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

by Jennifer Rodewald

  That made sense as she tugged her long-sleeved running liner over her head. Her life would never be the all-out joy that someone like Brandi would get to embrace, but she could live a little. It was better than dying all over again every morning for the rest of her life.

  Cheryl focused her mind on gratitude as her feet pounded against the cement. At the edge of town, she took to the narrow dirt-packed path, focusing her mind to listen to the music that she’d awoken with. It had been the song she’d played after the “Feather Theme,” the one Brock sang by her side. What were those words?

  Be still my soul…the Lord is on thy side…

  On her side? Probably not. She had thrust herself among those who rebelled against God, against life. God was willing to forgive, maybe, but to be on her side? It was more like the Lord was not set completely against her.

  Perhaps, though, there were ways to ease the Almighty’s frown. Penance that would give Him more reasons to poke holes through her black existence. Something like…

  Piano lessons for a foster girl.

  Cheryl stopped jogging, settling her hands on her hips and surveying the place where the mountains met the sky. Could she do that? What if a migraine hit her in the middle of it? What if the girl triggered another nightmare?

  Not like she didn’t struggle with both either way. Perhaps it was worth a try.

  Was this why Brock did what he did? Was he working his way back into God’s favor?

  The thought struck a flat tone in her mind. Though Brock said everyone had regrets, he didn’t seem to be haunted by his. Then again, he hadn’t stopped a beating heart, so all of his mistakes combined couldn’t possibly amount to her one great regret.

  If piano lessons would earn her greater favor, then piano lessons it would be.

  ~*~

  “Wait, what?” Brock studied Cheryl’s blue eyes. She wasn’t ready for this. He knew it all the way through his gut. Those migraines were triggered by stress, and kids triggered reminders and guilt and all sorts of stress.

  “You thought giving So-J piano lessons was a good idea.”

  He drew in a breath, measuring his words. “That was before I understood.”

  Cheryl looked to her hands, folded in her lap as she leaned back against his sofa. Her brows drew down as she mashed her lips together. Brock tried to read her expression in the lengthening silence. With one hand, he covered both of hers, brushing the knuckles under his thumb.

  “You don’t have to do this for me.”

  He waited. She swallowed, her attention pinned to her lap.

  “I mean it, love. This camp—”

  “Is your calling. Your life.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “And I want to be a part of it.”

  “You are. And I can adjust.” Brock scooted closer and gripped one of her shoulders. “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about something. Tell you, actually, that I think I found a camp manager.”

  “Why? I told you I didn’t want you to do that.”

  Shouldn’t the answer be obvious? Just spit it out.

  Confusion passed through her eyes. “Brock—”

  “I think we should get married.”

  Cheryl’s eyes rounded, confusion morphing into alarm. Yep. That was how a guy just spat it out. Very smooth. So romantic. Brock’s heart shrank into a too-small ball, while at the same time it pounded unnecessarily hard. After a long draw of air, he lifted his hand and fingered the locks of dark hair that framed her face. Her eyes softened, and her bottom lip quivered.

  Maybe this hashed-up proposal could be saved. He dipped his head until his gaze was level with hers, and whispered, “I want to marry you.”

  One trembling hand touched his chest and then curled into a fist, his shirt caught in her grip. Her eyelids closed as an expression of disbelief fell over her face.

  “Why?”

  “I want to be there when the nightmares come, to hold you until they pass. I want you to know that I’m here, that I’m in this with you, no matter what. I want us to do life together.”

  She pulled away just enough to look at him.

  He covered her cheek with his hand. “Because I love you.”

  Her hand covered his, still cupping her cheek, and she wove her fingers with his. “I don’t want to change your life.”

  “Too late.” He smiled and tipped her face for a gentle kiss.

  “Brock…” Warmth from her breath spread across his lips as she breathed his name.

  He hovered just above her mouth. “Marry me.”

  “I want to.” The hand still fisted at his chest uncurled, her palm flattening against him as she gently pushed him back.

  Was she refusing him? He studied her eyes again. Sheened, they whispered conflict.

  “Then say yes,” he said.

  “Not until you tell me why you think you need a manager for the camp in order to marry me.”

  “I want to take care of you. To be with you.”

  “I moved back. I’m here.”

  “I know, but I need someone on site at all times. I can’t do both.”

  “Why would marrying me mean you couldn’t be on site?”

  He tipped his head. Was she saying she could move—live there, at the camp, with him? With all of the kids that came and went on a weekly basis? That wouldn’t work. “What about the headaches? Kids are here all the time, Cheryl. All. The. Time.”

  “I know.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m not asking you to live like that.”

  “And I’m not asking you to abandon something that makes you the man I love.”

  Brock straightened. This mattered to her? He’d expected her to ask him to walk away from the camp—and he understood why. The daily reminders, the pressure of guilt. Who could live like that? “We could live in town. At Nana’s house. You could help Ethan with the bakery, if you wanted. Or not. Life can look like whatever we want.”

  “This is where you belong, Brock, and I—” Emotion cut her sentence short.

  Brock waited, possibilities swirling in his mind. Honestly, he wanted to stay. Giving up competition boarding and establishing this camp had been his hands-wide-open, palms-up offering to God, and he felt like God used him there.

  But that didn’t mean God couldn’t use him elsewhere. Sometimes dreams, plans, shifted. Life bent, and they’d adjust. That was okay.

  “I want to try, Brock. Please let me try with So-J.”

  Eyebrows furrowing, Brock continued to examine Cheryl. “And if piano lessons are too hard?”

  She picked at the paint on her fingernails and shrugged.

  “Why do you want to do this?”

  Her jawline trembled as she fought for enough control to answer him. After a long draw of air, her voice came again, rattling with emotion. “What if there’s healing in it?”

  Push through pain…maybe there was some wisdom in that. And on the other side, redemption? That was the point of forgiveness, was it not? Love swelled in his chest until breathing hurt.

  Brock covered her hands and waited for her eyes to meet his. “Are you going to marry me or not?”

  Slowly she lifted her face back to him, and when their eyes connected, the strain in hers melted. She smiled. Heat raced through his veins as he leaned to meet her forehead with his.

  She lifted her hands and traced his mouth with a finger, breathing a gentle “Yes” before her lips brushed his.

  One question answered. Only about a thousand more to go. But they’d figure it out. Together.

  ~29~

  “Dad, I need some advice.” Brock leaned forward, settling against his arms, which rested on the table in his parents’ kitchen. The site of many discussions over the years. Some hard. This could be one of those.

  With both hands anchored on his mug, Dad waited.

  “Cheryl and I…” He shifted. “I asked her to marry me.”

  A grin grew against his father’s face. “And…”

  “We want to get married sooner rather than later. She doesn
’t want a wedding.”

  Dad’s smile faded, his brows gathering.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, what it looks like.” Brock’s words stumbled over each other.

  “I’m not thinking anything, except it’s unusual for a woman not to want a wedding.”

  Brock squirmed again. How could he explain without exposing Cheryl? “She’s not a usual woman.” He sighed, rolling his shoulders back. “Look, I can’t tell you everything because…”

  “Because you’d be breaking her trust.”

  “Yes. But I feel uneasy about it all.”

  “About marrying her?”

  “No. Not that.” Brock lifted his head, meeting his father’s eyes. “I love her, and I’m certain that God has brought us together. But she’s mentioned eloping, and I guess I would feel guilty about it, and I don’t know why. Would it be wrong?”

  Dad studied him, his eyes thoughtful. “I don’t know that I’d say wrong. Marriage is really before God. But there’s something to having people there to witness your vows, an element of accountability that we see patterned in the Bible. And personally, your mother and I would be a little disappointed not to be there when you get married.”

  That was the real pinch. He’d already disappointed his parents with so many of his choices in the past. Marrying Cheryl—he wanted more than anything for them to back that decision and to be a part of their life together. She needed family more than she could grasp.

  “Son?”

  Brock’s attention locked back on his dad.

  “Is that your only hesitation—the actual wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cheryl seems…”

  “I know. Dad, there’s a lot there, and like you said, I can’t break her trust. But I know what marriage is, and even though there are still some murky waters ahead, I know that I don’t want to do life without her.”

  Dad sat, his finger tracing the rim of his mug, while he filtered through what Brock had shared. His chest expanded with a long draw of air, and then he nodded.

  “Brock, I trust you. Whatever you decide, whatever you believe God wants for you and for your soon-to-be wife, your mother and I will be behind you.”

  Unending grace. That was what his dad kept handing him, certainly originating from the hand of God, because he didn’t deserve that kind of unreserved trust. Love always gave more.

  Brock blinked and sat back against his chair. “Thank you, Dad. Can I ask you one more thing?”

  Dad nodded, looking like he was prepared for anything. Probably he wasn’t, not for the truth, but that wasn’t where Brock was going with this. “Love her. The way you love me, love Cheryl.”

  “It’s not even a question, son. We do.”

  ~*~

  Marriage. To Brock Kelly.

  Couldn’t be real. Cheryl looked down at the light fabric of her country-style summer dress.

  White eyelet.

  That had been a mistake. Brock had helped her pick it—though he hadn’t seen it on her, it had been his favorite. Simple. Clean. Pretty.

  Not fit for her.

  Her bottom lip trembled, and she couldn’t face the woman in the mirror. This whole thing had been a mistake. They could have slipped off to a courthouse, spoken their vows in front of a justice of the peace, and come home married. She didn’t need a wedding and definitely should not be wearing this white dress.

  But a small wedding had been important to Brock. For accountability. And healing?

  That still made little to no sense.

  Cheryl shivered in the lonely room Brock had cleared for her. That man, so kindly stubborn—this was his room, soon to be theirs, which held a surreal sense of wonder all by itself. But instead of allowing her to use the women’s washroom in the lodge as her bridal room, he insisted that he’d use a cabin and she take the house. The whole of it.

  Because it’s yours, love. That was what he’d said.

  Hers. She shivered again and reached for the dark denim jacket that she planned to wear over her white sundress. Just to add a bit of reality to this scene. She was hardly an all-white kind of woman. Not a pure bride.

  A soft knock against the door had her pause, midmotion, as she was pushing an arm into the denim sleeve.

  “May I come in?” Lydia Kelly stood just outside the door, her head poked around the opening.

  “Sure.” Cheryl tightened her fist.

  What must the woman think of her? This little harlot of a woman marrying her son. Even if Lydia didn’t know the whole of Cheryl’s story, she knew enough—certainly must have heard enough—to make her wish for a different daughter-in-law.

  Cheryl would forever feel unworthy in front of the woman who had raised such a good man.

  “Ah.” Lydia passed through the door, her purple dress floating as she walked. “My son has found himself a lovely bride. You look beautiful.”

  Her son had found himself a train wreck of a woman and seemed to be bent on loving her anyway. Cheryl looked at her boots, feeling like she could ball herself up on the bed and cry.

  “I don’t believe in flattery, Cheryl.” Lydia stepped right beside her and captured her chin in between two fingers. “I mean what I say.”

  Cheryl’s lip quivered, and heat glazed her eyes. “This doesn’t seem right.”

  “Why not?”

  Words would not slip past her swollen throat.

  Lydia stepped in between Cheryl and the mirror. “If you have doubts about marrying Brock, then you should well be scared. Don’t do it. But if this is about something else…”

  A tear slipped over her eyelid, and she shook her head.

  “Tell me, then, sweet girl. Why do you tremble?”

  Cheryl drew a breath, long and shaky, released it, and then pulled in a second. “I shouldn’t be wearing this.” One hand tugged at the side seam of her dress.

  Lydia smiled and then laughed. “Oh, goodness. The dress? You look beautiful. Brock will love it.”

  Brock did love it—already told her so. Cheryl ducked away from the woman’s probing look.

  “It’s white. That’s what bothers you, isn’t it?” Lydia hummed a sound of thought, shook her head, and then took both of Cheryl’s hand in hers. “Oh, hon. Once upon an arrogant time, I thought only a virgin should get to wear white at her wedding. Such a pious woman I was. But you know, I studied history in college, and still do from time to time. Do you know where the white dress tradition comes from?”

  “The Bible?”

  Lydia made that humming sound again. “No, ma’am—perhaps the tradition was in ancient cultures as well, but the tradition in our culture comes from a different source. Queen Victoria. The whole pomp and flourish of a wedding, the lace, the veil, the dress…it was all founded in the showing off of one’s wealth. There’s nothing biblical in it. And the white dress? Just a fashion the queen chose because she had some white lace she adored. Nothing about her virtue was calculated into any of it.”

  Cheryl looked to her with a mild sense of wonder and disbelief. “But doesn’t the Bible talk about a virtuous wife wearing white?”

  “A virtuous wife, yes. And your past doesn’t mean you can’t be one. As for the white…the only thing I can think of that resembles that idea is when the church is referenced as Jesus’s pure and spotless bride.” Lydia stepped around Cheryl, her hands still enclosed within, and tugged her to the foot of the bed. “Here’s what strikes me, Cheryl. We know the church is made up of people. People who can be ugly. People who do ungodly things. But people who are forgiven. When Jesus calls the church pure and spotless, it’s because He has washed those people clean, not because they came to Him clean. And”—her voice wobbled, and she tipped her head so that it touched the side of Cheryl’s—“I love this…when I see Brock with you, I see that picture. He looks at you with love. He doesn’t see your past. He sees you as the woman he wants to spend his life with. I think it’s a small, granted incomplete, but beautiful picture of how Christ sees us. How He loves his church
.”

  How could that be so? Couldn’t be right. Could it? Another tear escaped down her cheek as Cheryl processed through Lydia’s words.

  Lydia patted her hands. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying Brock can be your savior—or that he’s by any means spotless himself. We know full well our son has made plenty of his own left turns. I’m just saying…he looks at you with a pure love, and I know that you love him too. So you go on and wear this lovely white dress, knowing that you are his chosen bride. You will receive no condemnation from us.”

  ~*~

  Brock kept his promise. The ceremony was short, the gathering small—his parents, Ethan and Brandi, and her dad. She was almost ready to forgive Brock for that last part. He’d insisted they invite the man who’d first abandoned her—even making a point to call her father himself, to ask properly for her hand. Old-fashioned chivalry met hot mess. That about summed up their story.

  But during the wedding, such as it was, Brock stayed right by her side, and she felt sheltered beside him. No dance meant her dad couldn’t beg for a turn, and a limited reception sent them on their way to their honeymoon within an hour.

  And now she stood trembling in the suite’s bathroom.

  This part…it was nothing new to her. Why was she terrified? She’d pushed for intimacy before, and Brock had stayed her. Now he waited, ready to take that consummate step, and her stomach rolled with apprehension.

  Sharing Brock’s bed would be so much more than sex. That quivered through her being. She wanted him to have everything, but was scared to death to give it. There would be no going back…

  He’s not one of them…

  For sure, Brock Kelly was not the man who’d preyed on her young vulnerability and taken her virginity all those years ago. He wasn’t all of the Andrew Harrises she’d had in her life after that. He was her husband.

  Leaning toward her reflection in the mirror, she touched her trembling lips. “He loves you,” she whispered to the pale woman before her. “He won’t reject you.”

  “Cheryl?” A soft tap sounded on the door. “Are you okay, love?”

  She shut her eyes. No more delaying. Pushing from the granite countertop, she pivoted and moved to open the door. Still in his suit, complete with his tie, although that had been loosened and the top button to his collar undone, Brock leaned against the doorframe. With one hand, he reached to brush a knuckle down the side of her face.