by Terri Kraus
She toyed with the idea of taking a car ride but didn’t like driving in the rain. Besides, her car really needed new wiper blades. She could barely make out the road through the streaks of water left on the glass. A bike ride on the cycling path was out of the question. She thought of going out for breakfast, but then she’d just end up eating alone, or with a book, or with a newspaper.
None of the options appealed to her.
If I still lived in Philadelphia, I wouldn’t have this problem. I could have gone to the art museum.
But she knew she could never live in Philadelphia again.
Instead, after hearing the morning church bells, she decided to do something completely atypical.
She decided to go to church.
Maybe it will be entertaining … or at least distracting, she thought.
She thought of the church around the corner at the end of her block. It was a beautiful stone Gothic-style building, with magnificent Tiffany stained-glass windows of biblical scenes and religious figures. Cameron had been astonished when she had walked by it for the first time. It had a huge rose window with iridescent glass that flamed in the sunlight, but would now be pale in the cold morning light. She had gone to two services there—both within a month of her arrival in Franklin. She recalled loving the church’s interior, with its marble floor worn to a soft patina, and its simple stone altar, and wondered, now, why she had never returned to such a beautiful place.
Maybe I was just busy. And the church was … well … it seemed full of mostly old people.
As she dressed, Cameron gave little thought to the oddness of her choice that morning. Had she been pressed, she might have said that the idea of church just fit the inclement weather—providing shelter from the storm, perhaps. She might have said that Paige’s urgings from weeks prior had gotten her thinking about … she would hesitate to say “spiritual” things, but she had felt herself toying with that.
Paige had said something about getting things right in her life. Cameron didn’t feel she had much to get right—not huge things, at any rate. But she wondered if there were some things in her past that needed … something.
Forgiveness. Maybe it was important. But nothing about that stormy morning so long ago was really her fault—was it? She was too young then. Right?
It’s funny that, after all these years, my parents have never once discussed what happened that morning. They never asked. I never told them.
Paige said something about God and “getting right” and all that, didn’t she?
Yes, I have a past, but … doesn’t everyone? Especially these days …
But she still felt unsettled as she stepped out her door.
The rain had softened to an invasive mist. She pulled her coat close and hurried down the block.
The sign outside said FRANKLIN COMMUNITY CHURCH. Cameron had not paid attention to exactly what that meant or what denomination the church was. The name didn’t commit one way or another, she figured.
Her aunt’s church—the religious aunt—spelled it all out: EVANGELICAL FULL GOSPEL ASSEMBLY. You knew where you stood when you entered those doors. The service there would be intense, with a capital I.
But a “Community Church”? It almost sounded like you would walk in and see ping-pong tables and soda machines along the walls—like in every community center she had ever visited. Recently, a new banner that read SKEPTICS WELCOME in big magenta letters had been draped over the archway at the top of the church’s main entrance.
On this Sunday, as she hurried up the steps, music came pulsing through the closed doors.
A well-dressed older man, balding, with a fringe of white hair like a halo around his head, hurried up to her.
I was right … they are all old here, she thought.
He was very tan and fit but still looked every bit like everyone’s favorite grandfather. His right hand was extended, left index finger pointing at her, almost as if ready to scold her. But he was smiling, not angry. “It’s … it’s … Cameron, right?”
Cameron nodded.
“I met you when you visited our church the first time. Charlie Ochs.”
She put out her hand, more or less amazed.
He took it in both of his. “I’m good with names. I’ve been a greeter here for … well, for longer than you’ve been alive, I bet. And it’s Cameron … something Norwegian … or something Scandinavian … Dane. That’s it! Cameron Dane.”
“You’re right. I’m amazed. I only came here once or twice.”
He kept hold of her hand longer than normal, in his very firm and steady grip, in a comforting, avuncular way.
“And you work at the newspaper. I see your name all the time. You write well.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t know that Brad Hitchcock columnist, do you? You print his column, right? He should be arrested for impersonating a writer.”
Cameron retrieved her hand. “No. We just reprint his pieces. I’ve never met him.”
“Well, if you do meet him, tell him Charlie says to knock it off, okay?”
Cameron nodded then looked to the closed doors of the sanctuary, expecting Mr. Ochs to lead her to a vacant seat.
“You have to wait until the music is over. We have a new worship director. Says no one is supposed to come in while they’re doing music. Says it interrupts the ‘worshipful mood,’” he said, making quotation mark signs with his fingers.
Charlie’s smile was warm. “He’s a nice young man, and I guess you have to learn to adapt. This has been my church for fifty years—and, Lord willing, it will be my church for a few more.”
Cameron smiled back, and Charlie leaned close again.
“How about a cup of coffee? Those folks are good for another fifteen minutes of straight singing. Once they get started, they really get into it. And all that standing! Sometimes we old folks just sit down. Even if he never lets people sit down. Being old has its privileges.” He laughed.
He led her through a set of double doors into a large multipurpose room—a combination of a gym, a meeting hall, and classrooms.
“They don’t want us sneaking in early to get coffee, either, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them—right, Miss Dane?”
She took the cup Charlie offered. “They think they can keep us from snitching coffee by hiding the cream and sugar until it’s refreshment time—so you’re going to have to have it black.”
“That’s good,” Cameron said, fibbing as sweetly as she could. “I drink it like this all the time.”
He ushered her back through the doors. The music, she noticed, was much more contemporary and upbeat than Cameron recalled from her previous visit.
“I myself prefer more traditional music,” Charlie said. “But if the upbeat type attracts younger people like you—then it’s a good thing. You are the future of the church! Do you like our new music, Miss Dane?”
“I do. What I can hear of it, anyway,” Cameron answered, as she peered in on the service.
Charlie looked at her face closely, and Cameron could see genuine concern in his eyes. “You’re troubled by something, right? I haven’t been around all this time without getting a little smarter.”
Cameron didn’t answer. She didn’t know if Mr. Ochs was expecting an answer.
“Well, if so, you have come to the right place. We’re not perfect, of course. But if you’re at all unsettled and worried—then you’re at the right place. You’ll find us to be friendly people, and maybe you’ll even get an answer to a question or two. Once the music stops, I’ll get you a good seat. Our new pastor—he’s another young one—is very smart. He’s talking about living a Christian life. Book of James. He’s good. You’ll like him.”
The music stopped. There was applause and Charlie took that as his cue.
“Let’
s get you inside, Miss Dane. Glad to have you back with us. Pay attention today. You’ll feel better for it.”
I would build a bridge a hundred meters long,
To see the other side of what I did wrong.
Well, you say you don’t hate me
But I guess that I’m scared,
That with a river between us
You’ll no longer care.
—Marc Gunn, The Bridge
CHAPTER TWELVE
AUTUMN WAS BEING EDGED out by winter. Venango County had yet to receive any measurable snowfall. The sky had been the color of lead for several weeks, and the cold gray of the days matched exactly the way Cameron felt.
Her work at The Derrick proved to be an answer to a prayer—a prayer she would not have prayed, even if she had been a praying woman.
What kind of prayer would it be? she wondered. Lord, keep me busy because if I’m not busy I’ll start obsessing over Ethan again? And Chase?
She worked longer hours than required, spending a few nights a week at her desk, typing, researching, making phone calls, learning more about page design and layout, telling herself that this extra time was an investment in her future career.
One afternoon, the week after Thanksgiving, Paige summoned Cameron into her office. “Nice work on the county board article. You made a boring subject almost interesting.”
Cameron immediately replied, “I could redo it. I knew it needed more of a human angle to it. Let me rework it. I can make it better.”
“No, Cameron. No more. This was a compliment. Really. You actually made an article about that bunch of old, cranky men readable. No one else on this staff has even come close. No need to fuss with it.”
“But I had some great quotes I didn’t use,” Cameron protested.
“No more. And besides, you’ve only had the assignment for two days. I expected you to take a couple of weeks.”
Cameron didn’t shrug, but it appeared as though she wanted to. “I’ve had a bit more free time these past weeks,” she admitted. “It’s nice to keep busy.”
Paige waited an uncomfortable minute before speaking again. “You haven’t talked to him, I take it.”
Cameron shook her head. “Nope. Not a word since … since that baseball game. Since the end of summer.” Her words were tinged with defeat.
“Cameron, it’s been a couple of months now. I know I’m no paragon of relationship wisdom—seeing as how none of my marriages worked out very well.”
Cameron was sure a lecture was coming and was feeling an odd mix of fear, guilt, and anger, with a dash of sullenness thrown in.
“You know what I’m going to say, right? Wasn’t there a book a few years ago … something about He’s Just Not That Into You? I so dislike using ‘into’ as a substitute for the concept of love … or even attraction. Terrible thing, this new language. All sorts of connotations, if you ask me. We’re becoming a nation of sloppy writers and lazy readers.”
Paige sat up straighter. “That’s off the subject. Sorry. But this thing with Ethan Willis—if it only took that one time—that one blowup … if that’s all it took, then maybe it was …”
Cameron sat up straighter. “Please don’t say it was for the best. Maybe it was. Maybe. But I don’t want to hear that it was for the best.”
Cameron’s surge of passion made Paige lean backward in her chair.
“So you thought that you were falling in love? Is that it?”
Cameron shrugged, using her whole body to make the gesture. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I have been with other men … longer relationships, and more … more intimate. When those relationships ended, I may have been sad for a few days, a few weeks, and in some cases, extremely relieved, but I kept moving. I guess I figured that’s how love is. I never felt this derailed.”
“I know you just told me not to say it—but I have to. Have you ever thought that this could be for the best? Maybe this was the way it was supposed to happen. There is a plan for our lives, Cameron, whether we acknowledge it or not. Ethan seems like a very nice man, but maybe he isn’t healthy deep down inside. Maybe he would have been totally wrong for you.”
I don’t believe that for a minute, Cameron thought.
“I don’t know. It seems like I had the new beginning of my life here all figured out, and apparently I thought I had the next step figured out. I mean, it felt so right and so comfortable … so unlike anything else I had experienced. And that’s what threw me. It was just so good and then it blew up. That, I didn’t see coming at all.”
It was obvious to Cameron that Paige wanted to nod and commiserate with her but held herself back. “Still, you have to be aware of that one big possibility—that this is exactly the way things are supposed to be.”
But I don’t want to be aware of that. I don’t.
Both women were silent for a long time, letting the discussion echo and reverberate within the office and themselves.
Cameron broke the silence by sighing with resignation. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Maybe you’re right, Paige. I thought I would never say that. But maybe you’re right.”
Then a young boy’s face came swimming up toward her—and she somehow knew that it wasn’t right. Not right at all.
Ethan stood in what would eventually become the kitchen of the Old Carter Mansion. By late afternoon, the weary wintry sunlight had all but disappeared. He switched on the work lights that were attached to a tripod stand in the corner. Wallboard had yet to be installed, making it much too early for any lighting to have been wired.
He stood next to a sheet of plywood serving as a table held up by two sawhorses, and unrolled the blueprints for the kitchen area. He pinned the corners flat with a hammer, a box of finish nails, a twenty-five-foot tape measure, and his thermos. He smoothed out the paper, taking care not to create any ridges or folds in the paper. By the end of the job, the prints would be torn and tattered, but Ethan liked the document as pristine as possible for as long as possible.
He had come back to the house for a meeting with the kitchen planner. He whisked away a tumbling of sawdust from the plans and unfolded the preliminary outlines for the kitchen cabinets. The thin overlay paper held the first draft of a very complicated kitchen drawn by CeCe’s kitchen designer, Scott Anderson, from Anderson and Harrington Kitchens in Pittsburgh.
Having a separate design firm for the kitchen was different, and having one from out of town was even more unusual. People in Franklin didn’t usually hire kitchen planners. You put in the appliances and cabinets in an efficient sort of way—what more design did you need?
He wondered why a Pittsburgh outfit would have bothered. CeCe’s extensive kitchen meant a decent commission, to be sure—but the distance between Pittsburgh and Franklin, Ethan surmised, would have created a large logistical headache.
It could be the possibility of a magazine shoot when the kitchen is completed, Ethan thought. A project like this would look good in a portfolio.
Ethan glanced at his watch—a few minutes after five. The house was empty, save for himself. His crew had decided that starting early—at six in the morning—was better, since it allowed them to leave early.
“At least we’ll have a little daylight left to enjoy,” Joel explained.
Joel had volunteered to come back for the meeting, but Ethan had declined the offer.
“I’m fine. Don’t you think I can handle our fancy Pittsburgh designer?”
Joel did not argue.
The house was quiet when he heard a tapping at the front door.
About time he got here.
Ethan swung the door open.
He stopped and stared.
On the other side was a woman.
It was close to quitting time—the official quitting time for the hourly staff at Th
e Derrick. Cameron anticipated staying around for another hour or so, so she could surf the Internet, looking for Christmas gifts for everyone who was hard to buy for among her family and friends. In fact, Cameron had concluded, everyone she knew was hard to buy for—except herself.
If I had to buy myself something for Christmas, that would be so easy.
Cameron had finished her story on the finances of the Venango County School Board and printed out the pages. Even if she didn’t need paper copies for her stories, she liked to have them. She found editing much easier on paper than on screen.
She stacked the pages neatly, making sure that all the corners were even, then laid the stack on the right corner of her desk, making sure that no pages slipped out of alignment.
I am becoming so obsessive-compulsive, she thought.
She heard Clara say, “That’s her over there.”
Cameron didn’t look up until a shadow crossed the corner of her desk.
“Miss Dane?”
“Yes … I’m Miss … I mean, I’m Cameron … Dane.”
A young and very attractive man standing in front of her desk bent slightly at the waist and extended his hand to her. “You have to forgive me. I hadn’t planned on stopping here tonight … tomorrow, yes, but not tonight. But I am a firm believer that when opportunity knocks, you should try to answer the door. Don’t you agree?”
Cameron wondered what she had missed. She looked over and saw Clara shrugging mightily, raising her hands in submission.
“Obviously, I have lovely Miss Clara confused. I bet that doesn’t happen all that often, does it?” he said as he nodded toward the older woman.
How did he know her name? Cameron wondered.
“Miss Dane, please allow me to do introductions. I am Paul Drake.” He waited a moment, as if he had the timing rehearsed. “Sounds like a bad soap-opera name, doesn’t it?”