The Forgiving Hour

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Robin Lee

  HATCHER

  THE FORGIVING HOUR

  To Francine Rivers, who first inspired

  me to write for the Lord.

  To the women writers of the Love Knot,

  who fanned the flames of that desire.

  To the pastors and teachers who gave me

  a hunger for the Word,

  especially Hank Aguilera.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1: Betrayed

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  PART 2: Bitterness

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  PART 3: Loneliness

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  PART 4: Faith, Hope and Love

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  PART 5: Gladness

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  PART 6: Despair

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  PART 7: Forgiving

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  PROLOGUE

  BOISE, IDAHO, MAY 1999

  The sky that Saturday in May was a brilliant, cloudless blue, sunshine kissing the earth with a promise of the summer to come. There was the scent of green on the afternoon breeze, and windows throughout the subdivision had been thrown open to let it in. Flowering trees were in full bloom; tulips and daffodils bobbed colorful heads at passersby, as if in welcome. Sprinklers kept time on neighborhood lawns with a steady chick-chick-chick-swoosh … chick-chick-chick-swoosh … while the laughter of playing children filled the air.

  It was the perfect sort of day to meet one’s future daughter-in-law.

  Claire Conway checked the grandfather clock in the entry. Dakota and Sara should be arriving at any moment.

  I love her, Mom, and you’re gonna love her just as much as I do.

  She smiled as the two-month-old memory filled her thoughts. She’d been living and working in Seattle on a short-term assignment for her employer, and Dakota had arrived for a visit. They’d just finished supper, her six-foot-four-inch son having polished off two helpings of his favorite casserole and, for dessert, a large slice of cherry cheesecake. And then he’d told her he’d met someone special and was engaged to be married.

  It was difficult for her to accept that her son was old enough to be engaged, let alone planning a wedding for July. It shouldn’t be this hard to accept, but it was.

  At twenty-four, Dakota was six years older than Claire had been when she wed his father.

  And he’s twice as mature as his father ever was, she thought with a twinge of the old bitterness.

  But mature or not, Dakota remained her little boy, all six-feet-plus of him. In her mind, she knew he was a grown man. In her heart, he was the towheaded kid with skinned knees, mussed hair, and a smile that made her melt on the inside.

  I love her, Mom, and you’re gonna love her just as much as I do.

  Claire didn’t doubt for a second that she would love Sara Jennings. She trusted Dakota’s judgment. Besides being mature beyond his age, he was intelligent, kind, and generous, a man of integrity and deep moral convictions. If he thought Sara was the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life, then Claire believed it too. Sight unseen.

  Sara’s a little older than I am. Seven years to be exact. She thought it should matter— to me and to others — but I convinced her it didn’t. She’s made me the happiest guy in the world by accepting my proposal.

  The rumble of the Jeep engine pulled her thoughts to the present. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly before walking to the door and opening it. Stepping into the afternoon sunshine, she watched as Dakota hopped out of the Jeep, then strode around to the passenger side of the vehicle. Once there, he offered his hand to help the young woman disembark.

  Claire put on a welcoming smile. She knew Sara had to be even more nervous than she was, and she wanted to do all in her power to make this first meeting a pleasant one. It could set the tone for the rest of their lives. She wanted to prove that mother-and daughter-in-law relationships didn’t have to be strained or antagonistic.

  A glance at her son’s face confirmed the depth of his feelingsfor the woman on his arm. A warm glow spread out from Claire’s heart. To see him like this made all the difficult times of the past fade into obscurity.

  Dakota shifted his gaze from Sara to his mother. He grinned. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “Mom, this is Sara. Sara, my mother, Claire Conway.”

  Claire offered her hand to the young woman, for the first time taking a good look at her. She was tall — at least five ten — and striking. She had cat-green eyes, long and curly burgundy-colored hair, a flawless complexion, and a perfect figure.

  For just a moment, Claire wondered if they’d met before. There was something familiar about her.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Conway.”

  Claire gave her head a slight shake. “Please, call me Claire.” That was much easier than trying to explain it was Ms. rather than Mrs.

  The younger woman revealed a hesitant smile. “I’d like that … Claire. Thank you.”

  “Come inside. I’ve got decaf ready, and I made a coffee cake for the occasion.”

  “You baked?“ Dakota’s voice was filled with mock surprise.

  Claire shot him a censuring glance but couldn’t maintain it for long. When he laughed, so did she.

  “Like I told you, Sara, Mom nearly forgot how to find the kitchen after I moved out. Now she only cooks at Thanksgiving, at Christmas, and on rare special occasions … like this one. Right, Mom?”

  “Right.”

  Claire led the way into the house, then left Dakota and Sara in the living room while she proceeded into the kitchen. She heard the young lovers conversing softly as she poured coffee into three china cups and placed them beside the creamer and sugar bowl on a polished silver tray. Even from the other room, she could discern the happiness in her son’s voice. Again, she was warmed by it. What mother wouldn’t be?

  Dakota’s early teen years had been hard ones. He’d gotten into more than his fair share of scrapes, taking out his anger and bitterness with rebellious and sometimes reckless behavior. Of course, his anger and bitterness had been no worse than her own, betrayed as they’d been by his father.

  Remembering her ex-husband brought a frown to Claire’s brow. Foreboding followed on memory’s heels, a sense that something was about to go wrong.

  But that was ridiculous. Nothing was going wrong. There was no room for anything but joy in this house today. The past was the past. Today they were celebrating the future.

  Coffee tray in h
and, Claire stepped through the kitchen doorway, then paused, unnoticed, to observe the two young people. Sara was looking at a display of photos on the mantel. Dakota stood with his arm around her shoulders, smiling contentedly.

  “Who is this?” Sara asked him, pointing to a framed snapshot.

  Dakota glanced at it. “That’s me and my mom when I was … oh, about five, I think.”

  “Where was it taken?” Sara sounded odd.

  “That’s our old house on Garden Street. It’s where I grew up. Mom sold it after she got a divorce, right after I finished grade school.”

  “Dakota … what was your father’s name?”

  Lowering his voice, he answered, “I’ve told you why I never talk about him. I promised Mom I wouldn’t.”

  Still, after all these years, he was keeping his promise to Claire, a promise she never should have asked him to make. It had been wrong of her to ask it, no matter what the reason. At the very least, she should have released him from it this spring.

  She almost spoke up, almost told him so, but something kept her silent …

  Something about Sara.

  The younger woman looked up into Dakota’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. “What was his name?” she repeated in a hoarse whisper. “I need to know. I have to know.”

  “Does it matter that much to you?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  Claire was struck again by that sense of impending doom. Something was pressing on her lungs, an enormous, unyielding weight. Each breath came hard.

  At long last, Dakota answered Sara’s question. “Porter. His name was David Porter.” There was no bitterness in his reply. He’d forgiven the man long ago. “Why?”

  As if sensing Claire’s presence, Sara turned. Her eyes were wide and filled with horror. “Claire … Porter? Dave was your husband? He’s Dakota’s father?”

  Claire remembered now. She remembered where she’d seen Sara before. The coffee tray slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor.

  It had been twelve years, and the young college student had become a woman. Sara had changed. Her hair was long, full, and curly instead of cropped short. Her figure had blossomed, no longer the stick-thin girl she’d been. She’d grown only more beautiful with the passage of time.

  But it was her.

  “What’s going on?” Dakota asked, glancing back and forth between his mother and his fiancée in confusion.

  Sara looked at him. Her voice quavered as she asked, “Did your dad call you Mikey?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Sara took a faltering step backward, out of his reach. “It can’tbe. It can’t. God wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this to us.” She shook her head, almost keening the words. “He wouldn’t do this.”

  “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Dakota looked from his fiancée to Claire. “Mom?”

  Sara turned toward her too. “Say it isn’t true. Please say it isn’t true.”

  But Claire couldn’t comply.

  Because it was true.

  Her thoughts hurtled back twelve years to the first — and only other—time she’d seen Sara.

  Sara Jennings …

  The other woman …

  The girl who’d destroyed Claire’s marriage, her home, her life. Hell was real. Claire knew it … because she was in it now.

  PART 1

  Betrayed

  Bread obtained by falsehood is sweet to a man,

  but afterward his mouth will be filled with gravel.

  Proverbs 20:17, NAS

  ONE

  APRIL — TWELVE YEARS EARLIER

  “Patti?” Sara called as the door to their apartment swung open. “Are you home?”

  Her roommate didn’t answer.

  Sara dropped her books and backpack on the rickety table near the door and headed for the refrigerator. As usual, she was hungry at the end of a school day.

  Just before she reached the kitchen, a man appeared in the doorway. Sara let out a squeal of alarm as she jumped away from him — and found herself pressing against the back of the love seat, unable to go farther.

  She glanced toward her backpack. A spray can of Mace was in the side pocket. Her brothers insisted she carry one now that she was out on her own. If she could reach it before he —

  The stranger raised his right hand, like a traffic cop warning her not to move. He was holding a hammer. “I’m here to install the new kitchen cabinets,” he explained quickly, before she could make a dive for her bag. “Mrs. Hilton let me in. I thought I’d be done before anyone got home, but I ran into a few problems.”

  Her pulse began to regulate. She remembered now that her landlady had said the carpenter was coming today.

  “Sorry I startled you.” He grinned. “I don’t generally frighten women. Honest, I don’t.”

  His smile made Sara’s heartbeat jump into overdrive a second time. For a different reason.

  “The name’s Dave Porter.” He switched the hammer to his left hand, then offered his right to her.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she took hold of it. It was large, warm, callused. She liked the feel as it enveloped hers in a firm grasp. “I’m Sara Jennings.”

  “I’ll get out of your way as fast as possible. Shouldn’t take me all that long to finish up.”

  She peeked around him into the kitchen. The new cabinets were a huge improvement over the old. “No hurry.”

  He gave a quick nod, then returned to his work.

  With his back toward her, Sara was able to watch him, unabashedly enjoying the view. The sleeves of his blue-and-white plaid shirt were rolled up to his biceps, biceps that flexed and bulged as he used the hammer with precision. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow. His worn Levi’s fit him like a glove. And when his physique was taken into consideration along with his handsome face and devastating smile, he made one definite knockout package.

  Her gaze shifted to his left hand. No wedding band. She breathed an unexpected sigh of relief. “You don’t care if I get myself something to eat, do you? I mean, I won’t be in your way, will I?” She wasn’t hungry any longer; she just didn’t want to leave the kitchen.

  Dave glanced over his shoulder. His dark blue eyes seemed to say he knew the truth. “No, you won’t be in my way. I like company while I’m working.”

  Sara opened the refrigerator and grabbed the first thing in sight—some leftover fried chicken.

  “You a student at Boise State?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Like it?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I attended the U of I. A long time ago now. I had plans to be an architect, but money ran out after that first year. Circumstances changed, so I had to quit school.” He pounded another nail. When he set the hammer on the counter, he continued speaking. “But I’ve built myself a pretty good carpentry business over the years, so it hasn’t turned out all bad. I like working with my hands.”

  His hands. She wondered what it would feel like to have him caress her cheek with those work-roughened fingertips. A shiver ran up her spine.

  “What’s your major?”

  His question jerked her unruly thoughts back to the present. “Theater arts. But I don’t know what I’ll do with it after I graduate.” She gave a shaky little laugh. “It’s not like I expect to be a movie star or anything.”

  He turned, leaned his behind against the edge of the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave her a long, thorough look.

  Her stomach tumbled, and again she shivered. She’d never had anyone look at her in quite that way before.

  “You’re sure pretty enough to be a movie star, Miss Sara Jennings.”

  She felt the heat of a blush flood her cheeks. He thought she was pretty. In a reflexive but purely feminine gesture, she ran a hand over her hair.

  “You a senior?”

  “No,” she replied. “A freshman.”

  “Eighteen, huh? Man, I can hardly remember what it was like to b
e that age. Ancient history for me.”

  “I’m nineteen, and you don’t look like you’re all that much older than me.”

  He studied her again. She shifted, unsettled by the way his perusal made her feel. This was no college boy. This was a man. All male. Masculinity emanated from him in a way she’d never experienced before.

  “I’m thirty-two.” There seemed to be an unspoken question included in that simple statement.

  She shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t guess that her heart was pumping a million miles an hour. “That’s not so old.”

  “You know …” He glanced at the cabinets, then back at her. “It doesn’t look like I’ll get these finished today. It’s going to take a bit longer than I thought at first. I’ll need to come back tomorrow. Take my time and do it right. Don’t want all your dishes getting busted.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be good.” She forced herself to take a breath; she didn’t want to pass out from lack of oxygen. “I don’t have any classes on Thursday afternoons. You won’t need Mrs. Hilton to let you in.”

  She didn’t have a clue why she’d said that to him.

  His smile was slow, his gaze mesmerizing. “Fine. I’ll come straight to your door. About two o’clock?”

  Maybe she did know why she’d said it.

  She nodded, saying, “I’ll be here.”

  Claire Porter had just finished setting the dining room table when the back door opened and her husband entered the kitchen. Her heart skipped, as it always did, at the sight of him.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, walking over to give him a welcome-home kiss.

  “Hi.” Dave dropped his tool belt on the floor beside the washing machine. Then he brushed his lips across hers before stepping around her and moving toward the stove. “What’s for supper?”

  “Pot roast with potatoes and carrots.”

  He lifted the lid, as if to see if she’d told the truth, then nodded. “I’ll wash up.”

  He strode out of the kitchen, and a few moments later, Claire heard water running in the bathroom sink.

  The back door opened again. This time her towheaded twelve-year-old son burst into the room. The knees of Mike’s jeans were covered with dirt, his tennis shoes were caked with mud, and the underside of his fingernails looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in a year.