Sunset: 4 (Sunrise) (11 page)

She turned onto her dad’s street, and as she pulled into the driveway she stopped, studying the old place. The Baxter house. From this vantage point, she wanted to savor the slant of the roof and the expanse of the covered porch, the windows and the way she knew exactly what lay on the other side of each of them. But only one thing captured and held her attention—the bold For Sale sign. Ashley felt her chest tighten. Her father had told them he was getting interest from people. One couple was close to making an offer.

Maybe this was the reason she was feeling so emotional, so caught between yesterday’s redemption and tomorrow’s uncertainty. When the house was gone, nothing would be the same. Without the expanse of grassy field and the stream out back, without the familiar walls and windows, memories of every chapter of life would fade. Ashley willed herself to look past the For Sale sign to the stand of maple trees along the front side of the driveway, trees that had seen the Baxter kids go from making free throws to making families of their own.

Slowly she removed her foot from the gas pedal and eased up the driveway to her familiar parking spot. Once inside the house, she heard her father tinkering in the kitchen. She set her purse down. “Hi . . . it’s me.”

“Ash! Hi.” Her dad’s voice held a warmth that was his alone. “Did you come to paint?”

“I did.” She walked into the kitchen. Her dad was tightening a screw on the hinge of the refrigerator door. “Must be home project Saturday again.” A light bit of laughter tickled her throat. “Landon and the boys are making repairs on the tree house.”

“The door kept popping open on its own.” He had a screwdriver in his back pants pocket. “I’ve just about got it figured out.” He glanced out the window to the backyard. “Next it’s the garden. The weeds are coming to life a lot faster than the zucchini.”

Ashley watched him. He could easily be mistaken for a decade younger than his actual age, in his sixties. She leaned against the corner of the wall. “Tell me about the house.”

Her dad looked up, and in his eyes the answer was painfully clear. “The couple was back for a third time this morning. They’re talking to their lender on Monday.”

Ashley’s knees trembled at the news. In that case, an offer could be in her father’s hands by Monday. The sale was getting close.

Her dad must’ve known the information was hard for her because he held out his arms. “Come here.”

She went to him, the way she had done so many times before. In his embrace she would always be that little girl who couldn’t get enough time playing outside with Luke and that teenage girl no one ever seemed to understand. No one but her daddy. And she would always be the grown woman who had made peace with her past and with her mother, weeping at the graveside service after her mom’s death. Safe and secure and convinced that the world would go on—that’s how she felt then and now.

“I know. . . . We’ll get through it.” She eased back and her eyes met his. “But this house belongs with us. I just wish there was some way . . .”

“Me too, honey.” He kissed her forehead. “Me too.” He moved back to the fridge and returned to work on the hinge.

Ashley poured herself a drink of water and headed toward the stairs. “I’ll find you outside when I’m finished.”

“Okay.” He looked up again, and there was fresh concern in his eyes. “How are you really? You look tired.”

“I’m okay.” She lifted the corners of her lips. Her father had enough on his mind without worrying about her. “Praying for the baby, and I don’t know . . . sort of nostalgic, I guess. Probably just the house.” She felt her smile become more sincere. “I’ll be fine.”

She took the stairs slowly, aware that her father was right. She was more tired than usual; with her previous pregnancies by now she was usually feeling lots of energy.
It’s not a sign,
she told herself.
Everything is fine. It has to be
. As she walked into her old bedroom, the sense of sadness lifted. Her easel was up and on it, a new canvas, clean and vast and screaming with possibility.

The air was stuffy, so she crossed to the window, unlatched the lock, and slid it open. A sweet-smelling breeze filled the room, and Ashley felt herself relax. Yes, everything was going to be fine. She sat on the stool in front of the canvas. A part of her wanted to take her paints and easel out front and capture the house one last time before it belonged to someone else.

But that wasn’t the image in her mind, the one she’d talked to Landon about earlier. She took one of the sharp pencils from a jar on the table beside her easel and touched it to the canvas. She moved her pencil in smooth, fast strokes, allowing the image to come to life in a preliminary form. This was sometimes the most difficult part of creating a painting, making sure the rough sketch matched the picture in her head.

Minutes became half an hour, and finally Ashley set the pencil down, stood, and stepped back. What she saw filled her heart with joy, because this was one of those rare times when the markings on the canvas were exactly what she’d been seeing in her mind. Two women—one older, one younger—walking together at sunset on a path near a stream. And in the arms of the older woman a newborn baby, bundled in blankets. The faces of both women turned down, marveling at the child in the midst of a setting that showed God’s creation bursting with life all around them.

Sometimes the image in Ashley’s head was one only God could’ve given her, and that was the case with this painting. Ashley arranged her paints and imagined the mix of colors, the vibrant streaks of yellow and green and blue in the stream and the pinks and oranges in the sunset overhead. The painting would have the only title that could possibly have fit, the title that summed up the Baxters like no other word ever could.

Redemption.

John settled into the booth and glanced at the front door just as Elaine walked in. Another thunderstorm was sweeping through Bloomington, and Elaine closed her umbrella before scanning the restaurant and spotting him. A smile spread across her face.

They’d been having lunch every Friday afternoon for the past few weeks, using the time to talk about the coming wedding. They both looked forward to the time as a special break from the week, a chance to let their excitement build about a future that included creating a home together.

John watched her walk to the table, and he stood, kissing her lightly on the lips and taking her raincoat. “Pretty stormy out there.”

“The radio said there’s a tornado warning a few counties over.” She was breathless as she sat down across from him.

It was always this way at springtime, and John didn’t mind. Back when he and Elizabeth were raising their children, they would sometimes pile into the car and drive to the lake, where they could get a better view of the thunderstorms that rolled across this part of the country each spring. He kept that detail to himself. “So, how are you?”

“Good. I had a nice visit with my kids.” Elaine wore a pretty lavender blouse, and her eyes shone. She was retired, so every few weeks she took a few days and visited her children and grandchildren. “The kids are growing up so fast.”

“They do that.” John had spent time with Elaine’s kids and grandkids over dinners at her house, and he was grateful for their overwhelming acceptance of his pending marriage to Elaine. Though her daughter lived in northern Michigan and her son in Indianapolis, John could picture times when all of their combined children and grandchildren might get together for a picnic or a dinner. “I told you about the house, right?”

“The couple backed out. That’s the last you told me.”

“They couldn’t swing the loan.” At the time, John had been relieved. He needed to sell the house, but another few weeks without a sale was okay with him. “There’s a new couple now. They’re older, looking for a place where their grandkids can visit.”

Elaine rested her forearms on the edge of the table and searched his eyes. “Is that hard?”

He smiled at her, feeling the ache that would always be there at the thought of letting go of his house. “I won’t lie to you. It’s hard. Someone else sitting on the front porch. Someone else’s little grandson hunting frogs near the pond . . . It’s definitely hard.”

The waitress approached them and dropped off two ice waters and a promise to return shortly.

When she was gone, Elaine’s expression became more intent. “I’m not asking you to sell the house. You know that.”

“Of course.” John let the hurt from earlier pass. After all, Elaine had just sold her house a week ago. He took a drink of water and kept his eyes on her. “I couldn’t do that to either of us, have us start out a life together surrounded by memories of my past.”

“It would take a while, but we’d get used to it.” Elaine reached for his hands. “We’d make new memories.”

For a moment, John actually considered the possibility. After all, Elaine had loved Elizabeth too. Their new marriage might not be hurt by the history in the old house, the fact that those were the rooms where John and Elizabeth had raised their children and welcomed grandchildren.

But just as quickly the idea fell flat. He could see himself having coffee with Elaine at the kitchen table in the Baxter house. But loving her? Being a husband to her? No, he could never make a new life with Elaine in the place where he had loved Elizabeth. The idea was crazy.

He gave her a sad smile and squeezed her hands. “You don’t know how much that means to me, that you’d consider living there.”

“I’m serious. No matter what you’ve told yourself or anyone else . . . that house is a lot more than walls and windows.” She released his hands and took hold of the menu. Her smile was sincere. “My house had only belonged to me since I became a widow. It doesn’t hold nearly the importance as yours. I saw that from the beginning.”

“We need a new place.” John was finished considering the idea. “But thank you.” He picked up his menu, and after they had both ordered, he pulled a checklist from his coat pocket. “I made a few phone calls this week. The church is open for June 21, like we hoped.”

Elaine looked relieved. “I’m so glad. We couldn’t miss the big Fourth of July picnic at the lake.”

Originally they’d chosen the following Saturday for their wedding, but with a weeklong honeymoon, they wouldn’t be back in Bloomington until after the Fourth. Even though Erin and Sam’s move back to the area had been postponed to the end of June, it still meant the entire Baxter family would be together for the big Fourth of July picnic at Lake Monroe for the first time in years. When they realized that, they switched the wedding to the twenty-first, and now he had the church confirmed for the date.

“Pastor Mark?”

“He’s available.” John put a check mark next to the pastor’s name on the list of items he’d taken care of that week. Mark Atteberry had been there through so many family events, including the celebration of Elizabeth’s life and her homegoing to heaven. Now he had agreed to officiate the wedding between John and Elaine.

“The reception? Did you talk to Katy and Dayne?” Elaine’s body language told him she was relaxed and comfortable talking about the wedding plans. They weren’t a first-time couple worrying about every detail. The ceremony and the reception would be simple. The conversation between them felt more like two people talking about a dinner party than a wedding.

“To quote Dayne, they’d be honored if we’d have it at their house. Katy said she’d have a casual dinner, and we shouldn’t give it another thought.” He felt the familiar gratitude in the fact that he had not only connected with his firstborn son but they were now neighbors and friends as well.

“Sounds beautiful.” Elaine allowed the excitement to show on her face. “I can’t wait.”

“And I think I’ve worked out the specifics on the honeymoon.” John tapped his pencil against the pad of paper and took a drink of water. “We talked about a road trip, bed-and-breakfasts from here to upper Michigan.”

“Yes.” A softness appeared in Elaine’s eyes. “That’d be wonderful.”

“I’ve got a pretty good route mapped out.” John explained how they would travel from Indiana to Ohio, where on their third night they would stay at a beautiful bed-and-breakfast rife with Civil War memorabilia. “Jennie Wade was the only civilian killed in the Battle of Gettysburg, shot accidentally in her sister’s kitchen while baking bread for the troops.” He checked his notes. “The love of her life died nine days later. It was a tragic story.” The owners of the bed-and-breakfast had allowed their home to be a tribute to Jennie Wade and to the love she’d held for her young soldier. “It seemed too special to pass up. What do you think?”

“I like it. Bed-and-breakfasts have so much more personality than a hotel.” Elaine linked her fingers around her glass of water. A clap of thunder shook the restaurant, and the lights flickered. She looked out the window for a moment, then back at John. “We’re spending a night on Mackinac Island too . . . before we come back?”

“Yes.” He made another check mark on the pad of paper. “Got that all taken care of.”

“We’re stopping to see my kids on the way home, and then back to Bloomington for the Fourth. I can’t imagine a nicer honeymoon, John.”

He felt the same way. They made a plan to look at houses this weekend, and the rest of their lunch passed quickly.

After sharing coffee, they went their separate ways, and John reported to the hospital to make his rounds. He was working only three days a week, allowing the younger doctors to take on more of the load. But he still had patients in the hospital, and Friday afternoons were a regular time for him.

The nurses and several other doctors greeted him as he walked into the intensive care unit on the third floor. Two of his patients had undergone bypass surgery and were recovering in the cardiac ward of the ICU. They were getting around-the-clock care from their cardiologists and the ICU staff, but John liked to check in on them too. On his way down the hall, he scanned the patient dry erase board that listed the names of those currently filling the various rooms. One of the names—Angela Manning—caught his attention and stopped him cold.

He read the name again and tried to remember where he’d heard it before. Then like a slap in the face the answer hit him. Angela Manning was the name of the college girl behind the affair that led to the murder of his daughter Kari’s first husband. The events replayed in his mind, the details just as sad and sorry today as they’d been seven years ago. Tim had been a professor at Indiana University, having an affair with Angela Manning, one of his students. Only at the same time, Angela was being stalked by a crazy student on campus, a guy addicted to drugs and steroids, paranoid and suffering from mental illness. He was the first one to tell Kari that her husband had been cheating.

Then like some sort of wild soap opera, three weeks after Tim announced he was moving out, Kari discovered she was pregnant. Even though Tim had cheated on her, she wanted him to leave Angela and give their marriage another chance. Some of her sisters recommended that she divorce Tim, but Kari stuck to her promise to God and to Tim. She wouldn’t leave him no matter what.

Eventually her prayers and diligence paid off. Tim returned to her, repentant, intent on going back to church and living his life right, being a husband to Kari and a father to their unborn baby. But the stalker college kid had other plans. On a fateful night in the months before Kari gave birth, Tim stopped by Angela’s apartment to tell her that things were finished between them. The college kid was waiting outside. He aimed his gun at Tim and fired. The bullets hit Tim squarely in his chest, and he bled to death there on the sidewalk.

The jury didn’t buy the insanity defense, so the kid was sentenced to life without possibility of parole. Turned out the guy was very clear-minded once he was off the massive steroids he’d been taking. Meanwhile Kari gave birth to Jessie, and Ryan—Kari’s high school sweetheart—became the friend Kari needed as a single mother grieving the loss of her husband. Eventually their friendship led to the beautiful marriage Kari and Ryan shared today.

But John never knew what happened to Angela Manning.

One of the doctors from his practice was walking up. John stopped him and pointed to Angela’s name. “What’s she in for?”

“It’s a sad story.” The man shook his head. “Suicide attempt. She’s one of mine.”

Suicide?
John felt the adrenaline release through his veins, felt his heart rate pick up. “Really?”

“Last night she took a bottle of sleeping pills and tried to end it.”

“Hmm . . . sad.” John’s mind raced. “Is she . . . is she in a coma?”

“Not anymore. She’s groggy, but she’ll be okay.”

John looked toward the young woman’s room. “I think I’ll check on her, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.” The man glanced at his notes. “Tell her I’ll be in a little later.”

As his colleague moved down the hall, John paused at the doorway of Angela’s room.
Dear God, I know You too well to think this is a coincidence. Let me see her the way You see her.

I am with you, my son.

Reassured that he wasn’t operating in his own strength, John walked in and crossed the room to the side of her bed. Angela was sleeping, but even with her eyes closed, her appearance looked haggard. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and dark circles pressed deep into the gray skin beneath her eyes. As John studied her, a handful of conflicting emotions hit him from either side. At one time she had been a beautiful woman. John had seen her picture in the news and on TV after the murder. But here . . . she looked like she’d aged twenty years. And no wonder, with the guilt she must’ve been living with. He was still trying to believe this was really her.

Here was the woman who dared sleep with a married man, the woman who cared nothing for Kari or the life Tim had back at home. But for the woman lying in the bed before him, Tim would probably still be alive, still married to Kari. John swallowed, trying to keep his anger at bay and get a grip on his feelings. Then, almost as if God was leading his thoughts, he suddenly saw her not as an adultress but as a broken child. She couldn’t have grown up dreaming she would be the paramour of a married professor when she was older. And whatever demons she’d battled in the years since that time, they’d led her here, to an attempt on her own life.

Angela moaned slightly and turned her head from side to side. As she did, her eyes opened, and she squinted at him. It took nearly a minute before she seemed truly aware of her surroundings and the fact that a doctor was standing beside her. “You’re . . . you’re not my doctor.” Her voice was flat, utterly void of emotion.

“I work with him. He wanted you to know he’d be in a little later.” An overwhelming sympathy came over John. He felt his expression soften. “How are you?”

“My head hurts.” She was still squinting, still acting a little bewildered. “I tried to kill myself. . . . I couldn’t even do that right.”