02_Groom of Her Own (23 page)

Sam began to pace. She tried to figure out the best course of action, but in her agitated state, her imagination was working overtime, and it wasn’t easy to think rationally. She could start calling the hospitals, she supposed. Or the police. They might have an accident report. But what if Brad had injured himself at home? Maybe he’d fallen down the basement steps and was lying there unconscious!

With sudden decision, Sam rose and quickly scribbled a note to Brad, telling him she was going to the parsonage and to call her cellular number if he showed up. Then she grabbed her purse, taped the note to the front door and headed for her car. She knew this might be a wild-goose chase, but action was preferable to just sitting around. If she found no sign of him at the parsonage, she’d start calling the police and hospitals, she decided.

Sam drove quickly, pulling into Brad’s driveway in record time. She’d never been inside the modest, one-story parsonage, but it stood right next to the church, and she’d seen it the day she gave the home-buying talk.

She slammed on the brakes and almost before the car came to a complete stop, threw open the door and raced up the steps, unmindful of her umbrella. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she pressed the bell. She waited impatiently, trying to ignore the string of frightening scenarios conjured up by her vivid imagination.

When the doorbell produced no response, Sam knocked and waited again, but still there was no response. She pressed the bell once more, with the same result. If Brad was in the house, he obviously couldn’t get to the door.

She glanced around, debating her next move. The garage! That was it! Check the garage and see if his car was still here. Dodging raindrops, she dashed toward the detached structure and made her way to the side, cupping her hands around her face to peer in the smudged window. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, her stomach dropped to her toes. The car was here. So where was Brad?

Sam looked back toward the house uncertainly, panic etching her features. Maybe she should break a window. Or would it be better to call the police first? But if Brad was hurt, it might not be wise to wait until the police arrived to get to him. Sam twisted her hands together and closed her eyes, leaning against the side of the garage. She hadn’t yet developed the habit of talking to the Lord on a regular basis, but Bible class must be rubbing off on her, she thought, because in this moment of crisis she suddenly felt the need for higher guidance. Please, Lord, let him be okay, she prayed silently. He’s such a fine and good man, and he’s already had more than his share of pain and sorrow. Show me what to do to help him.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze drifted to the adjacent church, and suddenly, with a degree of certainty that startled her, she intuitively knew that Brad was inside.

Sam straightened up and slowly made her way toward the building, pausing at the door as a powerful feeling of dread engulfed her. She sensed darkness and desolation, could feel it as palpably as she felt the rough iron of the door handle beneath her fingers, and it frightened her. The sensation was weird and unsettling.

Sam didn’t want to go in. But she couldn’t just walk away. Because just as she sensed despair, and the vacuum of hopelessness, she also sensed that Brad needed her. And so, drawing a deep, shaky breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The vestibule was empty and silent as she closed the door softly behind her. Cautiously she moved forward to the double doors that led into the church proper. She gently eased one door open to slip inside, then let it shut silently against her back.

Sam stood unmoving, her shoulders pressed against the wooden door. When her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she scanned the church quickly. It seemed to be empty, she realized with a frown. But Brad was here. She was certain of it. She could
feel
his presence. She let her eyes sweep over the church once more, this time more slowly and carefully.

She almost missed him again. In fact, she would have if he hadn’t reached up to run a hand wearily over his face just as her gaze swept past.

He sat in a pew near the front, off to one side, halfhidden in the shadows. With his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, his posture spoke silently but eloquently of defeat and sadness. A cold knot of fear slowly formed in Sam’s stomach, then tightened painfully. Something bad had happened. Very bad. He’d obviously sought solace here, with the Lord. Maybe three was a crowd in a situation like this, she thought, suddenly uncertain. Maybe he needed to be alone and would consider her presence an intrusion. Should she quietly leave, wait outside until he emerged? she wondered.

A sudden ragged breath, sounding to Sam like a choked sob, echoed softly in the church and made her decision easy. Brad was hurting, and she wanted to help. It was as simple as that.

Instinctively she moved forward, pausing a few steps behind him to softly call his name. When he didn’t respond, she tried again, this time a little louder. “Brad?”

Her voice penetrated his consciousness the second time, and he lifted his head and slowly turned to look at her.

Sam’s eyes widened in shock at his appearance.
Wretched
wasn’t a word she dusted off very often, but it was the only one in her vocabulary that came anywhere close to describing Brad’s face. His eyes stared back at her with a haunted look and his skin was stretched tautly, almost painfully, across his cheekbones. The deep grooves etched in his brow were matched by equally deep furrows on either side of his mouth. Sam found it hard to believe that this was the same man who had held her in his arms and laughed with her last night. He stared at her dazedly, as if he didn’t even recognize her. The hand he passed across his eyes, as if to clear his vision, shook badly.

Trying to quell her panic, which was approaching epic proportions, Sam moved closer and sank down on the pew beside him. She reached out to touch his face. “Brad? What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked urgently.

Slowly his eyes cleared, focused, and he stared at her in confusion. “Sam? Why are you here?”

“We had a date,” she reminded him, speaking slowly. “When you didn’t show up, I got worried and came looking for you.”

“A date?” he repeated blankly.

“Uh-huh. For dinner. Remember?” she prompted, struggling to keep her voice calm.

He frowned, as if trying very hard to do just that, and then he closed his eyes and sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Dinner,” he repeated. “Sam, I completely forgot. I’m sorry. Just let me change and—”

“Brad,” she interrupted gently but firmly. “Forget dinner, okay? Just tell me what happened. Is it your dad?”

“My dad?” he repeated blankly.

“Is he all right?”

He turned and stared toward the chancel, nodding his head jerkily. “Yeah.”

When he didn’t offer any more information, Sam reached for his hand. “Then what is it? What’s wrong? Can you tell me?” she asked, a tremor of fear running through her voice.

His fingers crushed hers painfully, but she didn’t flinch. It was almost as if he needed a lifeline to grasp, and her band was serving that function.

“I don’t want to burden you with my problems,” he said, and her heart ached at the raw pain in his voice.

“Brad, I care about you.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, her voice intense. “I care a
lot.
I want to help if I can. Please…tell me,” she pleaded.

“It’s too late to help,” he said dully.

“But it’s never too late to talk. Come on, Brad. Please. Talk to me. Tell me.”

He exhaled a long, shuddering sigh, and after a moment of silence he turned to her. “Remember I told you once that I tend to get too personally involved in the lives of my congregation? Well, tonight is the downside of that”

“What do you mean?”

He drew a shaky breath. “There’s a middle-aged couple with a ‘problem’ teenage son. I’ve been counseling them for the past few weeks,” he said, his voice so low she had to lean close to hear him. “Based on everything they said I eventually came to the conclusion that he was probably depressed—maybe clinically depressed—and that they needed to get him professional help. The only trouble is, I came to that conclusion too late.” He wiped his hand across his eyes, and when he continued, his voice was uneven, laced with devastation. “He committed suicide this morning.”

“Oh, Brad!” With her free hand, Sam reached over and touched his cheek. His whole body was shaking, and she could feel the grief emanating from every pore.

“What kind of minister am I that I couldn’t prevent a tragedy like this?” he asked in anguish, his voice harsh with desolation, his grip on her fingers tightening.

Sam placed her free hand flat against his cheek and exerted gentle pressure, forcing him to turn his head so she could look directly into his devastated eyes. “Brad Matthews, don’t you ever doubt the fact that you are a fine man and an equally fine minister,” she said fiercely. “Your only problem is that you care too much. Surely this boy’s parents aren’t blaming you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “But
I
blame me. There
was
a way to prevent this. I just didn’t know what it was. And when they called today, looking for comfort, I failed them then, too. I couldn’t find a way to explain what happened, why a young life was wasted. All I could do was go to them, tell them that I’m sorry and that we can’t always understand the ways of the Lord.”

“Maybe that’s what they needed to hear,” Sam said gently.

He shook his head. “A minister should be able to do better than that, find more words to ease their pain.”

“But you’re also a man, remember? You told me that yourself. You’re human, Brad. You did the best you could to help. That’s all the Lord can ask. That’s all this boy’s parents can ask.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t bring him back,” he said sadly. He was still clutching her hand, but his grip had loosened imperceptibly, and the tremors that had racked his body were subsiding.

“No,” Sam agreed. “But even when we don’t understand why something happens we have to accept God’s will.”

He looked at her wearily, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You’re the one who sounds like a preacher.”

“Hardly,” she said, her mouth twisting wryly. Then she reached up and smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “How long have you been sitting here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I think you need to focus on something else for a while. Have you eaten anything today?”

He frowned. “I had a bagel this morning.”

“That’s what I thought. Now I’m not going to offer to cook or anything, so don’t panic, but why don’t we raid your refrigerator? I can whip up something simple, and I’ll feel better if you have a meal. I think you will, too.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sam.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Come on. We’ll make do.”

An hour later, as they finished their simple meal of spaghetti and salad, Brad reached for her hand across the table. “I do feel a little better, Sam. Thank you. For everything.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You were here when I needed you,” he said, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. Suddenly she winced, and he glanced down with a frown. Faint purple marks had appeared on her flesh, and he looked up at her in concern. “I did this, didn’t I?” he said slowly. “In the church, when you took my hand.”

She shrugged off his question. “Don’t worry about it, Brad. You needed to hold on to a hand. Mine was convenient. I didn’t mind.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sam. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you.”

“Brad, it’s nothing. Really,” she assured him. “Now how about some dessert? I saw ice cream in the freezer.”

He shook his head. “Not for me, thanks. But go ahead if you want some.”

“No. I’m full.”

He took a sip of water and his lips quirked up ruefully. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if we’re ever going to have a normal date.”

Sam smiled. Now was
not
the time to bring up their relationship. He’d had about all the stress he could handle for today. “I know what you mean,” she said noncommittally.

“Well, given tonight’s episode, I wouldn’t blame you if you ate and ran. But I’d really like it if you could stay awhile. Maybe there’s a good movie on TV or something.”

“Just try to get rid of me,” she said with a grin. She wasn’t about to leave yet Brad had suffered a terrific shock, and caring human contact was the best thing for him right now.

He gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.” He rose and reached for her hand, lacing his fingers carefully through hers. “Let’s see what the tube has to offer.”

They lucked out with a classic comedy, but the emotional trauma took its toll on Brad, and halfway through he fell asleep beside her, exhausted, his head dropping to the cushioned back of the couch.

For a long while Sam didn’t move, content to sit close beside him, listening to his deep, even breathing and letting her mind rest. It had been an eventful two days, she mused, with nothing going according to schedule. She’d come here tonight to say goodbye to the man next to her. Instead she felt more linked to him than ever. It was almost as if, in the face of tragedy, they’d forged an even deeper bond, taking their relationship to a new, more intimate level. In many ways it was beginning to seem as if they really did need each other.

When the movie ended, Sam carefully reached for the remote and clicked off the set. She looked over at Brad, the harsh lines of anguish in his face now softened in sleep. With a sudden rush of tenderness she reached over and ever-so-gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. He sighed softly, and his head dropped to her shoulder. She really ought to go, she knew. It was getting late. But she hated to wake him just yet. He was so exhausted. She’d wait just a little while longer, she decided, tilting her head so she could feel his hair against her cheek.

As she sat there in the dim room she, too, began to grow drowsy. And as her eyes drifted shut, her last conscious thought was that this evening had certainly turned out differently than she expected. Falling asleep with Brad’s head on her shoulder had definitely not been on the agenda.