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A Gift Of Grace
Inglath Cooper


Sometimes good can come from the worst moments…In a moment of grief, Caleb Tucker made the biggest mistake of his life. He gave away his wife's baby, born under the most tragic circumstances.Three years later he gets a second chance. All because Sophie Owens walks into his feed store with her little girl–a little girl who looks a lot like his late wife. But in order to get his second chance, he'll have to ruin Sophie's world.Perhaps, though, a gift of grace could save them both.









“There’s no easy way for me to say this, so I’ll just put it straight out.

I believe my wife gave birth to the little girl you adopted.”


The words came at Sophie in slow motion, as if they’d been delivered from miles away. She dropped into the chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her. “What did you say?”

Caleb pulled a photo from his pocket and handed it to her.

She stared at it, leaden fear settling in her stomach. The picture had obviously been taken years ago, but the child captured there could have been Grace.

“I made an awful mistake,” he said, “and gave her away.”

The words hung there between them. In that moment, it happened, the thing Sophie had feared most since the day she’d received the incredible gift of her daughter. And her world blew apart into a million tiny pieces.


Dear Reader,

I think one of the more difficult realities of life to accept is that bad things happen to good people. It is decidedly sobering to see someone we know or love go through a tragedy that completely changes the course of his or her life.

The question we cannot help asking is why.

As I get older, I realize that sometimes there isn’t any apparent or acceptable answer.

I’ve known people who have been dealt unbelievable blows, the kind of senseless violence or loss that would justify a complete withdrawal from a world that can prove too cruel. But in some of these same people I’ve witnessed a strength of character, an unwillingness to give up that has been an inspiration to me, made me look for the rainbow in circumstances that might at first glance seem hopeless.

In A Gift of Grace I’m hoping that you’ll find Caleb and Sophie to be two such people—a man and woman who manage to get back on their feet when accepting that their lives are essentially over would be a reasonable option.

Both Caleb and Sophie face a turning point where they must decide what the rest of their lives will be and whether they have the courage to accept the gift that awaits them.

Please visit my Web site at www.inglathcooper.com for a look at my other titles. I’d love to hear from you at P.O. Box 973, Rocky Mount, VA 24151 or inglathc@aol.com.

All best,

Inglath Cooper




A Gift of Grace

Inglath Cooper





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my mother, Margie McGuire, whose strength of spirit and

ability to find the good in the difficult are an inspiration to

me. And, too, for teaching me the things that matter.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN




PROLOGUE


CALEB TUCKER’S WIFE DIED on one of the prettiest days ever lent to Albemarle County.

Channel eight’s morning weather anchor had declared it the pearl in the oyster of spring—get out and enjoy it, folks!—but to Caleb, the beauty of the day was simply another irony in the nightmare that had taken over his life.

He sat on a chair by the metal-railed hospital bed, his skin chilled by air-conditioning lowered to a level more appropriate for preservation than comfort. He wondered how many other people before him had sat here in this same spot, not willing to let go. In the past eight months, he had come to hate this chair, this room, as if they alone were responsible for the misery now etched into every cell of his body.

He clutched his wife’s hand between his own, the backs of his knuckles whitened, his grip too tight, too desperate.

A half hour ago, two somber doctors had walked into the room where he’d sat waiting, both his parents and Laney’s parents hovering behind him. He’d watched their mouths move, the words sitting on the surface of comprehension. “We’re sorry, Mr. Tucker. We were forced to perform an emergency cesarean. There were complications from the anesthesia. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

No. Not possible. Not after everything she’d been through. She was going to get better. She had to get better.

He’d asked to see her, alone, trying to block out the sounds of Mary Scott’s keening grief. The doctors had led him to the room, one on either side of him, as if they thought he might not make it without their help.

He had only wanted them to go away, leave him alone with her.

Once they’d closed the door behind them, he’d stood staring at her beautiful face, seen nothing there to hint at the life she had carried inside her these past months. Nothing to hint at the act of violence responsible for that life. She’d looked peaceful, accepting, unmarked by any memory of what had happened, peace erasing all traces of pain or fear.

For that, he was grateful.

It was all he could find to be grateful for now.

The day had arrived after months of dread, of willing time to slow, praying for God to bring her back to him. But Laney—the woman he had loved since he was sixteen years old—was no longer here.

The door to the room opened and hit the wall with a bang. Mary Scott stood in the entrance, her face haggard. She looked as if she had aged a dozen years in the past few hours. Behind her, Laney’s father, Emmitt Scott, put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Mary, come on,” he said. “Don’t do this.”

She stared at Caleb now, her eyes glazed with blame. “This is your fault,” she said, her voice ragged, high-pitched. “Because of you, my daughter is dead.”

Caleb let the words settle, the knife of accusation stabbing through his chest.

“If you had been the kind of husband she had wanted you to be, none of this would ever have happened. Do you know how many times she came home crying to me about the two of you never seeing each other? About work coming before everything else, including her?”

The last few words rang out on the edge of hysteria.

“Mary, stop now,” Emmitt Scott said, taking his wife’s arm.

But she jerked away, crossed the floor in a couple of strides and slapped Caleb hard across the face.

He sat, too numb to register more than a momentary flash of pain, and then gratitude flooded him for the realization that he could feel anything at all.

Mary glanced at her hand, then back at him.

“Mary!” Emmitt swung her up in his arms, his face taut. “I’m sorry, Caleb. We’ll come back when you’re done,” he said and carried her from the room.

Caleb stared at the door long after it had closed. No matter how much Mary blamed him, it could never equal the blame he had leveled at himself. He dropped his head onto the icy bed rail, grief swallowing him, the sounds coming from deep inside nearly inhuman. No tears, though. He’d never shed one. Not since the police had found her broken body behind a Dumpster twenty miles from the mall where her car had been left with the driver’s door open, the contents of her purse spilled onto the pavement below.

A thousand times he had asked himself why he hadn’t driven with her that night. One decision made under the carelessly arrogant assumption that they would have other nights, other opportunities. “Come on, Caleb, you can fix the tractor in the morning.” He heard her voice as clear as if it were yesterday. “We’ll just go buy Mama’s birthday present and then eat at that new Italian place I was telling you about. When was the last time we went out to dinner?”

“I can’t, honey,” he’d said. “I need to get it going so I can get hay off the ground tomorrow. We’ll go this weekend, okay?”

One small flicker of disappointment in her blue eyes, and then Laney had smiled, as she always had. Forgiven him, as she always had.

She had gone on without him, kissing him on the mouth when she’d left, telling him he worked too hard. She’d be back soon.

And he’d taken that for granted. Because of course she would be back. That was how life worked, wasn’t it? One day blending seamlessly into the next until a man never thought to question his right to it.

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to the back of his wife’s wrist, stung by its increasing coolness. Despite all the words he’d heard countless times from doctors renowned for their expertise in brain-damaged patients, he had continued to hope that this moment would never actually happen, that she would wake up, come back to him. “Laney,” he whispered. “Oh, dear God, I’m so sorry.”

Footsteps on the tile floor echoed, penetrating his consciousness far enough to prompt him to raise his head.

Dr. Richards stood at the foot of the bed, his short dark hair disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Tucker.” The pause held a note of hopefulness. “Are you sure you don’t want to see the baby? It might make a difference.”

Caleb stared at him, as if the man had spoken a language Caleb didn’t understand. “Call the agency,” he said.

For a brief moment, the doctor’s composure slipped, and under a burdened sigh, he said, “If you’re sure then.”

“I’m sure.”




CHAPTER ONE


Three years later

SOPHIE OWENS PULLED the last clean plate from the dishwasher and placed it in the cabinet by the sink. The dinner dishes were done, the kitchen back in order for the next morning.

Norah Jones drifted down from the speakers mounted in the ceiling of the house’s main living areas. For a long time after her divorce, Sophie’s need for music had been about cloaking her own loneliness in whatever flavor of song seemed most likely to lift and soothe. Now, it felt more like an old friend whose company she simply enjoyed.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Sophie wandered into the living room, where her daughter sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by a ram-shackle collection of LEGO toys.

This was the largest room in the house, with a stretch of wide windows on the front and a field-stone fireplace at one end. Two oversize Bernhardt chairs sat on either side of its opening, a leather sofa the color of cognac closer to the center of the room. An antique rug covered most of the floor, its primary role a playground for Grace.

The house wasn’t huge, but comfortable in a way that made Sophie glad she had taken the plunge two years ago and bought it. To a girl from southwest Virginia, Charlottesville real estate was expensive. On an English professor’s salary, it had been an enormous debt, but so worth it with its fenced yard and proximity to the university.

And, too, the neighborhood was the sort where Grace already had friends who lived close by, who would no doubt in years to come ride over on their bicycles, have pajama parties in the attic. Hard to imagine Grace being old enough to do such things, but she was almost three, and these first years had flown by.

“Time for your bath, sweet pea,” Sophie said.

Grace looked up, her wide blue eyes the focal point of a round, rosy-cheeked face so beautiful that people often stared at her. “And then you’ll read me my story?”

“I will,” Sophie promised. She looked forward to their nightly bath-time ritual almost as much as Grace. Grace loved water, had taken to it as if it were as natural to her as air.

A few minutes later, Grace sat in the tub, eyes lit with happiness. She slapped both palms against the bubble-filled water, sending a poof of suds up to land on Sophie’s chin. She squealed with laughter. “Mama has a beard!” she said.

Sophie laughed, scooped up a dollop of soapy bubbles and gave Grace one, too, inciting another round of giggles.

Finally, when they were both soaked, Sophie lifted Grace from the tub, wrapping her in a thick white towel and dressing her in the Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas that were her favorite.

Sophie carried her into the bedroom. Stuffed animals covered a toddler-size sleigh bed. Grace couldn’t bring herself to banish any of them to the floor.

In this room, Sophie could be accused of over-indulgence, the walls a color-washed pink and yellow she had done herself. Grace said it looked like the sunrise. An old school desk sat in one corner with a stack of coloring books and crayons. A hand-hooked rug with Curious George at its center covered the floor.

“Where’s Blanky?” Grace asked as she snuggled up under the covers.

“He had a bath today, too,” Sophie said. “I forgot to get him out of the drier. Be right back.”

In the laundry room, Sophie retrieved the shabby but well-loved once-pink blanket. This was another subject she should probably tackle, but Grace’s attachment to it was so complete that Sophie couldn’t bring herself to take it away from her. She figured it would resolve itself eventually. She’d yet to see any of her freshman English students dragging Blankys into the classroom.

At Sophie’s return, Grace smiled and tucked the blanket under her left arm, resting her chin on its threadbare silk edging.

“Which book do we get to read tonight, Mama?”

“Which one would you like?”

“Are You My Mother?”

They’d read the Dr. Seuss book countless times, and Grace never tired of it. At one point, Sophie had begun to worry that on some level Grace felt the question within herself. She had never explained to Grace how she had come to be her daughter. It wasn’t something Sophie meant to hide from her. She had just never been able to say the words for fear that they would dissolve even an ounce of her daughter’s security.

Some days when Sophie caught sight of her child, framed in one of her high, sweet giggles, gratitude nearly brought her to her knees. She had lived the first year of Grace’s life in terror that it couldn’t last. That terror had quieted, but never completely gone away. It didn’t seem possible that anyone could give up a gift so precious as this and not realize their mistake.

But the days had turned to weeks, then months. Had it really been three years since the agency social worker had placed the newborn infant in her arms? Sophie could not remember what her days had been like without Grace. Only that life now had a buzz, a rhythm to it that made her previous existence seem that and only that. Existing.

Soon then. She would explain things to her daughter soon. She didn’t want to wait until Grace was old enough to think Sophie had intentionally hidden the truth from her.

She pulled the book from the shelf, sat down on the bed and, putting one arm around her daughter, began to read. Grace’s chin quivered. Tears slid down her cheeks as the little bird went from kitten to cow to dog searching for its mother.

By the time the bird finally found her, Grace’s tense shoulders relaxed, her eyes heavy with sleep. Sophie closed the book, kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Sweet dreams. Say your prayers?”

Grace nodded, reciting the verse she repeated each night before going to sleep. Sophie tucked the covers around her and smoothed a hand across her daughter’s silky hair.

“Good night.” She flicked off the lamp and turned to leave.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m glad you’re my mommy.”

Tears welled in Sophie’s eyes. “Me, too, sweetie. Me, too.”



CALEB TUCKER SAT on the front porch of the old farmhouse his grandparents had built in 1902. On the floor next to him lay Noah, a yellow Labrador retriever so named for his avoidance of water as a puppy; even rain puddles had sent him flying back to the nearest pair of available arms.

Surrounding the house were four hundred acres of farmland, the soil rich and dark with three generations of nurturing. Pockets of woods thick with century-old oak and maple trees divided hay fields from pasture. Deer slipped into the alfalfa fields just before sunset every evening. Flocks of wild turkeys pecked their way from one end of the farm to the other and back again in an endless loop of foraging.

The land had been in Caleb’s father’s family for three generations, the kind of acreage that in this part of Virginia now required the bank account of a stock-market genius or some thirty-year-old Internet wizard to afford.

The permanence of the land and its need of him held Caleb back from the brink of something too awful to define.

The moon had just started its ascent from behind Craig Mountain. It was full tonight, the pastures east of the house bathed in soft light, the Black Angus cows grazing there clearly outlined.

The day had been long, and Caleb had worked his muscles just short of failure. It was how he ended every day, wrung out, collapsing into the wicker chair and forfeiting dinner in exchange for a Dr Pepper and some cheese crackers, most of which stayed in the pack.

Headlights arced up the gravel drive, his dad’s old Ford truck rumbling over the knoll just short of the house. Caleb’s parents lived on the other end of the farm in a house they had built ten years ago. Jeb Tucker stopped and got out, balancing a plate covered in Saran wrap.

An older version of his only son, his hair had gone steel gray before Caleb had left home for college. Jeb had passed along the defined bone structure of his face as well as his wide, full mouth. Both father and son were heavily muscled from the daily routine of farm life. Like Jeb, Caleb favored Wranglers and Ropers. Dressy for both of them meant putting on their newest pair.

He looked up at Caleb now, his jaw set. “Evenin’,” he said.

“Dad.” Caleb nodded. Noah thumped his tail on the porch floor in greeting.

“Your mother asked me to bring this over,” Jeb said.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“She thinks you’re not eating.”

“Tell her I’m fine.”

“Maybe you ought to tell her. She doesn’t listen to me too much anymore.” Jeb set the plate on the step, then lowered himself down beside it.

Caleb didn’t miss the note of resignation in his father’s voice, and he realized how long it had been since he’d asked how they were doing. “You two okay?”

Jeb looked out across the darkened yard. “No,” he said. “I can’t say we are.”

Caleb let that settle and then asked, “This about me?”

Jeb looked down at the step, traced a pattern across the wood and answered without looking up. “It’s about the fact that none of us has moved on—”

Caleb erupted from his chair, his back to his father. “Don’t do this, Dad.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time we talked about it, son?”

“About what?” Caleb snapped back, swinging around. “The fact that I miss my wife so much that sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe for the pain of it?”

Jeb shook his head. “I know you miss her, Caleb. God knows we all do. But the fact is you haven’t moved a step beyond the day she died. It’s like quicksand, and it’s pulling you down. It’s pulling us all down.”

“That’s not fair, Dad.”

“There’s not a damn thing about any of this that’s fair, Caleb,” Jeb said, anger in his voice now. “But you are still here. Still alive. Somehow, some way, you have got to move on.”

“And what does that mean?” Caleb asked, forcing a level note to his voice. “Finding somebody else?”

“Maybe,” Jeb said quietly. “Don’t you think that’s what she would want?”

“I think she wanted the two of us to have a family, raise our kids, spoil our grandkids and grow old together. Those are the things I know she wanted.”

Jeb started to say something, stopped, pressed his lips together, and then said, “That’s what we all wanted for the two of you.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t get that, did we?”

“No, son. You didn’t.” He stared up at Caleb. “You’re a young man. You can still have a good life with someone.”

“Don’t!” Caleb said. “Just don’t, okay?”

A few moments of silence ticked past before Jeb stood, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “We’re going down to your aunt Betsy’s for the weekend. You can get us on the cell phone if you need us.”

Caleb watched as his dad got in the truck and drove off, standing in the same spot long after the taillights had disappeared down the drive. The moon slipped higher in the sky. An owl hooted in a nearby tree, the sound stirring inside him a fresh swirl of loneliness.

He flipped on the radio he kept on the porch for company. Static crackled in the air before the dial came into focus. He could only pick up the AM station out of D.C. after dark.

Vivaldi’s Spring Concerto rose high and tender from the old radio. This music had been Laney’s. His only by association. She had thought it beautiful. To him, it had sounded like a foreign language, noise that he didn’t understand. But he found himself reaching for it now, his connection to her thinning like a frayed rope. The music was a medium through which he could still feel her, remember what it had been like to make love to her, her skin soft beneath his hands.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wicker rocker. He didn’t listen every night. He couldn’t. Only when he needed the music’s poignant emotion to remind him he could still feel. Because even if all he felt was sadness, at least that was something.

He tried to focus on the picture he carried of her in his head, alarmed by its lack of clarity and the way it continued to dim like a photograph left too long in the light.

A soft breeze stirred, and his nostrils suddenly filled with the sweet scent of her perfume.

“Laney,” he said, his voice a hoarse plea.

He felt her touch on his shoulders like the brush of a feather. He sat as still as stone, afraid a single movement would shatter the feeling like glass all around him. And then he heard it, the wrenching sound of her weeping.

His heart twisted, felt suddenly too large for his chest. Tears streamed from his own eyes. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. “Laney,” he said. “Laney.”




CHAPTER TWO


JEB FOLLOWED THE GRAVEL ROAD that led back to the house he shared with his wife, the speedometer needle never reaching twenty. What was the point in hurrying?

There had been a time when he couldn’t wait to get home every day. Couldn’t wait to see Catherine. It had been that way all through Caleb’s childhood. Even after Caleb had left home for college, Jeb and Catherine had known a renewal of sorts in their marriage. He’d come home some nights to find her at the door in a piece of lingerie that made his heart hit the wall of his chest, and they would make love on the kitchen’s old walnut table.

Now, he couldn’t even remember the last time they had touched each other.

He blinked hard as if he could shake the gray pall that reality settled over him. But it stayed where it was, so heavy there were times he thought he would simply disintegrate beneath it.

He loved his wife, but somewhere in these last three years, he had lost her.

He stopped the truck in the middle of the road, leaned forward with his forearms on the steering wheel, staring up at the night sky. If he could just turn the clock back, figure out how to have what they’d once had. He’d tried to talk Catherine into seeing someone, even both of them together, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’d always been one to hold everything inside, a deal-with-it-herself kind of person. Only this was too big, too much. For either of them. And their marriage had bent to the will of their grief, of Caleb’s grief.

With a weary heart, he straightened in the seat, pressed the accelerator on the crochety old truck and headed home.



ON THURSDAY MORNING, Sophie drove the short distance from her house to the University of Virginia campus with her window cracked, letting in the flavor of the crisp morning. Spring was her favorite season; she loved the trees with their newborn leaves, the tulips popping up from their winter nest. To Sophie, the world felt more hopeful at this time of year, as if all things were possible.

She stopped at Starbucks for her morning fix, then got back in the Volvo and turned the radio to NPR, only half listening to Terry Gross interview a newly published author. Her thoughts were on the day ahead and the details left to tie up for Grace’s birthday party. After her first class, Sophie planned to pick Grace up from day care and run a few errands, things she wouldn’t have time to do tomorrow.

Her cell phone rang just as she pulled into the faculty parking lot.

She glanced at caller ID, ran a hand through her hair and suppressed a groan. She could ignore it, but that would only prolong the inevitable.

With a sigh, she hit the talk button. “Hi, Aunt Ruby.”

“My goodness, you actually answered,” was the dry reply.

“What’s up?” Sophie said, ignoring the barb behind the greeting.

“Do I need a reason to call and see how you’re doing?” she asked, her voice hoarse with forty years’ worth of cigarettes. “We haven’t heard from you in months. I thought something might be wrong.”

“Everything’s fine,” Sophie said, not adding that it was these conversations that usually sent a perfectly fine day flying right off track.

“How’s little Grace?”

“She’s great.”

“About to turn three, isn’t she?”

“Yes, difficult as it is to believe.”

“Are you doing a party for her?”

“Nothing elaborate,” Sophie hedged.

“Oh.” Ruby paused and then said, “I assume we aren’t invited.”

“Aunt Ruby, it’s not that kind of thing. Just a few of her friends from preschool—”

“Are you ashamed of us, Sophie?” she interrupted. “After everything we did for you?”

Sophie let several beats of silence pass, reaching for calm. “Of course not.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” Ruby said, her voice threaded with quiet hurt.

Sophie started to protest, to say once and for all that she’d had enough of her aunt’s guilt trips, but stopped herself just short of it as she always did. Because Ruby was right about one thing. She and Uncle Roy had taken Sophie in when she’d had no one else in the world, and the only other option for her would have been a foster home.

“It’s not a big deal, Aunt Ruby. I didn’t think you’d want to come. That’s all.”

“You don’t have to justify your actions to me, Sophie. I mean, we hardly know the child.”

Sophie dropped her head against the seat, massaging one temple where a subtle headache had begun to throb. “You know you have an open invitation to visit anytime.”

Another stretch of silence. “Then maybe we’ll drive up for the party and bring her a present. When is it?”

“Saturday afternoon at one,” Sophie said with resignation.

“Nothing like advance notice,” Ruby said, sarcasm coating the words. “Anyway, we’ll be there. Don’t want that little girl to grow up not even knowing who we are.”

Sophie bit her lip to keep from reminding her aunt she had never once invited Grace and her for a visit. “I have a class to get to, Aunt Ruby. We’ll see you on Saturday.”

She clicked off the phone and then sat for a few moments thinking how odd the call had been, trying to remember the last time they had even talked. It wasn’t like her aunt to call her out of the blue. With Ruby, there was always a catch. Sophie felt sure this time would not be an exception.



CALEB LIKED TO drive with his window rolled down; even on winter days, he’d turn the heater up full blast and let the outside in. This Thursday morning, he pulled into his parking space at the side entrance of Tucker Farm Supply, warm April sunshine pouring in. The store sat at the south end of Main Street in an old two-story brick building that had once been home to Miller Produce.

Jeb had bought the building and started the business some twenty-five years ago, and Caleb had grown up working summers loading trucks and running the front register. It was a small business by most standards, but firmly rooted in the community with a following of loyal customers.

Caleb got out of the truck, Noah leaping down behind him, tail wagging. Inside the store, Noah did a quick survey for Russell, an overweight tabby whose job it was to patrol the building for trespassing mice. Noah glimpsed Russell’s tail disappearing behind one of the display cases and spun out on the concrete floor.

The cat made it to the fescue seed barrel with seconds to spare, already cleaning his front paw with a touch of arrogance by the time Noah slid to a stop in front of him.

“Never gives up, does he?” Macy Stephens stood behind the old wood counter at the front of the store with a bottle of Pledge in one hand and a white cotton cleaning rag in the other. She spritzed the top of the counter, rubbing hard until the aged wood shone.

Caleb shook his head. “One of these days, he’s gonna flatten some nice old lady who never saw him coming.”

Macy smiled. “We all have our goals in life.”

Caleb registered a hint of fresh-smelling perfume and the fact that Macy was wearing her hair down most days now instead of in the ponytail she used to keep it pulled back with. She had started working at the store part-time when she’d begun classes at the university. She was about to finish up this year and planned to teach elementary school in the fall.

“The Spring Festival starts this weekend.” Macy added another squirt of furniture polish to the countertop, her gaze a few inches short of his.

Caleb stepped behind the counter and reached for the box of receipts beneath the register. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Any interest in going?”

Normally, Caleb would have answered with an automatic no, but something in her face made him reach for a softer note. “Lotta work to do this weekend.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding.

“You going?”

“Thought I might.”

“Sounds like good weather for it.”

“Hope so.”

“All right, then. I’ll be upstairs taking a look at the month’s statement.”

“Okay,” she said and turned her back to him.

In his office, Caleb pulled a chair up to the heavy oak desk by the window that looked out over the feed store’s main floor. He worked for a couple of hours, glancing over receipts, comparing margins on certain labels of feed they sold, dog food, cat food, grain for horses. Tucker Farm Supply wasn’t the kind of business that would ever make a man rich, but it was a comfortable living, a stable one. If there was anything Caleb appreciated now, it was stability. He clung to the things in his life that didn’t change, weeded out what did.

The bell to the front door dinged several times while he worked, customers going in and out. It was almost noon when he stood and stretched just as the door jingled again. A woman came in with a little girl holding on to her hand. The child said something and the woman nodded. The little girl took off for the corner of the store, headed straight for the seed barrel where Noah and Russell were still maintaining their standoff.

The woman stepped to the counter, said something to Macy. The child squatted beside Noah, rubbing his head. Noah’s attention, strangely enough, had been diverted from the cat. He sat with his nose in the air, his eyes closed in absolute appreciation of the child’s doting.

Caleb turned away from the window, sat down at the desk a little too quickly so that the chair tipped back. The phone buzzed. “Yeah, Macy.”

“Do you know if we’ve got any more of that hay in the shed out back?”

“Few bales, I think.”

“Dr. Owens wants to buy some.”

Caleb peered over the window again at the woman by the register. He didn’t recall seeing her in the store before. “That’ll be fine.”

“Eddie left for lunch a few minutes ago. Think you could help load it?”

“Be right down.”

He took the stairs two at a time, nodding at the woman as he passed the register and said, “Where you parked, ma’am?”

“In front,” she said.

“Mind pulling around back?”

“No.”

“It’ll be the first white shed.”

“Okay.” She looked at Macy and added, “Is it all right if my daughter stays in here for a minute?”

“Of course. Noah’s loving it. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Be right back then,” the woman said, following Caleb out the door and then veering right to a dark blue Volvo station wagon parked near the front of the store.

Caleb opened the shed, flicked on the light and tossed out three bales of orchard grass hay just as the woman backed toward the building.

She got out of the car and smiled at him. “Oh, good. That’s exactly what I needed.”

Her smile was open and friendly, as if she used it often. He eyed the car and said, “How many did you want?”

“Four or five would be great, but—”

“Looks like two’s about all that’ll fit if you leave the tailgate open.”

She worried a full lower lip with noticeably white teeth. “Oh. Well, I can come back for whatever doesn’t. Except I have a class this afternoon. What time do you close?”

“Five o’clock,” he said.

“I won’t be able to get back by then. Maybe I can come in the morning?”

He glanced at his watch. “Where do you live?”

“Ivy Run Road.”

“I could drop them off for you. I was headed out on an errand, anyway.”

Her face brightened. “That would be great. We’re having a birthday party, and I still have a thousand things to do—”

“No problem,” he said. “Just give me the address.”

“Actually, I have to run back by there on the way to school. Could you possibly go now?”

“Sure. I’ll follow you over.”

“Let me just run in and pay then.”

Caleb nodded, tossing a couple more bales from the shed while she pulled her Volvo out front. He backed his truck up, loaded the hay, then headed inside to tell Macy he would be gone an hour or so.

The woman and child stood by the register. Macy was looking at the little girl with that same odd expression on her face that he’d noticed when they’d first come in the store. The little girl clutched her mother’s hand, talking nonstop about the yellow dog and the big cat. Something about her rang out like an echo inside him. He frowned, then glanced at the woman, who smiled expectantly and said, “I really appreciate this.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Ten minutes later, they turned onto a paved driveway off tree-lined Ivy Run Road. Caleb backed in behind her. He got out and she met him at the truck. The little girl had already taken off around one side of the house.

“Do you think we could put those in the backyard?” she asked, raising her voice above the rumble of the truck’s diesel engine.

“Sure,” he said, popping the tailgate and grabbing a bale with each hand. “Just show me where.”

She nodded and moved off in the direction the child had taken, saying again how much she appreciated his help.

The house was neat and well maintained, not huge, but cottagelike with groomed boxwoods neatly clipped into roundness. A huge old magnolia tree stood to one side of the lawn. At the rear of the house, Caleb came up short. The backyard looked as if FAO Schwarz had set up a display. Big red slide with a small trampoline-like thing at its base. A playhouse in bright yellow and green with shutters. A mini picnic table where two dolls sat waiting for tea. The little girl was at the top of the slide, getting ready to come down.

“Watch, Mommy!”

She turned to look, shading her eyes with one hand. “Be careful, honey.”

The girl zipped down, hitting the trampoline at the bottom and letting out a high squeal-giggle that had delight at its center.

The woman stopped at the edge of the yard. “You can put that down here,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll figure out where to place it later.”

“I’d be glad to put it where you need it.”

“Well, okay.” One finger under her chin, she said, “I thought we could use them as chairs for the children. How about under the oak tree?”

Caleb nodded and dropped the bales. “I’ll get the rest.”

Two trips back to the truck, and the last of the bales formed an L-shaped backless bench at the yard’s perimeter.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “We’re having a barnyard party on Saturday. Mini-donkeys. Grace has hardly been able to sleep for thinking about it.”

The little girl skipped over and took her mother’s hand. “They’re only a little taller than me,” she said, looking up at Caleb.

“Perfect size then, huh?”

“I haven’t even introduced myself,” the woman said. “I’m Sophie Owens. And this is my daughter, Grace.”

“Caleb Tucker.”

“Oh.” She tipped her head back, her eyes widening a fraction. “Then you own the—”

“My family does, yes.”

“Well, again, thank you so much for hauling those out here for me.”

“No problem.”

“Is that your dog at the store?” the little girl asked.

“He is.”

“I like him.”

“I think he liked you, too.” Caleb looked into the child’s clear blue eyes. She smiled at him, a shy child’s smile, and in that single moment, Caleb saw her. Dark arching eyebrows contrasting with sunshine-blond hair. The small square chin.

He took a near stumbling step backward, as if he’d been delivered a blow to the chest. Snapshot memories of Laney as a little girl flew through his mind. Not possible. A too-long stretch of silence dropped over them like a blanket trapping all available air beneath it.

“How old will you be, Grace?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

She held up three fingers. “This many.”

Her birthday was Saturday. The twenty-second of April.

The day Laney’s child had been born.

The day Laney had died.




CHAPTER THREE


HE WAS LOSING HIS MIND.

No other explanation for it. Things like this didn’t happen. The world was too big a place.

When Caleb arrived back at the store, Macy stood at the front counter, sorting invoices.

She looked up, started to say something, then stopped. “Caleb, you look like you just saw a ghost. What’s wrong?”

“Dr. Owens. Is she married?”

Macy closed the folder in front of her. “Divorced. I know a graduate student who helps out as a part-time nanny to her daughter. Ann Whitley. Really nice girl. She says Dr. Owens has inspired her to adopt a child some day.”

The words hit Caleb at a decibel so high he thought he might have imagined them. The truth fluttered down, registered. He gave an abrupt nod, told Macy he had some work to do at the farm, then called Noah and got in the truck, heading home with little memory of how he’d gotten there.

In the driveway, he jumped out, loping into the house and up the stairs to the second floor. At the top and to the right was another smaller staircase that led to the attic. He opened the door, a whoosh of heat hitting him in the face. Sunlight cut through the dormer window on the far wall. Boxes covered the floor, lined the walls. All Laney’s. He’d put everything that belonged to her in this room. Out of sight. Unable to throw any of it away, equally unable to look at it.

He hadn’t opened this door once since the week after her funeral when he’d hauled it all up here. Box after box until he’d collapsed, exhausted, in the bed they had shared. He had slept for three days straight.

He weaved his way into the room and knocked over a tall box, spilling two of her competition swimsuits and a pair of goggles. He put them back where they’d been.

Most of the boxes were sealed and unmarked. He moved to the far wall, pulled out a couple of smaller ones, using his pocketknife to slit the tape. Inside was a quilt her grandmother had made her for college graduation. A half-full bottle of Chanel No. 5. A set of electric hot curlers. The next box held books and a headset she’d used for running.

He opened a half dozen more, dumping their contents onto the floor, reaching for another when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

Finally. There.

A dozen or more framed photographs he’d pulled from their living-room walls three years before, pictures of them both as children, as high-school sweethearts, as husband and wife.

He lifted them out, one by one, each picture creating its own well of pain. He and Laney at junior-year homecoming, her hair long, blond and straight. He and Laney on the rocks at Badger Creek playing hooky from school. There were pictures of him as a boy, an elementary-school photo when he’d decided to give himself a crew cut with his dad’s horse clippers.

And there were pictures of Laney. Prom queen. Preening with Alice and Amy, her two best friends from high school.

At the bottom of the stack was the one he’d been looking for. Laney as a toddler standing next to her father.

Caleb flipped the frame. On the back she had written: Me and Daddy. Three years old. Me not him!

He turned it over again, stared at the little girl in the picture. If he’d needed proof of the resemblance to the child he’d met today, here it was. Same silky blond hair. Blue eyes with their long, dark lashes. Even the mouth was the same. Wide and full.

Caleb sat down on the wood floor, propped his head on one hand and stared at the picture.

How could this have happened?

His life had finally begun to even out, to settle into something he could accept as living. Now, all the old pain was back, rushing through his veins like injected poison.

He sat for a long time, his eyes closed, head against the wall behind him.

An extraordinary sense of calm slid over him, as it had the other times just before he sensed her presence.

He kept his eyes closed, knowing that if he opened them, she would slip away.

A single touch to the back of his hand, and he knew she was there. As she had been countless times in the past three years.

He wondered if these moments were the only thing that kept him going. Wondered if all this time he had been straddling the line between the sane and insane, if visits from a dead wife automatically put a person in that category.

He had told no one about it. Not his mom or dad. Not his doctor or pastor. As real as he knew her presence was, he could not bring himself to share it with anyone else for fear that maybe he really was going crazy.

He sat for a long time, the peace inside him the only proof he had that he wasn’t losing his mind. It had been like this when she’d been alive, as well, Laney’s ability to soothe, to bring reason and calm to the times in their lives completely void of either.

With the calm, the feel of her touch receded, and he was alone again. He opened his eyes then, stared up at the slow-twirling ceiling fan above him. Tears spilled down his cheeks and fell onto the glass covering her face.



CATHERINE TUCKER SAT in a striped lawn chair, enjoying the sun’s warmth.

The backyard of Betsy Marshall’s modest, but immaculate, North Carolina ranch-style home was full to overflowing. Jeb and his brother Saul were in charge of the grill. The smell of sizzling hamburgers and hot dogs threaded the late-spring breeze.

Jeb came from a large, extended family. The opposite of Catherine, who had been an only child. His sister Betsy was the third in a family of five children, and she was the most like Jeb’s mother in that she loved to get the whole family together, seemed happiest in the middle of so much talking and laughing.

Jeb stood by the grill now, smiling at something his brother had said. He looked more relaxed than she had seen him in a long time. Unfair though it might have been, a wave of resentment washed up through her, made her face too warm, like the hot flashes she’d had after she’d stopped the hormone-replacement therapy a couple of years ago.

In that moment, she saw the two of them on either side of a huge divide, she still immersed in grief, he ready to move on. He wanted her to go with him. Catherine knew this. And yet it was as if her feet were planted in concrete. No matter how desperately she tried to pull herself free, she couldn’t.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Catherine glanced up. Betsy stood in front of her, holding two red cups. She handed one to Catherine. “Iced tea. Sweet like you like it.”

“Thanks,” Catherine said, taking the cup and lacing her fingers together around it.

“Could we talk?” Betsy asked, her voice candid.

Catherine had known the gesture was not of the freestanding variety. With Betsy, they never were. “Sure,” she said, waving a hand at the chair beside her.

Betsy sat down, took a sip of her tea, then sighed. “How are things with you and Jeb?”

Catherine looked up in surprise. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

“May I be honest?”

“By all means,” Catherine said, since to her knowledge, Betsy had never once refrained from speaking her mind, even when the other party did not want her opinion.

“I don’t remember ever seeing Jeb so unhappy.”

Catherine sat for a moment, too numb to respond. “Did he say something to you?” she finally said, her voice cracking a little.

Betsy took another sip of her tea, and then said, “He didn’t have to.”

“Oh. You can just see this in him?” Catherine asked, trying to keep her voice level.

Pity clouded Betsy’s eyes. “And you can’t?”

“Whatever problems Jeb and I have,” she said, anger fanning through her, “I’m sure we’ll work through them.”

“I know things haven’t been the same for any of you since Laney—”

“No, they haven’t,” Catherine interrupted. “But that’s hardly surprising, is it?”

“Of course not,” Betsy said quickly. “These things take their toll on everyone.”

“These things?” Catherine bit out. “My son lost his wife—” She broke off there, her voice cracking in half.

Betsy reached over and covered her hand with her own. “I know, Catherine. I’m not trying to belittle the enormity of it. I’m just saying maybe a worse tragedy would be for this terrible thing to ruin more lives than it already has. From what I’ve seen, Caleb has let it get the best of him.”

Fury tunneled up through Catherine’s chest. She pulled her hand away and pressed her lips together, glancing across the yard where Betsy’s son, Harris, stood with his arm around his very pregnant wife. Third grandchild on the way. “From your point of view, it must be so easy to judge. How could you possibly understand what Caleb has lost?”

“But there, Catherine,” Betsy said softly. “You just said it. What Caleb has lost. It’s his loss. But it’s destroying your marriage.”

She got up from the chair then, and walked back across the yard, leaving Catherine sitting at the edge of the gathering, alone.



GRACE BARELY SLEPT Friday night. She came into Sophie’s room three times to ask if it was time to get up yet. The last question was asked at 4:00 a.m., and Sophie finally folded back the covers and let the child climb in beside her.

They both went back to sleep then, waking with the sunlight. Grace popped up and immediately began bouncing on the mattress. “Today’s my birthday, Mama!”

“It certainly is,” Sophie said, smiling.

“How many hours till the party?”

Sophie propped up on one elbow to look at the alarm clock. “Five.”

Grace held up a hand, five fingers splayed. “This many?”

“That many.”

They got out of bed, Grace too excited to stay still another minute. They had breakfast in their pajamas, after which Grace stood on a stool at the kitchen island and helped Sophie put icing on the sugar cookies they had baked the night before. They used green, yellow and blue, and Grace made sure each cookie had plenty. The icing was the best part, she said.

Once the cookies were done, they made punch with lime sherbet and ginger ale, then put it in the refrigerator to stay cold. After giving Grace a bath, Sophie took a quick shower and dried her hair.

The doorbell rang at ten-thirty. She looked out the window and spotted Darcy Clemen’s minivan in the driveway. The two of them had started at the university around the same time as assistant professors. They’d become fast friends, a connection between them that defied Sophie’s normal tendency to keep people at a distance.

Darcy and her two daughters, seven-year-old Marina and five-year-old Lauren, stood at the front door.

Sophie opened the upstairs window and called, “Come in. The door’s open. I’ll be right there.”

Grace bounded out of the bedroom and down the stairs to meet them.

“Take your time,” Darcy yelled back. “I’ll corral the girls in the kitchen.”

Five minutes later, she found the foursome in the kitchen admiring the birthday cake.

Darcy looked up and smiled. “Wow. It’s spectacular.”

“Thanks,” Sophie said, proud of it. Shaped like a barn, the cake even had Dutch doors and miniature horses sticking their heads out.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I actually took a cake-decorating class the summer after my divorce. I made a lot of cakes.”

“I’m impressed.”

Sophie gave Marina and Lauren a hug, chastised them for yet another growth spurt. “You girls are going to be taller than your mama pretty soon.”

They both smiled.

On the street in front of the house, a truck slowed to a stop. Grace ran to the living-room window. “Mama, they’re here!” she called back. “The donkeys are here!”

The truck and trailer were bright red and yellow, Ben’s Barnyard Adventures painted on the sides. A weathered-looking older man got out. He wore a big cowboy hat, which he tipped in their direction. “Morning,” he said. “One of you Dr. Owens?”

Sophie stepped forward to shake his hand. “I’m Sophie Owens.”

“Ben Crawford.”

“Thank you for coming. This is my daughter, Grace, and our friends Darcy, Marina and Lauren.”

“Morning, ladies,” he said.

“Are the donkeys in there?” Grace asked, pointing at the trailer.

“Sure are,” Mr. Crawford said, smiling. “Munchin’ on hay.”

“Can they get out now?”

“I don’t see why not.” He looked at Sophie. “Where do you want us, ma’am?”

“Everything is set up in the backyard. “

He got in the truck and pulled around to the back of the house. They followed, Grace squeezing Sophie’s hand tight, her blue eyes wide with excitement.

A few minutes later, Mr. Crawford lowered the tailgate and led the two miniature donkeys out.

“This is Oscar in the red halter, Lulu in the blue,” he said.

Grace reached out and rubbed Lulu’s neck. “She’s so soft.”

The little donkey nuzzled Grace’s hand. She squealed with delight.

“Here,” Mr. Crawford said, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a couple of sugar cubes. “You can give them one of these.” He showed Grace how to hold her hand out flat with the sugar in the palm so they wouldn’t accidentally nibble her fingers.

Grace was in love. Mr. Crawford hooked the donkey’s lead ropes to the shaded side of the trailer and asked if she would like to brush them. Grace nodded, and he put a soft brush in her hand, showing her how to stroke in the direction the hair grew.

“I don’t think you could have gotten her a better present,” Darcy said.

“She loves animals,” Sophie said, telling Darcy about the yellow Lab at Tucker Farm Supply.

“You lugged all that hay out here? You should have called. I could have helped.”

“Actually, the man who owns the store brought it out. Caleb Tucker.”

Darcy looked surprised. “Is he the dark-haired guy I’ve seen in there? Tall? Good-looking?”

Sophie lifted a shoulder, reaching for nonchalance. “Probably.”

Darcy eyed Sophie intently. “Is that a blush in your cheeks?”

“Don’t even go there,” Sophie admonished.

Darcy laughed. “I think you already have.”

Sophie headed for the kitchen. Darcy followed. “Not so fast,” she said.

“What?” Sophie pulled Saran wrap from platters of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches carved in various shapes with the aid of cookie cutters.

“I saw that look in your eyes.”

“What look?” Sophie said with a laugh.

“That I-think-he’s-hot look.”

“Even if I did, I assure you he barely noticed me.”

“Sophie, you’re way too hard on yourself.”

“Realistic,” she corrected with a tip of her head. “Plain Jane and Charlottesville’s answer to Kevin Costner. I don’t think so.”

“Sometimes I wonder who you see when you look in the mirror.”

Sophie managed to avoid an answer, heading outside to set the food on the picnic table beneath the tall oak at the corner of the yard. As she struggled to reposition a couple bales of hay, Sophie couldn’t help wondering how Caleb Tucker had managed to carry two of them at a time.

Cars began pulling into the driveway, and the backyard was soon abuzz with three-and four-year-olds, all equally awed by Grace’s birthday donkeys. Mr. Crawford had the ease of manner to get everyone lined up for a turn around the yard.

The back door opened. Sophie glanced up. Aunt Ruby and Uncle Roy walked over, Ruby with her usual take-charge manner and Roy looking unsure of his welcome. Taller than her husband by several inches, Ruby had always been the clear leader between the two, Roy the kind of man who preferred peace to conflict and usually did whatever it took to achieve it.

“Hello,” Sophie said, shooting a protective glance toward Grace.

“Sophie,” Aunt Ruby said, nodding once, her lined face stern, her gray hair pulled back in the same severe bun she’d worn since Sophie was a child.

Sophie hugged them both, Ruby’s posture stiff and unyielding. Roy hugged her back though and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. She was shocked by how much older they both looked, Roy’s once-black hair now nearly white.

“You look good, Sophie,” he said.

“Thanks, Uncle Roy.”

Darcy stepped forward just then and said, “You must be Sophie’s aunt and uncle. I’m Darcy Clemens. Nice to meet you.”

“Who knew Sophie had so many friends?” Ruby said to Roy as if Sophie and Darcy weren’t standing there.

Darcy’s eyes widened. She started to say something, but Sophie shook her head. Darcy pressed her lips together.

“Could I get you something to drink?” Sophie asked.

“Just point us in the right direction. We can help ourselves. And where’s that little Grace?”

“She’s on the white donkey,” Sophie said, folding her arms across her chest and forcing politeness into her response.

“My goodness. Pretty little thing, isn’t she? She doesn’t look a bit like you.”

Ruby marched toward the food table then, Roy following with downcast eyes.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Darcy blew out a snort of disbelief. “Oh, my gosh. You grew up with that?”

Sophie shrugged. “You learn to ignore her.”

“Sophie. No one should have to put up with that. Why do you let her come at all?”

She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “They’re the only family I have.”

“Some family.”

Sophie glanced down, rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand.

Darcy squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry. That sounded awful.”

“It’s okay, Darc. I know how it looks. Maybe I should have cut the ties long ago, but she was my mother’s sister. They were nothing alike, but she’s the last link I have.”

“It’s a shame we don’t get to pick our relatives,” Darcy said.

“I have no intention of letting her ruin this party. So if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about her.”

“Sure,” Darcy said, sympathy in her voice.

“I’d better check on the sandwich trays,” Sophie said and headed for the kitchen.




CHAPTER FOUR


WHEN SOPHIE CAME BACK out a few minutes later, Mr. Crawford had put the two donkeys in the shade with a little hay to nibble on. All the children gathered around the picnic table for cake and ice cream. Most of them ended up wearing as much on their clothes as they managed to eat, eating with the kind of unrestrained pleasure children show for simple things.

On the invitation, Sophie had asked that the guests not bring presents but items to donate to the local animal shelter in Grace’s name instead. The box by the picnic table was full with paper towels, canned food, detergent, everyday items the shelter needed to stay in operation.

The children played games for forty-five minutes or so, Red Rover, Simon Says and jump rope. They all took one last ride on Oscar and Lulu, and then it was time for Mr. Crawford to load the donkeys up and take them home.

Once he’d gone, some of the children began to leave. Those whose mothers hadn’t yet come to pick them up remained, and a new game of Red Rover began.

From across the yard, Sophie watched Ruby single Grace out and kneel down beside her, one hand pushing Grace’s blond hair back from her face where it had escaped her ponytail. Some protective instinct surged inside her, and it was all she could do not to storm over and sweep her daughter up in her arms.

A couple of minutes later, Ruby walked over and said it was time for them to go. “You’ve made a nice home for yourself, Sophie. You and Grace. I hope you’re happy.”

“We are,” Sophie said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice.

Ruby reached inside her oversize purse and pulled out what looked like some kind of legal document. “Oh, and by the way, there’s a little something I need for you to sign.”

“What is it?” Sophie asked, surprised.

“The land my daddy left to me and your mama. Roy and I have decided we’d like to build a house on it. We think ten thousand dollars is a fair price to buy you out. And since it’s not something you’re ever going to use—”

“What land?” Sophie asked, shaking her head.

“It’s just a few acres outside of town. We never even saw fit to tell you about it, since it wasn’t worth anything.”

“Ten thousand dollars sounds like something.”

“We just want to make sure we’re being fair to you.”

Sophie glanced at Roy, who stood behind Ruby, hands in his pockets, his gaze set on the children still playing. She pressed her lips together and then said quietly, “This is something that belonged to my mother, and you never told me about it?”

“Oh, Sophie,” Ruby said, her voice rising, “don’t go and romanticize something that isn’t a big deal. Your mother wouldn’t have given two licks about that land.”

“How do you know?” Sophie said, gripping the papers between clenched fists. “I have a feeling you have no idea what my mother cared about.”

Ruby took a step back, as if Sophie had slapped her. “You were always such an ungrateful—”

“Ruby,” Roy said. “Let’s go.”

Ruby stared at Sophie, her gaze hardening. “Look over the papers, Sophie. Roy and I both would appreciate your cooperation.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her shoulders stiff.

Sophie glanced at the document, threw it on the chair behind her, then started clearing the picnic table of sticky plates and cups, tossing them into a big garbage bag.

Darcy came over and began helping. “They’re gone, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sophie said. “At least I know why they came now.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. It was a wonderful party,” Darcy said. “Grace had a blast.”

Sophie nodded. “I think everyone had fun.”

Darcy dropped a cup into the bag. “You’re a wonderful mother, Sophie. Grace is a lucky little girl to have you as her family.”

“No,” Sophie said, a sudden catch in her throat. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have her.”



SOPHIE WALKED THE LAST child to the front door. Grace stood beside them, her eyes so heavy she could barely keep them open.

Darcy led her two equally tired daughters to the minivan, waving goodbye as she got into the driver’s seat. Sophie picked up Grace, who immediately tucked her face into Sophie’s neck and closed her eyes.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said, her voice barely audible. “For the party.”

“You’re so very welcome, baby,” Sophie said. “Are you ready for a nap?”

Grace nodded, too worn out to offer up her usual protest against sleep.

Sophie turned to close the door. A truck pulled away from the curb across the street. She glanced over her shoulder, spotting the back end of a familiar white Ford diesel pickup.

Was that Caleb Tucker’s truck?

She stretched her neck but couldn’t get a glimpse of the driver.

But then what would he be doing parked across from her house?

She recalled Darcy’s teasing and could not deny the flutter in her stomach at the possibility of his having thought of her since yesterday.

Grace stirred in her arms. Sophie shook her head at her own foolishness, stepped inside the house and closed the door.



CALEB SHOVED THE 350’s gearshift into Fourth and barreled down Ivy Run Road without regard for the residential speed limit, leaving Sophie Owens’s house behind as fast as he could. He shot onto the 29 Bypass and kept the accelerator to the floor until the city began to fade behind him. Farmland appeared on either side of the truck, alfalfa fields, cornfields. He let up on the gas then, pulling air into his lungs.

On the seat beside him lay a dozen white roses wrapped in green florist paper. The breeze from his lowered window caught a petal and tossed it to the floor.

He kept driving, not letting himself think about where he was headed.

Five or so miles later, the turnoff rose up on the right. Caleb’s stomach dropped. Sweat beads broke out on his forehead, and he gripped the wheel as if to let go would send him flying off to someplace he could not return from.

The cemetery was at the end of the quarter-mile gravel road. A heavy chain with a padlock blocked the entrance.

Caleb had never been given a key, and so he stopped the truck just short of the gate and turned off the engine. He sat there for a few minutes, trying to gather the courage to get out. A crow sat on one of the fence posts, its caw-caw the only sound in this solitary place.

The plot belonged to Laney’s family. Generations of Scotts were buried here with headstones that ranged from rocks with initials scratched in as a reminder of who lay beneath to the ornate dedication that Laney’s parents had insisted she have. Even through the haze that had been his reality three years ago, Caleb had thought she would much rather have been remembered with a simple rock pulled from the nearby field. But then Laney’s mother had her own way of doing things, and all decisions in the Scott family were made her way.

Caleb reached across the seat for the roses and got out of the truck. His palms were damp and left marks on the florist paper.

He stepped over the heavy chain and walked the short distance to the graveyard. A black wrought-iron gate lay at the end of a stone footpath. Caleb lifted the handle. It made a rusty rasp of protest.

Laney’s headstone was in the far right-hand corner of the neatly mowed enclosure. He weaved his way through the other graves, most of the headstones indicating average to long life spans, another arrow of unfairness that Laney should be here with only thirty-one years spent on this earth.

He stopped just short of her grave.

Others had been here today; the grass in front of the headstone was covered with four different arrangements of flowers.

Something inside him had locked up, and he couldn’t remember how to make his arms or legs move. His heart thudded heavily, and the metallic taste of panic stung the back of his throat.

Finally, he bent down on one knee and placed his own offering to the side of the others, recognizing the enormous spray of carnations as favorites of Mary’s. Laney had hated carnations.

The wind threw out a short gust, scattering a few of the rose petals across the grave. It seemed a better idea to him, so Caleb began pulling the white petals from the stems, letting them fall where they would.

When the stems were bare, he sat down on the grass, weakened as if he’d just finished a miles-long run.

“Wonders never cease.”

Startled, Caleb jerked around, ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I didn’t hear you pull up, Mary,” he said.

“I’m sure if you had, you would have left,” she said, walking over to stop just short of the headstone. She wore black, head to toe. Her once-blond hair was now gray. Grief had etched hard lines into her face, and she was so thin, her clothes hung on her.

“I thought you’d already been here today,” Caleb said.

“I had. With Emmitt. I wanted to come back by myself.”

Silence weighed heavy between them. Caleb got to his feet. “So, how’re you doing, Mary?”

She shrugged, tipping her head. “Some days are better than others. And you?”

“Pretty much just like that.”

“I keep expecting to hear you’ve moved on. Found someone else.”

“Expecting or hoping?”

“Why should it matter to me one way or the other?”

“Why should it?” he threw back.

Mary folded her arms across her chest and stared at her daughter’s headstone. “I know you loved her, Caleb, but—”

“But what, Mary?” he interrupted, his voice hard. “But if she hadn’t married me, none of this would have happened? Is that what you were going to say?”

Mary stared out past the cemetery at some point in the distance, not answering for a long while. When she finally did, she said, “Laney deserved more than you had to give her.”

The words cut deep. “I know you lost your daughter, Mary,” Caleb said. “But I lost my wife, too. And I did love her.”

She looked directly at him then, her eyes filled with a piercing grief. “Sometimes, that’s just not enough though, is it?” she said. She turned then and walked away. He watched as she got in her car, backed up and drove off.

He stood there for a long time, then finally dropped onto his knees next to the grave.

He had not come here once since the funeral. Before today, just the thought of doing so had filled him with instant resistance. He couldn’t bear to return to the place where he had left her, this spot out in the country that had marked the end of their life together. Nor could he bear to think of his young, beautiful wife here in this lonely place.

Now that he was here, he saw the senselessness in his thinking. This spot was no more than a memorial to her physical presence on earth. Laney was wherever the good went. This he knew in the marrow of his bones.

But her child was here. In the same town where he worked and lived.

He’d somehow imagined she would have been adopted by someone out of the area. It hadn’t been a stipulation, so he could hardly blame the agency.

A soft swoosh of wind lifted the boughs of a nearby pine tree. He felt the touch on his shoulder, soothing, comforting. He looked around. There was no one there, and yet he felt the presence of his wife as surely as if he were looking at her.

He wondered again if he was losing his mind, if this was how it happened. Truth and desperate hope merging to form new reality.

Whatever the explanation, the pain inside him softened and dissolved into something more neutral. Something bearable so that his mind cleared like fog dissipating before a waiting sun.

He had driven out to Sophie Owens’s house today to convince himself he had been wrong. That the resemblance between the little girl and his wife was nothing more than his imagination looking for some new way to reach Laney when she was no longer reachable.

He’d spent the night on the porch in the old rocker, unable to face the bed they had shared, and he had never had the heart to replace. He hadn’t slept, but sat up wide awake until the sun rose, the knowledge burning in him that he had seen with his own eyes the child to whom Laney had given birth.

After three years of blocking his mind to her existence, she had appeared right in front of him, as if that, too, had been part of some plan laid out for him without his consent.

The child’s face hung in his mind now like a newly taken snapshot, and in her likeness to his wife, he imagined the children they had hoped to have together and wondered if they would have looked like Laney, too.



BECAUSE CATHERINE WAS miserable, they left North Carolina a day early and drove all the way back with no more than ten words spoken between them. It had been that way all weekend, and regardless of how many times Jeb asked her, Catherine would not tell him what was wrong. She had put up yet another wall between them, and he was beginning to feel the hopelessness of ever getting through again.

They got home around five, each of them unpacking their suitcases in silence. Catherine was downstairs in the kitchen starting supper when he walked through on his way outside to get the newspaper.

She stood by the sink, slicing apples, halving each one and then scooping out the center with a quickness that made her agitation clear.

He stopped at the door, walked across the floor and put his hand on her shoulder. He felt her stiffen beneath his touch, but forced himself not to let go.

“Don’t I have a right to know what happened, Cath? At least then, I might be able to defend myself.”

She continued slicing, then stopped and said, “You should have asked Betsy.”

He restrained a sigh. His big sister could rarely resist meddling. “What did she say?”

Catherine turned, her blue eyes meeting his. “Basically that I need to wake up and realize how miserable you are.”

He opened his mouth to deny it, then stood there mute when the words wouldn’t come out.

Her eyes widened. She turned back to the sink, one hand gripping the edge.

“Betsy shouldn’t have interfered,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “But how long are we going to go on like this, Cath?”

She dropped her chin, her shoulders suddenly shaking with silent weeping.

An actual pain stabbed through Jeb’s heart. “Baby, come here,” he said, turning her to face him. He put his arms around her and rubbed the back of her hair with his hand. “Shh. Don’t cry.”

“It’s like there’s this black cloud over me,” she said after a minute or two, “and I can’t see through it anymore. Most days, I don’t want to try.”

“Maybe you need to see somebody,” he said carefully. “There’s medicine for this kind of thing—”

She stiffened again, pulling back with a look of pure fear. “I’m not sick, Jeb.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” she asked, her voice sharp.

Jeb stared at her, thinking about Elaine, Catherine’s mother, and the things Catherine had seen growing up. Doctor after doctor. Medications that had helped until Elaine had stopped taking them, any progress she had made eroding beneath a fresh wave of depression. Her eventual institutionalization. Catherine had talked to him about it in bits and pieces early on in their marriage, but at some point, she’d just seemed to close the door and not let herself revisit any of it.

“Catherine,” he said.

She turned away, reached for a pot from the stove and placed the apples in it. “Can we not talk about this now?”

“I’m afraid if we don’t it’s going to swallow us both.”

She went still for a moment, then filled the pot with water, set it back on the stove. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

But it wasn’t fine. And he knew with the worst kind of sinking feeling that all the things wrong between them weren’t going to fix themselves. He would walk to the moon and back for this woman he’d married thirty-seven years ago.

But the truth, he knew in his gut. She wasn’t going to let him.




CHAPTER FIVE


AFTER CHURCH ON SUNDAY, Sophie and Grace turned in at the wooden sign marking the entrance to the Open Hearts Animal Home off route 29. The back of the Volvo was weighed down with donated items.

Open Hearts had bought an old farm out in the country for its facility, converting the house and barn as well as a couple of other buildings into housing for unwanted dogs and cats. Sophie stopped the car in front of the house where a sign read Visitors Enter Here, Please. She got Grace out of the car seat, and they went inside to the registration desk.

A woman appeared from the hallway to their left. Tall and thin with crinkly blue eyes, she wore faded denim overalls. Her dark hair hung in a braid to the center of her back. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Teresa Moore, the shelter director. Could I help you?”

“I’m Sophie Owens. We spoke on the phone last week. My daughter, Grace, has some things to donate from her birthday party.”

“Oh, yes. How wonderful of you, Grace.”

Grace dropped her eyes at the woman’s compliment, obviously pleased.

They unloaded the car, bringing everything into the foyer and stacking it in the corner. It was an impressive amount of stuff.

“I can’t tell you how much all of this will be appreciated,” Teresa said, shaking her head.

“You’re welcome,” Sophie replied. “Would it be possible for Grace to pick out a dog for her birthday?”

Grace looked up at Sophie, her little mouth making a small O of surprise, her eyes widening. “Really, Mama?”

“Really,” Sophie said, running a hand across her daughter’s silky hair.

“Just follow me,” Teresa said, waving them down the hall. At the end, she opened a door, and they were greeted by a chorus of excited barks.

“Everyone in here is available for adoption. They’ve all had shots and been spayed or neutered if they’re old enough.”

Grace stood for a moment, clearly not sure where to look first.

“Come on, sweetie,” Sophie said, taking her hand. They walked down the aisle, greeted at each cage with boisterous tail wagging. There was one exception. A medium-size black-and-white dog, notable in that she was the only one who had stayed at the back of her cage, her head resting on stretched-out paws, looking as if she’d long ago given up hope of a different life. Grace stopped at the dog’s door. “What’s her name?”

“Lily,” Teresa said.

Across the aisle, a chorus of excited yipping drew Grace’s attention. Five round-bellied puppies were conducting a wrestling match in the middle of the run. “Oh!” Grace bolted over and squatted down to peer through the chain-link door.

Teresa smiled. “Aren’t they cute? They’re eight weeks old as of yesterday, so they can be adopted now, too.”

“Oh, Mama,” Grace breathed.

“They’re adorable,” Sophie said.

“Would you like to play with them?” Teresa asked.

Grace nodded. Teresa opened the door, and they all bounded out into the aisle, tumbling over one another. Grace giggled and ran after them. They played for several minutes while Sophie and Teresa watched with smiles on their faces.

“Do you want to take one of the puppies, Grace?” Sophie asked.

Grace looked up from the concrete floor where she sat with three of them climbing up her lap. She looked at the puppies and then at the older dog who had yet to get up from her position at the back of the cage.

“Why does Lily look so sad?”

“Lily has been here a long time,” Teresa said.

“Is she sad because nobody’s picked her?”

Teresa lifted one shoulder and sighed. “No matter how well we take care of them, it’s not the same as having a home.”

Grace glanced down at the wiggling puppies on her lap, then back to Lily who was gazing at her with eyes devoid of any expectation. Grace remained silent for several moments. And then said, “Mama, can I see Lily?”

“Is it all right, Teresa?”

“Of course.” She put the puppies back in their cage where they continued their wrestling. She opened Lily’s door and looked at Grace. “You can go in and pet her. She’s really good with children.”

Grace walked to the back of the run, squatted and rubbed Lily’s long coat. “She’s soft.”

“I suspect she has some cocker spaniel in her. And some type of setter, judging from her coat. She’s a very sweet dog. Probably the most undemanding one here.”

Lily’s tailed thumped once. Grace kept rubbing her. After a few moments, Lily stood up, her head low, tail tucked.

Grace glanced back at the puppies, then looked at Sophie. “I want to pick Lily, Mama.”

Lily raised her head and licked Grace’s cheek.

“Lily, it is,” Sophie said. “Let’s take her home.”



LILY NEEDED A COLLAR and leash, a doggy bed and a bone to chew on.

So proclaimed Grace, along with her desire to buy them at the place where Noah lived.

“I want to tell him about Lily, Mama.”

There were other places they could have gone Lily-shopping, other places that were closer than Tucker’s. But Sophie reasoned that Grace liked the yellow Lab, and why shouldn’t they give the store their business when its owner had been nice enough to haul that hay out to their house for them?

After Sophie got back from her morning classes on Monday, she changed clothes, brushed some fresh powder across her nose, put on a medium-pink lipstick she usually only wore at night.

Halfway down the hall, she turned back to the bathroom, pulled out the rubber band that had anchored her hair at her neck, brushed through it a few times, started to put it back up, then at the last second, left it loose around her shoulders.



CALEB SPENT MOST OF the day at the store, working in the office upstairs and watching the register out front while Macy went to lunch.

It was almost one-thirty when the front door dinged. Sophie and Grace Owens came in and stood on the other side of the counter. A hot and cold blast of emotion washed over him.

“Afternoon, Dr. Owens,” he said, aiming his voice toward steady and even when everything else inside him rocked like a dingy on storm-churned seas.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hay bales hold up?”

“Yes. They did.” She cleared her throat, a small, feminine sound that somehow stood out in contrast with her precise, no-nonsense manner. “Thank you again for bringing them out. And, please, it’s Sophie.”




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