“Mom, I…was going to call and tell you.”
Her mother spoke over Sheridan’s words. “Honey, when Quentin gets home from work tonight, can the two of you come over here? Without the children.”
Sheridan blinked. Her mother didn’t sound as if she knew.
“Sheridan.”
And then she heard it—slight tears in her mother’s voice. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Sheridan gripped the receiver.
“Your dad and I need to talk to you and Quentin. It’s important.”
“Mom, uh, Quentin is out of town. On business. It was an emergency.” She felt the need to make it a complete lie. “But I can come over.”
“How long will Quentin be away?”
Forever. “I’m not sure.”
Her mother sighed. “All right, but we really wanted to see both of you.”
“Mom, please tell me what’s wrong.”
“It can wait, honey.” The cheer Sheridan was used to returned a bit to her mother’s voice. “We’ll talk when you get here.”
“Give me an hour,” she said and then hung up.
When Sheridan swung her legs over the side of the bed, the hammering shifted from her head to her heart.
She pushed herself up and then looked back at the bed. It beckoned her to return. And she wanted to—she was exhausted from sorrow. But her mother needed her.
She took cautious steps from her bedroom to the guest room down the hall. She tapped on the door, but when there was no response, she knew Kamora had already made her way home. Kamora often used wine to wash away her concerns, so Sheridan was sure that Kamora had awakened alert this morning. Kamora’s methods were something the two friends constantly debated. This morning Sheridan knew she’d been right all along. Drinking didn’t solve a thing.
Sheridan moved in slow motion toward the master bathroom. The Jacuzzi tub summoned her, just as the bed had moments before. But she willed her eyes away and focused on the shower, twisting the faucet handles to full blast. Then she stripped and stared into the mirror.
Sadness had partnered with gravity and dragged her skin downward. Her eyes drooped, her cheeks sagged, the corners of her lips hung low. Every emotion she’d lived was engraved inside the creases on her face. She turned away before her eyes could begin to tear.
She placed her body under the showerhead. The pulsing liquid heat was soothing, freeing her from yesterday’s memories and today’s questions. But like a recurring nightmare, the pain-filled scenes returned and played in her mind. She remembered every horrible second—Quentin here, Quentin gone.
She twisted the showerhead to full blast and closed her eyes. She inhaled, then exhaled. Again. And again. The water was her conditioner, washing away the dirt with the pain. She stayed until calm pervaded her. She stayed until she knew she’d be able to walk without swaying and think without crying.
Stepping from the shower, she reached for her toothbrush. But a millisecond later, she snatched her hand back. Startled, she stared at the stand. There was only one toothbrush in place—the one with the pink handle. The blue-handled toothbrush was gone. She grabbed her toothbrush, and resisted the urge to open the medicine cabinet and take in other signs that her marriage was no more.
Inside their bedroom, she jumped into a gray sweat suit, keeping her eyes away from the dresser that now only held her bottles of perfume. She didn’t dare look at the bed, still unmade, with only Quentin’s pillows still in place. She grabbed her leather jacket from her closet and held her breath to keep his scent away. She hurried from the bedroom, dashed down the stairs and out of the house. She needed to get away from all that reminded her that her old life was now new.
Inside her Explorer, she sat for a moment, staring at the house, soaking in the same sight Quentin saw when he pulled away from his family.
How could he do this?
Sheridan eased her car from the driveway and eyed Mrs. James in her rearview mirror. Her neighbor didn’t wave; she just glowered the way she had for the past ten years. Moments later, thoughts of Mrs. James were forgotten as Sheridan zigzagged through the subdivision, and tried not to notice the bare Christmas trees like the one she’d taken down with Quentin and the children just this weekend. At the stoplight, she tried not to see the man and woman who strolled in front of her SUV. But her eyes betrayed her and her glance followed the couple, huddled close, their love apparent.
The light turned green, and she sped away. But then at the corner, her eyes met with the Sizzler where, fewer than sixty hours before, Quentin, having decided she should have a cooking reprieve, had taken them all to dinner. And then a block and a half away, she passed Blockbuster, where on New Year’s Day Quentin had surprised her with six DVDs and they’d laughed and cried their way through hours of comedy and drama. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she remembered that time they’d spent in bed, sharing emotions with the movies’ characters. That was what she loved about Quentin; his sensitivity, never hiding his feelings behind some macho bravado.
Was that one of the signs she’d missed? As she turned onto the freeway, she asked herself for the millionth time what, when, where, how did this all happen? The questions were overwhelming.
She eased into the left lane.
My husband wants a man in his bed.
An eighteen-wheeler barreled down the 405 freeway behind her.
What did I do to drive him into a man’s arms?
She sped up.
When was the last time we made love?
Sheridan slowed her car. It would be declared an accident; everyone would say how tragic it was. But before time could pass, Sheridan thought of Christopher. And then, Tori. And her mother. And father.
The boom of the truck’s horn startled her. She floored the accelerator and screeched into the next lane. Car horns blasted, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the obscenities hurled at her.
She breathed, as her heart rate slowed to normal. She couldn’t believe she’d even considered that. Her children needed her. Her parents needed her. No, she’d have to find another way. Do something else to deal with the shame of it all.
Sheridan squeezed her mother tighter than she could ever remember holding her.
“It’s all right, honey. Everything is going to be all right.”
Sheridan nodded, grateful to hear those words. Her mother had no clue how she was soothing her daughter; she just always seemed to say the right thing.
“Where’s Daddy?” Sheridan asked, closing the front door of the home where she grew up.
“In the bedroom.” Beatrice Collins took her daughter’s hand and led her into the living room. The space had barely changed in thirty years. The golden-colored couch with two matching chairs and the walnut coffee table all sat in the same place as when she had entertained her high school friends here almost every day more than twenty years before. “Cameron,” Beatrice called, “Sheridan’s here.”
“So, honey, Quentin is away?” Beatrice asked as she sat on the couch and patted a space for Sheridan to sit next to her.
Sheridan sank into the ease of the old sofa and nodded, not wanting to lie to her mother again.
“You guys didn’t mention that on Sunday.”
“We didn’t know,” she said, glad she was able to speak some truth. “Daddy.” She jumped up and hugged her father, needing his comforting embrace. As she looked over his shoulder, the pictures on the fireplace mantel smiled at her. Photos of her and Quentin and the children—all in yesterday’s life.
“So, Daddy, Mom,” she began, turning away from the memories, “what did you want to talk about?”
Cameron sat in the chair across from the couch and Beatrice joined him, resting on the full chair’s arm. When she put her arm around her husband, Cameron said, “We wanted Quentin to be here. Your mother said he’s away.”
This time she lied with silence.
“I don’t really want to tell you this alone.”
Sheridan’s heart took an extra beat. Her husband
would never be by her side again, never be there to comfort her, or protect her, or love her.
Her eyes moved from her father to her mother and then back again. “Daddy, you’re scaring me.”
“Oh, no, baby. There’s no need for that.”
Beatrice stood and sat next to Sheridan again. She glanced at Cameron.
He said, “I have prostate cancer.”
Sheridan gasped.
“Now, it’s not that serious,” Cameron continued.
“How can you say it’s not serious?” Sheridan asked through the lump of fear in her throat.
Cameron leaned forward and squeezed his daughter’s hand. “Because it’s not. The doctor told me they found it early. With radiation—”
“Radiation?” Sheridan squealed.
“It can be treated,” Cameron finished.
“But radiation?” Sheridan looked from her father to her mother. “That sounds serious.”
“Well, my doctor is very optimistic,” her father said.
“In fact, when the doctor told us your father had prostate cancer…” Beatrice paused and chuckled, and Cameron joined her. Sheridan looked at her parents with wide eyes. There was nothing funny about this. “Your father told the doctor he was fine with it,” Beatrice continued. “He said he’d lived a blessed life and was ready to see Jesus.”
Now Sheridan was sure that everyone in her world was spinning on a different axis. Her father was talking about meeting the Lord face-to-face and her mother didn’t seem concerned.
Cameron said, “But the doctor told me at my age I would die of something else before the prostate cancer.”
Sheridan looked from her father to her mother. Their chuckles continued, even through the words—cancer, radiation, die—that made her want to cry. It took minutes for Cameron and Beatrice to notice their daughter wasn’t laughing.
“Honey,” Beatrice said, “the key is they found this early.”
“Really?” Her question was full of hope.
Cameron nodded. “For eight weeks, I’ll have daily treatments, and in the end, I’ll be fine. Anyway, you know what I believe,” her father said. “Jesus is the name above all names—and that includes cancer. The devil has no power over me.”
Sheridan took a deep breath. “So, you’re going to be all right,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Ofcourse, sweetheart.”
“Yes, your father will be healed, and he will shout God’s glory from every rooftop.” Beatrice chuckled again. “You know how your father is.”
The smile that Beatrice and Cameron exchanged was one Sheridan had watched her parents share over the years. It was their secret code, a nonverbal language that only they spoke.
“Okay,” Sheridan said as casually as she could. “When does this all begin?”
“My doctor’s going to call me.” Cameron patted her hand. “I wanted you to know, sweetheart, because I want you to be here for your mother. Now, we haven’t said anything to your brother yet. We will, but not until we know more. I don’t want him taking off from work and rushing down here. There’s no need for that.”
“He’s going to be upset when he finds out.” Sheridan squeezed her hands in her lap to stop their trembling.
Beatrice waved away Sheridan’s concern. “Don’t worry about your brother. I’ll take care of him.”
Sheridan knew her mother would do just that. She was a daddy’s girl, but her brother could win a gold medal as a mama’s boy.
“The main thing, Sheridan, is there’s nothing to worry about. I’m going to be fine.”
Sheridan put strength into her voice. “Well, that’s good. I’m going to use the bathroom.” She made sure she smiled before she rushed away.
Before Sheridan stepped into the lavatory, the fragrance of spring rain accosted her from the potpourri on the sink. Only the morning daylight filtered through the small window once she closed the door. But Sheridan didn’t need light to move. Everything was still the same in the sea-blue room. The same rug covered the white tiled floor. The same plastic shelves sat above the commode, holding toiletries and old perfume bottles that gleamed as if they’d just been shined but were probably as old as she was. The small space hugged her with its familiarity. And she felt safe—to release the tears she’d been holding and hiding from the moment her father had uttered the words “prostate cancer.”
Sheridan didn’t care what her father said; he might be prepared to go, but she wasn’t ready. Not now. Not ever.
She slid to the floor and let her tears flow.
Please, God. Don’t take my father. Please, God.
And then she remembered her prayer from yesterday. How she had asked God to make Quentin do the right thing. And how Quentin had driven away from her as soon as she had said the prayer.
The memory made her sobs deeper, and she almost choked trying to keep her cries silent. She couldn’t let her mother and father hear. If they did, they’d try to comfort her, and then they’d see the burden weighing on her and realize her tears were for something far beyond her father.
How can this be happening? To lose the two most important men in her life…
She prayed, “Dear God, please, God,” until she couldn’t say it anymore. After minutes she stood and turned on the water. She washed her face. And dried her tears. And prepared herself. Some way, somehow, she’d find a way to get through this. She had no other choice.
Chapter Four
It seemed impossible that life would continue.
Yesterday she’d lost her husband, and today she had to entertain the prospect of losing her father. Yet the fax machine was filled with customer orders requesting the best from Hart to Heart.
Sheridan’s eyes scanned the final fax from one of their largest customers. Marcy, the owner of a Hallmark gift shop in New York, loved Hart to Heart. “Your husband is phenomenal,” Marcy had quipped when she discovered it was Quentin Hart who wrote the emotionally stirring words for the sample cards they’d sent to her. “He makes love with his prose. You are a very lucky lady.”
I’m not lucky, I’m blessed, Sheridan had thought as she beamed with pride then. She was sure she was going to throw up again now.
How was she supposed to care about Hart to Heart when the man who pulled her heartstrings had ripped the rope?
She closed her eyes, surrendering to her emotional exhaustion. Even though she’d slept when she returned from her parents, she’d still been too tired to cook dinner and had ordered pizza. It had worked for the children—it had worked for her—until Tori began her assault.
“When is Daddy coming home?” Tori had asked as she slipped a piece of pepperoni into her mouth.
“I don’t know.”
It could have been her tone or her glare that silenced Tori and made Christopher stomp from the kitchen. Since that time, she’d heard little from either child.
The shrill of the telephone startled her. She grabbed the receiver.
“Sheridan.”
She shot up straight in the chair. “Yes.”
“How are you?” her husband asked.
Quentin sounded as if he were really away on business and calling to check on those he loved. “What do you want?” Her words sounded harsh—even to her ears. But what was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to act when all she wanted was for him to come home?
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night. I wanted to, but I thought I should give you time.”
In that instant, she felt it again. The longing. For her husband. For her life.
“Sheridan, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I want to come home.”
She inhaled. That’s what she’d been thinking.
“To talk.”
She breathed. Almost smiled.
“To the children.”
Her near-smile was gone.
“To let them know what’s going on.”
The hope chest that she had opened in her heart slammed shut.
/> “Sheridan, are you there?”
She wanted to be any place but here. “There’s no need for you to talk to Chris and Tori. They’re fine. They think you’re away on business.”
“Thank you for that, Sheridan. I think it’s best if I tell the children myself.”
“Tell them what?”
He paused. “I want to explain. That I’m not…coming home.”
“You can’t explain that to me, Quentin. How do you expect your children to understand it?”
“I want them to know that I’m still here.”
No, you’re not.
“And that I still love them and always will.”
She wanted to ask him why the children should believe him when he’d said the same words to her for years. “Quentin, this isn’t a good time.”
“There’s never going to be a perfect time.”
“I just want to wait a few days. Wait until…” She paused. What did she want to wait for? For Quentin to change his mind and tell her the truth—that he wasn’t in love with a man. That it was a lie he’d been told by the devil, and he’d come to his senses. “This isn’t a good time,” she repeated.
There was weariness in his sigh. “Don’t do this, Sheridan.”
“Don’t do what?” She stood and paced across the length of the office. “Don’t try to protect my children from this devastating news that will rip their hearts out the way you tore me apart?”
“Sheridan.”
She was tired of hearing him say her name. “My father has prostate cancer,” she blurted out.
“What? Oh, Sheridan, I’m so sorry.”
“My mother called this morning,” she explained, “wanting both of us to come over tonight. They wanted you to be there with me. They thought I would need you.”
There was a moment of silence. “Do you want me to come over now?” he asked softly.
Please, yes. “No, not if you’re going to leave again.”
He hesitated. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”
She wanted to scream that he was a liar. A cheat. A low-down, dirty dog. But those were the words in her head, not her heart.
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