“The grieved are many, I am told—”
—EMILY DICKINSON (“I MEASURE EVERY GRIEF I MEET”)
Living dangerously, bucko.
Brock took a swig of coffee and watched surprise scoot across Savannah’s face. She hadn’t expected an interrogation, no doubt. He hadn’t figured on asking the question either, but it kind of just popped out. Well, he’d never been one to beat around the bush. Wasn’t about to start now.
She pushed an ash-blond curl behind her ear and stared back at him through eyes he hadn’t quite figured out the color of yet. Hazel was too cliché. And over the last few weeks, Brock had come to the conclusion that there was nothing remotely cliché about Savannah Barrington.
“Direct, aren’t you?” She faced him head-on, a slight hint of anger flashing his way, accentuating the gold flecks in her widened eyes.
He shrugged. “Everybody has a story. I’d like to know yours.”
Her contemplative smile made him sad. It wasn’t anything Brock could put his finger on, but ever since that first day on the porch, when she’d seen Maysie and dropped that coffee mug, he sensed a heaviness around her, like she was carrying some burden she never intended to and didn’t know how to put down.
“My story is rather depressing, Brock. Nothing you’d want to use in one of your books, that’s for sure.” She took a sip from her mug, her eyes a million miles away. “I met my husband when I was seventeen. He was friends with my brother, a couple of years older than me. We started dating eventually. I got pregnant a few years later, in my sophomore year of college. So we got married. I chose to stay home and raise our kids. And life was pretty good. Until he decided it wasn’t. Now we’re getting a divorce. Hardly the happy ending I dreamed about when I was a girl.”
The busy room that buzzed with energy a moment ago seemed to still. Brock watched her fumble with the oversize mug, her hand trembling. “That’s the abridged version, I assume?”
She sat back and folded her arms. “I figured you knew the rest.” Her eyes narrowed in question.
Brock shook his head. “Clarice doesn’t tend to gossip. And I don’t tend to ask. All I know is that you’re planning on holing up here awhile because you’re going through some tough times. And for some reason you find it difficult to handle a cup of coffee.”
Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink and Brock’s heart lurched a little. She was really quite stunning when she smiled. Once again, he cursed God’s timing.
“When I saw Maysie that day . . . it was a shock.” She fiddled with the rings on her left hand. The raw anguish in her eyes almost made him stop her from saying any more. But curiosity kept him quiet. “Our first child, Shelby . . . died. Maysie bears a striking resemblance to her.” She took a deep breath and looked away a moment. When she faced him again, her eyes were wet. “She was ten. Out riding her bike. I went inside to answer the phone, came straight back out, but . . . the car had already struck her.”
“Oh, Savannah. I’m so sorry.” Brock drew in a stunned, shaky breath. He knew that kind of pain. That searing forest-fire heat that eventually fizzles to dormant embers but remains a threat, a slow burn, never fully extinguished and easily flammable.
It was the same for him. Years later. Whenever anyone asked and he chose to tell his story, which he rarely did, the flames sparked and flared and burned twice as bad.
“She was in the ICU for a week.” Savannah shrugged and wiped her cheeks. “We thought . . . well, there were moments when it looked like she was going to make it. She didn’t.”
He nodded. There were no words that would make the slightest bit of difference.
“That was ten years ago.” Her almost apologetic smile didn’t go far. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever get easier to talk about. We tried to go on after that. I was busy with Adam and Zoe, Kevin threw himself into work, but I think the grief was just too much, you know? Eventually we turned into strangers living in the same house. I blamed myself for Shelby’s death. Kevin kept trying to talk around it, saying it wasn’t my fault, but I didn’t want to hear that. So I shut him out. I . . .” Her eyes flickered again, then she blinked and drew in a sharp, beleaguered breath. “Why am I telling you all this?”
“Because I asked.” Brock watched a certain awareness settle over her features. “You thought it was easier not to talk about it, right? Then pretty soon you can’t talk about anything at all.”
“Walking on eggshells.” A shadow of a smile lifted her lips. “That’s what it’s been like the past few years. Constantly wondering what’s going to set things off, where the landmines are buried and how to step around them. I wasn’t the easiest person in the world to live with. I guess Kevin could only put up with it so long, so he stopped trying.”
“Did he . . .” Brock cleared his throat. This was none of his business. But he’d already pegged Kevin Barrington for a first-class idiot. And the look on Savannah’s face confirmed his suspicions.
“He did.” She sniffed and waved a hand, a brave smile lifting her cheeks. “Of course he was the last man on earth I thought would ever cheat. I suppose every wife feels that way. When I began to suspect something was going on, he stepped up the game. Started coming back to church. Taking me out for dinners.” She balled up a paper napkin and let it fall from her fist. “But I knew something wasn’t right. When I began to question him, he denied it. What’s that saying . . . those who shout the loudest have the most to hide?”
“Something like that.” Brock smiled and shoved down a smart remark. It wouldn’t help to agree with her. “How are your kids doing with everything? My parents divorced when Mitch and I were still in elementary school. I know how hard it can be.”
“Oh.” She pulled a Kleenex from her coat pocket and blew her nose. “Adam’s doing okay, I think. He’s busy with school and sports. I think he feels torn, though. He doesn’t want to hate his father, but he can’t condone what he’s done either. Zoe has been vehemently opposed to having anything to do with Kevin since she found out. Kevin just told me last night that she’s finally agreed to see him. They’re going to talk.”
Brock nodded. She wore a neutral expression he couldn’t decipher. “And you’re okay with that?”
“He’s still their father. I don’t want this to destroy their relationship. I guess I just never planned on being in this position. And, to be honest, I’m still furious with him.”
“So that’s why you were in the greenhouse doing a little creative redecorating?”
She raised her eyes to the ceiling and laughed. “Guilty. I mean, he just called out of the blue, like everything was normal between us, and wanted to talk about stupid stuff. Like your books.”
“Really?” Brock cleared his throat and tried to look put out. “My books have been called a lot of things, but—”
“No, no, no.” She waved a hand, looking a little mortified. “I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . . Shoot.” Her face flushed again and Brock almost sucked in a breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this attracted to anyone. And suddenly the air seemed a little dangerous.
He tried not to enjoy her expression of horror, but it was too difficult. “Savannah. I’m teasing.”
“Oh. Okay.” Savannah smiled her relief. “Well. That’s my sob story.” She fixed him with those golden-flecked eyes. “So what’s yours?”
Okay, that was stupid. But I can’t take it back now. And it’s only fair to ask, right? I pretty much opened a vein in front of him.
The mix of surprise and chagrin Brock wears says I probably won’t get to hear it.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Wow. I really am a pushover. It’s a good thing I never went into journalism.
Brock smiles, sits back, and gives a slow nod. “Maybe I will someday.”
“But you don’t want to.” I try not to sound hurt or overly curious. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t. I’ve just spilled my guts to you and . . .” His quiet laughter stops my rambling and I put a hand over my mouth. “You know what, never mind. I’m really not this annoying.”
“I don’t think you’re annoying at all.” Brock’s eyes sparkle under the colorful glass light that hangs above our table. “It’s refreshing to have a conversation with someone over six and under eighty.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to pry.” I’m feeling tongue-tied now and so ready to leave. But he stays in his chair, looking quite comfortable.
“My wife died when Maysie was a baby. Let’s just say the past few years haven’t exactly been a Sunday barbecue. When Uncle Joe passed, I came up here to visit Clarice, and she invited us to live with her. I’ve always loved it here, and Atlanta was getting a little too loud for my liking. That was, oh, about two years ago now.”
“Clarice is a wise woman.” I fiddle with the small silver cross around my neck. “You ever notice how she . . . I don’t know . . . seems to know things without asking?”
Brock chuckles and leans forward a little. “Between you and me, I think she’s a bit of a clairvoyant. Not in the secular sense, you understand. But I do think sometimes she hears God louder than the rest of us.”
“Must be nice.” My smile surprises me. “I feel like he has to hit me over the head to get my attention most of the time.”
“Yeah, I get that.” His face takes on a serious expression I wonder about. “I don’t know what I would have done without her these past few years. She’s a huge help with Maysie. She has more energy at her age than I do most days.”
I have to agree with that. “I don’t know about her plans for the greenhouse, though. We’ve been at it for weeks now and I’m still not convinced the place is salvageable.”
“It looks a sight better than when you first started.”
“True. But . . . do you really think it’ll ever be beautiful again? It’s still seems so . . . desolate.”
He ponders that, tips his head, and gives a smile. “You have a nice way with words. The day you first came to tea, you mentioned writing. I’m curious. What do you write?”
Oh no. No way can I possibly go there. I shake off the question. “Nothing, really. It’s just a bit of a hobby.”
“Poetry? Short stories? Romance? Haiku?” He’s grinning, and I’m tempted to throw something at him.
“It’s a blog. Okay? Nothing exciting.”
He leans back with a satisfied smile. “I’d like to read it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” I don’t want anybody reading it, actually. I don’t like the direction it’s taken, the hostility, the anger, and the outrage coming from my followers as they share their own tales of woe. Many of my original readers have moved on. I’ve received more than one email expressing concern over what’s happening. It no longer feels like the safe community it was. And I’m no longer okay with that.
“Hmm.” He gives me that skewed look I have no idea how to interpret. “Well. Back to the greenhouse, then. Maybe you’re looking at it from the wrong angle.”
“How so?” Relief floods me. I’d much rather talk about the greenhouse.
Brock tips his head and gives a slight smile. “You can’t change everything overnight, Savannah. Figure out what you want. What’s worth saving, what can be saved, and what can’t. Categorize. When I’m working on a new book, that’s what I do. I have three sections. Crap ideas. Workable ideas. And really good who-in-the-world-would-ever-believe-that ideas.”
“How do you decide which ones to use?”
“I don’t. They usually tell me. But I’ll let you in on a little secret . . .” His wink makes my heart stop. “My last three bestsellers? Crap ideas.”
“No.” I can’t help laughing, but I don’t think he’s joking. He’s collecting our trash and I guess it’s time to go. “What are you working on now?” I push back my chair and he’s already behind me, pulling it out and helping me with my coat.
Brock leans in a little, his hands on my shoulders. “My last book.”
Something in the way he says it, the sadness in his voice, the finality of those three words, makes me shiver.
Two weeks after Thanksgiving I realize I should probably confirm my plans for Christmas. Go home. But the thought makes me feel a little ill. My mother has phoned several times insisting we all go down to them in Florida or they come back to Boston and she’ll have everyone over this year. My mother doesn’t cook. I imagine a gourmet meal being ordered from one of her expensive catering companies. The kids would hate that. So I find the courage to call and ask Adam and Zoe what they want to do this year. And whether they want to see their father. They both ask to come up here to the Berkshires. And they don’t really want to see Kevin.
My brother calls midafternoon, so I seek his advice. Because I’m at a total loss here and I hate the feeling.
“Zoe says she wants a white Christmas. Wants to ‘commune with nature.’ What do I tell Kevin?”
“I suppose . . . maybe you compromise. Say the kids will be there with you for Christmas, but tell Kevin he’s welcome to invite them to stay with him for New Year’s. Do you think they’d do that?”
“I don’t know.” I stand at the long picture window and watch snow swirl around the trees. The season is turning into a skier’s dream. “Zoe finally agreed to talk to Kevin, but I know she’s still angry. Adam would probably go. It’s just so . . .” An awful knot twists in my stomach. I can’t imagine us split into two families. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not right.
“Hey.” Paul interrupts my thoughts. “I was thinking we could fly out. Spend Christmas there with you. I’d do Christmas Eve service and then leave here as soon as possible on Christmas Day. We’d get there late, probably, but—”
“Really?” Excitement builds in me. I haven’t seen my brother in two years. “Have you been talking to Mom?” Paul’s laugh is all the answer I need and I groan. Loudly. “She’s convinced everyone to come here, hasn’t she? Peg too?”
“Peg will call you later. Listen, before you freak out, when’s the last time we were all together? Think about it. We’ll all pitch in. The house is plenty big, and Mom thinks it’d be better for you to stay put. Says you sound much more at peace since you moved up there.”
Moved. Like I’ve left my old life behind completely.
Well, maybe I have.
“All right. I guess the kids will enjoy seeing their cousins.” I’m making it sound like torture, having to spend time with my family.
Paul’s chuckle tells me I’m exactly right. “Try to find a little enthusiasm, Savannah. We wouldn’t want to add to your misery by showing up and giving you a hug or anything.”
“I know. I’m being horrible, aren’t I?” I slump into a chair and pull my knees up. “I’m dreading discussing this with Kevin. He’s acting really weird, Paul.”
“Weird how?”
“Like friendly. Like he thinks we can actually be friends. He keeps calling . . . He makes up excuses, but I know it’s to check up on me.”
“Well.” My brother lapses into momentary silence, and I hear his fingers tapping against his phone. “That’s understandable.”
I draw a deep breath and frown at the family portrait over the mantel. My mother has filled the house with framed photographs of all of us taken over the years. Kevin is in so many of them. “I’m not suicidal, Paul. I’d tell someone if I was. Seriously.”
“Good. Okay.” His intake of breath is unsteady. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he walked into that hospital room six years ago. I don’t think he believed I’d actually done it. Actually tried to end my life. I didn’t either. But the bandages around my wrists told the real story.
“Is this what happens when people get divorced? They just become sort-of friends who talk to each other about the kids and the weather and who gets to see the children when?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes they don’t talk at all. That’s worse, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.” I’m being honest. “Talking to Kevin right now hurts. Hurts a lot.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” My brother sighs again. “I know. Truthfully, I’ve been praying something would happen to change things.”
Huh. “I’ve been praying too,” I admit. “Trying to. But I don’t know what to ask for anymore. I’ve given up trying to figure it out. God knows what I mean and what will happen, even if I don’t. So I just pray for Kevin to be okay. And that I’ll be okay. I don’t want to hate him. I want him to be happy. And if he can’t be happy with me . . . then I hope he finds happiness elsewhere.”
“Sounds like you’re doing better than I am. I still want to kill the man.”
“Paul. You guys were best friends. Don’t forget that.”
“You’re my sister.” His groan is long, sad. “What he’s done . . . I can’t fathom it. I’ve heard pretty much everything since entering the ministry, stories that keep me up nights. But this hits too close to home. This has damaged my family.”
“I think we were damaged long before Kevin decided to sleep with someone else.” I know we were. I just haven’t wanted to admit it before now.
“I’m glad you’re not bitter, Savannah. It’s best to try to love, no matter how hard it is.” He gives a harsh laugh. “Guess I should try taking my own advice, huh?”
“Oh, some days I’m still bitter. Sometimes I don’t want to love, Paul. I don’t want to still love him.” I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Love. I thought I knew all about that once.
We talk a bit longer, until I run out of words. Paul asks if he can pray, and I listen, tears warming my cheeks.
After I hang up I think about what he said. Think about Clarice and how she keeps intimating that prayer changes things. If that were true I’d have to acknowledge God still listens, still cares about this tragedy that has become my life.
I need air. I can’t sit cooped up inside thinking about things I don’t understand. I pull on my winter gear and head out for a nice long walk.
The woods are snowy and silent and have that ominous feel about them, like I’m being watched, but the sensation doesn’t scare me. I spent most summers here from a young age—this was my playground. I know these trails like the back of my hand. I don’t worry about what might be out there wanting to do me harm. As my father would say, don’t spend your time borrowing trouble. It’ll catch you eventually.
Trouble really can’t begin to describe the kind of trauma we began to endure on a daily basis after the accident. Thinking back now, I see the exact moment I began to retreat. Shelby’s funeral . . .
Somehow I stand, half stand, half slump against Kevin, and watch as they lower that small shining casket into the dark cavernous hole beneath the ground. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I’ve always wondered why they say that at funerals. Because we get it. God, we so get it. My little girl, full of life and energy and excitement for the future, here one day and gone the next.
“I’m just going to Caisey’s, Mom!” she yells at me from the driveway, but the phone is ringing and I’m halfway through the front door.
“Put on your helmet!” It’s the last thing I said to my daughter.
Shelby always wore her helmet. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It didn’t save her.
It’s Kevin on the phone, calling to tell me he got tickets to that play I’ve been wanting to see. For our anniversary. I head back outside to the sickening sound of screeching brakes. Someone is screaming. It might be me.
“Savannah? What was that?” Kevin is yelling now. “Savannah? Savannah!”
I’m running down the street before I realize I’m still holding the phone.
Tears freeze on my face and my nose burns.
Five deer graze on the right-hand side of the path, and I slow my steps. They’re standing together, nosing through the white stuff for shoots, I suppose. I wonder what they’ll find this time of year. I stand and watch them. They’re majestic creatures, really. Gentle and unassuming. A nuisance in the summer, though. Mom is forever chasing them out of her hostas. I half wonder if Brock might be out here with his rifle. I hope not.
Every now and then the tall pines around me throw down a light shower of snow. Real winter has come early here and decided to stay. The sun pokes through green branches in flashes as a soft breeze blows through the trees. I lock eyes with a doe and smile. Her ears flick and for a second I think she’ll bolt, but she chooses to ignore me and resumes her foraging.
There is movement beyond the clearing. Laughter, I think. Or perhaps it was a bird. But I hear it again, the sudden high-pitched laughter of a child. I take a step forward. I don’t want to startle the deer, but I wonder if that’s Maysie, running around alone out here. I worry they give that child too much freedom when she is not in school. Come to think of it, I don’t know for sure that she attends school. She’s always been at the house when I’ve been there. It could be possible Brock homeschools her, but when would he have the time with all the writing he does?
A glimpse of red and a snatch of blond catch my eye and I pick up my pace. I’m sure I saw a child running across the path up ahead. “Maysie!” The deer scatter and leap away through the forest and I break into a run. She’s too far from home. She could get lost. Hurt. Anything could happen to her.
“Maysie, wait! It’s me, Savannah!” Looking to the left and then the right, I see no sign of her. I double back and head south, toward the Chandlers’.