Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2)

by Jennifer Rodewald

  A quiver shook in her middle. He couldn’t know what he was saying. He definitely did not want her, not in the tender, loyal, intimate way he implied.

  He brushed a kiss against her temple and moved away, taking her hand as he went. Unable to resist, she followed him into the dining hall toward the piano, though her steps drug against the floor.

  The music waited, perched on the ledge and opened to the “Feather Theme.” Unbidden, the melody began in her mind, and her fingers wiggled without her permission.

  It wasn’t fair that he should know her weakness and she shouldn’t know his.

  No. That was stupid. He was a man, and all men had the same weakness.

  He pulled out the bench, and she slid onto it, her fingers brushing the keys. She played the first few chords lightly, tentative, because she was still very much out of practice, but the keys soon became familiar again, and each passing measure led her deeper and deeper into the escape.

  It happened again. Cheryl… The song came back, loosed the chains that bound her soul, and called…

  Come home.

  Ache spread warm and yet almost beautiful in her heart. Home. How much she longed for it. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d thirsted for home. If she could, without going through the agony of that moment all over again, she would go back.

  Eyes closed, she bit the bottom of her lip as two paths parted in her imagination. She could stay on the one she’d been walking for ten years. It stretched long and lonely in a steel gray backdrop. Bleak. The second wound away, curving so that she could not see what was beyond. Narrow and lit only enough to see a few steps ahead, it seemed to dip downward as the curve arced around, but the edges were filled with living color, and the background, though dim, seemed softer.

  She didn’t take chances in life. Not anymore. She maintained control over every aspect of her existence, as much as she could. She wanted to see what was ahead. Except, what was ahead didn’t look very lifelike.

  What if she took a step into the unknown?

  Yeah, she’d done that once. Didn’t go well.

  But there was life on that path…

  In her mind, she nudged a toe onto that imaginary trail. Music played. Sweet, familiar, and warm. Another foot. The music remained. What if…

  Brock sat beside her, pulling her away from the illusion, although the music continued to play.

  “There it is.” He leaned against her, his thumb trailing down her spine. “I knew you’d find it.”

  Find what? She opened her eyes to find his gentle smile and loving gaze fixed on her.

  “We need to figure out how to keep you there.”

  She let her hands drop from the keys. “Where?”

  “In that place where the real you is waiting. The place you just found.”

  He could see through her. Oh God, no. Not all the way through. She couldn’t stand for him to see everything.

  After another trek up and down her back, his hand drifted to her hip and he tugged her closer. “Listen, I’ve had an idea I wanted to run past you.”

  Did it involve fairy tales? Those things weren’t real, and someday they’d both have to deal with that.

  “So, So-J…”

  She stiffened, and the music became discorded. The fairy tale faded.

  If he noticed her reaction, he ignored it. “She’s staying with your brother and Brandi as their foster charge, and last time she was up here she showed a small interest in the piano.”

  “No.” Absolutely not negotiable. Not a chance. Ever.

  “What?”

  “No. I’m not a piano teacher.”

  “You’re not really a lawyer either. Remember? You hate it. But you love music, and it heals. That little girl could really use something that—”

  “So this was your angle.” She stood, grabbing the book as she moved and slammed it onto the top of the piano. “Not me at all, was it?” She pushed out a derisive laugh. “Man, I’ve met some manipulators, but you—”

  “Hold up. Manipulating? Who’s manipulating?”

  She spun on her heel and started for the door. Three steps was all she managed before his hand caught her arm and pulled her back.

  “I told you to stop running. Are you completely unable to maintain a real conversation?”

  “Are you still talking? I said no. I’m not doing it, so forget it.”

  He swallowed, his eyes wide and bewildered. After working his jaw a few times, he blinked, straightening so that he wasn’t leaning in her space. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I want to help.” With one hand on his hip, he pushed the other through his hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

  She pushed out a harsh laugh. “I thought you said I didn’t need fixing.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t figure out who you are. I see the joy and the peace bloom in you when you play. I thought it’d be something you could enjoy and share with a kid whose life has pretty much sucked up until now. But maybe you’re just really all about you.”

  Regret began to billow in her chest, but she pushed it away. He didn’t know what he was asking, and he had no business messing with her life. “Just stop, okay? Stop looking for a woman who isn’t here.” Cheryl stepped forward, looking up at him until his eyes connected with hers. “She’s. Not. Here.”

  Oh, that look. Like she’d just killed his hopes and dreams, broke his heart.

  She stepped away before it could undo her.

  That was what she got for trying to go home.

  ~*~

  Brock stood with his gaze locked on the vacant door Cheryl had just stormed through. What on earth had just happened? It had seemed perfect. Cheryl loved to play, and she was so good at it. And So-J…she’d need something to really ground her here, something of her own. He’d seen her plunk out chopsticks, which didn’t say all that much, because kids did that all the time, but lessons seemed like something worth exploring. Especially since So-J and Brandi were not bonding well.

  The last thing he’d expected was Cheryl’s fury over the simple request.

  And why’d she keep accusing him of trying to fix her? He just wanted her to be happy, to come back from whatever dark hole she’d been stuck in for the past ten years. It wasn’t wrong to want to see her come back to life.

  Sighing, he turned back to the piano, tipping his face toward the ceiling. “You’re going to have to move here, you know. I don’t have a clue what to do, and I keep messing this up.”

  Silence drifted from the rafters. Perfect. He dropped back onto the piano bench, still warm where Cheryl had sat. With his fists pushed together, he leaned his forehead against his knuckles.

  “God, please help. This is too hard.”

  ~21~

  The theme music to Dr. Quinn greeted Cheryl as she passed through the front door. Ten thirty. Nana should have been in bed. She certainly would have known not to wait up for her. Unless Brock had called…

  Great. He probably had, and Nana was probably up pacing, wondering what Cheryl had done with the two hours between when she’d left the ranch and finally made it back to Nana’s.

  Just a drive. That was all. She needed the speed, the cold night wind slapping her in the face as she wove through the abandoned mountain roads to the west. Nothing to be upset about.

  Still, she should have called to let Nana know. Now the woman would be exhausted in the morning. Maybe Cheryl could convince her to close the bakery. On a Friday. For the first time ever.

  Not likely.

  Sighing, Cheryl dropped her floppy purse onto the table beside the door and moved for the front room. “Nana, what are—”

  Her heart stopped.

  Oh God, please…

  “Nana!” Cheryl darted to the couch where her grandmother lay in an awkward position, her face tilted up as if she were gasping for air.

  Except there was no gasping. Or breathing.

  “No!” She fumbled with the cold, limp arm nearest her, searching for a pulse. “No! Nana! Wake up!”
<
br />   Yanking on the unresponsive arm, Cheryl continued to shout. God, how could you let this happen?

  What was she thinking, going off and leaving Nana alone? She shouldn’t have gone…

  Cheryl found herself on her knees, trembling, pleading with Nana to wake up.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late. An ambulance… Yes, that was what she needed to do. She almost fell over the coffee table as she scrambled across the floor toward her purse. Paramedics. They’d come. They’d bring those heart-shocker panel things—what were those called again? Who cared? They’d get here in time. They had to get here in time…

  The emergency operator answered, set the EMTs in motion, and talked Cheryl through what to do while she waited.

  And then she had to wait. She crawled, tears rolling over her cheeks, back toward her grandmother.

  What would she do without Nana? She couldn’t lose her now.

  God, I can’t find my way back without her. Please, God…

  It was too late though. Nana continued to stare through lifeless eyes. Despair crashed over Cheryl.

  She’d never be able to come home.

  ~*~

  Brock clenched his jaw as he scanned the group. The cemetery seemed overcrowded. Not a resident in Hayden hadn’t known Nana Grace, and most of them called her exactly that. Most would have welcomed that kind of tribute to their loved one, but he doubted Cheryl did.

  Standing on the green hillside with the sun hovering over the peaks in the background, the moment had a flavor of déjà vu. Especially when he glanced to the woman standing at a distance to his right. She stood stiffly, eyes focused on nothing in particular, lifeless and dry.

  This was how Sherbert handled grief. Locked down, stone cold, and cut off. Years ago, her reaction pushed him away as much as it made him sorry for her. Now…

  He squeezed his mother’s elbow on his left, glanced to his dad, who spoke to the crowd, and then quietly left his spot near his parents. She needed a touch of compassion, even if she wasn’t willing to admit it. Maybe she didn’t even know it. But this time, Sherbert wasn’t going to go through the death of a loved one alone.

  Standing on his sister’s other side, Ethan peeked toward Brock as he stepped beside Cheryl. Emotion sheened his eyes, but a small lift of one side of his mouth told Brock that he approved; he was grateful. In the next moment, he looked away, back toward the coffin waiting for its final rest, and Brandi snugged her arms around his waist.

  Brock looked down at the raven-haired woman at his side. Her chin dipped downward, and she tilted her face away as if she wished he hadn’t noticed her. His heart split, and he thought back to Mother’s suggestion of knighthood. How he longed to have a shield to cover her with. He’d tuck her between him and the armor, and she could huddle there in safety, able to grieve without the rest of the world watching.

  Is that what she needed?

  If only he could offer her such a shelter. All he had was an empty hand. He slipped it around hers, brushed his thumb over her knuckles, and remained still at her side. Except the slight movement of her chin turning his direction, she didn’t move.

  Attention seemed to be the last thing she wanted. Except she didn’t push him away.

  ~*~

  A tap at the front door drew Cheryl’s eyes away from the blank television screen to the entryway by the stairs, but she couldn’t summon the motivation to answer it. They could come back later, whoever it was. Or not. Either way.

  Her life looked just like that screen. Black and empty. Now she had no reason to stay.

  She hadn’t wanted to stay, had she? Not from the beginning.

  She hadn’t wanted to go back either.

  Staring at nothing, she slouched back against the sofa and tipped her head against the backrest. The knocking sounded again. Again she ignored it. Even when the doorknob rattled, she did nothing. If it was someone entering, more than likely it was Ethan, and he could do whatever he needed to do. Didn’t need her to play hostess.

  Sure enough, the creak of the hinges announced the entry’s opening, and footsteps soon followed into the house. Cheryl shut her eyes, hoping he’d think she was asleep, but the footfalls came toward her. Moving only her head, she sighed and opened her eyes.

  Brock stopped in front of her, looking from her, to the shoes she’d kicked off near the couch, to the keys she’d flung onto the coffee table, and to her purse that lay on its side on the floor, open and spilling its contents. Eventually his attention came back to her.

  He hadn’t said a word at the funeral. Not a single one—just held her hand and wouldn’t let go until she reached her car. She’d opened the door, stopped for a moment, but didn’t look him in the eye, and said, “Good-bye, Brock.” And that was it.

  And here he was. Still not talking.

  With a hand to her shoulder, he nudged her to scooch, and when she slid over a smidge, he lowered himself onto the couch close to her side. His hand drifted over her shoulders, down her back and up again, and then into her hair.

  Cheryl savored every touch, logging it into her memory bank as one of those rare and fleeting moments of honest comfort. When he tugged her gently to his chest, she drifted to him willingly, and he adjusted his position so that she could lean against him in comfort. She waited for him to tell her that these things happen, that God had a plan, and her life would go on. That Nana lived a good life, and everyone loved her, and she should be so proud to be her granddaughter, and she needed to live in a way that would make Nana proud in return.

  She’d heard the standard funeral spiel before.

  But the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat and the quiet rush of his calm breath coming in and going out were the only sounds between them. His fingers twirled her hair, and his opposite hand took hold of hers.

  “Aren’t you going to saying anything?” she asked.

  He pressed a kiss into her hair. “No. Not unless you need me to.”

  She shut her eyes and turned her face into his chest. He released her hand and pulled her into a secure hold.

  Cheryl wondered where he learned to be so wise. As she drifted off into a dreamless sleep, she forgot to worry about when she would no longer be wanted by this amazing man.

  ~*~

  Brock leaned against his headboard, his Bible open beside him. He thought it strange that Psalm 107 continued to call to him, as if something in it was important, that he needed to get it.

  Such a bipolar hymn. Shouts of praise interwoven with stories of darkness. The give thanks parts he was familiar with, but honestly, he’d never paid attention to the other stuff.

  Recently, however, the words demanded his attention. The goodness of God and the darkness of man…

  Righteousness and peace have kissed…

  Where was that verse? He’d only remembered it because the words had seemed…unusual. He flipped to the concordance section at the back of his study Bible, hoping he’d find the answer there. If not, he’d have to wait until he could get over to Mom and Dad’s so he could check in their Strong’s Concordance. Maybe it was about time he had one of his own.

  Psalm 85:10.

  Mercy and truth have met together; Righteousness and peace have kissed.

  Brock stared at the words, still not making sense. He was no theologian, that was for sure. He’d ask Dad. But not tonight. It was eleven, and he was tired, and his heart still felt beat down.

  It’d been a week since Nana Grace’s funeral. In the limited time he could find, he’d gone into town every day since, just to be with Cheryl. They’d walk, her hand loosely in his, their long intervals of silence broken with occasional inconsequential stuff like “How was your day?” and “Are you up for a light dinner?” She’d been tired, understandably so, especially since she’d decided to keep the bakery going. That should have offered him hope that she’d be staying. Really, though, he understood the truth. She simply kept moving because if she was working, she’d be able to avoid the hurt.

  Cheryl Thompson operated on an if I igno
re it, it will eventually go away theory. Guess she hadn’t learned yet that didn’t work with things of the heart.

  She was so lifeless. Not even the iconic Cheryl anger had surfaced, and that scared him. Did she really think that she could simply package emotions in a box and ship them off to oblivion?

  Maybe it was time to push a little harder. Was it too soon for another real date?

  They could just hang out with her brother and Brandi. Might be good for E too.

  He had to do something to summon some kind of emotion.

  ~*~

  “I think we’re due for another date.”

  Cheryl glanced up from the counter where she was drizzling maple frosting over the fresh cinnamon knots. While thankful for the distraction from the heavenly aroma of baked goods, which were daily becoming more difficult to resist, she frowned at the man standing opposite her, his hands spread against the counter as he leaned her direction.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Transferring his weight to his palms, Brock leaned over the stainless steel work space and pecked her cheek. “You and me. We haven’t had a date for a while.”

  Men were not sweet like this. Not in her world.

  “You’re after something.”

  He laughed, pushing back to his feet. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  Her heart fluttered and then squeezed. Why had she stayed? Brock needed someone who didn’t wear her past choices like iron shackles. He deserved a woman with a kind heart. Or at least an available heart. Hers was imprisoned, which didn’t translate to available.

  But…

  The play-act could become real, couldn’t it? She’d be his June Cleaver, and he’d be her Ward, only more progressive. And better looking. By far.

  “Sherbert…oh, Sher-bert…” Brock cupped his mouth and used a singsong voice to softly call her back.

  “Stop it.” Cheryl grinned in spite of her attempted irritation. “You do that just to annoy me.”

  “No. I do it because it makes you smile.”

  “Not always.”

  He winked. “Usually.”

  “You’re such a flirt.”

  A little-boy smile poked his dimple into his cheek, and he leaned over the counter again, pushing aside the tray she’d been working on as he moved. “Come here. I’ll tell you a secret.”