Piece by Piece

by Laura Bradford

  Her voice broke, prompting Caleb to reach for her hands and Dani to pull them away. “I wanted to dive in right there, where I was, and swim across to her, but that’s when I heard your voice.”

  “My voice?” he echoed.

  “Yeah. From twenty-seven years ago. When I fell into the pond trying to get my leaf boat to go faster than yours and Lydia’s.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his thoughts clearly leaping ahead or, rather, back to the day she, too, had almost forgotten.

  “You told me I was fine, that all I had to do was stand up. That the deep side was off the western shore. And so I knew that would be the safest place for me to dive in. By the time I got to the right spot, I couldn’t see her kapp anymore. But I could still see the flower and it wasn’t really drifting in one direction or the other. So I swam toward the flower and felt my way through the murk around that spot. It didn’t take long to find her.”

  He palmed his face, let his hand slip back down to the table with a quiet thud. “And the rest? How did you know what to do? Because you’ve gotta know your quick action made all the difference in the world between Nettie being here with us now and . . . not.”

  “When I found out I was pregnant with Maggie, I signed up for a CPR class at the local hospital. I didn’t like the idea of standing around helplessly in an emergency.”

  “You remembered it very well.”

  She held up her palm. “Actually, I took a refresher when I was pregnant with Spencer, and again with Ava. I hoped that repetition would make it stick in my head better.”

  “And it clearly did.” The bench creaked under his weight as he, too, leaned forward, his gaze fixing on a point somewhere far beyond the confines of the simple kitchen. “Did you ever have to use it? Before today, I mean?”

  “I did. Once.” She took a sip of her coffee, the liquid warm and comforting inside her throat. “It was at Maggie’s sixth birthday party, which meant her entire kindergarten class was in attendance. Jeff and I had taken the kids to a pop-up circus in the next town over and Maggie had been mesmerized by all of it. Needless to say, she wanted her party to have a circus theme.”

  “You mean like the cake had some circus stuff on it?” Caleb asked, reaching for his own mug. “A couple of clowns? An elephant? That sort of stuff?”

  She didn’t mean to laugh, but it slipped past her lips, anyway, and sent her scrambling for another sip, another swallow.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. It’s just clear you don’t have kids of your own or”—she paused, thinking how best to rephrase the rest of her answer—“you don’t have kids in the area I live.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The cake is but a very minor part of the whole birthday experience. At least in my neighborhood, anyway.”

  Amusement dulled the fatigue in his eyes. “Oh?”

  “Trust me when I tell you, those kids stepped into a veritable circus when they walked through my front door that day.”

  “How so?”

  “Jeff—wearing a top hat and coat—greeted each child when they came inside, announcing their name in true Master of Ceremonies fashion. Spencer, who was not quite four at the time, handed each child six tickets since, of course, it was Maggie’s sixth birthday.”

  “Clever . . .”

  “Oh, it gets better.” Buoyed by a sudden boost of energy and a desire to move, she pushed her mug into the center of the table and stood. “I set up a bunch of different stations in the backyard that they could visit with their tickets. At one, they could train a lion—”

  “A lion?”

  “I put Spencer in a lion costume.”

  He grinned. “Go on . . .”

  “At one station, they could get a box of popcorn from the popcorn cart I rented. At another, they could jump through a Hula-Hoop lined with paper flames onto a trampoline. At another, they could pick their favorite circus animal and have the balloon artist I hired for the day make it for them. And on and on it went. And the cake? I made a 3-D one to look like a circus tent with little clowns peeking out.”

  “You made it?”

  She wandered over to the window, the door, the refrigerator, and, finally, back to the table, her steps light. “I did. That’s another class I took before Maggie was born—a cake-decorating class. I knew that I wanted to be the one who made treats for all the special occasions.”

  “Wow.”

  “But no matter what theme they wanted for their birthdays each year, I always made sure there was pin the tail on the donkey. It was a favorite for all three of them and, therefore, a real must-have. I just doctored it up to coincide with whatever the chosen theme was for any given party.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “For Maggie’s circus party, the kids played pin the trunk on the elephant?”

  She grinned. “No, but that would have been a good option.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “We played pin the nose on the clown. With me being the clown.”

  “Ouch,” he said, pulling a face.

  “No pins at my parties. Just tape.”

  “Oh, okay, good. That’s a relief.” He took another sip of his drink and waved her back to the table. When she acquiesced, he pushed her mug back into reach. “So what happened that you needed to use your CPR training?”

  “One of the little boys—Adam . . .” Closing her eyes for just a moment, she conjured up an image of the little boy who’d given his kindergarten teacher more than a few gray hairs that year. “He was . . . How shall I say this? A . . . busy one.”

  “Busy?”

  “As in, he was the kid who lived to do the opposite of whatever he was told. If Maggie’s teacher told the children it was time to sit, Adam would not only stand; he’d do so on his desk. If the teacher told the children to keep their hands to themselves, he’d run around touching everyone and everything, often making some of his quieter, more timid classmates cry.”

  “So why did you invite this kid?”

  She pulled her mug close, noted its now-lukewarm sides, and slowly traced her index finger along its nearest rim. “Because Maggie wanted him there. She said she didn’t want to make him sad by not inviting him. When I pointed out there was a chance he might dampen her special day with his antics, she said that was okay. That she would have fun no matter what.”

  “Wow. I’m not too sure how many adults could say that in the same situation.”

  “I know. But that’s the way Maggie was, the way all three of them were. They had an uncanny ability to consider the feelings of others.”

  He took another sip of his coffee. “Clearly you instilled that in them through your words and your actions.”

  “I’m not sure you’re all that qualified to make a statement like that about me when, truth be told, you really don’t know me all that well.”

  “I know enough,” he said, lowering his mug back to the table. “You ever notice how each and every piece is critical in a puzzle? People aren’t much different in my opinion. All the pieces come together to form the complete picture.”

  She pushed her mug away, the lightness she’d felt while walking around the kitchen all but gone; in its place, a sudden wariness. “Anyway,” she said, releasing her breath. “I made sure to tell each and every child that the popcorn could only be eaten while watching their friends at the assorted stations. When they were done eating, they could join in again. All of the children heard my instructions and followed them. All but Adam, that is. He stuffed a handful of popcorn into his pocket and pushed his way to the front of the trampoline line. Next thing we knew, he was jumping and eating and making sure—quite loudly—that I knew what he was doing.”

  Caleb scrubbed his face with his palm. “I’m guessing he started choking?”

  “He did. So there I am, in my clown suit, performing the Heimlich. Fortunately for Adam, me, and the bevy of little ones watching in horror, a few quick pulls of my wrist brought up the offending piece of popcorn.”

>   “Nice job.”

  “Needless to say, I wasn’t all that sad when, the following year, he and his family moved to Florida about a month before Maggie’s seventh birthday.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But Maggie? She wished he could’ve come, anyway.” She nudged her chin at the pile of balled-up paper. “That’s why I’ve had to start over so many times. I just can’t seem to do her justice in my letter to the baby.”

  He shifted on the bench, his gaze moving from Dani to the balled-up papers and back again. “You’re writing a letter to the baby?”

  “I’m trying to. But I’m failing miserably.”

  “You could just tell her . . . or him about his siblings.”

  She was shaking her head before he’d even finished. “No. I-I can’t. It’s either write it, or just not say anything about them at all.”

  “Not say anything about them at all? Why? That baby is going to want to—”

  “Please.” Dani pushed back on the bench and held up her hands. “Can we actually not do this right now? It’s been a long day.”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes, silencing his mounting protest. “Right. Sure. Yeah. It’s been a very long day. Especially for you.”

  “Especially for both of us,” she corrected.

  “Oh no, the credit for this is all yours. If you hadn’t gotten her breathing when you did, it’s quite likely it would’ve been too late by the time I got there. Story of my life where my nieces are concerned.”

  She waited for him to explain his last comment, but, instead, he stood, gathered their coffee mugs in his strong hands, and carried them over to the counter.

  “Nettie adores you, Caleb. Surely you know that. She’s not going to see what happened today as you failing her.”

  He set the mugs in the sink, squirted a drop of dish soap into each one, and then filled them with water from the tap. While they soaked, he turned back to the table and Dani, the half-moons of fatigue he wore under his eyes seeming to deepen with each passing second. “I went into my line of work so I could help people out of some tight jams and, when the Lord allows, do my part to keep them here on earth. And the funny thing is, I actually thought I was pretty good at it. Even won a few community-based awards because of some of my trickier saves. But when my sister came running out to Elijah’s barn with Rose in her arms that afternoon, I was right there and I couldn’t do anything to bring her back. She was just . . . gone.”

  “Caleb, you can’t blame yourself for what happened to Rose,” she said, standing.

  “Why not? Saving people is my job. I do it all the time. Yet when my sister needed me—when my in fant niece needed me—I was worthless.”

  “But you said she was gone.”

  His gaze dropped to the floor. “She was.”

  “Did you give up right away?”

  “No, I worked on her right up until my coworkers got there, and even beyond.”

  “Then you can’t beat yourself up, Caleb. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

  His answering laugh was hollow. “And while there’s a part of me that knows you’re right on some level, the guilt still eats me alive every time I see that haunted look in Lydia’s eyes or hear Nettie crying because she misses her baby sister.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Caleb,” she whispered, her voice tight.

  “Maybe. But it was my job. As a paramedic.”

  “And being with my kids and keeping them safe and happy was my job. As their mother.”

  His eyes shot back to hers. “Wait. Those are two very different things.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I was here—on the farm—when Rose stopped breathing. I’m a paramedic. I’m trained to get people breathing again.” He stepped forward, cutting the space between them to little more than a foot. “You weren’t anywhere near your family when that accident happened.”

  “My point, exactly. I should’ve been with them.”

  He splayed his hands. “That’s not the same thing, Dani. Not even close.”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  “No. It’s not. But if you can’t hear that, can’t believe that, then at least hear the very thing you just told me—someone whose job it is to save people.”

  “What I just told you?”

  His eyes found and held hers. “It wasn’t your fault, Dani.”

  Chapter 25

  “Beautiful day we’re having, isn’t it?”

  Dani glanced to her right, her gaze skirting the road in favor of the simple wooden farm stand and the array of plants for sale across its top two shelves. Beside them, on a separate shelf unit entirely, were a half dozen hand-painted birdhouses and milk cans.

  Drawing her hand to her forehead as a shield against the sun, she strained to pick out the face she knew was there, somewhere.

  “Over here.”

  Dodging her eyes left, she could just make out the jeans, the flannel shirt, the cowboy hat. But the object in his hands? Not quite yet . . .

  “The sun is so bright I couldn’t find you for a minute.” She ventured off the road and closer to her friend’s brother, the watering can in his hand now easier to see. “Do you ever get a day off?”

  Caleb set the can on the ground, repositioned the freshly watered plants on their shelf, and then wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. “I’m off today.”

  “It doesn’t look like that to me.”

  “You mean this stuff here?” He shrugged off her answering nod. “I don’t consider helping Elijah work. I see it more as exercise and getting to be outside without my hands being idle. That’s why, on my days off from the station, I’m either here or at my parents’ place.”

  “What makes you decide which farm to go to?” She made her way over to the shelf of painted birdhouses and milk cans and ran her finger along the fine detail work, her ears on alert for Caleb’s answer.

  “Depends on the day. This morning, after I saw my tenants off, I came out here to check on Nettie. I didn’t necessarily think there would be any leftover issues from yesterday, but I guess I needed to be sure.”

  “Trust me, I get it. I did the same thing this morning when I practically pounced on your sister when she brought over my breakfast basket.”

  “You eating any better?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to.” And it was true. She was. It wasn’t easy; the instinct was still there to just shove everything into the refrigerator. But she did her best to resist, even if only for a few bites.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  She leaned forward for a closer look at a birdhouse painted to resemble an old Victorian home. “A few seconds ago, you mentioned tenants. Do you own an apartment complex or something?”

  “Nope. Just a small cottage on my own property. Been renting it out to the same young couple for close to three years now. Or I was until today when they moved out.”

  “Were they Amish?”

  “Nope.”

  Straightening up, she leaned against the edge of the farm stand. “So why did they move?”

  “He got a job out of state.”

  “Ahhh . . .” She swept her hands toward the birdhouses and plants. “So how does this work, exactly? Don’t Elijah and Lydia worry that someone will just pull up and help themselves to any or all of this stuff without paying?”

  “Not really. They believe in the honor system.” He pointed to a small metal box sitting atop the left side of the shelf, its Place Money Inside sign faded from the sun. “That’s why that box isn’t locked, either.”

  “It’s almost hard to imagine being that . . .” She trailed off in search of a better word than naïve.

  “Trusting?” Caleb supplied.

  “Yes. Trusting.”

  Shrugging, he moved on to a second set of plants—vegetable plants, based on the signs attached to each one. He picked up a second watering can, gave each plant a healthy drink, and then moved on to a third row. “So you told Lydia about the baby thi
s morning? When you were asking about Nettie?”

  “ No. ”

  “Then how did she know? I thought you said you were getting ready to tell her when you noticed Nettie was missing.”

  She stepped out from the shaded protection of the farm stand and hurried to right a plant his foot had tipped over. “Lydia had actually guessed on her own before the pond.”

  “I don’t understand then,” he said, lowering the now-empty can back onto the ground. “If she already knew, then what were you getting ready to tell her when you noticed Nettie wasn’t sitting by the flowers anymore?”

  “I was getting ready to tell her my intention for the baby.”

  He stilled his hands against his jeans, mid-wipe. “Your intention?”

  “To give her—or him—to Lydia and Elijah to raise.”

  For a second, maybe two, it was as if Caleb froze in place, his body, his expression, utterly motionless. But then it all changed.

  His mouth gaped.

  His eyes widened.

  He cupped his mouth only to knock off his cowboy hat as he laced his hands atop his head in conjunction with a loud and prolonged exhale. “Dani, you can’t do that. You just can’t. ”

  “Why not? Miss Lottie said—”

  He stared at her. “Wait. You spoke to Miss Lottie? When? Where?”

  “At her house. A few days ago.”

  “And she told you to do this?”

  “No. Of course not. She just answered my question as to whether Elijah and Lydia could even take the baby. And she thinks they can.”

  He was still staring, but she was no longer certain he was seeing. “You’re telling me Miss Lottie thinks this is a good idea?”