“What?”
“I’ve got to make some changes. Time is running out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s one of those things you learn after it might be too late. I hope it’s not. But it might be.”
“I don’t understand. Have you been drinking? I haven’t known you to drink, but I know the last couple of weeks have been stressful.”
“My resignation is effective immediately. I really appreciate all the opportunities you’ve given me, Randall.”
Charles ended the call, holding the phone to his heart and realizing a heavy weight that he had dragged behind him for years was cut loose, the chains no longer rattling behind him.
Suddenly a light clicked on. Helen stood in her nightgown at the door, her eyes wide in a way that made Charles understand she’d been there a long time.
“Charles,” she whispered, not like it was the middle of the night, but like it was shameful. “What have you done?”
“I’ve done what I needed to do.” He rose from his desk and walked toward her. “I’ve been all over the world and met powerful people and made good money. I know I have the potential to make much more money. But what good is it all if my kids hate me in the end? If they’re left to navigate this whole world by themselves?”
The blood had drained from her face. “They’re . . . they’re kids, Charles. They don’t know what’s good for them.”
“But I do.” He took her hands. They were frigid, as usual. “I thought I was doing what was right for our family, but I now see. I see, Helen.”
“But how will we . . . ?”
He smiled a little. He didn’t know the how-will-we. He just knew the why. He figured the how would work itself out. “I’ll get another job, a job that fits us well in the ways we need it to.”
Helen stood still for a long time, glancing distantly behind him at nothing but doubt. Then she reached for him in a way she had not in many years. She held his arm, and her eyes shone with a strange, soft resilience that he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen.
She dipped her hand into the pocket of her nightgown and pulled out the string of pearls she wore almost constantly. She opened his hand up, put them in, and closed his fingers around them.
“My mother, as you know, gave me these pearls.”
“Yes.”
“She had received a small inheritance from an uncle. She barely made ends meet, even at the end of her life, but she bought these for me.”
“It was such a kind thing for her to do.”
“It was less sentiment,” Helen said, “and more like insurance. She told me if I was ever destitute, to sell them for food or whatever I needed.” Her hand was warming on top of his. “And I’ve worn them around my neck ever since, as a reminder of a place I never wanted to return to.” She looked down. “But even with all this around us, I feel destitute. I have for a long time. I didn’t understand why. I thought I needed more . . . more assurance that we’d be okay. But we’re not okay. Not at all, are we?”
“We’ve sown into the wrong garden, I believe.”
She touched his face. “I believe so.” Then she stepped away from him. “Tomorrow I will get up and fix us pancakes, and you can make your announcement to the children, and we can . . . celebrate.” She smiled at him, more genuinely than he’d ever known her to smile, and moved into the darkness of the hallway and out of sight.
CHAPTER 47
BUTCH
BUTCH STOOD ON THE FRONT LAWN of newly laid sod, marveling that a house could be built on such short notice and that people who didn’t even know Keith and Bryn would donate their time and money and resources to build it. But here it was, humble and unassuming but standing and sturdy and built with the kind of sustaining materials you couldn’t find at a home improvement store.
As Ava led Keith and Bryn from behind a building, blindfolded, and as the crowd gathered for the big unveiling, Butch prayed despite himself. He suddenly understood all that Jenny had been trying to tell him, all the urgings she’d given for him to step outside himself and find a cause worth fighting for. He’d fought for his family, sure, to keep them fed and sheltered. But he understood now what she meant, that there was life even beyond a family—that humanity was in need and they were his family too, and he should do what he could to help them.
Even as he stood there, he began to appreciate what God had sown into his life despite the tragedy and loss he’d endured. He saw a bigger picture. For much of his life, he’d only seen the two-by-fours and the nails and the sawdust and the concrete. He’d never stopped to step back and see the house—God’s house—that served a bigger purpose and sheltered a lot of souls.
The crowd of about fifty began cheering, and Butch turned to see Ava leading Keith and Bryn, still blindfolded, to the center of the street. Both were laughing and holding on to each other. Of course, they already knew what the house looked like, but Butch and his helpers had managed to put some last-minute landscaping in, and some people from the church had donated furniture and decor. They’d even stocked the refrigerator with food.
Butch remembered when he brought Jenny by the small but cozy home he’d found right after they were married. They’d rented an apartment and planned to stay awhile, but Butch saw a home on an auction list and thought they could afford it. He picked her up from work, blindfolded her, and brought her to the house. She joked all the way there that people were going to think she was being kidnapped. He led her carefully to the front lawn and removed the blindfold.
To this day, he could still see the look on her face. It was like first love. Her eyes had tried to take it all in at once. Her hands grasped him, and her laugh was filled with delight.
“Really?” she’d asked him.
“Yeah. We need a place to build our lives.”
Jenny had started crying.
“Bring the bus!”
Butch blinked at the sound of Tippy’s voice, instructing the volunteers to bring the butcher paper. Everyone laughed as they unrolled it. The crowd’s view was now blocked by a large crayon drawing of a bus. Ava went to Keith and Bryn and removed their blindfolds.
Tippy smiled at Keith and said, “Sorry. Couldn’t get a real bus.” Then he turned to the crowd and, like a conductor, led them in a roar of voices.
“Move. That. Picture of a bus!”
The crowd went wild, and Keith and Bryn laughed and clapped as they walked toward the house. Bryn ran inside, but Keith stopped by Butch’s side and shook his hand. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”
Butch looked at the house so he didn’t have to see the emotion in Keith’s face. These days, he knew, he could cry at the drop of a hat—for all the right reasons. “You’re welcome. You know, my wife used to tell me that any one of us could find ourselves homeless or in need at any time in our lives, that it just takes one bad thing happening.” He looked at his shoes now, trying to get out all the words he wanted to say. “If I’d died instead of Jenny . . .” He looked over at Ava, who was chatting with Daphne and Tippy and admiring their new baby, Quinton Marshal. “I’d just . . . I’d want someone to help them. My wife always told me that sometimes we humans have to suffer ourselves before we find compassion to help others.”
Keith slapped him on the back. “Well, I promise to pay it forward as much as I can.”
“Go! Enjoy!” Butch said. “Just make sure you’re at work on Monday.”
Keith laughed and ran inside to join Bryn. The crowd started to disperse, but Tippy was waving the hand that wasn’t holding his son.
“Okay, everyone! Hang on, hang on. Don’t leave yet. I have another presentation.” The crowd quieted down at Tippy’s voice. “For the one who made this happen, we have a little something. Ava Browning, why don’t you step over here.”
Ava smiled, looking at Butch, who could only shrug. He had no idea what was going on.
Ava stood proudly next to Tippy, and Tippy, bouncing the baby in one arm, waved to the crew of
guys Butch worked with—a crew he respected more than ever for what they’d done for a dad and his little girl . . . and he wasn’t referring to Keith and Bryn.
The guys walked over, carrying something draped with a tarp. It was huge and seemed difficult to carry. Was it a bench?
They set it upright, still covered. Ava looked like she was about to burst with anticipation. Tippy grabbed the tarp and, with the flair of a stage performer, ripped it off to reveal . . . the biggest wooden trophy Butch had ever seen.
“Dad! Look!” Ava was jumping up and down, and even jumping, she wasn’t as tall as the trophy. She gazed up at it, truly stunned. And now he knew there was no way to stop the tears. He was overwhelmed with gratitude and joy, and to see Ava smile like that—the pure delight in her face—it was just like the day he’d brought Jenny to the house.
Tippy handed Quinton to Daphne and walked over to Butch, hands in his pockets. “Choked up with pride?”
“Yeah.” Butch nodded, trying to swallow his emotions. “And regret.”
“Regret?”
Butch looked at his daughter, who was hugging the trophy now while the guys laughed. “For wasting the last eight years when I could’ve been getting to know the best person I’ve ever met.”
“Well, man, you’re the best person I’ve ever met, and if I’m half the dad you are, I think I’m going to do pretty good.”
“You’re already a pro.”
“Won’t lie to you. The diapers are challenging.”
“Wait till you have to eat creamed peas and pretend they’re good.” He spotted Beth nearby, watching all the activity. “Excuse me. I gotta go talk to someone.”
Beth smiled through tears as he approached. “Butch, Jenny would be so proud. Of you and Ava.” She smiled through tears.
“I wish I could’ve been better when she was here.”
“She would tell you not to look back, to just be here. Now. Cherish this moment.”
“Yes, she would.” Butch glanced at her. “When do you take Nathan?”
“About a week. I just can’t believe time has passed so fast. Robin and Marvin had a great honeymoon. I’m going over tonight to see a slide show they put together.” She looked at the sky, shaking her head. “And God help me, but I’m already dreaming of grandchildren.”
Butch laughed and watched the house, all the people milling about. “I’ve decided time is not good or bad. It is only neutral. It gives back what you put into it.”
“You know what I’ve found to be amazing?”
“What?”
“That God is not at all restrained by time. What I’ve perhaps wasted, He can multiply miraculously.”
“That is good news, isn’t it?”
“It is. . . . Hey, Butch?”
“Yes?”
“Can I take Ava shopping tomorrow?”
“Why?”
They both glanced over to watch Ava. “Those pants you have on her? They’re not supposed to hit two inches above the ankle.”
“They’re not?”
“It would be my pleasure if I could.”
“You got it.” Butch pulled her into a sideways hug. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn. Thanks for your help.”
“Sometimes the days will feel really long, Butch,” Beth said, pulling him tighter, “but just remember, the years are really short.”
A Note from Michelle Cox
DURING A SUNDAY CHURCH SERVICE, my pastor prayed with a couple who were dedicating their infant son to God. As they turned to walk off the platform, Reverend Sexton said these words: “Don’t forget—you have just eighteen summers. Take time to make some memories.”
Whew! The poignancy of those words moved me to tears. I was at the end of my eighteen summers with my youngest son, and I knew how quickly each of them had zoomed by. Even though we had made an effort as a family to have fun and make memories, I found myself wishing that we had taken even more time to enjoy those precious fleeting moments with our sons.
Most parents can relate to that. Sometimes we’re so busy with the responsibilities and tasks of parenting that we forget to enjoy the journey. We’re busy. So are our children. Activity fills every space in the daily schedule. Before we know it, that newborn in pink is zipping around the cul-de-sac on her bike. That tiny boy is yanking at his collar as he poses for graduation pictures. We’ve heard it before—so many times: “Enjoy these days now. Time passes quickly.”
Believe it.
Eighteen years sounds like a long time. The fact that we have just eighteen summers really brings it home. Enjoy those days with your child now because someday you’ll wish you could . . . Just ask any mother as she watches her child leave for college.
That’s the message behind the Just 18 Summers brand. Our novel is the first piece of the brand to release and we’re excited about that. We are in the process of raising the funds for a feature-length film and have plans for additional books, music, and other Just 18 Summers products.
Be sure to check out our blog at just18summers.com. I think you’ll love our staff of amazing contributors! We will feature eighteen categories each month, ranging from home decor and hospitality, recipes and meal ideas, to fun things to do with your kids, parenting and relationship tips, inspiring stories, and much more.
Moms and dads, you have just eighteen summers with your children. Please don’t miss the moments! Take it from a mom who would give a million dollars if she could walk down the hall and tuck her little boys into bed just one more time.
How many summers do you have left? What you do with your children now will determine whether you look back someday with regrets or sweet memories.
I’ll close with the words of the elderly lady who stopped me at the mall when my son was just a little guy: “Enjoy that sweet little one. The time goes by so fast and he’ll be grown before you know it.” Turns out she was right.
Blessings to you and your family,
Michelle
Acknowledgments
Rene Gutteridge:
One afternoon a very nice lady was driving me to the airport after I finished teaching at a writers’ conference. We were chatting and I asked her about what she wrote, so she told me. She mentioned an idea she was working on called Just 18 Summers. As she explained the premise to me, and the motivation behind the concept, it struck me as such a wonderful idea that I thought about it for many days afterward and began looking at the time I was spending with my children quite differently.
Fast-forward a couple of years. That nice lady, Michelle Cox, called to tell me she’d written, along with two other screenwriters, the screenplay for the concept she’d told me about and she wondered if I’d be interested in writing the novelization. As soon as I read the script, I knew it was not only something I’d be interested in, but something that many parents all over the world would love too. Every moment that I invested in this project was a moment that I also invested in my kids, because with every page I learned something about them, something about me, or something about my family. I saw myself as a mom through the eyes of each of the characters—my strengths, my flaws, my good intentions gone bad, and my deep love for my kids.
I’d like to thank Michelle Cox, along with Marshal Younger and Torry Martin, for the fabulous script that led me to this novelization. There were so many poignant, funny, and heartwarming moments in the script, and the characters were a lot of fun to play with. Thanks for trusting me with your vision!
I’d also like to thank the fabulous team at Tyndale, including Jan Stob, Sarah Mason, and Karen Watson, along with Cheryl Kerwin, Shaina Turner, and Christy Stroud. Thanks for putting in so much time and effort to bring this book to life in a way that will touch many hearts and lives.
Special thanks also goes to my agent, Janet Grant, and my family, Sean, John, and Cate, for supporting me on every project and loving me in a way that makes our eighteen summers together fly by way too fast. John and Cate, would you please stop growing? Well, I know that’s not possible, but I’m so
proud of the people you are and the character you show every day of your lives. Thank you, Sean, for being the perfect dad for our kids, and thank you for all the effort you put into raising them and loving them.
Thank You, Father, for the blessing of being a parent, for the wisdom to do it with strength and love, and for the grace given when I fail. Thanks for being the perfect parent to my family and me.
Michelle Cox:
A book like this doesn’t happen without the effort and support of many people, and I’d like to thank some of those special folks who have been part of the Just 18 Summers journey with me.
Thank you to my pastor at Trinity Baptist Church, Reverend Ralph Sexton, for making the comment that led to the idea for the Just 18 Summers project and for being a wonderful pastor, friend, and neighbor.
A huge thank-you goes to my agent, Jonathan Clements of Wheelhouse Literary, for believing in me and for all his hard work and support in making this Just 18 Summers dream become a reality. Also thanks go to Rene’s awesome agent, Janet Grant of Books & Such Literary, for all her help.
Thank you to Dave Moody of Elevating Entertainment and Lamon Records for being the first to catch the vision with me. I’m grateful to have you as my business partner for the Just 18 Summers brand.
Thank you to Marshal Younger and Torry Martin for working on the script for Just 18 Summers with me. It was fun! I am in awe of your brilliance, comedy, and writing skills. The script provided a wonderful base for the novel, and I can’t wait to see the movie!
Thank you to Rene Gutteridge for coming on board to be my coauthor for this book. God has given you an amazing gift with words, my friend. Your stellar writing skills and your ability to see between the lines in such awesome detail have been a blessing.
The team at Tyndale has been tremendous, and I thank all of you for your help on this project. Of special note, thank you to Jan Stob for catching the vision for Just 18 Summers, for being our cheerleader, and for pushing us to make this book the best it could be. Thanks to our wonderful editor, Sarah Mason, for all your help, and to the promotion and marketing team of Cheryl Kerwin, Christy Stroud, and Shaina Turner, who’ve worked so hard to get the word out about Just 18 Summers.
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