Authors: Brenda Minton
“No, but the niece's house is going to be on the Museum District Mother's Day tour this year. They're both really excited about that.”
Gray tipped the woman for the information and handed her his business card. “Would you call me the next time she comes in? It's important that we speak to her.”
The waitress turned the bill over in her hand and gave him an appreciative nod.
Back in the car, Gray started the engine and cruised slowly through the neighborhood where the car-club president said he'd seen the woman's vehicle. Unfortunately, the fading daylight quickly made it too dark for a search. Besides, it was probably sheltered in a garage.
Despite the disappointment of learning neither the name of the doll's purchaser nor the location of her car and thus her house, Ruthie could hardly contain her enthusiasm. “If I had decent phone reception, I'd look up the house tour on Google right now. Maybe the niece's address is on the website.”
“Maybe later,” Gray said. “I've got to drop you off at home, then take Pop to church.”
She might be pushing too hard, but she had to ask, “Will you be staying for the vigil? It would be nice if you could be there for Sobo.”
He kept his gaze on the road, and for a moment only the twitch of the muscle in his jaw indicated he had heard her.
It may have been a stupid question, she conceded. If he no longer believed in God, why would he think being there could do anything to help his grandmother? She tried another tactic.
“For Pop, then. It would mean a lot to him if you went inside and sat with him.” She didn't even ask him to pray. Just sit.
This time, he met her gaze, his brown eyes as serious as she'd ever seen them. “I'll be back to pick him up after the praying is over.”
Ruthie's heart sank. He might not stick around for the vigil tonight, but what he didn't know was that the praying would never be over. Not Pop's. Certainly not hers.
If prayers were weapons, she'd aim hers at him until the high-vaulted barriers he'd erected around himself four years ago finally came down.
* * *
Gray wished he could have powered past the resistance that held him back from the prayer meeting. Ruthie was right that Pop needed his loved ones around him while they pooled their love and prayers toward Sobo's healing. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. If duty toward family hadn't been so firmly instilled in him, Gray would have just pulled up to the front of the church, let Pop out and driven off. But he couldn't do that. Instead, he pulled into the parking lot and walked with him to the front of the church.
His grandfather's normally rugged complexion seemed to have faded over the past week. Although Pop had floated a test balloon and asked if he would stay for the service tonight, there had been no pressure in his question. But his expression told him how strongly he wanted him there. As much as he loved and respected his grandfather, he just couldn't do it. Couldn't be a hypocrite. Couldn't lie and pretend to believe in the prayers that Pop found comfort in.
They were climbing the steps to the portico when one of the heavy front doors eased open and Ruthie leaned out, her red hair draping like a fine silk curtain. “Good, you're here,” she said to Pop, but her eyes remained fixed on Gray. “We saved you a seat up front.”
Pop kissed her and mumbled something that sounded like “talk some sense into the boy.” He went inside and shut the door behind him.
Ruthie pulled the heavy green sweater she wore around herself and leaned against the white porch column. “I'm sorry if I came across a little pushy this afternoon. I was hoping you would come for Pop, even if not for yourself. But you have your reasons, and I respect that.” She glanced down at her fingernail and plucked at it with her thumb. “Whatever the cause, something happened that frightened you away from the church.”
Her voice grew softer, and he could almost hear the words that remained unspoken:
and me.
It tore him up every time he thought of how much he had hurt her.
“I'm not afraid of the church.”
Ruthie was filling in the blanks as well as she knew how. He owed her an explanation. He needed to justifyâto her as well as to himselfâwhat he had done.
She stepped forward, reached for his hand, then seemed to think better of it and let her arm drop to her side. “Then explain it to me. Tell me what's bothering you.”
Her tone was as kind as when she had soothed Cali after the injury. Soft. Caring. Infinitely patient.
She tugged the knitted sleeves down to cover her hands and pressed her elbows to her sides.
“Go inside,” he said just as gently. “You're cold.”
She looked as chilled as he sometimes felt inside. He had heard that when people get frostbite, the thawing of the blackened, shriveled skin hurt more than the actual freezing. All the more reason to stay frozen where he was. If it hurt this bad now, what might his blackened, shriveled heart feel like if he let the warmth back in? Either her warmth or God's.
“I'd rather stay out here with you.” She gazed at him, her eyes questioning whether he'd stay here with her or send her back to the others...and to the God he no longer believed in.
He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. The temptation to leave his arms around her hit him hard. It was only with great willpower that he managed to step away.
“To talk me into going inside with you?” He hadn't meant to sound so cynical. It was as if that brief moment of physical closeness had pried open a long-shut door to something inside that he felt shouldn't be examined. Because if he did examine it, he'd start questioning whether he'd done the right thing after all.
Ruthie blinked at the harshness of his tone but pretended she hadn't noticed. He hoped she didn't think it was aimed at her. Even though she reminded him of everything he used to believe and had since given up, he held no grudge against her.
“To hear what caused you to lose your faith.” She paused, and her thoughts seemed to drift to the past. “Besides your overwhelming need to protect others, loyalty is one of your greatest virtues. Once you've committed to someone or something, you don't turn your back on them. Whatever it was, it must have been big to cause you to shut God out.”
And to shut her out. She was right. It had been hard. Almost as hard as it would have been to try to play the role of someone who still believed...in both God and the possibility of a relationship with her. Neither was a satisfactory solution as far as he was concerned, but shutting them out was more honest than faking a faith he no longer possessed.
From within the church, an organ started to play the opening music. Though no one sang the words, he heard them in his head.
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me.
He had known the day would come when he would have to pull out those terrible memories and go over them with her. But not today. It wasn't something he could tell her in a sentence or two. If she asked questions, which he was certain would happen, he didn't know if he'd have the answers. “It's a long story. Too long to go into here.”
Come home! Come home! Ye who are weary, come home!
“You should go inside,” he said. “We'll talk later.”
Ruthie tilted her head, her expression serious. “You'll tell me everything? Even if it hurts me?” She slowly let out her breath. “I'd rather know the truth than keep wondering.”
Wordlessly, he nodded his promise to tell her all that she wanted to know. Even if it hurt her...even if it hurt him. He owed her that much. He hadn't been ready to explain it in the letter, or even after he had returned home. It wasn't fair to continue to keep her in the dark.
He had locked away the memory of that fateful day, unwilling to examine the ugliness of what had happened...unwilling to ponder the what-ifs, because examining the event under a microscope wouldn't bring anyone back. Wouldn't make a tragic situation right. But if opening the door to that memory could somehow make her feel better about the decision he had thrust upon her, then it would be worth the pain of walking through it again so she could see what had made his heart turn cold.
“We'll talk,” he promised. “But now you should go inside.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she shrugged off his jacket, turning her cheek toward the collar as it slid off her shoulders. She returned it to him, still warm from her body, and slowly pulled open the door. Then she stepped inside and paused in the threshold, her gaze trapping his as she held the door open behind her...a clear invitation to follow.
Come home. Come home...
She turned to face him again. “Even though you rejected God,” she said quietly, “He will never turn His back on you.”
With that, they parted ways. Ruthie let the door ease closed behind her, all the while looking over her shoulder as if hoping he would change his mind and follow her.
He watched until the final click of the latch echoed into the night. Then he started back down the stairs he had walked up with Pop.
At the bottom, he turned and looked back at the familiar building, driven by an overwhelming urge he could not explain. An urge to reach for something he couldn't express, to ask for understanding with an unanswerable question, to replace the pain and turmoil he had experienced ever since Afghanistan with the peace and acceptance that were so openly visible in Sobo, Pop and especially Ruthie. He imagined her holding hands with Pop, the two of them gathering strength from each other and God, and wished he could draw on that strength. Wished he hadn't been disappointed in God and that he still carried the confidence that showed in Ruthie and the others in the church...confidence that their prayers would be answered.
The song had finished, but the refrain echoed in his heart.
Come home.
Automatically, as if pulled by tattered threads of the past that still clung to his heart, he placed one foot on the bottom step and slowly lifted his weight up to scale the first of the four steps. Four years. Four blocks of concrete and brick that separated him from God and Ruthie.
One step away from the top, he paused and considered what would be fixed by his going inside to pray with his loved ones. Would it make Sobo better? A strangled sound escaped his throat. It hadn't helped Jakey Rayner when they had needed God most. Gray might be cold inside, but Rayner was even colder, four years in the ground. His had certainly been a misplaced faith.
Gray looked away from the church, unable to turn to a God he didn't believe existed. And in the end, he walked away.
Chapter Eight
A
couple of days later, Ruthie stood in the Connecting Threads shop, trying to get Savannah to accept payment for fixing the loose band on Sobo's hat. Unfortunately, her friend refused to accept the cash Ruthie thrust upon her and kept diverting the subject back to Gray's conspicuous absence from the prayer vigil.
“Pastor John saw him leave church the other night. He was hoping Gray would stay for prayer time. I think he wanted to know why he didn't hang around.”
There had been four years of nonattendance on Gray's part, so Pastor John clearly knew, even without Sobo and Pop saying so, that something had been keeping him from church. Like her, he had hoped Gray had experienced a change of heart. The pastor's hope had been her own. “What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I didn't know.”
She pressed her lips together, then forced herself not to judge his decision. Gray had promised he would tell her what had made him turn away. Now she just had to trust that he would keep his promise and that God would give her the heart to hear Gray's explanation and the right words to respond. “Well, despite his absence, the prayers are making a difference,” she assured her friend. “Sobo has made significant progress and should be able to go home soon.”
When they had heard the good news at the hospital last night, Gray had worried about the stress it might cause his grandmother if she returned home and noticed the doll was missing. They both agreed they needed to step up their efforts to find it.
Savannah dragged the dress form from the entry of her shop to the small raised platform where brides, prom goers and other customers modeled their purchases and the alterations she provided for them. “Time for a new fitting,” she said. “I changed out the zipper for pearl buttons, and I want to see if they line up properly.”
Ruthie stuffed the cash back into her pocket and decided she would find another way to pay Savannah for the hat repairs. “Sorry, not today.” When the wannabe bridal designer started to persist, she added, “I'm just not in the mood. Why don't you have Paisley or Nikki model it for you?”
“Come on. You're the closest to my size. Besides, Paisley's getting ready for the lunch crowd, and there's only one customer in your area.”
Closest to her size only if she padded the top and hips. “Exactly,” she said, focusing on the lone customer. “And I need to wait on her.”
“She's browsing,” Savannah countered. “Let her shop in peace. If she wants to buy something while you're all trussed up, I'll wait on her.”
After a bit more back-and-forth, she agreed, but only on the condition Savannah would take payment for the hat without complaining. The perky blonde plucked the bills from her hand and stuffed them into her sewing machine drawer. Now Ruthie was her hostage for the fifteen or twenty minutes it would take Savannah to ooh and aah over her own creation.
She slipped into the changing booth and came out feeling like a princess in a Disney movie. She ran a hand down the front of the dress and reveled in the luxurious feel of the fabric. “How long have you been working on this?”
“Since I was fourteen and learned to sew my first seam in home ec class.”
Ruthie turned her back to Savannah and listened to the history of the dress while her friend buttoned the hundred or more tiny pearls from neck to hip. Savannah had started with a basic A-line dress, and as her skills grew, so had the details, embellishments and alterations on the garment. And as Savannah had grown curves, she had let out seams and added strategic and artistically designed inserts to accommodate her lush figure. Some brides might consider the dress to be a tiny bit overdone, but the layers of fabric and thoughtful attention to neckline, sleeves and even parts that weren't seen reflected the depth, creativity and multilayered personality of the future bride.
“When will you know the dress is finished?” Ruthie asked.
Savannah laughed. “When I meet the man who's smart enough to ask me to marry him.” She eyed her carefully, taking in her slim figure with an experienced designer's eye. “Let me make a wedding dress for you. I'll start puttering with it in my spare time, and by the time you need it, it will be ready.”
The last time Savannah had made that offer, Ruthie had been engaged to Gray. They'd gotten only as far as preliminary sketches of the dress when Ruthie received the breakup letter. The design her friend had come up with, however, had been the stuff of fairy tales. Unfortunately, her relationship with Gray had not ended with a fairy-tale wedding. “That's not necessary, but thank you for the sweet thought.”
“If it was necessary, it wouldn't be a gift. I'll just take your measurements after you slip out of the gown. Then you can tell me what kind of fabrics and styles you like.”
Ruthie shook her head at her friend's persistence. “I'll have middle-age spread by the time I'm ready to use it, so you may as well wait.”
Though she joked it off, she yearned for her own wedding and her own fairy-princess bridal gown. Most of all, she yearned for a bridegroom who would look at her with such love and affection that she would turn into a sentimental puddle right there before the altar. A groom with nearly black hair and kind brown eyes who saw all her secrets and loved her anyway.
The bell over the door jangled to announce the arrival of another customer.
She needed to get out of this dress and back to work, but first she wanted to finish the little fantasy that played out in her head. She turned back to the mirror and imagined herself with a bouquet of anemones of various colors. Daisy, who loved all things floral and had even chosen her own nickname, had told her the anemone stood for faith and belief.
Beside her would be a tall, handsome groom who was strong in everything he did. A man who unflinchingly adhered to his values, revered God and committed for a lifetime to her and the children they would raise together.
As if her thoughts had morphed into flesh, Gray appeared beside her in the mirror. Instead of a tux, he wore a dark suit that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. And even though she stood on the raised platform, he stood a couple of inches taller. Gray stared back at her in the mirror as if he had just read all of the silly thoughts that had played out in her imagination. His expression flickered between curiosity, amusement and nervous uncertainty.
Awkward. The word didn't begin to describe how she felt right now. It was worse than being caught as a teenager dancing on the bed and singing into a hairbrush.
Self-conscious about having traveled to that fondly wished-for wedding scenario, she turned and stepped off the platform.
Gray came forward and lifted a supportive arm as she descended. After she was safely back on the worn hardwood floor, he stepped back and slanted an inquisitive gaze at her. His eyes raked over the incriminating layers of white. Did he think she'd recently gotten engaged? And if so, how did he feel about that?
A foolish part of her hoped he was upset. Maybe even kicking himself for letting her go. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then clamped it closed and silently waited her out.
“I, um...”
Ever the matchmaker, Savannah piped up. “Doesn't she make a beautiful bride?”
Gray granted her a thin smile, his only response, then turned back to Ruthie.
“This is Savannah's dress. She asked me to model it for her so she could check the fit.”
Ruthie caught his gaze flicker almost imperceptibly between her and her friend, and a hint of incredulity dusted his features. Okay, so Savannah wasn't officially engaged yet, either. Not even dating, in fact. She could understand how it might raise an eyebrow that her friend was already working on a dress.
“I found the house,” he said, changing the subject and removing the need for further explanation about the dress. “It's the only one described on the website as having an Asian influence in the decor. I drove past there on the way over, and there's a garage behind the house. Probably with an old Mazda Coupe parked inside.”
“You didn't stop?”
He was as anxious as she to get Sobo's doll back, yet he'd driven right past the house where he knew it might be? That didn't make sense.
“I thought the lady might be more receptive to opening the door if you went along, especially since the prowler hasn't been caught yet. A man by himself might raise suspicion.”
Savannah emitted a tiny hiccup of a laugh. “In that suit, she's more likely to mistake you for an insurance salesman.”
Ruthie eased past him toward the shop entrance. “Sure. Let me get my purse.”
Gray stopped her with a hand to her upper arm. His strong fingers were gentle, but they crushed the white lace sleeves. “Perhaps you should change rather than go looking like somebody's bride.”
* * *
On their way to the house on Monument Avenue, Gray couldn't stop thinking about Ruthie in that dress. Sure, it sagged a little in some areas, but the image she'd branded onto his mind had been that of a willowy red-haired waif who could bring a man to his knees merely by peeking at him through those ridiculously long eyelashes.
It had been almost like a glimpse into the pastâof what might have been. Had circumstances been different, he might have waited near the altar of the church he'd fled two nights ago, Rayner standing beside him all decked out in his best man getup, and watched the most beautiful woman in the world walk down the aisle toward him. And he would have been saying “I do” and kissing the bride instead of “I don't” and wishing for kisses that would never come.
Distracted, he forgot to watch for the house number until Ruthie shot forward in the passenger seat and pointed to a stately house on the corner. “Is that it?”
He slowed in time to see that the number matched, then pulled into a parking spot in front of the neighboring house. “How did you know?”
She lifted a shoulder. “The sculpted shrubs, meditation pool and rock garden gave it away.”
They got out of the car, and Gray took a moment to study the brick home. It did have an Asian flair to its simple landscape. As they approached the house, more telltale signs hinted that they'd reached the right one: a bird bath with a ceramic water lily in the center, a wind chime with Japanese characters in place of the more typical metal tubing and a flower box with an upward-pointing roof to shade the new spring blossoms.
He pressed the doorbell, and the melodic sound carried outside. A fluffy white dog bounced near the narrow curtained window beside the door and yapped to announce their arrival.
“Did you bring a picture of Sobo?” Ruthie asked.
He shook his head, then pushed his hair back in place. “Why would I do that?”
“Seeing a person's face helps strangers identify with them. If the customer sees the doll as being returned to a likable person, she might be more willing to sell it back to us. Besides, who could look at Sobo's sweet smile and not like her?”
The inner door opened, and a pretty fiftysomething woman peered at them through the storm door. She was every bit as elegant as the others had described her, with chin-length brown hair falling in soft waves around her face and smooth skin that made her appear younger than her years. Her voice was so soft she could barely be heard over the dog's barking.
“Yes?”
Gray hoped the website had listed the name of the house's owner correctly. If he got it wrong, he might come across as rather shady. “Are you Amaya Kagawa?” At her subtle nod, he felt encouraged. “I'm Gray Bristow, and this isâ” Here he went again. That awkward introduction. “âmy friend Ruthie Chandler. We're here to ask if youâ”
“I don't want to buy. Thank you very much.” The woman dipped her head in a slight bow and started to push the door closed.
Ruthie eased past him. “Wait, Mrs. Kagawa! I own Gleanings, the shop in Carytown where you bought the Japanese doll. The doll in the red silk dress.”
The door opened again. This time, the customer gently nudged the dog back with her foot and stepped outside. She glanced toward the sidewalk as if to check whether anyone else was in the area, leading Gray to wonder if she suspected they might have henchmen lurking nearby. Perhaps he'd better let Ruthie do the talking.
“The doll belongs to his grandmother.” Ruthie went on to explain how Pop had mistakenly brought a box of Sobo's and his personal belongings to the store to be sold. She even described Sobo's troubles with her broken hip and subsequent hospitalization, not details he would have thought to share but which seemed to garner some sympathy from Mrs. Kagawa. “It's the only thing she has left from her childhood. So we were wondering if you would sell the doll back to us. We'll give you double what you paid for it.”
He suspected Mrs. Kagawa might be swayed by sympathy for Sobo's plight, but judging from this house and its location on Richmond's historic Monument Avenue, money was probably not the best motivator for her.
“I'm so sorry. It is a gift for my
oba.
My aunt. Her birthday party is in two Saturdays, and I know the doll is the only thing she would want.”
Gray fisted his hands. They were this close. He and Ruthie had searched relentlessly to find the doll, and now they couldn't just walk away without it. “What if we buy you another one?” he suggested. “An even nicer doll that's brand-new. I can have it shipped to you overnight so you'll receive it in plenty of time for the party.”
She reached for the doorknob, and from inside, the dog resumed its yapping. “I wish I could help you.”
He decided now was the time to pull out the big guns, and he named a figure that even the uppermost crust of the ritziest Monument Avenue residents would consider long and hard. But Mrs. Kagawa apologetically shook her head.
Ruthie looked at him as if to ask whether he had any other ideas up his sleeve.