Carnations in January (7 page)

Further crashing came from inside the house, and Elliott backed her up the path towards the safety of the road.

“Elliott, that crack…” she whispered.

“Which one?”

Grace pointed to a huge fissure in the side of the building. “It's the same place as the one inside that I filled. I could get my hand it in before I fixed it. The floor is sloping…” Her face worked madly. “Elliott, what do I do?”

“You have something, a rental, friends, family. We go over to the flat above the shop and get the heating on for a start. Then we worry about everything else.” He led her away from the ruins of her house, to the safety of the florist's across the road.

Her fingers trembled too much to unlock the door.

“Here, let me.” He gently pried the keys from her fingers and unlocked the door. The alarm started beeping. “What's the code?”

“Five four seven one.”

He deactivated it. “There's a door at the back of the kitchen. There is also one around the side of the building if you didn't want to go through the shop. This is the key for that door.”

She looked almost blankly at him. “Oh, right. I'd wondered what that opened.”

“I can't believe you haven't explored it.” He led her into the kitchen and opened the door.

“Thought that was just the attic,” she whispered.

Elliott flicked on the light. A steep flight of stairs lead upwards. “After you.”

Grace climbed, trailing her fingers along the wall. “It's not damp.”

“A house should never be damp. Cold, maybe, but not damp.” He flicked on the light at the top of the stairs. “I renovated this place for Tilja about three years ago. Completely redid the whole attic.”

She moved over to the window, pulling the curtains. “Paper's pretty.”

He opened doors off the landing. “You have a kitchen, two bedrooms, bathroom and lounge. This is the kitchen, fitted oven, dishwasher, washer dryer, loads of cupboards and a fridge freezer.” He smiled as Grace wandered around, opening cupboards and drawers.

“I had no idea this was here. I mean, I knew there was an attic room with a bathroom, but it was always storage.”

“Tilja rented it, but the last tenant moved out over six months ago. She didn't get around to finding a new one before she got sick. Just as well really, as it means you can move straight in.”

Grace moved into the next room, a small lounge with sofa, TV and book cases. “It looks big enough to be a lounge diner, but there isn't a table.”

“The second bedroom is set up as a dining room right now, but you can always change that. The bathroom has a shower and bath and this is the bedroom.”

Grace moved over to the window. Her shoulders shook as she gazed out.

Elliott moved behind her. From up here he could see how bad the damage to the house really was. The tree had taken out three quarters of the building, and he could see it wasn't repairable, without first waiting for and then reading the surveyor's report.

She turned into him, sobbing hard.

Elliott stood there, hands by his side. He'd never known what to do when a woman cried. Awkward didn't begin to cover how he felt. Slowly he brought his hands up to hold her. His shirt grew wet under her face.

Finally, her sobs ceased, and she raised her tear stained, red, swollen face to him. “I've lost everything. Everything I owned was over there. It's gone.”

He pulled a hanky from his pocket and offered it to her. “We can fix the house, even if it's a total rebuild, it's fixable.”

She wiped her eyes. “Well, maybe I'm not.”

Curiosity filled him. “What do you mean?”

“I'm not fixable,” she whispered. Her shoulders slumped and her dark eyes were hollow and empty. “This was a mistake. Moving here, doing all this. Maybe your God is telling me to go back to my desk in Ely.”

“I thought you said you gave up your flat.”

“I'll find a new one.” She moved away.

“Wait until the surveyor looks at the house in the morning.” He paused. “And before you say something you'll regret, God did not do this to you.”

“No?” She spun around. “That storm of His destroyed my house.”

“And let me remind you where you were at the time?”

“Church…”

“Exactly—in God's house rather than yours, where you would have been if you hadn't agreed to come with me. And you could have been killed.”

She turned away, her shoulders shaking again. “I think you should leave now.”

“OK.” He stood there for a moment, guilt flooding him. “Grace, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you…”

“You haven't. I just want to be alone.”

“OK. Those groceries are on the side in the kitchen.”

“Thanks. I'll put them away.” She didn't move or look at him.

After a moment, he glanced at his watch. Her actions spoke volumes. He'd just make the evening service if he drove quickly. “Goodnight, then.”

He headed down the stairs and let himself out, locking the shop door behind him. He glanced up. Her figure was outlined against the windows, just standing there, unmoving.

Lord, I don't know what You have planned here, but look upon Grace with mercy. She needs You so very much, even if she doesn't realize it yet. Help me to help her find You
.

~*~

Grace stood in the dark as Elliott headed down the road towards his car, no doubt on his way back to church. Her gaze fell on the lights blazing from his house and the house on the other side of hers, then on the darkness between them.

How did she come back from this?

No income. She'd poured what money she had saved into restarting the florist shop and patching up the house.

No home. It lay in ruins before her eyes.

Not much of a future. She knew precious little about running a business or flower arranging and had been struggling to keep her head above water. Now she was drowning.

Perhaps it wasn't worth struggling any more. Maybe she'd just let the waves take her.

Her mobile rang and she pulled it out. “Hello.”

“Hey, sis.” Her brother's smile came over in his voice. “How're things?”

“Hi, Rick. Thought you'd be in church.”

“Been at work since the small hours of yesterday morning. We've just finished so about to grab a bite to eat on my way home and fall into bed. It's been a really long few days. But first I thought I'd check up on you and the flowers. See how the two of you are getting on.”

“You know me and flowers,” she whispered. She tugged the curtains across the window. “Can't arrange them to save my life.”

“You don't sound so good. What's up?”

Grace sank into a chair. “Sometimes your cop instincts are a pain, you know that?”

“So Faith keeps telling me. But I'd prefer brotherly instincts. I'm not always on duty, you know.” His drumming fingers echoed down the line, over the sound of the car engine. “What's up?”

“There was a really bad storm today, and a tree fell on the house.” She choked back a sob. “I'm not hurt, I wasn't in at the time, but there's a lot of damage.”

“Oh, Gracie.” His voice changed, and she could almost feel his arms coming down the phone to hug her. “Do you want me to come down? I can be there in a few hours.”

“Nothing anyone can do,” she whispered. “I'm staying above the shop tonight.”

“What will you do?”

“I don't know. I know I said I'd give this venture six months, and I'm only too aware it's not even been one yet, but maybe I should admit defeat, give up and return to Ely.”

“Grace, you hated your job here, you know that. You couldn't wait to leave. I'm sure God has a reason for this, so just allow Him time to show you.”

Wasn't she allowed to fail at anything? Everyone else could so why not her? “You sound like Elliott—the bloke who lives next door. I neither want nor need another God-loves-me lecture, Rick, because from where I'm sitting it sure seems like He hates me.”

“Grace, you know that's not true.” Rick's tone turned scolding. “Are you sure you don't want me to come down?”

“Yeah. I'll be fine. You sound exhausted, and the last thing you need after a two day shift is a four hour-drive to look at a pile of rubble.”

“Pfft. If you need me, I'll come.”

“I'll be fine, honest.”

“OK. Well, promise you'll ring if you need anything.”

“I promise. Love you. Night.” She hung up and put the phone on the table. Her new start had turned into an end before it had even begun.

She rubbed her head, the all too familiar pounding beginning, along with the flashing lights of the aura. She needed sleep; otherwise, she'd be fit for nothing in the morning.

~*~

Tuesday dawned as grey as any other day since the funeral. Grace's head pounded as she walked downstairs to open the shop. She'd spent the previous day watching numerous men in hard hats and yellow jackets, moving around the ruins of the house checking it. Trade in the florist had been brisk, people coming in to commiserate or just to gawp at the destruction. At least they felt sorry enough for her to buy flowers whilst they were there.

Elliott came over just after nine-thirty with coffee and a man in a suit, hard hat, and yellow jacket. “Grace, this is Simon Templar, the surveyor.”

Grace shook his hand. “Hi.”

“Can we talk in your office, Miss Chadwick? It's not good news I'm afraid.”

Her heart sinking to the soles of her shoes, Grace nodded. “Sure.” She led the way out the back. “How bad is it?”

“The house, what's left of it, needs to be demolished.”

“Can't you just rebuild the broken bit?”

Mr. Templar shook his head. “No, it's the foundations.”

She frowned. “I don't understand.”

Elliott looked at her. “Remember the cracks in the walls and the sloping floor?”

“Yeah.” She still couldn't believe she hadn't noticed the sloping floor.

Me. Templar continued. “The foundation is crumbling; it's not strong enough to support the weight of the house. It's falling down bit by bit, and if we don't demolish it, it will fall on its own, causing far more devastation. The tree falling on it was actually a blessing. The whole house could have come down at any time with you in it.”

Grace sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. “So, what happens now?”

“I have a crew coming this morning,” Mr. Templar said. “We need to demolish the house today.”

“But my things?” She glanced up. “Can't I at least go in and get my stuff?”

“It's too dangerous. Any slight vibration might bring the whole thing down on top of you.”

Grace wrapped her arms tightly around her middle.

“Who was Tilja insured with?” Elliott asked.

“I have no idea,” she shrugged. “All the papers are in the house. I haven't had chance to go through them yet. It's over, Elliott. I have nothing left.”

6

Elliott stood outside the house, hard hat in his hand, rucksack on his shoulder. “I only need two minutes.”

“I can't even give you that,” Templar told him.

“Look, Simon. I know where the papers are—at least where they should be. I'll be straight in and straight out.”

Joel came running out. “El, wait! You're not doing what I think you are.”

“Yes, I am.”

“After the way you treated Grace for doing the same thing?”

Elliott touched his arm. “Difference is
I
know what I'm doing.”

“Oh, really? That house is ready to fall down. It falls on your head, then what?”

Elliott winked. “It might knock some sense into me.” He donned the hard hat and ducked under the tape cordon. He raised a hand and waved as Joel called after him. He probably deserved every thought his brother had right now.

The front door stood ajar and he squeezed through. The hall and bedrooms were a total wreck. Sliding past fallen brickwork, he stepped over a branch and then clambered over the main trunk into the lounge.

The ceiling gaped and bowed above him, daylight peeking through a hole. Dust hung in the air.

Beams creaked and swayed as he shifted debris, searching quickly.

Finding the laptop, he hoped the case had protected it. Then he grabbed a few pieces from the dresser, throwing them into the rucksack along with the laptop—the horse and rider, the brass bell shaped like a lady in full Welsh costume, and a music box shaped like a weather house. Climbing back over the debris, he tugged on the desk to open it. The wall behind it moved and the floor shifted beneath his feet.

Elliott froze. Telegram prayers sped from his lips to the ears of His Lord.

The movement stopped.

He gently pried open the drawer and was relieved to see the box marked ‘important papers' still there. He tucked it into the rucksack and glanced around. His gaze fell on the picture of the Last Supper. He knew Tilja had loved that one. He reached above the fireplace and grabbed it.

As he did, the fireplace began to buckle.

Bricks began to fall towards him.

Elliott moved as fast as he could to the door, tossing the picture and rucksack over the tree before diving after it. Brick dust rose behind him, the house moved. Prayers fell from his lips as he pushed up, grabbed the things, and staggered his way to the front door.

The ceiling came down around him as he moved, hitting his arms and bouncing off the hat. His heart pounded. Would he get out in time or would this be the last stupid thing he ever did? Coughing hard, he made it to the fresh air.

Someone grabbed his arm, yanking him up the path, away from the danger zone.

“Idiot!” Joel's angry voice filled his ears. “In fact, you're the most idiotic idiot on the face of the planet whom I have the misfortune to know.”