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“Yes. She told me.”

“I hinted she might want to come to work for me at the
Press
. I’d be happy to give her a column or let her cover the news.”

“Bill…that isn’t likely to happen, you know. Angie’s never wanted to move back to a small town.”

“People’s wants can change.”

“They can.” She wondered if she should say anything more. No, she decided. This was definitely something she shouldn’t interfere in, friend or no.

* * *

Angie had expected, when she finally told her mother about quitting her job, that Francine would pressure her to stay in Hart’s Crossing longer than the agreed-upon eight weeks. She’d also expected, in one way or another, to hear an “I told you so.”

Instead, her mother said, “Well, dear, I’ll ask God to give you a job that you’ll love, one that will bring you pleasure, even more than the old one did.”

“Do you really think God cares what sort of job I have?” She’d meant it to be one of her usual flip responses, the sort she used whenever her mother brought up her religious beliefs. Oddly enough, it didn’t sound or feel flip when it came out of her mouth.

Francine turned from the stove, where she was frying chicken in a large skillet. “Oh, Angie. He cares infinitely more than you could imagine.”

“It seems to me he’s got lots more serious things to worry about. Wars and famine, for instance.”

Her mother set the lid on the frying pan, then joined Angie at the table. Her expression was earnest and tender. “Honey, God knows everything about you. He created you to be just who you are, with all of your unique talents and abilities. He knows the very number of hairs on your head. Of course he cares about the job you’ll have next. He wants to use you in it. He wants you to fulfill your purpose in life.”

Angie felt something heavy pressing upon her lungs. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do believe that. He loves you. He loves you so much he sent his Son to die for you.”

“Greater love hath no man,” Angie whispered, repeating aloud the words from childhood Sunday school classes that popped into her head.

Her mother reached across the tabletop and took hold of Angie’s hand. “Yes.” There were tears brimming in her eyes.

Angie withdrew her hand and rose from the chair. “You know how I feel about organized religion, Mom. It isn’t relevant today. And how could any person know which religion is true, if one even is? There are so many to choose from.”

“When you meet the living Lord, you’ll know what’s true.”

If only Angie could believe like that…

But no. No, she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Religion wasn’t for her. It wasn’t. Her life as a journalist was all about facts and irrefutable proof. How could a person prove God?

With a shake of her head, Angie turned and left the kitchen.

Chapter 5

AS PROMISED, THE INSTALLER from the cable company arrived before nine on Friday morning. The guy was short, cute, young—maybe twenty-five—and had spiky platinum blond hair and startling blue eyes.

“So you’re why Mrs. Hunter’s finally getting cable installed,” he said to Angie as she led the way to her upstairs bedroom. “Never thought I’d see the day there’d be cable in the your mom’s house.” When she glanced over her shoulder, he chuckled. “You don’t remember me, do you, Angie?”

“Sorry. No.”

“I’m Eric Bedford.”

The name didn’t ring a bell.

“You know the summer you lifeguarded at the pool?” As he spoke, he set down the toolbox he carried and opened the lid. “I was always splashing you and pretending to drown.” He grinned. “Angie Pangie.”

“Good grief. You’re one of
those
bratty runts?”

“Ouch!” His grin didn’t fade. “I remember you calling us that. We deserved it, too.”

Angie sat on the edge of her bed. “What a summer. You and your gang of friends made my job unbearable.”

“Well, we did our best.” Eric pointed toward the desk, where the laptop was in plain sight. “I take it this is where you want the connection.”

“Please.”

“The order says you’re only getting Internet service. You want me to wire for cable TV while I’m at it, just in case? Won’t cost any extra.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

He set to work. “So how long are you back for?”

“A couple of months.” Strange, that didn’t sound as bad as it had a few days ago. “My mom’s having surgery on Monday, and I’m going to look after her while she’s recuperating.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Her knee.”

“Ah.” He moved the desk away from the wall and leaned down behind it.

Angie rose from the bed. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Any dogs in the backyard?” Eric asked before she reached the bedroom door.

“No.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Angie went downstairs to the kitchen, where she poured herself another cup of coffee, then she sat at the table, her thoughts drifting to the summer she was seventeen. There weren’t many job opportunities for teenagers in a town the size of Hart’s Crossing. Not then, and she supposed not now. She and Terri had considered themselves lucky to get jobs as lifeguards at the public swimming pool.

But Eric and his friends…

She smiled to herself. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad. Those boys had flirted with the female lifeguards in the obnoxious ways only young boys could.

She remembered the hot summer sun baking the concrete, and the glare reflecting off the water’s surface. She remembered the noise of kids at play, splashing and yelling and laughing. She remembered the mothers with their babies, and toddlers in the shallow end of the pool, and the teenage boys, darkly bronzed, showing off for the girls on the high dive.

Simpler times. A time when all her dreams had still seemed possible.

“I don’t think you’ve been truly happy since the day you moved away.”

Was Terri right? Angie wondered. Had true happiness escaped her? She’d been successful in her profession—or at least, had thought she was—but what about other parts of her life? Who were her friends, people she could call and ask to go with her to a movie or a concert or a play? What, as Terri had asked her when they talked last night, did she do for fun?

I like to run.

Running was one of the ways Angie kept fit so she would have enough energy for the long hours she put in at the newspaper. Besides, running gave her time to think about the articles she was working on.

But did running bring her happiness? Did it make her any friends?

Why is it the only real friend I have is in my hometown and not the city where I live?

A frown furrowed her brows.

Terri seems happy. Am I?

Angie’s best friend had so little in terms of career success and financial security. Terri’s deadbeat ex-husband had taken off with another woman and left her to raise their daughter alone. All she had was an ancient car, a small home with a medium-sized mortgage, and her beauty salon. And yet…and yet Terri was happy.

Angie pictured her friend in her mind. She remembered the way Terri smiled as she ran her hand over Lyssa’s strawberry blond hair, a look of motherly pride and unquestionable joy in her eyes.

Terri was more than happy, Angie realized. Terri was content.

A wave of restlessness washed over her. Maybe she needed to go for a run now. She couldn’t say she cared for the direction her thoughts had taken her. Not at all.

The Thimbleberry Quilting Club had been in existence for more than thirty years, and Francine had been a member almost from the beginning. She never missed the weekly meetings if she could help it. She loved to quilt, of course, but mostly she enjoyed the time of fellowship with the other women. Most of the quilts these women made went to people in homeless shelters and other places of need. Francine hoped having something beautiful—as well as warm—to wrap up in at night would bring someone a moment of pleasure in a time of hardship.

She looked up from her needlework to trail her gaze around the long table. There were six of them present today. Francine had invited Angie to join them, but her daughter had declined while rolling her eyes, as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Till Hart sat at her left, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was easily the most skilled of the all the quilters in the Thimbleberry Quilting Club. Not only were her fingers surprisingly agile for a woman her age, but her mind was equally nimble. She could carry on a detailed discussion on any number of topics and never miss a stitch.

Next to Till was Steph Watson. Last summer, Steph had lost her husband of more than fifty years; she’d had a rough spell of it. Francine remembered only too well what that first year of widowhood was like—but Steph seemed to be doing better now.

In the chair beside Steph was the youngest Thimbleberry, Patti Bedford. A newlywed of six weeks, Patti glowed with marital bliss. To hear her talk, her husband, Al, was perfection personified.

Ah, young love. I remember what that’s like, too.

To Patti’s left sat Mary Benrey, the secretary at Hart’s Crossing Community Church. Mary, God bless her, was all thumbs with a needle and thread, but she remained determined to one day make beautiful quilts, and so she never gave up trying. She had the patience of a saint, even with herself.

Next to Mary was Ethel Jacobsen, the pharmacist who owned Main Street Drug. Ethel, a no-nonsense type, was frustrated beyond words over Mary Benrey’s ineptitude with quilting. Patience was most definitely not Ethel’s forte. So why she always chose to sit next to Mary was a mystery to Francine. Maybe she liked to be frustrated.

Turning her gaze to the quilting piece in her hand, Francine said a silent prayer of thanks to God for each woman in the group.

“Frani,” Till said, breaking into her thoughts, “is Angie planning to stay at a motel near the hospital during your recovery or is she going to return to Hart’s Crossing each night?”

“She hasn’t decided. I don’t think she’s thrilled with the thought of driving my old Buick back and forth every day, but she isn’t keen on staying at a motel either.”

Mary said, “Well, there’ll be plenty of others coming down to see you when you’re ready for visitors. We could bring her if she wanted.”

Francine knew her daughter was too independent for such an arrangement. Angie liked to be in control. Angie
needed
to be in control.

Why is that, Lord? What is it that drives her need to control every detail of her life? And why is she so alone?

An ache for her daughter overwhelmed Francine, and her vision suddenly blurred. She was thankful the others were too busy with their sewing to notice her tears.

Oh Father, Angie needs you more than she needs control. How can I help her see that?

Chapter 6

SATURDAY MORNING WAS COOL and blustery, but the Little Leaguers were troupers. They all showed up for their regularly scheduled games with the visiting teams.

“Strike ’em out, Lyssa!” Terri shouted from her place on the sidelines.

Her daughter didn’t seem to hear. Lyssa stared hard at the batter as she tugged on the brim of her baseball cap. She drew her arms in close to her chest, preparing for the pitch. Then she delivered a fastball. The batter swung…and missed.

“Way to go, Lyssa!” Terri jumped from her lawn chair, whistling through her teeth.

“Terri Sampson, that sound could shatter glass.”

Terri turned to see Angie, a blanket draped over her arms, step up beside her chair. “You came!”

“Yes,” Angie grumbled, “but I don’t know how you talked me into it. It’s
cold
out here.”

“Pansy.” Terri grinned as she returned her attention to the pitcher’s mound. “Shh. Lyssa’s getting ready to pitch again.”

The windup.

The pitch.

Strike three.

End of inning.

Terri whistled and shouted and made a general idiot of herself.

“I never knew you liked baseball this much,” Angie said when they were finally seated, Terri in her lawn chair, Angie on her blanket.

“I never used to. But I like whatever Lyssa likes, and she loves baseball. Her dream is to play in the Little League World Series.”

“That’s a big dream.”

Terri nodded. “Yeah. Don’t I know it.”

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll be hurt if she doesn’t make it?”

“Oh, sure. No mother wants her child to be disappointed. But life is often hard. I wouldn’t do Lyssa any favor by trying to protect her from it. And everybody should have dreams for their future.” Terri looked at Angie. “As long as Lyssa learns to trust Jesus and wants what he wants more than anything else, she’ll be okay. Besides, God’s willing and able to take every hurt and turn it to good in her life if she follows him.”

Angie stared at Terri for several moments, then gazed toward the ball field.

Terri didn’t intrude on her friend’s silence. She suspected there was a great deal going on inside that pretty head.

* * *

What was with all this God talk? Angie wondered. First her mother, now Terri. The things they said and the way they said it made their faith seem more than a religious crutch for old ladies and little children. Their faith seemed…intimate and personal.

Worse yet, listening to them made her feel as if they had something she didn’t have—which was ridiculous. Angie had more money in her savings, checking, and 401k accounts than her parents had made in their lifetime. She had a college degree and a resume that spelled success. Her monthly mortgage payment was probably more than Terri made in two months in her salon. Angie might not be rich, but she certainly was able to afford the things she wanted. Even now—when she was unemployed—she was far better off than most folks in Hart’s Crossing.

And yet…

A shout went up from the crowd. Angie looked to her left to see Terri hopping up and down, waving her arms and screaming. A quick glance at the ball field explained why. Lyssa had hit a home run.

Oh, the joy on that little girl’s face as she rounded the bases and ran toward home plate. In that moment, Angie envied Terri more than she could express.