Beyond The Storm Part 13

"I'm so sorry," Abigail whispered as they stood in the middle of his street, peering at the house lightened only by the flashlight's beam and the moon's glow.

For long moments, they drank in the destruction, their hearts breaking, their minds processing, their souls crying out for justice. In a low voice, he pointed out the plans he'd had for the home; to give the worst house on the block a face-lift, flip it, and put the money toward his retirement and another investment. All that hard, after-hours work, lifted into the air and tossed into the trash. Windows were blown out and the sound of water running told the only story they needed to know about where Justin would be staying tonight. This week. Indefinitely.

As they worked their way toward the front lawn, a dark missile came streaking out of the ruins and had Abigail squealing and her heart speeding.

The growling shadow stopped at Justin's voice, just short of attacking. "Rawhide?"

It was a dog? Abigail peered down at the now leaping ma.s.s of muscle.

"Down, boy!" The dog had no intention of obeying and leapt into Justin's arms and bathed his face in a slew of frenzied kisses. Justin's laughter rang out. "Easy there, buddy." Rawhide whimpered and wriggled and groaned long, deep-throated cries that spoke of the trauma he'd just endured. His tail, like Indiana Jones's whip, flailed, beating both Justin and Abigail in unmitigated joy.

While man and dog held a scratching, wagging, licking, crooning love fest, Abigail dug out her phone and called Selma. As luck would have it, she was already in the neighborhood, and if Abigail looked north and west, she'd probably see her headlights.

Within minutes of hanging up, Selma was able to park at the end of the block and shout for them to come on home. They answered her with relieved shouts of their own and started walking. As if he spoke English, Rawhide bolted toward the sound of Selma's voice and leaped into her car. "Why, h.e.l.lo there, Mr. Dog." They could hear Selma's chirpy laughter echo down the street. Rawhide scrambled into the front seat and perched his front paws on the steering wheel, clearly eager to be on his way.

"How does it look, honey?" Selma asked at their approach.

"The house is still standing," Abigail told her, "but it's uninhabitable."

Selma tsked. "That's okay. Justin, I have a futon in my den with your name on it. I love dogs, so your guy here will be a welcome addition to the party. Get in, you two. It's time to go home."

PART THREE.

BEYOND THE STORM.

The groans of earth shall be surpa.s.sed by the songs of heaven, and the woes of time.

shall be swallowed up in the hallelujahs of eternity.

-C. H. Spurgeon.

16.

Abigail slept fitfully and woke to the beginnings of daylight peeking in through the high bas.e.m.e.nt bedroom windows. She blinked around the room and tried to orient herself as she surfaced. Why . . . was she at Selma's? Oh. Right. Because she was homeless. The heaviness that sleep had temporarily lifted came cras.h.i.+ng back. Normally, daylight was welcome in her room, nudging her eyes open and chasing shadows away. But today, it brought with it dread. How would she cope with what she saw in the unforgiving light of day?

Rolling on her side, she could see the alarm clock. 5:50 a.m. After last night's hot shower, she'd had two-and-a-half hours of sleep. She needed many hours more, but there was still so much adrenaline zinging through her system, she knew it would be futile to lie here, trying to doze off.

Upstairs, she could hear the sounds of footsteps and m.u.f.fled voices. A toilet flushed and the water rushed through the pipes. The faint smell of bacon and coffee wafted into her room.

Selma's kitchen had been mustard and avocado for so long the color scheme was nearly back in vogue. Her appliances were all the same ones Clyde had installed when he'd built the place-Westinghouse, harvest gold. And though the refrigerator would abruptly growl to life like a ravenous lion, roaring and groaning every half hour, n.o.body could convince Selma to replace it. She harbored a similar affection for the thras.h.i.+ng, clanking dishwasher and the buzz saw of a disposal.

The plank floors were warped and worn and squeaked here and there, and the cabinets were much the same. Clyde had built the large open room to feature an oak table that would seat his entire brood when all the leaves were in. It was a room that invited one to come and linger over a cookie and a cup of tea. It was a room that harbored laughter and tears and more than a few secrets whispered between siblings. And it was a room where people could come and be fed, both body and soul.

There were people seated at the kitchen table as Abigail rounded the corner into the room. Guadalupe, she recognized. And her teenaged daughter, Elsa. And . . . what on earth? Her eyes widened in surprise. The stripper from Kaylee's bachelorette party?

"Coffee?" Selma held up a pot.

"Yes, please." Abigail shuffled over to the table and dropped into a chair.

"You haven't met Bob Ray Lathrop yet, honey. Bob Ray, this is my niece, Abigail. Abigail, Bob Ray."

Ah. Up close and in person. "Hi," Abigail took the mug from Selma and grinned at Bob Ray's sheepish expression. Clearly, he remembered her from the other night. "How do you know my aunt?"

Bob Ray cleared his throat. "Her son and my dad were best friends." A pretty young woman toting a toddler on her hip came into the room as he was talking and kissed him on the cheek. He looked at her with adoration and lifted his arms to take the little boy. So. Bob Ray Lathrop was a family man? How . . . strange. She smiled at Heather as Selma made introductions.

"So you and Selma have known each other for a long time." Abigail looked back to Bob Ray.

"All my life."

"Which of Selma's sons was your dad's friend?"

"Paul."

"Oh."

Heather looked back and forth between them, clearly trying to decipher the meaning behind the loaded "Oh." Before Abigail could explain, Justin stumbled into the room, wrapped in one of Selma's crazy bathrobes, his hair standing on end, his jaw dark with stubble. He was adorable. Just the sight of him lifted her mood and had an involuntary grin tugging at her lips.

"Coffee," he croaked and dropped into a chair next to Abigail. She slid her mug into his hand and he drank deeply. "More." Grin blooming, Abigail stood and grabbed the pot and another mug for herself.

Guadalupe and Selma began loading the table with plates of bacon and scrambled eggs. A platter of b.u.t.tered toast had stayed warm in the oven and there were pots of jam on the table. Hash browns laced with red onion and a bottle of ketchup followed.

Selma urged everyone to hold hands. Abigail took Bob Ray's and Justin's hands, and they all bowed their heads. "Father G.o.d, how we thank You for sparing us and this home. Thank you for bringing us all together this morning. Thank you for Your tender mercies. You are sovereign, Lord. You are wonderful. We love You and trust You. Please, Lord, be with those who are suffering today. Give them peace and let even the horror and the pain of this situation be used to further Your kingdom and point eyes and hearts toward Your majesty. In Your name we pray, Jesus, Amen."

All around the table amens were murmured, but Abigail could not bring herself to echo the sentiment. How could Selma even say something like that? Asking G.o.d to use the horror to point hearts to him? What kind of a G.o.d would do that? Allow that? All her life, she'd gone to Sunday school, but that was always the one thing she could never seem to accept without question. A so-called G.o.d of love who would allow such pain and suffering. As she blinked at her eggs, she could feel Justin's eyes on her in her peripheral vision. She glanced up at him and offered a tight smile. As if he could read her mind, his hand went to the back of her neck and worked at the knot of muscles he found there. Oh, the pressure of his strong fingers was wonderful, and she gave herself up to the healing power of his touch with a vocal sigh. Eyes closed, she listened to the conversation flowing around the table.

CNN was on. The reports were horrific. Dismal. The number of dead approached two hundred. Hundreds were still missing. Help poured in from other states. The governor had declared a state of emergency. The President of the United States was on his way. Condolences and offers of aid came in from other countries. Shelters had filled up fast, and hospitals were overflowing. People were searching for loved ones. Facebook sites had been created to a.s.sist folks in locating each other. FEMA's Region VII was on the move.

And there were the pictures.

They all watched, mesmerized by the idea that anyone could possibly survive such a disaster. Houses and cars were gone, yes, but even great chunks of concrete and asphalt had been sucked off the earth's surface and tossed into piles that exploded and leveled whatever they landed on. An entire fence built of giant boulders had been s.n.a.t.c.hed up the way a child would grasp a pile of marbles and hurl them across the yard. Several high-rises had been reduced to single-story dwellings, affording a clear, un.o.bstructed view of damage for as far as the eye could see. It was the apocalypse, now, and for over an hour they watched and murmured among themselves. When the stories began to repeat themselves, they all headed off to shower and face the day.

While Abigail waited for her turn in the bathroom, she returned a call to her mother. Karen had been up watching the news all night and was beside herself with anxiety. "Get out of there, honey! Come to California! I can get you a ticket today."

"Oh, Mom," Abigail pressed the phone to her ear and heard her sigh crackle across the miles. "I want to, really. But I have to stay and get everything sorted out with insurance before I can go anywhere. Besides, there is so much to do here."

They haggled, Karen insistent, Abigail wavering, neither giving in. "Abigail, I love you, honey. I was so scared I would never be able to say that to you again." Karen's angst pierced Abigail's heart, and they cried together and told each other so many things they'd left unsaid over the years. Abigail promised to get out for a visit to house hunt as soon as she could. That satisfied Karen for the time being, and they hung up after Abigail promised to kiss Selma for her mom.

When she'd finished with her family, she started calling friends. Isuzu told her that Brooke had come out of surgery and was expected to recover eventually. The doctors did not expect her to skate again and feared some lasting handicaps. However, she was out of the coma and asking for her parents and brother. And Nick.

"Our house is gone. So we stay in lobby at hospital for now. Nice couch here and many blankets. Pastor come to visit and bring things we need. G.o.d will give us new house when His time come."

Abigail marveled at her faith. Her niece and nephew's golden skating careers had just gone up in flames, their houses and restaurant were totaled. They had no material possessions other than some blankets and stuff the pastor brought. Why wasn't Isuzu throwing a fit? Screaming and railing over the unfairness of it all. After they rang off, Abigail sat at the edge of her bed and stared at the wall and pondered until her phone vibrated in her hand. Kaylee.

She'd called to say she and Chaz had moved into their new house along with her mother and aunt, and his parents and brother. They'd stayed up all night and, after a lengthy discussion, had decided to go ahead with the wedding. "I know a lot of folks might think we're being selfish, what with so much heartache all around. We are worried about that, and to tell the truth, we have a lot of survivor's guilt. But we also see our wedding as a beginning. We're starting fresh. We have hope, and with G.o.d's grace, we'll recover and move on. We want our wedding to be a symbol of hope to our friends and family."

Tears welled in Abigail's eyes. "Oh, honey, I'm so happy for you. I wouldn't miss it. Is it okay with you if I bring a few friends?"

"I was just going to ask!" Kaylee's enthusiasm was contagious. "We'll have plenty of food! The caterer is from Springfield, and they are all good. It's going to be pretty casual now. The church suffered some damage, but the electricity and water are on, so we should be fine. Come as you are at 6:30 Sat.u.r.day night and bring your appet.i.te."

The carnage was even worse, if possible, in the daylight. The tiny details such as torn family photos, a broken locket, a child's dollhouse, were what struck Abigail as she and Justin entered Old Town Rawston that morning.

The entire Old Town area: all of the cute buildings, the flowers, benches, the quaint signage, the meticulous landscaping, the historical statues and other charming landmarks, fountains, the cobblestone streets, the centuries-old trees, the Old Town Square Park with its charming gazebo-all of it reduced to a landfill in less time than it took to order a latte at Mr. Bean.

Everything in her shop had been destroyed, but it was the little things that shoved a lump into her throat. The blue vase that she'd splurged on just last month crunched beneath her booted feet as she hiked and picked her way through the refuse. The desk she'd spent a month sanding. The curtains she'd laboriously sewn with Selma's help.

Up and down the street, other business owners were also scavenging for whatever they might be able to salvage. There were some tears, but surprisingly, there was also humor. Some of it dark. Some of it silly. But all of it welcome. Most of the business owners and apartment owners, such as Abigail, were simply glad to be alive. And to find each other in the same condition. The Toyota was still sitting inside her shop. Its battery had finally died and the headlights that had illuminated the interior last night were off.

"Justin!"

"What?" He stopped sifting through her rubble and stood and stretched.

"This! It's my dresser!" It was lying on its back in the middle of the street.

Justin stepped to her side and helped her drag it to the sidewalk and set it upright. Opening a drawer, she squealed. "Everything is still here!" A surge of joy she'd never known before at the simple act of opening a dresser drawer had her mood suddenly soaring. Justin watched indulgently as she opened each drawer and sighed with satisfaction at clothing still miraculously folded in tidy stacks. Selma had loaned them each a backpack and she stuffed hers as full as she dared with fresh underwear, and jeans, some tops and socks.

"We can come back later for the rest," Justin a.s.sured her as she nearly toppled over from the weight of her backpack. He took a half dozen pairs of jeans out of her pack and loaded them into his. "Come on, my little fas.h.i.+on plate. C'mon, Rawhide." The dog jumped to follow at the sound of his name.

Abigail's giddy mood lasted only until they got to Quilty Pleasure. All of Selma's beautiful quilts. Tattered and torn and caked with mud. "Poor Selma," she groaned.

"Ah, man." Justin twisted his cap back and forth on his head.

Bolts of fabric and sc.r.a.ps were strewn everywhere. Abigail picked a package of quilting squares out of a flower basket and pressed them to her cheek. These were some of the Noah's ark pattern that Jen loved. She'd save these. She grabbed a few other bits and pieces and tucked them into Justin's pack. She had no idea why. More souvenirs to commemorate the occasion, she guessed.

At Justin's suggestion, they headed back to Selma's to unload their packs, have some lunch, and then hit his place for a load of his clothes. Side-by-side they walked, neither acknowledging how much they appreciated the contact. Now and then, they would have to stop and try to figure out where they were. It was frustrating. Though she'd grown up in this town, the vista was so completely changed, she had no real idea where she was standing half of the time. Every landmark that she'd ever known was missing. The buildings were flat, the street signs, gone. Even the sky was gray and ugly. Rawston was now just a huge landfill out in the middle of the prairie.

Someone's pet dog was lying in the street, dead. It seemed like every time she spotted a bit of silver lining, reality would rear up and smack her in the face. Already Justin could read her moods. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Yeah. Fine. I just . . ." She lifted and dropped her arms. "I'm stunned. Everything I worked for my whole life is . . . broken."

"Not this." He held up a framed copy of her North American Hair Stylist of the Year award. Unbelievably, the gla.s.s had not broken and the frame was in perfect condition. "I was going to clean it up and give it to you later."

Abigail exhaled a smile. He was so sweet. So thoughtful. She took it from his hand and explained as they walked. "When I won this, I met a guy named DJ in LA who does hair for celebrities at his shop and at some of the movie studios. He offered me a job. I told him I had to think it over, because I had a lot going on here and I didn't want to . . . to . . . rush into anything . . . you know . . ." A quavering smile tugged at her lips.

Justin swallowed. "And now?"

Her sharp laugh was really more of a sob. "I don't have so much going on."

"Oh." Justin nodded and swallowed again. "I know how you feel. I was thinking about talking my grandparents into moving back east with my family."

"And you?" This time, it was Abigail's turn to swallow.

"I'd go with them."

"Oh." Abigail missed a step and reached out and clutched Justin's arm just before she would have fallen. He steadied her, and they stopped walking and looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Her eyes told him she hated that idea.

His told her the same thing.

He looked down at their hands, still entwined and sighed. "I think . . . I think that today is not the day to make big decisions."

"I," she whispered, "think that, too."

When they finally made it back to Selma's house, they stepped into the living room only to find Heather and Bob Ray crying. Abigail's heart lurched as she looked into the dining room to find Selma and Guadalupe and even Elsa crying. Justin and Abigail froze and reached for each other, terror clutching their hearts.

"What?" Abigail demanded. "What happened?"

17.

Daniel Strohacker was dead?

Selma motioned for them to sit down, but both Abigail and Justin remained standing, mouths gaping, eyes flas.h.i.+ng, digesting this unthinkable bit of misinformation.

"No." Justin looked frantically back and forth among the tear-stained faces. "That can't be right. There must have been some mistake."

Selma shook her head. "No, honey. I'm so sorry, but they . . . they . . ." the elderly woman dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she'd plucked from her sleeve, ". . . they have identified the body."

Abigail felt light-headed. The lump in her throat was cutting off her supply of oxygen. The room seemed to tilt. She reached out and gripped Justin's arm for balance. He must have been seeing the same black spots dancing before his own eyes, because he clutched her back so hard it hurt.

His eyes were wild and his mouth worked but no sound emerged. At long last, he was able to whisper, "What happened?"

Bob Ray cast his bleary gaze on Justin. "They just now found his body. Under our . . . under . . . our place. Mrs. Carmichael called when a cadaver dog got a positive hit. It's him-" Heather rubbed Bob Ray's back and handed him a tissue. He took it and buried his face. "He was under there, to fix a leak. I should have been under there, man," Bob Ray cried, his voice m.u.f.fled.

"Don't say that," Heather said and pressed her forehead against her husband's. "I'm the one who called him."

"Nonsense." Selma grabbed the tissue box on the coffee table, hobbled over to Justin and pressed it into his hands before she turned to eye Bob Ray and Heather. "This is no one's fault, do you hear me? Daniel Strohacker was killed in a terrible storm. Not murdered by you two."

"But . . . why?" Abigail finally found her voice. "What about Jen? What about their tiny son? What about him? That does not seem fair or right!"

"Honey," Selma said with a sorrow-filled sigh, "life is not always fair or right."

Abigail stared at Selma, unable to react. Unable to process everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours. Numb now, like a computer overloaded and frozen up, she released her grip on Justin's arm. The icons in her brain were spinning. Receiving error messages. Unable to display pages. Woodenly, she turned and left the grieving group to descend the stairs to her new bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she paced the floor. What now? What? Do something. Anything.

Just. Don't. Think.

Eyes blank, she moved with an automated frenzy. She reached for her backpack, the bag from last night and the pants she'd worn yesterday. Dumping them out on the bed, she pawed through all her worldly possessions. Some jeans and tops. A pair of shoes. Some underwear and shampoo. And a whole bunch of tattered fabric. This stuff. These bits and pieces were all she had to show for her entire life. Sc.r.a.ps. Don't think.