From This Day Forward (Heartland Homecoming)

by Irene Hannon

  After laying her gently on the bed, Sam left her only long enough to grab his bag from the office. When he returned, he kept one eye on her rigid, shuddering body while he searched through his case. Extracting a small tablet, he eased it between her lips.

  “This will help, Cara. Let it dissolve in your mouth. I’m here, and you’re going to be okay.” He took her ice-cold hand in a warm, firm clasp and began to stroke it, murmuring encouragement in a soothing voice. Though he’d had nightmares after his ordeal, he’d been spared panic attacks. But he’d studied them, just in case, and he knew how unpredictable and frightening they could be, how they could be triggered by the slightest cause—or no cause at all.

  Unfortunately, there was little he could do to ease Cara’s immediate distress. The Niravam he’d given her was the quickest short-term remedy. Time was the best long-term cure, especially when the attacks were the result of a specific incident. In the interim, patients needed lots of understanding and emotional support to get through the debilitating episodes. He was more than willing to provide that.

  The minutes seemed as long as hours while Sam waited for the medication to take the edge off Cara’s panic. All the while, he continued to stroke her hand, her forehead, comforting her as best he could.

  When at last the tension in her muscles began to ease and her breathing grew less arduous, she focused on him. Distress etched her features.

  “S-sorry about this.” Her voice was shaky and weak.

  He smoothed the hair back from her damp forehead. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Cara. Panic attacks can’t be controlled.”

  “I thought I was doing better. But that was one of the w-worst I’ve had.”

  Frowning, he cocooned one of her hands between his, noting the tremors that still ran through it. More from reaction than panic at this point, he deduced. Odd that she’d have one of her worst attacks this long after the shooting. Unless it had been triggered by something not obvious to him. “Do you have any idea what caused it?”

  “Yes. The smell of garlic. When the robber g-grabbed me, I could smell the garlic on his breath. I thought he was going to k-kill us both.” A sob escaped from her throat, and she covered her mouth with the knuckles of her free hand. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t p-part of our agreement, and—”

  “Cara,” he cut her off, his tone firm but gentle. “I want to help, if I can. You don’t need to apologize. And I’m the one who’s sorry. I wouldn’t have brought Italian food home if I’d known about the garlic.”

  “I should have mentioned it, I guess. But I didn’t know I was going to react like this. And now I’ve ruined your dinner.”

  Food was the last thing on his mind. “It’s not important. Why don’t you rest a while? We’ll eat later.” He stood and reached for an afghan at the bottom of the bed, pulling it over her.

  “Are you…will you be here?”

  The uncertain, little-girl voice coming from the woman he’d always thought of as strong and confident tugged at his heart. “I’m not going anywhere. Just call if you need me. I’ll be nearby.”

  And as Sam half closed the door behind him, he was more determined than ever to make that reassurance true not only for today, but for always.

  It smelled like Christmas.

  Two hours later, after an exhaustion-induced slumber, Cara paused on the threshold of her bedroom and sniffed the air, puzzled. The house was permeated by the scent of spruce, with a hint of bayberry thrown in for good measure. Her curiosity rising, she padded down the hall in her bare feet, grateful that on this trip her legs were far steadier than on the last. The deep sleep had restored her, and the only lingering effect from the panic attack was a pleasant one—the memory of Sam’s warm hand gripping hers, and the soothing sound of his voice as he talked her back from the terror.

  When Cara reached the end of the hall, she found the source of the holiday smells: a dozen scented candles, arrayed around the living room. The warm glow they created was comforting, but best of all they’d banished the odor of garlic. And now that she was closer to the kitchen, she caught a whiff of another aroma. It was soy-based—and appealing.

  More curious than ever, Cara approached the door to the kitchen, stopping in stunned disbelief to take in a scene she’d never before encountered.

  Sam was cooking.

  And judging by the disarray in the kitchen, he’d been at it a while. No one could create a mess of that magnitude in less than an hour.

  As if sensing her presence, Sam turned from scrutinizing an open book on the counter. After a quick assessment, the tension in his face eased. “You look better.”

  “But the kitchen doesn’t.”

  Caught off guard by her teasing tone, Sam smiled. “I’m breaking in a cookbook I bought a year ago. Are you casting aspersions on my inaugural culinary foray?” He continued the banter, keeping the mood lighthearted.

  “Not at all.” She strolled into the kitchen and surveyed the damage. “Although this could qualify as a national disaster area.”

  Once upon a time, they’d enjoyed repartee like this, he recalled. It felt good to experience it again. “Hey, this is going to be a meal you’ll never forget.” He gave the frying pan on the stove a shake.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He laughed outright, and Cara did, too—until he turned to her and their gazes connected. All at once her laughter faded.

  Uncomfortable with the sudden coziness of the scene, she shifted her attention to the table and moved away from him. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “It’s almost ready. You could fill the water glasses, if you like.”

  She went about the task in silence for a minute before she spoke again. “What happened to the Italian food?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Sam.”

  “You may be sorry I did when you try this.” He set plates of chicken stir-fry over rice on the table.

  “It looks good.” She took her place, venturing a glance his direction. “I appreciate the candles, too. I’m surprised you had something like that in the house.”

  “I found them in a closet when I moved in. Good thing I didn’t pitch them.” He sat, waiting for her to say her usual silent words of thanks.

  Tonight, however, she surprised him by giving voice to her prayer as she bowed her head. “Lord, we’re grateful to You for this meal. Help us always to recognize—and appreciate—Your many blessings. Thank you for friends and family who support us. Give us the courage and strength to persevere, and the wisdom to hear Your voice. And thank You for the small kindnesses we receive each day that brighten our lives. Amen.”

  As she draped her napkin on her lap, Cara knew that Sam was watching her. She sensed that her spoken prayer had surprised him, and that he was wondering about its meaning.

  If he was looking to her to provide an answer, however, he was out of luck. The prayer had surprised her, too. She hadn’t planned to speak it aloud, nor thought about its content. The words had come out of their own accord. Words that asked for guidance and expressed gratitude. Words that Sam could interpret with hope.

  And that wasn’t good. From their first phone conversation, Cara had suspected that Sam might view her visit as an opportunity to reestablish their relationship. She’d done her best to discourage him, tried to communicate that she wasn’t interested in reconciling.

  Because a reunion wasn’t in her plans.

  But considering the spontaneous prayer that had surprised both of them, she began to wonder if perhaps it was in God’s plan.

  Chapter Nine

  As the bell for the ten o’clock service tolled the following Sunday, Sam gave himself a critical scan in the mirror behind his door, trying to dispel his nervousness. Although he hadn’t stepped inside a church in years, he figured his khaki slacks, open-necked white shirt and navy-blue blazer would qualify as suitable attire. He was more worried about Cara’s reaction when he suggested they attend together.
r />   He wouldn’t have had the courage to propose it, except her attitude toward him had softened a bit since her panic attack on Wednesday night. Their conversations at dinner had been less stilted, and instead of disappearing outside to the porch swing every night with a book, she’d stayed in the air-conditioned living room…mere steps away from the kitchen table, where he often caught up on professional journals. Close enough for him to cast discreet looks at her throughout the evening.

  It hadn’t taken him long to conclude that he could get used to her sharing his evenings.

  To confirm that he wanted to get used to her sharing his evenings.

  That was one of the reasons he’d decided to go back to church. It was becoming clearer to him each day that convincing his wife to put down roots in Oak Hill would require more influence than he could wield. Perhaps, if he gave the Lord some attention, the favor would be returned. It wasn’t the most noble reason to go to church, he acknowledged, but at least he was honest about it.

  As he heard Cara’s door open, he was reminded of a second less-than-noble reason to attend church. It would give him another couple of hours in his wife’s company. Another couple of hours to demonstrate to her that he was a changed man. He hoped the Lord would forgive him for that ulterior motive, too.

  Summoning up his courage, he opened his door and stepped into the hall, greeting Cara with a tentative smile. “I thought I might join you today, if you don’t mind.”

  Taken aback by the suggestion, Cara stared at Sam. Churchgoing had never been high on her husband’s priority list. Why did he want to go now? To please her—or the Lord? But maybe it didn’t matter, she reflected. In the old days, he’d gone to church to please her, too. She’d never objected, always holding out the hope that at some point, he’d make the faith connection for himself.

  That had never happened. But a lot of things had changed since then. Perhaps now he’d be more receptive to the Lord’s voice. And if going to church together—for whatever reason—helped him find his way back to his faith, how could she object…even if it felt awkward?

  “Of course.”

  His smile relaxed a bit. “We can take my car.”

  A few minutes later, as they parked in the church lot and approached the entrance, Cara saw Marge standing by the front door. The older woman waved, and a pleased smile lit her face as they drew close.

  “Well, isn’t this nice!” she declared. “I was waiting for you, Cara, so you wouldn’t have to sit alone. I’m happy to see you took care of that problem yourself.”

  A flush warmed Cara’s neck. “It was Sam’s idea to come.”

  “Of course it was. Dr. Martin, good to see you.” Marge extended her hand, and when he took it she gave a hearty shake. “We’re happy to have you. I told Cara the other day that I’ve been trying to get you to join us ever since you arrived. I’m glad to see that something—” her meaningful gaze flitted to Cara for a brief instant, “—convinced you to give us a try.”

  Before Sam could reply, Marge ushered them inside. “Take a seat anywhere. And I hope you’ll stay for coffee afterward. I want to hear your latest thoughts on the restaurant idea, Cara. And the kitchen ladies have a couple of questions about the Fourth of July menu. I ordered the ingredients, and they’re all set to start cooking on Tuesday.”

  Aware that Sam had cast a curious glance her way, Cara focused on pew selection. She hadn’t mentioned either project to him, though she’d talked at length about them with Liz. Especially the restaurant idea. Her friend had urged her to get involved, backing up her reasoning with sound rationale—it would ease Cara back into the swing of working, take her mind off the trauma, get her creative juices flowing.

  As always, the give and take with Liz had helped Cara clarify her thinking. And after additional reflection and prayer, she’d decided to assist the innkeeper. She’d planned to tell her today during the coffee hour, but she hadn’t counted on Sam tagging along. Not that he’d stay for that, anyway. Social get-togethers weren’t his thing.

  Stopping at a pew about halfway down, Cara sent a questioning look toward Sam. When he nodded, she slipped inside.

  Seated beside him in the quiet space, Cara once again admired the simple structure of the church, classic in design, with tall, clear windows that ran the length of each side. Electric brass candelabras hung over a center aisle that ended at the raised sanctuary, but their light was a mere flicker compared to the glorious morning sun streaming in the windows. The peaceful setting did much to restore Cara’s calm, which had been shaken by Sam’s unexpected company. She needed to focus on the service, she told herself. She was here to worship, not to think about the man beside her. Yet his presence a whisper away was hard to ignore.

  Reverend Andrews’s sermon helped, however. The man had an engaging style, conversational but compelling. Today, his theme was “Let not your hearts be troubled,” and it was a message that resonated with Cara. In particular, the conclusion.

  “Of all the gospel writers, John most emphasized love,” the minister said. “And the placement of this reading is interesting—just preceding the Lord’s passion and death…mere hours before He would part from those who had loved Him, and who had believed in Him enough to leave everything behind to follow Him. It is His final instruction to them, which emphasizes its importance. And the message is clear. ‘Love one another as I have loved you. Put your trust in God, and in Me. Do not let your hearts be troubled, or be afraid.’

  “In spite of the clarity of the Lord’s message, His followers asked many questions that day. Until finally the Lord said, ‘Have I been so long a time with you, and you have not known Me?’ Imagine his frustration. He’d lived and worked with these people on a daily basis. Yet they still didn’t understand who He was or what He was about. And when He died, they felt betrayed.”

  Reverend Andrews rested his hand on the Bible. “Of course, there is a happy ending to this story. The Lord’s death wasn’t the end, but the beginning. And in the weeks and months that followed, graced by the Holy Spirit, His disciples understood that and their faith was restored.

  “But it isn’t always that simple for us, is it? Yes, the Spirit is alive in our midst, but not in the dramatic way it was with the early disciples. And in a world rife with broken promises and betrayal, it can be very hard to follow His commandment to love one another as He loved us. In the face of hurt, our hearts often become troubled, and we’re afraid.”

  The minister gazed out at the congregation, his expression kind. “John focused on love for a very good reason. It’s the basis of our faith. But love is an overused word in our society. Despite what the media might suggest, it’s not contingent on appearance or power or prestige. Nor is it as shallow as the unsustainable excitement of new romance. True love is the day in, day out getting along. It’s about sharing and sacrifice, about unselfishness and forgiveness. Not once, but over and over again.”

  Pausing, he rested his hands on the edges of the pulpit. “In our world today, we have no better example of this kind of love than a good marriage. But even in the best marriages, there are moments when husbands and wives can relate to the Lord’s question to Philip, ‘Have I been so long a time with you, and you have not known Me?’ Yet somehow, they persevere. With trust, and with faith, and with hope. Just as the Lord instructed us to do with Him.

  “Today, let us resolve to imitate that example and to live the instructions our Lord gave His followers the night before He died. Love one another, trust in God, and free our hearts from troubles and fears. Let us remember, too, that He loved His disciples to the end, despite their doubts and imperfections. And let us do our best to follow His example.”

  As Reverend Andrews left the pulpit and the organist struck up the introduction for “Amazing Grace,” the congregation stood. Sam’s sleeve brushed against her arm, and Cara wondered if he had been as moved by the minister’s sermon as she had been. On the pretense of checking the hymn number on the board near the front, she risked a sideways pee
k at him. He was focused on the sanctuary, a slight frown marring his brow. Then, as if sensing her discreet perusal, he suddenly angled his head toward her.

  Caught staring, she tried to avert her face as warmth crept up her neck. But his expression stopped her. An expression that was equal parts contrition, regret and yearning, compelling in its depth and intensity. There was almost a pleading in it, an entreaty, as clear as if he’d said the words. I’m sorry for everything. Please give me another chance.

  Cara didn’t know how to respond. Once upon a time, she and Sam had had the ingredients for the kind of marriage Reverend Andrews had held up as an example. But along the way, some of them had gone bad. And the marriage had fallen flat, like a soufflé that deflates when exposed to a sudden chill.

  That had always been one of Cara’s great sorrows. To her, marriage was forever. Till death do us part, according to the vows she and Sam had recited the day they were wed. That’s why she’d never sought a divorce.

  But she wasn’t sure their marriage was salvageable. Despite Sam’s actions, which had suggested in nonverbal ways that he’d like a chance to make amends and try again, and despite the Lord’s call to love, to trust, to forgive, there were a couple of major problems.

  She wasn’t sure she could forgive Sam’s betrayal. Nor could she seem to get past her fear. She’d trusted once and been betrayed. How could she be sure it wouldn’t happen again?

  Somehow, in the crush of people leaving the church after services, Marge managed to edge through the crowd and join Sam and Cara as they inched toward the door.

  “You two are coming for coffee, aren’t you?”