Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Mr. Butler frowned. “Why wouldn’t I call you? Aren’t you the one in charge?”

  Anthony nodded. “Yes, sir, but I’ll be working out of state for a year or so. Steve’ll be in charge of the company while I’m gone.” It still seemed a little strange to state his plans out loud, but over the past few days he’d had time to adjust to the idea. At least the details were all falling into place nice and neat. An indication that God’s hand was in it, for sure.

  “I see. Well, thanks, but I want to do the finish work myself. Now that I’m retired, I have the time to spare, and my wife’ll be happy to send me out of the house for a few hours every day.” He chuckled and clapped Anthony on the shoulder. “I’ll give Steve a call if I discover I need some help, though. Thanks again. You fellows drive safe, now.” He glanced at the evening sky. “Looks like we’re gearing up for another summer storm. I don’t mind rain, but I sure don’t want tornadoes.”

  Anthony couldn’t argue with him. Tornadoes were never welcome. A hot, humid wind coming from the south hit the back of his neck, proof that the weather was changing. They’d better head for home quickly.

  He jogged to the tool trailer, where his team was gathered. “Everything loaded?”

  “And strapped down.” Steve Kanagy sent a slow look from the carriage house’s peak to the concrete footing. “Seems a little weird that this is the last building we’ll all work on together for a while.”

  Myron scuffed his toe against the ground. “It probably sounds funny since I was one of the first ones to say I wanted to go, but now that we’re done here, it makes me a little sad to split up the team.”

  The men murmured, glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

  Anthony slung his arm across Myron’s shoulders. “Do you want to offer the blessing?”

  Myron’s eyebrows rose. “Me? Really?”

  At the close of every project, Anthony or one of his team gave a prayer of blessing for the building and those who would use it. Generally one of the older members volunteered to pray, but it was time for these younger ones to do more than listen. Especially since they’d be leaving the oldest employees of Hirschler Construction behind on Friday.

  Anthony grinned. “Sure.”

  Myron sent a quick, nervous look around the circle of men, but then he squared his shoulders and nodded. “All right. Let’s pray.”

  They all bowed their heads, and Anthony closed his eyes. Myron might’ve acted nervous, but when he started speaking to God, his voice came out strong and sure. He thanked God for the safety they’d enjoyed while they worked, asked Him to bless the building for good use and keep His hand of protection and blessing on every person who entered it, and closed with a request for safe travel back to Pine Hill. Then he paused and cleared his throat several times. Finally he spoke again.

  “Please be with us, our loving God and Father, as we part ways and serve You from different places. Continue to bless the work of our hands. I ask these things in the name of our Savior and Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the men echoed, and Anthony lifted his head to discover that several of the men’s eyes were sheeny with moisture. He swallowed the knot that formed in his throat. He’d have a hard time telling these hardworking, dependable men goodbye. Just as saying goodbye to his brother, Rex, would be hard. But he’d go. The potential profit was too good to ignore, and he couldn’t yank away the only thing that had put joy in Marty’s eyes again. Yes, it would be hard to part ways, as Myron had put it. At least the separation would be temporary.

  He edged toward the truck’s cab. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

  15

  Kansas City

  Brooke

  “Have you ever had an allergic reaction to an IV contrast?” The woman in pink scrubs that clashed horribly with her frizzy red ponytail waited, pencil hovering over the clipboard.

  Brooke stifled a sigh. Here she was, once again wearing a scratchy, uncomfortable hospital gown—this one in mustard yellow with grayish-blue piping. For the past half an hour, she’d sat on the end of a hip-high, paper-covered exam table and answered the seemingly endless list of questions. No, she wasn’t asthmatic, diabetic, a smoker, a drinker, suffering from kidney or heart disease…She was exceedingly healthy. Oh, except for this cancer that had invaded her body.

  When would the physician’s assistant cease with the inquisition and take her to get this test done? Marty, Anthony, and his team of workers were on the road, and she wanted to inspect the trailers before they arrived to make sure the person she’d hired to stock the fridges, put toilet paper in the bathrooms, and turn on the AC had done things according to her instructions. This would be Marty’s home—she wanted it to feel welcoming from the moment her friend stepped over the threshold.

  “Ms. Spalding?”

  Brooke gave a jolt. “What?”

  “Are you allergic to IV contrast dye?”

  “No.”

  The PA checked a little square.

  “But then, I’ve never had an IV contrast until today, so who knows what will happen.”

  The woman flipped the pencil around, applied the eraser, and then placed a check in a different box. She didn’t say anything, but her expression gave away mild irritation. Not that Brooke could blame her. She was being snarky. Deliberately so. A defense mechanism she’d drawn on in the past to keep herself from dissolving into wails of fear, anguish, or fury. The pressure building in her chest had to be expelled somehow, and being snarky seemed safer than running up and down the halls in this gaping gown, screeching like a banshee.

  What was a banshee, anyway?

  The PA, who’d introduced herself as Sandy—or was it Cindy?—set aside the clipboard and opened a drawer in the metal built-in station across from the table. She began removing various plastic-wrapped items and arranging them on a silver tray. “All right, Ms. Spalding, please lie back and make yourself comfortable.”

  Did they intend to wheel in a recliner and a plush robe? Because otherwise, comfort was an impossibility. Brooke stifled the snide remark and used her hands to scoot herself backward. The gown caught under her rear and pulled on the neckline, nearly strangling her. With a grunt, she lifted her bottom, treating herself to a stab of lower-back pain. Gritting her teeth, she released the gown and inched back until the split between the table’s square cushions met her tailbone. The halfway point. She flopped against the crisp cover on the pillow, grimacing at the crinkling noise it made. Nowhere except in a doctor’s office did a pillow make sounds like someone crumpling up a sheet of paper.

  She linked her hands on her belly and stared at the ceiling tiles. Muffled voices from the hallway drifted through the walls, and more unique-to-doctors’-offices sounds—plastic packages being torn open, latex gloves snapping into place, tools softly clinking on a metal tray—came from the station less than ten feet away. An acidic taste flooded her mouth, and she fought the urge to gag. She picked through the songs in her internal jukebox.

  As she chose Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” the PA turned and carried the tray to the table. When she set the tray next to Brooke’s hip, the stethoscope hanging around her neck like a snake charmer’s pet shifted, and Brooke got a glimpse of her name tag. Cyndi. Brooke set the song aside and repeated the name in her head as a distraction from the items on the tray.

  Cyndi smiled down at Brooke. “Now, I know you’re uptight.” An understatement. “But try to relax. I’m going to insert an IV line in the back of your hand, and it will hurt a lot less if you aren’t tensing up.”

  Brooke nodded, raising another round of crinkling from the pillow.

  The PA tied a rubber strip around Brooke’s upper arm and then lightly patted the back of her hand, her red brows pulled into a V of concentration. The scent of alcohol reached Brooke’s nose, and something cool brushed across the back of her hand. In her peripheral vision,
Brooke saw the woman pick up a needle the size of a drinking straw. She whisked her gaze to the ceiling tiles. So goodbye, yellow brick road, where the dogs of society howl…The lyrics rolled while Brooke waited, staring at the ceiling tiles and anticipating the jab.

  “All done.”

  Brooke blinked in surprise. “Done? I didn’t even feel it.”

  Cyndi laughed softly. “We try to make things as painless as we can.” She gripped Brooke’s elbow and helped her sit up.

  Brooke stared at the thin plastic tube with a stopper-like cap taped to her hand. The woman removed the rubber strip, and tingles went down Brooke’s arm, as if a thousand ants raced for a finish line. She rubbed her arm, careful not to bump the thin tube. “I hope that’s true of everything you do here.”

  Her smile intact, Cyndi gave Brooke’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “A lab tech will be here soon to wheel you to imaging. You can either lie back and relax or wait in a chair.”

  Brooke preferred the chair. At least it wasn’t covered in paper. She slid off the table, holding the gown closed in the back with her tube-free hand, and settled herself in the standard doctor’s office vinyl chair.

  Cyndi dumped the contents of the tray into various small plastic bins and handed Brooke the bag holding her clothes, shoes, and purse. “You’ll want to take this with you since you’ll leave after the CT scan. You’d probably rather not go home in the hospital gown.”

  She got that right.

  “You came alone today, didn’t you?”

  Brooke blinked twice, surprised by the question. “Yes, I did.”

  The PA’s expression turned serious. “That’s fine, but from here on out, you’ll need to have someone else with you.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To drive you home.” Cyndi grimaced slightly, and sympathy glimmered in her eyes. “It’s never wise to drive right after surgery, and the treatments that will follow when you’ve recovered from surgery could leave you weak and overly tired. Until you know for sure how the treatment will affect you, it’s best to have someone available to drive for you.”

  Probably, but Brooke didn’t have anyone to call. Except Marty. Although she’d rather face a herd of spiders than battle cancer, the timing of the Hirschlers’ arrival suddenly seemed fortuitous. Her heart gave an unexpected flutter. “All right.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

  Tell me this is all a nightmare. Brooke swallowed the pointless comment. “Actually, if there are socks around somewhere, my feet are freezing.”

  Cyndi nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks.”

  In only a few minutes, Cyndi returned with a pair of purple fuzzy socks that clashed horribly with Brooke’s mustard gown. Apparently no one in this place knew how to coordinate colors. “Here we are.” Brooke expected the woman to drop the socks in her lap and leave, but Cyndi knelt in front of Brooke and reached for her feet. Brooke stared at the woman’s hands sliding the socks into place, the process efficient yet gentle.

  Once Brooke’s feet were covered, Cyndi gave them a light squeeze and looked up with a smile. “Better?”

  Brooke couldn’t recall the last time someone had done something so kind for her. She battled a rush of tears she didn’t understand. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Cyndi rose and headed for the door again. “Now, remember…relax. The test will be over soon.”

  Brooke cradled the bag in her lap. She wanted the test over. She wanted the treatment over. She wanted everything over. Except her life. She did not want this to be the beginning of the end of her life.

  Near Eagle Creek, Kansas

  Marty

  A jolt bounced Marty’s head against a hard surface, jarring her from sleep. She straightened, blinking, and rubbed the tight muscles in her neck. A peek out the truck’s window gave her a view of four lanes of traffic divided by a grassy median and lined by thick trees. She frowned. Where had the gently rolling, grass-covered land with sporadic clumps of scraggly trees gone? She must have slept longer than she’d intended.

  She turned to Anthony, who stared straight ahead at the highway, one hand on the steering wheel and the other draped over the fold-down armrest between the seats. “Where are we?”

  He glanced at her, a half grin creasing his cheek. “On I-35.”

  “In Kansas or Missouri?”

  “Kansas. We crossed the Missouri River a few miles back. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you.”

  She yawned and waved her hand. “It’s all right. I saw the Wabash and the Illinois. The Missouri couldn’t look much different.” She shifted in the seat, grimacing. Although their little caravan made up of Anthony’s pickup, Myron Mast’s pickup, and Nate Schrock’s Buick had stopped at a fast-food restaurant, two gas stations, and a rest area along the way, her hips ached from the hours spent in the truck’s cab. She was ready for this trip to end. “How much farther?”

  Anthony sent a grin in her direction. “Not much. The exit for Lansing is just ahead, and according to the directions Brooke sent, it’s only sixteen miles to Lansing once we hit the exit. Eagle Creek is only three miles north of Lansing.”

  “Lansing…” Marty pressed her memory. “Is that the town where Brooke said we’d shop for groceries?”

  “It’s also where we’ll attend church.” Anthony glanced in the rearview mirror, then aimed his gaze out the front window. “Depending on traffic, and if no one needs to stop for gas or use a restroom, we should pull into Eagle Creek in half an hour.”

  Marty squinted at her wristwatch. “So…around four thirty.”

  “Four thirty Indiana time. Remember, Kansas is different.”

  “That’s right.” She pulled the crown and twisted, winding the minute hand backward a full rotation. Anticipation quivered through her frame. “Three thirty, then. I wonder if Brooke will be there to greet us.”

  Anthony slid his hand from the armrest to her wrist and gave it a light squeeze. “Stop worrying. She’ll be there.”

  Marty hoped so. She’d received a telephone call from Brooke yesterday afternoon, and although she sounded more like herself than she had on Monday, she mentioned a Friday doctor’s appointment that might run late. But she hadn’t answered Marty’s query about what kind of appointment. Brooke had never wanted to talk much about her personal life. Apparently that hadn’t changed.

  She tried to imagine what Brooke would look like now. In her mind’s eye she envisioned the teenage Brooke—a tall, slender girl with thick, straight, waist-length brown hair. Hair that was usually tousled as if she’d forgotten to brush it. Marty always envied Brooke’s green eyes with their flecks of gold. Those eyes always seemed wary, and her full pink lips rarely smiled. Unless the two of them were alone. Somehow Marty always managed to coax a smile and sometimes a genuine laugh from her friend.

  Such an unusual pair they’d made, Marty in her prim dresses and simple braids, Brooke in her T-shirts and overalls and uncombed hair. Their outsides hadn’t mattered to them. They had a heart connection Marty still couldn’t explain. She only knew it was there and had somehow remained strong despite time and distance. Mother had been apprehensive when Marty and Brooke formed a friendship, but later—much later, after Marty was finished with her education—Mother referred to Brooke as Marty’s soul sister. The title fit. Marty could hardly wait to see Brooke in person, to pick up where they’d left off over twenty years ago, to laugh and talk late into the night, the way soul sisters should.

  She placed her hands on the dash and peered ahead, eagerness making her insides dance. “Can we hurry, please?”

  He chuckled. “Marty, I’m driving as fast as I can. Any faster and the trailer fishtails too much.”

  She sagged against the seat. “I’m sorry for being impatient. I guess I’m not a very good traveler.”

  “I think you�
�re just excited about seeing your friend again after so many years.”

  She gawked at him, her mouth falling open. Maybe her husband knew her better than she’d given him credit for.

  He grinned. “Not much longer now. Maybe twenty minutes. Can you wait that long?”

  She grinned back. “If I have to.”

  He laughed.

  She turned her gaze to the window and willed the miles to pass quickly.

  They drove straight through the town of Lansing and continued north on a curving two-lane highway lined by thick trees. After only a few miles, Anthony reduced his speed and searched the right-hand side of the road. “Watch for a sign or a break in the trees. The turnoff should be close.”

  Marty sat on the edge of the seat and scanned the area. Despite her careful attention, they drove past the turnoff before she realized it was there.

  Anthony rolled to a stop alongside the road, put the truck in park, and hopped out. Nate’s car and Myron’s truck stopped, too, and the drivers joined Anthony on the grassy shoulder. Marty turned sideways in the seat and watched the men engage in what her father would have called a powwow—gesturing hands, serious expressions, and a bit of pacing. Anthony pointed to the dirt road they’d passed, Myron nodded, and the three separated and returned to their vehicles.

  She faced forward again as Anthony climbed in behind the wheel. “Is it the right spot?”

  “There’s no sign, but it’s the right distance from Lansing. Myron’s gonna drive in a ways, make sure it’s where we’re supposed to go before I take the trailer in. There might not be a place to turn around if it proves to be wrong.”

  Marty chewed her thumbnail and watched the opening in the trees. Several minutes crept by before Myron’s truck reappeared. He drove up beside Anthony, and Myron’s passenger, Lucas, rolled down his window. Anthony did the same.

  “This’s gotta be it.” Lucas’s tone and expression held the same excitement Marty felt. “A mile in, there’s a huge iron gate standing open and a row of trailer houses inside to the left and a street of old rock buildings about a hundred yards beyond the gate.”