The Best We've Been
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PRAISE FOR BETH K. VOGT
“Vogts captivates us with the story of sisters, of family, in this third Thatcher Sisters novel. Themes of healing and hope prevail. I cheered for Johanna as she allowed love to heal her heart. This tale will leave you smiling and thinking of the characters long after you’ve read the last page.”
RACHEL HAUCK, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“Vogt delivers her best book yet with this tearjerker of a series finale. The Best We’ve Been handles difficult topics with grace and sensitivity while avoiding pat answers in its pervasive themes of hope and forgiveness. I can’t recommend the Thatcher Sisters series enough!”
CARLA LAUREANO, RITA AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF THE SOLID GROUNDS COFFEE COMPANY
“Authentic and honest, The Best We’ve Been upends complicated relationship dynamics with a family as real as any I’ve found—the Thatcher sisters journey through the unexpected with depth and incredible heart in this third installment in the series. Beth K. Vogt is at the top of her game and this book is the treasure that proves it. It’s a memorable addition to any favorites shelf!”
KRISTY CAMBRON, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE LOST CASTLE SERIES AND THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN
“Beth Vogt never fails to impress me with the depth and emotion of her stories and characters. In The Best We’ve Been, she tackles sensitive topics with grace and truth while weaving a compelling story of sisterhood and second chances. Don’t miss this moving conclusion to her Thatcher Sisters series!”
MELISSA TAGG, CAROL AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF NOW AND THEN AND ALWAYS AND THE WALKER FAMILY SERIES
“A fitting conclusion to our time with the Thatcher sisters. Again, Vogt handles sensitive topics such as infertility, betrayal, and faith with candor and grace. She reminds us that while we may not always like our sisters, we do love them with a depth that can surprise us, unnerve us, and often help heal us.”
KATHERINE REAY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE PRINTED LETTER BOOKSHOP
“Few things in life can simultaneously afflict and heal the heart like family, and Beth Vogt delivers all this and more in her heartrending, moving grand finale of her Thatcher Sisters saga. . . . Readers are sure to discover the power of forgiveness—between family and for the self—in Vogt’s most insightful story yet.”
AMY K. SORRELLS, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF BEFORE I SAW YOU
“A deeply satisfying end to the Thatcher Sisters series, The Best We’ve Been takes readers on a thought-provoking journey with Beth Vogt’s perfectly imperfect characters. Having read her other books, I truly wondered how Vogt would make oldest sister Johanna someone I could root for—and then she did it! Reading this story was a wonderful reminder that giving up control of our lives and trusting God to lead us will always have the best result, even if we cannot see that in the moment.”
LINDSAY HARREL, AUTHOR OF THE JOY OF FALLING
“In the last of the Thatcher Sisters trilogy, the overarching theme of grace, forgiveness, and second chances brings us to the satisfying conclusion to this wonderful series. Vogt’s talent for evoking emotion stands out, several scenes needing a tissue or two. A lovely exploration of real-life circumstances and complicated relationships.”
CATHERINE WEST, CAROL AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF WHERE HOPE BEGINS
“The Best We’ve Been is a beautiful story of what happens when life doesn’t go as planned and how it can pull us closer together. . . . It is a beautiful story of how family can come together when the lies are replaced with truth and when the choice is made to trust and find common ground. I loved every page, couldn’t wait to return to the characters, and felt every emotion. A wonderful addition to Beth Vogt’s books.”
CARA PUTMAN, AWARD-WINNING, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF DELAYED JUSTICE AND SHADOWED BY GRACE
“Beth Vogt has done a masterful job of wrapping up the Thatcher Sisters series with Johanna in The Best We've Been. Not only did I understand Johanna better, but I truly cared about her on a personal level. Very in-depth characterization. I didn’t want it to end, and I’ll continue to hope they find more sisters! I feel as if I’ve been adopted into the Thatcher family.”
HANNAH ALEXANDER, AUTHOR OF THE SACRED TRUST SERIES
“With her latest book, The Best We’ve Been, Beth Vogt has cemented her status as a master storyteller. She tackles difficult subjects with realism and unexpected twists. Her characters linger in my memory just liked beloved friends. Written from a foundation of biblical truth, her books make my life better.”
EDIE MELSON, DIRECTOR OF THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS CHRISTIAN WRITERS CONFERENCE
Visit Tyndale online at tyndale.com.
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The Best We’ve Been
Copyright © 2020 by Beth K. Vogt. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © by Lumina/Stocksy.com. All rights reserved.
Designed by Julie Chen
Edited by Sarah Mason Rische
Published in association with the literary agency of Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
The Best We’ve Been is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at csresponse@tyndale.com, or call 1-800-323-9400.
ISBN 978-1-4964-2733-5 (HC)
ISBN 978-1-4964-2734-2 (SC)
Build: 2020-03-10 08:16:10 EPUB 3.0
To Rachel Hauck and Susie May Warren, my treasured mentors and friends:
Thank you for always reminding me that our journey along the writing road is, first and foremost, a walk of faith. Your unwavering trust in God strengthens my faith.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Preview of Things I Never Told You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discussion Questions
PROLOGUE
APRIL 18, 1993
I was waiting. Again. She should be here by now. Where was she?
The auditorium was almost full, all the seats near the front taken. Everyone else’s parents and grandparents clutched copies of the pale-blue programs, glancing through them to see the order of tonight’s piano recital. All sorts of kids—some younger than me, some older—read books or p
layed handheld video games or ran up and down the aisles. They probably wished they were anywhere but here on a Saturday afternoon.
I did, too.
I stood in the dim lighting backstage, pulling the maroon velvet curtain aside a bit more, trying to see if maybe, just maybe, Mom was sitting in one of the rows of padded wooden seats off to the side.
No.
I stepped back, letting the heavy curtain fall into place with a soft swish.
I couldn’t do this. The air around me seemed stale, heavy with dust that danced beneath the stage lights.
I couldn’t cross that stage. Couldn’t sit on the padded bench positioned just so in front of the grand piano, its polished lid gleaming under the hot spotlights. Couldn’t perform in front of all those strangers—everyone else’s families and friends—when no one from my family cared enough to show up for me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I couldn’t remember the last time Mom had come to a practice to listen to me play. Or even asked me what I was working on. Or stopped long enough to place a hand on my shoulder and say, “That song is so pretty, Johanna.”
So many different people praised me for years. Strangers. Family. Teachers.
“You’re so special.”
“It’s amazing—the way you play.”
“Your talent will take you so far.”
And I’d believed them.
But I didn’t care what anybody else said. And tonight, I didn’t want to play for myself or a bunch of people I didn’t know.
How special was I really if I could be overlooked by Mom? Or worse, replaced?
I tugged at the high collar of my dress. The material bit at my neck and wrists, pinching at my waist. Of course there hadn’t been time to go shopping for something new to wear for today’s performance. There was never enough time for me anymore.
The sudden sting of tears burned my eyes, blurring my vision. I grasped the curtain again, the cloth soft beneath my fingertips. Maybe if I looked one more time—
“Come away from there, Johanna. It’s almost time to start.” The sound of Miss Felicia’s voice caused me to stiffen.
I couldn’t do this tonight.
I wouldn’t do this.
No one could make me play . . . not if I didn’t want to.
1
IF WAITING WOULD GET ME what I wanted, then fine, I’d wait.
I could get frustrated about wasting my time. About the fact I’d driven through lousy Colorado weather—snowy, icy roads—to get to this appointment on time. About being forced to do nothing but stare at a framed print of the historic Crystal Mill surrounded by aspens because someone else couldn’t manage their schedule. Better an out-of-season glimpse of autumn than the detailed poster of the female internal anatomy hanging on the opposite wall.
I would focus on the certainty that by the time this appointment was over, I’d have a resolution to my problem.
Besides, there was always some waiting before or even during a doctor’s appointment. It was part of the routine. And more than one of the doctors at Mount Columbia Medical Center had told me that they hated to run behind schedule just as much as their patients did—if not more.
Of course, I didn’t know this particular doctor. The only way to ensure my privacy was to see a medical practitioner away from my workplace. Maybe running late for my appointment was some sort of sign she wasn’t a good physician. Habitually late. Lousy bedside manner. Questionable billing practices.
I shifted in my seat, all the more thankful I hadn’t changed into the white paper gown I’d left folded on the exam table, instead of following the instructions of the efficient medical assistant.
As I debated the possible character qualities of the unseen physician, the exam room door opened and a woman entered, glancing at a chart—and then at me. “Johanna Thatcher? I’m Dr. Hayden Gray.”
“Good morning.” Dr. Gray might not be punctual, but I could be pleasant.
“I see here that you were originally Dr. Grammerson’s patient.” She set the chart on the small corner desk anchored to the wall beneath a set of cupboards, settling into the rolling cloth chair beside the desk.
“Yes, before she sold the practice to you. I didn’t realize that until I tried to make an appointment. It’s been a while.”
“I noticed that.” She leaned back, clasping her hands together in her lap. “You’re not gowned. Do you have some questions before your exam?”
“I’m not here for an exam.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I came to see you because you took over this practice from my ob-gyn when she retired—”
“Right. And your records show it’s been—” she glanced at my chart again—“four years since your last well-woman exam. It’s noted in your chart under reason for visit as an annual exam.”
“I realize I’m overdue for my regular exam—and I’m happy to do that, too.” That was a slight exaggeration. No woman was happy about gynecological exams, and surely the woman sitting across from me, even as a physician, knew that. But I’d do what needed to be done, which was why I hadn’t argued with the receptionist when she’d assumed that was my reason for calling.
Dr. Gray eased open the laptop resting on the desk. She had long, lean hands, her fingernails cut short, similar to how Beckett kept his nails trimmed.
This was no time to think of him.
Professional. Not too personal.
“I’m here to discuss an abortion.”
Dr. Gray’s hand stilled on the keyboard, her gaze returning to me. “Discuss?”
“Well, no. Not discuss. To schedule an abortion.”
“Ah.” She typed something into the computer. “How many weeks pregnant are you, Ms. Thatcher?”
“Fourteen weeks.”
“You took an at-home pregnancy test?”
“Yes. I’m a pharmacist.” This was a good time to connect both as medical professionals and as women. “We both know those are 99 percent accurate.”
“When was your last period?”
“November . . . November 23, to be exact. Although I do have irregular periods. And I spotted some in January, so at first, I thought I’d had a period. When I didn’t have a period in February, I just thought it was stress. Work. My sister’s wedding . . .” I let my voice trail off to avoid wandering too far into the personal zone again. I was talking to my medical provider, not a friend.
“Hmmmm.” Again she tapped something into the computer, not looking at me.
I was losing control of this appointment. This was supposed to be simple. Easy. Come in and set up the needed procedure. No discussion. No “Hmmmm” from a physician who should be supportive. Dr. Gray was a woman, too, after all. I caught myself rubbing the back of my hand, pressing the fingers of one hand against the other, just like my father did.
I flexed my fingers. This was not complicated. I knew what I needed to do. Dr. Gray might be the doctor, but I was the patient and she was here to help me—by scheduling the procedure.
“I think it’s best if we do a quick ultrasound to confirm your pregnancy, and then, if you’re pregnant—”
“If I’m pregnant?” The word if did not apply to my situation. “What do you mean?”
“Well, while at-home pregnancy tests are almost 100 percent accurate, there can be false positives. And you did say you had some spotting in January. You might have miscarried.”
“Miscarried?” I fisted my hands, sitting up straight. “I haven’t had another period.”
“You also said your periods are irregular. Even if you do go through with an abortion, you need to know how many weeks pregnant you are.”
There was the word if again. “How long will an ultrasound take?”
“Not long at all. I have a portable machine. If time is a concern, you don’t even need to change into a gown.” She motioned toward the exam table and then stood. “I’ll go and get the ultrasound machine. You can get comfortable.”
I could get comfortable. Right. This wa
s like having prepared to play one piece of piano music for a recital and, at the last minute, being handed a new selection and told, “You’re performing this instead.”
I smoothed out the long sheet of white paper covering the length of the exam table. Sat down. My feet dangled off the end, not touching the floor, as if I were a little girl.
But little girls didn’t make doctor’s appointments for well-women visits . . . or any other reason.
By the time Dr. Gray returned with an assistant wheeling in the ultrasound machine and then plugging it into the wall so that a low mechanical hum filled the room, I’d stopped my feet from swinging. Taken several deep breaths. Relaxed my shoulders. I’d get the ultrasound done and schedule my next appointment, which would also be my last appointment.
I pretended to listen while Dr. Gray and her assistant set things up. “Why don’t you lie down here on the table? It takes a minute or two for the lights to come up. I need to enter some information—your name, the date of your last menstrual period.”
The medical assistant helped me adjust my clothes, tucking a small towel inside the waistband of my pants, carefully lowering it until I seemed to be wearing hip huggers. “We’ll be using some gel down near your bladder, so this should protect your clothes.”
“Thank you.”
Again, I wanted to protest. I knew I was pregnant. I knew why I was here. None of this mattered to me—not in the long run. But if this was all part of the doctor’s routine, then I’d tolerate the inconvenient but necessary means to an end.
Within a few moments, Dr. Gray squirted a bluish gel onto my lower abdomen and then spread it around with the transducer handpiece.
I inhaled, tightening my core muscles—and then relaxed. “Not as cold as I expected.”
“We try not to make it more uncomfortable than it needs to be.” Dr. Gray’s glance switched back and forth from the screen to my face. “The warmer helps.”
“Right.”
With a few circular swipes of the ultrasound instrument, white-and-black lines appeared on the monitor screen.
“Here’s your bladder. It helps that it’s somewhat full.” Dr. Gray pointed lower on the screen. “Here’s your uterus . . . and the uterus does have a sac in it. . . .”