She hugged a sofa cushion to her chest and breathed in its scent, trying to capture some left-behind trace of Derek. But the fabric only smelled of dust and mustiness.
She tried to pray now, but her cries seemed not to reach past the ceiling. She felt abandoned. By Derek and by God. Left alone in this unfamiliar house where she couldn’t even figure out how to work the thermostat to turn up the heat before she crawled between the icy sheets each night.
A familiar cyclone of nausea churned in the pit of her stomach and she clasped the cushion closer and curled into a ball in the corner of the love seat.
At least she’d slept last night. She had to make some decisions today. Wandering in this limbo wasn’t an option anymore. There was nothing for her in this little town. Yet, Chicago had even less to offer now. Their apartment in the city was already rented and her job had been filled. She’d have to sell this house before she could move back. Derek had bragged about what a buyers’ market real estate was in the small town. He’d gotten a bargain in this house. But would she be able to recoup the price if she put the house back on the market? She could kick herself for talking Derek out of the mortgage protection insurance that would have paid off the policy on his death. And because they had no children, and Olivia’s job in Chicago had paid almost as much as Derek’s, they had minimal life insurance policies.
She had a ten o’clock meeting with Jay Brooks, Derek’s boss, this morning. Afterwards she would go talk to the bank and find out just how dire her circumstances were.
Forty-five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of Parker & Associates. Yellow tape cordoned off a construction site at one corner of the building. Olivia swallowed hard and stepped out of the car, locking the door behind her. A few days earlier, she’d driven by Derek’s old office almost accidentally, trying to find a grocery store. It hadn’t been as difficult as she’d expected.
The wound in the building from the explosion had been neatly patched, and it looked as if the workers on the roof were finishing up the job already.
Macabre thoughts swirled through her mind—cartoonish images of Derek sailing out of his office and landing on the ground. She’d been told the whole accident was something of a fluke, but no one had said how her husband had sustained injuries that killed him, yet left his body intact, every organ healthy enough to offer life to someone else. She assumed it was a head injury. Her friends had urged her to sue. But she couldn’t face that. She just wanted it to be over. The whole nightmare.
She shook off the thoughts and steeled herself to enter the building.
The receptionist’s desk was ten steps from the front door. The woman behind the counter was all efficiency and zero warmth. “Mrs. Cline? Mr. Brooks is expecting you. Follow me, please.”
She was ushered into Jay Brooks’s office.
Olivia knew she’d met Derek’s boss at the funeral, but apparently his face had been lost in the fog of grief and confusion, because she had no recollection of the man who rose and came around his desk to shake her hand.
“Mrs. Cline. Thank you for coming in. Let me say again how sorry I am.”
“Thank you.” She bit at her lower lip, irked at the tears that were always so close to the surface lately.
“Please, have a seat.” He indicated a straight chair and went around to seat himself behind the desk.
She waited while he slid open a drawer and withdrew a sheaf of papers with a check clipped to the corner.
He pushed it across the desk to her. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Cline, your husband wasn’t here long enough to accrue company benefits, however, we do want to offer something to help you with the transition.”
She picked up the papers and stared at the attached check. Eight thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars. The check was made out to Olivia Cline. It was barely two months’ salary, and less than what they’d drawn together in Chicago for the same time period.
“What…what’s this?”
“The board of directors opted to present you with a one-time payment, in spite of the fact that your husband was still on probation at the company. Of course, you’ll be eligible to collect Workers’ Compensation benefits.”
She didn’t know what to say. Part of her felt relief at finally having some cash in hand. But the rational part of her brain realized this was it. Workers’ Compensation would be minimal. There would be no generous insurance payment that would give her options. She’d done the math. One less mouth to feed did not translate to half the mortgage payment or electric bill.
The representative from Parker & Associates had assured her that the initial investigation of the accident, the result of a gas leak, clearly absolved the firm of any culpability. Maybe she would be forced to sue Parker & Associates, or the City of Hanover Falls. But what if she lost? She couldn’t afford to retain an attorney.
She slipped the check from beneath the paper clip. “This is all he—Derek—had coming?”
The director’s jawline tensed. “As I said, Mrs. Cline, your husband actually had…well, nothing coming…since this occurred during his probationary period, you understand.” He stood and moved around the desk again, tapping his fingers on the edge of the polished surface. “This also includes salary for the few hours your husband had put in to date.”
She nodded. “I see.” But she didn’t see. Didn’t see at all how she would stretch this sum long enough to make the decisions she needed to make. She could sell Derek’s car and come up with a little more cash, but they still owed several thousand dollars on that loan. Even then, until she sold the house there was no way she could make it more than a few months. Every penny of their savings—which wasn’t much—had gone for the down payment and closing costs on the house. She would need to sell it quickly.
Mr. Brooks towered over her, seeming to dismiss her with his stare.
Numb, she stood and mumbled her thanks. Later, as she unlocked her front door, she couldn’t remember exiting the building, couldn’t recall one thing about the drive home. But she was home. She dropped the paperwork and the check on a kitchen counter and went again to seek the embrace of the love seat in the living room.
Chapter 7
Reed took three short steps backward on the uneven floor and squinted, trying to focus on the painting. The sun streaming through the clerestory windows played off the still-wet crimson oil that matched the tip of the paintbrush in his right hand. It was hard to be objective, but he thought it was good. Through the gauzy veil of his vision, it looked at least as good as anything he’d done before the surgery.
He looked toward the clock on the wall over the worktable. His eyes were still sensitive to the light coming in the windows, but the clock’s oversized face reminded him that it was time for his eyedrops again.
It had only been two weeks and his ophthalmologist had said his sight would continue to gradually change—hopefully improve—over the next few months. It might be six months or longer before he knew what the corneal transplant had actually accomplished. But if this was it, if this was as good as it ever got, he would live with it—and be immensely grateful.
Absently, Reed rolled the sable brush between his fingers and brought it to rest between them like a cigarette. He reached up to brush his pinky finger delicately across his eyelid. The pain was completely gone, as if the surgery had never happened. But the inner part of his eyelids stung now as salty tears erupted. He hated this part—being reduced to weeping out of sheer gratitude. Because he could still paint. God hadn’t taken away his gift. Reed could never say thank you enough. He would weep every hour on the hour, if that would prove to God how truly thankful he was for this miracle.
He swallowed past the boulder in his throat and picked up his palette. The gallery in St. Louis had requested some larger framed pieces and he was long overdue getting a smaller piece framed for a longtime client. What he really needed was an assistant. He hadn’t even allowed himself to consider the possibility before the surgery. Hadn’t known if he would even be
able to work again until a couple of weeks ago. Now optimism buoyed him and made everything seem possible.
Yes. An assistant was just what he needed. Someone to select the paints and do the setup, cleanup and framing, all the tedious work, so he didn’t strain his eyes any more than necessary. So he could save his best hours for putting paint on canvas.
If he didn’t get his income up to its former level, paying an assistant might drain funds he would need later, but that was a risk he’d take. He would put an ad in the paper first thing in the morning.
Olivia parked the car in the potholed parking lot west of the church building and turned off the ignition. She pulled the keys out and dropped them in her purse, but made no motion to get out of the car. Gripping the steering wheel, her hands locked at eleven and one, she noticed her knuckles were white. Her fingers were actually shaking. She smiled in spite of herself. After all she’d been through, the thing that made her tremble with fear was walking into a church service by herself? How silly.
Derek would laugh at her. He would have. And she would have punched his arm and chided him for making fun of her. After all, she was doing this for his sake. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. It irked her the way her thoughts twisted back on themselves ever since Derek’s death. She’d start out thinking in present tense and in the middle of a word, she’d realize that it had come out all wrong. She’d try to correct it in her mind. Derek is… Derek was… Derek used to be. It was all too confusing.
She blew out a breath, trying to expel the sick feeling in her stomach. In one practiced motion she slung her purse over one shoulder and pushed open the car door. Might as well get it over with.
She locked the car and followed the clusters of people making their way through the parking lot to the entrance of the modest, steepled building.
An attractive couple just ahead of her swung a copper-haired little girl between them. “One…two…three. Whee!” They launched the child three feet off the ground before bringing her gently back to the sidewalk. Olivia guessed her to be about five or six. The girl’s parents exchanged a smile that spoke a thousand words. Of love and pride and of belonging to someone special.
“Do it again! Do it again!” the little girl squealed.
The trio reached the door ahead of Olivia, and the man opened it, turned to allow his wife and daughter through, then held it for Olivia as well.
“Good morning,” he said when they were all inside. “Are you new to Cornerstone? I don’t remember seeing you here before.”
Olivia nodded. “Yes. We… I…just moved to town.” She’d been correcting her pronouns since the day Derek died. We had become I. Ours had become mine. Us had become me. She wondered how long it would take her to quit thinking of herself as part of a couple.
“Well, welcome, Olivia.” The man put his arm around his wife’s waist and drew her into the conversation, as he stretched out a hand to Olivia. “I’m Michael Meredith and this is my wife Claire. And this—” he reached around his wife to put a hand on the little girl’s head, as if to tame the wild abandon of copper curls “—is our daughter Katherine.”
Olivia forced a smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Olivia Cline.”
Michael wrinkled his brow. “Cline? That sounds…” He barely suppressed a gasp. “Oh… Are you Derek Cline’s wi—?”
Olivia was grateful he stopped short of speaking the word wife… No, widow. She’d anticipated just such a moment, yet now that it was here, she couldn’t think of a single reply. She nodded numbly.
Claire Meredith stepped forward. “Olivia,” she said warmly. “It’s so nice to have you here. We were just devastated to hear about Derek’s accident.”
“You knew him?” It surprised her for some reason.
“Derek attended our men’s prayer group,” Michael said.
“Oh. Yes, of course. He…talked about it. He really enjoyed it.” She wondered just how much Derek had shared with the group about their troubles.
Claire put a gentle hand on Olivia’s arm. “Would you like to sit with us?”
“Please,” her husband seconded.
A strange warmth filled Olivia and she nodded again. “Thank you.”
The Merediths led the way into the sanctuary and she followed them to a seat near the front. On the small stage in the corner, an ensemble played quiet music, but the people around them visited in soft murmurs, an occasional burst of laughter piercing the quiet. Olivia couldn’t guess how many weeks it had been since she’d been in church. It felt almost foreign to her.
Claire turned to her. “So, do you plan to stay in the Falls? I’m sorry…I forget where you moved from…”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right.” Claire waited expectantly.
Olivia scoured her brain for the question she knew Claire had asked. Oh, yes…Hanover Falls. “I…I haven’t decided yet—about staying. There are still some things I have to check into—insurance and the mortgage…”
Claire patted her arm. “If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. I didn’t know your husband well, but Michael thought so much of him. You’ve been in our prayers.”
“Thank you.” Tears were close to the surface. It seemed she was always on the edge of tears these days.
A young man with longish hair took the steps up to the stage two at a time and made his way to the microphone at the pulpit. The sanctuary quieted. Claire gave Olivia’s arm a final pat, and turned to shush her young daughter and face the front.
Olivia was relieved to have her thoughts to herself again. But the little girl—Katherine—crawled around her mother’s knees and scooted onto the pew beside Olivia. Trying not to smudge her makeup, Olivia turned and dabbed at her damp cheeks.
Katherine looked up at her with a quizzical frown, as if she’d never seen a grown lady crying in church. Olivia smiled and took a hymnal from the rack on the pew in front of her. The little girl did the same, watching Olivia and turning the pages exactly as Olivia did, then crossing her tights-clad legs when Olivia crossed hers. The imitation touched her in an odd way. She’d never really noticed children before, hadn’t had much opportunity to interact with them one-on-one.
Like a cement truck plowing into her, an awful truth struck: she would likely never have a little girl or boy of her own. As skeptical as she’d been about Derek’s desire to start a family the minute they were settled in Hanover Falls, she had slowly begun to warm to the idea. Now that dream was gone. Lost. Along with their chance to redeem the difficult years of their marriage.
A woman was singing a quiet worship song on the stage, and Olivia tried to concentrate on the words. But all she could think about was how she could be sitting in this sanctuary with four hundred people and still be so very, very alone.
Chapter 8
“Come on in, Maggie!” Reed heard the front door slam and his neighbor’s shoes clomping across the kitchen tiles. “I’m in the studio,” he hollered again.
“There you are.” Maggie Lenihan appeared at the top of the wide stairway that led to the kitchen. Her gray hair was cut short, and her reading glasses dangled from a silver chain. She had a shoebox-size package tucked under one arm. “This was on your front porch. Courtesy UPS.”
“Oh, thanks. Just set it over there, will you?” He put a final flourish on an ocean whitecap and pointed with his elbow.
Maggie perched her glasses on the end of her nose and came around to the easel to peruse his work in progress. “Wow. That’s gorgeous.”
“Sorry. You can’t have it…already sold.”
She gave an exaggerated harrumph and raked heavily ringed fingers through her spiky, graying hair. “Yeah, right. Like I could afford it anyway. Who’s this one for?”
“Some bank in St. Louis. It’s one the gallery in Taos contracted before I had the surgery.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
“Is it really, Maggie?”
She moved closer and stood on tiptoe to look h
im in the eye. She tipped her head to one side. “You really don’t know?”
“I think it’s good. I hope it is. But I don’t see as well as I used to.”
“It’s good, Reed. It’s gorgeous.” Maggie patted his arm and her voice wavered a little.
He couldn’t see her expression well enough to tell if it was from emotion, or from the cigarettes she chain-smoked.
“You look good, too,” she said. “Not so tired and pasty white as you did right after the surgery.”
“Hey now, you don’t need to go calling me ugly.”
She laughed, but her voice quickly turned serious. “How are you feeling?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off before he could get a syllable out.
“Oh, duh. Dumb question. Judging by that smile on your face—and the looks of that painting—I’d say you’ve never been better.”
He stepped back and studied the piece with a critical eye. His style—blotches of paint that formed a mosaic of color—made it easier to see than the rest of his environment. He was adjusting, learning to reinterpret what his eyes saw.
And he was pretty sure his sight was still improving little by little. It had only been two months, after all. He looked up at Maggie. “You think so, huh?”
“It’s gorgeous, Reed. Really. Some of your best work.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
She let out her trademark comical chuckle. “Since when has Margaret Lenihan ever softened the truth for anybody?”
He laughed. “Oh. Yeah. Good point.”
The lines in her weathered face softened and she jabbed a finger in the general direction of the canvas. “This is good stuff, Reed. I mean it.”
He flushed. “Well, thanks.” He hadn’t really been fishing for a compliment. But it was nice to know he wasn’t just fooling himself that his work was up to par. “Hey, you don’t want a job, do you?”
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