Words Get In the Way

Books by Nan Rossiter

The Gin & Chowder Club
“Christmas on Cape Cod,” in
Making Spirits Bright
Words Get in the Way

WORDS GET IN THE WAY

NAN ROSSITER

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Also by
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14

PART II

15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50

PART III

51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58

EPILOGUE
WORDS GET IN THE WAY
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
THE GIN & CHOWDER CLUB
Copyright Page

For my mom and dad

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I can hardly believe that I’ve been given the opportunity to write a second novel! When I was writing my first, and praying it would be published, I promised God I would try to write uplifting stories that make a difference. I hope readers find
Words Get in the Way
to be that kind of story.

When I began writing, a young mom from our church, Krista Dirienzo, introduced me to her young son Joey. Krista shared with me the heartache of the moment she learned that Joey has autism, and she told me about some of the revealing traits. Krista’s openness and willingness to answer all of my questions were a tremendous help, and Joey’s sweet personality was my beginning inspiration for Henry.

When I was almost finished writing, a young man named Michael Smith serendipitously sat next to me at a book signing for one of my children’s books. Michael showed me a notebook filled with his amazing drawings and then began to share with me what it’s like to
have
autism. Michael thoughtfully considered and answered all of my questions and, when he wasn’t sure of an answer, he encouraged me to ask his parents.

To my wonderful agent, Deirdre Mullane, whose guidance is invaluable and who always has a word of encouragement.

To my awesome editor, Audrey LaFehr, and everyone on the Kensington team, who believe in me and who, together, do their very best to make every book a success.

To my husband, Bruce, and our sons, Cole and Noah, the handsome men who inspire me and who always keep me smiling!

And to all of my reading friends: I have been overwhelmed by the support from readers across the country—and especially those in my community—from coverage in the local papers to, every time I’m in town, someone stopping to say, “I’m reading your book!” or “Our book club is doing your book!” or my favorite compliment: “You kept me up all night!”

Thank you all! I am truly blessed.

PROLOGUE

C
allie stood by the window, watching the late-day sun play hide-and-seek with the clouds. The buses began to pull away, and as the last one passed, she noticed a small blond head leaning against one of the windows, peering out. The little boy looked weary as he gazed through the glass, but when he saw her standing there he sat up, beaming, and opened and closed his small fist. Callie smiled and waved back.

She continued to watch as the buses disappeared and then turned to straighten up her classroom. She picked up pencils and crayons and put chairs up on desks so Jim could vacuum. When she came to the desk of the little boy on the bus, though, she paused. Shy Sam, as she called him, always remembered to put his chair up; he even put his neighbors’ chairs up when they forgot. She pictured his sweet smile and thought of Henry when he was that age. Sam was quiet, was meticulously neat, and loved to draw, and Callie often thought he must be cut from the same cloth as Henry.

She took down Sam’s chair, sat in it with her knees touching the underside of his desk, and opened his crayon box. Sam organized his crayons by color, just as Henry had always done, and Callie knew that every crayon was accounted for, even the ones that had become too short to hold. She closed the box, slipped it back in his desk, and looked at the drawing he’d been working on that day. It was a picture of Winston, his beloved golden retriever. She smiled, remembering all the pictures Henry had drawn of Springer.
Sweet old Springer!

Callie gazed out the window at the now-gray sky. She couldn’t believe Henry was going to be sixteen that winter.
Where has the time gone?
She could still picture him with his arm around Springer’s neck. And she could still remember, with vivid clarity, the fateful week thirteen years earlier when their lives had changed forever.

PART I

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulders in the sun ...

—Robert Frost

1

C
allie knelt beside Henry’s bed. He looked so peaceful, so different from the frustrated little boy she lived with all day. She reached over and lightly brushed the wisps of blond hair from his forehead. She watched him breathe, his lips slightly parted; she marveled at the smallness of his perfect hands and stroked his smooth cheek. Henry murmured and pulled his beloved Travelin’ Bear closer until the worn stuffed animal was tucked tightly under his chest. She whispered his prayer for him, as she always did, leaned forward, kissed him gently, and breathed in his sweet little boy scent. Finally, the tears she’d been fighting all day spilled hotly down her cheeks. She slumped against his bed, buried her face in her arms, and cried into the soft cotton sheets. She listened to the thunderstorm rumbling into the valley and, for the hundredth time that day, silently pleaded,
Please don’t let this be true. Please make Henry better. Just make it go away. Don’t punish Henry for the things I’ve done.

Callie stayed beside Henry’s bed for a long time before finally pulling herself up and collapsing on the bed in the next room. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her as she stared into the darkness and replayed the foolish encounter that had changed her life. At the time it had seemed so innocent. Afterward, though, she knew there had been nothing innocent in the events that led to that night.

It was a sunny Tuesday when they’d first met for coffee to discuss her thesis. The following Friday, it had been a beer at an outdoor pub on Church Street to celebrate the arrival of spring. And on Saturday, he had appeared handsome and smiling to take her to dinner at a quiet inn on Lake Champlain. They’d sat on the porch and watched the lights around the lake begin to flicker and sparkle as the sun streaked radiant flames of color across the sky. They’d shared a bottle of Merlot and talked about her plans for graduate school and his hope for tenure. Then he’d ordered a second bottle, and Callie had begun to wonder what he was thinking. She had watched him toy with the gold band on his finger and thought of Linden.
What would he think if he saw me now?
She had pushed the thought away.

He had paid for dinner, carefully eased the cork back into the second bottle, and discreetly smuggled it out under his tweed jacket, and then he’d jovially draped his arm over her shoulder as they’d made their way back to his car. Driving a short distance, he had pulled into the parking lot of a secluded beach. When he’d opened the back of his Volvo wagon and produced a wool stadium blanket, it had suddenly seemed too convenient. Callie had felt an unsettling wave of apprehension.
This has already gone too far.
At the same time, she hadn’t tried to stop it.

They’d sat on the blanket and he’d laughed as he struggled with the bottle between his legs and she’d laughed too as she tried to help by holding it while he pulled on the cork. Finally it had eased out, splashing a spot of red wine on his khaki pants. He had run his finger around the top to wipe off any stray droplets and, with a smile, passed the bottle to her. She’d hesitated, smiling too, but finally she’d taken a sip, her heart pounding.

As they watched the lights dance on the water, he’d slipped his jacket off and dropped it over her shoulders. Passing the wine back and forth had reminded Callie of high school. And then he’d brushed his hand along her thigh and teased her about having only one dimple and, feeling light-headed, she’d grinned mischievously, slowly running the tip of her tongue around the lip of the bottle.

He had watched with raised eyebrows. “Where’d you learn that, Miss Wyeth?”

“Learn what?” Callie had asked, feigning innocence.

“Hmmm, what else do you know?” His eyes had sparkled as he’d lightly traced his finger around her dimple and along her lips, and Callie had closed her eyes and let him.

Callie hated the memory, but sometimes it slipped into her mind, and she couldn’t seem to stop it. Two months later she’d discovered she was pregnant, but when she tried to reach him at the college they told her that he had taken a job in California.
Whatever happened to tenure?
she’d wondered bitterly.