“It’s hard to hear the truth. Some days, we want to give up. I get that. I do.” The fingers of his right hand barely grazed the bandage on his left.
Sorrow panged within her.
“I know you’ve been through a lot, Charlene. Just remember, you’re not alone. And who you are doesn’t change by what someone thinks or says. Not what your grandfather says, or Max, or me. Or even Ben.”
Ben.
She pressed her back hard into the tree bark. Ben wouldn’t be happy if he saw her sitting here with Clay. “I thought Ben understood, but now . . .”
“Don’t be too hard on him. He loves you.”
“How would you know? You only saw him that one time.”
“I could see it. Even back then.”
She puzzled over that for a moment. Looking up at the dim sky, she clasped her fingers together and worked her knuckles. “Do you ever wonder . . . do you ever think about . . . what if you hadn’t left Woodfield? What if you hadn’t gone away?”
He scuffed a boot heel in the grass. “I try not to wonder about things I can’t change.”
And me, I wonder too much.
It was as though he picked up on the turmoil still radiating from her. “You had a hard day today. But tomorrow you’ll get up and you’ll start over.”
She pulled her tangled hair back from her sloppy face and sniffed. “But I’ll still be me.” And I’ll still be messed up. If my future husband thinks I am, what hope is there for me?
“Hey, look at me.” Barely touching her chin, Clay rotated her face to his. “You survived Abner. You can survive anything this world throws at you.”
“I don’t want to just survive anymore.” She didn’t care if he saw her tears, if he thought she was weak. “It’s not enough anymore. It’s just. Not enough.”
“I know.”
For a second, she thought he was going to wipe her tears away, but his hand lowered and his voice dropped. “I know. And that’s why you need God. Don’t shut Him out. ‘For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evils, for thou art with me.’”
Irritation prickled. Bitterly, she thought of Ben, who couldn’t walk. Might never. “Since when did you become such a theologian?”
“Since serving time.” He could have shot the words out angrily, but he didn’t.
She bit her tongue.
He pulled in a breath. “I had time to reflect, in there. To read the Bible. To talk to a priest. Really talk. Father Grady would charitably say we debated.” His voice took on a hint of amusement. “But truthfully, it was me arguing with him every chance I got. And that’s what it took. That, and all the prayers I know my ma said for me.”
And she had. So many. The prayers Charlene herself had said crossed her mind as well. And now here he was, trying to bolster her faith.
“I never would have made time for facing the truth if I hadn’t been in there.” He drew up a knee and rested his forearm on it. “And I realized . . . I had no control of the outside. Where I was. There was no point in fighting that battle. But on the inside—” he stabbed his chest with a thumb—“my soul—that I could do something about. I could keep it dark, shackled with anger, with hatred, with sin.” He paused. “Or, I could choose to fight my way out of those chains, by turning to God. That’s where the real freedom is. The only freedom.”
He forked a hand through his hair. “Dang, it’s not always easy, Charlene.” He faced her full on, his eyes brilliant. “But I’ll tell you this: it’s worth it. I know that now, and now that I do . . . I can’t unknow it.”
She swallowed.
His eyes still intense, he went on. “You know it, too. I saw you and Max, the faith you had when you were facing death. A faith that strong doesn’t disappear. It might be tested, it might be attacked, but God knows it doesn’t disappear.” The raspy fervor in his voice traveled through her like electrical charges. “You may have to fight to find it again, but it’s there, Charlene. Don’t ever doubt it. It’s there.”
A stillness settled over them like a blanket, till a startling zing sliced through the night, followed by an explosive bang. The reverberations practically shook her. She looked up to see fireworks burst, sparkles raining down, sizzling and crackling, etching the sky.
She and Clay watched a few more colorful explosions, which illuminated lingering smoke patterns, until she touched his arm. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to Brook?”
“I should. I was just about to.” With one arm, he pushed up from the ground. “Hey, look at that one.” Colorful falling stars twirled and dove to earth with a high-pitched shriek.
He looked down, his plaintive expression tugging at her. “Come on, come sit with us.”
She didn’t move. “Does it bother Brook, that you were in prison?”
He didn’t react to the apparent randomness of the question, only shook his head slowly as blue and gold fireworks burst behind him. “No, it doesn’t.” He sounded amazed.
Good. She’s not stupid. “Go on. Go find her. She’s waiting for you.”
A shower of jewel-toned fragments reflected luminous in his eyes as he stood, still hesitant. “Come on, don’t sit here all by yourself.”
“Really, I’m fine now.” She smiled up at him so he would think it was true. “Go.”
He walked away, glancing back a couple times until he disappeared into the crowd on the hilltop.
Mosquitos bit her. She swatted them away, then hugged herself close. Overhead wavered radiant, shivering streamers of red, white, and blue fireworks.
Let freedom ring.
With a sigh, she turned her face up to the vibrant bursting lights and tried to find warmth in them. Wanting to. Needing to.
Failing.
Like brilliant stardust, the beauty cascaded down, then burned itself out in an instant, leaving a vacant dark nothingness.
After a while, she heaved herself up. Her legs prickled at the sudden rush of blood. If she left before the show finished, she could get a head start on the inevitable after-fireworks traffic jam.
She crossed the hill to the restroom, where a couple people stood in the shadows of the building.
“Come on, Brook,” a man’s voice pleaded. “I promise we can make it work this time.”
Despite the fireworks, her ears tuned in to the familiar name. As she paused near the corner of the restroom, she heard Brook’s voice, low but adamant. “I told you, I’m not getting back together with you. I’m happy with Clay.”
“But I miss you. Come on, we’ll start over. It’ll be different this time, I promise.” The man reached for her arm.
Brook stepped back. “No.”
“One more chance, that’s all I’m asking—”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’d break up with Clay,” Brook said firmly. “He treats me better than you ever did. And besides . . .”
Shamefully, Charlene stepped closer, her ears straining.
Brook rested a protective hand on her abdomen. “I’m pregnant with his baby.”
The fireworks finale created a ground-vibrating boom, but Charlene barely registered it over the shockwaves going off in her head.
* * *
“You have to tell him.” Charlene confronted Sam the next day while Clay worked in the driveway, loading Sam’s truck with a completed order. “I’m done keeping the secret. I can’t do it anymore. Tell him or I’m giving him the letter tomorrow.” And then I’m gone for good.
With a grunt, Sam plunked down a stack of boards. He gave her a sweeping, critical glance. “You look bad. Like you didn’t sleep at all.”
She prickled at the obvious truth, but her eyelids drooped. There was no mistaking the redness in her eyes and the lavender crescents beneath them. Just thinking about it, she stifled a yawn, unsuccessfully.
Astonishment at overhearing Brook had kept her mind awake, churning, unable to reconcile the Clay she thought she knew to the announcement Brook had made.
Not my business.
With unhappy fascination, she remembered the first time she met Brook, her sallow appearance and sudden dash from the cash register—to the bathroom to get sick, probably. She remembered Brook’s weariness, as well as the muffins she claimed to practically crave, then didn’t eat. It made sense now.
Sam still stared at her.
“You had plenty of time,” Charlene said curtly. “But you obviously forgot all about the letter.”
“Wrong. It’s all I’ve had on my mind.” His face turned thunderous and his voice grated like a wood file. “For over three years, it’s all I’ve had on my mind.” He glanced to the door and lowered his voice. “I’ve got this. I asked Clay to go fishing with me this Saturday. I’ll tell him then, if you can wait that long. Can you?”
“I guess,” she conceded.
“Hey, Charlene,” Clay hollered from the driveway.
As she neared the door to see what was up, he headed toward her with a stunning arrangement of yellow roses, the full blooms billowing from a large glass vase.
Reacting to the confusion on her face, he explained, “They were just delivered. Must be from Ben.”
Of course . . . Ben.
She accepted the flowers with a small nod, not even able to meet Clay’s eyes for fear of what he’d read there. Too many frightening emotions whirled and warred within her. She hadn’t a clue which one might surface, obvious and unsuitable, in her eyes.
She dipped her nose to the soft petals and tried to enjoy the sweet scent. She plucked the little card from its plastic prongs and read: Charlene, I’m sorry. I love you. Please call me. Ben.
All she could see was how it read with a simple removal of a period: I’m sorry I love you. As if to say, I don’t want to love you, but somehow, I’m stuck loving you. You and all your messed up baggage.
So maybe she was reading into it, but she couldn’t help wondering if there hung a thinly veiled, subconscious truth there.
She barely heard Sam’s disgruntled remark about allergies and bees as she set the vase in the corner of a workbench.
Her work that morning was halfhearted as she tried to avoid thoughts of Clay. Sharing a workspace, this proved to be highly difficult. She had to consciously fight to keep her eyes averted from him.
Her day was only half over when Brook burst into the shop, an odd, resolute look on her face. Sam stopped his power drill. Clay switched off his handsaw, and Charlene set down her varnish brush. As if sensing Brook had something important to say, they all removed their ear protection.
Brook flicked a pointed glance Charlene’s way before fixing her gaze on Clay and announcing in a high-pitched voice, “I found the letter you’ve been looking for.” Her hand lifted to prove it. Sure enough, she held the slightly bent “My Dear Son” envelope secure in her grasp.
Charlene flinched, and as her thoughts reeled, she heard Clay’s bewilderment. “My ma’s letter?” Amazed, he stepped forward to take it. “Where’d you find it?”
Brook cast Charlene a look of triumphant spite, and her stomach dropped.
“Charlene had it. Hidden away in one of her drawers. I accidentally came across it when I went looking for a shirt of mine that ended up in her laundry.”
A likely story.
Clay faced her in disbelief. “Is that true, Charlene? Did you really have the letter all this time?” As his hand slid the envelope into his pocket, his expression practically begged her to deny it.
Unable to stand his gaze, she bent her head. “I’m sorry, Clay. I wasn’t trying to—I mean, I only meant to—”
Her confusing jabber was made more perplexing when Sam spoke over her. “Now hold on. Don’t go blaming—”
But Brook overrode them both as she sent a cutting look Sam’s way and plowed ahead on her strange, destructive mission. “Charlene wasn’t the only one hiding something from you. There’s an important detail you need to know. About Sam.”
She wouldn’t. Not like this. Charlene felt like her chest was being squeezed in a vise.
“What about him?” Clay’s voice sliced the air.
Suddenly, Brook looked like she didn’t want to finish what she’d started.
“Brook,” Clay barked.
“Sam . . . he’s your dad.”
Clay’s face blanched. His gaze shot to Sam. He stared at him for what felt like forever, the muscles near his eyes tightening. The pulse in his neck pounded. “Is that true? Are you . . . ?”
Sam’s chin jutted forward. He gave one curt nod. “It’s true.”
Clay’s jaw went slack. His gaze ping-ponged from Sam, to Charlene, to Brook, reflecting incredulity and then the devastating pain of betrayal. “How did you know . . . ?” He addressed Brook as realization dawned.
“It’s in the letter, isn’t it?” Outraged disapproval flashed across his face. “You read the letter?”
How presumptuous and invasive. Quick as it came, Charlene exterminated the self-righteous thought.
Clay’s gaze speared her next. “I asked you. Directly. You told me you didn’t know where the letter was. You lied.”
Her lips parted for a feeble response, but he had already dismissed her from his sight.
He moved on to Sam.
“How long have you known?” A red flush crept up Clay’s neck, then took over the white of his face as anger consumed his shock. “My whole life?” His hands curled into fists. “You worthless—” He cursed. “How could you do that to her? To me?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Sam said.
“Then how was it? ’Cause I can’t see any excuse that makes it right. Tell me. No, on second thought, I don’t want to know. You obviously weren’t planning on telling me.” His eyes flamed, a frightening, scorching brown.
Sam remained quiet as Clay continued blasting him with his words. “You thought you could just jump back into my life when it suited you, and lie some more. I thought you were a good person. I thought I could trust you.”
Clay smashed his fist on a workbench. “I thought I could trust you all.”
Clamping his mouth shut, he stormed out of the shop.
“Clay, wait!” Brook, a glimmer of What have I done? in her eyes, turned to dash after him.
Charlene knew better.
A door slammed. Clay’s truck roared to life, then tore out of the drive, tires spitting gravel. Very soon, the angry engine faded away, leaving them all to face a deep, unsettling silence.
* * *
His ears perked, instantly alert. Time in prison had taught him to sleep light, to always be on guard. He searched the shadows of his trailer and listened for the sound.
There it was. Something scratching on wood, like little pinprick claws. Just a critter of some kind, that’s all. Settling back down, Nails closed his eyes, and the memory ambushed him . . .
“Don’t you dare!”
Not heeding Beth’s cry, the kitten shot out the door left open by one of the younger Callaghan kids. The fur ball bolted across the grass, a wild gray streak heading for who-knew-where.
Good riddance, Lance thought as he chomped an apple.
“No, Gossamer, come back!” Beth flew from the house, skirt flapping as she sprinted after the critter.
He slumped against the doorframe and watched, amused by the ridiculous chase. What kind of name was Gossamer, anyway? It was ten times too big for the scrappy creature. As Beth charged through a neighboring field, he tramped outside lazily. A couple acres later, he caught up to her. She still didn’t have the kitten.
“The more you chase, the more she’ll run.” He chucked his apple core at a tree.
Beth turned to him, visibly flustered. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s so tiny and defenseless. I have to catch her.”
Yards away, the kitten whipped her tail as she crept into a ditch. She lingered a moment, batting blades of grass, then slunk up
to the highway.
“No, Gossamer, no!”
A paw touched the pavement.
Beth pressed her hands to her cheeks. The kitten pranced to the middle of the road and paused, suddenly in no hurry.
“Come back, Gossamer!” Beth yelled. “A truck’s coming!”
Lance shook his head, unconcerned. “She’ll move in time.”
“What if she doesn’t?” Beth rushed to the ditch and began clambering up to the road.
He sprang forward and cut her off. “I’ll get her.” He took off, running across traffic for a lame ball of fur. He was a fool. The truck bore down, horn blasting. And sure enough, the kitten shot to the other side of the road.
Lance followed, trying to keep the dumb animal in sight, though he was tempted to turn and give the finger to the honking truck as it whizzed past him.
There went the streak of fuzz, right up into a tree. Real creative. And people thought cats were smart.
He huffed an exasperated breath and climbed after the thing, hardly knowing why. “C’mere stupid cat.” He reached out and was rewarded with a lightning-fast swipe of a razor-sharp paw. Blood welled in three long, thin tracks on his forearm. He grabbed the creature by the scruff as it yowled and struck out again, catching his other arm. More stinging, more beading blood. Man, for such a tiny creature, this thing could do damage. Defenseless? Bull. He should wring its neck.
Instead, he maneuvered the kitten and pinned its paws so it was immobile. With a pitiful mew, it trembled in the crook of his arm. He dropped to the ground, crossed the road, and handed the ball of trouble back to Beth. “Careful,” he warned, but the thing didn’t even try to strike her.
She beamed and cradled the kitten like a baby. Then she noticed his arms and her big brown eyes saddened. “Oh Lance, I’m sorry.”
He scoffed. “No big deal.”
She trailed her slender fingers along his arm, unnerving him. The cuts didn’t bother him. Her soft touch did.
“Thank you for saving her.”
He hadn’t, but if that’s what she wanted to think, let her.
Suddenly, she hugged him, the fur ball sandwiched between them, and he didn’t know what to do. He stood rigid, but she lingered, her silky head right under his nose, smelling sweetly of vanilla and cinnamon. Her hand lay warm on his shoulder, then slid again to his arm.
After the Thaw Page 24
