Tuesday Morning Collection, The: One Tuesday Morning, Beyond Tuesday Morning, Remember Tuesday Morning

by Kingsbury, Karen

  Jamie smiled. “I think you just had it.”

  “True.” He laughed, much more relaxed than he'd been with the bad guys downstairs. A sober look filled his eyes. “The chapel, it's across the street from the pit, right?”

  “Right.” Their conversation was easy, and Jamie realized she was drawn to him. “You aren't an angel, are you?”

  “I'm afraid not.” He grinned. “Just a regular guy, warts and all.”

  Jamie didn't see any warts. “I prayed for help, and a minute later you had your gun out.”

  “Hmmm.” He kept his gaze on hers, unblinking. “I prayed God would use me in New York however He saw fit.”

  The captain was still on the phone, but he'd put the ferry back into gear. They weren't far from the dock now, and Jamie saw three squad cars, lights flashing. She shuddered; how different things might have been if the officers hadn't been there.

  “So … you believe in prayer, is that right, Officer—”

  “Call me Clay.” He slipped his hands in his jeans pockets. His leather jacket looked sharp against his beige oxford. “And yes. To tell you the truth, God's just about everything to me.”

  Her voice dropped a notch. “Me too.”

  “Is that why you volunteer at St. Paul's?”

  “Sort of.” It didn't seem right to talk about Jake. She would probably never see the guy after today. Why trouble him with her personal heartache? “How 'bout you?”

  “My partner's got some stuff going on. It's a long story.”

  A gentle bump told them the ferry had reached the dock. The captain picked up his radio and made an announcement to the passengers: “We are requesting all passengers stay seated; I repeat, all passengers please stay seated. A police matter has arisen and officers will need a few minutes to take care of the situation. Again, please stay seated.”

  During the captain's announcement, Jamie thought she saw Clay glance at her left hand. But it happened so fast, she wasn't sure. What with the scene downstairs—and the inexplicable connection she felt to a total stranger—she had no doubt her imagination was working overtime.

  The captain thanked Clay again and bid them good-bye. “I need to be downstairs when they take the suspects.”

  “Fine, sir. Glad we could help.”

  The captain left and they were alone.

  “Do you need to go?” She looked again at the police officers scrambling out of their cars and heading for the ferry ramp.

  “Nope. This isn't our jurisdiction. We can stop a crime in progress, but after that it belongs to the locals.”

  “I see.” Jamie should've thanked Clay for saving her life and proceeded to make small talk. But the feeling that she'd known him—known him well—wouldn't go away. She studied her hands. “I'm still shaking.”

  He closed the distance between them and, as naturally as if they'd been friends all their lives, pulled her into a hug. “I didn't want to say anything.” He drew back and smiled at her. “You were flushed at first, but now … you're white as a ghost.”

  “I am?” She didn't know why, but she didn't want anything to interrupt the moment. “Even now? I'm still pale?”

  “Mmhmm.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Blow out a few times, long and slow, that should help.”

  She did as she was told, and he studied her. “Do you feel light-headed?”

  “Maybe that's it. I have this feeling I can't explain.”

  He still had his hands on her shoulders, watching her, making sure she was okay. “You're looking a little better now.” His tone was polite, the public servant caught in a time of need.

  But his eyes held more. Jamie wasn't sure she'd ever get her color back under that blue gaze.

  Another announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Thank you for being patient. It's now safe to debark.”

  Clay pulled back and nodded toward the door. “Can a couple of LA cops escort you to St. Paul's?”

  Jamie smiled. “Please.”

  Clay grinned. “It's late and getting later. Let's go.”

  They made their way back to Clay's partner, Officer Joe Reynolds, and the three of them grabbed a cab and headed for St. Paul's. They were halfway there when Jamie finally identified what she'd been feeling, the strange sensation that came over her when Clay held her behind his back, sheltering her from the suspects, then again when he pulled her into his arms. It wasn't fear or shock or even light-headedness.

  It was electricity.

  TWELVE

  She was gorgeous, no doubt about that.

  Clay wouldn't have noticed she was in trouble if it wasn't for the fact that from the moment he boarded the ferry, he hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. Reynolds had even teased him about it. “Take a picture, pal. She'll think you're a tourist.”

  Things happened so fast since then. He'd managed to come off as a professional, but taking her in his arms was totally out of character for him. Out of line, really. He could justify it because she looked faint, but he'd seen far worse cases. More than her health, he was concerned about her feelings. She looked scared and shocked and vulnerable; he simply wanted to hold her.

  But who was she? And where was she going alone? He was almost certain she was married, why wouldn't she be?

  He'd tried to get a look at her left hand, to see if she wore a ring, but he hadn't gotten a clear view.

  Now they were in the cab, with Clay in the middle. Reynolds raised an eyebrow at him, but Clay silenced him with a look. This was no time for the flight attendant act he'd pulled earlier. Reynolds seemed to get the point. He gave Clay a halfhearted scowl and made light conversation about the buildings in the area and plans for rebuilding the Twin Towers.

  With Jamie talking to Reynolds, Clay tried again to steal a look at her ring finger. This time she had her hands beneath her, probably trying to keep them warm. Clay looked straight ahead out the windshield of the cab. Was he losing his mind? What did it matter if she had a ring or not? He'd known the woman less than an hour.

  Reynolds waxed on; the man was brilliant at carrying on empty conversations. Clay didn't pay much attention. Crazy or not, his focus was on the woman beside him. From time to time, he glanced at her and found her looking at him. And he got the sense she'd felt a connection with him, same way he had with her.

  The cab pulled up in front of the chapel, and Clay paid the driver. The three of them climbed out, and Reynolds nodded toward the gaping hole, the place where the towers had stood.

  “So that's the place.”

  “Yes.” Jamie looked up and squinted, as if picturing the buildings the way they had been. “No matter how many times I look up, it's still hard to believe they're gone.”

  Reynolds stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the others. “Wanna walk over?”

  Clay looked at Jamie. “You probably have to get inside, right?”

  “It's okay, I'll come with you.” She glanced back at the chapel. “There'll be other volunteers on by now.”

  The three of them crossed the street and moved as close to the chain-link fence as possible. Maybe thirty or forty people stood along the length of the fence, some in small clusters, some alone.

  “Most people expect to see flowers or notes stuck in the fence.” Jamie kept her voice low, respectful. She stood between the two men and folded her arms. “The city cleans it up every night; some of the stuff gets tossed—flowers, mostly. Teddy bears get donated to the children's hospital, and photos, letters—” she sighed—“they come to us.”

  “At St. Paul's?” Clay figured he was nearly a foot taller than her. He turned to hear her better.

  “Yes.” She met his eyes, and again the connection was there, a familiar current, a sense that he knew what she was going to say before she said it. “Wait till you see it.”

  Reynolds headed up the sidewalk, eyes on the cavernous hole. Clay and Jamie followed, silent. Along the fence, city personnel had posted oversized mounted photos of the history of the Twin Towers. Together the three of t
hem worked their way west, reading the captions, taking in the enormity of both the force it had taken to bring those buildings down and the rebuilding project.

  They reached the last photo, and something caught Clay's attention. It was a subway entrance, the stair rail and steps that led down to what at one time must've been one of the busiest subway stations of all. He leaned against the railing and looked down. From the eighth or ninth stair down, the entrance was still filled with debris—jagged cement blocks and twisted steel.

  Jamie came up beside him and looked down. Instantly she stiffened and backed away.

  “Jamie?”

  Her face was pale again. She shook her head. “I … I hadn't seen that before.”

  “It's still full of debris.” Clay fell in step beside her, and they moved beyond the stairwell.

  “Yes. They should clean it because …”

  She didn't have to finish her sentence; Clay could see where she was headed with it. The bodies of countless people had never been found. Wasn't it possible a body was trapped in that tunnel?

  Of course it was.

  She pulled herself away and fell in beside Clay again. Their steps were slow, waiting for Reynolds to catch up. Clay allowed his arm to brush against Jamie's as they walked.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Jamie shuddered. She stopped and turned, her back to the chapel. “It was three years ago, after all.” She looked up at the bleak gray sky and crossed her arms tight against her chest. “It's freezing out here.”

  He wanted to put his arm around her and keep her warm; to shelter her from not only the cold weather but whatever had caused her to react so strongly to the damaged subway entrance. Instead he took off his coat and handed it to her. “I'm too warm. Why don't you wear it?”

  Though Jamie's teeth chattered, she hesitated—then let him slip it over her shoulders. She reached up to tug it in place.

  That's when Clay saw the ring.

  On her left hand. No question it was a wedding band. Clay's heart dropped to his knees. So that was that. She was married, probably a bored housewife volunteering at St. Paul's to find purpose in her life—maybe as part of a calling from God.

  Either way, she was taken.

  Clay jammed his emotional gears. He'd saved her life. She was bound to be friendly, welcoming. Whatever he'd imagined seeing in her eyes was only wishful thinking on his part. He made a subtle move to the side, allowing a gap between them. “You didn't leave your coat on the ferry, did you?”

  “No.” She gave a slight roll of her eyes. “I'm so scatterbrained. I left it at the chapel last week. Coldest day of the season so far, and I don't have a coat.” She wrinkled her nose. “I thought a turtleneck would keep me warm until I got inside.”

  “Yeah.” Clay made a face and grinned. “Then you had to go and meet a couple of tourists, right?”

  His jacket was huge on her. She slid her arms in the sleeves and buried her hands in the pockets. Her eyes met his and held. It was as though she looked far beyond the surface, deep into his soul. “You saved my life, Clay. After what you did, I can brave a little cold weather to show you around.”

  Reynolds met up with them, and they crossed the street again. They were silent as they headed up the sidewalk, along the fenced-in cemetery, and around the corner into the chapel. Jamie turned to the left, toward a display of memorabilia. She hesitated, then turned back to them.

  Without moving, Clay let his eyes wander the inside perimeter of the chapel. There must've been thousands of photos and letters and pictures, buttons from firefighter uniforms and badges with NYPD embroidered on them. It was too much to take in without doing what the few other people in the chapel were doing: making their way, with slow steps, around the wall to the other side.

  Jamie spread out her hand and gave them a sad smile. “This is St. Paul's.”

  There was a reverence to the place, a sense that merely by walking through the doors a person was on hallowed ground. No wonder. Clay looked around again, this time noticing the banners that lined the walls, banners from other cities and states offering hope and love and prayers for the people in Manhattan. Between the walls of mementos and the old wooden pews in the center, the place was truly a memorial.

  He looked at Jamie. “I can feel God's Spirit here.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “It's that way every day.”

  Reynolds was already absorbed in the details, reading notes and inching his way along the displays that lined the first wall. Praying would come later. For now, Clay had a thought: What if Reynolds's wife had been to St. Paul's? Reynolds hadn't been sure where to find her or if she still lived in the area. At breakfast that morning, Reynolds told Clay that Wanda's mother died in 2000, which left him no way to find his wife but to come to New York and look for her.

  Did St. Paul's keep a record of visitors? If so, maybe they could figure out if she'd been there, get a name and a city. It was worth asking.

  Jamie removed Clay's jacket, gave it back to him, and took a name badge from her purse. She pinned it to her sweater and smiled at him. “Thanks.” Her eyes held his. “Are you going to walk around?”

  “Well …” Clay chewed on his lip. “Could we talk first?” He shot a look at Reynolds. “My friend is looking for someone very special to him. She might've come here.”

  Jamie was about to answer when an older woman with a volunteer pin like Jamie's came up to them. “Jamie, thanks for coming. The weather's awful.”

  “No problem.” She met Clay's eyes. “I wasn't sure I was going to make it in.”

  “We're slow.” She held up a finger. “That reminds me. Captain Hisel said to tell you he couldn't come today. He's got a meeting at the department.”

  “Okay.” She touched the woman's hand. “Thanks.”

  The older woman nodded and wandered off, heading for a middle-aged woman in the back pew. It looked like the woman was crying. Clay and Jamie watched the older volunteer make contact, speak quiet words for a moment, and then sit down. Their conversation looked deep from the get-go.

  “So this is what you do?” Clay's voice was barely a whisper. He leaned in toward Jamie, but only so she could hear him. “Talk with people who come here?”

  “Exactly. Talk, pray, counsel. Listen.” The tenderness in her eyes caught at him. “We do a lot of listening.” She turned toward a pew in the middle of the chapel and motioned with her head for him to follow.

  They sat down, but not too close. Clay made sure their knees didn't touch. Even so, the subtle fragrance of her perfume stirred his senses.

  “What's your friend's story?” No pretense, no guarded layers to work through. Jamie simply opened her heart to whatever Clay might have to say, ready to help—just as she must've done countless times here.

  “I just found out myself yesterday, on our flight here.” Clay looked toward the front of the church. She's another man's wife. But the reminder didn't help as much as he'd hoped.

  Clay told the story Reynolds had shared with him the day before. When he got to the part about Jimmy getting hit by the paroled felon, Jamie's quiet gasp drew his gaze to her.

  “That's awful.”

  “Yes.” He wanted to pull her close, hug away the pain in her eyes, the hurt that surrounded them. A young couple entered the chapel and began moving along the wall, a few yards behind Reynolds. “It gets worse.”

  Clay shared how Reynolds and his wife tried to make their marriage work, but neither of them could see past their grief. “They were strong believers, but they were blinded by what happened. They divorced a few months later.”

  Jamie brought her lips together and looked at her lap. She gave a small shake of her head. When she looked up, her eyes were damp. “He hasn't seen her since?”

  “Actually, his wife married an FDNY officer stationed somewhere in Manhattan. They lived in Queens, and he commuted in. Like a lot of firefighters, I guess.”

  She squirmed. “Was her husband killed in the attacks?” A flicker ignited in h
er eyes.

  “Yes. Joe meant to call and see how she was, how she was handling her husband's death, but he couldn't do it; wasn't sure how she'd react after so many years.” Clay crossed one leg over the other and braced his arm along the back of the pew. “He heard about the training course out here.” Clay spotted Reynolds nearing the end of the first wall. “I think he wants to find her.”

  Jamie knit her brow together and leaned forward, resting on the pew in front of her. “Something about the story sounds familiar. What was his wife's name?”

  “Wanda.” Clay thought for a minute. “I can't remember her last name.”

  “I know a Wanda, at least I've met her. We prayed together here a few months ago. If I remember right, she said something about losing a little boy ten years ago.” Jamie sat a little straighter. “What did she look like?”

  “Not sure what she looks like now.” Reynolds was partway along the back of the wall, still looking at the items collected in the past three years. “Joe has a picture of her on his desk, the last picture taken with her and Jimmy. She was beautiful, a black woman with brown skin and straightened hair. Big, childlike eyes.”

  Jamie's eyes widened. “That's got to be her.” Sadness replaced her excitement. “She's … a very troubled woman, Clay. Too many losses.”

  “Wait—” disbelief worked its way through him—“so you know her? You've prayed with her?” He hadn't been in New York twenty-four hours and already amazing things were happening. He didn't wait for Jamie's answer. “Do you have any idea how we could find her?” A realization hit him. “Or if she'd want to be found?”

  Jamie put her hand on her forehead. “This is so weird.”

  “What?”

  “I just remembered something we prayed for, Wanda and I.” Jamie looked straight at him. “We prayed she might find her first husband. So she could make peace with him.”

  A chill ran down Clay's spine. He wanted to fall to his knees and look around, in case angels were hovering overhead. “Do you know how to reach her?”