by Myra Johnson
“Natalie, you have a phone call.”
She almost jumped out of her skin. Catching her breath, she jerked her head up to see her assistant standing beside the desk. The girl had an uncanny way of sneaking up on cat's feet and startling the life out of her.
“Deannie Garner, how many times do I have to tell you? Knock before you come into my office. We do have an intercom system, you know.” It was a lot less intrusive than the girl's untimely personal appearances.
Deannie's lips curled into an innocent smile. “I keep forgetting. Sorry.” She gave her flame-red curls a toss. “Anyway, it's Mr. Craunauer from The Apple Cart, and he's ranting like a maniac.”
“Now what's wrong?” Mr. Craunauer was a stickler for details, and considering what he paid for their professional services, Natalie agreed he had every right to be. A lump of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.
Deannie shrugged. “I couldn't get anything out of him. He'll only talk to you.”
Natalie saved and closed the newsletter file and then jotted herself a quick note to phone Pastor Mayer. She steeled herself as she picked up the phone. “Mr. Craunauer, good morning.”
“Christmas is less than two weeks away, Ms. Pearce. I expected those flyers to be in my customers' mailboxes long before now. Sales are dying on the vine. Time is money. The early bird catches the worm!”
She cringed at the clichés and adopted her most placating tone. “This is an extremely busy time for us, as you can imagine. The entire staff is working overtime to keep up with all our clients. If you'll wait just a moment, I'll find out exactly where things stand.”
She pressed the hold button and turned to Deannie. “What's the status of his order? Please don't tell me it hasn't gone out yet.”
“I think Uncle Jeff finally got it printed and folded late yesterday,” the girl answered with a naïve smile.
The hard lump in Natalie's stomach swelled to boulder-size. Mr. Craunauer had given the ad copy his final approval early last week, and Natalie had immediately turned it over to Jeff for printing and mailing. She pressed two fingers of each hand to her throbbing forehead. “The flyers should have been at the post office days ago. What happened?”
Deannie rolled her eyes. “Like my uncle tells me anything?”
“Then go find out, please.”
With a steadying breath she picked up the phone, assuring Mr. Craunauer she'd have an answer for him momentarily. Just then Deannie rushed in, breathing hard. As she started to speak, Natalie made a shushing sound.
Deannie continued in a whisper. “Everything's cool. Alan and Bill are loading the van for a run to the post office. The Apple Cart flyers are in that batch.”
Natalie crumpled in her chair. Not good enough! The flyers were stamped for bulk rate, as Mr. Craunauer had originally requested. If they had gone out on schedule, there wouldn't be a problem. But today was cutting it far too close for the Apple Cart Christmas promotion. Bulk mail delivery was notoriously unpredictable.
As Mr. Craunauer's litany of complaints continued in her left ear, Natalie covered the mouthpiece. “Stop the van! Have them leave Mr. Craunauer's order here.”
Deannie gave a confused shrug and spun on her heel.
“Yes, Mr. Craunauer, I understand,” she said, returning to the conversation. “Your flyers will be mailed today, I promise, and we'll foot the bill for first-class postage. Your customers will receive them before the weekend.”
So much for making a profit. Suppressing a tremor of annoyance, she apologized once again for the mix-up and told the partially mollified shop owner good-bye.
She'd barely steadied her nerves after the unsettling conversation when she looked up to see Deannie standing in the doorway, a stack of Apple Cart flyers in her arms.
“You won't believe this,” Deannie said, “not in a million years.”
“What?” Natalie rose slowly, everything in her rebelling against whatever new disaster she read in her assistant's face.
“I was kind of thumbing through them and … ” Deannie spread the flyers on Natalie's desk and then folded her arms across her waist.
Natalie lifted an eyebrow and edged closer. With a professional eye she scanned the copy on the top flyer:
THE APPLE CART
The place to shop
when only the very best will do.
Order your gift baskets …
Select fresh Florida oranges … delicious apples …
assortment of candies and baked goods made right here
in our spotless Appaloosa kitchens.
Her mouth dropped open. “Appaloosa! It's supposed to say 'Apple Cart.' I know I typed 'Apple Cart.' “ She stabbed at her computer keyboard, entering the password to bring up the Apple Cart file.
There it was, Appaloosa, staring at her from the screen in bold Clarendon typeface. But Mr. Craunauer himself had approved the copy. What went wrong?
Natalie sank into her chair, numb with shock. No time for self-recrimination. She had to make the correction, order another printing, and get the flyers in the mail before she permanently lost Mr. Craunauer's business to the bigger, flashier franchise printing company in Putnam.
Long after midnight, Natalie sank into bed, too exhausted to sleep. It had taken the entire day and everyone's help, but the mistake had been corrected and new pre-addressed flyers were printed, this time with first-class postage imprints. At exactly 4:49 P.M. Natalie slammed her trunk closed on two boxes of flyers and began a mad dash to the post office before it closed.
Jeff would fume for weeks about how much her mistake had cost the company, and of course, it would come out of her salary. As much as she wanted to, she somehow doubted she could fall back on her agreement to hire Deannie as a means of deflecting Jeff's wrath.
On the other hand, if Natalie even suspected the girl had anything to do with the delay—or even worse, the proofreading error—it would be a different story. But Natalie and everyone else in the office remained especially cautious about giving the boss's bungling, underachieving niece any task involving more than miniscule responsibility.
No, she thought, tossing and turning through another sleepless night, she couldn't come up with a single shred of evidence to pin the Apple Cart fiasco on Deannie. Still, for the life of her, she could not comprehend how she had made such a glaring typographical error—much less how it had slipped past not only her proofreaders, but also Mr. Craunauer himself. She couldn't even imagine Mr. Craunauer's reaction had the flyers gone out last week on schedule without anyone catching the mistake. She could only chalk it up to everyone's general state of distraction caused by the Christmas rush.
“Appaloosa, indeed.” She stumbled to the bathroom for some ibuprofen to stem a fatigue-induced headache before crawling back under the covers.
Too soon, the blare of the clock radio stirred her from a fitful dream. She thrust out her hand to silence the music and lay perfectly still, willing herself to return to that state of dreamy half-sleep. Slowly, the images floated upward through her mind: Windy in the pasture, her mother's hair morphing into a sable paintbrush. Then something about Daniel pushing Lissa in an apple cart. Only Lissa was still a cuddly, smiling baby, not the impulsive teenager she'd become. And starlight. She remembered bright stars in the dream, and a full, shimmering moon, the iridescent light illuminating … what?
She strained to recapture the image, feeling as if it must be real, as if she should remember something. For a fleeting moment she glimpsed a mental image of her father's barn—the immaculate tack room … the brimming storage closet. Something appeared out of place, but she couldn't make sense of what it was. The vision slipped away, this time irretrievable.
Natalie shoved the covers aside, felt around with her feet for her slippers, staggered to the bathroom, and flipped on the light switch. While she waited for her eyes to adjust to the sudden glare, the phone rang. Still squinting, she stumbled to the bedside table. “Hello?”
“Nat, it's me. She's run away again.”
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br /> 10
Daniel stood in the middle of his cluttered apartment kitchen and gripped the phone. He pressed his eyelids shut. It sickened him to make this call. Natalie would hold him responsible, and she probably had every right, considering his questionable parenting skills lately.
“Daniel?” Natalie's voice sounded sleep-drugged.
“Did you hear what I said? Lissa's gone again. When I went to wake her for school, she wasn't in her room.” He leaned against the refrigerator. A mixed array of magnets holding photos, reminders, and shopping lists dug into his shoulder blades. Unfortunately, unless he overlooked it, none of the magnets held a note from his daughter.
“What do you mean, she's gone? You were supposed to take care of her!”
He stood erect with a shiver that wasn't entirely from the coolness of the refrigerator door. “I can't get through to her anymore. You know how she's been. Ever since she turned thirteen, it's like talking to a brick wall.”
“No, I don't know how she's been, remember? I hardly see her anymore.”
Suddenly, his frustration got the better of him. Words poured from his mouth before he could stop himself. “And whose fault is that, Natalie? Lissa needs her mother, but you've buried yourself completely in your work for months now. You're the one who hasn't been there for her.” For either of us.
“Oh, like you are?” Her pain and anger stabbed at him through the phone line. “Lissa's had two working parents since the day she was born. At least I was home in the evenings, not gallivanting all over the countryside with a bunch of smelly middle-school jocks.”
The well-aimed barb hurt more than he expected. Clawing stiff fingers through his hair, he caught his harried reflection in the black glass of the microwave door.
“Okay.” He spoke slowly, forcing a calm he didn't feel. “So maybe we both have a few things to learn in the parenting department. Can't we just focus on Lissa?”
Natalie didn't speak for several moments. Daniel listened to her rapid breathing. Finally, sounding more rational, she said, “Let me call Dad. Maybe this is a replay of last time.”
“I doubt she'd try that again. She knows the farm is the first place we'd look.”
“Okay, where do we start?”
He pushed a stack of mail off one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. “Actually, maybe I've jumped the gun. This could be another stunt to get our attention, so maybe we don't need to panic just yet.”
“Oh, so now 'we' aren't going to panic, are we?” Natalie's voice again dripped sarcasm. “And why on earth would Lissa think pulling another disappearing act has any chance of getting us back together?”
He wanted to say their getting back together was all Lissa lived and breathed lately, that if Natalie only paid a little more attention, it would be obvious how much Lissa was hurting— how much he was hurting.
The silence stretched between them, until Natalie burst out, “So what's the deal, Pearce? Has Mr. Head-Coach-Wannabe been too busy with his work to keep up with what's happening in his daughter's life? How many résumés did you send out this week?”
He flinched as though she had slapped him. “Stop it, okay? We can fight on our own time. This is about Lissa, not us.”
“All right, I'm sorry.” Remorse took the biting edge off Natalie's tone. “I just get so crazy when she pulls stunts like this.”
“Yeah, me too.” He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows and tried to clear his thoughts. “I'll start making the rounds here in Putnam, and you get busy in Fawn Ridge. Between the two of us we can hit all her friends' homes in both towns and any other likely spots where she might hide out.”
“I'll make a few calls before I leave for the office.”
Daniel felt his restraint slipping again. “Our daughter's missing and you're going in to work?”
“I can't be away from the print shop today. Things are too hectic. I've got to keep up with business.”
“Your only business right now should be your daughter. Call if you find her. I'll do the same.” He slammed down the receiver.
He finished dressing, forgetting about breakfast completely. His chin bore stray stubbly patches and a couple of scrapes from a slapdash rendezvous with his razor. He slid one arm into the sleeve of his red Panthers jacket and grabbed his canvas briefcase from the kitchen table. Juggling his car keys and cell phone, he stormed out the door and took the stairs at a run.
Jamming the Bronco into reverse, he played through all the possible reasons Lissa would choose now to disappear. Had she overheard his phone conversation with Coach Arnell? If so, he could only imagine what might be going through her head. Yeah, she'd hate the idea of having to change schools. Any normal kid would feel that way.
But Daniel's real fear went much deeper. Lissa would never forgive him or Natalie if she so much as suspected her parents' marriage was over.
His jaw muscles bunched. He should never have agreed to the Langston interview in the first place. How could he consider a position in another city when his life was in chaos? It would be insane to make that serious a decision until things were settled between him and Natalie, one way or another.
Whatever happened, he had to be certain Lissa could survive the adjustment. After she ran away last summer, he'd taken her to their pastor several times for counseling. Sometimes it seemed to help—mostly not. At least it kept her talking.
If only Natalie would talk to someone, if only she'd continued attending the stroke survivor meetings with her dad. But he hadn't even seen her at church in months. On top of everything else, had she given up on God?
He'd fought the truth as long as he could; maybe no one could help Natalie but herself. Lissa deserved at least one sane parent who could walk with her through the emotional upheaval of her grandmother's illness and her parents' divorce. With or without Natalie, Daniel had to salvage his family.
Now, if he could only track down his daughter!
Natalie stood under the shower for several long minutes. The hot, needle-like spray nipped at her shoulders while the rising steam enveloped her in a fog as thick as the myriad thoughts wrestling for attention.
Lissa, where are you? What are you up to?
Daniel had to be right. This must be another of Lissa's ploys to reunite them as a family. Natalie still remembered the heartbreak in Lissa's eyes when they first told her they were separating.
Okay, maybe she could have held their marriage together. Maybe she could have tried harder for Lissa's sake. But for so long, it felt as if Daniel didn't even attempt to see her side. Every time she tried to make him understand her feelings about letting Mom down, his eyes would glaze over. If her own husband couldn't deal with her emotions—the man who had taken vows to love her for better or worse, in case he'd forgotten—whom could she trust?
At least Dr. Sirpless hadn't called her crazy or told her to snap out of it. Digging through the debris of her guilt took its toll, but knowing Dr. Sirpless was only a phone call away helped Natalie feel more secure. Dr. Sirpless was the safety net under Natalie's emotional tightrope.
She turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Much as she hated to admit it, Daniel was right about one thing. She had become a workaholic. Working late became a convenient excuse when Dad and Hart pleaded with her to “just drop by” the convalescent home.
“Spend a few minutes with Mom,” Hart would beg. “She needs to see you, Rosy. You need to see her.”
But she couldn't do it anymore. She couldn't see her mother that way, trapped in the tangled web of a stroke-ravaged brain. Her unspoken prayer for her mother to die peacefully in her sleep only compounded her guilt, making her hate herself even more than she already did. Yet in her desperate attempt to protect herself from more grief, Natalie had shut out everyone she loved.
The beveled edge of the bathroom counter cut into her palms as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She leaned toward the steam-fogged image. Oh, God, what am I going to do? Somehow she had to put in at least twelve hours at
the office today, or they'd never catch up by Christmas. The clients they'd worked so hard to gain would take their business back to Putnam.
How could Lissa do this to them again, now of all times? Natalie's complaint echoed accusingly through her mind and brought her up short. How could she be so selfish? How had her priorities gone so far wrong?
While her one-cup coffeemaker spit the strong brew into a black-rimmed travel mug, she vowed to inform Jeff as soon as she got to the office that she would have to put the day's projects on hold until she located her daughter. At the shop, she parked near the rear entrance and had just stepped out of her car when Deannie rushed over.
“Natalie, thank goodness. I tried to catch you at home but you'd already left, and your cell must be turned off.”
Natalie snatched the phone from her purse. The screen returned her blank stare. “I guess my battery's dead. What is it, Deannie?” Remembering Lissa, her heart lurched. “Did Daniel call? Did he find Lissa?” She couldn't wait to hug her daughter, and she promised God she would try everything to repair their relationship if Lissa would just come home.
“Uh, no.” Deannie gave her a confused look. Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my goodness, is Lissa missing? That's terrible! Have you called the cops? Did you check with—”
The momentary splash of hope dissipated like the light snowflakes melting on the hood of her car. Natalie laid a gloved hand against the girl's fluttering lips. “It's under control, don't worry. I'm about to make some calls.” Her voice carried more assurance than she felt. She locked her car and started toward the building.
Deannie's mincing, high-heeled boots sounded on the pavement behind her. “But what I was going to tell you—it's kind of important too.”
What else could possibly go wrong today? Exasperation snatched away what little peace of mind Natalie had reclaimed. She whirled around. “Do you not understand that nothing short of a nuclear attack could take precedence over my missing child?” She wouldn't even think about how long it had taken her to realize this for herself. Then she apologized for snapping. “I'm sorry, Deannie. It's not your fault.”