“You look beautiful tonight.”
Her cheeks warmed and her eyes flitted back to the horizon. “Thanks.” She should compliment him in return. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“I know.”
She laughed. Her hand flew out, playfully smacking his arm. “So modest.” Now this—this was familiar.
“I’d much rather be in my jeans and T-shirt, though.” He snuck a look around and yanked off his bow tie, stuffing it into his pocket. Then he undid the top few buttons on his crisp white shirt. “There. Now I can breathe again.”
His transplant scar peeked from below, but he didn’t seem to care.
Silence fell. Now or never, Megan. She turned her whole body, still cocking a hip against the railing. “Caleb, I came tonight to see you.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry about London.”
He remained quiet for a moment. “What happened?”
Seeing him there, strong, resilient, living his dream . . . It broke the dam of longing inside of her. How she wished she had half the courage he did. “I convinced myself my health wasn’t good enough yet. That it was an adventure for ‘later.’ ”
“I thought I’d given you enough time to recover. Two years should have been plenty, and from our texts and phone calls, it seemed like your doctor was really impressed with your progress. I never meant to push you.”
“You didn’t.” She started pacing and the words just tumbled out. “It’s true there is always the fear of relapse in the back of my mind. But it was more than that. You wanted me to come to London on this grand adventure—and write about it for a magazine.”
Caleb scratched behind his ear. “I don’t get it. Isn’t that what we talked about doing for years? Me photographing, you writing? But then the perfect opportunity came along and you didn’t want it.”
“I did want it. But fear took over. Because what authority do I have to write about something like that? Me, who has never been anywhere or done anything? Who still lives at home, working the same job I’ve worked since high school? Who has written countless articles over the years and has only had the courage to ever show them to you and my family—never to submit them?”
Caleb was quiet for a moment. “You said you’re sorry. Does that mean you regret saying no, or just regret putting me in a tough spot?”
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. She swiped at them as they fell. “I regret all of that.”
“Then why haven’t you done anything to change it? Why not submit one of those articles? Go somewhere and get experience?”
All million-dollar questions. “I can’t explain it. I’m just stuck. It’s like any time I get the desire to move forward, something’s holding me back. I mean, it’s not just about the writing. I can’t even get up the courage to see my donor’s family.” The image of the letter waiting in the car flashed through her mind. One more failure to add to her long list. She continued taking a few steps, pivoted, walked a few more steps. Then started all over again.
Caleb gently stopped her and guided her back toward the edge of the balcony. “Have they contacted you?”
“Janice Harding forwarded me a note they wrote a few weeks ago. They said they’re ready to meet me.”
“When I met my donor’s family, it was really healing for me.” Caleb hesitated. “Of course, everyone has a different experience. But it could be good for you.”
“Maybe.” Janice, the Donor Family Services Representative for the transplant program, had included her own note when she sent the family’s. She’d said the ball was completely in Megan’s court. A ball Megan had never asked for, one that had come flying out of nowhere, leaving Megan wincing as it hurtled toward her. But how could she deny these people anything?
It was something Nana would have told her to pray about, if she’d still been alive. But what was the point? God would do what he wanted whether she prayed or not.
Caleb reached out and squeezed Megan’s hand. The tender touch was so familiar, but the fire it sent up her fingertips was not. “If you’re looking for a way to get ‘unstuck,’ this might be a good place to start.”
He didn’t understand. Except, actually, he probably did. “But how do I waltz in there, a living reminder to these people of all they lost? I don’t know much about my donor except that she was an eighteen-year-old girl with her whole life ahead of her. How would her family feel knowing I’ve done absolutely nothing with my life since she saved it?”
It was true, wasn’t it? She’d been hiding. Hiding in her parents’ home, hiding at the library, hiding from life.
Megan turned to face the lights of Rochester. Somewhere out there, a family waited for closure. Closure only she could give. And maybe in taking that step toward closure for them, Megan would finally find the courage she’d been searching for all these years.
Chapter 2
As far as stomachaches went, Crystal Ballinger’s was off-the-charts painful.
She groaned and rolled over in bed, clutching her belly. With her other hand, she felt in the dark until she located the TUMS on her side table. Like a pro, she unscrewed the cap one-handed, fished a tablet out, and popped it in her mouth, chewing as the awful powder coated her tongue. Then she lay there for a moment, letting the fog of sleep drift from her mind.
Why wasn’t Brian in bed? Had her husband left for church already? He normally told her good-bye.
Today was Sunday, wasn’t it?
No, wait. He’d left last night for a twenty-four-hour shift at the station.
And today was Monday.
“What time is it?” No one answered her, but the cat on the end of the bed protested as Crystal bolted upright and grabbed her phone.
8:16 a.m.
And several texts from Tony asking where she was. Oh no.
Despite the discomfort in her stomach, Crystal launched to her feet and scrambled toward her closet, wincing from the pain. She flipped on the light and located the outfit she’d hung up for today, then tore off her pajamas, throwing her legs into the suit pants quickly—too quickly. Her foot caught on the seat of the pants, and a ripping sound reached her.
“No, no, no.” She tugged the pants off and examined them. A tear in the main pant seam rendered this pair useless. Crystal tossed them aside and reached for her matching backup pair—but they weren’t on the hanger. She’d worn them Friday, hadn’t she? Yes, then stuffed them into the bag to take to the dry cleaner’s, along with every other pair of pants she owned. Only, she hadn’t had time to go to the dry cleaner’s this weekend since she’d been working on the Hoffman proposal from dawn till midnight both Saturday and Sunday.
This was a nightmare.
She had no other choice. With a yank, she pulled the pair of pants from Friday out of the bag and carefully stepped into them. She threw on her white blouse and matching suit jacket, then slipped a pair of heels onto her feet. As she passed her mirror, Crystal groaned. She’d just have to hope Leonard Hoffman was more concerned about her plans for his restored New York City bank than her wrinkled pants.
Crystal raced to the front door, grabbed her laptop bag and purse, and rushed to her subway stop. With every step, her body begged for coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Finally she reached her train—crowded and smelling of things she’d rather not define—and clung to a bar as the car took off at full speed, which still wasn’t fast enough. Crystal shot a text to Tony telling him she’d be there on time. She prayed—no, hoped—she was right.
Thank goodness she carried an arsenal of makeup in her purse. Crystal did her best to throw on some foundation, blush, and lipstick one-handed. Then she popped in a breath mint and ran her hands through her two-day-old hair, coercing it into a loose bun with a pen she scrounged up from the bottom of her bag.
Her stop finally arrived and she disembarked. Checking her watch, she climbed the steps to the top of the subway stop and was met by the much-too-cheery sun. Ten minutes till the pitch was supposed to begin. Crystal
maneuvered in and out of the crowd, past kids on their way to school, moms with strollers, and countless businessmen and women. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Finally she reached her building. Spying a huge crowd at the elevators, she opted for the stairs and ran up ten flights in her four-inch heels. The stifling air in the stairwell nearly suffocated her.
Her chest heaved as she threw open the heavy metal stairwell door and ran toward her suite. She nearly doubled over at the wrenching pain in her stomach but wouldn’t let that stop her. These pains seemed to come at the most inconvenient times. She was almost there, with two minutes to spare. As she entered the front door of Samson Group Architectural, the front office attendant, Todd, did a double take. “What the—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Crystal straightened her back and slowed her pace. If Leonard Hoffman was already here, the last thing she wanted to do was startle him. First impressions were undoable—and hers was bound to be awful as it was, thanks to her sweaty armpits and disheveled appearance.
She finally arrived at the grouping of cubicles in the main workroom. Other junior architects bustled to and fro, some chatting at the water cooler. Other voices rang out as they talked on the phone. The intern, Jamie, spotted her from down the hall and her eyes widened. Crystal reached her cubicle, pulled her printed proposal and laptop from her bag, and threw the empty bag onto her chair. She whirled and headed down the hallway toward the conference room, where Tony’s voice boomed. As she entered, Crystal blew out a breath when she saw only Tony and Jamie.
“Jamie, I need coffee. Stat. Please.”
The girl bolted out of the room.
Her boss’s gaze narrowed when he saw her. “Where have you been?”
“Didn’t you see my text?” Crystal set her laptop down and bent to grab the appropriate cords. “I overslept. I was here late last night and must have been really out of it this morning. I’m so sorry.” She avoided his stare as she popped the cords into the right outlets on her computer. Now was not the time to come across as incompetent, not when she had a possible promotion on the line.
“You’re lucky the client is running a bit behind. He just got into town. Flight was delayed.”
She flashed him a weary smile. “See? It all worked out.”
Some might have said it was because the good Lord was watching over her. But Crystal knew better than that.
She pulled up the right presentation file. It loaded and projected onto the screen behind her. There. She’d done it. She clutched her side and grimaced.
Tony frowned, his eyes perusing her. “Your stomach again?”
“It’s fine.” Probably a pesky ulcer. Mom used to get them all the time, said they were stress-related. No wonder with all the worrying she used to do over Megan. And it wouldn’t be a surprise if Crystal had one too, with all the work she’d been putting in lately. If Brian knew about it, he’d try to get her to see a doctor, but there was never time. Besides, she’d been keeping the pain mostly under control with the TUMS.
“You look awful. Hoffman is expecting 2017’s Junior Architect of the Year, not a hobo off the streets.”
Her cheeks flooded with heat. “Let me run to the restroom and fix myself up a bit.” Not waiting for her boss to say anything else, Crystal ran out of the room—and straight into Jamie. Coffee from the mug in Jamie’s hands splashed all over Crystal’s blouse and jacket. She couldn’t help the screech that flew from her mouth.
Jamie shrank back. “Oh no. I didn’t mean . . . It was an accident. Let me get a paper towel or something.”
“It’s fine. I’m going to the bathroom anyway.” As if wrinkled pants and a half-made-up face weren’t enough . . .
She headed toward the lobby but spied a few women sitting on the sofas, briefcases in hand. Not Mr. Hoffman, but it could be other potential clients or Mr. Hoffman’s associates. No way could she be seen like this. Crystal turned on her heel and quick-stepped back to her cubicle. What could she do about her stained shirt?
Jamie rounded the corner. “Mr. Hoffman and his team are here.” The girl looked positively ill.
Crystal’s eyes drifted to Jamie’s reddish-orange sweater. It wouldn’t match the style of Crystal’s suit, but what other choice did she have? “Jamie, I need your sweater. Hurry.” Oh, that had come out much more of a bark than she’d intended. “Please.”
The girl flew into action, revealing a turtleneck short-sleeve shirt underneath her sweater. Crystal unbuttoned her own jacket and flung it aside, then pulled Jamie’s sweater over her soiled blouse. The sweater was made of the itchiest material Crystal had ever worn—polyester, if she had to hazard a guess—but a quick glimpse down told her it at least covered the offending stain. “That’ll have to do. Thanks.”
She left her cubicle and Jamie behind, turning back toward the conference room. When she entered, Tony and Landon—another partner—were chatting with a distinguished gentleman in his seventies and the two women Crystal had seen in the lobby. The man wore an Armani suit and smelled of Cuban cigars.
Crystal pasted on a large grin and approached him, her hand outstretched. “Crystal Ballinger. So pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Hoffman.”
He took her in, one eyebrow cocked, but nodded. “You as well. I’ve heard great things about your work.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
This was it. If she nailed this presentation, Tony would have to promote her to senior architect. He’d been grooming her for years anyway, and with Karen’s departure last week, the job was hers for the taking.
Crystal launched into her presentation. Dragging any decent ideas from her overtired brain had been a challenge over the last few weeks, but she’d managed to come up with something good. Brian hadn’t liked the long hours she was putting in, but she’d promised him she’d back off a little after this Hoffman proposal was in the books, once her promotion was secure. She’d even promised they could finally plan a trip to visit her family in Minnesota. Because Brian didn’t have family of his own, he wanted to get to know hers better. But the thought of facing Megan and her parents turned her stomach.
Still, that’s what people did when they loved each other—compromised. And she loved her husband with an intensity that sometimes scared her. Not that she was that great at telling him. But she’d get better. It was on her list of things to improve.
She flew through the presentation. Hopefully Mr. Hoffman would see that, despite her appearance, her work spoke for itself. Mr. Hoffman was hard to read, but so were other clients, and she’d never failed to land an account since beginning her tenure at Samson Group seven years ago. Despite her lack of coffee and the ache that pressed into her belly like a needle, her presentation was flawless. She hit the last slide. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have at this time.”
A silence bubbled in the room. Mr. Hoffman’s poker face fell into a frown, and self-doubt slipped into Crystal’s conscious. Still, her smile remained in place.
“I do have one question.” Mr. Hoffman steepled his fingers on top of the conference table. His stare bore a hole into Crystal’s confidence.
Be strong. Be steady. Don’t let him see you sweat. “Yes, anything.”
“I want to know where you’re hiding the bright young architect I’ve heard so much about.”
Was he referring to Meredith, another junior architect who also happened to be her main competition for the promotion? “I’m sorry. I don’t—”
“This presentation. It was something I’d expect from a college student.” Each word punctured another hole in Crystal’s facade of confidence.
Her stomach cramped in pain, and she had to blow out a breath through her teeth, hissing slightly. “I’m so sorry it wasn’t what you were looking for.”
Tony caught her grimace and rescued her. “As one of our most talented junior architects, Crystal has been swimming in a sea of work lately, taking on the work of someone with twice her years of experience. Perhaps we haven’t
given her the support she needs to do your project justice. Would you consider giving us another week to put together a more appealing proposal?”
“I don’t think so.” Mr. Hoffman stood, and his two tight-lipped associates followed suit. “Ms. Ballinger, I’d heard you were one of the most creative minds in the business, light-years ahead of your colleagues.” He tossed her proposal onto the desk in disgust. “I heard wrong. Good day.” He turned and left the room, and his associates scurried after him.
Crystal sank down into the nearest seat. She glanced up at Tony, who frowned. “I’m sorry.”
Tony took off his glasses and fingered the frames. “Me too.” He tapped the edge of his glasses against the oak table. “He’s right. It wasn’t your best work.”
Deep down, she knew that. “I worked my rear off to get it right. It’s just—”
Crystal stopped herself. She couldn’t tell her boss she was out of ideas—that as much as she tried, she couldn’t find an ounce of inspiration to save her life. Great architects didn’t sputter out after only seven years on the job. Twenty, maybe. But seven?
She’d just have to try harder. Make a new plan. Remind herself that she was in control of her own destiny.
That had always worked in the past. And it had to work now.
Chapter 3
Megan couldn’t believe she was about to do this.
She faced down the huge brick home—the place her heart donor used to live. Her hands shook as she shut the car door and walked up the drive. The house was located in the center of the Rochester suburbs and was surrounded by large oak trees full of life. A breeze rustled through the branches, and the leaves waved at her.
Almost like they were welcoming her heart home.
This heart would never be hers. Not really. And though it kept her alive, it hadn’t seemed to change who she was, however much she might wish it had.
Above her, the sky shone a brilliant blue, dotted occasionally with wispy clouds. It was the kind of day that should be spent lounging on her back in the green grass, daydreaming about the future. But today belonged to the Abbotts.
The Heart Between Us Page 2