by Karon Ruiz
10:15 a.m.
Baxter Home
Samantha answered the knock at her front door. Laney wore a gingham shirt with long tails that hid abundant hips. Her face, painted with makeup and pink lipstick, couldn’t hide last night’s hospital ordeal. She looked like Samantha felt. Exhausted.
Laney reached for her. “Samantha ... mí querida, come here.” Laney offered a comforting hug as the women lingered at the threshold.
“Thanks for coming, Laney.” Samantha shut the front door.
“How are you, my dear?”
Samantha steeled her emotions but her tears refused to obey “I feel awful.” So much for redirecting the conversation.
“That’s why I’m here, mija.” Laney scanned the foyer. “Is Dalton asleep?”
“Yes. Upstairs.”
“I could use a cup of tea. How ‘bout you?”
“I have it ready.” Samantha clutched her friend’s arm as they entered the breakfast room.
“You sit.” Laney motioned. “I’ll get it.” She headed to the kitchen, retrieved the kettle and filled up two mugs, then returned to the counter and sliced the banana bread.
“Let’s talk about Dalton,” Laney said once she’d sat down.
“Do we have to? I thought we could discuss Charity’s service.”
“I really think you need a friend to confide in. Am I right?”
Samantha sighed. She knew the moment she’d agreed to this visit, how the conversation would go. But she did need a friend. And Laney had proven her heart big, her shoulders wide, and her lips sealed.
“I feel so ashamed.” Samantha drew a ragged breath. “Does the council know yet?”
“The meeting’s at noon. All the members should be there. Some of the spouses.”
“Will you tell them everything?” Samantha asked. “The stolen offering, the phony carjacking, the …?” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the drugs. The insurance fraud. The self-inflicted wound. She fought the urge to curl up into a ball and sob until sleep took her.
Laney laid her hand on Samantha’s. “We have no choice.”
She nodded and drew a deep breath. “What about the congregation?”
“We’ll tell them on Sunday.”
“Dalton will be arrested, won’t he?”
“One thing at a time, mija.” Laney squeezed her hand. “Maybe there’s still some way we could handle this between ourselves as a church family.”
Hope flickered like the flame from a drippy candle. “So … maybe … he won’t go to jail?”
“We don’t know what the council will vote to do.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
Laney met her gaze before answering. “That charges will be filed. He committed a crime.” She tore open a pink package of sweetener and sprinkled it in her mug. “I’m praying for a solution other than jail time.”
“A solution?”
“Dalton needs treatment. As I suggested before, maybe we could work with a judge.” Laney sipped her tea before setting the mug back on the table. “I know you believe this but it bears repeating. Trust your Father. He deeply loves you and knows what you need.”
“Oh … Laney … I can’t seem to find Him right now. He’s seems so far away.” Samantha grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “If He loves me, why did this happen?”
“I won’t pretend I have an answer. But Carla Connor is asking the same question, dear.”
Oh dear Carla! Samantha cringed. New shame blanketed her. She still had her precious baby in the next room.
For the next hour Laney listened while Samantha emptied her heart.
“I thought he was seeing another woman,” Samantha told her. “He often took pills, but I thought it was aspirin.” She sipped her tea. Steam beaded around her lips. “I’ll never forget the day he flipped out.”
“What happened?”
“The doctor refused to give him a refill. He ran through the house slamming doors. He ended up here, pounding the life out of this table with his fists. In all our years together I’d never seen him like that.”
“Were you afraid?”
Samantha shook her head. “I know it seems weird, but I wasn’t. Dalton would never hurt me or the kids.”
“Drugs turn placid people into monsters. I saw it often at the hospital,” Laney said, frowning. “He showed you yesterday what he’s capable of.” Laney replenished her mug with hot water, then dropped in a fresh Chai bag.
“Dalton’s not a monster. That much I’m certain of. I just wish I knew what to do.”
“I’d like to share a passage I was reading last night. It might give you some insight.” Laney seemed to consider her words before clearing her throat. “Did you know that God is the revealer of deep and hidden things?”
“What do you mean?”
“In Daniel. I read it last night.” Laney cast her gaze to the ceiling, apparently rummaging her brain for the exact quote. “It says … ‘He reveals deep and hidden things and He knows what lies in darkness …’ Don’t ask me for the reference number..”
“2:22?” Samantha asked.
Laney chuckled. “I’ve never had a good memory, but that should have been easy.”
“I got that same verse early this morning.” Samantha told her about seeing the digital clock at precisely 2:22 a.m. “I asked the Lord and He told me to go to the book of Daniel. I couldn’t imagine what it meant. Even now, I’m still a little unsure.”
Laney chewed a generous bite of banana bread. “The second half of the verse is what catches my attention. God is in the darkness. The Lord may be trying to show you He’s with Dalton in this awful place.”
That had been her interpretation too. But it sure didn’t seem fair or just. Dalton needed to feel God’s wrath for what he’d done, not be rewarded with His companionship. Let him pay, Lord!
“God forgave people like King David for murder, Peter for denying Jesus, all kinds of people, all kinds of sin,” Laney continued. “Every time I read their stories it gives me hope. He is the God of the second, third and umpteenth chances …”
“Maybe God can forgive but I’m not sure I can.” Samantha’s voice pitched. “He’s betrayed me. Not only me, but my children and let’s not forget the people at church. They’ve trusted him to be their shepherd. He miserably failed them. How could he have taken that money? Many in our congregation are struggling. He has the gall to play on their emotions like some superficial T.V. preacher. It makes me sick.”
Laney nodded. “I don’t blame you. But no one is beyond the Lord’s forgiveness. Dalton may end up in the blackest pit, but God’s light can overpower any darkness.” She sipped her tea again, regarding Samantha over the cup rim. “God may even be asking you to be a source of that light.”
“Me?” Samantha raised a hand in reflexive protest. “I’m not sure I can …”
“Ask the Lord for willingness. Then take a baby step as He shows you. Nothing more. That puts the ball in God’s court, doesn’t it?”
Willingness? Maybe she could do that. If God gave her an attitude adjustment. “I prayed a good part of the night that He would show me what to do.”
“Do you have any direction?”
“I decided to attend the council meeting. Can I ride with you?”
“Sure you can, honey, but are you sure about this? It might be rough.”
“These are my friends. They’ll be no excuses made for Dalton. I promise you that. I need to be there. I need to have a voice.” Samantha reached for her cell phone. “I’ll make childcare arrangements and then we can leave.”
She called Elaine Ainsworth, asked for yet another favor, then found some paper and a pen in a drawer. She scribbled a note, placed it on the table, then headed to the den. “Grace, honey, put your shoes on.”
She turned back to the kitchen. Laney was gathering her purse and keys. Her eyes flicked to the note Samantha had just left.
I’m at the church fo
r the bereavement
meeting. Grace is at Elaine’s. Sammy
Laney moved it to the edge of the table then met Samantha’s gaze. Her face flushed.
“I’m sorry for snooping. But I’m glad you’re at least communicating.” She pulled her bag to her shoulder. “The devil has done his work in your family, Lord knows. But don’t forget that a smoldering wick will not be snuffed out … a bruised reed, He will not snap. He alone can reignite your love and passion for each other. Only He can bring the healing. That’s what I’m praying for.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mourning
_________________________________________________________
10:20 a.m.
Connor Home
Matt had cried himself to sleep. The moist pillow made that obvious. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the clock. Ten twenty. Laney’s sleeping pill had worked. He’d been out for eight hours.
He collected clean clothes from his dresser and peered at the mirror. Tear tracks marked his cheeks. His face was swollen, his eyes lined with red. He stared back at himself, his gaze as barren as his soul, as empty as Charity’s room down the hall.
Where was Carla? He needed her. She was his strength. His rock.
After getting cleaned up, he left the bedroom and found himself in front of Charity’s door. He twisted the knob and stopped. Why go in? His baby was gone.
He forged through the family room to the kitchen. The counters and sink were spotless, thanks to the kind hands of the church ladies who’d left hours ago.
Where was Carla?
Realization dawned. He raced down the hallway.
When he opened Charity’s door, Carla huddled on their child’s bed, shoulders shaking with sobs. Her knees were tightly drawn to her chest and she clutched Mr. Teddy, the stuffed toy Charity slept with. Her wails had surrendered to quiet grief. Like his.
“Car’... we’re going to get through this, babe.” He sat and stroked her back. He ached to ease her pain.
She looked up, her eyes ringed in smudgy mascara.
“How, Matt? I don’t think I can.”
“We’ll help each other.”
She struggled to sit, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. He offered her some tissues from the box on the nightstand.
“Let’s take a trip to your mom’s place … after ...” He halted his words. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“After we bury our baby?”
He hung his head and nodded. It was hard to know what to say.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked.
“Not really. I took Laney’s pill but it didn’t help.” Carla’s face contorted and she bit her lip.
“What is it, sweetie?”
“I can’t seem to stop worrying.”
“About what?”
“Was there something else we could have done? Maybe another bone marrow transplant?”
“Don’t go there, honey.” He hugged her tight. “The doctors told us it wouldn’t work a second time. Remember?” He stroked her face. “Can I get you anything?”
“Could you make some coffee while I take a shower?”
He agreed and helped her to her feet as she gripped the bear. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. “I can still smell Charity.” New tears trailed down his face as she placed Mr. Teddy in the center of the pillow.
Matt wiped his eyes and swallowed back the sadness. For Carla’s sake, he’d hold it together. He wrapped his arm around her waist as they walked to their bedroom. When she disappeared in the bathroom, he headed back to the kitchen to put something together for breakfast. Carla needed to eat something.
He needed a plan. It was time to man up and do the hard stuff for his wife even if that meant picking out a casket without her. But where should he start?
He collapsed on a kitchen stool to collect his thoughts. Mr. Coffee gurgled at the end of the long granite counter.
Fifteen minutes later, a yellow legal pad, framed with his own nonsensical doodling, held his confusion and trauma. He tossed the pen on the tablet. He couldn’t string two thoughts together. And there was so much to do.
Laney told him there’d be a bereavement meeting later this afternoon at Saint Luke’s and that the church ladies would take care of most of the arrangements. No thanks. He’d handle things himself. If he ever stepped into that building again, it would be too soon. The whole place was filled with memories. Charity as Mary in the annual Christmas pageant last year. She’d worn a head covering that hid her patchy scalp. His heart ached, remembering the image of his too-thin little girl clutching the baby Jesus on a makeshift stage.
Imagining the high and mighty Dalton Baxter anywhere near his daughter’s service deposited fresh rage. That creep better stay far away if he wanted to take another breath on this planet. Matt would never forgive Baxter. He’d lost precious hours with his baby, words she’d spoken he’d never hear. His face felt hot. Dalton Baxter should die an early and painful death. An overdose of OC would be too merciful.
Charity’s four-year illness, like an unwanted house guest, had refused to leave. Brief remissions gave them seasons of hope but all along, deep in his gut, Matt believed the disease lurked below the surface. And then one day, just like he’d imagined, the beast woke up, only to storm through his home, stealing his most precious possession from right under his nose.
Matt stirred cream into his coffee as swirling thoughts ravaged his brain. He must tell Carla the truth about where he had been on Sunday. He had to. But not today. Maybe not this week.
He stared at the notepad. Where could he find a place to have a service? Relatives were coming and Carla’s church friends would want to attend as well.
What about the pastor’s wife, Samantha? Carla would insist she be invited. That might present a problem. He’d need to come up with something as to why her husband could not attend. No matter how he framed it, Carla would object unless she knew why. He’d have to be honest with her. But would she believe her pastor was an addict and one of Matt’s best customers?
Not bloody likely.
Noon
Baxter Home
The throbbing in Dalton’s temples woke him. Bright sunbeams crossed the sheets. He picked up the alarm clock and stared. He’d slept almost three hours. Well past the dosing time Dr. Adams had prescribed.
Had Sammy told him that Charity Connor had died? Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe God had healed her.
He rubbed his eyes and struggled to his feet. A pang in his lower back slowed his movement. He staggered to the sink and pulled out his medicine from its hiding place. With shaky hands he fumbled and opened the lid, then swallowed two caplets. That should perk him up. Fifteen minutes and he’d feel like a new man, the screams from his cheek and backside, quieted.
When he returned to the bedroom he noticed Sammy’s made up side. So she hadn’t slept there.
Memories flooded in all at once. He sank onto the bed’s edge.
Sammy did come in. And she’d been angry at him. Charity Connor died.
His chin fell to his chest. He should have gone last night. Even in his pain. What kind of pastor was he?
His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t had anything to eat since Deidra gave him a yogurt from the fridge. Chewing had been impossible. He must get something in his stomach. He stood and moved to the doorway.
“Sammy?”
No answer. The house was still.
He clung to the railing as he descended the stairs. “Sammy? Are you here?” he called out once he got to the breakfast room door. The table showed signs of recent activity. Two drained coffee mugs and some banana bread. His mouth watered. Then he saw a note.
Grace was with the Ainsworth’s. Sammy was at the church bereavement meeting helping with Charity’s service.
Matt must be in hell right now.
God ... I really messed up. Please help me fix this. Helping any
one right now would be impossible. Maybe he’d feel better tomorrow. Good thing Sammy was handling this.
Dalton headed to the fridge to silence his hunger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Council Meeting
_________________________________________________________
1:00 p.m.
Saint Luke’s Community Church
It didn’t take long for Samantha to realize Laney had been right. Attending the council meeting turned out to be much harder than she’d imagined. Martin described the scene at Copper Lake. Wide-eyed council members straightened their backs and gawked. Samantha looked away, avoiding their eyes.
“That BMW ... he’s so proud of …” Martin continued. “He pushed it into the reservoir.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Why?” Brad Sanders interrupted. Samantha looked up. “First he steals the offering.” Brad glowered at her. “Then he sinks his car in a lake? This is outrageous!”
Samantha returned a hard stare over a frown. She’d known having Brad on the board might be a problem. But she’d bitten her tongue and smiled when the congregation elected him. She should have known he’d be like this. So much for making amends. So much for trying to forget the past. Brad would never let her forget.
“Let me finish …” Martin waved him silent.
“Something should be done.” Brad’s lips formed a thin line, his accusing eyes bearing into hers. Samantha knew something much more than Dalton’s behavior had set him off.
“Hold on, Brad,” Martin continued, “After burying his pills, Dalton injured himself with a hammer. That explains why he was hospitalized last night.”
Harold and Betty Roark leaned their hearing aids toward Martin, hanging on every word. Betty’s brows arched, her voice quivered. “Why would Pastor Dalton do such a thing?”
“To convince law enforcement he’d been carjacked. He needed to account for the missing money,” Martin explained. “Sinking his car also promised him a nice insurance settlement.”
Samantha fought the urge to run out of the room. These folks were her friends. She’d served them dinner at her table. But today, crowding the small vestibule, the council formed a tight circle of judgment.