Everyday Blessings. Jillian Hart
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She took a deep breath, watched William stride back into her sight, easily pushing the mower in front of him, and she knew what she had to do.
William wiped at the gritty sweat with his arm, but it still trickled into his eyes and burned. He upended the final, full lawn-mower bag into the garage waste bin. It was hot, and although the sun was sinking low in its sky, the temperature felt hotter than ever.
All he wanted was to get into his rig, turn on the air-conditioning full blast and stop by the first convenience store for a cold bottle of water. He gave the heavy bag a shake to make sure all the cut grass was out and a dust cloud of tiny bits of grass and seed puffed into his face. He coughed, and the tiny grit stuck to his sweat-dampened skin. This was why he had a riding mower, not that it would be practical for Jonas’s patch of lawn.
Jonas. In the hospital. It had to be an extended stay, since William had been leaving messages for the past week and a half or so. Which meant it was a serious deal. Sick at heart, William reattached the bag to the mower and wheeled it against the far wall, out of the way. Every movement echoed around him in the carless garage. There was the photograph, wrapped and propped carefully against the wall. The photograph he’d sold to Jonas for practically nothing.
He closed his eyes, and there was the memory, as vivid as real life. Jonas grinning, still in his trooper’s uniform after a long shift. He was standing in front of the Gray Stone Church, where the united church charities in the valley met for their monthly meetings. He’d produced a hardback book of William’s photographs for his signature.
“I really appreciate this, Will,” Jonas had said in all sincerity. “My wife loves your work. It’s a gift for our anniversary. It’ll be seven years.”
“Seven years,” William had said while he’d scribbled his signature on the title page. “Isn’t that said to be one of the most critical years?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of folks talking about the seven-year itch or whatever, but I don’t get it. I’ve got the best wife in the world.”
William had remembered, because he’d believed Jonas. The man had actually planned for his wedding anniversary a month in advance. He’d been telling the truth about his feelings for his wife. That was rare, in Will’s opinion. After all, he knew. Once, the blessing of marriage had happened to him.
Maybe that’s why he’d offered one of the photographs from his personal stash. He liked to think that the things he’d lost in life still existed somewhere. That there was a reason to hope, although he’d lost that hope right along with his faith, and a lot of other things.
Standing in the baking heat of Jonas’s garage, William pulled out his wallet and searched through it until he found a battered business card, which he tucked around the string that held the brown paper wrapping in place. He thought of the little boy’s sorrow, his request for prayer, and vowed to honor that request tonight. It had been a long time since he’d said a nightly prayer.
As he turned to go, the inside door opened. The sister—Aubrey—stood framed in the doorway, one slender hand on the doorknob, poised in midstep. She hesitated, as if she were a little shy, and she made a lovely picture with the child asleep in her arms.
The painful lump was back in his throat. A ghost of memory tried to haunt him, but he wrestled it down. The trick was to keep your heart rock hard.
“Oh, good. I’m glad I caught you,” she said in a voice as soft as grace. “It’s ninety-six degrees out there in the shade. I have a bottle of cold water, or lemonade. I didn’t know which you’d prefer.”
Sure enough, she’d managed to wrap her fingers awkwardly around two plastic bottles, and still cradled the sleeping baby lovingly against her.
“Water’s fine.” Somehow he got the words out.
“Thank you for doing this.” She stopped to deposit one of the bottles out of sight and breezed toward him with a careful step. “You have no idea how much we appreciate it. You must be a good friend of Jonas’s.”
“He’s a good man.” William glanced behind her at the open door, knowing his voice might carry to the little boy inside. “I didn’t know he was sick.”
“He’s not. That was the best way to explain to Tyler.” Her answer came quietly. “He was shot on duty.”
While it hadn’t occurred to him, the possibility had been there, in the back of his mind, William realized.
“He was doing better, but he suffered something like a stroke a few days ago and now he’s in a deep coma.”
“Not good.”
“No.” Pain marked her face and weighed down that single word. She said nothing more.
She didn’t have to. He knew too much about comas. Wished he didn’t. “Is there anything more I can do for his family?”
“Prayer. God’s grace is the only thing that will help him now.”
What could he say to that? It was the truth, and from his experience, a deep coma was a death sentence. William moved forward to take the bottle of water she offered. He tried not to brush her fingers with his or to notice the stunning violet-blue of her eyes or the shadows within them. He would not let himself think too much on the soft feminine scents of shampoo and vanilla-scented lotion or her loveliness. It wasn’t something he ordinarily noticed anymore.
“Thanks.” He held up the bottle, ice-cold from the refrigerator, and kept moving. “Be sure and turn on the sprinkler after I leave. Oh, and I left my number with the package. If his condition changes, will you call me? Leave a message on my machine?”
“Yes, I will. Thank you again.”
He didn’t look back or acknowledge her as he strode straight to his vehicle, all business, and climbed in. He didn’t look at her as he backed into the residential street or lift a hand in a goodbye wave as he drove away.
Aubrey watched the gleam of his taillights in the gathering twilight and couldn’t help wondering who was this Good Samaritan? He hadn’t exactly been friendly, but clearly he’d thought enough of Jonas to have pitched in with the lawn mowing.
He seemed distant and not exactly friendly. She felt as if she’d seen him somewhere before, like in church or in the bookstore her family ran. The look of him was familiar—though not the personality he radiated. That hard steel and sorrow would be memorable.
At a loss to explain it, she went to hit the button to close the garage door and noticed the bright yellow SUV whipping down the curve of the cul-de-sac and into the driveway. Behind the sheen of the sinking sun on the tinted windshield, she could see the faint image of her twin sister busily pulling the e-brake, turning off the engine and gathering her things, talking animatedly as she went, which meant she had to be yakking on her cell phone.
Aubrey kept an ear to the open inside door, where she could hear the drone of the cartoon version of A Christmas Carol that Tyler watched over and over again. Knowing he was safely riveted in front of the television, she waited as the bright yellow driver’s-side door swung open and Ava emerged. Her sister Ava was chaos as usual, her enormous purse slung over her shoulder, thick and bulky and banging her painfully in the hip. Yep, she was definitely on her cell, and judging by her shining happiness, she was talking to her handsome fiancé, Brice.
Madison stirred drowsily between wakefulness and sleep, and Aubrey patted her back gently and returned to rocking again. She watched as her sister gave her a welcoming wave, shut her SUV’s door, then opened it and extracted her keys from the ignition.
“Oops.” Ava grinned, keeping her voice quiet as she shut the door. “You’ve got Madison half-asleep.”
“Working on it.” Aubrey kept rocking, full of questions that would have to wait for later, she thought. Even if Tyler was momentarily distracted, any long discussion would have the little boy hurrying to come listen. But not all of her questions had to wait. “I take it