Love Me If You Must

47

I woke in my cot with a pounding headache. Winter sun poured gray into my meager master suite. I must have passed out in the cellar. Apparently someone found me and put me to bed.

I sat up. Throbbing blasted my ears. My cell phone danced on the wood planks as if it had a life of its own. The whole house vibrated. At first I thought the din came from an approaching train. But as the cobwebs cleared, I realized a jackhammer pummeled the concrete one floor below.

I rolled over and covered my head. They were digging up Sandra.

Memories of the night in the cellar engulfed me. I didn’t yet have the strength to look back. Pain knifed through me at even a vague recollection.

The knot in my throat gave way to tears.

I must have cried myself back to sleep. The next time I woke up, I felt refreshed. The reverberation of the jackhammer was gone from both the basement and my mind.

Off in the kitchen, a spoon clanked against a pan. I smiled. My neighbor Dorothy must be fixing me breakfast. My stomach gurgled at the thought of food. I couldn’t wait to get some nutrients into my system. The fever had left me weak and groggy. It would probably be a day or two before I was back to myself.

I sighed. A day or two before I could get back to the business at hand, renovating the Victorian.

I thought about the months of work ahead of me, and waited for that swell of anticipation I always got midway through a project. The feeling never came.

Today something inside me felt different. Did it really matter if I gave the house a total facelift? It was kind of homey just the way it was. Maybe there didn’t have to be a master suite on the first floor with a whirlpool tub and walk-in closet. Maybe the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs were sufficient for some mom, dad, and kids. And as far as a rec room in the basement went, why not let someone who actually planned on living here decide what to do? Maybe a new owner would rather have storage down in the basement. I’d gotten a good start fixing this old place up. Someone else could take it from here. I definitely needed some time off. I needed a place to heal. Not Cancun, but someplace that felt more like home.

I swung my legs over the edge of the cot. I was wearing my oversized tee-and-shorts pajamas. I must have been pretty dead to the world if I couldn’t even remember changing my clothes.

I stood up, shaky and light-headed. I slipped a sweatshirt and sweatpants over my sleeping gear and walked to the kitchen.

I leaned against the doorway and shook my head in surprise. Brad stood in front of the stove, stirring some concoction. He bent over the pot in concentration. A red-and-white checked apron protected his jeans and heather sweatshirt.

“No, you don’t,” he said to the contents. The brew sizzled over onto the burner and sent up a cloud of steam accompanied by the salty smell of burnt chicken broth.

I giggled to see the oversized man hunkered over the rebellious blend.

Brad turned my way and straightened. “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Hey, thanks. What’s cooking? I’m starved.”

“I bet you are. I’ve got some homemade chicken noodle soup for you.”

“Did you make it, or did Dorothy?”

“I’m insulted. It’s my own recipe.”

“Is it safe to eat or should I have my Tums on standby?” I asked.

“I see you’re back to your old self.” He tapped his spoon on the edge of the pan.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I hung my head. “I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.” Those were the same words David had used . . .

I pictured the spade meeting the side of his head, the sickening clunk at contact, and the thud of his body landing on concrete. I bent over double, sick from the vision.

Brad raced to my side. “What’s wrong? Here, sit down.” He helped me to the floor.

Sobs wracked my body as I let the memories come. Brad sat alongside me and let me use his shoulder for a Kleenex. He smoothed my hair, calming me. After a few minutes, I caught my breath. Then I asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Is David dead?”

Brad rested his hands on his lap. “He’s got a nasty concussion, but he’s still kicking.”

I nodded my head, relieved.

Brad tapped his thumbs together and continued. “David’s looking at deportation after he serves a reduced sentence for helping convict Rebecca. He can place her at the scene of the crime the night of Sandra’s murder. He even kept the shirt Rebecca was wearing when she killed Sandra. Fished it out of the trash for a time like this. With bloodstains and dried concrete all over the fabric, I’d say Rebecca is going to spend a long time behind bars.”

I remembered the dark puddle beneath Rebecca’s head in the cistern. “So Rebecca’s going to be okay?”

He leaned his head back against the cabinet. “She’s in custody at St. Joe’s Hospital. Cracked her skull pretty good, but she’ll recover.”

I guess I was glad she was still alive. She’d have gotten off the hook too easily if she had died. This way, she’d have lots of time to think about her crimes.

But that would be years of reform and reflection down the road. I should know.

I caught Brad’s eyes. “I guess I passed out. Who found me?”

“Jack. He was prowling around the basement window again. He saw you and Rebecca going at it with a shovel, and he ran to get me.” He nudged my shoulder with his. “And it’s a good thing he did. If you’d have laid there on the concrete much longer, you’d have been dead from fever.”

“Yeah.” I felt my forehead. “It cleared up pretty quick, though. I feel great today.”

“You’ve been zoning in and out of sleep for nearly three days. No wonder you feel better.”

“I was out for three days?”

“Completely zonked. Dorothy, Tammy, and I took turns keeping watch over you.”

I grabbed his arm. “How’s Tammy doing? Last time I saw her, she was on the verge of making a big mistake.”

“Everything’s okay. She’s back on track. And she’s giving you credit for helping her figure things out. David thanks you as well. You’re a bigger influence around here than you realize.”

It was nice to imagine I could be an influence of any kind, especially a good one.

Still, Brad’s words brought a tweak of sadness. I knew I couldn’t stay in Rawlings. Things hadn’t gone according to plan. But more than that, I felt a restlessness.

My cue to move on.

“And Sandra?” I asked.

“She’s tucked in safe down at Lakeside Cemetery. There’s a memorial service for her tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t miss it.” I paused, thinking. “Hey. Do you happen to know if she was wearing both shoes when they found her?”

“As a matter of fact, she was only wearing one. They found the other shoe, along with the murder weapon, behind the museum garage. How did you know about the shoe?”

I shrugged. “Would you believe me if I said x-ray vision? Anyway, I’m just glad Sandra will have a proper burial.”

I owed Sandra a huge debt. I felt free for the first time in my life. Free of my past, free of guilt, free to accept God’s love. I was only sorry it took her death to bring about something that should have been obvious all along. I snuggled against Brad’s shoulder, recording the moment for future reflection. My heart would have a rough time letting go of his always-there-for-me brand of friendship. And I knew I could lean on Tammy and Dorothy too, as I mopped up my latest mess. Loving David had certainly taken its toll. I’d put my heart on the line and ended up getting soaked. Only time could wring out my disappointment.

I angled my head toward Brad’s cheek. “How about taking me to church with you Sunday? I’m up for a new adventure.”

Brad drew in a deep breath. His arm looped across the back of my neck. “Tish. I’m so glad you’re safe.” His mouth nuzzled my hair. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

His words burned.

I pivoted until I was facing him on the floor. I looked into his eyes. They crinkled in the corners when he smiled. But he wasn’t smiling now.

I swallowed. “Brad. I’m sorry. I just . . . you know, now just isn’t a good time.” My voice died for lack of better words.

He pulled me close until my head rested against his chest. “Well, even if you don’t love me, you can’t stop me from loving you.”

I smiled into the warmth of his body. “Love me if you must. But I can’t give anything back right now.”

“I know.” He took me by the arms and held me where he could see me. “But I’ll be waiting for the day you can. After all, you’re the first woman to accept my invitation.”

That Sunday I walked through the door of the Rawlings Community Church. No thunder rumbled. No lightning bolted across the sky. Instead I felt a sense of belonging as hands reached out in greeting.

Sam Walters dashed from her place in the band and almost knocked me over with her hug. “Tish! I’m so glad to see you!”

I laughed with pure joy over her exuberant greeting. “Your brother finally broke me down. So here I am.”

I squeezed into a soft-cushioned pew next to Brad. At least a hundred lively people, many with children, filled the sanctuary. It certainly differed from the stiff, formal church of my upbringing. The pastor even gave a children’s sermon.

“When you’ve done something wrong, what do you want to do?” the pastor asked.

“Hide,” said a young boy.

The congregation chuckled.

The pastor continued, smiling. “You want to hide because you are afraid of getting punished. And because your parents love you, they put you in time-out. It’s your mom and dad’s job to make sure you learn right from wrong. But God’s job isn’t to punish you. His job is to love you. Never be afraid to go to God and tell Him what you did. He will help you do the right thing the next time because you were brave and came to Him. Remember that God always loves you no matter what.”

I struggled for self-control. Wasn’t that my story? I’d done wrong and was afraid to tell God. The court had been my parent and given me time-out. But God had never stopped loving me through any of it. Sadly, I’d only punished myself more by pushing Him away in shame. But He’d always loved me. He still loved me, no matter what.

Through watering eyes, I could barely make out little-kid bodies going back to their seats. I put a hand to my temple, pretending to rub at a headache, and coughed to disguise my sniffles.

After the service, Sam’s band buddies joined Brad and me for a Coney Deluxe. I laughed more than I had in years. But behind the smile was an ache. Rawlings would never be more than a pit stop as I ambled through life.

February arrived before I got all my loose ends tied up and was ready to pass the keys to the Victorian back to Rick Hershel. Feeling something like reverse déjà vu, I signed the seller’s papers, putting the Victorian back in Rick’s hands. I hated to contribute to his obsession, but with the profit from the sale, combined with my returned bail money, I had enough for a hefty down payment on my next place. He’d made a good offer for the Victorian, considering the improvements I hadn’t gotten around to making. Guess he loved the house more than anything. But I wasn’t about to mention that to his new wife, who’d forked over 50 percent of the down payment.

From what Dorothy told me, Rick’s ex had moved back to her hometown in Ohio. She was happily living in her maintenance-free condo on the golf course, and glad to be back from her yearlong trip to Uganda. She’d apologized for not writing sooner, but she couldn’t find the time with all the demands placed on the medical team she’d headed up in Africa.

Twenty-four hours after signing the papers, I was packed and ready to depart. I looked at the clock on the dash of my new SUV. Time to go if I was going to make it to my destination today.

I put the Explorer in reverse and backed out of the garage. Over my shoulder, I took my last look at the rear of the Victorian. The siding had never gotten that paint job I’d envisioned. The house still looked as haunted as it had the day I’d arrived in Rawlings.

But I knew the inside had been cleaned and painted. I’d left a blank slate, the perfect canvas for all the great ideas the new owners could come up with.

A fist pounded on the hood. I turned to look ahead. Brad stood in front of the Explorer, hands on hips, as if daring me to run him over.

I rolled down the window. “What are you doing?”

He came around my side of the car. “Tish. Don’t leave. Give it another day.”

I stared at him. Tears threatened to roll. I blinked them back.

“Hey.” I touched his cheek with my finger. “I want to get there tonight.”

“C’mon. You know what the forecast says. Wait until tomorrow.” Maybe his eyes gleamed brighter than usual, but not from tears. Couldn’t be from tears.

“Brad.” His name came out a whisper. “I’m going. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

He held my eyes captive for a moment. Then he leaned in the window and touched his lips to mine. I closed my eyes. I treasured the warmth of his breath, the softness of his skin. Maybe I could stay in Rawlings. Brad and I could work things out. I didn’t have to go digging up the past anymore. I could let it lie, embrace the future, never look back . . .

Brad pulled away, his eyes searching mine.

“I have to go,” I said. Off in the distance came the sound of a whistle. I put the car in drive, hoping to beat the train.

I steered past a classic teal Buick, parked at the museum next door. The old curator waved to me from the front porch. I stopped and rolled down the passenger window.

“Take good care of Deucey or Grandmother will haunt you,” I said with a smile.

“I’ve been looking for a new girlfriend. Your grandmother still available?”

I laughed and waved.

I turned left onto Main Street.

I crossed the railroad ties with barely a tremor.

“Goodbye, Rawlings,” I whispered as I accelerated and headed north, toward the Upper Peninsula, my childhood home. There I’d rest and relax and recover from the months and years of tragedy that had bombarded my life. No more bodies in the basement. No more power-hungry, murderous ex-wives. Just peace and quiet and fresh air.

And maybe, after a while, I’d even forget the brown-eyed man who loved me.