After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  He fell back asleep with an adorable smile on his face.

  * * *

  “You shoulda carried a gun like I told you.” Sam burst into the hospital room and scraped a chair to the bedside, directing his words at Clay’s slumbering form. “Don’t you wish you’d listened to me now?” He leaned forward, studying Clay intently. “You really sleeping, or just ignoring me?” When there was no answer, Sam expelled a breath and shook his head. “He’s gonna be the death of me yet.”

  Charlene listened, half amused and half achingly touched by Sam’s concern as he peppered her with questions, his gaze never leaving Clay’s face.

  At last, he turned and narrowed one eye at her. “You don’t look good.”

  And you have a tendency to point that out. She smiled. “Maybe not, but I feel fine.” More than fine. Clay’s alive. He’ll be okay.

  She needed nothing more.

  They stared at him silently for a long while, both, she believed, relishing the simple sound of his breathing. His messy hair stood out dark against his pale forehead, as did his scattering of freckles. His thick lashes rested stark against his skin.

  “I can see Margaret in him.” Sam spoke the words so low, she wasn’t sure if she was even meant to hear them.

  But she whispered, “Me too.”

  There was a long pause, then Sam surprised her by saying, “I met her in high school.” Another pause. His chair creaked. “Three years of classes and studying and exchanging small talk. Wasn’t much, but it added up, somehow. I wanted to ask her out, but I was a stupid kid back then.” He leaned forward. “I waited too long. When Grant Morrow, the star football player, the guy with the scholarship, moved in on her, I lost my chance. He moved fast. They married right after graduation.”

  Sam shifted his feet. “I still saw her sometimes. Around town. At church. But I tried not to notice her. Years passed.” He halted, and Charlene thought that was the end of his odd reminiscing, but he went on like he hadn’t stopped.

  “One night I was working in the church basement, fixing the nativity stable, and when I went out to the snowy lot, there was another car. I saw her in there, sleeping. I tapped on her window to ask if she was okay. She looked like she’d been crying. Her car wouldn’t start, and she was freezing. I told her to warm up in my car while I gave hers a jump start.

  “I should of left it at that, but I got back in my car to tell her hers was ready, and she broke down. Like she just needed someone with an ear to listen. She went on and on about Grant. How an injury killed his football career. How he turned bitter and stopped going to church, turned to drinking. Couldn’t hold down a job. Couldn’t hold down his temper. I only wanted to comfort her, but . . .” He paused. “That was the night.”

  He gripped the back of his neck. “After that, she stopped coming to church. I couldn’t stand that it was my fault. Her faith was all she’d had left, and I took it.”

  Charlene frowned. “But she got it back. You know that, right?”

  “Thank God for that, but no thanks to me. I went away, joined the army. Traveled more than anyone needs to in one life. Always trying to forget her. I never did. I should of, or I shouldn’t have gotten married.”

  “Married?” She couldn’t hide her astonishment. “I didn’t know—”

  “Why would you? I never told you.” Sam eyed the ceiling. “Right after my wedding, I heard Margaret’s husband died, and all I could think was, God sure has some timing.” He shook his head, gave a short laugh. “If I hadn’t married, we could have finally had our chance.” His voice went gruff. “Not what I should have been thinking.”

  He looked at the floor. “My wife deserved more than I had to give her. She stuck with me a long time. Then one day about ten years ago, she left.”

  Charlene didn’t know what to say.

  Sam leaned back against his chair and sighed. “I made mistakes. I have regrets.” His gaze lifted to the bed. “But Clay will never be one of them.”

  * * *

  Charlene sat alone beside Clay when the door opened and a nurse stepped in, one she hadn’t seen before. The woman wore green scrubs and her curls were synched in a ponytail. Attractive and slim, she appeared to be in her late thirties. She stopped near Clay’s bed and fingered a golden cross necklace while she watched him sleeping.

  She turned to Charlene, almost apologetically, and Charlene’s heart seized. Surely, there wasn’t bad news. Surely—

  Charlene braced herself. “Are you one of Clay’s nurses?”

  “Oh, no. I’m in pediatrics.”

  Then why are you here?

  The nurse blushed. Her gaze fell to her fingers. “I’m sorry.” She inhaled and met Charlene’s eyes. “They said . . . they told me you were the one who—who shot him. Lance Harding.”

  Nails? Her spine stiffened. “That’s right.”

  “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it.” The nurse moistened her lips. “I’m sorry, but I need to know. Do you think . . . he suffered a lot? Or did he—did he die quick?”

  Raquel flashed through her mind, and Charlene wondered if she should be afraid of this woman. She eyed the call button near Clay’s bed.

  But the woman’s face reflected nothing alarming, only gentle concern. Charlene knew she should be repulsed by her question, but even as she thought of Nails’s knife wounds, something kept her from mentioning them. She swallowed. “No. No, I don’t think he suffered much. He died quick.”

  A wispy sigh escaped the woman. “Good.” Her lips pinched. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . he wasn’t always like that.” A sad ghost of a smile touched her mouth. Her gaze grew distant. “I knew him once, a long time ago. When he was . . . just a boy.”

  Her lips moved silently. She touched the cross necklace again, and Charlene had the oddest feeling she was praying. As she turned to leave, Charlene caught sight of her nametag: Beth.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The scent of dirt and freshly cut grass in the sunbaked June day created a warm, heady mixture of new life and hope. An odd thought, in a cemetery. But then again . . . when one believed in resurrection and life everlasting, perhaps it wasn’t that odd at all.

  “We’ll see her again someday,” Charlene said softly.

  Clay nodded beside her and took her hand. His left arm was still in the sling, but he was healing well, and in another month or so, he’d be free of the restraint.

  She knew it had taken a lot for him to work through the pain of the secret his mom had kept from him, but she never doubted he would. He was that kind of person. Understanding. Forgiving. Good.

  And today, they were finally planting Margaret’s flowers. Clay cupped the roots of the daisies in one palm while dirt sprinkled through his fingers. He set the plant lightly into the trench Charlene had dug in front of the headstone. He took care to hold the stems upright while she mounded dirt over the roots. As she patted the soil in place, she remembered last year, when she had fled to this spot and fallen asleep. Recalling her strange dream, she recounted it to Clay. “And I still can’t figure out how I got in the church basement, unless I sleepwalked. Do you think I could have?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was there. I brought you into the basement.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You? But how—”

  “I came to visit my ma’s grave. Never expected to find you here.” He scratched the back of his neck, leaving a smear of dirt. “I couldn’t stay, but I couldn’t leave you here like that. That’s when I first broke my promise to stay away from you. And I knew I was in trouble.”

  She stared, astonished. So her dream had held a grain of reality—as if her heart had sensed him, even as she slept. She paused to brush off her hands, then slipped a card out of her purse and held it carefully by the edges. “And this holy card? On my windshield with a rose?”

  The corner of Clay’s mouth pulled. “Guilty.”

  “But why?”

  He gave a rueful look, as if she should kno
w. “You were going through a tough time.”

  She shook her head and laid the card on Margaret’s grave, in front of the flowers. Awe, mixed with deep appreciation, swirled within her.

  Her hand found his and squeezed. She felt the rough bandage beneath her fingers and brushed the dirt from it, frowning. She’d gotten so used to seeing it, but . . .

  He caught her look. “What?”

  “You don’t need the bandages anymore, you know. You never did.”

  He frowned grudgingly. “I know.” He stared down at his hands for a long moment. Then slowly, he unwound the dirty bandages, revealing the black inked letters that were just that—letters, and nothing more.

  Still, he held the cloth strips like he didn’t know what to do with them. So she took them and crossed the cemetery, throwing them in the trash. Where they belonged.

  Rejoining him, she watered the flowers, then they stepped back to admire the cheery daisies bobbing white and yellow in the breeze.

  “Not bad,” Clay said.

  “Not bad?” She took his hand and smoothed her thumb over the inked skin of his knuckles. “They’re beautiful.”

  And she felt Margaret smiling down on them, agreeing.

  * * *

  “Could you have picked a hotter day to go to the beach?” Charlene wondered aloud on a Tuesday in late August as she helped Clay unload towels, a blanket, and a modest sized cooler from his truck, sweat rolling down her neck. She wasn’t complaining, though, and made sure he knew it by her smile. “Look what it does to my hair,” she lamented, patting her head. “It’s a big puffball.”

  “But a cute puffball.” He gave one of her curls a playful tug. “And those earrings look good on you, by the way.” He seized the cooler and heaved it up. Then they walked down through the sandy grass and claimed an isolated stretch of beach as their own.

  She peered up and down the strip of endless Lake Michigan shore. Surrounded by warmth and love and a deep sense of security, her old fears felt long ago and distant, like a fading nightmare displaced by sunny reality.

  Nails couldn’t steal this day, or any other, from her.

  Neither could Raquel—though everything that came to light about the woman had given her a lot to think about. When investigators searched the woman’s apartment—in the same building as hers, Charlene had been alarmed to learn—they found pillows stuffed fat with cash. Grandfather’s money. In a drawer, they’d found Charlene’s pink pearl necklace.

  As the investigation proceeded, pieces came together. Apparently, though Raquel had been working as a waitress in a diner, she used to be a CO at the state prison where Nails and Clay had been incarcerated. Clay told her he didn’t know the full story—maybe no one but Raquel and Nails did—but he remembered she’d been fired under odd circumstances, right around the time Nails had three years tacked on his sentence. The prison authorities tried to keep it hushed, but something had happened. Some kind of breach of policy.

  Clay said rumor on the block had been Raquel and Nails were an item. Until she’d crossed him in some way, and he’d tried to kill her in his cell. If that was true, why she’d gone back to him was a mystery.

  But he’d finally gotten her in the end.

  And she had no one to care. Charlene thought that was perhaps the saddest part of all.

  And the knife . . . it had been sealed in an evidence bag, lying now in an evidence locker. There was no one to claim it. No one to want it. And so eventually, it would be destroyed.

  “What are you thinking?” Clay’s voice cut into her morbid musing.

  She blinked and there was the smile on his face that she’d never tire of seeing. Reminding her this wasn’t a day for brooding. Lives had been lost; but by the grace of God, not theirs.

  She smiled back at him. Their lives . . . it felt like they were just beginning. “I’m thinking . . . race you to the water!” She took off running.

  They splashed each other until they were thoroughly chilled, then sat on a blanket and gazed at the vast lake that seemed to stretch forever. She could have stared at it all afternoon, but Clay lost interest quickly. As he lifted the cooler lid, she laughed. “Hungry already?”

  “I’m not getting food.” There was a strange tone to his voice.

  She watched him lift out something odd, and her forehead puckered. “Is that . . .” She tilted her head and squinted. “Is that a snowball?”

  “That’s right.”

  “In August?”

  “You bet.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “I kept it in my freezer.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “There are easier ways to keep food cold. You could just buy ice at the grocery store. You know, like a normal person?”

  “That I could. But then, I’ve never been quite normal.” He chuckled, but there was slight apprehension behind the sound. He turned serious, pinning her with steady brown eyes. “This is going to sound crazy, but . . . do you remember this snowball?”

  She looked at the icy orb, which was swiftly melting as he held it in his palm. An absurd thought dawned. She dismissed it, only to see him nod as he said, “You left this snowball with me at the beginning of the year. That night I told you I loved you.”

  “I remember.”

  Of course she remembered.

  He cleared his throat. “You told me when it melted, my feelings for you would be gone. You were wrong.” He eased the diminishing snowball into her hands.

  Still confused, she nonetheless kept her eyes on the snow melting in her hands, dripping through her fingers, revealing . . .

  She gasped. A familiar ring lay wet and shining in her palm. It was the pink pearl one that Clay had caught her admiring back in January.

  “The thing is,” he said, “my feelings for you are even stronger now, and I need to ask . . .” His husky words paused as he dropped to one knee in the hot sand. “Will you marry me?”

  Her eyes riveted to his, genuine love and hope so raw and real in his face. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in her mind or heart to give her pause. Her tongue couldn’t move fast enough. “I will, Clay. Oh, I will!”

  His face broke into a smile. He took her hand in his rough, hard-worked ones and slipped the ring on her finger. Her hand trembled with giddy joy. More than the ring, she loved the fact that he had realized how much it meant to her.

  “It’s perfect. Still a little chilly,” she added with a laugh. “How long was it in that snowball?”

  He smiled as if she should know.

  “Not—” her heart skipped a beat— “ever since that night?”

  “I bought it right after you ran away from me.” His voice deepened. “I knew then, impossible as it seemed, that we would end up together, somehow. Someday.”

  “But . . . how? After everything you said that night, and I didn’t even tell you I loved you.”

  A crooked grin split his face. “But you never said you didn’t.”

  “You believed in us.” Her voice caught.

  “I did. I always will.” He drew her close.

  It felt so right. She thought of the thorny path it had taken to get here, and how God had worked their pain and suffering to reach this wondrous and healing moment. “After everything, I can’t believe we’re finally . . .” Her effervescent rush of words evaporated as Clay touched her face.

  His thumb grazed her cheek a moment before his lips claimed hers, strong and tender, and her heart burned with love.

  “Now that,” he murmured with deep satisfaction, “was definitely no pity kiss.”

  Epilogue

  Eight months later . . .

  “I knew I should have put my hair up, I just knew it. Why didn’t I? Now it’s too late.” One hand indisposed by a bridal bouquet, Charlene grappled awkwardly with her veil, which whipped and tangled wildly with her curls. She stood outside the doors of Creekside’s Catholic Church, waiting for her cue, and her nerves cavorted like the wind wreaking havoc on her carefully tamed and sprayed hairstyle.

&n
bsp; “You look fine,” Max said beside her, not at all concerned.

  “I need to look better than fine.” Her voice shrilled unnaturally. “Today, everything has to be perfect—”

  “It’s time,” signaled the coordinator, heaving open the doors.

  Max grinned and gave her arm a tug. “Chill, Char.”

  Her nerves seized. As if in a trance, she ascended the steps, and somehow she didn’t trip on her long white gown. Still in turmoil, she entered the church on Max’s arm, glad for his steadying grip and even-paced stride. The scent of roses hit her, and organ music ushered her forward. Though the large church was sparsely peopled, every face turned her way.

  But suddenly, the only face that mattered was Clay’s. There he stood, all the way down past the tulle pew bows at the end of the aisle, waiting for her. Steady. Strong. Confident.

  She leveled her gaze and focused on his reassuring smile, and as she glided up the aisle, her nerves smoothed, becoming fluidly serene as the satin of her gown.

  Their day was finally here. Her mother’s string of pearls draped her throat, the perfect complement to her ring. Clay wore a boutonniere of a single daisy in honor of his mother. Beside him, Sam stood proudly as his best man.

  Her walk complete, Max released her with a smile and took his place beside Sam.

  Then she and Clay stood before the altar, ready to make their vows before men and God.

  “Stop!” boomed a voice.

  All heads swung to the aisle. Grandfather stormed up the white runner, his face red and splotchy.

  Charlene pulled in a bracing breath. She should have seen this coming. They should have placed guards at the door.

  Instinctively, she clutched Clay’s arm as she pictured Grandfather yanking her down the aisle in disgrace. At least he hadn’t brought Frank.

  Too close to her now, his outraged tone shook her like the dark tree branches shuddering behind the stained glass windows. “Move away from him, Charlene.”

  “No.” Maybe it was just her jaded imagination, but she easily envisioned Grandfather yanking out a gun and shooting Clay dead.