Sweet Scent of Forgiveness

by Delia Latham

  A small hand slid into hers. “Don’t stare at it, Mom. It’s like a snake, huh? If you look very long, you can’t not look.” He stepped away and pulled out one of the dining chairs. “Come sit down.”

  Norah did as she was told, stunned by the maturity and of her son. Not even eight years old, yet he manifested moments of deep wisdom and knowing that sometimes frightened her a little.

  He took the chair beside her. “Now pop it. And after you read the note, we’ll both sit real still and let God fight for us. Okay?”

  She blinked back tears. “Okay, sweet boy.”

  A small paring knife appeared on the table. When had he taken it from the drawer?

  “You can use that to pop it.”

  “Good thinking.” She stabbed at the balloon, and then jumped and shrieked at the resulting pop of sound.

  Donovan hopped up to retrieve the paper, which had fallen a few feet from the table. She’d always taught him respect for other people’s property, and her heart melted when, rather than open the note and read it, he handed it to her before once again seating himself.

  Her fingers trembled as she opened the ragged paper and read aloud.

  No Hangout. No Time-Out. Time’s up.

  Donovan wrinkled his nose. “That’s dumb. What does it mean?”

  “It means…” Norah’s voice shook right along with her hands. “We need to sit really, really still.”

  Donovan’s eyes widened, fixed somewhere behind Norah. Her heart froze, literally refusing to beat for a second. Two. Three.

  She sucked in a deep breath and jerked Donovan’s chair against her own. “Pray, son!” she whispered.

  Silent as a ghost, Chandler strolled past and pulled out the chair opposite her. His hand rested on a knife sheath fastened to his belt. Long fingers stroked the leather with slow movements, like a sick caress.

  “Hello, Norah.” He glanced around the cheery kitchen and frowned. “I thought you’d never get home. Where’s my coffee?”

  ~ Chapter 15 ~

  N

  ORAH GLANCED AT HER SON. His eyes were squeezed shut, lips moving.

  Smart boy. Only God could help them now.

  “Hi, Chandler. I don’t have coffee made yet. We’ve been to church this morning. I’ll make you some, if you’d like.”

  He nodded, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “I asked for it, didn’t I? Pick it up a beat, why don’tcha?”

  Norah hated moving away from Donovan but keeping Chandler calm had to be her top priority. If he flew into a rage, this time he might choose her son for a punching bag. She set about putting grounds in the pot and adding water to the reservoir.

  Returning to her chair, she took comfort from being near Donovan—close enough to touch. Perhaps he’d be calmed by her nearness, as well.

  Chandler leaned back and crossed both arms over his chest. Those copper-penny eyes, once so irresistible to her, roamed the kitchen like a wolf on the hunt. A map of deep lines etched the leathery skin of a face she remembered as being Ian Somerhalder-handsome. His hair, coal black when last she saw him, now lay in silver white waves. Had he not been so heavy on her mind the past few days, she might not have recognized the man she’d so rashly wed all those years ago.

  “I’m hungry, Norah. Do I hafta ask every time I need something around here?” He jumped up and waved an arm around the kitchen. His other hand rested once again on the leather sheath at his waist, stroking, stroking. “I get’cha a place like this, give ya everything you could possibly need, and I can’t even get a decent meal without pitchin’ a fit?” Chandler shook his head. “That’s gotta stop, woman. Here and now.”

  Beside Norah, Donovan stiffened. “My daddy gave us this house. Not you!”

  Norah’s breath quickened despite her determination to remain calm. “Hush, Donovan! It’s okay. Be still, remember?”

  “But Mom, he said—”

  “I know, sweet boy.” She caught his eye and laid a finger on her lips. “Be real still.” She deliberately copied the ungrammatical phraseology he’d used on the way home. “Remember?”

  The storm calmed in the boy’s cobalt eyes. He nodded. “God is God,” he whispered. “I am not God.” He leaned back in his chair. “What’s that smell?” His nose wrinkled.

  Norah wanted to weep. Donovan didn’t recognize the smell of alcohol because he’d never been around it. If only she could turn back the clock and go straight to Marcus’ place after church.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” she told him.

  He sighed, closed his eyes, and returned to prayer. Norah drew in a deep, deep breath. He understood.

  She got up, poured coffee into a mug and set it on the table across from Donovan. She didn’t want Chandler on the same side with her son. “I’ll heat up the beef stew in the refrigerator. You know, I think there might even be a slice of lemon meringue pie left. Sound good?”

  He nodded curtly and pulled a silver flash from his pocket. Norah cringed as he splashed its contents into his coffee. “’Bout time you decided to take care of your man. After lunch, you can really take care of me…wife.”

  He leered, and Norah’s heart set off at a frightened gallop. She glanced at her son. Had he any idea what the suggestive remark meant?

  Then, as if a switch flipped in Chandler’s head, the ugly leer morphed into the same, ultra-sweet, lady-killer grin that had captured her attention so long ago.

  Now she fought back tears. His smile hadn’t changed one iota. Even in the lined, leathery, prematurely aging face, it could easily turn the heads of unsuspecting women.

  Thank God she was not one of them.

  She opened the refrigerator and knelt, making a show of moving things around to reach the leftover stew. One hand slipped into her front pocket, where she’d put her phone after changing clothes. Please, God, guide my fingers! Blindly, she punched what she hoped was 9-1-1.

  “Get a move on, woman!” Chandler ordered.

  Norah jumped, suddenly back in her sixteen-year-old skin, scared to death of her husband.

  “Sorry, Chandler…I’m sorry. I stuck that bowl behind so many other things I thought I’d never get it out of there.” Leaving the phone on, she dumped the stew into a pot and set it on the burner. “Would you like me to make cornbread?”

  “Naw, that’ll take too long. The stew’ll be fine without bread. We have any crackers?”

  “Of course.” She brought them out and arranged a few on a small plate, stirred the stew, and then returned to her place at the table.

  Donovan sat with his head bowed, his lips still moving in prayer.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Chandler frowned. “Kid got mental problems?”

  Norah chomped down on her tongue to keep from spewing anger. She stroked her son’s hair. “No. This boy is too smart for his own good sometimes. Donovan, honey, why don’t you go to your room? You can play a game for a little while.”

  He shook his head. “I’m staying with you, Mom.”

  “Do as you’re told, boy!” Chandler roared. “Get your tail into your room like your mama told’ja.”

  “Chandler, please.” Norah met his gaze with one she hoped was firm but not challenging. “There’s no need to be loud. He’s not used to you being here. Give him time.”

  He shot Donovan a withering glance. “Pansy kids these days. When I was that one’s age, I knew better than to sass my mama. Sure didn’t backtalk Dad. He’d’a give me the back of his hand, and well-deserved too.”

  “I hear you. My father didn’t stand for sassy mouths either.” She smiled at Donovan. “But Donovan intended no disrespect. He only wants to protect his mother.”

  “That wimpy kid? Protect you? Ha!” Chandler jerked his chin at the stove. “You gonna get my stew or what?”

  She jumped up and ladled the simmering mixture into a large bowl. With his lunch in front of him, the crackers in a dish next to his plate, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do you mind if I take Donovan upstairs for a nap?”

>   “Mom, I don’t want—”

  Chandler shrugged. “I don’t care where you put the kid. Just tell him to watch his mouth.”

  Norah urged her son toward the door. She caught his eye and touched her lips. Be still, Donovan. Sit real still, and let God fight for us.

  Eyes wide, he gave a subtle nod and allowed himself to be led to his room.

  Inside, she shut the door and knelt in front of him. “Donovan, can you contact Juliet on your iPad?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Stay up here. Get under the covers and if you hear him coming, pretend you’re asleep. But first, give Juliet a message for Marcus. Tell him to send the police, and to hurry.”

  “Mommy, I’m scared…” Not quite a wail, but only because he strove so hard to stay quiet.

  “So am I, sweet boy. But remember, while we’re being so, so still, who is fighting for us?”

  Donovan sniffed once, then his little chin lifted. “Jesus is.”

  “Can He win?”

  He grinned and pumped one little hand above his head. “He always wins!”

  “Keep that in mind, son. No matter what happens, don’t you forget to always let Him fight your battles.”

  “Okay, Mom—”

  “Norah! Are you lost up there?”

  Donavan quailed, and Norah hugged him close. “God is our Protector, remember?” She lifted the lid on the blanket box at the foot of his bed and dumped the contents onto the closet floor. “If I scream, don’t you dare come running downstairs, do you hear me? That will be my secret message to you to get in this box, close the lid, and don’t make a sound. Just pray, pray, pray!” She gave him another squeeze. “I have to go before he comes up here. Contact Juliet. Now.” She hurried to the door but turned back to blow her son a kiss. “I love you, Donovan!”

  His little chin quivered, but not a single tear fell. He nodded and returned the air-kiss. “I love you too, Mommy!”

  “Norah!” Chandler thundered. “Don’t make me come up there.”

  “I’m coming,” she called, and rushed downstairs.

  He stood at the kitchen counter, rinsing his bowl. Finished, he turned it upside down in the sink. Despite the horrifying circumstances, Norah almost smiled. He’d always been so good about doing that, whether it was a coffee mug, a bowl, a plate, or a knife he’d used to butter bread.

  “Thank you for rinsing your bowl. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Common manners, Norah. Besides, I don’t like stinky dishes in my sink.”

  “I agree.” This time, she did manage a stiff smile. “Let’s go in the living room and talk, shall we?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she left the room.

  He followed along and flopped against the back of the sofa. As if by unthinking habit, his right hand found the knife sheath.

  Seeing the man who was not her husband sprawled across the sofa she and Dylan had chosen together, Norah remained quiet by pure force of will. She wanted to grab his arm and drag him off the cushion. She wanted to scream and yell, to demand he leave her home this instant. But past experience with this man had taught her not to give him orders unless she wanted to be ‘put in her place.’ He dealt out a strong backhand and was perfectly capable of throwing her against the wall with all the force he could muster. Chandler had been nobody’s weakling eleven years ago, and even now, his athletic physique remained admirable.

  She sat across from him, in the recliner.

  “How have you been, Chandler?”

  He shot her a wounded glance. “How do you think I’ve been? My wife walked out on me, and never bothered to come back. Never a call. Not even a note sayin’, ‘I’m okay,’ or ‘I won’t be back.’ Just abandoned ship.” He shook his head, reached into his shirt pocket, and out came the hateful flask. “I didn’t think you were that kind of woman, Norah.”

  “Oh, Chandler. You know that isn’t true. I told you our marriage was over before I left. I sent the annulment papers, and you signed them, like you told me you would. I had no reason to stay in touch.”

  “I thought you’d be back, or I wouldn’t have let you go.”

  “Yes, you would have, because you cared about me. You hurt me when you drank. Don’t you remember how upset you were? You saw my bruises, and you understood when I said I was leaving.”

  Confusion clouded his gaze. “No. No! I—I would never hurt you, Norah. I loved you. I still do.”

  “Perhaps you did, in your way. But alcohol is your dark mistress, and I couldn’t defeat her hold on you.”

  “I don’t—I don’t remember all that.”

  “I do. Very clearly. I still stand behind my decision to leave. You’ve got the potential to be a good man, Chandler, but you let the things your father said to you as a child influence who you are now.” She tried to smile, but the effort felt more like a sad grimace.

  “Don’t you talk about my old man!” His copper eyes flashed lightning-fast anger. “He was a good dad. He left me his house, you know. He didn’t have to do that.”

  Norah’s sister-in-law would have told him in a heartbeat that what his father left him was a hovel, not a house. But Norah couldn’t find that kind of cruelty anywhere inside her, despite Chandler’s uninvited appearance in her home.

  “Yes, that was kind of him, I guess. But Chandler, when a man tells his son that he’s good for nothing and will never amount to anything…that’s not love. That’s cruelty. It’s heartless and mean. No parent should ever subject a child to such unkind verbal abuse. It can and does impact their entire lives.”

  “Hey, I turned out okay. You don’t got a clue what’cher talkin’ about.”

  She clamped her lips between her teeth. Further argument would only fan the sparks of his anger into flames.

  “Chandler.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Why are you here, in Ruidoso?”

  He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ve been in Ruidoso a long time. Back and forth ‘tween here and Echo City, but mostly here. Been watchin’ you, in case you showed signs of comin’ to your senses. I sent you a warnin’ before you married that guy—the one that bit the dust in Afghanistan. I put a note in a bag. You know, in that room where the brides hang out before a weddin’. Didn’t you find it?”

  Memory brought Norah a full-color flashback.

  The organist played the loud, familiar, unmistakable chords. The time had come.

  James offered his arm. She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and gave it a squeeze.

  “Ready?” He whispered.

  “So ready.”

  “No doubts?”

  “None.”

  “Then come on. Let’s get you to the altar.”

  As they reached the door, James stopped. “What’s this?” He touched a small, velvet pouch someone had hung over the doorknob.

  Norah grinned. “See what’s in it. If Dylan put it there, I want to see it before I meet him at the altar.”

  “It feels empty but let me look.” Her brother loosened the string, opened the pouch and pulled out a raggedly torn and folded piece of paper.

  A knot formed in Norah’s stomach. Dylan would never write her a note on something so untidy.

  James scanned the note, crumpled it and stuck it in his pocket. He grinned at Norah. “Oops, I read a note that wasn’t meant for you. Come on, let’s get out there before Dylan thinks you jilted him.”

  He wasn’t telling her everything. Norah sensed it, but she didn’t want to know anything more. Not now. She wanted no part of anything that might spoil the happiest day of her life.

  She drew a deep breath and shoved the grimy note—whatever its message—out of her mind. “I’m ready.”

  Until this moment, she hadn’t given another thought to that note. And James…he’d never mentioned it again. Had he known, even then, that her legally non-existent husband was reaching out to her?

  “I didn’t read any note, Chandler. What did it say?”

  He snorted. “It said, ‘D
on’t do this. You already said I do.’ Should’a read it, Norah. That might’a saved all this trouble. You wouldn’t have that mouthy rug rat, and we could go on back home to Echo City and start over.”

  Norah stiffened, reigning in her temper. She pulled in a couple of deep, quiet breaths and let them out, slow and easy.

  “Donovan is not mouthy. He was frightened. A man he doesn’t know showed up in his house and started ordering his mother around. Can’t you see how a child might react under such circumstances?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You’re like every other mama who thinks her kid does no wrong.”

  She laughed a little, although the brittleness in the resulting sound might have told anyone else that she was on the extreme edge of her patience. “Believe me, I’m well aware Donovan is not perfect. Who is?”

  Without a second’s hesitation, he answered. “You are.”

  What? “Oh, no. I’m far from perfect.”

  “To me, you’ve always been the perfect woman—the one I let get away. But I won’t do that this time, Norah. I promise. Now that we’re together again, I’ll never let you go.”

  Icy fear slithered up her spine. He’s beyond irrational.

  She and her son were alone in this house with a mentally unstable and intoxicated man—one whose violent nature she knew all too well.

  Norah sat in silence, “real still,” as her son’s Sunday school lesson not even two hours earlier had instructed. Inside, however, she screamed.

  God, please help us!

  ~ Chapter 16 ~

  “W

  HY DON’TCHA SAY SOMETHIN’?”

  “Well, I—uhm…” Norah floundered. “I’m trying to wrap my mind around you being here, Chandler. It’s been eleven years since we last saw each other, and now here you are—sitting in my living room. I guess I’m in a bit of shock.”