by Irene Hannon
Rick’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “This is starting to sound mushy.”
“Yeah. How about that?” With a grin, Mark gave him a playful shove and fell into step beside him as they headed for the elevator. “But you know what? It feels good.”
As Abby pushed through the front door of the Gazette late Friday afternoon, Molly looked up. “Mark called while you were out. He said he’d try again later, but he wanted to let you know that his dad is doing better and that the stroke was mild. The doctors think his father will make a full recovery.”
“That’s good news. When did he call?”
“A little after one.”
It figured. Abby had rushed back from St. Louis, hoping to hear from him. She was anxious to share Dr. Martin’s assessment. An assessment Dr. Sullivan had seconded when she’d seen him earlier in the afternoon.
But perhaps it was best that she’d missed him. Since their conversation Monday night she’d been grappling with her own fears. And trying to come to grips with her situation. She no longer harbored any illusions about keeping the Gazette in the family. After reviewing the numbers again with Joe and the finance board this morning, it was clear they were operating on fumes. If Campbell Publishing didn’t acquire the paper soon, it would go belly-up. Although turning her family legacy over to a conglomerate would be the hardest thing she’d ever done, watching the paper die would be worse.
At least Campbell Publishing seemed to be reputable, she consoled herself. Under Spencer Campbell’s leadership, she expected that the Gazette would retain its integrity. It just wouldn’t be hers anymore. And the notion of staying on as editor, which Spencer had suggested might be a stipulation of the sale, didn’t appeal to her. At least not indefinitely. So what was she going to do with the rest of her life?
As she took her seat in her office, Abby ran a hand over the scarred desk, blinking back the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes.
Lord, I feel lost and confused. My whole world is being turned upside down. Please help me deal with my fears about the future…and about pursuing a relationship with Mark. And give me the courage to put my trust in You as I face decisions that will affect the rest of my life.
It had to be here somewhere.
Shoving aside another dusty box late Friday night, Mark gripped the edge of the final carton in the far corner of his guest room closet and pulled it out into the light. He’d promised Evan he’d look for his old astronomy book the next time he was in Chicago, the one with the amazing sky charts that he and Bobby had pored over for hours. They’d be outdated by now, but the main constellations hadn’t moved. Evan would still be able to use the reference volume. Except it wasn’t anywhere to be found.
It was possible that it had been given away, Mark conceded. After all, he hadn’t seen the book in more than twenty years. But for some reason, he thought it was in one of the boxes he’d transferred from the closet in his boyhood room to this one when his father had sold the family home a couple of years back. He hadn’t checked, though; he’d simply hauled the boxes over, unopened.
Dropping to one knee, he lifted the lid of the final box. A cloud of dust rose, and he sneezed several times. It would be easier to buy Evan a new book, he reflected. Why punish his sinuses? Yet the notion of passing on the book he and Bobby had prized to someone who shared his friend’s passion for space appealed to him. Since he’d come this far, he might as well inspect the last box.
There were a lot of miscellaneous items in the carton, all dumped in haphazardly. Sifting through them, he found a realistic-looking plastic frog that had once sat on his nightstand—and had almost scared his mother to death when she’d first seen it, he recalled with a grin. A dog-eared comic book, a flattened Cubs cap, a miniature racing car—the items were all from the Bobby Mitchell era of his life. If he still had the book, it would be in this box.
Digging deeper, Mark’s fingers closed around the spine of a bulky volume. Even before he pulled it free, the familiar feel of it in his hand confirmed that he’d hit pay dirt. Several other assorted objects were piled on top, and as he lifted the book out, he tilted it to let the odds and ends slide back into the box. But an envelope addressed to him caught his eye, and he grabbed for it as it started to slip away.
As Mark stared at the blue envelope, he set the astronomy book aside. He knew that handwriting. It was Bobby’s. And all at once, a memory slammed into him, driving the breath from his lungs with the ruthless force of a mighty breaker crashing against jagged rocks.
It was the day of Bobby’s funeral, and nothing anyone had said had been able to convince him to attend. Instead, he’d locked himself in his room, unable to accept the harsh reality of his friend’s death. Even his mother’s entreaties had fallen on deaf ears. In the end, his family had given up and gone without him.
Two hours later, when they’d returned, he’d still been in his room, still lying on his bed, still starting at the ceiling. His mother had come to his door, and her obvious worry had compelled him to respond so she’d at least know that he was alive. Once reassured, she’d slid the envelope he now held in his hands under the door. Her words came back to him as if she’d said them yesterday.
Mrs. Mitchell asked me to give you this, Mark. It’s from Bobby. He wanted you to have it after…after he was gone.
For almost an hour Mark had stared at the blue rectangle lying on his beige carpet. Then he’d swung his legs to the floor, picked it up and shoved it deep into a box in the farthest, darkest, most hidden corner of his closet.
It had stayed there, forgotten, until now.
As Mark stared at the envelope, his hand began to tremble. How odd that after all these years, he would stumble on Bobby’s card. A card containing a message that had never been delivered.
Bracing his back against the wall, Mark eased down until he was sitting on the floor. The seal was still tight on the flap, and after prying it open carefully, he withdrew the card.
The cover tightened his throat. It was so Bobby. Against an inky night sky filled with glittering stars, the Milky Way arched like a glowing celestial path to the heavens. A comet streaked across the infinite blackness, and in one corner a full moon, tinted pale blue, watched over the scene. Eight words overlaid the stars: To my once-in-a-blue-moon friend.
It took every ounce of his courage to open the card.
The printed message inside was simple. Reach for the stars. But it was Bobby’s handwritten addition that gripped his heart—and wouldn’t let go.
“I know we said we’d visit the stars together, Mark. But I guess I’m going first…in a way neither of us expected. I just wanted to tell you that you were the best friend I ever had. And that I know you’re having a real hard time with this leukemia thing. It’s a bummer, isn’t it? But Father John was here yesterday, and he said I should tell you that even though God doesn’t give us any guarantees about how long we’re going to live, he does give us the ability to make every day count. And he gives us memory, so we can never really lose the people we care about.
“I feel like you and I did that, Mark. We made every day count. Please don’t be sad when I’m gone, because I’ll still be with you in all the memories we share. But if you start to miss me, look up at the sky and remember that the stars always shine—even when you can’t see them. Just like love. Take care, buddy. Thanks for being my friend. And keep reaching for the stars!”
When Mark finished reading Bobby’s message, he drew a long, shaky breath, leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He’d always known his friend was smart. He’d aced every test in school. But it seemed his heart had been as wise as his brain. At thirteen he’d understood more than Mark did at thirty-four.
Bobby had been right about guarantees, Mark acknowledged. No one was promised tomorrow. Nor was life’s end necessarily precipitated by a warning. While he’d had notice of Bobby’s impending death, he’d had none for his mother’s. Life carried risk. So did love. Period. The
only way to protect his heart from the risk of loss was to shore up the defenses he’d begun to dismantle over the past few weeks. As he’d begun to do with Abby when he’d realized that loving her was a risk. That there was no guarantee on her future. If he chose, he could continue down that path and return to the cold, sterile, empty existence that had been his life for the past twenty-one years.
But suddenly he realized that that was no longer an option. For Bobby had been right about something else, too. As hard as it is to lose loved ones, the gift of memory allows them to live on in the hearts of those whose lives they touched. Though the loss of his mother and Bobby had been grievous, he wasn’t sorry that either had been part of his life, for they had enriched it beyond measure. Just as Abby would if he gave her the chance, for however long he was blessed by her presence.
His throat constricted, and Mark looked down again at the card in his hands. Across the years, through time and space, Bobby’s message still resonated. Perhaps even more now than when it had been written. And it had come to him when he had most needed to hear it. Now, as when they were young, Bobby’s friendship had enriched his life. And he knew it always would.
A tear slipped out of Mark’s eye and trailed down his cheek. Since the day Bobby died, he’d bottled up all his deeper emotions. Including grief. It had been safer that way.
But now it was time to release them. It was time to reach for the stars.
And for the first time in twenty-one years, he wept.
Chapter Sixteen
“Well, you boys look much improved today.”
Rick and Mark exchanged smiles as they stepped into their father’s room the next morning. After spending the day before at the hospital—and after being assured by the doctors that their father’s stroke was, indeed, mild and that he would make a full recovery—they’d both headed home and crashed.
Only the rude beeping of his alarm clock had roused Mark at seven-thirty this morning. Forty-five minutes later, when Rick had swung by to pick him up, he’d still felt half-asleep. Rick hadn’t seemed in much better shape.
Nevertheless, the two of them did look better than they had yesterday. As did Spencer. His color was back to normal, and he’d been moved to a regular room. The doctors had said that the minor lingering weakness in his left side would improve with time and therapy, as would the slight slur in his speech. He was doing so well, in fact, they expected to release him tomorrow.
All things considered, the Campbells had much to be thankful for—as Mark had acknowledged to the Almighty this morning when he’d awakened.
“You’re looking chipper yourself, Dad.” Rick moved beside the bed and squeezed his father’s hand.
“That’s what I told the doctors. I’m not happy about spending the day flat on my back when there’s work to be done at the office.”
“It can wait,” Mark told him. “Besides, it’s Saturday.”
“I’m not the type to lie around and do nothing,” Spencer groused. Then he brightened. “I know—we’ll talk about that proposal you sent. Sit down, sit down. You, too, Rick.”
“Dad, I’m not sure the doctors want you to—”
“What they don’t know can’t hurt them,” he countered, waving Rick’s protest aside. “Besides, I’m going stir-crazy.”
Mark angled a questioning look at Rick, who responded with a what-can-you-do? shrug. Capitulating, Mark perched on the windowsill on one side of the bed while Rick took a seat on the other side.
“Do you know anything about Mark’s proposal?” Spencer asked Rick.
“He gave me the highlights yesterday.”
“Good. That saves some time.” Spencer turned his attention back to Mark. “It’s a nice piece of work. Good research, excellent business case, sound philanthropic thinking. I like it. And it’s a much more organized effort than anything we’ve ever done. The Bobby Mitchell Scholarship piece is a nice touch, too. A fitting tribute to a fine young man. So what prompted all this?”
Leave it to his father to cut to the heart of the matter, Mark thought. To want to know the whys as well as the hows. Condensing his experience with Evan and Reverend Andrews as much as possible, he briefed his father on the impetus for his idea.
When he finished, the older man gave an approving nod. “Sounds like your visit to Oak Hill has been productive on several fronts. How’s your work on the Gazette going?”
“I just need a few more days to wrap things up.”
“Give me the bottom line.”
“The paper is well run, well respected and debt-free—but barely holding on by its fingernails. With the economies of scale we can bring to the operation, it should turn a nice profit.”
Another satisfied nod from his father. “That’s what I thought. I was very impressed with the operation. And the editor. Did you know that Pete Gleeson is thinking about retiring?”
The abrupt change of subject disconcerted Mark for a second. Pete was the editorial director for Campbell Publishing, but not someone Mark had much contact with. “No. Why?”
“It occurred to me that Abby Warner might be a good candidate for that job a few months down the road. After she assists with the Gazette transition and trains a new editor. Think she’d be interested?”
Stunned, Mark stared at his father. “I don’t know. She’s pretty devastated about losing the family legacy. And Oak Hill has always been her home.” Still, if he could persuade her to move to Chicago, that would solve one of the major hurdles to their relationship, he realized. And if she became a Campbell, she’d be contributing to another, even larger family legacy. The possibility sent a current of excitement zipping through him, and he smiled. “But I like that idea.”
“Why?” His father’s blunt question, and the keen look in his eyes, brought a warm flush to Mark’s neck. One that crept higher when he noticed Rick’s speculative expression.
“Never mind,” his father said with a chuckle. “I think I can figure it out. And by the way, I approve. Now, let’s talk a little more about your proposal. We’ll need a director. Have anybody in mind?”
The stroke might have slowed Spencer down physically, but Mark was having difficulty matching his mental agility. Folding his arms across his chest, he shot Rick a glance as he once more shifted gears. “I have a few thoughts.”
“I figured you might.”
Bracing himself, Mark plunged in. “Over the past few weeks, I’ve done a lot of soul-searching, and I’ve reconnected with a lot of things—including my faith. I’ve known for years that there was something missing in my life. A sense of purpose, for one thing. And I found it while I was in Oak Hill.”
He took a steadying breath, summoning up the courage to continue. “The thing is, I feel the same excitement about this foundation that you do about the newspaper business, Dad. I’d like to direct the effort. I know you always expected me to take over when you retired, and I wish I had your passion for publishing. But the simple truth is, I don’t. However, I found someone who does.” He looked at his brother.
Spencer transferred his attention to Rick and gave him an appraising look. “Is that right, son?”
“Yes.”
“All these years…you never said anything.”
“He didn’t want to live in my shadow.” Both men turned back to Mark as he spoke. “He knew you had me pegged for the top spot. But he’s the better man for the job.”
Once more, Spencer looked at his younger son, his expression troubled. “I think I owe you an apology. When you turned down the chance to come on board after college, I didn’t think you were interested in the family business. It appears I didn’t look deep enough.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. My own ego is what got in the way. I knew you’d welcome me to the company. But I also knew that Mark was being groomed for the CEO job, and I wanted to find a place where I could make a real difference.”
“I can understand that,” Spencer responded. “I felt the same way. That’s why I started Campbell Publishing.” He look
ed from one son to the other. “It seems you boys have this all worked out. And very well, I might add. I’m already feeling a bit superfluous.” His tone was gruff, but the glint of humor in his eyes mitigated his words. As did his next comment. “But I expect I can still teach you both a thing or two.”
“Or three,” Rick acknowledged with a grin.
“At least,” Mark affirmed.
“Well, I’d say we’ve already put in a good day’s work. Now…” He turned back to his oldest son. “I think you have some unfinished business in Oak Hill.”
“Yeah. There are one or two loose ends I need to tie up.” A slow grin spread over Mark’s face.
“Then get out of here. And tell Abby I said hello,” he added, his eyes twinkling.
Abby broke off a bite of her peanut-butter cracker and popped it in her mouth. Her appetite had been nonexistent for the past couple of days as she’d tried to figure out what she was going to do with the rest of her life. But she had to eat. Her disease dictated it. Still, the crackers tasted as dry as cardboard, and she took a sip of water to try and wash them down.
Giving up the pretense of working, Abby leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. In general, when she came into the office on a Saturday she accomplished a lot. Not today, however. Though she’d been here all afternoon—and part of the evening, she realized, checking her watch—the newspaper hadn’t profited by her presence. But at least her thinking on two issues had clarified.
She was going to lose the Gazette.
And she loved Mark enough to at least test the waters of a relationship despite her fears about the pitfalls of trying to meld two divergent backgrounds.
That didn’t mean she’d stopped worrying, however. While she didn’t doubt the sincerity of Mark’s interest, their connection would be harder to sustain over distance. Perhaps it would wane once they were separated. After all, their relationship was new, the strength of their feelings untested. She supposed he might suggest that she move to Chicago. But what if she agreed to do that, to disrupt her whole life, only to have the attraction fizzle in a couple of months?
