Beyond the Storm: Quilts of Love Series (25 page)

After dinner had been eaten and the kitchen cleaned the night that Jen had called, Abigail joined Justin on Selma’s sprawling wrap-around porch. Years ago Clyde had hung two wooden swings by chains from the porch ceiling, at opposite ends of the house. With Rawhide snoozing at their feet, Abigail and Justin sat drinking iced-tea in one swing while Heather and Bob Ray giggled and snuggled in the other.

The pink-orange twilight grew purple and closed in on them, surrounding Rawston and shutting out the rest of the world in a velvety blanket of crickets’ song. It was rumored that the rate the insects chirped could tell the temperature. Abigail didn’t know about that, but it was very warm and the steady music was peaceful. Through one screened window, the strains of Elsa and Robbie watching a movie in the living room filtered out, while the low conversation of Selma and Guadalupe working on the quilt wafted out another

“Jen called me today. About the memorial service,” Abigail said. The sweat on her glass began to drip so she touched it to her knee where it left a perfectly round watermark on the denim. Even her glass seemed to be sorrowing. In her peripheral vision she could see Justin’s head dip under the heavy news.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and nodded. The grief over losing his best friend was a daily struggle. “Today must have been her day for taking care of some business. She called me, too.”

“What about?”

He trailed a drop of condensation on his glass of iced-tea with a fingertip as he spoke. “She wants to talk to me about buying the lumberyard from her.”

“Are you thinking about doing that?” Could he be considering staying here in Rawston? She pressed her damp glass to her throbbing heart.

“I don’t know.” Brows lifted, he shrugged. “With the rebuilding needs of this town, it would be a lot of work. I’d need help. Could be prosperous. I’m praying.”

Praying? What did that mean? What if God said no? What then?
There was so much he wasn’t saying. So much that was connected to his feelings for Danny. She didn’t feel comfortable pressing him, so she instead shifted her gaze to the spooled rail that surrounded Selma’s porch. The floorboards creaked as Bob Ray and Heather slipped unobtrusively into the house, leaving them alone.

After a long moment Justin’s eyes slid closed and he said, “I miss him. Danny should be there, running the lumberyard. Doesn’t feel right, Jen and me . . . talking about me taking over something that he’d worked so hard to build.”

“Yeah. I know. But I can’t think of anyone he’d rather have had take over.”

“I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Chin to chest, Justin looked sideways at her. “Did you know,” he paused and wet his lips, “that the last conversation Danny and I had was about you?”

“Why?” Abigail squirmed around to better see him.

He attempted to curtail his grin. “I wondered what you looked like. I didn’t know that I had just danced with you, the night before.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “What’d he say?”

He took a sip of his tea, then chuckled. “Something about a tall Tinker Bell.”

“What on earth?” She leaned back and laughed. “A tall . . . Tink?”

“I have to agree, now that I know you.”

“What? No way! She was mean!”

“Nah. She was . . .” He looked her face over. “Feisty.”

“Is that on the ‘list’?” she blurted and then wished she could hit the rewind button on her mouth.
Oh . . . no.
She didn’t want him to know she cared at all about the list.

“Should it be?” The creases that bracketed his lips deepened.

The swing slowly came to a stop as they neglected to keep it moving. Their eyes flicked over each other’s faces, gauging each other’s expressions.

“I don’t—” she spoke at the same time he did.

“It’s not—”

They stopped talking and laughed.

Abigail decided to change the subject, although ever since the wedding, she’d puzzled over his list. Wondered about the one thing he felt was so important. “What else did he say about me?”

“He told me you were raised by a single mom after you turned eleven. And he told me a little bit about your . . . father.”

“Oh. What’d he tell you?”

“That you had some forgiving to do before you found peace.”

A flurry of anxiety set her heart to pounding. That was the last thing she wanted to hear. Probably because it was true. “He said that?”

Softly, Justin said, “Yeah.”

Abigail’s eyes burned. “I think maybe he was . . . right.”

“He usually always was.”

“I’m . . .” a hitch in her voice had her stumbling over the words, “I’m scared.”

The swing jostled as Justin draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her head against his shoulder. “Facing the demons from your past is a scary thing. But you said yourself that family is priority one.”

They talked long into the evening about the memorial, and Abigail felt as if they’d come up with a fledgling presentation plan that would please Jen and, at the same time, honor Danny. By the time she reached her room, a case of the jitters about confronting her father and decisions about the rest of her life had her feeling restless. Where was a crystal ball when she needed one? Endless questions buffeted her mind as she began to undress and found a long T-shirt to sleep in.

Living with Selma couldn’t go on forever. And, though the laundry room was fine for now, eventually she’d need to find a real place to work. The idea of moving to LA was losing its appeal, but was still an option. As she folded her clothes, she wondered how she could ever find the nerve to face her father. To forgive him. And to ask forgiveness. The idea was just so daunting.

Lord
, she prayed,
why is life so hard?

Once her room was tidy and she’d turned off the overhead light, she threw back her covers, crawled into bed, and attempted snuggle down, but . . . there was something in there with her. Something cold and sharp. Snapping on the bedside lamp, she felt around and retrieved a book with an envelope taped to the cover. It was a note. From Heather.

Abigail, this book was in the rubble at my house and Bob Ray rescued it for me.

Once, a long time ago when I was really struggling, I found some answers here.

It helped me a lot. I hope it will do the same for you.

Love, Heather

The words on the cover blurred and a smile trembled at her lips. It was some kind of leather-bound devotional. Curiously, Abigail turned it around in her hands and flipped through it, until she landed on that day’s date and began to read:

Very early in the morning he came to his disciples, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified and said, “It’s a ghost!” They were so frightened, they screamed.

Just then Jesus spoke to them, “Be encouraged! It’s me. Don’t be afraid.”

Peter replied, “Lord, if it’s you, order me to come to you on the water.”

And Jesus said, “Come.”

Then Peter got out of the boat and was walking on the water toward Jesus. But when Peter saw the strong wind, he became frightened. As he began to sink, he shouted, “Lord, rescue me!”

Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him, saying, “You man of weak faith! Why did you begin to have doubts?”

When they got into the boat, the wind settled down. Then those in the boat worshipped Jesus and said, “You must be God’s Son!”
(Matthew 14:25-33)

Abigail stared at the page, realization slowly dawning.

She’d been in a storm! Not the Rawston tornado, but a figurative storm, years ago. When she was eleven, her father left her mother for a new wife and a new daughter. That event had affected her life as surely as the tornado, for she’d lost her home when Karen moved them to the other side of town. She’d lost all of her old friends in the move to a different elementary school. And, though she hadn’t realized how it had affected her at the time, she’d lost her father as surely as Jen’s baby had lost Danny.

Very clearly now, Abigail could see how—because of these losses—she’d taken her eyes off the Lord and had begun to sink. And she’d been sinking ever since.

Bowing her head, she poured her heart out to Jesus.

Pushing the doorbell had to be as frightening as aiming a gun and pulling the trigger, Abigail thought, three days later as she stood on Dave Durham’s porch. For if her father was home this afternoon, there was no turning back. He lived in an attractive tract home in a modern neighborhood that had fared quite well way over on this side of town. The house was a nondescript beige with black shutters and a cranberry front door. There were twin black rockers on either side of the door and some beautiful brickwork wainscoting the lower half of the house. A silver milk can held a handful of sunflowers, and on the door, a whimsical placard proclaimed that this was the Durham Family’s Residence. Dave’s new family. The replacement family. Abigail battled a wave of resentment that urged her to rush back to the Olds. But, just as she took the first, tentative step backward, the door swung open and she was trapped.

An attractive blond woman—Mindy must be in her late thirties by now if Abigail’s memory served—answered the door with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

Abigail cleared her throat. “I’m Abigail Durham.”

Mindy’s face registered surprise, and her smile froze for a nanosecond before she recovered and said, “Well, hello. Of course. You’re Dave’s daughter. Won’t you come in?” Her smile morphed into the real thing.

“Is my, uh . . . dad home?” The word was foreign and oddly large in her mouth.

“He’s in his home office working on his computer,” Mindy stepped back and glanced over her shoulder. “Would you like to speak to him?”

“I . . . yes. Please.” She hesitated on the threshold. Awkward. Uncertain. If Mindy felt any such discomfiture, it didn’t show.

“Great, come on in, and I’ll just let him know you’re here.”

Fighting another compulsion to bolt, Abigail stepped into the cheerful foyer. Slowly, her gaze moved across her father’s world. It smelled much the way she remembered him, and the warm, spicy fragrance pulled her backward in time as surely as a photograph might. A nicely appointed living room was on the right and the formal dining room, on the left. Straight ahead was the kitchen, where a young woman sat on a bar-stool at the counter. Abigail’s heart clutched because it was like looking at a picture of herself from about ten years ago. This girl was her half-sister. Last night she figured the girl must be eighteen by now. Probably, she’d just graduated from the newer North Benton High between Rawston and Southshire. There was so much she didn’t know about these people. So much she longed to discover now that she stood looking into the girl’s clear, smiling eyes.

“Lindsey? Honey, this is Dad’s daughter, Abigail. She’s your half-sister,” Mindy announced as if they’d discussed it and happily accepted it years ago.

Abigail didn’t know what reaction she’d expected, but it wasn’t the delighted, nearly giddy response she got.

“
Are you serious?
I have
so
always wanted to meet you!” The girl nearly toppled her stool as she leapt to her feet. She took a step, held out her hands, dropped them, lurched forward and launched herself into Abigail’s arms. “I always wanted a big sister,” her exuberant confession was muted some by Abigail’s shoulder. Leaning back, she said, “I used to pretend that we knew each other. I’d have little conversations with you, and you’d give me advice and stuff . . . Dorky, I know, but I feel like I know you.”

“I’m flattered,” Abigail admitted and couldn’t stall the smile that shanghaied her mouth and eyes. It was like talking to herself as a teen. Lindsey’s enthusiasm was infectious and worked wonders on her tightly wound nerves. Instantly, Abigail liked her and regretted not being there so those conversations could have happened. “I always wanted a sister, too.” It was true.