by Irene Hannon
She could still make an excuse and leave, Cara assured herself. No one could force her to attend services. But as the first chords of the organ echoed in the quiet air, her resolve wavered. She wanted to go back to church. She’d missed it with an intensity that had surprised her. And who better to clear the way than the dynamo beside her? She had a feeling Marge would stick to her like glue, smoothing out any rough spots.
Giving up the fight, Cara stepped out of the car and locked it.
“Now, that’s something you don’t have to worry about here.” Marge chuckled as she linked her arm with Cara’s. “There’s no lawbreaking to speak of in Oak Hill. Dale Lewis, our sheriff, sees to that. And Abby Warner, the editor of the Gazette, is a real crusader against crime and injustice. Between the two of them, we’re in good hands.”
By the time Marge finished speaking, she and Cara were halfway down the center aisle of the church, the older woman’s arm still linked with hers. Alone, Cara would have been uncomfortable with the curious glances aimed her way. But Marge’s presence served as a balm to her nerves. And after they slipped into a pew and the service began, Cara’s tension eased. There was an almost tangible spirit in the congregation that she found comforting, and the words of Scripture proclaimed from the pulpit stirred her soul, as they always did. Marge’s assessment of Reverend Andrews was also accurate. He seemed like a nice man, and Cara found his quiet, unassuming preaching style appealing.
When Marge once more commandeered her arm after the last hymn had been sung, Cara didn’t panic. She was relaxed and more than willing to join the older woman for the coffee hour.
The spacious hall downstairs was already filled with chatter and laughter when they stepped inside. Marge worked the room with the polish of a politician, leading Cara from group to group, lingering long enough to exchange a few pleasantries before disengaging to head for the next cluster of people. Cara allowed herself to be guided around the hall, admiring Marge’s consummate skill.
Cara met the famous Gus, a bald, rotund gent who looked as if he’d eaten a few too many of his own fried specials. Sheriff Dale Lewis, with his charming blond-haired daughter, Jenna, in tow, took her hand in a firm grip, his steel-blue eyes softening in welcome. Abby Warner seemed too young to be the crusading journalist Marge had described, but her smile was warm and welcoming. Reverend Andrews, with his open, pleasant face, invited her back for future services.
It wasn’t difficult to deflect the discreet questions that were directed her way, and Cara felt as if she learned far more than she revealed. Including quite a bit about the townsfolk’s perception of Sam. While he was liked and respected, it was clear from various comments that he kept to himself.
“Such a nice man. A bit of a loner, but a great doctor,” one older man told her.
“We were happy to get him. Excellent credentials. Too bad he keeps to himself. Must be a lonely life.” This from a young woman with a toddler clinging to her leg.
“I was so surprised when I heard you were coming,” another woman remarked. “Dr. Martin never talks about his past. We saw his wedding ring, of course, but we thought he might be a widower.”
While Cara was grateful that Marge kept them on the move, eliminating the possibility of any in-depth discussions, she wouldn’t have minded following up on some of those remarks with a few questions of her own. But Marge had other plans. She seemed determined to introduce Cara to every single person in the church hall.
When they’d completed their circuit, ending up back by the door, Cara took a deep breath and smiled at the older woman. “Wow. That was amazing. Have you ever considered running for mayor?”
The suggestion seemed to appall Marge. “I don’t want any part of politics. It’s a messy business. Besides, the inn and my chamber of commerce work keep me plenty busy. I already get up with the chickens to cook breakfast for my guests. I sure don’t want to be gadding about at night from one civic meeting to another, pushing an agenda and glad-handing. It’s early to bed for me.”
“So the inn doesn’t serve dinner?”
Her comment had been nothing more than small talk, but a caution flag sprang up in Cara’s mind when a sudden, speculative expression narrowed Marge’s eyes.
“Goodness, no. I’m not a chef. Breakfast taxes my skills to the limit. But if I could find someone who was interested in taking that on, dinner might not be a bad idea. Oak Hill could benefit from a classy restaurant. The inn, too. It would draw people from miles around.” Marge tilted her head and regarded Cara. “You aren’t by any chance between jobs, are you?”
“No. I’m on temporary leave.” Cara emphasized the word temporary. Feeling as if she’d opened a can of worms, and deciding that a fast exit was in order, she checked her watch. “I ought to get home. I expect Sam will be back soon.” Not that it mattered. They had no plans to do anything together. But Marge didn’t need to know that.
“Of course.” She patted Cara’s arm. “I think having you around will be good for Dr. Martin. He could use a little lightening up. I know big-city doctors move people in and out fast, but folks here expect to chat a little, like they did with old Doc Adams. He always took the time to talk, to let people know he cared, and everybody loved him for it. You might want to pass that on to Dr. Martin while you’re here, you two still being friendly and all.”
As Sam had told Cara the first night, describing their relationship as friendly stretched the truth. But again, Marge didn’t need to know that. “I don’t have a whole lot of influence,” she demurred.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe more than you think. If Dr. Martin didn’t care what you thought, I doubt he would have spent hours painting that room or scouring the countryside for the perfect antique dresser.”
“He painted the room himself?” Cara stared at Marge.
“Yes. I have it on good authority from Fred at the hardware store, where Dr. Martin bought the supplies. And Lacey Johnson at the antique store in Hanson’s Grove told me that Sam stopped in to look at dressers. Spent two hours inspecting the merchandise before he settled on one.”
Too surprised to respond, Cara continued to gape at Marge.
“Still waters run deep, you know. The trick is finding a way to tap into them.” Marge chuckled and patted her arm. “You take care now, Cara. And I’ll be in touch. I want to think about that restaurant idea.”
As Cara exited the church hall and wandered back to her car, she realized that not once in the past two hours had she experienced even the hint of a panic attack. Thanks to Marge, who’d stuck close…and given her plenty to think about. Plus, she felt better than she had in weeks. Her self-imposed isolation in Philadelphia had helped her cope with the trauma of the shooting, but she wasn’t by nature a solitary person. She liked people, was energized by new places and experiences. And today she’d taken a first step back into the world.
She’d also learned a few things about Sam. It didn’t surprise her that he was having a problem adjusting to small-town family practice, given his poor communication skills. Once, in the early days of their relationship, Cara had thought he was learning to come out of his shell, to open up. She couldn’t have married him if he hadn’t. Though there had been a spark between them from their first meeting, she’d known that chemistry alone wouldn’t be enough to sustain a relationship over the long term. There had to be a connection at other levels as well—spiritual, emotional and intellectual.
And there had been, in the beginning. Difficult as it had been for him, Sam had found the courage to open his heart and trust her. To share his dreams, his hopes, his successes—as well as his disappointments and failures. That was when she’d fallen in love with him, when attraction had blossomed into something far deeper and more lasting.
But as their careers had taken off and ambition mushroomed, the closeness they’d developed ebbed away. And their rift had been compounded by Sam’s anger and bitterness after the attack. Cara had withdrawn, and Sam had…
No. She wasn’t going to go the
re, Cara admonished herself as she climbed into her car and headed back toward the house. It was ancient history. The past couldn’t be changed.
Yet people could, she acknowledged, considering the apparent changes in Sam—the very changes she’d once hoped time and reflection would trigger. Gone was the hard edge of arrogance, along with his cynicism and bitterness. He seemed to have at last accepted the hand he’d been dealt and was doing his best to make the transition from surgeon to family practitioner. No matter her personal feelings toward him, she respected him for trying.
Had she met Sam now, Cara mused, she might once again be drawn to him. He’d shown her nothing but kindness and consideration since her arrival, offering her an appealing glimpse of the man he’d once been, back in the days when their love was new and filled with promise. When she’d believed that her devotion would draw out the very best in the man to whom she’d entrusted her heart.
She’d been wrong about that.
Ironically, however, it seemed adversity had succeeded where she had failed.
As Cara parked beside the garage and walked toward the back porch, that conclusion was reinforced. Sam stood by the railing, a screwdriver in his hand, an uncertain smile hovering around his lips.
“My porch needed some furnishing, and I remembered that you once told me a house wasn’t complete without a porch swing. I figured this might be a good addition.”
Cara had no trouble recalling that conversation. But the fact that Sam remembered it astounded her. Speechless, she peeked around him to the swing he’d hung.
“Why don’t you take the inaugural ride?”
Forcing her legs to carry her forward, she covered the distance between them. As she scooted onto the wooden slats that formed the seat, Sam moved behind her and gave a gentle push.
The steady, smooth rhythm was a balm for her unsettled nerves. Clutching her Bible in her lap, she closed her eyes, letting the warm morning breeze caress her face.
“Looks like it gets the stamp of approval.”
Her eyelids flickered open. Sam had moved to the porch railing and was leaning against one of the support beams. The tender look in his eyes stole the breath from Cara’s lungs. “It’s perfect. Just like the one I had when I was growing up.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He stuck the screwdriver in his pocket and gestured toward her Bible. “I didn’t expect you to venture out to church already.”
She ran a finger over the worn cover. “I almost didn’t make it. I got as far as the parking lot and decided to come back.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Marge appeared at my window. The next thing I knew, she had me by the arm and we were walking down the aisle.”
“That sounds like Marge.” A chuckle rumbled deep in Sam’s chest. “I hope I have half her energy when I’m her age. How was the service?”
“Good. I felt much more peaceful afterward. You ought to try it sometime.”
“I just might do that.”
His response surprised her, but he pushed away from the wooden column and turned toward the house before she could speak. “Enjoy the rest of the day while you can. We’re supposed to get a storm later.”
Watching the door shut behind him, Cara recalled a comment Marge had made at church. Still waters run deep. That phrase had always applied to her husband, Cara acknowledged. His actions since her arrival in Oak Hill demonstrated that, suggesting that he still cared. That he wanted to make amends. That he regretted what he’d done to destroy their marriage.
Yet he hadn’t spoken the words. And true communication involved both words and deeds. Whether he could overcome that problem remained to be seen.
But what if he did? What if he told her he was sorry? Asked her for another chance to prove his love? Promised to make things right? What then?
The answers to those questions eluded Cara. Besides, even if that scenario came true, there were formidable obstacles to a reunion. And the biggest one, she knew, lay in her.
How did one forgive betrayal?
The weight of the Bible in her hands reminded her that she had to look no further than Jesus for an answer to that question. As He’d hung on the cross, an innocent man unjustly accused, he’d forgiven His unrepentant killers and asked His Father to do the same. Shouldn’t it be far easier to forgive a husband who expressed remorse and was eager to mend the rift? Yet it wasn’t.
So much for being a good Christian, Cara conceded.
Running her fingers over the smooth oak boards of the swing as she moved back and forth, Cara wondered if she was reading too much into Sam’s kindness. Maybe he was motivated by guilt over the pain he’d caused her. Maybe he considered her interlude at his house his penance, and he had no interest in getting back together on a permanent basis. For all she knew, he was dating again.
Yet, in her heart, Cara didn’t think so. Sam had never been a womanizer. Once they’d become serious, he’d admitted to her that until she’d come along, he’d had to rely on well-meaning acquaintances to arrange dates. And she doubted that had changed. In a town the size of Oak Hill, most people would know if he was seeing someone. And she’d have heard about it today. Instead, people thought of Sam as a loner—and lonely.
Cara knew all about being lonely. And she also knew that loneliness wasn’t reason enough to consider reconnecting with someone who had caused her heartache—even if the man was interested. And repentant.
No, a reconciliation would have to be motivated by a lot more than that.
But even if it was, a reunion would still be far too risky.
Chapter Seven
For the first time since her arrival in Oak Hill, Cara had trouble sleeping. Sam’s earlier prediction that bad weather was on the way turned out to be accurate, and flashes of lightning followed by house-shaking booms of thunder had been disrupting her sleep for almost an hour. Bleary-eyed, she squinted at the digital display on the clock radio on her nightstand. Two in the morning.
Resigned to wakefulness, at least until the storm abated, Cara replayed the events of the day in her mind. Following their short exchange on the porch, Cara hadn’t seen much of Sam. She had no idea what his usual Sunday routine consisted of, but today he’d stayed sequestered in his office while she’d put the porch swing to good use, enjoying a gripping suspense novel.
Dinner had been his incentive to emerge and, during the meal, he’d attempted to engage her in conversation, keeping things light as he did every night. The awkwardness of the situation was difficult to overcome, but she admired him for trying. And as he’d done each evening they’d dined together, he’d insisted on cleaning up. Another first in their relationship.
The changes in Sam continued to impress Cara. While the low point in their marriage—that fateful night in the movie theater parking lot—had destroyed Cara’s trust and hopes of salvaging their relationship, it seemed to have been a turning point for him.
She’d only been in Oak Hill a week, however, and their contact had been limited. Anyone could be nice for a few days. Sustaining that kindness and consideration week after week, month after month, year after year, was the true test of love. One they’d failed in the past.
And Cara had no confidence they’d pass if given a second chance.
The faint ringing of a phone nudged Cara awake. When the storm had at last subsided a little before three, she’d drifted back to sleep. But deep slumber had eluded her, leaving her attuned to the slightest of noises. A ringing phone, however muffled, brought her awake at once.
Halfway into the second ring, the phone went silent, as if it had been snatched from its cradle. Cara listened, alert, as she checked the clock in the darkness. Four-thirty. When she heard nothing more, her eyelids grew heavy. But the sound of a door being softly closed a few minutes later brought her awake again.
Panic gripped her, and Cara scrambled out of bed. Padding over to her door, she eased it open and peered down the hall to find Sam heading for the kitchen. He wore black slacks and a white oxfor
d shirt, and he carried a black bag.
“Sam?”
Her tentative question halted him mid-stride, and he turned. “Sorry to wake you, Cara. I grabbed the phone as fast as I could.”
“Is something wrong?”
“One of my patients has pneumonia, and he won’t let me put him in the hospital. His wife just called to tell me that he’s having difficulty breathing, but he doesn’t want her to call an ambulance. I need to go out there.”
“You make house calls?” Cara stared at him. Doctors didn’t do that anymore, did they?
“Only in emergencies. It doesn’t happen very often.”
“H-how long will you be gone?”
The tremor in Cara’s voice reminded Sam of her fear of being alone in the dark. He couldn’t see her face in the shadows, but her rigid body posture, and her grip on the door, suggested that his departure had stoked those fears.
“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive each way. I’m not sure how long I’ll be there. Would you like to ride along, since you’re awake anyway?” Sam expected Cara to turn him down at once. But to his surprise, she hesitated.
“Wouldn’t your patient think that was pretty odd?”
“You could wait in the car when we get there. It’s warm enough, and the Johnsons live on a farm so there’s nobody around for miles. They don’t need to know you came along.”
Torn, Cara debated. She was safe in Sam’s house. And in less than an hour, it would be light. Yet she couldn’t stem the panic that clutched at her lungs, squeezing the air out of them. The fear was irrational, she knew that. But she also knew that she couldn’t control it. If she stayed home alone, the panic attack could escalate, as had often happened in the past few weeks. Already tired from her restless night, she wasn’t up to dealing with the havoc that it would wreak on her.
“If you’re sure it would be okay, I can be ready in five minutes.”
“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”