by Amy Vastine
“I wish you’d reconsider being her godfather.”
“They’ve got better role models than me to pick from.”
“Not true,” Brielle countered. “You’ve started going to therapy and you’re working with the patients, who adore you. You’re making a positive difference in their lives and yours.”
And hers…
He made a noncommittal sound then stopped when someone called his name.
“Justin Cade?”
A woman led by a waddling, one-eyed pug approached. Brielle remembered her from the first town meeting, but instead of the pug sweatshirt she’d worn then, she now wore a doggy onesie. A hood with ears covered her broad face and hair, and a felt tail dragged on the leaf-covered pavement behind her.
“Howdy, Mrs. Leonard.” Justin doffed his hat.
“Ruff!” The pug jumped on Brielle’s legs, drooling slightly as he panted up at her, one bulging eye shining expectantly. The other socket was shriveled and empty.
“Otis! Down!” ordered Mrs. Leonard.
“Oh. He’s okay.” Brielle crouched and let Otis lavish her face in frantic, rough licks. “Just,” she sputtered as she dodged Otis’s determined tongue, “fine.”
“There’s no stopping him when he takes a shine to someone,” Mrs. Leonard declared as Brielle did her best to avoid getting frenched by the pug.
“You’re just so cute,” Brielle cooed, planting a final—she hoped—kiss on Otis’s soft head. “How old is he?”
“I found him ten years ago by the town dump. The vet thought he might be two or three back then. Can you imagine tossing out this little sweetie? Some people have no heart.” Mrs. Leonard scooped up Otis and cradled him.
“Must have dumped him because he only had one eye,” Justin observed.
When Otis’s short legs kicked, Mrs. Leonard set him back down. “That only makes him more perfect.”
“You made him the center of your life story,” Brielle noted, referencing the lesson she’d shared at the last town hall meeting. Justin released a low whistle.
Mrs. Leonard’s smile fell, and she peered hard at Brielle. “I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to compare Otis to your patients at Fresh Start.”
“All they need’s a second chance,” she insisted and straightened her slipping halo, “people to care about them, flaws and all…”
Mrs. Leonard sucked in her lips and her extra chin appeared as she retracted her face, considering.
A couple of kids dressed as Power Rangers sauntered by, pointing at Otis. One of them called out, “Cyclops.” At Mrs. Leonard’s glare, they raced off, screaming and laughing.
Mrs. Leonard’s eyes rose to Justin’s then swerved to Brielle. “I’ve been thinking hard about what you said…how we should go looking for people to help.”
Brielle held her breath as Mrs. Leonard reached into a belted pouch, retrieved a treat then fed it to a leaping Otis. “I might be wrong about Fresh Start.”
Justin lowered his bandanna, and his even teeth flashed white against his dark beard. “Will you vote against revoking Fresh Start’s charter?”
Mrs. Leonard passed another biscuit to her wriggling dog then nodded. “I suppose.”
“Maybe you could bring Otis over to meet the patients sometime,” Brielle said, inspiration striking. “We could include him as part of their therapy.”
Mrs. Leonard pressed a hand over her heart. “Otis? A therapy dog? Oh, I believe I’m going to like Fresh Start after all.” Someone waved to her across the street. “Elaine! Wait until you hear my news about Otis!” And without another word she hurried across the street. Instantly, a bevy of nodding and smiling women surrounded her, aiming speculative stares at Brielle.
How many more locals could Mrs. Leonard sway? Enough to help Fresh Start keep its charter?
“And that’s how it’s done.” Justin pulled his bandanna over his smirk as they resumed strolling down the now crowded thoroughfare. Costumed children darted in and out of stores carrying plastic pumpkins full of candy. In the distance, a marching band’s snare drum rat-tat-tatted while a cotton candy machine whirled, offering orange and black cones to customers.
“You were pretty charming,” Brielle admitted. Especially to her, she added silently, falling even more under Justin’s spell.
“Pretty charming?”
“Okay. Very charming.”
“And you were very clever. Mrs. Leonard will chain herself to Fresh Start before she lets them close it down now.”
Brielle laughed at the visual. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Oh! Look!” She stopped and pointed to risers filled with hundreds of carved, lit pumpkins.
“Our annual jack-o’-lantern contest. Want to check it out?”
“Yes!”
She dashed to the elaborate display. While Christmas was her favorite holiday, Halloween was a close second…a sacrilege, really, considering her profession. But everything about it fascinated her: creepy music, outrageous costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, trick-or-treating… Growing up on international Army bases, it’d been a piece of America, a sense of normalcy.
She stopped at the risers and scanned the entries. Painted, carved, bedazzled and even automated, spinning pumpkins occupied every inch of space. Some had flickering votive candles while others used electronic strobe lights or colored illuminators.
“Who could pick one over the other?” she wondered out loud.
“We were hoping you might help us, Ms. Thompson. Howdy, Justin.” Mayor Cantwell, dressed in a Harry Potter robe and a red-and-gold-striped Gryffindor tie and scarf hurried closer. “One of the judges got sick bingeing on apple fritters and dropped out. Could you step in?”
“Sure she can,” Justin answered for her, nudging her forward just as she’d done to him at the hospital.
“I’d love to,” she said. Justin vowed that socializing with the locals would increase Fresh Start’s chances of winning the vote, and she trusted him…more and more every day.
Was she starting to depend on him, too?
Twenty minutes later, she bestowed a blue ribbon on the man who’d called her patients “a bunch of crazies” at the last town meeting.
“I’m sorry about what I called your patients, ma’am,” the man said, clutching his ribbon.
“I appreciate that, though you’re entitled to your opinion.”
He shook his head. “You’re a kind lady. Can I make a confession, Reverend?”
She hid her surprise and glanced down Main Street to a tall, white church. “Would you like to stop by and see me at Fresh Start, or I could meet you at the church…?”
All around them, the sidewalk teemed with parents ushering costumed children, shoving teens dressed as horror film villains and strolling elderly couples seeking curbside seats for the imminent parade.
“Nah. No one’s paying attention.” The man grabbed a cloth from his back pocket, blew into it, then stuffed it away. “Just wanted to say my dad was an abusive alcoholic. One time my little sister Theresa ended up in the hospital for a month. We thought she was lucky since she’d escaped for a while.”
“I’m so sorry. Did your father seek help?”
“Nope. He killed two people and himself in a drunk-driving accident my senior year of high school. Never touched a drop of liquor myself. Grew up too scared of him, and it, to be tempted.”
“Then you’re lucky, too.”
He pulled off a Broncos ball cap then resettled it on his bald head. “You suppose a program like Fresh Start could have helped him?”
“We assist lots of parents. Many have children hoping we’ll get them well.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well. Then. I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong.”
“Meaning?” Her stomach rumbled when a sizzle rose from a nearby apple fritter stand. The butter-and-cinnamon scent of frie
d dough wafted in the unseasonably balmy air.
“I won’t vote against your charter. Kids should have parents better than mine.”
“Thanks, Mister…?”
“Kolchek. Sam Kolchek.” He tipped his hat and ambled away, instantly swallowed by the seething crowd.
“Won over another one, I see.” Justin offered her a caramel apple and pulled his bandanna down to his neck, revealing an approving smile.
“I can be charming when I want to be,” she mumbled around a sticky, tart-sweet apple bite then passed it back.
“And…?” He chomped on the treat, and a smear of caramel clung to his upper lip. It took every bit of willpower not to lean forward and lick it off.
“And I’m glad you suggested meeting the community. Thank you.”
For a moment, their eyes clung and neither seemed to breathe. Then a cymbal crashed, nearly on top of them, making her jump.
“Parade’s starting,” Justin murmured in her ear, the savory caramel-cinnamon smell of his breath rushing over her skin. He led her to a spot by a lamppost and stood directly behind her, sheltering her from the pressing crowd. This close, she could feel the heat of his rising and falling chest against her back, and she gripped her hands to keep from leaning back against his muscled firmness.
A Wizard of Oz–themed hay wagon trundled by, distracting her wayward thoughts. Across the back, a banner read Carbondale Medical Center. Its scrubs-wearing driver winged Tootsie Rolls into the crowd, and children darted out to snatch up the candy rolling on the pavement.
Next, the local high school band marched by playing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the infectious tune animating the swaying and cheering crowd. A young girl, seated on her father’s shoulders, clapped her hands in time to the beat. Brielle caught Justin staring at the father-child pair, the naked longing on his face twisting her heart.
Did he want a family?
He’d held baby Jesse so tenderly the other night. Could a reformed bad boy make a great father? A loving partner? Someone she could depend on, who might not threaten her stability after all?
Mayor Cantwell cruised by in a vintage yellow convertible tossing miniature candy bars to the crowd. When a pack of kids nearly shoved her off her feet to grab some, Justin’s arms encircled her, warm and steady. Her body trembled against his lean, muscular frame. With the crowd’s rapt attention on the parade, she let herself indulge in the delicious feel of him for a couple more minutes before reluctantly shifting away.
Twenty minutes later, the parade ended with a whistling bang. A starburst of steaming red lights bloomed against the black sky then faded, followed by another burst of yellow, then two purple circles.
Boom!
Brielle instinctively ducked and covered her head, blinking back the sting in her eyes as she recalled similar, less innocent explosive sounds in Kandahar. Justin crouched beside her.
“You okay?” He peeled back her arms and peered into her eyes.
She rose quickly, unwilling to make a fool of herself and jeopardize the goodwill she’d built with the townspeople tonight. “I’ll be fine.”
Oohs and ahs followed a spray of sparkling white that screamed to earth. A streak of white smoke sailed upward then exploded in a sizzling green pulse.
Justin’s hands clamped over her violently shaking shoulders. “Let’s go,” he murmured in her ear, and this time when he slid a firm arm around her waist, she didn’t protest. It was all she could do not to drop to her knees and cover her head the way she had when lobbed IEDs struck inside the base.
They wove through the crowd then jolted to a halt at someone’s scream.
“He’s going to jump!”
The crowd turned as one, following a woman’s finger pointing to the town church. What Brielle saw sent a jolt through her.
Paul, her former artilleryman patient suffering from PTSD, stood on the edge of the steeple’s bell tower.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BRIELLE SHOOK FREE of Justin and shot down the street like a bullet. Her lungs screamed for air, but she ignored them.
“Who’s that?” she heard someone ask.
“One of them mental patients,” another spat.
A young child wailed. Another cried, “Is he going to die?”
“I’m scared, Mama!” a third pleaded. “I wanna go home.”
She pulled up before the church and stood panting on the street, watching Paul pace in the minuscule square of space surrounding the belfry. The wind whipped his T-shirt and a flock of pigeons took flight, squawking. Her heart practically stopped at the thought of him dropping from that height.
“Paul!” she yelled up to him, but he only paused, gripped the railing encircling the area, then threw one leg, followed by the other, over it. A needle of fear punctured her lungs, and all the air seemed to leak out of her. But her determination to save Paul swamped it, a tsunami overwhelming every cell in her body.
“He’s going to jump!” someone screamed.
“Please, quiet!” Brielle ordered the pressing crowd. In the distance, the fireworks built to a crescendo, a barrage of firepower that had Paul cringing. As an artilleryman, the sounds of explosions must have sent him spiraling back to his darkest times and triggered his PTSD.
How had he gotten out of Fresh Start? Had the exit’s security keypad malfunctioned again?
Travis Loveland arrived wearing his brown sheriff’s uniform and a commanding air. “Is he one of your patients?”
“Yes,” she said, relaying Paul’s information through clamped teeth. “Tell whoever’s running the fireworks to stop,” she ordered briskly in her captain’s voice.
Travis nodded and conferred rapid-fire directions into a walkie-talkie. Several officers arrived and began pushing back the avaricious crowd.
“I’d like to talk to him,” Brielle said when a sheriff’s deputy handed Travis a bullhorn.
“We have a crisis negotiator coming, but it’ll be at least fifteen minutes before he arrives.” Travis passed her the bullhorn. “Can you keep him up there and talking?”
“I plan on getting him down. Safely.”
Justin’s eyes warmed just enough to let her know he approved of her intervention. “Paul, it’s Brielle Thompson,” she yelled, her amplified voice echoing in the night air.
When Paul turned to face her, a gust snatched his hat from his head. The locals squealed when it fell to the ground.
Such a long way…
Her heart constricted like an iron hand was squeezing it as punishment. Once again, she’d abandoned her post and another soldier in her charge might pay with his life.
No.
She could not let that happen.
“We blew a fuse and the electricity went out, deactivating the security system,” panted Craig Sheldon, joining her. “We counted heads, discovered Paul missing and headed straight out.”
Doreen bent over, grabbing her waist. “We were about to call you when we heard the commotion.”
“Leave me alone!” Paul screamed, his body bowed out from the railing like a sail, his knuckled grip and toehold all that kept him from tumbling to his death.
Brielle’s muscles stiffened in sheer terror. “You don’t have to do this,” she said into the bullhorn, striving to keep her voice level and calm, to defuse the intense moment.
“You don’t know the bad things I’ve done.” He dipped a toe over the edge, and the crowd shrieked.
“You don’t know the bad things I’ve done, either, but I’ll tell you if you’ll listen. And I’ve never told them to anyone else before.”
She caught Justin’s sharp look out of the corner of her eye.
Oh, Lord. Could she do this?
If she opened the door to her darkest moments, would the shadows consume her, break her once again? Her fingers turned cold at the thought.
Justin’s large, warm hand enfolded hers. He looked grim, his muscles taut, his face pale as though all the blood had drained from him. She knew she didn’t look any better, but they were in this together, his handhold communicated, the kind of grip that said never let go.
Paul pulled his toe back and glanced at her again. “You’re a chaplain. Reverends don’t do bad things,” he shouted, though, at this distance, she had to strain to hear his words.
“I have. The very worst. A soldier died because of me.” The wind whipped her hair around her face, and Justin gently tucked the wayward curls behind her ears. “If you go back over the railing, I’ll come up and tell you about it.”
A loud murmur broke out and dozens of eyes pummeled her like arrows, finding their mark. Justin’s firm touch, however, steadied her, as did Paul’s plight. Carbondale could judge her all they wanted; her reputation was moot compared to saving this deserving soldier’s life.
Paul stared at her then slowly slung one leg, followed by the other, back over the railing.
She blew out a long breath once he was behind the short iron railing. It wasn’t much of a deterrent from jumping, and the decorative piece wasn’t designed to stop a human from falling, but it was better than having him completely exposed. All he had to do was lean over it to tumble to his death. She shut down the thought and compartmentalized, forcing her mind back to her task—bringing a fellow soldier back to safety.
“Thank you, Paul. Hold on. I’ll be right up.
“Sheriff,” Brielle said, “no one comes up there unless I say so, okay?”
“You’ve got it,” Travis Loveland vowed.
She handed him the bullhorn, charged inside the church then turned when she felt Justin right behind her.
“Paul only agreed to me.”
“Tough. You’re not going up there alone.”
His eyes lasered into hers in the shadowed church interior.
“You might not like what you hear.”
“Trust me, Brielle. Let me in.”
After a moment, she nodded then hurried up the curving stairs to the belfry. She paused at the door and breathed a sigh of relief to see Paul still safely inside the narrow space.