Special Blessings

by Anne Marie Rodgers

  Chapter Sixteen

  ANABELLE HAD ANOTHER MEETING WITH PENNY Risser Wednesday afternoon.

  “Good afternoon,” Penny said, when Anabelle rapped on her doorframe. Not surprisingly, she was watering her plants. “Come on in.” In a lower voice, she added, “Better close the door behind you.”

  Anabelle smiled as she shut the door. “I guess we don't want this conversation overheard, do we?”

  “Absolutely not.” Penny threw her hands up in the air in an uncharacteristic gesture of frustration. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping, because I’m worrying about how to straighten out this mess.” The woman's agitation was a measure of how distressed she was; Penny was usually a steely model of efficiency.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Anabelle said, attempting to soothe her. “Let's review the problem.”

  “One: Em Palmer was asked to compile information on the many volunteer activities that benefit Hope Haven Hospital.” Penny ticked items off on her fingers, as she launched into the list. “Two: When she turned it in, we found numerous instances in which she inflated statistics. The fact that every single volunteer activity was artificially enhanced leads us to believe this was not an unintentional math mistake but an attempt to make Hope Haven look good.”

  “Artificially enhanced,” Anabelle said. “I like that. Three: Em is a member of the hospital board and on friendly terms with many influential people in the community. Offending her could be problematic for either or both of us, neither of whom wants to lose her job. We’re probably being ridiculously paranoid; but given everything that's occurred around here of late, we aren't willing to take that chance.”

  “And that's the crux of the problem,” Penny said. “I don't feel as if we can confront her with this. I know we should, but I’m afraid. I’m a chicken. A coward.”

  Anabelle thought privately that no one would believe it if they could hear Penny Risser right now. “You are not,” she said out loud. “I’m cautious too. There has to be a reason Em did this. What would make her feel the need to inflate Hope Haven's reputation?”

  “The need to win the award,” Penny said.

  “Exactly. But why is winning the award so important to her?”

  Penny shrugged. “Prestige?”

  “Maybe.” But that didn't feel right, somehow. “That doesn't seem to be a strong enough reason to risk her reputation though. What if this gets out? What if you hadn't been the one to read it first and catch the error?”

  “She knew I’d be compiling the different sections,” Penny pointed out.

  “True.”

  “And maybe this is exactly what she counted on…that I’d be too timid to say anything.”

  “No one who knows anything about you would ever associate you with the word timid,” Anabelle said dryly.

  Penny actually laughed. “True.”

  “Besides, I can't imagine she’d be that calculating. I wouldn't be surprised if she did this impulsively and now is worrying herself sick about it. And hoping you won't notice.”

  “Do you think the best of everyone?”

  “I try.” And she did.

  “Okay. Let's set aside what we think and talk about what we should do.” Penny indicated the folder lying on her desk. “As I said before, we can't submit this. I’m certain that the awards committee does some fact-checking, and if it were learned that our statistics were inflated, it would be a huge black eye for Hope Haven.”

  Anabelle nodded. “That's the last thing we need.” She pursed her lips. “I suppose you and I could split up the work and double-check all of the statistics we think are wrong.”

  “Good idea,” Penny said. “And we may as well gather the right stats while we’re at it, since this project is time-sensitive.”

  “All right.” Anabelle didn't need the extra work, but she hadn't come up with any brilliant ideas, so she’d have to do her best with this one.

  Elena got home from work late on Thursday. One of the evening-shift ICU nurses had a flat tire on the way to work, so Elena had stayed until she arrived. As she pulled into her driveway, she saw that Cesar also had just arrived.

  He got out of his red truck at nearly the same instant she opened the door of her Jeep. “Hello,” she called. “How was your day?”

  He didn't respond for a moment, just shook his head, as he walked around the small SUV toward her. As he drew closer, she could see that his clothes were disheveled and wrinkled, his tie loose and his shirt barely tucked in. He barely resembled the smartly dressed detective who had left the house that morning.

  “What's wrong?” she asked, instantly concerned. As a cop's wife, she had seen the stoic facades many of them presented to the world even after horrific events such as the killing of one of their own. She took a better look at him, slightly reassured when she saw no sign of injury. “Did something happen today?”

  Cesar gave a bark of laughter, but there was no true amusement in it. “Lots of things happened today, but only one of them got to me.”

  “What was it? Was one of the guys hurt?” If he didn't tell her soon, she was going to clobber him.

  “No, nothing like that.” He apparently realized he had unnerved her, because he said, “Sorry I scared you. It's nothing big. Jon and I had to chase down this kid today.…” He shook his head. “Drug deals on the corner right across from the playground. I couldn't believe it.”

  “And that's what got to you?” she asked, trying to understand. Jon McDaniel was a police sergeant with whom Cesar sometimes worked when a team was required—a clean-cut athletic cop some fifteen years younger than Cesar.

  “No.” He made a sound of self-derision. “The kid ran, and Jon and I chased him. Jon caught him on the other side of the baseball field.”

  “Okay. So why's that bad?”

  “Because,” her husband said in a glum tone, “I was still climbing over the fence by the dugouts. I used to be so much faster. It was embarrassing to have that kid leave me in the dust.”

  Elena wasn't sure if Cesar was talking about the drug dealer or Jon, but it didn't really matter.

  “Remember last fall when the fugitive hit me, and Rafael chased him down?”

  “You can't really compare that incident to this,” Elena exclaimed. “For heaven's sake, Cesar, the guy hit you with a baseball bat.”

  “My reflexes were slow,” he said. “I never would have let him get that hit in when I was younger.”

  Elena wasn't so sure about that. However, hearing him talk about slowing down worried her deeply. She couldn't help thinking of his family history of heart disease.

  Could heart trouble be slowing him down? She opened her mouth to ask him as she stepped into the house, but a loud crash from the direction of the kitchen had her startling and running that way.

  “Izzy! Are you all right?” There was a chair lying on its side not far from the kitchen counter, and a carton of milk lay on its side. Milk dripped from the cabinets and the fridge and trailed across the floor. Isabel was sprawled awkwardly in a puddle, and Elena was at her side in a flash. “No, don't move. Let me check to make sure nothing's hurt.”

  Rafael came rushing into the kitchen shirtless. “What happened?” he demanded. “Izzy, I only went to change my shirt. What did you get into?” He knelt by his daughter's side, and as Elena nodded to him that the child was unhurt, he drew her into his arms.

  Izzy was sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m all w-w-wet and d-dirty.” There was little in the world the child loathed more than not being clean. “I wanted to make hot chocolate, but the chair moved out from under me when I tried to get a cup down, and I fell.”

  Elena was so relieved that her granddaughter wasn't hurt that she said the first thing that popped into her head. “We don't drink hot chocolate in June.”

  On Thursday evening, Anabelle was cleaning up her kitchen after dinner when she saw a flash of white behind one of her canisters. Fishing it out, she saw that it was her sour-cherry pie recipe, the one she’d used the day bef
ore Kirstie left. A wave of sadness swept over her. I made that pie when Kirstie moved into her own apartment, she thought, but at least she was still in the same town. Now she's clear up in Chicago. The telephone rang, arresting her train of thought.

  Glad for the interruption, Anabelle grabbed the handset. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Anabelle, it's Candace.”

  “Hello.” Anabelle couldn't keep the forlorn note out of her voice.

  “What's wrong?” Her friend's voice grew more alert.

  Anabelle tried to chuckle. “Nothing, really. I just found something that made me think of Kirstie. Eight weeks is going to be a very long time.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Candace said. “I know this is tough for you.”

  “It was tough for all of us.” Anabelle straightened her shoulders and set aside her pity party. “But we’re coping. Now what can I do for you on a beautiful summer evening?”

  “I actually wanted to ask you about Penny Risser,” Candace said. “Do you think she'd be willing to talk with my expectant Down's couple? They’re really struggling.”

  “Oh, that's right. Of course I can ask her,” Anabelle said. “Or at least pave the way so you can talk with her.” She remembered something Penny had said. “I wonder if they'd consider working together to establish a chapter of the National Down Syndrome Society here in Deerford. Penny got literature about it, and she’d be perfect, but she's a little hesitant.”

  “That's a great idea.” Candace sounded enthused. “Let me know when you’ve talked to her, and I’ll be happy to tell her about this couple. With their permission, of course.”

  “Of course.” Anabelle felt quite a bit more cheerful than she had moments earlier. There was nothing like helping someone else to lift her mood.

  Chapter Seventeen

  HEY, THIS ONE'S PRETTY, MOM. DON'T YOU THINK so?” said Candace.

  Janet, Candace, and Brooke were shopping for a wedding dress. Candace had looked and looked, but everything seemed too “first time wedding” to her. Brooke currently was holding up yet another wildly inappropriate dress, a slender column of candlelight satin with a strapless bodice and an interesting fan of sheer pleated chiffon disguising a deep sweetheart neckline. On the wearer, it would be skintight and show enough cleavage to please every man in sight—except her future husband.

  “Oh, that is pretty, honey. But I don't think it's quite right for me.”

  Brooke snorted. “Do you know how many times you’ve said that today?” She flounced away to riffle through a rack of rainbow-colored dresses for bridesmaids. Their saleswoman followed her, apparently deciding Brooke might be easier to please than Candace.

  Candace sighed. She was a widow with children, and she felt distinctly uncomfortable in white silk. Or ivory satin. Or lace. Or…oh, this was just awful. “I’m never going to find a dress,” she moaned to her mother.

  Janet smiled. “Yes, you will.” She hesitated. “What are you looking for?”

  Candace shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. I just know I don't want to look like a blushing bride. I’m too old. And this is a second marriage.”

  “For you.” Her mother's voice was mild. “But don't forget it is Heath's first wedding. And you’re not old,” Janet said in a reproving tone. “I understand you don't want a big froufrou dress, but there are some simple styles that I think would look lovely on you.”

  “Maybe.” Candace sighed. “I guess I’ll consider something long, maybe in candlelight or ivory, but I draw the line at a veil.”

  Her mother laughed. “A coronet of baby's breath might be a pretty alternative.”

  “And nothing strapless.” She made a face. “All those strapless dresses make me feel uncomfortable just looking at them, much less actually wearing one out in public.”

  Janet laughed even harder. “You’re more conservative than I am.”

  Candace thought about it for a minute. “You’re right.” They grinned foolishly at each other. Then Candace's expression sobered. “Mom? Are you still pursuing that online dating thing?” They had not discussed it since their first, tense conversation. Candace wasn't sure why, but she hadn't felt able to bring it up.

  Janet's own smile faded. “Oh yes. I have my first date scheduled. I meant to tell you, but…well, I was afraid it might upset you. And the last thing I want to do is make you unhappy when this should be one of the happiest times of your life.”

  “Oh, Mom.” Tears threatened, and Candace swallowed. “I’m sorry if you haven't felt supported in this decision. Please tell me about it.”

  Janet smiled and reached out, touching her daughter's cheek. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “I’m meeting the man for coffee, so if I don't like him, I can cut it short. If I do like him, and the feeling is mutual, then we can turn it into a meal.”

  “And are you taking the precautions you told me about?” Candace still was worried.

  “Yes. He doesn't know what I look like yet.”

  “What? Isn't your picture on the Web site?”

  Janet shook her head, smiling. “Women are not required to post photos. It's part of this site's initiative to protect women. On the other hand, I do know what he looks like. When I see him, I’ll go to the counter and order a strawberry lemonade and join him. He doesn't even have my e-mail address. He doesn't know my last name, or even the specific community I live in.”

  Even to Candace, it sounded as safe as it could be, and she found herself relaxing a little. “All right,” she said. “I won't stop worrying, but maybe I’ll worry a little less. When is this momentous meeting taking place?”

  Janet shook her head. “Oh, no way am I telling you that. Then all you’ll do is chew your fingernails to the quick the whole time I’m away from the house.”

  Candace laughed. “You know me awfully well, don't you?”

  Janet just smiled.

  “Mom, Grammy, look at me!” Brooke's excited treble broke the moment.

  As one, Janet and Candace turned toward the young girl. Brooke stood on a wide pedestal before a trio of mirrors, a beaming saleswoman hovering at her side. The dress she wore was floor-length in a lovely shade of lavender with a pale blue ribbon rosette defining the waist, its long tails flowing down one side of the dress. It was sleeveless with a modest cowl neckline that dipped into a slightly deeper cowl in the back.

  “Oh, Brooke. You look beautiful.” Candace hurried over, her mother only a pace behind. “This dress is perfect for you. I love it.”

  “I love it too,” Brooke said. “Can we buy this one for my maid of honor dress?”

  Candace quickly glanced at the price tag dangling discreetly from one side. “If this is the one you want, we sure can.” She stepped a pace away. “What a gorgeous dress. I wish I could find something like that for myself.”

  The saleswoman cleared her throat. “Actually, ma’am, we do have similar styles for adults. Would you like to look at them?”

  Candace glanced at her watch. “I can't today. We’re running out of time. But I assume we’ll have to come back for a fitting for Brooke, so perhaps I can look then.”

  The saleswoman looked disappointed, but she rallied quickly. “Of course. If you’ll step over to the counter, we can take care of this purchase and schedule a fitting for your daughter. I’ll give you my card and a brochure from this particular company that shows several of their other dresses.”

  On Sunday afternoon, Candace left Brooke, Howie, and Heath getting ready to go to the local pool for an afternoon swim, while she drove to the home of Lewis and Therese Nottington. The couple had decided to share the news about the baby's congenital condition with their family at that time.

  Therese greeted her with a tense smile when she knocked at the door. “This is Candace Crenshaw, who teaches our birthing class,” Therese said to those assembled in the room. In short order, she introduced Candace to her parents, Lewis's parents, and several siblings and their spouses. Noelle, Lewis's college-bound daughter and Therese's stepchild, was dark-h
aired and pretty, even though there wasn't a smile in sight.

  “Congratulations on your graduation,” Candace said to the girl. “This is an exciting time in your life. Where are you planning to go to college?”

  “Thank you. I’ll be starting at the University of Illinois in August.”

  “Good luck,” Candace said, “with your adjustment to college.”

  The girl's smile wavered. “There are going to be a lot of adjustments all around in this family.”

  Candace rubbed her arm gently. “Yes, there are.”

  “Everyone, Lew and I asked you to join us today because we have some news to share with you.” Therese's voice sounded high and nervous, and the poor woman was visibly shaking.

  Quickly, Candace led her to a seat. “You can do your talking from here,” she said, winking.

  “So what's the surprise?” The speaker was another big man, one of Lewis's brothers. “Don't tell us it's twins.”

  “No,” Lew said. “That's not it.” He took a deep breath. “We recently learned that our baby's going to be born with Down syndrome.” He paused.

  “What?” Therese's mother spoke up.

  Therese spoke calmly, although her face was white. “The baby will be born with certain physical and intellectual limitations.”

  “I told you having a baby at your age could be problematic,” said Therese's sister.

  “You all know we didn't exactly plan this,” Lewis said, a thread of annoyance in his tone.

  “Maybe you could give it up for adoption,” said Lewis's brother who had made the twins joke.

  “I can't believe you’d even joke about that, Uncle John,” Noelle said angrily.

  The room fell silent. Candace was pleased to see the girl defending her parents. She might have been angry about the pregnancy initially, but, clearly, she wasn't about to pretend she didn't have a baby sister or brother coming.

  “We asked Candace to join us today so that she could help us answer your questions,” Therese said. “If you have anything you’d like to know, this is a good opportunity to ask.”

  The Nottington clan wasn't quiet, nor were they shy. Questions bombarded Candace and the expectant couple. They ranged from the, how-could-this-happen variety to, “Are you sure you can do this?”