33
TWO MORNINGS LATER I pulled out of the driveway, grateful for sunshine after the storms. With Bev’s to-do list before me, as well as my own, I appreciated having purpose to my day. Preparing for Elaine’s celebration service lessened my grieving somehow, as did knowing I was easing my sister-in-law’s burden. Death not only took someone you loved; it also robbed you of energy and focus. So I was grateful to help. And heaven knew I needed something to focus on besides my own life.
Moisture hung thick in the air, and though I missed my cool, dry Rocky Mountain mornings, I breathed deeply, savoring the sweetness of honeysuckle wafting through the open sunroof and enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face.
At the stop sign at the end of our street, a gray sedan sat opposite me. Though it had the right of way, it didn’t move. I saw no one behind the wheel, so I accelerated. You snooze, you lose.
Minutes later, I arrived at Buckhead Station and T.J. Maxx to pick up a few things for Maggie’s bedroom before she flew in from Denver tomorrow. A small area rug in front of the fireplace and some ceramic pots with faux greenery would make the space more welcoming. But even thinking of her reminded me of how Stephen and I were about to crush our daughter’s world.
She was already grieving her grandmother, and I had no idea how we were going to break the news of our divorce to her, except that we’d agreed to wait until after the funeral. We were definitely going to do it together—that was a nonnegotiable for me to keep him from skewing the facts to his own benefit.
The store was crowded, and I grabbed the last shopping cart as my phone rang.
“Mrs. Powell, this is Amy from Savannah Catering Company. If now is a good time, I’d like to confirm the menu and quantities for Saturday’s luncheon at one o’clock?”
I pulled out my planner, and we quickly finalized the details. Checking that off my list, I scanned the remaining bullet points, wanting to make sure Bev and I hadn’t forgotten anything. I jotted down another idea, wishing I’d thought of it the day before. My sweet sister-in-law would kindly refuse if I asked her, so I decided to just give Michael a heads-up.
I hit most of the departments in the store and found everything on my list, and more. In bathroom accessories, I spotted a cute ceramic unicorn. As a little girl, Maggie had adored the magical creatures. Breezing past rows of framed pictures, I found myself drawn to a print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, perfect for Maggie’s bedroom here, and she could take it with her when the house was no longer ours.
Inching ahead in the checkout line, I stared at my haul, fully aware of what I was doing. Those endless hours in counseling hadn’t been wasted on me. I was attempting to compensate for what lay ahead of us. Yet I knew that no amount of stuff could fill the coming void in our daughter’s life.
My phone vibrated. A text from Alex.
I gave his text a thumbs up. Apparently, he was at the house now.
For more reasons than I could count, I was ready for this renovation to be done. The mess and dust were never-ending. Every day, I draped my bed and everything else in the master bedroom in heavy plastic. I could have moved it all into one of the other bedrooms, but there was something comforting about staying in Charlotte’s space. And comforting far outweighed dust at present, especially late at night.
Images of tile popped into the text thread, and I scanned each one. Anticipating what Alex was going to ask next, I rushed to type my response——and press Send before his next text came through. It was a game we played.
I counted the seconds. One thousand one, one thousand t—
Smiling, I stared at the screen, waiting.
He texted again:
I laughed to myself, able to imagine his expression. A heart popped up on my last text, and I stared. Surely he hadn’t meant to—
The heart morphed to a thumbs up, and again I got tickled. Especially when yet another message scrolled in.
His sense of humor helped in his line of work, with all its downsides—additional repairs, increased costs, longer-than-planned completion times, and backordered supplies. Alex’s easygoing manner made him a pleasure to work with.
Back in the car, another text came in, I assumed from Alex. But it was from Stephen.
I stared at Stephen’s note and, for some reason, felt . . . odd. He’d texted me countless times, so why this time felt different, I couldn’t say. Did he really understand where we were in this relationship now? Did he realize the opportunity for reconciliation was gone? That his actions had made that choice for him?
I started to respond with a thumbs up, but that felt curt under the circumstances. Though I had forgiven him—or was trying to—it seemed I had to forgive him all over again every time I thought about what he’d done. We simply had to find a way for us to be whatever he and I were going to be to each other from here on. After all, we had a daughter together, and she would always need us.
I quickly typed and pressed Send. Stephen and I weren’t the first couple to go through this. And we would get through it, sad as it was.
Oh, how I wished Paige were here. We texted often enough and chatted on the phone every few days, but it wasn’t the same. I needed to talk with her face-to-face, someone who understood what I was going through. Someone who—
Stephen texted again:
Exit? What did that mean? I responded with a question mark.
Thinking he could have phrased that better the first time, I wrote back:
A minute passed before his thumbs up finally appeared. Had the delay been his way of saying he disapproved of that plan? Or maybe he was just off to another meeting.
As I looked for a place to grab lunch, I wondered if Charlotte or Nettie had ever been in this area. If they had, it would likely have been a field in the middle of nowhere back then. Forever ago in one sense. A blink in another.
I passed numerous fast-food chains before South City Kitchen came into view, and I recalled the Sassy Southern Cobb salads Nanci had brought for dinner that night. As I sat in the drive-through lane, on a whim I called Bernice Tollwood and was delighted when she answered.
“It’s Claire Powell. How are you?”
“Well, I’d be better if you were calling to tell me you’re coming by here sometime soon.”
I laughed. “That’s exactly why I’m calling.” I told her where I was and offered to bring her a Sassy Southern Cobb.
“That’s my favorite! See you when you get here!”
Not twenty minutes later, I entered the Kenan Research Center and found Bernice behind the counter. “One sassy salad for one sassy woman,” I announced and was rewarded with the slow-arched eyebrow I’d hoped for.
“Okay, Ms. Colorado, I see somebody’s getting more comfortable in her adopted Southern skin.”
I shrugged. “Maybe a little. I’m just excited about hearing what you’ve found. I’m grateful to you for doing this.”
“While I would love to take full credit, it’s actually a miracle of modern technology. We’re converting all our old microfilm records to digital. This process changes everything. We used to rely on human scanning, but this new process does the work for us in a fraction of the time. It feels like a whole new lens into the past is about to open for us.” Her excitement was almost palpable. “I’ll grab us some drinks from the fridge. You prefer sweet tea or Coke?”
“Actually, I’d like water, please, if you have it.”
“You’re one of those, huh?” Feigning an eye roll, she grabbed a Coke and a bottled water and joined me at the table. After we were seated, she looked over. “It’s good to see you again, Claire. I wasn’t expecting you so soon, after your text earlier this week.”
I nodded, recalling what I’d shared. “Yes, my mother-in-law passed on Monday.”
She groaned. “I’m so sorry. Judging by the pain and love in your eyes, she was a good woman.”
I smiled. “Elaine was a very good woman.”
“How is your husband . . . ?”
“Stephen,” I supplied.
“How is Stephen taking it? Losing your mother is one of those life markers. Things are never quite the same again.”
“No,” I whispered. “They’re not. But he’s . . . doing all right.”
She said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward. “Would you mind if I bless God for our food?”
Having never heard it phrased quite that way, I bowed my head.
“Lord of Heaven’s Armies,” she began, “we bless your name for the food before us, and for your kindness in friendship and in common bonds that draw us together. Thank you for Elaine and for all she meant to so many. Give the entire family peace that passes understanding. Be with Stephen, Lord, in this life transition, and comfort him. Father, make us useful. Holy Spirit, have your way in us. And King Jesus, may we live lives postured to hear you. And to obey. In your name we pray.”
“Amen,” I said along with her. “Thank you, Bernice.” A quickening started inside me that I couldn’t account for, other than that I was filled with gratitude that God had crossed my path with Bernice Tollwood’s, and not merely for whatever she was going to tell me about Charlotte Thursmann and her house.