by Patti Berg
“Are you angry that I don’t come as often as I used to?” She looked toward heaven instead of at the headstone because she knew Dean had gone to his eternal home. His body might lie beneath the earth, but his soul and his heart were with the Lord.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, but Candace knew what he would have said. “Come when you can, hon. I understand.”
“I talked to a woman tonight—Megan Gallagher—who lost her husband a few months ago. I can’t believe how much she reminds me of me.”
Candace sat down next to the headstone, grasping one of the dead chrysanthemums, picking off petals. “Megan’s so terribly lonely. And she’s angry with her husband for leaving her.”
A gentle wind blew across the cemetery, sending some of the petals flying.
“I was angry at you too, hon. Sometimes I’m still angry. I desperately wanted to spend my entire life with you. From the first moment we met, when my papers got caught in the wind.…Remember that? I fell in love with you that day.”
Candace waited for the familiar tightness in her throat, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she found herself smiling. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. It was a way of hugging herself, of feeling some bit of comfort, when there was no one else around to hold her tight.
Maybe that would change someday.
She just had to open herself up to the possibility. To let it happen.
Dragging in a deep breath, Candace looked at the stars that shone in between the clouds, and shared a little more with Dean.
“It didn’t surprise me when Megan said that she doesn’t want to move on. That she’s nowhere near ready for that. I felt the same way for the longest time, but now…now…I need to, hon.”
Candace stood, licking lips that were getting chapped in the cold night air. Digging into her pocket for a tube of cherry lip balm, she pulled off the lid and ran it over her lips, before clutching the top of Dean’s headstone. It wasn’t at all like holding him, but it was the closest she could get.
“I miss you. I realized, though, I don’t feel alarm any longer when I laugh over silly things, or when a few hours go by and I realize I haven’t thought about you.”
It seemed as if it had happened overnight rather than happening bit by bit over three long years. The pain was going away too, replaced with only the best of memories.
Her hair blew into her face and she brushed it away.
“Oh…before I go,” she said, stepping around the stone and tracing the cross etched into the stone. “Brooke’s been asked to play ‘The First Noel’ at our Christmas Eve service this year. She says it’s no big deal, but I know she’s excited and nervous. And you know all those videos we made? Well, Brooke’s been watching one of you playing carols and she plays along with you just in case the music director asks her to play even more solos.”
Candace laughed. “If you were here, I know you’d be sitting alongside her on the piano bench cheering her on.”
A falling star streaked across the nighttime sky. A guardian angel, maybe?
Keeping her eyes on the heavens, on the stars shining in her eyes, she offered a simple prayer. “Thank You, Lord, for helping me through my grief; for walking beside me every step of the way.”
And as she walked from the cemetery, Candace blew a kiss to Dean, and for the first time, she left with a small smile on her lips and a thrill of hope for the future.
Chapter Eighteen
THE MEETING ROOM ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF Cavendish House was the perfect place for the quilting guild to get together. It had once been the classroom for the Cavendish children. Even now there were a few hundred-plus-year-old chalkboards hanging on the wall; but mostly, the faded wallpaper was covered with quilts the women had made over the years. Like Anabelle, most of the women in the guild made more quilts than they could ever use or give away, and some found their way to their meeting places.
They were always great inspiration.
Anabelle stood in front of one of the four-by-eight-foot tables, laying out pieces of fabric she’d cut, plus pattern pieces. On the wall, she’d pinned up a sketch of the quilt they’d be making for the Harvest Festival, and the fourteen other women who’d shown up tonight were already selecting pieces to appliqué.
“When did you say the quilt needs to be finished?” Genna Hamilton, the wife of Dr. Drew Hamilton, one of Anabelle’s longtime friends at Hope Haven, asked.
“Two weeks from now,” Anabelle said, “which doesn’t give us a lot of time.”
“Once it’s finished,” Ainslee, Anabelle’s daughter, said, “I’m going to take photos of it for the Deerford Dispatch. I’ve already written up a press release, and I hope to get photos of the quilt, and an article about our guild and, of course, the Harvest Festival in some other papers too.”
“You know that the money being raised at the festival is going toward furniture and appliances for Deerford’s three Habitat for Humanity homes,” Anabelle said. “The more we can promote it, the better.”
“And I’m sure the quilt my mom’s designed is going to bring in a ton of money,” Ainslee added. “So the sooner we get it completed, the sooner we can get information out to the press and start touting the auction for the quilt.”
“I have an idea,” Genna said. “You know I have a big quilting studio at home and I have tables for quite a few extra sewing machines. If any of you want to come to my house so we can work on the quilt together, and hopefully finish it fast, show up at eight tomorrow—or any day but Sunday—until we get it done. Just bring your own machines.”
“Thank you so much,” Anabelle said. “These things go so much faster when we can work on them as a group. I won’t be able to take off work, but I can be there all day Saturday.”
Anabelle smiled as one woman after another told Genna that they’d be there—with pastry and muffins and all sorts of other goodies to get them through the day.
If only the hospital administrators and board members could work so well together, there’d never be any problems at Hope Haven.
Once the fabric was all laid out, Anabelle set up her sewing machine next to Ainslee, who was already at work appliquéing autumn leaves onto several squares that Anabelle had pieced together in the last week.
“How are you feeling?” Anabelle asked her daughter, as she sat at her side and threaded her machine.
“Never better,” Ainslee said, maneuvering the fabric around.
“No morning sickness?”
“Not a bit, Mother.”
“Are you following that diet I gave you? The one I got from Candace?”
Ainslee laughed, looking up from the cranberry-colored maple leaf. “You have to stop worrying about me so much.”
Anabelle pursed her lips. She stared at the blurry fabric in front of her and only then remembered to take her glasses out of her pocket and set them on her nose. “Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”
Ainslee continued to stitch. “Still trying to get approval for that extra RN position?”
“I think I’m going to have to give up on that, since right now it seems absolutely impossible.”
“I suppose that means you won’t be cutting back on your hours anytime soon?” Ainslee asked, taking Anabelle by surprise.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“With Pop retired and no kids left at home, I was thinking the two of you might want to travel, or something.”
Anabelle picked up a few squares of fabric that she’d already pinned together. “We’ve never talked about traveling, and I definitely haven’t given any thought to retiring or even cutting back on my hours.”
Ainslee laughed. “Now you know how I feel when you start questioning me about the baby and the colors for the baby’s room.”
Anabelle huffed. “You’re not saying that I’m a buttinsky, are you?”
“You’re just overly concerned, Mother.” Ainslee leaned over and kissed Anabelle on the cheek. “You and Pop raised me to know right
from wrong and how to take care of myself. I’ve got a husband watching over me like a mother hen.”
“Oh, all right.” Anabelle kept her eyes on the fabric she was working with. “I’ll try not to interfere. Lord knows I’ve got enough other things to worry about.”
Elena sat in the second row of pews in Holy Trinity’s sanctuary, listening to the choir practice. Their voices were beautiful, something she hadn’t noticed before, because she’d been standing in their midst, hearing pretty much her own voice, even though it had been drowned out by sopranos and tenors and baritones who could carry a fabulous tune.
All day she’d contemplated whether she should or shouldn’t drop out of the choir. In the end, she chose to quit. She’d miss the people in the choir, but they all knew what she’d hated to admit. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life.
Now, listening to the choir, she refused to dwell on the fact that the director had graciously accepted her resignation, or the fact that she said no when he asked if she could help make new robes for the children’s choir. He’d gotten a glimpse of the new Elena, and she was determined to stick to her guns and breathe new life into her marriage.
The one thing she did dwell on, though, was Albert Varner’s wife, Sandy, standing at the very center of the choir, singing her heart out. But Albert wasn’t there, adding his rich tenor to the hymn they were practicing. Neither Sandy nor Albert had been at practice last week. They hadn’t been at church on Saturday night or, from what she’d been able to find out, at either of the Sunday services.
Elena wouldn’t have stuck around throughout practice, torturing herself over the fact that she wasn’t up there singing with everyone else, if she hadn’t seen Sandy come in. She wanted to talk with her as soon as practice was over.
Of course, what she would say was anyone’s guess. But before giving it any more thought, she got lost in the glorious music.
We plough the fields and scatter
The good seed on the land,
But it is fed and watered
By God’s almighty hand:
He sends the snow in winter,
The warmth to swell the grain,
The breezes and the sunshine,
And soft, refreshing rain.
All good gifts around us
Are sent from heaven above;
Then thank the Lord,
O thank the Lord,
For all his love.
“Beautiful…and perfect,” Andre Blasedale, the choir director said, applauding the men and women as they disbanded and made a dash for the exits. Everyone was in such a hurry these days, a feeling Elena knew well.
Sandy Varner shrugged into a red wool coat that had been draped over the back of the first row of pews, tucked a large, black patent-leather clutch under her arm and headed for the narthex. Elena quickly scooted out of the pew and followed her down the aisle.
“Sandy,” Elena called out. The fiftyish woman with long blonde hair and dark-rimmed glasses turned around. “It’s so nice to see you here tonight.”
Sandy swept her hair over her shoulder, smiling uncomfortably. “I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve dropped out of the choir, Elena, but I’m not surprised, considering all the other things I know you’re doing for the church and—” Sandy hesitated, glancing down at the floor. “And for the hospital.”
“I’m trying to weed my to-do list and make it more manageable. And”—Elena laughed lightly—“we all know I can’t sing.”
“I’ve always felt a lot of voices—even the ones that aren’t pitch perfect—sound wonderful, especially when they come together to praise God.”
Sandy’s sentiment was nice, but Elena needed to talk about Mr. Varner before Sandy rushed off.
“I’ve missed seeing you and Mr. Varner at church—and Mr. Varner’s missed at the hospital.”
“Life’s been crazy the last couple of weeks, but we’re hoping to get back on schedule,” Sandy said. “We’re also thinking about traveling. We’ve always talked about visiting the Christmas markets in Germany, and Albert would like to try out his photography skills in and around some of the old cathedrals.”
“But what about—” Elena hesitated, then decided to dive right in. “What about his job at the hospital? The atmosphere at Hope Haven’s been a little strained the last couple of weeks.”
Sandy completely avoided Elena’s questions, but tears pooled in the corners of her eyes as she took a quick peek at her watch. “I’m so sorry I have to run, Elena. Albert’s meeting me for dinner and—” She smiled uncomfortably. “See you Sunday.”
Elena watched Sandy’s long, sleek blonde hair bounce on the back of her bright red coat as she raced out of the church. She should have told Sandy about the petition she’d be passing around, advising the hospital’s board of directors that the Hope Haven staff wanted Albert Varner back as CEO. She should have told her about the petition for the PICU and children’s ward—information she would have loved Sandy to pass on to her husband.
If she’d had only a few more seconds, she would have asked Sandy to tell Mr. Varner hello, but it was clear she didn’t want to talk. It was obvious she was hurting.
That made it more important than ever to get a petition circulating—fast.
Chapter Nineteen
HEY, DAD!”
James’s hand tightened around his cell phone. The boys never called during the day. “What’s wrong, Nelson?”
“Nothing, Dad, I just needed to talk with you before school starts.”
“Hang on just a second,” James muttered to his son, relieved that nothing serious was going on.
It was a little before eight o’clock Wednesday when Nelson caught his dad with a patient who’d just been admitted into the hospital, after spending a few hours in the ER. James had spent a good half hour trying to get minor details from the wife of a middle-aged man who’d gone into diabetic shock. Mr. Olmstead was stabilized now, receiving electrolytes and being rehydrated, but his wife was a basket case, which made it nearly impossible to prepare the initial assessment paperwork.
In hindsight, Nelson’s call was a relief.
“I’ll be back in just a moment, Mrs. Olmstead.” James gave her arm a comforting squeeze. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment and try to relax.”
“Is my husband going to be okay?”
“He’ll get the best care in the world here.” James pulled a chair up close to the bed. “Please, Mrs. Olmstead, relax for a bit. If you drink coffee, I’ll ask one of the aides to bring you a cup.”
“That would be lovely—with sugar, no cream. Thank you.”
On his way out of Mr. Olmstead’s room, James caught Phyllis Getty, who had a huge amber chrysanthemum pinned on her jacket, and asked her if she could get the coffee. She was old enough to be his mother, but she hadn’t slowed down in the years she’d volunteered at Hope Haven. And if there was any volunteer he could count on, it was Phyllis.
Finding a quiet place to talk, out of the hustle and bustle of Med/Surg, James slumped into a comfortable chair to take the load off his feet, and flattened his cell phone against his ear.
“What’s up, Nelson?”
“Didn’t Mom tell you I needed to talk to you last night?”
She had, but it was after eleven when he got home from work, and he wasn’t about to wake Nelson up, not when he had to get up early in the morning for school. He’d been sure that whatever Nelson had had to tell him could wait.
But he gave his son just the facts. “Dr. Hamilton asked me to assist him in surgery last night. It went a lot longer than we expected, and I had to head for work early this morning. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk with you.”
“It wasn’t all that important, but I saw Mr. Beckwith when he picked up Kirk after school yesterday, and he asked me if you’d gotten any calls about the scoutmaster job.”
“Unfortunately, not one.” In spite of the article he’d managed to get printed in both Saturday and Sunday’s Dispatch, not to mention the flyers he
and Nelson had posted at the YMCA, the fire and police departments and every other place they could think of. “I’ll give him a call tonight and let him know what’s going on.”
“Thanks.”
Phyllis strolled past, carrying a tall Styrofoam cup of coffee and wiggled her fingers at James, her usual way of saying hello and good-bye and everything else in between. Another volunteer walked by pushing a meal cart, but through the noise James heard the sound of a buzzer in his ear.
“By the way. You are at school, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, Dad, where did you think I’d be?”
“In class.”
“I’ve got Algebra in just a few minutes, but hoped I could catch you, just in case I run into Mr. Beckwith again. He told Kirk we’d probably have to disband the troop or join one in another town—like we talked about at the meeting. I’d rather quit than do that.” Disappointment dampened Nelson’s usually upbeat voice.
“You don’t really want to quit.”
“Nah, but—”
“But what, Nelson?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to be scoutmaster?”
James hesitated, thinking of something Anabelle had said to him last week. “Your children are only young once.”
“I haven’t ruled it out,” James said at last. “We set a deadline of a week from now to find a scoutmaster…or look at other alternatives. If no one else steps forward, I’ll give it a little more thought.”
“If I put together a pros and cons list for you,” Nelson asked, “will that help you make your decision?”
James smiled at his son’s enthusiasm. “Yeah, that might help. Now, get to class, and make sure you and your brother rake the front yard before I get home tonight.”
Elena crunched through the autumn leaves scattered about the courtyard, which was undergoing a complete renovation and would include the new Wall of Hope. Cameron Scott, Anabelle’s husband, was standing in the back of his Scott Landscaping truck, shoveling fine sand out of the bed and onto a deepening pile at one side of the courtyard.
With his head down, concentrating completely on his work, he didn’t even notice Elena until she was just a few feet away from the truck. “Hi there,” he said, digging his shovel into the sand and leaning on the handle. “Did you come out to see how things are shaping up?”