Remember Tuesday Morning Part 1

Remember Tuesday Morning.

Karen Kingsbury.

DEDICATION.

To Donald, my Prince Charming ...

How I rejoice to see you coaching again, sharing your gift of teaching and your uncanny basketball ability with another generation of kids - and best yet, now our boys are part of the mix. Isn't this what we always dreamed of, my love? I love sitting back this time and letting you and G.o.d figure it out. I'll always be here - cheering for you and the team from the bleachers. But G.o.d's taught me a thing or two about being a coach's wife. He's so good that way. It's fitting that you would find varsity coaching again now - after twenty years of marriage. Hard to believe that as you read this, our twentieth anniversary has come and gone. I look at you and I still see the blond, blue-eyed guy who would ride his bike to my house and read the Bible with me before a movie date. You stuck with me back then and you stand by me now - when I need you more than ever. I love you, my husband, my best friend, my Prince Charming. Stay with me, by my side, and let's watch our children take wing, savoring every memory and each day gone by. Always and always ... The ride is breathtakingly beautiful, my love. I pray it lasts far into our twilight years. Until then, I'll enjoy not always knowing where I end and you begin. I love you always and forever.

To Kelsey, my precious daughter ...

You are nineteen now, a young woman, and my heart soars with joy when I see all that you are, all you've become. This year is a precious one for us because you're still home, attending junior college and spending nearly every day in the dance studio. When you're not dancing, you're helping out with the business and ministry of Life-Changing Fiction - so we have many precious hours together. I know this time is short and won't last, but I'm enjoying it so much - you, no longer the high school girl, a young woman and in every way my daughter, my friend. That part will always stay, but you, my sweet girl, will go where your dreams lead, soaring through the future doors G.o.d opens. Honey, you grow more beautiful - inside and out - every day. And always I treasure the way you talk to me, telling me your hopes and dreams and everything in between. I can almost sense the plans G.o.d has for you, the very good plans. I pray you keep holding on to His hand as He walks you toward them. I love you, sweetheart.

To Tyler, my lasting song ...

I can hardly wait to see what this school year will bring for you, my precious son. Last year you were one of Joseph's brothers, and you were Troy Bolton, and Captain Hook - becoming a stronger singer and stage actor with every role. This year you'll be at a new high school, where I believe G.o.d will continue to shape you as the leader He wants you to be. Your straight A's last year were a sign of things to come, and I couldn't be prouder, Ty. I know it was hard watching Kelsey graduate, knowing that your time with your best friend is running short. But you'll be fine, and no matter where G.o.d leads you in the future, the deep and lasting relations.h.i.+ps you've begun here in your childhood will remain. Thank you for the hours of music and song. As you seize hold of your soph.o.m.ore year, I am mindful that the time is rus.h.i.+ng past, and I make a point to stop and listen a little longer when I hear you singing. I'm proud of you, Ty, of the young man you're becoming. I'm proud of your talent and your compa.s.sion for people and your place in our family. However your dreams unfold, I'll be in the front row to watch them happen. Hold on to Jesus, Ty. I love you.

To Sean, my happy suns.h.i.+ne ...

Today you came home from school, eyes sparkling, and showed me your science notebook - all your meticulous neat sentences and careful drawings of red and white blood cells and various bones and bacteria. I was marveling over every page, remarking at the time you'd taken and the quality of your work, and together we laughed over the fact that neither of us really cares too much for science - but that it still matters that we do our best. You smiled that easy smile of yours and said, "Wait till you see Josh's - his blows mine away." You didn't know it at the time, but I was very touched by the tone in your voice. You weren't envious or defeated by the fact that Josh - in your same grade - might have managed to draw even more detailed pictures in his science journal. You were merely happy that you'd done your best, earned your A, and could move on from seventh grade science proud of your effort. I love that about you, Sean. You could easily sulk in the shadow of your brother, a kid who excels in so many areas that the two of you share. But you also excel, my dear son. And one of the best ways you s.h.i.+ne is in your happy heart, your great love for life and for people, and your constant joy.

Sean, you have a way of bringing smiles into our family, even in the most mundane moments, and lately we are smiling very big about your grades. I pray that G.o.d will use your positive spirit to always make a difference in the lives around you. You're a precious gift, Son. Keep smiling and keep seeking G.o.d's best for your life. I love you, honey.

To Josh, my tenderhearted perfectionist ...

So, you finally did it! You can beat me at ping-pong now, not that I'm surprised. G.o.d has given you great talents, Josh, and the ability to work at them with the sort of diligent determination that is rare in young teens. Whether in football or soccer, track or room inspections, you take the time to seek perfection. Along with that, there are bound to be struggles. Times when you need to understand again that the gifts and talents you bear are G.o.d's, not yours, and times when you must learn that perfection isn't possible for us, only for G.o.d. Even so, my heart almost bursts with pride over the young man you're becoming. After one of your recent soccer tournaments, one of the parents said something I'll always remember: "Josh is such a leader," she told me. "Even when he doesn't know other parents are looking, he's always setting an example for his teammates." The best one, of course, is when you remind your teammates to pray before a game. What a legacy you and your brothers are creating here in Was.h.i.+ngton State. You have an unlimited future ahead of you, Josh, and I'll forever be cheering on the sidelines. Keep G.o.d first in your life. I love you always.

To EJ, my chosen one ...

Here you are in the early months of seventh grade, and I can barely recognize the student athlete you've become. Those two years of home schooling with Dad continue to reap a harvest a hundred times bigger than what was sown, and we couldn't be prouder of you. But even beyond your grades, we are blessed to have you in our family for so many reasons. You are wonderful with our pets - always the first to feed them and pet them and look out for them - and you are a willing worker when it comes to ch.o.r.es. Besides all that, you make us laugh - oftentimes right out loud. I've always believed that getting through life's little difficulties and challenges requires a lot of laughter - and I thank you for bringing that to our home. You're a wonderful boy, Son, a child with such potential. Clearly, that's what you displayed the other day when you came out of nowhere in your soccer qualifiers and scored three goals. I'm amazed because you're so talented in so many ways, but all of them pale in comparison to your desire to truly live for the Lord. I'm so excited about the future, EJ, because G.o.d has great plans for you, and we want to be the first to congratulate you as you work to discover those. Thanks for your giving heart, EJ. I love you so.

To Austin, my miracle boy ...

I smile when I picture you hitting not one home run, but three last baseball season - all of them for Papa - and I feel my heart swell with joy as I think of what happened after your second home run, when you had rounded the bases one at a time and accepted congratulations at home plate from your entire team. You headed into the dugout, and a couple of your teammates tugged on your arm. "Tell us, Austin ... how do you do it? How do you hit a home run like that?" That's when you smiled and shrugged your shoulders. "Easy. I asked G.o.d for the strength to hit the ball better than I could without Him." Papa must be loving every minute of this, Aus. I'm sure of it. What I'm not sure of is whether missing him will ever go away. I can only tell you that our quiet times together are what I love most too. Those, and our times of playing give-and-go out on the basketball court. You're my youngest, my last, Austin. I'm holding on to every moment, for sure. Thanks for giving me so many wonderful reasons to treasure today. I thank G.o.d for you, for the miracle of your life. I love you, Austin.

And to G.o.d Almighty, the Author of Life, who has - for now - blessed me with these.

FOREVER IN FICTION.

A special thanks to the Northern Cross Foundation and the Spica family who won Forever in Fiction* at the Grand Rapids annual "Making it Home" Auction. The Spica family chose to honor their friend Dave Jacobs, age 58, by naming him Forever in Fiction. Dave is a pillar in his community, a man with many friends and much integrity and faith. He spent his younger years in social work, but then became involved in the Home Repair Services business - a venture devoted to helping the less fortunate in various Michigan neighborhoods.

Dave has won many awards for his philanthropic efforts, but remains deeply humble and committed to making life better for the people around him. His greatest accomplishments include his marriage to his wife, Lois, and their four children. He loves woodworking and bird-watching, and when he travels to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with his family, he tries to do a little of both.

Dave's character in Remember Tuesday Morning is that of the generous developer whose Oak Canyon Estates are the subject of threats by a radical environmental group. I could see Dave working in that role, commanding a team of construction workers and still finding time to be with family and friends, and making a difference in his community.

I pray that the Spica family sees their friend Dave deeply honored by their gift and by his placement in Remember Tuesday Morning and that they will always see a bit of Dave when they read his name in the pages of this novel, where he will be Forever in Fiction.

For those of you who are not familiar with Forever in Fiction, it is my way of involving you, the readers, in my stories, while raising money for charities. To date Forever in Fiction has raised more than $100,000 at charity auctions across the country. If you are interested in having a Forever in Fiction package donated to your auction, contact my a.s.sistant, Tricia Kingsbury, at Please write Forever in Fiction in the subject line. Please note that I am only able to donate a limited number of these each year. For that reason, I have set a fairly high minimum bid on this package. That way the maximum funds are raised for charities.

*Forever in Fiction is a registered trademark owned by Karen Kingsbury.

ONE.

Smog hung over the San Fernando Valley like a collapsed Boy Scout tent, filling in the s.p.a.ces between the high-rise office buildings and freeway overpa.s.ses. The Pacific Ocean hadn't produced a breeze in three weeks, and by two o'clock that August afternoon temperatures had long since shot past the century mark.

Alex Brady didn't care.

He picked up his pace, pounding his Nikes against the s.h.i.+mmering asphalt. Salty sweat dripped down his temples and into the corners of his mouth, but he kept running, filling his lungs with the sweltering, stifling air. Something about the sting in his chest made him feel good, stirred the intensity of his run. The intensity of his existence. If chasing bad guys on the streets of Los Angeles didn't kill him, he wasn't going to keel over on the Pierce College running track. Whatever the weather.

Five miles and ten hill sprints every off-day, that was his mandate. And he never made the trip without Bo.

They were alone on the track today, no one else crazy enough to push this hard in the suffocating heat. He glanced at the German shepherd keeping pace alongside him. His dog, his partner for every on-duty call. His best friend, his only friend. "Atta boy." The dog wasn't even breathing hard. Alex slowed long enough to pat Bo's deep brown coat. They both needed a drink. Alex's ribs heaved as he ran to the bleachers and slowed to a stop. He grabbed one of his water bottles from the lowest row and downed half of it. Bo found his bowl a few feet away and lapped like crazy. This was a two-bottle day if ever there was one.

Alex slammed the bottle back down on the bench and kicked his run into gear again. His dog was a few seconds behind him, but he caught up easily. "Alright, Bo ... let's get this." Alex could feel the workout now, feel his legs screaming for relief the way they always did when he had a mile left.

Bo's earnest eyes seemed to say he would stay by his master whatever the pace, whatever the distance. Alex wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun. Without question, Bo was the best police dog in the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. Every bit as fit as Alex, and with a resume of heroism unequalled among K9 units.

Another lap and Alex noticed something on the surface of the track. His running shoes were leaving an imprint. The asphalt was that hot. Good thing Bo was running on the gra.s.s. Push through it, he ordered himself. Dad would've done this without breaking a sweat.

And then, like it did at least once a day, a rush of memories came over him so hard and fast he could almost feel the wind from its wake. His dad, Captain Ben Brady, New York City firefighter. His hero, his best friend. Suddenly it was all real again. The sound of his voice, the feel of his hand ... firm against Alex's shoulder when he lost the big game his junior year ... running alongside Alex when he was six and learning to ride a bike ... or even before that, when he lifted Alex up into the fire truck that very first time.

Two more laps, Brady. You can do it. Alex clenched his teeth and pushed himself, but the memories stayed. There was his dad, hovering over his bed that September Tuesday morning, placing his hand against the side of Alex's face. "Buddy ... time to get up. You gotta ace that math test ... we'll talk about the other stuff when I get home."

The other stuff. Alex blinked and the hillside that surrounded half the track appeared again. The other stuff was Alex's determination to parlay his years as a fire cadet into an immediate position with the FDNY. As a teen, Alex could already see himself in the uniform, rus.h.i.+ng into burning buildings, climbing atop blazing rooftops, rescuing families and putting out fires. His dad saw things differently. College would be better. His grades were good, his SAT scores in the top ten percent. Why battle fires in Manhattan when you could work in an office with a view of Central Park? Alex was sure that was the message his dad was going to deliver that night.

Only the message never came.

The terrorists ... the terrorists picked that day to - Alex found a reserve of energy for the last lap. "Come on, Bo." He could feel the heat in his face and neck and arms, but he pushed ahead. Of course he hadn't gone to college, and he hadn't spent another day desiring a job with the FDNY. He'd done the only thing he could do. He moved as far away from New York City as he could and threw himself into earning a sheriff's badge. That way he could consume himself with the one job that mattered after September 11. Get the bad guys.

Didn't matter if they were drunk drivers or gang thugs, bank robbers or terrorists plotting the next big attack, Alex wanted them off the street. That desire was all that drove him, the only purpose he felt born to fulfill. Get rid of the evil. He and Bo. So that some other high school senior wouldn't have to sit in his Shakespearean English cla.s.s and watch his dad murdered on live television.

He took the last ten yards at a sprint, his heart bursting from his chest, and then he dropped back to a walk. The smog didn't pa.s.s for oxygen, and he couldn't catch his breath. But he'd been here before. He knew how to work with the heat and dirty air. He pursed his lips and blew it all out, emptying his lungs, making s.p.a.ce for his next breath. "Go on, Bo ..." He followed the dog to the water, and by the time he reached the bleachers he was breathing again. Ready for the hills.

He downed the rest of the first bottle and paced a few yards in either direction. Bo stayed by his water bowl, but his eyes moved from Alex to the hill at the other end of the stadium. "Give me a minute." He grabbed his towel from the bleachers and buried his face in it. The hills were the best part. For a few intense minutes, he could feel what his father had felt, the way he must've pushed himself up the stairs of the North Tower, looking for victims, seeking the wounded and trapped on one floor after another.

He tossed his towel on the bleachers and stretched hard to the right, lengthening his core muscles and bringing relief to his tired body. The left side was next, and when he finished he nodded to the dog. "Come on." He jogged to the base of the hill with the German shepherd on the gra.s.s at his side. Then, without waiting, he lowered his head and dug into the hillside. The ground was steep, all craggy dirt clods and forgotten weeds, but his footing stayed sure and steady.

Move it ... push harder, he ordered himself. Halfway up the hill the burning began and Alex welcomed it. Again his surroundings faded and Alex could see the stairwell, the way it must've looked as his father climbed higher and higher. People rus.h.i.+ng down the stairs, firefighters rus.h.i.+ng up. He would do this as often as he could, every day when he didn't don the uniform, and he would remember everything his father stood for. Everything that drove him and gave him purpose in life.

Bo made it to the top of the hill ahead of him, tongue hanging from his mouth halfway to the ground. But even then the dog was ready for the downhill, ready for the next nine trips back up. Faster ... don't let up. He wiped the back of his hand across his wet forehead and focused on the path back down. At the base of the hill he glanced at his watch. He needed to push through this thing. He still had to grab a shower and run a few errands before dinner at the Michaels' house. And he wouldn't miss dinner.

The evenings with Sergeant Clay Michaels and his wife, Jamie, were the only social invites Alex received. Most times he didn't really want to go, didn't want someone worrying about him or probing around in his personal life. But he promised himself he'd show up every time Clay and Jamie asked. Otherwise, he'd become a machine, an unfeeling robot whose sole purpose in life was to round up crooks and lock them away. Alex squinted at the hill and attacked it a second time. Not that he minded being a machine. He sort of liked the idea. But if he lost touch completely with people, he might forget one very important aspect of his job - The pain of it.

A driving force for Alex was the way people were hurt by bad guys, because there was way too much mind-boggling sorrow out there. Deep life-altering sadness like the kind that had ripped into him and his mom on September 11, 2001. If he lost track of the human suffering, he could just go ahead and hang up his gun, because the hurt was why he was here in the first place. So yeah, he would keep his dinner invitation tonight and anytime Clay and his wife made room for him at their table. Because being around them kept alive what was left of his heart. That and times like this, when his workout actually allowed him to think beyond the next few minutes.

The workout did something else, too - if only for a few hours.

It made him forget the girl he'd left back in New York City, and all the reasons he'd walked away from her. A girl whose indelible fingerprints stayed on his heart and whose contagious laughter and easy smile had a way of catching up to him, no matter how hard and fast he ran.

A girl named Holly Brooks.

TWO.

Clay Michaels reached into the pantry of his Calabasas, California, home, pulled out a plastic pitcher, and handed it to his wife, Jamie. "Everyone here?"

"Not yet." She took the pitcher and filled it with three scoops of powdered lemonade. "We're waiting on Alex. Everyone else is out back." She leaned close and gave him a quick kiss. "Time for you to work your magic."

He caught her by the waist and eased her close to him. "You mean ..." he kissed her again, long enough to take her breath away, "... like this?"

She took a step back, starry-eyed, and inhaled sharply. "Later." She glanced over her shoulder at the window that separated the kitchen from the backyard. "They're hungry." She straightened her s.h.i.+rt, spun around to the fridge, and pulled out a tray of raw burgers. "This magic."

Clay took the tray and grinned at her. "Where's Sierra?"

"In the garage with Wrinkles," she frowned. "That cat's been sleeping all day."

"Yeah, well," Clay made a silly face and balanced the tray of burgers on the palm of one hand. "With a three-year-old running around, sometimes I think we could all use a nap in the garage."

Clay's brother Eric opened the slider door and stayed beside him while the burgers cooked. Not far away on the patio, Jamie sat with Eric's wife, Laura, across from Joe and Wanda Reynolds. The six of them did this regularly, getting together at one of their homes for a weekend barbecue.

Eric was talking about a deal at work, an acquisition of some kind, but Clay was catching only every other word, distracted by Michael Buble playing in the background and the happy voices of the kids on the swing set across the yard. Three-year-old CJ was running his Hot Wheels car on the slide with Joe and Wanda's little boy, Will. The two looked like miniature versions of their fathers - one blond and blue-eyed, one black with sparkling brown eyes, the best of buddies. On the nearest swing, Eric and Laura's little red-headed girl, Lacey, was giggling at them.

Clay turned his attention to the burgers. "Looks like they're just about ready."

Eric peered inside the grill. "I'll get the buns."

"They're inside on the counter." Clay surveyed the scene again. The thick smell of burgers mixed with the warm summer sweetness from the gardenias, the ones Jamie planted along the back of the property the week they moved in. Clay breathed in deeply. He wanted to freeze the moment, wrap his arms around it, and never let it go.

Times like this, he could almost forget the pressure of his job, the responsibility he wore like a heavy yoke when he headed off to the LA sheriff's Monterey Park headquarters. Tonight he wasn't a sergeant with the Special Enforcement Bureau or one of the most respected men in the department. He wasn't training the next group of SWAT guys or worrying about threats from local environmental terrorist groups a few weeks shy of what could be the area's worst fire season ever.

No, tonight he was a married man, longing to stretch out the weekend hours. He was a daddy who didn't mind wearing a jester hat when the kids played dress-up and a friend who had stayed faithful through too many highs and lows to remember. He was a brother and an uncle, a G.o.d-fearing family man who prayed daily for the people in his life. Most of all - no matter what work threw at him - he was a believer.

All the things he feared Deputy Alex Brady might never be.

He was sliding burgers off the grill and onto the open buns on the tray in Eric's hands when he heard someone at the patio door. He turned in time to see Alex walk through the door, his expression marked by an unspoken apology. "Traffic on the 101," he shrugged as he set his keys on a table just outside the patio door. He wore a white T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, his short dark hair streaked with a few blond highlights and styled more like a contemporary pop star than a sheriff's deputy. Alex gave Clay a half-grin. "Your famous burgers again, huh, Sarge?"

"That's why they call me 'Magic'." He kept his tone light. Alex came for dinner once a month or so, and usually they never got past shoptalk. But Clay had a feeling about tonight, that maybe they could find their way to something deeper, like why it was Alex had trouble connecting with any other human being. "Did you bring Bo?"

"He's out front. Tied him up on the porch."

"We'll save him a burger."

The men headed to the table and Clay called the kids. Eric and Laura's son Josh came in through the side gate, a basketball tucked beneath his arm, his face damp with sweat. He was fifteen now and almost as tall as Eric. Behind him were Joe and Wanda's older two - both in middle school and fascinated with basketball.

"They're good." Josh waved his thumb at the Reynolds kids. "I barely beat 'em."

"Yeah right." The oldest of the Reynolds kids rolled his eyes. He used his tank top to wipe his forehead. "He schooled us again." The three older kids took their plates and headed out front once more.

As the younger kids finished eating, they ran to the swings, leaving the seven adults sitting around Clay and Jamie's patio table. Joe took a long drink of his lemonade and sat back in his chair. He shaded his eyes and watched CJ, Will, and Lacey. "The miracle babies are growing up."

Clay smiled at the term. Miracle babies. That's what the couples had called their youngest children ever since the three of them arrived - all within a year of each other. Lacey was the baby Eric and Laura never would've had if not for a fateful business trip on September 11, 2001. If Eric hadn't spent three months in New York City recovering from his injuries and learning how to be the father and family man he had never been, their marriage wouldn't have survived.

Joe and Wanda's marriage had been over as well, their love for each other lost in the aftermath of heartache when their firstborn son was. .h.i.t and killed by a car. Years pa.s.sed with the two of them living separate lives on opposite coasts, but then Joe dragged Clay to New York City for police training and something more - a chance to reunite with Wanda.

Joe was laughing now, telling a story about little Will. Clay studied his friend. There were no signs of the near-fatal gunshot wound he'd gotten while on that New York trip. All that mattered was he'd come back with Wanda ready to start over again. Their son Will was proof that G.o.d could bless even the most broken people with a second chance.

And, of course, his and Jamie's own little CJ. It was still hard to believe that on that same New York trip, Clay had connected with Jamie - Jamie Bryan, the very woman who had nursed Clay's brother, Eric, back to health in the months after 9/11. Love for them had been sure and fast - beauty borne of ashes. By then Clay had all but given up on marrying and having a family, and Jamie never for a moment thought that someday her daughter, Sierra, would have a sibling.

But here they were, all of them - embracing life and raising their miracle babies.

Joe nodded toward the kids. "Lacey's definitely in charge." He was holding Wanda's hand, the two of them relaxed and happy together. Little Will had his mother's milk chocolate skin, and his father's sense of humor. The boy loved nothing more than to tease the lone girl who rounded out their trio.

"I'll tell you what," Wanda made a jaunty snap of her fingers, her eyes still on Lacey, "that little girl's going to run a corporation someday."

Eric and Laura both laughed, and Eric anch.o.r.ed his elbows on the table. "She'd probably be good at it."

"You ever think about it?" Laura wore sungla.s.ses, but now she took them off, her eyes thoughtful. She looked at the others around the table. "None of them would be here if it weren't for 9/11."

"We wouldn't be here, either. Not together." Joe brought Wanda's hand to his lips and kissed it. He held her gaze for a long moment, then looked back at Laura. "Yeah, we think about it. Every now and then, anyway."

At the mention of the terrorist attacks, Clay shot a quick glance at Alex. He'd been quiet until now, mostly eating his way through three burgers and listening to the conversation about the children. But with the talk of September 11, a shadow fell across his expression, and his eyes grew dark. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, pushed back from the table, and turned to Clay. "Thanks for dinner." He smiled, but it didn't move past his lips. "Great as always."

"Wait a minute, young man." Wanda was on her feet, her hands on her hips, laughter in her voice. "You see those apple pies in there? I worked my tail off making those, and far as I can tell your skinny backside could use one all for yourself ... so sit back down."

"Yes, ma'am." Alex chuckled, but his body language was stiff. "Gotta check on Bo. He's tied up out front."

"Okay, then." Wanda waggled her finger at him. "You come right back, and bring that appet.i.te of yours."