17
Not all their date nights were spent wandering the streets of downtown Bloomington. Ashley was spending this one helping Landon go through old boxes in the garage—something he’d wanted to do for a very long time. The boxes stood floor to ceiling taking up a large area of the garage—things her dad had left behind when he married Elaine and moved out. The year Ashley, Landon and the kids moved in.
“Look at this.” Landon chuckled and gazed at the stacks of boxes that made up one end of the oversized garage. “It’s a firetrap, for sure.”
Ashley winced, hands on her hips. There had to be thirty boxes along with some broken furniture. “I can see what you mean.” She bent down and read the writing on the nearest one. “Old Dishes.” She allowed a soft laugh. “My sweet mom. She didn’t throw away a single thing.”
“That’s what your dad said.” Landon found a folding table from the other side of the garage and set it up. “We can use this to go through everything.” He pointed to a large trash bin near the open garage door. “And that . . .”
“That . . .” She couldn’t agree more. “We’ll use that to throw away anything we don’t—”
“Absolutely need!”
They finished the last part together. Then Landon grabbed the first box and set it on the table.
This one was full of Erin’s schoolwork, hundreds of pages of math, spelling, science and English, along with art projects from kindergarten through high school. Ashley knew this task would be emotional at times. But she didn’t expect the first items to belong to Erin. She spread stacks of the documents across the table. A’s decorated the tops of many of them. “She and Brooke were always the best at school.”
Landon smiled at her. “Except for art. You had to be the best at that.” He always knew how to make her feel good. Even in these recent days when she so badly doubted herself.
“Possibly.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.” A colored page caught Ashley’s attention and she picked it up. It was an art project Erin had done when she was in second grade. Ashley could tell because of the teacher’s name at the top. Mrs. Isaacson. All the Baxter kids had gone through second grade with Mrs. Isaacson.
“What is it?” Landon came up beside her.
The picture showed a color drawing of the entire Baxter family—everyone except Dayne, of course. Their parents, and the five siblings who had grown up together. At the bottom of the piece, Erin had written: “My family is the best in the whole wide world.”
“She sure loved being a Baxter.” Landon eased Ashley closer to him. “I can’t see throwing that away.”
“No.” Ashley blinked back her tears. “I’ll save these for Amy. My dad has a box of Erin’s journals he’s going to give her when she graduates from high school. Otherwise . . . Dad said to get rid of it. There’s only so much you can save.”
“Mmm.” Landon took the drawing from Ashley and set it on the table. Then he pulled her to himself. “You don’t know how attractive that is, Ash. A woman who wants to get rid of stuff that’s been sitting here gathering dust for years.” He kissed her and grinned at her with flirty eyes. “Let’s get this thing done!”
Progress on the first few boxes was slow. But then they found an assortment of old towels—all of which had gotten moldy over the years. And suddenly they were making a dent in the pile. While they worked, Ashley gave Landon a rundown on the rest of the family.
Dayne and Katy and their family were planning to spend the summer in Bloomington. “They’re between films, so this is perfect.” Ashley opened the lid of the next box and peered inside. Tablecloths, maybe. Or moving blankets from who knows how far back. “Goodwill.”
“Nice.” Landon pointed to the empty spot next to the trash bin. “Start a fresh stack.”
The conversation continued. Brooke and Peter were celebrating their anniversary next week, and their girls were ready for summer vacation.
“Especially Maddie, right?” Landon smiled in Ashley’s direction. “She and Connor Flanigan still dating?”
“They’re taking a break.” Ashley raised her brow. “This summer should be interesting for sure. Brooke thinks Maddie and Connor will get back together. If she’s right, how amazing would that be if they got married someday? The Baxters and Flanigans, forever connected.” She brushed her hair from her eyes. “I love it.”
Ashley remembered how the two families came together so long ago. It was through Bloomington’s Christian Kids Theater. Ashley had volunteered to paint sets and in doing so she became friends with Katy Hart—a young teacher at the theater. Katy lived with the Flanigans and was like part of their family.
And of course, now Katy was married to their brother Dayne. So in some ways the Baxters and Flanigans would always be connected.
Over the next hour, Ashley talked about her sisters and brothers and all of their kids. Everyone would be busy this summer. Especially Kari and Ryan’s son, RJ, who had been chosen to play baseball for a competitive team from Indianapolis. The drive wouldn’t be fun, but RJ’s coach believed he had potential to one day play in the big leagues.
“What about Luke? He’s coming to the Memorial Day barbecue, right?” Landon lifted another box up onto the table and dusted off his hands.
“Their whole family’s coming.” Ashley couldn’t wait for the celebration. Times when they were all together were less often these days, now that the nieces and nephews were so busy. But they were more special than ever. “Luke’s been handling some interesting religious freedom cases in the city. It’s becoming a crime to pray in public.”
Landon shook his head. “Our founding fathers would be furious.”
“Exactly.” She opened another box. “You’ll have to ask Luke about it when he’s here.” She peered into the container and hesitated. What was this? Broken dishes? “Landon, look.”
He helped her lift several dishes and glass pitchers from the wrapping. All of them had—at one time—been very beautiful. But now they all had one thing in common. They were broken. Broken and patched up.
Ashley took a pitcher from the box and ran her hand over it. There was something very familiar about it. She studied it, the beautiful white-gray porcelain and the designs woven into it. Where had she seen it before?
A large chip had fallen from the mouth of the vessel and at one point the handle had broken off. Somewhere along the journey of raising their family, Ashley’s mother must’ve bought glue and put the thing back together again.
“Your mom was the most amazing woman.” Landon admired the restored pitcher. “Anything to save a dollar for the family.”
A memory was coming back to Ashley. Luke had thrown the football across the room and hit the pitcher, knocking it to the floor and breaking it. “She was careful with money, but that wasn’t what it was.” She stared at the pitcher, seeing the moment again in her mind. “My mom was going to throw it away, but she stopped herself. I can still see her holding up the pieces.”
The scene was becoming clearer still. “She didn’t get mad or anything. She just set it on the counter and asked Luke to find some superglue.”
Landon was quiet, a slight smile on his lips. “I can imagine that.”
Ashley held up the pitcher once more. “As soon as it was put together and dry, she called us over. All five of us.” Ashley ran her finger over the repaired cracks. “She told us she was going to keep it forever.”
“Forever?” Landon stood beside her, looking at the pitcher. “I guess she kept her promise.”
A smile tugged at Ashley’s lips. “She always did.” Ashley could see her mother again, young and healthy and full of life lessons. “She told us the repaired pitcher was an illustration of God’s grace. The way he saw us. We would have broken times in life. Times when we threw a ball where we shouldn’t and next thing you knew something very precious was lying on the ground in pieces.”
She remembered more from that day. “My mom set it on the table in the living room, where it stayed for the longest time. She told us God would always put the pieces back together if we were willing. The end result might not look exactly as it did before, but it would be beautiful all the same.”
Her mother’s voice came to her. “Beautifully broken. That’s what she called it.” Ashley smiled at Landon, her eyes damp. “Beautifully broken.”
“I like that.” He looked at the pitcher. “Might be time to get it out of the garage.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” She carried the pitcher to the door. “I’ll run it inside.”
She had some pottery sealant in her art room. Tomorrow she could give the cracks a quick once-over. She might even use it for their Sunday morning brunches. Her kids would love the story. Something special, something to remind them of their grandma.
They were halfway through the boxes, but Ashley had grown quieter than before. Thinking about her mom and the pitcher, and the story her father had been telling them every Thursday. No wonder she wanted to save the broken vessel.
It probably reminded her of herself.
“You okay?” Landon knew her. He always knew.
“Just thinking about my parents. The broken pieces of their story, I guess.” She gave Landon a wistful look. “I always knew the broad strokes of what happened back then. But I guess I didn’t imagine the details.”
“They were human. Like all of us.”
“Yes. Very true.” She paused for a moment. “When I came back from Paris I thought I was the worst person in the world. And I was finished with God and my family. You know why?”
“You were angry and afraid.” He came to her and took hold of her hands. They were both covered in dust and dirt from their work date, but it didn’t matter.
“Yes. But more than that. I thought God and my family were through with me. I couldn’t imagine any of them ever doing something like I’d done.” She shrugged, her smile soft. “How wrong was I?”
Landon ran his thumbs along the tops of her hands. “Your parents had a rough start. That’s for sure.”
She’d been keeping him apprised each week as her dad told another part of his story. But somehow here, finding the pitcher brought the cycle of things all together. “Somehow they survived it. I can’t wait to hear the next piece of the story.”
“Yes.” Landon searched her eyes. “What about Cole? Anything more from him?”
“Not since last time.” She sighed and turned to the unopened box on the table. “I wish I knew how to begin that conversation.”
Landon removed the lid and together they peered inside. Dozens of VHS tapes—all of them from a National Geographic series on world wars. Something her father had been interested in for a few years way back. “Goodwill?”
“Definitely.” She laughed. “My dad. Such a passionate guy. No matter what he cares about, he’s all in.”
They made their way through a few more boxes, broken toys and old bedding. Newspapers from decades ago. An easy quiet fell over them, and after a while Landon took a deep breath. “Hey, Ash, I have an idea.” He smiled. “Why don’t you practice on me?”
“Practice?” She grinned at him.
“Hey, hey . . . come on. That kind can wait.” He laughed, and then his face grew more serious. “I mean tell me what you’re going to tell Cole. You can practice on me. Go ahead.”
Ashley hadn’t thought about that before. She liked the idea. “Okay.” She stood a little straighter. “Where do I begin?”
“Where do you want to begin?”
True. It was up to her where she began the story. She sat on the edge of the worktable. “Well . . . I guess I’d begin with you, of course. Our middle school days. When you wouldn’t stop liking me no matter how mean I was.”
“There was always only you for me, Ashley.” He leaned against the garage refrigerator a few feet away. “Then what?”
“I was stubborn and rebellious so I went to Paris. But the whole time you were back here in Bloomington praying for me. Thinking about me. Loving me.”
“Right.”
Ashley liked the story so far. “I made some terrible choices, things I can’t bring myself to think about, and next thing I knew I was pregnant.”
“Okay.” Landon’s expression was kind, encouraging her to continue. “You’re doing great.”
This wasn’t as hard as she thought. “God saved me and my unborn baby and we came back home, back to Indiana. And from the beginning I kept running into you.” She managed a smile. “Every time I did, I felt myself falling for you a little more. Then you were almost killed in that house fire. Saving the life of a little boy.”
“I still hear from him every now and then. He sends me emails at the station to let me know how he’s doing in school.” Landon looked all the way through to the depths of her heart. “What else, Ash?”
“I came to the hospital to see you but you were in a coma. So I sat at the edge of your bed and talked to you. I begged you not to die because you had never been too safe, the way I thought. You were a hero and there you were dying in that bed. That’s when I told you I loved you.” She smiled at him. “I didn’t think you heard me, but you did. When you woke up you told me.”
“Your words in that hospital room are always with me.” He came to her and took hold of her hands again. “See? The story’s not that hard.”
“It isn’t.” She kept her eyes locked on his. “I loved you way before I was willing to really admit it. And then 9/11 happened. Your friend Jalen was missing, so you went to New York City. You didn’t stop digging there at Ground Zero until you found him. And all that time . . . all that time I missed you with everything in me. I thought it was too late, that I’d messed things up forever by letting you go.”
“But I came back.”
“I was standing in the field outside this very house, painting.” She angled her face and let herself get lost in his eyes. “Remember?”
“Of course.” He released one hand and worked his fingers through her hair.
“You came up to me and asked me the same thing Irvel always asked me.” Ashley felt tears in her eyes again. Irvel had been her favorite patient when Ashley worked at the Sunset Hills Adult Care Home.
“You have the most beautiful hair.” Landon ran his hand over the back of her head. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Ashley made a sound that was part laugh, part cry. She loved the way this was playing out. “That’s what you said. And just like that we had a chance.” She looked deep into his eyes again. “You loved Cole from the first time you saw him, and once I let you into our lives you were amazing with him. Taking him to the park and reading him Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. Wrestling with him and including him in our adventures every Saturday.”
Landon took a step back and dropped his hands to his sides. “And . . . ?”
“And we got married months before my mom died of cancer. With Cole there to witness the whole thing.” Suddenly Ashley realized something. She felt her eyes grow wide. “Wait a minute . . .”
“I know, right?” He chuckled, clearly enjoying the way the reality was landing on her.
“That’s it! That’s my story.” She laughed, too. Standing still was no longer an option. She paced to the Goodwill pile and back, amazed. “My story isn’t about some married painter in Paris.” She ran to him, took his face in her hands and kissed him. “It’s about you! The story is about you, Landon.”
“Exactly.” His lips found hers and he grinned at her. “It’s about time you figured that out.”
They both laughed and kissed again. The work could wait. This was the revelation Ashley had been waiting for, the answer she’d been praying about since Cole first asked about his story. It was never about his biological father. Not at all. Cole’s story was rooted in the love between her and Landon. A love that wasn’t only breathtakingly beautiful. It was like so many precious things in life, just the way her mother had described the pitcher all those years ago.
Beautifully broken.
• • •
WILSON GAGE WAS restless. He hadn’t been out of the house in two days and he needed a night out. But the Bingo Parlor was closed and he didn’t want to play pool at the bar. Easier to drink at home.
He grabbed another two beers from the fridge and flopped into his recliner. Where was the remote? He looked beneath a stack of newspapers and found it. A few clicks and the news came on. Wilson stared at it. The world had gotten crazy lately. Applauding people who desecrated the flag. Wilson was a liberal like the best of them. But ain’t no one got the right to shun the American flag.
Wilson drew the line there.
He popped the top on the beer and drank half of it. This was his fourth tonight. Fourth or fifth. Wilson wasn’t sure.
He leaned his head back and stared at the screen. A pretty blond anchor was talking about religious freedom. Something about the cases adding up. People were rising up against the church, looking to eliminate God from the landscape of America. A witch hunt, the lady called it. One that was overdue.
Wilson sat up straighter in his chair. What was wrong with people? He blinked his blurry eyes. Didn’t matter if he believed in God or not. The Constitution guaranteed Americans certain rights. Religion was one of them. The woman was saying something about some government officials wanting a state church. Something politically correct that everyone could agree on.
“Ridiculous!” Wilson shook his head and turned off the TV. He couldn’t watch the news tonight. Too many outrageous stories. He finished the rest of his beer and his eyes fell on the cross again. The one his wife had bought so long ago.
“I asked You for a sign, God. Remember?” Wilson heard the sneer in his voice. He didn’t care. God hadn’t delivered. Wilson had a right to be angry.
But, angry or not, the whole religious rights thing troubled him. How long before he would wake up to an America he didn’t recognize? The one he had fought for had already changed more than he could put into words.
Especially after five beers.
He stood and stretched. There had to be some way to pass the hours. He looked at the desk in the corner. His computer. That was an option. He could search what was happening with the Constitution lately. Wilson’s steps were far from straight, but he made his way to the desk and sat down.
As soon as he did, he had an idea. Facebook. He could check Facebook and find out what his friends were doing. Maybe one of them lived in the area. Someone he could take to dinner or to the bar. He opened his page and immediately saw the notification on the message icon at the top.
“Someone sent me a message.” Wilson grinned. “Well, look at that.”
He opened his private messages and furrowed his brow. Cole Blake? Who in the world was Cole Blake? Probably advertising. Wilson rolled his eyes, but just in case he opened the message. Right away he could see it wasn’t spam or an ad.
It was a letter.
His eyes worked their way down from the opening line.
Dear Mr. Gage,
My name is Cole Blake and I’m working on a heritage project for my school. I’m doing my report on my grandfather’s story. It happened a long time ago and I’m learning all about it. He said a Vietnam vet from Indiana was an important part of the story.
Are you the Wilson Gage who lived in Indiana and helped a man named John Baxter in the 1970s? If so I’d like to interview you.
I’m not completely sure what happened, my grandfather hasn’t gotten to that part yet. But I wanted to write now, so we could make a connection. I get extra credit if I interview another person who was part of the story.
So please could you write back and let me know if it is you? And if you want to do an interview, I can get some questions to you. Thank you, and God bless you.
Sincerely, Cole Blake
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Wilson leaned back hard in his chair and read the letter again. John Baxter. Chill bumps ran down Wilson’s spine. Of course he remembered the young man. Every now and then Wilson even wondered what happened to him. Did he and the girl find each other? Did he marry her the way he wanted to?
Back then Wilson had given the guy better advice than he’d have now. If the kid wanted to interview him, he was okay with that. He rattled off a quick message in response.
Dear Cole,
You found the right man. I can talk to you whenever you want. My number’s at the bottom of this note. Tell your grandpa I hope everything worked out.
Wilson Gage
Then he read the boy’s letter a third time. How was that even possible? John Baxter remembered him? From that night a lifetime ago? And now the man’s grandson wanted to talk. None of it added up. Why him? He was just an old forgotten Vietnam vet living in a little old house in Michigan. What could Wilson possibly add to John Baxter’s story? And suddenly the truth fell on him like the first summer rain.
This was the sign.
The one he’d asked for. Wilson sat there for the better part of an hour, trying to grasp the possibility of John Baxter remembering him, and how he must’ve helped John. A lot, even. Otherwise the man’s grandkid wouldn’t have tried to find him.
Yes, this had to be the sign.
The God he had once loved, the One whose reality Wilson had shared with a lost young man one early summer night decades ago, had not abandoned him. “I’m sorry, God . . . I never should’ve . . . never should’ve turned my back on You.”
God was real. Of course He was.
And if that was true, then there was something he needed to do. Wilson felt tears sting at his eyes. How could he have chucked the faith he’d enjoyed for most of his life? The one Scarlett had shared with him. What was Wilson thinking? Had he really thought he could ride out his days without God?
Death came to call on everyone eventually. The way it had come to call on his Scarlett. The way it would come to call on him one day soon.
Wilson shouldn’t have been angry at God for taking Scarlett. He should’ve been thankful he ever had her in the first place.
Hope and light flooded Wilson’s dark heart. His head didn’t hurt so bad. Then in a voice that was hardly a whisper, he made his declaration. “I get it, God. If You’re real, then You’re real.” He smiled so he wouldn’t break down and cry. These past few years the way he’d ignored God was almost too much for him to think about.
Instead he anchored on the here and now. The boy’s message. The miracle of this single night. “You kept Your part of the bargain.” Wilson sniffed. “Now it’s my turn.”
He stood and walked with trembling legs to the table near his chair. His next beer was still sweaty and cold. Wilson didn’t care. He took it to the kitchen, popped the top, and poured it down the sink. Whatever God saw in him, whatever reason He had for giving Wilson a sign, this much was sure: God had more for Wilson to do than sit around the house getting drunk every night. “You’re there, God. I’m sorry I ever doubted You.”
Wilson made his way to the cross that hung in the TV room. He touched the wood and studied the place where the pieces intersected. Maybe the Lord would tell Scarlett how much he missed her. “You died for me. And tonight . . . tonight You gave me a sign.” He felt the beginning of a smile. “You know what that means.”
No more beer. Not ever again. He’d had his last drink.
After all, a deal was a deal.