Winter's End

by Ruth Logan Herne

  A feminine sigh came back to him, soft. Evocative. A tickle of delight made him grip the phone tighter. “That’s no way to answer a phone, Farmer Boy.”

  “It’s a business phone.” Marc fought a grin at the sound of Kayla’s voice, wondering if the upsurge in his heart rate was a healthy sign or implied imminent cardiac arrest. Then he wondered which might be worse.

  “Why not ‘DeHollander Feed Store’ or ‘DeHollander Hereford Holdings’?” she continued. “Something more cordial than barking ‘DeHollander’ into the mouthpiece.”

  “Was there a reason for this call?” Annoying, even when cute. Why was that?

  “Yes,” she answered. He heard a slight tapping in the background. “I’m holding two tickets to tonight’s hockey game. I wondered if you and Jess might like to go.”

  St. Lawrence versus Cornell, a man-to-man ice battle. Marc breathed deep. Any Division One hockey fan would want a seat, no question. Still, he didn’t hesitate. “We’d better stay with Dad.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Kayla declared. “I’m sorry, I should have said that up front. I’ll hang out with Mr. D., play cards, watch a movie, whatever. You guys will only be gone a few hours and he and I can chat that long without trying.”

  That was certainly true. His quiet father became a spirited debater with Kayla. Marc contemplated her offer. “How’d you get tickets?”

  Admission for this contest had gone instantly. Marc hadn’t even tried, knowing he shouldn’t leave his father.

  “A grateful family gave them to me this morning,” she replied.

  “You should go, then.”

  She laughed. “I thought of that, but there’s no one to use the second ticket. Then I remembered how you liked hockey and thought it might be a good time to spend with Jess.”

  It would. He’d been concerned about her lack of friends, the few times she ventured out. Had he sheltered her too much in his quest to keep her as unlike their mother as possible? Probably, but he didn’t know any other way to ensure a good outcome. “It would be fun. You sure you don’t mind giving up your Friday night? Putting away your party shoes?”

  Kayla laughed. “Not too many parties hereabouts, unless you’re part of the college crowd. Spare me that, please. I’ll come by around six, okay?”

  “It’s very okay. Thanks, Kayla.”

  He thought he heard a smile in her voice because he’d used her given name. “You’re welcome, Marc.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The night lay thick as Kayla wound her way along familiar roads. Celestial torches marked a star-soaked sky. Stars in the northern latitudes blazed brighter, longer. Was it the cleaner air? Less light pollution? Kayla had no idea, but she appreciated the brilliance, the way heaven tipped closer at night.

  It was a big land, sometimes cruel. Just last week an old woman was found frozen in the snow. She’d fallen retrieving her morning mail and remained unfound for nearly a day.

  North Country cold could be unforgiving, but it was no match for Kayla. She’d been cold before and she’d survived.

  The shiver that thought inspired had nothing to do with the temperature.

  She remembered Anna’s hand as she reached out from the hospital bed, watching Kayla, her eyes dark with concern. “Whatever it is, let it go. Give it to God. Don’t hold on to the anger. Your mother wouldn’t want that.”

  Her mother? Kayla choked back bile at the thought.

  Anna knew nothing of Kayla’s mother, nothing of the locked room at the top of the stairs. The frightening sounds below.

  Anna covered Kayla’s hand. She was nearing her last days and still she ministered to Kayla, not the other way around. “Can you forgive her?”

  Kayla shook her head, throat tight. “I don’t know how.”

  Anna smiled. “He’ll show you. He forgave those who murdered His only son. He’ll show you the way, sweet Kayla.”

  It hadn’t happened yet. Kayla hadn’t a clue how to forgive those early atrocities. She’d shoved them away, determined to overcome her shoddy beginnings. She was cool and capable, sharp and smart. Kayla Doherty knew who she was and where she was going. Nothing got in her way.

  Mostly because she refused to look back.

  “We’re never really free until we lose those bonds,” Anna explained.

  Easy to say… “Has your family forgiven you?”

  Anna’s eyes shadowed. Sorrow painted her features. “No. They won’t. I hurt them. All of them.”

  Kayla grasped her hand. Unsure what to say, she squeezed the other woman’s fingers. “I’m sure they’ve gotten over it.”

  “Kids don’t.” Anna stared out the window before shifting her gaze. “Not on their own. They need God’s help, the help of a parent who won’t let them down.” She paused again. Her lips pursed in self-recrimination. “I was never that kind of mother.”

  Kayla had to ask. “With all that’s happened to you, how can you still believe in God?”

  Anna’s face softened. “He was there all the while, child. I just ignored Him.”

  “Still…”

  “No.” Anna sank back, tired. Kayla felt guilty for making her talk, but longed for her gentle wisdom. “There was help for me. I disregarded it. There was a family who loved me. I resisted their help. There was a time and a place for me to make my mark and I walked away from it. I don’t excuse my mistakes,” she told Kayla, grim. “But God forgives even sinners like me. How much more easily will He open His arms to you?”

  Her words nicked Kayla’s armor. “If He knew…”

  “He knows. He sees. He understands.” Anna graced Kayla’s cheek with a touch. “Nothing you’ve done is beyond His forgiveness. He wants you, heart and soul.”

  “You make it sound simple.” Kayla knew better. Nothing worth having was easy. She’d lived that truth long enough to respect its depth.

  The dying woman smiled. “I wish I’d known how simple it was. Everything could have been different.” She grimaced then, her face contorting.

  “Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?”

  Anna shook her head, but reached for Kayla’s fingers. “Just sit with me. For a little while.”

  Kayla nodded and sat quiet while the older woman sank into sleep.

  Anna’s words piqued and dismayed Kayla. How easily the dying woman believed in a bountiful God, despite her wretched life. Kayla frowned at the inconsistencies, then recalled Anna’s confession. “I chose to ignore it.”

  Was it that easy to stray? By simply ignoring the choices?

  One of her foster mothers was a churchgoer. Kayla went to services with her. She’d loved the smells of the old church, the antique lighting, the warm intones of the prayers. She’d felt safe there. Normal.

  But her foster father was transferred to Colorado and Kayla was left for others to tend. Still, she never forgot the feeling of safety she’d felt in that old, stone church.

  Anna’s death sparked no funeral. Kayla attended the indigent woman’s burial in a county plot. She voiced her own prayers at the graveside, wondering if God cared that a guilt-laden nurse prayed for the soul of a dead bag lady in an unmarked corner of a windswept cemetery.

  And now…Kayla jerked out of her memories as she approached the DeHollander drive.

  Now she was a full-fledged member of Holy Trinity. She was part of a family, a church family. They’d opened their arms to her. Of course they didn’t know who she really was, or what she’d come from, but every now and again she wondered if they’d care. She hoped not.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind not going?” Marc had already asked twice, but he felt the need to press. It was St. Lawrence versus Cornell, after all.

  “Ask me again and I’ll keep the tickets,” Kayla growled. She hoisted her book. “If your dad sleeps, I’ve got this. It’s nice to relax where it’s warm and cozy.”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “Did you try your space heater yet?”

  “No.” She sighed. “I was only home for minutes last n
ight before I went to bed and I’m here tonight. Tomorrow. I promise.”

  “Good.” What did he care? Why did he worry about her? What was it to him if her toes froze into one solid block? He glanced down. “You’re wearing the socks.”

  “They’re great.” She wiggled her toes for effect. “You can’t even see my toenail polish through them.”

  A solid relief. What Marc didn’t need was a sneak peek at Kayla’s perky toes, probably tipped the same saucy red gracing her fingernails tonight. He shook his head. “Wool socks and sandals.”

  “Clogs,” she corrected.

  Jess came down the stairs, bundled against the chill of the indoor ice arena.

  “Open-toed clogs,” Kayla continued. “Not sandals. Sandals are for summer.”

  “So are—” He stopped and shook his head in resignation. Things were peaceful at the moment. Best to keep his silence. He zipped his jacket and reached for the door. “Ready, Jess?”

  “Yes.” She threw her arms around Kayla. “Thank you for doing this.”

  Kayla hugged her back. “Glad to. If your dad’s in one of his talkative moods, I get to dig up dirt on you two.” She winked as she let Jess go.

  “I can fill you in on stuff about Marc,” declared the teen. “Lists of girlfriends, crazy parties…”

  “Ancient history, Jess.” Why did he feel funny having Kayla know he wasn’t always the solid citizen he laid claim to today? Everyone did stupid things as a kid, right? Somehow, her opinion mattered. Her respect. He tugged Jess’s sleeve. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss face-off.”

  “All right.” Jess turned, then swung back. “Marc has his phone. You’ve got his number?”

  “In my pocket and taped by the wall phone. I shouldn’t need it, though.”

  Jess squared her shoulders. “I just wanted to be sure.”

  “I’ll call if anything happens.”

  Kayla’s matter-of-fact tone offered reassurance. Marc laid a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “Thanks, Kayla.”

  She met his gaze. It took effort to hold himself back, not reach out to her. Give her a quick kiss goodbye. “You’re welcome, Marc.”

  “You haven’t been much company tonight,” Kayla chided Pete as he stirred nearly two hours later. “Sleeping the night away.”

  Pete blinked. “A night call? Am I dying?”

  She grinned. “Eventually. But that’s not why I’m here. Marc and Jess went to the hockey game, remember?”

  “Now I do.” Pete gave her a tired smile. “Things come and go in my recent memory. I remember things from long ago like they were yesterday, but the stuff now?” He shrugged. “Not so much.”

  “Meds can interfere with short-term memory,” Kayla told him. “Makes it tricky sometimes.”

  “What was your name again?”

  Kayla appraised him, then saw the glimmer in his eye. “Very funny. Are you comfortable, Mr. D.? Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m all right.” He struggled to pull himself more upright. Kayla helped him.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.” He smiled, but the look behind the smile stayed tired despite copious amounts of sleep. “It was nice of you to give them the tickets.”

  “So now you remember.”

  He nodded.

  Kayla tucked her book away. “Would you like to beat me at Scrabble?”

  “Aren’t you any good?”

  “Oh, I’m good, but it’s not nice to beat patients on borrowed time.”

  “I won’t be buying green bananas, that’s for sure,” he shot back. He scanned the shelf across from his bed and pointed. “Scrabble’s right there if you think you’re tough enough to take me on. And no holding back because I’m sick,” he added.

  “Please. I’ll win fair and square and brag about it wherever I go.”

  “Talk’s cheap. Get the box.”

  Thirty minutes later Kayla eyed him, assessing. “Pyx is not a word.”

  “It is.”

  Kayla shook her head. “No way I’m buying that. And for a triple word score besides? Uh-uh.”

  “Dictionary’s right here.” His voice went expectant, anticipating victory.

  “Hmm.” Kayla surveyed the board before sizing up her competition. Well-practiced, his expression told her nothing. “Pyx, huh? You look too sure of yourself and it’s not worth losing my turn. I’ll play my tiles.”

  He grinned, triumphant. When they finished the game, she faced him, eyes narrowed. “Gloating’s an unattractive trait, Mr. D. It was only seven points.”

  He beamed. “A win’s a win.”

  Kayla sighed. “Too true. So tell me. Is pyx a word or should I have challenged you? “

  “It’s the box that holds Eucharistic wafers.”

  “Not exactly common usage.”

  “Common enough in a church,” he argued as he laid away the game. “Ari always went to church when she was young. She fell away as she got older. I’ve often wondered if that was my fault.”

  “Why?” Kayla set the box in its customary spot and turned, curious.

  “I didn’t go back then,” Pete explained. “I was always working and I left it to her to see to Marc’s upbringing. I got careless, then she got careless, then she was gone and I was left with an angry son and a baby daughter.”

  “You did things differently with Jess.”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded, solemn. “I wasn’t going to mess up again. I thought I gave Marc so much by teaching him to farm, to love the land. He’s got a great hand with animals. But I left out the most important component and then it was too late. He was angry at his mother and had no faith to fall back on.”

  “It’s never too late, Mr. D.” Kayla knew that firsthand.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly ten.”

  “Can you do something for me?”

  She moved to the side of the bed. “Of course.”

  “I need you to go upstairs, into the middle bedroom.”

  “A clandestine mission. My favorite.”

  That drew a smile. “In the tall dresser, third drawer from the top, beneath the stack of pants, there’s a picture. I want you to bring it down.”

  His respirations rose. Kayla smoothed a hand across his covers, gave his fingers a light squeeze and nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  At the top of the stairs she paused. Walking forward, she stepped through the center door and switched on the light.

  The woman’s touch was evident, if old. Floral-striped wallpaper half covered three walls. A stenciled border marked the wall’s upper edge. Kayla moved to the dresser. Sliding open the third drawer, she worked her hand beneath sturdy jeans. Her fingers met metal. Carefully, she withdrew the frame and held it up.

  Four people looked back at her. A man, a woman, a much younger Marc and a baby, perched on the woman’s hip. Kayla ran her fingers over the family portrait. For that moment they looked happy. Pete’s arm draped his wife’s shoulders, his smile benevolent. Marc looked ruggedly handsome, even as a teen. Jess was adorable, her chipmunk cheeks round and full, her mouth open in a toothless grin.

  And Ari, Pete’s wife. Kayla studied the woman who’d left it all behind. Dark hair tumbled over narrow shoulders, a riot of curls. A crisp white sleeveless blouse, whose pin-tucked lines screamed quality, nipped into front-pleated pants that echoed the conclusion. She smiled into the camera, bright, vibrant, healthy and happy. The picture-perfect wife and mother.

  As Kayla reached to switch off the light, the photo shifted.

  She paused, staring down. Her fingers clenched.

  It can’t be.

  Kayla’s heart stutter-stepped as she reexamined the image, studying the blue-stoned ring on Ari’s fourth finger, right hand.

  Kayla sank onto the bed, thoughts churning. Once more she tilted the picture. Once more she reached the same conclusion. This very ring now sat in a velvet box on her dresser, a gift from Anna.

  But how? Why?

  Christy’s words flooded back. They c
ome home to die.

  Is that what Anna did? She came back to die near her family? But she hadn’t contacted them or asked about them. And her name, Anna?

  Arianna. She remembered Pete saying that the first time they’d discussed her. The sound half lament, half love.

  Arianna DeHollander was Anna Hernandez, Kayla’s faith mentor.

  Kayla gripped the frame. What should she do? What could she say? Should she tell Pete that Ari was dead, had died a short ride away, unaccompanied by anyone but her nurse? That she lay in a pauper’s grave nearby?

  She had no idea what choice to make. The woman who blessed her with faith and love broke a trio of hearts in this house.

  Kayla swallowed hard. No way could she make this right in her own head, much less convey it to the family that lived and loved in this quaint old farmhouse.

  She drew a deep breath and approached the stairs. Father, help me. I don’t know what to do with this information. I don’t want to add sorrow to pain, but I can’t imagine keeping this to myself.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she turned the photo, double checking.

  Anna. Arianna. One and the same. Without the ring she wouldn’t have recognized it. Thirteen years of living hard had altered the woman’s appearance. Anna’s worn, heartfelt smile was nothing like Ari’s camera-ready expression. Anna’s face held eyes beleaguered by a decade of drugs and hard knocks.

  Ari was sharp, a Latin vision of beauty and poise, camera-savvy from top to bottom.

  The door opened with a blast of cold air. “We won!” Jess threw chilled arms around Kayla’s middle and hugged. “Four-three, with the Saints scoring their fourth goal in the closing minutes. You should have come.”

  “Then one of you would have stayed home,” Kayla reminded her. There was no way to hide the picture in her hands. Jess eyed it, her expression guarded.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Your father’s dresser.”

  “Why?”

  “He asked me to.”

  Jess stared at the woman who looked like an older version of herself, her face awash in emotion, then she squared her shoulders in acceptance. “I’ll let you take it to him while I get rid of some layers. I checked on Grace. Marc’s checking the cattle.”