Elena grimaced. “I’m certain the vote was not unanimously in favor.”
“Unfortunately,” Zane said in a glum tone, “there was no vote at all. The board felt they didn't have enough information about the project to make a decision one way or the other. They decided to table it until their next monthly meeting.”
“What?” Candace exclaimed.
“We can't wait an entire month!” Elena protested.
“Oh boy,” Anabelle said. “I bet Innisk will really be on the warpath now.”
“His was the loudest protest,” Zane told her.
“He was beyond rude to Elena earlier today,” Candace said with more heat than she normally expressed.
Zane nodded. “No surprise.” He shrugged as if dismissing Frederick Innisk from the conversation.
“What do we do now?” Elena asked. “People have already started asking questions as they hear about the possibility of the project. Waiting a whole month will derail our momentum. Plus we have the added advantage of the recent news coverage of the potential for closing to build on.”
“I know,” Zane said in a disgusted tone.
“So.” Elena looked at Zane, then at the rest of them. “I need to do something. What can I do to get this project moving forward again?”
Zane hesitated. “Well, I suppose we could go ahead and plan the campaign details, with the expectation that the board will eventually vote yes. After all, Mr. Varner and Mr. Telford both liked the idea.”
Elena glanced at her watch as she leaped to her feet. “I’ve got time now!”
Zane looked a bit startled, but he grinned as she whipped her luncheon remains back into the bag and headed for the door. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to the others.
As the pair headed indoors, Candace began to laugh. “Mr. Innisk doesn't stand a chance, does he?”
“What should we do first to organize this campaign?” Elena asked as they walked toward Zane's office.
“I don't know where to start,” Zane said.
“Okay,” Elena said. She began to tick off items on her fingers. “We need a form for ordering the bricks. We need to set up a database so that we can keep track of the orders and contributors. And we need to create a thank-you letter people can use for taxes.”
They had reached Zane's office. He held the door for Elena. As they entered, Zane beckoned to Quintessa as he strode by her desk. “Come on in here. We need your input.”
Quintessa grabbed her laptop and followed Elena to the inner office. As they took their seats, Zane filled her in on the board's actions and what Elena had just said.
“We’ll need a Web site too,” Quintessa said. “The guy who does the hospital site offered to do it as a volunteer project whenever we’re ready.”
“How nice,” Elena said with a grin.
“I thought we might be able to use the Hospital Auxiliary to promote it,” Zane said.
“Good idea,” Quintessa said.
Elena contorted her face as she tried to recall something else that was teasing her memory. “Oh,” she said. “You mentioned advertising. Once we’re ready to go live with this, we need to get some ongoing newspaper coverage. Could someone approach one of the local reporters?”
“I elect you,” Quintessa said.
“All right. When we get approval for this”—she refused to say if—“I’ll call Valera Kincaid at the Dispatch about doing a series of human interest stories. My friend Anabelle volunteered to compile a list of former patients who might be willing to be interviewed.”
“We have to be careful about that,” Zane cautioned.
“I know. HIPPA privacy and all that. I’ll ask Anabelle if she has any ideas about how we can do this.” Elena made herself a note on the corner of the luncheon napkin she’d carried into the room.
Seeing what she was doing, Zane began to laugh as he handed her a notepad. “Here you go. It's on me.”
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN CANDACE GOT HOME FROM WORK ON SATURDAY afternoon, no one was home. She was almost ashamed of how relieved she was not to have to make conversation and plaster a happy expression on her face.
On the kitchen counter lay a note from Janet. She had taken Brooke and Howie to see the newest animated movie, and they didn't expect to be home much before six. Candace shouldn't worry about dinner because Janet had prepared taco fixings, and everything could be reheated quickly once they returned.
Bless you, Mom. Candace went to her room and changed into casual clothes. She lay down across her bed to take a short nap, promising herself that she would get up in thirty minutes. She’d been wanting to go through the toys in Howie's room and give away or pack up things that were too young for him or that he never used….
“Mommy, Mommy!” The sound of small feet pounding up the stairs dragged her from a deep, dreamless slumber. “We saw the mammoth movie!”
Candace shook her head, propping herself up on her elbows to check the bedside clock just as Howie burst into the room. “You did?” She infused her tone with wonder and enthusiasm.
“Yeah, an’ it was cool!”
She laughed, dragging her son onto the bed and hugging him tight. He wriggled to be free, and she began peppering him with big, smacking kisses.
“Lemme go!” he yelled, giggling.
“Never,” she said. “I’m the kiss monster.”
Howie yelled, “Brooke! Save me!”
A moment later, Candace heard her daughter enter the bedroom. “What will you give me if I save you?” she said to her little brother.
Startled and highly amused, Candace began to chuckle. She released Howie and flopped onto her back, grinning at her daughter. “That's blackmail, Miss Crenshaw.”
Brooke grinned back as Howie scrambled out of the room. “I know. And it would have worked if you hadn't let him get away!”
“Oops, sorry.” Candace sat up and swung her legs off the mattress as she patted the edge of the bed beside her. “How was the movie?”
“Great. And guess what?” Brooke asked as she seated herself beside Candace.
“What?”
“Tiffany and Jenna were there with Tiff's mom, and they invited us to sit with them.”
“Oh, that was nice. So you got to hang with your friends and see a movie. Sounds like a good day.”
Brooke nodded, smiling. “It was.”
“Honey, we need to talk for a few minutes.” Candace got up and closed the bedroom door. “I went to your school to talk to Mrs. Parker yesterday.”
“You did?” Brooke's face registered confusion, as Candace seated herself beside her daughter again. “Am I in trouble for something?” Her voice rose with anxiety.
“You’re not in trouble.” Candace put an arm around Brooke and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Actually, I requested the conference. But as it turned out, Mrs. Parker was going to call me anyway.”
Brooke was beginning to look upset. “What did I do?”
“Remember how you didn't tell me about Tiffany's party?” When Brooke nodded, Candace went on. “I wasn't mad, honest. But it did concern me, so I asked Mrs. Parker if you were having problems with any of your friends at school.”
“M-o-o-o-m.” Brooke looked annoyed as well as apprehensive. “I told you there was nothing wrong.”
“I know. But it concerned me. Mrs. Parker told me some things that also concern me, honey.”
“Like what?” Now her tone was wary.
“Mrs. Parker thinks you are avoiding being in class when other students’ fathers come in. She told me about your going to the nurse, or to the bathroom, and not coming back for a good deal of time.” Candace hesitated. “Is that true?”
Brooke's shoulders hunched beneath Candace's embracing arm. She didn't respond.
“Brooke?”
“I don't know,” her daughter said in a flat voice.
“Did you tell Mrs. Parker you felt sick when Mr. Kelly came in?”
“I don't remember.”
Candace went
on, asking her daughter about each of the incidents the teacher had mentioned. And each time, Brooke gave her the same response: “I don't remember.”
Finally, at a loss for any way to get to the bottom of her concerns, Candace said, “Honey, I’m going to call Mr. Evans. I think it would be a good idea if you went back to talk to him occasionally again.”
“What? Mom, no. I don’t need a counselor.”
“Well, then he should be able to determine that in a snap,” Candace said. “You need to go at least once.”
“I won't go back,” Brooke said, shoving herself off the bed. “You can't make me talk.” Her fists were clenched, and her eyes shone with tears.
“No,” Candace agreed. She knew Brooke only meant that Candace couldn't physically force her to speak to a counselor, but it brought back painful memories of the weeks after the funeral when Brooke had been mute. “I can't make you talk. But I do want you to go, and if you won't talk to him, he’ll probably want to see you a whole lot.”
“You don't talk to a counselor.” Brooke changed tactics, hurling the words at her. “How come you make me go when you won't go?”
Good question. “I’m not the one avoiding my friends’ fathers,” Candace pointed out. “We’re talking about you right now.”
“You cry a lot. You think I don't know, but I can hear you at night when you think I’m asleep. I think you need counseling too!” And with that parting shot, Brooke turned and rushed out of the room.
Candace sat on the side of the bed, her daughter's final words ringing in her ears. Aloud, she said, “That went well.” Then she blew out a breath of frustration. Regardless of what Brooke said, Candace intended to call Tony Evans on Monday. But Brooke was wrong about her, she assured herself. She really didn't need counseling.
She had worked through the stages of grief already. Yes, she was still sad. Yes, she still missed Dean terribly. But she was functioning just fine.
Of course she was.
Sunday mornings were always a relief for Candace. By the end of the week, she nearly always felt hollowed out and emotionally exhausted from the daily effort of dealing with patients, children, finances, and all the other things that demanded her attention.
The Crenshaws attended Riverview Chapel, a small church at the far southern edge of town, within sight, as its name implied, of a moving body of water, though Candace wouldn't consider it a river. It was a creek at best. But Creekview just didn't have the right ring for a house of God, she supposed.
Between Sunday school and the church service, the congregation held a short social period. Candace was waiting in the social room for church to begin. She nursed a cup of coffee as she watched Howie and another little boy playing Rock Paper Scissors for no apparent reason other than to see who would come out on top each time.
“Good morning, Mrs. Crenshaw.” The speaker was a silver-haired woman wearing a summer skirt-suit in a soft shade of green, with gleaming pearl-and-diamond earrings and a matching necklace. She wore sensible yet stylish low heels that matched her camel-colored leather handbag. Looking more closely, Candace noted the distinctive Prada logo on the handbag. Candace had seen her at church before, although she couldn't dredge up the lady's name from her memory banks.
Embarrassed by her lack of memory, she extended a hand and offered the woman a warm smile. “Good morning. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I wanted to ask you about the Wall of Hope. I thought since you work at the hospital, you might have the inside scoop.” Her blue eyes twinkled.
“I don't really know very much about it,” Candace said. She was surprised that word of the Wall of Hope was so widespread already. “It's still very much in the planning stages. The hospital board hasn't approved anything yet.”
“So I hear. But I’m sure they will.” The lady sounded surprisingly confident. “Will you let me know when the bricks will be available? I’m very interested in donating several, and I really like the notion that this will help keep the hospital open.”
“I like it too,” Candace told her. “I plan to donate one.” She swallowed and focused on her companion, not allowing herself to think of anything else.
“I need three. One brick will be for my parents, and another in memory of my husband. I’d also like to donate one in memory of my horse Gidget,” the woman said. “She was with me for thirty-five years, and it would be lovely to have a place where I can see her name on a memorial stone along with the rest of my family.”
“I don't have details about the bricks yet but I’ll let you know as soon as I do,” Candace told her, her interest piqued by the unexpected statements. It had never occurred to her how many people who mourned—whether they had lost a friend, a family member or a favored pet—might like to be able to come and see their loved one's name in an attractive public area. Elena had to get the board's approval for that project. Aloud she said, “And I’m sure there will be information about it in the paper.” She smiled at the lady. “So tell me more about your Gidget. She must have been a very special horse.”
“She was,” the lady said. “We competed in dressage together for many years. She was a gorgeous bay Trakehner imported from Germany.”
“I don't know much about horses,” she confessed, “although I do know what dressage is, mostly from seeing it during the Olympics.”
“It's a beautiful sport. Trakehners are known for their athleticism, friendliness and intelligence. Gidget was seventeen hands high, which is quite tall, but it's the breed standard.”
As the woman spoke, Candace found herself deeply interested in the woman's ability to discuss the beloved animal, as well as make mention of her husband and parents. Gidget may have been a horse rather than a person, but the relationship had lasted thirty-five years. “May I ask you a question?” she said.
“Certainly, dear.”
Candace hesitated. “It's about grief, not about horses.”
The woman smiled, and her eyes softened. “I know a good deal about both.”
“How do you do it?” she asked. “You talk about her—and your family—so calmly, so happily, with a smile on your face. I would love to be as strong as you when I talk about my husband.” Immediately, she felt the familiar constriction tugging at her throat. “Three years ago. And I still can’t…I just can’t….”
“It's hard,” said her new friend. “Especially at first. I don't think there is a timetable for grief. But I do think it's important to be aware of our reactions over time. Are we moving forward? Do we feel as if our emotions are more stable now than they were, say, a year ago? I think that's the key. And if the answer is no to either of those, then I would recommend you consider getting some grief counseling.”
“My children have been in counseling.” And the word reminded Candace that she needed to call Brooke's therapist the following day.
“But we’re talking about you, aren't we?” The lady's silver hair gleamed as she leaned forward and tapped a gentle finger over Candace's heart. “We’re talking about your heart.”
Candace nodded. “Yes.” But she didn't need counseling. She was dealing with life just fine, most of the time.
Janet was standing nearby, waiting for Candace when she finished her conversation. As the woman walked on, Candace said, “Mom? Who was that lady? She knew my name, and she looked familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn't come up with her name.”
“That's Eulalie Jeffries Hunt,” Janet said. “She's the granddaughter of Winthrop Jeffries.”
“The man who founded Hope Haven?” Candace was absolutely dumbfounded.
Janet nodded. “She used to sit on the hospital board, but after her husband died, she began traveling more extensively, so she no longer sits on the board. I imagine that she still keeps close tabs on what goes on there. I’m sure she's not thrilled with all this talk of closing.”
Her mother's words gave Candace an idea. Mrs. Hunt might have some influence with the hospital board. It certainly was worth asking. This afternoon, she
had a phone call to make.
As always, Elena had found her church service exhilarating and exciting. She attended Holy Trinity Church in Deerford. Holy Trinity was the church whose chimes rang out twice a day except on Sundays, their low, sweet tones floating over the community.
As the congregation spilled out of the historic Gothic-style building, Elena kept a tight grip on Isabel's hand. “Ready for some lunch?” Cesar and Rafael usually went to church twice a year, on Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday, but Izzy looked forward to Sunday school every week and Elena was thrilled to see her granddaughter so enthusiastic.
Ahead of them, a tall, dark-haired man stood, clearly waiting for his wife to finish chatting with a friend. He looked very familiar…and suddenly, Elena knew where she’d seen him before. He’d been in a photo in the paper recently. He was on Hope Haven's board of directors.
“Izzy,” she said, “I need to speak to that man.” They surged forward before he wandered from their view.
“Excuse me,” she said as she approached. She extended a hand. “I’m Elena Rodriguez, a nurse at Hope Haven.”
The man turned, a pleasant smile on his face as recognition dawned. “Elena Rodriguez—the brains behind the Wall of Hope! I’m Will West.”
“Yes, that's me,” she confirmed. “I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk.”
“I’d love to.” Will touched his wife's arm and murmured something to her. Then he drew Elena and Izzy aside. “I think you have a terrific idea,” he told her. “I was very disappointed to see it tabled. I think we need to leap into fund-raising mode while there's all this interest in the community.”
“Wonderful,” Elena said. “Maybe you can help.”
Candace had just dropped a letter in the mail during her morning break. As she headed for the stairs, she heard a woman's voice call, “Candace?”
Turning her head, she saw Robin Overing moving toward her. The girl wasn't exactly waddling, but she was getting closer to it. At thirty weeks, she only had ten to go. From now on, Candace knew, the baby would be growing significantly in size with each week that passed.
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