Читать книгу A Fragile Hope - Cynthia Ruchti - Страница 6

No one knows the work you’ve put into this project, the heart you’ve invested. Take a moment to celebrate. You won’t be alone. I’m here.

~ Seedlings & Sentiments

from the “Celebrate” collection

Josiah Chamberlain’s flat-tipped fingers—from the maternal side of the family—hovered over the keys. One moment. Two. He expelled the breath he’d held since page 249. Reaching his arms overhead, elbows toed in, he grabbed the back of his skull. Eyes pinched shut, he forced himself to swallow. The tennis ball in his throat refused to dislodge. Agony now ecstasy.

It. Is. Finished.

The low ceiling of heavy clouds had drafted his green library lamp into service earlier. Its light camouflaged the passage of time. Dark. But it had been dark all day.

What time was it? Six-thirty. Karin would have eaten an hour ago. Had she called him to the table? Probably. If he’d put her off, he’d done it unconsciously. That’s what laser-like focus did when he was on deadline. She’d understand. What a trouper.

He pulled himself from his reverie, laid his hand over the still-warm curve of his wireless mouse, and clicked the X in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

Save changes? Yes.

He e-mailed the file to himself then pushed away from the oak trestle table, whistling the Doxology. The space shuttle had nothing on his liftoff from his leather chair. For a non-dancer, he traced a respectable jig across the wide plank floorboards on his way to the door. Hand on the white porcelain doorknob, he paused.

Can’t be too careful.

He scooted back to his laptop, inserted a thumb drive in the USB port, and saved the freshly minted file in triplicate.

This time when he turned his back on the project, he straightened the framed certificate that had allowed him five years as a marriage counselor before taking his show on the road. Highly touted seminars, sold-out weekend events, and—he glanced at the now quiet computer—perhaps another best seller to add to his growing collection. Who wouldn’t enjoy a moment like this?

He left the room whistling “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

Tomorrow night—thick steaks on the grill. No. We’ll go out. Russell’s. Karin deserves her bacon-wrapped scallops. And what she’ll call a “guilt-drenched” dessert. And a little more of my time. Okay. A lot more.

What other woman would put up with his disappearing into his cave for weeks at a time for a deadline or spending so many long stretches on the road when he wasn’t on deadline? The picture of grace. That’s what she was.

He descended the steps like a teen late for football practice and slid into the kitchen like Cosmo Kramer from Seinfeld.

No Karin. No plate on the dark granite kitchen island or waiting by the microwave. No matter. She probably had another plan. He yanked at the pantry door. A little bubbly would be nice. He scanned for the sparkling pear juice Karin favored. He’d grab goblets out of the china cabinet on his way through the dining room to find her.

“Karin! Where are you?”

No answer.

“Karin? I’m done. Let’s celebrate.” Wait until he told her the brilliant idea he’d used to end the book.

She’d had a project or something. Was this the week she said she was going to paint the back bedroom? No. Work related, right? Or what she called work. Best decision he ever made was to get her that storefront downtown. All the mess and that incessant whirring noise of the blender was miles away now. Sure, it cost him money he shouldn’t have had to spend. But it was either he rent an office or she did. And what she did with that homemade card place wasn’t completely without value.

“Babe,” he called into the silence. “Deadline week. You know it’s always like this. But it’s over now. I haven’t sent it off to Morris. I can do that after we pop the cork on this vintage pear juice. Two thousand seventeen. It was a very good year.” He held the bottle high, as if she could see it.

Sure, it was corny, but couldn’t she crack an I’m-disgusted-with-you-but-you’re-adorable smile? Laundry room. She probably can’t hear me because of the dryer.

After his last successfully met deadline, he’d made the same suggestion. “How about we make reservations at Russell’s for tomorrow night, Karin? An ocean-view table.”

She’d quirked an eyebrow at him, her dimples trying not to materialize. “We live in Cheese Curd Central, you lunatic. Totally landlocked. How do you propose we’ll find an ocean view?”

“The a-quar-i-um in the lobby?”

Considering how sequestered he’d had to be for the last couple of weeks, he should probably back off on the sarcasm this time. When he found her.

Josiah’s word-weary brain formed a question that refused to take itself seriously. He could feel his pulse in his temples, neck, and behind his eyeballs. The chill of the travertine foyer floor seeped through his cushioned socks. “Karin? Not funny anymore.”

His stomach rumbled. He was perfectly capable of fixing himself something to eat. But that wasn’t the point. Where was she? She knew he was near his deadline.

Josiah pulled out his phone and checked for messages from her. Nothing. He unmuted the phone from deadline mode, and punched in her number. No answer. Good. Probably on the road. Probably almost home. Doubt dialed the phone again. The Seedlings & Sentiments landline. Answering machine. He called Karin’s number and left a message this time, regretting his tone as soon as he ended the call. He was tired. She’d understand. She’d forgive him the small offense.

If not, I can slip her chapter 7 of the book I just finished.

The thought ricocheted through the empty house. “Don’t let the sun go down on your wrath” doesn’t apply if sunset was more than an hour ago, does it?

Not wrath. Something between disappointment and anger. Closer to disappointment. She should be here to help him celebrate. Like always. Her absence took some of the joy out of meeting his deadline. Who else did he want to tell? Even if his dad were alive, news like this would elicit anything but what Josiah needed.

“Couldn’t get a real job, boy?”

“Dad, this is a real job. I graduated magna cum laude, for Pete’s sake.”

“And what’s the level just above that? Oh, that’s right. Summa. Kind of like coming in second in a two-person race, isn’t it?”

Never enough. Never ever enough for the man.

Josiah set the goblets on the kitchen counter for the postponed celebration and dug into the refrigerator for leftovers. Not what he had in mind. Not at all.

What just happened?

Finished the book. Came downstairs to tell Karin. Yada yada, she’s gone.

Not the ending he’d written into this night. He actually thought the evening would end with a delicious drifting off to sleep, her body curled into his.

What an idiot.

No. That was his dad’s voice. His dad’s curse. Josiah mentally walked over to the garbage disposal, tossed the condemnatory phrase through its black rubber flaps, and flipped the switch to pulverize the thought.

Another round through the house to look for a note or something he might have overlooked. He’d overlooked too much lately. Time for a course correction.

He set the pear juice on the entry table, sans coaster, and opened the front door again. The street stood empty. And slick with sleet. Now you have me worried, Karin.

He called again. No answer. He tried Leah’s number, too, digging it out of his contacts list. Straight to voice mail. He hung up and found Wade’s contact info. Wade would know where Leah was. If Karin was with her business partner, Wade might know why and when Josiah could expect her home.

How hard would it have been for Karin to have left him a note? Or called before she left work? Even though he’d gone dark for the deadline, he would have gotten the message eventually. At least he’d know what was going on. She didn’t have a meeting somewhere, did she? Had she talked about a meeting? The one thing he could count on is that she hadn’t left him.

Working so intensely had side effects. The latest? His left eye twitched.

He’d wait another fifteen minutes and then he’d—

“Worry wrings all the fun out of a relationship.” Chapter 3, wasn’t it? A lot he knew. A shelf full of books—his books—and a nationally recognized reputation as the go-to guy for relationship maintenance and repair, and he couldn’t think of one good reason not to worry.

A serpent of concern slithered through his abdomen. It bit into the base of his lungs and drained them of air. The closed door whistled a dirge. Ah, something else he’d ignored. The door needed its weather stripping replaced. The winter had been hard on it, too. How fitting that the wind was picking up.

The pocket at his thigh vibrated. He reached for his cell phone and held it to his ear without moving the rest of his body. “Yeah?”

“Josiah, my boy.”

Morris. Not now.

“You are going to flip over what I’m about to tell you.”

“Morris, it’s not the best time.” And I’m already flipping out.

“For this kind of news, it is. Marketing handed you an award-winning, certain best-seller title for that book of yours.”

“The book.”

“Yes, the one I expect to see in my inbox by Monday morning.”

Josiah removed the phone from his ear. Morris Lynch kept talking, but in a thin, distant voice.

“Are you ready for it? You’re going to do cartwheels, it’s so perfect.”

Cartwheels? I can’t remember how to walk. “Morris, can I call you back?”

“Are you sitting down, buddy? Picture this. Face out on the shelves wherever books are sold, as they say. Your book—Love Him or Leave Him.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Josiah told Sandi, his hands digging deep into her thick butterscotch tresses. How dumb is that? Magna cum laude—and yes, Dad, that’s a real thing—and I’m not sure what to do.

Sandi leaned into his touch. Silent comfort. Her warm breath exhaled in short puffs of sympathy.

Foul breath. What had she been eating? Road kill?

“Get away from me, dog!”

Sandi scooted back a few feet, then dropped onto the rug in front of the cold fireplace. She’d get over the rejection. In minutes, maybe. A little harder for humans.

Karin was wrong about one thing: watching ESPN with the sound muted was not “just as good.” But the sports commentator’s voices grated on his raw nerve endings. One voice could change that. Hers.

I’m home. You wouldn’t believe the traffic!

But traffic wasn’t an issue in Wisconsin’s version of Mayberry. And this far out of Paxton, the most pressing traffic issue this time of year was—

Interesting timing. A salt truck barreled past, sending Sandi to the window—more nose prints—and rattling the house’s brittle bones. The sleet must have decided to stay. Karin, you should be home.

The furnace kicked in, growling like a disturbed bear a month from the conclusion of its hibernation. Would this winter never end? He leaned over the side of his recliner to grab the chenille throw from her chair. It smelled like Karin. Her personal blend—warm and soft and fresh. Like the smell of a sun-dried pillowcase.

Josiah rubbed his stubbled face and tamped the anger that fought for dominance against what had morphed from concern to worry to fear. Why wasn’t anybody answering the phone? Had he missed a church deal? What night was it? Saturday. He opened the church app and scanned for activities that might have involved Karin and the Frambolts. Nothing. Empty.

Like the house.

He surrendered to fear, let it have its say. When Karin finally came to her senses and realized she should have let him know she’d be late, they couldn’t afford a U-Haul of his anger trailing them into a healing future.

That sounded like a line from his last book. It probably was. Josiah threw the chenille over his feet. Nothing like being nipped by your own words.

Love Him or Leave Him. Better than the other five title ideas Josiah had presented. Catchy. Intriguing. But tonight it left an unpleasant aftertaste.

He called Karin’s cell three more times. Left messages in decreasing length and increasing intensity. The last one—Call me!—stung his own ears when it reverberated off the empty walls of his hollow house. Should he get in the car and go look for her? Wherever she’d gone, it couldn’t be good. The salt truck made a return trip.

He should call the police. Yeah. And admit the relationship counselor didn’t remember where his wife said she was going. He had a reputation to uphold.

If he found her sipping a cappuccino at an Internet café as if he didn’t exist, hadn’t been waiting for her to come home . . .

No. That wasn’t Karin. The closest she came to raising her voice at him was usually related to his not trusting her to be strong enough to take care of herself, make her own decisions, run her own business. She hadn’t raised her voice in a long time. She’d perfected the silent treatment, though. And—God help him—he’d ignored it, grateful he didn’t have to adjust his writing schedule so they could talk it out.

He yanked the remote off the end table at his elbow and clicked off the TV, righting his recliner as the dot of green light faded. Discarding the throw, he slid out of the chair and onto his knees. Not enough. Not low enough. He lay flat on the carpeting, arms spread eagle.

The carpet smelled a lot like Sandi, but he stayed there, groaning a semblance of prayer.

He’d paid to upload a worship song ringtone. Now when it broke the flow of his prayer, he considered volunteering an additional fee for the message of hope its welcome sound conveyed.

He rose to his knees and fumbled for the phone. His frenzied fingers dropped it, twice. It skated out of reach on its slick plastic back. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he dropped to all fours and reached under the couch where the music was coming from.

“Yes? Hello?”

“Is this the Chamberlain residence?”

“Yes, it is. Who is this?”

“Are you related in some way to Karin Chamberlain?”

“She’s my wife.” The simple words ripped through him. “Who is this?”

“I’m with the Timber County Sheriff’s Department. Your wife?”

“That’s right. What’s this about?”

“Well, sir, we’re sorting things out little by little. Your wife and another person were involved in a motor vehicle accident. The car is registered to your wife. We found this number on an unsent text. From the driver’s phone.”

Every muscle in him spasmed. “Is my wife all right?”

“Are you able to get yourself to Woodlands Regional Hospital?”

“Yes, of course.” He headed for the kitchen where his keys hung on a peg near the back door.

“We’d send a deputy to accompany you, but with the roads such a mess, we’re spread pretty thin on accident detail.”

“Accompany me?” That only happened when—“She’s gone?”

“No, sir. But it doesn’t look good. I’d advise you to make your way there as soon as you can, but take extra care. It’s nasty out there.”