by Pat Simmons
“You can never say that enough.” He squeezed her hands, then brought them to his chest. “You are my heartbeat.”
“Mine too,” she whispered, then smiled. “Let’s eat so I can have my dessert.”
Nicholas didn’t argue as he conceded to her wishes, engaging in conversation until they had consumed their meal. Once the server removed their plates from the table, Nicholas placed the heart box in front of her. “Miss Knicely, you may now open it.”
Her eyes sparkled as she lifted the cover and frowned at the note that covered the spots where the chocolates were supposed to be. Nicholas held his breath as she read. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
Rachel,
I have only one question for you where there is only one right answer. But I have ten questions for you before you proceed to open the small box that I placed where the strawberry crème tarte truffle was.
She gave him side-eye. “What happened to all the candy, and why the strawberry crème spot?”
“Well.” He looked away sheepishly before meeting her stare. “I ate them because I needed the space, but the strawberry crème tarte truffle was the best!”
Rachel laughed, fingering the folded strips of paper in the spots which once held the candy. She briefly debated which one to read first, making Nicholas antsy.
“For a woman who couldn’t wait, all of a sudden, you’re patient.”
She shrugged and gave him a coy expression. “It’s not my fault you have all these different-colored papers.” Her first choice was the blue one, so she unfolded the long strip and read aloud, “‘Marry me for life if you think I will make a good husband.’” She nodded and whispered yes. Next, Rachel picked pink: “‘Marry me if you believe God is the giver of life and will bless us with beautiful children.’”
She sniffed. Her eyes were misty when she looked up and met his stare. “Yes.” Her sister had questioned Rachel’s physician relentlessly about the side effects of the drugs on Rachel’s fertility. The doctors said despite Rachel undergoing chemo, her youth gave her a good chance to conceive.
Rachel’s hands shook as she reached for an orange strip. “‘Marry me if you don’t mind working beside a husband who is a minister on call 24/7 and being his helpmate.’” She rested her right hand over her heart. “I will,” she choked out. She released a deep breath, then continued to pull strips until only the ring box remained in the shell of the candy box.
They stared at each other. Nicholas noticed her racing pulse on Rachel’s neck. “Ready?”
She nodded.
Nicholas opened the box to reveal her engagement ring. Without taking his eyes off her, he scooted out of the booth, then guided Rachel to her feet. He wanted to look up into her eyes to see her love, and he wanted Rachel to understand his humility as a husband who would cherish her.
“Rachel Knicely, I love you beyond words. My life changed the moment I saw you. Will you marry me and allow me to make you happy?”
One tear fell, then another. She nodded.
“Baby, a lot of people are watching us and waiting to hear your answer along with me. Say it.”
“Yes, Nicholas Adams. Yes, to everything.”
Soft applause echoed throughout the restaurant as one proposal followed another. Nicholas stood, slipped the ring on Rachel’s finger, then wrapped her in his arms. He was so happy he couldn’t contain himself as he turned toward the other diners and proclaimed, “We’re engaged!”
Chapter 40
Six months later, Rachel became an aunt to Marcus Brownlee Whittington, born August 15, weighing eight pounds and three ounces of pure love. Flying to St. Louis a few days before Tabitha’s due date, Rachel had waited impatiently for Tabitha to go into labor. Marcus had been a nervous wreck, and when her sister’s contractions began, he’d grabbed the pregnancy book to make sure Tabitha was indeed in labor. Tabitha had threatened to call an ambulance to take her if Marcus took any longer.
Rachel had to run interference and calm the parents-to-be down. She drove them to Mercy Hospital, about twenty minutes away. Marcus was in the back seat, holding his wife’s hand as she moaned with contractions.
After fifteen hours in labor, Tabitha became a mother. While rocking her nephew in her arms, Rachel admired the baby who was barely half a day old.
She and little Marcus shared the same silky black curls. His were thick.
Rachel fingered her hair. She had given Nicholas a footnote to marrying him. Rachel refused to walk down the aisle without at least six inches of hair. He had laughed. She was serious. The last time he pulled out the measuring tape, she had four inches.
“He’s beautiful,” Rachel said in awe.
“Thanks. He’s handsome,” Marcus countered, puffing out his chest.
“Aww. Beauty comes from the woman, so I was complimenting my sister,” Rachel advised her brother-in-law, and Tabitha beamed.
“Well, yeah. My wife is beautiful.” He grinned sheepishly, then kissed Tabitha.
Rachel shook her head, then focused again on her nephew. As the baby slept, lips puckered, sucking on air, Rachel prayed that she too would get pregnant and that she would be able to nurse her baby with her normal breast.
Tabitha kissed her husband back, then giggled. “If you and Nicholas can hold off getting married for a couple of years, little Marcus can be the ring bearer in your wedding.”
“Don’t let my fiancé hear you say that.” Rachel laughed. “My hair grows fast, so I’m planning to marry Nicholas on New Year’s Eve.”
Left up to Nicholas, he would have had Pastor Mann marry them as soon as he proposed. The length of her hair wasn’t the sole issue; Rachel wanted to wait a year to make sure she was healthy.
“You’re healthy now, woman,” Nicholas had said. “How about on your birthday at the end of September?”
Rachel countered with New Year’s Eve, and he’d agreed. “And not a day later.”
Nicholas knocked on the door and waited to be told to come in before proceeding into the private room filled with balloons and stuffed toys.
Rachel’s heart fluttered at the sight of her well-groomed fiancé who had come straight from the airport. “Hey.” Rachel smiled. She wanted Nicholas to see what she would look like as a mother.
“Hey, beautiful.” He kissed Rachel’s cheek, then he gazed at the infant. “Congratulations. You’ve got a handsome little fella.”
Marcus cleared his throat. “Exactly.”
“You started something.” Rachel playfully scrunched her nose at Nicholas. “Babies are precious, beautiful, adorable. Young boys and men are handsome. Just sayin’.”
“I’m with my sister,” Tabitha chimed in from her bed.
Kym stood. “Seems like I’ll have to be the tiebreaker.” She leaned over the chair and cooed at the baby. “He’s beautiful.” The women cheered. “I guess I need to get me one of those”—she nodded to Marcus and Nicholas—“so I can get me one of these.”
“Get in line,” Rachel said. Lord, thank You for letting me see this day.
Epilogue
Sitting in the dressing room at the church, Rachel twisted a strand of hair around her finger, something she hadn’t been able to do for most of the year. She now had almost seven inches of a curly mass that required little attention.
She’d never forget the day, time, and place when she discovered the peach fuzz on top of her head.
Next, she recalled what Nicholas had said about her baldness. “My love for you goes beyond your physical beauty. I saw your spiritual strength before you knew you possessed it. When you lost all your hair, it just made me want to nurse you back to health. Baby, I will love you for you until my last breath.”
Rachel had to believe him. The lumpectomy and radiation had left the one breast slightly disfigured. Because she had put her body through enough, Rachel opted for a prosthesis over breast reconstructi
on. The doctor advised Rachel that if she had surgery, she might need another reconstruction because the other breast would change due to pregnancy and weight loss or gain. Today, no one would know which breast was affected from the stunning dress she wore.
“She’s zoning out again, y’all,” Jacqui teased, grinning. “Must be thinking about something that minister whispered in her ear.”
Rachel blushed. “I could write a book of all the sweet things he has said to me. Wait until it’s your turn and Kym’s.”
“I’ll add them to my prayer list,” Mother Jenkins’s voice boomed.
Anybody on the woman’s prayer list should be forewarned that Mother Jenkins came suited up for battle according to Ephesians 6:10–17. Throughout Rachel’s illness, Mother Jenkins had endeared herself as an Aunt Tweet figure, so it felt natural to include her in the nuptials and have her escort Rachel down the aisle.
Rachel never thought she would see the fiercely strong woman of God sniff and fumble for a tissue. Next came her grin. At least Mother Jenkins wasn’t dressed in white. She looked quite appealing in the bridal colors of deep blue with cranberry accents; the men were in gray.
Jacqui, like a sister who thought she was a blood sister, was her only bridesmaid; Kym was her maid of honor, while Tabitha was her matron of honor. That was her close circle of confidantes.
To make it a family affair, Karl’s twin boys were double ring bearers. Of course, Rachel had to include her four-month-old nephew, Marcus Brownlee Whittington. Tabitha had him dressed in a cute baby tux.
Rachel couldn’t leave out Clara, who had become a part of her healing team, so she’d asked if her eight-year-old daughter, Sheree, could serve as a flower girl. Clara’s eyes had sparkled at the invitation to be included.
It would have been nice to have Emily, but that day had only been a chance meeting: no last name, city—nothing, not even to look up on social media. Rachel had a feeling the girl was on another mission for the Lord. The flower girl, Sheree, rolled the stroller, with little Marcus, decorated in bridal colors down the aisle, tossing rose petals on both sides.
When the organist struck the chords, Kym, Jacqui, and Tabitha stood in formation and hurried out of the room, leaving Rachel alone with Mother Jenkins.
“Thank you for being part of my spiritual journey. I needed a matriarch to guide me to a place of healing, and Aunt Tweet and God sent you and Nicholas.”
“Yep,” Mother Jenkins responded, not bashful about the compliment.
Rachel giggled. She had grown to love this woman, who had shown her how to survive cancer and be an overcomer.
Soon, another knock on the door cued Rachel that her time had come. The two stepped out of the dressing room and waited for their moment to walk down the aisle. Rachel exhaled and craned her neck to get a peek at Nicholas through the double doors to the sanctuary. He stood tall, handsome, and expectant. Rachel had attended weddings where some grooms seemed nervous—not her husband-to-be. That was a good sign.
As the organist struck the “Wedding March” opening chords, Rachel fell into step with Mother Jenkins, who took her duty as her escort to another level, acting more like a blushing bride herself with smiles and nods to the guests until Nicholas left his post and met them halfway.
“I’ll take it from here, Mother Jenkins,” Nicholas said but didn’t take his eyes off Rachel.
“You’d better, or you answer to the Lord, then me. She’s like one of my daughters.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nicholas said and had to tug Rachel away from the woman.
Rachel hugged Mother Jenkins, then continued her journey to the altar with her bridegroom.
Once they stood facing each other in front of Pastor Mann, Nicholas whispered, “My beautiful bride. Nervous?” he asked as she shivered.
“A little,” Rachel admitted. This was another unknown turning point in her life.
“I’m not,” he said, lifting an eyebrow with a determined look in his eyes.
The pastor cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join Rachel Knicely and Nicholas Adams in holy matrimony…”
Rachel was drawn into Nicholas’s stare. She could never doubt his love.
“Do you, Nicholas, take Rachel to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse…”
“I most certainly do,” he responded loudly.
“That’s right,” Mother Jenkins echoed from her seat in the first row.
When it was Rachel’s turn, she repeated her vows and stumbled at until death do us part, but Nicholas rubbed her fingers and whispered, “It’s all right, baby.”
And she needed his comforting reassurance, because neither knew whether the cancer would return, but Nicholas said to trust God, and she would follow his lead.
“By the power vested in me by God and man, I pronounce you husband and wife.”
Nicholas stepped closer to lift her veil, but their pastor halted him.
“Therefore, what God has joined together, let no man or woman come between you.” He nodded. “Minister Adams, you may now salute your wife.”
Rachel closed her eyes to accept the kiss she had been waiting for since the day they’d admitted their attraction.
Wow. Aunt Tweet might not be here, but she would surely say, “Now, that’s a whopper!”
Author’s Note
I hope I inspired you with Rachel’s journey from being a caregiver to needing a caregiver. Ministering to someone facing a serious illness takes a special gift from God. I was surprised to learn that those who minister to the sick are subjected to hostility as well as gratefulness. May God give them an extra portion of strength. I also wanted to highlight how fragile life can be regardless of age.
It was challenging writing this story, since I become my characters. I didn’t want to experience what Rachel did when she discovered the lump. I think I did more breast self-examinations while writing than I can remember ever doing before. Please remember to do your monthly self-exams and stay on top of your mammograms.
All my happy endings come courtesy of the Lord. If you enjoyed this story, please tell a friend and/or purchase a copy for her, then please don’t forget to post a review.
Until Kym Knicely’s story, be blessed, and happy reading!
Pat
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to craft a believable, inspiring, and enjoyable story.
A special thanks to LaTonya Wilson who is a three-time breast cancer survivor. She took the time to answer my questions about her personal journey.
Thanks to Sister Turquiose Hamilton, a mechanical design engineer, who gave me the jumpstart to research Rachel’s career.
Thank you #TeamPat: Chandra Sparks Splond, Stacey Jefferson, and Jackie Roberts. You are my village. Thanks to my poor husband, Kerry, who had to tape movies for us to watch later because I was working on the story. Maybe we can catch up on last year’s Christmas movies.
Thank you to all the editors at Sourcebooks, especially Deb Werksman, and to my agent, Evan Marshall.
A big thanks to the readers, bloggers, and book clubs who have purchased and reviewed my books throughout my writing journey.
Be blessed!
Reading Group Guide
1. This series is centered around the life and experiences of a caregiver. Could you identify with any of these scenarios?
2. Talk about how you coped with the loss of an elderly relative.
3. Have you or someone close to you been affected by cancer?
4. If so, what was your inspiration for surviving?
5. Rachel had a support system, which included more than her sisters. Can you name them all?
6. Minister Adams was assigned to visit the sick and homebound. Was Rachel too close to his heart for him to be effective in her case?
7. Discuss Rachel’s attit
ude toward life before and after cancer.
Sometimes it takes a little nudge to believe…
Check out Marcus and Tabitha’s story of faith and surrender.
Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca
Chapter 1
Marcus Whittington wasn’t expecting to see a woman on his surveillance camera, trespassing on his domain. From time to time, he had seen maybe a stray dog. Never a lady who wore an oversize red hat that concealed her features as she strolled up to his house. According to his security video, this wasn’t her first visit.
This mystery person had commandeered his porch between 6:30 a.m. and 7:15 a.m., as if she owned the deed to his property. A couple of times, the chick sat like a statue for about ten minutes—it was seven minutes this morning—before hurrying off as if a dog were chasing her. He frowned as he rewound and reviewed the evidence again.
What was going on? Marcus had lived on Overdrive Court in Pasadena Hills, Missouri, for four years. The quiet suburban neighborhood was a hidden-in-plain-sight treasure, with an unmanned, majestic, sixty-five-foot Gothic tower at the Natural Bridge Road entrance. It served as a visual barrier that guarded its residents from the questionable, blighted North St. Louis city neighborhoods in transition. Clearly, security had been breached.
He didn’t have time for this. It was Monday morning, and he had to get to the office. Scratching his jaw, which demanded a razor, he decided to multitask and call the police as he shaved.
“911. What’s your emergency?” a male dispatcher answered.
“I’d like to report a strange woman making uninvited visits to my property.”
“Excuse me, sir?” The man paused. “Has your home been vandalized?”
“No.” His morning paper deliveries were untouched. “This woman just sits on my porch.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, a response came: “I’ll connect you to the nonemergency number, sir. Please hold.”
