by Irene Hannon
Besides, she knew—better than Susan—how her mother had struggled to build a new life. All because she’d put her hopes and dreams into the hands of a man she’d trusted. A man she’d believed would take care of her and love her all the days of her life.
A man who had failed her.
“Mom got hurt very badly, Susan. I’m not going to judge her after all these years.”
“I don’t want to be judgmental, either. I’m just trying to get you to recognize there are two sides to this story. And you’ve never heard Dad’s.”
As the conversation grew more heated, the wisdom of their decision to make their father a taboo topic was reinforced for Heather. Even this short discussion had created an uncomfortable tension between them.
When the silence lengthened, her sister sighed. “Dad’s never stopped loving you, you know.”
Heather felt the pressure of tears in her throat. Swallowed past it. “Look, I have to run. I’ve got a full house today, and I need to do some more baking. How do you want to handle telling Brian about this?”
“I’ll call him tonight. And I’ll keep praying you change your mind.”
As the line went dead and Heather dropped the phone back into its cradle, Susan’s last comment reminded her again of the ill-advised prayer she’d offered not long ago, asking the Lord to give her something to think about besides J.C.
What was it Oscar Wilde had written? Something to the effect that when the gods want to punish us, they answer our prayers?
Maybe everything that had happened in the past few weeks to upset her life was one big cosmic joke, Heather mused.
But if it was, she wasn’t laughing.
And to make matters worse, she had a sinking feeling the joke wasn’t over yet.
As promised, Susan called again that night to give Brian the news about his grandfather.
He didn’t take it well.
Heather heard him slam the back door as she was trying, with very little success, to focus on her business expenses spreadsheet. She’d been tense and distracted since getting the news, too.
Closing the document, she went in search of her nephew. She found him in the garden, by the birdbath, hands shoved in pockets, face mutinous in profile. Looking like he was ready to kick something again.
“Is this one of those times you might need a hug?”
At her quiet question, he turned toward her. “That won’t make Grandpa better.”
“No. But it might help us feel better.”
He swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “You don’t even care about him.”
“I care about you. And we’ve talked about why your grandfather and I went our separate ways.”
“But he loves you!” Brian shoved his hands into his pockets and faced her. “Did you know he carries an old picture of you in his wallet? I saw it last year, when he was buying me a candy bar. It’s all yellow and beat-up around the edges.”
Heather’s heart did a quickstep. Was it possible her father continued to keep her picture with him? After twenty years?
“And he’s told me a lot of stories about when you and Mom were little. How you used to go down to the riverfront to watch the fireworks under the Arch on the Fourth of July. How he used to fix your dolls and your bicycles and even a dancing shoe once, right before your recital, at his tool bench in the garage. How you used to take picnics to Hawn State Park in the fall and hike along Pickle Creek.”
Thrown off balance by a sudden rush of memories, Heather sank onto the wooden bench beside her.
“Don’t you remember any of that, Aunt Heather?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat to dispel the hoarseness. “We had a good life. That’s why it hurt so much when your grandfather destroyed it.”
“But it’s not too late to rebuild some of it. He’s a really good guy.”
“Too many years have gone by, Brian.”
“Mom says it’s never too late to try to fix problems.”
As he sank down on the other end of the bench, a cardinal settled on the birdbath. The concrete bowl was dry, Heather noted. A lapse on her part, thanks to all the upheaval in her life in recent weeks. She needed to replenish it.
And perhaps she needed to replenish her well of compassion, too.
Jolted by that radical thought, she tried to dismiss it. Tried to tell herself she had justifiable reasons for the choices she’d made about her father.
But J.C. could have said the same thing about his relationship with his brother, her conscience reminded her. Yet in spite of all Nathan has done to disrupt his life, he’s never written him off or shut him out.
Heather couldn’t refute the truth of that. And it was also a pretty powerful witness to the principles that guided J.C.’s life. He might not talk much about his faith unless prompted. But he lived its key tenets.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, Aunt Heather. I just feel real bad about Grandpa.”
At Brian’s subdued comment, she turned to him. “It’s okay. I know how hard it is when someone you love gets sick. That’s how I felt about your grandma.”
“She was a cool lady.”
“Yes, she was.” Heather’s voice scraped on the last word.
“Do you think I could have that hug now?”
“You bet.”
But as Brian wrapped her in his skinny adolescent arms, Heather knew she needed the comfort more than he did.
Chapter Twelve
“Happy early Fourth of July to my favorite sister.”
A groggy groan greeted J.C.’s salutation. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“It’s only eight-thirty in Chicago. Call me back in a couple of hours.”
“No can do. I’m going to church. And I’ve got other commitments later.” J.C. picked up a mug of coffee from the counter in the tiny kitchenette of his cottage. “Did you work late?”
“Yeah.” Marci stifled a yawn. “And I have to be back at eleven.”
“I thought you were going to relax a little this summer. What’s with all the long hours?”
“Bills, big brother. Bills.”
“Do you have some unusual expenses?” He kept his tone conversational, knowing he was treading on delicate ground. Even when she was in dire straits, she never took a dime from him. Instead, she worked longer hours waitressing at Ronnie’s Diner—a dive with a questionable clientele. As far as he was concerned, she was too independent for her own good. An opinion she did not share.
“The rent on my apartment is going up in August.” She yawned again. “I want to stockpile some funds to cover it before school starts. And they’re hiking up the tuition again this year, too. So what’s up with you?”
Her message was clear: the subject of her finances was closed.
“I do have some news. My sergeant called on Thursday. They found out why the bust went bad.”
“What happened?” The last vestiges of sleep vanished from her voice.
“Someone connected with the drug ring spotted me at Pontiac when Nathan had appendicitis.”
“Another inmate?”
“No. A visitor.”
“How did he know you were a cop?”
“He asked the guy he came to see to grill Nathan about me.”
Several beats of silence ticked by as she arrived at the conclusion he was trying to dismiss.
“Nathan set you up.”
“My sergeant doesn’t think so. He doubts Nathan knew why the guy was asking about me.”
“But he could have.” Marci’s words simmered with anger. J.C. took another swig of coffee. The brew tasted bitter against his tongue, and he set it aside. “It’s a huge leap from alienation to malice, Marci. I choose not to believe it was intentional.”
“You need to write him off, J.C.” Frustration nipped at her words. “I know you want to keep your promise to Mom, but you’ve gone above and beyond. She wouldn’t expect the impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible with God.”
“This w
ould take a miracle.”
“Those can happen.” J.C. checked his watch. “Listen, I have to run. I’m hitching a ride to church, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Whoops. Big mistake, he realized.
“You’re riding to church with a woman?”
There was no way out now. “Yeah. And her nephew. She runs the tearoom next door.”
“Is she single?”
“I didn’t come here for romance, Marci.”
“So she’s available? Cool!”
“Don’t push on this unless you want me to reciprocate.”
He knew that would end the discussion. His sister was as bristly as a porcupine whenever he asked about her social life. As far as he could tell, she didn’t have one. And he hadn’t a clue why. Not only did she have blond good looks and a centerfold figure, she was smart and funny. But whenever the topic arose, she closed up tight as a Nantucket clam.
True to form, she changed the subject. “Fine. I wouldn’t want you to be late for church, anyway. Listen—say a prayer for me if you think about it, okay?”
The hint of wistfulness in her request took him off guard.
“I always do. And I’ll call you again next week.”
“I know. You always were the dependable type.” There was silence for a second, and when she continued, a tremor ran through her words. “Look, I don’t want to get mushy or anything, but…you’re a good guy, J.C. Thanks for sticking with me.”
As they hung up, Marci’s words warmed him.
But whether it was wise or not, he couldn’t help wishing a certain tearoom owner shared his sister’s sentiment.
Heather felt like a fraud.
As she and J.C. entered the small church, Brian a step behind them, it seemed as if every head turned in their direction. Most of the faces were unfamiliar. But she did spot Julie and Todd. Kate and Craig from next door were there, too. Although Maddie and Vicki, their two children, grinned and waved, all four of the adult demeanors registered surprise.
But no one appeared more taken aback than Edith.
The older woman’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she caught sight of them. Leaning close to Chester, she whispered in his ear. A moment later the older man twisted their way, his welcoming grin and wink easing some of the tension in Heather’s shoulders.
If J.C. was aware of the interested glances their entrance was attracting, he ignored them. Ushering her into a pew about halfway back on the opposite side from Edith, he sat beside her.
Despite his reassuring smile, Heather still felt like a phony. How in the world had she allowed herself to be talked into this? Even her beloved mother had only managed to persuade her to attend services twice.
But since she was here, she supposed she might as well approach it with an open mind.
The music was pleasant, she decided. In place of booming hymns pounded out on an organ, expressive piano renderings filled the modest chapel. And the Bible passages read by a kind-faced middle-aged minister were thought provoking.
But much to her surprise, it was the Fourth of July–themed sermon that gripped her. Especially the conclusion.
“As you know, we live in a country that was founded and has flourished on the principles of self-reliance and freedom,” the minister told the congregation. “A nation where individual rights are respected and protected. Yet despite our firm belief in independence and personal freedom, our country couldn’t function without laws. Imagine New York City or Chicago without traffic regulations.”
He leaned forward, his posture earnest. “I doubt any of us would advocate doing away with civil laws. Yet how often we chafe against God’s laws—the ones that prevent traffic jams in our souls and preserve order in our spiritual lives. My friends, those laws don’t restrict or confine us. They set us free to journey on the path we were meant to travel. Can you imagine what a wonderful world this would be if we followed God’s laws and embraced the principles of love, charity and forgiveness? If we let go of old grudges and opened ourselves to new life?
“This week, as we celebrate the birthday of our country and the freedoms it protects, I’d like to suggest that you give yourselves a present—the spiritual freedom that comes from following the laws our Lord gave us. Put your trust in them—and in Him. Because only by doing that do we find the lasting peace and serenity and order that offer us true freedom.”
As the service continued, Heather mulled over the man’s words. For years she’d avoided relying on anything or anyone. Especially religion, with the attendant rules she viewed as confining and controlling. Yet the minister’s comments resonated with her. She understood the need for order. That was why she had standard operating procedures for her business—and her life. Those self-imposed rules stabilized her world and allowed her to work more efficiently.
Might faith provide a similar framework on a spiritual level? Help her put some order into those aspects of her life where she was floundering?
That notion held a certain appeal.
Yet faith required trust. And forgiveness. Two major stumbling blocks for her.
It was a dilemma she had no idea how to resolve.
Fifteen minutes later, as the closing notes of the final hymn died away, she was still struggling with that quandary as J.C. leaned toward her.
“Well…what did you think?”
She turned toward him. Attired today in a subtly patterned sport jacket that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, a cream-colored shirt, and beige slacks that hinted at his muscular legs, he oozed magnetism. It was no wonder every woman in the church seemed to be looking at him.
“The sermon was interesting.”
“Aunt Heather, could we go to Downyflake? Everyone hangs out there after church.” Brian dropped into step behind them as they exited the pew.
“Sure. Unless J.C. needs to get home.”
“Nope. A sugar doughnut from The Flake sounds perfect.”
Perfect.
The word echoed in her mind as J.C. took her arm while they descended the front steps of the church.
Because that was how it felt when she was by his side.
Two days later, when the doorbell rang at The Devon Rose, Heather pulled off her baking mitts and checked the clock. J.C. was a little early, but that was okay. She hadn’t seen much of him since Sunday, thanks to his longer-than-usual holiday hours. And she’d missed him.
That was why she’d jumped at his offer to pick up Brian from today’s youth group outing. With a private holiday-eve tea booked for this afternoon—and neither Edith nor Julie available to help—it was going to be crazy.
Brushing a spattering of flour off her denim-clad leg, she headed for the hall. It was odd that J.C. had come to the front door, but perhaps he was on his way back from an errand.
Trying to suppress an anticipatory surge of adrenaline, she took a calming breath, smiled, pulled open the door…and froze.
“Hello, Heather.”
As she stared at the older man on her doorstep, a rushing sound filled her ears, rocking her world. Although white hair had replaced brown, the once-smooth brow had become creased by two decades of living, and the broad shoulders she remembered had rounded, she’d recognize her father’s voice anywhere.
Her fingers twitched on the door as her instincts screamed at her to slam it in his face.
As if sensing her intent, Walter Anderson wrapped one hand around the door frame, his expression pleading. “Please, Heather. Give me five minutes.”
Panic numbed her. She couldn’t shut the door without mashing his fingers. But she didn’t have to talk to him. She wouldn’t talk to him.
Backing up, she edged the door to within inches of his knuckles. “I have nothing to say to you.” Strain choked her voice.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just listen. Please. I came a long way to see you.”
“You wasted your time.”
A spasm of pain writhed across his face. “I can’t leave without talking to you.”
“Then you’ll be here a long time.” Heather tightened her grip on the edge of the door.
A faint knock echoed behind her, and she grasped that excuse to end the encounter. “There’s someone at my back door. I have to go.”
Her father hesitated. Dropped his hand and withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket. Held it out. “This is my cell phone number if you change your mind. Please take it.”
She looked down at the paper in his unsteady fingers. In the background, the dustiness of his shoes registered on some peripheral level. That wasn’t like him. Walter Anderson had always been a stickler about polished shoes. And these had clocked a lot of miles. She could see they were worn at the edges. He must have…
Another knock sounded at the rear of the house, and she retreated a step, ignoring the paper.
As she pushed the door closed, she took one last look at him.
And was sorry she had.
Tears were welling in his eyes.
A shock wave rippled through her. No matter what blow life had dealt, her father had always remained in control. He’d been the kind of invincible man a daughter could look up to. The kind she could trust to take care of her. To make things right when everything went wrong. To solve her problems.
But in the end, Walter Anderson had turned out to be the biggest problem of all.
And it appeared she’d been wrong about the strong part, too. Or maybe life after the divorce had beaten him down. The weary slump of his shoulders, the deep-seated fatigue in his eyes, the physique bordering on gaunt suggested life hadn’t been easy for the man she’d once idolized.
But that wasn’t her problem, she reminded herself, doing her best to snuff out the compassion her father’s tears had kindled. He’d created his own problems.
Turning away, she shut the door.
And started to shake.
Another knock sounded on the back door, this one more forceful.
J.C.
Willing her trembling legs to carry her forward, she stumbled through the house and opened the back door.
