She tried to shield Clay, but he moved her aside gently and stepped protectively in front of her. “You’re going to have to leave, Mr. Perigard,” he said firmly.
“Get away from my granddaughter, you worthless excuse for a life.” Grandfather threw a scathing look over his shoulder at the guests. “How dare you all take part in this abomination!”
He fired a gnarled finger at Clay. “He has no business setting foot in a church. He’s a criminal, a convict. Worthless. Just read his knuckles,” he added spitefully.
Charlene caught a rustle of movement over her shoulder and glanced back to see Father Grady’s authoritative figure. A measure of peace descended upon her. The priest’s solemn gaze moved past Grandfather to the congregation. He gave a simple, almost imperceptible nod, and two burly men rose, as if understanding his unspoken direction to remove Grandfather immediately.
But Max and Sam were already on it. In their groomsmen tuxedos, they hustled to Grandfather’s side. Sam, looking ready to throw a punch, said dangerously, “Watch it, old man. That’s my son you’re talking about.”
“Get off me,” Grandfather growled, trying to shrug out of their grasps, but Max and Sam held him securely by his upper arms. The two burly men joined them and, while the guests remained stunned, all four men began forcibly escorting Grandfather down the aisle.
“You’re all blind fools,” he yelled. “If you had any sense, you’d run that lowlife out of town, just like I ran him out of mine!”
In the pews, little Gabriella started crying in Brook’s arms.
“You’re the one who needs running out of town,” Brook spoke up sharply.
“That’s right,” agreed another guest. “The nerve! Who do you think you are, crashing in here—”
“So rude,” chimed in an old lady.
“I’m Maximillian Perigard,” Grandfather roared, “and I forbid this wedding to take place!”
“Get out of here, old man!”
“Clay’s a good guy,” called out another guest.
“Ten times the man you are, Mr. Perigard.”
All the guests began raising their voices in Clay’s defense, and their vocal support astonished Charlene as Sam and Max dragged Grandfather out the door.
“Forget him, dear,” Fannie, from the fabric store, called to Charlene. She flicked her hand. “Every wedding has some kind of snafu.”
“Don’t let it ruin your day,” added Charlene’s stepmother, Joy. Gwen, her stepsister, nodded.
Encouragement rained left and right. Charlene looked out at the faces, not merely guests, but true friends. Regular loyal customers from the woodshop. Church friends. Even Julie from the Woodfield library. Joy and Gwen had both flown in to be bridesmaids. And Charlene was still stunned to see Brook and Gabriella in attendance.
Adjusting their tuxedos, Max and Sam re-entered the church, ready to guard the doors, but the other two men eagerly stepped up to the task so Max and Sam could return to take their places up front.
Clay squeezed Charlene’s hand and raised his brows. “Still wanna marry me?” he whispered.
“I should be asking you that.” Her shoulders sagged. “You do realize I’m a Perigard, right?”
“Not for long.” He grinned. “Any other dark secrets weighing on you?”
“I clean too much.”
“Hardly a secret.”
“Max says I’m addicted to ChapStick.”
“I’ll keep you well stocked.”
“And . . .” She averted her eyes. “You should know I’ve been told my heart is ice.”
“And I’ve been called a worthless excuse for a life. I doubt either one’s true.”
Point taken. She smiled and recaptured his gaze. “I love you.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” His thumb traced hers, and a rush of warmth swept through her veins, thrilling her heart.
Father Grady cleared his throat, and she snapped back to her surroundings.
The ceremony proceeded. The incident that had seemed so insurmountable, shrank to a mere glitch and then glided from her thoughts completely as Clay slipped a smooth gold band on her finger. It covered her scar, and she knew in that moment she would never have to see the ugly blemish again, because she would never, ever, take her wedding band off.
* * *
After the reception dinner, it was time for their dance. Charlene had relented on her old captivity induced resolve not to allow music at her wedding, but had been adamant about putting particular songs on a “do not play” list. She’d asked Clay to choose the song for their dance, so it came as no surprise when she heard the beginnings of a country tune.
As he took her in his arms, she recognized it—the song she’d been singing and dancing to in the woodshop when she thought she was alone.
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Our song.”
His eyes twinkled. “Wanna sing our duet?”
“Wanna scare our guests away?”
Smiling broadly, he twirled her. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”
“But you’re such a good dancer. I could dance all night.”
His brows moved roguishly. “Sounds like an invitation to start stepping on your toes.”
* * *
At long last, with her toes unharmed, it was time to depart. They said goodbye to Max, then someone diverted Clay’s attention, and Charlene stood alone beside her brother. Remembering their long ago conversation in the bar, she elbowed him. “Still think I’m too young to get married?”
“Huh?” He wrenched his distracted gaze back to her, and she scanned to see where he’d been looking. At Brook?
Registering her question belatedly, he answered, “Nah, you found who you were looking for.”
She smiled as Clay returned to her side. “I did.”
And while Clay took her arm, she watched Max approach Brook. A moment later, Charlene glanced back and saw them dancing together.
* * *
As Clay drove her off into the night, Charlene rested her head on his shoulder. His right shoulder, not his left, as that one still caused him pain, and likely would for the rest of his life. Not that he ever complained about it.
She ran her fingers along his tuxedo sleeve. “Are you going to tell me yet where we’re staying tonight?”
He spoke thoughtfully. “There’s this great rustic cabin I know about up north, way back in the woods.”
Her head whipped up to face him. “You wouldn’t.”
“Actually, I couldn’t. Since I sold it last year.” He winked as she shook her head at his terrible joke. He rounded a bend, took a right, and drove down a quiet, tree-lined street. “And I used the money . . . for this.”
He pulled into a driveway. “My mistake. Did I say we’d be staying here? I should have said living. Welcome to our new home.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Really?”
“Really.”
In the glowing halo of the porch light, she could see the house was painted a soft, sunny yellow, complete with white shutters. No fence bound the yard, which flowed freely in pleasant slopes. Bushes and trees dotted the lawn. Tiny flowers lined the sidewalk, and two wooden chairs sat on the front porch.
“I bought the land last year, and Sam—” he paused—“my dad—helped me build. It wasn’t easy to keep it from you, let me tell you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I can’t believe I finally get to show you.”
He pressed a button on the visor above him. “First, the amazing garage . . .”
The large white door moved upward to reveal new concrete floor and wooden storage shelves. “Very basic, but I’m sure the floor will be oil-stained and the shelves filled with junk soon enough.”
Eager to see everything, she reached for the door handle as soon as the truck halted.
“Hold on.” He dashed around the back of the truck to her side, then opened the door and scooped her up.
“Clay, your shoulder!”
He gave an exaggerated wince as he pretended
to stagger under her weight. “You did eat a lot of wedding cake.”
She almost whapped his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry me.”
“But I want to.” Klutzily bundling the train of her gown, he brought her out of the garage to the front door, then right over the threshold and into the house. Faint scents of paint, varnish, and lumber tickled her nose.
When he set her down, her mind whirled with wonder as she surveyed the cream walls and the gleaming wood floors. Nothing like the palatial spaces she’d grown up in, this place was cozier, homier.
Flicking on lights, he led her on a tour through the living room, a well-organized kitchen, a dining room, a basement workshop, then down the hall to two bathrooms and three bedrooms. No less than one piece of handcrafted wood furniture graced each room.
“One last thing,” he said, eager as a kid at Christmas as he tugged her down the hall, through the dining room, and out the sliding back door, “and then we can go back in.”
He led her across the cool lawn to a large maple tree, under which sat a bench, a simple wooden park bench.
She reached out to touch it. “It’s just like the one you carved at the beach,” she marveled, “but bigger.”
“And I added something. Right here.”
Focusing where he pointed, she saw “C&C” carved into the bench back, encircled by a heart. She traced it with her fingertips. “I love it.”
Goosebumps rose on her arms. Chill as the evening was, she sat down, and Clay sank beside her. The silence hummed, no words needed. Stars sparked above. Light shone like honey in the windows of the house.
Our house.
Her heart swelled, and she nestled against Clay’s side, holding his hand. Somehow, he still smelled of cedar and varnish and sawdust. She imagined he always would.
A happy sigh escaped her lips. After all the running she’d done in her life, fleeing from pain and sorrow and trouble, how lovely it was to simply sit. To soak in the moment.
“So is your dream home everything you hoped it would be?” He sounded suddenly uncertain, like perhaps he had presumed too much. “I know it needs decorating, but I figured—”
“It’s perfect.”
“Because you know we could sell it and buy a bigger, better house now that—”
She shushed him with a touch to his lips. He was referring to the money from Grandfather. Timely as it was, the hefty sum had, by no means, been a wedding gift.
As it turned out, the flash drive which she’d given to the police had ended up causing Grandfather a load of trouble. No wonder he had burst into church so angrily today. His top lawyers had recently whittled his case down to a plea bargain in which he got off the hook by paying a large settlement to Clay.
If he wanted to, Clay could use the money to remove his tattoos. Even then, there would be a sizeable sum left over.
Clay was still going on about the house. “You deserve so much more—”
“No,” she spoke the realization with a little shiver. “I don’t deserve this, not any of it. Not my life. Not you in my life. It’s all an amazing gift from God, a blessing, and all I can do is be grateful. For every single moment.”
Night insects hummed as she looked heavenward, her soul surging with gratitude—and the hope that there would be many, many moments yet ahead.
“So we keep the house,” Clay said.
“We do.” Her eyes returned to the comforting structure, tracing its shape fondly. The color, the size, the yard—they were all perfect, but that wasn’t what made the place perfect.
She turned to him and said softly, “This will always be my dream home because you made it. For us. And you built it with love.”
“True. Though I gotta admit, the lumber and nails were helpful, too.” He grinned, encircled her in his arms, and kissed her.
After a long moment, he drew back and she saw something in his eyes that raised a question. The kiss had been tender, deep, but . . . he shifted and she realized he held something in his hands. A dark leather rectangle. His wallet.
As he opened it and thumbed through the contents, she blinked. “Tell me you’re not seriously counting your money right now.”
He smiled, but instead of answering, slipped out a grayish paper. When he unfolded it, she recognized newsprint and recalled the article. The one about his sentencing. She spotted his solemn courtroom picture.
Her brow creased and her voice lowered. “You were supposed to throw that out.”
He gripped the paper tightly. “First, you need to know. The whole truth. The other reason I kept it.” He angled her way, his knees touching hers. “You.”
“Me?”
His thumb slid aside, revealing her own black-and-white newsprint picture. Also solemn. Also from five years ago in the courtroom. He stared at it, the muscles of his throat moving. “I thought this picture was all I’d ever have.”
His fingers brushed the small grainy photo before he looked up, amazement in his eyes. “And now here you are.”
“No.” She covered his hand with hers. “Here we are.”
Together at last.
As they melted into another kiss, the article floated to the ground, forgotten.
Then he took her by the hand and led her out of the cool darkness of the outside world, into the golden light of their home . . . into the warmth and promise of their new life together.
And they knew they were blessed.
Acknowledgements
This story wouldn’t have been possible without the contributions and support of so many, and I thank you all with sincerest gratitude:
The readers of Frozen Footprints who were eager for a sequel—you truly motivated me. I hope this novel was worth waiting for. (If so, please consider leaving an Amazon review—even just one sentence—it truly makes a difference and I’ll be ever so grateful.)
My husband, for reading and critiquing the manuscript. You know which scenes you inspired.
My children, for the times you let me sit at the computer undisturbed. (An amazing feat.) And to my son, who requested inclusion in the story, someday if you read this, you can find your six-year-old self in chapter twenty-one, digging for pirate treasure. Of course, your sisters are there too.
My sisters Monica and Cassandra. What would I do without you? Thank you for believing I could make this book better when I thought I couldn’t. Thanks for all the concrete, remarkable ideas and solutions. You’ve always been my first readers and my first line of defense against laughable (not in a good way!) writing. Even when your advice was hard to hear, you made it fun. I treasure your honest feedback and credit you both with ensuring this story reached its full potential.
My brother-in-law Ray Czech, for invaluable expertise. I’m honored that you took the time to help me with this project.
My late brother Jerome, for crucial input and insight. You were my Max. I can’t believe you’re gone. When God called you home, part of my heart went with you.
Thanks also to incredible Catholic fiction writer and dear friend Susan Peek for beta reading with such a skillful editor’s eye. And thank you for convincing me to participate in a NaNoWriMo April camp, which forced my brain back in gear and threw my procrastination out the window. If not for you, readers would still be waiting for this book.
Last of all, I thank the Good Lord for this story, as well as for the blessings of every moment of every day.
About the Author
Therese Heckenkamp was born in Australia but grew up in the United States as a homeschooled student. After the Thaw is her third novel and the sequel to her Christian suspense thriller Frozen Footprints.
Therese lives in Wisconsin with her husband and three energetic children. As a busy stay-at-home mom, she fits in writing time whenever she can manage (and sometimes when she can’t). She dreams up new stories mostly at night when the house is finally quiet.
Her novels Past Suspicion and Frozen Footprints have both reached #1 Bestseller in various Amazon Kindle categories, including R
eligious Drama and Religious Mystery.
Therese looks forward to writing many more novels in the future. Visit her online to share feedback and to keep up-to-date on free ebooks, new releases, and more:
Therese’s website: www.thereseheckenkamp.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/therese.heckenkamp
Twitter: www.twitter.com/THeckenkamp
Book website: www.frozen-footprints.com/sequel/
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
After the Thaw Page 40