by Sally John
Jasmyn puffed out a breath.
Sam picked up her television and carried it to the far end of the counter, nearer the kitchen table. “I bet he’ll come to the party. I mean, the guy let you ride his motorcycle.” She plugged in the power cord. “Did I tell you about the time he let me use his T-shirt for a hankie?”
“What?”
Sam chuckled. “The day Liv had her heart attack. I lost it at the hospital, and he was standing right there when it happened. I’ve changed my mind about him. He’s an okay guy.” Her smile wavered. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind about a lot of people and things thanks to you.”
Jasmyn blinked to keep the tears from spilling. She changed the subject. “Is that where you usually keep your TV?”
“Yeah.” Sam sniffed. “Sometimes I watch the news while I eat.”
“I’m sorry I kept it for so long.”
“I’m not.” She tore off a few paper towels and handed some to Jasmyn. “Here. Unless you want to wait and use Keagan’s shirt.”
They laughed and cried and buried their faces in paper towels.
It was going to be a long two days.
Forty-Six
Early Sunday morning, Liv’s courtyard circuit stalled in front of Cottage Three. The aquamarine on its front door all but reached out and smacked her. Samantha had been right. The color had to go. Today.
She whispered, “Lord, have mercy.”
It was the easiest prayer in the universe, easier than saying thanks or admitting need or letting someone off the hook. Since the awful incident months and months ago, those words had been the only prayer she could come up with when passing it. Wasn’t it time for something different?
Of course she’d already prayed over the work to be done, for creativity and safety for those involved. She had prayed for the boy who had briefly lived in it. She had prayed for the perpetrators. May they all know God’s mercy.
But could it be time for the other prayers, the ones that opened her heart to usher someone new into the fold?
She waited, quiet for a moment.
Nothing came to her.
She shook her head. Nope. It was too soon. Or she was too old.
Or Jasmyn’s exit was too much to bear.
Oh, dear. She was not herself. Not herself at all.
“Wretched heart attack.”
She pulled keys from her pocket, unlocked the door, and entered.
The interior’s appearance had changed drastically, thanks to Beau. He had scrubbed down the walls and removed all the kitchen cabinet doors. There were white spots on the hardwood floors, as if he’d bleached them. He’d probably needed to use extreme measures.
Her heart, with its wretched damage, sank. The work was going to be far more involved than she had imagined. She felt overwhelmed.
“Liv.” Jasmyn stepped inside, her eyes wide in alarm. “Are you all right? You’re rubbing your chest.”
Liv glanced down at her hand and lowered it. “I don’t know why I do that. I’m fine. Just fine. Well, except for…” She gestured and sighed. “All this.”
Jasmyn grasped Liv’s hands between hers and held them tightly. “Liv, if this stresses you out, maybe you shouldn’t come in here. Let Beau work. You know he’s good. It’s wonderful you’re feeling up to taking charge again, but you don’t have to do it all.”
She took a shaky breath. “Growing old is for the birds.”
Jasmyn dropped her hands and gave her a quick hug. “Think of it as a vacation.”
“A permanent one?”
“You need some cheese and crackers to go with that whine.”
“Well, aren’t we the feisty one this morning?”
“Somebody has to do it.”
“Especially when someone else is having a moment?”
“Exactly.” She nudged Liv toward the door and they went outside. “I was wondering if I could go to church with you this morning.”
Liv turned to shut and lock the door, hiding what must be a dumbfounded expression. “I hadn’t planned on going.”
“I know. What’s up with that, anyway?”
Liv opened her mouth to speak but didn’t have a real reply, except for the standby that was probably becoming overused. She turned and said it anyway. “Heart attack?”
Jasmyn’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t voice what she was probably thinking, that Liv’s excuse for everything was indeed overused.
“Okay,” Jasmyn said. “I thought maybe you’d stopped talking to God.”
“Really? Goodness gracious, no. You do realize I think the Holy Presence is everywhere, not just in church.”
“I do, but you like your church, right? Don’t you feel well enough by now?”
“But I can’t drive yet.” Actually, the doctor had said she could, but the thought of possibly losing control behind the wheel frightened her to no end.
“Your friends offered to pick you up, Liv. Remember, I was there when you turned them down. Maybe it’s the control issue again. Or having a hard time asking for help.”
Jasmyn certainly was on a roll.
“The thing is, when I sat in that church on the reservation with Nova, I remembered that I liked going to Sunday school. I usually felt, I don’t know, quiet. Deep inside.”
Liv had heard the story about the small-town church in Valley Oaks and how Jasmyn’s grandmother had gotten her feelings hurt and quit going.
“This is my last day, you know.”
Liv shook her head. Several days ago she had announced it was best if she played ostrich and buried her head in the sand. “We are not to talk of that.”
“That was your idea. I decided I’d rather not pretend. I’d rather embrace the moment. So, what do you say? Are you up for it?”
“Oh, Jasmyn, dear. I just don’t want you to be disappointed. We’re all so old at Seaside Village Grace. You might like Noah’s church better. It’s full of young people and they sing contemporary music. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to…”
Jasmyn’s face fell, literally. Liv had no idea such sadness could be expressed in the slight shift of skin.
Fiddlesticks! What on earth was she thinking? This surrogate daughter whom Liv had begged for stood right there before her, graciously putting the kibosh on a silly woman’s whining, asking to take that woman to church and not wanting to miss their final hours together.
This is sheer love, Liv. Why can’t you accept it?
At the blast of clarity, she nearly plopped down into the aquamarine chair in front of the aquamarine door.
Instead, she straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “I have missed church. By the way, I always swing by the donut shop and pick up a couple dozen glazed—”
“Olivia McAlister.” Jasmyn smiled. “That is not going to happen. I’m sure everyone will be happy to see you even without donuts.”
Forty-Seven
Everyone at Seaside Village Grace Church was indeed happy to see Liv. Jasmyn doubted they missed her donuts one iota. The table—set up for coffee hour on a covered patio between the church and the parking lot—nearly sagged under Danish rolls and whatnot.
Jasmyn stood off to the side, munching the gooiest pumpkin bar she’d ever had. She watched people shower Liv with attention and gave up on separating her friend from the sugar-and-fat-laden goodie someone had handed her and was now making its way toward Liv’s mouth.
Jasmyn’s hovering stage had to end at some point. Unlike Jasmyn’s mother and grandparents, Liv was getting better. Reminding her she had been ill would only reinforce the struggle she’d had earlier that morning about being old.
Whatever old was, it hadn’t shown up yet among the mainly white- and silver-haired folks surrounding Liv. Their laughter and energy obviously affected Liv in a good way. The extra crease in her forehead had disappeared.
Jasmyn’s phone beeped softly, a text alert. Oops. She’d forgotten to turn it off. No one stood nearby, so she reached inside her shoulder bag, expecting to see a note from Quinn.
She palmed the phone and angled it so the screen faced up.
Keagan? The text was from Keagan?
His name and number were in her phone because she had entered all the Casa folks’ information, a necessity while filling in for Liv. Evidently her number was in his phone as well, maybe from when she had texted him—and everyone—about the potluck.
She rubbed her throat, pulled out the phone, and read the message. How was church?
How was church? How did he even know they’d gone to church?
The guy certainly had a knack for knowing, and he seemed to have an angel’s way about him when it came to Liv’s well-being. Being concerned about her going to church was a little over-the-top. Jasmyn needn’t worry that no one would hover after she left. Keagan fit the bill.
She popped the last sweet bite into her mouth, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and typed a reply. No worries. Liv is happy here.
Before she could tuck the phone away, another text appeared.
Meant for you.
For her? How was church for her? Is that what he meant?
Now why would he ask that? Why would the thought even cross his mind to text her when they were neighbors and likely to see each other later that day?
She tapped out Just fine, sent it, turned off the phone, and shoved it deep into her bag.
Technology was just plain intrusive. To be able to instantaneously read Keagan’s thoughts felt too…well, it made her feel as if they were close friends. Really close friends. Like Quinn.
But not exactly. More like friends who had crushes on each other.
“Are you okay, dear?” Liv came into focus, her face beaming like the sun.
“Uh, yeah. Keagan texted and…um, nothing. He just wondered how church went.”
“Hmm. He can be an oddball at times, can’t he?”
“A little.”
Liv laughed.
Jasmyn suspected that Liv knew that Jasmyn’s throat tickled. That she somehow knew Jasmyn felt…what was the word? Discombobulated. As though she were a water balloon that went splat because six words zipped through space and time and announced that Keagan was thinking about her.
“Jasmyn, dear, I’m ready to go if you are. Thank you for talking me into coming. What a glorious morning!”
A smile sprang to Jasmyn’s lips. Liv was a gem. As Keagan had told her on that very first day when they met, she was the real deal.
And her church was the real deal. It hadn’t been just fine for Jasmyn. It had been glorious. The deep quiet she’d longed for had found her there as it had found her out in the desert church. It tiptoed into her heart as she sang and recited and listened to a humble pastor talk simply of God’s unconditional love and acceptance.
For Jasmyn, that finished everything. At last she felt really and truly ready to leave Seaside Village. It was time to take this new reality back to her old life.
Forty-Eight
Sam’s kitchen table was small and rectangular in shape. An oak border surrounded four rows of white ceramic tiles. She kept two chairs at its long sides, pushed in.
The table occupied the space at the far end of the kitchen in front of the French doors that led out to the patio, as did most of the kitchen tables in Casa cottages.
In the center of the table sat her cell phone. She didn’t do centerpieces or place mats. The phone was the only object on the table.
She walked around the table again and again, taking deep breaths, looking at the phone.
Anyone peeking through the window would think her behavior bizarre. But for her it was protocol, her method for preparing herself, each and every time, to make the Phone Call.
Which, given the necessary expended energy, explained why she did not make the Phone Call very often.
Sam glanced around her old-fashioned beach cottage. She liked her home. It was one of four Casa bungalows that had two bedrooms rather than only one. The layouts were basically the same with the living room across the front, the kitchen down one side, a short hallway at the other side that bedrooms and bath opened onto.
Cottage Seven had the yellow door, or, as Liv put it, goldenrod. Bright and glowing, sunrise and sunset and moonlight combined.
Before moving into Seven, Sam had never known such peace. College housing had been a blur of dorms and cheap apartments and, at times, strange roommates. Before that, a small, nondescript house where by age eleven she was sharing her bedroom with three little brothers.
That had not been unbearable. Most days she had the wilderness as her very own space for being alone, for running, for listening to the music of the wind as it whistled through the canyons. Her stepfather provided food, shelter, and a television. Clothes, books, art, and music did not enter into the equation. She once told her high school English teacher that the poverty did not impact her because every student in her school lived in it. The teacher politely disagreed.
Sam wondered if the woman had been right. She was frugal to a fault—no, she was a tightwad. The thought of losing her job caused her to hyperventilate. One reason she continued to live at the Casa was because Liv kept the rent crazy cheap. As long as she had her job, Sam could afford to live in a sleek new condo with ocean views.
From the looks of her cottage, sleek and new were not exactly her style. Except for her bed and some lamps, the sparse, basic furnishings had come from thrift shops, the same ones she had shopped yesterday with Jasmyn and Chad.
Hanging with Jasmyn was bad for Sam’s health. There had to be a direct correlation between spending the day with her and this notion to make the Phone Call weeks ahead of schedule.
On second thought, the link wouldn’t be all that direct. With Jasmyn Albright there were no straight lines, only labyrinths. Paths led inexplicably to situations Sam had no intention of joining…and yet she did.
Another person tagging along with her for a run? For a ride to the desert when she was working? A shared pizza in her cottage? A dinner at a restaurant with other Casa Detainees to celebrate her achievement? Shopping when she didn’t need a thing and buying a useless magnet? Wondering if a pest was, instead, a flirt?
Making the Phone Call before the allotted time had passed?
Why?
Sam liked Jasmyn very much. She had never met a kinder, gentler, more naive woman. The syrupy notes in her voice had all but faded from Sam’s hearing, replaced by a genuine sweetness, honey that rendered Sam’s gruff bear persona into a version of Winnie the Pooh.
Jasmyn’s infatuation yesterday with that old desk touched something inside Sam. Touched? More like it sparked a bolt of lightning, sent it zigzagging through her, head to toe, toe to head, searing open a locked closet of her heart. The subsequent clap of thunder shattered the door, guaranteeing that closing it again would require monumental effort.
More effort than it took to make the Phone Call.
Sam pulled out a chair, sat, picked up the cell, and punched in a number she’d known since childhood. She’d never felt the need to enter it into her contact list.
“Hello?” The familiar squawk resembled that of a pheasant, minus the image of colorful feathers that might soften the sharp edges of such a voice.
“Mom. Hi. It’s me.”
“Who’s ‘me’?” Rosie Chee’s laugh was an elongation of the squawk. “Hmm. She said ‘Mom.’ I guess it must be that no-good, long-lost daughter of mine.”
Love you too, Mom. “How are you?”
“Peachy. Why are you calling?”
“I’m fine too.” She ignored the why question, determined to go through the motions. “How are the boys?” She referred to her three half brothers, now in their twenties, still the apples of her mother’s eyes, still the boys.
“They’re right as rain. Guess what? Mike’s going to college next year.”
“Really?” Sam shouldn’t be surprised at anything concerning the boys, but she continually was. They were a goofy mix of loser and not-so-bad.
“Really. You oughta’ talk to him about that school you went to
.”
In your dreams. “Sure.” Sam rubbed her forehead. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked with one of the boys, but being nasty led nowhere fast. “Give him my number. So, anyway, I’m calling because—” A lump closed up her throat.
Good grief.
“Because what?”
Sam coughed away the lump. “I was just wondering about Dad’s mom.”
“Why on earth— That old windbag?”
As far back as Sam could remember, her grandmother Hannah had been that old windbag. She died when Sam was two, at the age of sixty-two, hardly old.
Rosie went on. “I always gave it to you straight. She never accepted me. It was like her son had nothing to do with getting me knocked up. Takes two to tango, honey.”
“I know all that.” Get over it already. “And I know that if you weren’t pregnant with me, you never would have married Dad.”
“That’s true. He sure was good looking, but he was one big pain in the neck. Always acting high and mighty, like he was God’s gift to those high school kids he taught, just like her. What do you want to know, anyway?”
“Where was Hannah Carlson born?”
“Up north.”
Again, something she already knew. “But where exactly? What state? What city?”
Rosie’s exhale could have started up a dust storm. “Why are you asking all of this stuff out of the blue?”
Not out of the blue. Out of a day spent with Jasmyn in the desert, listening to her tales of family and heritage and ties that bless and bind and curse…of a man and a woman who perhaps got together for one reason only: for Samantha Whitehorse, aka Whitley, to be born.
“I just got curious. I vaguely remember your mom, but not Dad’s.” Dad’s. When had she stopped referring to him in her mind as Daddy? He had been Daddy to her when he died. How had she outgrown someone’s name while that someone never grew older with her?
“Illinois. The windbag came from Illinois. Like some hippie, way back before there was such a thing. Gonna save the Indians. She was just a wacko poking her nose in where she had no business.”
