“I kind of have a carpentry emergency on my hands.” The woman laughed. “One of my kids broke the stairs banister, and I need it fixed right away. Can you send someone?” Her words radiated hope. Charlene jotted her address, then told her to hold on a moment while she checked with Clay.
“Oh, Clay. Perfect. He does real nice work. My husband bought me one of his wonderful bookcases—the kind that lock. The kids haven’t managed to get into it yet.”
When Charlene ran the request by him, she expected Clay to nod and load up his tools, but he stayed at his workbench. “See if she can wait till Sam gets back.”
“Why? She doesn’t care who comes. In fact, she said she likes your work.”
Clay scratched the back of his neck, but she saw him eye the drawer. The one with the gun. “Sam will be back soon. I’ll go then.”
Realization dawned. “You don’t want to leave me here alone.”
He shrugged, not denying it.
She pursed her lips. “I don’t need a babysitter.” She returned to the desk. “I’ll tell her you’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He pivoted on his heel and regarded her with amusement. “When’d you turn so bossy?”
“Sam’s not around.” She spread her hands. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
With a shake of his head, he gathered tools while she assured the woman he was on his way.
The feeling of having the woodshop to herself was peaceful, not frightening as it could have been if she’d entertained worried thoughts. Instead, she hummed along to the country music. As often as it played, she was accustomed to it and even growing begrudgingly fond of quite a few songs. They weren’t all depressing, as she used to think.
Her wrist moved rhythmically, varnishing an end table in time to the music. Before long, her lips began moving and she sang familiar, upbeat lyrics. For fun, she exaggerated the southern twang, the song sounding so funny that she smiled, remembering Brook’s easy, carefree harmonizing in Clay’s truck.
With exaggerated fervor, she belted out lyrics involving tailgates, backroads, and beer. She even swung her hips and sashayed her feet. The mock dance move caused a person to slide into her vision, a lanky cowboy leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smile. Clay.
Embarrassment surged through her. He’d repaired the banister and returned already? The fun she’d been having must have made time fly. How long had he been watching? More importantly, listening?
Her mouth dropped, the last lyric dying of humiliation in her throat, till Clay stunned her by picking up the line and striding back to work with the tune now coming off-key from his lips.
Like it was no big deal. Nothing to be ashamed of. So she was having fun. Why not?
It’s okay. Relax. Forcing her voice back to life, she sang past her self-consciousness and returned to work.
“My gosh, what’s that darn awful screeching?” Sam’s voice broke through their talentless duet a few moments later, his expression disgusted. “You two should have your lips stapled shut. Thank the Lord for ear protection.”
As Sam threw on the plastic earmuffs, Clay and Charlene glanced at each other, their singing canceled by laughter. Then they caterwauled the next song. Simply, she thought, to irritate Sam.
It was a good day.
And that evening, as she peddled home from work, she realized her cheek muscles were sore from too much smiling. Her face stretched into a grin.
No such thing as too much smiling.
* * *
Armed with a package of fireworks, Charlene made sure to arrive bright and early at Ben’s house on the Fourth of July. The sun still hung low enough near the eastern horizon that it hadn’t baked the air yet.
Ben’s mom opened the door and eyed the fireworks disapprovingly. “How funny, I would have thought you’d have had your fill of all things fire-related for a while.”
Charlene forced a halfhearted laugh. But she was glad she’d brought the fireworks because when Ben saw the box of roman candles, cherry bombs, and bottle rockets, his eyes lit up like a little boy’s. Their date was off to a good start. They left the package in the backyard, to use after they returned from the town’s fireworks display that night.
As they made their way down the sidewalk into town, Ben told her how glad he was to be living at home again, now that it had been modified for his needs, though he still went to the center for daily rehab. “And I have some good news.” He slowed his chair. “The therapy’s working. I can feel my feet. I even moved a toe yesterday.”
She halted, astounded. “Really? That’s amazing!”
“It is. Any feeling below the injury is a huge deal. If this keeps up, who knows? I might even walk again. We’ll keep hoping.”
She nodded rapidly. “We will.” In a daze of grateful wonder, she resumed strolling alongside him, envisioning the day he would walk again. Then a question edged its way in. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me right away?”
“I almost did, believe me, but I wanted to tell you in person. See your reaction.” He smiled. “It was worth it.”
* * *
After a picnic in the park, they lined up along Main Street to await the afternoon parade. The performance was well underway when the firetruck made an appearance, creeping along with red and white lights flashing and earsplitting sirens warbling. Charlene gripped Ben’s arm and felt the display was slightly bad taste for anyone who associated the sight and sound with the memory of an accident, but she knew she was probably being overly sensitive.
In contrast, Ben appeared highly riveted by the shiny red truck. Again, like a little boy. The endearing thought evaporated on the tail of regret when she recalled the job he’d lost. And then she recognized a certain female firefighter with her abundant chestnut hair smoothed back in a bouncy ponytail.
Kate.
She smiled Charlene’s way, but she wasn’t looking at her. Kate’s eyes were on Ben. Somehow, the fire department’s regulation polo shirt and pants appeared entirely feminine and flattering on her.
“Hey look, it’s Kate,” Ben informed her unnecessarily as he waved.
Walking along behind the firetruck, Kate tossed candy to kids from an overturned fire helmet. A large chocolate candy bar landed in Ben’s lap. “All right,” he said, and this time Charlene was not amused by his enthusiasm.
“That’s not typical parade candy,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, we lucked out. Want some?”
“No thanks.” She waited. He should know that if she turned down chocolate, something was wrong.
He bit down on the candy. “That was actually a pretty good throw, hey?” he managed around a mouthful. “But she plays softball, so I guess—”
“Wait, what? How do you know that? And why is she singling you out to get the best chocolate?”
He raised his eyebrows as his lips spread into a gloating smile. “Not jealous, are you?”
She folded her arms and turned to face him squarely, her back to the parade. “She was flirting with you. I saw her batting her lashes.”
He chuckled and chomped off another hunk of chocolate. “So how does it feel to be on the other side?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Heat crawled up her neck. “What are you even talking about?”
“You and Clay. Me and Kate. Sure, it’s nothing, but see how it feels?”
She shoved a hank of hair behind her ear. She didn’t mean to raise her voice, but found it necessary to be heard above the garish parade. “Are you trying to ‘get back at me’?” She used finger quotes, something she never did. “Because that’s really childish, Ben. You and Kate,” she scoffed, “are nothing like me and Clay. We have a history—”
“Somehow, that’s not really helping your case,” Ben said, visibly irritated now.
“He saved my life—”
“Helped save it,” Ben clarified. He chucked the remaining chocolate to the ground. “Give Max the credit he’s due, too. And did you forget who it was who helped rescue me from th
at cliff back in April? Does that count as ‘saving,’ Charlene? Because I think it does.”
“Clay and I went through so much more than—” She bit off her words, but it was too late.
Ben’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the sides of his chair. His voice growled low, but she heard the words. “You’re actually comparing our pain and suffering? I didn’t know it was a contest.” Something horrible rippled over his face. “Okay, if it is, you win, Charlene.” His gaze speared her. “How’s that feel? You get the most emotionally damaged award. Congratulations.”
She recoiled. He had never struck out at her like this before. Devastation filled her, yet she knew she deserved it. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find words to fix the piercing pain.
“Thanks, Clay,” Ben muttered.
Her heart throbbed. “Maybe we have some issues to work through,” she attempted, her voice hoarse, “but he’s not the problem.”
“I say he is.” Every muscle in Ben’s neck and arms pulled taut. “What if I said you had to make the choice: him or me?”
Her ears roared, the sound like beating waves. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“I’ve given you so much, Charlene.” He shook his head. “And it still doesn’t seem to be enough.” His anger faded to sadness. “Will I ever be enough? Or are we done?”
Her insides crumpled in on themselves, and her heart collapsed to dust. Are we done? Her feet moved backwards, and she felt herself turn.
She couldn’t face this, but if she fled now, she knew she might never be able to get Ben back.
And still, she couldn’t stay.
She took off, weaving through the surging crowd of ridiculously happy people. As she ran, she was glad Ben couldn’t, and she despised herself for the wicked thought. Her lungs burned, but it didn’t mask the sorrow searing her soul.
Ben, her steady rock. Her guiding light. He’d loved her unconditionally. What had she done? They’d been together so long. He’d listened to her rehash her torments, the nightmares. He’d soothed her emotional scars. Maybe she had been wrong to burden him with all that. But he had helped her through, he really had. As he guided her to hope and happiness, she had healed. Or so she thought. And now that he was wounded and hurting—because of her—she couldn’t even stay by his side.
Her steps eventually slowed, and she walked dazedly, perspiring in the heat, wandering through town, just thinking, thinking, and praying. For guidance. For answers.
Ben needed an answer. He needed—he deserved—a fiancée who would choose him above everyone and everything. If she couldn’t do that, how could she ever be his wife?
Her hands clenched. She could do it. She would. Why throw away their happy future? For the sake of a fragmented friendship that Clay hardly wanted? There was no reason to cling to that.
Resolved, she began to feel that a sense of peace might be within reach. She had to find Ben and tell him her decision. Tell him she was sorry.
If it wasn’t too late.
She popped into the air conditioning of an ice cream shop and then into the restroom, where she splashed her face and blotted it dry with a crispy brown paper towel. She finger-combed her scraggly curls, then she slicked on ChapStick. With a deep breath, she composed herself.
At the ice cream counter, she bought two bowls of chocolate ice cream with caramel sauce, Ben’s favorite, and resolved to find him before the peace offering melted.
Shouldering her way out the door and into the July furnace, the race was on. Look for a wheelchair. The ice cream wouldn’t last long. How could she have been so heartless, leaving him alone in this heat with no one to—
There he was.
But he wasn’t alone.
Under the dappled shade of a birch tree, Kate reclined on the grass and gazed up at Ben, whose back was to Charlene. Steeling herself, Charlene set her shoulder blades and strode forward. She didn’t get far. The tail end of Ben’s words to Kate stopped her cold.
“Stockholm Syndrome.”
The hated, horrible phrase socked her in the gut. The definition echoed from her past. In a courtroom, a doctor on the stand defined it, attempting to describe her as a victim who had developed “a positive emotional attachment” to her kidnapper.
Kate murmured something back, and Ben replied, “It’s not healthy. She needs professional help.”
Some gentle words rippled from Kate, meant to comfort him.
He shook his head. “She’s messed up.”
No. He didn’t just say that. Not Ben.
Betrayal stabbed her. Her limbs trembled. The two Styrofoam bowls dropped from her hands, splattering the grass and her toes a chocolate brown, right before she turned and ran.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Fourth of July traffic made Charlene’s drive back to Creekside take longer than usual. She could have used the time productively, to mull and process everything, but she wasn’t up to it. Her response was to flee, even her thoughts.
She cranked up the radio and let the songs erase Ben’s scathing words from her brain. But they burned on, blistering her heart.
And how dare he talk to Kate about their private problems. Or, more accurately, apparently, her problems. She kept picturing him, over and over, as if he were a doctor detachedly pronouncing a diagnosis. Her diagnosis.
“She’s messed up.”
She slammed the steering wheel with one hand and accidentally hit the horn, jolting her back to her environment in the congested traffic and earning a vile gesture from a nearby driver.
Once in Creekside, she fared no better. All the people in celebratory moods thwarted her need to curl up in a ball and disintegrate. The police had road-blocked Main Street for the festivities, and cars jostled for parking spots.
She gave up and took a spot when she found one. If she went home, she might encounter Brook, and she couldn’t face any questions right now.
Dusk settled, and while the air outside cooled, her car remained stuffy and hot. She blew her nose, then sagged out the door. She blended into the crowd hiking up the huge park hill. At the distant top, families reclined on blankets or sat in chairs. Kids threw balls and waved glow sticks wildly. Others whipped burning sparklers amid happy shrieks and plumes of smoke.
Stepping over a popcorn spill, she moved away to a weeping willow on the fringe of the firework anticipation and sank into the generous shadow. She swatted mosquitoes, then pulled out her phone and found three missed calls from Ben. She dropped the phone back in her purse as if it had burned her.
She hoped to remain unnoticed in her non-optimal fireworks-gazing spot, but as she fingered a little white clover flower, she caught sight of someone wandering in her direction. When she recognized him, the flower snapped off in her hand.
She turned her face away and used what hair she could to shield herself.
Go away. Go away.
Cowboy boots stopped in front of her.
“Charlene?”
She peeked up at Clay, but couldn’t even muster a feeble hello.
“I thought that was you. What are you doing all the way over here by yourself ? Brook said you were spending the day with Ben.”
“Yeah, well that didn’t exactly work out.” She glanced around warily. “Where’s Brook?”
“Talking to a friend. She wanted me to go ahead and find a spot.” He held a folded blanket clamped under his arm.
“Better hurry. The best spots are almost gone.” Shadows thickened, and she was grateful for the face-masking cover. Now she only had to guard her tone.
Clay sat down on the grass a safe distance away, yet still too close. “Are you okay?”
She tried to force the words I’m fine from her throat, but she couldn’t lie to him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Barely breathing, she drew her knees to her chest and waited for him to leave.
He didn’t.
They sat side by side in the gloom, and it reminded her of a time years ago, locked in a dark, earthen room. Silently, she cursed
the memory.
“Clay, do you think we’re messed up?” A tear leaked out. “You know, from everything that happened with Abner?” She pulled in a breath and tried not to let herself shudder.
“Maybe.” She saw his silhouetted profile glance up at the sky. “Probably. But I hardly think we’d be normal if we weren’t a little messed up from that.”
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. More treacherous tears escaped. “I don’t want to be like this,” she whispered.
He moved closer. “Hey, so we’re a little messed up. Who isn’t? That’s what we are just by being human, right? Original sin’s got us all messed up. That’s why we need God. Didn’t you tell me something like that once?”
She rested her wet cheek on her knees. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Life just keeps getting harder. God isn’t supposed to give us more than we can handle. But He does.”
Clay was quiet a moment. “Maybe He knows you’re stronger than you realize.”
“I’m not.”
He shifted on the grass. “I think you are.” He cleared his throat. “Strong enough to face the truth, the darkness, to know it for what it is. And to know . . . the light is stronger.”
She sniffed, unimpressed. “Empty, abstract words. That’s all you’ve got?”
“All right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Then I’ll be blunt.”
She waited.
“If you want to be happy, you’ve gotta be willing to fight for it. Feeling sorry for yourself, giving in to despair—that crap won’t get you anywhere but down.”
Her head came up and bumped the tree. She wanted to be offended by his words, but instead, she stayed silent. Because there was something in his voice . . . something driven, and real—
“Sure, life can be hell. Sure, there’s hardships. But that’s no excuse to be blind to the good things, the blessings—they’re all around us, and we forget to see them.”
The good things. She pulled in a jagged breath and noticed the fireflies blinking gold lights.
After the Thaw Page 23
