Bridge to Haven (53 page)

He awakened in darkness and heard a woman crying. Was he still dreaming? It took a moment to remember he was in a motel in Agua Dulce. He’d slid the windows open before hitting the sack, but the room was still stifling. Crickets chirped. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. When he came back into the bedroom, the woman was still crying on the other side of the wall. The sobs pierced his heart. Someone pounded on the far wall. “Shut up, will you? I need some sleep!” The occupant in room 13 fell silent.

Wincing, Joshua debated knocking on the woman’s door and asking if she needed to talk. He could imagine what she might think if a man she’d never met made such an offer. She must have come in late. She’d probably be back on the road to wherever she was going in the morning. Joshua put his hand against the wall and sent up a quick prayer.
Lord, You know what’s wrong and how to fix it. Help her find Your peace.

Abra hugged her pillow, gulping down sobs, trying not to make another sound. The Gideon Bible she’d been reading lay open on the bed. If she’d needed any more confirmation of how much God hated her—and why—she’d found it.
“A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, an heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.”
The words broke through the walls she’d built around herself and brought them tumbling down.

She tried to find excuses for the decisions she had made, but she couldn’t justify anything she’d done, not against the standard God laid out. She couldn’t escape condemnation. She was guilty.
Her conscience rose, and the pain immobilized her. She couldn’t run anymore.

How far back had this descent begun? When had she begun strangling her conscience? She thought it had started with Dylan. She tried to tell herself she hadn’t known what he was, but she had. And she now realized with abject misery that Dylan had been right—he had merely fanned the flame already burning inside her. Running away with Dylan had been the culmination of her rebellion, and she’d been scrambling every day since by her own wits and determination to make something good out of so much bad.

Hadn’t she been trying to prove she was worth something when she went off with Franklin Moss? She’d wanted to get back at Dylan, make him sorry he was throwing her away. She’d entered a relationship with a man twice her age, ready to do whatever he wanted, so she could get what she wanted. And what was that? To be
somebody
? Instead, she’d allowed herself to be made into somebody else.

She wanted so badly to blame Franklin for that, but she was culpable. She had helped him create Lena Scott; she’d followed his every command, allowed him to guide her, even to his bed. Her protests had been weak and petty, mostly made in silence, while bitterness and resentment grew. She’d been the hypocrite, not Franklin, and it had led her down that dark hallway to that woman waiting with surgical gloves. She could have balked. She could have said no. Instead, she went through with it and blamed him for everything. Why? Because down deep, she’d still wanted to be . . . What? What did she want to be?

Loved.

Franklin’s dream had been her dream in the beginning. It had become their shared nightmare. She could see now the countless times people had tried warning her—Pamela Hudson, Murray, even Lilith and Dylan. She’d made a grab for the brass ring, and now she was riding the merry-go-round.

“You can talk to me,”
Murray had said, and she hadn’t taken him up on it. Mary Ellen had talked about God and she’d closed her ears. Franklin was always the excuse.

She felt overcome with shame now over her cruelty to him. She’d wanted revenge for what she thought he’d done to her. And she knew where he was most vulnerable, where her words would cut deepest. Lena, his dream, his undoing.

“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

Now she understood why. She’d never meant to hurt Franklin so deeply he’d give up life. She’d only wanted him to cut her free, let her go.

Or had she? Her conscience writhed.
Be honest, for once in your life, Abra. Or don’t you even know the truth anymore?

Sweat broke out; her heart pounded.

She remembered how broken Franklin had looked over those last weeks. He’d been crumbling. That last day, she’d offered him a tiny bit of hope and he’d grasped at it. And then, what had she done with the last bit of time allotted to her in that prison he’d built for both of them?

She cried until the tears no longer came.
I’m sorry, God. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt. I don’t want to be this way anymore. Have mercy . . .

She stifled that plea. How dare she cry out to God now and ask for mercy? She’d never cried out to Him in praise. She’d never thanked Him for anything, not since Pastor Zeke had taken her to Peter and Priscilla’s and left her there. In fact, she’d hated God and blamed Him for everything that went wrong in her life.

Her own stubborn pride had brought her here. That night she met Dylan on the bridge and let him rip Marianne’s necklace off and throw it away, she’d set her course, told herself she wanted to be free, and made herself a captive, instead.

Another of Mitzi’s hymns came to her.
“Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free.”
She hadn’t understood then. She didn’t
understand now. All she knew was she had gone as far as she could go on her own strength. She’d tried everything to feel whole and now felt like Humpty Dumpty.

You can have it, God. I’m so tired of the fight. Do whatever You want. Burn me to ash. Turn me to a pillar of salt. Wash me away in a flood. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I just want . . . I don’t even know.
Exhausted, Abra relaxed and rested her head against the pillow.

She slept deeply for the first time in days and dreamed of clear sparkling water and the bridge to Haven.

Joshua awakened early and stretched. The motel room walls were thin enough that he could hear the squeak of the mattress in room 13. He reached for his clock and turned on the light. Three in the morning. He turned off the alarm and got up. He sat in the worn chintz chair near the front windows and opened his Bible to the place where he’d left off the morning before.

Pipes thumped as the shower went on next door. He’d finished his reading before they thumped again as they were shut off. When the door opened and closed, Joshua pulled the curtain aside enough to get a peek at the woman who’d cried as though the world had crashed down upon her last night. It was still dark out, but the dim light from the motel sign revealed that she had dark hair that looked like it had been hacked off with hedge trimmers. The white-collared dress and apron showed she was thin, but had curves. He felt the slightest stir of something inside him. Joshua rose and watched the young woman walk away. She had shapely calves.

The lights came on inside the diner. The girl opened the door and went inside. Joshua smiled and let the drape fall closed. Clarice had help. One prayer answered. He thought of Susan Wells and wondered how things were going for Dad.

Time for him to get moving. Joshua shaved, showered, and dressed for work. Men’s voices rose and fell as hungry crew members walked past his door, heading for the diner. Joshua joined McGillicuddy, Chet Branson, and Javier Hernandez. The bell jangled and they slid into a booth by the front windows and talked about the coming day’s work. The young woman was nowhere in sight. She was probably around the corner, handling tables in the larger dining area.

“Well, well, well. There’s a new girl in town.” McGillicuddy jerked his head. “Pretty, but get a load of that hair.”

The girl was collecting breakfast platters from the cook’s counter. When she turned, Joshua felt like the air was sucked from his lungs. Abra!

His heart picked up speed, racing faster as she passed right by him on her way to deliver meals to the men in a booth farther down. She looked pale and placid until she turned and saw him. She froze in shock for an instant and then lowered her eyes quickly, face flaming red, then losing all color as she walked by him. He had to clench his fist to keep from reaching out and grabbing her wrist. He turned his head, wondering if she’d go back to the cook’s counter or run for the door. He tensed, ready to go after her if she ran.

Someone called out from the booth where she’d delivered the meals. “Hey, miss! Can we have more coffee over here?”

Abra looked blank, then confused. She blushed again. “Sorry.” She hurried for the coffeepot.

McGillicuddy waved his menu as she came by again. “We’re ready to order when you’ve got a spare minute, miss.”

“I’ll be right with you, sir.” She hurried down the line.

McGillicuddy leaned his forearms on the table and looked hard at Joshua. “Quit staring, Freeman. You’re making her nervous.”

Joshua knew he was right. His pulse hadn’t slowed since he recognized her. What had she seen in his face to make her look so scared?

He forced himself to look at the menu. It took willpower not to
look up when she passed by again to deposit the coffeepot back on the burner on the other side of the counter. She came to their booth. He didn’t think his heart could pound any harder. She was wearing tan leather sandals. They looked brand-new. He recognized those toes. He noticed her legs again. She stood a foot away.

After five years of wondering where she was, he could reach out and touch her right now. And he wanted to do just that. He would have caught hold, lifted, and swung her around if he hadn’t seen that look on her face. He was pretty sure he’d put it there.
Get a grip, Joshua!

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” The words were right, but her tone was filled with nervous tension. What was she doing here in Agua Dulce? It made no sense. He raised his head and looked at her. She avoided looking back at him as she held a notepad and pencil ready. “And you . . . sir?” She was trembling. She blinked, eyes glassy, moist. Was she ready to cry again?

“She’s talking to you, Freeman.” McGillicuddy kicked him under the table. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Joshua picked a random number from the menu just as the cook hit the bell. Abra flinched and dropped her pencil. Squatting, she retrieved it quickly, almost banging her head on the table as she straightened. She jotted the number on the pad and bolted.

“What the heck is wrong with you?” McGillicuddy scowled.

“Nothing.”

“You should see your face.”

“What?” Joshua snarled, praying Abra wouldn’t drop any plates or spill hot coffee on anyone. Anyone watching could see her tension, her quick, jerky movements. She knew him. Why was she so afraid?

He tried to take it in. Abra was the girl in room 13. She’d been the one crying last night, the one broken and sobbing. Was she grieving Franklin Moss’s death? Had she loved him that much? Pain pierced Joshua’s heart. He knew what loss felt like. He’d felt it when he saw
the way she looked at Dylan Stark. He’d felt it when she disappeared. He’d felt shades of it over the last five years. He thought he had his emotions under control. What a laugh!

What kind of joke are You playing on me, Lord? You told me to let her go, and I did. And now, here she is, smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, the last place I ever expected to run into her. Clearly I’m the last person she ever hoped to see. Do You know how that feels?
Of course He did.

Joshua tried to relax and listen to what McGillicuddy and the others were saying. His ears seemed tuned to Abra’s footsteps. He’d act normal when she came back. Problem was, he couldn’t remember what normal felt like.

She clutched four mugs by their handles and set them on the table, filling each and handing them out carefully. He thanked her, but she was already moving away, pouring coffee for occupants in the next booth, and then going back to get another freshly brewed pot. She didn’t look into his eyes, even when she delivered his breakfast. When she leaned down, he saw the pulse beating in her throat. It matched his.