“The go-kart club? At church.”
“It’s a club now?” Did she know this?
“I guess. Cody’s running it. Remember?”
Oh, that’s right. This new guy. Uncle Joe’s friend.
“Uh. Does that cost anything?”
“No.”
“There might be one in the photo album. Why don’t you check?”
The doorbell rings, startling Amber again.
Odd. She can’t remember the last time anyone came to the door in the past few months. After Darren’s funeral, streams of mourners and friends had graced her front porch. But within two weeks, the doorbell grew quiet, the front porch emptied, and the house went so still that Amber couldn’t stand being there all day in the empty space while Bree was at school. She put on music, went for walks, ran errands—but always came back to that depressing silence. After a year went by, she started looking for a job. Rosie finally had an opening six months ago. It was sweet relief to leave the solitude of their house for hours each day and be surrounded with people and noise. At first, she looked forward to even the most mundane tasks, like cleaning ketchup bottles. When that wore off, she relished spending time with the people who came through the diner doors. Hearing about the minute events of their lives somehow alleviated her pain during those hours away. And when she was at home, she noticed that the house no longer tortured her. She softened into its memories. As long as she was there with Bree, it became tolerable . . . in small doses.
“Mom!”
The doorbell rings again, and Amber hurries over. Bree is standing by the door.
“Why didn’t you let them in?”
“You said to never answer the door.”
“You’re right. But these are friends.”
Through the stained-glass window of the door she can make out two familiar figures. Amber flings the door open.
“Ladies. What a surprise.”
“We took a chance. You’re not busy, are you?” asks Bridgette.
“’Cause we’re way past due for another girls’ night in,” adds Karena.
Amber takes one look at the covered casserole dish in Bridgette’s arms.
“Is that . . . ?” Bree’s eyes go wide.
“Baked ziti!” says Bridgette.
“Get in here, girls!” Amber ushers them inside.
* * *
BREE QUICKLY HELPS Amber set the table, and the four of them sit down for a satisfying meal. The baked ziti dish empties quickly. After Bree stuffs her face with a second helping, Amber sees Bree’s sleepy eyes coming on.
Food coma kicking in, thinks Amber. Poor thing acts like she’s been starved. And she has been—starved for a good home-cooked meal, for sure. Amber promises herself she’ll try to do better.
“Okay, kiddo, go get ready for bed—pjs, teeth.”
“No, I don’t wanna . . .”
“Say thank you to Karena and Bridgette.”
Bree goes over and gives them each a hug. Amber leads her to the stairs, and Bree puts up no fight as she lifts her tired legs up the steps.
“Mom, will you sing for me tonight?”
“Not tonight, Bree.”
“Please? Just one song,” her little voice pleads. Amber glances at Karena and Bridgette, who shoot a hopeful look at each other. Amber seems to consider it for a second.
“Get ready for bed. I’ll come tuck you in in a few minutes.”
“You never wanna sing to me.”
“Bed. Now.” Amber uses her mom voice. Hopes dashed, Bree trudges up, and they soon hear her heavy steps reach the top of the stairs. Amber turns back to the table. An awkward pause.
“Bridge, that was so good. Thank you.”
“Sorry we didn’t leave you any leftovers this week,” says Karena. Amber forks one last bite. “We need to do this more often.”
“I agree,” says Amber. “I’ve missed this.”
“And we miss you, Amber,” says Bridgette.
“I meant your cooking,” Amber teases. She detects something in the air shift between her friends.
“Why won’t you sing for your daughter?” Karena asks.
“Karena. Come on. That’s Bree’s way of stalling at bedtime.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Karena says gently. “I think she misses hearing you sing.”
“And when are we going to hear that beautiful voice of yours again in choir?” asks Bridgette.
“The choir needs your help. We’re a disaster without you,” says Karena.
“Ladies, was the pasta just a ploy to get me to come back to church?” Amber grins.
“Busted,” says Karena.
“Ziti evangelism,” says Bridgette.
“I’ll be your first convert.” Amber stands and starts clearing the dishes.
Bridgette gets up to help. “Sit down, lady. You deserve a break. You do this all week.”
Amber surrenders her dirty plates to Bridgette, who takes them to the kitchen.
“Okay, choir aside. What are the chances we’re gonna see you back at church?” asked Karena.
“Did the pastor put you up to this?”
“I’m asking because I . . . we care about you.”
“What does church have to do with my life right now?”
“You gotta make time for it. Your life will be better, I promise,” says Bridgette, returning for the empty ziti dish.
“Look, I’m just not ready.”
“God doesn’t expect ready. He just wants you to show up so He can love you.”
“We know you’re still hurting. It’s exactly at times like these when we need to lean on our faith,” says Karena.
Something in Amber breaks. “I tried putting my faith in Him. And where has that left me?”
“Oh, Amber, God’s still with you, blessing you every step of the way,” says Karena.
“Really? Where? My husband was a blessing. Where is he right now?”
“I know it doesn’t always feel like He’s there,” says Bridgette softly.
“You’re right. It doesn’t feel like it at all. It feels a lot better if I just stay away. At least He can’t hurt us anymore.”
“God didn’t do this. Suffering and death are not a part of His will for us,” says Karena.
“He allowed this to happen. He could have protected Darren.” Amber swallows the lump in her throat, but it refuses to go down.
“He’s hurting right along with you. And He wants to join you in your suffering. He wants you to come to Him,” says Karena. “He can restore you.”
Amber knows Karena means well, but at the moment, it just sounds like she’s delivering one of her husband’s sermons. “I’m not ready to trust him with our lives again.”
“Amber, don’t forsake Him or His people,” Karena pleads. “We’re here for you.”
Amber stiffens and rubs her index finger and thumb along the sides of her throat, trying to smooth out the lump. “I appreciate all that you’ve done. I really do, but I’ve got this.”
“I’m sorry. We didn’t come here to upset you,” says Bridgette.
Amber takes the casserole dish from Bridgette and tries to regain her composure. She has to let them know that she hasn’t lost her sense of humor. She’s okay. Really.
“Here’s the deal. I’m not running from God. But if God wants me, He knows where to find me: in my kitchen . . . making this sinful baked ziti. Bridge, you gotta get me this recipe!”
She whisks off to the kitchen sink to soak the pan and give them a moment to change the conversation.
chapter sixteen
Nelson’s Secret
SUNDAY-NIGHT DOLDRUMS HAVE settled in on Patti as she pads through her five-bedroom Victorian. Every creak in the floorboards reminds her how hollow the home is, and she can’t stand to be here another minute. She texts her brunch friends, but everyone’s either out or not answering. Impatient to change her mood, Patti grabs her coat and keys. She needs comfort food. Rosie’s roast beef potpie.
When Patti ar
rives at 8:00 p.m., the crowds are gone. She takes a seat at the counter. Rosie approaches with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Sit down and join me for a cup of coffee,” she tells Rosie, who is glad to see her. She hands off a few straggling patrons to Mickey, her night shifter.
“I will. But first, you want me to get you something to eat?”
“My usual,” says Patti.
“Coming up.” After a moment, Rosie returns with a heaping beef potpie. Patti breathes in the aroma of the piping-hot dish. “You’d better bring me a to-go box right off the bat, because if I don’t section off at least half of this, I’m gonna eat the whole thing and regret it in the morning.”
“Oh, you skinny little twig. You could use a few extra pounds,” Rosie teases, taking a stool next to her.
The diner doorbell dings, alerting Rosie that she has another customer. Patti shifts her glance to the open door. Her eyes travel down to a wheelchair rolling in. The young man in the chair stops at the cashier’s stand.
“I feel like I know that guy,” says Patti.
“Him?”
“Has he ever been in here before?”
“I’ve never seen him,” says Rosie.
“Sure? You know everyone around here.”
“So do you.”
“Apparently not.” Patti studies him.
“Anywhere you like,” Rosie hollers and slides off her stool. “I got this one, Mickey,” she calls into the kitchen, catching Mickey scarfing down a french fry hot off the deep fryer.
“I’ll get his story. Stay put.” Rosie waddles behind the counter for a pitcher of water and some fresh napkins as she helps the man find an accessible booth near the front.
From her perch at the counter, Patti has a safe view to study the guy without his knowing. He’s young, early twenties, baby-face skin that wears an aged expression. He’s seen things he shouldn’t have. Things he can’t erase from memory. He wears a denim jacket with patches. She can’t quite make out what they say, but judging by the shape of them, she’d guess they were probably military.
He acts nervous, his eyes darting toward the door and around the restaurant. He picks up the menu Rosie left and peers at it in brief spurts, shifting his gaze back and forth to the door.
He just doesn’t seem settled. She searches her memory. Where has she seen him before? Nothing registers. Was he a friend of Darren’s? Or maybe a son of one of her clients? Rosie approaches him, and Patti leans in to eavesdrop.
“What can I get you tonight?” Rosie touches his shoulder as she leans over to pour him a glass of water. The guy jumps, his elbow bumping the water pitcher and knocking it out of Rosie’s grip. It bounces off the table and crashes to the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I . . .” he says.
“Don’t worry at all. I didn’t mean to startle you,” says Rosie, reaching over him with a rag to mop up the table. “Something to drink?”
“Just water. Thanks.”
“I’ll bring a new pitcher.” Patti can’t see if the guy took to it or not. “Need a minute to look over the menu?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answers softly, and takes off his coat.
“Roast beef potpie’s on special tonight. Comes with mashed potatoes or french fries. And a piece of pie. Apple. Cherry. Chocolate custard. Or lemon meringue.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I’ll have that. With cherry pie.”
“You got it.” Rosie scribbles down the order.
Then he does something that takes Patti by surprise. Using one arm, he presses down on the armrest of his wheelchair and actually tries to stand up, reaching with the other arm toward a coat hook on the post next to his table. She can’t keep her eyes off him as he struggles on shaky legs. He extends his arm, eyes lasered on his goal. He comes within an inch of the peg and misses, sinking back down into his chair with a thud.
“I can hang that for you,” says Rosie, reaching out to help him.
“No. No. I’m fine. Forget it.” He lays the jacket on his lap.
Rosie gives Patti a quick glance. Patti nods, encouraging her to get more from him.
“I’m Rosie, by the way.” She reaches out her hand to shake, but he doesn’t take it.
“Private Nelson . . . I mean, Mike. I’m Mike.”
“So you were in the military?”
“I was.” He leaves it at that.
“Which branch, hon?”
“101st Airborne.”
Nelson looks around the room again, this time catching Patti’s stare. She quickly turns her gaze to her plate. That’s it. He was in Darren’s unit!
“Seems like this wheelchair isn’t a permanent thing,” Rosie says.
“I hope not.”
“Good boy. You keep doing what you need to do to get outta that thing.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep trying.”
Rosie starts to step away.
“Is, um . . . is Amber working tonight?”
At Amber’s name, Patti looks over.
“No, hon. She isn’t.” Rosie slips away and makes herself busy behind the counter.
Patti slips from her stool, taking this opportunity to hustle up to Nelson.
“Hello, sir. I want to introduce myself. I’m Patti Hill.”
He gives her a blank stare, and she’s about to respond when he cuts her off.
“Oh yeah. Yeah. Darren’s mom. I recognize you from the Facebook pics. Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Nelson sits a little taller. Patti shakes his hand.
“I overheard and I . . . You knew Darren? You were in his unit, right?”
“Yes. I got transferred to Darren’s unit.”
“You did? When?”
“About a month before . . .” He trails off and jerks his glance toward the door, then back to his menu.
Patti tries to hide her growing awkwardness. “I can relay a message to Amber if you like. Or . . .”
“Thank you, ma’am, but, um, I . . . it’s just something I need to do in person.” There’s a pain behind Nelson’s eyes that she knows he isn’t going to share with her. “You understand?”
No, I don’t understand! I don’t understand why my son’s life was cut short!
“I do. I understand.” Patti deflates as she backs away. “Well, enjoy your dinner. And thank you for your service.” It sounds so rote, but she has to offer something.
“Mrs. Hill . . . He was a hero.”
Patti looks back at his sincere eyes.
“I hope you know that.”
“Thank you,” she says in barely a whisper.
“Here’s your potpie,” says Rosie, returning with the savory steaming pastry. She sets it on the counter at Patti’s spot and goes to greet a new customer.
Patti has to leave. Now. She drifts back to the counter and slides a twenty under her cup. As she crosses the parking lot to her car, she looks back to see Nelson hunched over the table, scooping up his meal, the secret of Darren’s demise just simmering there at the table inside Rosie’s Diner.
chapter seventeen
The Patch
WHEN AMBER PADS upstairs to bed, she sees that Bree’s light is still on, and pokes her head in. Bree is fast asleep under a pile of covers, her little arm draped over a book. As she draws closer, Amber recognizes that the family photo album is open to a page from Darren’s graduation from army boot camp. Bree has removed the 101st Airborne patch. It lies on the pillow next to her cheek.
Amber sets the patch on the nightstand and slips the photo album from under Bree’s arm. She gives her a little kiss on the forehead, tucking her arms under the covers. Amber takes a moment with the album, sitting on the edge of Bree’s bed. She stares at Darren’s picture.
He has a serious face turned up by a small smile. At six feet, Darren’s lean, strong build filled out his dress uniform. Handsome. Very handsome. Darren always had exceptional athletic abilities. With state records in football, track, and wrestling, he earned multiple full-ride college scholarship offers. But it was the army’s offer that interested him th
e most.
Darren’s drive to be a part of the 101st Airborne stemmed from his thrill-seeking nature. He was cut from the cloth of the 101st, born to their mission to be called into action when the need was immediate and extreme. On their first date, at age seventeen, Amber had asked Darren what he wanted to do with his life. His eyes lit up. Without hesitation he said, “I want to be in the 101st Airborne.”
She had had no idea what that meant.
Darren didn’t hesitate to tell her everything he had been reading and learning—the division’s history, commanders, and missions. They were organized on August 16, 1942, and are based in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. They were the first Allied soldiers to land in occupied France during World War II. It was in Vietnam that they began their helicopter missions.
Amber had been impressed, of course. Mostly about the fact that Darren was so convinced of his future path. She hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do when she grew up. He told her that his mother didn’t support his dream and was pushing him to go to college. As they fell in love, Amber easily slipped into being a part of Darren’s dream. It made her feel protected, safe, and a part of something bigger than her sheltered life with her grandparents. Amber told him that he needed to follow his heart or he’d never be happy. He would live to regret it. And if Darren’s mother wouldn’t support him, she would—101 percent.
By the time they tied the knot, Darren was headed to Fort Campbell instead of college, and Amber was no stranger to Patti’s disapproval. Darren had done his best to try to convince Patti that one day, down the line, he would get more education. But there was too much adventure to be had before settling down. Patti couldn’t see that her son would never be a desk-dwelling paper pusher.
He was depth and soul, a Screaming Eagle.
chapter eighteen
The Screaming Eagle
CODY PACES BETWEEN the workstations, passing out hammers, nails, and wood glue, hoping the kids don’t sense his nervousness. First day of Racing for Glory, and Joe has the audacity to leave him here alone while he runs errands. I don’t know what to do with these kids.
Cody does a quick mental inventory of the five who have already settled into their workstations. I thought Bree was supposed to come. And her stuttering friend from Sunday school.
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