From Ashes to Honor

by Loree Lough

  She’d wanted to back out of the party, too, when he offered to pick her up. “You live right there!” had been her objection.“Why drive all the way to Fells Point and back again if you don’t have to?”

  She didn’t know it, but Austin did have to. Since leaving her house, he’d thought of little else, and a pounding need to see her invaded every waking moment.

  After what she’d just been through? Any other woman would have huddled inside, afraid for her life. When he rolled into Mercy’s driveway, it surprised him to see her on the porch, alone, in a sassy black hat and matching mittens, and black leather boots that hugged her shapely calves. Make that ‘calf,’ he thought grinning at the sight of her exposed red-painted toenails. Oh, how he wanted to scoop her up and plant one right on those smiling, rosy red lips!

  All in good time, he thought, steering to the far right of her drive. All in good time.

  “Thought we’d take your car,” he said, locking his truck, “since it’s easier for you to get into and out of than this big—”

  “But they’re predicting more snow. What if they’re right? Your pickup rides higher, and I don’t have 4-wheel drive.”

  She made a good point, and, as he unlocked the passenger door, he admitted it.

  “What’s this?” he asked, taking the black plastic-wrapped package from her.

  “My contribution for the silent auction.”

  “What is it?”

  She wiggled her eyebrows, and opened her mouth to answer.Instead, she slipped on the only patch of ice to be found.

  Austin one-handed the package and steadied her with his free hand.

  “Whew,” she said, backing into the passenger seat. “That was close.”

  “Yeah. That’s all we need … you, back in the hospital so soon.” Trembling with concern, he said, “Buckle up,” then slid the parcel into the back. No other woman had stirred his protective instincts like Mercy, and something told him no other woman ever would.

  She chattered the whole way back to the marina, about the banner the kids had hung across the school’s entrance to welcome her back.

  “And there were two phone calls,” she said, “about possible Woodrow sightings.”

  “That’s great news. Did either pan out?”

  She heaved a disappointed sigh. “No. One was a gray tabby, and the other a solid black cat with enormous green eyes.”

  No doubt she was worried that the poor critter had frozen to death. And to be honest, that thought had crossed Austin’s mind a time or two. “Don’t give up hope just yet. You said yourself that he’s resourceful, and as Flora pointed out, he might be holed up with another family.”

  “Oh, I hope so. The image of him buried under a mountain of snow—” She shivered. “Isn’t it wonderful about Flora!”

  “Yeah. Best news I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “I wonder if maybe they made a mistake, with the original diagnosis, I mean. Because how else can her doctors explain that one blood test teemed with cancer cells and the next three were one hundred percent normal.”

  “Eversly admitted he believes in the power of prayer.”

  Even if peripheral vision hadn’t told him she’d turned to get a better look at him, Austin would have known because he could almost feel her gaze, boring into the side of his head.

  “What does Flora think?”

  “The members of her congregation held a special prayer vigil in her name, and she’s grateful as all get-out to every man, woman and child who hit their knees on her behalf.” Dare he add the rest, and risk setting off a chain reaction of denials and explanations and rationalizations for her doubt and skepticism? “When she got the good news, she called me over so she and Bud could tell me in person. Squeezed my hand so hard, I thought sure she’d dislocated a couple of knuckles, and thanked me for adding to all those prayers. She’d made her peace and got her affairs in order, but she’s grateful that God saw fit to heal her.”

  He heard her snort of disgust, and couldn’t ignore it. “I mean no offense, but I just have to ask: How can you stare a fullblown miracle in the face and still deny God’s existence?”

  “Coincidence.”

  That’s it? That was her rationale for Flora’s cure— coincidence?

  “So how’s the leg?”

  She sighed. “If you hadn’t changed the subject, I would have. I don’t want anything to spoil Flora’s special day. And the leg’s fine, thanks to—”

  “Glad the worse of that ordeal is behind you.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she wanted to say, and he sent a silent thank heavenward that Mercy hadn’t finished her sentence.

  “Did you get the birdhouse finished?”

  “Yep. It’s on the back seat.”

  “I can’t wait to see it. From your description, I’ve been picturing a miniature mansion.”

  “Well, it sorta is.” Then, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, asked “What’s in the big package back there?”

  “A painting.”

  “Not a bad choice.” If he had to guess, he would have said the marina’s regular members could buy the place and three more just like it. A few owned sailboats bigger than most people’s houses, and he couldn’t name one who’d been affected by the recession. “Even if it’s a print, it’ll probably bring in big bucks.”

  “Oh, it isn’t a print. It’s an original.”

  “Better still,” he said, parking in a handicap space near the clubhouse door, “especially if the bidders recognize the artist’s na—”

  “Hey, it’s Tommy Winston and his family!” She pointed at a Cadillac SUV, then pointed again, this time at a Hummer.“And the Healyes!”

  Austin jogged around to her side of the pickup and opened the passenger door. “I’ll get you inside, then move the truck.”

  “I can—”

  “Probably, but you aren’t going to.” He called her attention to the stubborn patches of ice still clinging to the wooden walkway. Planting both palms on her slender waist, he lifted her from the seat …

  … and for a moment, held her in mid-air.

  Mercy, hands resting on his shoulders, looked down at him.If that wasn’t love beaming from her dark, sparkling eyes, he’d settle for whatever it was.

  “Austin,” she said, grinning, “people are beginning to stare.““Let them.” He brought her closer, pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then put her gently on her feet. “Here,” he said, handing her the tickets, “save us a table. Not too close to the DJ’s speakers.”

  “Anything you say.”

  Anything? he wondered. Even the promise that you’ll at least try to give this whole God thing some serious thought?

  “A guy can hope,” he whispered, jogging back to his truck.

  Inside, he saw that management had displayed the auction items on long, narrow tables that hugged the walls of the banquet hall. Austin inspected the donations, and it pleased him to see that fourteen people had scribbled their names on the lines beneath the description of his birdhouse. And pleased him more to read the last bid for $51.25.

  A little farther down the table he saw Mercy’s painting.Propped against the white beaded board wall, it caught the overhead lights and reflected the muted colors of a sunset.His heart nearly stopped when he recognized it as his sunset.Well, the view of it from his boat, anyway. Even more amazing —the tiny black signature in the lower right-hand corner that said Mercy S.

  He caught her eye, and, with a nod, asked her to join him.Even stumping along on her half cast, she crossed the room in no time.

  “What,” she said, stepping up beside him.

  Austin pointed at the painting, and at the form where two dozen people had tried to outbid one another, so that they could take it home. “That’s what.”

  She glanced at it, then looked back at him. “What about it?”

  “I didn’t know you could paint.”

  One brow rose as she smirked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mr. Finley.”


  “When did you do it?”

  “The weekend after you grilled me steaks on your boat.”

  “From memory?”

  Mercy nodded. “Well, sure. How else?” And then she laughed.

  “I thought maybe you’d snapped a picture. With your cell phone camera.” He shrugged. “Or something like that.”

  “No, no,” she said, her voice light and airy as the painting’s brush strokes.

  “You must have a photographic memory, then.”

  “You two sound like an old married couple … .”

  Cora … and she didn’t sound happy. Austin plastered a smile on his face and turned around. “Hey, kids,” he said, standing between the boys. “I thought you’d never get here!”

  “Is this the lady you were living with?” Ray asked.

  “I wasn’t living with her,” he said, laughing. “I was—”

  “He’s right,” Rick agreed. “She got beat up by a gang of bad dudes. He was only staying at her place so she wouldn’t take a header down the stairs, or drown in the toilet, or—”

  “Boys!” Cora said. “Where are your manners?”

  Mercy held out a hand to Cora, and smiled, “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “And you must be Mercy.”

  Cora’s smile never quite reached her eyes. Not a good sign.Not a good sign at all. Bookended by the boys, he stood looking at the two most important women in his life, and thought he understood what a slice of lunchmeat felt like right before a lumberjack bit into it.

  “So where are you guys sitting?” he asked.

  Rick pointed. “Over there. Right next to—”

  “Dr. Samara,” Ray injected. “Her name is Doctor Samara.”

  “Oh. Right. So anyway, we’re over there, right next to that painting she did from your boat.”

  “How do you know that’s where she painted it?”

  “Pul-eeze. It’s, like, the only place in the world where a sycamore tree grows outta the water. And there’s a sycamore in her painting.” Rick looked at Mercy. “Isn’t that right?”

  Mercy licked her lips, then smiled. “Yes. That’s true. But I wasn’t on Austin’s boat when I painted the scene. I just happened to see the sunset one evening when—”

  “You know Austin,” Cora interrupted. “He has a girl up there in that pilot house of his every day of the week, showing her” She drew quotation marks in the air and cleared her throat. “—the view.”

  Bud and Griff walked up them as a cheer rose up from the crowd. Mrs. Healye and Mrs. Winston joined them, too, as all eyes turned toward the widescreen TV behind the bar. “Saints won the coin toss!” a deep voice shouted.

  “Landed heads up!” bellowed another.

  Austin’s gaze was fused to the screen when he said, “Twentysecond time that’s happened.”

  “What are you,” Bud asked, “some kind of walking, talking encyclopedia?”

  Griff laughed and clapped a hand onto Austin’s shoulder.“Our boy put his free time to good use, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What free time? I pretty much worked 24-7-365 until my recent babysitting job.”

  Thankfully, Mercy seemed too involved in her chat with Mrs. Healye and Mrs. Winston to have heard the crack. But he’d better watch his mouth from here on out, though, unless he wanted what her to think he’d been spewing baloney when told her how much he’d enjoyed taking care of her.

  But Cora heard it. He knew by the width of her smirk.

  During halftime, the DJ tapped his microphone and directed everyone’s attention to a second widescreen on the wall opposite the game, where a mini-documentary filmed by his brother and sister-in-law to honor the victims and survivors of 9/11 and their families, would soon begin.

  Austin and Griff exchanged a cynical glance. They’d already seen it all, in black and white and full color and in person. Did they really want to view yet another version of the tragedy?

  Mercy grabbed Austin’s wrists and looked up into his face, exactly as she had that day so many years ago in her office.“Are you OK to do this?” she whispered. “Because if you aren’t, we can leave. Just get in your truck and go.”

  He tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and smiled.“Yeah. I’ll be fi—”

  Mrs. Winston said “I’ve seen this documentary before. This time, I’m going to ask for a copy, and I don’t care what it costs.

  Because my brother was in the South Tower. He made it out, but went back in to help a woman who’d fallen on the stairs.”

  It wasn’t necessary for her to say more.

  Mrs. Healye nodded. “My niece was a passenger on Flight 93. I haven’t seen this one, but if it’s everything you say it is, I want a copy, too.”

  A man behind her said, “I had a cousin in the Pentagon that day.”

  “And our dad was there, too,” Ray added.

  “All of the money goes to a college fund,” Mrs. Winston added, “for kids whose parents died that day. Cops, firefighters, paramedics, people on the planes and in the buildings. All of their children will benefit.”

  “Count me in,” Flora said.

  And Griff said, “Me, too.” He gave Austin another look, then shrugged. “At least this one’s for a good cause.”

  Yeah, he supposed that was good enough reason to stay.

  No doubt the movie would stir up some ugly memories, but at least this time he’d have Mercy at his side.

  Cora stepped up and hugged him, then rested her head on his shoulder and began to cry.

  Correction, he thought as the boys joined their hug. He’d have Mercy. And Cora. And Eddy’s sons.

  Chances he’d get a good night’s sleep tonight with Eddy and Avery and the rest of this mess running through his mind?

  Nil.

  Unless he spent the first few hours with his buddy Jim Beam.

  32

  Mercy had never been a fan of the game, and her distaste for football doubled in the days following Super Bowl Sunday.Everywhere she went, people seemed obsessed about weighing in on the plays, time outs, side judges’ rulings, and the final score.

  To make a bad situation worse, the Saints’ win created a stir on Baltimore’s radio airwaves, with half the city’s football enthusiasts calling the team’s loss “Punishment for Irsay’s desertion in ‘84!” The other half—too young to remember team buses slip-sliding on new-fallen snow during the wee hours—termed the Colts’ defeat “The universe making right what happened to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.”

  How easy it would be, she thought, to hide from all of the bickering out here on the terrace, watching the birds as she enjoyed the crisp March breeze!

  A quiet meow broke into her consciousness, and she turned toward the distinctly feline sound. “Woodrow?”

  Sure enough, he peeked out at her from under a deck chair, looking dirty and rumpled and exhausted. Ignoring his matted, reeking fur, she scooped him up and hugged him. “Where have you been, you crazy escape artist, you?”

  He nuzzled into the crook of her neck and chirruped.

  “Well, you sure don’t sound like your usual peppy self, but I suppose there’s a price to pay for living a nomad’s life, isn’t there?”

  Mercy could count his ribs if she had a mind to, heard his rattling breaths, too. She had her suspicions about what had caused his symptoms, “Let’s get you inside, out of this cold wind. And while you’re lapping up some water, I’ll make an appointment with the vet.”

  Three hours later, after x-rays of his chest and stomach, the ELISA test confirmed her worst fears: Woodrow had feline leukemia.

  “How in the world did he get that?” whiny baby! Woodrow is sick, not you. So what’re you blubbering about?

  “Picked it up while gallivanting around the neighborhood, I imagine,” the vet tech said, “eating out of other cats’ bowls, getting into fights, letting an infected cat groom him. Even with inoculations—and I know you’ve been religious about them—sometimes—”
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br />   “Will he need surgery?”

  “No, that would only traumatize him unnecessarily.The cancer has invaded his vital organs, so an operation is pointless.”

  Oh, poor, poor Woodrow! she thought, ruffling his sparse fur. “How long before … before he—”

  “I’ve seen cats live two, even three years with this disease.He might last that long, but his cancer has invaded vital organs.Plus he’s severely anemic.”

  “So it’s hopeless, then.”

  “Nothing is hopeless.” He tousled Woodrow’s mangy head.“You’re a tough ol’ boy, so I’ll just bet you’re gonna fight this like a tiger.”

  “That’s what I used to call him. My little—” A lump formed in her throat, choking off the rest of her sentence. You’re such a whiny baby! Woodrow is sick, not you. So what’re you blubbering about?

  “I’ll keep him here for a few days, get him cleaned up and stabilize him. I’ll send him home with an antibiotic. An antiviral, and alpha interferon, too. That stuff won’t cure him, but it’ll go a long, long way in making him more comfortable until—”

  Until it’s time to euthanize him, she finished silently. Chalk another one up for the Big Guy, she fumed, and added another item to her “God is never fair” list. She thanked the tech and paid the bill, and all the way home, ranted about God’s utter lack of compassion.

  The part of her that craved comfort yearned to call Austin, who’d turned the doling out of reassurance into an art.

  But the rest of her held back.

  He’d been standoffish and secretive lately, and Mercy feared that another battle between “The Great Believer” and “O Ye of Little Faith” would only put more distance between them— and less between him and his partner’s widow. How many times had she pictured the two of them at the Super Bowl party—Cora, with her cheek pressed to his chest, and Austin gently stroking her hair.

  What a horrible, selfish person she must be to behave like a jealous wife at a time like this! Pull it together, Merc, or you’ll lose him to Cora.

  She forced herself to remember that he’d taken her, not Cora, to the party. To dinner and a movie for Valentine’s Day, too. She’d been the one he invited to New York to see the concert.And what about those weeks following the attack when he’d cooked and ran errands and did his best to feign interest in those decorating shows on the home and garden channel?