by Mary Manners
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
What People are Saying
1
2
3
4
5
7
8
9
10
11
Epilogue
Thank you
You Can Help!
God Can Help!
Free Book Offer
Hearts Renewed
Mary Manners
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Hearts Renewed
COPYRIGHT 2018 by Mary Manners
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
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White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2018
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-5223-0089-2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To all who find life after loss and happiness following tragedy. May your light shine and your laughter ring throughout all the earth.
What People are Saying
"Love Notions brought fireworks indeed, throughout every chapter. I laughed, I cried. The love and trust that was shared with each of the characters was simply beautiful." ~ Sharon Dean
"I loved every book in the Lone Creek Ranch series...The characters are so real. I just can't decide what couple is my favorite. I guess, like a kid at the ice cream store, they all are my favorites. I will be reading them again!" ~ Brenda Morgan Weakley
"[Kate’s Kisses] was a book that I couldn't put down! Loved the sweet story line..." Cheryl Brim
“As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.”
~ Psalm 103:12 ~
1
Sam Holman tossed his suit jacket onto the passenger seat of his SUV and slipped into the driver’s side with a heavy sigh. He tugged the silk tie that threatened to choke the last reasonable thoughts from his head, loosening the fabric and yanking it from his collar. The sudden, welcomed relief allowed his first substantial breath since six-fifteen that morning. He balled the swatch in his fist and lobbed it across the front seat. The cloth slithered like a snake to the floor.
Isn’t that just the way my day has gone?
Sam grimaced as he slipped a key into the ignition and cranked the SUV’s engine. The rhythmic purr of pistons brought his thoughts into focus. Court days proved to be brutal—especially long days like today, filled with nit-picky sidebars that ended, more often than not, in a standoff.
Cap off today’s legal efforts with a caustic tongue-lashing from Judge Jenkins behind the closed mahogany door of the grizzle-haired magistrate’s chambers, and life proved to be the knockout round of a heavyweight boxing match.
Yes, Sam had endured a blistering call-to-the-carpet on the merits of preserving precious court time by arriving to the hall prepared. He—by vast accounts the most tenacious and dedicated modern-day public servant—had been served up a heaping platter of defeat and embarrassment due to a ridiculous technicality that had no business taking up so much as a drop of ink in the books. It paid no matter that the information resulted in a last-minute, expertly-revealed-by-the-defense, bomb-dropping move.
But that stab of embarrassment paled in comparison to what Sam’s young client and her unsuspecting family must have endured as they somberly drank in the judge’s eleventh-hour dismissal of charges against the man whose actions had forever changed the course of their lives.
On an outrageous technicality.
Sam’s groan of frustration filled the cab as he thumped his fist along the steering wheel; technicality…technicality…technicality. The word ought to be outlawed for all eternity. It was an ugly, unfortunate blend of syllables that usually meant an otherwise guilty perpetrator was released from any legal consequences without so much as a smudge of guilt on his or her filthy hands.
Sam mentally sifted through reams of his pre-court research once again, wondering if there was even the slightest nuance of a clue that he’d missed along the way. His intern—a master’s student from the University of Tennessee—was new to procedure and as green as they came, but also anxious to learn all there was to know. Her inexperience in dealing with the likes of the Public Defender’s Office was really no excuse for this fractured case. The blame fell squarely upon Sam’s shoulders; he should have had his radar set to delve through the smallest details, should have been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d dotted each I and crossed every last T. He’d solemnly sworn to uphold justice, and he’d always been so careful to catch even the minutest points while unraveling information and building a rock-solid case. He rarely lost, and could count those defeats on a single hand. But for some reason, this litigation had slipped like gelatin through his fingers.
Thoughts of Molly swam through his head. Seven years…was it really coming up on seven years since he’d seen his sister…spoken with her…watched her close her eyes to make a wish, and then blow out her twenty-first birthday candles following a raucous rendition of Happy Birthday? Had it really been seven years since he’d wept over her lifeless body, sounds of her laughter forever lost?
Sam shook his head and refocused to the indigestible legal action that had just imploded right in his face. Because the Miranda warning was not properly read and the arresting officer was deemed to use excessive force in issuing a field sobriety test and subsequent arrest, the case was ultimately—following weeks of painstaking research and preparation—thrown out of court. Now an innocent victim—a fawn-eyed teenage girl touted as the star varsity lacrosse player at a local high school—faced a career-ending injury from a fractured spine as she convalesced at a rehab facility while the forty-something driver who, as an added bonus, happened to have deep political roots in Knoxville as well as the greater Southeast, walked away from his transgression, protected from further prosecution, to go about his business for another day.
Where was the justice?
Sam cringed as his gut fielded the proverbial punch. Again, his fist found the leather rim of the steering wheel with a hearty wallop as frustration grabbed hold of him. Said justice had been nestled squarely in his hip pocket and somehow he’d failed to expedite even the slightest measure for sweet, innocent Carissa Jansen and her family.
Thank God it was Friday. Good for Sam…not so good for Carissa and her parents. The teen had just signed a scholarship to South State College the morning of the accident. Now, the deal remained up in the air as doctors prognosticated on the length—and boundaries�
�of her recovery.
When Carissa could still walk…could still run, and all was right in her world, she faced no boundaries. Now, what will her future hold? Will her parents be able to endure heartache certain to darken the coming days?
The thought ate away at Sam. He knew all too well what tragedy and heartache could do to a marriage. He’d watched his parents’ union—once steeped in rock-solid love—unravel in the months following his sister’s death. He’d witnessed the heartbreak overtake them like a deadly virus, destroying everything in its path.
Sam tapped the gas pedal and gunned the engine. As the motor idled, he glanced around the parking garage. Most spaces sat empty in the lull between the Friday afternoon workday and an evening crowd that would soon trickle downtown to spend a few hours grabbing a bite to eat while enjoying some music and conversation beneath the waning sunlight along a bustling Market Square.
But Sam could afford little time for fun. With this case woefully penned into the record books, another waited in a dozen overstuffed manila file folders stacked atop his office desk. Knoxville’s legal system proved a never-ending cycle. Sam vowed to tighten his focus and work even more diligently to prepare his next case. If it took less sleep and more caffeine, he’d bite the proverbial bullet to get things done. He feared he was losing his grip on the pulse of justice here in the city. He’d been so sure of the outcome of Carissa Jansen’s case…so positive she and her family would wrap themselves in the comfort of justice and that he’d be celebrating another victory tonight.
For a moment Sam’s mind wandered to Molly once again, and he allowed thoughts of his younger sister to filter though his mind like the warm touch of sunlight. What would she be doing now…perhaps pursuing a career in the education of special-needs children—a path she’d honed through volunteer work in high school followed by four years of college? Would she be married…cradling her own children—Sam’s nieces and nephews—and rocking them to sleep with sweet kisses? Would she have finally hiked the Smokies’ Alum Cave Trail with friends, to watch the sun set over Mount Le-Conte…always a dream of hers?
Just as quickly, Sam’s thoughts dipped and swirled to raging river rapids as the cheerful sunshine turned to churning storm clouds. Molly’s casket had been draped with white Calla lilies and lowered into the ground, her smile and laughter forever gone from him…from all who loved her…and the pain these questions brought still scorched Sam’s very soul. No matter how much he pleaded, cursed, or raged they would never be answered.
And he’d done plenty of all three. For a while following Molly’s murder, he’d held an ongoing soliloquy with God, pleading long into the nights for answers…for peace. But that’s what the conversation—the heart-wrenching pleas—had been; merely a one-sided conversation. No answer—no sense of peace—had come. So Sam had moved on to cursing and raging before he’d finally, exhausted with the very pain of it all, gone silent. If God refused to talk to him, why should he even bother to try to talk to God?
The storm in Sam’s gut crowded his heart as it raged on. Never, ever again would he laugh with his sister or share a treasured memory over a pineapple smoothie—Molly’s favorite. The rays of warm sunlight that thoughts of Molly once brought were eclipsed by rage and then a blanket of numbness, leaving only darkness in their midst.
Forcing back a wave of bile, Sam reached for the radio dial. He cranked up the volume to a mind-numbing pitch in a feeble attempt to drown out memories of the horrible detour Molly’s life had taken…of the pain that still coursed through his veins, stealing his breath. Music suddenly pulsed through the cab, vibrating the seats and causing the dash to rattle violently as Sam shifted into drive and set the car into motion.
Shaken to the core, Sam dodged in and out of rush-hour traffic through the streets of downtown Knoxville. He managed to make it over the Gay Street Bridge and all the way to the I-40 interchange before the music segued to news.
“Joe Camden is a free man tonight,” The announcer stated as if he was reciting a mundane list of everyday grocery items. “Merely an hour ago the case against him for a litany of charges including reckless endangerment and driving under the influence of narcotics was dismissed. Sam Holman, attorney for plaintiff Carissa Jansen, an honor student at City Center High who sustained life-altering injuries in the accident, refused to comment on the case. But defense attorney Dan Maslow had plenty to say—”
The SUV rocked as Sam jabbed the array of station buttons on the radio console while a cacophony of sounds assaulted his already-throbbing head. Finally, with repeated efforts, the chaos blended to form an intelligible tone. A female voice swam through the speakers, the melodious timbre ratcheting Sam’s nerves down just a notch. He clenched the steering wheel and fought to focus on the woman’s words as the highway fanned to five lanes and traffic darted like a swarm of flies around him.
“…so the ongoing theme of my show this spring is renewal…forgiveness. We forgive because not a single one of us is perfect, and because He continually forgives us.” The lilting voice drifted through the cab of the SUV like a gentle wave, yet the message caused Sam’s blood to reach a boiling point as she continued. “No one is unworthy. Let me repeat that…No one is unworthy of God’s forgiveness—or ours. So what do you say…are you ready to break free of your bindings today? If you’re struggling to let something go, we at KNOW radio are here to listen—I’m Izzy and I’m here to listen. Right now—don’t delay a moment longer—if you’re in need of a caring ear, pick up the phone and dial this number …Five-five-five-four-nine-six-seven.” She repeated the number, then paused before continuing. “In the meantime, here’s another special song of hope just for you.”
The last fibers of Sam’s patience snapped, causing an explosion of heat that burned through the core of his gut.
Forgive? Everyone’s worthy to be forgiven? Is the woman insane? She obviously has not experienced so much as a shred of heartbreak from that elusive studio where she’s cocooned like a princess.
Forgive…The word ricocheted through Sam’s mind. He would rather stand in front of a speeding passenger train than forgive the vile thug who stole Molly’s innocence before heartlessly ending her life.
Rage engulfed Sam, and he wondered how his simmering blood didn’t erupt right through his skin as he engaged the voice activated feature on his cell phone and dialed the number the hapless DJ had recited. His ears burned and the pulse point along his neck throbbed as he skirted around a semi-truck with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, waiting in the queue on the other end of the line for his call to be answered.
He’d have a thing or two to say to the Pollyanna-ville DJ about her opinion on offering forgiveness to those who clearly did not—by any stretch of the rational imagination—deserve it. Sam lived in the real world, where the actions of criminals had time and again destroyed even those with the best of intentions—not in a comfy radio studio where music sheltered its workers from the harsh reality of day-to-day tragedies. When he was finished—if he had his say—Miss Whatever-her-name-was-DJ would never even consider spouting the word forgive over the airwaves—or anywhere else for that matter—ever again.
Sam’s fist assaulted the steering wheel. Case closed.
2
Isabella Carpenter drew a sip of tepid coffee from her go-cup as she uploaded the next music file. This longer, commercial-free segment would give her time to stretch her legs and refresh her coffee. She’d pulled a double-shift since afternoon DJ Keith’s daughter had been rushed to the hospital with a high fever, and her hours in front of the microphone were wearing. Her voice had turned to grit in her throat and her eyes burned from gazing into a computer screen.
Just a while longer and she’d head home to her son, Tucker. Thank God Mom had offered to pick him up from kindergarten today.
“Izzy, there’s a caller on line one.” Marco Bettini, the newly-hired production manager who had worked his way up from volunteering in marketing cold-calls, stood in the doorway. “He sound
s pretty worked up and asked for you, specifically. Are you OK to take this one?”
“I asked for callers, didn’t I?” So the coffee would have to wait, and her leg stretches, as well. The ache wasn’t that bad that she couldn’t manage to hang in there until the next break.
“Of course.” Marco gnawed his thumbnail, which Izzy had noticed proved a habit when nerves overtook. “Line one, then.”
“Got it.” Izzy saw the flashing-light on the console that signaled the waiting call. She lifted the receiver and pressed the button to engage line one. “Isabella Carpenter here.”
“Izzy?” The voice raked like gravel.
“One and the same.” She spoke cautiously at his heated tone as the proverbial red flags hoisted. “How may I help you?”
“Help me? How dare you!” The voice assaulted like heat erupting from a geyser. “It’s not me who needs help. How dare you spout that…that…”
“Whoa, there, cowboy. Take a breath.” Izzy cradled the receiver to her ear and stood to pace the length of the small studio. Her thigh muscles cried out in protest as she searched for calming words. “It’s obvious you’re just a bit worked up. Let me—”
“No, I won’t allow you to spew your nonsense on forgiveness, brainwashing the public in the process to believe that anything and everything goes in today’s society. Listen here, princess. News flash…everyone does not deserve to be forgiven. Some things—heinous, outrageous and life-stealing acts—are simply, unequivocally and completely unforgiveable.”
“Well…” Izzy sighed and lowered her voice to a murmur. “You are certainly entitled to your opinion.”
“I assure you, it’s much more than my opinion.”
“Your name?” Izzy raked fingers through the tangled waves of her hair in an attempt to remain even-keel as she searched for words that might draw him down from the ledge. “You know my name, so may I have yours?”
“You want to know my name?” His tone scalded. “I’ll tell you my name—Sam Holman.”