The Winding Road Home (28 page)

Reality crisscrossed with never-never land. For three days Adele was convinced her feet did not touch the ground. Each step she took felt as if it landed on a cushion that gently bounded her upward.

She spent hours pouring over the architect's designs. Fox Meadow staff members teased Adele about her ever-present grin. She had even stopped worrying over Chelsea.

She had shown the plans to Chelsea and Kate, told Naomi about them over the phone. All three began dreaming with her, pointing out possibilities, making suggestions for changes. Kate took notes, already composing a future article for the
Times.
It would be major news for the area. Senior citizens would be given a lovely option for downsizing.

Now, on Wednesday afternoon, she stood outside Rand Jennings's room wearing a purple dress he had complimented twice. She twisted her hands together. It had to be him. The anonymous millionaire blessing her with the possibility of seeing her dream come true. He was on his deathbed. She wasn't about to let him slip away without a thank-you.

Her attorney had explained all the legalities to her that morning. Reality interlocked with never-never land, making them one. It really was true, everything Graham had said and then some.

She went inside the room. Rand was statuelike still, his head to one side. He sat in his wheelchair by the window. The television blared a game show. Although she couldn't see his eyes behind the thick lenses, she assumed he was dozing.

He appeared to have lost weight since arriving. His already gaunt figure had shrunk even more, causing his nice clothes to hang haphazardly. He still dressed every morning and made gallant efforts to eat, indications that his attitude remained upbeat in spite of the increasing pain. A downy covering of white hair had sprouted, replacing his earlier baldness.

“Heather?” He thought she was the nurse.

“No, Mr. Jennings.” She went to him. “It's me. Adele.”

“Adele.” He smiled. “Sit down.”

“I don't want to interrupt your nap.”

“Plenty of time for napping. Will you turn down that noise?”

She found the remote on a table, lowered the television's volume, and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. “How are you?”

“Fair to middling. How about yourself?”

“Well.”
Oh, Lord, please don't let me cry.
“I've never been better!”

“Good for you.”

“I didn't do anything. But I think I know who did.”

“That Graham. You like him, do you? I knew he'd fall for you. I couldn't wait for you two to meet.”

Typical. He was confusing the timing of the recent past. “No. I mean, well, yes. I do like him. A lot.”

“He's a good boy. He's lonely. But I think he loves you. Just too stubborn too admit it.”

She placed a hand lightly on his. “I was talking about you.”

“Yes, I'm stubborn too.”

“About the money. The investment.”

“Money? Do you need some, honey? Talk to Graham. I've got plenty to spare. A loan would be no problem.”

The elderly man wasn't that confused. “You're trying to get me off track, aren't you?”

“What track would that be, Addie?”

The old name he sometimes used threw a wrench into her thinking. It took her a moment to refocus. “Rand, I think you're my anonymous investor for the senior housing complex.”

He grunted.

“I want to thank you.”

“Graham should be here soon.”

“Thank you.”

“What's for dinner tonight?”

“Rand, I won't sign the contract unless you accept my thanks.”

At last he looked at her. “Why would you do that?”

Tears stung her eyes. “Because it's just too magnanimous of a gesture. It's like I can't get my mind wrapped around it. I need to express something concrete. I have to try to tell you how grateful I am.”

“You could have told Graham.”

“It wouldn't be the same. It is you, isn't it?”

He nodded slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered and leaned over to kiss his withered face. “You've changed my life.”

Again the little nod.

Her tears fell and her voice was unsteady, but she had to ask. “Why did you do it?”

His mouth remained clamped shut.

She waited, wiping her face with a tissue, knowing he wouldn't answer. “That's all right. I don't need to know. You are an amazing man.”

“No, I'm not. Just a rich old coot.”

Smiling, she stood and smoothed her dress. “Well, I'll go now. I have some papers to sign. Can I get you anything?”

“Will you turn the volume back up?”

“Sure.” She did so and walked to the door.

“I love you, Addie.”

She paused, her hand on the doorjamb, not sure that she heard correctly. She turned.

Rand's head was tilted again to one side as if he were fast asleep.

Evidently she'd asked the rich old coot enough questions for one day.

Washington, DC.

The rising sun glinted off Abraham Lincoln's steadfast face.

And Kate was
there.

She had to tell somebody. She dug the cell phone out of her bag and dialed Tanner's apartment number. Since he had dropped her at the Rockville airport yesterday, she hadn't had a chance to call. Not that he expected to hear from her. He knew she had packed her agenda. Every hour was filled with a landmark, the theater, or an event arranged by Diane, her connection through Rusty's friend. But she had to tell somebody!

“H'lo,” he answered on the fifth ring.

“Tanner! Good morning!”

“Kate?” She heard him yawn.

“Oh, Tanner! Thank you for sending me here.”

He chuckled. “You already told me that. Once or twice.”

“Yeah, but not from the Lincoln Memorial. This city is so incredible. And today! Diane is leaving a pass for me at the White House! There's a press conference scheduled this afternoon! On the lawn with the president! And I get to go!”

Tanner laughed. “You're talking in exclamation points. You're not excited, are you?”

“Oh! This is a dream come true! And without you and Rusty—” Her throat caught.

“You're welcome, Kate. It's our pleasure. You know treating you is my new most fun thing to do.”

Fiddlesticks.
Listening to his heartfelt comments while standing under Abe's inscrutable stare would have her blubbering in no time. “Hey, Carlucci! Why are you still at home? Shouldn't you be out taking care of my newspaper?”

“It's all done. Mick helped me deliver last night. He couldn't wait to get ‘his' editorial into readers' hands as soon as possible.”

When she had interviewed the teen, he gladly shared his version of Joel Kingsley's influence on his life. He credited the principal for setting him on the straight and narrow. It wasn't a scathing editorial. It was a simple portrait of the man in action. His actions would speak louder than any words she could add.

“Thanks, Tanner. No problems then with Fred?” The publisher had been kind enough to work with her Wednesday night on layout and articles, something they normally did on Thursday mornings. Her flight to DC left on Thursday morning.

“No problems. The papers were ready to go when I picked them up at five.”

“Thanks, Tanner.”

“Stop with the thanks and get going. Your city is waiting.”

She smiled. “Abe says hi.”

“Hi back, and be sure to greet the president for me. I'll see you Sunday night.”

“I told you my dad can pick me up. I'll just stay in Rockville.”

“No need to. I'll call him. Okay?”

He was doing way too much for her. She sighed to herself. “Okay. Bye.”

“Thanks for calling. Bye.”

“Thanks!” she yelled.

His laughter reached her ears before he hung up.

Late Sunday night Tanner entered the all-but-deserted airport and went to the nearest screen announcing flight arrivals. He groaned. Kate wouldn't be in until eleven-thirty, an hour later than scheduled. He should have called before driving all the way in to the Rockville airport.

Hold on!
He smiled and headed back out to the parking lot. There was a plethora of reading material in his car.

As a history buff and eternal college student, he enjoyed reading, but never so much as in the past week. On Tuesday, when he'd gone in to substitute at the high school, Joel greeted him with a copy of the Bible. Later that afternoon he stopped in the pharmacy and discovered Brady Olafsson's books, fictionalized accounts of people meeting Jesus face-toface two thousand years ago. He bought all four novels. On Wednesday evening the pastor had stopped in the video store, chatted, rented a video, and given him two books on the subject of walking with Christ.

After that Tanner stopped being surprised at the deluge of information coming his way. He just read.

And he learned. It was as if a new section of his brain had opened up. He wandered through it like a kid in a toy shop, investigating shelf after shelf of fresh thoughts, untested ideas, and unfamiliar emotions.

What were formerly vague sentiments became earnest prayers. His desire that Kate remain in Valley Oaks changed. What if that weren't the best for her? He prayed that she would find her ideal niche wherever that was. Loving her meant putting her needs before his own.

Loving her?

He kept stumbling over that little tidbit lurking on those shelves too. He wasn't sure what to do with it.

Sixty minutes later he closed his book and went as far as security allowed. He joined a small crowd waiting for the plane's arrival.

Kate's red hair made her easy to spot through the glass barrier. He waved but her eyes were downcast. As when he had dropped her off, he noted her ability for traveling lightly. She pulled a piece of luggage on wheels and wore a knapsack on her back. Those two items were her only baggage. Even her trench coat and laptop were packed. She wore a belted peasant-style yellow blouse over matching skirt. It was a good color for her hair and green eyes.

“Kate!”

She looked up.

He swam upstream through the other arriving passengers and met her. Something in her demeanor checked his impulse to gather her into his arms. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She didn't slow her pace, continuing on past him.

He fell into step beside her and reached for her rolling suitcase.

“I've got it.”

“Oh, come on. Let Galahad do something.”

“You came to pick me up. That's enough.”

He bit back a smart remark about her nasty attitude. Which wasn't like him. And she wasn't like herself. Well, he didn't need to dance to that tune. He stepped in front of her, forcing her to halt. “Kilpatrick, you got a burr under your saddle?”

She glanced up at him briefly. “I'm exhausted.”

“I've never seen you exhausted, and there have been plenty of times when you should have been.”

“So this is a new side. The DC reporter side. I haven't slept—”

“Reporter? You got a job?”

She pursed her mouth and fluttered her eyelids in a look of disgust. “Things don't happen that fast. Now can we go home?”

“Sure, but I'm taking the luggage.” He firmly grasped the suitcase handle and pried off her fingers. “Do you want to stop and get something to eat?”

“No. Thanks.”

Kate turn down food? Definite burr under the saddle. As they neared the door he said, “You need your coat. Spring left while you were gone.”

“I'm fine.”

Her outfit appeared to be made of cotton or linen. Too thin for the night air. He waited until they reached the door, and then he stopped her again, pulled the knapsack from her back and set it on the floor. He shrugged out of his jacket and held it open for her.

“Tanner,” she protested.

“Just be quiet. You're too tired to think sensibly.” She slid her arms into the coat. He lifted out the loose hair that caught inside of it. “Valley Oaks needs their editor strong and healthy so she can write her next editorial. They're waiting with bated breath.”

She turned, pushing up her glasses. “Really?”

“Really.”

“What are they saying?”

He grinned. “You're the talk of the town. That piece about Mick says it all. The consensus is, why would anyone vote against rehiring Joel Kingsley?”

At last a genuine smile erased the tension on her face. “Really?”

“Really. I'd say you did it. You made a difference. Congratulations.” That called for a hug.

Ignoring the standoffish vibes emanating from her, he put his arms around her and crushed his coat. Her small shoulders were in there somewhere. He hoped the old Kate Kilpatrick was somewhere in there too.

Kate walked into the church sanctuary 45 minutes early for the Good Friday evening service. Except for the choir director and three soloists practicing up front, the building was deserted. On the platform was a large wooden cross draped in a black cloth. She gazed at the dimly lit empty pews, deciding at last upon the center section, a center row, the center spot of the pew.

With a quiet mirthless chortle, she sat down and acknowledged the message: She needed to get
centered
.

One of the choir members lifted a hand in her direction. She waved back. People would assume she was there because she was a newspaper reporter. Funny, the things she got away with. Press members could go early, stay late, move around, take photos, talk to behind-the-scenes people as well as the hotshot stars. No one questioned their audacity to do so. At least, no one had to her face, and she had been doing that sort of thing since she was 12 years old.

She had even bluffed her way into getting invited to a Washington, DC, presidential press conference. The dream of a lifetime. Fireworks should have lit up the sky. Evidently someone forgot to light them… And that had only been the first indication that dreams of a lifetime weren't all they were cracked up to be.

She fast forwarded to the work week in Valley Oaks. Since the printing of her editorial, the town had rallied behind Joel Kingsley, inundating board members with phone calls and letters. Flyers appeared everywhere around town, many quoting Mick's story verbatim. The closed session of Wednesday's meeting lasted all of ten minutes. Five minutes after that the formal vote was taken before a packed gym. It was unanimous in favor of rehiring the principal. The president and his cronies would have looked like supreme fools if they'd voted against him.

Small potatoes…but deeply satisfying. She smiled wryly. Three obscene phone calls were made to the office yesterday. The hate mail began arriving today. Those things didn't compare to the flowers from Joel and Britte, the homemade apple pie from Britte's mother, the high fives in the grocery store.

The whirlwind of the past week served nicely to muddy the waters of her life. Which suited her.

Then why was she sitting in the quiet hoping with every fiber of her being that no one would talk to her?

She crossed her arms and crossed her legs.

She needed to get centered. She knew how to do that. In the forced quiet she would focus on Jesus, on His death, on what He had done for her.

It was the only way she could forget that other…thing. The thing that revealed itself like the unexpected flash of a shooting star as she ate lunch in a busy downtown DC deli while reading the
Post.
The thing that clung like some computer virus to every thought she'd had since then, affecting the very essence of each one. The thing that made standing ten yards from the President of the United States the equivalent of eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

She swung her legs, recrossing them, and twisted the crick from her neck.

If she couldn't escape the thing in this holy setting, it wasn't going away.

Sunday night he had loaned her his leather jacket and driven away before she realized she still wore it. It was so big she could swim in it. Instead, she slept in it. How sappy was that? Insipid, mushy sentimentality.

Fiddlesticks.
She was in love with Tanner Carlucci.

Tanner entered the sanctuary with some trepidation. He was getting accustomed to Sunday mornings, but he didn't know what to expect on a Friday night. He didn't even know churches held Good Friday services.

Right off he knew something was different. The pews were packed, but no one was talking. There was no music. The lights were dim. A large cross was up front, a spotlight focused on it, a black cloth draped over its crossbeam, a wreath of thorny vines hung over its top. The somber ambience impacted him, causing a feeling of heaviness in his chest.

He couldn't spot Kate. Maybe she hadn't arrived yet. Not that she had specifically said she would sit with him. They had talked briefly. She mentioned she was coming.

He walked up the left side aisle and slipped into the first pew offering space.

She hadn't been herself at the airport. Things hadn't improved through the week. All of their conversations had been brief. They had all been initiated by him. He had stopped in the office Monday to retrieve his coat. She hastily put on her own, saying she was on her way out to an appointment. He had left voice mail messages that she didn't return. It had taken him until Thursday to catch on that she was avoiding him.

Quirky turn of events.

He turned his attention to the Bible on his lap. At least there was one thing in his life that made sense.

The service had no official conclusion. After an hour of Scripture readings and low-key music, all of which dealt solely with the crucifixion, a collective hush fell over the sanctuary. A note in the program indicated worshipers could leave whenever they chose.

Tanner remained seated, scarcely registering people pushing past his knees or filing down the aisle. His mind's eye saw only the end of the story. Jesus was dead. His body lay in the tomb.

His friends must have felt as hopeless as Tanner did now. The Man had loved the unlovable and healed their diseases, and in turn they tortured Him to death.

Tanner thought he might cry again. That would make twice in two weeks. Nobody told him he'd signed up for a truckload of tenderness. Like the tidbit about Kate, he wasn't sure what to do with sentimental feelings either.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he surreptitiously wiped the inside corners of his eyes and looked around. The place was empty. He sniffed and leaned back in the pew. Maybe he should turn out the lights?

He found his lone coat hanging in the lobby and headed out into the night. Although the day had been more wintry than springlike, he had walked to church. Because most of his destinations were within a six-block radius these days, he saw no reason to drive anywhere.

Not wanting to disrupt his thoughts, he abandoned the idea of stopping in the store. Mick and Betsy could handle it. He crossed Main Street intending to go down the alley to his apartment entrance when a pounding noise drew his attention elsewhere. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the square. Probably just kids fooling around. He pictured the proximity of his store's large plate-glass window. Maybe he should check things out.

He rounded the corner onto Fourth Avenue and saw Kate's light blue Volkswagen sitting at the curb halfway down the block. She was swinging her fists against its hood.

He ran to her. “Kate!” She straightened as he huffed to a stop on the sidewalk. “What are you doing to poor old Helen?”

“She died on me!”

“Let me take a look.” He unlatched the back end.
Dumbest place for an engine.
“Do you have a flashlight?”

“No. Hey, don't worry about it.”

He peered inside, trying not to block the feeble light from a nearby streetlamp. “Did she start up all right?”

“She usually
doesn't.
I'll just call the garage in the morning.”

“Why don't you wait in the store where it's warm? I'll get a flashlight.”

“No!”

“Suit yourself. Wait out in the cold. I'll be right back—”

“Tanner, how many ways do I have to say it? I don't want you doing anything with my car!”

“It's not a Galahad thing. I'd do it for anybody—”

“Why do you always talk about Galahad?”

“I don't. You do. You're the one who has
issues.”
He straightened and stepped away from Helen.

“I don't have issues.” Her hands were perched on her hips.

“Whatever.” Man, she was exasperating. “I know a little bit about engines.”

“I don't have Galahad issues!”

Now his hands flew to his hips and he leaned forward. “You do so. You cringe every time I do something for you. I'm not putting down your womanhood. I don't think you're a damsel in distress.”

“Well, you come across like you do, Mr. Macho Cool.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She barked a laugh. “Just what it sounds like. You've always been able to pay for getting your own way. Money means nothing to you, so you can just dabble in this or that career. Or pastime. Or relationship. Give extravagant gifts to whomever currently tweaks your fancy.”

Her accusation hung for a long moment in the still night air. “Kate,” he said quietly, “you're the snob if you can't accept a gift that has no strings attached. You treat people like projects, like news stories. You hold them at arm's length and pretend it's God's plan for you to keep moving on to the next town, the next school, the next job.”

“And now you're lecturing me about God! Oh, fiddlesticks!” She turned on her heel and strode down the sidewalk.

It was cold. She had almost four blocks to walk in her clogs, wearing only her dad's trench coat for warmth. He should offer to give her a lift.

Not in this lifetime. He slammed shut the engine lid.

So much for that truckload of tenderness.