“What . . . what about a funeral?”
The doctor blinked, his mouth slightly open. “That . . . that isn’t how we do things. Your baby was born dead, Mrs. Barton.”
“She deserves a funeral.”
Only then did Donna realize she hadn’t cried yet. Her eyes were dry, paralyzed with the news. But at the realization that her daughter was already gone, that there would be no baby to hold, no body to bury, sobs gathered in her chest and a river of sadness began flowing from her eyes.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Charlie held her hand more tightly, “for saving Donna’s life.”
Her husband’s relief touched her, but it didn’t ease the pain. And then, as if there were room inside her for more heartache, the doctor delivered the final blow. “We had to remove your uterus, Mrs. Barton.” He looked like he’d rather stop practicing medicine than say this next part. “You won’t be able to have more children. I’m . . . so sorry.”
Donna didn’t hear what came after that. She closed her eyes and turned toward Charlie, only Charlie. Their daughter was dead, and there would be no babies, not ever. No children running through their home, no sweet laughter, no trips to the park. Just her and Charlie and the empty days that lay ahead.
Time wouldn’t stop for her heartbreak. Somehow, without her approval, the days marched on, a series of unforgiving sunrises fading into a blur of sunsets. From her first day back in their North Carolina townhouse, Donna knew one thing for certain: If Charlie was right, if they were going to be okay, then they needed a reason to live. Charlie’s father had learned of the tragedy and he’d reached out, called Charlie to come home, back to the cement business. But Charlie politely declined. His father called him a fool, and the rift was back.
Alone again, just them and God against the world, they took long walks while Donna tried to regain her strength. Eventually they came up with a plan. Their own pain would grow dim if only they could find a way to help other people. What they needed was something to pour all their energy and love, their passion and longing, into. Something that would take the place of the family they’d never have. It took six weeks before the idea hit them. By then they had searched the map for a new home, a new beginning, and every search led them to the same place.
Franklin, Tennessee.
Franklin with its small-town feel just twenty minutes south of Nashville’s Music Row. Main Street was expanding. A mercantile, a theater, a bank, and three cafés. They could live a few blocks away and figure out how to help, a way to be part of the foundation of a town on the rise.
If only they could help people who were hurting. She and Charlie could pour into their lives, listen to their stories, and point them in the right direction. If they could be a part of changing the lives of others, then their own pain was sure to grow dim.
They would find a church once they arrived in town, but that wasn’t where their helping would happen. Not at an orphanage or a homeless shelter. They didn’t feel God calling them to either of those places. Their help would happen somewhere else, at the most likely place of all. At a place she and Charlie could believe in.
A bookstore.
A small-town bookstore would bridge the pain of yesterday to the promise of tomorrow. By the end of the year they found just the building, a small two-story house on Franklin’s Main Street, a place that had long ago housed Civil War soldiers. It was made of brick and old pine, and it smelled faintly like Lemon Pledge and campfire smoke, a smell that welcomed them from the first time they toured it. They were approved for a business loan, and like that, the catharsis began. With every painted wall and built-in bookshelf, Donna could feel God healing them, sense Him smiling down.
Because the bookstore would absolutely change lives.
No question, somewhere, someone else needed a bridge in his or her own life, a way to find hope for the future. Because of that, when it came time to open their doors, the bookstore’s name was already decided.
They called it The Bridge.
CHAPTER FOUR
The days blended one into the other. One month after another.
Some days Edna didn’t get out of bed. She would lay on her side, her knees curled up to her waist, holding tight to one of Tom’s T-shirts, clinging to it, cradling the soft worn cotton to her chest. Her parents had moved up north to New Hampshire after Edna’s high school graduation. They were crushed by the news that Tom had been killed in action. The next day they flew down and stayed for Tom’s funeral. But after a week they had to return to their lives.
Edna understood.
“Spend time with friends, dear. That’s all you can do.” Her mom looked stricken as she kissed her cheek on the way out. “You could always move up north with us.”
But that was never really an option. She and Tom had picked out this apartment together and they had lived here, husband and wife, for three weeks. Three whole weeks of laughter and bliss and happily ever after. Their entire married life. Tom liked the view of the park from the window and the way it was only a couple of blocks’ walk to Main Street and downtown Franklin. She could still see him sitting at the kitchen table.
If Edna moved now, she would lose all that remained of him.
Her mom was right about her friends. They were there and they were willing. The problem was hers. Most of the time she didn’t answer the door when they came to call, too busy staring into space and trying to remember how to walk without falling to the floor in pain.
Her heart was that broken.
After a few months, her friends came less often. When Edna would invite one of them in for a cup of coffee, the conversation was always awkward. They would forever feel sorry for her, and she would forever be the victim. When the New Year rolled around, Edna was still talking to Tom’s photograph before she fell asleep. Still terrified about tomorrow. Still waking up each morning to the truth about Tom’s death hitting her all over again.
But she was running out of money. That was the only reason she had to finally get dressed and leave the apartment. The stipend given her by the army for Tom’s death while on active duty was running out. Still the process of leaving the house was slow. Day after day she tried and failed.
She had no idea where to work or what she would do. She had no skills to speak of, no training. Before Tom’s death she watched two neighbor kids to supplement Tom’s military income. Babysitting was out of the question now. She couldn’t focus long enough to remember what day it was, let alone take on the responsibility of watching children. Especially when she and Tom would never have any of their own. Lying in her bed she only knew that she wanted to work somewhere on Main Street—Tom’s favorite place.
It took four painful days to go from forming a plan to actually stepping through the front door and walking to Main Street. But on that fourth day Edna actually did it. She got dressed, did her hair, and walked to Main Street. The café wasn’t hiring, and neither was Cal’s Drugstore. But at the mercantile, Edna met the manager near the front counter. The woman was kind with gray hair and bright eyes.
“Hello.” She held out her hand. “I’m Edna Carlton. I . . . need a job. If you’re hiring, that is.” Her words sounded forced and awkward. She stepped back, her knees shaking.
“Hmm.” She studied Edna for a quick moment. “I am looking for someone to ring sales in the afternoons. I’m supposed to be retired.” She smiled sweetly. “Minimum wage, but room for advancement.”
Edna wasn’t sure what to say, but she knew one thing—she had to be honest. “I . . . don’t know how to ring sales.”
“Oh, dear, I can train you on that. I’m looking for friendly and teachable. And I have a hunch you’re all of that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Edna stood a little straighter. “Can I fill out an application?”
“Tell you what.” She pointed to the back of the store where the soda fountain always drew a crowd. “Let’s sit and have a milkshake. Half an hour from now I’ll have what I need to know.”
Edna smiled, a feeling sh
e’d almost forgotten. An hour later she had an apron and a job. When she stepped outside onto Main Street and started north toward her apartment she realized something.
She had only thought about Tom a few times in the last hour. That, and she was walking and breathing and taking on responsibility like a regular person. It was the first time she had even the slightest glimmer of hope that she might survive. Even so she cried herself to sleep, desperate to tell Tom about her new job and the way she was trying to meet life head-on.
Not until she’d been working for a week did she notice the bookstore.
It looked quaint and cute, a storefront with a brand-new sign, just a few doors down from the mercantile. She came closer and read the wording in the window. Disappointment settled over her. It had closed ten minutes earlier, but as she stood outside the place, gradually a thought came to light in Edna’s soul.
She had forgotten about books.
Maybe that was the answer. She might not have much of a life of her own, but every book would be another escape, a way to live without actually having to do anything more than read.
Edna stared at the place, at the warm light in the windows, and she made up her mind. Tomorrow before work she would visit the bookstore. She had a feeling she would like being inside. The shelves were full, and in the back of the place she could see a worn leather sofa and a chair near a fireplace. She even liked the name.
The Bridge.
As she walked home she realized she had reached another benchmark, another signpost on her journey to living again. She was no longer afraid of tomorrow.
At least in this moment, she was actually looking forward to it.
CHAPTER FIVE
The grand opening of The Bridge happened the first weekend of January 1972. In some ways, Donna couldn’t believe how quickly God had given them their dream. The craziness of moving to Franklin and getting the business loan, buying the building and redoing the inside so it would be the cozy, welcoming bookstore they wanted it to be. All of it seemed to happen in a blur.
A blur that kept Donna from missing her baby girl in all but the latest hours of the night. Hours when she should’ve been feeding her or rocking her or singing her quiet songs about Jesus. Cradling her close in a pink blanket.
Charlie was so happy about The Bridge, he almost never talked about the heartache they left behind in North Carolina. He never cried late at night the way she did, at least she never heard him. Donna kept her tears to herself. They were getting on, moving ahead with life. If the tears came at night, so be it. She would probably always cry when she thought about their baby girl.
But in the daytime, their new life as bookstore owners was too exciting to do anything but celebrate. They stocked the shelves with every sort of fiction and nonfiction title. There were books about war and books about peace, volumes on making a casserole and tales of historical fiction. American favorites, British classics, and contemporary fiction.
Donna’s favorite part of the bookstore was the front room with the sofa and chair they’d purchased for around the fireplace. The welcome feeling was immediate as soon as a customer walked through the door. Come in. Sit a while. Take your time. Words Donna and Charlie told their customers from the first day.
The Bridge had been opened a few weeks when a pretty blond woman walked through the door at noon one day. She was young, in her early twenties at the most. But there was something old about her eyes.
“Hello.” Donna smiled at her.
“Hi.” The woman looked away, at the titles that hung over the nearest set of shelves. “I’m just looking.”
“Okay.” Donna settled back in her seat behind the counter. “Take your time.” This one looks like she’s hurting, Lord. Was she sick or suffering from a broken heart? Did she live alone in the area without family? Donna caught a glimpse of the woman’s wedding ring. She kept her questions to herself. Some people who walked through the door needed a little time to find their way.
Charlie walked up and put his arm around Donna. “We’re out of Little Women.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Four copies out the door in the last two days!”
The blond woman worked her way farther from the checkout counter, down another aisle, and out of sight. Donna held her finger to her lips. “She’s sad. Not sure why.”
“Who?” Charlie dropped his voice to barely a whisper. He peered down the closest aisle and pointed, his eyes questioning. “That way?”
“Yes. A young woman.” Compassion stirred Donna. “A little younger than us. Something’s wrong. I can tell.”
“Okay.” He nodded, his eyes bright. “I’ll pray.” In the purchase order book by the register, Charlie jotted down a note to buy more copies of Little Women. Then he returned to his inventory at the back of the store.
After a few minutes the young woman made her way back to the cash register. She folded her arms, and Donna could see that her hands were shaking. “I . . . need something to read.”
“Okay.” Donna faced her so only the counter separated them. “What were you thinking of?”
The woman shrugged one slim shoulder. “Something . . . happy.”
“Hmmm.” She hesitated. “Most stories get terribly sad before they find their way to happy.” She smiled, feeling the weight of the moment. “I’m Donna Barton. My story’s like that.”
For a few long seconds the woman looked at Donna, searching her eyes. “I’m Edna Carlton.” Tears came quickly and fell onto her cheeks. She brushed at them with her fingers. “Sorry. I’m . . . still in the sad part.”
Donna wanted to hug her or offer to pray for her. But she had a feeling that would come in time. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.” She shook her head, adamant. “I . . . I’m sorry. Not today.”
“That’s fine.” Donna nodded. “Someday . . . if you have time, I’ll tell you mine.”
Edna thought about that for a beat, and then the hint of a smile softened her expression. “I’d . . . like that.”
“For now, though, let’s find you a book.” Donna came out from behind the counter and led Edna toward the classics. “Maybe something exciting. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer?”
“Hmm.” Edna nodded slowly, lost in thought, the heartache strong in her eyes. “That might work.” By the time she left the store with her book her tone was lighter, her mood not so heavy. She looked a little more able to face the world on the other side of The Bridge’s front doors.
Whatever that world was for Edna Carlton.
When she was gone and after two newly regular customers filed into the store, Charlie found Donna again at the register. They were alone, the regulars out of sight. Charlie took her hands and looked at her for a long time. A thin layer of wetness shone in his eyes. “I miss her.”
She didn’t have to ask who he meant. “Me, too.” She angled her head, seeing easily into his heart. “I never even saw her face.”
“But you know what?” He smiled.
“What?” She closed the distance between them so their bodies were touching, their faces inches apart.
He looked over his shoulder to the place where the customers were chatting, clearly engaged in whatever book they were discussing. “One of those ladies back there is thinking about going into business. Know why?”
“Why?” Donna loved this, being in his arms, sharing a passion for The Bridge.
“Because of a book she bought here.” His brow lifted, and his eyes grew even brighter. “A book changed her life, Donna.” He looked around at the shelves of books, the walls they’d painted and the light fixtures they’d installed. “Because of our little bookstore. Because of The Bridge.”
Donna felt the satisfaction to the depths of her soul. “The lady who was here earlier . . . she’s hurting. But she’ll be back. I sent her off with Tom Sawyer.”
His smile faded and the dampness returned to his eyes. He released her hands and framed her face. “It’s working.”
“It is.”
A sad laugh play
ed on his lips. “I wasn’t sure how to take my next breath.” He spread his hands toward the books and walls that surrounded them. “God is so great . . . He hasn’t forgotten us.” He leaned in and kissed her slowly. A desperate kiss that reminded both of them how great the pain was that they were moving past.
His words stayed with her while she sorted through the cash register receipts later that day. How far they had come in the last few months. God was bringing the people who needed a bookstore, people who needed a connecting point, a way to see life through a clearer lens. People like Edna Carlton. Yes, He was bringing them a few more every day. Lives were being changed through the power of books. She and Charlie were giving their lives to make that possible. And along the way God was both healing them and using them.
Indeed, their plan really was working.
All because of The Bridge.
CHAPTER SIX
Edna didn’t rip into the book right away.
She let it sit on her kitchen counter like a stranger. When she would look at it between cups of coffee or moments of wandering through her apartment missing Tom, she had the feeling the book was looking back at her. Smiling at her.
Finally after her few dinner dishes were cleaned she picked it up and sat with it in the chair Tom liked best. She stared at the cover. Was it the title? The fact that Tom’s name was a part of it? Something about the book called to her. Or maybe she felt this way because of the kind woman at the bookstore, the way she hadn’t hesitated before leading her to this book. A book whose title contained the name of the man she missed so much.
Almost like Donna Barton had known exactly what she might need.
Edna opened the front cover. She knew the story, of course. But she had never actually read the book. The first words tugged at her heart and tears gathered in her eyes.
Aunt Polly was looking for Tom, but he wouldn’t answer. No matter how long or loud she called him he wouldn’t respond.
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