“Your mother was the most popular girl at Hart’s Crossing High. Cutest thing you ever did see. I had a terrible crush on her my senior year. But once she met your father, she had eyes for nobody but Ned. Oh, those two were something, I’ll tell you. And could they ever cut a rug. Once the music started, they never left the dance floor, those two.”
“Remember the time Frani and Till took on the city council over the gazebo in the park? It’s almost as old as the town itself, and it was a shambles. Everybody expected it to be torn down, if it didn’t fall down on its own first. But Frani and Till were like dogs with a bone. They wouldn’t let the members of the council rest until those repairs were made. Now it’s one of the finest landmarks in our town, and I make a point to thank them every Fourth of July when we’re all down there celebrating.”
“Your mother has the most tender heart of any woman I know. Did you know she’s been taking fresh-baked cookies to that women and children’s shelter in the next county for more than a decade? Rain or shine, every week she drives over there. She reads to the little ones and comforts those women. She gives them advice when they want it, and she sits quietly with those who don’t. Francine has a gift straight from God himself.”
“I haven’t known your mother many years, Angie, but as her pastor, I’d say Proverbs 31 would be a good description of her. ‘She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs with no fear of the future. When she speaks, her words are wise, and kindness is the rule when she gives instructions.’”
“Remember when we were kids, Ang, and your mom set up that tent in your backyard so the neighborhood girls could have a camp out? She was trying to get that center post in the right spot, and the whole thing collapsed on her. We were laughing so hard we were rolling on the ground and never lifted a finger to help her. I thought for sure she’d be spittin’ mad by the time she got untangled from all that canvas. My mom sure would’ve been, but yours just laughed along with us. She’s always been a good sport.”
So many stories, all told with love. So many reminders of moments Angie had forgotten or had never known at all.
* * *
As dusk settled on Hart’s Crossing, Angie sat on the front porch in her mother’s favorite wooden rocker, wrapped in a bulky sweater, with a soft lap blanket covering her legs and a mug of hot herbal tea held between her hands. The evening air was cool but inviting, scented with the green of newly mown lawns and the purple of lilac bushes in bloom. She was thankful for the quiet of the neighborhood after the busyness of the day and the stress of the previous week.
It was good to be home.
Home.
She allowed the idea to settle over her, accepting it as truth.
It was good to be home.
Angie closed her eyes as she took a sip of tea. Her mother had been discharged from the hospital earlier in the day, and now she was asleep in her bed, surrounded by some of her favorite things, including her well-used Bible, an overflowing bookcase, a collection of spoons from various vacation spots she’d visited in her lifetime, and the many photos of her husband, daughter, and friends that decorated the walls, dresser, and night stand.
Angie pictured her own oversized bedroom back in California. The walls were blank except for a large painting by an up-and-coming Bay area artist that hung over a decorative fireplace. No photos cluttered any surface. No bookcase; Angie rarely had time to read for pleasure. Certainly no collection of spoons.
How sterile, she thought. If a stranger were to walk into her house, what would they discover that would tell them anything personal about Angie Hunter?
Nothing, she feared, except for her dress size.
She thought of all the visitors who had come to see her mother in the hospital. All of those people knew Francine so well. They knew her past and they knew her heart. They were connected in countless ways.
And who am I connected to?
No one, really. At least, not in California. If she never went back, no one would miss her. She’d been replaced at the newspaper. Her colleagues were only that, her colleagues. They ate the occasional lunch together. They chatted at company Christmas parties. But Angie never let any of them into her personal life—because she didn’t have one. She was too focused on getting ahead, too determined to prove her value to the paper, too set on moving up one more rung on the ladder of success. She’d used her money to acquire a large house where she never entertained and a fancy car that never went anywhere except work. She had the best of everything and yet…
Angie opened her eyes, surprised to discover the dark of night had arrived while she was lost in thought. She set the mug of cooling tea on the floor, shoved the blanket from her lap, stood, and walked to the edge of the porch. Placing her hands on the railing, she turned her face toward the sky.
When did I lose myself?
For some inexplicable reason—at least, inexplicable to her—she recalled going to the movies with her mother to see the Cecil B. DeMille classic, The Ten Commandments. She’d been no more than twelve when the film came to play at the Apollo, but she remembered scenes from the movie as if she’d watched it yesterday. She remembered Moses on top of that mountain, the wind swirling about him, and she recalled the voice of God proclaiming, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”
A breeze stirred the trees, dancing through the leafy branches. It whispered a question in Angie’s heart: What other gods have you put before him?
Suddenly chilled, she turned and went inside.
Chapter 9
ENJOYING THE PLEASANT WARMTH of a beautiful late spring day, Francine reclined on a lounge on the back patio, her face turned toward the afternoon sun, her eyes closed. The pain in her knee was noticeably less today, nearly three weeks post surgery. Still, she was impatient with the recovery process, even though the physical therapist said she was right on schedule.
“Mom,” Angie called from the back doorway, “can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, dear.” She turned her head on the cushion until she could see her daughter. “I’m fine for now.”
“Would you like some company then?” Angie stepped outside.
“I’d love it.” Francine motioned toward the patio chair next to her.
Angie walked over and sank onto the padded seat. “What a beautiful day.”
“Indeed.”
“Miss Hart called. She said to tell you she’ll drop by around three.”
Francine chuckled as she looked at her daughter. “If Till brings another covered dish, I won’t be able to fit into any of my nice clothes. I’ll be on a diet for the next six months if I’m not careful.”
“Too true. I know I’ve gained a few pounds since you got out of the hospital, and there’s enough food in your refrigerator to feed us both for another month or two.”
Francine didn’t think a few extra pounds would hurt Angie in the least, but she kept that opinion to herself.
Angie patted her stomach. “I need to start running again. I talk about it, but I never do it. I don’t know why. I’ve always been faithful with my exercises. I think I’m getting lazy.”
Lazy wasn’t a word she would use to describe her daughter. Angie had worked diligently, taking care of Francine’s every need, driving her to physical therapy appointments and cleaning the house and running errands and welcoming the daily round of visitors. And she’d done it all without complaint.
But the best times were when, like now, Angie came to sit with her. Oh, how blessed Francine was by these precious moments of companionship with her daughter. How she had ached for them through the years. How she would miss them after Angie went away again.
O Lord, forgive me. I don’t mean to feel sorry for myself. You’ve given us these weeks together. Let me rejoice in them while they’re here.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“When I was a little girl, we pretty much always went to church, didn’t we? You and Daddy and me.”
Francine tried not to look sur
prised by the question. “Yes, we did. We rarely missed a Sunday. Why do you ask?”
“Well…I was wondering something.” Angie’s gaze was fastened on some point beyond the treetops. “You’ve always believed in God. Right?”
Francine’s pulse fluttered rapidly, like the wings of a hummingbird as it hovers near a feeder. “Yes, I’ve always believed in him.”
“Then…what changed about your beliefs when I was in high school?”
Francine had longed for this moment, but now that it had come, she feared she wouldn’t be able to find the right words. The Bible said to always be ready to explain her Christian hope, but she felt anything but ready. What if she said the wrong thing? What if she made matters worse? She and her daughter had been estranged for so long. What if she couldn’t…
No one can come to me, unless the Father who sent me draws him.
Francine felt herself grow calm. It wasn’t her job to convince, arm-twist, or out-debate. She was simply supposed to be ready and willing to explain her hope. Hers and hers alone.
* * *
It was the pinnacle of insanity to ask her mother such a question. Angie couldn’t imagine what possessed her to do it.
No. That wasn’t true. She did know. Ever since that night on the porch, more than a week ago, when she’d remembered the line from that old movie, those same words had continued to repeat in her head: “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”
Worse still, her own subsequent question had repeated as well: What other gods have you put before him?
She tried to ignore the voice, those words, but they persisted all the same.
Perhaps if she were in her own environment, in her own place, she could have sorted it through, could have figured out why this seemed to trouble her so. But here in Hart’s Crossing, in her mother’s home, with people coming and going all the time, laughing and joking and sharing memories, bringing gifts and trays of food…
Well, it was hard to think, that’s all.
“Angie,” her mother said softly, ending the lengthy silence, “I believed in God always. From the time I was a child, I believed. But I somehow missed the part about him believing in me.”
Angie looked at her mother. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I didn’t either until I started reading my Bible. That’s when God’s truths began to open up to me. That’s when I began to realize God wanted to be personal in my life. He wasn’t way up in heaven, watching me muddle through. He was with me, and he spoke to me every day as I read from his Word.”
“Every religion has its own book, Mom.”
“Christianity is much more than a religion, darling, although even many who call themselves Christians fail to understand that. I did for many years.” She shook her head slowly. “And the Bible is much more than a mere book. It’s holy because it was written by a living God. It has the power to change people, the same way it changed me.” She spoke in a quiet voice, and the strength of her belief was almost hypnotic.
Angie resisted, saying, “It’s just a book written by a bunch of men thousands of years ago.”
“Is it?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Angie, you’ve been a journalist for many years. You deal in facts. You know how to dig for truth. Why don’t you investigate to see if what I say is true? God isn’t afraid of our reasoning, and he isn’t surprised by our questions or our doubts. He gave you your intellect. So why don’t you use it?”
That was a challenge Angie hadn’t expected her mother to make, and her reply was even more unexpected. “Maybe I will.”
Chapter 10
“SHOO!” TILL HART CROSSED her wiry, age-wrinkled arms over her chest and stared at Angie with the determination of a drill sergeant. “Get out, young lady, and don’t come back for the rest of the day. We’ll see to your mother.”
“But—”
“You know better than to argue with your elders. Shoo, I said.”
Angie looked from Till to Steph Watson to the three other members of the Thimbleberry Quilting Club who stood in her mother’s living room, sewing baskets in hand.
Till’s hand alighted on Angie’s arm, and her voice softened when she spoke again. “Go on, now. You haven’t had a day to yourself in nearly a month. We promise we won’t let Frani do anything she shouldn’t.”
Angie glanced toward her mother.
“I’ll be fine, dear. Go and enjoy yourself.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
As Angie turned toward the stairs, Till said, “And remember. Don’t come back until supper time.”
Fifteen minutes later—wearing a baseball cap, a pair of comfortable Levis, a pale green T-shirt, and her white athletic shoes—Angie walked toward town, breathing in the sweet midmorning air. It felt good to get out for a while. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having some alone time, and she was glad Till Hart had insisted. Not that she’d minded these weeks of caring for her mother. It had actually been an unexpected…blessing. She’d felt as if she were coming to know her mother in a new—and better—way.
“Good morning, Angie,” a woman called from a driveway. “How’s your mother today?”
Recognizing Liz Rue, the woman who owned Tattered Pages Bookstore, she answered, “She’s doing well, Mrs. Rue.”
“Tell her I’ll be by to see her again soon. I received a shipment of new novels yesterday, and I know she’ll want to read some of them while she’s laid up. I’ll bring by a few and let her choose.”
“I’ll tell her. Thanks.”
Was there anybody in town who didn’t know and care about her mother?
When she walked past the elementary school a short while later, Angie remembered that today was the last day of the school year.
Lyssa must be excited. More time for baseball.
She smiled, remembering summers in Hart’s Crossing when she was a kid. Long, warm days of fun. Bike rides and swimming and camping and horseback riding. It seemed to her that she’d had access to most of the back doors in town. If her mother wasn’t near, someone else’s mother was. What a carefree existence.
She wondered how Terri managed, a self-employed single mom with a deadbeat ex and no close living relatives for backup support. Was there some sort of daycare program in Hart’s Crossing? Or did Lyssa have to go into the salon with her mother during the summer months? It couldn’t be easy for Terri, juggling so many things while raising a daughter alone.
In contrast, all Angie had to think about was herself. She used to believe hers was the perfect life. But lately…
“Hey, stranger.”
She slowed her steps at the sound of Bill Palmer’s voice. She glanced quickly at Terri’s Tangles Beauty Salon, her original destination, then almost without a conscious decision, headed across the street to where Bill stood.
“How’s your mom?”
“Doing well.”
“Glad to hear it. Sorry I haven’t been by to see her this week. I had to go out of town for a few days. But I plan to drop by tomorrow after church, if that’s all right.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Hey, if you’d like, I could come by before church and take you both with me.”
Surprisingly, Angie was tempted to say yes. “Sorry. Mom doesn’t think she can manage being out that much just yet. And you know my mother. If she was able, she’d be there in a flash. She doesn’t like to miss church.”
“I know. I’m the same way. Best day of the week, in my humble opinion.”
Again she was tempted to respond, this time to tell Bill about the books she was reading. Research, she called it. She’d taken up her mother’s challenge to investigate the Bible and its accuracy. Of course, she should have been using that time to look for a new job, but employment hadn’t seemed such a pressing concern lately.
As if knowing her thoughts, Bill asked, “How’s the job hunt going?”
Angie shrugged.
“Care to see my office?” He tipped
his head toward the door to the newspaper.
“Sure.” She smiled, pleased by the invitation. “I’d love to.”
He moved toward the door, opened it, and motioned her through. “Beauty before age.”
What was it about Bill Palmer that made her so prone to blushing? Angie looked at the floor instead of him as she stepped inside.
The front office of the Mountain View Press was a cluttered hodgepodge of desks, bookcases, file cabinets, and heaven only knew what else that was hidden beneath stacks of papers and files. It smelled of dust, ink, and old newsprint.
Ambrosia.
“I know where everything is, too,” Bill declared with a chuckle. “There’s a method in my chaos.”
Angie laughed with him. “Of course there is.”
“Here. Let me clear off a chair for you.”
In short order, Angie was seated on the opposite side of Bill’s desk. She expected him to turn on his computer or check his voice mail. He did neither. Instead, he locked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.
“So,” he said, “besides taking care of your mom and looking for work, what are you doing with yourself? This is the first time I’ve seen you in town since your mom came home.”
“I’m only here because of Miss Hart. She and the Thimbleberry bunch ran me out of the house. They think I’ve been too cooped up and need some sun and exercise.”
“Ah.”
She glanced around the newspaper office again. “They were right.”
“Care to take a drive with me into the country?”
Thump-thump. She wondered if he heard her pulse jump. Thump-thump.
“I’m working on an article about Kris Hickman. Remember her?”
“Crazy Kris?”
Bill gave her an amused look. “Yeah. That’s what they called her in high school.”
Embarrassed by her outburst—it wasn’t the kindest of nicknames—Angie decided against asking what sort of story he might want to write about Kris. After all, the Mountain View Press was a family-friendly weekly newspaper, and there wasn’t anything family-friendly about Kris Hickman. At least not the girl Angie remembered. Kris had been a wild-living, rough-talking teenager who drank, smoked, and popped pills. A year older than Angie, Kris had dropped out in her junior year and ridden off to parts unknown on the back of her boyfriend’s Harley.
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