Less than fifteen minutes after leaving her parents at their church, Sara parked the car across from the small house on Garden Street.
Her heart raced as she stared at it, memories spinning through her mind. She remembered green trees and lilac bushes and colorful flowers in bloom. She remembered a gray pickup truck and a woman in the doorway.
And she remembered Dave and the death of her dreams.
Her gaze flicked to the mailbox, decorated to look like a Christmas package. In addition to the street numbers, there was a name: D. Moss.
She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. He didn’t live here anymore.
And then she consciously and deliberately let it all go.
She let go of her romantic notions. Let go of the pain. Let go of her shattered expectations. Let go of everything that had held her captive, that had kept her a naive nineteen-year-old for the last three-and-a-half years.
Most of all, she let go of Dave. In that moment, she made up her mind to go forward and not look back.
“It’s over,” she whispered, still staring at the house. “It’s finally over.”
She knew there would be moments of regret, times when she remembered that spring and wondered what if. But no longer would she be held captive by it. She’d made a mistake. Now it was time to move on.
Thank God.
Relief filled her as she turned the key in the ignition. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but at least it no longer seemed to be just one of many unhappy tomorrows.
Sunrise Fellowship was packed that Sunday morning with members, guests from out of town, and visitors who only attended services at Christmas and Easter. They filled the pews and the extra rows of folding chairs that had been set up in the back of the sanctuary.
For Dakota, the morning was filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, there was his overwhelming joy in the Lord. He was filled with wonder at the truth that God Himself had chosen to leave heaven and come to earth to provide salvation for someone like him. On the other hand, there was his awareness of his mother’s discomfort.
Claire sat stiffly beside him, her gaze locked on the pulpit. But Dakota suspected she wasn’t listening to what Walter Drake, the head pastor, was saying. He wished she could hear, really hear. Maybe he’d made a mistake, talking her into coming with him this morning. Maybe she wasn’t ready.
Did I blow it, Father?
“Why don’t we all take a moment to get acquainted with those around us?” Pastor Walt said. “Introduce yourself to at least one person you don’t know.”
His mom shot him a look of pure horror as people stood and began shaking hands, hugging and greeting one another. He gave her a helpless shrug just before the woman in the pew ahead of them turned and held out her hand toward Claire.
“Welcome to Sunrise Fellowship. My name is Kristina Jennings. Is this your first time with us?”
“Yes,” Claire answered.
The woman proceeded to introduce Claire and Dakota to her husband, her three sons, and one son’s fiancée. “We hope we’ll see you both here again,” she added with a smile.
Dakota didn’t bother to tell the woman that he was here every Sunday, usually sitting in the balcony. If he did, then he’d feel like he was pointing out that his mom wasn’t here every Sunday. And from the look on her face, he thought it was better to say nothing.
Claire was, indeed, angry. Rebellion raged inside her. She hated the sanctimonious smile on that woman’s face, a look of I’m-better-than-you. Why? Because this Mrs. Jennings needed a religious crutch? Well, Claire didn’t need one. She was just fine, thank you very much.
For the rest of the service, Claire continued to simmer, her gaze returning again and again to the large family seated in front of her. To the woman and her husband and her three sons and the soon-to-be daughter-in-law. To a whole family, a family unscarred by a husband’s unfaithfulness, by a father’s desertion.
And bitterness multiplied in her heart.
PART 3
Loneliness
God makes a home for the lonely;
He leads out the prisoners into prosperity,
Only the rebellious dwell in a parched land.
Psalm 68:6, NAS
EIGHTEEN
JUNE — FOUR-AND-A-HALF YEARS LATER
“So? What d’ya think, Mom?”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to know.”
“Ah, come on.” Dakota grinned, looking more like a youth than like a man. “It’s the perfect bachelor pad. Great place to bring all those girls.” He gave her an exaggerated wink.
“No self-respecting female would set foot through that door.”
Her son laughed.
She pivoted slowly, memorizing every dreadful detail of the studio apartment, a converted room on the third floor of a one-hundred-and-ten-year-old house in the north end of the city. The linoleum in the kitchenette was curling up in the corners. The tile grout around the sink was green with mold. The ugly carpet reeked of stale cigarette smoke — or something worse.
She longed to ask him why he was so determined to move out when he had a perfectly good home in a nice neighborhood where he wasn’t charged rent and had someone to cook for him. But she already knew the answer. They’d been over it numerous times.
Dakota was twenty years old, and he wanted a place of his own. He was ready for it. Deep down, she knew he should be. It was normal. But it didn’t make letting go any easier. She counted herself lucky that she’d kept him at home as long as she had. For his first two years at the university, she’d been able to hold their precarious finances over his head. But with her new position at Best Homes Real Estate—and the new salary that came with it—plus Dakota’s recently awarded full scholarship, she’d lost that advantage.
“This isn’t Siberia, you know,” he teased, still grinning. “It’s only across town.”
Reluctantly, she returned his smile.
“And I’m not exactly the type to be having wild parties, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
No, he certainly wasn’t the type for that. In her wild and woolly youth, she would have labeled Dakota a square. A Jesus freak. She supposed there were worse things for him to be.
He put his arm around her shoulders, leaning down from his lofty height, making her all the more aware that he wasn’t her little boy anymore. “I’m glad you’re going to miss me.”
“Who said I’m going to miss you?” she blustered. “I have every intention of changing your bedroom into a den or something. Maybe I’ll take up sewing again.”
“Sure you will.”
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. It was either that or burst into tears. She had no desire to be one of those clinging, cloying mothers, and she had all the symptoms of becoming precisely that.
“Hey,” he said softly, his expression somber now. “I’m not going to disappear. I’ve got a phone, so I’ll call you. I’ve got a car. I’ll come see you. Often. I promise.”
She nodded. She knew his intentions were good, but she also knew how seldom that “often” more than likely would happen. He would be busy with classes and his job and his church. And girls! They would probably call him twenty-four hours a day, now that he wouldn’t have a mother answering the phone for him.
After another squeeze, Dakota released her and started opening the boxes he’d carried in earlier. Claire watched him for a moment, then went to the kitchenette and unpacked the pots and pans he’d purchased at the thrift store that morning. Next she checked the shallow cupboards. The one next to the sink held three stoneware plates, all of them chipped, six plastic glasses, and two discolored coffee mugs that looked like they’d been around since the discovery of coffee beans. The cupboard above the stove held a box of macaroni and cheese, two boxes of Rice-A-Roni, three cans of tomato soup, and a loaf of wheat bread. The tiny, under-the-counter refrigerator contained a half gallon of skim milk, a six-pack of storebrand colas, a tub of margarine, a bottl
e of ketchup, a small jar of Miracle Whip, and a package of thick-sliced bacon.
If this is all he has to eat, he probably will come home often.
As Claire closed the refrigerator door, her gaze alighted on the slender gold chain on her right wrist. A poignant smile curved her mouth. Dakota had used his hard-earned savings to buy the bracelet for her for Christmas a few years ago. Like it was yesterday, she could see the way his blue eyes lit up with excitement and anticipation as she’d opened the unexpected gift. She’d had him put it on her wrist right then, watching as he fumbled with the clasp, and she’d rarely taken it off since. The bracelet was lovely, of course, but the reason she wore it always was because it came from Dakota, because she knew what he’d sacrificed to give it to her.
Now, over four years later, he still didn’t have that fancy stereo system he’d once wanted. He continued to do things for others instead of for himself.
She glanced across the room. Her son was kneeling on the floor, transferring folded clothes from a box into drawers built into the wall. She wondered what she’d done to deserve a child like him. She’d certainly made countless mistakes in her role as mother. But despite them, Dakota had grown into an incredible young man. Loving and honest and selfless. A man of integrity and honor.
Completely unlike his father.
The thought caused her eyes to narrow as she pressed her lips into an unhappy line. Only last week, Alana Moncur had told Claire she needed to get over her ex-husband.
“There are more good men in the world like Jack and Dakota than bad apples like Dave,” she’d said. “You’ve made a fine art out of male-bashing, Claire Conway, and you know it. Some marriages don’t work out. So get over it and get on with your life. It’s been eight years, for crying out loud.”
She knew her friend was right, but knowing and doing were two different things. Her feelings toward Dave were like an old pair of jeans — frayed around the edges but familiar and hard to throw out.
What am I going to do with myself now that Dakota’s gone from home?
An empty life lay before her like a deserted stretch of highway across the plains of Wyoming.
Sara doubled over at the waist, allowing her long mane of hair to almost touch the ground. Then she captured it into a ponytail high on her head. As she straightened, she told her tennis partner, “Let’s cream ‘em.”
Vince Lewis grinned wickedly. “You got it.”
Every Saturday morning, Sara and Vince met Joyce and Chuck Carruthers at the tennis club for a friendly, if heated, match. The four of them enjoyed the good-natured competition as well as the exercise; their games were filled with plenty of laughter and teasing.
But they all liked to win, and no one more than Sara. Last week, she and Vince had lost to the married couple. She didn’t want a repeat this week.
She got her wish. She and Vince were in fine form, playing flawlessly throughout the match. It was one of their easiest wins since they’d paired up four months before.
After the game, Sara showered in the locker room, then met Vince in the lounge area of the club.
He kissed her lightly on the lips before asking, “Where for lunch today?”
She named her favorite bistro in a little out-of-the-way place north of Denver.
“Sounds good to me.” He took hold of her arm. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
She smiled, thinking how happy she was. She liked Vince a lot, and she wondered if their relationship would deepen and grow. She thought it might. They seemed perfect for each other. The two of them had met when he had come to install a new computer system in Sara’s department at work, and he’d asked her out before the installation was complete.
The best part of their relationship was discovering how many things they had in common. His folks had a ranch near Cheyenne, and he’d grown up riding horses. They both liked the outdoors, playing tennis, and going for long walks. Each enjoyed reading, although Sara’s taste ran to romances and Vince’s to thrillers. Their favorite date was a movie and a late dinner, then talking into the wee hours of the night while drinking cup after cup of decaffeinated coffee. And while Vince would have obviously liked their relationship to move in a more physically intimate direction, he hadn’t pressed when Sara made it clear she wasn’t ready for the same.
With the wind from the open window causing her damp ponytail to flap against her shoulders, Sara turned toward Vince. “My folks want me to come home for a visit next month. Eli’s baby is going to be christened on the tenth. They said you’re welcome to come too. Interested?”
“If I could swing the time off work, I would be.” He glanced quickly in her direction, then back at the road. “You think I’m up to meeting your folks, your brothers and their wives, and all those nieces and nephews?”
“I think you could handle it.”
“I guess I could.”
They continued the drive in silence, Sara’s thoughts drifting to her family.
All her brothers were married now, and each had given their parents at least one grandchild. Josh and Fiona had celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary in March. Their son, Ron, had turned three the same month. Their daughter, Theresa, would be a year old in July. And the couple thought Fiona might be pregnant again, although it was still a bit early to know for certain. Tim and Darlene had been married over three years now. Their daughter, Becca, was a year old, and Darlene was expecting twins in October. Eli had married Myrna two years ago come August. Their first child, Randy, had arrived last month.
Surreptitiously, Sara glanced once again toward Vince. She wondered if he wanted children. They’d never talked about that, she supposed, because they’d never talked about marriage either. For some reason, they’d both avoided broaching those subjects. Now she wondered why.
Would she want this man to be the father of her children? She thought she might. She would if she fell in love with him. Was she falling in love?
She wished she knew for sure. She wished she trusted herself to know.
Funny how life worked. She’d gotten over Dave Porter years ago. That Christmas Eve day when she’d parked in front of his old house, she’d let go of the heartache. But there was one residual of that disastrous affair that remained unchanged. It wasn’t that she couldn’t trust men — it was that she couldn’t trust her own emotional response to them. She’d had several boyfriends in the past four years. She’d even received a proposal of marriage from one of them. But she hadn’t been able to accept. She hadn’t known for certain if she loved him or not.
“God has the right man in mind for you, honey,” her mother had told her a few weeks ago.
Well, if He knew who the right man was, it would be nice if He’d let her know. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t asked. It wasn’t as if she weren’t trying to hear God’s voice. In fact, in recent months she’d felt an ever-increasing desire to understand more about spiritual things, a yearning to know what God wanted for her and from her.
Her mother had assured her that those who sought the truth would find it. “It isn’t about religion, Sara, or what church you go to. It’s about a personal relationship with God.”
She wasn’t sure she understood what her mother had meant, but she was trying.
Vince pulled into the parking lot next to the Rocky Mountain Bistro, bringing Sara’s attention back to the present. He steered his restored 1968 baby blue Mustang into the last space at the back, far from any opening doors that might scratch the paint job or put a dent in the side of his beloved automobile.
“I think I’m in the mood for some of their world-famous meatloaf and hand-mashed potatoes with gravy,” he told Sara. “How about you?”
She laughed, her more serious thoughts evaporating for the moment. “The health nuts at the club would faint dead away if they heard you.” She reached for the door. “And meatloaf and mashed potatoes sound good to me. Down with vegetarians!”
NINETEEN
John leaned over on his right hip and sta
red at the sofa cushion. “Hey, Dakota. You’ve either got a spring about to pop through or there’s a gremlin living in this thing.”
“Very funny.” Dakota handed his friend a mug of strong, black coffee. “What do you expect for fifteen bucks? Besides, didn’t you notice that it’s the same olive green as the shag carpet and the drapes? That means my apartment is color coordinated. That’s real uptown, man.”
“Hurray for you.”
Dakota grinned as he sat on the floor, stretching his legs out before him, his back against the wall. Michael W. Smith’s “I Will Be Here for You” played on the boom box, the volume turned low.
“So, how’s your mom doing with this move of yours?” John asked, all joking aside.
“It hasn’t been easy.” He shook his head. “I’ve always come first with her, especially after it was just the two of us. I think she’s feeling at loose ends. Not knowing what to do with herself.”
“Too bad she won’t start coming to church with you. From what I hear, Sunrise has got a great singles group for people her age. She’d probably enjoy the fellowship if she’d give it a try.”
“Yeah, but she won’t go. I’ve told her about it. Not for her, she says.”
“Keep praying for her. It’ll happen one day.”
He nodded. He believed God never failed to answer prayers. It was simply hard to wait sometimes.
Unlike a lot of other kids, Dakota and his mom had remained close, even during the toughest of his teen years, even when he’d been so angry with the world at large and his dad in particular. He loved his mother. One of his greatest desires was to be able to share this most important part of his life with her. They’d always been able to talk about anything. But she didn’t let him talk to her about God. She cut him off whenever he tried.
The jangle of the telephone interrupted his contemplation. He went to answer it, figuring it must be his mom calling. She knew he was always up early on a Sunday morning. And she was the only other person who knew his phone number besides John.
The Forgiving Hour Page 12