Chapter Eight

Early Monday morning, John and Melissa bundled Mia into the car, buckled her into her car seat, and left for Pine Ridge and their first appointment with Dr. Lucas.

“I would give anything to bear this burden for them,” Kate said as she and Paul waved them off.

They turned and went back into the house, then headed for the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes.

“I feel the same way,” Paul said.

He picked up the plates from the table, carried them to the sink, and started to rinse off the remaining pancake crumbs and sticky syrup. “But a wise man once told me that the best way to bear another’s burden is to listen with your heart to the one who is hurting and to let them know you care.” He turned around to face Kate, looking thoughtful. “He also had some wise thoughts about binding up the brokenhearted.”

Kate nodded as she stooped to clean up the blue pancake crumbs beneath the high chair; it was the color Mia had chosen when she helped Kate mix the batter earlier.

“And we’re certainly doing that,” she said when she stood. “I just wish we could be with them every step of the way.” She moved to the counter and, after tearing off a fresh paper towel from the roll, wiped up the blue batter spills around her mixer. “Something tells me that wise man is Nehemiah.”

Paul’s grin widened. “How’d you guess?”

Nehemiah Jacobs was Paul’s mentor. Paul had known him since childhood, and it was Nehemiah’s preaching that led Paul to become a minister. Nehemiah had retired as pastor of Faith Briar and was now living in a retirement facility, but Paul still visited with him as often as he could.

Kate laughed softly. “Because you quote Nehemiah more than most anyone else when it comes to things of the Spirit. Especially when it involves ministering to others.”

“At his age, he’s had a lot of life experience. Not to mention the time he’s spent on his knees. A few minutes in his presence, listening to his words of wisdom, says more to my heart than reading a half dozen how-to tomes on pastoral care.”

“You were about to tell me something he said about binding up the brokenhearted.”

Paul leaned back against the counter. He’d tossed a dishtowel over his shoulder Emeril Lagasse-style.

“He said that as much as we might want to carry the full burden of heartache for those we love, we can’t. It’s something they must face head-on. They can’t go over it or under it or around it. They must go through the circumstance themselves.”

Kate drew in a thoughtful breath. “Our role, then, is to love them through it.” She paused long enough to toss the paper towel in the wastebasket under the sink. “That’s hard. I’m a fixer, especially when it comes to our children.”

“You’ve always been wonderfully hands-on,” Paul agreed. “But as our kids grow older, they don’t need us in the same way.”

“That’s difficult to get used to. Just when I think I’m over the empty-nest thing, it crops up again. I’d like to step out with a big ta-da! and drumroll announcing that Mom’s coming to the rescue.” She went over to stand close to Paul, and he drew her into his arms.

“Only this time you—we—can’t,” he said quietly, resting his cheek on top of her head.

“And that’s what hurts so much.”

AFTER PAUL LEFT for coffee at the diner with the other pastors in town, Kate picked up the phone to call Dr. Hosea. He’d apparently given her his office number, and all she got was a recording that said he was out of the office for the day.

She started to leave a voice-mail message, then decided he might get in touch with her sooner through e-mail. Disappointed she hadn’t been able to reach him, she ran through her options in her mind. No matter what she would learn from Dr. Hosea, her own curiosity compelled her to do a little more digging.

At the top of the list of options, which included baking a batch of cranberry-pecan cookies to help her think things through, was another trip to the library to do research. She could always bake cookies afterward, and maybe she would have more information to mull over in the process.

KATE HAD JUST PULLED the Honda into the library parking spot by the wild-rose vine, when Caroline Beauregard Johnston marched toward her car, waving her cane.

Renee’s mother might have been in her nineties, but she was a spitfire. Kate, and everyone else in town, knew exactly where Renee got her outspoken spunk and propensity for drama.

Kate got out of the car and gave the older woman a wide smile. “Well, hello, Caroline. You’re out early on a beautiful morn—”

“Beautiful morning, my foot,” she said, moving closer. The froth of silk flowers atop her straw hat fluttered with each step. “Other people might see it that way, but I certainly don’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear—”

“Not half as sorry as I am. I suppose you’ve heard the news?”

Kate silently ran through the short list of possibilities, then settled on the obvious. “You mean about Renee and Collin?”

“What else?” Caroline sputtered. “Carrying on like a teenager with that new beau of hers. You should hear them on the phone. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is.”

“She told me that he’s quite a gentleman. She said he’s intelligent, well read, interesting to be with, and he can make a decent cup of English tea.”

“Fiddle-faddle. I don’t care who he says he is. I say he’s a gold digger. Out to get my daughter’s money.” She stepped closer. “He’s a younger man, you know. He wants to marry Renee so he won’t have to work another day in his life.”

“Isn’t he already retir—”

“I know the type,” she said. “He probably wants to be remembered in her will. Mine too, if truth be known.”

“Maybe when you meet him in person, you’ll change your mind. Even Livvy says he’s very nice and treated Renee like a queen.”

“Hmmph. They all do at first.” Caroline tapped her cane on the pavement for emphasis. “Mark my words, no earthly good can come of this. Nothing you or anyone else can say will convince me otherwise.”

Before Kate could respond, she said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have friends waiting for me at the Mercantile.”

“Would you like for me to drive you?”

Caroline let out another hmmph. “Do I look like I need help across the street? I think not.” She walked away, the flowers on her straw hat bobbing with each step and tap of the cane.

I’d rather be spunky when I’m her age, Kate thought with a grin, than to sit in my rocker and let the world go by without me. She was still chuckling to herself as she entered the library.

A few minutes later, she took her seat at the bank of computers. She put in her password, opened her e-mail program, and clicked on the photos she had sent to Dr. Hosea. Next, she enlarged the one with the close-up of the symbols that were vaguely familiar to her.

She kept it visible on one side of the computer screen while she did a search for ancient languages. She clicked through several Web sites, then one stood out.

Etruscan.

Of course, that’s why the symbols had looked familiar. When she studied ancient history in college, one entire semester was spent on early Italian history, which included a look at the influence of the Etruscan people on the Roman civilization that came after them.

She stared at the symbols and letters of the ancient language, then compared them with those on the urn. It was a match, not symbol for symbol, but enough of a similarity to know she was right: the inscription was Etruscan.

She sat back, crossed her arms, and stared at the photo of the urn on her screen. Why would the person who designed the urn, whether it was an original or a copy, pair a twelfth-century design with a language that preceded it by more than a thousand years?

Kate clicked the mouse to pull up another photograph, this time of the relief images of St. Francis and Clare. There was something very tender in their faces, and as she enlarged the photo, she noticed that the artist had captured an expression that spoke of a love that went far beyond the romantic, or even sentimental.

There was a beauty to the piece that made her believe its value was more than that of a run-of-the-mill souvenir. Maybe that was why she couldn’t give up getting to the bottom of its origin.

Maybe there wasn’t any more mystery to the piece than that: it held a luminous beauty all its own, and Collin Wellington chose it for Renee for that reason. Though she did wonder if he, an expert on such antiquities, might have noticed the language curiosity. And what about Dr. Hosea? Had he noticed?

She chided herself for her circular thinking and started to log off the computer. Then on a whim, she stopped, pulled up Google, and typed in Collin’s name. A number of Web pages came up, including links to scholarly papers he’d published, announcements of past speaking engagements, even an announcement of a recent audience with Queen Elizabeth. Most prominently displayed was the Oxford University Web site, where his curriculum vitae was listed with that of other retired faculty.

She smiled to herself as she noted his age. Caroline was right; he was younger than Renee. All of two years younger.

AS KATE WALKED toward her car a few minutes later, Renee’s pink Oldsmobile pulled out of the alley behind the Mercantile where she’d picked up Caroline. She turned right toward Sweetwater, but when she saw Kate, she threw her boat of a car into reverse. Without looking, she backed up, then screeched to a halt beside Kate’s Honda.

Before Kate could say hello, Renee had leaped from the car, waving an envelope. The radiance of her smile made her look three decades younger than her seventy-something years.

“It’s from Collin,” she said. “He’s coming for a visit!”

“That’s wonderful,” Kate said, and meant it. She thought of all the questions she had about the urn. “I really can’t wait to meet him.”

Renee stepped closer and added dramatically, “I think he’s planning to pop the question.”

A loud hmmph erupted from the passenger side of the Oldsmobile, then Caroline rolled up the window and sat staring dead ahead, her lips drawn in a tight line.

“Poor Mama,” Renee said, surprising Kate with her touch of sympathy. “She’s worried I’ll say yes.”

Kate tilted her head. “And will you?”

The breeze ruffled the leaves of the wild roses behind them, and as the scent of roses filled the air, Renee sighed.

On a whim, Kate reached over and picked a clump of the pale pink roses on a single stem and handed it to Renee.

For a moment neither woman spoke. When Renee’s eyes met Kate’s, they were watery.

“That’s illegal, you know,” she said with a sniff. Then with a small nod and an expression that gave Kate a brief glimpse into her heart, Renee fluttered her manicured fingers and slid beneath the steering wheel of the big pink vehicle.

“Change can be good, Mama,” Kate thought she heard Renee say as they drove off.

Though she couldn’t hear it, she knew what Caroline’s response would be.