Stepping Into Sunlight (35 page)
I had hoped that he’d return to find me playing a Pilgrim mom in the play, busy with loads of activities and completely free from any effects of the crime. My life hadn’t followed that script. I still had nightmares sometimes, and I was easing back into life with tentative progress . . . two steps forward, one step back. But I had found a way to participate in the Thanksgiving play that worked for me. Satisfaction sighed through me like a deep breath as Lydia and I walked down the steps at the side of the stage. She went to stand beside Barney at the side of the gym. He put an arm around her and whispered something. She laughed and shook her head.
Another of my projects that was progressing well.
I took my seat next to Tom and he held my hand as the children jostled their way onto the stage for the production.
An hour later, pellets of frozen ice jitterbugged across the pavement outside the front windows of Jackson Elementary School. Not quite rain, not quite hail. Another example of Virginia’s moderation.
Bryan tugged at the stiff white collar of his black Pilgrim costume. “Maybe it’ll snow.”
“Probably not, sport.” Tom smiled at me over Bryan’s head. “It’s supposed to warm up, so maybe tomorrow we can toss a football around in the backyard.”
“Football!” Bryan charged him in a fake tackling move.
Tom grabbed Bryan around the waist and hefted him up over his shoulder. Muscles bulged against the pure white of his uniform—a uniform that should have made him imposing and formal. Instead, Tom’s laughter was boyish and full of mischief. He’d rarely stopped smiling since he’d arrived back home.
I joined their wild laughter. Other parents stared as they flowed past and out into the cold night.
Mrs. Pimblott maneuvered through the crush and headed our direction.
I ducked behind Tom, but she still marched straight toward us. Schoolmarm prim in a gray wool skirt and cat’s-eye glasses, she gave us a wide smile. “Bryan did a terrific job with his song. You must be very proud of him.”
I murmured agreement while Tom and Bryan continued to tussle.
“The food basket idea was inspired. And I love what you did with Bryan’s costume.”
I shrugged. “Just a little sewing.” Since the boys were continuing to roughhouse, I stepped closer to her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more responsive when Bryan was acting up last month . . .”
She pulled off her glasses and let them dangle from the cord around her neck as she leaned in. “You don’t need to apologize. Bryan explained that you were having trouble with the police.”
“What? No. I mean—” I stopped stammering to elbow Tom, who was chuckling. Since I didn’t want Bryan’s teacher watching for my face on
America’s Most Wanted
, I gave her a quick explanation. “But I’m doing better. In fact, if you still need a room mom to help the reading groups on Tuesdays, I’d love to help.”
“This little Pilgrim of ours wants to get going,” Tom said after Mrs. Pimblott scurried off to greet another family.
“Mm-hmm. I’m guessing the big Pilgrim wants to go, too.”
Tom settled Bryan back on his feet to his right, and pulled me close with his left arm. “Good call. Your menfolk are hungry.”
I giggled. “You could shoot a turkey or snare a rabbit or two.”
Tom kissed my forehead. “Or we drive home and have some ice cream to celebrate our son’s singing debut.”
“Or that.”
We laughed our way through the sleet and to the car. Driving home, we relived all the highlights of the play, assuring Bryan that his song was even better than the part where the Indian girl spilled a basket of corn and all the dancing deer slipped and fell.
“Tom?”
“Hmm?”
“I just remembered something. Can you pull into the grocery store?”
“Okay, but only one stop. Right, Bryan?”
“Yeah. We wanna go home.”
“No place like it,” Tom agreed. He pulled into the near-vacant lot and parked close to the door. “Want us to come in with you?”
“Nope. It’ll only take a second.” I slipped from the car and into the store. Up the aisle, I hurried toward the bakery counter. A stock boy dropped a can of soup with a loud crash. I startled but took a deep breath and marched forward.
Soon pastries and muffins stretched before me behind glass.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The white-haired woman behind the counter smiled at me.
I looked her in the eye and returned her smile. “I need a cake. A chocolate cake.”
S
O MANY PEOPLE HAVE
supported and encouraged me throughout my work on this book. I share my deep appreciation with all the wonderful folk at Bethany House, but particularly the stellar editors Charlene Patterson, Ann Parrish, and Karen Schurrer. Thanks as well to agent Steve Laube, and writer friends from ACFW, Mount Hermon, MCWG, Word Servants, my Book Buddies, and various critique partners, particularly Sherri Sand, Jill Nelson, Joyce Haase, and Chawna Schroeder, who dug into the complete manuscript.
Profound thanks to experts such as Rev. Randy Mortenson and Chaplain Richard Day—CAPT, CHC, USN (RET)—for their info about Navy chaplains; to the very experienced psych nurse and the gifted psychologist (who wish to remain anonymous) who offered terrific insights into group therapy and psychiatric disorders, as well as the many friends and readers who shared the details of their struggles with depression or anxiety and helped inform the story; and to Mark Mynheir for police procedural tips. Any errors in the story are not their fault. Blame my characters who sometimes sneak off to do their own thing when I’m not looking.
While my head is floating in story world, I treasure the friends in the real world who keep me rooted. St. Michael’s, Life Group, Church Ladies, and even those brief acquaintances who have practiced random acts of kindness on me. Your example makes me long to pay it forward.
My family continues to go above and beyond in their sacrifices, love, and support. Joel and Jennelle, Kaeti, Josh, Jenni, Mom, and Carl, I’m so blessed you are in my life. Ted, I stand by what I said. Every novelist would benefit from being married to you. Love to you all.
Thank you, Father God, that you can work through weak and broken people, and that your grace often leaks out through our broken places to comfort others. Thank you for the many gifts you send when we are locked in places of pain—for laughter, for compassion, for wisdom, and for hope—often sent to us in strange packages.