Hope for Tomorrow

by Patti Berg

  She owed Cesar not just a special breakfast, but a special day, as well, something more than the dinner they were sharing tonight, in between her meetings. He was right—she did take on too much and she was gone a lot. So many nights he fended for himself when dinnertime rolled around. She usually worked on his days off; he worked on hers. If they weren’t careful, they could drift apart.

  That was the last thing Elena wanted.

  She had to stop taking on more projects.

  After paying for her purchases, Elena dropped her wallet, the cookies and candy bar into her tote. Glancing at her watch and knowing she’d have to hurry, she turned and bumped into a tall, redheaded woman holding two of the fluffy teddy bears against her very pregnant body.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elena said for the second time in the last hour. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  Elena found herself fingering the green vest on one of the bears the redhead was holding.

  “This is Robin Hood,” the woman said. “Cute isn’t he?”

  Elena nodded. “I just bought one dressed as a ballerina for my granddaughter. Are these for your children?”

  She touched her protruding belly. “This is my first. As for the bears, they’re creations of mine and Ruth’s been kind enough to let me sell them here.”

  “Really?” Elena asked, an idea popping into her mind. “Would you be interested in renting a booth at our Harvest Festival and selling more of them there?”

  The woman contemplated the question for a moment or two, then smiled. “I’m sure my husband would love that. My bears and some of my other creations have been running him out of house and home.” She tucked Robin Hood under her arm and held out her hand to Elena. “I’m Ginger Murphy.”

  “Elena Rodriguez,” Elena said, shaking her hand. “I’ve got a meeting at my church so I have to run, but I’ll be here tomorrow, in the ICU from seven until three. If you want to stop by, I can give you more details about the festival.”

  “As long as my feet aren’t swollen and I can get into the car, I’d love to talk with you.”

  “Great. See you then,” Elena said, heading for the door.

  “Wait.”

  Elena was going to be late if she didn’t hurry, but she stopped anyway. She turned to see Ginger walking toward her.

  “Mind if I ask which church you go to?”

  “Holy Trinity.”

  “Is that the gothic church with the chimes?”

  Elena nodded. If she weren’t in such a big rush, she could go on and on, extolling the virtues of Holy Trinity, but she held back and merely said, “If you’re looking for a church to join—”

  “Actually, I was hoping to find a Bible study group, at least to start.”

  “It just so happens my group meets tonight at seven.” Elena dug into her bag, pulled out a pen and notepad and scribbled down the address for Holy Trinity, her name and her cell phone number. “I’ll wait outside for you—if you can make it.”

  “I’ll be there,” Ginger said, touching her belly. “I really do need some people to pray with.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE OVEN TIMER BEEPED AT 5:30 PM, THE EXACT moment Candace heard the drone of the automatic garage door rising.

  Right on time.

  If there was one thing Candace could always trust, it was that her mother, Janet Fuller—Grammy to Brooke and Howie—was punctual.

  Candace had so many things to be thankful for in her life. Her children, the sweet and precious memories she and Dean had shared and her mom’s willingness to give up her own home and move in with Candace and the kids after Dean’s death. She was a godsend who never grumbled about helping with meals, child care, getting Howie and Brooke to and from school and a whole assortment of other things.

  As much as Candace wished she could do it all on her own—as much as she wished Dean could be there to help with their children—it wasn’t possible. And Janet doted on the munchkins as much as Candace did.

  She pulled a meatloaf—Howie’s favorite dinnertime entrée—out of the oven. Its juices sizzled in the glass baking dish and the scent of the spices she’d added to the meat, plus the apricot preserves she’d mixed in for an extra special flavor, wafted about the kitchen. The meal was going to be delicious—and she was starved.

  As she transferred the meat to a high-gloss pottery platter, one of the mismatched and colorful pieces of dinnerware she’d started collecting while in college, the children bounded through the garage door and into the mudroom. The first sight of them brought a smile to her face and extra warmth to her heart.

  Even from the kitchen she could watch their movements. They dropped their coats and backpacks on the mudroom floor, because it was much too difficult to hang them on the perfectly good rack mounted on one wall.

  Howie kicked off his tennis shoes, more than likely left a pile of sandbox sand on the floor and raced into the kitchen, launching himself into Candace’s arms. She hugged him tightly, kissing his cold, reddened cheeks just as he kissed hers, before letting him down so he could run around the house and expend some of his little-boy energy. She hated the thought of Howie getting older and not getting three or four hugs from him every day.

  Brooke, on the other hand, had pretty much outgrown kisses and hugs, unless giving them was her own idea. Candace’s small-for-her-age yet beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter, seemed to be flirting with adolescent moodiness. She hadn’t even looked at Candace when she ran into the house.

  “How were piano lessons?” Candace called after her daughter as she jumped down the short flight of steps to the split-level home’s family room, which was separated from the kitchen by a simple oak railing.

  “You know, same old, same old.” To quell further conversation with her mother, Brooke turned the television up full blast while flipping through channels for something to watch.

  Candace raised her eyes toward heaven. Was this the same daughter who’d been so excited at choir practice last week? The same daughter who’d shed a few tears when asked to play a solo at the Christmas services? Candace consoled herself, thinking it wouldn’t be any fun to have a kid who displayed just one mood all the time.

  Janet stopped next to her daughter and said, in her quiet, calm and I’ve-been-through-this-before-and-you-too-shall-come-out-of-italive voice, “Lessons were wonderful, but she was having a bit of trouble with ‘Claire de Lune,’ and after her instructor watched her play, told her she was moving her thumbs all wrong.”

  “There’s a right way and a wrong way to move your thumbs?” Candace asked as she drained the boiled potatoes for her extra creamy mashed potatoes with cream cheese, the steam rising up, obliterating most of her view.

  “Yeah, Mommy,” Brooke shouted over the big-screen TV. “You move your thumbs from the wrist, not from the joint. It makes all the difference in the world.”

  “Thanks, honey.” Candace scooted around Janet, who was poking through the frozen vegetables in the freezer, and took milk and margarine out of the fridge. “Would you play something for me?”

  “Hannah Montana’s on.”

  “Why don’t you set the table then? You can watch Hannah Montana when you’re done.”

  This time she was completely ignored. Candace tried to give her daughter the benefit of the doubt. She hated to think that Brooke was just being obstinate and ignoring her.

  Boy, she was a lousy disciplinarian.

  Dean would have walked down the stairs, picked Brooke up and carried her to the kitchen. But Dean wasn’t around. And he never would be. Ever again.

  Toughen up. Go to that group session tonight and talk it out of your system.

  “Peas okay?” Janet asked, pulling her head out of the freezer and dragging Candace back to the present.

  “Perfect, Mom.”

  Janet pushed a footstool across the kitchen floor and climbed on top to retrieve a bowl from one of the cabinets. “Need one for the potatoes while I’m up here?”


  “Please.”

  Dinner would be ready in about fifteen minutes, and the table still wasn’t set. That’s where toughness came in, and Candace wished she wasn’t such a pushover or so afraid to upset her daughter. Still, she called out, “Hey, Brooke. I’ve got to leave in about forty-five minutes, so DVR your show, come set the table and you can watch TV after your homework’s done.”

  “Leave?” Candace could hear the fear in her daughter’s voice as Brooke’s head whipped around to stare at her mom, a sudden fear on her still-a-little-girl face. She’d lost one parent; having another disappear in a flash struck a note of terror.

  “I have a meeting to go to, honey. No biggy.” It was a half-truth; not exactly a lie. She couldn’t tell Brooke she was going to a therapy session. Moms were supposed to be perfect. In their children’s eyes, they could handle anything and everything—or at least they should be able to. That’s how they protected their kids.

  Her counselor would probably tell her to spill the beans, but Candace couldn’t. Not now.

  “I thought you were going to be home to watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown with us.” Brooke sounded disappointed.

  “I already checked the television guide and it’s not on until eight thirty. I’ve got a bowl all ready for the popcorn, and I’ve planned to douse it with extra butter, just like you, Howie and Grammy like it. Now come on, sweetheart, time’s running out on me.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Would it be a struggle every night until Brooke went off to college? Candace pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead as she took silverware from the drawer. A second later Brooke had her arms around her. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, honey.”

  Brooke didn’t move for the longest time. She was in her thinking mode, and not for the first time, Candace wished she could read her daughter’s mind.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Daddy.”

  There wasn’t any hint of sadness in Brooke’s voice, maybe because all the grief was resting in Candace’s throat, welling up, getting bigger and bigger. Toughen up, she told herself, caressing a hand over her little girl’s cheek. Don’t smother Brooke. Don’t make her cry. Don’t cry yourself.

  “Mommy? Did you hear me?”

  Candace nodded. “Yes, honey. What about Daddy?”

  “I bet God’s happy having Daddy up there with Him.”

  Candace felt her voice crack before masking it as if she were clearing her throat. “I’m sure He is.”

  “He laughed a lot.”

  “All the time.”

  “Do you think he’s laughing in heaven?”

  “I imagine so.”

  Brooke looked up at Candace’s face and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at her mom’s response. As Brooke walked over to the table with her hands full of knives, forks and spoons, Candace wondered when Brooke had become so logical. So perceptive.

  Was this all a fluke? Or a breakthrough? A chance for her daughter to be a happy little girl again? That’s what Candace had been praying for.

  Thank You, Lord, for letting me see Dean’s sparkle in Brooke’s eyes. I’ll always have that. Always.

  Chapter Twelve

  JAMES DID NOT WANT TO BE AT THIS MEETING, but from the size of the crowd—four other parents, including the host, and five boys—most of the other parents didn’t want to be here and hadn’t shown up.

  “Thank you all for coming out tonight on such short notice,” Ron Beckwith said, “but as you may have already heard, we’ve lost our scoutmaster.”

  James sat next to Nelson, inside the enclosed back porch at Ron Beckwith’s home, and listened to the big man with a voice to match speak about how the troop had been deserted by their scoutmaster. He didn’t use those exact words, but James could hear the frustration in his voice.

  “Quite a number of activities have been planned for our boys,” Ron continued, and James was trying not to picture himself in a scoutmaster uniform. He’d worn a uniform during Desert Storm; he didn’t want to do it again. “Jamboree, of course, which will be held next summer in North Carolina as well as working with service organizations like the Salvation Army, Habitat for Humanity and the American Red Cross.”

  One of the parents, Bud Singh, who was leaning against the sliding glass door leading from the living room out to the porch, stepped forward. “You do plan to take over the scoutmaster position, don’t you Ron?”

  Nelson nudged his dad and frowned. Apparently having Ron Beckwith as scoutmaster didn’t appeal to Nelson. Why? James couldn’t imagine. The guy seemed perfectly fit for the job. Far more fit than he himself would be.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t take over. My job sends me out of town quite often, which means I can’t attend all weekly meetings. Having one person who can devote the time and energy it takes to lead the troop would be the best way to go. If we fail to find someone who can do that, we might consider having co-scoutmasters or have our sons join another troop, perhaps one in Princeton, Tiskilwa or Wyanet, until we can find someone to take over.”

  “That would be too far away,” Bud Singh added. “Our boys wouldn’t be able to ride their bikes to meetings if they joined an out-of-town troop. And neither my wife nor I have the time to drive them to meetings.”

  “If we can’t make any of those alternatives work”—Ron shrugged—“Deerford’s troop might have to disband.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” Bud Singh said. “I was in this troop when I was a kid. I went to Jamboree, did the turkey shoot with my dad at least three or four times.”

  “This troop’s been a big part of Deerford history,” James added. He’d done his homework, wanting to be prepared for this meeting. “After World War II the kids collected money to build a memorial to those who died. They’ve shoveled snow for the elderly and sandbagged homes during storms. I don’t believe letting it die is an option.”

  Ron Beckwith folded his arms across his chest. “Perhaps we could merge with a troop in another town? Alternate meeting places. Carpool.”

  “That’s better than the boys not having a troop at all,” James stated, “but I’d rather see us go in search of a new scoutmaster. Put an ad in the newspaper. Post notices around town.”

  “Does this mean you have the time to devote to this?” Beckwith asked.

  James knew he’d open himself up to extra work if he brought up the subject of advertising for a scoutmaster, but the troop meant a lot to his son. And Nelson meant a lot to him. “I don’t have any more time than anyone else, but, yeah, I’ll get notices sent out.”

  Beckwith nodded as he sighed with relief. “I’ll give you the name and phone number of our contact at the council office. They were supposed to send someone out for today’s meeting but he didn’t show up.”

  “Before we launch an advertising project,” James said, looking at the two other parents who’d been quiet so far, “are either of you able to take on the job?”

  Heads shook a definite no.

  No surprise there.

  “I suggest,” Ron said, eyes on James, “that you take a look at the storage shed full of gear that we’ve amassed over the years, before you send out the advertisement, that way you’ll know what equipment we have. I can give you the key to take home with you tonight, along with our bank statements and the financial books, so you’ll know about our other resources. And, of course, you’ll need the pamphlets the council office sent me on the scoutmaster position and how volunteers can be an asset to our boys.”

  Nelson practically knocked over his folding chair in his rush to get to the literature Ron had pointed to on the patio table. All the other parents seemed to be in a rush to leave without taking anything home to read.

  “Look, Dad,” Nelson said, his hands full, “this one describes the scoutmaster uniform, this one talks about a background investigation—of sorts—that you have to go through before you can become a scoutmaster and this one describes how fun the job will be.”

>   James put a hand on Nelson’s shoulder. “I’m going to help find a scoutmaster,” he said, “but don’t get your hopes up that it’ll be me. Volunteering to teach first-aid or give a talk about being a medic are vastly different from leading a troop. I honestly don’t feel I have the time.”

  Nelson’s lips pursed and he aimed his eyes at the ground as James thanked Beckwith for hosting the meeting and took the keys and troop paperwork off his hands.

  Nelson was silent for most of the ride home, but James could tell that his son’s mind was working hard, trying to think of a way to talk his dad into taking over the troop. Finally, he said, “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, Dad, with Mom being sick so much of the time, and working so many hours a day and needing to go to Gideon’s ball games. And I know how tough it is to do things you don’t really want to do. I mean, I don’t really like playing basketball, but I do it because it makes you happy.”

  Nelson was smart; attempting to get under his dad’s skin by using reverse psychology. It was a good try, but James knew he couldn’t give in.

  “I like it when you’re happy, Dad.”

  “Thanks, son.”

  Right now, there wasn’t much more James could say—and they were both silent the rest of the way home.

  James flopped down on the couch next to Fern the moment he walked in the door, while Nelson raced upstairs, the sound of his bedroom door shutting a bit harder than normal, reverberating all the way down to the living room. It wasn’t the first time one of his sons had been upset with him; it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Pretending he and Nelson had enjoyed nothing but a good time at the Scout meeting, James threw an arm around Fern’s shoulders. “You’re never going to believe what I did.”

  Fern snuggled close, hitting her husband with inquisitive brown eyes. “Volunteered to be scoutmaster?”

  “I might as well have, all things considered. But no, I somehow volunteered to be chief scoutmaster recruiter.” James rested his head against the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I said yes when everyone else at the meeting was saying no.”