THIRTEEN

“Where’s your sister?”

Tate had just emerged from the upstairs, and Reese was nowhere in sight. Before answering, he jumped from the fifth step, fell into a roll on the floor, and popped up onto his knees. Paul should have known better than to let him watch American Ninja Warrior on Friday. All weekend, he’d been diving and rolling from one place to the other. “I don’t know.” He crouched low, like he was going to try to pounce onto the armchair a good six feet away.

“Buddy, I’m gonna need you to stop jumping on the furniture. And your shirt is on backward.”

“No, it’s not.”

Paul flipped Tate’s collar out and showed him the tag.

Tate gave his forehead an exaggerated smack, then pulled his arms in through the sleeves and started twisting it around.

Paul headed upstairs, where he poked his head inside Reese’s room. It was dark and empty—a sight that had his blood pressure climbing. Her runaway stunt from last Monday was still all too fresh in his mind.

“Reese?” he called.

Nothing but the swirl of Tate’s ceiling fan across the hall.

Paul quickly checked the bathroom, then his room, just in case. A soft glow came from his walk-in closet. He found Reese sitting inside, cross-legged on the floor with an open box of jewelry in front of her.

Vivian’s.

The floor creaked beneath his feet.

If Reese heard him, she gave no indication. She didn’t turn or twist around. She didn’t even twitch. She just sat there, shoulders slumped, elbow on her knee, cheek resting on her fist as she ran her fingers through a long strand of pearls in the same absentminded way she rubbed Gipper’s ear.

She hadn’t spoken to him all weekend long.

In fact, she hadn’t said a word to him since the nightmare that was dinner on Thursday. He had hoped that inviting Autumn in would somehow help. That hope had completely backfired. As soon as she left, Reese had gone mute. At least, whenever she was in front of him she was mute. He knew her voice still worked, since he’d overheard her talking with Tate.

Paul checked his watch.

Church would start in twenty minutes. His children hadn’t eaten breakfast. Reese was still wearing pajama pants. If they didn’t get going right now, they would be impossibly late. But Paul joined her on the floor.

In the early days, right after Vivian died—when his brain was stuffed with fog and every ounce of his energy consumed with the well-being of his children—he hadn’t wanted to keep the jewelry. It encompassed too many memories, and they’d all felt sharp and jagged. If it had been only him, he would have packed all of it up and donated it to the nearest Goodwill. But it wasn’t only him. There was Reese to consider. He figured that someday she might want some of her mother’s jewelry. He never figured that someday she might randomly mail some of that jewelry to a stranger.

The earrings? Her odd suggestion regarding a tribute? Maybe it was all reactionary. Maybe the one-year anniversary had everything rising up to the surface and this was her attempt to grasp at the things that were fading. Maybe if he could find a way to talk about Vivian without losing so much of his breath, Reese would let the other stuff go. Paul picked up a diamond tennis bracelet and turned it over in his palm. “Your mom sure loved this stuff.”

She didn’t look up, but her ears seemed to perk.

“I got this one for her at a charity auction before you were born.” When the house was this brand-new, over-the-top gift that had him working furiously to finish his doctorate so he could start pulling in some income. He hated feeling like a mooch. “The company your mom worked for at the time was one of the corporate sponsors.”

His fingers itched with memory. The feel of smooth fabric as he zipped the back of her little black dress. The warmth of her skin and the tickle of her hair as he clasped a choker at the nape of her neck. Right here, in this closet. While she tied his tie, he’d complained a little about the event. “You know I’m not comfortable with those rich, stuffy types.”

“You just described my father,” she’d replied, laughing.

The sound of it echoed through space and time, so crystal and clear he was positive Reese should hear it too.

His daughter, already twelve.

How had that happened? How was the little girl—with messy pigtails and sticky fingers and opinions as high as the sky—already on the cusp of being a teenager? He watched her pour the pearls from one palm to the other, letting them slide and spill over. Back and forth, back and forth. Hypnotizing them both.

“Mia was always obsessed with Mom’s jewelry,” she said.

Paul sat up a little straighter, hope stirring.

His daughter had just spoken a complete sentence.

“Mrs. Ryan never wears anything but her wedding ring.” The pearls went still in her hands. “You took yours off.”

He flexed his fingers, suddenly self-conscious. He didn’t remember how long ago it had been. He just knew that he took it off for something, and when it was time to slide it back in place, he couldn’t do it.

“Where did you put it?” she whispered.

A loud thud rattled the walls.

There was a hiccup of silence, and then a frantic scream pierced the air. One that had Reese dropping the pearls. Father and daughter tore from the closet, the opened jewelry box abandoned on the closet floor.

When Paul reached Lou Malnati’s in Lincoln Square, he was five minutes early for lunch and strung out on caffeine. Margo had gotten one good look at him when he arrived at the office and kept him supplied with coffee throughout all his morning appointments—which had gone well. But Paul was having a hard time appreciating any of it.

He grabbed a booth by the window and placed his and Mitch’s order with the waiter—the Malnati Chicago Classic with mushrooms. He probably should have used the wait to call his agent, who had left a second message with his assistant. Instead, he spent the time gazing out the window, watching as people walked back and forth. Some slowly. Most quickly. Some smiling. Most frowning. Some in pairs, but most on their own, looking down at their phones. Each person had a life and goals and relationships and stress and almost certainly, hardship.

It made him feel alone and less alone all at the same time.

At ten past noon, Mitch arrived.

He slid into the booth across from Paul, his eyes pinched in the corners, his mouth tighter than usual. “I’m so sorry I’m late, man. It’s been a day.”

“It’s all right. I went ahead and ordered for us.”

Nodding, Mitch grabbed the saltshaker and began volleying it back and forth. This was what Mitch did. He was the kind of guy who needed to keep his hands busy. He squeezed stress balls. He juggled oranges and apples. He twirled writing utensils around his thumb. Today, though, there was an anxious edge to his activity.

“How’s the elder situation?” Paul asked.

Mitch shook his head.

Bill Meadows had been an elder at Redeemer for going on ten years, and apparently, trouble was brewing. A couple of weeks ago, his wife, Nancy, resigned from the position as Redeemer’s communications consultant with little-to-no warning, sending a rampage of rumors through the congregation. Paul didn’t take much stock in gossip, and Mitch was being tactfully vague in order to respect Bill and Nancy’s privacy. But he had asked Paul to pray.

“We had to dismiss Bill.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “It was that serious?”

“Unfortunately. I tell you what. Nothing good comes from hiding the ugly.”

The waiter dropped off a water for Mitch.

Mitch peeled open his straw and took a long drink, like the whole unpleasant ordeal had left him dehydrated. When he finished, half of his water was gone. “I don’t want to think about it anymore, man. It’s too depressing. Let’s talk about you.”

“I spent yesterday in the ER with Tate.”

“What?”

“He jumped off the back of the couch and busted his head open.”

“Oh no.”

“Nine stitches. Thankfully, no concussion.” And the emergency had completely obliterated the moment he’d been sharing with Reese in the closet. Tate’s immediate physical pain had taken precedence. When they finally got home, Paul tried to get the moment back, but it was hopeless. Reese had retreated into her cave. Late last night, while she was sleeping, he placed Vivian’s jewelry box on her desk. She hadn’t said anything about it this morning.

“In completely unrelated news, Reese has been writing letters to Autumn Manning.”

Mitch stopped spinning the saltshaker. “The Autumn Manning?”

Paul nodded. “She ate dinner with us on Thursday.”

“What?”

“Apparently, my daughter sent her a pair of Vivian’s earrings. Autumn came over to return them, and Reese invited her to join us for lasagna.”

“She accepted?”

“I might have put some pressure on her.” Paul scrubbed his hands up and down the length of his face. “Reese has been ignoring me. Completely shutting me out. I thought if I invited Autumn in, she might open up.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope.”

“Wow.” Mitch shook his head. “I can’t believe Reese has been writing her letters.”

“It’s like she’s developed some sort of fascination.”

“Do you think it’s because of the mix-up?”

“Probably. I don’t know what else it would be.” Paul scratched his chin. “Do you think it’s crazy if I ask to read them?”

“If it were my daughter, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

The waiter brought their pizza. He served a slice to Mitch and a slice to Paul—cheese stretching, steam rising—and left them to their meal. Paul’s stomach let loose an appreciative grumble. As soon as Mitch finished saying grace, Paul took a bite with his fork and closed his eyes in order to fully enjoy the rich flavor. Lou Malnati’s pizza took the edge off most things.

“So,” he said as soon as he swallowed, “what did you want to talk to me about?” They didn’t typically meet on Mondays for lunch.

“The marriage campaign,” Mitch said.

Paul had expected as much.

It was something that had been in the works for months—a collaboration among several churches in the Chicago area. The idea had been Mitch’s brainchild, of course. It was one of the things Paul loved about the guy. He was more passionate about building the church universal than he was about increasing attendance at his particular church in Lakeview.

As part of this passion, Mitch had formed a fellowship of pastors, and every single one in the fellowship was concerned about the escalating divorce rate within their church walls. The idea of a citywide marriage campaign came into being. One that would culminate in a conference led by Paul Elliott.

All of that was before.

Before Tragedy on the Tracks.

Before twenty-two Chicagoans lost their lives.

Before the churches in Chicago shifted into crisis intervention mode and the marriage campaign fell by the wayside.

“We’re starting to talk about it again. The other pastors wanted to know if…” Mitch seemed embarrassed. Uncertain. Like he was Peter stepping out of the boat, only instead of waves, there was an ocean full of eggshells.

“If I’d do it?”

“I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I wasn’t even going to ask at all, but every morning for the past two weeks, when I sit down to pray, I get this nudge. Like I’m supposed to check in with you about it.”

Paul shoved another bite into his mouth.

“I didn’t want to go looking for someone else without talking to you about it first. Just in case God was nudging you too.”

“I don’t know, Mitch. I’m pretty sure my ministry has run its course.”

“Permanently?”

“I’m not married anymore.”

Mitch furrowed his brow as though he were chewing over the statement. “I’m a pastor.”

“A really good one.”

“It’s a gift—a passion—that God’s planted in my heart.”

Paul waited, positive that a moral was right around the corner.

“If something happened, and God forbid, I lost every person in my flock, I’d still be a pastor. All the experience I’ve been blessed with and the particular wisdom God’s given me along with it. It wouldn’t just go away because Redeemer did.”

Mitch served himself another piece of pizza. “Look, I won’t pretend to understand what it would be like if I lost Lisa. All I know is that I’ve watched you walk this road with courage and integrity. And I’ve witnessed what a gift you have in speaking truth to husbands and wives. Losing Vivian doesn’t mean you have to lose your ministry too.”

Paul set his fork on the table. One slice in and he’d lost his appetite.