Tracie Peterson (3 page)

Taking a deep breath, Brook turned back around. “Don’t look now,” she whispered to Ashley, “but Harry’s here.”

Her sister’s stoic expression never changed. “Where?”

“Right behind you.”

Brook glanced at Ashley, wondering if it still hurt her to see him. Ashley and Harry had been a certainty that Brook would have put money on. They seemed perfect together and yet . . . Rachelle. That was the reason Ashley and Harry didn’t work out. Rachelle stood in their way. Ashley, too, had had to make a different life for herself. A life her mother might take notice of and be intimidated by.

Ashley might have been happy with Harry
, Brook couldn’t help but think.
And I might have been happy too—happy and content to live in Kansas and marry a sweet farmer like Harry rather than getting entangled with the fast-paced life I live now.

Brook glanced back at him and found him studying the funeral agenda. Ruggedly handsome in well-defined features, Harry wore the years well. Only five years older than she and Ashley, Harry maintained a boyish charm that had captivated most of the girls when they’d been growing up. Brook couldn’t help but wonder if Harry felt nervous about being here. After all, he had loved Ashley quite
deeply. Her rejection of him nearly ten years ago had stunned everyone in the family. Brook could only imagine how much it had stunned Harry. Since that time, Brook knew her sister had gone out of her way to avoid seeing Harry—even when she returned to the farm to see Mattie. Brook looked over to Ashley and squeezed her hand. The day promised to be quite trying.

The pastor, a lean man in his fifties with piercing blue eyes and wavy brown hair, stepped up to the podium. Brook drew a deep breath and forced herself to look forward. She felt her stomach churn nervously.
I only have to get through the next few hours and then all of this will be behind me
, she promised herself. But would it really be behind her? Could she honestly relegate Rachelle to the past?

“I’m pleased to have the Mitchell girls back in our congregation, but sad that it should have to be on an occasion such as this,” Pastor Paul Wallace said. “I know this is a difficult day for all of you. I know, too, that you face many mixed emotions in dealing with Rachelle’s death. For this reason, I will open us in prayer and then proceed in the manner outlined for me by Mattie.”

The girls bowed their heads and Brook was only slightly surprised when Ashley reached for her hand. It seemed only natural that Brook reach for Deirdre’s, and she felt a sense of completion when Deirdre reached for Erica’s and Erica did likewise with Connie.

“Father, this day is among the most difficult for any person to endure. A loved one has passed away and the loss that is felt comes to us in different ways. We ask that you would oversee this day and the days to come. We thank you for your mercy and honor you this day as the all-knowing God who directs our steps. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Brook felt her sisters release their hold and instantly wished that she could somehow get it back.

“Rachelle Mitchell Gable, better known as Rachelle Barrister, was born right here in Council Grove, Kansas. She lived her childhood here and later married and moved away. She gave birth to five
daughters; they survive her.”

Survive her. What a perfect expression, Brook thought. That is exactly what we did. We survived her desertion. We survived her absence. We survived her.

The pastor looked up and met their faces. Brook thought he looked very sympathetic and compassionate. And why not? He’d been the pastor of this church for the last twenty-some years. He’d watched them grow up and leave home and more than once he’d counseled them in times of need.

He smiled benevolently. “Mattie asked me to be less formal, to not dwell on the obvious. We all know the details of Rachelle’s life. We could spend the entire day listing her accomplishments, but that would serve you poorly and it would hardly help Rachelle. This family has endured much pain and I know the way hasn’t always been easy. But there is a strength you have in each other—a strength that makes you more than merely survivors of Rachelle Barrister—it makes you family.”

Connie heard the words but found it difficult to focus on the meaning. She glanced at her watch as covertly as she could manage and noted that less than ten minutes had passed. It seemed like an eternity. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling her straight navy skirt bind as she moved. This was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

Connie didn’t know if she could buy into the pastor’s words on family. She knew that he hoped to bring them together—probably for Mattie more than anyone. After all, Mattie was the one still living here in Council Grove, Kansas. No doubt Mattie had to face the questions of her neighbors and friends.
“Where did your girls get themselves off to?” “When are they coming home?”
Connie supposed it was hard for some folks to understand the need to break away from the farm—to live a life where the memories couldn’t hurt you.

Connie almost laughed out loud at that thought.
Is there such a place?
If there was, Connie had never found it. Memories still haunted—still wounded—even when you lived a hundred miles away.

The eulogy continued, but Connie hardly even heard the words. She hadn’t come here to listen to her mother’s praises being sung, neither had she come here to get some psychological or theological lecture on how she should find strength in her family. She knew all of that already. The only trouble was, she never felt very much a part of the family. Being the middle child of five had its grave disadvantages, and Connie had endured every one of them. And while she couldn’t change her birth order, she could manage her feelings toward the mother she had never known.

It seemed odd to feel so unfamiliar with her own mother, but Connie knew that if given a chance to speak their minds, her sisters would no doubt agree with her. Mattie said they could know Rachelle, at least in part, because they had each other and even Mattie to find comparisons in. But no matter how hard Connie tried to find her mother in others, it never made up for the fact that she had never been there in the first place.

Against her will, Connie remembered feeling outcast by her friends. They were both in awe of her mother and in contempt of Connie’s position.
“Why isn’t your mother ever home? Where is she?”
They would ask her these and other taunting questions.
“If your mother loved you, she would take you to live with her.”

Even now the wound felt raw. Then another, even more painful memory came to mind. Connie had once tried to telephone Rachelle, only to be intercepted by her mother’s personal secretary. The woman had assured Connie that Rachelle would probably have loved to talk to Connie, but that now wasn’t a good time. There was never a good time, Connie quickly came to understand.

“Rachelle may be gone from this earth,” Pastor Paul was saying, “but she has left a legacy that will remain for generations to come. A legacy comprised of flesh and blood. This legacy is you.” He said the words so simply, yet Connie felt almost startled by them.

“God, too, has given us a legacy. An inheritance from Father to child. He offers us eternal life—salvation through His Son, Jesus. A free gift that we have but to accept in order to obtain. We are His children—His
family. No one person is more important than the other.

“Scripture likens it to the parts of a body, all of which are necessary to support the whole. Just as Scripture points out that one part of the body can’t say to another part, ‘You aren’t important. You aren’t needed,’ neither should we say those words to one another.”

But I don’t feel important or needed
, Connie thought to herself. She folded her arms against her chest as if to shield herself from being hurt by the words. Talk is cheap. Wasn’t that the old adage? Put your money where your mouth is. Of course, she knew the pastor couldn’t give her what she needed. She doubted very seriously that what she needed could ever be provided.

Pastor Paul seemed to be concluding his service, and for this reason alone, Connie forced the dreary thoughts away from her mind.

“I want you to remember today that nothing Rachelle Barrister has done matters anymore. She is gone and there is nothing more she can do or say to change her life. But just as clearly as this is true, it is also true that you are still alive. You are here and you have a choice to make.” He stepped down from the podium and went to stand at the end of Rachelle’s coffin.

“Rachelle made mistakes—poor judgments—and often very hurtful decisions. But she will never make another. You, on the other hand, are alive and free to determine how you will deal with this situation.”

Connie bowed her head ever so slightly. She couldn’t handle the intensity of the pastor’s words. She knew her life was a mess. She didn’t need him to remind her of it.

I won’t listen. I will think of anything but what he’s saying. I will think of home.

“Sometimes we get a second chance.” The pastor’s voice pierced her thoughts.

“Sometimes we don’t,” she nearly murmured aloud. She felt as if a band were tightening around her chest. It caused her to draw her arms even closer, tensing against the feeling of pressure.

“Sometimes we lose our way.”

I won’t listen.
She wanted to put her hands over her ears.

“But sometimes—just when we least expect it,” he said very softly, “we find it again.”

Connie forced herself to remain seated. It would be over in just a few minutes, and then she would never again have to listen to anything so unnerving. She made a mental rundown of anything and everything that came to mind. She spelled the months of the year backward and then tried to remember the entire Declaration of Independence, which she’d had to memorize in high school.

And then it was over. Pastor Paul was praying, and before she knew it they were standing and thanking him for a lovely service. Connie edged away from where Mattie and her sisters shared their thoughts with the gentle pastor. She wanted no part of this.

“Running away?” a deep, husky voice questioned.

The words startled Connie and she jumped. Looking up, she found Harry Jensen staring at her rather quizzically.

“Connie, are you okay?” he asked as she continued to look at him.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You look as white as a sheet.”

“It’s been a hard day,” she admitted. “And seeing you is . . . well . . . a surprise.”

He smiled. “Why is that? You had to know I’d be here for Mattie.”

Connie nodded. “I suppose I could have figured that. I’m surprised you recognized me, though. It’s been a long time since I saw you and . . . well, I’ve changed a lot in that time.”

“Not so much,” Harry said, smiling. “The hair is a little dramatic, but it’s still the same pretty face.”

Connie felt her cheeks grow hot. No doubt Harry would note her blush and realize his comment was the cause. She turned away rather abruptly and said, “Gram seems to be holding up pretty well.”

“She’s a strong woman,” Harry replied. “She has to be.”

Connie turned back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She
knew her suspicious, even guilt-ridden nature was getting the best of her, but there seemed to be a challenge in Harry’s words.

“It means just what I said,” Harry replied. “She has to be strong. Life’s dealt her some harsh blows—the death of her husband and son when they were both so young and vital, and now the death of her only other child.”

“She’s not the only one who’s had to be strong,” Connie said, knowing how selfish the words sounded. She thought to take them back but knew it would do little good. She hadn’t wanted to alienate Harry—not really. Not any more than she wanted to alienate anyone else. She simply didn’t want to deal with the pain, and sometimes putting people away from her before they could hurt her was the best thing she could do.

Chapter 3

Mattie watched each of her girls carefully. In so many ways they were no different from the children she’d raised. The twins stayed close, usually consoling each other in unspoken ways. A touch here, a glance there. It was their way—a bond that no one had ever been able to come between. Erica and Deirdre were standing together, their whispered thoughts exchanged as they carefully observed the others. Ever the peacemaker of the family, Deirdre kept a kind of silent vigil over the group. Mattie had seen her do this since she had been quite small. She always seemed to observe the family, watching for trouble, heading it off before it got out of control.

And while Deirdre was the self-appointed peacemaker, Erica, barely nine months younger, was the happy-go-lucky sort that just seemed to take life as it came. Babies of the family were often that way, Mattie had observed over the years. They wore hand-me-down clothes and found themselves passed around among the other siblings while exhausted mothers—or grandmothers, in this case—struggled to meet some newly mandated deadline.

Then there was Connie. Connie had always been a bit more difficult than the rest, Mattie remembered with a smile. But Connie had been the one most like Rachelle. Rachelle with her wild, independent streak. Rachelle with her penchant for danger and adventure.