by Beth K. Vogt
But before he could even open the file, his sister IM’d him.
Logan, are you there?
Yes.
I have something here that belongs to you.
What?
A package came to my condo—but it’s for you.
Logan abandoned Instant Message and dialed his sister’s number on his phone.
“Hey, big brother.”
“You are not making any sense, Caro.”
“Yes, I am. I’m trying to tell you that a package was mailed to me—but it’s for you.”
He reached for the lasagna again, searching for another heated portion. “See, this is what I mean—”
“I think it’s from Vanessa.”
The microwave dish slipped in his hand, and he juggled it for a few seconds, balancing it against his knee. “Why do you think that?”
“Well, there’s no name on the return address, but it’s from someone in Denver, Colorado. I don’t know anyone else who lives in Denver except Vanessa. And maybe a couple of friends from college.”
“Well, then, it may not be from Vanessa.”
“Logan, it’s addressed to you in care of me.” His sister waited in silence for a few moments. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do with the package?”
His sister asked a very good question.
“I don’t know why Vanessa would be sending me anything.” He debated his answer for a moment. “Go ahead and open it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, it’s either that or you mail it out here to me.” He chuckled, thankful to be able to find a little humor in the situation. “And then you’re going to insist I call you and tell you what she sent me, anyway.”
“That’s the truth.” Caron picked up on his mood change, her voice lightening. “You want to tell me what happened between you two when she was here?”
“No.” Logan stood and paced the length of his living room. “Just open the box, Caron Amelia.”
“Oh-ho. You never call me Caron Amelia—unless you are ticked off at me.”
“Will you open the box, please?”
His sister must have tired of playing with him, because it was silent on her end of the phone. And then Caron announced, “I’m putting the phone on speaker.”
The squeaking sound of tape being peeled off plastic bubble wrap had Logan wincing.
“Logan, it’s . . . it’s one of Mom Mom’s figurines.”
Logan closed his eyes. She hadn’t. He forced himself to ask the question. “A Royal Doulton lady?”
“Yes. I don’t know which one.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
How many had he given to Vanessa while they were dating and married?
“One, two, three . . .” Caron counted out loud. “There are six of them in here.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Wait a minute. What’s this?”
“I can’t see you, Caro. You’re going to have to tell me.” Logan swallowed back the sour taste building in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your mess, even if the box was sent to you.”
“It’s okay, Logan.”
“So what else did you find?”
“It’s a little wooden box. Hold on a second.”
He didn’t have much of a choice.
“Oh, Logan . . .” His sister sounded as if she were trying not to cry. “She sent back your class ring and . . . and . . .”
“What else?”
“Her wedding band.”
He deserved it. He deserved it all. The figurines. The class ring. Even the wedding band.
The phone dropped from his hand. Logan leaned forward on the couch, his arms crossed over his knees, and buried his head on his forearms. His blood thundered in his ears as he fought to breathe.
Vanessa had sent back her wedding band. Her wedding band.
A few moments later, he realized Caron was yelling at him on the phone. He scrabbled to find his cell phone on the floor and slumped back against the couch cushions.
“I’m here.”
“What are you thinking?” His sister’s voice was soft. Gentle.
“Why would she send back her wedding band?”
“Logan, you’re not married anymore.”
His sister’s words stopped him cold.
He had no reason to question Vanessa’s actions. There was no hope of a future—of a relationship—between them. She was returning his gifts—Christmas, birthday, just because—and her wedding band. She wasn’t being cruel by sending back the figurines and the rings. It made sense . . . because she was getting married in just a few months. It was best to get rid of the shards of their broken relationship.
She’d been Vanessa Hollister when he’d met her. And she’d become Vanessa Hollister when they’d married. But once she married Ted, she’d be his wife.
They were done.
TWENTY-EIGHT
You never find yourself until you face the truth.
—PEARL BAILEY (1918–1990), ACTRESS AND SINGER
“Have a seat, Logan.”
After shaking his hand, Frank Morgan, the manager at one of the local television stations, motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. As he settled into the swivel chair, Frank picked up a piece of paper and waved it in front of Logan.
“I’ve got to say, I was surprised to see your résumé come across my desk.”
“You do have a job opening, right?”
“Yes, but not for a storm chaser.”
“I know what job I applied for, Frank.”
“And I know you’re not a weatherman, Logan.”
“I’ve got a degree in meteorology.” Logan held himself still. “I know storms. Give me some time in front of the green screen, and I think—”
“Are you kidding me?” Frank tossed the paper back on the desk. “What’s going on? Your team quit on you or something?”
“I’m not with the Stormmeisters anymore.”
“Why?” Frank held up his hand, stalling Logan’s response. “And don’t tell me you all of a sudden got a hankering to be an on-air meteorologist.”
“You know about last summer’s disaster in Kansas—it was all over the news.”
“So?”
“My recklessness—my stupidity—almost killed one of my teammates.”
“If you’re telling me your team axed you, I’m not going to believe that.”
“I quit.”
“How noble of you.”
“What?” Logan had never imagined the job interview careening out of control like this.
“You were being noble, right? Sacrifice yourself because you made a wrong decision—”
“It’s not like that—”
“Then explain it to me. Explain to me why you’re down here applying for a job at my TV station and not planning for next season.”
“If I stayed on the team, there wouldn’t be a next season. They were threatening to pull our grants.”
Frank leaned forward on his desk. “So you apply for other grants, Logan. You don’t run scared. You don’t quit.”
The man’s words were an invisible blow, shoving Logan back into his seat. “This is turning into quite a job interview.”
“I had no intention of offering you a job, Logan.” The man’s smile held no hint of an apology. “I invited you here out of curiosity.”
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” Logan rose from his seat.
“You have a great reputation among storm chasers, you know that, right? I remember you being interviewed by one of my reporters when you were still in college—starting a storm-chasing team. People thought you were crazy—and you proved ’em wrong.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“I know how the community was rocked by the deaths of Tim Samaras and his son, Paul, and Carl Young back in 2013. It was a heartbreaking tragedy—but you’re still here, Logan. Yes, your team took a hit, but it’s st
ill here. You need to be safe—every storm chaser balances safety versus seeking answers every day.” Frank stood, coming around the desk to face Logan. “I know you’re careful when you’re out there. If you quit now, you walk away from all the work you’ve put into trying to understand tornadoes—trying to predict them, to protect people. I don’t know what you’ll accomplish in this field one day, but we both know what you’ll accomplish if you walk away. Nothing.”
Logan held out his hand. A handshake and he was out of here. “Well, if that’s all—”
“One more thing before you go.” Frank picked up his résumé, tapping the line that read “References on request.” “All those references? They believe in you. In what you’ve done. That’s why they’re willing to put in a good word for you. You think about that.”
• • •
Jules arrived at his apartment first, carrying a huge pot of chili fragrant with spices wrapped in a white and blue towel.
Logan held open the door, stepping back when Julie brushed off his offer of help with a shake of her head.
“Max didn’t come with you?”
“He dropped me off at the curb and then went to park the car. He’ll be here in a sec.”
“That guy treating you okay?”
“No complaints.” Julie’s smile hinted at more than “no complaints.” “Actually he’s been a perfect gentleman.”
“Glad to hear it.” Logan moved the stack of crockery bowls to the side of the table to make room for the chili.
Once Julie set the pot in the middle of the table, she offered him a hug, wrapping him in the brisk scent of the coming snowstorm. “It’s good to see you again, Logan.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Jules.”
“Hey!” Max spoke from the doorway. “You making a move on my girl?”
“My intentions are honorable, I assure you.”
“Sure they are.”
Logan chose not to comment on Max’s brace-free leg and his hop-along pace. It wasn’t time to talk about what happened in Kansas—yet.
Brady entered the apartment, his booming, “Am I late to the party?” not quite hiding the way he didn’t make full eye contact with Logan.
“Nope—just in time. Julie brought the chili, and I’ve got the drinks, chips, and all the fixings.” Logan motioned toward the small dining room. “Why don’t we go ahead and eat?”
He waited until Max and Brady were digging into their second bowls of chili before guiding the conversation away from small talk.
“So, this is great, but I did want to say something to all of you.”
Everyone stopped talking, spoons clattering into dishes.
“I want to say I’m sorry—”
Max cut him off. “No more apologies for the accident, okay, Logan?”
“Let me finish.” Logan sat forward, taking the time to make eye contact with each of his former teammates. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you all about how I was feeling after the accident. How much it upset me. And I’m also sorry I made the decision to leave the team without talking it out with all of you. I’m hoping you can forgive me for going all Lone Ranger like that.”
Jules spoke up without hesitation. “Of course we can.”
Brady spoke next. “Absolutely.”
Max sat silent.
“Say something, man.” Brady spoke from across the table.
“I’m waiting to see what else Logan has to say.”
Of course Max wasn’t making this easy for him.
“I wasn’t completely honest with you about why I left the team.” Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “I was getting calls from some of the people who funded us saying they weren’t sure they’d back us again next year because of the accident. We’d wrecked some pretty pricey equipment.”
“Not surprising they’d be huffing and puffing about the grants.” Brady shrugged off any concern.
“Again, I should have talked it all out with the team.” Logan nodded toward Max. “Max reminded me that we’ve always been ‘one for all and all for one.’ I forgot that. I’m sorry.”
Julie glanced at Max and finally spoke up. “Are you going to say something now?”
“I’m still waiting to hear what else Logan has to say.”
“He’s apologized, Max. What else do you want?”
“I want him to say he’s coming back to the team—what else?”
“Look, I asked you all here for one thing tonight. I needed to clear the air between us and because I wanted to ask you all to forgive me for the way I handled things. It’s not my place to say if I’m coming back on the team—to be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m trying to right some wrongs here, not regain my position with the Stormmeisters.”
“I think we should talk about it as a team—” Julie worked her magic with a few soft-spoken words. “—but before that I think we should pray about it. Remember how we used to do that whenever we had a big decision to make—or when we were heading out after some storms?”
“You’re right, Jules.”
“But before we do—” Max half stood. “—I need to tell you that I’m sorry, boss. I said some things I shouldn’t have—”
“No apologies needed, Max. You had every right to say what you did. I’m glad you spoke up. That’s what teammates—and friends—are for.”
TWENTY-NINE
Faith is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways you may not understand at the time.
—OSWALD CHAMBERS (1874–1917), EVANGELIST
Vanessa settled into the corner of the coffee shop, setting her tall cup of caramel macchiato on the table in front of her. The shop was crowded, the buzz of conversation and piped-in music laced with the strong aroma of coffee. The noise and the nonstop activity provided her more of a chance to fade into the background.
To think.
For a woman who didn’t like looking back over her shoulder—who was all about the future, not the past—she found herself stalled out.
She was divorced. Still single, the destination wedding destroyed like a sand castle washed away by an onslaught of waves. And she was the new girl again, having left the church she and Ted had attended, because, well, it seemed like the courteous thing to do. She could have opted for the this-church-is-big-enough-for-both-of-us route, but it seemed right to leave. To start over. After all, she was good at that.
Her hopes for attending physician assistant school were still nothing more than hopes.
Yes, she and Mindy talked several times a week now, sometimes even Skyping or FaceTiming, but that was about it in terms of friendships. She attended church services on Sundays, but always slipped out as the last song began. Relationships were best this close—and no closer.
Maybe she’d do better at trying to improve her relationship with God.
Vanessa pulled her purchase out of her purse, trailing her fingers across the cover of the journal. There was nothing special about the red soft cover or the white lined pages waiting to be filled with words. Thoughts.
Prayers.
The last time she’d written in a journal she’d been a naïve eighteen-year-old. Unaware that in a few short months she’d marry the boy with the shoulder-length blond hair and the electric-blue eyes who gave her rides home from school on his motorcycle.
And here she was, ten years later. Alone. Still trying to figure out who she was. Where she fit. How to find home.
Her prayers were stilted. Sometimes she felt as if she were only talking out loud to herself. And then there were the nights she dozed off midsentence, worn out from shift work.
Buying the journal was an act of desperation. She could only hope God would bless her attempt to draw closer to him.
God,
I don’t know how you feel about someone writing to you in a journal—especially a grown woman like me.
But I’m failing at the whole prayer-is-just-talking-to-God endeavor. So I thought maybe I could try writing out my thoughts. I don’t mind if you read over
my shoulder.
I’ve always been a keep-moving-forward kind of person (and I apologize for telling you something you already know). I’m not good at relationships—friendships or marriage.
And, to be honest, I blame you for that.
And now that I’ve written that sentence, I want to scratch it out. Take it back. But you’ve already read it—and the truth is, you knew it all along.
I got so tired of moving all the time. Of saying hello . . . and goodbye . . . and never having a lasting friendship . . . and not even Logan stayed with me. Couldn’t you have given me one person who stayed?
Vanessa dropped her pen onto the open pages of the journal.
This was where she should write the words: But I know you were with me the whole time, God.
But she needed to be honest. Start where she was. Trust him to be patient with her.
I didn’t really think about you much back then—and how knowing you, relying on you, would have made a difference during all the moves. All the changes.
But I’d like to get to know you better now. To understand who you are. What a relationship with you looks like.
You know how bad I am with long-term relationships, but I want to try.
I read somewhere in the Bible that you never leave us or forsake us. I’m going to believe that . . . and I’m going to trust you. Be patient with me, please.
THIRTY
Bad is never good until worse happens.
—DANISH PROVERB
BEGINNING OF MARCH 2015
Another day off. And she’d spent it fighting against being stuck in neutral.
Vanessa continued her slow walk around the lake, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, one foot in front of the other. Maybe she could fool herself into thinking she was accomplishing something—moving forward—by taking repeated circuits around the lake. The wind, whisking minuscule snow-flakes about her face, tugged at the collar of her coat, reminding her that she’d left her scarf and gloves at home.
An overwhelming feeling of “Tell me what’s next, God”—tinged with more than a little desperation—had driven her outside. She could have spent the day relaxing. Maybe pulled one of the books from her to-be-read pile. Or she could have decided yes or no on school. And why wasn’t that an easy yes? For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to send her acceptance email to the school, which made no sense at all.