Forgiven

by Karen Kingsbury

  He stood and opened the door, and before he could take another breath he was looking into her eyes. The same clear blue eyes he’d connected with from the balcony of the Bloomington Community Theater back in November.

  “Hi.” Katy was breathless. She looked over her shoulder, nervous. “I’ve never seen so many cameras.”

  “They didn’t know it was you, did they?”

  “No.” She exhaled, finding her composure. “I slipped past.”

  He let her in, closed the door, and suddenly they were alone, face-to-face as if no time at all had passed between them. “Katy—” he reached out and took her hands—“you look wonderful.”

  The faintest blush tinged her cheeks, and she shifted her gaze to the floor. When her eyes found his again, he had the answer he was looking for. The connection was still there. It was in her eyes and in her expression and in the way she ran her thumbs along the tops of his hands. “I didn’t think we’d have any time alone.”

  “We won’t have much.”

  Her smile told him everything she was feeling. But at the same time it cried of resignation. Because here they were again, their emotions leading the way, and yet their time would be measured and counted by the events around them, by the parameters of his world.

  “How are you, Dayne?” Katy didn’t blink, didn’t seem to want to lose a moment of whatever minutes they had together.

  “I’m good.” He grinned, wanting desperately to keep things light. How was it fair that this visit would end up amounting to little more than another sad good-bye? “What are you working on?”

  “Robin Hood.” She stifled a laugh. “It’s coming together.”

  “The kids?” He wanted to know, wanted to soak himself in everything about her. “Are they okay?”

  “They are. The older kids are still in the Bible study, the one they started after Sarah Jo Stryker’s accident.” She made a funny face. “Of course, we should probably spend an extra day a week on practice, the way things are going.”

  “Blocking, you mean?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Trying to stay onstage. I’d be happy with that.” Katy talked with her hands when she was excited. Now she released his hands and began illustrating her story. “So there’s this scene where Robin’s supposed to fly in from the wings on a rope, right?”

  “To rescue Maid Marian?”

  “Exactly.” She took a quick breath. “Marian’s standing on a fake tree stump, her hands tied, and he’s supposed to swing in, land beside her, and save the day.”

  Dayne chuckled. He could see what was coming.

  “Instead—” Katy demonstrated the swinging motion—“he sails in from the wings and knocks her square on the floor.”

  “Oh.” Dayne made a face. “Was she hurt?”

  “Her pride, yes. Her onstage chemistry with Robin, yes.” Katy gave him a teasing look. “We decided we better just have him run in from now on.”

  “Sounds good.” Dayne saw so much more than her physical beauty. Her enthusiasm and spirit, her joy and excitement for the little things of life. All of it was like getting air after being too long underwater.

  “So . . . enough on that.” Her tone softened. “How are you . . . really?”

  “Well . . .” He found her eyes and held them. “I’m not a Kabbalist.”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked deeply at him, to the lonely desert plains of his heart. “Really?”

  “Tossed it all.” He felt his eyes begin to dance. “Some girl said it probably wasn’t for me. Told me I needed to find the truth.”

  “Must’ve been a smart girl.”

  “Mmm.” He took hold of her hands again, but he kept his distance. “Definitely. In fact, she gave me a Bible.”

  “A Bible? How interesting.” Her eyes twinkled. “What a great idea. You know . . . since, well, it is the truth. I mean, if you’re looking for it you might as well go to the source.”

  “That’s what I figured.” He felt his smile fade. “It’s changing me, Katy. I can feel it.”

  Her expression softened, and what had been playful became serious. She closed the gap between them and slipped her arms around his neck. “Dayne, I prayed for this . . . for you.”

  He wouldn’t have gone to her, wouldn’t have crossed the line he’d crossed the last time they were together. But now, lost in her embrace, he couldn’t imagine letting her go. Slowly, he worked his fingers along the back of her neck into her hair. She smelled wonderful, like the flowers in Bloomington.

  Too soon she pulled back and searched his eyes. “Did you find Jesus? When you read the Bible, I mean?”

  His hands were around her waist but only loosely. He looked beyond her. The question was a good one. He understood forgiveness and peace better. “Have I found Jesus?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She angled her head, her soul as transparent as a child’s. “When you look past the hurt and sadness of your yesterdays, is He there?”

  A part of his heart sank a little. The answer wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Not yet.” He released his hold on her waist and took her hands once more. “But I’m looking.”

  Disappointment never even flashed in her eyes. She gave him her brightest smile yet. “That’s it.”

  “What?” It was all he could do to keep from kissing her.

  “That’s what I’ve been praying for.” Her eyes glistened. “That you’ll look.”

  The door opened. They dropped hands and stepped back to keep from being hit.

  Joe Morris was the first to enter. He stopped and looked from Dayne to Katy. “Hi. You must be Katy Hart.”

  “I am.” She held out her hand to him. Her cheeks were red, but she rebounded quickly. “I understand the deposition won’t take long.”

  “Not at all.”

  The prosecutor stepped into the room. She greeted Katy and then Dayne. “We need your testimony on record so we can prepare for the case.”

  Dayne felt the intimacy from a moment ago fade like fog in July. It was no longer a reconnecting, a time to remember why he couldn’t get Katy Hart out of his mind. They were in business mode now, and the atmosphere stayed that way for the next hour.

  When the lawyers were finished, the group stood and moved to the door. Dayne was about to ask Katy if she wanted to go somewhere, spend some time together before she left. But before he could say anything his cell phone rang.

  He checked the caller ID. Kelly Parker. He stuffed his frustration. She rarely called. At least he could politely put her off until later. The two of them hadn’t talked much since she’d moved out. He held his finger up to Katy and opened his phone. “Hey.”

  “Dayne.” There was a cry in her voice, one that mixed sorrow and fear. She waited a moment. “I’ve got bad news. I just found out.”

  His heart skipped a beat, and he moved to a corner of the room. In the background he heard his attorney start a conversation with Katy. He pressed the phone to his ear. “What is it?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this.” Kelly sighed, and it rattled all the way to his soul. “Dayne, I’m pregnant.”

  John Baxter was running out of options.

  He’d done everything he could to find his firstborn son, everything a person could possibly think of. He’d searched the Internet for information, and he’d gone to adoption sites. He’d made phone calls and connected with people who aided parents in finding their birth children. Now he was down to his last hope.

  The chances of finding his oldest son rested completely in the hands of a private investigator. John had hired him a week ago, and now—sitting on his desk—was a message from the man with one simple instruction: Call immediately.

  He stared at the piece of paper and reached for the phone. Was this it? Had the man found the boy he and Elizabeth had prayed about for so many years? Would he have every bit of information he’d ever wanted in just a few minutes? The possibilities welled up in him and made it hard to breathe.

  John closed his eyes and exhaled. God, meet me in this p
lace. I want to find him so badly, and this is my last chance. Please let there be something to go on—a lead, a phone number, a name. Something.

  He opened his eyes, and they fell on a small frame on his desk. It read: With God all things are possible. Matthew 19:26. A smile tugged at the corners of John’s lips, and he felt himself relax. Thanks, God. You always know just what I need. Whatever the private investigator had to tell him, he wouldn’t give up. Not now, not ever.

  His palms felt sweaty against the phone’s receiver. He took a full breath, picked it up, and tapped out the private investigator’s number.

  The man’s secretary answered and connected him to the PI.

  “Tim Brown here.” The man was a fast talker, high energy. “How can I help you?”

  “Uh . . . this is John Baxter, returning your call.” He swallowed hard. “Did you find my son?”

  “Yes, John, thanks for calling back.” The man’s tone became serious, slower than before. “Listen, something’s come up in my research. Something very, very important. We need to talk about it in person.”

  In person? John wouldn’t be able to think straight until he heard the news. “Are you sure? Can’t you tell me now?”

  “Not something like this.” Tim rustled some papers. “Can you be here in the morning? Eleven o’clock?” He sighed, and the sound carried his concern across the phone lines. “This is very sensitive. I think you should know right away.”