Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  No amount of heroism today could make up for those years of being estranged from her sister.

  Because even if she and Chase could figure this out and get on the same page, Kat was still a factor. A very intimidating, very pregnant factor. She couldn’t lose her sister again. Not for Chase. Not for anyone.

  Especially not for someone who hadn’t chosen her first, but rather, had bailed when it got complicated.

  That made two men now on that list.

  She wandered back into her art room and laid the photos in the basket near her canvas. She’d look at them again in a day or two, with fresh eyes, to make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. But she was very satisfied with the completed bathroom.

  Her mosaic tile project, on the other hand . . . she pulled the box of pieces out once again and settled onto the stool at her workbench. She’d laid a few pieces on a blank canvas flat on the bench, but wasn’t convinced they were in the right place. In fact, she was sure they weren’t.

  She rearranged a few pieces, but the picture didn’t resemble anything at all. Just a mess of broken shards.

  There was nothing beautiful here.

  With a frustrated sigh, she dropped the pieces back into the box. She’d never figure out how the artist who created the mosaic tile woman at the museum had done it. How did one envision such beauty from a mess of brokenness?

  She couldn’t even see it—much less create it.

  She plucked a new shard from the box to try again, a piece of metal she’d found at the Cameo and thought interesting. Then she laid another piece next to it, filling in the spaces with random fragments like a collage.

  Nope. Not working. It still just looked like a canvas full of lost causes.

  She put the pieces back into the box, replaced the lid, and shoved the box away.

  Maybe not everything broken was meant to be beautiful.

  He had wanted to kiss her. But every instinct in his heart had shouted no, every conviction of the Lord had called to wait. To honor. To respect.

  Chase jabbed the punching bag at the fire station and dodged it as it bounced back in his face. He couldn’t fill Stella’s empty places. And in that moment in her car, in the pouring rain, that look in her eyes—that was exactly what she needed him to do. Fill her.

  He refused to contribute to her brokenness. Only God could heal her. Only God could fill the empty places.

  He just wished God would give him a chance to help.

  He pounded the mini-bag again, and for a minute thought he should have brought gloves. But then again, any cracks or fissures in his knuckles would only serve as a much-needed reminder that Stella wasn’t his to fix.

  He punched again.

  “Pretty poor form, cousin.” Ethan joined him in the truck bay, still in his fire department uniform, and grinned, stealing a jab at the bag as Chase paused to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “Very funny.”

  Another uniformed man with Ethan, a taller African American man, chuckled and flashed Chase a row of even white teeth. “Sometimes release is more important. Isn’t that right?”

  “Whatever! What’s this guy got to be stressed about?” Ethan jabbed playfully at Chase’s ribs. “He’s living all but free at my place and eating all my groceries.”

  “Oh so that hundred dollar bill I left you for food the other day was just Monopoly money, huh?” Chase tucked in and dodged Ethan’s attempts at connection, then neatly popped him on the shoulder. “Next time I’ll just leave a ten, then.”

  “Hitting him where it hurts.” The other man laughed. “Chase, I already like you. I’m Darren. But everyone around here calls me Chap.”

  “Ah, the coffee-killer.” Now he remembered; Ethan had mentioned Chap that first day in his apartment, when he’d brewed coffee thick enough to cut with a steak knife. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “My reputation precedes me.” Darren steadied the bag for Chase and held it. “Front center.”

  Chase obeyed, his shoes squeaking against the concrete floor.

  “Left jab.”

  He connected solidly.

  “Right upper cut.”

  The bag let out a satisfying thud.

  Darren eased away from the bag. “Release is important. But so is knowing how to properly channel it.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Instead of tearing down all the hard work he’d put into the Cameo and blowing his fist through fresh Sheetrock. They were starting to paint today, and he needed to get back up there. But Stella had taken over his thoughts to the point where if he didn’t let off some steam soon, he’d end up putting them both exactly where they didn’t need to be.

  Together.

  “Must be a woman.” Darren looked at Ethan, who shrugged.

  “Don’t look at me, Chap. He just lives with me and eats my food.” He nudged Chase playfully to show he was kidding.

  Chase shook him off.

  Ethan started to smirk. “Hey, now. Is it a woman?”

  He didn’t answer, just connected soundly with the bag again.

  “That’s a yes. I speak kickboxing.” Darren slapped Ethan on the shoulder. “Go hook a man of the cloth up with some coffee. How about it?”

  “You could have just said you wanted to talk to Chase alone.” Ethan headed toward the bay doors, then pointed back at Chase. “I’ll water it down for you so you can handle it.”

  Chase shook his head. He loved his cousin, even if joining the fire department had boosted his ego a notch or so too high.

  “He means well. Just doesn’t get it yet—hasn’t ever loved and lost.” Darren held the bag again as Chase continued his workout. “He’ll figure it out soon enough, and then be glad he hung this bag.”

  Exactly. Chase whaled on it again, then stopped to catch his breath. “So, have you?”

  “Loved and lost?” Darren waited for Chase’s confirmation then nodded. “A few times.”

  “Death?”

  “Death. Failed engagements. I’ve seen my share.”

  “But you’re married now.”

  He wiggled his ring finger. “Yes sir.”

  “How’d you get past the failed engagement?”

  “The Lord. His Word. Church.” Darren spread his hands wide. “Those are the easy answers, though they’re true enough. Also friends and family. Realizing I wasn’t alone, didn’t have to carry the pain alone.”

  He’d done all of that while healing from Leah.

  So why the guilt now of even thinking about pushing ahead with Stella? The condemnation that lingered in the wake of their one kiss. And even in the almost-kiss from the other night in the rain.

  He started pounding again. “But you obviously moved on. Married someone else?”

  Darren nodded, the bag slipping from his grip. He readjusted his stance. “Took time.”

  “How much time?”

  He grinned, steadied the bag. “There’s no formula, man. My time line isn’t going to be yours.”

  True enough.

  “I’ll tell you what I told my good friend Lucas, though. Don’t stir up or awaken love until it pleases.”

  He nodded. He’d heard that verse before. Song of Solomon, maybe? He punched again. How did one know when it did please, though? How did anyone ever determine the when of it all without sinning in the process?

  Wait. Lucas?

  Kat’s Lucas?

  He stopped midpunch.

  Darren continued, oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. “I don’t know your story, man, but I’ll listen if you ever want to tell it. That’s why I’m on staff here at the department. To listen. To help. Pray, if you want.”

  Maybe. Chap was a stranger. It felt awkward, but on the other hand, an unbiased opinion might just be what he needed.

  But this was Lucas’s friend? Would he piece any of it together, tell too much to Lucas or Kat too soon? It seemed risky.

  He swallowed the urge to spill his guts, confess it all. “Prayer would be good. For wisdom, and timing. It’s ha
rd to let go of the past, you know?”

  “Oh, I know. Trust me. And I’ll pray for you.” Darren came from around the back of the bag and clapped his hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Just remember one thing for me.”

  “What’s that?” He’d never felt so comfortable with a stranger before. Something about the chaplain just spoke peace and certainty. The man was good at his job, and Chase wasn’t even a fireman. So good, he almost reconsidered his decision not to tell his story.

  But at the price of Kat finding out too soon . . . he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t dredge all that back up, even if she was happily married now. It didn’t seem fair. Not really fair to Stella, either.

  But then again, not much of how he’d treated either sister had ever been fair.

  Darren squeezed his shoulder tighter, as if trying to drill his words directly into Chase. “Whatever is holding you back . . . make sure it’s of the Lord.”

  “How do you do that? How do you know for sure?”

  “What’s the root of it, man? Fear? Guilt? Discouragement?”

  Chase looked down at his hands, rubbed his fingers over his cracked knuckles. Yeah. Basically all of the above. Fear of failing himself, his family. Fear of failing Leah and her memory.

  Guilt over not mourning just a little longer the woman he’d promised to love forever.

  Discouragement that he’d ever be able to run fast enough to catch up to the life he’d intended to have—the life that was stolen from him. Or to outrun the memories that snapped at his heels.

  Darren let go of his arm after another hearty tap. “God doesn’t roll that way, dude. Fear, guilt, discouragement? That’s from the other side of the camp.”

  Chase agreed, in theory. On paper. But his heart and his thoughts remained more jumbled than that. Not so clear-cut. So what was Darren saying—that this was the right time to stir up the old embers of love for Stella? To move forward, to awaken what was put to sleep years ago?

  He looked up, halfway willing to get more specific and actually grab some answers, but at that moment, Ethan burst back into the bay, coffee mugs in hand. “Don’t worry, cousin. I made yours weak.”

  He winked and Darren laughed as Ethan handed Chase his cup. He looked at the dark brown liquid and decided he valued his life too much to even taste it.

  “And here’s yours, Chap. Just the way you like it—unable to be poured.”

  “Perfect.” Darren blew on the top of it and took a sip, then raised his mug in a toast to Chase. “I’ve taught him well.”

  Maybe so.

  And maybe Darren still had more he could teach Chase too.

  Chase took a sip and grimaced. Not as bad as the coffee at the apartment that night with Ethan, but pretty close to it. “How long did you brew this stuff again?”

  Ethan shrugged, taking a long sip of his own coffee. “I don’t know. How long was I gone?”

  Well, that explained it.

  “It’s all about timing, brother.” Darren met Chase’s gaze over Ethan’s head and raised his eyebrows pointedly. “All about knowing how long to wait.”

  He didn’t know if it was a revelation from the Lord, the coffee sludge in his cup, or Darren’s advice—maybe all of it sinking together. But Chase looked at his mug, then back at Darren, and nodded.

  He had his answer.

  Now he’d see if Stella had hers.

  The grave site was exactly the way she’d left it a few weeks ago.

  Stella crouched beside her great-aunt Maggie’s tombstone, pulling the dried purple flowers from the dusty holder and gently wedging the new bouquet of daisies inside.

  “Miss you, Aunt Maggie.” She wasn’t entirely sure if the woman could hear her from heaven, or how all of that worked, but regardless, it felt comforting to come and talk to God, next to the memory of one of the wisest women she knew.

  She missed Aunt Mag’s advice.

  Stella sank into a sitting position in the short grass by the headstone and crossed her legs, the dirt warm beneath her jeans.

  “Hope you’re letting her do some baking up there, Lord.” She plucked a grass blade from the earth and began to shred it into tiny pieces with her fingernail. “She makes a mean cupcake.”

  Not as good as Kat’s gourmet creations, of course, but Aunt Maggie’s cupcakes had always been tried and true classics. Even after she was diagnosed with cancer, she kept baking as long as she could stand up in the warm kitchen. Then Kat had taken a break from her thriving business long enough to make her aunt’s favorite strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate cakes for her upon every request.

  Stella tore the grass into another strip. Aunt Mags would know what to tell her about Chase being back in town. She closed her eyes, wishing she could still hear the woman’s voice, but the more time that had passed since the funeral, the more it faded.

  Stella wrestled another piece of grass from the dirt. “Aunt Maggie knew the whole story, God. About what happened with him and Kat. And between me and Kat after that.” She shuddered, not missing those days for anything. She and Kat had never been close, and one day not too long ago Kat had finally admitted that she had felt invisible in Stella’s beauty queen shadow.

  How little she realized that Stella longed to live up to the potential, maturity, and drive that her older sister always had in spades. Kat never had to prove herself as wise or even just prove herself as an adult. She was never coddled and overly taken care of. She relied on Lucas for a lot of things, but after entering Cupcake Combat, her sister developed a backbone Stella knew had been there all along. It just needed strengthening.

  Funny how that worked out.

  A summer breeze lifted the hair from the back of Stella’s neck and breathed relief across her flushed face. Maybe this situation with Chase would work itself out too. Maybe she was overthinking, overreacting. She just couldn’t stand the thought of things going back to the way they were with Kat those years ago. She was about to become an aunt, for crying out loud. Hardly the time to distance herself from her only sister.

  But maybe she was assuming the worst. She did that a lot after her divorce—expected the negative before it could catch her off guard. Maybe Kat wouldn’t be opposed to Stella pursuing something with Chase after all.

  She should probably just talk to Kat.

  In fact, if she tried, she could almost make out Aunt Maggie’s voice right now, exasperated. “Talk to your sister, girl. Y’all are both grown-ups.” Then she’d probably throw in a wink and add, “And if conversation doesn’t work, a good ol’ fashioned food fight usually does.”

  Wouldn’t that be something? She pictured Kat covered in raspberry lemonade torte icing and smirked. “Good one, Aunt Mags.”

  Then again, there might not be anything to pursue with Chase. She couldn’t figure him out. First the kiss in his truck. Then the kiss she’d offered that he’d rejected in her car, replacing it with a friendly peck on the forehead instead. What did it all mean?

  She waited a moment, listening with God in the silence. If she would just stop and do this kind of listening more often, she’d be a lot less stressed. A lot less passive aggressive. And a lot less insecure.

  But would she be made whole?

  She pulled a new blade of grass from the dirt and opened her palm, letting the wind catch the blade and whisk it away. “What do you think, Aunt Mags?” She waited a beat, wishing she could pull an answer from her memory files of her great-aunt’s wisdom, much of which was shared at her hospice bedside while the cancer raged.

  A lump knotted in her throat, and she forced her whispered words past it. “Do you think anyone is ever too broken to be healed?”

  “Of course not.”

  At the sudden voice behind her, Stella sprang to her feet so fast that she stumbled and fell right back down to the grass. Landed on her own foot. She winced, twisting her ankle free from underneath her. “Dixie?”

  The older lady stepped from the shade of a nearby oak tree and walked toward her. She sat down next to Stella in the d
irt. “Did you find the gold?”

  “The gold?” Stella’s mind raced. “At the Cameo?”

  “Right. The Cameo. The gold.”

  She remembered then, Dixie’s help with her design that had led to the final product, and nodded with a laugh. “Oh, yes. That. Yes, the gold looks great. You’ll have to come see it when it’s done.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  Stella frowned in confusion. “Then why did you ask—”

  “Did He answer the question?”

  “What question? Who?” Somehow, when in Dixie’s presence, all Stella seemed to have were questions.

  “God. That’s who you asked, right?”

  Stella twisted to look back at the tree where the homeless woman had stood. How had Dixie possibly heard her whisper from that far away?

  At this point, she was done even trying to figure it out. Just let Dixie be. There was no harm in it. Stella relaxed her tense shoulders and turned her face up to the sun. “Not yet.” A bird chirped from a tree branch overheard, and she found a measure of the peace she’d been starting to seek before Dixie arrived.

  The woman stretched out her legs, one of her knees popping. She didn’t seem to notice. “I did. I answered.”

  She had, hadn’t she? What had she said before she scared Stella half to death? Her exact question had been, Do you think anyone is ever too broken to be healed?

  A chill skated down the length of her spine, despite the sun heating her bare arms and cheeks as Dixie’s answer sprang to mind. Of course not.

  Dixie tugged the edge of that same old blazer around her middle. “Brokenness is a method.”

  “For what?”

  “God has methods.” She looked Stella straight in the eye, and she seemed almost 100 percent normal. Like talking to one’s grandma over coffee.

  Like talking to Aunt Mags over a bowl of cake batter.

  “He’s in the method business, child.” Dixie pointed to the headstone. “That dash right there? That’s all that matters.”