Clay’s heart skipped a beat, but he worked hard to keep his expression from giving anything away. Alex Brady was good. He might not have been in on every meeting, but he knew the department’s deepest concerns. Almost as if he was getting information from the inside. Clay finished his coffee, relishing the few grounds at the bottom of the cup. “With the publicity they got last fire season, it’s a sure bet there will be fires this year. The REA has fans even they don’t know about.”
“I think SWAT’s wrong. I don’t think it’ll be Pasadena, Sarge.” He lowered his voice and shifted his look to Joe. “They’ve got their eyes on Malibu, on that new development off Las Virgenes and Lost Hills … Oak Canyon Estates. The gated custom homes up there.”
Even with temperatures in the nineties, a chill worked its way down Clay’s spine. In meetings, the entire SWAT division had considered just about every possibility for the sites where fires might be set by the radical members of REA. The Oak Canyon Estates were certainly mentioned, but no one took the idea seriously. The gates would keep out arsonists after hours, and even a group as crazy as the REA wouldn’t set fire to custom homes while people were around.
“Not possible.” Clay heard his work tone kick in, the voice he used when he was training SWAT guys. “Wherever you’re getting your information, forget about it, Brady. Let us follow the leads. When it’s time to make arrests, you’ll be there.” Clay reached over and gave Alex a hearty pat on his shoulder. “This is your day off, man. Relax.”
Alex nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “Okay.” He stood and looked first at Joe, then at Clay. “I need to go. Got to get Bo home.” He mustered a stale smile as he turned and headed for the door. “Thanks for tonight.”
Frustration poked at Clay. This was hardly the breakthrough he’d asked God for. “Be right back,” he muttered to Joe. Then he stood and followed Alex to the patio door. “Wait.”
Alex turned around, his smile gone. “Who am I supposed to tell, huh?” His voice was intense, but he kept it low so the conversation stayed between them alone. “I’m sure about this, Clay. Dead sure.”
“There’s an order to things in the department, Brady.” Clay was more sorry than angry. “Let us take the lead. We’re on it; I promise you.”
Alex studied him a moment longer. “What if you’re too late? Have you thought about that?” He gestured toward the hills. “Every bit of that canyon is filled with homes. People could die this time. A lot of people.”
Again Clay didn’t want to say too much. He could hardly tell the young deputy that the scenario he’d just hit on was the exact one the department brass were concerned about. Instead, he took hold of Alex’s upper arm and held it, the way a father might hold onto his son. “We know that. Trust us on this.”
Alex didn’t try to pull away. He must’ve heard in Clay’s voice that the conversation was over, and he looked down at a spot on the grass.
“Listen, Alex, what’s eating you? The anniversary? Is that it?”
“No.” Alex lifted his eyes, and they flashed with a sudden intensity. “September 11 is just another day. It’s the next anniversary, man.” He jabbed himself a few times in the chest. “That’s what’s eating me.”
“Okay.” Clay released his hold on the deputy. “I’m here, Brady. If you need to talk, I’m here.”
Alex took a few seconds for his anger to dissipate, and then he managed the briefest smile, just enough to convey that his determination wasn’t directed at Clay, but at the bad guys. He left and Clay watched him head through the house, stopping just long enough to thank Jamie and tell the other women good-bye. A few minutes later he heard Alex’s truck start up out front, and the slight squeal of tires as Alex pulled away.
By then Joe had joined him beneath the covered patio. The two faced the children, who were chasing each other through the grass in small circles, giggling and falling down every few steps. “You know what it is, don’t you?”
“Sure.” Clay felt the full weight of his defeat that night. He’d hoped to invite Alex to church, talk to him about getting involved in the singles ministry. But the guy was a world away from that sort of invitation. “Kid’s full of pain.”
“That’s only part of it.” Joe crossed his arms tightly in front of him. “For Alex Brady, it’s still September 11.” He gave a strong shake of his head. “He’s still stuck on that dreaded Tuesday morning.”
Long after they’d moved the children into the house and slipped in a Jana Alayra music video, and even after the couples gathered around the nearby card table for a game of Apples to Apples, Clay couldn’t shake what Joe had said, how perfectly he’d nailed the trouble with Alex Brady. The deputy had never moved on, never found his way to a life without his father. Sure, he was three thousand miles away from New York City, but not in his heart. And Clay had the feeling that on every call the kid felt the impact again, the Twin Towers crashing down, the bad guys winning bigger than ever before.
As the night wore on, for the first time Clay began to understand Alex’s near obsession with the REA. In some ways the group wasn’t that different from the people who had killed Alex’s father. It was a sobering thought, because the REA was really nothing more than a group of terrorists whose weapon was fire. The same weapon used by al Qaeda. A weapon that could create utter chaos and destroy massive structures in a matter of minutes, one that actually could do the one thing Alex feared might happen:
Take innocent lives in the process.
THREE
The round of cards was finished for a few minutes, and Jamie walked back to the kitchen to make another pot of coffee. Around the table everyone was still laughing about how no one should play the game with Clay and Joe at the same table. The two could read each other without words or table talk.
Wanda was talking louder than the others. “I mean, please! We girls never have a chance at winning with you two around.”
Jamie smiled to herself. She loved Wanda’s spirit and Laura’s quiet assurance. The three of them balanced each other, but even with all the excitement over the game, Jamie hadn’t been able to stop thinking of one very memorable moment from earlier in the night. The look in Alex’s eyes when the subject of 9/11 came up.
She moved to the fridge, took out the bag of fresh ground coffee, and measured the right amount into a new filter. Alex’s eyes had looked both haunted and familiar, the same look she’d seen hundreds of times before in the eyes of visitors at St. Paul’s Chapel — the little church that stood on the border of Ground Zero, the church where Jamie had volunteered her time for three years after her first husband Jake died in the terrorist attacks.
The stream of sorrow and heartache never ended at St. Paul’s, and it would’ve never ended for Jamie if Clay hadn’t walked into her life. She was better now, better here in Southern California, far from New York City with its scarred skyline.
Even still, the details were always close enough to touch. It was that way for anyone whose life had been changed by September 11. The tragedy created a bond that would remain among the survivors as long as they lived. So maybe God had brought Alex Brady into her life for a specific reason. She had moved on from St. Paul’s Chapel, but she would always have a heart for people hurt by 9/11. If she could talk to Alex, perhaps find a minute alone with him, he might open up about his feelings.
The condition of Alex’s heart reminded Jamie of something that happened to CJ last week. Their young son had run in from outdoors, whimpering about a pain in his toe. Jamie took off the child’s shoe and sock, and there on the bottom of his big toe was a red area, hot and infected. At the center, with skin grown over the top, was a splinter that was causing all the trouble. Jamie performed minor surgery on CJ that afternoon and removed the offending piece of wood. After a day, CJ’s toe was healed and whole again.
It was that way with matters of the heart. Alex would find no healing, no ability to move on and live again or love again until he dealt with the splinter of hurt and anger that clearly festered inside him. M
aybe that’s where she could help.
Show me how, God … Give me an opportunity and I’ll talk to him.
No distinct answer resounded in her heart, but Jamie felt an assurance. Somehow, in the coming season, she had a strong feeling God would indeed use her in the life of Alex Brady. Now it was up to Him to show her how that would happen.
She removed the old coffee filter, tossed it in the trash, and refilled the machine with fresh water. Even after meeting for dinner a dozen times, Alex didn’t know the details about Jamie’s first husband, Jake. He didn’t know about Wanda’s FDNY husband, either. Clay hadn’t thought the information was necessary, at least not in the early attempts at friendship with the young man. But now it had been nearly a year since the first time Clay invited Alex over for dinner.
Jamie flipped the switch, and the coffeemaker began gurgling and spewing. She turned around just as her brother-in-law entered the kitchen, his coffee mug in his hands. For the smallest fraction of a second, she caught herself thinking Eric was Jake. The resemblance was still so strong, so uncanny. She had long since come to accept the fact that she would have that fleeting thought at times — the same way that once in a while Sierra would make a particular play on the soccer field or come home with an A on an essay and Jamie would catch herself making a mental note to tell Jake.
“You look a world away.” Eric came closer and leaned against the kitchen island counter, opposite her.
“Thinking about Alex.”
“Hmm.” He crossed one ankle over the other. “Me too. He hasn’t dealt with it.”
“Not at all.” Jamie pushed herself up onto the counter next to the coffeemaker. “That’s why he’s a deputy. Trying to make sure no one else suffers the kind of loss he’s gone through.”
“The job’s bigger than he is.” Eric’s voice was marked by a familiar concern. “He needs to find a life outside work. The job’ll destroy him otherwise.” Eric set his cup down. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What? You’re a mind reader now?” Her voice was lighter than before, proof that she wouldn’t linger in the past.
He could still look deep into her heart, and he did so now. “You think you can help him. The way you helped all those people at St. Paul’s.”
From the other room, the group was laughing again, but Jamie was quiet, letting the possibility drift in the air around them.
“Be careful.” He angled his face, his eyes shining with a tenderness that underlined the connection they shared. “God moved you on from St. Paul’s. Maybe Alex is supposed to be Clay’s project. Clay and Joe’s.”
“Why?” She didn’t feel defensive, but his thoughts surprised her. “Why not me?”
“Because it can consume you, Jamie. The way it did before.” He paused. “You and Clay, you have something very special. You deserve to live outside the shadow of the Twin Towers.”
The coffee finished percolating. Jamie slid her feet back down to the floor, took Eric’s mug, refilled it, and handed it back to him. As she did, she met Eric’s eyes and held them. “I’ll never be completely out of that shadow.” Her smile felt sad and small. “You should know that.”
Empathy flooded his face. “I do.” He touched the side of her arm. “Just be careful. Don’t risk what you have.”
His concern was genuine, and the warning hit its mark deep within her. “Thanks. I’ll watch myself. I’m just not sure someone like Clay or Joe can reach him, someone who doesn’t share that loss.”
Eric took his coffee and moved back toward the living room. “You’ll do the right thing, Jamie.” He left her with one last smile. “You always do.”
Jamie returned his smile, then grabbed hold of the fresh coffee. She carried it out to the others, refilled the cups of her husband and friends, and found her way back into another round of cards. But through the remainder of the night, as the game ended and the couples gathered their kids and said their good-byes, even later as she washed her face at her bathroom sink, she couldn’t shake the look in Alex’s eyes, or the warning from Eric.
Would it really hurt to give the young deputy a chance to open up about his loss? Alex had no family in the area from what Clay knew, and even though Jamie was too young to be Alex’s mother, she could take on the role for a short season, right? Or was Eric’s concern valid, that she might become consumed once more with righting the wrongs meted out on 9/11?
Jamie pressed the warm washcloth to her face, wiping away the remains of her light makeup. The thoughts in her head all started because of the look in Alex’s eyes … A look of deep loss and pain mixed with a determination to find justice. Whatever the cost. The same look she’d seen in the eyes of the people who came through the doors at St. Paul’s.
That’s where she could help a guy like Alex. Because Jamie knew that sometimes the cost was too high, that a person could lose themselves in the quest to live for someone else, to devote one’s days to redeeming the loss of someone you loved more than life. And that’s what Alex was trying to do, at least it seemed that way. Live his life as a memorial to his father. Along the way, he was losing himself, and Jamie could certainly relate to that. Now if only God would show her the right time and place to share that truth with Alex.
Before his heart was so hard he wouldn’t hear her anyway.
FOUR
Holly Brooks turned onto the steep gravel road and slipped her transmission into the lowest possible gear, the way she did every day at this hour of the morning. Sales at Oak Creek Canyon’s newest phase of development weren’t exactly overwhelming, but with the summer heat letting up and September right around the corner, her office was busier than usual.
Brightly colored red and yellow flags waved in the wind as she made her way up the mountain road to the single paved street half a mile up. No matter how many times she made the drive, the view from the summit never got old. Holly parked her Durango and stared at the panorama spread out before her. The view skimmed along the tops of several smaller peaks and then ended with the Pacific Ocean spread out in the distance.
I know, Lord … the created things are proof You’re really there. She tried to remember what it felt like to believe, to accept the things of God as easily as she drew her next breath. But life was complicated now, and when she tried to remember that sort of faith, she felt empty and flat. As if she no longer knew how to believe. She grabbed her leather bag and a stack of work she’d taken home last night and looked once more at the sight before her. The heaviness that resided in her heart swelled. Okay, so if You’re real … why can’t I feel You anymore?
The quiet whisper echoed through her soul and died there. She dismissed the thought and checked her face in the mirror one last time. As she climbed out, the wind grabbed her thick, blonde hair, whipped it across her face, and blew it in a dozen different directions. Wind meant one dreaded thing. She hesitated and checked the horizon for smoke, for any signs of fire. The developers had held a meeting last week expressing their concern about the coming fire season. She might only have lived in LA for a few years, but she was well aware of the Santa Ana winds and the danger faced every fall by Dave Jacobs and anyone with a personal or financial investment in the hillsides of Southern California.
Holly pressed her way through the wind to the front door of the middle estate. Her office was set up in the front room of one of the most beautiful models in the new development. The house was enormous — more than seven thousand square feet — with no luxury spared. She slipped her key in the front door. The developers were here somewhere, overseeing construction on one of the eight spec homes being built up and down the spacious street on either side of the model.
It was an honor working for Dave. He was six-foot-two, with a presence that inspired loyalty and made other people want to catch his vision. And his vision was a great one. Never mind the criticism from environmentalists that was bound to come when a person spent his days developing the hillsides of Southern California. Away from his development company, Dave was involved in
more charities than Holly could count. Every year he provided the material and labor for the construction of three houses for homeless families in the San Fernando Valley, and without fail he was the recipient of a number of philanthropic awards. With all that, his greatest moments were with his family — his wife, Lois, and their four children. With his wealth, he could’ve traveled the world. But his favorite vacations were simple and profound — trips to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where Dave would bird-watch and return to his work full of nature stories. No, his critics — especially the environmentalists — didn’t have a clue who Dave Jacobs really was.
Holly set her things down. She would see Dave and his son, Ron, around lunchtime, but until then she would work alone. Something she liked least about her job.
She flipped a few buttons on the keypad just outside her office. Immediately, something by Rod Stewart worked its way from speakers hidden discreetly throughout the estate. Holly liked this radio station. It played the oldies her mother listened to, music that reminded her of home back on Staten Island. Holly turned up the music and sang along.
“Have I told you lately, that I love you … Have I told you, there’s no one else above you …” The song reminded Holly of her dad. Long before his heart attack two summers ago, he seemed to know he didn’t have long to live. He had called her up one day and told her that whenever he heard this song, he thought of his family. Holly turned her attention to her work. Two years might’ve passed since his death, but his memory still moved her to tears. It always would.
Just not here at work. She steeled herself against the loneliness and began filing the work she’d brought. She was twenty-five and single, heading toward a serious relationship with the developer’s son, Ron. But nothing about her life was how she pictured it when she was in high school, back when she knew without a doubt that she and Alex would be married and having babies by now, back when nothing could’ve torn them apart.
Remember Tuesday Morning Page 3
