Jamie knit her brow together and leaned forward, resting on the pew in front of her. “Something about the story sounds familiar. What was his wife's name?”
“Wanda.” Clay thought for a minute. “I can't remember her last name.”
“I know a Wanda, at least I've met her. We prayed together here a few months ago. If I remember right, she said something about losing a little boy ten years ago.” Jamie sat a little straighter. “What did she look like?”
“Not sure what she looks like now.” Reynolds was partway along the back of the wall, still looking at the items collected in the past three years. “Joe has a picture of her on his desk, the last picture taken with her and Jimmy. She was beautiful, a black woman with brown skin and straightened hair. Big, childlike eyes.”
Jamie's eyes widened. “That's got to be her.” Sadness replaced her excitement. “She's … a very troubled woman, Clay. Too many losses.”
“Wait—” disbelief worked its way through him—“so you
know
her? You've prayed with her?” He hadn't been in New York twenty-four hours and already amazing things were happening. He didn't wait for Jamie's answer. “Do you have any idea how we could find her?” A realization hit him. “Or if she'd want to be found?”
Jamie put her hand on her forehead. “This is so weird.”
“What?”
“I just remembered something we prayed for, Wanda and I.” Jamie looked straight at him. “We prayed she might find her first husband. So she could make peace with him.”
A chill ran down Clay's spine. He wanted to fall to his knees and look around, in case angels were hovering overhead. “Do you know how to reach her?”
“I think so.” She stood, motioning for him to follow her.
They went to the opposite side of the chapel, to a set of stairs that led to a break room. Off to one side was a small office, and inside that, a file cabinet. Clay waited in the doorway while Jamie searched, and after only a few seconds, she pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Here it is!”
“What?” Clay took a step closer and squinted at the paper.
“Wanda thought she might want to volunteer here. She filled out an application, but decided it was too soon. We kept the information on file, in case she changed her mind.” Jamie scanned the sheet. “It has everything. Her name's Wanda Johnston, and she lives in Queens. Her phone, her cell phone, it's all here.”
Clay couldn't speak. The day was already so full of miracles, he couldn't find the words to sum it up. Finally he managed a question. “What should we do?”
Jamie shrugged. “I'll call and ask her. I can't give the information out unless she agrees.”
“Okay.” Clay nodded.
God … be with Wanda, let her want this meeting. For Joe's sake
.
The phone on the desk was an older model, with a short cord. Jamie sat down, picked up the receiver and began to dial. After a minute she hung up and looked at the application again. “I'll try her cell.”
Please, God …
An answer this soon would ignite Reynolds's faith and bring him the healing he needed.
Jamie dialed again and waited. Her eyes lit up after a few seconds. “Wanda? Hi, this is Jamie Bryan over at St. Paul's. How are you?” Silence. “Well, you won't believe this. Remember how we prayed when you were here, that you would find your first husband so you could make peace with him?” She grinned at Clay, her eyes dancing. “Well, he and a friend just walked into the chapel this morning.” Pause. “No, I'm serious. Joe wants your phone number; I told his friend I'd call you to see if it was okay to give it out. Sure. We'll work it out.” Jamie hesitated, then laughed out loud. “I know. We serve a mighty God.” She gave Clay a pointed look. “That seems to be the message of the day.”
The conversation ended, and Jamie held the application in the air. “Yes!” She scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper and ripped it from the pad. “She wants to see him!”
It was the second time in as many hours that Clay wanted to hug her, but he resisted. They walked back downstairs, Clay reminding himself with every step to keep calm. The mood in the chapel was as hushed and somber as before. Reynolds was at the right side of the back wall, still lost in the items on display.
Clay led the way. When he reached his friend, he tapped him on the shoulder.
“Huh?” Joe turned around. His eyes were watery. “Oh, sorry.” He looked at his watch. “Guess I got a little carried away. Like you always say, it's late and getting later.”
“I'm not worried about the time.” The sense of awe still had a grip on Clay. He gave a single shake of his head. “C'mere, buddy. You won't believe this.” He took Joe's arm and led him back to the center pew. Jamie followed along, and she and Clay sat with Joe in the middle.
“Joe, listen.” Clay gave Jamie a quick look and couldn't keep from grinning. “I told Jamie your story.” He hesitated, studying his friend. “She knows Wanda; she had a volunteer application on file.”
“What?” Joe's mouth hung open as he looked at Jamie. His chin quivered and he swallowed hard. “You
what?
”
“I know her, Joe. I called her a few minutes ago.” Jamie smiled. “She wants to see you.” She handed him the piece of paper with Wanda's numbers on it. “I told her you'd be calling.”
Joe took the piece of paper and stared at it, as if it might disappear if he looked away. He clenched his jaw, stood, and looked first at Jamie, then at Clay. “If you'll excuse me.” His voice was raspy, filled with a decade of fear, regret, and grief—but layered with a joy that rang out. He smiled despite the wetness in his eyes. “I have a phone call to make.”
They watched him go, and Jamie looked to the front of the chapel, at the towering white cross. She took in a long, slow breath and turned to Clay. “What a day, huh?”
He leaned back against the hard wood. It was his turn to walk the perimeter, to look at the remembrances and pay homage to the people who had lost their lives in the attacks. But he couldn't pull away, couldn't cut the conversation with this woman short. So she was married. No harm in talking to her, especially after what they'd been through that morning.
“What's your story, Clay?” She had an easy way about her, gentle words and eyes that hit him at his deepest level. “Married? Kids?”
The question wasn't suggestive, just curious. Clay rested his elbow on the back of the pew. “Never married. I've got a brother not far from me in California, so I spend time with his family.” He gave a light-hearted laugh. “Lots of girlfriends, but never the right one.”
“Hmmm.” She smiled, teasing. “A California playboy, huh?”
“Hardly.” Clay chuckled. “Work keeps me busy; I don't get out much. When the time's right, I want to get married, have a family. I guess God'll let me know.” He crossed his arms. “What about you? What's your husband do?”
The humor faded from her eyes. A stricken look froze her features, and she looked at her hands for a long while.
Clay studied her, wanting to help. What had he said? Was her marriage in trouble? He hadn't meant to hit a nerve. “Jamie? I'm sorry.”
She looked up. “It's okay.”
“It's just that—” he looked at her left hand—“you're wearing a ring, and I thought …”
“Don't be sorry. I haven't taken it off.” Her eyes were dry, but somewhere inside it was clear that she was weeping. “Jake was a firefighter. He … he died in the attacks.”
Of course. Clay hung his head against his forearm and exhaled hard. Why hadn't he figured that out? She was alone on the ferry, trekking in from Staten Island to volunteer at what was basically a memorial site for the Twin Towers. He pulled his head up slowly and looked at her. “I'm sorry, Jamie.”
“The department lost more than four hundred men that day. Dozens more from the NYPD.” She sniffed and a smile tried to break through the clouds in her eyes. “I'm hardly alone in my loss.”
It was a line she must've repeated over and over a hundred times a month, but Clay was struck with how hard it was for her to say it, even after three years. He wanted to know more, but the timing didn't feel right. “Do you have children?”
“A daughter. Sierra.” At the mention of the girl, Jamie's eyes came back to life. She sniffed. “The two of us are very close. She's seven now, in second grade.”
Reynolds came through the front door, a grin on his face that warmed the whole chapel. As he got closer, he held his cell phone up in the air and beamed at them. “I'm meeting her for lunch.”
“Really?” Clay sat straighter. “You ready for that?” The reunion was bound to be emotional, especially if Joe told her all the things he planned to say.
A sober look flashed in his face. “I was ready years ago.” He sat down next to Clay. “Talk to the Big Man for me, will you? It's been awhile.” He checked his watch again. “It's noon. I told her I'd take a cab to the restaurant.” He looked at Clay. “I'll meet you at orientation.”
“Oh, sure.” Clay grinned at him. “Ditch me in downtown Manhattan our first day.”
“I'm off at 12:30.” Jamie looked at Clay. “I'll buy lunch.” Jamie stood and ran her fingers through her dark hair.
“You don't have to do that.” Clay's heart still ached for her. They hadn't gotten to finish their conversation. “I can find something to do.”
“Clay—” The sorrow faded a little more from her eyes. “You rescued me. I think I can cough up lunch.”
Before Clay could reply, Joe chuckled. “Yeah, that's right. Try to look upset that I'm ditching you, man.” Joe winked at him and raised an eyebrow at Jamie. “I think the two of y'all will be just fine without me.”
T
HIRTEEN
Rain was falling hard again, gusting in torrents and pounding on the roof as Joe left St. Paul's.
Jamie looked up at the old ornate ceiling. “Hope it isn't hailing.”
“Could be; it's in the forecast.” Clay met her eyes. “He's gonna get soaked.”
“Somehow—” Jamie smiled—“I don't think he'll mind.” Jamie spotted an older man come through the entrance. She stood up. “Well, back to work.”
“I'll look around.” He pulled his legs beneath the bench so she could get by. Then he stood and headed toward the closest display, the one near the exit. “Maybe I'll start at the end and go against the crowd.”
“Suit yourself.” She met his eyes once more before she turned around. It wasn't until she was a few steps away that she felt a sense of relief. By starting at the opposite side, he'd miss seeing Jake, and that was just as well. She wasn't ready to talk about him with Clay, not when her heart was whirling around inside her.
A draft whistled through the old building, but Jamie didn't feel the cold. Not with her mind racing out of control. In three years she'd never met anyone like Clay. What was it about him? His strength, or the way he'd so easily protected her on the ferry? Or was it his eyes? The way she felt she'd known him all her life?
Whatever it was, he made her feel something she hadn't felt since Jake.
And that's why her head was spinning. How dare she allow herself to compare a stranger with the man she'd loved since she was twelve years old? She clenched her hands and chided herself.
Get a grip, Jamie …
She could shout it at herself, but there was no denying what was happening inside her. She felt wonderful.
The man looked up as she approached him. He was well dressed, with the air of an executive at one of the financial firms in lower Manhattan. He was still standing near the entrance—not far from Jake's picture and Sierra's letter. His blank expression told her he wanted assistance.
“Hello.” She held out her hand, and he took it. “I'm Jamie Bryan, a volunteer here. Can I help you with anything?”
The man took his hat off and tucked it beneath his arm. “I'm Wilbur George.” He stared at the collection along the first wall. “My son worked for Cantor-Fitzgerald.”
That was all he needed to say.
Cantor-Fitzgerald had been located near the top of the South Tower; the death toll for that firm was the largest for any company hurt by the terrorist attacks. Jamie lowered her voice. “He didn't make it out?”
“No.” His mouth made a straight line. “He … he had a wife and two children. A boy and a girl. The wife … she's getting married again in March.”
The idea of people remarrying was coming up more often lately. Not that all of those widowed by the attacks waited this long. Some would wait much longer. But three years seemed a benchmark, of sorts. Jamie let the man set the pace of the conversation.
“I've met the young man; he's very nice. Our daughter-in-law will be happy with him, and so will the kids.” He stared at his shoes for a minute and gave a sad shake of his head. When he looked back up, his stoic veneer was cracked down the middle. “I'm here because of my wife.” He blinked three times fast. “She's not handling it well.”
“I'm sorry.” Jamie motioned to the nearest pew. “Can you sit and talk for a minute?”
The man nodded and followed her. He took his overcoat off and laid it across the pew's wooden back. His hat remained clutched in his hands. “We aren't really praying people, you see.” His sad laugh floated around her. “My son was. Good Christian boy, his wife too. But my wife and I never really … we never believed much in God.”