7

“So how did it go with Mom while I was in Chicago?”

Karen took a sip of her skim-milk frappuccino. “I think she thinks we’re conspiring against her.”

“How so?”

“She grilled me about why we started shopping together, and commented that it was odd how we were hanging out together, since we never did as kids. Then she asked me what we talked about.”

“What did you say?”

“This and that.”

“I bet that drove her nuts.”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far—but it frustrated her. When she couldn’t get any info out of me, she started interrogating Kristen about her boyfriend. She knows I don’t approve of him, and I guess she assumed that would get a rise out of me.”

“Did it?”

“Nope. In fact, I came to his defense. Which surprised Mom—and Kristen. Mom’s next strategy was to criticize the dinner.”

“What did you have?”

“Tofu stew.”

Val burst out laughing. “I wish I’d been there.”

“She tried to enlist Kristen against me on the food front, but believe it or not, my daughter took my side. She said it was not only delicious but healthy and good for the waistline. Mom never misses an opportunity to point out that I’ve gained weight, so Kristen also told her I’d lost seven pounds—and that she could afford to do the same.”

“I bet that didn’t meet with a favorable response.”

“Give the lady a gold star.” Karen took a sip of her drink. “She accused Kristen of being disrespectful and told me I should have raised her better.”

“Sounds like a cheery meal. Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Lose seven pounds.”

“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t much, but the accomplishment gave her a small rush of pride. “Just eighteen more to go.”

“I’ll be rooting for you. Listen, I’m sorry I had to bail for a day. I would have gotten out of the commitment if I could, but modeling supplements my income and I don’t want to turn down too many jobs or my agent will put me at the bottom of her call list.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I’m booked for one other assignment too, remember.”

“I know. I have it jotted down.” Karen pursed her lips. “I think we’ll have turkey lasagna that night.”

Val laughed again. “You’re bad.”

“Aren’t I, though?”

But she didn’t feel in the least repentant.

* * *

“Martha!” Karen waved at the middle-aged woman across the church parking lot. At the summons, Martha Ramsey paused in her trek toward the dumpster.

As she drew close, Karen’s heart contracted at the weary slope of the woman’s shoulders and her careworn face. Martha might only be in her midfifties, but she’d aged a decade since her son’s debilitating accident. Yet she continued to keep the sanctuary in the church decorated with fresh flowers supplied from the gardens of the congregation. Amazing—and inspiring.

Karen stopped in front of the woman. “How’s Steven?”

Martha set down a bucket filled with withered, dying blooms redolent with the pungent scent of decay. “About as well as can be expected. It’s hard for a young man with such athletic promise to give up his dreams.” She sniffed. Brushed a dead petal off her blouse. “How is your mother? I’ve been keeping her in my prayers.”

“Improving every day.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The woman stooped and picked up the bucket. “I have to get home and help settle Steven in for the night. Take care, and give Margaret my best.”

“You too—and I’ll pass on your message.”

Turning back toward her car, Karen rummaged in her purse for her keys. Given how fast the lot had emptied, the other choir members had been as eager to leave as she was—and no wonder. Their second choir rehearsal with Scott Walker had been as unpleasant as the first one.

She continued to feel for her keys as she walked toward her car. If the man didn’t want the job, why had he taken it? His flat tone, his cursory review of the music for Sunday, his early dismissal all reeked of indifference. If this continued, the already small group was certain to shrink. They’d all joined the choir in search of fel­lowship and spiritual enrichment, not friction and stress.

Rotating her taut shoulders, she tried to cut him some slack based on the few facts he’d told them about his accident. A partially paralyzed hand would wreak havoc with a musician’s career. She could understand how that would upend a person’s world. The rest of the choir members could too. They were all kind, caring people.

But given their stoic expressions as the rehearsal ended, along with their silent exodus, the well of sympathy was fast running dry.

Karen stopped beside her car and frowned. No keys. Had she left them on the music cabinet? It was possible. She’d detoured there after she arrived to retrieve a copy of a hymn the former director had passed out at a rehearsal she’d missed a couple of weeks ago.

Hand on hip, Karen surveyed the church. She hadn’t seen Scott come out, but there was only one car left in the lot beside hers, and Martha was still here. If he’d slipped away while the two of them were talking, she’d have to ask Martha to reopen the church. But better to try the door first rather than delay the other woman, who was anxious to get home.

If she was lucky, Scott would be inside and it would be open.

* * *

Scott slowly lowered himself to the piano bench and massaged his temple.

Tonight had been a disaster.

Even worse than last week.

He ought to throw in the towel on this gig. His mother and the minister would be disappointed, but he didn’t much care.

About anything.

Positioning his hand over the keyboard, he plunked out the melody line from one of the hymns they’d been practicing tonight. Some uplifting message about eagle’s wings and being freed from the terror of the night.

Too bad the inspiring sentiment was a lie.

Nobody could save him from the kind of suffocating darkness, the vast, hollow emptiness that enveloped his soul.

Including God.

He knew that for a fact.

For in his darkest, most desperate hours, as he’d pleaded for mercy, for release, for help—for anything that would lift the burden of darkness from his soul—the Almighty had been silent. Maybe he was there, maybe he wasn’t. All Scott knew for sure was that he was on his own.

Rotating his injured hand, he studied the fingers. Was it possible the doctor had been right about the dis­ability, that it could be partly psychological? That if he wanted to recover, he could? Was there some truth to the whole notion of mind over matter?

Gritting his teeth, Scott gave himself a silent pep talk.

I want to play this piano. I will play this piano. I will command my brain to send the correct impulses to my left hand, and it will respond.

After repeating that mantra several twice, he flipped through a book of hymns and selected a song that would have been a piece of cake to sight-read in the old days. Positioned his fingers on the keys. Attempted to play it.

His left hand refused to cooperate.

He repeated the mantra and tried again. And again. And again. Until whatever dim hope had flickered to life in his soul sputtered and died.

Tears pricking his eyelids, Scott banged the keys with all the force he could muster. As the jarring, discordant sound echoed in the empty church, he dropped his head into his hands.

He might as well accept the truth. His music career was toast. He had to move on.

Except he didn’t know where to go.

* * *

At the loud, dissonant crash from the piano, Karen jerked to a stop near the entrance to the sanctuary.

What was going on in there?

Edging closer to the door, she cracked it open. Scott was sitting at a right angle to her, his elbows propped on the keys, fingers jammed through his hair.

Not an opportune moment to intrude.

A quick peek, however, confirmed that her keys were on top of the music cabinet two feet inside the door. Close, but a tad beyond her grasp—and she wasn’t going anywhere without them.

Could she sidle in, retrieve the ring, and disappear without disturbing Scott?

Tiptoeing forward, she stretched a hand out for the keys—and watched in dismay as a loose piece of music slipped from the folder in her arms and fell to the floor with a clatter.

Her gaze flew to Scott.

He jerked up—and as his raised eyebrows dipped into a deep, dark V, her stomach twisted.

“Were you spying on me?”

Anger spiked her adrenaline.

That was exactly what Michael had accused her of whenever she’d called his office on the nights he worked late during the months preceding their separation.

The accusation had been as misplaced then as it was now—and just as insulting.

“I forgot my keys.” She lifted her chin, snatched them off the cabinet, and jangled them.

Some of the tautness in Scott’s features dissipated, but his anger didn’t abate. “Too bad you didn’t come a few minutes sooner. You would have heard my pathetic attempts to play this.” Bitterness scored his words as he flung the music on the rack to the floor. “This job was a mistake. I knew it from the beginning.”

Despite his hostility, his soul-deep pain was almost palpable.

She took a tentative step closer and gentled her voice. “We’re not the St. Louis Symphony Chorus, you know. We don’t expect perfection.”

He angled toward her, his eyes raw. Bleak. “But I’m a trained musi­cian, and I’m not satisfied with less than that.”

“Perfection is a high standard to apply to anything—with or without an injury. It’s a recipe for frustration.”

“Yeah. I know all about frustration.” He slammed the keyboard cover shut. “And I don’t think there’s much chance it’s going to disappear anytime soon.”

“Is your injury...permanent?”

The personal question was out before she could stop it, and Karen expected him to stiffen and tell her it was none of her business.

But to her surprise, he answered. “Who knows?”

“You mean there’s a chance you could recover?”

“No one’s ruled that out.”

“Then that’s good news, isn’t it?”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Depends on your definition of good.” He stood abruptly. “I have to lock up.”

Karen searched for another comforting thought to pass on but came up empty. Not that it mattered. She doubted anything she said would alleviate Scott’s pain. So she simply walked out in silence.

And sent a quiet prayer heavenward for the troubled man inside.