Desert Gift (13 page)

Angel.
The name startled her. It was Jack’s pet name for her. A long, long time ago.

Agnes said, “I do hope I see you again. Perhaps you can join us oldsters on one of our little jaunts? We’re going to the zoo tomorrow.”

“I-I’m not sure. I have a lot to do.” Find a counselor, get back home, fix a marriage.

“Well—” she shrugged, an exaggerated up and down motion of her shoulders—“you never know, do you? God may have something else in store for you.”

Jill smiled politely.

Agnes laid both of her hands atop the cane and leaned slightly forward. “I did not intend to eavesdrop, but you were talking rather loudly. Might I suggest something?”

Jill enjoyed old people. As a child she helped her grandmother with her business during the summers. She had learned from Ellie that seniors were simply young people in weathered skin. Their quirks had grown more pronounced with age, but underneath they had the same needs and desires as anyone. Food, shelter, clothing, and love pretty much summed it up.

Once in a great while, though, an odd one came along, an elderly person who did not have those generic needs and desires—someone who seemed to have moved on, who already had one foot planted solidly in the next world.

Those were the ones who intimidated Jill.

Agnes Smith belonged to that group.

The woman smiled. “God loves to draw us closer to Himself, close enough to hear His heartbeat.” She gave a slight nod, turned, and went to the door. “I will see you, Jillian,” she called as she walked through it.

The door eased shut, its bell tinkling.

Jill sat down.

Why would anyone want to hear God’s heartbeat?

Chapter 15

Jill pulled a cloth bag of groceries from the back of Viv’s Jeep. “Oh.” She stopped unloading and looked at her sister.

“What’s wrong?” Viv hoisted a bag onto her shoulder and reached for another.

“I just got hit with this flash of normalcy.”

Viv handed her a sack and shut the back of the car. “That’s a good thing, hon.”

“No, it’s not. I’m standing in your garage unloading groceries and it feels
normal
.”

“Uh-huh.” She stepped up to the door that led into the kitchen and hit the automatic button to shut the overhead door. It rattled down. “You could do with a little normal.”

“I don’t know.” Jill followed Viv into the kitchen. “Cloth bags, warm sunshine in winter, living at your house. This isn’t any which way normal.”

Viv smiled and began putting away groceries. “It’s the rhythm. Work, eat, sleep, go to the market. Time and place don’t matter. And what’s wrong with my cloth bags and warm winter sunshine?” She pointed to the pantry, a floor-to-ceiling, built-in cabinet next to the refrigerator. “Take this bag and unload it in there.”

“Bossy, bossy.” Jill opened the double doors, saw the disorganized shelves, and added to them. Jack would never let theirs get in such a state, but she didn’t mind.

Maybe Viv was right. A day of routine and helping at the office had calmed Jill. Although she incessantly checked her phone and e-mail for messages from Jack, she had cried less than the day before and her chest did not feel full of concrete or burning lungs.

She shut the cupboard doors. “It’s only been two weeks, Viv.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t feel normal.”

“Jillie, you’re just taking a breather. It’s a release valve.”

“Jack and I should be working on things.”

“You’re working on things by stepping away from the situation. Which is what Jack proposed at the beginning. For now you can help me cook. Ha. That’s probably what you call the blind leading the blind.” Laughing, she walked toward the living room. “I’m going to ask Marty what veggie he wants.”

The elusive brother-in-law was home. Jill hadn’t exchanged ten words with him since she arrived because he hadn’t been around much. She trailed after Viv, folding a bag, and stopped in the doorway between the rooms.

Marty sat in his recliner, his eyes on the television.

Viv stood next to him, hands on her hips. “It’s so kind of you to show up.”

He didn’t bother to shift his eyes from the screen. “Kind of you to notice.”

“You’re missing my scowl, Martin. I’ve got a good one going.” She creased her eyes to mere slits. “How’s this? I learned it from Gretchen.”

“Yes!” He was talking to the TV. “Nice shot.” He looked at her. “Nice scowl.”

“Thanks.” Viv leaned down, kissed him, and turned to Jill. “That Gretchen is a pro at it, isn’t she?”

“She’s got nothing on you, though.”

Marty turned his head to look at her. “Hey, Jill.”

“Hi.”

Viv said, “We bought roasted chicken from Ralphs.”

“The little lady is cooking tonight. I love your chickens. You always choose just the right one.”

She punched his arm. “Shut up. Do you want asparagus or green beans?”

“That’s my choice?”

“No, I’m withholding veggie information.”

Jill went back into the kitchen. As usual, she bristled at Marty’s attitude. She didn’t know why Viv put up with the way he spoke to her.

A short while later, the three of them ate the half-take-out, half-home-cooked meal at the kitchen table. Jill wondered if Viv had given orders to Marty to be amiable. They chatted about the new minibus, Viv’s software that Jill was attempting to learn, Dustin, and even that odd woman Agnes Smith.

Marty said, “She’s kind of like a car wreck. You can’t take your eyes off her, but you want to because sooner or later she’s going to bring up God and give you the willies. As a matter of fact, she brings God up more than you do, Jill.”

Viv rolled her eyes. “Marty.”

“What? It’s true.” He looked at Jill. “Don’t get me wrong. Faith is a good thing. I only get the willies when someone shoves it down my throat.”

Jill had had this conversation with him once or twice in the twenty-plus years they’d known each other. “By faith you mean going to church regularly.”

“Yeah. I don’t care to broadcast it.”

“That’s fine. I think God wants us to talk about Him, though.”

“Communication doesn’t have to be verbal. Or published in a book.”

Viv groaned.

Jill said, “Everyone is different. I talk and write. And you do what, Marty? How do you communicate about God’s reality in your life besides sit in a pew?”

He smiled but his dark eyes didn’t crease. He set down his fork and knife and leaned back. His large forearms looked bigger as he crossed them. “The recipe is for beef, but this is a Rockin’ Roast
chicken
we’re having, isn’t it?”

Jill started. “You read it?”

“Of course. My sister-in-law wrote it.” He threw Viv a glance. “Changed my mind.”

Jill opened her mouth and closed it. No need to ask what he thought of her book. She could imagine and it wouldn’t be positive.

“I thought it had some helpful hints in it.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Probably for a different crowd, though. Like a goody-two-shoes kind of female crowd. I mean, Viv and I have our Roasts and Crunchy Casseroles and Easy Eggs, but our ‘recipes’ aren’t anything like the ones in your book. Sometimes we swear.”

Viv groaned again. “Oh, Marty.”

“Okay, I swear. Once in a while your sister does too, but not much. We’ve been known to yell at each other and then not talk for days. What was our record, babe? A week? ’Course the Sizzlin’ Spinach is extra good after not talking—”

“Martin!”

He held up a hand. “Sorry. TMI, as they say. Then there’s the regular stuff, like I’m sure you noticed. I don’t get out of my chair to greet her. And like any self-respecting misogynist, I call her ‘the little lady’ and ‘babe,’ which are both on your no-no list. I also doubt, since there are two women in the house, that I will help clean up the kitchen tonight.”

Jill had never really minded Marty’s sarcasm. The two of them usually had at least one go-around per visit over some subject or other. But his tone strayed into personal territory. She had no comeback.

Viv said, “Marty, that was downright disrespectful.”

“Sorry. I forgot the kid gloves.” He turned to Jill. “Look, I am sorry you and Jack are having a rough time of it.”

“You blame me for him leaving.”

“I think you trusted in a bogus formula.” He shrugged. “In all of our years of disobeying the so-called rules, Viv knows I love her. She knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not going to leave her. Period.”

“How . . . how . . . ?” She swallowed. “How does Viv keep you from leaving her?”

Marty frowned. “She doesn’t. It’s my choice.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“You want it to work? You want your marriage to work?”

Jill nodded.

“Because you love Jack and not because of the book and your reputation that got flushed down the toilet?”

Tears seeped from her eyes. She couldn’t answer. Of course she loved Jack, but her career was who she was. How could she turn her back on what she was called to do?

“Figure it out, Jill.” Marty shoved his chair back and stood. “I need to take a walk.” He stopped next to Viv, put his hand at the side of her head, and leaned over, holding her against himself for a long moment and whispering to her. He kissed the top of her head and went out through the garage door.

By then Viv was crying.

Jill wiped a napkin at her own tears. “Viv, he said that you know. How do you
know
? How do you know he won’t leave you?”

Viv gave her a sad smile. “Because he had a reason to and he didn’t.”

Chapter 16

Chicago

Stretched out on his mud-brown plaid couch, Jack pointed the remote at the television, hit the Mute button, and smiled. He’d discovered a great thing about not being continuously stretched like a rubber band at its snapping point: he could do absolutely nothing and enjoy himself.

It was Wednesday evening, nearly two weeks since he had snapped. Aside from the decor, life was all about new. He had new stitches, a new home, a new car, a new routine.

His fussy pal Baxter sat on the recliner, which he’d first insisted on covering with one of Jack’s new towels. “You want to tell me about it?”

“My visit with the lawyer?”

“No, the weather forecast.”

“Not much to tell. You’ve been there, done that. It’s a simple division formula, right? ‘Theirs’ becomes ‘his and hers,’ most of which can be ‘hers’ as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got everything I need.”

“Except decent furniture.”

Jack chuckled.

“Property splitting is only one side of the divorce coin, Jack. Have you thought about all the other stuff you’ll lose?”

He had. “You mean stuff like the incessant sound of ticking, chiming clocks? or the rubber band feeling?” He had told Baxter about that one. “Or the analyzing of every conversation?” He raised his voice to a falsetto. “‘Jack, that was brilliant. Let’s back up and figure out what we just did. What exactly are we communicating about? We’re not really discussing scooping snow off the walk, are we?’”

Baxter stared as if in disbelief. “Yeah, stuff like that.”

“My brother-in-law calls me the GP, short for
guinea pig
.”

“Ouch.”

“I overheard him say it one time. He’s got this deep voice that carries. It ticked me off at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was pretty accurate. And then I realized I didn’t mind. I served as a GP for a decent cause.” He paused. “Jill gets mail and e-mails by the thousands. The majority are full of nothing but praise and gratitude. The other 10 percent are heartbreaking stories from women who wished they’d had the information years ago. How do you argue with that?”

“The question is, why are you arguing with it now? It’s not just because you read about your candles in a bookstore aisle.”

“No?”

“Nah. That was embarrassment. Just cause, for sure, but still. Why the sudden problem with your pride?”

“You sound like Jill.”

Baxter did an eye roll. “Lord, have mercy.”

Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Yes, Lord, have mercy.

It was an easy phrase that tripped lightly off the tongue, even one of an atheist. But it resonated in a new way. In essence it was a prayer. A prayer that he had lost sight of and now most desperately needed answered.

Baxter said, “You want my opinion before this intermission is over?”

Mercy.
What he wanted was mercy. Compassion, kindness, relief, forgiveness. He wanted forgiveness.

“Jack.”

“Yeah, okay. What’s your opinion?”

“It’s the concussion.”

“I didn’t have a concussion.”

“Of course you did.” Baxter shoved the footrest down and leaned forward. “Humor your doctor here and describe the accident again.”

“What can I say? I proved what I learned long ago in driver’s ed: brakes don’t work on ice. When I saw the stop sign, I should have slowed to three miles per hour instead of eight.”

“Where were you coming from?”

Jack glanced at the television. The hockey game was back on, but Baxter was clearly not interested. Disliking the position of psych patient lying on a couch, Jack sat up. “I told you. The dry cleaner’s.”

“On Ash, four blocks from home. The accident was a mile away.”

“I took the longcut to avoid traffic.”

“Jack, this is where your story breaks down. Four blocks of traffic? What were you doing?”

He sighed. “Procrastinating. Taking my time getting home.”

“Okay, that I can buy.”

“The weather was bad, but I had errands that could not wait. We were leaving town the day after the next. I remember braking. I remember sliding, turning the wheel, seeing a parked car. I remember calling 911 and being glad the passenger seat airbag deployed and not mine because it would have hurt a whole lot.”

“You did not mention remembering the crash impact itself. And you noticed the airbag while you were calling 911, not the other way around. You should have seen the airbag while getting out your cell phone and then called 911.”

Jack rubbed his forehead. “You haven’t experienced an accident. It all runs together.”

“At the least you were dazed and confused. I believe you were knocked out. Nothing showed up on the CT scan that night. Since then, Sophie and I have not heard you complain about headaches, dizziness, insomnia, or inability to concentrate.”