It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (29 page)

Sam ran his hands over his still-drying hair. Somehow standing in the shower had sloughed away the fear, at least for the moment. The hot water cleared his mind, banished the cobwebs of the past week.

Helped him hold on to the fragile reality, the feeble hope.

Maddy was getting a heart. He could hardly believe it this morning when the doctor woke him from where he lay curled on the sofa and informed him of the sudden availability of a heart. They’d prepped her and taken her away before he had a chance to get his bearings.

Before he could wallow in the good-byes, the what-ifs.

He couldn’t let himself linger on the idea that a family had lost their child to give him his. Instead, he prayed over Maddy again, then kissed her and breathed out any last grip he had on his daughter.

She was safer in God’s hands.

He needed a shave, but at least he didn’t resemble a derelict now. Didn’t offend himself with his own smell. He leaned back on the vinyl waiting room sofa, shooting a glance at the television, turned to subtitles to honor the hush in the room.

Across from him, a couple waited in quiet worry, the husband pacing. Sam couldn’t watch, the movements stirring up his own restlessness.

“Coffee?”

He looked up, first at the cup, then at the woman holding it. He stayed for a moment on her beautiful brown eyes. Doe brown. Her long, dark hair was pulled back, and she wore pink scrubs with a gold cross necklace.

“You,” he said with a quick intake of his breath.

She pulled back. Frowned.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, reaching for the coffee. “Is this for me?”

“It’s black, but there are fixin’s at the bar. You looked like you needed something to occupy your hands.”

He hadn’t noticed how he’d been fisting them over and over. “Black is perfect.” He wrapped his hands around the cup, let it warm him.

The woman gestured to the chair next to him. “May I?”

He nodded and she sat beside him, leaning back to release her ponytail, run her fingers through her hair.

“Waiting is the hardest part,” he said. “It’s one thing to wait and hope for a heart, another completely to know your child is on the table, her life about to change.”

“Your daughter is getting a heart?”

He nodded. Gave a ghost of a smile.

“Have you been waiting a long time?”

“This time around, no. Two weeks. But the first time, eight months.”

“Oh, my. This is your second heart transplant? How old is your daughter?”

“Nine.”

She considered him a moment, then looked away, leaning her head back against the wall.

“How old is your child?”

“He’s nineteen.”

“So much of his life ahead of him. Heart? Lung?”

“Everything. Heart, lungs, liver, corneas . . .”

Sam stared at her, stricken. “How
 
—?”

“My son isn’t receiving a transplant. He’s a donor.” She had a smile despite her words.

His breath stilled, his body taut with the sudden urge to run. Or maybe to pull this woman into his embrace and weep with her. Only she hadn’t dissolved into a tangle of grief, just spoken it as if her son might be competing in a sporting event. “I’m so sorry.”

She folded her hands then, the first sign of her pain. “Thank you. The funny thing is, I have this strange, breathtaking feeling of pride. I raised a son who not only filled my life with joy but will now give it to others. It’s as if the grief I know I feel is being replaced by this almost-divine sense of triumph.

“I’m more proud of my son today than I was when he was a track star.” A tear dropped on her cheek, but she smiled. “I hadn’t thought about doing this until someone told me how it could save lives. His heart is going to a college student in Chicago. A musician. Hudson always did want to play an instrument. And his eyes to a woman in Seattle, a nurse. His liver is flying all the way to Boston to help an international patient with a rare disease. His lungs are staying in Minneapolis; his pancreas is headed to Arizona to help a father of three. And his kidneys are flying to California. One to LA, the other to Anaheim.” She drew in a long breath. “I’m
just waiting until it’s over; they promised me I could see him one last time, say good-bye.”

Sam had the strangest urge to hold her hand.

“Did I mention he was a track star? I have this crazy image of him running in heaven. Lining up, practicing his starts.” She looked at him. “Of course, they’re perfect.”

Her smile freed him to nod. “Spectacular.”

She said nothing then, just met his eyes, her own glistening.

“Sam Newton,” he said quietly.

“Olivia Peterson.”

He wasn’t sure why he reached out, took her hand. Or where the words came from, but they felt solid and right. “You’re not alone.”

She startled, then wrapped her fingers around his grip. “Neither are you, Sam Newton.”

M
ETHODICALLY, OVER THE COURSE
of the week, Eden had slowly turned her apartment over. Searching in the bedroom
 
—and while she was at it, cleaning out her closet of all Owen’s old hockey gear, the skates and workout wear and pads and gloves. Then she’d moved to the living room, unearthed a stack of hockey magazines along with a few
Greatest Hockey Moments
DVDs. He’d also left his water bottle under the coffee table.

In the kitchen, she emptied out the protein shake containers, gathered all the powdered drink packets. These she put together in a box, along with a knee brace, an Ace bandage, and a gnarled tube of Bengay she found in the bathroom.

She’d called Owen three times, but he hadn’t answered. The last time she saw him, he’d been standing guard in the hallway
outside Jace’s room, a ten-year-old-boy expression on his face. Like he knew he’d been caught. A sort of sad desperation that made her want to drive over to his apartment, pound on his door.

But no. Because she had to let him go. Had to let both of them go. Owen. Jace. She couldn’t show up in their lives like a fan anymore.

If they wanted her, maybe they would show up on
her
doorstep. For now, she could watch their highlights on channel 9. Or occasionally catch the games live, although maybe she’d give those tickets away too.

Because why bother? Nothing she did would really change lives. Really matter. Including those stories locked in her notebook. So what that it was lost? She kept trying to tell herself not to care, not to upend the apartment in search of it.

Or maybe her search had more to do with the fact that she had no idea what she might do from here. With the space before her that echoed with the sound of defeat. Maybe it was time to go home, start rebuilding the resort with Casper and Darek.

Still, the inexplicable urge to find her notebook drove her to empty even the coat closet, her last hope. Maybe she’d dropped it out of her messenger bag. She had the closet torn apart, her parka, her wool coat, her summer slicker, her trench coat, her ski jacket
 
—all lying on the floor in her living room. And beside them, her tall black boots, her UGGs, her hiking boots, her running shoes, her cowboy boots
 
—when was the last time she’d worn those?

She stared at the empty closet, at the pile of coats.

Then, suddenly, she picked up her grimy white parka. Grabbing her keys, she marched outside to the Dumpster and threw the parka in. Dropped the top, watched it shudder. Stood there shivering, tears burning her eyes. Stupid coat, stupid hope . . .

The UGGs would go next. After the snow melted.

She was turning to head back inside when her gaze fell on the man standing by her security entrance. Tall, with a lazy grin. He wore a leather jacket, dress pants. And he looked at her with one eyebrow raised, as if humored.

Jace.

Just seeing him hurt. From his black stocking cap, to that now-close-clipped beard, to his broad shoulders, strong legs, dress shoes
 
—it all sent a spear of pain through her.

No matter what had possessed him to land on her doorstep, she refused to crumble. She could play through the pain. Owen had taught her that.

She still had her dignity if nothing else.

“You look like a Russian thug in that hat.” She paused at the door, her arms curling around herself against the cold. “What are you doing here?”

His smile seemed undaunted. “We need to talk.”

“Fine. Talk.”

He looked sheepish now, telling her that her tone had stung him. “You didn’t write an article about my migraines, did you?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“I’m such a jerk.”

“Yeah, actually, you are.” She pushed past him, toward the door, but he stuck out his hand to stop her. “Move.”

“Not yet. Please let me apologize, tell you how sorry I am for hurting you.”

His words prickled the back of her throat. “I forgive you. Now please move.”

He shook his head. “No. We have someplace to be, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Listen, if you want to be friends or something, sure. Whatever. But I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He stepped in front of her when she tried to move, and she ran into a wall of muscle. Wow, and he still smelled good. Unfair. “Aren’t you supposed to be at home resting?”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re in my way.” She refused to look up, into those hypnotic blue eyes, or she just might be lost. “Please
 
—”

His voice softened. “I’m not moving, Eden. Call me a goon or a bully
 
—”

“I’m not calling you any of those things, Jace. I just need you to move and let me walk out of your life. Let me go back to the sidelines. I’m good there. I’m even happy there. I don’t mind, I promise.”

“Oh, Eden. When will you figure out that it’s my turn to cheer for you?” He lifted his hand as if to touch her, then let it fall. “Open the door, get changed, and please, come with me.”

It was how he said it, how he stepped aside, a vulnerability in his expression, that furrowed her heart, made her let him into her building, her apartment.

“What happened in here?” he asked at the tumble of clothing, the boxes of Owen’s hockey gear.

“I lost something.” She walked over to a stack of books, moved them off the sofa to the floor. “Here. You can sit here, and don’t move.”

He lowered himself to the sofa, moving a bit gingerly. She wanted to help him, but her heart simply couldn’t manage it.

“I’ll wait here while you change clothes.”

Apparently he was serious.

“What am I wearing?”

“A black dress. And your black boots. Something somber.”

What? She swallowed, locked her bedroom door, and found a knit black dress in the back of her closet. She added leggings and came out with her hair up, a bit of makeup on. Not that she was trying or anything, but
 
—

Jace made an appreciative sound, and her heart did stupid, crazy things.

“I still don’t know why you’re here, Jace.” She used her annoyed voice, but it didn’t seem to faze him as he walked over to her.

“Now the boots. And grab a jacket. There seems to be a collection here on the floor to choose from.”

She slipped into the boots and grabbed her wool coat, a scarf. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” He held open the door, and she followed him downstairs, outside, and to his GT-R. The car smelled freshly cleaned. They pulled out and down to Hennepin Avenue.

She rode with her hands on her lap. Clasped. “Isn’t the team on the road this week?”

“Mmm-hmm. A ten-day stretch
 
—six games, three cities.”

No wonder Owen hadn’t called. She’d left a few messages, but she didn’t want him to think she was holding on too tight. And she’d even congratulated herself for missing the last game. See, she could let go.

“What do you mean you can let go?”

Oh, she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Just that . . . I’m not going to watch his games. I can’t bear to see Owen on the ice, knowing he could get hurt.”

He went strangely quiet beside her. Then he slipped his hand over hers. She stared at his hand, so strong, tender, and had the strangest urge to cry. “What don’t I know, Jace? Is it Owen?”

He nodded.

Oh, shoot. She didn’t want to care, didn’t
 
—

“He’s not on the team anymore, Eden. He left town. I thought . . . I thought he’d call you.”

“What are you talking about? He didn’t leave town. He would have called
 
—”

“He left, Eden. Or at least he said he was going to. He told me to give you these.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out Owen’s Charger keys. Then he dropped them in her open palm.

She stared at the keys.

“He left?” Silly, stupid tears edged her eyes. That explained why he hadn’t answered his cell. She glanced at Jace, and he met her eyes ever so briefly. The compassion in them could tear her asunder, so she looked away.

“Why would he do that?” But she already knew. Because he had to figure out on his own that God was his Savior. Not hockey. Not his family. Not even Eden.

She closed her hand around the keys. “Where are we going?”

They’d turned onto the highway toward St. Paul. “To visit a friend.”

For a Saturday in February, the sky was a bright, glorious blue, the cirrus clouds sparse in the sunshine. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. No memory loss.”

Oh. She didn’t want to ask if he remembered her sitting at his bedside.

He reached down, turned on the radio. Michael Bublé hummed over the speakers.

Jace started to sing quietly. “‘You think you’ve seen the sun, but you ain’t seen it shine.’”

He pulled off, toward Frogtown, and she recognized the
neighborhood even before he stopped in front of a church. The lot was packed. She got out, watching young people file in. On a Saturday?

He came around the car and extended his arm.

Okay, she’d play along. Maybe it was some sort of Saturday worship.

But when she spied the picture in the foyer, she got it. She stood in front of the poster-size print, taken in by the smile, the twinkle in the eyes of Myron Hudson Peterson. Track star, evangelist. Beloved son and friend. Handsome, with dark-blond hair, he leaned into his picture like he was leaning into life.

Or eternity.

Eden pressed a hand against her mouth, the pain fresh in her chest. “I still can’t believe he didn’t make it.”

“He did make it, Eden. He made it all the way to heaven,” Jace said quietly. He put his hand on her back and ushered her inside. They found a place near the back, since the church was packed. She recognized Matt Conners when he got up to lead the first hymn, “Amazing Grace.”

Jace stood, his voice ringing out, something new in it she didn’t recognize. Stronger. Or maybe just truer.

When they sat, he ran his arm along the back of the pew, tucking her close to him.

She didn’t move away. Apparently, in this moment, they belonged together.

Matt shared some thoughts from the pulpit, but Eden barely heard them. Friends rose, gave accounts of Hudson, who he was. A friend who’d been in track with him told the story of his buddy who ran every race as if it might be the last.

And then Olivia.

She wore a black dress, white pearls, beautiful in their simplicity, her hair pulled back, her face stoic.

Jace took Eden’s hand, wove his fingers through hers. She let him and even hung on.

Olivia looked out across the crowd. “We wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for two kind souls who decided that they couldn’t let my son die alone.”

Jace squeezed her hand.

“One of them penned an amazing story about my son. I’d like to read it for you today.”

Eden froze. She glanced at Jace, and he leaned down to her ear. “I added just a couple details.”

Olivia pulled out the notebook
 
—Eden’s notebook
 
—and began to read.

“He saw the unseen, and because he did, he saved a life.

“Alena Tippen disembarked from the bus at midnight, weary after her shift at a nearby diner. She didn’t see the man behind her, didn’t realize he’d invaded her shadow until he looped an arm around her neck. He dragged her to a nearby alley, and it might have ended right there for her had Hudson not heard her cries, muffled by the snow falling on that icy night.

“Hudson wasn’t big or even particularly strong, but he was fast. Champion fast. And that night, he was out delivering blankets and sandwiches to the homeless in
Frogtown, St. Paul, something he did often for Hope Community Center.

“He heard Alena’s screams and started running. His arrival was enough to stop the attack, and her assailant fled. But he still had her purse, and Hudson had his speed. He took off after the attacker, and the details from there turned dark.

“Four hours later, a caller reported a John Doe, bleeding, unconscious, and hypothermic in a nearby park.

“Hudson, the man who saw the invisible, had become invisible.

“Some might wonder how Hudson became such a hero. To the average eye, his past might be considered unremarkable. The kind of life easily forgotten.

“Myron Hudson Peterson was born to Olivia and Myron Peterson in March of 1994. A soldier who perished while in service, Myron Peterson never saw his son, but he left a legacy of honor that Hudson strove to live up to. Named for his father and for Hudson Taylor, because his parents prayed for a child with a heart for evangelism, at an early age Hudson proved this hope by working in youth outreach at his local church. As a high schooler, he had the heart of a champion, excelling as a sprinter and helping lead his team to fifth place in the state track meet as a sophomore. He continued to live the legacy of his father as he volunteered at Hope Community Center, tutoring and assisting with the after-school athletic program. Matt Conners, the director of the community center, said that Hudson had aspirations to
begin a track program and instill in other young people the heart of a champion.