by Sheila Walsh
ACCLAIM FOR SHEILA WALSH AND
CINDY MARTINUSEN COLOMA
“Rich with symbolism and picturesque Texas landscape, Song of the Brokenhearted is a reminder that our plan for our life is often not in sync with God’s. Readers will enjoy walking alongside Ava on her journey of self-discovery. Sometimes in the most broken places of life comes true transformation, setting us on the path that can only be seen through God’s eyes. Highly recommended.”
—BETH WISEMAN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF NEED YOU
NOW AND THE LAND OF CANAAN SERIES
“Lessons in grace abound in this heart-tugging story of broken pasts and futures filled with unexpected hope. In Ava’s struggle to trust and in her eventual triumph, many readers will find pieces of their own stories.”
—LISA WINGATE, NATIONAL BESTSELLING AND AWARD-WINNING
AUTHOR OF DANDELION SUMMER AND BLUE MOON BAY
“This heartwarming tale comes from a talented duo. Cindy’s gift of lush storytelling is an ideal match for Sheila’s lovely insights into enduring relationships. Sweet Sanctuary beautifully portrays the complexities of a mother’s heart.”
—ROBIN JONES GUNN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE SISTERCHICKS’ NOVELS
“As a child I assumed that some families (not mine) were perfect. Eventually I grew up and figured out how wrong I was. That’s probably why I appreciate Sweet Sanctuary. Peeling back layers of heartbreaks and secrets, Wren struggles to understand her family’s old wounds and how they impact her own life . . . an important story of forgiveness, healing and hope.”
—MELODY CARLSON, AUTHOR OF HERE’S TO FRIENDS AND RIVER’S SONG
Other Novels by
Sheila Walsh
Angel Song with Kathryn Cushman
Sweet Sanctuary with Cindy Martinusen Coloma
Other Novels by
Cindy Martinusen Coloma
Eventide
The Salt Garden
Orchid House
YOUNG ADULT NOVELS
Ruby Unscripted
Beautiful
Caleb + Kate
Song
OF THE
BROKENHEARTED
SHEILA WALSH
AND
CINDY MARTINUSEN COLOMA
© 2012 by Sheila Walsh and Cindy Martinusen Coloma
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are taken from The Living Bible. © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
Publishers Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Walsh, Sheila, 1956-
Song of the brokenhearted / Sheila Walsh and Cindy Martinusen Coloma.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59554-687-6 (trade paper)
1. Life change events--Fiction. I. Coloma, Cindy, 1970- II. Title.
PS3623.A36615S56 2012
813’.6--dc23
2012017522
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 QG 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to those like me who thought our lives were over only to discover that when we offer our brokenness to God, we have only just begun.
—Sheila
To Jenna Jane Benton—for your frendship, inspiration, and creativity that never fails to amaze me. And for making me pray out loud, often.
—Cindy
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Reading Group Guide
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
One
“YOU NEED TO WAKE UP,” AVA TOLD HERSELF AS SHE GRIPPED THE steering wheel between quick gulps of the coffee she’d grabbed at an all-night gas station.
She turned onto Walnut Street and the directions to the Gibson residence became unnecessary. Her destination was obvious by the cars parked at awkward angles around the two-story stucco house.
Tonight was not the night for casseroles, sympathy cards, or flowers. That would come tomorrow, and in the days that followed. This was the time to arrive empty-handed and with as few words as possible.
She rose from her car into a warm autumn night, pausing to watch gray puffs of clouds drift across the nearly full moon. The moment gave her the strength to go toward the front door and to become the helpful stranger in a house of deep grief.
A bouquet of silver balloons hung unmoving from the lamppost at the end of the walkway. Jars lit by candles lined the path to the house; most had already burned themselves out. A large banner hung over the front door: Congratulations, Joshua and Jessica!
Ava wondered if she should suggest taking down the reminder that hours earlier this had been a house of celebration and joy. Perhaps she could do it herself a little later.
An older man answered her knock wearing rumpled clothing and a deep frown drawn in the corners of his mouth.
“Are you a friend of the family?” he said, studying her in her designer jeans and beige sweater.
“No, I’m Ava. Hannah called and asked me to come.”
His frown softened slightly. “Come in. We had the media stop by already. Sharks. I don’t know how they heard so fast. Most of the family is in the formal living room. I’m their neighbor across the street there. I’ve known Jessica since she was nine . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry. It’s very painful.”
“It is,” he muttered.
Ava followed the man beyond the foyer and sweeping staircase and toward a silent gathering of people who stood at different places around the room. A half-eaten cake rested on the table.
“Hannah? This lady said you called her.”
The woman from her Bible study stared at Ava a moment, then recognition dawned on her face. She rose quickly from the chair.
“Ava. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” she said. As they embraced, Ava felt the woman lean heavily against her. For a moment, she feared Hannah would collapse.
“She was my only niece,
and more like a daughter to me,” Hannah said within the sobs that shook her. “Such a beautiful girl, and such a lovely heart. They were so happy . . . How can they be gone, just like that?”
Ava offered no answers as she held the middle-aged woman while she cried. Ava felt the pain echo in her own heart. Though she often was around tragedies since starting the ministry at church, Ava had yet to become desensitized to the grief.
“I can’t believe you came out this late at night,” Hannah said, wiping the tears from her face. “I’d heard you talk about the Broken Hearts, but I had no idea . . . Do you come out in the night like this all the time? Your husband must hate it.”
“It’s not just me. Our team takes turns being on call. But nighttime seems to be when most people need help,” Ava said, picking up several of the tissues that Hannah dropped on the floor. “Is there anything specific you need right now?”
“I don’t know.” Hannah stared at her with a blank look as many did when Ava asked the question. Still, she asked instead of taking over—that, too, would come later.
“My sister is upstairs, but she wanted to be alone. Joe, my brother-in-law, was trying to drive to the . . . the site.”
“Oh no,” Ava muttered. On the drive into Fort Worth, Ava had passed the remains of the wreck along a lonely stretch of highway. Red flares dotted the road, dividing drivers from the tragedy strewn in broken glass and bits of metal across the asphalt, off the shoulder, and into the darkened farmland.
Ambulances were gone, and a tow truck was loading a mangled twist of metal that had once been the car of this newly engaged couple who believed their entire lives stretched before them.
Ava shuddered to think if it were Sienna and Preston. Her daughter and fiancé had celebrated their engagement over the summer. Nothing would comfort these parents tonight or for many nights to come. Such a loss was unfathomable, and Ava’s heart felt a physical ache for this family who was planning a wedding several hours earlier, but now would begin planning two funerals.
“Seems someone stopped him from going. But I don’t know where he is.”
Ava placed her hand on Hannah’s shoulder.
“Well, I’m available for whatever you need. The team has helped make funeral arrangements, we can organize food, and we’ve started memorial funds in some cases. We can do a little or a lot, just let me know what’s needed.”
The woman cried again. “Thank you. I can’t believe we’re talking about this. Their engagement announcement was just five hours ago. It doesn’t seem possible that they’re both . . . gone.”
“Hannah,” a voice called.
Hannah hurried toward the entry and looked up the oak stairway.
“She’s asking for you,” a woman said, peering down from the top.
Hannah glanced at Ava as if asking permission.
“I’ll be down here if you need me, or you can call me in the morning. Try to help her rest for now.”
Hannah nodded and headed up the staircase with her jaw clenched and eyebrows rumpled.
Ava had an awkward moment of not knowing what to do with herself. Her eyes swept the rooms that veined off on both sides of the foyer. She moved quietly to pick up cups, plates, and half-empty champagne glasses left over from the engagement party. She found the kitchen still disheveled and set to work. It was obvious the people living here usually kept the house neat and tidy. Having the house clean might not be noticed tomorrow as shock slowly wore off, but a messy one would certainly add to the stress.
After cleaning as much as she could, Ava made coffee and set out mugs beside the cream and sugar on the long tile bar. A few people came in here and there, though none spoke to her. Some took cups of coffee with mumbled thank-yous.
As Ava swept the dining area, she saw a small face under the table staring up at her. She jumped in surprise, then bent down to meet the dark eyes staring back at her.
“Hello. What are you doing down there?” she said gently despite the racing in her chest. A child beneath a kitchen table—it touched a memory she’d tried to bury long ago. “Come here, sweetie. I won’t hurt you.”
The girl didn’t move toward her, but she also didn’t move away as Ava knelt on the floor and inched toward her.
“How long have you been there? Would you like something to drink or eat?”
The girl nodded. Ava reached for the little hands clenched around her knees. Finally she coaxed the child out.
The girl wrapped her arms around Ava’s neck as she picked her up. Ava guessed she was about five years old, close to the age she’d been on a night when her childhood home had been the hub of a tragic gathering. No one had seen her hiding beneath a table as people talked about her mother’s death.
“Oh no, I thought she was asleep,” a woman said, flying toward the child. Ava handed her over, but the girl’s dark eyes stared after Ava.
“Thank you,” Hannah said, standing in the doorway with her hands hanging from her sides as if too heavy to do more than dangle there.
“I think she’s thirsty or hungry,” Ava said, scooping up the last of the dirt beside the table. She dumped it in the trash and returned the broom and dustpan to the pantry.
“Little Grace adored her Uncle Josh,” Hannah said, sitting on a bar stool. She played with the rim of a coffee mug. “My sister isn’t doing well.”
Ava turned on the dishwasher and joined her at the bar.
“She won’t for a long time. I’m sure none of you will. Would you like to pray?”
Hannah nodded. Ava took her hands and prayed quietly. When she finished, she opened her eyes to find Hannah gazing at her.
“Thank you for being here.”
Ava paused after closing the front door. She stood on a patio chair and pulled down the banner over the door, then folded it up. She’d give it to Hannah at the right moment.
Two
THE NEXT MORNING, AS AVA WHIPPED EGGS IN A BOWL FOR BAKED French toast casserole, she caught something amiss in the green of the backyard through the kitchen window.
It was a rare Sunday morning with all three of them at home. They’d attended the Saturday service at church, Dane hadn’t bustled off to the office as he’d done most weekends in the past months, Ava had said no to helping with an afternoon fund-raiser, and Jason didn’t have any friends or football buddies staying over for once.
The pleasure of waking past seven to a quiet house sent Ava to the kitchen, following the scent of freshly brewed coffee— brewed by timer as usual—with her thoughts flipping through her aunt’s old book of recipes.
She’d left the Gibsons' house after two a.m. with the promise to return later today. But the family remained heavy in her thoughts after she arrived home and slid into bed. Perhaps Sienna’s engagement made the tragedy more poignant—a reminder to cherish what they had.
Now, between the cinnamon and heavy cream, Ava paused from savoring the morning light to focus harder through the clear glass window over the sink. Out beyond the shimmer of the swimming pool among the manicured lawn and hedges, the wispy branches of the weeping willow tree seemed jaundiced and more sparse than usual.
The door to the mudroom opened, and Dane’s slippers padded across the tile floor. He carried a coffee cup and held up a newspaper. “Look what I found. An actual Dallas Morning News made with ink and paper. When was the last time I read one of these on a Sunday morning?”
“I can’t even remember. It’s like listening to music on our record player. I didn’t know they made newspapers anymore,” Ava joked as she poured in the heavy cream and stirred the batter. The cinnamon swirled through the white liquid.
Dane gave an approving grunt at the ingredients stretched across the granite counter. “I’ll cook the bacon. Let me know when.” He moved behind her, bending to kiss her neck. It sent a shiver down her skin, reminding her of younger days when such a kiss would have meant that breakfast wouldn’t be made. Dane topped off her coffee cup, then his.
“You came in late. What happened?” he said.
“A family lost their daughter. She and her fiancé had their engagement party last night, then they were both killed in a car accident.”
“It’s in the paper,” Dane said, turning the front page toward her. The mangled car in the photo looked haunting, lit up against the dark night.
“That’s fast—sharks indeed,” Ava said.
“Be careful driving around so late. You should call me when you’re on the road.”
“All right,” she said, not wanting to talk further about the night before. The little girl beneath the table and that congratulatory banner struck a little too close to home for her liking.
“Where did you get a paper at this hour?”
“I stole it from the Lopez yard.”
“No you didn’t.”
He gave her a mischievous grin. “I traded Jason out. He has to mow their lawn.”
“He’s going to love that.”
“He will because I’ll mow ours for him, and the Lopez yard is smaller.” Dane settled into a chair in the breakfast nook. Ava bit back a smile at Dane’s salt-and-pepper hair sticking up on one side. She loved him rumpled with bed head. Dane was always put together for business with his designer suits and ties, hair perfectly cut and smoothed in place. At home, Dane was Dane again.
“Seeing you like that makes me expect Sienna and Jason to come running in wearing their footed pajamas . . . what did Sienna call them? Feet jammies.”
Dane lowered the paper, watching Ava as she dipped the bread in the batter and layered it into a baking dish.
“Let’s call her. We’ll tell her to forget the wedding, forget college, and come be our baby girl again.”
“It’s not even six a.m. there. She’d kill us.” Ava pictured her daughter sleeping with the covers all kicked off like she always did. They were planning Sienna’s dream wedding, extravagant and luxurious, and Ava’s binder of wedding plans overflowed with designs, schedules, and brochures. The months were moving too fast, like a locomotive barreling down a mountain picking up speed and gathering more and more weight.
Dane turned a page of the paper. “Not sure I’m loving this newspaper as much as I’d hoped.”
