by Deb Kastner
“I am,” she agreed. “I take it you don’t attend the service? I had the impression you were a churchgoing man.”
He couldn’t imagine where she’d gotten that notion from. “No, not really. Aunt Jo and Lucy faithfully attend every week, though, so you can go with them.”
“I will, thank you.” Her head was tilted to one side, and she was staring at him speculatively. He wanted to squirm under her sharp gaze, but he kept himself carefully still.
“Do you mind my asking you a question?”
“Probably.”
Chance sighed inwardly. He wasn’t annoyed, exactly. More like discouraged. He’d actually been enjoying the day, and his time with Phoebe; that is, until she’d gone all serious on him.
“Why did you stop going?”
How could she possibly have guessed that? He nailed her with his gaze. “Who says I ever did?”
She shrugged but her expression told him she had no doubt she was right, and she was still waiting on his answer.
“Maybe I like sleeping in on Sundays. It’s my only day off from the café.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Chance did go to church all the time, up until Lindsay died.” The voice of Chance’s former father-in-law, Lindsay’s father, made him nearly jump out of his seat, except that the man had clamped an iron-hard hand down on his shoulder.
“Douglas,” Chance greeted coarsely through a throat which had gone dry.
Things had gone from bad, to worse, to impossible, all in a matter of moments, like a snowball gaining momentum down a hill in an avalanche. Chance couldn’t keep up. This was exactly why he didn’t attend community functions. It wasn’t only that he didn’t want to be with people in general—neighbors, some close friends, who would look at him with sadness or pity, neither of which he wanted.
Or deserved.
But this—running into Lindsay’s parents, was like his worst nightmare come to life. Every muscle in his body was squeezed so tightly he thought he might implode, and in some ways, he wished he would. It would certainly be easier on him than facing Douglas and Evie Carlson.
“How are you, son?” Douglas asked gently.
“We’ve missed you,” Lindsay’s mother added.
Chance vainly adjusted the black bandana around his throat, but the choking sensation he was feeling didn’t lessen. He couldn’t bear to face them, afraid of the condemnation in their gazes. He didn’t turn, nor did he speak.
Suddenly, under the table, Phoebe grasped his hand and gave it a light squeeze, her message clearly related.
He was not alone.
But this was his dilemma, his own personal nightmare, and it would never go away—or, apparently, get any easier. Even though Lindsay’s parents appeared outwardly friendly, he could only imagine how they felt in their hearts.
Their daughter—their only child—was dead. And it was all because of him.
When Chance didn’t answer, Douglas sighed and patted him on the back.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” Evie said with a false gayness to her voice that made Chance cringe so hard he wanted to fold in on himself. There was no way they were happy to see him, and he didn’t blame them one bit. He was a living, walking reminder of all they had lost.
“You make sure he takes care of himself, yes?” Douglas directed his question to Phoebe.
Chance groaned and shook his head. He didn’t want Phoebe involved in any part of this.
“I will, sir,” Phoebe answered without hesitation. It was just like her to accept such a challenge, even though it was none of her business. She squeezed his hand again, though whether it was a gesture of comfort or of something else, he did not know.
“You didn’t introduce me,” she remarked quietly after the couple had left.
Chance didn’t look at her, choosing instead to stare sightlessly at a point in front of him. “Lindsay’s parents.”
“They seemed nice.” Her voice was soft and hesitant, which only served to make Chance’s emotions swell inside of him.
“They are.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, running her hand up his arm to his biceps.
“You can’t know,” he said, his already abrasive voice breaking.
“Know what?” It was the caring and concern in her voice that he didn’t want.
Didn’t need.
And in the end, it was what did him in.
He stood so quickly he knocked the folded chair out from under him. All of the emotions which had tortured him for so long—rage, guilt, grief, sorrow, love—all converged into one as he hovered over her, his shadow blocking the sun.
“I killed Lindsay,” he growled through his anguish. “She’s dead because of me.”
Chapter Nine
STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: Please pray for me, and for the family I’m staying with, that God will mend their hearts. I only hope I can help.
JOSEPHINE HAWKINS MURPHY: Just being here helps us, my dear. And thank you for your prayers. They are most welcome.
Phoebe couldn’t get Chance—and what he’d confessed to her—out of her mind. He’d stalked off immediately after his outburst and she hadn’t seen him on the Sparkses’ property again. In the end, she’d ridden home with Jo and Lucy.
She spent a restless night, in turn trying to decipher what his declaration truly meant and praying for him to find peace. Even attending church didn’t help. Though it was a lovely chapel and a meaningful service, she couldn’t pay attention to the sermon or the songs. Her mind kept wandering back to Chance, wondering where he was and how he was feeling.
All she knew was that when he had left he was in a very dark state of mind. And that whatever else he may or may not have done in his life, he had not killed his wife. Anyone with half a brain could see how much he had loved her, how he grieved for her still.
No wonder he was usually so quiet and withdrawn, carrying around a burden like that.
What confused her was how Lindsay’s parents had somehow set him off. What she had witnessed between them was not at all what Chance had seen and heard. Phoebe was a good judge of character. She could tell that the Carlsons were reaching out to him in kindness, and he had rejected them.
But why?
Out of some misguided sense of guilt over whatever had truly transpired the night of the car accident? Clearly Lindsay’s parents didn’t blame Chance for their daughter’s death, so why would Chance assume they did? Why had he shut them out, when they could have all supported each other in their grief?
It didn’t make sense, and Phoebe knew the only way she was going to find out the truth would be to ask Chance about it straight-out and face-to-face. The only problem with that strategy was that she didn’t see him on Sunday—at all. If he was home, and she wasn’t sure he was, he had barricaded himself in his bedroom, not even coming out to share a meal with the family.
Aunt Jo and Lucy simply went on about their lives as if this was a normal occurrence in the Hawkinses’ household, for Chance to hole himself up like that.
Maybe it was.
When Chance arrived at the café Monday morning, he did not even so much as look at Phoebe, much less talk to her. He went on about his work as if she wasn’t even there, except to step aside whenever they might have collided, and making sure they never touched, not even their elbows.
Over the course of the day, Phoebe went from surprised to indignant to downright angry. Chance remained as silent and broody as he ever was, leaving Phoebe wishing men in general and Chance in particular to any number of unsavory ends.
After she’d finished with her daily baking, she didn’t even bother to wait for Chance to finish his own work, as she usually did. Fuming, she sped off down the road leaving a trail of dust behind her.
But any thought of what she should do about Chance went right out of her head when Lucy came flying out the front door of the house the moment Phoebe pulled up.
Something was wrong.
Very w
rong.
She could see it on the girl’s panicked, tear-streaked face.
“Lucy, what happened? Are you okay?” Phoebe asked as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door. Her level of concern rose with every second, and she was unable to breathe around the lump in her throat.
“It’s Auntie Jo,” Lucy cried, new tears springing fresh to her eyes. “Oh, Phoebe, I don’t know what to do!”
Alarm coursed through Phoebe. Jo hadn’t been feeling well and, at Phoebe and Chance’s urging, had again taken the day off to rest.
Lucy was nearing hysterics. Phoebe gently grasped her shoulders and forced the girl to look at her, all the while praying for guidance. Lucy shuddered, and Phoebe knew her own hands were shaking.
“Take a deep breath, hon,” she ordered.
Lucy gulped for air.
“Now, take me to your Auntie Jo. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
She urged the girl forward, keeping a reassuring arm around her shoulders. Lucy broke into fresh tears as they entered the house.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Lucy said, her breath catching. “I wasn’t in the room, but I think she was mopping the kitchen floor when she slipped on a puddle of water.” Her voice skipped up a notch, nearly frantic with anxiety. “She can’t move, and she’s in a lot of pain. Maybe she broke something.”
“Did you call 911?” Phoebe asked as they entered the kitchen. She tried to keep her voice calm against the pounding of her heart.
Lucy nodded and pointed to her cell phone, which was lying open on a counter next to Jo. Thankfully, the older woman was conscious, but she was obviously in a lot of pain, though she was trying not to show it.
“Good girl,” she told Lucy. “Now see if they are still on the line.” Phoebe knew emergency operators generally talked callers through until the ambulance arrived, and she hoped they hadn’t disconnected when Lucy had dropped the phone in her haste to meet Phoebe at the door. Talking to the operator would give Lucy something useful and productive to do, rather than just stand around and worry.
Phoebe knelt by Jo and reached for her hand.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently, and then immediately shook her head. “What a stupid question. Of course you’re not okay. What hurts?”
“It’s this hip of mine,” Jo complained, her voice shaking and her lips pinched in agony. “I guess it finally got the best of me.”
“Looks like,” Phoebe agreed, squeezing her hand. “We’ve got help on the way. Lucy, how far out is the ambulance?”
“Just a couple of minutes,” Lucy answered, cupping her palm over the receiver. “I think I hear the sirens now.”
“Keep the phone with you and go out front to wait for them,” Phoebe directed. “I’ll stay here and keep your Auntie Jo company.”
“Thank you, dear,” Jo said as soon as Lucy was out of earshot.
“For what?” Phoebe asked, surprised.
“For helping Lucy that way. Your calm voice and firm actions did just the trick. I was half afraid she was going to go completely hysterical on me. Thank our good Lord that you showed up when you did.”
Phoebe shook her head and lowered her brow, trying to look threatening. “You put a good scare into both of us. Don’t do that again. Besides, Lucy did just what she needed to do—she called 911 right away. I’m proud of her.”
Despite the fact that she was clearly in agonizing pain, Jo beamed up at her. “So am I, dear. So am I.”
As the ambulance and another rescue vehicle pulled up in front of the house, the sound of sirens reached Phoebe’s ears.
“I think the ambulance just pulled up,” she reassured the older woman. Jo closed her eyes on a sigh and gripped Phoebe’s hand tightly.
“Don’t you worry, dear. God and the paramedics will take care of me.”
A moment later, Lucy led the first paramedic into the kitchen. Looking to be about Phoebe’s age, the EMT was shaggy-haired and unshaven, but his friendly eyes and wide smile would charm any woman between zero and eighty years of age. He was certainly having that effect on Jo, who smiled—or grimaced, at least—and reached up to pat the man’s cheek as he dropped down beside her and opened his medical bag.
“Hello, Zach, dear,” Jo said. “I’m sorry to drag you all the way out here on my account.”
“You didn’t have to hurt yourself to get me to come see you,” he teased gently as he checked her pulse and her blood pressure. “Tell me where it hurts.”
Jo groaned. “At the moment, everywhere. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. How cliché is that?”
“She has a bad hip—her left one, I think,” Phoebe supplied, moving out of the way so the paramedic could work. She walked to Lucy’s side and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Another paramedic entered bearing a backboard, followed by two men in firemen’s gear who maneuvered a gurney into the room.
The first EMT—Zach—was clearly the leader of the bunch. He directed the other men, and within minutes, they had carefully rolled her onto the backboard, lifted her to the gurney and had transported her into the back of the ambulance.
Phoebe and Lucy followed the men out. Phoebe was much more concerned than she let on. Jo was trying to make light of the situation, probably for Phoebe’s sake as well as Lucy’s, but her face was as white as a sheet and her fists were tightly clenched on the blanket covering her.
“It figures the one time I have four gorgeous men visit me in my home I’m down for the count,” Phoebe heard her tell the EMT that had crawled into the back of the ambulance with her.
The woman had an inner strength and faith in God Phoebe could only aspire to.
She pulled Zach aside. “Jo would never complain about it, but she’s clearly in a lot of pain. Can you give her something to help?”
Zach nodded reassuringly. “Unfortunately, it’s an hour’s drive to the nearest hospital, but we’re already setting her up with an IV drip. Once that’s in we’ll be able to give her some pain meds to keep her comfortable.”
“Can we go with her in the ambulance?” Lucy asked hesitantly.
Zach smiled at Lucy, but his eyes were on Phoebe. “I’m afraid we’ve only got room for one passenger.”
And it couldn’t be Lucy.
Zach didn’t have to say the words out loud. Lucy wouldn’t know what to do with herself once they got to the hospital. She would be scared and alone and maybe even in the way.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take you in my car, hon,” Phoebe offered gently.
After one last pleading look at Zach, which he returned with a compassionate and reassuring smile, Lucy nodded.
“We’ll be right behind them, I promise,” Phoebe vowed. “But we need to go and pick up your father first, don’t you think?”
By the time Phoebe had gotten directions to the hospital and waved off the ambulance, Lucy was already in the car. She didn’t look any better than she had earlier, despite the fact that her great-aunt was now safe in the capable hands of the paramedics and on her way to the hospital. If anything, Lucy looked worse than ever.
“She’ll be fine,” Phoebe assured her as she turned the car around on the driveway. “You heard what Zach said—they’ll give her some pain medication to keep her comfortable on her ride to the hospital. We’ll see her soon.”
“He won’t come,” Lucy stated miserably.
“What? Who?”
“My dad. He won’t come with us.”
“What do you mean he won’t come with us? This is an emergency, and your aunt is family. Of course he’ll come.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever seen him in a car?”
“Well, no, but—”
“He doesn’t drive a car, or even ride as a passenger in one. Not ever.”
Phoebe had a bad feeling about this, but she wasn’t going to tell Lucy that. “Be that as it may, I’m sure he’ll make an exception this time.”
Lucy gave a fr
ustrated snort and crossed her arms in a self-comforting gesture.
“No, he won’t,” she said again.
“Well then, we’ll just have to make him listen to reason, won’t we?”
“Good luck with that,” Lucy muttered under her breath.
“We don’t need luck, honey. We have God.”
“What? Is God going to zap my dad with lightning or something?”
Lucy was making a genuine effort to lighten the mood, and Phoebe flashed her a supportive grin. “Probably not. Makes you think though, doesn’t it?”
Lucy smothered a laugh.
“Seriously, though, let’s pray together—for your aunt, and for your dad, too.”
STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: I have another URGENT prayer request. A dear friend fell and broke her hip. We don’t know how bad the damage is yet. Please pray for her health and safety, and for her family to find peace in God.
Chance was about halfway home when Phoebe’s car passed him, then slowed and turned his direction, pulling up next to him. To his surprise, Lucy was in the passenger seat.
What was up with that?
Phoebe rolled down the passenger-side window.
“Get in,” she ordered in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
He shook his head, intending to ignore her demand.
“No, thank you. I’d rather walk,” he said casually, and then started off down the road. He and Phoebe had already been over this ground. Why was she forcing the issue again—especially with Lucy here to see the whole thing? It wasn’t like she was going to get him to change his mind—not even for his daughter.
Phoebe’s car jerked forward as she pumped on the gas pedal and then skid to a stop in front of him, the hood of her car blocking his path. “Do not argue with me,” Phoebe said firmly, almost menacingly. “Get. In. The. Car.”
Chance scowled. Why wouldn’t the woman just let it be, already? “Again, no.”
He had no idea what she was trying to accomplish by pulling her car in front of him. It wasn’t like he couldn’t walk around it, and he proceeded to do so. Let Phoebe think whatever she wanted. He was not getting into the car.
“Your aunt had an accident.”
