In an instant she was sitting on the floor, staring down at the hardwood planks, her breath coming in ragged, shallow pulls.
They’d cleaned up. The dark, congealed pool of Paul’s blood was gone. The floorboards were returned to their usual semi-scuffed sheen. Except . . . Sloane spread her palms on the wood and leaned closer. Trying to see. Then swallowed against a gag. There was still blood in the grooves between some of the floorboards. So black that it almost looked like it could be old varnish or garden soil tracked in by a rambunctious grandchild . . . or even chocolate chip cookie crumbs? No. Sloane knew better. She’d spent a career dealing with blood; she’d knelt in it right here only two days ago, trying with every ounce of her being to save Paul’s life. Praying . . . as if God would listen to someone like her. Just another in a lifetime of mistakes.
She’d found Q-tips and laundry bleach and was on her hands and knees, sponging furiously at the flooring grooves, when Celeste walked in.
“Sloane . . .”
“I came to get the cat carrier. Someone found Marty,” Sloane explained, staring up at her landlady. “But then I saw that they missed some of the . . . spill. Just a little, in the grooves. So I thought I could get it with Q-tips.” Celeste’s face blurred through a film of tears. “I’m so . . . sorry. I’m so very . . .” A racking sob strangled her.
Before she could take another breath, Celeste sank to the floor and gathered Sloane into her arms.
“It’s okay,” she said, rocking her. “There’s no need to apologize.”
“I lied to you,” Sloane said, drawing back. “I should have told you I knew Paul. That he’d been here. It was only one time and I thought I’d gotten rid of him.” She glanced toward the pantry shelves and shivered. The cleanup crew had put the cereal boxes back, neat and tidy. “I never thought anything like this could happen. I put you and Piper in danger. Your house is burned.” Sloane pressed her fingers to her mouth in a failed attempt to smother what had become a keening wail. “My life is an unforgivable mess.”
“No.” Celeste gently pried Sloane’s hand away. She rubbed it between both of hers as if she were reviving a frostbite victim. “You can be sorry. We’re all sorry for something. But I don’t allow the word unforgivable around here.” She offered a small smile. “Ask Piper. She’s got an impressive tally of sorrys going.”
Sloane couldn’t swallow past the rising ache. “I’ve made so many mistakes. Too many bad ones. I thought I could hide here, and that was wrong too.”
“Come,” Celeste said, tugging Sloane’s hand as she stood. “I’m too old to squat on the floor. Come sit on the couch. I’m getting us some water.”
“I should go. I need to—”
“Sit.”
Sloane settled onto the couch, picked at a few of Marty’s dark hairs, and tried not to think of sitting in this very same spot with Micah. Before it all changed.
“There,” Celeste said, handing her the water.
“Thank you.” Sloane spread her fingers around the cool plastic, wondering why she’d ever hated these tumblers so much. Something about them felt impossibly right. She was so thirsty. . . .
“You don’t have a monopoly on mistakes,” Celeste said, brushing at a silvery curl. “Or running and hiding.”
Sloane peered over the tumbler’s rim as her landlady continued.
“When Piper’s mom was almost exactly her age, I packed everything I could into a Hefty bag, dressed my daughter in three layers of clothes, and hitched a ride on a produce truck headed for Utah. I should have done it five years before that.” Celeste shook her head. “No. I should have had the guts to do it when I was pregnant. The first time he beat me.” Tears moistened her eyes. “If I’d done that, there never would have been a first time he hurt my child.”
Sloane winced.
“Those were only the first big mistakes I made.” Celeste brushed at a tear. “You could say I was somewhat of a pro at screw-up-your-life drama. If they gave out championship belts for life mistakes like they do for those awful TV wrestlers, mine would be giiinormous.” She smiled. “To quote my granddaughter.”
Sloane found a smile despite another rush of tears. “Even still, your picture is on God’s fridge. Up in heaven.”
“Sure is.” Celeste gave Sloane’s hand a squeeze. “That’s the promise. That’s grace. It’s for all of us. Ours for the asking. We run; we hide . . . We’re afraid people will discover our mistakes. But the thing is, God already knows our secrets. And loves us anyway.”
Celeste sipped her own water, than added, “I read something the other day, by Tony Evans, I think. Something like . . . ‘God never defines you by the past, but the enemy will try to confine you by it.’”
Sloane stayed quiet, not sure if she was uncomfortable or comforted. She only knew that she didn’t feel the need to wield Q-tips anymore. She’d take that for now.
“I’m not here to preach,” Celeste told her. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. And tell you I’m planning to have some work done in the guesthouse, too.” She glanced around the room and toward the kitchen. “Rip down that old rooster wallpaper border—it’s looking like a henhouse around here. Some nice paint, maybe a new sink. Definitely a new water heater. And flooring. We’re going to start with the floor. I told Jerry he could pull it up tonight after he leaves the hospital. Get this dingy old stuff out of here. I said you’d be okay with that?”
Sloane nodded.
“I still want wood planks,” Celeste said, “but wider and much lighter. Fresher-looking. Maybe bamboo. Jerry had some great ideas. And I’ll want your input too.”
“Mine?”
“Of course. You’ll be living with it.”
Sloane’s heart climbed to her throat.
“You might have to shuffle around while the work’s being done, deal with plywood underfoot. But we can plan that out later. There’s plenty of time.” Celeste smiled. “Right now Marty’s waiting.”
“Oh yes . . . you know your mom.” Sarah’s dark eyes were warm as melted chocolate as Sloane pressed her fingers to the cage door. Marty’s trilling meow morphed into a purr as he rubbed his head against them. The volunteer reached for the latch. “Let’s get this sweet little dude out. Here we go.”
“Thank you—oh, hey there,” Sloane said, arms suddenly full of amorous cat. Marty snuggled his head under her chin, purring even louder. “He . . .” Her voice cracked. “I adopted him from a county animal shelter. His litter had been tied up in a grocery sack and dropped off a pier.”
“Ouch.” Something in Sarah’s eyes said it wasn’t a new story.
“He was so tiny,” Sloane recounted, remembering the wobbly kitten with runny eyes and a worrisome cough. “And they’d penciled a date on his cage.”
“We’re a no-kill shelter,” Sarah assured her. She scratched Marty’s chin. “We’re of a mind here that every animal deserves a second chance—as many times as necessary. Now, I should get your paperwork.”
“Is there a fee?”
“No fee . . . but donations are always welcome. I’ll just be a few minutes. Want to put him in your carrier?”
“No,” Sloane said, spotting an overstuffed vinyl chair. “Not yet.”
Sarah patted her heart. “I would have bet money on that.”
Sloane held Marty on her lap and glanced around the small room designated for cats and kittens. Nicer than the city shelter in San Diego, homey. Her stomach shivered as a dark sense of déjà vu pressed in. A whisper that said, despite her struggle, Sloane was back where she started. No better off than the lonely woman who’d lingered in front of that cage in San Diego. Then returned again and again, nursing a series of ugly hangovers and peering over her shoulder at her past. All that time she’d fought to find some viable reason not to save a sick kitten from his kill date. Her life had been a wreck; all she’d needed was one more mistake.
No.
Sloane blinked as a barrage of truths hit like a meteor shower. It wasn’t the same now. Not at all. Marty wasn’t fac
ing a kill date; he’d had a good home for a long time. And though Sloane hated how it had come about, she no longer had to hide from Paul and his dangerous associates. And . . . I’m sober. Sloane shook her head, remembering the feel of that plastic tumbler in her hands today. The simple glass of water Celeste offered. An ordinary thing, but it had felt so meaningful.
“All set,” Sarah said. “One little signature and you and Marty can hit the road.”
“Sounds good.”
Sloane settled Marty’s carrier in the Volvo only a few minutes later. She reached for the ignition, then stopped to glance back at the Four Paws building. She smiled, imagining the kindhearted Sarah’s surprise when she opened the donation box and found the envelope with a crisp stack of hundred-dollar bills. Despite the source of that cash, it felt incredibly good to have it support a place founded on second chances . . . “as many times as necessary. . . .”
It felt a lot like what Celeste had said earlier. About mistakes. And grace. It made Sloane wonder if the all-consuming thirst she’d struggled with for so long was really for something much, much different.
39
“EMERGENCY MEETING?” Micah asked, not liking the sound of this. He pushed the remnants of his late lunch aside. “What does that mean?”
“I only know that the ER director and some ‘key staff’ are meeting to discuss Sloane Ferrell’s contract.” Fiona frowned. “They asked that I be present. I can only assume they want to explore the impact of her current situation on the hospital’s image.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant to her employment contract. She hasn’t been arrested.”
“I think they’re going to claim she’s failed to show up for work. A no-show for three consecutive days is grounds for termination. Tomorrow will be the third day.” Fiona sighed. “Sloane didn’t fill out the paperwork. It’s a technicality. She has the vacation accrual. And frankly I think the director planned to offer her the time after all she’s gone through. But there’s been pressure. The real issue is PR.”
“Which is my job. Why wasn’t I told about this meeting?”
Fiona’s brows pinched. “One of the board members complained about your seeing Sloane socially.”
“Brill?”
“He thinks it’s a conflict.”
“Oh, I agree,” Micah said, wishing he hadn’t held back with the man earlier. “Between him and me. If anyone’s guilty of doing damage to the hospital’s image, it’s Howard Brill.” He looked at his watch. “When’s this meeting?”
“Tomorrow morning at 7:15. Media room.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I really appreciate it, Harper,” Sloane said, giving Marty’s stomach a rub as he sprawled over the clothes she’d piled on her bed. She shifted the cell phone in her hand. “I’ll only be using you as a backup in case Celeste runs into a problem. She’s home tonight and she wants to keep Marty, but it might mean shuttling him back and forth between the houses with the work going on. Noise and all that.”
“How long will you be gone?” Harper asked, telltale sounds of sirens and ER monitors pinpointing her location better than any GPS.
“Five days, maybe a week. I only have ten days’ vacation.”
“Uh . . . right.” Harper’s voice sounded distracted. Work, no doubt.
“So that’s the plan.” Sloane drew in a deep breath, grateful Celeste had opened all the windows. The cottage already smelled more apple, less disinfectant. “My godfather’s in Denver on business this week, but my godmother will be there. I told her to expect me early in the morning.”
“It’s like ten hours to Mendocino.”
“Eight. I’ll drive halfway. Stay somewhere.” Sloane’s throat tightened as she thought of her godmother’s response to Sloane’s unexpected phone call.
“Of course you’ll come. We’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.”
“I think it’s good you’re getting away,” Harper said, her voice still a little odd.
“It’s something I have to do.” The idea, like so many other unexpected thoughts, had come to Sloane as she drove back from the rescue shelter. She still didn’t know where all of it was heading. “I’m almost packed. I’ll leave right after my meeting.”
“That class you’ve been taking?”
Sloane told herself it was time . . . past time.
“They’re AA meetings, Harper.”
Sloane’s stomach quivered as she glanced at Jocelyn, sitting next to her in the front row. She smiled and gave Sloane’s hand a quick, reassuring pat. Sloane felt sick. And healthier than she’d been in years. If only her heart would stop crowding her throat. If only . . .
“Are there any folks from out of the area?” the chairperson was saying. “Newcomers? Maybe give us your name—tell us something about you. We’d like to get to know you.”
Shares.
Sloane’s heart thudded. After nearly seven months of meetings, she knew the routine. Serenity prayer, readings from the Big Book, a topic and discussion. And now—
“Would anyone like to share?”
“Yes. Here. . . .” Sloane raised her hand. It was trembling. She took a slow breath and looked around at the faces of the people she’d sat with for months, knowing she was really seeing them for the first time. Oh, please . . .
The faces smiled. At least a dozen thumbs raised. There was a wink or two.
Despite the trembling, an achy-good feeling filled her chest.
“My name is Sloane,” she said, her voice quavering a bit. “And I’m an alcoholic.”
She hardly heard the enthusiastic chorus of hellos, barely saw their faces through a prism of tears. She only knew this was where she was meant to be—and that it might be best to grab hold of Jocelyn’s hand. She was kind of dizzy and she’d take all the support she could get.
“I’m not new,” Sloane began. “I’ve been coming here for months. . . . But today feels like my very first day.”
Two hours later her bag was packed and her pulse tap-dancing faster than Piper’s talent show act—caffeine overload from multiple cups of coffee with Jocelyn. My sponsor. Sloane’s breath snagged; so much had happened and her thoughts were still tumbling. After the meeting, Jocelyn suggested they go to a nearby café so she could answer any questions Sloane might have. It turned out that she had quite a few. Jocelyn had been her usual keep-it-real self, but also patient and encouraging. They’d talked for nearly an hour, interrupted only by the waitress refilling their cups—and by a quick “night-night” call from Jocelyn’s youngest child. She’d been supportive of Sloane’s trip to Mendocino, her need to talk with her godmother. Jocelyn insisted, however, that finding a local meeting there must be a priority. As Sloane’s sponsor, she’d be only a phone call away.
Sloane inhaled the fresh scent of sawdust, then glanced toward the floor in front of the pantry doors. Jerry had already made good on his promise to tear out those stained boards. A sheet of plywood lay in their place, heralding the repair work to follow. It was exactly how Sloane felt about her life. Under construction. Jocelyn said the twelve steps were her tools to build a new life. And that what she’d done tonight by standing up, speaking the truth, and asking for support was a good beginning. Talking to her godmother, finally confiding some difficult and shameful secrets, would only add to that strong start.
Sloane thought of what Zoey said about her own relationship with Paul. How his attention made her feel “worth the trouble.” It had struck Sloane to the core. She’d wondered if that same sad need had been at the root of her own long string of mistakes. Even before Paul Stryker. Had she let the abuse by that long-ago “uncle” convince her she was worthless? Or worth only what some man told her she was worth? Had she lowered the bar on her own expectations? And then set herself up, over and over, to prove she was “someone like that”?
Sloane glanced toward the pantry shelves, saw the shipping boxes restacked by the cleaning team. A lifetime supply of cereal she rarely ate. Why hadn’t she put an end to it? Was
it more proof that she’d actually bought into that loathsome lie?
“For your whole life—that’s quite a net worth.”
Her heart cramped as yet another question prodded, fresh as the sawdust that replaced the stains on her floor. She didn’t want it to be true, but was Micah Prescott simply one more attempt in her misguided scramble to feel worthy, special? Was that all there was to it?
Sloane thought of what she’d told Zoey that night in the motel room. She’d told the girl to keep the chain and cross, that “in God’s eyes, you’re more than worth the trouble.” At that moment, holding the lost girl in her arms, Sloane had believed it with all her heart. Because Zoey was young, her mistakes not nearly as many or as unforgivable as Sloane’s.
“We’re all sorry for something. But I don’t allow the word unforgivable around here.”
Celeste’s words, as they sat on this floor now covered with fresh wood. Under construction . . .
For some reason, Sloane thought of the question Micah was asking the Face of Hope nominees: “What one important thing would you say to your younger self?”
Had Sloane actually done that when she told Zoey that, regardless of her past, she would always have worth in God’s eyes? What difference would those words have made in Sloane’s life? What might have changed? Was it too late now?
An ache rose in her throat as she lifted the twelve-step list from the table. Her gaze moved to step three:
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God . . .
Sloane closed her eyes over welling tears, then bowed her head.
“Please, God, I need you in my life. I can’t run anymore. Take this pain and fear, please. Show me what you want for me. . . .”
It was after ten when Micah decided to try Sloane’s number one more time. She hadn’t answered any of his texts or calls for two days now. He told himself to stop, but he had a strong sense that something was going on and—
“Micah?”
“Hi. I . . .” He realized he hadn’t figured out what he would say. “I wanted to see if you’re okay.”
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