All Our Tomorrows. Irene Hannon
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day. Any hot news at the Chronicle?”
Switching gears wasn’t easy. But Caroline appreciated her mother’s efforts to distract her. It was a technique that had helped keep her sane during those first few weeks after Michael’s death, as her world disintegrated around her. So she tried to change focus. And prompted by Judy’s interested questions, she was able to maintain the semblance of a conversation. As the meal ended, her mother even elicited a smile or two from her with an entertaining story about her latest passion—square dancing—and the lessons she was taking with Harold, her reluctant partner and steady beau.
“So I said to Harold, ‘Just listen to the caller. He’ll tell us what to do. It’s like assembling that glider in my backyard. You just follow the directions and it all comes together.’ And he says, ‘I didn’t read the instructions for the glider.’” Judy shook her head in exasperation. “Now I know why the thing seems a little lopsided. And why he ended up with all those leftover parts.”
By the time Caroline left, with her almost untouched, foil-wrapped dinner and an extra piece of dessert in hand, she felt a bit more settled. But as she drove home through the dark streets of St. Louis, a shiver ran through her—one that she knew was prompted by more than the damp cold on this rainy March night.
Although her numbing, debilitating grief had ebbed over time, the mention of Michael’s brother had dredged it up from the deep recesses of her heart. Along with all the other emotions she’d wrestled into submission these past two years. Guilt. Anger. Blame. Resentment. Some of those feelings were directed at her; others, at David Sloan. But none of them were healthy. As a result, she’d tried her best to suppress them and to move on with her life. Yet it took only the merest incident, like the passing reference to David tonight, to remind her that they hadn’t been tamed, just subdued.
The rain intensified, obscuring her vision, and she flicked on her wipers. With one sweep, they brushed aside the raindrops, giving her a clear view of the road ahead. Too bad she couldn’t banish the muddled emotions in her heart with the same ease. But they clung with a tenacity that rivaled the ivy creeping up the side of her mother’s brick bungalow, imbedding itself with roots that sought—and penetrated—even the tiniest crack.
As she pulled into her parking spot, the light in the front window of her condo welcomed her with its golden warmth and promise of haven. Set on a timer, it came on faithfully every day at five o’clock, lessening the gloom of coming home to a dark, empty apartment. It might be a poor substitute for the warm embrace of the man she’d loved, but that glow buoyed her spirits, which had a tendency to droop after she left the office. Her hectic days at the newspaper kept her too busy to dwell on her personal life during working hours, but it was harder to keep thoughts of the past at bay when she was alone.
It was getting easier, though. Each day, in tiny increments, the past receded a little bit more. It had been months since she’d had to pull the car over because her hands had begun to shake. She didn’t choke up anymore when she heard a song on the radio that reminded her of Michael. She didn’t cry herself to sleep every night. And, once in a while, a whole day passed when she didn’t think about what might have been. That was progress.
She knew Michael would have wanted her to move on. He, of all people, with his love of life and live-for-today attitude, would have been the first to tell her to get over it and get on with her life. To live, to love and to laugh. To make every day count.
Caroline was doing her best to put that philosophy into action. But it didn’t take much—as tonight’s brief conversation proved—to remind her that she still had a long way to go before she reached that ideal.
And to make her wonder if she ever would.
David Sloan angled into a parking place, set the brake and rested his hands on the steering wheel as he read the sign a few doors down. County Chronicle.
A wave of doubt swept over him, and he hesitated. Was he making a mistake coming here? He hadn’t seen Caroline since Michael’s funeral, and her attitude toward him then had been chilly at best. Not that he’d blamed her. If he and Michael hadn’t argued, Michael would have been more focused when he’d gone to meet that contact in the marketplace. His brother had always had great instincts. That was why he’d been such a successful photojournalist, why he’d risen through the ranks of the Associated Press to be one of their top shooters. It was why they’d sent him to the Middle East, knowing that he’d be able to get into the thick of things, make great images and emerge unscathed. Until that fateful day in the marketplace, when he had no doubt been distracted by their argument, and by concerns for their mother. So David understood why Caroline would blame him for Michael’s death. For turning her world upside down. For destroying a man they’d both loved in the prime of his life. He blamed himself, too.
For almost two years he’d grappled with his complicity. But finally he’d come to terms with it—at least as well as he would ever be able to, he suspected. And some good had come out of his struggle, too. After much prayer, he’d reevaluated his life and made some dramatic changes, following a new path the Lord had revealed to him. The work he was doing now might not offer him the kind of income provided by the high-stakes mergers and acquisitions he’d brokered in his previous job, but it paid dividends in human terms. And even though it had been hard for David to let go of the financial security his former position had offered, he’d put his trust in the Lord three months ago and made the change. So far, he hadn’t had a single regret.
But he had plenty of regrets about his role in Michael’s death. And one of them involved Caroline. He’d always felt the need to contact her, to express his sorrow, to apologize. Though they’d sat side by side at Michael’s funeral, her grief had been too thick for words to penetrate. When he had reached out a tentative, comforting hand to her once during those terrible few days, she’d recoiled, staring at him with a look of such profound loss and resentment that it was still seared in his memory. That was the main reason he’d never tried to contact her. Not the only one, but the main one.
As for the other reason…he wasn’t going to go there. Until yesterday, it had been irrelevant, since he’d never expected to see her again. Yet the chance meeting with her mother, and the medallion resting in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, its weight pressing against his heart, had prodded him to do what he should have done months before. If she brushed him aside, so be it. He still had to make the effort to reach out to her and apologize. And then he would move on—and do his best to forget about her.
From the outside, the County Chronicle looked like any other storefront on the busy Kirkwood street, which still retained a small-town flavor even though it was a close-in suburb of St. Louis. On his way to the front door, he passed Dubrov’s Bakery, Andrea’s card shop and Fitzgerald’s Café, all of which seemed to be family operations instead of the chain stores that were multiplying like rabbits around the country. He liked that. Liked the notion that even in this modern age of mega-stores and conglomerates—many of which he’d helped to create in his previous job—the entrepreneurial spirit continued to flourish. That people with enough drive and determination could still create a successful business to pass down to the next generation.
As he stepped into the lobby of the Chronicle, David tried to calm his erratic pulse. The first moments would be awkward, at best. Please, Lord, help me find the words to make the apology I came here to offer, he prayed.
“May I help you, sir?” A dark-haired woman, who looked to be in her early thirties, spoke to him from behind a desk. Her nameplate identified her as Mary Ramirez, receptionist.
“Yes. Is Caroline James in?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I just took a chance she might be available. I only need a few minutes.”
“May I tell her what this is about?” The woman reached for the phone.
“I’m an old…acquaintance. She’ll know the name. David Sloan.”
The woman didn’t look convinced, but she punched in some numbers, anyway. “She’s got a very full schedule. I’m not sure she’ll be able to see you.”