Forgiven

by Karen Kingsbury

  They’d been talking for twenty minutes, and the whole time he’d wanted to take her in his arms. Now he couldn’t take another breath without reaching for her. He put one hand around her waist and the other along the back of her head. “Come here, Katy. Please.”

  She came, but he could sense her reluctance. Only after they drew together in what was now a familiar embrace did he feel her relax in his arms. “Dayne . . .” She pressed the side of her face against his chest and clung to him. “How come I can’t just walk away?”

  He kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Maybe you’re not supposed to.”

  “But I am supposed to.” She looked up, and there was alarm in her eyes. “If there’s no future for us—and there isn’t—then I need to be your friend. Nothing more. Nothing that would—”

  He lowered his face to hers and kissed her, silenced her the only way he knew how. Not by his kiss so much, but by showing her how wrong she was. They could never be only friends—never. Fate might not give them a chance to be together, but there was no point lying to each other.

  The kiss grew and became two kisses and then three, and Dayne felt himself falling, losing control. She must’ve sensed it too because her breathing came faster, and in a sudden rush she pushed back from him, her eyes wide. “We can’t, Dayne. No.” She took a step toward the parking lot, her eyes clear and determined in the fading light. “I promised myself this wouldn’t happen. It’s not . . . it’s not why I wanted to see you.”

  He felt a ribbon of anger tie itself around his soul. “And what was, Katy?” Her kiss still burned on his lips. He didn’t want to fight with her, not now. But he had to make his point. “Was it this?” He lifted the brown sack and held it out to her. “You came to warn me away from Kabbalah and turn me back to God?” He set the bag down and gave a single laugh. “Is that all this is for you?”

  “Of course not.” She moved away from him. “But I have to answer to that same God. And right now I can’t think of a single good reason why I should be standing here in the woods kissing you.”

  Her words were like so many knives stripping away everything wonderful about the way he’d felt a few moments ago. He stared at her, baffled. “Not one good reason, Katy?” His voice was much softer than before, the control back. “We care about each other, right? Isn’t that enough?” She shook her head and backed away in the direction of the parking lot. “No, Dayne. It’s not enough. In a few days you’ll leave here and walk out of my life forever. And what then? What am I supposed to do with my feelings for you?”

  “What am I supposed to do with mine?” He thought of something. “Don’t forget the trial. We’ll be together again whether you like it or not.”

  “That isn’t the point.” Her eyes filled up, and she looked away. “It’s like I said before. What we have here or at the football stadium or out jogging—it’s all pretend. Your life doesn’t have room for me, Dayne.”

  He looked at her, looked beyond her fears. “And yours has no room for me, either.”

  “Exactly.” She spoke the word with finality and defeat. Her tears spilled onto her face and shone in the dusk. “We found each other so I could show you the way back to God.” She pointed to the brown bag beside him. “I did that.” Another step backward. “Now I have to go.”

  “Katy . . . wait.”

  She shook her head and turned away. Then she ran back down the path, sprinting as if she were terrified he’d come after her. Not because she didn’t trust him. Because she didn’t trust herself. He could see that now. The humid air filled his lungs, making the ache in his heart worse. He picked up the brown bag and waited. After a minute he heard an engine start up and the sound of a car driving away. She didn’t have to worry. He wouldn’t go after her, not if she didn’t want to be caught.

  Stars were piercing the dark sky by the time he reached the parking lot. He slid the bag onto the passenger seat and drove all the way back to the hotel in silence. When he reached his parking spot near the back entrance of the Holiday Inn, he saw a lone photographer sitting in a car nearby.

  The man leaned through the window and snapped a round of pictures.

  Dayne stared at the guy and uttered a sad-sounding laugh. “You people never give up, do you?” He said it loud enough for the photographer to hear him.

  “It’s a job,” the guy said. Then he held up his camera and clicked again.

  “Well . . .” Dayne smiled and waved. He wouldn’t give the guy the satisfaction of a single usable photo. No frustrated looks or angry eyes, nothing. He took a step closer, the smile frozen in place. “You’re too late this time, buddy. You missed the story.”

  With that, he took his brown paper bag and headed into the hotel. Only then did the shock wear off a little, enough so that he could think about what Katy had said. How he needed to find his way back to God, and that maybe she had been brought into his life to show him the way. But there was something Katy didn’t understand, no matter how many times he tried to explain it to her. The God she was trying to point him to? That same God had taken everything important from him—his birth parents, his adoptive parents, his chance at a family.

  He thought about the rest of what she’d said, how she owed it to God to stay away from him, to let him go. Didn’t it just figure? God had taken everything else. And now He’d taken the thing that hurt him most of all.

  He’d taken her.

  Everyone else was ready, but Ashley still had curlers in her shoulder-length hair. Landon wouldn’t mind. He knew that every now and then she ran a little late. Besides, the dinner tonight at her father’s house was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a time for all of them to get together and catch up.

  They would talk about Annie and the sets and how the kids were coming along in their grief over losing their friends. Dayne Matthews and his movie crew had gone back to Hollywood, and they’d probably touch on that, and about how much calmer the town was without the commotion of a film team in the middle of town.

  She’d spoken to Katy twice since they left, but she was quiet about Dayne. Whatever had come of their time together, she wasn’t talking about it. Almost as if she wanted to forget she’d ever known him.

  That wouldn’t come up at dinner, because Ashley hadn’t told anyone but Landon and Kari about Katy’s connection with Dayne Matthews, and they knew the matter was private. But the family was bound to talk about how the farmers’ market would be saner now, and maybe her father would give more details about his friendship with Elaine Denning.

  They’d all be there, after all. Dad had said they’d call Luke and Erin and talk to them on speaker. That way it would feel like they were all together again. Those two and Landon and Cole and her, Kari and her family. Brooke, of course . . .

  Ashley set her lipstick down. Brooke! Of course Brooke would be there. She gasped and jogged down the hallway to the kitchen. She’d forgotten all about the letter, the one she’d found in her parents’ room. Here she’d been trying to do her dad a favor by getting it to Brooke sooner than he might’ve, and now it had sat in her purse for three weeks. Way too long! She grabbed her bag and scurried to the bedroom. Her dad probably wondered what had happened to the letter. She hadn’t even remembered to tell him she took it!

  Ashley . . . you’re so scatterbrained, she chided herself and took a seat on the edge of the bed. What if it had fallen out? Her purse was never exactly in one safe spot. Sometimes she’d leave it on the floor of her car or tossed onto the backseat. The letter was obviously something special, written by their mother just for Brooke.

  Her heart skittered about anxiously as she dug through the side pocket. It didn’t settle back to normal until her hand made contact with the envelope, stuffed near the bottom of the bag. She pulled it out and frowned. It was bent in half, with a smudge across the right corner.

  How could she be so careless? The letter had stayed in her father’s possession since her mother’s death, in the box on the closet shelf, no doubt. And now she’d let it get al
l tattered. If it weren’t for her mother’s writing across the front, she’d put it in a new envelope.

  She stared at it a little longer. Her curlers hung on either side of her face, and she gave them a little shake. They were still warm against her cheeks, which meant she had another five minutes at least before she could take them out. So . . . what had her mother written to Brooke, anyway? And why just to her firstborn? Was there something special, some words of wisdom she wanted to give Brooke that the others didn’t need?

  The possibility seemed strange, not at all like her mother.

  A memory came back to her, the hours just after her mother’s funeral. Her father had gathered Ashley and her siblings together and read them an important letter their mother had written to them. All five of them. In that letter, their mother had addressed them each by name.

  So why a sealed envelope marked Firstborn?

  Ashley turned the envelope over in her hand and noticed another smudge on the back. Cole’s Teddy Grahams probably. They were spilled throughout the same side pocket, and a few of them had morphed into a mass of fine cracker dust. Ashley brushed at the spot with her thumb as the memory from after her mother’s funeral lingered.

  Her dad had put the letter—the one addressed to the kids—back into a single manila envelope; only there had been two more smaller envelopes inside it, right? The details were getting clearer now. She had noticed the other envelopes and asked him about them. “What about the other letters, the ones still in the envelope?”

  Yes, she definitely remembered asking him about it. And he’d said the others were for him. Ashley blinked and ran her fingers over the sealed edge of the envelope. That didn’t really make sense, either. Why would Mother write one letter for her children and two for her husband? Ashley tapped the letter with her pointer finger.

  Suddenly another few pieces from the past came into focus. The letter had been on the floor next to a manila envelope when she found it three weeks ago. So maybe it was the same manila envelope.

  She studied the letter in her hand. Perhaps this was one of the letters her father hadn’t pulled out, one of them he said was for him. A strange queasiness made its way through her veins. Why would her mother have something special to say just to Brooke? And why wouldn’t her father have shared that letter at the same time, while they were all gathered together? He could’ve at least given it to her.

  She breathed out and realized that her heart was pounding.

  “Ashley . . .” It was Landon, calling from another room. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost,” she yelled, all the while staring at the letter, barely able to breathe. “Just a minute.”

  Panic and fear sat on either side of her, poking at her, laughing at her. This is ridiculous. She set the letter down on the bedspread and felt her curlers. They were cool now; she could take them out. If she sat here long enough her imagination was bound to run away with her. It was what made her a good artist.

  She would put the letter back in her purse, give it to Brooke tonight, and never think about it again. Her legs tightened and she started to stand, but instead she dropped back down on the edge of the bed. Was her father hiding the letter? She picked it up again and held it closer to her face, trying to see past the white envelope. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to read it, even Brooke. Maybe that’s why it had been in his room with the other letters.

  She recalled her father’s reaction, the way he’d sounded stern when he found her in their closet looking through her mother’s letter box. Maybe this firstborn letter was the reason he hadn’t wanted her looking around her mother’s letters in the first place. All because of something terribly important, terribly private that she’d written to Brooke.

  Was there something shocking surrounding Brooke’s birth, something none of them knew about? Even Brooke? Ashley slid the tip of her fingernail beneath the sealed flap. What would she want Brooke to do if things were turned around, if Brooke held a possibly ominous letter intended for her? In that case it might be better if Brooke read it first. That way, whatever the letter held, her sister could break the news to her gently.

  No, Brooke would never buy that argument.

  Ashley bit her lip. Of course, she could hardly hand Brooke a letter with Cole’s graham cracker crumbs smeared across it. Even if it did have their mother’s handwriting across the front. The letter needed a proper, clean white envelope, an envelope like the kind they kept downstairs in the computer desk. She worked her fingernail beneath the flap, just enough to lift a small curl of paper. Brooke wouldn’t want a letter from her mother in a dirty envelope. And, oh yes, she’d read the letter in the process.

  The moment it all came together, nothing in the world could’ve changed her mind. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out the letter. Her heart was galloping now, taking her imagination with it. But before she could think up another reason why her mother would write a letter to only Brooke, Ashley unfolded it, held it out, and began to read.

  My dearest firstborn, my son,

  My son? Ashley stopped there. What was this? All this time she’d thought the letter was from her mother, but maybe not. Obviously not. Her mother’s firstborn wasn’t a son; it was Brooke. In an instant, her gaze darted down the full page of text to the signature at the end, and only then did the room begin to tilt.

  In her mother’s handwriting, the letter was signed Your mother, Elizabeth Baxter.

  Ashley couldn’t draw a breath, couldn’t make her lungs work right. She looked at the first line again and frowned at the piece of paper. Maybe her mother was delusional when she’d written it—that’s why she’d written something so crazy. She let her eyes find the beginning again.

  My dearest firstborn, my son,

  If you are reading this, then you have found me. . . .

  The room tilted harder. Ashley gripped the edge of the bed with her free hand and squeezed her eyes shut. The words were far too lucid to be a mistake or some kind of delusional rambling. It was an actual letter written by her mother to a firstborn son, someone who apparently was looking for her. So that meant it wasn’t a mistake. Ashley wasn’t dreaming or trying to find her way out of a nightmare.

  But then it must be a mistake; it had to be. Her mother didn’t have a firstborn son. Of course not. Ashley bent over her knees and forced the air from her body. After three tries, she was able to suck in a quick breath. If the letter was accurate, if it was really written by her mother, then . . .

  The information hung over her like a shifting hillside, the small pebbles slipping, sliding in around her feet. It didn’t make sense, couldn’t make sense. She was shaking, adrenaline speeding through her veins, alerting her sinews and fibers, every muscle and nerve, of the certainty that nothing—nothing in all of life—would ever be the same after this single moment.

  But even if the information buried her, she had to know, had to read the letter and understand the details for herself. There would be no moving forward otherwise. Her body permitted her another small bit of air, and she held the letter up again. When her hand shook too hard to read the words, she lowered the paper to her lap and hunched over it.

  My dearest firstborn, my son,

  If you are reading this, then you have found me. Or you have at least found the others. Son, I have prayed for the chance to tell you this information in person, but time is running out. I can’t go peacefully to be with the Lord until I make every effort to reach you. Even if the only way I can do that is through this letter.

  Each word was another small rock, falling and tumbling around her, making it difficult to move, to think, or even to fathom the gravity of what might lie ahead. The first part of the letter could lead to just one conclusion, but it was a conclusion Ashley didn’t dare consider, wouldn’t let herself think about. Instead she tightened her grip on the edge of the bed and forced herself to continue.

  Your father and I have thought about you with every passing year. Every birthday and Christmas, the fall when you must’ve star
ted school, the year you would’ve graduated. You were always in our hearts, just a mention away. We had no choice about what happened, dear son. My parents sent me away, and a woman took you from me even when I screamed for her to bring you back. This is the part you must know. We never wanted to give you up. Never.

  What? Ashley blinked twice and read the words again and then another time. This is the part you must know. We never wanted to give you up. Never.

  The avalanche came then.

  This new definition of the past, this new reality about who and what the Baxters were came tumbling and sliding, burying her beneath it, suffocating her, leaving her no way out.

  When it was finally over, when the earth had stopped crumbling in around her, she knew this much: the landscape that made up her life—all of their lives—would forever be changed. An eerie silence filled the room, a silence where Ashley couldn’t move or think or feel her heartbeat. God, how do I deal with this? Help me. Please, God.

  I’m here, daughter. Run to Me.

  Ashley leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was here, God Himself. His Spirit was around her, helping her, holding her. You’re here. I can feel You, God. I want to run to You. Lift me out of this; carry me, Lord. I can’t do it without You. And at that instant, she felt her heartbeat slow a little. God was the answer in all of this, wherever the rest of the letter took her. Wherever the rest of her days took her. He was all-knowing, all-seeing. Her mother’s letter wasn’t taking Him by surprise. No, the earth could break apart and swallow her whole, and He would be waiting to catch her.

  The only way out was to trust God, believe that He would help her hold on. And that meant grabbing hold of the most obvious detail and never letting go, no matter how much it hurt.