HF01 - Almost Forever

by Deborah Raney

  Bryn hesitated. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I wasn’t sure—Well, I should have called first.” The truth was, she hadn’t been sure Susan would take her call. She’d decided to take a chance that Susan wouldn’t kick her off of the property.

  But Susan opened the door wider and drew her inside. “Nonsense, please come in.”

  “Your flowers are pretty,” Bryn said, pointing at the perky yellow and violet pansies as she stepped over the threshold.

  “Well, it’s a little early. I took a risk that we won’t have another freeze. I may have to haul them inside for a few nights, but . . . I needed a touch of spring.”

  Bryn nodded, understanding, realizing that she’d been longing for the promise of a new season as well. She followed Susan into the kitchen.

  “I made a pot of coffee. It’s decaf, but it’s still hot. Can I pour you a cup?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  She slipped onto a chair at the table Susan indicated in the sunny breakfast alcove and watched while Susan fixed a tray with coffee and cream.

  “Your house is beautiful. You really have a knack for decorating.”

  “Thank you. It’s something I enjoy, though I haven’t done much since—” She stopped abruptly.

  But Bryn nodded, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable. “I understand. I’ve kind of lost the heart for the things I used to love, too.”

  Susan didn’t reply, but worked in silence, pouring coffee and carrying the tray over to the table. She placed a brimming cup on a saucer in front of Bryn and took a seat adjacent to her at the small table.

  “Bryn, I—”

  “Susan—”

  They both spoke at once and laughed nervously as their words collided.

  Bryn took the lead. She was the uninvited guest, and she hadn’t meant to make Susan feel uncomfortable. “I came to ask you a favor, Susan, but first, I just wanted to say again how sorry I am. I know that sounds so incredibly . . . lame . . . but I am so very sorry.”

  Susan reached across the table and placed a hand on her arm. “Oh, Bryn. I should have replied to your letter. It was awful of me to ignore it the way I did, and I—”

  “You don’t need to apolo—”

  “No, Bryn . . . Let me finish.” Susan pressed her lips in a firm line and bowed her head. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. “I feel terrible for letting you carry the blame. I’m—I’m so grateful you don’t have to go to—” She stopped, chewed the corner of her lower lip. “I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself for not speaking out in your defense.”

  “What do you mean?” She wasn’t sure what Susan was getting at.

  “It was as much my fault as yours, Bryn. I’m the one who bought those candles, brought them to the shelter. I knew you and the others lit them sometimes, and I never said anything.”

  “But you did. We knew we weren’t supposed to light them.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t enforce my words. I turned a blind eye. I should have been more strict—not just about that. About a lot of things. The guys smoking in the entryway. Getting those mattresses out of there. It’s just . . . it took every minute, every ounce of energy I had to take care of what absolutely had to be done. I let things go that shouldn’t have been let go.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Susan.”

  “I just couldn’t— My boys needed me, Bryn. If I’d turned myself in . . . if I’d had to go to jail, it would have killed them. Killed them.”

  Bryn patted Susan’s hand, then felt funny acting motherly toward this woman who was probably almost old enough to be her mother. “No one went to jail, Susan. And I don’t think anyone would have thought you should be held responsible.”

  But Judson Meyer’s words came back to her: Even if Ms. Marlowe didn’t light the candle herself, it was completely irresponsible for her to allow it on the premises. If the case had been allowed to go to trial, might Susan have been implicated and asked to share the blame?

  Bryn cleared her throat. “The reason I actually came, Susan . . . I need to line up some community service projects to fulfill my sentence. I don’t know where you are on getting the shelter back up and running, but is there any way you’d consider letting me help with that—as part of my community service?”

  Susan stared at her. A soft smile lit her eyes. “You won’t believe this, but I just found out yesterday that we got a building.”

  “Really?” The timing seemed too much to be a coincidence.

  Susan nodded vigorously. “It’s those office buildings across the street from the old shelter—the site. We wouldn’t even have to change the name. It could still be the Grove Street Homeless Shelter.”

  “That’s wonderful, Susan. You sound happy about it.”

  Susan sighed and wiped at the corner of her eye. “It’s kept me going . . . to have something worthwhile to do. But now that we have a building, I’m feeling overwhelmed. There’s so much to do. This building is set up for business offices, not sleeping quarters. We’ll have to at least put in showers and a kitchen area before we can open.”

  “Is the city going to help? Did they approve the request for the memorial money?”

  Susan smoothed the paper napkin under her saucer. “Not yet, but I think they will. We could sure use that money. The whole place needs painting and we have to get all the inspections done before the sale can go through, but the owners are giving us the same kind of deal the hospital gave us last time, selling it for a little bit of nothing. The place has been on the market for almost three years, and—” She stopped, and looked at Bryn.

  Susan’s face was flushed with anticipation and purpose, and Bryn smiled to see her so energized. She waited, hoping Susan hadn’t forgotten her question, yet not wanting to press her.

  “Oh! And I’d love to have you back. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.” Susan laughed. “Truly, Bryn, it would be an answer to prayer. What did you have in mind?”

  “I didn’t even know you had a place . . . I was going to offer to help you look for a place, or do fundraising . . . whatever you needed. But hey”—she pushed up her sleeves—“I’m good with a paintbrush, and I can clean, or contact plumbers or . . . just about anything.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t want to have to go around to schools and give talks about fire safety.” The sudden image of herself standing before Garrett’s fifth graders with a fire safety chart started the tears flowing.

  “Oh, honey . . .” In one smooth motion, Susan leaned across the table and wrapped her arms around her. For the first time in a long time, Bryn let herself think about her mother and how much she’d missed Mom through the awful ordeal she’d just come through.

  Susan patted her back and let her cry for a minute. Then she rose and refilled their coffee cups. When she sat back down, she took a sip of coffee and looked hard at Bryn. “I really have been meaning to call you. About your letter.” Susan gave her a crooked smile. “Your letter was precious. And . . . of course, I forgive you.”

  The simple words affected Bryn in a way she hadn’t expected. I forgive you.

  A groundswell of hope filled her. Was it possible . . . ? Did she dare to hope the others might forgive as easily as Susan had? Could Garrett—who had spoken so often of vindication—find it in himself to speak those healing words to her? Oh, please, God. Let him forgive me, too. Even if I never get to hear those words from him, don’t let him be eaten up with bitterness.

  She turned her focus back to Susan, let herself think about the “yes” answer Susan had given her. How fitting that she would be allowed to be a part of getting the new shelter ready to open. How very like the Redeemer of her soul.

  Thank You, Lord.

  “Thank you, Susan.” Bryn could barely choke out the words.

  Looking around the gym,

  he realized he was the only

  man here who wasn’t

  going home to a wife

  or a girlfriend.

  36

  Friday,
April 18

  Garrett retrieved an out-of-bounds ball and motioned for a sub. Trudging to the sideline, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. He stood there, breathing hard, watching the other guys play and wondering why they didn’t look the least out of breath. But between basketball and walking Boss, at least he was getting back in shape. Slowly. But sometimes basketball made him feel like an old man. At thirty-two. Not good.

  Fifteen minutes later, a couple of the guys called it quits and the game disintegrated.

  Winded as he was, he wished they’d keep playing. “Come on, guys . . . one more game.”

  “Sorry, gotta get moving,” Jim Benton said, throwing a towel around his neck. “The wife’s got plans for me tonight.”

  “Lucky you,” a couple of the guys ribbed.

  “Ha! Don’t I wish. Not those kind of plans, sadly. She’s having a garage sale tomorrow, and I’ve got to clean out the garage.”

  Garrett laughed at their good-natured joking, but he ached with envy. Looking around the gym, he realized he was the only man here who wasn’t going home to a wife or a girlfriend.

  He would have happily cleaned out a garage if he could have shared the chore with Molly.

  Or with Bryn?

  The thought seemed to come out of nowhere. For some reason, he’d mourned Molly more deeply since the whole thing with Bryn had happened. He hadn’t talked about it, even with his teacher friends. But he’d come to realize that Bryn had short-circuited the grieving process for him. Not her fault. His alone. Nevertheless, starting up a relationship with her had kept him from dwelling on his profound loss. And he needed to dwell on it.

  A couple of weekends ago he’d pulled out the photo albums Molly had scrapbooked along with their wedding pictures. He’d even sorted through the digital photos on his computer that they’d never gotten into albums.

  From Friday to Sunday night, he’d relived the special life—the blessed life—he’d shared with Molly Lynn Granger Edmonds. It had hurt like crazy. But it had helped, too.

  The following Monday morning, he’d made a call he’d put off for too long. He’d called Molly’s parents and told them what he wanted to put on her gravestone, then had called and ordered the stone. Somehow, with that act, he’d let go of some things that needed letting go. And since then, he felt the way he had at the end of that winter of his sophomore year of college. He’d come down with mono right after Christmas break. The campus health center had sent him home to heal. He’d spent the next two and a half weeks lying on the sofa, head throbbing, barely able to swallow, let alone eat anything solid.

  Fearing he’d never be healthy again, one morning he woke up and swallowed without pain. The following morning he went through an entire day without napping. His appetite came back, and he gained back a few of the fifteen pounds he’d lost. Little by little he grew stronger. And, one day, he knew he was truly well.

  That’s how he felt now. He knew he was gaining strength every day. He hadn’t fully recovered yet, but he knew now that he would. Eventually, he would.

  Still, he dreaded trying to fill another long weekend. He almost envied Bryn for the community service she had to fulfill. Nothing says you can’t do a little community service of your own volition, Edmonds.

  School would be out in another five weeks, and except for teaching two weeks of summer school, he hadn’t lined up work for his off time yet. He’d never worried about it before. His checks were spread out over the year, and any extra money he made was icing. And Molly had liked having him home. “That way I get a vacation, too,” she’d always said. And he hadn’t minded taking over the cleaning and laundry, and even the cooking, in the summer. They’d grill out on the deck every night Molly was home, and when she wasn’t, he’d grab fast food and go hit a couple buckets of balls on the driving range.

  But everything had changed, and he knew himself well enough to know he could not sit home even one day this summer. You’d go stark raving mad, Edmonds.

  Man, shut up already.

  He’d been talking to himself way too much lately. A bad habit. At least he wasn’t talking to himself out loud yet.

  Give it time . . . that’ll come.

  “Great.” The sound of his voice startled him, and he couldn’t help but laugh and roll his eyes.

  “What’s funny?” Jim asked, toweling the sweat from his hair.

  “Nothing . . . have a good weekend.” Garrett waved, grabbed his gym bag, and headed for the car. At least Boss would be waiting for him when he got home. The pup didn’t mind if Garrett talked to himself.

  Maybe he’d treat Boss to a run on the riverwalk tonight. He’d avoided the place lately. Too many memories there—of both Molly and Bryn.

  Boss had been content with a daily walk around the maze of parking lots outside Garrett’s apartment complex, but he’d be ecstatic at a chance to play by the water.

  The idyllic weather had brought people out in droves, and Garrett let Boss set the pace as they walked along the sidewalk on the east bank of the river. He was grateful Boss had chosen a leisurely walk. Garrett had gotten more than his aerobic workout on the court this afternoon.

  He said hello to a couple of people from church as they passed and determined that he wouldn’t miss services this Sunday like he had the last two weeks—for no good reason, really.

  As they came to a place where the river narrowed, Boss stopped abruptly and sniffed the air. He turned to face the opposite bank, planted his stubby legs, and gave a sharp bark.

  Garrett knelt on one knee and stroked Boss’s neck. “What’s the matter, boy? Are the rabbits out? Huh? Did you see a jackrabbit over there?”

  He shaded his eyes and looked across the water. A black Labrador trotted alongside a couple heading his way on the walk. The dog reminded him of Sparky, and the many times he and Bryn had walked the dogs together. Maybe Boss thought it was Sparky, too. Did dogs recognize and remember each other the way humans did?

  He couldn’t hear the voices of the couple, but when they started around the curve, his pulse stuttered. It was Bryn holding the leash. It was Sparky. The man she was with looked to be around seventy. Probably her father. They were eating ice cream cones, engrossed in conversation.

  Bryn looked beautiful and carefree, smiling as she nibbled on the cone. The transformation from the last time he’d seen her, when he’d run into her at the grocery store, was stark. She’d been pale and gaunt then, barely able to look him in the eye.

  The same surge of relief he’d felt when he heard about her lenient sentence came now. And like before, two halves of him battled. If he cared anything about Molly, would he be so glad Bryn had gotten off easy?

  And yet, he cared about Bryn. Whatever she’d done, however she’d deceived him, he couldn’t seem to help the fact that he still cared.

  He watched as Bryn stopped and knelt to untangle Sparky’s leash. Her father said something, and she laughed up at him. Her musical laughter floated across the water. That laugh had once been like a tonic for him. The memories flooded back, and he jumped to his feet as if breaking the surface of murky river water.

  He quickly calculated the distance between them. If he kept walking, he’d meet Bryn and her father somewhere on the footbridge that connected the two banks of the riverwalk.

  Panic shot adrenaline through his veins. What would he say to her? How could he face her father? He didn’t want a repeat of that night at Hanson’s.

  “Come on, Boss.” He clicked his tongue and veered off the path onto the grassy knoll that rose up to meet the lot where he’d parked his pickup. “Come on, boy. Let’s call it a day.”

  He jogged up the hill, tugging an unwilling bulldog after him, not daring to look back.

  He’d accused Bryn of taking the coward’s way out that night at Hanson’s. Apparently he was no better.

  In so many ways,

  what she was doing seemed

  the most fitting restitution

  she could possibly make.
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  37

  Wednesday, April 23

  Bryn picked flecks of paint out of her hair and pushed the bandanna off her forehead. “Do you want this wall the same color as the rest, or are we using the paler green?”

  Susan nudged clear safety glasses down on her nose and studied the room. “Hmm . . . I’m not sure. What do you think?”

  “Hey, you’re the one with the decorator savvy. I’m just the grunt. But I do like the way the dayroom turned out using the two different shades. I think it makes the room look bigger—at least with that yellow shade.”

  “Okay. Then the paler shade it is. But first, you go take a break. And that’s an order.” She crossed the room and took the paintbrush out of Bryn’s hand. “You’ve been working since seven this morning.”

  She’d actually arrived here at the site shortly after six, but she wasn’t about to tell Susan that. Susan had given her a key to this office complex that was the future Grove Street Homeless Shelter, and the last few days, she’d awakened before sunrise, driven in to the Falls, and put in an hour of work before anyone else came in.

  The city had finally approved their request, and donations for the firefighters’ memorial had allowed them to hire some of the work out, but they were trying to do as much as possible themselves. She stretched and rubbed the small of her back. Her muscles ached from the hours of work she’d put in over the last month. One hundred and three hours, to be exact. She’d turned last week’s tally in to her probation officer, and he’d teased her about trying to squeeze two years of work into two months.

  Sometimes she felt a twinge of guilt that she was enjoying her “punishment” so much. And yet, in so many ways, what she was doing seemed the most fitting restitution she could possibly make.

  She picked the ladder up and carried it to the unpainted wall.

  “Is this what you do on breaks, Bryn? Haul ladders?” Susan stood with arms akimbo.

  “Let me finish this wall, and then I promise I’ll go home and eat something. Maybe even take a nap.”