Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Rodewald
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9978508-0-2
Red Rose Bouquet
Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Rodewald
All rights reserved.
ISBN:978-0-9978508-0-2
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles, without the prior written consent of the author.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
Edited by Dori Harrell of Breakout Editing
Roseanna White Designs, www.RoseannaWhiteDesigns.com
Images from www.Shutterstock.com
Author photo by Larisa O’Brien Photography
Published by Rooted Publishing
McCook, NE 69001
Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
All other Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
~1~
~2~
~3~
~4~
~5~
~6~
~7~
~8~
~9~
~10~
~11~
~12~
~13~
~14~
~15~
~16~
~17~
~18~
~19~
~20~
~21~
~22~
~23~
~24~
~25~
~26~
~27~
~28~
~29~
~30~
~31~
~32~
~33~
Dear Reader,
Note from Sydna Masse
So that I might learn compassion.
“I want you to know you can hold my hand.”
I looked up to the woman, confused. “Why?”
After a long, maybe meaningful look, the woman shrugged and turned away.
“Will it hurt?”
No answer.
“What about later?”
With her back still turned, the woman spoke. “You’ll never have to think about it again.”
~1~
Cheryl stared at the affidavit in front of her. She couldn’t see the words written on the document. Instead, Andrew’s handwritten letter—who did that anymore?—floated before her mind.
Please, please forgive me.
Those words had branded themselves into her psyche, and she couldn’t banish them. Why would he write her? During the months they’d been together, she had never been anything more significant to him than a beauty on his arm—or in his bed. Never. In the beginning, he’d shown signs of being a more decent human being. He’d been nice to her cat, had felt guilty when one of his clients wasn’t anywhere in the region of innocent and he had to defend him anyway. But those little blips had proven to be merely white flakes of snow on an otherwise black heart. They melted, absorbed into the darkness, and left the unobstructed truth.
And the truth was he, like all the others she’d been with, was not a good man.
Horrible people didn’t beg for forgiveness though.
Her eyebrows pinched together as her head continued to pound. She hadn’t heard from him in two years, and it wasn’t even like he had a reason to apologize. What was he going to gain? He was married. To her—the hometown sweetheart from his childhood, whom she’d been forced to meet on her last trip to Denver.
Did his wife know he’d sent the letter?
Cheryl’s eyes slid shut, and the rest of the words written by Andrew’s hand scrawled before her vision.
I have no excuse, Cheryl. I behaved horrible, treated you terribly. I have asked God to forgive me for everything I did to you, to others, and for the rebellion I’ve waged against Him, and He has given me grace upon grace. But I know that I hurt you—I saw it in your eyes the day you told me good-bye. Please forgive me.
Was his letter part of a twelve-step program? Rehab required such things.
Her chest tightened as hard anger curled its hostile grip. She didn’t want to be part of a checklist. And besides, if God had forgiven him, then why bother asking her? Didn’t God trump? What was he talking about anyway? Andrew was an atheist.
Her hands covered her face as she rubbed her eyebrows. None of this mattered at the moment. She was sitting at her desk with a mountain of work that wasn’t getting done.
If Andrew wanted her forgiveness, he was in for disappointment. She didn’t have time to deal with it. He was a lawyer too. Surely he’d understand.
She scrubbed her face one more time, making a mental note to check a mirror before she left her office, and refocused on the testimony before her.
When I came in, I found the woman on the stairway, her clothes torn…
Cheryl’s stomach turned sour and hot. Even after ten years of prosecuting the bad guys, every despicable account like this ignited fire in her gut. She’d been able to convince herself, back in prelaw school, that she’d make a difference and that it would matter.
She had lived in a fairy world—shattered first by a man who’d shown himself to be as blackhearted as Andrew, and then by the despicable realities of human nature. This world was ugly, and no one knew it better than she.
Case in point. The perpetrator in the criminal case she was working on would walk. Guaranteed. The account she was reading was the DA’s only solid piece of evidence, and it had been rendered by a convicted felon—a questionable witness whose past cast him into serious doubt because of a very probable agenda against the defendant. Every other shred of evidence the police had been able to scavenge was circumstantial. Worthless.
Didn’t matter if she believed every word of her client’s story—that the woman had been attacked by her boyfriend while he was stoned out of his head, raped, and then tossed down the cement stairway and left for dead. Only what she could prove mattered—and that wasn’t much.
Head once again in her hands, she groaned.
This job. This life.
This everything.
Her throat swelled, and unwelcome hot liquid pushed against her eyelids.
She couldn’t do it anymore.
~*~
Brock sliced the water with the aluminum oar and pushed, his solid stroke sending the kayak into the current. The cool mountain air from the crisp May morning filled his lungs. The kids would be up from the city by ten, and he’d need to be on hand to help unload the bus, but for what was left of the early morning, he had the Yampa River to himself.
The water slithered through the valley with deep S curves and a current whose gentle surface belied the strength beneath. He couldn’t check out mentally, but he could relax as he prepared for another week. A week full of eight- to twelve-year-old kids, of hiking, fishing, campfires, and goofy camp songs. Who would have guessed the hometown snowboard-cross star would end up a full-time youth camp director? Not him. He’d lived for thrills, which had made the races attractive in the first place, and he’d lived for himself. Right up until Mexico went and undid everything he’d ever been sure about.
Praise God. Even if there was some pain with that one.
Coming home had been good. And finding himself in t
he offering to others hadn’t a parallel. Not on the slopes. Not in fame.
Even with that, sometimes the praising God part was harder than others. The snowboarding dream wasn’t the toughest to turn loose of. Kayla…well, she was a whole different story. It wasn’t fair that he still thought about her. She’d found herself another rising star, and that was that. Pictures printed within the pages of Sports Illustrated drove the point in solid.
At least the dude hadn’t shattered Brock’s record. Yet.
Things not worth thinking about. Brock had an hour’s worth of river to paddle before he’d need to port and call it a day. Or a morning. Time that would be better spent praying over the kids he’d take charge of for the week—for their safety and for their hearts. Not time to waste feeding bitterness.
His heart would be just fine. No thanks to Kayla.
When I was small, I always thought what you did was amazing. Rock climbing? Pretty awesome. I never took into account how risky it was, how fearless you were. And how reckless.
After, though… I never told anyone how angry I was. At you, because I needed a mother and you weren’t there. I guess I figured I’d get over it, especially since it wasn’t right for me to be mad.
I never did.
~2~
Therefore, it has become essential that I resign…
Cheryl stared at the cursor flashing against the words she’d typed. Essential? That might be a little overstated. She was good at her job. Not many women had accomplished what she had in the criminal trial world or had lasted quite so long. Sheer determination had propelled her—she wasn’t going to be a statistic in her profession. And she needed to offer something to the Great Judge…
She’d stepped into a world of the profoundly ugly. Wicked hearts, twisted systems. It had helped that she’d mastered stone-cold indifference before she’d graduated law school. A necessity. Not just for her career, but for every part of her life.
All things considered, she should feel proud. Except she wasn’t truly successful.
She was a survivor—in life and in her profession—but that was all. Surviving wasn’t the same thing as succeeding.
The familiar tension gathered in between her shoulders and gripped the back of her neck. Next, the strain would move up to the base of her skull, and from there…
Her headaches had been unmanageable. Stupid doctors. Surely there was something they hadn’t tried. Something different they could do.
Sleep. Dr. Reef said consistent sleep would help. Easier said than done, even with the horrible numbing pills he’d prescribed. She’d stopped taking them. All the medication had really accomplished was to lock her in the hazy world of semiconsciousness, holding her hostage to the terrors that tortured her in the place of dreams.
She’d take migraines over those nightmares every time.
Blinking, Cheryl pushed away her spiraling thoughts. Time to decide: resign or not to resign. Quit fingering the issue and grip a choice.
What should she do?
She could go into civil law. It was easier to transition from a criminal to a civil practice than the other way around, and she’d known a couple lawyers who had done it. That would get her out of the district attorney’s office and maybe away from the scum of the earth.
A flash of some daytime courtroom show passed through her mind—programs she’d avoided since law school. Away from scum? Maybe not.
There were other things she could do. Didn’t have to be law related.
She scanned her condo. Clean, modern, minimalist in decorating style. Expensive. Not extravagant, because she was a public prosecutor, not a private-practice senior partner at some big, fancy firm. Not like Andrew had been. Money wasn’t dripping out of her faucet. But she did pretty well, even at that. Going back to school, finding a different vocation, would cost her a steady paycheck. Even if she found a place half the size and half as nice, rent would still be expensive in LA. What else could she do that would allow her to keep up with the life she’d worked for? Not to mention her bargain with God.
If she was to quit law, how could she even try to appease the Great Wrath?
The cell sitting next to her laptop buzzed its rhythmic alarm, signaling an incoming call. Turning it face up, the caller ID spelled out Ethan.
He called maybe twice a year. It wasn’t her birthday, and Christmas was over six months away. What could her brother want?
“Hello?”
“Hey, sis. How are you?”
He didn’t really want to know. “I’m good. I’m fairly busy though. What’s up?”
“Always busy.”
The pause felt like a silent rebuke.
“Yes. Well…” Her voice became crisp. Ethan knew nothing of her world, and they both preferred it that way. He had no business calling out her lies. “That’s my life, E. I’ve got about two minutes before I need to go.”
“Fine. I’ll make it snappy, Sherbert.”
Her teeth set on edge as she closed her eyes in a harsh scowl. Holdovers from her childhood just about sent her screaming. There wasn’t any going back to those days, so remembering them was a waste of time and emotion. However, scolding Ethan would only extend this conversation.
“Here’s the short of it,” Ethan continued. “Nana needs help, and I can’t do it full time anymore. You need to come back.”
No. Absolutely not. “I have a job here. A life. That’s not an option.”
“No, Cheryl. It’s not optional. Time to grow up, quit chasing whatever it is you’ve been chasing the past ten years, and take on some real responsibility. You owe Nana that.”
Quit chasing things? He was one to talk. Mister dropped out of college three times before he finally got an associate’s degree, because he couldn’t concentrate on anything other than girls, slopes, and pot. Yeah. He was totally one for a lecture.
But Nana…
“Time to come home, Cheryl.”
Home? The small town of Hayden hadn’t been home for a very long time. She’d made sure of it.
Her eyes moved from the computer she’d been staring blankly at to the letter still sitting open on the other side of the desk. Andrew’s. That would be ironic.
He’d be floored to discover she’d grown up in the Colorado mountains too.
“Cheryl, I mean it. We need you to come back.”
“What’s wrong with Nana?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, kid.”
Vague answers always hinted a lie. Ethan’s track record supported that suspicion. But if something was actually wrong with Nana…
She scanned the letter she’d been composing. Resignation. Maybe that wasn’t necessary. A leave of absence due to family affairs. That was legit. And it would get her out of a decision for the moment.
So, she’d go back. Even if Hayden wasn’t home—and she intended to keep it that way.
~*~
Steam swirled over the mirror as Brock towel dried his shaggy head. Twenty-six kids, ranging in ages from eight through twelve, were settling in the cabins scattered along the curved drive beyond his grandpa’s home. No, it was Brock’s home now. Still hard to grasp. Gramps had died so suddenly, and his leaving the ranch house and fifty acres solely to Brock had been equally unexpected.
But blessed. Even the timing, as emotional as it had been, had been of God. If Gramps had died even a year before, the house and land would have gone to auction, because Brock hadn’t yet grown up. God does, in fact, know what He’s doing, even in the hard things.
Good to remember. Because going out with the boys tonight wasn’t on Brock’s can’t wait to happen list. Not for a bachelor’s party. How had E landed a girl like Brandi anyway? He was the wild child of the West; she was the cultured sweetheart of the South. Two more different people couldn’t have picked each other if they’d been blindfolded, given a dart, spun around, and told to fire.
Huh. That was basically dating in a nutshell. Take a shot and hope you hit a winner. Not good odds.
Brock ha
d hit a gold digger. Or a fame seeker, more aptly put. What did that song say about drawing the queen of diamonds? Yeah, she’d beat you, for sure. Or leave you the second you decided a more humble life might be your calling.
A growl curled from Brock’s throat. What was with this resurgence of bitterness today? Let it go, dude.
Besides, Ethan was happy. Finally. A good friend would be stoked for his childhood pal.
Stoked. Yep, totally stoked to go out and party with the boys.
Brock tugged on a pair of dark-blue jeans and slid a thermal shirt over his head. Good enough for a bachy in Hayden. After a quick check in the mirror, he slid his feet into his boots and headed out the door. He stopped at Cammy’s living quarters, his on-site cook-slash-stand-in-grandma, to let her know he’d be out for the night and then pointed his Bronco down the one-lane drive toward town. The cabins, all six of them, illuminated in his headlights as he approached and passed each one. A sense of purpose and satisfaction billowed in his chest. He met his own eyes in the rearview mirror and grinned. Okay, so the past may have had some bumps, but this—this—was worth it.
Eight mud-slathered vehicles—five of them trucks—gathered in front of the Hi Way Bar & Restaurant in downtown Hayden. The gang’s all here. And not one of the guys would have wagered they’d be at this kind of gathering for Ethan. His best friend had moved from girl to girl, then woman to woman since puberty. No kidding. Who’d have thought?
God does work miracles.
Brock snorted a laugh and then prayed for Ethan and Brandi with his next thoughts. Because really, all marriages that made a go of life were miracles. Two naturally selfish people pledging to live for one another for the rest of their lives, come good or bad? That’d take an act of God to see it through. He knew. Not that he’d made that pledge, but still…
Brock passed through the heavy wood front door, and the horn that sounded like it belonged in an arena rather than a sports bar blared above his head.
“Hey!” Ethan stood from his stool at the bar and threw up his hand. “There he is! My best man, last guy to the party. Go figure that. Can’t even blame it on the slopes anymore.”
Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2) Page 1