Beyond The Storm Part 14

She folded her clothes and stuffed them into an empty dresser drawer. The shampoo, her shears, and hair products she'd managed to salvage from the salon went on one of the shelving units under the window. She ran the carpet sweeper, dusted the bric-a-brac, fluffed pillows, and stacked books. The room, clean to begin with, was now spotless.

All that was left on the bed were the shreds of material.

Sinking to the edge of the mattress, Abigail slowly began to sort the bits of cloth. These were all fragments of people's lives, she reflected as she traced her finger over the various textures of satin and beads, wool and cotton, rough and soft. A wedding dress. A pillowcase. A suit jacket, a blouse, a prom dress, a tie, a dog's bed, some curtains, some upholstery, a choir robe, a stuffed toy, a costume . . . Abigail's head dropped into her hands. And . . . a baby's blanket. Danny was dead.

The man who loved G.o.d with all his heart and soul and mind. Dead. Before he ever got to touch his son.

No. Abigail inhaled a deep, angry breath. No! She thought of Jen, sitting there in that hospital with a newborn, grieving. Without her husband. This should be the happiest day of her life! She'd waited for it forever. She and Danny both! Her child would miss out on the best father ever to set foot on this earth. Where was the sense in that?

"Where?" she shrieked at the ceiling and then flopped to the bed and pounded on the tattered fabric with her fists. "Why would You let that happen?" she raged as she clutched the blanket in bunches. "Why didn't You save him? He was special! He loved You!" she shouted this accusation, not caring who was listening.

Behind her, the bedroom door softly opened and Bob Ray's wife stepped into the room. Without asking permission, she perched next to Abigail, so closely, their hips were touching. Crying herself, she handed Abigail a tissue, and then opened her arms. Though Heather was a stranger, Abigail leaned into her gentle embrace and allowed the younger girl to comfort her. And to quietly pray for her.

Abigail woke to a knock at the door. Slowly, she sat up and pushed her hair out of her face thinking that was why she couldn't see. But, the truth was, the light outside was gone now. Not really caring, she guessed an entire day had pa.s.sed. She'd worn herself out crying in Heather's arms. The last thing she remembered was Heather pulling a quilt off the other bed and covering her before she'd tiptoed out of the room.

"Abby?" It was Selma.

She cleared her throat. "Yes?" she croaked, her voice still rough from her tirade.

"Honey, I have some food for you here." The k.n.o.b twisted and the door swung open. The smell of food permeated the air and made Abigail realize that she hadn't eaten since . . . she couldn't even remember. Selma set a tray on the dresser and then switched on a low glowing lamp by the door. Abigail blinked into the sudden light.

"I made a pot roast. The power went on and off all morning, so I decided to defrost a few things. I fixed you some potatoes and gravy and a salad . . ." She crossed the room and, gathering the pillows off the other bed, propped her great-niece up before moving to get the tray. "I checked on you several times . . . so did your friend, Justin. I think he's concerned about you, sweetheart. We all are."

Abigail rubbed her eyes first and then her face before she gave Selma a shivery smile. "I'm okay."

Selma peered through her gla.s.ses with bloodshot eyes. "Are you really?"

"Mm. I guess." She took the fork Selma handed her and began to pick at her food.

"Eat, honey. You'll feel better."

Too tired to argue, Abigail poked some roast into her mouth. The bits of cloth she'd spread out on the bed before Heather had come in had mostly fallen on the floor as she'd slept. Bending over, Selma picked those up and stacked them with the ones that still littered her quilt top.

"What are these?" she asked, fingering the different textures and sizes.

Abigail chewed for a second and then swallowed. "Remnants. Literally."

"Ah." Selma began to sort through them, arranging them according to color and size. Because she was a quilter, Abigail guessed. Must be habit. "These are not bits of fabric, you realize." Chin wrinkled in thought, lips pursed, Selma adjusted her gla.s.ses. "These are the pieces that need putting back together."

"Found them all over the place, after the storm. Right now, they represent all my worldly possessions." With a heavy sigh, Abigail scooped up a fork full of mashed potatoes and gravy and ate. The pot roast was tender and juicy and seasoned to perfection. Almost immediately she began to notice a difference in her att.i.tude. In a blink, her plate was clean and her gla.s.s empty.

"There's more if you're still hungry," Selma offered as she settled the pile of sc.r.a.ps on the nightstand.

"No, thank you, though. I'm fine."

Selma took the tray, set it on the dresser, then returned to climb into bed next to Abigail. She was so bird-like she took up hardly any s.p.a.ce at all in the twin bed. However, the warmth she generated, body and spirit, was large and slowly worked its magic. Abigail snuggled in next to her and whispered to her grandmother's younger sister, "Why, Selma? Why would G.o.d do that to Jen?"

"Honey, G.o.d didn't do it to Jen."

"Yes! He did. At the very least, He could have stopped it. Weren't we all praying for Danny? Didn't we ask Him to protect Danny? Didn't Danny just have a baby? Danny trusted Him!"

Selma plumped her pillow and made herself comfortable facing Abigail. "Did you like your hair salon?"

"Uh . . ."Abigail frowned and scanned the ceiling plaster as she tried to second-guess her great-aunt's weird line of thinking. Knowing Selma, she was going to take her on some circuitous route before she drove home a point. The road could be lengthy and sometimes convoluted, but usually ended up making sense. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, uh, it was pretty. It was stylish. I worked hard on it."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"G.o.d didn't do that to your salon? Make it pretty? Paint the walls? Sew the curtains?"

"I . . . well, no. I did."

"And the awards on the walls? Who won those?"

"Me."

"G.o.d didn't do that to you?"

"No," Abigail said and sighed. "I don't think so."

"Then why are you blaming Him now? Why do you take credit for the happy things and blame Him for the bad stuff?"

Abigail stared at the ceiling and sighed. The plaster made odd shapes in this light. One patch resembled a calf and another, an ogre. "Because it's not fair."

"Fair." Selma took Abigail's hand and held it up next to hers in the dim light. The differences between the smooth, supple young hand, and the gnarled, spotted one were obvious. "What would be fair?"

"Danny not dying."

"Danny had to die, honey. Just like me. And yes, even you. The mortality rate for human beings is 100 percent."

"But what about his son?"

"What about him? He is going to die, too."

"Without a father."

"I suppose pointing out that he has a heavenly Father would sound trite to you at this point, but it's true." Selma reached over and smoothed Abigail's hair behind her ear and cupped the young cheek with her hand. "When I was your age, I seriously thought I was placed on this planet to get a suntan. You know, to be happy. I was supposed to be happy. Clyde was supposed to be happy. All the kids were supposed to be- and live-happily ever after. We were supposed to acc.u.mulate stuff. Houses, cars, nice clothes, go on vacation overseas. Live the American dream. Get rich. Get slim. Get tan. Be happy. Happy, happy, happy. When we were done, we would go to heaven and be even happier. No stress, no strain, no thought, no pain. And no G.o.d. Didn't need Him, because I was so busy being happy. But there was something missing. I knew it, even then, in the midst of my supposed 'happiness.' Then, on June 8, 1966, we lost everything. In a tornado, of all things. And suddenly, I wasn't happy anymore. In fact, I was suicidal."

Abigail's eyes widened. "You?"

Selma nodded. "Me. I wasn't happy. Couldn't cope. Ended up in the hospital with what they used to call a nervous breakdown."

"Wow. I never knew."

"Yeah, well, that's because that was the old me. The woman who blamed G.o.d because she wasn't always . . ." Selma shrugged.

"Happy," Abigail finished for her. "What happened?"

"I went through the darkest period in my life up to that point. And guess what? Instead of shopping and tanning, I was flat on my face, wishing I was dead and crying out to G.o.d. And He came alongside me and nurtured me and educated me, and suddenly, I was grateful for my sorrow and my loss, because it was the one thing that brought me to Him. I won't kid you, Abby girl, it was h.e.l.l on earth, but I'd do it all again because I'd been so lost in my sin before my Savior found me. I'd been looking for stuff and people to fill me up, when the only thing that could ever truly satisfy me was a relationship with Jesus. Because this life with all its stuff and activity is going to go away. For me. For you. For Jen and her baby."

The sounds of Guadalupe loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher filtered down the stairs. Robbie cried. Rawhide barked. Then, it was still again.

"It's not about building our life here," Selma continued. "A lot of people think it is, and they are flat out wrong. It is about building your relationship with the living G.o.d. The G.o.d who sent His Son to suffer, even worse than you are suffering now, so that your sins could be forgiven and you could stand righteous before G.o.d one day. Now that's unfair. But He did it because he loves you so much. Can you believe that?"

Tears began to leak out of the corners of Abigail's eyes as she rolled to face Selma.

"Life is full of tests. We can pa.s.s or we can fail. It's up to us, how we react to the pain that comes our way. You can lie down and die, or with G.o.d's strength, you can get up and fight. You can blame G.o.d or you can join Him. You can reject or accept. When a curve ball comes your way, how are you going to handle it? On your own, or trusting Him to help? It's not easy to have faith, but then anything worth having never is. He never promised us that being a Christian would be easier than not. He just promised us He would never leave or forsake his children. And because He is always with us, we don't have to be afraid. Of anything. Including death."

Selma swiped at a tear that rolled over Abigail's nose and hovered at its tip. "I think it was Corrie ten Boom who once said, 'When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer.' And so now," Selma said, "when everything seems a mess, I can rest. He's on the job. He'll take care of Jen and the baby. And Danny is exactly where he wanted to be. With his Father."

In the quiet of early evening, Abigail closed her eyes and mulled everything Selma said, sorting, digesting, attempting to come to grips with it all.

And as she did, Selma began to softly snore at her side.

Justin stumbled out of the den and followed his nose to the kitchen where he discovered the aromatic pot roast. His eyes felt grainy and swollen and his throat sore. He'd been glad Abigail disappeared when she did. His meltdown hadn't been pretty. Thank G.o.d Bob Ray was as big a wuss as he was, when it came to the death of a friend, because they'd both bawled like babies. Justin still couldn't believe it was true. Danny.

Dead. It was stupid, but he felt almost betrayed. Danny had always been there for him. Danny was the go-to guy. For everything from advice about building materials and clients, to G.o.d and women and G.o.dly women. And it wasn't just the advice. It was the camaraderie. Danny was as much Justin's brother as his own brothers were. Danny had rescued him when he was homesick and lonely. He'd shared his friends and family and church. Now what?

Staying here in Rawston seemed impossible now.

Poking through the cupboards, Justin discovered a dinner plate and loaded it with the amazing-smelling stuff that simmered in the Crock-Pot. He was hungry as a bear. Slept the day away after his head and heart had nearly exploded from grief. He was sitting at the table finishing his second cup when Abigail came in. Like an idiot, he sat up and tried to fix his hair. He wished he'd taken a shower before he'd come in here to eat, but his stomach had been too hollow.

"Hey." Her smile was wan.

"Hey." He responded. Clearly, she felt as rotten as he did.

"I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Want some?"

"Love it." She sank into a chair and smiled. "Good pot roast, huh?"

"Must be. I had thirds." He set the mug before her and filled it with dark, hot coffee. "Cream or sugar?"

"Black. Thanks." She took a sip and smiled in satisfaction. "Mm. And he makes good coffee? I'm tellin' ya, Mister. Keep this up and I'm gonna marry you by sundown."

"I can do laundry, too," he bragged. He put the coffee pot away and joined her at the table.

She pounded her fist on the satiny oak. "That does it. Where's the parson?"

He chuckled and almost wished she was serious. "We've probably been through more in two days than most engaged people go through in two years."

"Weird, hmm? You can get to know a person pretty fast in a pressure cooker, huh? But interesting as it's been? I wouldn't recommend it."

"Me neither." He shrugged and before he could rein in his mouth, blurted, "Although, I've known people for more time . . . that I've liked less." He hoped she attributed the sudden redness in his cheeks to his newly steaming mug.

Lashes lowered, she blew across her coffee. "Me, too."

His pulse accelerated. If he was to stay in Rawston-big if-but if he did decide to stay, it would only be if she did. Getting to know her better might make it worthwhile. An hour whizzed by as they talked over their coffee. They mourned Danny. They grieved for Jen and the baby. They discussed their mutual survivor's guilt. They teared up. They shared a paper towel. And then another. They talked about Kaylee and Chaz's wedding.

Working up his courage, Justin looked at Abigail in the eye, loving the huge dimple that pushed a crevice into her right cheek and asked, "Will you go with me?"

"You mean, like a date?"

"Yeah. Like that."

"You sure? I can't promise I can dance the way I did when you first saw me, without Bob Ray trying to read me my rights."

"I'll take my chances." He angled a look at her over the top of his coffee mug.

"In that case? It's a date."

3:00 a.m.

They were still talking when Heather came in with a fussy Robbie. Abigail glanced at the clock and couldn't believe it was already so late. Where had the time gone? Selma continued to sleep down in her bed, but after all the coffee with Justin just now, she'd never be able to doze off. And at the moment, she didn't want to. "Hey, Heather," Abigail said and smiled at her new friend with affection. "Hiya, Robbie."

Robbie smashed his face into his mother's neck and squealed. "Say h.e.l.lo, stinker," Heather urged.

"No!"

Abigail tickled his foot as she walked by. "I was just going to see what flavors of ice cream Selma's got in her freezer this week. She is never, ever without. Anyone else want some?"

"I keem?" Robbie's head whipped around.

"Yep. Just for you," Abigail said and moved to the freezer.

"I will if she has any chocolate chip mint," Justin said.

"You're in luck," Abigail called over her shoulder. "She's also got some vanilla and some Moose Track stuff and some Marion Berry Swirl." She unloaded it all, got out some bowls and spoons, a couple of toppings, some bananas, and soon they were having a good old-fashioned ice cream social.

3:30 a.m.

Abigail looked up as Elsa staggered into the room and yawned.

"Did somebody say ice cream?" she asked, staring at the mess on the table.

Justin pulled a chair out for her and slid an empty bowl in her direction. "We wondered when you were going to show up."

She grinned and loaded her bowl. "My sweet tooth betrays me?"

Bob Ray stumbled through the doorway next, blinking and bleary-eyed. "Anybody else feel like they're going insane?" he asked, dazedly.

Elsa took one look at his crazy bed-head and burst out laughing. "You look insane."

Heather glanced up and laughed.