by Mary Manners
“Sam…” Izzy’s voice hitched and her belly did an odd little tug as realization dawned. “Oh, that Sam.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve had a rough day.” She did her best to soothe as the afternoon’s news headlines rolled through her memory like a recorded tape. “I get that.”
“A rough day? You call what happened today a rough day?” Sam paused. “Allow me to rephrase…today was nothing less than a disaster.”
“I know.” Izzy could sense the throb of his elevated pulse; she could almost feel the heat from his voice burn through the phone line. “But there’s always tomorrow—”
“Forget about tomorrow. It’s bound to bring another fiasco of epic proportions.”
“No, I won’t forget about tomorrow.” Izzy clutched the receiver in a death-grip, channeling her frustration to the plastic. She would not let Sam Holman’s caustic assault of words get the best of her. After all, that would defeat everything she attempted to build through her radio show…and by means of her everyday walk. She repeated, “I won’t simply forget about tomorrow, because tomorrow is all we have.”
“Tomorrow…all we have…” His deep, deep sigh filled the line. “Look, I’m the master of verbiage, so don’t try to snow me. That sounds all nice and profound but what, exactly, does it mean?”
Izzy firmed her voice. Getting through to Sam Holman would take more than words—it would take actions. “It means you’ll come to see me.”
The words leapt from her mouth before she could capture them. Where on earth had they come from?
Trust me…
The thought came like a breath of air and she knew deep in her soul that the direction was not of this earth, but from above. So she repeated, “You’ll come to see me without delay.”
A long pause ensued…what the radio family termed, Dead Air. Then a frustrated huff of breath and finally, “Are you insane?”
“I assure you I am not.” She shook her head to emphasize, though he could not see the gesture. “Now, tomorrow afternoon you’ll come to see me. I’m doing a remote at Holt Park in Knoxville, from four to six. You need to stop by and see...”
“See what?” His tone was baffled. “Why would I do that? Why should I do that?”
“Because, Sam Holman, this isn’t a conversation we need to have over the phone. Stop by to see me, OK? You know where the park is, right?” She recited the location, just in case, and offered the names of a few landmarks along the way.
“Wait!” Sam’s protest rang as the last bit of information was exchanged. “Of course I’m familiar with the location of the park. I used to go to the annual Labor Day traveling carnival there with—”
Sam paused as if someone had snatched the words right out of his mouth. More Dead Air…unsettling silence that stretched like an endless, decayed bridge.
He was already opening up to her. Good. Perfect.
Izzy prompted gently, “Go ahead, you went there with…”
“Never mind.” Sam paused once more, sighed, and Izzy sensed a slight fissure jolt through his steel-core demeanor. “I’m not coming out to the park. I will do no such thing.”
“Yes, you will. Now, I’m going to hang up. I’ll see you, Sam…” Izzy struggled to maintain a soothing yet firm tone that radiated a sense of confidence. Years of radio training, thankfully, won out over the frustration that had set in. She repeated the park’s address and closed with a single word. “Tomorrow…”
“Wait. Wait!”
Izzy disconnected before she lost her cool. She hadn’t come so close to imploding since the first months of her radio career when a heckler repeatedly called with the sole, pointed intention of causing her to stumble from the path she felt had been set before her. She drew a deep, cleansing breath as Marco returned through the doorway, carrying a steaming mug of coffee.
“Oh, you’re an angel.” Izzy took the mug, blew a waft of heat from the surface, and followed with a large swallow of the steaming brew. “Thank you.”
“Rough call?”
“You could say that.”
“The guy sounded like a loose cannon.” Marco leaned his tall frame against the door jamb and offered a lopsided grin. “But, as always, you handled it well. I don’t know how you do it, day in and day out. It exhausts me just to watch you.”
“He’s hurting.”
“Well…” Marco stuffed his hands into the pockets of faded jeans and shrugged. “Aren’t we all?”
“Some more than others.” Izzy nodded emphatically as she ran a hand through her hair and coaxed a dull, throbbing pain from her neck. Her shoulders ached with a day’s worth of tension. She’d pay a million dollars for a hot bath and a hearty meal. But first she had to get home to Tucker. “And my guess is Sam Holman’s at the top of the list. Tomorrow will tell.”
“Tomorrow?” Marco eyed her warily. “What are you up to, Izzy?”
“Never mind.” Izzy waved off the question as she settled back into her swivel chair. At least her legs no longer ached, though her heart had taken a hit. She thought of Tucker, and remembered the brief period of time when she’d seriously and continually questioned God’s plan for her life. She’d come so close to losing him that the thought still caused sickening tremors that jolted her to the core. A string of dark, fractured days had left her wondering whether or not a bright tomorrow would ever come. And then she’d held her son in her arms and rocked him while she sang to him for the first time, and she knew that despite all of the hurt and heartache she’d endured that the light had finally returned, for good.
“Izzy, you’re a million miles away.” Marco’s gentle nudge brought her back. “Are you OK?”
“Yes.” Izzy swallowed hard, forcing back the knot of gratefulness that formed in her throat. Through tragedy, she’d found the gift of joy. She’d share her testimony with Sam…if he’d allow her to. Time would tell. “This round’s playlist has almost run its course. It’s back to work for me. Thanks for the coffee, Marco.”
3
The sky stretched overcast, blocking meager rays of sunlight that struggled to filter through a thick collar of clouds. Lights flashed intermittently from atop the radio station’s remote truck as Sam neared Holt Park, reminding him of why he’d voyaged here today.
Isabella Carpenter—Izzy and her foolish, misguided radio show.
She’d invited him to meet her without knowing a shred about him, besides the fact that he’d just lost the most important case of his life. Well, technically speaking it wasn’t a loss…simply a case thrown out. Dismissed.
Explain that to the Jansen family. The bottom line was, he’d let them down. Then, to add insult to injury, Izzy had tossed salt in the wound with her talk of forgiveness.
He’d set her straight.
Sam felt a sudden, unsettling surge of protectiveness as he thought of Izzy’s invitation.
She was too trusting…just as Molly had been. The fact that Izzy had asked him here today to spend time with her was proof positive of her naivety. It mattered little that other people…a plethora of people, it appeared…milled around, enjoying the mild afternoon. The desire to protect Izzy grappled with Sam’s need to set her straight about the way the world operates. She might think that God had a hand in everything, but Sam knew that wasn’t true—it couldn’t possibly be true—or Molly would still be here to laugh with him.
Sam slowed as he turned in to the entrance lane leading to the north side of the park. A banner that stretched across the open gates flapped in the warm, gentle breeze.
Welcome to Family Day.
The greeting did little to bolster Sam’s mood. Family? What family? His sister was gone, his mother passed not long after, and his father remained bitter and angry. He no longer had a family to speak of. Just one more scrap of proof that God was not in control as far as his life was concerned.
God had deserted him.
Sam’s gaze drifted from the banner to scan the entranceway. The road was crowded, the park
ing lot filled with rows of parked vehicles. The entire world seemed to have come out for Family Day at Holt Park. Just one more jab to say he sat alone…family-less.
Sam swallowed hard as he realized he’d have to park a way off and walk—alone, without a hand to hold or a conversation to share.
He didn’t know why, today more than others, that the thought bothered him so. He’d been on his own—more or less—for closing in on six years, and he’d done as fine as could be expected. Why should this afternoon be any different?
Smoke curled from a pavilion just inside the entrance, carrying with it the aroma of grilled hamburgers laced with caramelized onions. The rich, meaty scent caused Sam’s belly to grumble. He’d barely grabbed a slice of dry toast for breakfast and had completely neglected lunch.
Perhaps he should skip the park and head out to a drive-thru to grab a bite before scooting back to the office. Work called to him like a monotonous, never-ending chant. There was so much to do…an eternal paper trail waiting to be unraveled and studied. He had no right spending an afternoon here when he should be working there. People—clients—depended on him to be there for them. To help them. To come prepared for every detour. He couldn’t let them down.
What had happened yesterday—the utter defeat—would never happen again. Not if he could help it. And he could…yes, he would.
But now Isabella Carpenter waited here for him, and he couldn’t ditch her. Not until he said his piece. And warned her to be more careful.
He’d debated coming here…had tossed and turned all night with the weight of his conscience following his conversation with Miss Carpenter. Unable to escape memories that rattled around inside his brain, he had risen before sunrise to pore over files as he prepared for his next case. The kitchen table was buried in crates and file boxes as proof of the full ten hours he’d immersed himself. Now his temples throbbed beneath the weight of the task. The realization of his shortcomings yesterday coupled with the burning desire to stave off another defeat had his gut twisted into a figure eight knot.
He’d let his frustration and temper get the best of him while speaking with Izzy and even now, despite his best efforts, deep breaths, and a long-winded mental pep talk, his nerve endings continued to sizzle and pop. He’d have to do better at keeping a lid on his annoyance. After all…hadn’t the endless days he’d spent in courtroom battles taught him to moderate his emotions?
Sam swung the SUV into a parking space a few football fields’ worth of yards over from the KNOW remote truck and switched off the ignition. He sat for a moment as sounds of laughter and muted conversation filtered into the cab. Multi-colored, vinyl flags flapped merrily to welcome patrons along the entranceway, and despite the cloudy sky they brought a little sunshine.
Not that he cared for the sunshine. At the moment it had the opposite than expected effect on him. He grimaced as he unlatched his seat belt, and then took a moment or two to temper his thoughts.
He struggled to filter the memories that flooded his head. He’d come here to the park often as a teenager, most of the time with Molly tagging along. There had been concerts and swap meets where treasures lurked, but more than that, Molly had loved coming to the annual fair during Labor Day week; and Sam, being nearly half-a-dozen years older than she, had been given the task of chaperoning Molly and her teeny-bopper friends when the carnival came to town.
How could he have forgotten those days spent combing the grounds? Mental images of Molly danced, and Sam swore he heard her laughter tumble on the breeze. The melodious song of her voice followed as he opened the driver’s door and paused with one leg in and one leg out of the vehicle.
Molly had laughed the hardest on the carousel…the last attraction she and Sam had ever ridden together, the year she’d turned thirteen. He’d felt like a fool sitting atop the spotted pony while she straddled the colt to his left. But try as he might, Sam couldn’t deny her. She loved the painted horses and had begged Sam to join her and her friends until he’d finally, reluctantly acquiesced. As the ride went into motion. Molly had thrown her head back. The wind had fanned her wheat-blonde hair like a veil as squeals of delight rang through the night. The carousel had circled and danced with the rhythmic rise and fall of the vibrantly-painted animals, and Molly’s joyful exuberance soon had Sam tossing his head back and chortling along. She had that easy way with him and with others…a sort of angelic charm that broke through barriers and dismantled the steely fortress around anyone’s heart.
Almost anyone. But that darkness came later, during the fall of her twenty-first year…the year she was meant to graduate from college…
Sam shook off the memory and shut the driver’s door on a deep, rattled sigh. He locked the vehicle tight—he’d learned the hard way to always take precautions—before turning to head toward the park entrance and colorful, flashing lights that beckoned. A glance at the sky told him rain seemed imminent. Perhaps a storm would sweep through and wipe out the entire schedule of afternoon events. Then he could simply turn back and head home.
Far away from Izzy.
Something about her rattled him to the core, and Sam told himself it was simply caused by the feeling that he should be tending to other, more important matters…such as the next case that waited on his office desk. He should have carted the file box home with him last night, should have dived right into the details. But his heart just wasn’t in it following yesterday’s devastating setback and the conversation—if it could even be called that—with Izzy. Perhaps after a short time here he’d swing by the office and put in several more hours of prep work to appease his conscience.
The rhythmic thump of drums drew his attention.
“Gather ’round, it’s almost time for the next event…”
The voice drifted, oddly familiar, from the mouth of a loudspeaker, and Sam recognized the low, soothing tone as that of Isabella Carpenter. His temper stretched and yawned as yesterday’s banter rose to the forefront of his conscience.
“Tomorrow is all we have…”
“What about today?” Sam muttered as his loafers crunched over gravel. “Today is for setting the record straight. Isabella Carpenter, I hope you’re prepared to be on the receiving end of an earful of facts about the complete and utter ugliness of life. Because, ready or not, here I come.”
~*~
Izzy glanced up from the folding table as she adjusted her headphones and caught a glimpse of a tall, rangy man crossing toward her. She knew instinctively, from the tight set of his jaw and the worry crease across a forehead draped by dark hair that Sam Holman had arrived.
Sam’s pace quickened as he approached. His cobalt gaze zeroed in on her, matching his steely tone. “Isabella Carpenter?”
The voice, a definition of assertion, bordered on accusation. “It’s Izzy.” She struggled for balance as her pulse kicked into an uncomfortable rhythm. The manner in which his gaze captured and held tight tossed her nerves right into the frying pan. “Izzy to my friends.”
“I don’t plan on being friends.” Sam placed his hands along the front edge of the table and leaned in. “Do you?”
“The jury’s still out on that point.” She smiled and handed him a paper cup. She filled it with a splash of coffee from the thermos she’d brought, and offered it to him. “Sugar with heavy cream…I hope you like it that way.”
Sam hesitated, and for a moment Izzy thought he might decline the caffeine-laden drink. But he took the cup with a slight nod that had the crease along his brow unfurling. “Sounds perfect. And it’s been a long day…a long week.”
“I can only imagine.”
Sam sampled the brew, sighed with what Izzy determined was deep appreciation, and then drained half the contents. “It’s good.” His gaze held tight to hers over the rim of the cup.
“Thanks. I think so, too.”
“I appreciate the gesture.” He took another sip. “But that doesn’t mean we’re going to be friends.”
“We’ll see.” Izzy drew a deep bre
ath. She refused to back down from Sam’s stance. “I need to take a break, Tom,” she called to her co-host, an intern-in-training for the past several months, who loped over from his restroom break carrying a paper cup filled with—she guessed from his affinity for carbonated drinks—a fountain soda. Perhaps this would prove the perfect opportunity to give him a chance to solo briefly—an opportunity he’d been gunning for. “Can you cover?”
“You bet.” Tom rounded the table and reached for the second set of headphones, eager to comply. Izzy sensed the kid, barely twenty, had a bright future in the industry.
“Thanks.” Izzy recapped the thermos. “I appreciate the quick break.”
“No problem.” Tom eyed Sam warily and then slid his gaze back to Izzy. “Is everything OK?”
“Yes, everything’s just fine.” Izzy nodded to emphasize the point. “I’m going to take a short walk, stretch my legs a bit, and check on Tucker.”
Tom reached for a clipboard. “These are the notes, right?”
“Yes. They’re time-stamped, so just follow the cues. I’ll be back in a bit; we’re not going far.” She lifted her cell phone from her pocket and gave it a waggle. “You’ve got my number. Shoot me a text if you get in a bind.”
“No problem. I’ve got this.” Tom was already settling in as if he’d done so a zillion times before. The kid was a natural. Izzy would be sure to pass this information on to Marco. Having a back-up such as Tom to depend on in case of an emergency—and with Tucker she never knew when an emergency might arise—would prove a plus.
“Thanks.” Izzy shrugged from her equipment and stood before rounding the table. Her shoulder brushed Sam’s, and the scent of his aftershave, a mixture of crisp pine and clean citrus that mirrored his edgy demeanor, drifted as she murmured, “Let’s walk toward the shelter before the storm unleashes its fury.”
They didn’t utter a sound for a handful of minutes as they crossed the dusty path toward a tent that had been erected near the center of the park, but Sam’s posture spoke volumes. The guy was a living, breathing bundle of tangled circuits.
