Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2)

by Jennifer Rodewald

  “I have something for my bride.” He pushed up from the frame and stepped so that she could see the bed they’d share.

  On the comforter, a small gift bag waited, the white tissue paper tugged decoratively and exposed.

  Just the right size for a teddy. Heat coiled in her stomach, and the muscles in her shoulders tightened. She pushed against the anxiety. Lingerie was a perfectly legitimate gift for a husband to give his wife. She shouldn’t feel…disappointed. Swallowing hard, she stepped toward the waiting gift. But when she tugged it toward herself, it drug too heavy for a slip of sexy fabric. Confused and curious, she pulled away the tissue paper.

  A Bible. Brock had bought her a small Bible for their wedding night?

  His hand slipped around her waist, and he secured her against himself. “I didn’t imagine me and you, and I didn’t expect this marriage, Sherbert, but I can’t tell you how happy I am. I wish I could be more—that all the things that you’re dealing with I could just take away. But I’m just a man.” He turned her and tipped her chin upward to his face. “My mom said something to me at E’s wedding, when she knew that my heart was already gone. She said not to forget whose armor I wear.”

  When he paused again, he took both her hands and stood just as he had when they’d spoken their vows. “I know this for sure, love. If you and I are going to make it, we need an anchor.”

  She followed his glance back to the bed, to where the Bible still lay. Relief and humility drained every misgiving from her body, and she sagged against this man she’d somehow managed to marry.

  Truly, he wasn’t like any of the others.

  I’m not sure who I am.

  Am I the cold creature, numb to emotion and life, that I’ve been for the past decade?

  No. The ice has shattered, and I am left exposed.

  What now?

  A wife? Yes. But it didn’t fix the ache. Not like I’d hoped.

  My knight is just a man. Good, but just a man. He cannot give me life.

  I long for music, for laughter, for warmth.

  Do I dare seek them? How?

  ~30~

  The honeymoon was over. Time to face reality. She preferred the fairy tale.

  Cheryl clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms, as she stood outside the lodge door. Today. She’d reenter her life of restitution today. With a little girl Brock called So-J, a little girl he clearly adored.

  A little girl who seemed a lot like her. Locked up for some unseen reason, only letting the world see the hard, sharp edges. Porcupines raised their quills for a reason—for protection. Brock had enough compassion and wisdom to know that, and she loved him for it. Now, to take both that love and that knowledge into the room beyond the door.

  God, please don’t let it hurt too much…

  The prayerful thought slipped through before she could filter it. Who was she to ask for something not to hurt? She deserved the pain. And this was restitution, after all.

  One last lungful of air, and Cheryl pushed through the door. A tight bundle of aggression in the form of a dark-eyed, dark-haired ten-year-old girl glared at her from the piano bench.

  “I ain’t here because I want to,” she spat, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

  “Good to know.” Cheryl wasn’t necessarily either. Although, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. She crossed the space between them and sat on the bench.

  “Can’t you get your own chair?”

  “I could.” She sat, eyebrow raised. “We’ll see if you can convince me.”

  So-J scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She had sass down to a fine art, complete with a defiant look, hard, threatening voice, and ramrod posture. That took practice.

  Cheryl’s shoulders tensed, and the spot at the base of her head began to knot. “I’m a lawyer. Did you know that?”

  “What are you doing here then?”

  “I married Brock.”

  “And I figure in how?”

  “Not in that equation.” Kind of a lie. Sorry, God. “But he mentioned that you seemed to like the piano, and I know how to play. Here we be.”

  “Yeah. And you’re still in my space.”

  “Hmm. Keep trying.” Cheryl cocked her head, partly in an attempt to cut off the knot tying in her neck, and partly to look at the little mouthy kid. “Here’s the thing, So-J. I’ve learned that to get what I want, I need to know how to make people see things my way. With my words.”

  “So what?”

  Cheryl hiked one eyebrow. A hint of understanding flickered in So-J’s eyes before the girl had a chance to mask it with cold anger. Aha. They were communicating. Cheryl thought about the quick run-through of tips Brock had given her the night before.

  They need to learn how to think rather than to just react. How to communicate their needs with words. Most kids her age have been taught this skill through modeling and appropriate correction. So-J hasn’t, so she’s operating on the only survival mechanism she knows: fight. She also doesn’t trust women, so limit contact physically. She’s a tough kid, and she’ll take a swing at you if she feels threatened.

  Probably should have paid closer attention to that last bit and should have chosen a different place to sit in the first place. However, this was where they were, and maybe a place to start. Careful to maintain a thread of distance between her and So-J, Cheryl lifted up a silent prayer. Please don’t let her explode. A strained silence lengthened between them in the otherwise abandoned room. Cheryl fought the urge to bite her lip, putting on her courtroom face as she waited. It was highly possible the kid would downshift to that fight mode Brock warned her about. But he was just in the next room. He’d know what to do…

  “Please move.”

  Though mumbled, Cheryl understood So-J’s words, and fought the urge to smile. “Good job. Almost got it. Now look me in the eye and say it again, and I’d be happy to.”

  So-J’s voice stabbed the air. “Why?”

  Oh, Cheryl was definitely pushing the limit… “Because then I know that you respect both me and yourself enough to make eye contact, and I will be sure to understand exactly what you need.”

  So-J stared at her, her eyebrows drawn together. She made a show of widening her eyes, keeping them focused on Cheryl’s face. “Please. Move.”

  Not really respectful, but it’d work for now.

  “You got it.” Cheryl stood, and as she turned to grab a chair from the table behind her, she caught Brock sandwiched in the kitchen doorway. He lifted half a smile and winked.

  Guess that meant she was doing okay. She smothered a sigh.

  “Okay… Wait.” Cheryl sat in the chair she’d just positioned by the piano. “Do I call you Sonja or So-J?”

  The girl’s mouth pushed to the side as she gave a not-so-friendly look. “I’ll tell you when we’re done here.”

  “Fair enough. How about you show me what you know?”

  “I have a better idea—”

  Cheryl leaned forward. “Eyes.”

  So-J turned her head and gave her that exaggerated wide-eyed look. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

  “True. I’m sorry. What’s your idea?”

  With a lift of her chin, she maintained eye contact. “You’re the one s’posed to know everything. How ’bouts you prove it?”

  “You want me to play for you?”

  “Boom.”

  “Not convinced. Try again.”

  “Are we doing piano lessons or manners school here?”

  Smart kid.

  “Depends on the need. Did you want something?”

  Wide, owl eyes set on her again. “Would you please show me how you play?”

  Still ever so sassy. Baby steps.

  Cheryl rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore how stiff they’d become. “Sure.” She stood and snagged the music book Brock had bought for her, handing it to So-J. “What shall I play?”

  Oh no. Shouldn’t have asked. Anything but the Sabrina song…

  So-J
stared at the book without taking it and shrugged. “Whatevs.”

  Slowly exhaling the bundled breath she’d held, Cheryl nodded. “May I sit on the bench, please?” Kind of like talking to a judge. Funny.

  The girl slid off her seat, and with an exaggerated gesture of her hands, she offered the bench.

  “Thanks. Okay, since you don’t want to pick, I’ll play my favorite.” The “Feather Theme” it was. She began with the bass clef solo, and by the time her right hand joined her left in the song, Cheryl was able to breathe normally, and some of the tension left her neck. She’d been practicing since that first day Brock had heard her play. The notes didn’t stumble—they sounded like music. Like joy. By the time the final chord came off her fingers, Cheryl felt a small piece of her old self flicker.

  In the silent moment following, a breath of healing touched her heart.

  “Almost convinced.” So-J mocked Cheryl’s earlier words. “One more. I’ll pick.”

  And that breath vanished. Please not the Sabrina song…

  So-J snagged the music book off the piano and flipped through the pages. “These must be oooold.” She continued thumbing.

  Cheryl’s chest tightened, and her head throbbed. Please…

  “This one.” So-J set the music in front of Cheryl.

  Her heart lurched, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A high-pitched squeal pierced her ears. Why?

  “Hey.” So-J’s voice came through the ringing. “I thought we had a deal?”

  “We did.” Cheryl opened her eyes, focusing them on “Theme from Sabrina,” and then nodded. The music in front of her blurred. She blinked, cracked the knuckles on her right hand, and then touched the rough keys with her trembling fingers.

  It’s just a song…

  Her hands moved as she concentrated on the notes, trying desperately not to hear the song she played. She didn’t make it through the fourth measure.

  Brock had been right. This was too hard.

  ~*~

  She hadn’t played that song before. Brock knew, because just like he had back in high school, he hovered near whenever she played.

  Something had gone south fast, and it wasn’t because of So-J. Cheryl winced as she focused on the notes in front of her, her fingers stumbling over the chords. Her chin quivered enough for him to notice from the kitchen door, and her hands abruptly fell away from the keys. In the next heartbeat, she was on her feet and hustling toward the exit.

  Brock waited until she pushed through the opposite door and then wandered into the dining hall toward the piano.

  “Dude, I swear I didn’t—”

  “I know, So-J.” He rubbed a palm over the back of his neck and sighed. “Did she say anything?”

  “No.” So-J’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Brock studied the girl who had so easily gained his heart with her calloused wounds. His mother’s words at Ethan’s wedding replayed in his head. God has given you such a tender heart toward those who ache… Just remember whose armor you wear.

  Didn’t seem like he wore any armor, because his heart felt run-through. Sometimes, though, you had to take a deep look at the pain before you could begin to grasp it. You had to let the hurt of another shatter your heart before you could learn compassion.

  And then…

  Then maybe he could walk a path of healing alongside those he loved.

  “Mr. Brock?”

  His attention, which had wandered toward a window, returned to So-J. He connected with her dark eyes, wide with real concern. He could keep it simple, and she’d understand. “You know how there are things in your past you wish you could forget?”

  So-J’s face pinched, and she looked at her lap. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Lots of things.”

  After a few steps that brought him next to her, he rested his palm on the curve of her head. “Cheryl’s got some too.”

  A loaded silence fell between them, and Brock let his hand slide over her hair and then to his side.

  “Will she get better?”

  That wasn’t the question Sonja really wanted to ask—Brock could tell by the desperation edging the girl’s voice. What she wanted to know was would they get better.

  God, please…

  He blinked against the burn in his eyes. Answers didn’t come, and he wasn’t going to lie. Instead, he squeezed the shoulder closest to him, and when Sonja looked up, the look they shared was like a bond for life.

  “This is a good place, Mr. Brock, especially for people like us.”

  People like So-J and Cheryl. The broken, the rejected, the hopeless.

  Not hopeless.

  Cheryl was here, and she’d volunteered to teach piano to a child she couldn’t even look at a few weeks before. So-J was sitting there, suddenly more open hearted and compassionate than he’d seen from her yet.

  Definite signs of hope. He just had to look for them.

  ~*~

  Cheryl sat on the bench in the sun, the slick wrap of the paperback book cool against her palms.

  Why had that woman on the plane given it to her? How did she know? Cheryl had sat by dozens of people on as many planes. Never once had a stranger nailed her for what she was.

  Post abortive. That’s what the book called it. The minor chords of the music she’d just attempted to play strung together in her mind, the music fluid, vivid, and painful.

  God, I don’t want to remember…

  But she must. Something strong and insistent inside her declared it to be so.

  Why?

  There is a time to mourn…

  Wasn’t that a song? No, it was in the Bible. A time to laugh and a time to mourn.

  It had happened ten years ago. Why must she shatter over it now? She’d told Brock—her greatest fear—and he’d come back for her. Loved her, married her. That should mean that life could move forward, shouldn’t it?

  Footfalls sounded with a dull thump against the decking around the front of the house. Cheryl turned the book over between her hands, wondering what Brock would think about her having it.

  Shouldn’t be a question. He’d wanted her to seek some kind of help. Group. Counseling. Something. She hadn’t seen the point. It was done. Nothing could change it.

  But this book said that she could heal. Offered hope…a hope she was too terrified to really grip. As the footsteps came nearer, she tucked the paperback under her thigh. Just not now. Maybe not ever.

  “Hey, love.” Rounding the corner of the house, Brock closed the three feet between himself and the bench where she sat and lowered himself to her side. He traced the outline of one side of her face with his thumb and then leaned back, relaxing against their shared seat.

  Cheryl hesitated a moment before she let her head rest against his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  He pressed a kiss into her hair and then wrapped an arm around her. “I’m not angry, and neither is So-J. You did really well with her. If anyone understands the impulse to run, it’s her. Trust me—she gets it.”

  Fear twisted in her chest. “Did you tell her?”

  “Only that you had things you wish you could forget. Like I said, she gets it. Probably just gained her trust more than anything else.”

  Cheryl squeezed her eyes shut and buried against him. “Why can’t I forget?” Such a ludicrous question. As if she had any right to.

  Brock didn’t respond. The tips of his fingers trailed along the length of her arm, and the rise and fall of his steady breathing moved gently against her cheek, but beyond that he remained still.

  In the silence, the music she’d tried to escape began drifting through her mind. It hinted mystery and brokenness, and yet, oddly enough, beauty. She’d loved that song, second only to the “Feather Theme.” It had reminded her of her mom—a woman she’d not been able to understand but had admired with her whole heart. Mom had been strong and beautiful. Kind and firm. Gracious and determined. The harmony of the life Mom had lived seemed uniquely beautiful in Cheryl’s memory, and through the ye
ars Cheryl had ached to know that beauty. To be that beauty.

  All through high school, she’d resented that Mom wasn’t there to teach her, to show her how to be brave and strong and fun all at once. She’d had to figure life out on her own, and she’d failed. Longing for someone to notice her, to love her, she’d found herself in the arms of a man who knew neither faithfulness nor love.

  All beauty shattered.

  And yet, here she sat, held by another man. One who, though she hadn’t seen it exactly before, embodied all that she’d adored in her mom. Courage, kindness, joy.

  Brock was bringing the beauty back into her life.

  God, I don’t deserve it…

  Brock’s hushed voice interrupted her silent musings. “Have you read Psalm 107?”

  The Bible he’d given her still lay largely untouched.

  “No.”

  “I’ve been poring over it. I think you should.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s about redemption. God coming for His people.”

  His people. The clean ones. The perfect ones—or at least the forgivable ones. Her chin fell toward her chest. “People worth coming for.”

  Brock’s chuckle bounced under her head. “Not really. Rebellious, stubborn people who exchanged freedom for bondage.”

  That wasn’t in there, was it?

  “Here’s what keeps resurfacing in my mind.” Brock rested his chin on her head. “Let them give thanks to the LORD for His lovingkindness… For He has shattered gates of bronze and cut bars of iron asunder.”

  A bubble of hope grew in her chest, and this time she couldn’t pop it.

  “When I started to get really good on the board, back about my junior year in high school—do you remember?” He paused. She nodded against him. “My dad said something that I couldn’t shake. He said, ‘Slavery doesn’t always look ugly from the outside.’ Man, I was so mad at him. I thought, Dude, God made me good at racing, and I’m gonna use it.

  “I was the one who didn’t get it. God’s gifts are supposed to be used, but for His glory, not mine. I got caught, you know? Like there came a point when I knew I wasn’t okay, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. I’d surrendered to bondage.”