They Almost Always Come Home
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They Almost Always
Come Home
“They Almost Always Come Home is a stunning debut
novel by Cynthia Ruchti. Exquisitely written, the novel
delves into a woman’s innermost feelings as she comes
to grips with her own failings in her search for her
missing husband. Highly recommended!”
—COLLEEN COBLE, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
THE LIGHTKEEPER’S DAUGHTER AND THE ROCK HARBOR SERIES
“They Almost Always Come Home is part wilderness
adventure, internal exploration, and relational journey.
Ruchti’s ability to mingle anguish with humor and
authenticity keeps the reader not only turning the pages,
but enjoying them as they read.”
—MARY DEMUTH, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
THE DEFIANCE TEXAS TRILOGY
“Cynthia Ruchti has written one of those rare novels
that will live in your heart forever. So achingly beautiful
and stunningly written, it’s hard to believe this is her
debut effort.”
—DEBORAH RANEY, AUTHOR OF
ALMOST FOREVER AND BENEATH A SOUTHERN SKY
THEY ALMOST
ALWAYS COME HOME
Cynthia Ruchti
Nashville, Tennessee
They Almost Always Come Home
Copyright © 2010 by Cynthia Ruchti
ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-0238-9
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,
stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or
transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic,
scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written
permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in
printed reviews and articles.
Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible,
New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission
of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189.
All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked NCV are taken from the New Century
Version®. Copyright © 2005 by Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked AMP are taken from the Amplified® Bible,
Copyright © 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by Lockman Foundation.
Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)
Scripture quotations marked “NKJV™” are taken from the New King James
Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the King James
or Authorized Version of the Bible.
Verses marked (TLB) are taken from The Living Bible © 1971. Used by permission
of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL 60189. All rights reserved.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the
creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or
dead is purely coincidental.
Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency,
Wendy Lawton, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370
www.booksandsuch.biz
Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ruchti, Cynthia.
They almost always come home / Cynthia Ruchti.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4267-0238-9 (pbk.)
1. Married people—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Wilderness areas—Fiction. 4. Canada—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.U3255T48 2010
813’.6—dc22
2009047324
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 15 14 13 12 11 10
This book and my life are dedicated to the Rescuer,
who risked everything to lead me
out of the wilderness. I am His forever.
My life and this story also belong
to my husband, Bill,
whose Quetico wilderness trips
sparked the idea. Bill blessed me
with key plot points and then complained
that his name isn’t on the cover.
I told him his last name would be on the cover
of every book I write.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If my mother holds this book in her hands, it will be because she prayed it into existence and because the Lord stayed His hand from calling her home, though she’s tiptoed on the edge of eternity far too long in her estimation. In many ways, she served as my novel-birthing coach, cheering me on and remind- ing me how to breathe. Thank you, Mom. (Author’s note: That’s how this paragraph was written during the novel’s creation. The day came when, with inexpressible gratitude, I laid an advanced copy in Mom’s hands. Two weeks later, she took her final breath.)
I choose to believe it was not merely the air conditioning in the room that made my editor, Barbara Scott, rub her arms and say, “Ooh! I have goosebumps!” while listening to the pitch for this story. The moment is a sweet, sustaining memory. I didn’t
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
know at the time that I was gaining not only an editor but also a sister and friend. What a grace-gift!
Abingdon Press—its authors and publishing team—have
made this experience a journey of unending joy.
Thank you, Wendy Lawton and the Books & Such Literary
Agency family, for embracing me, nudging me, and feeding my hope. I’m honored to know you and be counted among you.
The role American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW)
has played in my writing life and my faith is immeasurable. Amazing friends and mentors, storytellers and publishing col- leagues, fellow board members—thank you for your impact. This story—and I—grew in your light.
My critique partners—Julie, Terri, Rachel, Melody, Laura,
Margaret, Sally, and newcomer Karin—deserve recognition for their patience with me, their insights, and their “the sting won’t last long” critiques.
Becky, the Lord knew exactly what I needed when He sent
you.
This book was nurtured by the faithfulness of Fiction
Friends, my writing prayer partners—Michelle, Dorothy, Diane, Shannon, Robin, and Jackie. Thank you for waiting with me.
Adventurer Mike Knuth offered his valuable voyageur per-
spective on the wilderness details, for which I am grateful. His experience added to the story. His enthusiasm for the story created a smile that has yet to fade.
In their individual ways and corporately, Kathy Carlton
Willis, Twila Belk, and Cec Murphey blessed me and this book with a depth of encouragement every novelist craves.
Thank you, Western Wisconsin Christian Writers Guild,
for teaching, inspiring, and holding writers accountable to write.
Bless you, Yay Rah Rah writers, for yay rah rah-ing.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you, Jackie, for wearing out your knees for me and for cheering loudly no matter what the project, as long as it brings the Lord glory.
Amy, I wept for Libby in this story because she didn’t have a daughter like you.
Matt, y
ou taught me that “middle” child means “middle of my heart.” (I might have read that somewhere, but it fits you.) Luke, a third child with a creative mind! How was I so blessed? May the lyrics of your life be a praise song.
Grace, Ben, Hannah, Andy, and Josh, the art of telling sto- ries took on new meaning with you on Grammie’s lap.
Special thanks to Kelly and Mark at the Second Wind Country Inn in Ashland, Wisconsin, for creating a scene and a place in which to write it.
Bill, with whom I have shared many moons in the same canoe, thank you for signing up for the journey of loving me for life.
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Do dead people wear shoes? In the casket, I mean. Seems a waste. Then again, no outfit is complete without the shoes. My thoughts pound up the stairs, down the hall, and into the master bedroom closet. Greg’s gray suit is clean, I think. White shirt, although that won’t allow much color contrast and won’t do a thing for Greg’s skin tones. His red tie with the silver threads? Good choice.
Shoes or no shoes? I should know this. I’ve stroked the porcelain-cold cheeks of several embalmed loved ones. My father and grandfather. Two grandmothers—one too young to die. One too old not to.
And Lacey.
The Baxter Street Mortuary will not touch my husband’s body should the need arise. They got Lacey’s hair and facial expression all wrong.
I rise from the couch and part the sheers on the front win- dow one more time. Still quiet. No lights on the street. No Jeep pulling into our driveway. I’ll give him one more hour, then I’m heading for bed. With or without him.
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From the window [she] looked out.
Through the window she watched for his return, saying,
“Why is his chariot so long in coming?
Why don’t we hear the sound of chariot wheels?”
—Judges 5:28 NLT
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
Shoes? Yes or no? I’m familiar with the casket protocol for
children. But for adults?
Grandma Clarendon hadn’t worn shoes for twelve years or
more when she died. She preferred open-toed terrycloth slip- pers. Day and night. Home. Uptown. Church. Seems to me she took comfort to the extreme. Or maybe she figured God ought to be grateful she showed up in His house at all, given her distaste for His indiscriminate dispersal of the Death Angel among her friends and siblings.
“Ain’t a lick of pride in outliving your brothers and sisters,
Libby.” She said it often enough that I can pull off a believable impression. Nobody at the local comedy club need fear me as competition, but the cousins get a kick out of it at family reunions.
Leaning on the tile and cast-iron coffee table, I crane every-
thing in me to look at the wall clock in the entry. Almost four in the morning? I haven’t even decided who will sing special music at Greg’s memorial service. Don’t most women plan their husband’s funeral if he’s more than a few minutes late?
In the past, before this hour, I’m mentally two weeks beyond
the service, trying to decide whether to keep the house or move to a condo downtown.
He’s never been this late before. And he’s never been alone
in the wilderness. A lightning bolt of something—fear? antici- pation? pain?—ripples my skin and exits through the soles of my feet.
The funeral plans no longer seem a semimorbid way to
occupy my mind while I wait for the lights of his Jeep. Not pointless imaginings but preparation.
That sounds like a thought I should command to flee in the
name of Jesus or some other holy incantation. But it stares at me with narrowed eyes as if to say, “I dare you.”
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They Almost Always Come Home
Greg will give me grief over this when he gets home. “You worry too much, Libby. So I was a little late.” He’ll pinch my love handles, which I won’t find endearing. “Okay, a lot late. Sometimes the wind whips up the waves on the larger lakes. We voyageurs have two choices—risk swamping the canoe so we can get home to our precious wives or find a sheltered spot on an island and stay put until the wind dies down.”
I never liked how he used the word precious in that context. I should tell him so. I should tell him a lot of things. And I will.
If he ever comes home.
********
With sleep-deprived eyes, I trace the last ticks of the second hand. Seven o’clock. Too early to call Frank? Not likely. I reach to punch the MEM 2 key sequence on the phone. Miss the first time. Try again.
One ring. Two. Three. If the answering machine kicks in—
“Frank’s Franks. Frankly the best in all of Franklin County. Frank speaking. How can I help you?”
I bite back a retort. How does a retired grocery manager get away with that much corny? Consistently. One thing is still normal.
“Frank, it’s Libby. I hate to call this early but—” “Early?” he snorts. “Been up since four-thirty.” Figures. Spitting image of his son.
“Biked five miles,” he says. “Had breakfast at the truck stop. Watered those blasted hostas of your mother-in-law’s that just won’t die. Believe me, I’ve done everything in my power to help them along toward that end.”
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
I don’t have the time or inclination to defend Pauline’s hos-
tas. “I called for a reason, Frank.”
“Sorry. What’s up?”
I’m breathing too rapidly. Little flashes of electricity hem
my field of vision. “Have you heard from Greg?” “He’s back, right?”
“Not yet. I’m probably worried for nothing.”
He expels a breath that I feel in the earpiece. “When did
you expect him? Yesterday?”
“He planned to get back on Friday, but said Saturday at the
latest. He hates to miss church now that he’s into helping with the sound system.”
“Might have had to take a wind day. Or two.”
Why does it irritate me that he’s playing the logic card? “I
thought of that.”
“Odd, though.” His voice turns a corner.
“What do you mean?”
Through the receiver, I hear that grunt thing he does when
he gets into or out of a chair. “I had one eye on the Weather Channel most of last week,” he says.
What did you do with the other eye, Frank? The Weather
Channel? Early retirement has turned him into a weather spec- tator. “And?”
“Says winds have been calm throughout the Quetico. It’s a
good thing too. Tinder-dry in Canada right now. One spark plus a stiff wind and you’ve got major forest fire potential. They’ve posted a ban on open campfires. Cook stoves only. Greg planned for that, didn’t he?”
“How should I know?” Somewhere deep in my brain, I pop
a blood vessel. Not my normal style—not with anyone but Greg. “Sorry, Frank. I’m . . . I’m overreacting. To everything. I’m sure he’ll show up any minute. Or call.”
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They Almost Always Come Home
From the background comes a sound like leather com- plaining. “Told my boy more than once he ought to invest in a satellite phone. The man’s too cheap to throw away a bent nail.”
“I know.” I also know I would have thrown a newsworthy fit if he’d suggested spending that kind of money on a toy for his precious wilderness trips when I’m still waiting for the fam- ily budget to allow for new kitchen countertops. As it stands, they’re not butcher block. They’re butcher shop. And they’ve been that way since we moved in, since Greg first apologized for them and said we’d replace them “one of these first days.” How many “first days” pass in twenty-three years?
His precious wilderness trips? Is that what I said? Now I’m doing it.
Frank’s voice urges me back to the scene of our conversa- tion. “Hey, Libby, have him gi
ve me a call when he gets in, will you?” His emphasis of the word when rings artificial.
“He always does, Frank.” My voice is a stream of air that overpowers the words.
“Still—”
“I’ll have him call.”
The phone’s silent, as is the house. I never noticed before how loud is the absence of sound.
********
It’s official. Greg’s missing. That’s what the police report says: Missing Person.
I don’t remember filing a police report before now. We’ve never had obnoxious neighbors or a break-in. Not even a sto- len bike from the driveway. Yes, I know. A charmed life. The desk sergeant is on the phone, debating with someone about who should talk to me. Is my case insignificant to them?
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CYNTHIA RUCHTI
Not worth the time? I take a step back from the scarred oak check-in desk to allow the sergeant a fraction more privacy.
With my husband gone, I have privacy to spare, I want to tell
him. You can have some of mine. You’re welcome.
I shift my purse to the other shoulder, as if that will
help straighten my spine. Good posture seems irrelevant. Irreverent.
Everything I know about the inside of police stations I
learned from Barney Fife, Barney Miller, and any number of CSIs. The perps lined up on benches along the wall, waiting to be processed, look more at ease than I feel.
The chair to which I’ve been directed near Officer
Kentworth’s desk boasts a mystery stain on the sitting-down part. Not a chair with my name on it. It’s for women with viper tattoos and envelope-sized miniskirts. For guys named Vinnie who wake with horse heads in their beds. For pierced and bandanaed teens on their way to an illustrious petty-theft career.
“Please have a seat.” The officer has said that line how many
times before?
Officer Kentworth peers through the untidy fringe of his
unibrow and takes my statement, helping fill in the blanks on the Missing Person form. All the blanks but one—Where is he? The officer notes Greg’s vehicle model and license plate num- ber and asks all kinds of questions I can’t answer. Kentworth is a veteran of Canadian trips like the one from which Greg has not returned. He knows the right questions to ask.
Did he choose the Thunder Bay or International Falls crossing
into Canada? What was your husband’s intended destination in the Quetico Provincial Park? Where did he arrange to enter and exit the park? Did he have a guide service drop him off? Where did he plan to camp on his way out of the park? How many portages?