Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Healing Love

  By Jennifer Slattery

  © 2017 by Jennifer Slattery

  JenniferSlatteryLivesOutLoud.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events arose in the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, companies, or real life situations or incidences is coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Roseanna White.

  To my love, my man, my true-life hero.

  Chapter One

  She’d spent over $100,000 and two years in grad school for this?

  With a huff, Brooke dropped her pen on the mountainous stack of stories she’d been assigned to fact check. So far, the only errors she found were minor—grammar and spelling, largely mute points in television. Then there was the occasional hilarious lead-in she felt tempted to share on Facebook, like the one she’d just read: “Increased Unemployment Rates Lead to Joblessness in the Inland Empire.”

  You think?

  She was tempted to slash through the line with her red pen. But she wasn’t paid to have an opinion.

  “God’s got big plans for you, peanut. Trust Him. Follow Him, no matter where He leads.” The memory of her dad’s voice weighed heavy on her heart.

  Was this what you had in mind, Daddy?

  Melancholy wouldn’t get her anywhere. News broadcasting was a competitive field. Brooke knew that going in. So it was taking her longer to get her break than anticipated; she’d simply work harder. And smarter.

  Brooke focused once again on her notes. She needed to come up with a fresh pitch—a story idea that would put her name on the station manager’s radar.

  But first, chocolate. She headed for her favorite vending machine, tucked at the end of a quiet hallway just past the lobby.

  As she was digging through her purse for change, her phone chimed an incoming email.

  She tapped the icon. Her pulse increased a notch—it was from KTLA’s news director. She paused to take a deep breath, wiped a sweaty palm on her pant leg, then opened the message.

  Dear Ms. Endress,

  Thank you for your inquiry but we are not hiring at this time. Best of luck to you in your career endeavors.

  As close to a form rejection as one could get, and her third this month. So far, every major television station in a two-hour radius had rejected her.

  She’d about run out of options. Seemed she was destined to do grunt work for the rest of her life.

  Whistling approached, and she looked up. Caleb Silvas, one of the station’s most popular personalities, was heading her way. He made eye contact and smiled, causing her stomach to catapult.

  She tucked her phone in her back pocket and faced the vending machine.

  What had gotten into her? She was acting like a tongue-tied, socially awkward teen. Which was completely ridiculous.

  So Caleb was successful, deemed one of the Inland Empire’s most eligible bachelors. So what he was a newsroom favorite, with ratings to match? And incredibly handsome, with his blond hair, green eyes, and baseball player build.

  So what that a recommendation from him could quite possibly launch her career?

  “Anything good in there?”

  She startled and spun around. Forced a wobbly smile. “Uh, hi. I mean, no.” She straightened, donning her most professional stance. “Just the usual. Stale chips, cardboard flavored soup cups, and, from experience, near pulverized pretzel pieces.”

  “Ah. Appetizing. I’m Caleb, by the way.” He extended his hand, and the two shook.

  “Brooke. Endress.”

  “One of our spring interns?”

  “Uh, no. I’ve been on staff for over a year now.” Almost two, actually.

  He angled his head, brow wrinkled, as if trying to place her.

  Good luck with that. Not many people remembered the grunt workers. “My degree’s in broadcast journalism but I’ve been working as a fact checker.”

  “That long, huh? You must be good then.”

  Or stubborn venturing on desperate. “I do my best.”

  “That’s all you can do, right? It’s a tough business, that’s for sure, but that’s how they weed out the professionals from the wanna bes. Most folks expect to find an easy in then quit after a couple years when that doesn’t happen.”

  Was this meant to be a pep talk? If so, she’d take it. And the connection. “Listen, would you like my business card? I’ve got some story ideas I’d love to pitch.” Or more honestly, she had some vague ideas she planned to hone into pitches, given enough time. And chocolate.

  His lazy smile caused her pulse to stutter. “Sure.”

  She dug into her purse then stopped. She’d depleted her on-hand stash of business cards at a convention the previous weekend.

  She frowned. “I’m sorry, but I’m all out.”

  “No worries.” His grin deepened, and he pulled a wallet from his back pocket. Handed over a thick, textured card. “Shoot me an email any time.”

  She blinked. Really? Or was he simply being polite? Didn’t matter. First rule of success in this business—follow every lead.

  This one could be it, the door to a thriving career. But first, she needed an attention grabbing pitch.

  Brooke spent the rest of her day fighting to stay focused on her assignments rather than brainstorming potential story ideas. For the most part, she failed, ending the day with take home work and a long list of useless blurbs. Many of which her sister tried to improve upon later as they drove home. Her aunt and uncle joined in the discussion over dinner, and by the time Brooke went to bed, her brain was swimming—with hope and insecurities.

  The next morning, she woke an hour earlier than normal to research a few of her ideas further, then shoved her notes into her briefcase. Her television flashed on her dresser. She paused to watch Kyanne Louis lead into a breaking news story on LATV5. She studied Kyanne’s smile, counted every head bob, and noted each timely displayed affect.

  Brooke eyed her audition tape growing cobwebs on her dresser and sighed. She needed to make a fresh resume reel, one with more punch. More unique stories.

  She’d figure something out.

  She turned off the television and checked her appearance—navy blazer and skirt, both pressed. Cream blouse, a simple yet sophisticated necklace decorated with pearl teardrops framed in gold. Shoes—leather pumps of appropriate height, also navy. A timeless wardrobe that spoke of responsibility and loyalty.

  Perfect for a lawyer or criminal defendant, not an up-and-coming news anchor. But she didn’t have time to change. Besides, going through her wardrobe yet again wouldn’t suddenly bring fashion clarity.

  She grabbed her cell phone and smoothed her hair behind her ears. She could do this. Had to. Today, this morning, she’d march—no, walk—into Mr. Echo’s office and ask for a promotion. With Caleb’s invite and the morning anchor’s approaching maternity leave, Brooke couldn’t put off her request any longer. Too many other interns fought for attention.

  She pulled her favorite verse, Ephesians 2:10, from her back pocket. “For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago.” She tucked it back in her pocket. “Not sure about the masterpiece part, but I’ll cling to the promise none-the-less. No meeting, no matter how I flub it, can thwart the plans You have for me.”

  Then why did she feel so unsettled?


  The smell of fresh brewed coffee and fried bacon drew her to the kitchen. Her younger sister, Aubrey, sat at the table, her beads and twine spread before her. Aunt Isadora stood at the sink washing dishes. Uncle Lester occupied his usual breakfast chair, the one closest to the window. Dressed in a striped, polyester suit and polka-dot tie, he slouched over the newspaper, bushy brows pinched together. I need to take him shopping.

  “Good morning, dear.” Aunt Isadora met her with a firm hug. “Hungry?”

  Brooke grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled it. “Mind if I take it to go? I don’t want to be late.”

  Uncle Lester dropped his newspaper and rested his hands on his bulbous stomach. “For what?”

  “I’m going to ask for a meeting with my boss. See if he’ll finally allow me in front of the camera.”

  “About time.” Uncle Lester closed his paper. “After almost two years of pouring his coffee and emptying his trash—”

  “I don’t empty his trash.” This was doing nothing to calm her nerves.

  “Still, your uncle has a point.” Aunt Isadora pushed a lock of hair from her face with the back of her hand. “You’ve been doing all sorts of odds and ends for that station long enough. And you’re certainly well qualified.” She crossed to where Brooke stood and gave her a sideways hug. “I’m sure your boss will see how prepared you are to take this next step.”

  Brooke raised crossed fingers.

  Uncle Lester gulped down the rest of his toast, crumbs cascading onto his shirt. “Way I see it, them producers would be fools not to get that face of yours on camera.”

  “I appreciate your compliment,” Brooke said, “but it takes more than good looks to make it in the news industry.”

  “Yeah, like a hottie boyfriend able to whisk you up that ladder.” Aubrey shot her a wink.

  “Stop being stupid.” Why had she ever told Aubrey about her brief interaction with the man? “I do not need any help advancing my career, thank you very much.”

  Aubrey raised her hands in mock surrender. “Edgy. Like talons and everything.”

  “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

  “A little insanity never hurt anyone. But don’t worry. You’ll be free of me soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?” She sipped her coffee.

  Aubrey beamed. “Guess who’s going on the El Salvador mission trip?”

  Aunt Isadora opened her mouth to speak but Uncle Lester touched her hand. “First, we haven’t made a decision yet.” He lowered a firm gaze on Aubrey. “There’s still a great deal to discuss. Second, we told you, if we let you go, it’ll be under one condition.” He turned to Brooke. “That your sister go with you.”

  Brooke choked on her coffee. She looked from her aunt to her uncle. “You’re not serious, right? This is such a bad time for me.” Had they forgotten how hard she was working to get in front of the camera? She couldn’t possibly take vacation days now. It’d kill her career.

  Aubrey frowned. “This is so unfair.”

  Uncle Lester crossed his arms. “Sorry, girls. That’s the rules.” He shifted his gaze to Aubrey. “But before you pester your sister, remember, your aunt and I still have to decide if you can go at all. That trip will cost a lot of money.”

  “So I’ll get a job,” Aubrey said.

  “To pay my way, too? Because I’m not spending my savings on a babysitting venture.” Brooke grabbed a slice of bacon from the counter and nibbled on the edge. “Besides, last I heard, they hadn’t found a translator.”

  Aunt Isadora tidied a dishtowel draped over the oven handle. “The guy who runs the orphanage—what’s his name?”

  “Don’t know.” Aubrey strung a blue and white marbled bead onto her growing chain.

  Aunt Isadora flicked a hand. “Whatever his name is, he’s got a local teacher friend, a man from San Miguel, who speaks fluent English. Apparently the guy’s translated for North American groups before. Pastor T seems confident he’ll take the job.”

  “Regardless, I can’t go.” Brooke crossed her arms and faced her sister. “I don’t care what you say, how much you whine, nag, and pester.”

  “Says the woman who spends most of her time hiding in her bedroom.” Aubrey’s hands clenched. “Just because you’re afraid of absolutely every. Little. Thing. Doesn’t mean I have to suffer.”

  “Quit being such a drama queen.”

  “Girls!” Aunt Isadora rarely raised her voice, so when she did, everyone went silent. She removed her apron and folded it in half. “Let’s not fight.” She patted Aubrey’s hand. “How about you finish getting ready so Brooke and I can talk?”

  Eyes hot, Aubrey gave a jerked shrug. “Whatever.” She stomped off, her flipflops slapping the linoleum.

  Aunt Isadora waited until the teen’s bedroom door slammed shut then turned to Brooke. “We understand your feelings regarding this trip, believe me, but Uncle Lester and I are concerned…” She looked from her husband then back to Brooke. “I don’t know how to put this. We really want her to be able to go, but we don’t know Pastor T all that well. And he’s quite young.”

  “But I can’t…” This was the definition of a lose-lose situation. Stay home and rob her sister of the opportunity to experience a rite of passage trip, or go and lose any chance of getting that co-host position she’d been pining for.

  Chapter Two

  San Miguel, El Salvador

  The last time Ubaldo put off visiting home, he’d arrived to find his mother dehydrated and near death. From a bacterial infection easily remedied by a week’s worth of medication his parents hadn’t the funds to pay for.

  The El Salvador sky turned a faint purple as the first rays of the sun pushed back the darkness of night. In two hours, the school bell would signal the start of Ubaldo’s workday. He couldn’t be late; he was already on the principal’s watch list. The man was looking for a reason to fire him. But Ubaldo needed to check on his mother. He hadn’t seen her in almost a week already.

  A good son wouldn’t have moved away in the first place.

  A hundred feet ahead, a hint of the dirt road leading to his village peeked through the thick trees lining the street. From the bed of a pickup, he tapped the window. The driver he’d hitched a ride with braked hard, and Ubaldo slammed into the back of the cab. The contents of his bag spilled out. Fighting a scowl, he nodded thanks and gathered his things. He scampered out to begin the long hike towards his parents’ house.

  If only his mother lived closer. If not for his father, perhaps he never would have left home, except he wanted more from life than farming for pennies under the intense sun. Something his father would never understand. He acted like Ubaldo had betrayed the family by getting an education. More than that, as if his passion to see children attain a better life—to free them from the curse of poverty—was evil.

  Ubaldo turned down an earthen path leading to his parents’ village, a small cluster of homes made from mud-plastered branches.

  A young girl with long black hair flowing over thin shoulders emerged from around the corner. She clutched a rusted pail in each hand. As she walked, water sloshed over the rim and onto her dirty feet. Upon seeing Ubaldo, she startled and tripped over a tangle of roots. Her pails went flying.

  He dropped his package and rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”

  She stared at her spilled water, forming an oblong patch on the thirsty ground. Her shoulders sank.

  “Would you like me to help you? I know the stream is some distance away, and I imagine you’re in a hurry to get to school.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for school.” She grabbed her pails and stumbled backward like a cornered rat.

  He winced, remembering when his parents had said the same thing about his sister.

  He scanned the girl’s bony frame, bare feet, and hollowed eyes, a deep ache filling his chest. A verse from his morning Bible reading came to mind, “The Lord is close to the broken hearted. He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”
As the words took hold, a sense of urgency welled within him. He reached out to her, but she bolted away, kicking up dust.

  Shaking his head, he retrieved his bag and tried to forget her panicked face and trembling hands.

  When he reached his parents’ home—a mixture of twigs, mud, and intertwined palm branches—he paused and listened for the sound of his father’s voice. Silence. Good. Ubaldo exhaled, his tense shoulders relaxing.

  Not finding his mother indoors, he rounded the corner to a clearing cut into the side of the mountain. She stood with her back to him, hanging clothes over tree branches. A metal tub positioned to catch rainwater sat beside her. She reached for her next item and moaned. Straightened slowly with her hand pressed into the small of her back.

  Ubaldo set his package down and hurried to help her. “Let me get these for you.”

  She whirled around, wobbling, then touched his face. “Mijo! How good to see you!” She kissed both of his cheeks. “Come inside. Relax while I get you a drink of water.”

  “Un momento.” Ubaldo took her place in front of the tub. He lifted the damp clothes and hung them to dry, doing in five minutes what would take her knotted hands nearly half an hour. When finished, he grabbed his purchases in one hand and used the other to support her as they made their way to the front of the house. Her contorted fingers dug into his arm each time her left foot hit the ground. Her hip was bothering her again. One of these days she would fall, leaving her unattended and helpless in the hot sun.

  He led her to a stump and used a leafy branch to flick away fallen debris and scurrying ants. Her face shriveled in pain as he helped her sit.

  “Your sisters are gathering water for our crops, and your father and brother left but moments ago. If only you would’ve come a little earlier.”

  Ubaldo frowned and clamped his mouth shut to keep from saying something hurtful. His brother hated him almost as much as his father did. The less Ubaldo saw of them, the better.