Potter Springs (33 page)

Still, maybe a priest lingered inside the building, at prayer. An English-speaking priest. There had to be someone.

He bent low under the branches, the bag slung over his shoulder, clasping Mr. Chesters. He braced his shoulders and pushed
his way inside.

On the other side, he saw her.

Amanda.

She sat on the ground against a crumbled bench in the shambles of the garden. Tears streaked her face and her nose flamed.
She didn’t hold a journal in her lap, but broken stems of roses. She stroked at the petals, petting them as she cried.

Her dress, a bright floral print splattered with mud. Tennis shoes clumped with filth covered her precious feet, else he would
fall to the ground and kiss them.

Her hair was pulled back from her face, a small twig stuck in it. Her face, whiter than he’d ever seen it.

I am looped in the loops of her hair.

For a minute, he stood frozen. Then he inched forward as if in a dream. The old game, the one from a thousand years ago in
a park in Houston, unfolded. How close could he get without her noticing?

Would she accept him when he got there?

His life, swinging in the balance, waiting for her to catch his heart and make him whole.

A stick snapped under his step, announcing his presence. He spoke. “Mandy.”

M
andy.
The sound. The precious sound of him saying her name poured out like fine oil. She lifted her face to it, unbelieving.

He stood before her, holding her cat. A scruff on his cheeks, his hair matted. Swollen blackness claimed one eye, and the
other blinked at her. A horrible T-shirt that would normally have made her smile.

Not Mark. This was not her Mark but an insane dream. An illusion brought on by hurricanes and heartache.

His image bent in slow motion, lowering Mr. Chesters to the ground. The cat pounced forward, purring violently.

She reached forward to pet the animal on foolish instinct. Knowing the orange fur couldn’t be real, even as she kept her vision
locked with the ghost who looked like her husband. But Mr. Chesters brushed solid beneath her hand, his whiskers pricking
her like gentle needles.

Real.

She pushed herself to stand. She wished for breath, for speech. “Mark.” It came out as a sob. She half ran, half stumbled
to him, fell into his chest with all her strength. He smelled like sweat and sorrow, of road and rain.

Arms wrapped around her, muscle and bone. His face pressed to hers.

He shuddered, and she realized he was crying.

Crying, crying for her, arched over her, clinging to her as she clung to him. Saying her name over and over as his body shook,
holding her so tight she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t care. Oxygen meant nothing as her pores opened wide, faint hairs like tiny nerves, sensing every touch. Soaking
him in. Drinking his scent. Breathing through his presence.

Together they sank to their knees, mouths mingled with tears. No words spoken. No room for words with all they had to say.

In a different country, a strange city, but together, they were home.

She couldn’t stand to leave his lips. Yet, she had to see him. She pulled away.

Red rimmed his eyes as his gaze touched her. Knowing her. Staring, as if memorizing her features, her form.

“How did you… the storm… ?” Wonder brought her fingers to his face. Real.

“For you.” Hoarseness thickened his voice. “I’m here for you.” He traced the shell of her ear, her brows, her cheekbones.
“Is that okay?”

“Okay… is it okay?” She swallowed, took in clarifying air. “What took you so long?”

He smiled, then winced, bringing a hand to his beaten forehead.

“What happened?”

“Later. I’ll explain everything later.” He shifted and pulled a small bag to his lap. “This is more important.” Clearing his
throat, he smoothed the wrinkled canvas. “I’ve brought something for you.” He stared at it, as if pondering whether or not
to hand it over.

She scooted closer, touching her knees to his. Wondering what he had brought with him, this far. She opened the handles, and
she saw the baby book inside. Her baby’s book.
The Story of Baby.

The one that never got told.

Her fingers trembled as she ran her hand along the familiar spine. The edges of the sonogram photos, slick white paper, slipped
out the top. She pulled the strip out, frame by frame, careful of the dirt on her hands.

Her eyes blurred as she stared at the familiar shape. Little one. Captured for a moment, then gone.

Why? Why all this way? Why now?

His fingers enclosed hers. “I want to fill in the empty spaces.” He looked scared, unsure of her reaction. But he didn’t let
go. “With you. Where we can. I want to talk about the baby.”

“Her name,” Amanda whispered. “I call her Grace.” Would he think she was crazy? Naming a baby she’d never seen, never met?

“Grace,” he echoed. “Beautiful.” He cupped her cheek, catching her tears on his thumb. “She would have been beautiful, you
know. Like her mother.”

“And tender,” she replied. “Like her father.”

He held her to him, and she pressed her face into the hollow of his neck. A favorite spot. She thought she could stay there
the rest of her life.

A bird called high and clear. Rose petals danced as the wind shifted, the wet earth smelled like spring. New beginnings, delivered
on the wind.

He turned his face, scratching her with his scruff.

She embraced the roughness. Real.

Bringing firm lips to hers, he gathered her closer as tears dried on her cheeks. Souls and hearts connected through the hunger
of their mouths. Gentle, yet insistent.

A verse, wood and ancient, older than the broken building behind them, took a breath and moved in her heart. Echoes from their
wedding gathered tendrils of her soul, weaving strength and truth within her.

And a man shall leave his father and his mother
…

This man is mine.

And take a wife
…

I am his.

He tilted her head farther, kissing deeper, the sun shining and her eyes closed, red-hot through the lids, the moment blossomed
in her soul.

The past, fault and faltering, slipped away. Sharp lines of regret blurred to memory. Forgiven.

The two shall become one.

M
oonlight filtered through the filmy sheers as Mark played with her red curls, lost in the blue eyes twinkling up at him.

I am looped in the loops of her hair.

“I have to go now,” he whispered.

Her brow furrowed and tears clouded the brightness.

Oh no. The tears undid him every time.
“Shhh.”
He ran a fingertip over the shell of her ear. “Don’t cry. It’ll only be a while, up at the church. I promise I’ll be back
soon.”

He pulled the blanket up and kissed her soft cheek.

The door cracked open and light streamed in. “Is she still awake?”

I give my deepest thanks to my friends and family who labored alongside me in the creation of this book. I could not have
done it without you.

I am grateful to the ministers in my life, past and present, for their leadership, honesty and humanity. My thanks to Clarice
Cassada for teaching me about grace, Jennifer Auvermann who first encouraged me to put words on a page and dream big, and
Leann Gabel who said, Why don’t you just shut up and write it?

My Thursday Night Divas-Jodi Thomas, Marcy McKay, Dee Burks, April Redmon, Jenny Archer, Rob Brammer, and DeWanna Pace-taught
me the craft and gave me my start. Many generous authors, including Marsha Moyer, Lisa Wingate, Kimberly Willis Holt, David
Marion Wilkinson, Kim Campbell, Sharon Baldacci and Laurie Moore, took time from their busy schedules to read my work and
guide me along the path. Thank you all.

Thanks to my friends at the Amarillo Police Department, the saints at AUMC, my Wednesday morning “peeps,” David Black-stock
and his magic foil, photographer extraordinaire Kern Coleman and the following fantastic writers’ organizations: Texas Writers’
League, Panhandle Professional Writers, North Texas Romance Writers, and the DFW Writers’ Workshop.

Many thanks also to the talented Candy Havens for reading countless drafts, and for emoting with me each step of the way.

I owe much gratitude to my agent, the incomparable Marcy Posner, for championing this book and finding us the right home.
Every writer should be so blessed to have an editor like Steve Wilburn. Thanks also to the amazing team at Warner.

And for my family, words fail. I owe you so much more than thanks. Mom, the world’s greatest cheerleader and patron of the
arts. Dad, who said he always knew I could do it. My precious sisters (all four of you), and the rest of our family who asked-how’s
the book coming?-with genuine care and enthusiasm.

To the rest of the Coleman Four, you are my very heart. My sweetest Kern, thank you for believing when I didn’t, and for making
me laugh in spite of myself. You’ll always be the best part of me. I love you.

For Dan and Megan, the most wonderful children on earth. Your patience and excitement, and your tender prayers, carried me
along on this journey. See, Mommy really did write a book!

1. When Mark is stopped for speeding in South Texas, he is broken, bruised, and poorly dressed. Officer Martinez comments
   that Mark doesn’t look like any preacher he’s ever seen. What role do appearances play in the novel? How do themes of reality
   and authenticity, versus a perfect exterior, develop through the story?
   
2. Mark and Amanda come from different familial backgrounds. How do their upbringings shape them as adults? How do their family
   lives affect their marriage?
   
3. Churches and sanctuaries are the setting for several scenes in the book: Mark’s job in Houston, the site for the wedding,
   Mark’s childhood church, Lakeview Community in Potter Springs, and the garden church in Mexico. Compare the different churches,
   and what they might reveal about the story and the changes in the characters.
   
4. Mark’s actions as a minister don’t necessarily reflect the general impression of how a religious leader should behave.
   Do you think he makes a good minister, or a poor one? When Mark is fired from the Houston church, do you think it was a mistake
   or a good decision? How important is impeccable leadership?
   
5. Reflect on the scene where Mark and Dale serve communion to Ruby Weatherby in the nursing home. What do you think the author
   is trying to say?
   
6. In the scene where Ervin and his buddies help fix Amanda’s car, Mark compares more formal religious ceremony to the simple
   actions of faithful friends. Which of the two is more powerful to Mark? To Amanda? What is the difference, if any, between
   religion and faith?
   
7. What is the significance of the Brown Penny poem? How does it tie into both Mark’s calling and his feelings for Amanda?
   
8. The novel explores themes of judgment and condemnation versus grace. When Mark confesses his secrets to Ervin, what does
   he expect? What does he receive? Amanda believes her lost baby’s name would be Grace. How is this significant to the story?
   
9. Many journeys take place in the course of the novel: Mark and Amanda move to Potter Springs; she goes on the retreat to
   Colorado; she returns to Houston; and she eventually travels to Mexico, where Mark follows. How are the various trips important
   to the book and to the characters’ development?
   
10. In the scene where Mark and Courtney are in her apartment after the carnival, what do you think happened? Whose “fault”
    was it? Was a real seduction taking place, or was it “a lust fog” like Mark described?
    
11. Amanda, essentially, runs away from home and her problems in Potter Springs. Have you ever wanted to run away from your
    life? Where would you go? Do you think her decision was selfish, or a necessary part of her growth as a person?
    
12. When Mark sees the humanity in Dale near the end of the novel, do you think he forgives him for all past wrongs? Does
    giving Dale some responsibility open Mark to future betrayal, or is it a smart move?
    
13. The rose garden in Mexico becomes a significant place for Amanda. What do the roses signify, and why do you think the
    author chose the exterior of a church for this scene?
    
14. When Mark finds Amanda after the storm, the church is literally broken, as are both of the main characters in a more figurative
    way. Why do you think the author included a storm at the climax of the story? What might this say about Mark and Amanda’s
    journey as people?
    
15. Mark and Amanda are dressed for the Fall Festival at the end of the novel. What do their costumes say about them as people
    and how they’ve changed in the story?
    

“Britta Coleman’s fresh sparkling new voice waltzes pages of her Texas story.”

—Jodi Thomas.
New York Times
bestselling author of
Widows of Wichita Country