Come on, Sam. It’ll be fun.” Brooklyn leaned back in the chair across the desk from Samantha. No sounds from the coffee shop drifted through the closed office door.
“But I don’t have an artistic bone in my body,” Samantha protested.
“You know what I was told recently? We’re made in the image of God and God is the Creator. Thus, we are all created to create.”
“You didn’t see the finger painting I did in first grade.”
Brooklyn laughed.
Samantha hadn’t meant it to be funny. She was dead serious.
“I need you to go with me, Sam. I don’t want to be the only adult with five thirteen-year-old girls.” Brooklyn pushed the flyer across the desk so that Samantha could get a better look at it. “Everyone I know who has been to a paint-night event has said it’s a blast. These things are sweeping the country. You should experience it.”
Samantha stared at the image of daisies in front of what looked to be the side of a red barn. A professional had painted that picture. She couldn’t begin to imagine how.
“They provide the acrylic paints and the canvas, and they walk you through each and every step. How hard can it be?”
“There are a number of reasons I became an accountant.” Samantha pointed at the flyer. “This is probably one of them.”
Brooklyn laughed again as she stood. “I’m not taking no for an answer, so you may as well accept your fate. Besides, if you really hate the idea of trying, you can sit and watch the rest of us have fun.”
Hate the idea of trying? Ouch. That hurt. Was it true of her? Was she so set in her ways or so afraid of failing that she wouldn’t try something new?
“Not trying is worse than trying and failing,” she whispered to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “And yes, I’ll go with you and the girls.”
“Great!”
“That remains to be seen.” Samantha rose and walked out of the office with Brooklyn.
This late in the morning, the shop had only a few customers, people on their laptops making use of the public Wi-Fi while sipping their coffees or teas. That’s why Samantha chose to do the bookkeeping during this lull.
“I’ll pick you up on Friday at five thirty.” Brooklyn stopped and gave Samantha a hug. “You can eat before or you can order something at the restaurant where the event is held. Or you can eat burgers with us on our way there.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“We really are going to have fun.”
Samantha planned to keep her wait-and-see attitude about that.
She remained where she was, watching Brooklyn as she left Sips and Scentimentals, got into her car, and pulled out of the parking lot. She smiled to herself, realizing that over the past month she’d gained a special friend. She hadn’t expected that to happen when she came to stay with Gran.
Brooklyn always seemed so upbeat too. Remarkable, considering her past. She’d been abandoned by her mother and rejected by her father. After her husband left her, Brooklyn had raised her daughter on a waitress’s salary without help from the girl’s father. Yet Brooklyn’s peace about it all was deep and real. She’d placed her trust in God and hadn’t allowed the pain of the past to color her future.
“I’d like to be more like her.”
With a sigh, she returned to the office and turned off the computer, done with her work for the day. A short while later, as she entered the house, she discovered Gran in the kitchen baking cookies for that evening’s Bible study.
“Gran, I could have done that.” Samantha closed the door behind her.
Her grandmother smiled over her shoulder. “But I enjoy doing it, and there is no reason I can’t. I’m an expert with this scooter now.”
Samantha couldn’t argue. Her grandmother zoomed around the house. She didn’t need help in and out of bed or in and out of her chair. She didn’t need help with showering as she had before the cast was replaced with the boot. In some ways Samantha felt unneeded. Gran could probably take care of herself, except for the need of a driver when she had to go out, and she had plenty of friends who could do that for her.
However, her grandmother had made it clear that she wanted Samantha to stay with her. Which felt good. To be wanted.
She closed her eyes, disliking the feeling that had stolen over her. Self-pity wasn’t attractive. And she disliked the reason for it even more. Four days, and still no call from Nick. How pathetic she was. How like him to do this.
No, that wasn’t fair. She had no reason to expect him to call. He wasn’t under any obligation. Only it felt like rejection, and it hurt.
Nick arrived at Derek’s house before noon. He’d had a last-minute doctor’s appointment in Boise that morning and had driven straight to the Johnson farm from the city.
His host was watching for him. As soon as they were in the kitchen, Derek put cheese sandwiches into a frying pan. “Have a seat.” He motioned toward the table, where tall glasses of iced tea awaited them, along with a serving bowl of tossed salad and several types of dressing to choose from.
The two men exchanged a few remarks about the weather and Nick’s work at the vineyard. When the sandwiches were ready—the bread toasted and the cheese melted—Derek brought them to the table on a platter, sat opposite Nick, and said a brief blessing. But when it was time to eat, he also seemed to think it was time to talk. “Okay, Nick. Tell me what’s up.”
Until Samantha had come to Thunder Creek, Nick hadn’t told anyone about his accident. But in the weeks since, he’d opened up a little more to a few people like Derek. He hadn’t shared many specifics. He’d thought it would be better that way. He still hadn’t liked the idea of anybody feeling sorry for him. He’d always been proud of his ability to take care of himself in dangerous situations, so admitting he could be helpless in something as simple as driving to a jobsite was hard.
But he did it. He told Derek everything, ending with what had happened to him two days earlier.
“If there’s anything I’ve learned about traumatic brain injuries,” he concluded, “it’s that no expert can say for certain what will or won’t happen. No doctor can make promises. It isn’t like the mending of a broken arm or leg. Each person’s TBI experience is unique, including the amount of time it takes to recover.” He drew a breath. “If they recover.”
Derek nodded but made no comment.
“I saw the specialist in Boise this morning. They had a last-minute cancellation and managed to squeeze me in. Like I said, he couldn’t promise I won’t have more of these episodes. The best he could do was give me a list of things to try. Things I can do to relax or focus or calm down if I get too stressed out. You know, hobbies like bird watching or painting landscapes and fruit bowls.”
“Painting, huh? You should talk to Brooklyn. She’s taking Alycia and a bunch of her friends to a painting night of some sort. Sam’s going too.”
“I didn’t know Sam liked to paint.”
“I don’t know that she does, but she’s agreed to go along.” Derek pushed his empty plate off to one side and leaned forward. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to change the subject.”
“No problem.” In a way he was relieved to have the focus off himself for a few moments.
Derek’s gaze was thoughtful as he waited in silence. Finally, he said, “I get the feeling there’s something you still want to tell me.”
“Yeah.” Nick raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I guess there is. It’s about Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Spending time with her last weekend, it got me thinking . . . got me wondering . . . made me wish—” He broke off, not sure how to put his feelings into words. How could he explain what he hardly understood himself? At last he shrugged. “But it wouldn’t be fair.”
“What wouldn’t be fair?”
“Like I told you, I don’t know what’ll happen with my health. I could go on like I am now for the rest of my life. Or I could take an unexpected turn for the worse. I could forget something critical. I could put someone in danger. It isn’t fair to want Sam to share that uncertainty.”
“Share?” Derek leaned back in his chair. “The two of you weren’t just friends back in Oregon, were you?”
Nick drew a long, slow breath and released it. “No. We’ve got history.” An understatement, he knew. “And not all of that history is good. I’m not sure I’d have any chance with Sam under the best of circumstances, let alone with things the way they are.”
Derek folded his hands on the table. “Look, I’m no expert in the romance department, and I don’t know much more about head injuries than what you’ve told me. But it seems to me the only way you can really lose in life is not to try. Maybe Sam won’t want you or what you can offer. Maybe there are too many complications for you to overcome. But you’ll never know for sure without trying.”
At his friend’s words Nick felt the hopelessness that had nestled in a dark corner of his heart loosen its grip.