The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  Sarah was glad she’d worn a rather subdued, yet regal, gold blouse under her tailored brown vest, because by midafternoon she’d had to shed her suit jacket. Thumbing through a file marked ‘‘Hughes,’’ she placed it neatly into her leather over-theshoulder briefcase. Eager to be punctual for her next appointment— an important visit with a wealthy client—she waved a fleeting good-bye to Heidi Norton, the desk receptionist.

  The doors of Alexander’s Realty would remain open a few more hours, but she—the star real estate broker—would be absent. Last year’s top-selling businesswoman was heading toward the area of Washington Park to meet with a new client, Willard Hughes. She held within her professional grasp the potential sale of luxury town homes on the city’s prestigious west side, making the prospect of meeting Hughes all the sweeter. If she nailed the deal today, Sarah could literally beat out the realty owner for monthly sales. All competition aside, Bill Alexander would be more than elated. He would be amazed at the strength of her numbers. Late January, to boot.

  The drive across town was a relatively short one, and the meager flow of traffic was in her favor. Catching her reflection in the rearview mirror, she scrutinized her naturally blond hair before turning the ignition key. She had purposely made the decision to book the upcoming appointment prior to rush hour.

  Excellent planning .

  The sun had moved across the sky, unyielding yet invigorating. As she drove, she relaxed in the driver’s seat, enjoying the leather comfort. Having suffered through her youthful years of lower-middle-class living, she was still surprised to be able to afford such luxury.

  Pure extravagance .

  She gazed at the intricate dashboard and stroked the leathercovered steering wheel of her new BMW. Pricey, though she’d negotiated a good deal for herself as always.

  Scanning the radio, she stopped at the easy-listening jazz station. The gentle lament of a saxophone soothed her, and she settled into a mellow and relaxed awareness. While she’d never thought it possible, her emotions had actually resumed a fairly even keel in the past year.

  Just as she turned off Route 26 at Capitol Highway, her cell phone rang. ‘‘Sarah speaking,’’ she answered.

  ‘‘There’s a long-distance call for you.’’ She recognized the bright, melodious voice of Heidi, the receptionist. ‘‘Can you take it?’’

  She glanced at the digital clock on the dash. ‘‘I’m running late. Who’s on the line?’’

  ‘‘A young woman . . . she says her name’s Lydia Cottrell— your niece.’’

  Sarah felt the crease of her brow. Hesitantly, she said, ‘‘Go ahead, put her through.’’

  While she waited, Sarah recalled a recent letter from Ivy, Lydia’s mother. Older than herself by six years, Ivy—and her outlandish husband—had chosen a completely foreign life-style, against the better judgment of their family and friends. Even Sarah, at the young age of seventeen, had been mystified when her sister joined the Amish. But that was a long time ago and ‘‘plenty of water under the bridge,’’ as Ivy liked to say. Yet, to Sarah’s constant frustration, Ivy seemed to seize every opportunity to justify the impulsive move, perhaps in hopes of making a convert of Sarah. Ivy’s most recent letter, however, had a strangely different tone. Not so moralizing as tender, even compassionate.

  ‘‘Hullo?’’ A fragile female voice came on the line. ‘‘Is this Aunt Sarah?’’

  Having not seen Ivy’s daughter in twelve years, Sarah scarcely knew what to say. ‘‘Lydia, what can I do for you?’’

  ‘‘I’m awful sorry. Honestly, I don’t know how to break this news to you.’’ The girl paused, saying no more.

  ‘‘What is it, dear?’’

  Nearly breathless, Lydia continued. ‘‘Mamma’s gone . . . passed away this morning. Her heart gave out.’’

  She winced. Ivy, my sister—dead?

  Sarah’s hand steadied the steering wheel as she grappled with the reality. At last, she managed to speak. ‘‘I . . . I’m terribly sorry.’’ Struggling to gather her thoughts, Sarah said no more as the shocking news pierced her soul.

  ‘‘Mamma’s funeral will be at Noah and Susie Lapp’s house, three days from now . . . Friday morning,’’ Lydia went on. ‘‘The burial’s to be on Glendorn Hill, next to our father’s grave.’’

  Her niece’s words struck a dissonant chord. Sarah had no idea where Glendorn Hill was located, having not made the effort to attend her brother-in-law’s funeral. And now, as her thoughts were in a turmoil, she was uncertain as to whether she would attend Ivy’s services, as well.

  ‘‘Mamma’s lawyer will be callin’ you real soon,’’ Lydia said gently, her voice quavering.

  She wondered what the attorney wanted but would not question her niece about legal matters. It was obvious Ivy’s daughter was suffering deep grief. ‘‘Is someone there able to help with the funeral arrangements?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Oh my, yes,’’ Lydia replied. ‘‘No worry ’bout that.’’

  They said hurried good-byes, but only after Sarah offered obligatory inquiries about the other children. Then, clicking off the cell phone, she drove several miles before steering the sedan toward a parking lot. She stopped the car and leaned her head against the neck rest, forcing the air past her lips.

  ‘‘Mamma’s gone . . . passed away this morning.’’

  Lydia’s dismal words persisted in Sarah’s mind, echoing again and again. Yet she shouldn’t have been too surprised, aware of the fact that heart disease ran in her family on both sides. With that knowledge came a new realization. As far as her immediate family was concerned, she was now alone in the world.

  Lowering the visor, she shielded her eyes, pondering Lydia’s indication that Ivy’s lawyer would be calling. What could the Lancaster attorney—any legal counsel, for that matter—possibly wish to convey to her?

  The remaining hours of the day passed as if in slow motion. Sarah managed to close the coveted deal with Hughes, but the details of the transaction seemed nearly surreal. In fact, every movement, every thought, every word was colored by the recent news.

  Ivy was dead.

  Much to Sarah’s chagrin, Ivy’s attorney phoned her at home that evening just as she was updating paper work for the future closing of today’s sale. He introduced himself as Charles Eberley of Lancaster County. ‘‘I don’t believe we’ve met, but your sister certainly spoke highly of you.’’

  Ivy spoke highly of me? His comment surprised her.

  ‘‘Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to get better acquainted at the funeral.’’

  ‘‘Oh, well, I’m sorry to say . . . I don’t know if I can see my way clear to make it.’’ Her words seemed flat, even to her ears.

  ‘‘It’s imperative that you come to Pennsylvania, Ms. Cain, and as soon as possible. It’s important for you to be on hand for the official reading of Ivy’s last will and testament.’’

  ‘‘When is the reading?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Next Thursday, two o’clock in the afternoon.’’

  Sarah could not imagine making the long trip. Not for the mere sake of hearing that she was to be the recipient of one or more of Ivy’s handmade Amish quilts or doilies. ‘‘Please, Mr. Eberley,’’ she spoke up. ‘‘Anything belonging to Ivy should— must —be passed along to her children.’’

  ‘‘Are you saying you won’t be coming?’’

  ‘‘That is correct.’’

  He was silent briefly. ‘‘It seems you’ve made up your mind.’’

  ‘‘Anything my sister wished for me to have ought to go to her children,’’ she insisted again, hoping to conclude the conversation. ‘‘My sister would not have wanted it any other way.’’

  Eberley paused again. Then—‘‘Listen, Ms. Cain, Ivy specifically requested that I not reveal the contents of the will unless you were physically present. Which is precisely why you must come to Lancaster.’’ He continued. ‘‘Besides Ivy Cottrell’s children, are you not her only living blood relation?’’
r />   ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Then you will come, won’t you?’’

  Sarah was surprised by his persistence, but she refused to commit to anything. She truly intended to put him off. For how long, she didn’t know.

  An absurd possibility crossed her mind. What if Ivy had named Sarah the legal guardian of her five children?

  ‘‘I’ll have to get back with you, Mr. Eberley,’’ she said tersely. ‘‘Good-bye.’’ She did not wait for his reply. She hung up, feeling the heat in her neck rise to her cheeks. What an unlikely and ridiculous notion—the acquiring of her sister’s ready-made family. Sarah chuckled at her own rampant imagination. Surely that was not the reasoning behind Charles Eberley’s urgency.

  Regardless, she had no intention of returning his call.

  Chapter Two

  Friday morning, January 21

  It’s ever so unsettling to realize just how closely bound up we are in each other’s lives. Mamma’s passing has knocked the wind clean out of me. Every so often I catch myself startin’ to cry, then there are moments when I feel stronger again. These feelings come in waves each and every day.

  But there’s one thing that will not change. I will not fail to keep my promise to Mamma. Her children, all of us, will stay together, or I’ll die tryin’ to make it so.

  Susie, Mamma’s dearest friend, gently chides that I ought never to make such negative comments. ‘‘What’s confessed aloud affects a person more than we know,’’ she says.

  ’Course I don’t want to say wrongful things. But, then again, I believe God sees my heart. He knows I don’t mean to make rash statements or say things displeasin’ in His sight.

  I ’spect I should be more careful, yet I’ll move heaven and earth if need be to make sure all us Cottrells stay together.

  Oh, Father in heaven, I will fear no evil. . . .

  Traffic was somewhat congested as Sarah made her way toward downtown Portland. She skillfully weaved in and out of the lanes, pushing the speed limit slightly. The stoplight turned red prior to her final turnoff.

  A token glance in the rearview mirror revealed not her own reflection but a misty vision of a snow-covered school playground. A thick gray fog shrouded the clapboard houses that lined the quiet street across from the school yard. Her memory stirred and she heard a distant chain on a flagpole clanking steadily. Intermingled with the faraway sights and sounds were the screams of a little child and other children running toward her. Flinching, Sarah attempted to reject the poignant memory, pushing it back into that dusky alcove of years. Thirty-eight long months had come and gone since that cruel day, yet sorrow and guilt continued their reign.

  Behind her, a driver blared his horn. She jumped a bit, then noticed the traffic light.

  Green.

  Accelerating slowly, she moved forward, keeping pace with traffic.

  She located a parking spot two blocks down from her favorite doughnut shop, then hurried inside for a cup of coffee. Spying a small table near the window, she snatched it up by placing her briefcase on the booth seat.

  A waitress came quickly. ‘‘Cream or sugar?’’

  ‘‘Neither, thanks. I like my coffee black and hideous.’’

  The petite waitress cocked her head. ‘‘Have it your way.’’

  Sarah smiled to herself. She’d had it her way for quite some time now. Actually, much longer than that. The period of the placid years, the teaching years prior to coming to Oregon, had been some of the best of her life. After the tragic playground incident, though, everything changed. Life’s pulse ceased to beat. Life’s color turned ashen gray.

  Abruptly, she’d terminated her teaching career to appease a small-town uprising, overzealous types who preferred stonethrowing to articulating reason. All this in her own close-knit hometown.

  Sarah took a sip of her hot bitter coffee and opened her briefcase, reviewing the day’s schedule. She would not allow random thoughts of the past to derail her. Not today.

  The waitress circled the tables again. ‘‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’’

  Sarah assumed the young woman was anxious to finish out her bill.

  ‘‘Coffee’s all I need,’’ she said, noticing the hint of relief and scrutiny all mixed together on the woman’s face.

  She’s glad I’ll be on my way , she thought.

  Sarah recognized the all-too-familiar look and recalled an earlier time and place. A moment of lasting pain. . . .

  ‘‘I’m going to have a dozen babies,’’ Ivy had coyly boasted at age eighteen, just six months before she was to be married to her high-school sweetheart.

  ‘‘Better wait and see what your husband says about that,’’ young Sarah retorted. ‘‘If he shows up for the wedding!’’

  Ivy ignored her comment and gave her an inquisitive, yet sarcastic look. ‘‘How many children do you want?’’

  At age twelve, Sarah had never considered such a thought. She had secretly wondered which boy in the seventh grade she might end up marrying someday. There was one very handsome redheaded fellow three desks from hers in science class. . . .

  ‘‘Never mind,’’ Ivy shot back, irritated. ‘‘There’s no way to have a reasonable discussion with you. You’re too into yourself, Sarah. Besides, anyone can see you’ll never be the ‘mother hen’ type.’’

  Sarah shrugged off Ivy’s snide remark. Who cared? Her sister couldn’t see inside her. Nobody could!

  Mother, it seemed, never made any attempt to put a stop to their seemingly innate bickering. How clashing the discordant blend between siblings. Any seeds of rapport that might have existed had long since been replaced with strife. Sarah and her sister had been rivals from her earliest recollection. She often thought it was because she’d spoiled Ivy’s only-child status, a position Ivy held for six years before Sarah’s arrival. But the sisters’ conflict had more to do with a tussle of temperaments than their birth order. From her earliest recollections their personalities had never jibed.

  Always in the limelight during high school, Ivy had been voted ‘‘Miss Congeniality’’ her senior year and was commonly seen on the arm of one handsome boy or another. Sarah, on the other hand, had to force a jovial face in public, though everyone said she was ‘‘as pretty as a picture.’’ She much preferred playing classical piano or shopping at the mall with her girlfriends rather than going out with boys. When it came to men—young or old—she was far more reticent than Ivy. Especially at that time in her life, boys and dating made Sarah nervous. Not until her college years did she branch out, feeling more comfortable with the opposite sex. And it was while she was teaching school that she joyously began to ‘‘find her voice,’’ cautiously freed to emerge from her shell, away from the confines Ivy’s shadow had cast on her rather cloistered world.

  A few months into her first semester, the principal stopped her in the hallway. ‘‘I believe you’ve discovered your calling in life, Miss Cain.’’ She was surprised but genuinely delighted at his observation.

  Obviously convinced, he added. ‘‘Not many young people possess a genuine teacher’s heart these days. It’s truly refreshing to see it in you.’’

  The comment put a renewed spring in Sarah’s step. She felt, at least for the moment, that she might actually perform well as a classroom teacher. She would sincerely try. The principal’s remarks had given her something that Ivy—poison Ivy—could never offer. Confidence in her future as an instructor of primary age children. And faith in herself.

  Once a teacher, always a teacher , Ivy had written in a letter after she and her husband had gotten religion and uprooted themselves and their youngsters, replanting and starting over on Pennsylvania soil. You’re good with children, Sarah, when you want to be .

  When you want to be . . .

  Ivy’s tone reminded Sarah of her sister’s ever present condescension. Being told to ‘‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’’ meant you might fall forward and smash your head. And if you weren’t careful, your heart, too.
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  She’d tried; oh, how she’d yanked those tethers on her illustrative boots after that icy, snow-slick day of morning playground duty, but to no avail. The great tragedy of her life and its aftermath of horror-filled days left her guilt ridden and exhausted. Along with it came increased agitation between herself and her sister.

  The principal’s ongoing admiration and support in the midst of acute trauma—even the prospect of tenure—could not convince Sarah to remain. At the end of the school year she resigned, cutting short her teaching career after four fleeting years. Her own recurrent yet irrational fears ultimately dispelled her measure of hope. She left Connecticut, moving as far from her home as possible.

  The family tie between the wayward sister and the ‘‘redeemed’’ sister began to unravel further. By the time Sarah fled the East Coast, she had written off her and Ivy’s relationship as irreconcilable.

  Yet over time, she had become highly efficient, sometimes forceful—even bluntly outspoken—but extremely successful in her newfound career. In the process she had cut Ivy, everyone , out of her life, not allowing herself to care for or about anyone. Disconnecting from family, she clung only to herself. The path of least resistance.

  Gathering up her briefcase, Sarah paid for her coffee with a five-dollar bill. The waitress could keep the tip in spite of her visible eagerness for Sarah’s departure.

  Just then she caught sight of the waitress, who just happened to be glancing over her thin shoulder. ‘‘I’m going, I’m going,’’ Sarah muttered.

  Later in the week, Sarah agreed to set up an appointment with a young couple referred to her by a well-to-do client. More than likely the twosome were unmarried, though they didn’t divulge the fact during the hour Sarah spent with them. She discreetly eyed both their ring fingers. Bare. Yet they seemed in a big hurry to purchase a town house together.