And being in her darkroom, her refuge, helped Rachel remember who she was. Not the Rachel who had become a stranger to herself and everyone around her, but Rachel the artist, the friend, the good daughter, the girl who loved her family, who missed her mother. Then she allowed herself to remember the last time she was in the darkroom, her last evening with her mom. She replayed the events like a rerun in her mind—making dinner, planning a photo shoot of an old barn, finishing a roll of film so she could reload for the next day—
The roll of film! Come on, Mom, strike a pose, she had teased as her mom stirred a pot of spaghetti and laughed. Rachel willed herself to remember what she had done with the film. She had to find it. Retracing her steps in her mind, she closed her hand around the imaginary film canister. She’d walked downstairs to the darkroom. What did she do with it? She scanned the work area. The timer. She had set it beside the timer. She examined the counter, and there it was, exactly where she had left it, still waiting for her. Rachel held the canister like a priceless gem, her last moments with her mom. Then skill took over. She grabbed the developing tank and started the process, in search of a masterpiece.
It was early evening, but Sam had already showered and surrendered the day. He lay in bed with the remote in his hand and the game on TV, forcing himself to think about nothing, literally. For the moment, he wanted the most pressing event in his life to be the 3-2 count and the runner on third. As the pitcher began his windup, Rachel entered the room.
“What you doing, Dad?”
Sam patted a spot on the bed beside him. “Awww, come on.” His hand swatted the air as he coached the pitcher. “For twenty million bucks you can’t throw a strike?”
Rachel scooted in next to him. “Chill, Dad. The Cardinals are winning by five runs.”
Sam nudged his elbow into her side, pretending to push her off the edge. As she flailed to catch her balance, something in her hand caught Sam’s attention. He grabbed it playfully.
“Dad!” Rachel reached to snatch it back, but he was too quick.
“What do we have here?” He smirked as he held it out of her reach. But when his eyes settled on the paper in his hands, his mischievous demeanor faded. He studied the image. His pulse quickened, yet a calmness washed over him. “This is good. He nodded slowly. “Really good.”
Rachel picked at a thread on the hem of her t-shirt, her lips pressed together in a slight smile.
“I haven’t seen this one before.” He bent forward trying to see her face, but she remained preoccupied with the loose thread.
She bit her lip and peeked at him. “I just developed it.”
“You did?” The surprise was so sudden that Sam failed to mask it. So Rachel had returned to her darkroom. A weight shifted inside him, allowing his lungs to expand more freely. He smiled at her and then admired the photo again. “When did you take this? She looks so . . . happy.”
When Rachel didn’t respond right away, Sam turned toward her. Tears pooled in her eyes, glistening in the glow from the TV.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’m okay.” She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “Remember that night, when Mom cooked dinner before leaving to show the house? I was at the end of a roll of film and wanted to reload new film, so I snapped a few pictures of her.” She took the picture from Sam. “She was happy, wasn’t she?”
An abrupt bounce on the bed interrupted the conversation. A second bounce landed Olivia straddling Sam’s chest. She leaned down, and touched her nose to his. “Hi, Daddy.” Sam’s fingers found her ribs and skillfully counted each one until her squeals reached an octave human ears could not endure.
While gasping for air between giggles, Olivia pointed to the picture in Rachel’s hands. “Hey, what’s that?”
Rachel turned the picture toward Olivia. Sam admired it again. The delight in Maggie’s smile, the soft laugh lines around her eyes, the precise moment Rachel captured with the lens. He was pulled into the photograph.
“Oh, look how pretty Mommy is.” Olivia’s giggles stopped as her fingers touched the image of her mother’s face. “Daddy, will Mommy be an angel in Heaven?”
Sam, cautious not to upset Rachel, glanced at her for approval. She shrugged.
“I don’t know, Olivia.” Sam cupped both of her hands in his. “I’m not sure what Heaven is like.”
“Oh, I do, Daddy. And it’s so beautiful, like the most beautifullest you can think. Mommy told me.”
Sam didn’t reply. Instead, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs, allowing the moment to settle his soul.
“Daddy,” Oliva whispered, “Mommy loves us.”
With his eyes still closed, he whispered back. “We love her, too.”
“Dad?”
The question in Rachel’s voice compelled Sam to look at her.
“Is she here?”
The doubt she had clung to, the hurt, had been replaced. Did he see hope? Gently, Sam nodded, studying Rachel’s face, still guarded for a possible retaliation. But she didn’t strike.
“How do you know?”
“Close your eyes, Rachel.” He waited. “Now breathe in. Breathe deep.” Sam lay still and counted her breaths. Finally, on the third one, she looked at him.
“It’s like—” Slowly she smiled. “How she smelled when she tucked me in at night.”
And for the first time since Maggie’s death, Sam was certain in this moment his family was whole. But the moment didn’t last.
“Daddy,” Olivia whispered, “Mommy should go to Heaven.”
Sam recognized by now that Olivia’s words delivered Maggie’s message. He put his arms around his girls and pulled them both close. A familiar fear, panic, threatened to surface, but he fought for control. He pressed his face close to Rachel’s and kissed the side of her cheek. Then he leaned into Olivia and whispered into her blonde curls. “Is it okay for Mommy to go?” Olivia nodded and snuggled closer.
Sam’s throat tried to strangle any words that attempted to escape, but he forced them out anyway. “Thank you, Mags, for waiting.”
Maggie stood beside her bed where her family lay entangled, secure. She brushed the back of her hand against Olivia’s tender cheek. So precious. Then she ran her fingers through Rachel’s hair, and for the first time since her return, her daughter received her affection. As Maggie gazed at Sam, she wondered if she had ever loved him as much as she did in this moment. She leaned down and rested her lips on his forehead. As she breathed him in, she closed her eyes and a familiar sensation slowly passed through her, leaving her weightless. In the distance, she could hear the melodic symphony created by the rain shower of diamonds in the lavender place. Maggie sensed that when she opened her eyes, she would no longer be in her bedroom with Olivia and Rachel and Sam. But was she ready? She reached for Olivia one last time. She ran her fingers down Rachel’s cheek. With her lips still pressed against Sam, she whispered, “I will always love you.”
Slowly, Maggie opened her eyes and watched the lavender horizon rise up and surround her. In the distance a figure approached. She waved and smiled when he started to run, his blonde messy hair falling into his eyes. When the little boy reached her, he was out of breath, laughing. He rested, bent over with his hands on his knees, looking up at Maggie.
“Hi. I’m Nate. You prayed for me.”
Maggie’s smile grew. “Yes, Nate, I did.”
He caught his breath and stood up. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He reached for Maggie’s hand and tugged.
“Come on. He can’t wait to meet you!”
CHAPTER 30
Sam sat in Maggie’s chair, uncomfortable, maybe from the tie he hadn’t worn in months, or maybe from the expression he imagined on Pastor Rob’s face when Sam darkened the doorway this morning. The one, he could do something about. He loosened the knot and decided no tie. The other? Rob and church were a package deal, so Sam decided he’d have to give the guy a chance.
He held Maggie’s journal and brushed his fingers across the inscription: “If nothing eve
r changed. . . .” How much had changed in seven months—Maggie, his job, Rachel, the B&B. But most of all, Sam. He couldn’t name it, but somehow he was a better version of himself, closer to the man he wanted to be for Maggie. Yet he found little satisfaction in that, only regret. He was too late. He flipped the pages of the journal he had become so familiar with. He had read every page, every word, and he knew Maggie better now than ever. He loved her now, like he should have loved her before, and although he would never get to tell her, Sam hoped she knew.
He wondered if Maggie knew he was sitting there, waiting for the girls to get ready, regretting all the excuses he gave for not going to church with her.
“Funny how things work out, Mags.” Sam’s voice was quiet. “You look back and wonder how you missed it.”
You look back and wonder how you missed it. The words sounded familiar, significant somehow. Was it a line from a movie? Lyrics to an old song? He couldn’t place them, then—
The bartender. What was her name? Rita? Trixie? Roxy. That was it. Sam remembered the day he walked into her bar. It seemed like decades ago. God is at work, Roxy told him, but Sam wouldn’t see it if he didn’t know what to look for. Now Sam heard her voice as if she were standing in his room. But one day you’ll look back. . . .
One thing he could not deny: life’s recent events had been strategically manipulated like chess pieces in threat of checkmate, and Sam wasn’t the one controlling the board. Looking back, he could see that now. He marveled at the conversation he and Roxy could have. Maybe, Sam decided, he needed a tall glass of raspberry ice tea.
Sam rubbed his hand across the cover of the journal. Its words had become his lifeline, his connection to Maggie. How he longed to feel her again. He thumbed through the pages, but all he sensed now was the weight of the journal in his hands. As he closed the back cover, a page caught his attention. He thought he had read them all; he was certain he had. How had he missed that one, isolated at the end of the journal? He opened the back cover and found the date. Yesterday? The handwriting was too familiar. Sam was baffled, stunned, elated. His eyes wanted to rush across the words, absorb them desperately, so he could cling to every trace of Maggie he could grasp. But his heart was reluctant. Last night when he accepted that the—grace period—was ending, the emptiness rushed in suddenly, too soon. But here, in this final journal entry, Maggie had created one last instant for them to share. He wanted to preserve this moment, this fraction of Maggie that still existed in future tense.
Sam, my love.
He caressed the letters with his fingertips and imagined Maggie writing, speaking, the words. He remembered his late night monologues, lying alone, unsure if his voice delivered any meaning. How many times he yearned for Maggie to say something, just one word, so he would know his words were not abandoned in the empty air. And now, she had. He could resist no longer.
I broke our promise, the one we made our last night together when I confessed my biggest fear was losing one of the girls. We promised to keep our girls safe and healthy and happy—together. But I left you alone. I’m so sorry. Now, my biggest fear is not being able to raise Rachel and Olivia. I don’t get to finish being their mom. But I know they will be okay. Because they have you. Thank you for learning to love them the way two wounded girls need their daddy to love them. Thank you for loving me—through my journal, through sharing your thoughts and regrets and fears, and through becoming who you are. I don’t want to leave, but it’s time, and now I can because you are the husband and father who, in our brokenness, makes our family complete. Tell the girls each night when you tuck them in, they are, and will always be, my world. And remind yourself every day how completely I love you—and always will. I promise. Mags
Sam pressed his palm to the page, protecting the words as if they would evaporate. “I promise, too, Mags.”
Rachel stepped into the doorway. Olivia pushed her way past and posed for Sam.
“Am I a princess, Daddy?”
Sam admired Olivia’s ponytails and dimpled cheeks. Then he studied Rachel. She had her mother’s brown hair, the same green eyes. The touch of make-up she wore reminded him she wasn’t his little girl anymore.
“You are both beautiful.”
Olivia curtseyed and then twirled in place.
Rachel clapped for her little sister and smiled at Sam. “Are you ready?”
Sam closed the journal and laid it in its place, lightly touching the butterfly imprinted on the cover.
“Yes.” He returned her smile. “I’m ready.”
THE END
Dear Friend,
Of the millions of books you could have chosen, you picked mine. Thank you for reading Waiting for Butterflies and for giving life to the words within its pages, because without you—the reader—my story would remain bound between book covers, meaningless.
I hope Maggie and her family have touched you in some way and that, even though you have reached THE END, the story stays with you for a while. If so, it would be my pleasure to invite you back to Cape Spring when my “works in progress” are published.
If you would like to continue with me on my writing journey, please visit my website and sign up for my newsletter. For a more personal connection, find me on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Goodreads or follow my blog, The MOM Journey. Even better, email me. I would love to hear from you! Or if you’re in a book club or reading group, let’s Skype.
When I started writing this book, the idea that it would find its way into a reader’s hands was a far-away dream. But now, here you are, holding my book, making my dream a reality. Thank you.
May all your butterflies be blessings!
Karen
karensargentbooks.com
karensargentbooks.com/blog
[email protected]
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
For Book Clubs & Reading Groups
1. What is the meaning of the title Waiting for Butterflies? Who or what is a butterfly in the story? Is there more than one butterfly?
2. In Chapters 1-3 the Blake family seems almost perfect. What evidence hints at flaws in the family? How do the flaws contribute to the downward spiral Sam and Rachel experience after Maggie’s death?
3. Olivia’s character is not as developed as Maggie, Sam, or Rachel. How is her character important to the story? Is she necessary?
4. Maggie’s state of existence as a “lingering spirit” is an obstacle as she helplessly witnesses Rachel’s dangerous choices. How does a mother who is physically present experience similar obstacles?
5. What is your reaction to the bartender Roxy? Can she do the work of Jesus as she claims? Why or why not?
6. What is your reaction to Gary? Were you surprised? Was his character believable? If not, what made it hard for you to believe?
7. After Rachel is rescued, Maggie realizes it is Sam, not her, that had to rescue Rachel. Why is this necessary for Maggie? For Sam? For Rachel?
8. In what ways is Sam redeemed? How does he change throughout the story? How does the Hitching house symbolize Sam’s redemption?
9. In Chapter 1, Sam promises Maggie they will keep the girls “safe and healthy and happy—together.” Is the promise fulfilled?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If only the depth of my gratitude could be expressed in words . . .
Rusty Sargent and Anna-Marie Beard, you heard the first whispers of my dream to write a book. You believed I could, and then you made me believe it, too.
And when I did, my first readers challenged my storyline, questioned my characters, and cried in the right places. Anna-Marie Beard, Thea Hitchings, Susie Hill, Michelle Swane, Vicki Brunk, Toni Erpenbach, Maggie Wallace, and Don Barzowski, thank you for being part of my story.
Thank you, Bryan Mills, for helping me navigate the biblical controversy in my book, and Gary Hill for guiding the renovation of the Hitching house.
To Amphorae Publishing Group & Walrus Publish-ing—Donna Essner and Lisa Miller, thank you for loving Waiting for
Butterflies enough to take a chance on a debut author and put my book into print. Kristina Blank Makansi, your editing expertise made Butterflies a better story and me a better writer. You are angels for answering my questions, welcoming my opinions, tolerating my pickiness, and approving the cover.
The cover! Heidi Wharton, your photographer’s eye made it possible. Ashley and Ricky Turnbough, your Briar made it precious. Kinsley Stocum, you made it a masterpiece. Thanks to each of you for creating a work of heart.
When I am busy writing, sometimes I forget I’m a wife and a mom . . . but that’s easy to do when no one complains. Rusty, Kelli, and Randi—someday I’m going to cook again, wash dishes again, and binge watch TV with you. Thank you for giving me the gift of time, so I could write.
Motherhood is a significant theme in Butterflies. I learned about being a mom by first being a daughter. Thank you, Mom.
My grandparents, Gaston and Carmel Lucchese, taught me something about work ethic and accomplishment. Nobody would be more proud of this book than them, except maybe my Aunt Barb, who was here for the beginning.
And finally, to all my students throughout the past two decades who allowed me to teach them to read great literature and to express themselves in writing—teaching you taught me how to write a book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen Sargent creates characters whose imperfect faith collides with real-life conflicts, taking readers on a journey through grace and redemption to discover enduring hope. A romantic element is woven within each story. In addition to writing inspirational novels, she blogs at The MOM Journey. Her writing has been featured in Guidepost’s Angels on Earth magazine and on ForEveryMom.com and ModernSimplicity.org. When she is not writing, she teaches high school and college English. A graduate of Southeast Missouri State University, she resides in the beautiful Arcadia Valley with her husband and two daughters. Visit her at karensargentbooks.com.
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