They walked on, then stopped to view one of several giant easel-mounted posters depicting images and testimonials from the nonprofit California Crisis Care. The photos were in stark and undeniable black-and-white, real and gritty against the colorful lobby decor. Couldn’t have been more compelling. This one was an image of Police Line Do Not Cross tape across the close-up of a woman whose tearstained face and agonized expression spelled trauma and grief in capital letters. The caption read:
110 volunteer chaplains
400 annual activations
900 grieving survivors—just trying to make sense of it all
California Crisis Care, Sacramento
Below was an excerpt of a letter sent by a survivor of tragedy, thanking a chaplain.
She saw me unravel and didn’t judge, only cared. I’m still trying to understand what happened with my father. But there is HOPE and a profound feeling that I am not alone in this. How do you get through a life-altering crisis? With an angel by your side.
Fletcher shook his head, moved. These selfless volunteers were digging deep, giving their all in situations that would make most people shudder and run. If Charly Holt had said it once, she’d said it a thousand times: “This is God’s work. We’re out there to offer hope to people who have none. It blesses them and us, too.” He wasn’t going to argue with that.
“I’m so glad we came,” she said after waving at a couple passing by. Fletcher was struck once again by how pale and fragile she looked now, despite her carefully styled hair, makeup, and the pearls his father had given her on their thirtieth wedding anniversary.
Fletcher assured himself there would be many more celebrations. Are you hearing me, God?
Charly patted his tux sleeve. “We’ll get someone to snap a picture of us with your cell phone. I promised Jessica.”
His stomach did a crash dive even a fancy dinner wouldn’t fix. “You talked with her today?”
“This morning.”
He’d never said anything openly about his feelings for Jessica. And he sure wasn’t going to now.
“She sounded so good—happy,” Charly continued. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard our little girl sound so hopeful. She mentioned a man several times. A youth pastor at the church.”
“Mmm. Yeah, I think she said something like that to me too.” Fletcher feigned interest in the quartet above them. Where was one of those distractions when he really needed it? Short of a sniper on the balcony, but . . . I don’t want to talk about this.
“She didn’t say they were dating exactly,” Charly went on. “But apparently he offered to help her move into her new apartment. And then volunteered his services as a painter—‘Peach Pie’ was the shade she picked for the kitchen. Ceiling too. She must have charmed the landlord.” His mother laughed. “Heaven knows that girl can’t abide boring walls.”
Fletcher battled the image of Jessica in those old spattered coveralls, the running back preacher wiping a splash of paint from her cheek. How many times had Fletcher helped Jessica paint, pack and unpack boxes? Made certain she had working smoke detectors, decent dead bolt locks, and food in her fridge? Saved her from herself? It was what he did. What he’d be doing now if—
He stepped sideways, something catching his eye in the distance. The man over by the punch bowl: Elliot Rush. With a red-haired woman wearing a black dress and a necklace that looked like it needed a private security detail. Seth had mentioned they would be here. So no big surprise. He was starting to glance away when a much younger woman in a green gown stepped out from behind the redhead. Shoulders bare, long black hair worn sort of half-up, half-down. Dangling earrings and . . . Fletcher’s eyes widened. It was Macy Wynn.
“These crab puffs are . . . mmm . . . amazing. Oh, excuse me.” Ricki Rush pressed an acrylic nail to her lips and finished swallowing. “If I eat another one, I’ll pop—only so much you can ask of Spanx. Appetizers are my downfall.”
“Hard to resist,” Macy agreed. She fought an intruding memory of sharing a box of congealed Chicken McNuggets with her mother. They’d saved some from the night before to eat for breakfast in the heaped-high car that had recently become their home. Macy was six. Within months her mother would die in an apartment fire, sending Macy to foster care. “I guess they’ll be ushering us up to the ballroom soon,” she said, hoping her hosts didn’t sense her impatience. She wanted this evening to end.
Elliot met Macy’s gaze. “Did you get a chance to look at any of the properties on the list I gave you?”
“You’re buying a house?” Ricki’s sculpted brows rose.
“Rental property,” Macy explained, already hating the conversation. “As an investment. Maybe.”
“Oh.” Ricki reached for another appetizer. “The trust money.”
“Elliot thinks it’s a good idea,” Macy confirmed, rubbing her arms against a chill. There were far worse things than day-old chicken nuggets. “But I haven’t had a chance to look.”
It wasn’t true. She’d driven by a few of the properties. Bank foreclosures with dead lawns, high weeds; some had plywood over windows. One had fresh graffiti and a heap of empty beer bottles on the porch. A mix of neighborhoods, but for the most part, nowhere Macy would want to rent, let alone purchase. Except that little house near Tahoe Park. With all the trees. And the stepping-stone path, brass mailbox, and painted window boxes. . . . Not on Elliot’s list because of price no doubt. But the sign said Bank Owned too. She’d seen it when she took a wrong turn while looking for the other properties. Then drove back again. And again . . . “I’ve been too busy to look at properties,” Macy finished with a shrug.
“Because of your sister. Of course.” Ricki’s fingers plucked at her glittering necklace. “I don’t want to imagine being separated from mine for so many years. Some things are too sad to bear.”
Macy stared at her, wondering how much this woman had bothered to learn about the service organization she’d be writing a check for this evening. She surely wouldn’t want to imagine the heartbreak these volunteer crisis chaplains saw every day: survivors impacted by murder, suicide, serious accidents, child deaths, and other personal tragedies. “Too sad” didn’t begin to cover it.
“I’m just grateful that I’ve found her now.” Macy squared her shoulders. “We’ll make up for lost time.”
“Of course you will.” Elliot gave Macy’s elbow a small squeeze and glanced toward the staircase. “Looks like people are starting to head up. We should probably—” He stopped, squinted his eyes, and then signaled overhead as if trying to catch someone’s attention.
Macy turned, saw the couple he was hailing: an elegant woman in a blue gown and a younger man who was far too familiar.
9
IT WAS NO USE PRETENDING he hadn’t seen Rush; Charly had tugged at his sleeve to bring the man’s wave to Fletcher’s attention. He forced himself to holster his rising anger about that phone call from the senator brother-in-law, reminding himself again that this was his mother’s night. And in moments the Rush party navigated the thinning crowd to arrive beside them. The only thing remotely good about it was the chance to see Macy up close. She nearly took his breath away.
“My mother’s a community chaplain,” Fletcher continued after the awkward initial introductions. “She’s being honored for her service to the victims’ families after that nursing home roof collapse last fall.”
“I’m sure you’re very proud of her,” Mrs. Rush offered. “Such a worthy calling.”
Charly smiled. “I’m honored to be a part of California Crisis Care.”
Elliot Rush slid a finger beneath his tuxedo collar, clearly anxious. Why on earth had he come over here?
“Macy’s an ER nurse,” Rush said at last, connecting with Charly’s gaze. “At Sacramento Hope. Or maybe your son already told you that?”
“No. Or perhaps I’ve forgotten,” Charly added, Southern manners coming to the rescue. She glanced at Fletcher. “Remind me. You know this young lady from—”
�
�We met on the freeway, Mrs. Holt,” Macy interjected. “During the sniper incident.” She lifted her chin as if she’d decided to tackle the rhino in the room. Her eyes met Fletcher’s, even more of an intriguing color paired with the green of her gown. He saw, too, that the small abrasion was still there on her cheek, despite her modest makeup. “I was giving aid to the child who was injured on the school van.”
“And your son . . .” Rush cleared his throat, but his wife jumped in before he could speak.
“Well, it looks like all of that nonsense will be over soon.” Mrs. Rush nodded with confidence. “We saw the FBI statement on the news right as we were leaving to come here. They have the bullet now. They’ll be able to find that madman.”
“A rifle casing and a bullet from the truck tire,” Fletcher corrected. “And even then, there’s no guarantee it will lead to an ID of the shooter. Right now we just have to wait for word from the crime lab.”
Charly patted his arm. “I fully expect Fletcher’s cell phone to buzz in the middle of our entrée.”
“No need.” Rush’s wife waved her hand, the movement making a trio of bracelets glitter. “I can make one quick call and cut through all that boring red tape. My brother is Senator Rob Warrington. Nothing happens that he can’t handle fast as that.” She snapped her fingers.
Rush stiffened, then made a point of glancing toward the stairs. “We should go to our tables.”
“Yes,” Charly agreed. “But first . . . Macy, would you please do us a favor and take a picture of—?”
“No time,” Fletcher interrupted. He could well imagine his digitalized scowl. “We’ll do that later. They may need you inside. Excuse us, please.” He nodded at the group, then escorted his mother toward the stairs. But not before he heard Mrs. Rush’s indignant mutter of “Wet-behind-the-ears, self-righteous street cop . . .”
Rush caught Fletcher just before they started up.
“May I have a quick word with your son?” he asked, nodding politely at Charly.
“Of course.”
Fletcher met the man’s gaze, doubting he could keep his temper under control, even for his mother’s sake. If this self-important fool thought he could—“What can I do for you?”
“Accept my apology,” Rush said, surprising Fletcher. “You were doing your job out there on the freeway. Regardless of my pride, I should have respected that.” He cleared his throat. “It’s possible that your quick action kept Macy from being harmed. I can’t tell you how much that means to me . . . to my wife and me.”
Fletcher hesitated, more than wary. “And then you had your brother-in-law phone in a complaint?”
“My wife. Not me.” Rush grimaced. “I’m afraid there’s nothing she likes better than throwing her brother’s weight around. I didn’t know until afterward. I’ve already drafted a letter to your sergeant, which I hope will clear things up.”
Fletcher wasn’t sure what to say. He should trust this guy about as far as he could throw him. But . . .
“Will you accept my apology?” Rush asked again, extending his hand.
Fletcher held off for a few seconds—long enough to see discomfort in the man’s eyes. Then he gripped Rush’s hand.
“What was that all about?” Macy asked as Elliot rejoined them and they began making their way toward the stairs.
“Unnecessary peacemaking, no doubt,” Ricki huffed, shooting her husband a sideways glance. “Why you’d apologize to that underling is beyond me. You did nothing wrong.”
“I didn’t say he was right about the alcohol. I told him I regretted my attitude out there. And—” Elliot gave his wife a pointed look—“that I appreciated his quick action to keep us safe. He could very well have saved Macy’s life, Ricki! The man was doing his job. That didn’t warrant an official reprimand.”
Macy glanced between them, confused. “Reprimand?”
Ricki lifted the hem of her gown at the stairs. “I had my brother call his superior because I knew you didn’t have the backbone to stick up for yourself, Elliot—you never do. What if that boy had his way out there? Made you walk heel-to-toe, touch your nose, or whatever it is that they do. What if someone caught it on their cell phone?” Her face reddened to a shade that clashed with her hair. “Do you know how many people are humiliated on YouTube every hour? What if that news helicopter got footage? How do you think Rob’s constituents might feel about that? You should be thanking me.” She shot her husband one last glare and started up the stairs.
Macy followed in the wake of their frosty silence and spotted the ladies’ room at the top of the stairs. She told them to go ahead, that she’d meet them at the table.
Moments later she stood at the mirror, thankful for the escape and very certain about two things. First, Elliot Rush with all his flaws didn’t deserve the belittling he suffered at the hands—and mouth—of his very spoiled wife. Macy had witnessed it on far too many occasions. And second, even if Ricki was right about Fletcher Holt being self-righteous—and he definitely had an angry chip on that broad shoulder—she’d been wrong to sic her brother on him. After all he’d dealt with, it must have been the crowning blow.
Macy reached into her evening bag, pulled out a compact to pat fresh powder over her road rash. She stopped with the puff midway, remembering what Elliot had said in defense of Fletcher. “He could very well have saved Macy’s life . . .”
She stared at herself, tasting the tar of the freeway asphalt again, hearing the crack of that rifle and the shattering windshield glass. So close. She saw Fletcher standing over her with his weapon aimed—very different from this man in a tuxedo escorting his mother. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to think about it before, maybe it made the whole thing feel too frighteningly real, but . . . Did he really save my life?
10
“I HEARD HE’S EXPECTING other family to arrive from out of state,” Taylor told Macy after a discreet glance at the table adjacent to theirs in the hospital cafeteria. Mrs. Harrell’s son picked at his lunch tray, cell phone to his ear. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. Or slept either.
“I hope those relatives include someone with a longer fuse.” Macy shook her head. “I don’t envy the ICU nurses. Bridget said it feels like everyone has a big bull’s-eye painted on the back of their scrubs; he questions every move they make. I don’t want to think about the conversation that’s coming about withdrawing life support.”
Someone’s pager sounded at an adjacent table and a cook behind the grill announced an order up for a garden burger and sweet potato fries. A trio of student nurses hustled by.
“Yes,” Taylor agreed. “I can only imagine how hard that decision would be, even knowing all I know as a nurse about brain death.” Her brows pinched. “As hard as it was with Greg, I’m grateful I was spared the decision to let him go.”
Macy met her friend’s gaze. “I wish you’d been spared all of it.”
“All I wish right now—” Taylor’s eyes brightened—“is that you’d give me details about that fancy party. I caught a news clip: way too much of the mayor and local VIPs, no shots of you, and only the teeniest glimpse of Charly.”
“Charly?”
“Charlise Holt. One of the chaplains who was recognized last night. Attractive, really short hair right now, in her late fifties I’d say. Accompanied by her son?”
“Yes, Mrs. Holt. I met her,” Macy confirmed, an image of son, not mother, coming to mind. She wondered idly if he’d been carrying a gun under that tuxedo jacket. “She seems nice.”
“She’s great. A natural as a chaplain; I love being mentored by her. We’re both on call tomorrow. I’m glad she got the okay to come back from medical leave.” Taylor caught the question on Macy’s face. “Charly hasn’t kept it confidential: she’s being treated for leukemia. Acute myeloid. Possibly caused by the aggressive chemo she had for breast cancer several years ago.”
Macy winced. The gracious woman had courage beyond her selfless dedication.
“Charly’s husband travels for wor
k, so her son came out from Texas to be here for her,” Taylor continued. “He’s a deputy with Sac County.”
“I met him.” Macy hoped she hadn’t said anything rude about him to Taylor in the aftermath of the freeway incident. She touched her healing cheek, thinking she’d like to erase that memory altogether. Pretend they’d met for the first time Friday night. Cordial, simple. A lovely woman, her attentive son, and no added ammunition for the Rushes’ ongoing battle. Macy looked up, heard Taylor continuing. “I’m sorry, what?”
Taylor laughed. “I said he’s good-looking—Fletcher Holt. Agree?”
“Oh.” Macy felt her neck flush. “I suppose. I never thought about it.”
“The rifle bullet and casing . . .” Seth set his coffee down, glanced at his watch. They’d arranged to meet at this café because he had a chaplaincy appointment a few blocks away. “No definite leads?”
“No prints. The casing from the shrubbery at the overpass was a .270 Remington, and the slug pulled from the truck tire looks to be the same caliber,” Fletcher explained. “Even though it’s pretty deformed, the crime lab says they’re from the same gun. They haven’t been connected with any other known crimes. Yet.”
By Your Side Page 5