The Shadow of Your Smile

by Susan May Warren

  “That was my fault.”

  “Oh, deep down, Eli, you believe more than that.”

  Maybe he did. Maybe that was the bigger problem.

  “That’s where your faith really kicks in. Trusting God, being vulnerable even if you don’t get the response you want. You’re doing the same thing to Noelle you did to God—you’re afraid your wife can’t love you the way you need to be loved. And maybe she can’t, not right now. But that doesn’t mean you’re not supposed to love her, be intimate—at least emotionally—with her.”

  Eli pushed his uneaten food away. “I don’t know. Yes, I’m afraid that she’ll get her memory back, remember this Eric guy, and leave me.” He shook his head. “But I’m also afraid of her never getting it back, never knowing her daughter. And I feel like such a jerk for not telling her—”

  “She doesn’t know about Kelsey?”

  “No. I thought it would be best, but it was such a stupid idea. And now I don’t know how to tell her without her feeling completely betrayed—”

  “And destroying this new relationship you’ve built with her.”

  He nodded. “Then there’s the fact that I wasn’t a real prize before the accident, and I don’t want her to remember that. I want her to remember me as the guy I’m being now . . . or trying to be.” He scrubbed his hand down his face. “It’s all a giant mess and I don’t know how to figure it out.”

  “Your job is not to solve this. I know you’re a cop and that’s what you do, but your job is to love your wife, however God gives her to you—memory or not.”

  Melanie came by, eyed the uneaten eggs, but didn’t stop.

  “I’ve known you for a long time, Eli. Back when you were going home for lunch with Noelle. Back when you and she sat together for every basketball game, when you attended all of Kelsey’s play performances. You were good once, but maybe God is giving you a chance to be better.”

  “Even if she doesn’t remember us?”

  “It says in Song of Songs, ‘Place me like a seal over your heart . . . For love is as strong as death.’ When you two pledged yourselves in marriage before God, He sealed you both for each other, and that is stronger than the death of the last twenty-five years. Faith is believing that. And faith pleases the Lord, even when it feels overwhelming.”

  Overwhelming, like admitting that he’d made a mistake that got their daughter killed. Overwhelming, like wishing he could take it back, protect his wife from grief. Overwhelming, like him two weeks ago, sitting at the lake, not sure how to love his wife.

  Maybe God was bigger than even overwhelming.

  Dan met his eyes. “Let your wife into your life, Eli. Tell her about your daughter. For both your sakes.”

  “I know. I just have to figure out how,” Eli said. “I guess I’m supposed to buy your coffee now?”

  Dan gave him a slow smile. “Probably.”

  Eli handed Melanie back the eggs as she passed by, then dug out his wallet. “I need to run by the station, check on Kyle.”

  “He’s doing a good job. Give him some room to find his feet. By the way, I saw him last weekend at Nicole and Jason’s wedding. Played the drums. I didn’t know he was so musical.” Dan got up and Eli followed him, handing Melanie a ten for a breakfast he hadn’t eaten.

  He shucked on his coat at the door. “I called it noise, Pastor. Until all hours of the night.” But he grinned. Yeah, those were good memories—Kyle and Kelsey jamming together in the basement.

  He wanted to share that with Noelle. That and Kelsey’s journal of lyrics. He wanted to show her the crazy Converse shoes she’d designed to wear with her beautiful red prom dress, and the pictures of the summer she dyed her hair blue. He wanted to play for her the album Kelsey had cut as a Christmas gift her senior year, and show her the scrapbook of newspaper clippings from every theater performance she’d starred in.

  He wanted to introduce his wife to the amazing, beautiful, talented, breathtaking daughter God had given to them for seventeen incredible years. Noelle deserved that.

  Eli waved to Dan, then climbed into his truck, sat there in the cold. He was tempted to lean his forehead on the steering wheel, but people in this town might call an ambulance, thinking their former sheriff had passed out.

  So he pulled out, drove down to the harbor parking lot, and stared at the gloomy sky.

  “Oh, God, please forgive me for my fear—for not trusting You. For my betrayals. Please, even if You don’t bring Noelle back to me, give us a new future.” He blew out a breath. “And help me figure out how to tell her about Kelsey.”

  He closed his eyes then, breathing the cold air into his chest. And for the first time, it didn’t rattle through all the hollow places.

  He drove to the art colony. It hadn’t been quite two hours, but maybe she’d let him sit in that chair by the window, let him watch her, trace the beautiful angle of her face.

  Maybe she’d let him rediscover his wife.

  He climbed the stairs and was about to knock on the closed door when he heard a hiccup, a shudder of breath. “Noelle?”

  A flare of panic made him open the door.

  She sat in the blue floral chair near the window, her legs drawn up to herself, her forehead on her knees. Her shoulders shook.

  “Noelle?”

  She looked up, her face red and wet, her expression devastated. “Hi.”

  Hi? “Are you okay? What happened?”

  He looked around the room. Shadows dappled the floor, but nothing seemed out of place.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I just . . . I’m so sad. I can’t stop crying. It’s like there’s something broken deep inside me, but I can’t find it, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

  She pressed her hands to her eyes, wiped them. “I should be happy because I painted something. I actually sat down and just started painting. And it’s not half-bad.” She got up then and walked over to her easel, angled away from him, where she could look out the window as she painted.

  She lifted the canvas off the easel, turned it around. “It’s still drying, but it’s pretty good, right?”

  Eli stared at it, his breath leaving him, his insides dropping away. He opened his mouth but couldn’t find his voice.

  “I’ve been sitting here for the last twenty minutes trying to figure out who this is. I had her in my head when I woke up this morning. She looks like me—maybe it’s a memory I have of myself, years ago. Which makes sense, because in my mind I still think I should look like this—”

  “It’s not you, Noelle.” He walked over to her and took the canvas, stared into those beautiful blue-green eyes, his own filling. “You caught her perfectly. Those incredible eyes, so full of life, and her hair—it always had those golden highlights, like it was made from the sun. And her smile. Like she was teasing you, but she loved you so completely, it didn’t matter what you did.” He closed his eyes, rubbed his thumb and forefinger into them, his breath ragged.

  “Eli, what are you talking about?” Noelle’s voice was soft, almost worried. “Who did I paint?”

  He looked at her then, his heart turning over, and cupped his hand on her cheek, running his thumb down it. “Oh, Noelle. You painted our daughter, Kelsey.”

  She hadn’t known Eli for long, but after two weeks Noelle thought she understood him. A strong man, unflappable, brave, even a bit on the too-tough-for-emotions side.

  She didn’t recognize the broken man before her. The man who covered his face to hide his grief, whose shoulders shook, his breath ripping out of his chest.

  “What do you mean, our daughter, Kelsey?”

  His words didn’t make sense, although deep inside, she felt something lock into place. Some truth that had been floating in the murky darkness, something she’d been trying to wrap her fingers around but had proved slippery.

  Not unlike how she felt when she painted the face, those eyes looking at her. She knew them; she just didn’t know how or from where. Painting this . . . this Kelsey had seemed like an exhale, almost
, as if she’d been holding her breath for two weeks.

  But with it had come this wave of unnamed sadness.

  She never guessed it was for their daughter.

  “She didn’t die at birth?”

  Eli looked at her with an expression so wretched she wanted to wrap her arms around him. Even if she wasn’t in love with this man, he’d been her husband—or rather, still was—and that truth made her heart soften.

  “Oh, Eli, please tell me what happened.”

  He shook his head, his eyes wet. “I’m so sorry, Noelle. I should have told you from the first day, but I was afraid, in your fragile state, that it would do more damage. See, you weren’t the same after Kelsey died. You left us, and . . .” His breath trembled in. “Or maybe I left you. I don’t know. But our family fractured. And I was afraid of it happening again.”

  She touched his arm, searched his eyes. “I’m so sorry; I don’t remember. I . . . want to. It’s like a shadow back there in my mind I can’t get a good look at.”

  He nodded with what looked like a grimace. “Maybe you don’t want to know. Maybe . . .”

  “I want to know.”

  He swallowed, then took her hand, brought her to the chair. He sat on the ottoman before her and hung his head.

  “Kelsey didn’t die at birth. I implied that, and I’m sorry for that too.” When he lifted his head, he tried a tremulous smile. “She was amazing. Seventeen years old and she knew what she wanted. She loved music and wanted to be a singer, a composer. She had already been accepted to a college in St. Paul, and her entire life was before her. I remember, you two used to sit in her room at night, and she’d play you songs that she’d make up on the spot. I was jealous sometimes because you were so close, but it was unique. You two had a bond that seemed unbreakable by teenage angst and mothering fears. You always said she was your clone. I shouldn’t have blamed you for falling apart when she died.”

  “I fell apart? What about my faith?”

  “I have no doubt that you did a lot of praying. But . . .” He sighed. “We were already struggling, you and me. I am sure you felt utterly alone.”

  “As did you, Eli.” She touched his hands, wanting to share in his pain, feeling like such a spectator to the tragedy they’d shared. “How did she die?”

  He closed his eyes, rubbed his thumb over one, then the other. “It was a stupid, hometown mistake. I picked up a kid for speeding outside town, and I recognized him. Parker Swenson. He went to school with Kyle and played football with him. I thought he was a good kid, and sometimes people get a little heavy on the pedal when they’re coming into Deep Haven. I didn’t run his plates to check, just gave him a verbal warning.”

  He shook his head again. “I should have been more alert. A better cop. I just . . . well, I trusted him. But he’d robbed a gas station and killed a cop in Minneapolis, and there was a BOLO out for him. If I’d run his plates . . .”

  He was fading back into that moment; she saw a darkness filtering into his eyes. And inside her, panic began to swirl, something unfamiliar. “It wasn’t your fault, Eli. You didn’t know. You trusted him—”

  He pinned her with a desolate look. “His next stop was the gas station where our daughter was working. She asked him for identification when he requested a box of cigarettes and he pulled out a Glock—taken off the cop he’d murdered—and shot her.”

  She stilled, unable to breathe. Unable to speak.

  “Actually, Kelsey was his second victim. Lee’s husband, one of our deputies, came into the shop right as Parker pulled the gun on her. Parker turned and shot him point-blank in the chest. Kelsey had the presence of mind to hit the alarm under the counter; then she took off running. Parker caught up to her by the bread aisle. He shot her twice—once in the leg, then in the back. By that time I arrived on the scene, along with the other officers in the area. Parker took one look at us and put the gun to his head.”

  His face had hardened, his voice tight as he spoke. “Kelsey wasn’t dead. We airlifted her to Duluth, but her injuries were too dire. She and Clay Nelson both died a few hours later.”

  “That’s awful.”

  He nodded, licked his lips, let out another breath. Then he got up and walked over to one of the pictures—the one with the red sneakers—and picked it up. Outside, snow had begun to drift from the sky, lazy, free-falling.

  “You were in Duluth visiting Kyle. I caught you on the way home, and we met at the hospital. I should have warned you, should have intercepted you, but the doctor came out of surgery with the terrible news right about the time you arrived. You were completely blindsided. I know I should have told you before this . . . but I didn’t know how.”

  “And you still can’t forgive yourself.”

  Her eyes had long ago started burning, and she let the tears flow down her cheeks, not bothering to wipe them away. “C’mere, Eli.”

  He turned to her, his face crumbling. “When you lost your memory, I thought it was sort of a gift to both of us. I thought maybe God could let us start over. But how do I start over when every time I look at you, I see how my mistakes destroyed our lives?” He pointed to the painting of Kelsey. “See? Even though you can’t remember her, you still know. You still know who we lost, what we lost.”

  “Eli.” Noelle stood and walked over to him, laid her hand against his cheek. “We lost a daughter, but we didn’t lose each other. God gave that back to us, even if we can’t understand His ways. Maybe He does mean for us to start over.”

  He reached out to rub a tear from her cheek. “Why are you crying, Noelle? Do you remember her?”

  She brought his head down to her shoulder, wrapped her arms around him, held him. “No, Eli. I’m crying for you. I’m crying for all you went through, alone, and the pain you felt when you couldn’t help me. I’m crying for your grief and the horrible fact that you blamed yourself for this. And I’m crying for your family—our family—and the tragedy and unfairness of this world.”

  She lifted his face to hers. “And I’m crying with joy that God would see fit to give me such a wonderful husband twenty-five years ago. A husband that I know I must love dearly.”

  He looked at her, then tucked her into himself and wept.

  Emma didn’t expect Kyle to call, not after the way she’d raced out of Deep Haven last weekend, his lights flashing in her rearview mirror.

  It didn’t keep her from ducking into the kitchen of Mulligan’s, leaning against the stainless steel double fridge, and fishing her cell phone from her pocket. No missed calls, no text messages, not from Kyle, not even from Ritchie. Which meant that getting a job at Mulligan’s waiting tables—thanks, Carrie—hadn’t cut into her gig schedule after all.

  The kitchen reeked of onions, grease, and the chaos of too many bodies flipping burgers in the heat.

  “Corned beef and cabbage panini, a fish-and-chips, and a bangers and mash, table three, up.” The chef hiked the plates up under the warmers.

  Emma pocketed her phone, loaded the plates onto her tray. She hefted the tray to her shoulder and smiled her gratitude at the owner, Michael, when he held the door open for her. “The guy at table five is wondering when our live music will start,” she said as she passed by.

  Michael, tall and thin, with dark hair and the requisite Irish green eyes, shot a glance at his watch. “Soon, I hope. I called our musician’s cell, but it rolled over to voice mail.”

  She entered the dining room, the sounds of voices rippling through the tiny corner pub on this chilly Thursday night. She’d walked by the place a thousand times on her way to the grocery store and finally decided to stop in during an open mic night. Then she’d upgraded to dragging her guitar along, sitting on the stool under the spotlight for her two songs, always playing one of the Blue Monkeys’ old standbys. Landing this waiting job meant that maybe she’d also be able to sidle up to the mic now and again, when Michael needed a fill-in.

  She hoped.

  Emma set down her tray on a caddy, unloaded the plates bef
ore the patrons, got their drink refill orders, then swung by table five, where a man and woman sat, probably on a date. The woman, a redhead, toyed with the stem of her wineglass.

  “Our musician is on his way,” Emma said.

  The man in the booth looked like a musician himself, in a derby hat, a sports coat, jeans, and a narrow tie. He glanced past her at the empty stage. “I guess I’ll need another Guinness, then.”

  She added his empty glass to the tray. “Your shepherd’s pie will be up soon.”

  “Do you know what kind of music is on tap for tonight? Celtic?”

  “I don’t know; I’m sorry. Mulligan’s is more of an eclectic mix even though we have an Irish menu. I’ll check.”

  She returned to the kitchen, stopping by the bar to deliver the drink orders. Michael was behind the grill, the hands-on owner now flipping a couple of top sirloins. “Do you know what kind of music the musician—?”

  “He’s not coming,” Michael snapped, clearly stressed. “He just called—was in a fender bender. Apparently he’s banged up. I’m trying to track down someone else.”

  She glanced at the clock, back at Michael. “I could fill in until you found someone else. Or . . . just fill in?”

  He pulled the sirloins off the grill, plated them, and handed them to the chef. “We need you on tables.”

  “It’s not that busy, and I’ll ask Carrie if she can cover for me. And if it gets too busy, I’ll just hop off the stool and pitch in. I can handle it; I promise.”

  He gave her a long look, then finally said, “All right.”

  “I live a half block away. I’ll go get my guitar and be back before the shepherd’s pie is up. Thanks, Michael.”

  “Walk—don’t drive!”

  She was already untying her apron, pulling on her jacket.

  The night wind nipped at her ears as she jogged down the street, glad someone had cleared the sidewalks. She’d play a few covers from Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Ray Vaughn. Maybe some Otis Rush, and then shift over to Janis Joplin and Aretha Franklin. An eclectic mix, for sure, but she’d tweaked them all for her voice, her tone.