by Melissa Tagg
Sorry if good news felt like a stretch.
“What’s that mean exactly, an incomplete fracture?”
The doctor turned off the light on the X-ray viewer. “It means the bone didn’t break completely. Children have softer, more flexible bones than adults—sometimes they bend and crack instead of breaking. She’ll still need a cast, but probably only for four or five weeks.”
Charlie whimpered, and he lifted his other hand to smooth her curls. Oh, baby. . . . Her My Little Pony nightgown had still been wet from her own tears when he’d arrived.
“In other words,” Dr. Lewis continued, “if you have to fall out of a bunk bed and break an arm, this is the best-case scenario.”
Best-case scenario—no. Best-case scenario would’ve been Logan being the one to comfort her on the way to the hospital and sit with her through the first round of X-rays instead of showing up just five minutes ago.
Even better, Logan being the one to put her to bed so he could line up the wall of pillows and stuffed animals he usually did to make sure she didn’t roll out.
Neither of those two scenarios included Logan on the other side of town being woken up to find out his daughter was at the hospital. Or arguing with a police officer in the ER parking lot.
“Assault? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“We just need to talk, Logan. Get your side of the story. Make sure we’ve got our facts straight.”
He’d thrust his arm toward the hospital’s fluorescent lights. “The facts are going to have to wait. My girl is in there.”
Dr. Lewis wrote something in a file, then closed the folder. “Typically with children this young, we sedate them for the realigning and casting. And we’ll want to take another X-ray once it’s casted to make sure everything’s lined up. We should have you out of here by midnight.”
Midnight on a day that felt like it’d begun a month ago. Such an awesome high sandwiched between such incredible lows.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur as they transferred Charlie to a different room, sedated her, and started the casting process while Logan waited in another hallway. Sans cop, at least. His reflection stared back at him from the glass window looking into the room. The bright light of the corridor highlighted the ragged pull of his fatigue, the beginning of a beard, the rumpled shirt.
“Logan?”
Dad. He walked toward him, Styrofoam cup in each hand. “It’s basically water and some grounds. Probably been sitting on the burner all day. But it’s something.”
Logan accepted the cup but didn’t take a drink.
“Amelia’s still out in the waiting room. Raegan, too.”
Oh right. Amelia had ridden to the hospital with them. Tried to encourage him from the backseat. Offered to come with him to the room where Charlie waited.
He didn’t know why he’d said no.
“Raegan should take Amelia home. It’s going to be a while longer. You should go, too, Dad.”
“Then who would take you and Charlie home?”
“Oh yeah.” He finally forced down a drink of stale coffee. “Not thinking so clearly.”
Through the window, he could see the doctor and nurse at work, wrapping strips of white around Charlie’s arm. Her curls hung over the edge of the table, and one of her shoes dangled halfway off her foot.
“Well, this is number six.”
Logan turned. “Huh?”
“Six broken bones in the family. Beck broke his leg when he was eight and then his wrist when he was twelve. Rae fractured her collarbone that time she fell on the ice. And just last fall, Kate broke an arm and a leg at the same time. Charlie makes six. Although come to think of it, I think Kate had some fractured ribs last fall, too.”
That had been one the scariest phone calls of his life—the one about Kate and Colton’s backroad scare last year. Considering how Emma had died, the words car accident were enough to churn his stomach into losing its contents.
But Kate had recovered. And Charlie would, too.
He wasn’t so sure about himself.
“This isn’t me, Dad.” He slumped against the wall. “This reckless, impulsive person. It isn’t me. I don’t leave my job for two months. I don’t put off important decisions. I don’t hit people.”
And he sure as anything didn’t go around falling for women whose livelihood he was one sale away from ruining. Not when it distracted him from his daughter, his obligations, his future. If it wasn’t for his feelings for Amelia, he might’ve sold the paper weeks ago. Told Hadley yes on the spot last week. Returned to LA already to prepare himself and Charlie for their new life.
Not fair and not true.
Because hadn’t he also stayed in Maple Valley for Charlie? Been hesitant to take the Hadley job because of Charlie?
“She fell out of her bunk bed, Logan. Nothing you did—reckless or otherwise, today or any other day—caused that.” Dad’s hand rested on his shoulder. “She’s going to be just fine, son. And so are you.”
“Even if I get arrested for assaulting Rick O’Hare?” He wished he were joking. But the footsteps sounding down the hall belonged to the cop—he knew without even looking up.
“I don’t know what Rick was thinking.”
“He was thinking, here’s another notch in the O’Hare column when it comes to custody of Charlie.” Logan’s anger pitched. “I don’t understand. He’s not the same man who welcomed me into the family like the son he never had when Emma and I got married.”
The police officer approached.
“One daughter has died, Logan. The other is in a halfway house four hundred miles away.”
The reminder stung.
“Logan?” The officer stopped in front of him. “Can we talk now?”
He recognized the policeman. Stan Whitmore. Used to lead the drug and alcohol prevention program at the junior high. He’d grown around the middle, lost most of his hair. But he had the same calm voice, the one that’d made Logan wonder as a teen how someone so placid had gone into law enforcement.
But all the kind tones in the world weren’t enough now to still his nerves. “Do we have to?”
“I’m afraid so. Normally I’d ask you to come down to the station, but under the circumstances . . .” He glimpsed past Logan into the hospital room. “If it were something else, I’d wait until morning. But with assault, it’s policy to follow up immediately.”
Dad stiffened. “Don’t you think assault might be overstating things? He threw one punch. It de-escalated in less time than it took to escalate.”
“And that’s why I’m here. I need to hear Logan’s take on what happened. As for assault, that’s simply the verbiage of the charge brought forward.”
“So I am being charged? Are you going to arrest me?”
The officer took a small notepad from his pocket. “Not at the moment. As for charges, that’s what this conversation will help decide. But that’s not up to me. I just need to know what happened.”
Logan folded his arms. “Half the town saw what happened. Can’t you talk to any of them?” Maybe someone who didn’t have a daughter’s arm being wrapped in a cast?
“Half the town doesn’t have a police report in process. Do I need to ask you to come down to the station, after all?” The first hint of irritation tinged Stan’s voice.
Frustration twisted so thick it threatened to clog Logan’s throat. “No. No, I can . . . talk.”
He relayed the story in fits and spurts. Couldn’t find Charlie. Panicked. Exchanged words with Rick. Lost his temper.
“Where’d you hit him?”
“His cheek, I think. I wasn’t really aiming for anything in particular.”
Amelia appeared at the end of the hall, saw him talking to the officer. He could read her concern all the way from here.
“One punch?”
“Just one. Uh, my dad intervened. Brought me to my senses.” He nudged Dad. “Hey, could you tell Amelia she can go home? Tell her I’m sorry about how tonight ended.”
No, it was better this way. She’d ask questions he couldn’t answer. Like how he was doing and if there was anything she could do to help. She’d turn those warm eyes on him and reel him in until he honestly believed everything was going to be okay. Just like Dad said.
But it wouldn’t be. Not until he found his way back to solid footing. Tonight was a wakeup call. You could lose your daughter if you don’t pull yourself together.
He’d lost focus—but no longer. “Go ahead, Dad. Please.” He lifted one hand in a limp wave, then turned back to Stan. “Any other questions?”
Why didn’t he call back? Or at least text?
Amelia sat in her car in the parking lot of the Maple Valley Community Church just like she did most Sundays. Refusing to be on time. Muted voices drifted from outside, where sunlight tunneled through yesterday’s leftover clouds. She’d called Logan last night after Raegan had driven her home. And then again this morning after a wilted night of little sleep.
She’d almost driven out to the Walkers’ house instead of coming here. But the same stalwart murmur that coaxed her here week after week, even when she was sure her days of steadfast faith were behind her, had beckoned again. So here she was.
But if her conscience could be stubborn, so could she. She’d walk in her usual five minutes late. Sit in her usual seat in the back. Stay invisible.
Amelia nearly jumped at the knock on her window.
Jonas Clancy? The loan officer had ducked down to look inside. He wore clip-on visors over his glasses and a gray suit.
So much for being inconspicuous. She glanced at her phone one more time, as if she somehow might have missed a ring or buzz or something—anything—from Logan. Then sighed and got out of her car. “Hi, Mr. Clancy.”
The banker waved a teenager on toward the church—Webster, the high schooler Jonas and his wife had adopted after he’d come to live with them as a foster kid. The one who hung around with Colton Greene all the time.
“We’re not in the office, Amelia. Call me Jonas.”
Music drifted from the church, and a car’s tires sputtered over gravel behind him. “All right. Jonas.”
“I know it’s Sunday, and if we don’t get inside soon we’ll miss the best donuts, but when I saw you in your car, well . . .” He straightened his tie, then flipped up the visors from his glasses. “Figured maybe I could save you a trip to the bank. It’s about your loan application.”
Oh. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his regret so clear that the nice thing to do would be to save him from saying the rest. Tell him she understood and insist they go in for those donuts.
But something in her needed to hear the words. So she simply waited, her greenish-blue skirt ruffling around her ankles.
“We have a pretty firm threshold for financial risk. If ever I wanted to ignore the threshold and take a risk on someone, it’s you.” Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead despite the cool morning. “I really mean that. I read the News each week. Love seeing photos of Webster in the Sports section.”
She should feel something more right now than vague disappointment. But hadn’t she sensed this was coming? She’d known what a long shot the loan truly was.
And perhaps, too, Owen’s words yesterday had burrowed farther into her heart than she’d realized.
“It might be worth asking yourself why you’d rather fight for paper and ink and other people’s futures than your own.”
Maybe it was time to let the desperate push for the newspaper’s future rest.
“I really appreciate you letting me know.”
Jonas looked almost relieved at her even-keeled response. “I do wish we could do something to help you out. There are some government small-business-loan programs. I can get you information on any of that, if you like.”
“I’ll let you know if I decide that’s something I’d like to look at.”
“Dad, Mom wants to know where you are!” Webster yelled from the church entrance.
Jonas grinned. “We never asked him to call us Mom and Dad, you know. All of a sudden, Christmas Eve last year, it just popped out of his mouth.”
“Thanks again, Mr.—Jonas.”
She watched him walk to the church, then reached back into her car for her purse. But instead of walking toward the entrance, she moved in the opposite direction. Away from the parking lot, across the road, down a cracked sidewalk toward a grassy knoll—finally green with spring and home to rows of stones that stretched from the ground.
She passed under the arched wrought-iron entrance of the Maple Valley cemetery, the bustle of the church parking lot fading and a choppy wind breathing through the field.
She didn’t know why she went looking for it, didn’t even know if she’d find it.
But minutes after the church service would’ve already started, she found herself standing in front of a granite stone with a beveled edge, well-kept and surrounded by flowers, silver lettering glinting.
Emma O’Hare Walker
1981–2013
She lived and loved well.
Isaiah 43:19
Logan’s wife. Had he placed one of the wreaths or flower urns that adorned the surface around the gravestone? Would he come here in a couple weeks on Memorial Day?
A twig snapped behind her, footsteps rustling in the grass. She glanced over her shoulder. Case?
Logan’s father ambled along the sandy path leading toward where she stood now. He lifted one hand to wave as he approached, and she offered a hello in return. Shouldn’t he be in his family’s regular row in church?
And what would he think of the fact that she was standing here, staring at his son’s dead wife’s grave?
He stopped beside her. “I thought that was you. Late to church and saw you from the road.”
“I was just . . . well, skipping church, I guess.”
He glanced at Emma’s tombstone. “It’s a lovely statement, isn’t it? ‘She lived and loved well.’ You never had a chance to meet her, did you?”
She shook her head. Sunlight filtered through tree branches and streaked in goldish shards over the ebony-hued stone. “Actually, I think I moved to town right around the time she passed away.”
Case sighed. “It was traumatic, that’s for sure. For the whole of us, but of course, Logan most of all.”
“I, uh, don’t know the verse.”
“It’s an odd one for a gravestone, truthfully. All about God doing a new thing. Apparently she once made Logan promise if she died first, he’d make sure that verse was on her stone—because death would be the greatest new thing she’d ever experience.”
“Whoa. That’s . . .” She couldn’t find words.
“A promise he probably thought he’d never have to keep,” Case finished for her.
One quiet moment passed into another, broken only by the faint rhythm of a woodpecker in another corner of the cemetery and a tangled medley of questions and emotions, until . . .
“I don’t know why I’m here.” Abrupt. Off-key.
But Case seemed unfazed. “Because you love my son.”
The wind whipped her hair against her cheeks and stole any response from her lungs. He’d said it so simply. As if it were just plain fact. Not at all surprising or ridiculous or life-altering.
“You love my son, and you’re naturally curious about the woman he used to be married to.” Case put his arm around her shoulder, like she’d seen him do so many times to Kate and Raegan. “Emma was wonderful. Bright, fun, creative. Somewhat cautious. Pretty. Even though she was technically Charlie’s aunt by birth, I have a feeling if she’d lived, no one ever would’ve guessed she wasn’t Charlie’s birth mother. Those are some strong O’Hare genetics.”
“I wonder if Logan sees her when he looks at Charlie.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Maybe sometimes.” Case grinned. “But I have a feeling more often than not
, he just sees his daughter who he adores.”
“He does.” And if Case hadn’t already seen right through her before now, he would’ve at that. She could hear the affection packed into her voice. “How’s Charlie doing, by the way?”
Case steered her away from the gravestone, and they ended up on the path that cut through the cemetery. “She’s taking it like a champ. Probably would’ve loved showing off her neon cast to everyone in church if Logan hadn’t insisted on keeping her home.”
“And Logan? I tried calling.”
“He’s . . . all right.”
She didn’t miss his pause, but he went on before she could ask for a more detailed explanation.
“And how about you?”
“Me?”
“I found you in a cemetery on a Sunday morning.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, even if it was tinged with something bittersweet. “Oh, I don’t know. I just found out the bank is turning me down for a loan. I’d kind of thought maybe I could buy the newspaper from Logan. Now I have a feeling that despite my best efforts and even with the centennial issue we’re running this week, we may be looking at a buyout. I could very possibly be out of a job before long.” She slid him a glance. Would he offer words of advice? She hesitated. “I’d like to believe the whole ‘when God closes a door, he opens a window’ thing, but . . . well . . .”
It was Case’s turn to laugh. “I think that’s a ridiculous phrase.”
“You do?”
“Yes, although if my wife were still alive and making me watch The Sound of Music twice a year, I would never admit it. I got really good over the years at holding in my groan when the Reverend Mother says that line.” They stopped under the gated entrance. “Way I see it, doors and windows are two different things entirely, with completely different purposes.”
“I can appreciate that.”
“I’ll tell you this much, though, Amelia. Don’t confuse your career with your life. Your newspaper means a lot to you. You love your job, and that’s special—it’s not something everyone can say. And losing it would hurt. But not nearly as much as missing out on your life.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, I’m headed to the church. You could come with. We’ll have empty room in our row without Logan and Charlie. You could even stay all the way through the last song.”