The Sweet Spot

by Laura Drake

  The calm melted like snow before a blowtorch blast of her seething fury. The same God who offered solace now was the one who had taken her son. Char looked up to the cold stone soaring overhead, pulling her gaze to the spires reaching toward heaven. “I’m here, God, but you are not forgiven.”

  Jerking the heavy door open, rage fueled her steps into the nave. She stalked to the only empty seat in the last pew and sat. Ignoring the congregants, she stared ahead at the apse. The choir stood at the ready, hymnals open in their hands. As the last organ note trailed off, the congregation rose to its feet.

  Char didn’t care a holy fig for etiquette at this point but knew she’d draw attention if she ignored it, so she stood. The organ began again, and voices rose. “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.” Out of habit, Char mouthed the words. From the off-key trembling voice of the octogenarian next to her, to the clear harmony of the choir, the music rose to the vaulted ceiling far above her head. There, the mishmash of voices wove like threads on a loom, settling over the crowd as more than the sum of its parts—complete, multifaceted, beautiful. It touched a forgotten chord in her chest, and the resonance spread a balm of peace.

  Hymn over, the congregation sat. She’d missed this. Char settled in, examining that surprising nugget as the announcements were read. She didn’t miss God; but she did miss the soothing rituals and being a part of the congregational fabric of the church.

  Reverend Mike walked to the pulpit to begin his sermon. Char tuned it out, having no interest in the word of an Indian-giver God. Instead, she thought about the book on her nightstand, with the quotes about grief. Many of them referred to forgiveness. She knew from her reading that this was a cliff she was going to have to scale. Someday.

  Char glanced to the stained glass window closest to her. The sun lit the abstract pattern of reds, blues, greens, and yellows, turning the common glass to kaleidoscope crystal.

  How do you forgive the unforgivable?

  An hour later, a babble rose as parishioners gathered their belongings to leave. Char clamped her jaw tight. It had to happen sometime. She might as well get it over with. She stood to face a phalanx of well-meaning friends and neighbors.

  Salina was first, waiting at the end of the pew, blocking the escape route. She didn’t offer platitudes. She didn’t say anything, just folded Char in a soft embrace. When Char would have stepped back, Salina held on, lightly rubbing her back for a moment, whispering “Love you, Charla Rae.” Char stepped back, studying her old friend’s face. Nothing there but acceptance. And a tear.

  Char’s chest loosened a little. “Thanks, Sal. Love you too. I’ll call you sometime.” She turned to the next well-wisher.

  Finally, thankfully, she was free to go. One more chore and this will be behind me. Her heels tapped an echo as she walked to the door where Rev. Mike stood, greeting his flock.

  He smiled broadly, taking her outstretched hand in both of his. “Charla Rae. I’m so glad you could join us this morning. We’ve missed you.”

  “Thank you, Rev. I actually came to apologize. With everything going on, I haven’t thanked you for referring Rosa to us. She’s Daddy’s angel, and I don’t know how I would have survived without her these past months.”

  The Reverend cocked his head. “Rosa?”

  Char felt her face heat. “I know, it’s been so long, you’ve probably forgotten. She’s the nurse with County Outreach.”

  He shook his head, his face blank.

  “You ran into her at Saint Luke’s. You gave her my name?”

  “I’m sorry, Charla, but I don’t understand. Community Outreach doesn’t offer home nursing services. I know, because I looked into it when Salina needed help with her grandmother. Could you have been mistaken?”

  Char frowned. “I know she said…” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  He smiled down at her, still holding her hands. “If it brought you here, I’ll not question God’s methods. I’m done with my sermon, so I won’t lecture you. I only have one thing to tell you, then I’ll let you go.”

  She squirmed under his warm scrutiny.

  “God is waiting, Charla Rae. As long as it takes.”

  She jerked her fingers from his. “Yes, well.” The stone wall’s towering presence felt heavy on her back as she turned. “Good-bye, Rev.”

  She’d lingered so long with the greeting gauntlet that her car was one of the few left in the lot. Clearly, Rosa hadn’t told her the truth. Char rummaged in her Sunday purse for her keys. Then who’d hired her? Hired. She reached her car and opened the door. She dropped into the seat as her knees let go.

  Oh my God, who is paying her? Was the entire town talking about poor Charla Denny? Had they put out a donation can at the check stand down at the 7-Eleven? Shame burned a hot path to the inside of her skin. She was hardly aware of pulling the door closed.

  No way. In a town this small, you couldn’t even pull off a surprise birthday party. So that left only…

  “Jimmy.” Her voice sounded loud in the closed space. Reality crashed in, shattering the fragile pride she’d garnered by herding her runaway life the past months. She slammed the key into the ignition. Oh, this was classic Jimmy Denny. Jump in and take over, assuming he had the answer. “Well, Mr. High-and-Mighty is not the savior of the Enwright clan.”

  Nose inches from the steering wheel, Char raced to the exit, then waited for a break in the Sunday parade of cars heading downtown. Her brain clicked off the little clues from the past months. The time she’d walked in on Rosa’s conversation—she must have been reporting to her employer. Rosa and Jimmy’s sliding looks when she’d introduced them.

  She shot into a slim break in the traffic, ignoring the horn-bleat of the offended driver next in line. She and Daddy didn’t need help.

  Traffic slowed to a crawl as they hit the edge of town. “Are they giving away free beer at the Piggly Wiggly? Come on, people!”

  You might want to look where that road goes before you turn down it, Charla Rae.

  Char rolled her eyes. Mom, from the crappy decisions I’ve seen God make the past year, can’t you stay busy, giving him advice?

  “I’ll just turn over the outside duties to Jimmy, and I’ll take care of Daddy. Let him deal with the backaches, the cow snot, and the calamities.” She stopped at the red light at the center of town and watched as a clearly exasperated mother crossed in front of the car. The toddler she dragged by one hand was having a meltdown; Char could hear his hair-raising wail from inside the closed car. Catching the woman’s eye, she threw her a sympathetic smile. I remember those days. Benje was everywhere; there never seemed to be a spare minute in the day. The young mother hauled her boy into her arms as she stepped onto the sidewalk.

  Her gut went hollow. Those days are gone.

  Char cast her mind over the past months: helping Tricks calve, getting to know Pork Chop, the everyday chores that were now such a part of her life. She loved spending her days in the saddle, watching the subtle changes in the land with the change in season.

  She pictured herself sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the ticking clock, as Daddy snoozed the afternoon away in the great room. She watched herself get up, walk to the sink, and reach for the amber-colored prescription bottle on the sill.

  Beeep! Char jumped. The light had changed. Hitting the gas, she continued down West Main, hands shaky from just the memory of the iron-band tightening need.

  Wait. Why did Jimmy do it?

  Her mind flashed the picture of Jimmy, feet under her table, tucking away chili. Heat rose in her, remembering his smoking look as he sang to her from across the arena. “He did this to try to get me back!”

  But Rosa had called the first time, way before any of that.

  So why did he do it?

  The traffic thinned as she reached the edges of downtown.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Right now.” She hit the gas.

  CHAPTER

  23

  I am angry nearl
y every day of my life, but I have learned not to show it; and I still try to hope not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do it.

  —Marmee, Little Women

  Char slammed the car door. Jimmy’s truck stood parked in the shade of the house, but he was nowhere to be seen. Ignoring the gnat of worry at the cost of a cleaning bill for her sky-blue suit, she walked to the barn.

  Blinded by the transition from sunlight to shadow, she almost tripped over Jimmy. He sat sprawled on a hay bale inside the barn door, old towel in his hand, cleaning tack. Tack that looked suspiciously like hers. She stopped short.

  He looked up, his face lit with a happy smile. “Hey, Little Bit. How was church?”

  Fighting the magnetic tug of that little-boy grin, she tightened her fists. “Don’t you ‘Little Bit’ me, James Benton. What do you mean, going behind my back to pay a nurse to take care of Daddy?” She lifted a finger when his lips parted. “And don’t you try to tell me you didn’t.”

  He sat back, face sober. “It’s my job to take care of my family.”

  “Jimmy, you are not family anymore.” She lifted her hand, pointing to her empty ring finger. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re divorced.”

  He bent his head to the bridle in his lap, rubbing saddle soap into the cheek strap.

  She ignored the prick of guilt at her waspish tone. She didn’t like that she couldn’t read his face. “Jimmy.”

  He looked up. “Okay, Little Bit, have it your way. Ben didn’t divorce me, so he and I are still family. I sent the nurse to help him.”

  She stomped a foot. “Oh, you are the most maddening man.”

  “Why, Charla?” He frowned. “Because I saw something that needed doing, and I did it? Does that make me a bad guy?”

  She looked down at his open face and sinless smile. She knew Jimmy Denny. Knew when he was wheedling to get his way. She also knew when he was being honest.

  He’d been working at the feedlot—hard, nasty work—for money that went to make her life easier. Her stomach twisted in what felt a lot like guilt. What kind of woman had she become in the past year that she would be furious with someone who was trying to help her daddy?

  Even if it was JB Denny.

  She swallowed a chunk of pride. “Okay, I may have overreacted a bit. But from this day on, I’m paying Rosa. I’ve got the money from my grandma’s china.” She lifted her chin.

  “Sure thing, Charla Rae.”

  “And another thing. I’m taking half the responsibility for running this operation. If you don’t like it, you can get happy in the same pants you got mad in.”

  His smile cranked up a few watts. “That’s great, but as I see it, you’ve already done that. Been doin’ a good job too.”

  She narrowed her eyes. He looked back, relaxed, open. Sincere. The last of her anger whooshed out of her in a rush, its boiling heat melting all her starch. Her shoulders slumped. She tipped her head and squinted down at him. “Who are you?” And what are you up to?

  He chuckled. After setting aside the bridle, he lifted a clean towel from the pile beside him, snapped out the wrinkles, and laid it on the opposite end of the hay bale. He patted it. “Sit down, Char. You look flat tuckered.”

  She sank onto the contrived seat, as far from him as possible. “It’s been a long morning.”

  She put her head in her hands, almost dizzy from the hot-flash mood shift. “It’s just that everything keeps… changing.”

  “That’s true enough.” Jimmy turned to her, his shoulder resting on the stall behind him as he studied her. “Char, I’m proud to have a partner as savvy as you.”

  “Don’t you dare patronize me, James Benton.”

  “For such a smart woman, I swear.” He shook his head. “Charla, you’re much better with the calves than I am. This year’s crop has more solid growth and weight on them than they ever have. What are you doing different?”

  She blinked. “I gave them some love and fed them the vitamins I found on a shelf in the tack room.”

  He tipped his hat back and scratched his forehead. “I bought that last year, but they won’t eat it.”

  She couldn’t help it. Her lips twitched. “They will if you mix it in molasses.”

  “Now there, see? I didn’t think of that.” He raised his knee and rested it on the bale. “No one person can do it all, Char. Ever wonder why you don’t see many unmarried ranchers? Back when Benje was little, the only reason I could take the PBR announcer gig is because you were home, holding down the fort.”

  “Yes, but now—” A whisper of despair echoed down her awareness, and her jaw locked, midsentence.

  Jimmy must have heard it. He jumped in. “Now you’ve got some time to help with the operation, and like it or not, you and I are partners.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and leaned in, too close. “With all these brains, talent, and hard work, we’re going to make PBR stock contractor of the year one of these days. See if we don’t.”

  He straightened and stood, resettling his hat, his eyes holding hers all the while. “Had you forgotten? We’ve always made a great team, Charla.”

  Regret lay etched in the furrows bracketing his mouth. Lines that weren’t there last year. She wasn’t the only one who had suffered. “Yeah, Jimmy, we did.” It came out in a whisper.

  A slice of sun hit his cheek, highlighting the silver in the beard stubble. His gaze lingered, considering, before he spun on his heel and strolled out of the barn whistling.

  Thanks to the blazing light, his silhouette stayed burned on her corneas long after he was gone. No matter what he’d said, Jimmy hired Rosa for her. He had no more money than she, but he’d sacrificed to make her life easier.

  Did she dare trust that softened spot on her freezer-burned heart?

  Rosa glanced from her book as Char walked into the great room. Her father snored softly in the La-Z-Boy beside her rocker. “How was church, Charla?”

  “Enlightening. But not in a religious sense.” She smiled down at her father. In sleep, the confused look he wore most often nowadays melted away, leaving instead an almost cherubic peacefulness.

  “You can relax, Rosa. I know that Jimmy hired you.” The rest came out in a rush. “I’ll be paying you from now on, but I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. This must have been so uncomfortable for you. Why on earth did you agree to it?”

  Rosa watched her with bright sparrow eyes. “I had my doubts, I will admit. Then, when I came out that night, you so obviously needed help. I couldn’t say no.”

  Char lifted the dirty teacup from the table. “Yes, Daddy was getting to the point that—”

  “I’m not talking about your father, Charla. I’m talking about you.”

  The teacup chattered in the saucer, and she covered it with her other hand to make it stop.

  “Can I speak freely?”

  Why do people ask that? Once asked, it’s impossible to say no. Char nodded.

  “I work with people every day who, because of disease, have lost their ability to communicate. They fall out of the current of society, to live on the shadowed edges. You’re not so different from them, Charla. Except you’ve chosen the backwaters.” Rosa set the chair to rocking, but her gaze never wavered. “I’ve been here for months now, long enough to see that you have people who love you standing by, waiting to help. And yet you shut them out.” The rocker stilled. “Why do you do that?”

  Char set the teacup back on the table. It made it easier to pace, with her hands empty.

  “I’ve had to work through some things… inside myself, before it felt safe to let anyone in. I’m doing better with that now and—”

  “Do you feel guilty, Charla?”

  Her heart faltered, skittered, then settled in a gallop that thrummed in her ears. A strangled sob burst from her throat before it clamped shut. The stunned echo of the question that no one had yet asked hung lingering in the quiet room. This was the monolith that had risen from stinking mudflats left behind as the tide of anger had r
eceded. Behind the blockage in her throat, emotion built, pressing up from her core, filling her chest with a seething, restless heat.

  Rosa reached to touch her. “You know that it is natural to feel this?”

  Char jerked away. “I know. They told us about it in the grief group. I’ve read about it in a book I have too.” She tightened her lips, trying to put words to the Gordian knot she’d worked at until her mind frayed. She touched two fingers to her forehead. “I have it here.” She swallowed back the pressure below her throat. Her chest felt swollen with it, hot to the touch. “But my heart isn’t buying it.”

  Rosa cocked her head. “Then is Jimmy guilty as well?”

  Char reared back, stunned. “Of course not!”

  “Why not? He was on the property that day, right?”

  Rosa’s soft words hammered her heart. How could anyone think it was Jimmy’s fault? Char heard a familiar buzzing in her head and an itch in her brain that only Valium would assuage. The buzz increased to the manic humming she remembered from the day of the funeral. Terrified, she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears to block it out. A touch at her shoulder startled a wail from her throat. “But I was his MOTHER!” The blockage in her throat gone, the pent-up sobs burst from her mouth like a confession.

  Rosa enfolded her into her arms, and Char clung, terrified by the howling wind raging inside.

  “Come on, JB, a badass cowboy like you can do better than that.” Dana stood in front of the tilted sit-up board, stopwatch in hand, barking like a drill sergeant.

  Squeezing his eyes shut to block the sting of sweat, he tried not to grunt as he forced his shaking stomach muscles to finish one last sit-up. “One fifty.” He grabbed the bar anchoring his feet and sat up, panting.

  “A six-pack of muscle would be easier to develop if you didn’t drink the other kind, you know.” She dropped a towel over his head.

  When he’d first moved in with the Galts, he’d thought Dana had bought the gym for a steady revenue stream. She’d corrected that misguided opinion right off. The woman was obsessed with fitness, and no politician ever stumped harder for a cause. It started with a raised eyebrow when he opened a beer with Wiley at night. Then there were the subtle-as-a-hammer fitness sermons, spouted whenever she cornered him long enough to listen. When she’d started serving turkey burgers and tofu salad for dinner, he cried uncle and agreed to a workout.