knew the boy was dead, but he felt a strong urge to reach out and protect him. He grabbed his radio with his left hand, the hand that was covered with blood from the back of the boy’s neck. “Trask dispatch, 52-2. I have a 10-100. Request you get the coroner and Harris County started out here right away.” 10-100 means a “dead body.”

“ 10-4, 52-2,” the radio crackled back. “Are you sure you want to make the call on the body, Andy? I can have a paramedic and ambulance to you in no time.”

Andy paused for a moment. I don’t know what he hoped to accomplish, but he told the dispatcher, “Okay. Do that. I guess it couldn’t hurt.” Maybe he wanted the kid to still have a chance. More than likely, he just didn’t want to be haunted by the “ what-if” questions that follow emergency responders even when they do everything they possibly can. “What-ifs” are about as useful as wishful thinking, but they can sure be hard to shake in the middle of the night. Andy reached over and lightly stroked the boy’s head with his right hand, then stood to his feet. I think it was his way of telling Gabe goodbye. Once the paramedics and sheriff’s deputies showed up, he wouldn’t have another moment alone with the boy. Well, almost alone. The dad was still standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Did you know my son long, Officer?” the father asked.

“No, not too long,” Andy replied as he let out a long sigh. Turning from the boy, he scanned the bedroom. Toys were scattered across the floor, along with a variety of clothes.

Typical kid’s room. The sheets and blankets of both bunk beds were strewn about, which seemed odd if Gabe slept in the room by himself. “Did you stay in this room with your son, sir?”

“No, he’s a big boy. He’s able to sleep in his room all by himself,” the dad smiled and said.

If my old man wasn’t already about to pop, that smile put him over the edge. He couldn’t figure out how any father worth a dime could carry on a normal conversation right after his son died in his arms. “Which bed was your son sleeping in?” Andy asked. He also wondered why such a small room had bunk beds if Gabe was the only child in the house.

“I tucked him into the bottom bunk, but I guess he climbed up on top sometime during the night. You know how kids are.” That’s just it. Andy didn’t know how kids were, but he nodded his head as if he did and kept studying the father. About that time he heard the dispatcher notifying the local ambulance service, which back then was run by the volunteer fire department.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name,” Andy said.

“John, John Phillips. And you?” he replied with a smile as he stuck out his hand. Andy refused it, using the blood on his hand as a convenient excuse. Funny. I’ve never known anyone who shakes with his left hand. “

“Officer Andrew Myers,” he replied.

“Are you the same Andy Myers who took my boy to a ball game a few weeks ago?” Andy nodded. “Oh, I have to tell you, my son never stopped talking about that game. He had the time of his life. Thank you for taking him.”

Andy didn’t reply. The ball game felt like a lifetime ago. I guess in a way it was, because nothing was ever the same after my dad walked into that apartment. Nothing.

White Christmas Pie - Chapter 1

White Christmas Pie
Barbour Publishing, Inc (September 1, 2008)

Chapter 1
Three-Year-Old Girl Abandoned in Small Town Park. A lump formed in Will Henderson’s throat as he stared at the headline in the morning newspaper. Not another abandoned child!

The little girl had been left alone on a picnic table in a small Michigan town. She had no identification and couldn’t tell the officials anything more than her first name and the fact that her mommy and daddy were gone. While the police searched for the girl’s parents, she would be put in a foster home.

Will’s fingers gripped the newspaper. How could anyone abandon his own child? Didn’t the little girl’s parents love her? Didn’t they care how their abandonment would affect the child? Didn’t they care about anyone but themselves?

Will dropped the paper on the kitchen table and let his head fall forward into his hands as a rush of memories pulled him back in time. Back to when he was six years old. Back to a day he wished he could forget...

Will released a noisy yawn and rolled over. Seeing Pop’s side of the bed was empty, he pushed the heavy quilt aside, scrambled out of bed, and raced over to the
window. When he lifted the dark green shade and peeked through the frosty glass, his breath caught in his throat. The ground and trees in the Stoltzfuses’ backyard were
covered in white!

“Pop was right; we’ve got ourselves some snow!” Will darted across the room, slipped out of his nightshirt, and hurried to get dressed. He figured Pop must be outside helping Mark Stoltzfus do his chores.

When Will stepped out of the bedroom, his nose twitched, and his stomach rumbled. The tangy smell coming from the kitchen let him know that the Amish woman named Regina was probably making breakfast.

“It didn’t snow on Christmas like Pop said it would, but it’s sure snowin’ now!” Will shouted as he raced into the kitchen.

Regina Stoltzfus turned from the stove and smiled at Will, her dark eyes gleaming in the light of the gas lantern hanging above the table. “ Jah, it sure is. It would have been nice if we’d had a white Christmas, but the Lord decided to give us some fluffy white stuff today, instead.”

Will wiggled his bare feet on the cold linoleum floor, hardly able to contain himself. “I can’t wait to play in the snow with Pop. Maybe we can build a snowman.” He rushed to the back door, stood on his toes, and peered out the small window. “Is Pop helpin’ Mark milk the cows?”

Regina came to stand beside Will. “Your dad’s not helping Mark do his chores this morning,” she said, placing one hand on his shoulder.

Will looked up at her and squinted. “He’s not?”

She shook her head.

“How come?”

“Didn’t you find the note he wrote you?”

“Nope, sure didn’t. Why’d Pop write me a note?”

Regina motioned to the table. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?” When she pulled out a chair, he plunked right down.

“After you went to bed last night, your dad had a talk with me and Mark,” she said, taking the seat beside him.

“What’d ya talk about? Did Pop tell ya thanks for lettin’ us stay here and for fixin’ us Christmas dinner yesterday?”

“He did say thanks for those things, but he said something else, too.”

“What’d he say?”

Regina’s eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle. Her face looked kind of sad. “Your dad said he would leave a note for me to read you, Will. Are you sure there wasn’t a note on your pillow or someplace else in your room?”

“I didn’t see no note. Why would Pop leave a note for me?”

Regina touched his arm. “Your dad left early this morning, Will.”

“Left? Where’d he go?”

“To make his delivery, and then he—”

Will’s eyebrows shot up. “Pop left without me?”

She nodded. “He asked if we’d look after you while he’s trying to find a different job.”

Will shook his head vigorously. “Pop wouldn’t leave without me. I know he wouldn’t.”

“He did, Will. That’s why he planned to leave you a note—so you would understand why.”

Will jumped out of his chair, raced up the stairs, and dashed into the bedroom he and Pop had shared since they’d come to stay with Mark and Regina Stoltzfus a few
days ago. There was no note on the pillow. No note on the dresser or nightstand, either. Will ran over to the closet and threw open the door. Pop’s suitcase was gone!

Will’s knee bumped against the table, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

He lifted his head and glanced down at Sandy, his honeycolored cocker spaniel, who stared up at him with soulful brown eyes. “Did you bump my leg, girl?”

Sandy whimpered in response.

Ever since Will had been a boy, he’d wanted a dog of his own, but Pop had said a dog wasn’t a good idea for people who lived in a semitruck as they traveled down the road. Papa Mark had seen the need for a dog, though. A few weeks after Will had come to live with Mark and Regina, he’d been given a cocker spaniel puppy. He had named the dog Penny because she was the color of a copper penny. Penny had been a good dog, but she’d died two years ago. Will had gotten another cocker spaniel he’d named Sandy. He’d bred the dog with his friend Harley’s male cocker, Rusty. Sandy was due to have her pups in a few weeks.

Sandy nudged Will’s leg again, and he reached down to pat her silky head. “Do you need to go out, girl, or are you just getting anxious for your hundlin to be born?”

Sandy licked his hand then flopped onto the floor with a grunt. Maybe she only wanted to keep him company. Maybe she felt his pain.

The lump in Will’s throat tightened as he fought to keep his emotions under control. A grown man shouldn’t cry over something that happened almost sixteen years ago. He’d shed plenty of tears after Pop had gone, and it had taken him a long time to come to grips with the idea that Pop wasn’t coming back to get him. Tears wouldn’t change the fact that Will had been abandoned just like the little girl in the newspaper. He wished there was a way he could forget the past—take an eraser and wipe it out of his mind. But the memories lingered no matter how hard he tried to blot them out.

Will’s gaze came to rest on the propane-operated stove where Mama Regina did her cooking. At least he had some pleasant memories to think about. Fifteen years ago, he had moved with Papa Mark and Mama Regina from their home in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, to LaGrange County, Indiana, where they now ran a dairy farm and health food store. On the day of that move, Will had made a decision: He was no longer English. He was happy being Amish, happy being Mama Regina and Papa Mark’s only son.

Now, as a fully grown Amish man, he was in love with Karen Yoder and looked forward to spending the rest of his life with her. They would be getting married in a few months—two weeks before Christmas. Will didn’t need the reminder that he had an English father he hadn’t seen in almost sixteen years. As far as he was concerned, Papa Mark and Mama Regina were his parents, and they would be the ones who would witness his and Karen’s wedding ceremony. Pop was gone from his life, just like Will’s real mother, who had died almost a year before Pop had left. Will’s Amish parents cared about him and had since the first day he’d come to live with them. They’d even invited Will and Karen to live in their house after they were married.

As Will’s thoughts continued to bounce around, he became tenser. Despite his resolve to forget the past, he could still see Pop’s bright smile and hear the optimism in his voice as he tried to convince Will that things would work out for them after Mom
had been hit by a car. Pop had made good on his promise, all right. He’d found Will a home with Regina and Mark Stoltzfus. In all the years Pop had been gone, Will hadn’t seen or heard a word from him. It was as though Pop had vanished from the face of the earth.

A sense of bitterness enveloped Will’s soul as he reflected on the years he’d wasted, waiting, hoping for his father’s return. Is Pop still alive? If so, where is he now, and why hasn’t he ever contacted me? If Pop stood before me right now, what would I say? Would I thank him for leaving me with a childless Amish couple
who have treated me as if I were their own flesh and blood? Or would I yell at Pop and tell him I’m no longer his son and want nothing to do with him?

Will turned back to the newspaper article about the little girl who’d been abandoned. “It’s not right,” he mumbled when he got to the end of the story. “It’s just not right.”

“What’s not right?”

Will looked up at Mama Regina, who stood by the table with a strange expression. He pointed to the newspaper and shook his head. “This isn’t right. It’s not right at all!”

She took a seat beside him and picked up the paper. As she read the article, her lips compressed into a thin line, causing tiny wrinkles to form around her mouth. “It’s always a sad thing when a child is abandoned,” she murmured.

Will nodded. “I was doing fine until I read that story. I was content, ready to marry Karen, and thought I had put my past to rest. The newspaper article made me think—made me remember things from my past that I’d rather forget.” He groaned. “I don’t want to remember the past. It’s the future that counts—the future with Karen as my wife.”

Mama Regina leaned closer to Will and rested her hand on his arm. “The plans you’ve made for the future are important, but as I’ve told you many times before, you don’t want to forget your past.”

“What would you have me remember—the fact that my real mamm died when I was only five, leaving Pop alone to raise me? Or am I supposed to remember how it felt when I woke up nearly sixteen years ago on the day after Christmas and discovered that Pop had left me at your house and never said good-bye?” As the words rolled off Will’s tongue, he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone or the tears from pooling in his eyes.

“I don’t know the reason your daed didn’t leave you a note when he left that day, and I don’t know why he never came back to get you.” Tears shimmered in Mama Regina’s eyes as she pushed a wisp of dark hair under the side of her white
cone-shaped head covering. “There is one thing I do know, however.”

“What’s that?”

“Every day of the sixteen years you’ve lived with us, I have thanked God that your daed read one of the letters I had written to your mamm when she was still alive. I’m also thankful that your daed brought you to us during his time of need and that
Mark and I were given the chance to raise you as if you were our own son.” She smiled as she patted Will’s arm in her motherly way. “We’ve had some wonderful times since you came to live with us. I hope you have many pleasant memories of your growing-up years.”

“Jah, of course I do.”

Mama Regina glanced down at Sandy and smiled. “Think of all the fun times you had, first with Penny and now with Sandy.”

Will nodded.

“And think about the time your daed built you a tree house and how the two of you used to sit up there and visit while you munched on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sipped fresh milk from our dairy cows.”

Will clasped her hand. “You and Papa Mark have been good parents to me, and I want you to know that I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“We know you do, and we’ve been glad to do it.”

“Even so, it was Pop’s responsibility to raise me. The least he could have done was to send you some money to help with my expenses.”

Mama Regina shook her head. “We’ve never cared about that. All we’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

“I know.” Will slid his chair away from the table and stood.“I think I’ll get my horse and buggy ready and take a ride over to see Karen. Unless you’re going to need my help in the store, that is.”

Mama Regina shook her head. “An order of vitamins was delivered yesterday afternoon, so it needs to be put on the shelves. But Mary Jane Lambright’s working today, and she can help with that.”

“Guess I’d better check with Papa Mark and see if he needs me for anything before I take off.”

“I think he plans to build some bins for storing bulk food items in my store, but he’ll be fine on his own with that.” Mama Regina smiled. “You go ahead and see Karen. Maybe spending a little time with your bride-to-be will brighten your spirits.”

“Jah, that’s what I’m hoping.”

“Don’t forget your zipple cap,” she called as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“I won’t.” Will smiled as he pulled the cap from the wall peg. He was glad he and Mama Regina had talked—it had made him feel a little better about things. He figured he would feel even better after he spent some time with Karen.

One Holy Night - Prologue & Chapter 1

One Holy Night
Sheaf House (April 1, 2008)

Prologue

November 19, 1966

Mike McRae dropped his battered duffle bag on the concrete floor and glanced through the bank of windows to where the wide-bodied army transport sat waiting on the snow-dusted tarmac. Waiting to take him and his buddies halfway around the world to war.

Viet Nam.

The name hung between him and his family as they gathered in the spare, unadorned military terminal, trying to pretend that this trip was nothing out of the ordinary. But it seemed to Mike almost as if he were gone already, that he had moved beyond the point where he could reach out to touch them. Their faces, loved and familiar, blurred before his eyes as though he looked at them through a mist.

His father cleared his throat before shoving a dog-eared, plain, tan paperback book into Mike’s hands. “Thought you might be able to use this sometime,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You and Julie used to like to sing some of these old songs when you were kids. Remember?”

Mike looked down at the book he held. It was his father’s old service hymnbook that he’d gotten as a young Marine at Sunday worship aboard a ship headed out to the South Pacific during World War II. Frank McRae wasn’t much of one to attend church, and the gift surprised Mike. Maybe spiritual things meant more to his father than he had thought.

It evidently surprised his mother too. “Oh, Frank, I didn’t think you paid any attention. Julie taught you those songs when you were just a toddler,” she added, lightly touching Mike’s shoulder. “The two of you sounded like little angels” She stopped, her voice choking.

Mike could feel the heat rising to his face. To cover his embarrassment, he flipped open the worn cover and stared down at the inscription on the title page. No date, just the owner’s name: Frank McRae.

It was Mike’s turn to clear his throat. There was suddenly a lump in it despite his skepticism about anything that had to do with faith or religion.
“Well . . . cool. Thanks.”

Blinking back an unexpected prickle of tears, he glanced over at his mother, Maggie, who was thin and wan from surgery and chemotherapy for ovarian cancer. His sister, Julie, hovered near her, still in her white nurse’s uniform after coming straight to the airport from the hospital where she worked. Behind her stood her husband, Dan, holding their daughter, Amy.

“I know you’ve got a lot to carry already, but”

Mike waved his father’s words away. “It isn’t heavy, Dad, and who knows. You lugged it through all those battlefields, and you made it home. Maybe it’ll bring me good luck too.”
On impulse, he pulled a pen out of the breast pocket of his fatigues, clicked it open and added his name below his father’s, added the date too. Squatting down, he zipped open his bag and squeezed the hymnal in among his clothing.

When he straightened, his mother stepped forward to give him a fierce hug. “When you get there let us know you’re okay and what unit you’re assigned to. Write as often as you can.”

“I will, Mom.” He struggled to keep his voice from choking up. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“You get well, okay?” he whispered in her ear.

“I will. I’m going to beat this cancer, God willing.”

Inwardly Mike sighed, though for her sake he managed not to grimace. He and his mom had always been close, but he got awfully tired of all this God talk. On the other hand, if there really was a benign force somewhere out there in the universe, he supposed prayers couldn’t hurt.

Julie crowded in to put her arms around him as well. “I’m sure going to miss you, little brother.” She was crying openly, not making any attempt to brush away her tears.

“Aw, you’re going to be too busy with this little princess to think about me,” Mike returned awkwardly, reaching over to tickle three-year-old Amy under the chin.

She leaned out from her father’s arms, reaching for him. Dan surrendered the child, and she wound her arms around Mike’s neck, nestled her golden head against his shoulder, giggling, as he tugged on her braid.

Mike was relieved to see that Amy, at least, seemed not to comprehend the dangers he was heading toward or the length of the separation that lay before them. He turned to clasp Dan’s hand in a handshake he hoped would say everything he couldn’t.

Dan pushed his hand away and embraced him without speaking, pounding him on the back at the same time. Only Frank held back, frowning, as he stared through the windows at the plane.

Outside Mike could hear the engines revving up, signaling that it was time to board. The last of his buddies were heading outside. Hastily handing Amy back to Dan, Mike kissed his sister and mother, shook his father’s hand, then zipped up his parka and grabbed his duffle bag.

“Thirteen months,” he said, forcing a grin. “See you all back here next Christmas.”

“Don’t forget to tell Terry hello from all of us. Remind him Angie and the kids want him to stay safe and to hurry home. Give him a kiss from Angie,” Julie added with a wicked grin.

“Yeah, right!” Mike chuckled in spite of himself, then hefted his bag. “It sure will be good to see a friendly face when I get there. With luck, I’ll end up in Terry’s platoon.”

“It’ll be more than luck,” his mother said. “I’m going to pray about it. And we’ll be praying every minute until you’re home safe with us again.”

Mike gave her a crooked smile, then with a quick wave to all of them, turned and strode out the door and across the tarmac. By sheer willpower he kept his stride steady, refusing to let himself turn to look back at them. He knew that if he did, he’d never make it to the plane.

Every step of the way he could sense their eyes following him, and their love. When he reached the stairs, he ran up them, not letting himself think about what he was leaving behind or what lay before him.

Hurriedly he moved through the open door into the plane’s dim interior, feeling, like the severing of an embrace, the moment when he disappeared from their sight.



Chapter 1

“Mom?” Closing the front door behind her, Julie Christensen stamped the snow from her boots onto the welcome mat in the foyer. “Hello—it’s me!”

“Come on in, honey,” her mother called from the kitchen. “I’m just putting a hotdish in the oven. I’ll be right out. Are the streets still bad?”

Jiggling awkwardly from one foot to the other, Julie pulled her boots off one at a time with her free hand and dropped them onto the mat to drain. “The plows have cleared all the main streets now, but they’re still icy in places. I barely got through to the hospital this morning, though. That was quite a blizzard.”

She could hear the oven door open and close. “Your father got to the office late,” her mother responded. “He called to say there were a lot of fender-benders.”

Julie went into the living room on white-stockinged feet. “I brought in the mail. There’s a letter from Mike.”

Maggie pushed through the swinging kitchen door, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Well, it’s about time. It’s been three weeks since the last one came, and he had hardly anything to say then.”

When Julie held out the letter, her mother dropped the dishtowel on the arm of the easy chair and reached eagerly for it. She frowned as she studied the handwriting on the outside.

“He’s still okay.”

Noting the tightness in her voice, Julie reassured her hastily, “Of course he’s okay. We’d hear right away if he wasn’t.”

Maggie looked up. “He’s only written three times in the past three months.”

Julie dropped the rest of the mail onto the coffee table. “Don’t forget the letter he sent Dan and me last month.”

“All right, four then.”

“They’ve been involved in several operations.”

“That’s about all he’s told us.” Maggie sighed. “I want to know how he’s doing—really. What it’s like over there. How his health is.”

“Mom, he’s a guy. Guys don’t talk much about stuff like that.”

Maggie gave a short laugh. “I know. Your father’s the same way. How was work today? Is Diane Henderson doing any better?”

Julie hesitated. Diane had been fighting breast cancer for more than a year, and Julie was tempted to gloss over their friend’s condition. But when her own mother had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer the previous fall, Julie had promised she would always tell her the truth and not conceal anything, no matter how unpleasant it was.

She shook her head. “Not good. I’m afraid she isn’t going to make it through the night. Steve and the girls are with her, and their parents are on the way. I said goodbye to her before my shift ended, but I don’t know if she could hear me.”

Her movements unsteady, Maggie went to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and prodded the sizzling logs, releasing a shower of sparks that swirled upward and out of sight. Squatting down, she laid another log on the fire, jerking back from the heat as the flames licked at the dry bark. The wood began to hiss and pop, the sound loud in the quiet room.

When she finally stood up and turned around again, Julie could read nothing in her face. As usual since she had lost her abundant chestnut curls to chemotherapy, her mother had tied a bright scarf around her head. The loss of her hair bothered her more than the terrible bouts of nausea she suffered during treatment, Julie thought. Even now that an inch-long, silky growth of new hair covered her scalp, she still kept her head covered even at home.

Pulling off gloves and muffler and unzipping the parka she wore over her starched, white nurse’s uniform, Julie threw them onto the sofa, then went to give her mother a quick hug. “How’ve you been today? Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look tired. You haven’t been overdoing it, have you? Are you sleeping okay?”

At the barrage of questions, Maggie raised her hands. “Now who’s the mother here? I’m supposed to be asking you that. You’ve got a three-year-old at home, a husband who’s a pastor, and you work all day on a cancer ward. With that much stress, it’s a wonder you’re not sick”

“Mom, you’re always doing that.” At her questioning look, Julie burst out, “You always change the subject if it’s about you! You always think you have to take care of other people, and you act as if you aren’t important at all!”

Maggie raised her eyebrows, but before she could protest, they heard a car pull into the driveway. At the same instant the mantel clock tolled four o’clock. Julie went over to the window.

“It’s Dad. What’s he doing home so early?”

“I hope there’s nothing wrong. He hardly ever makes it home before six-thirty.”

The engineering firm owned by Frank McRae and his high school buddy, Larry Bringeland, had landed a major contract with the State of Minnesota that had been taking most of his attention for the past eight months. He usually worked late on the job site or at his office in Minneapolis, thirty miles southeast of their home in the small bedroom community of Shepherdsville.

He’s more worried about Mom’s appointment tomorrow than he’ll admit.

Julie bit her lip to keep from blurting out what she was thinking. Her mother was already nervous enough about the appointment at university hospital the next morning, where she was scheduled to receive the results of tests to determine whether she was finally cancer-free. She didn’t need any more anxiety.

After a moment Julie heard her father come into the kitchen, banging the back door behind him. When he appeared in the doorway, he first glanced at Maggie, then apparently reassured, grinned at Julie.

“Thought I’d find you here. You girls have a good day?”

Maggie went to give him a kiss and help him to slip out of his overcoat. “You’re home awfully early. We ought to celebrate.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like we’re on the same wavelength. We finished our last meeting early, so I decided to take you out to dinner.”

“But I just put your favorite hotdish into the oven.”

“Stick it in the fridge. It’ll keep till tomorrow.”

Seeing the look he gave her mother before he crossed the room to warm himself in front of the fire, Julie smiled. After almost twenty-five years of marriage, they still acted like young lovers.

“We’re not going anywhere until we read Mike’s letter,” Maggie insisted. She handed Julie the letter and sat down on the sofa. “Why don’t you read it so we can all hear it together.”

Eagerly Julie tore open the thin air-mail envelope. Pulling out several creased, humidity-stained sheets of paper, she unfolded them and stared down at the pages thickly scribbled with Mike’s free-flowing handwriting.


February 19, 1967
Nha Trang, South Viet Nam

Dear Mom and Dad,

When you arrive in the Nam, the first thing you notice is the intense heat, followed by the stench of sweat and fuel and refuse that permeates everything. Next is the sound—a vibration that raises the hair on the back of your neck—the roar of helicopters and jet fighters taking off and landing, and the occasional whump of artillery fire. Gritty red dirt coats everything, from your boots and fatigues to your food. You chew it with every bite you eat, breathe it in with every lungful of air.

It’s a strange feelingas if you’ve dropped into an alternate reality, a parallel universe that revolves along its own separate course on a totally different plane from life in the real world. Ten months, and I’ll be home. That thought is the only thing that makes life here bearable.

Sorry I haven’t had much to tell you up till now. It’s taken a while to get oriented and figure out what what’s going on. I have some great news to share, though! I got that transfer to the medic unit I asked for. Instead of running sweeps through the jungle and setting up ambushes, my job will be to accompany the medics during our operations, get them in to the wounded, then get them and the casualties back out to safety.


“Thank God!” Maggie said, relief flooding through her. “At least he’ll be a little bit safer with the medics.”

She saw Frank open his mouth as if he were going to say something, but he abruptly closed it again without speaking. Tilting her head, Maggie gave him a questioning look.

“I still can’t get over Mike’s joining the army instead of taking a student deferment,” Julie broke in. “I never thought my little brother was cut out to be a soldier.”

Wondering at Julie’s quick change of subject, Maggie said thoughtfully, “Mike has taken his share of detours, but he’s always been a good boy at heart.”

“He’s too easily influenced by the wrong crowd,” Frank said, frowning.

Maggie gave him a reproachful look. “Oh, Frank, he’s just idealistic. All the kids are nowadays—you know that. They think political action will solve the world’s evils. And Mike has always acted as if he could change the world on his own.”

When Frank only shrugged in response, she motioned to Julie to continue, irritated at his stubbornness.


I’ll never get used to killing another human being, but at least now I’ll be helping to save lives. I know you faced the same thing in the South Pacific, Dad, and I keep wondering how you got through it. But at least back then you knew who the enemy was. Here in the Nam you never really know for sure who’s a friend and who’s an enemy. You can’t afford to trust anybody outside the guys in your platoon, otherwise you could end up dead real quick.


Frank’s gut clenched. Leaving the fireplace to move restlessly around the room, he passed his hand over his face, wishing he could as easily wipe away the stark images that haunted his thoughts at unguarded moments.

“All those years I spent chasing Japs through the jungles of the South Pacific, thinking we were going to fix it so no son of mine would ever have to go through what my buddies and I did. Or die like Bobby did.” He gritted his teeth. “And now Mike’s a grunt in Viet Nam, and those people over there are no different from those lousy, stinking—”

His gaze met Maggie’s, and the pain that shadowed her face silenced him.

“You know I don’t like hearing you talk like that,” she said, her voice muffled.

He rarely brought up his wartime experiences. He knew how his hatred for the enemy he had faced during World War II shocked his wife and daughter whenever it boiled briefly to the surface, like now. The truth was, at times the violence of his anger shocked him as well.

Maybe that was the problem, he thought now. If he was ever going to lay the demons of the past to rest, he had to confront them.

But even after all those years, the emotions were so raw that just the thought of intentionally unleashing them made him feel sick to his stomach, as if he teetered on a precipice. Plunging over the edge would surely destroy him. And so as always before he pushed the jumbled feelings and images down deep, out of sight and feeling.

Cocking his head, he winked at Maggie. “Honey, the last thing I want to do is to make you unhappy.”

He kept his tone light, but he meant what he said. Since he had first known that he was going to marry Maggie Clayton, he had worn his love for her on his sleeve. Her recent illness and the possibility that he might lose her had only intensified his feelings.

His breath shortened at the thought that Maggie might lose her cruel struggle, but he resolutely pushed that fear away as well. It was a month since she had completed her second course of chemotherapy, following surgery the previous September. Her oncologist had assured them she had an excellent prognosis with this new drug, and Frank refused to entertain any doubts about her recovery.

“Go ahead and read the rest of the letter, Julie,” he prompted gruffly.


I’m getting along okay. I have to admit I miss Terry already. Seems like he’s been gone a couple of weeks instead of only a couple of days. It’s going to take some time to get used to the new platoon and especially to my new squad leader. He’s okay, but he hasn't been with the platoon much longer than me. After two tours of duty, Terry knew his way around. He looked out for me, showed me the ropes and how to survive in the jungle. I hate to admit that base camp feels pretty empty without him, but when you see him, don’t tell him I said so! Don’t want him to get a swelled head.

One thing that’s helped is that I’ve grown kind of attached to a little orphan kid who works off and on at the base as a translator. Well, she’s not a kid, I guess. Her name is Thi Nhuong, and she’s seventeen, but she’s so small and delicate, kind of cute, with eyes that are always smiling. Everyone else calls her Merry, but I always call her by her real name. I know she likes that.

Anyway, she’s great fun to be with. She lost her whole family in the war when she was only nine years old, and she was raised if you can call it thatby a cousin. She was on her own by the time she was thirteen, and from what she’s told me, she had it pretty rough. But in spite of all she’s been through, she seems so joyful at heart.


“I sure hope Mike doesn’t get it into his head that he’s in love with that girl!” Julie’s father exploded. “I’m not going to stand for my son getting mixed up with some . . . some gook! She’s probably a prostitute—”

Before Julie could blurt out an angry remark, her mother cut him off with quiet vehemence. “How can you say such a thing? You don’t know this girl. If Mike cares for her, I’m sure she’s exactly what he says she is.”

“You’ll notice he’s giving us very few details.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to tell. World War II has been over for twenty-two years, Frank, and the Japanese are our allies now. It’s time you let go of your anger. Besides, the Vietnamese are a completely different people.”

“All those slanty-eyed people are alike—sneaky and cruel. Look, the war was barely over before the Chinese went Commie. Then so did Korea, and we ended up in a war with them.”

“North Korea,” Julie interjected.

He ignored her. “Now we’ve gotten dragged into this war with Viet Nam—”

“North Viet Nam. And Congress has never officially declared war.”

He rounded on Julie. “Then what are we doing over there, blowing up the place and getting our men slaughtered? Most of the South Vietnamese support Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Cong, and those who don’t are in it for all of the money and power they can get from us. We’re playing right into their hands.

“Mike was right the first time, and he needs to take his own advice. You can’t trust any of those people everperiod! They’ll knife you in the back as soon as look at you.”

“Dad—!”

“Please, the two of you!” Maggie cried. “Enough! You’re not going to settle this, so leave it alone.”

Julie bit back her angry reply and stared at her father. From her grandparents she had learned that he had idolized his older brother, Bobby, who had died in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp after enduring the brutalities of the Bataan death march. Now she wondered how much he knew about the horrific experiences his only sibling must have been subjected to. He’d never opened up about the subject, a sure indication that it must be unbearably painful to him.

“You’ve never shown the least prejudice against Terry and his family—or any of the black engineers you employ,” she pointed out, keeping her voice neutral. “Why do you hate the Japanese so much?”

Frank folded his arms across his chest. “Black people have fought and died to preserve our freedoms in every war we’ve ever been involved in. Jordan Williams served honorably as a pilot over Europe during World War II, and Terry’s served two tours of duty in Viet Nam. They’re decent, honest men.

“The Japs—excuse me, the Japanese,” he amended sarcastically, “are different. They have nothing in common with us. You didn’t see what I saw during the war, but if you had, you’d find it pretty hard to forgive too.”

“You’re right—we didn’t experience what you did. But Mom’s right too. At some point you have to forgive or your bitterness will eat you alive.”

He turned his back and moved to the window to stare outside, his hands clenched in his pockets. Julie glanced from his rigid form to her parents’ wedding picture on the mantle. In spite of the white strands that now lightly streaked the hair at his temples, he was almost as youthful in appearance as he had been when the photograph was taken, following a spur-of-the-moment ceremony in San Francisco just before he shipped out for the South Pacific a few months after Pearl Harbor.

He had been all of nineteen, a year younger than Mike was now, wearing the neatly pressed uniform of the Marines. Under his rakishly canted hat, his curly red-gold hair gleamed in the muted, sepia tints of the yellowing photograph as he smiled proudly down at his new wife, his clear blue eyes sparkling, dimples deepening at each side of his mouth.

At forty-five he was still as handsome, though he carried a few more pounds than the lean youth in the picture. Julie had been completely in love with him from the age of not-quite-three, when he had stepped off the airplane that had brought her back the flesh-and-blood daddy she had never met to replace the photos that couldn’t quite satisfy the longings of her young heart for a father of her own.

It was the one memory from her early childhood that stood out with vivid clarity, and one she would always cherish. No matter how much she disagreed with her father on some issues, no matter how annoyed she became with some of his attitudes, she knew she would always adore him.

Her gaze shifted to the picture on the opposite end of the mantel, next to the one of her taken in white cap and uniform after her graduation from the University of Minnesota Nursing School. It showed another young man, this one in army uniform but with the same disarming grin, blue eyes, and dimples as the one in the wedding picture. The only difference was that Mike had inherited their mother’s rich chestnut curls, closely cropped in this picture. It had been taken after her brother finished basic training and just a few days before he left for Viet Nam.

“Let’s hear the rest of Mike’s letter,” her mother said, her voice ragged.

Guilt stabbed through Julie. Dad and I have to stop this. These arguments are taking too much out of Mom. She needs to focus every ounce of energy she has on getting well.

She frowned down at the pages in her hand.


I hope both of you are getting along okay. Mom, I have my fingers crossed that the chemotherapy is doing the job and that you’re not having any more bad side effects from it. What’s the latest report from the doctor? Good news, I hope! I’ll keep thinking positive thoughts on your behalf.

Dad, I know how tough this must be for you, but remember to take care of yourself too. You know how much Mom depends on you. We’ve always leaned on each other, and we’ll stick together through this till Mom’s well again.

Gotta go. Gonzales is bugging me about the lamp keeping him awake, and I need to get some sleep too. Tell Jules to give that niece of mine a big smooch and tell her I’ll bring her a pretty silk dress from the Nam when I get back to the world (in time for Christmas, I hope!). And Dad, punch that big lug Dan for me just for general principles and to keep him in line. Tell him he’d better take good care of my best sister and my little Amy until I get there.

Don’t forget to say hey to Terry from me. I bet he’ll be home before you get this letter. And give Angie, Terrance, and Shawna hugs and kisses from me, too.

As they say, keep those cards and letters coming! Seriously—your letters make me feel like I still have some connection to the world. I’ll write again as soon as I can.

Love you all,

Mike


Julie folded the letter and put it back into the envelope, fighting back the aching sense of loss that overwhelmed her every time she thought about her little brother in an environment so alien and so far from home and family. Suddenly she felt too weary to deal with any more emotion.

“I’d better go. Dan promised to have dinner ready by the time I got home, and he and Amy will be wondering where I am.”

“Have you heard whether the weather’s cleared in Juneau enough for Terry’s plane to take off?” Maggie asked. “After that long flight, he must be crazy to finally get home.”

Julie laid the letter on the coffee table with the rest of the mail. “I’m hoping Angie got some news today. If Dan has heard anything, I’ll let you know.”

She kissed her mother goodbye and grabbed her parka, muffler, and gloves. Frank walked her to the door and waited while she pulled on her boots.

“Are you sure you don’t mind driving your mother into Minneapolis to the hospital tomorrow? Larry can ride herd by himself for a day if he has to.”

“You really need to be there with that big project going on.” Julie zipped up her insulated parka and wound the muffler around her neck. “Tomorrow is my day off anyway, and Amy will be at nursery school. Besides, I have a whole list of questions I want to ask Dr. Radnor.”

He tugged a stray red-gold curl that had escaped from the pins that held her hair back. “It sure helps to have a nurse in the family,” he teased.

He accompanied her outside onto the sidewalk in front of the expansive, white frame, Dutch Colonial-style house. It was growing dark, and the air was already so icy it burned her lungs with every breath.

Directly across the street a white, wrought-iron archway defined the entrance to Shepherdsville’s town park. Beyond it Julie could make out the sprawling native stone pavilion and the playground that were the park’s main attractions. Fifty yards from the pavilion’s far end, the graceful stone arch of a footbridge spanned icy Shepherd’s Creek, which bisected the park.

She turned abruptly to face her father. “You didn’t seem all that sure that Mike’s transfer to the medics is a good thing.”

His face settled into hard lines. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of your mother, but medics have to go right into the worst of the fighting to take care of the wounded and get them out. I saw plenty of them gunned down. It seemed like the Japs deliberately aimed for them.”

Julie shivered in the sharp wind. When she pulled open the door of her battered, bright orange ’62 Beetle convertible, it gave a protesting creak.

Frank lightly kicked the VW’s rear tire. Nodding at the faded, mud-splattered sticker on its back bumper that prominently featured a peace symbol and the words “Give peace a chance,” he growled, “Why don’t you scrape that thing off? Since Dan’s so gung-ho for non-violence, I’d think he wouldn’t want to be associated with the tactics of those student demonstrators who are leading all the riots.”

Julie slid behind the wheel. “Now, Daddy, you know you hate this war as much as Dan and I do.”

“I don’t believe this country has any compelling interests in Southeast Asia that justify our getting involved in their civil war. That doesn’t mean I agree with being disloyal to our government and giving aid and comfort to our enemies.”

She engaged the clutch and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine reluctantly coughed to life.

“If anyone actually advocates giving aid and comfort to our enemies, it’s a very small minority. Please, Dad, let’s not argue about this right now. I need to get home.”

To her surprise, he leaned down and gave her a light peck on the cheek. “Love you anyway,” he said with that disarming smile she could never resist.

She grinned back at him. “Love you too, you old galoot. Take care of Mom, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Waving goodbye, she put the car in gear.

Until We Reach Home

Until We Reach Home
Bethany House (October 1, 2008)

Chapter One

Elin Carlson walked into the barn and everything changed. Her sister Sofia stood illuminated by a shaft of sunlight as she paused from her chores; close beside her, talking softly to her, stood Uncle Sven. His hand rested on Sofia's hair, which dangled down her back in a long, golden braid. Elin remembered the weight of his hand on her own head and for a moment she couldn't breathe.

"Don't tell anyone, Elin."

Her fear erupted in a strangled shout. "Sofia!"

Her sister jumped. Timid Sofia was frightened of the dark and of Aunt Karin's geese and sometimes her own shadow. Sofia pressed her hand to her heart as she turned toward Elin.

"Oh, you scared me!"

"Elin sneaks up as quietly as a mouse, doesn't she?" Uncle Sven said. He chuckled in his good-natured way and settled his cap on his head. He strode past Elin, touching her shoulder briefly as he left the barn, the straw crunching beneath his heavy boots.

"Don't tell anyone...."

Elin's heart pounded. She couldn't seem to move and didn't trust herself to speak. Her breath plumed in the cold winter air. Sofia had returned to her chores, but she stopped and looked up again after a moment.

"What's wrong, Elin?"

"Nothing."

Everything.

Sofia was sixteen, the same age Elin had been three years ago when Uncle Sven and his family had moved in with them. She needed to warn Sofia, to tell her what could happen, what nearly had happened today. But Sofia was so young, so innocent. So happy. Elin had been all of those things, too, three years ago.

"What's the matter?" Sofia asked again.

Elin shook her head and hurried out of the barn, running after her uncle, fear and anger boiling inside. Her boots bit through the snow's crust as she ran. She caught up with him when he halted near the woodpile. He slowly turned to face her.

"Eh? You want something, Elin?"

How dare he pretend not to know. How dare he smile as if nothing had ever happened. Elin opened her mouth, longing to shout, "You leave Sofia alone!" But nothing came out.

Uncle Sven stared at her, his eyes boring into hers, his smile never wavering. Then he bent over, lifting the axe in one hand, a log in the other. He balanced the log on its end on the tree stump, then split it in two with one blow.

"You will be very sorry if you tell."

Elin's anger dissolved, leaving only her fear. She was speechless. Helpless.

She turned away and hurried back to the barn, aware that everything had changed. She would have to guard her sister night and day from now on. She could never leave Sofia alone with him again. Or Kirsten, either. Kirsten was their middle sister and only eighteen—had their uncle been alone with her, too?

Fear squeezed Elin's chest as she watched Sofia put fresh hay in the cow stalls. The steady thwacks of her uncle's axe continued outside the barn. Elin drew a shaky breath, struggling to keep her voice calm. "That's good enough for today, Sofia. Go on up to the house."

"Why? What's wrong with you? Your face is as white as milk."

"Nothing's wrong." She snatched the hay fork from Sofia's hand and leaned it against the wall. "I'll walk with you."

"You act so crazy sometimes," Sofia said with a frown.

No one will believe you, Elin. They will say you are crazy.

Perhaps she was crazy. The pressure in her chest increased as she drew another painful breath and tried to speak casually. "What was Uncle Sven doing in here?"

"You'll never guess!" Sofia's pale blue eyes sparkled with happiness. "He said I could ride to the village with him tomorrow if I wanted to. He said he would buy me a treat at Magnusson's store—anything I wanted."

So that was how it would begin for Sofia. She craved sweets as much as Elin had craved solace after Mama and Papa had died. Uncle Sven had offered Elin soothing words and warm arms and a comforting shoulder. "You are special, Elin. Do you know that? My special girl." Now Sofia's trust would be bought with peppermints and licorice sticks.

"You can't go with him, Sofia. I need you to help me with ... with ... I need your help tomorrow."

"But Uncle Sven said that I—"

"You and I will go into town another time. Now come up to the house with me." She tried to link arms with her sister, but Sofia pulled away. The happy expression on her sweet round face transformed into anger.

"I don't have to do what you say. You're not my mother!"

"I know, I know.... But listen, why are you working out here in the barn, anyway? I thought it was Kirsten's turn to do this. Where is she? And aren't you supposed to be watching the children for Aunt Karin?"

"Kirsten took them for a walk in the woods. She promised to wash the dishes for a week if I switched chores with her."

Knowing Kirsten, she and their three young cousins were chasing after elves or hunting for trolls. Every meandering walk through the woods was an adventure for Kirsten, every boulder a crouching troll, every rustling breeze an elf scurrying away. Elin felt her stomach turn over as she remembered how often Kirsten had worked alone in the barn these past few weeks.

But no, Uncle Sven wouldn't be able to deceive Kirsten, would he? For one thing, she never slowed down or stood still long enough to become ensnared by his lies. And for another thing, she was as sturdy and bold as their Viking ancestors, seldom following anyone's rules, acting more like a boy than a girl much of the time. Kirsten would much rather escape from work altogether and explore the forest than sit by the fire and do needlework. Even her straw-blond hair was unruly, always managing to escape from its hairpins and braids to fly as freely as she did.

No, their uncle would find it easier to entice Sofia. She was gentle and shy, with a quiet, compliant nature. She was built more like Elin, too, with fine, delicate bones. Elin remembered the day her uncle had slipped his thick fingers around her wrist and whispered, "Look at that, Elin. As slim as a twig. I could snap the bone, just like that." But those threats had come later, after Elin had grown older and had begun to pull away from him.

She noticed that the sound of the axe had stopped. Her heart sped up. "Come up to the house with me, Sofia. Now!"

"Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry. I-I just don't like it when you and Kirsten swap chores. She always takes advantage of you." She steered Sofia out of the barn, quickly glancing at the woodpile. Uncle Sven was gone. Elin scanned the fringes of forestland that bordered their farm in search of Kirsten, certain she would be able to spot her bright red coat and striped blue apron. There was no sign of her, either.

That was another reason why their uncle would choose Sofia. Kirsten could disappear as quickly and completely as a wood sprite, while shy little Sofia never did anything in a hurry. She tiptoed hesitantly through life, as if an unseen harness kept her from galloping down the road into the future along with everyone else. Sofia would be easy prey.

Elin knew it was her fault that Sven had turned to Sofia. Elin had been avoiding her uncle for the past few months, resisting his advances, desperate to break free of him. He knew it, too.

"We must help Elin find a job in town," he'd told Aunt Karin. "She deserves to have a little freedom and some spending money of her own, don't you think?" He made it sound as though he were doing Elin a favor—and before today she had been eager to leave home. Now she didn't dare. Even though she longed to flee as far away from him as possible, she could never leave Kirsten and Sofia behind.

Laughter sounded in the distance as Elin and Sofia neared the cottage. A moment later she saw Kirsten emerge from the woods with her three little cousins. The knot in Elin's stomach loosened as she listened to Kirsten's joyous laughter and watched her and the children throwing snowballs at each other. Kirsten seemed much too happy and carefree to have felt the weight of Uncle Sven's lies.

Sofia broke free from Elin and ran toward Kirsten through the snowdrifts. "How far did you walk? The children look frozen! Aunt Karin is going to be furious when she sees how wet they are."

"We went all the way to the road. And look what we got." Kirsten reached inside her coat and pulled out a small white envelope. She waved it in the air. "We were on our way home," she said breathlessly, "when we met up with Tor Magnusson. He walked all the way out from town to deliver this letter to us. It's from America!"

"Let me see it." Elin reached for the letter but Kirsten snatched it away at the last minute and hid it behind her back.

"How much will you pay me for it?"

"Nothing. Hand it over, Kirsten." Elin's discovery in the barn had made her too upset to cope with Kirsten's games.

"Who is it from?" Sofia asked. She peered behind Kirsten's back, tilting her head as she tried to read it.

"A famous Indian chieftain!" Kirsten said with a laugh.

"It has to be from Uncle Lars," Elin said. "Who else do we know in America?" She turned away and opened the cottage door, stomping the snow off her boots before entering the kitchen.

"You're no fun at all," Kirsten said, handing over the letter. Sofia and their three cousins tumbled through the door behind Elin like puppies, dropping to the floor to remove their wet clothes.

"Hurry up and open the letter," Sofia begged as she pulled off her boots. "Read it out loud to us."

Elin found a filet knife and carefully slit open the envelope, then pulled out the letter. Their uncle in America was upset to learn that their older brother, Nils, had left home. That had been Uncle Sven's fault, too. He and Nils had argued so often that Nils finally had gone to Stockholm to find work, even though the farm rightfully belonged to him. Elin had begged Nils to take her with him but he had refused, unwilling to be "tied down," as he'd put it. He'd never sent them a single letter.

Nils should come to America, Uncle Lars had written. I could find a job for him here. Or if he wants a farm of his own, there is plenty of land in America, too. It is the very least I could do for my sister's son.

"What about his sister's daughters?" Elin wondered aloud. She realized then that she would have to take matters into her own hands. Neither her brother nor anyone else was going to rescue them. Kirsten and Sofia were no longer safe in this house. Once Uncle Sven forced Elin to leave home, just as he had gotten rid of Nils, her sisters would become his prey. She had to help them escape. She had to write to Uncle Lars in America.

Elin sank onto a kitchen chair, suddenly feeling tired. This was her beloved home, filled with memories of her parents and of happier times when they all lived here together. But now bad memories had crowded out the good—funerals and fights and unspeakable secrets. Shame engulfed Elin every time she looked at Uncle Sven.

She picked up the knife that she had used to open the envelope and slipped it into her apron pocket. She would carry it with her from now on, until they were all safely away from here. If her uncle came near her again, she would use it to defend herself.

And if he ever laid his filthy hands on Sofia or Kirsten, Elin would kill him.

Out Of Her Hands - Chapter 1

Out Of Her Hands
Tyndale House Publishers (September 22, 2008)
by

And now these three remain: faith, hope and

love. But the greatest of these is love.

1 CORINTHIANS 13:13

Some days I imagine that the hundreds of details dancing in my brain will make my head infl ate like the Mr. Magoo balloon in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Didn’t he explode one year?

Can I round up enough fairies by Thursday to repair those halos and wings? And are the ice pixie dresses ready to go? What a job. It’s always something.

I focus on inputting the correct security code into the control panel and scoot out the door of Dream Photography, my home away from home. I pull my jacket closed and double-time it toward my car in the lamp-lit parking lot. Loaded down with my purse,
lunch box, and a folder full of portraits, I shift my burdens to dig my ringing phone out of the depths of my bag, fumbling to keep a strong grip on the folder, when the cell slips from my hand and skitters under my car.

Oh, goodness, I’ve done it again. Like Grandpa always said, “No sense being dumb if you don’t show it.”

So here I stand, amazed that the silly phone still works and annoyed that it’s singing from beneath a three-thousand-pound vehicle. A glance around assures me that no one witnessed my lack of finesse. Irritation prickles my scalp. Anyone who saw this embarrassing display wouldn’t believe I produced a daughter who is on an award-winning competitive cheerleading team.

A late October breeze dives beneath my hem while I squat beside the soiled sedan, yards of fabric from my favorite green broomstick skirt billowing out like a ship’s sail on the high seas. The muffled tones of the “Hallelujah” chorus taunt me as I grasp toward the cell phone that sits inches beyond my reach. I lean over as far as propriety allows, stretching toward my goal. If only...

I know. I’ll swat at the phone with my ice scraper. I retrieve what my son, Nick, calls the mother of all ice scrapers from my car. At nearly four feet long, this thing will surely do the trick.

I squat again and get a visual on the now-silent phone. Leaves scud past me as I hear footsteps approaching.

A tall shadow falls across the asphalt. “Excuse me?”

I pause in my efforts and look up to see a thirtysomething businessman peering down. Is that pity in his eyes? “Yes?”

He leans toward me. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

I smile and push my hair behind my ear, pasting on a competent expression to displace any suggestion that I’m a total dimwit. I raise my monster ice scraper. “I’ve got it under control. Thanks.”

Mr. Helpful cocks his head.

I chuckle and explain. “I dropped my cell phone.”

“Oh, sorry.” He stays planted to the pavement.

Keep moving, fella. There’s nothing to watch here. “Uh, thanks again.”

“Night, then.”

“Good night.” I smile and nod, waiting for him to walk away before I resume my awkward pose and retrieve my phone.

But he addresses me once more. “Too bad you couldn’t have just
moved that car.”

“Uh, yeah.” I’m grateful the cool breeze has already colored my face so he can’t see the telltale blush travel to my hairline. He heads toward his car, and I gently push my phone out from under the Taurus. I pick it up, brushing debris from the silent device, pretending to test out the phone, waiting for him to drive away.

After all, I can’t have him see me get into the offending vehicle. Move the car. Too bad that simple suggestion never crossed my mind. Sheesh.

I pull onto the freeway and head east to Pine Grove, putting the car on cruise control. Ever since that last speeding ticket, I don’t take any chances. Jerry’s just about the most patient husband in the state of Colorado, but one more blip to our insurance premium may put him over the edge.

I plug in my hands-free device and access my voice mail. It was a call from my friend Deb Hinesley. “Hi, Linda. I’m sorry I missed you. Listen, I was wondering if you and Jerry are free for dinner Saturday night. Keith and I were hoping you’d join us to try out the new sushi restaurant in Denver. It’s very hip. Reservations required. Call me.”

Sushi? My scientist husband turned college professor is pretty cautious and is more of a meat-and-potatoes guy, but maybe I can convince him to try something new.

Deb has been my best friend since college. But it takes every ounce of self-control and Christian love to face her husband, Keith, and pretend I don’t know his dirty little secret. And to think I used to be jealous of their so-called romantic marriage.

Not too long ago I thought Jerry could use a boost in the romance department, but I’ve since discovered—or shall I say rediscovered—just what a gem I have. Now, I’m not saying he hits the mark all the time, but at least he tries.

I’m feeling warm and tingly toward my husband as I arrive home. I know both my children are out tonight—Emma at cheerleading practice and Nick with his college buddies. Today’s one of Jer’s short days at the community college where he teaches science.

I’d love for my honey to greet me at the door, but the only one who seems to care is our Jack Russell terrier. I scratch the top of her head. “Hi, Belle. How’s my girl?”

The kitchen is in darkness, and there are no delicious aromas assuring me that dinner is being prepared.

Ooh, maybe Jerry’s cooking up a special surprise—upstairs.

Belle dances around me while I hang my jacket in the closet. I go to the pantry and toss her a treat. “Jer?”

I hear his muffl ed response come from our bedroom.

My heart beats a little bit faster as I hurry up the stairs. What could this surprise be? Strawberries dipped in chocolate? A candlelit massage? The door’s ajar, so I gingerly push it open.

I can’t believe my eyes. Every surface of the room is covered with plastic drop cloths. Jerry’s standing on a ladder, white speckles staining his face and hair, painting our bedroom ceiling. He couldn’t look more pleased with himself. “What do you think?”

My heart rate remains accelerated. I know how this man’s mind works, and this is his way of being romantic. Okay, maybe I would have preferred champagne and roses, but...

He descends the ladder, walks over, and gives me a quick kiss.

I’d love to throw my arms around him, but I’m not willing to ruin the wool blazer I’m wearing. “What made you do this?”

He angles his head and gives me that smile I’ve loved forever. “Don’t you think I listen to you?”

“Huh?”

“I heard you and Emma talking about painting your bedrooms.” I follow him to the bathroom, where he washes. “My class dismissed early today, and I went to The Home Depot to buy some paint. I saw that article you clipped from the paper.”

I love this man. “You mean the room-makeover article based on the colors in this season’s Hollywood movies?”

He dries his hands and strips off his paint-splattered sweatshirt. “That very one. Except I didn’t know if you wanted blue or apricot for the walls.”

I can’t remember the last time I felt this attracted to him. I hustle to the walk-in closet and change into my sweatpants. When I step into the room, half the drop cloths have been cleared away.

The sound of his cheerful whistle echoes from the fi rst floor. A mouthwatering smell greets me at the top of the stairs and escorts me down to the kitchen.

Jerry’s sitting at the table. He gestures toward a large cheese pizza from our favorite joint. “Dinner’s served.”

Could there be a more perfect ending to a stressful day? I try not to think about the folder of portraits that needs to be arranged before eight thirty tomorrow morning and concentrate on the simple meal and the man sitting before me. I adore my kids, but there’s something wonderful about a quiet dinner for two. Even if it’s delivery pizza.

Jerry says a blessing and passes me a napkin.

I savor the first delectable bite and hop up to retrieve the newspaper clipping hanging under the Dream Photography magnet on the refrigerator. I take my seat and push the article toward Jerry. “See that color blue? I think it will look beautiful with brown and green accents.”

He nods while he chews, pulls the clipping closer, and points to the picture. “Yep. That’s the color I thought you liked.”

I run my fingers through his thinning hair and give him my come-hither smile. “How about I help you wash the paint from your hair?”

Jerry looks intrigued. “I should do more painting around here.”

I’m about to lean in for the kiss I’m dying to steal when I hear a key in the front door.

Emma breezes in. “Pizza? Great.”

This girl’s timing is unbelievable. And I thought her having a driver’s license would give us fewer interruptions and more privacy. For the past eighteen months, living with her has been like living with a jack-in-the-box. You never know when she’s going to pop up.

She washes her hands at the kitchen sink, all the time editorializing about life at Pine Grove High. She sits next to me and helps herself to a slice. “Oh, you’re not going to believe what I heard today.” She pauses for effect, looking us each in the eye.

Spit it out, girl.

“Hillary had to leave school for an orthodontist appointment, and before her mom brought her back, they went to Starbucks. And guess who she saw?” Emma takes a bite of pizza.

Jerry looks confused. “Who’s Hillary?”

Oy. For an intelligent man, he can never seem to remember our kids’ friends’ names. “Hillary Seer, a girl from cheerleading.” I take a nibble of pizza. “Who did she see?”

Emma obviously enjoys her moment of power, taking a sip of cola to wash down her pizza. “Nick.”

“And . . . ?”

“He was with a girl. A very pretty girl.”

Jerry waves off her announcement. “Is that a crime? He has lots of friends he meets for coffee. For all we know, it’s just a classmate.”

Emma straightens, pushing her shoulders back. “Yeah, just a classmate...that he kisses?”

“Are you sure it was Nick she saw?” I can’t imagine my son kissing someone in front of other people. He’s so contained. So careful about the way he appears in public. And wouldn’t he mention someone he was interested in?

She rolls her eyes. “Hillary knows what Nick looks like. She’s
been over here lots of times when Nick’s around.”

Jerry gives me his let-it-drop look. “Emma, unless you want Nick
to tease you about your boyfriend, I suggest you go easy on him.”

She pouts for a moment but lets the subject slide.

I sit at the kitchen table organizing the photographs into piles.

Emma meanders in, pulls out a chair, and sits, dropping a textbook on the table. “Whatcha doing?”

I answer without looking up. “Organizing photos.”

“Why?”

“We need to have a fi le on each set we do for our Special Edition promotions.”


She points to a pile. “Which one’s this?”

I fan out the portraits. “Victorian Christmas.”

Emma studies the images of a replica Victorian living room complete with an exquisite Christmas tree, an ornate fi replace decorated with satin stockings suspended from a bough-laden mantel, and three young children dressed in elegant, custom-made outfits. “Cool.” She hands back the photos. “Can you help me with my
English homework?”

“In a few minutes, honey. I need to fi nish this.”

She sighs. “I need to do math homework too. Can’t you help me now?”

“Why don’t you do your math homework until I’m finished?”

“Well, I wanted to do this first because—”

She’s interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Nick’s heavy footsteps come down the hall. “What did you have for dinner?”

Before I can respond, Emma says, “Hillary saw you this afternoon. At Starbucks. Kissing a girl.”

I steel myself for the fi reworks I fear will explode.

Nick shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t at a Starbucks today.”

Emma frowns. “Really? Hillary said she saw you.”

He rummages through the refrigerator. “I don’t know who she saw, but it wasn’t me.”

“Are you sure? She knows what you look like.”

Nick gives her a blank stare. “Hillary’s an idiot.”

“She is not—”

I put my hand on Emma’s arm to stifle her objections, and Nick leaves the room.

She turns to me, eyes wide with indignation. “Why would he lie?”

“He’s not lying. Your friend must have been mistaken.”

Emma shakes her head. “Sometimes you can be so naive.”

We sit in silence. I hear the shower running in my room. Jerry must be washing his hair. So much for a little romance tonight.

Rain Song - Chapter 1

Rain Song
Bethany House (October 1, 2008)

Chapter One

Mount Olive, North Carolina
1999

When they suggest changing the location of the family reunion, I am first to speak. I clear my throat a few times—something that irritates me when anyone else does it—and then, with my eyes focused on the crystal vase of scarlet roses centered on Ducee's kitchen table, I begin. I remind them that we've always had the reunion in North Carolina; why break tradition? Tradition is big in the McCormick family.

I see Ducee nod, which gives me courage to continue. Since there are more family members in this region, I add, making all of us fly to Wyoming would be senseless. Wouldn't it be easier and much more logical for the Wyoming group to fly here? They are younger. I mean, should Ducee really fly at her age? And her heart condition, don't forget that.

Cheyenne, Wyoming, residents Aunt Betty and Uncle Jarvis, who are spending the weekend with Ducee, look uncomfortably across the table at each other. In unison they blurt, "Oh, Nicole, of course Ducee shouldn't fly." Then they apologize to Ducee for even making the suggestion.

"Oh my, what were we thinking?" Aunt Betty reaches her round pink arm across the table toward Ducee, tipping the flower arrangement; Uncle Jarvis grabs the vase just in time. Aunt Betty croons, "Oh, Mother, I don't know what came over me."

I gnaw on a thumbnail and stand to wash the dishes. They don't need to be apologetic about their idea; they just don't need to give it any more consideration.

So nothing has changed, and once again, this July, the family reunion will be here in Mount Olive. We'll make the usual food—potato salad, chicken salad, honey-baked ham, corn on the cob dripping with butter, green bean casserole, delicate egg salad sandwiches on white bread, and of course, traditional homemade pineapple chutney. We'll spread the checkered tablecloths over the rickety picnic tables in my grandmother Ducee's backyard and cover ourselves with insect repellent and eat until the stars flicker out one by one. Great-Uncle Clive will swing the great-grandkids in the tire swing as Maggie, Ducee's white-pawed donkey, brays and nibbles at ripe blackberries growing over the edge of the wooden fence.

The Wyoming group—Aunt Betty and Uncle Jarvis, Kate, Linda, and their spouses and children—will inevitably wonder how we handle the humidity and tell us a few dozen times that the air is less sticky in Cheyenne, until Cousin Aaron drives them in the church van to the coast. Then, after splashing in the salty waves as they watch the sun set over the Atlantic, they will smile and say how lovely the ocean is and what a blessing it is for us in Mount Olive to be so close to this spectacular view. For a moment, they will envy us, their bodies not at all bothered by southern summer stickiness.

Ducee knows, though. She lifts her chin and adjusts her bifocals and I know she knows. She's thinking that Nicole doesn't care if we have Japanese squid and octopus at the reunion, as long as it means keeping the gathering here in Mount Olive. Just don't make her get on an airplane. That's what Ducee is thinking as she nods and wipes her pale lips with a pastel linen napkin.

No plane ride for me. Ever.

Last time I was on a plane I threw up three times. I was only two and don't remember it, but I'm sure things haven't changed. Just the sound of planes racing overhead is enough to pump fear into my veins and churn my stomach.

Great-Aunt Iva says that everyone is entitled to at least one phobia. She adds that if you have any Irish McCormick blood in you, you are most certainly entitled to even a few more.

* * *

On a crisp February afternoon, Iva, Ducee, and I sit around the kitchen table with bone china cups of tea. They ask how I am. We've just made three gallons of pineapple chutney and we're still in Mount Olive pickle green aprons. We're pretty wiped out; that's what this chutney-making tradition does to you. Hours and hours of slicing pineapple and adding spices while standing over a simmering pot can really sap your energy. That's why, after the chutney is sealed in jars, we allow for plenty of time to relax with hot ginger tea.

Ducee adds black tea leaves to freshly ground ginger root and seasons the mixture with lemon juice and sugar. She boils this concoction with distilled water because she is convinced that distilled water creates the best tea. She says it's common southern knowledge.

"I'm fine," I reply. Quickly, I take a long drink. The tea scalds my tongue.

Ducee glances at me, raises an eyebrow, and waits.

She can wait all afternoon; I am not about to tell her anything more. I reach for a grape from the fruit bowl and admire the carnations in the crystal vase.

"You've been in another world," Ducee says. Her greenish-blue eyes soften as she studies my face.

I force a smile. "Really, I'm okay." Sticking my thumb into my mouth, I chew a ragged nail. Nail-biting and fear of flying are my two known weaknesses. The other ones I work at hiding from everyone else.

Iva lights up a Virginia Slims, stretches her long, slender legs, and crosses her ankles. When she does this, it's as though she thinks she's the original Ms. Virginia Slims. She says she hopes we can have cucumber sandwiches at the reunion. "You know how much I like cucumbers thinly sliced on white bread." She exhales and adds, "Peeled, of course. Never did like the skin of a cucumber, not even the ones we grew growing up on our farm."

Ducee shakes her head, causing her gray curls to bounce. "Not at all proper." She enunciates each word as I do when teaching. "I told you before, Iva. It isn't done."

Iva asks, "And why not?"

"You can't have both egg salad and cucumber sandwiches at the same party." Ducee states this as though it's a fact, like the population of Mount Olive, which happens to be 4,427.

Iva's hazel eyes widen behind her silver-rimmed glasses. "Says who?"

"It's common etiquette. All southerners know this. Take pimento cheese, for example. Our southern classic. However, it cannot be eaten with egg salad, either."

"I've never heard any of this before and I've lived in North Carolina all my life," Iva says, her voice laced with aggravation.

I roll my eyes at Iva. There is no point in my aunt continuing with her desire to have cucumber sandwiches. When Ducee mentions etiquette, it's useless to argue. My grandmother thinks she is the queen of etiquette, at least southern etiquette.

Once, as a young girl visiting her during summer vacation, I asked Ducee what the name of her book was. Puzzled, she questioned what I meant.

"Your book you wrote," I said. "The one about how to wipe your mouth on a cloth napkin and how to kiss cheeks."

Ducee played along. "Oh, my book of important Southern Truths." She patted my arm. "Yes, that's it, yes. They are written somewhere, I'm sure. Emily Post or Mrs. Vanderbilt."

I was nine before I realized Ducee had not written a book on etiquette; she just liked to talk about certain ways one should conduct oneself—her renowned Southern Truths. I do admit I was disappointed and couldn't bear to tell my classmates at my elementary school in Richmond, Virginia, that my grandmother in Mount Olive, North Carolina, had not authored a book, even though, yes, one day in third-grade show-and-tell I proudly shared she had.

As the afternoon sun shifts behind a cloud and darkens the kitchen, Iva takes a slow puff on her cigarette. She exchanges the cucumber-sandwiches topic for her grandson-in-law. "I just don't know what Grable is going to do about Dennis. She's having to live the life of the single parent." Grable is Iva's granddaughter who is thirty-five, four years older than I am.

I know nothing about marriage, since I've never been married. I would like to be married, I think. But some nights, I watch my aquarium of saltwater fish swimming in their tranquil patterns and wonder why I'd want to bring chaos to our home. My fish and I are doing quite well without a human male mate.

Iva inhales, blows out a smoke ring, and says, "I knew Dennis was no good from the get-go."

"Yes, yes," Ducee chimes, a frown encompassing her brow. "We all know that he reminds you of Harlowe."

Harlowe, named after the river in North Carolina, was my great-aunt Iva's third husband. He was known for a temper that caused him to throw cans at the kitchen walls. When he threw six cans of pork and beans in one afternoon, Iva marched out of her house for the lawyer's office. The divorce was final twelve months later. Iva, known for always having a man by her side, has yet to remarry. After Harlowe's frenzy, she's decided gratitude for being alive—not six feet under due to an accident caused by tin cans—is enough reason to be content.

Iva slides the cardinal ashtray closer and twists the butt of her cigarette into the body of the red bird. "Harlowe was impossible." She lets go of the butt like she let go of him.

Right when I think we're going to hear a pathetic Harlowe story, my aunt sighs, cups her chin in the crevices of her palms, and lets silence take over.

After a moment she cries, "Why has Grable followed in my footsteps? Sure as the sun, she married a man who doesn't appreciate her."

"She was in love," Ducee tells her younger sister brightly. "Grable saw the moon rise and set in his smile. Remember their wedding day?"

I don't. I was invited—Grable is my second cousin, or something like that—but I didn't make the wedding. Three days prior to the event, I came up with the brilliant idea to free my backyard from overgrown weeds. I must have pulled the wrong weeds because I ended up with the worst case of poison ivy ever. Grable was covered in white and delicate flowers. I covered my body with prescribed triamcinolone acetonide and sat in a tub of Aveeno, trying to ease the constant desire to scratch.

"It rained." Iva's face is covered by a sour expression. "It was cold and wet. I must have stepped in six puddles before I even got inside the church. My feet were soaked the whole day. My red dress has a mud stain that to this day hasn't come out."

I did see the pictures of the wedding. Everyone looked happy, except for Iva. It is hard to smile, I guess, when your feet are wet.

Ducee smiles. "Oh yes, yes, it was a beautiful ceremony. The church looked exceptionally pretty with all those tulips. I'd never seen so many colors in one place." She shifts in her chair to look Iva in the eye, but Iva turns away from her sister. Her sigh fills the kitchen. I can hear it lift out of her lungs and span

the ceiling and the lemon-colored walls.

Ducee traces the rim of her teacup with a bony finger. Slowly she says, "You aren't in control of everything or anybody. Remember that, Iva."

If I ever compile a list of my grandmother's sayings, this one will be at the top.

We know she will add another part to her thought, and she does. "Good things happen in fleeting moments. Enjoy what you can—those moments are sometimes all we get." She focuses on both of our faces and then, "Yes." There is a long pause as though she is remembering something almost lost, like one of those long-gone fleeting moments she wants to recapture in her mind. "Yes, that's it, yes."

Iva finishes her tea, pushes her cup and saucer toward the middle of the table, and smacks her lips. "Well, Grable's not having any good things happening these days. Having to do it all alone and then when Dennis does decide to come home, he has no patience for Monet. She is his daughter." She lights another cigarette and coughs.

I think of Grable and Dennis's three-year-old, Monet, the child no doctor at Duke or UNC hospitals can figure out. The child is wild, and my patience for her runs thin. The last time she overfed my fish, I screamed at her. Then I felt awful and bought her a coloring book and pack of Crayolas. Grable has aspirations that Monet will live up to her name and be able to paint like Claude Monet.

Grable also thinks Dennis will cut back his hours at the law firm, take some time off, and fly with her to an exotic country, preferably Costa Rica.

"Monet is a treasure," Ducee says with feeling. "Trying, but if you listen to her heart, she is charming."

Both Iva and I give Ducee looks as if she's lost her mind.

Iva crumples her empty cigarette pack. "Don't know why God made her the way she is."

Ducee starts to speak, but Iva interrupts. "I know, I know, you're going to say His ways are not our ways. And to trust Him and not doubt. Birds of the air." She waves her cigarette in front of her face. "I know, I know." She clears her raspy throat. That action always makes me quiver.

"Actually," Ducee says, "I was going to ask if you wanted more tea."

Iva places the end of the Virginia Slims in the ashtray and stands. "No, got to get to the Friendly Mart."

We know why. She just smoked her last cigarette. We watch her untie her apron and fold it on the back of the chair. She ruffles her dyed-platinum hair by running fingers through the roots. Her smile shows her gold molar. She thanks her sister for the day, extending her arm so that Ducee can touch it with her lips.

"See you tomorrow at church," Ducee says as Iva pulls on her short fur coat and fastens the pearl buttons.

Iva coughs. "The Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise." She squeezes my shoulder before striding for the front door. Iva is tall—close to six feet—and she has a way of easing across floors when she walks, like a waterbug skimming the river's surface.

Ducee tilts her head and looks at me through smudged bifocals. "Is it Richard?" she asks after Iva leaves the house.

I sigh. "Richard and I broke up last night." There, I've told her. Why does my grandmother always win?

She nods as though she already knew. That woman knows me like her famous family chutney recipe. When she looks at me, I swear she can see the missing ingredient.

"Why don't you come over for dinner after church tomorrow, then?" She pats my hand. Her hand is tiny, the skin thin with age spots and protruding purple veins. "I'll make barbeque chicken." She smiles, adding, "With the Smithfield sauce you like so much."

A moment passes and the silence eats at her. "Nicole, dear? You okay? Anything else you need to tell me?"

Can she see into my mind?

"No." I can't tell her that I've received a beautiful poem from a carp owner in Japan. Surely when she looks at me she doesn't know that, does she? I have also dreamed of him, although I have no idea what he looks like in real life.

Since the death of my mother, Ducee has practically raised me. Although I lived with Father until I graduated from high school, during those years, my summers and school breaks were always spent at Ducee's house. She knows I have a mole the shape of an apple on my lower back and that even at age thirty-one, I continue to sleep with a cloth kimono doll.

But there are still lines I draw. She doesn't get to know everything.

Sometimes, though, on chilly, dark nights when the only sound in my house is the humming fish tank, it would be nice to sit in Aunt Lucy's wingback chair, curl my legs up under me, and just spill it out.