Lakeside Reunion. Lisa Jordan
She strode to the window that overlooked the parking garage. Kicking off her pumps, she dug her toes into the nubs of the industrial-grade berber carpet. How long before she could take that hot bath, put on warm pajamas and crawl into bed for about twelve straight hours of sleep?
Scalloped clouds crowded out the September sun. What there was of it. As the afternoon wore on, rain had returned and assaulted the sidewalks with a raging force. Rivulets raced down the pane and bounced off the window ledge. Lightning slashed the sky like an impatient sword as thunder echoed between the buildings, rattling glass and brick.
Lindsey closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Come on already. She needed some news. Any news.
Someone tugged on her skirt. “Lindsey?”
She turned. A woman sitting in a wheelchair smiled at her.
Lindsey dropped to her knees and threw her arms around the woman’s bony shoulders. “Aunt Claire! When did you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. I met Mom and Dad in the hall and chatted with them for a few minutes. I would’ve been here sooner, but work was crazy today.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you own the trendiest boutique in Shelby Lake. Loved the pictures you emailed. And the fab website. Not bad for being open a year.”
“Yes, I’ve been blessed. Enough about me. How are you doing? Honestly.”
Lindsey tucked her feet under her and shrugged. “Tired of waiting.”
“I know, hon.” Aunt Claire reached for Lindsey’s hand. “Waiting is the toughest part. I’m sure there will be news soon. In the meantime, keep praying. Your mom’s in God’s hands.”
“Right.”
Aunt Claire laughed. “Could you be any less convincing?”
“Dad was in God’s hands, remember?”
Aunt Claire smiled and finger-combed Lindsey’s hair behind her ear. “When I lost Ben to that drunk driver and learned I’d never walk again, I hated God. He took my fiancé. Bound me to a life as a cripple. I wanted nothing to do with Him. In fact, I threatened your grandma that if she prayed over me one more time, I was moving out.”
“Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you’ve been preaching to me for years that God is in control. What changed?”
“Twenty-five years of prayer. But it wasn’t always that way. When I first learned I’d never walk again, I had to attend therapy sessions to learn how to use my upper body. I met a woman—Kathy Armstrong. She lost both legs to infection. She wheeled over to me, invited herself to my pity party and told me something I’ll never forget for the rest of my life.”
“What’s that?”
“She looked at my lifeless legs, back to where hers used to be and quietly whispered, ‘At least you can wear shoes.’”
“Reality check is the worst guest at a pity party, isn’t it?” Here Lindsey was feeling sorry for herself while Mom was in surgery, her aunt in a wheelchair and that lady went through life without legs. Oh, yeah, and now Stephen’s son may have broken his arm. Great reality check.
“Yeah, I realized how fortunate I was to be alive. Little by little, those tough times drew me closer to God. It was no walk in the park, mind you, but He softened my heart. I realized others had it worse. I could move my hands and arms, so I put them to use.”
“Your sewing.”
Aunt Claire nodded. “Faith and trust, hon.”
“It’s not easy.”
“Oh, girl, no one said life was easy. Give it time.”
“Time. The healer of all wounds.”
Grandma and Granddad returned to the surgical lounge. They stood in the doorway talking to a silver-haired man. Maybe he was the doctor with news. Lindsey’s heart picked up speed. Until she realized how he was dressed—jeans, a light blue polo shirt and a distressed leather jacket. Not exactly surgical garb.
“Aunt Claire, who’s that guy talking to Grandma and Granddad? He doesn’t look like a doctor.”
“That’s Max, silly.”
“Max who?”
“What do you mean, ‘Max who?’”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
Aunt Claire stared at her as if she had just announced she was going to perform her own lobotomy. “Oh, honey.” She lowered her gaze and twisted the diamond ring on her right hand. “I didn’t realize Grace hadn’t told you about him.”
“Tell me what?” Judging by Aunt Claire’s expression and tone, Lindsey knew—beyond a shadow of doubt—she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.
“Max has been courting your mom for the past six months.”
“Courting?” A dull throb pounded behind Lindsey’s eyes. She massaged her forehead. “She’s been dating him for six months? And never told me? Unbelievable.”
Really, Mom? Not a single “By the way, I met someone.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lindsey waved away the apology. Tears scalded her eyes. “Don’t be. Not your fault.” She laughed without finding humor in the situation. “This day keeps getting better and better.”
Stephen grabbed a clean tack cloth and wiped it over the curved headboard of the red oak cradle. A puff of sanding dust sailed to his nose, making him sneeze. The Christian radio station blared in the background as he worked, competing with the noise of the rain pounding on the garage roof.
A gift for his soon-to-be niece or nephew, the cradle needed to be ready for Melissa’s baby shower next week. He’d promised Ma.
At one time, his promises were empty statements used to entice until he got what he wanted. But he was a man of God now—a man of honor who kept his word.
The cradle would be ready. Even if he had to stay up late to finish it.
Satisfied that the cradle was clean and dust-free, he ran a hand over the wood, checking for any rough spots. Finding none, he stroked the finish. Smooth as a baby’s cheek. Or Lindsey’s skin.
No, don’t even go there.
But thoughts of her were embedded in his brain. The pain and anger in her eyes as she told him to leave her alone sliced through him like a band saw.
Why hadn’t he apologized and kept on walking? Or at least kept his hands to himself? Seeing her again was like giving a thirsty man salt water to drink.
He’d keep his distance like she asked.
If only it were that easy.
Stephen ripped a section of a faded blue cotton bedsheet with more force than necessary, folded it into a small square and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. As he uncapped the shellac, the acrid scent rose from the can like an escaping genie. It singed his nostrils and glazed the back of his throat. He took a quick gulp of lukewarm Mountain Dew to wash away the bitterness.
He applied shellac to the folded pad. Beginning at the bottom of the cradle, he slid the pad along the surface in long, uniform strokes, appreciating the way the liquid seeped into the wood and brought out the rich reds of the oak.
Tires crunched the gravel in the driveway.
Probably Dad bringing Tyler home.
Thunder cracked again. Soccer practice was canceled, so there was no rush bringing Ty home. With his bum arm, he may have to sit out the rest of the season. That would be the icing on the kid’s cake.