He sat up, shoving his hair back from his face and flicking on the light, giving up on sleep. He pulled open the drawer beside his bed, looking for a book he was sure he'd put there. But all he saw was his Bible. The one his parents had given him and Kimberly when they got married.
He pulled it out, flipping past the flyleaf with his and Kimberly's names inscribed inside. Paging through the Bible he saw notes here and there, scribbled in the margin.
Kimberly's handwriting. He knew she read her Bible from time to time. He just never knew she read it this much.
His heart flipped slowly over, and he stopped on one page and took a moment to read her comments.
"Struggling today. Trying to find comfort."
He read the Psalm she had made the notation beside. Psalm 77. "I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; at night I stretched out untiring hands, and I would not be comforted."
He re-read the passage once again trying to understand what was going through Kimberly's mind.
Was the disappointment that dogged the last few years of her life hanging over her? Was she seeking escape from her life and unable to find the comfort God held out to her?
Once again, he was hounded by the regret that he hadn't been able to give her what she needed or wanted.
At this point, all thoughts of sleep were out the window, so he got up and walked over to the bedroom closet. Deep in the back, on the top shelf, he found the box. A shoebox from yet another pair of expensive shoes that Kimberly needed so desperately. The shoes had disappeared in a methodical cleaning expedition taken on by his mother and sister. They had been ruthlessly efficient, but they’d missed this.
He opened it and pulled out the letter that Kimberly had written to him before she left this house. Before she, in her distraction or sorrow—Duncan was never sure what it could have been—made a bad turn, spun out of control on a patch of black ice, and ran her car into a deep gulley close to the river. Tasha hadn't been in her booster seat—
Duncan stopped his thoughts there. He'd imagined too many times what had happened to his daughter that horrible day. Wondered why Kimberly hadn’t buckled her in to keep her safe. He had to leave it be.
He pulled the envelope out of the box, his name written on the front in Kimberly's deliberate script, and debated whether or not he should read it again, or just throw it away.
He was about to slip it out of the envelope when his cell phone, lying beside his bed, rang.
He set the letter aside and grabbed his phone. It was Les and guilt, his steady traveling companion, reared its familiar head. He had promised Les he would call him to go over their plans for tomorrow.
"So, today went well," Les said when he answered the phone. "Even though you weren't around. How was your afternoon and evening?"
Surprising, Duncan wanted to say, still not sure how to process everything that had happened. It seemed like weeks ago he'd left the logging block instead of only half a day.
"It was good. Took Celia and Miriam out for a ride on the horses."
"Excellent. This is good progress. Spending time with the luminous Miriam. And what are you doing tomorrow?"
"Coming back to work."
"This is not progress. Look, I told you to take a break. So take a break. A real one. Things went just fine today without you around. Go do something else with those girls tomorrow."
"Are you trying to shut me out?"
"No. I'm hoping to buy you out." Les was silent for a beat. "Kidding."
Les had made this casual comment before, and Duncan had always brushed it off with a laugh. But now, Duncan wondered how much of that comment was kidding, and how much of it was serious.
"I don't know what to do with Celia, anyway," he said.
"And Miriam?"
Duncan's cheeks burned at the thought of the kiss he had shared with her. It had been a mistake. And yet, something about it felt right in spite of how quickly it happened.
"Christmas is coming up," Les was saying. "Take them shopping. Go to the city. Chicks love going to the mall."
"I think I'd sooner be fixing hose fittings in minus-40 weather than head to the mall in December."
"Yeah, but you'd be with Miriam," Les said. "And Celia of course, but, hey, let's be real."
"Why do you keep harping on Miriam?" The question came out sharper than he intended.
It was the guilt that made him touchy. That, and the feeling that the kiss they shared had shifted them to a new place. And he couldn't go back.
"I just think it's time you start looking at other women. Start thinking about dating again. I know you went out with her before. Something happened then, build on that."
"Maybe," Duncan said, testing the thought of him and Miriam. Wondering if she thought the same.
She kissed you back.
"Not maybe. Yes. Anyway, I don't want to see you tomorrow. You need to buy me and the crew presents, anyhow."
Duncan smiled at that. "Probably should. Make up for the way I've been ragging on everyone lately."
"So, I'll see you later this week." Then Les said goodbye before he could protest.
Duncan set his phone beside the bed, then walked over to the window. The snow had stopped falling, and the clouds had dissipated. A fat, full moon cast a watery light over the snow-covered land. Spring was a long time in coming yet. Spring with its fresh grass, new calves and a life that he much preferred. He wanted to expand the farm, but couldn't right now. Not until he was free from the debt of the company.
You would be if you sold it.
He wanted to immediately dismiss the thought, but behind that, came Les' half-joking comment about buying him out.
If he sold the business, he could expand his herd. Buy the Peters’ farm that he'd had his eye on for the past year.
It was your father's business, he reminded himself, as he looked out over his yard. And it brings in good money.
For whom? And at what does that ‘good money’ cost you?
He dismissed the malignant thought. It wasn't because of the logging business that Tasha and Kimberly died. It was because of Kimberly's choices and her inability to adjust to the changes in their life.
Changes that occurred when Tasha was born.
Kimberly had fallen into a depression and had never come out of it. He had put it down to baby blues. Had done some research on it. Apparently it went away, but it took time. Only with Kimberly it never did.
He sat down on his bed and withdrew the letter. Kimberly's writing was a confused scrawl of words, indicative of her distress. Guilt stabbed him again, as it usually did when he read the first few words of the letter.
You won't listen, so I need to write this down. I can't do this anymore. I never could. I tried to tell you before that I didn't think I could take care of our baby, and I can't. I have to go. Have to leave. You won't listen. The rest of the letter was a litany of complaints that, each time he read them, made him realize how little he had known what was going on in his wife's mind. How much she had held back. She said that she was leaving him and Tasha. She didn’t want to be a mother. Had never really wanted kids. That Tasha was a mistake.
The letter ended with a goodbye and a note to tell him that she was bringing Tasha to his parents' place so they could take care of her until he came back from work.
But neither Tasha nor Kimberly ever made it to his parents’ place.
His heart jerked in his chest, pulling again on the emotions he'd buried since that bleak, soul-destroying day.
Then a tear slid down his cheek. He blinked, and a few more followed. A sob crawled up his throat, and then another. He crumpled the letter in his hands, pressing it against his forehead, as tear followed tear, sorrow followed sorrow.
Many moments later, spent from the grief that washed over him, he lifted his head, sucking in a deep, hard breath.
His bleary, burning eyes fell on the Bible that he had dropped on the bedside table. He grabbed it,
suddenly hungry to find any kind of spiritual nourishment from it.
He turned to the passages Kimberly had marked, ignoring her notes, reading the passages for himself. Seeking the comfort that had eluded him the past three years.
His trust in God had been sorely tested and tried, and he dared God to show him that He still cared.
"Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths you are there."
Duncan let the words settle on his bruised, lonely soul. He thought of what Miriam had said only a short while ago. How we could count on God's extravagant love. The words sounded so lofty and wonderful. Too good to be true.
But as he read the rest of the Psalm, he felt an old emotion. A whisper of conversations he had before Kimberly and Tasha died. Before he consigned their bodies to the ground and guilt and sorrow took their place in his life.
"When I awake, I am still with you."
And, he knew, it went the other way as well. That God was still with him and would guide him through his life. He wasn’t sure where to put those emotions right now but as he sat quietly, as he let the words settle in his soul he felt the beginnings of an old certainty.
He could ignore God all he wanted but that didn’t negate His reality. God was and is and in this moment he felt God’s very presence.
He prayed then, pouring out his soul, letting God back into his life. Back into his soul.
Chapter 13
I tied up the strings on the garbage bag I had just filled from Francine’s and Jerrod’s closets, thankful to finally be done this difficult job.
I wasn't surprised that Francine had so many clothes. She loved shopping. I was just amazed at the amount my brother had amassed.
"Can I have some juice?" Celia stood in the doorway, clutching Jane, frowning as I dragged the bag into the main bedroom. Celia had been downstairs watching a movie after breakfast, even though I had offered to play a game with her. When she refused, I hadn't pushed the issue, then wondered if I was being a bad parent.
It was exhausting, this taking care of Celia, wanting to lay my claim to her, yet needing to keep my distance. I just hoped Duncan took seriously my request to be more involved. It was getting more difficult each day to imagine leaving.
"Of course you can have some juice, honey." I dropped the bag in the corner, just as I realized Celia had addressed me directly.
One small step for Celia, one giant leap for normality.
"What kind of juice do you want?"
"Orange. Jane likes orange best and so do I."
"Orange it is." I grabbed the other bags by the strings and dragged then down the thickly carpeted hallway that still held vacuum marks from my house-cleaning spurt this morning.
"Are we seeing Dunkle again?" Celia asked as she followed me down the stairs and into the front foyer where the other bags I had just packed lay. I wasn't sure what to do with them. Duncan's mother didn't want them. But Esther said she was coming next week to clean out Jerrod's office. Though she hadn't answered any of my texts asking her what she wanted me to do, I thought it might be best if I waited before making a final decision. She might want some things from her sister.
"I don't know," I said, wishing the thought of seeing Duncan again didn't make me blush.
"Call him. Jane wants to go horseback riding again," she demanded as we walked back into the kitchen.
"I think it might be too cold to go horseback riding."
She frowned as if absorbing this information while I poured the juice into two cups. One for her and one for Jane. At least Celia's appetite was returning. This morning, she had eaten two pancakes and a sausage, while Jane had passed on the plate of food I put out for her. And nothing ended up on the floor.
"Do the horses like it when we ride them?" she asked climbing up on the stool by the eating bar and taking a drink from the cup I set in front of her.
"I think the horses like that we are spending time with them." I stood beside her, the smell of her shampoo teasing my nose, her smiling face turned up to me.
I wanted to pull her close. Hold her forever.
A dull ache grew in my heart as I gave into an impulse and stroked a strand of hair back from her face. She didn't flinch or pull back, just accepted my gentle touch.
How could I walk away from her? I thought, as my fingers stroked her silky curls. How could I leave her alone again?
Why don't you stay?
Duncan's suggestion of yesterday pushed past my questions.
I rested my elbows on the counter, watching Celia, a memory of myself when I was that age jumping to the fore. A dingy motel and my mother, drunk, laughing too loud as she watched television. The smell of onions and hamburgers from our supper the night before. A feeling of unsettledness and, even larger than that, a fear of what the next few days would bring.
That was my legacy, I thought, straightening, as if pulling away from her. I may put my mother down, but at least she didn’t end up in prison.
"Stop clinging to what you don't need to carry."
I tested the words and held them as if to see how I could make them work.
Help me Lord, I prayed, as I watched Celia finish her juice then give me a smile that pierced my heart as surely as one of Cupid's arrows.
The ringing of the doorbell broke into the moment, and I pushed myself away from the counter. Cora had said she might stop by, it was probably her.
But when I pulled open the door, clutching my sweater around me against the sudden blast of cold air, my heart jumped in my chest.
Duncan stood on the step, his hands shoved in the pockets of a down-filled jacket, a cowboy hat perched on his head.
"Hey there," he said, giving me a cautious smile as if checking where things were between us.
"Come in." I stood aside as he stepped into the foyer, stamping the snow off his feet, filling the space with his presence.
"Thought I would stop by. See if you needed me to shovel snow for you, but I see you did it already."
"First thing this morning."
He nodded and stood towering over me, making me feel inconsequential. "And how's Celia? She sleep okay?"
"Not fantastic, but better." She'd only been up twice complaining about her Mom’s and Dad’s loud voices. Then she said something about Aunt Esther though I wasn’t sure. Her words were a confused mumble. "I think her nap at your place helped."
Duncan looked at me then, his eyes holding mine, and once again that sense of awareness anchored us.
"And you?" His question came out in a hoarse whisper that sent a shiver spiraling down my spine. He cleared his throat and tried again. "How did you sleep?"
"Not bad. And you?" I wanted to do a face-palm. Really? After all that happened last night, this is what we are talking about?
"You know, I slept good." He stayed where he was and I had to fight the desire to reach out and touch him. To make physical the connection that hovered between us. Then he bit his lip and I saw a shadow of regret in his eyes. I knew what was coming. "About last night—"
I put my hand up to stop him. "First off, that's about the most clichéd thing you could say. Secondly, I don't know if we should discuss what happened last night."
"Maybe not, but we can't pretend it didn't happen."
What was he trying to say? I couldn't help the anticipation that hummed through me, but I stopped it, trying to get a grip on reality.
"You're right. We can't, but I don't know if we should repeat it." Even though it was wonderful and thrilling, and for a moment I felt like a woman someone wanted.
Until he finds out everything about you.
He held my gaze, nodding slowly as if in agreement. "You're probably right."
"I'm not always right, but when I am it's usually all the time."
He grinned at that, and the comment seemed to ease the tension that had suddenly sprung up between us.
"Duly noted." He shrugged off his coat. "So, m
ind if I come in?"
"Of course not." I pulled open the closet and fished out a hanger, holding my hand out for his coat.
"That closet looks a lot emptier than the last time I saw it," he said, taking the hanger from me and threading it through his coat himself.
"I cleaned up." Then I felt a flurry of guilt. "And I'm sorry. I should have talked to the family."
He waved off my comments as he hung his coat up in the now-empty closet. "I doubt anyone wanted anything from here."
I walked into the kitchen Duncan right behind me.
"Dunkle. You're at my house," Celia said, popping up from behind the couch where she'd been hiding. She came running toward him, her arms out.
She collided with him, wrapping her arms around her legs.
"Why are you here?" she asked, leaning back to look up at him.
Duncan smoothed his hands over her hair in a gentle gesture. "You know, Christmas is coming, and I noticed that you don't have a tree and neither do I, so I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to get one."
"Now?" I asked.
"Sure. We could drive out to the bush. I need to check on operations after being gone yesterday and it gives you a break from…well…stuff. If that's okay with you?" He looked over at me, his crooked smile making my knees feel just a bit trembly.
My brain tussled with the wisdom of spending time with Duncan, yet if I wanted him to take more responsibility, this was how it would look.
"That sounds like a great idea," I said, secretly loving the idea of cutting down a Christmas tree with this very rugged man. "Very country."
"It's how we roll. Every year for as long as I can remember we went out to the bush to cut down our own tree." He looked down at Celia and gave her a kind smile. "And now we can do it together."
I'm sure the word didn't mean anything, but the way he said it was as if he was linking us all.
A pretend family carrying on a family tradition.
The thought made me want to smile and cry at the same time.
"Do I get to pick out the Christmas tree when we get there?" Celia piped up from the back seat of Duncan's pick-up truck. She had refused to sit in her booster seat in the truck, but thankfully Miriam had insisted, and now she seemed happy.
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