As she took her seat for second violin and the opening performance of the weekend run, as she felt the music come to life beneath her fingertips, she was comforted by one thought. For all she didn’t know about Ryan Kelly, she knew this much. Their time together at The Bridge had to count for something.
Because he had followed his dream.
Tchaikovsky’s music spoke to Molly the way it always did. This time it swept her from the small theater into the past, to the days when she first studied the composer at Belmont University. When they reached the second act and the song for Clara and her prince charming, Molly felt like she was playing a soundtrack to every wonderful moment she’d ever shared with Ryan.
The haunting strains of the violin seemed to cry out the question wracking her heart, the one that wouldn’t leave her alone. What had happened? How could he have kissed her that way, held her so closely, and looked at her with the certainty that their friendship had turned a corner? How could he have been so convincing in his feelings for her and then apologized the next day?
One song led to the next, and with every stanza, a plan began to form. She needed to get to Franklin, to the hospital room of Charlie Barton. She had two performances tomorrow, but Sunday was open. She could fly to Nashville in the morning and be at Charlie’s bedside before nightfall. Her staff could carry on here, and she could fly home Christmas Eve.
There was one problem.
She had no idea what to do if she ran into Ryan. His pity, his apology, had been part of the reason why she’d left Belmont and made her father happy by returning home. She couldn’t stay at school knowing Ryan didn’t share her feelings. Her heart would’ve broken again every day. Ryan had chosen the girl back home over her. She had no way around that fact.
So what about now? How would she feel running into him, seeing his wife on his arm, and facing the awkward moments that were bound to follow? As the ballet ended, she thought of a way. It wouldn’t protect her heart, but it would protect her from his sympathy. She’d do what other girls had done to look taken, what her receptionist did when she went out with friends just so guys wouldn’t hit on her. It might’ve been an old ploy and a little outdated, but it would get her through the weekend.
She would wear her mother’s wedding ring.
He would think she’d gone home and fallen hard for Preston, and he wouldn’t question her, wouldn’t feel sorry for her. In that way—and only in that way—could she work alongside him and his wife. She could do her part to help Charlie Barton. Maybe she could even find a way to tell him she was sorry, add her apology to his. She could let him know that she never meant for their friendship to cross lines. It was a crazy idea then, and it seemed even crazier now. In light of where life had taken them.
If she apologized like that, then maybe in time her heart would follow. She could come to believe that their spring night together had been a mistake, and she could find a way to live again. Really live. Without the video or the memories or the Black Friday ritual.
She booked the flight that night, and first thing Sunday morning, she moved her small suitcase by the front door and called for her ride. The last thing she took was the one thing she could donate to the community efforts for Charlie Barton, a book she no longer needed.
Her copy of Jane Eyre.
That night after she landed in Nashville and checked into her hotel, she took a walk to the church across the street. With every step, she looked for him, watched for Ryan the way she once searched for him in her dreams. Did he live here near the airport or closer to Franklin? Molly wasn’t sure, but Ryan wasn’t the only thing clouding her mind.
She had called the hospital and talked to Donna Barton. The news on Charlie wasn’t good. He remained in a coma, on a ventilator. Every day his chances of waking up grew slimmer. Molly walked through the back doors of the church. The place was empty, and Molly found a spot in one of the back pews. Quietly, reverently, she dropped to her knees.
Her hands shook and her heart raced along in time with her desperate thoughts. She wasn’t used to praying or especially good at it. For all she knew, she was going about it all wrong, so she did the only thing she knew to do. Lacing her fingers together, she closed her eyes. God, if You’re really there . . . I think I’ll just talk to You like a friend. I don’t know what else to do. Her lips were dry, and she felt a shiver run down her arms. She liked that, thinking of God as a friend. A friend she very much needed right now. She twisted her mother’s wedding ring, the one newly on her left hand. I really need Your help. For Charlie Barton, so that he’ll live . . . and so that I’ll have the right words if I run into Ryan.
That was it. She didn’t have much else to say. This last part was the most important of all, so she whispered the words out loud. “And if You’re really the God of second chances, maybe You could stay with Charlie Barton. Because no one needs a second chance right now more than he does.”
When she finished her prayer, she stood and called for another ride. Tomorrow she would visit Sally’s Mercantile and see how she could help with the book drive. She still had one more destination before the night was over.
Vanderbilt Hospital.
Donna had started a CaringBridge page, a way to keep people updated about Charlie’s progress, his physical condition, and the ways they could help. She sat beside Charlie’s bed in the dimly lit hospital room and used a loaner laptop to check the page’s guestbook for the first time.
What she saw shocked her. She had no idea how Ryan had garnered so much support, but already Charlie’s site had over a thousand views and nearly two hundred comments. Donna started at the beginning, and chills ran down her arms and neck.
Donna, you don’t know us, but we’re praying for you. A few years ago my husband and I came to The Bridge looking for information about adoption. Charlie led us to a couple of books, which we purchased at a discount. Charlie insisted. One of the books told about how to survive the process of adoption. The other told the fictional story of one couple’s journey to add a child to their family. Those books changed our lives. We live in Atlanta now and last month we welcomed home twin little girls from China. Our plan was to bring them to The Bridge so they could meet Charlie. Please know that everything your husband has done with that bookstore mattered. It mattered to the people of Franklin and it mattered to us. When he wakes up, let him know. God bless you.
“Charlie, listen to—” She looked up, excited, before she caught herself. She’d done this more than once. Forgotten that he was in a coma, that he couldn’t hear her. As quickly as she chose not to share with him, she changed her mind. What if he could hear her? Wouldn’t it be better for him to know the difference he’d made?
With steady hands and a strong voice, she read the woman’s entry out loud. “Can you believe that, Charlie?” She slid her chair closer and took hold of his limp hand. “Two little girls have a family because of your books. That’s amazing.”
Her joy continued as she shared one post after another. Nothing had filled her heart so completely since Charlie’s accident. There was a note from a young woman who had talked with Charlie ten years ago about her broken relationship with her mother.
“‘Charlie gave me a novel about forgiveness and told me it would make me see things differently. I wanted to read it, but I was broke. I asked if I could stop by the store and read it in stages and Charlie only smiled. He told me I could have the novel for a dollar. I read the book and when I finished the last chapter I hit my knees. I asked God to forgive me and then I called my mom and asked her to do the same.’” Donna hesitated, overcome by the happiness in her heart. She cleared her voice and continued. “‘My husband and I live near her now in Oklahoma. I feel like everything about my current situation can somehow be traced back to that single conversation, that kind act. I’ve never seen a bookseller love books more than Charlie Barton. Please let him know we are praying. Our church is collecting new and used books. After Christmas I’ll drive the carload down there myself. It’s the le
ast I can do.’”
One after another, for an hour straight, Donna read the entries to Charlie. His breathing pattern didn’t change. He didn’t stir or show eye movement or flex the muscles in his hand. But Donna believed with all her heart that somehow he could hear her. The posts were like people lined up in the room, each of them giving Charlie a reason to believe.
A reason to wake up and find a way to keep The Bridge.
She was about to read another post when there was a sound at the door. Donna looked up as a tall young woman walked in. Her long blond hair fell in a perfect sheet against her dark coat, and Donna was struck by her beauty, despite her deeply troubled face. Her ice blue eyes and fine features looked familiar.
“Hello.” Donna set the laptop on the table and stood to meet the woman, trying to place her.
“Mrs. Barton?”
The young woman’s voice helped, because in a rush, Donna had the answer. “Molly Allen!” She went to the young woman and hugged her. “It’s been so long.”
“It has. Too long.” Molly looked past Donna to the hospital bed. “I had to come.”
“Thank you.” For all the light that the CaringBridge entries had cast across the room, and even with the joy of seeing Molly, the truth remained. “He’s very bad off.”
“I’m sorry.” She walked slowly to the bed and grabbed hold of the side rail. “Charlie, it’s me. Molly Allen.” She waited, the way all of Charlie’s visitors waited. As if this might be the moment when he would open his eyes and smile and they’d all have him back. Charlie remained motionless. Molly turned to Donna. “Is he . . . any better?”
“No. He’s alive, but we’ve had no improvement since the accident.”
Molly looked like she might cry.
“Did Ryan get hold of you? Is that why you’re here?” Donna and Charlie always believed that the two college students belonged together. Neither ever heard what happened, why Molly had gone back to California.
“No.” She smiled, and a shyness filled her eyes. “I haven’t talked to Ryan since I left. I heard about Charlie on the Internet. Through Twitter.”
“Hmm. So many people talking about him. He would be amazed. How many lives he’s touched.”
Molly nodded, and for a few minutes she sat and talked with Donna. Told her about the foundation and how she played violin for a local orchestra.
“So you haven’t seen Ryan?” Donna asked.
“No.” Molly smiled again, patient with the questions. “Has he been up here?”
“Every day. Several times a day, actually.” Donna settled back in her chair. “If you come back tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll see him.”
“I’m sure.” Molly looked at her watch. “I need to get to the hotel. I’ll head to downtown Franklin tomorrow. See if I can help. Then I’ll be back.” She stood and hugged Donna.
“Thank you . . . for coming.” Donna looked at her husband. “I have to believe that somehow, deep inside Charlie’s brain, he knows what is happening. How people are coming together and praying for him.” She smiled. “Even flying in from across the country to be here.”
“I believe that, too.” Molly waved once more, and then she was gone.
Donna wanted to tell Molly that Ryan was single, that he was a wonderful young man, and that maybe it wasn’t too late for the two of them. But at the last moment she noticed something she hadn’t before, something that put an end to the thought before she could give it a voice.
The wedding ring on Molly’s left hand.
C HA P T E R N I N E
Ryan knew it was her the moment he walked into the Mercantile.
Her long blond hair, same as it had been back at Belmont, the graceful way she had about her, and the sound of her voice. That most of all. He stopped in the doorway and stared, just stared at her. Like he was seeing a vision, not the real Molly Allen. How had she heard about Charlie and why had she come?
When she had left so easily that long-ago summer?
He took a few steps into the building, ignoring the bustle of last-minute shoppers crowding the aisles of the store. He thought about saying nothing, just standing there and taking in the sight of her. But he couldn’t keep himself from her, couldn’t let this much distance come between them for another minute. “Molly . . .”
She must not have heard him, because she kept talking, and only then did Ryan realize what she was doing. Molly was dropping off several bags of new books, helping the store owner arrange them in big boxes until they were overflowing with books. He watched her for a moment and then came closer. “Molly?”
This time there was no hesitation. She turned, and for the first time in more than two thousand sunsets, her eyes met his. He had wondered if he would know her as fully if they ever had a moment like this. Whether she would’ve changed somehow and the connection they once shared would only be one more part of the memory. But now he could see that wasn’t the case. In her eyes he watched her shock turn to elation, then temper to something more appropriate, given their hasty good-bye and the years between them.
“Ryan.” She uttered a quiet laugh, clearly more breathless than amused. “I wondered if I’d see you.”
“You look . . . beautiful.” He closed the distance between them, and despite the store owner and customers, he took hold of her hands, their eyes connected as if all of time had led to this moment. But as he held her fingers in his, as he savored the softness of her skin, he felt something else.
Her wedding band.
He released her hands and moved back enough to keep things appropriate. She was a married woman now, and he couldn’t let the thrill of seeing her consume him. Her father had been wrong in what he’d told Ryan seven years ago. But here, the man would be right. Ryan had no right to confuse her. Not when she was married.
The floor beneath him shifted as he caught her eyes again. How could she have gone to someone else after the bond they shared? The kiss that night? He steadied himself. “How . . . how’d you hear?”
“Twitter.” Her smile was sad, but there was something in her eyes he couldn’t quite read. Regret, maybe, or wistfulness. The result of remembering. “I had to come.”
Ryan had to keep things on a surface level. He wouldn’t survive otherwise. “Looks like you bought a few books.”
“I did.” She walked back to the counter, and he followed. “Every book I could remember seeing on the shelves at The Bridge.”
He sorted through the contents. They were brand-new, but they were classics. Little Women and Tom Sawyer and The Call of the Wild. What looked like the entire C. S. Lewis collection. “I’d say this is a great start.”
“It’s hardly the start.” She pointed to the boxes on the floor behind the register. “You did a good job, Ryan. Word’s getting out.”
“You can say that again.” Sally, the storeowner, walked up, tying her apron around her waist. “These boxes weigh a hundred pounds each. Four of them here and another five in the back. When we’re through with this drive, Charlie Barton will need two storefronts.”
A flicker of sadness made its way through Ryan. Charlie would need them only if he woke up. For now it was easier to believe that his only problem was restocking The Bridge. If not for Charlie, then for Donna. In case she might want to run the store. It was something tangible that the town could get behind, since there was nothing any of them could do to help Charlie recover.
That part was in God’s hands.
Molly was grateful for the wedding ring. The moment their eyes met, everything she’d ever felt for him came bursting to the surface. Only the feel of the ring on her finger kept her from gushing about how much she’d missed him and how great it was to see him again.
He must have noticed it, because a few seconds after taking hold of her fingers, he stepped away. Which was only right, since he was married, too. At least she assumed he was. He was wearing a ring. But as she helped him load one of the nine boxes into the back of his truck, she realized it wasn’t on his left hand. Strange, she
thought. Either way, she was glad she had worn a ring. Glad he thought she was married. It was probably why things didn’t seem awkward between them. He didn’t have to be sorry anymore. Not if she was happy in her new life.
Even if the ring represented nothing but a lie.
On the trip out to the parking lot with the second box, she nearly fell when her foot got stuck in a pothole. She cried out but caught herself before she hit the ground. “Wow, that was close.”
“Graceful as ever.” He grinned at her. “Remember the time when you fell down the stairs at the music building?”
“Yes. Apparently not as well as you remember it.” She adjusted the grip on her half of the box, and they continued on to his truck. “Where are we taking them?”
“To the hospital.” He set his edge of the box on the open tailgate, easily hopped into the bed, and slid the box to the back with the other one.
“Really?” She brushed a bit of dirt off the lower part of her jeans. “Is there room?”
“For now. The staff said we could keep the books lined up on one side of the room until tomorrow. Christmas Eve. Then we can move them to my storage unit. I have room.” His heart hurt again. “We’re all praying for a miracle.”
“Definitely.”
“That Charlie will wake up and see the books”—he jumped back down to her level—“the day before Christmas. And he’ll know how much we care. How much The Bridge mattered.”
“Hmmm.” She walked beside him as they headed back for the next box. “Why not take the books to the store?”
Ryan felt the weight of her question. “The Bartons have until the first of the year before they have to clear out.”
The Bridge: A Novel Page 9
