by Hope Ramsay
In fact, Haley could recite all the words from the Gospel of Luke, and she knew the difference between waddling and swaddling. And she knew something about angels, too. She cast a glance at the Sorrowful Angel who was sitting in the corner, weeping as usual.
Haley couldn’t do anything about Maryanne, but maybe she could help the Sorrowful Angel. Now was the time to put her plan into action. She straightened her shoulders and set off toward Doc Cooper, who was talking to Maryanne’s mother.
“Hey, Dr. Cooper, can I talk to you about something?” Haley asked as she gave both of the grown-ups her sweetest smile. She had learned that grown-ups tended to give her what she wanted if she was polite and smiled a lot.
“Just a minute, Haley,” Doc said.
He turned toward Maryanne’s mother. “I’m sure if you took some time to help her learn her lines, she’d be more confident.”
Maryanne’s momma didn’t look very happy. “Doc, I don’t think it’s the lines. She’s terrified of speaking in front of folks.”
“She’ll be fine. She needs to face her fears.”
Maryanne’s mother nodded but didn’t look all that certain. When Maryanne and her momma left, Doc Cooper knelt and brought himself down to Haley’s level.
“What is it, Haley?” The doctor had reddish gray hair and freckles on his face like a kid.
“Well, I need a, um, I think they call it a consultation.”
Doc Cooper smiled at her. He had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Do you now? How can I help you?”
“Well, you see…” She hesitated for a moment. It was entirely possible Doc Cooper was like the rest of the grown-ups who didn’t believe in angels or Santa Claus. But he was her Sunday School teacher, so it figured that he had some faith in angels.
“I was wondering if you could help Daddy.”
Something changed in his eyes. “Honey, what’s wrong with your daddy?”
“He needs more room in his heart. I was wondering if you could do an operation.”
The doctor blinked a few times, and Haley had that horrible feeling Doc Cooper might turn out to be like Dr. Newsome or the rest of the grown-ups in town, who were always talking about angels, but not really believing in them much.
“Who told you he needed more room in his heart?” Doc Cooper asked. His forehead was all wrinkly now. That wasn’t a good sign.
She thought about lying. It was sometimes easier to fib about the angel. But ever since last summer, when she discussed her angel problems with Reverend Ellis, she knew that Jesus frowned on that sort of thing.
“The Sorrowful Angel told me,” she confessed. “The angel said Daddy needs to make room in his heart for love. I think that has to happen before she can get back to Heaven. I told her I would consult with you about it. Can you make his heart bigger with an operation?”
“Oh, dear. Honey, it doesn’t work that way.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No, darlin’. I can’t make a heart bigger.” Doc Cooper gave Haley a serious look—the kind grown-ups always got when they were about to say something not nice. “Haley, I know you’ve heard folks talk about how your daddy’s heart is broken. And I suppose in a way that’s true, but I’m afraid I can’t fix that kind of broken heart.”
“Then how’s he gonna get better? And how will the angel get her wings?”
“Wings?”
She nodded. “The angel needs wings. She doesn’t have any wings, and I reckon that’s the problem with her not being able to get back to Heaven. But she told me that if Daddy had more room in his heart, things would work out.”
The doctor nodded seriously, but Haley could tell he was thinking grown-up thoughts. “Honey, usually the kind of broken heart that your daddy has gets better on its own. It just takes time.”
He patted her head and stood up. Haley gazed up at him and realized that Daddy was standing right behind the doctor. He’d heard everything she’d just said.
CHAPTER
6
The next morning, Stone took a seat in Dr. Andrea Newsome’s office, located in the only medical building in Allenberg. A big desk with brass fittings filled one side of the room. In the corner stood a low table and chairs, with a variety of toys scattered about.
Andrea specialized in kids with problems.
Stone sat in the middle of a couch placed before the doctor’s desk. The minute he’d taken this seat, he’d regretted it. He sank deep into the cushions, and he felt like his knees were stuck in his ears.
“So,” Dr. Newsome said from her place behind her desk, “you said on the phone last night that you wanted to talk about Haley’s progress.”
He nodded and then related what he’d overheard Haley saying to Doc Cooper the day before.
Andrea gave him a long, assessing look. “Chief Rhodes, you do realize that Haley’s angel spends her nights in your bedroom.” She stared down at him out of a pair of deep, dark eyes.
“I am aware of it.”
“And now the angel is telling Haley that you need to grow a bigger heart.”
“Doctor, there isn’t any angel.”
The doc folded her hands together. “Well, that may be outwardly true, but to Haley the angel is real.”
“Yeah, well, it’s your job to make the imaginary angel disappear.”
“Haley has been traumatized. It isn’t that easy.”
“I reckon it’s not, seeing as we have to haul her over here every week, and I haven’t seen any improvement in her condition.”
Dr. Newsome scowled at him. “Look, it would be very helpful if you didn’t constantly challenge Haley about the angel. It’s a symptom of her problems. When you tell Haley that her angel doesn’t exist, it’s like telling her that her problems don’t exist. But for Haley, these things are quite real.”
Stone found it difficult to meet the doctor’s stare, so he looked down at the deep-piled beige carpet.
“Chief, have you ever thought about getting grief counseling?” Dr. Newsome said.
That had him raising his head. “Uh, I thought we were talking about Haley and her imaginary angel friend.”
“We are. The fact that Haley’s angel is talking to her now is significant. Up until now, the angel has been completely silent. I find it interesting that the angel’s first communications are all about you. I also find it interesting that Haley imagines the angel watching over you as you sleep. She clearly sees this angel as your guardian, not hers. To Haley, the angel is a nuisance. She’s made this clear on many occasions. But for some reason, she feels that you need a guardian.
“All of this makes me wonder about your feelings in relation to the death of your wife.”
His muscles tensed. “That is none of your damn business.”
Dr. Newsome didn’t so much as blink. “I think it’s relevant to Haley’s issues. The angel has basically told her that you need to get over your wife’s death. Why do you think Haley is thinking that?”
“Because she spends the majority of her time in the company of my mother, or the members of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, or down at the Cut ’n Curl listening in on every useless bit of gossip in this county. And believe me, my daughter has a mind like a sponge.”
Dr. Newsome straightened the pad on her desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge of her blotter. “Chief, I know Haley hears a lot of gossip. But sometimes what folks say around here has a lot of sense to it.”
“That’s saying a lot coming from a person with the number of diplomas you’ve got hanging on the wall.”
She leaned forward. “Sometimes common sense is more important than book learning. And don’t tell me you don’t agree. We both know the folks around here are smart and sensible.”
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll grant you that. But even in this backwater filled with smart folks, seeing angels is a problem. You’ve got to make the angel go away.”
“Have you ever thought that you’re the one who has to make the angel go away?”
“What?”
“That’s how I read what the angel told Haley. I’ve been talking to her for a year now, and I’m convinced that she’s worried about you almost as much as you are worried about her.”
“So it’s all my fault?”
“No, it’s not all your fault. Bad things happen to good people all the time. If it’s anyone’s fault, blame the drunk driver who took Sharon’s life. All I’m saying is that to help Haley, you should think about moving on.”
“I don’t want to move on. And besides, I couldn’t move on even if I wanted to. Sharon was my soulmate. And if you’ve spent any time listening to the commonsense wisdom of Miriam Randall, then you’d know that a person only gets one of those.”
“I think you could benefit from some grief counseling. I think your older daughter could benefit from it, too.”
Something nasty spilled into his system. Why was it every female on the face of the earth wanted him to go and talk about how he felt? He didn’t want to talk about Sharon. He just wanted to hold on to the sorrow. Somehow the sorrow kept a little bit of Sharon alive. As it was, each day it was getting harder and harder to remember her—even the way she looked sometimes.
“No,” he said, rocking himself up from the too-deep couch. It felt much better to be standing there looking down at Haley’s shrink. “I’m going to handle my loss the way generations of my people have handled it. In a silent and personal way. Now, do you have any other suggestions about dealing with this angel problem?”
He leaned over the desk. Dr. Newsome didn’t look surprised, discomfited, or even fearful. It was damn annoying that he couldn’t intimidate the good doctor the way she could intimidate him.
“Yes,” she said.
“And what would that be?”
“When was the last time you had sex?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m guessing that it’s been a long time. You might think about giving up your celibacy. I know that sounds crazy, but for a lot of men, sex can be a way to let go of the pain and find a way toward new connections.”
“Is that a medical opinion, because I’m pretty sure my mother would—”
“Stone, I know your mother would be horrified by what I just said, and that’s beside the point. But on one thing your mother and I would agree—you need to move on. You need to date. You need a social life. And I think Haley wants that for you. She has to live with you every day, and I hear all the time that she thinks you’re a grouch and a grump. Is that any way for a man to raise his daughter?”
Hettie Marshall’s river house sat amid an enclave of other tin-roofed bungalows on the banks of the Edisto River, a stretch of black water overhung with arching trees and Spanish moss. Who knew that South Carolina could be so picturesque—in a vine-covered, swampy, and slightly decayed kind of way? The deep, verdant woods called to Lark almost from the moment she pulled up the gravel drive.
The light here was soft and deep and mysterious.
Lark sat on an old 1950s-style glider on the screened porch of Hettie’s river house, sipping her morning coffee. It was quiet out here. Quiet and secluded. She’d actually slept well last night.
Her cell phone rang, dispelling the morning peace. She checked the caller ID. It was Greg Chisholm, her editor at the Washington Journal. She had been avoiding his calls for several days. She let go of a deep breath and pushed the talk button.
“Where the hell are you? Haven’t you been watching the news?” Greg yelled through the connection.
“No, as a matter of fact,” she said.
Stunned silence stretched out for several awkward moments.
“I’m amazed,” Greg finally answered. “You’re always on Twitter. Lark, there was a 7.0 earthquake in Turkey last night. The US is sending International Urban Search and Rescue Team One out of Virginia in the morning, and I need you to catch up with them and cover the human side, like you always do.”
Lark watched the mist dancing over the river. For once in her life, she felt no yearning to be where the latest news was breaking. She took a sip of good, strong coffee. She felt blissfully disconnected from the world. “I can’t go.”
“What do you mean you can’t go?”
“I’m not in DC. I can’t catch up with the Fairfax County rescue team before they leave.”
“Haven’t you left New York yet? I mean, your father died more than a week ago.” Greg was completely lacking in human emotions.
But Greg was used to the way Lark usually behaved. She was always ready to drop everything and head into the field. She lived on the adrenaline. And, of course, she believed that recording history was a higher calling. Her photos made the world better informed and therefore safer. Nine months ago, she’d have been burning up the highway to get back to DC.
But not today.
“Where the hell are you?” Greg yelled into the phone.
“I’m in Last Chance, South Carolina. Right now I’m sitting on a porch watching a river roll by. It’s beautiful here.”
“Last Chance?”
“It’s a tiny town hundreds of miles from anyplace where news is happening. To be honest, I feel like a fish out of water. Everyone asks if it’s okay to serve me bacon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m here in the Bible Belt trying to take care of Pop’s ashes. I’m not exactly the most popular person in town.”
“In South Carolina? Really? I’ve never been to South Carolina. I’ve heard they take a dim view of Democrats down there. Which begs the question. Why would Abe want to have his ashes scattered anywhere in South Carolina?”
“It’s complicated.” She briefly explained the situation, and had to endure Greg snickering when she got to the part about Golfing for God.
“Lark, those people are never going to give you a green light,” Greg said. “Besides, I need you right now. I’m short-staffed, and this Turkey thing is right up your alley.”
Lark consciously worked at relaxing her jaw and shoulders. “Greg, I can’t go to Turkey today. And I’m not sure I want to do another assignment with grieving mothers and lots of rubble. I need to—”
“Hey, you’re the best we’ve got when it comes to grieving mothers,” Greg said, completely missing what Lark was trying to tell him. The grieving mothers were heart wrenching. And she didn’t have the strength or the courage anymore. She sat there watching the river run while Greg continued arguing. After a minute of listening to his rant, she pulled the phone from her ear and flipped it to airplane mode.
She was so tired. She couldn’t stand another heartbreaking assignment. Not now. Maybe not ever.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and wandered inside the bungalow to put her mug in the sink. Then she pulled her Nikon out of the canvas bag and stared hard at it for several minutes. It was just a camera, not some evil thing. She needed to get over her funk and get on with her life.
She reached for her peacoat and headed outside. As she stepped down from the front stoop, she assessed the morning light. A thick dew had fallen and clung like tiny jewels to the broad-bladed grass that spread down toward the river. The Edisto’s current was strong. Pines and mossy trees jammed its banks.
She paused, savoring the small sounds—the distant rush of water, the occasional peep-peep-peep of a chickadee, the rustle of wind in the trees. The light was perfect. She could capture it. That’s all a camera did. It didn’t unleash disaster. Death did not live in her camera.
She turned up her collar and strolled down toward a tree with a long beard of dew-speckled moss and low-hanging branches. She began to think about the f-stop and shutter speed she would need for a shot that would capture the light on the dewdrops. It was a luxury, really, to be able to frame a shot this way. There was never any time to think when the bombs were bursting.
Thoughts of combat and disaster crowded out everything as she approached the tree. By the time she raised the camera and framed the shot, her hands had gone clammy. Her heart pounded so hard that her hands sho
ok. Any hope of holding the camera still disappeared.
She couldn’t find the courage to depress the shutter button. She stood frozen for the longest time, remembering Jeb Smith’s last moments in Misurata.
She might have stood there for an eternity, except that a whisper of a sound drew her attention up the river to the fishing pier.
Chief Rhodes, dressed in uniform, stood there casting a fishing line. She watched for a long moment, losing her fear in the rhythm of his casts, the play of muscles across his shoulders. He was a picture himself: athletic, brawny, and male.
She closed the distance quietly, so as not to disturb him or let him know she was there. She raised her camera and framed him. She waited for the fear, but it didn’t come. Stone seemed to have an aura around him—or maybe it was just the glow of the rising sun. Whatever it was, he seemed to push the shadows aside. He lit up the field of vision. Lark squeezed the shutter. The camera made a noise.
The world did not fall apart. She snapped off half a dozen more shots. Her hands were steady. Maybe she was okay. Maybe she would get over this fear.
Stone heard footsteps on the pier before a female voice asked, “Catch anything?”
He turned and looked over his shoulder. Lark Chaikin, wearing a pair of baggy army fatigues, a black T-shirt, and hiking boots, was advancing on him. She carried a camera slung over her shoulder.
He didn’t welcome the interruption. He’d been trying to figure out what to do about Dr. Newsome.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked in his best cop voice. He didn’t want her to get any closer. And yet he did. It was crazy.
“I’m staying at Hettie Marshall’s river house. Didn’t you get that message?” she said in her slightly nasal New York accent.
“Did you leave that message?”
“No, but the news cycle in this town is so fast, I figured you would have heard by now.” She gave him an open smile that seemed at odds with her slightly snarky tone.
“Since when do you even know Hettie Marshall?”
“Since yesterday. Your father suggested that I speak with her.” Her eyes sparked with mischief.
