Her breath caught in her throat. She'd wondered if he might be on her ferry since he had training that morning, but she hadn't seen him during the boarding process. She turned back toward the water and he took the spot beside her. Without the headwinds, it was easy to hear each other. “I was just praying about you.”
“Hmmm.” He edged closer, his arm full against hers. “Sounds interesting.”
“It was.” She stared at the rough water behind the boat. Her tone was light, teasing even—not giving away the electricity coursing through her veins, the way her mouth was dry because of his nearness.
He leaned his head back, taking the sun on his face the way she had earlier. “Let me guess. Praying that I'd find a new hat? Or that just once I might make dinner for you?”
She giggled and angled sideways to see him. Something about the winter air and the crisp blue sky made it feel as if they were the only two people on the boat. Her silliness faded and she looked at him, searching his eyes. “Wanna know what I was praying?”
“Wanna tell me?” His tone was measured, asking her questions his words did not. Questions like whether she was ready to share the heart behind her faith, whether she was ready to give even a glimpse of what she'd been feeling those past two weeks.
“Yeah.” Her eyes stayed locked on his. For days Jamie had wanted this moment, a reason to go beyond the obvious—that she enjoyed his company. And now—even as she was praying for wisdom—God had provided it. “I do want to tell you, Clay.” She hesitated. “I was asking God where you fit into my life.”
He had no clever volley, no thoughtful comeback. Instead his eyes grew more narrow, his gaze deeper than before. “Tell me, Jamie.”
She lifted one shoulder. “I don't know, except …” She glanced at the water, then back at him. “Except I don't want you to leave in a week.”
“Me neither.” He turned so they were both leaning against the boat's railing, facing each other. “I worry about you, Jamie. That maybe you're not ready for this.” He angled his head. “Any of this. Have you thought about it?”
She did a small laugh, but it was lost on the sound of the ferry engines. “That's like asking me if I'm breathing.” Her smile faded. “Yes, I think about it.” She reached out and took hold of both his hands. The sensation took her breath away, his fingers intertwined with hers. “I read something in Jake's Bible the other day; it's helped.”
“What did it say?” He rubbed his thumbs along the sides of her hands.
The sudden thickness in her throat made it hard to talk. The conversation was more intimate than anything they'd shared. “It was in Deuteronomy, chapter thirty.”
“Ahhh.” Clay's face was only inches from hers, their voices such that only the two of them could hear. “‘I set before you life and prosperity, death and destruction.’”
She hesitated, allowing their eyes to carry on a conversation of their own. “‘Choose life.’” Tears built up in her eyes. “Jake wrote me a note in the margins. ‘Jamie, if you ever get the chance, choose life.’”
He felt her pain. It was written in his eyes and across the canvas of his heart, a place she could see clearly in this moment. “You miss him.”
“I do.” She used her shoulder to wipe a single tear. This wasn't a time for crying; she was happy, really. Happy because this—standing here with Clay this way, talking about Scripture—was what God wanted from her. For her. This was life; attention on the living. “I miss him, but he's never coming back.” She sniffed. “If he were here, he'd tell me not to live my life in a memorial. He'd want me to start living again.”
“I'm sorry, Jamie.” His eyes shone, though she didn't think it was from the cold. “I'm sorry.”
She wasn't sure which of them moved first, but slowly, as if drawn by a force neither of them could control, they came together. Their lips met in a gentle, soft kiss, one that was still building even as she drew back.
His breath was warm against her cheeks, and as though it was destined from the first time they were together on this very boat, his hand left hers and took gentle hold of her jaw, his fingers spreading along the side of her face. “Jamie … is it okay?”
“What?” She breathed the word against his face, so close his skin was touching hers. Her heart was doing somersaults; it was all she could do to remember to inhale.
“Is it okay if I kiss you? Really kiss you?”
The moment he breathed his question against her lips, she was his. She moved closer, giving him permission to do what she'd been imagining and fearing, desiring and dreading, every day since they met. They kissed, and it was something from a dream. Her tears came again because she was kissing someone other than Jake—something she'd never done in all her life. And because it didn't feel wrong and shameful, but sad and wonderful, impossible and right. God had answered her prayers not with quiet holy whispers but with Clay Miles. With this man standing there kissing her, putting his arms around her and holding her close, the way she wanted him to hold her forever.
He pulled back, catching his breath. “Jamie …” He looked at her, his eyes full of questions. Was she okay? Was it all right? Was it what she wanted?
“I'm fine, Clay. I am.” She closed the distance between them and kissed him this time, full on his mouth, silencing his doubts the only way she knew. This time when they drew apart, she laughed. Not loud or hard, but with an abandon that expressed the joy welling within her. She found his eyes and searched his soul. “God brought you into my life for a reason.” Her heart grew suddenly heavy; she felt the corners of her mouth fall. “I just wish we had more time.”
He took her hands again. His eyes sparkled with something, maybe anticipation. “Funny you should ask.”
“Funny why?” She loved how she felt, warm and safe and appreciated. The captain made his announcement. They were a few minutes from shore.
“Because I've been praying about us too.”
“You have?”
He leaned in and kissed her, his lips tender against hers. “Yes, I have. I even talked to my brother back in Los Angeles. Everyone's in agreement.”
She giggled. “About what?”
“About you joining us for Thanksgiving.”
“In LA?” In a split instant, the idea bridged the gap between despair that he was leaving so soon and hope that maybe—just maybe—they'd find a way to see each other again. “You want me to come to LA for Thanksgiving.”
“No.” Clay's face got serious, but his eyes still danced. A huge grin spread over his face. “Not just you, crazy. You and Sierra.” His words came faster. “Thanksgiving's always at my brother's house. He said he and his wife would love to have the two of you. You could fly in a few days before, and I could take you to the beach. I don't know, maybe take Sierra to Disneyland, that kind of thing. Make a week out of it.”
He sounded like a kid talking about spring break, but she was as caught in the wave of enthusiasm as he. She thought for a moment. It was possible, wasn't it? She had Jake's father, but he'd understand if they didn't head upstate for the holiday this once. Besides, she and Sierra hadn't been on a vacation since Jake died. “You're serious? You really want us to come?”
“Of course.” His eyebrows were raised halfway up his forehead. “It'll be great, Jamie. Say you'll come.”
She laughed again. She'd laughed more those past two weeks than in the past three years combined. “I have to make my orange salad; it's Sierra's favorite.”
“That's the nice thing about California in November.” He frowned at the sky and shivered. “Oranges are in season.”
Everything was happening so fast, but Jamie didn't mind. That was the strangest part of all. They walked off the ferry together and Clay admitted he didn't have to be at work until noon. The captain had changed the schedule at the last minute because of a big drug bust going on that morning in Chinatown.
They held hands as they headed across Battery Park, toward the line of waiting cabs. Jamie kept her steps slow; she didn't want the morning with Clay to end any sooner than it had to. “Why are you coming in so early?”
He stopped, faced her, and took both her hands in his. “I came to find you.” He kissed her, just long enough to make her breathless again. “I had to tell you about Thanksgiving.”
“Clay …” Her heart sang inside her. How had God done this? Brought a man into her life who was everything she needed, everything she hadn't even known she was looking for. “You came in early just for that?”
“Yep.” They started walking again, their hands linked. “And now you're stuck with me. I might as well do my waiting at St. Paul's.” His voice was upbeat. “Besides, I never finished looking at the memorial tables. Remember? I started on the last wall.”
“True.” They reached the curb and she hailed a cab. “Maybe it'll be slow and we can find somewhere to talk.” Anywhere in the chapel would be comfortable. Aaron Hisel was working a later shift so there wouldn't be any need to explain Clay's presence or why they were together.
Traffic was busier than usual, and by the time they walked through the doors, one of the other volunteers waved Jamie down. A small crowd of people stood around her. “Help!” she mouthed.
Jamie nodded, and gave Clay a helpless smile. “I'll be back.”
“Okay. No big deal.” He squeezed her hand before letting it go. “I'll look around.”
For the flash of an instant Jamie realized that for the first time Clay would see a picture of Jake—because it was still set up next to Sierra's letter at the first table near the door. Not that he'd know he was looking at Jake. And whereas the idea had bothered her the first time Clay came with her to the chapel, now it was something she'd come to accept, that one day Clay would see Jake. A part of her wanted him to see the man she'd loved since she was a girl. It would be one way of blending her worlds, life before Jake and life after him.
She joined the other volunteer and answered questions for ten minutes before Clay caught her attention. He was staring at the picture of Jake, staring at him with an odd intensity. Did he know? How could he? There was no way he could know that the man in the picture was her husband.
Then again … The letter next to the photo was signed
Sierra.
How many little girls named Sierra would've lost a firefighter father? She started to excuse herself, head back toward him, when he looked straight at her. Forty feet separated them, but even from that far away she could see his face.
It was ashen.
She slowed, suddenly afraid. Why did Clay look that way? Had he changed his mind about her, maybe decided she must not be ready for something new? His eyes were wide, his mouth open, looking like a person in shock.
“Jamie …”
Though she couldn't hear him, she could read her name on his lips.
Her heart skittered about, warning her that something—something she couldn't understand—had in a moment's time gone very wrong. She closed the distance between them, her eyes moving from Clay to the photo of Jake, and back again. “Clay?” She remembered to breathe. “What is it?”
“Is that … that's your husband, right?”
She let her eyes find Jake's. The clear blue eyes and short dark hair, the chiseled features of the man who loved her and promised her a lifetime. “You saw Sierra's note.”
He nodded, his face still pale. For a long time he said nothing, just looked at Jake, realization coming into his expression.
Jamie relaxed. His reaction was understandable. Here was the picture of a man Jamie never would've left, of Sierra's father. And his likeness—in some cruel twist of senseless hatred—was not gracing the home where Jamie and Sierra lived, but a table in St. Paul's Chapel.
Of course Clay looked shocked. This was probably the first time he'd felt the terrorist attacks personally. She just needed to talk to Clay the way she'd talked to so many other visitors at St. Paul's. She would grieve with him, and they would come away richer for the experience. She was about to take his hand, when he turned to her.
“Jamie.” The fear in his eyes was worse than before. “He looks exactly like my brother.”
“Like your—” His words hit her in slow motion, each one ramming into her heart and kicking her in small circles until she had to brace herself against the table to keep from falling to the floor. She could feel the blood leaving her face, feel her knees trembling. Her eyes were locked on his, searching for some sort of explanation. He was kidding, or maybe his brother had dark hair or blue eyes. Not an exact replica, certainly. Because God never would've brought this marvelous man into her life only to have it all end in some cruel joke.
Words gathered in her throat but she couldn't say them. She searched Clay's eyes, his face. Bits of conversations came rushing back and she sifted through them for a sign. He couldn't be Eric's brother; it wasn't possible. Sure, he was from California, but that didn't mean anything. His name was Clay Miles, not—
The impossible breathed its hot breath against the nape of her neck. She moved back a few steps, leaning against one of the white pillars. “What's …” Her words were scratchy. It took everything to complete the question. “What's your last name?”
He looked as devastated as she felt. He moved closer, leaving only a foot between them. “Clay Michaels.”
No!
No, it wasn't true. His name was Clay Miles, not Michaels. The spinning in her head got worse and nausea swept over her. “No.” She looked away. Navigating with her hands, she made it around the pillar and dropped into the first pew. Then she leaned her forearms on the back of the seat in front of her and hung her head.