The Chance: A Novel (28 page)

T
he letters were killing him.

Alan Tucker stepped into his bedroom closet and took the oversized box from the top shelf. In a single motion he heaved it onto the end of his bed. Hundreds of letters. More letters than he could begin to count. Each of them weighed on his soul like so many bricks. Nearly eleven years ago, when his mother called to tell him Caroline had written to Ellie, Alan stopped by her house on the way home from work. He took the letters and hid them in his bedroom drawer. Five or six letters, and he figured that would be it. Surely Caroline wouldn’t keep writing. But she had. She still did. The letters came like clockwork, some thicker than others, and over time he transferred them to the box in his closet.

At first he spent every weekend thinking of a way to handle the problem. He could contact Caroline and tell her to stop writing, or return the letters unanswered. He had no intention of giving them to Ellie. Their daughter had been hurt enough by her mother’s betrayal, without a letter reminding her every
week. Or he could read through them and see exactly what his unfaithful wife intended to tell their daughter.

Many times he considered throwing them away, burning them, or having them shredded, the way people did with boxes of old tax records. But always when he came close to doing that, he imagined Ellie—all grown up—and somehow finding out what he had done. Something in him could never go that far.

And so the tradition remained, week after week, year after year after year. He would swing by his mother’s house on Friday after work and collect whatever Caroline had sent. Six years ago, after Ellie took up with the soldier and left home, Alan’s mother began showing signs of dementia. Eighteen months later, she was diagnosed with aggressive Alzheimer’s, and Alan set her up in a full-time care facility. He moved off base and into her house. The letters continued.

Once a week, at least.

He dipped his hand into the box, sorted through the mountain of envelopes, and pulled out one at random. In all the years he’d been collecting the letters, he had never opened one, never gone against his feelings that it would be wrong to do so. But today, on Ellie’s birthday, he was at a complete and utter loss.

The envelope felt smooth in his hand. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could almost feel the words written across the front, the dip and swoop of Caroline’s handwriting. The hope she must’ve felt in her heart as she dropped this very letter into a mailbox somewhere in Savannah.

What was wrong with him? How could he have cut her out of his life so completely? What sort of man was he to never check to see if she was surviving or if she’d kept the baby or if she’d found a way to exist on her own? He held the envelope
close to his face and studied the postmark. March 2011. Two years ago. Always she included a return address, the same one for the last decade. So she at least had housing.

He ran his thumb over her name. Her married name, the one she still apparently went by.
Caroline . . . what happened to us? You were the only girl I ever loved
. Flashes from his past hit his heart like so many lightning bolts. The day he had met Caroline at a church picnic. She had been only nineteen, barely more than a child, and he was twenty-seven. Headed into a military career. Ten minutes into their first conversation, Alan had two thoughts.

First, he was going to marry her. And second, he would never love anyone else.

So what happened?

More flashes. Alan winced and tightened his grip on the letter. He could hear himself barking at her, using the same tone he used at work as a drill sergeant.
Caroline, why isn’t the laundry done? Where were you all afternoon? Can’t you make that baby stop crying? The Bible says a wife should obey her husband; keep that in mind.

Phrases like that shredded his conscience and reminded him of a truth he couldn’t escape. One that had surfaced a few months ago and had haunted him since then, hounding him and keeping him awake at night.

The truth was this: Caroline’s affair was his fault.

The realization hit after his breakdown—the one that had sent him running to God for real, for the first time. He understood now. The faith of his youth was nothing but a hammer. A weapon he wielded against people to get them to fall into line. At work, he used his position of power to keep control over recruits. At home, he had used the Bible.

He’d made a mockery of Christianity, and now all that remained of his life were shattered pieces of a dream that had died long before Caroline slept with Peyton Anders. He thought about the prisoners at the Pendleton brig and the way Joey had glared at him, taunting him about being free.

Joey didn’t know anything. Alan Tucker wasn’t free. He was in a prison cell stronger than anything at the brig. Alan had no idea what it was to be free. Once more he looked at Caroline’s words on the envelope, really studied her writing.

As he did, the flashes came again.

Caroline tossing back her pretty blond hair at their wedding reception, laughing at something he’d said.
I love being with you, Alan Tucker. I’ll love it as long as I live.
The clock spun a few hundred times forward.
Alan! Come look.
She ran through their front door, her tanned legs flying beneath her.
The first fireflies of the season! The front yard is like a painting. You have to see it!
And he was taking her hand and celebrating summer with her in the front yard of their small home. More time passed, and she was dancing with Ellie in the living room, singing to her. And she was catching a glimpse of Alan in the doorway.
God has blessed us, Alan . . . My heart’s so full, I can barely stand up under it
. Her smile lit up the room.
When we’re old and gray, remind me of this moment.
And he had believed with everything in him that he would be that guy, there to remind her, just like she asked.

She was one of the happiest people he’d ever known. Only years of his harsh words, years of being left alone, could have killed the childlike love for life, the limitless joy, the wide-eyed innocence that once defined Caroline Tucker.

You were everything to me.
He looked at the photo on his nightstand, the one of Caroline and him on their honeymoon. What sort of monster would suffocate the love out of someone
like her? When had they stopped laughing and taking walks and watching stars in the sky?
Caroline . . . my love. I’m so sorry. I want you back the way you were.

He would go to his grave wanting that, wanting to be at the other end of her smile. Wanting everything that could never be again. The picture of Caroline and him filled his senses, spreading despair through his body and soul.
Please, God, I need a miracle. Another chance.
His eyes shifted to a different photograph, the one next to it. A picture of Ellie in Savannah on her seventh birthday. The three of them had gone fishing that afternoon, but Alan remembered the laughter from that birthday more than any fish they caught. He squinted at the picture. His only child. The light from her spirit shone through her eyes, her smile proof that once, a lifetime ago, they had been a happy family.

If only he could call Ellie and wish her a happy birthday. Just that. The chance to tell his baby girl he was thinking about her. But they hadn’t spoken in seven years. Seven full years. He closed his eyes and shut out the images. Otherwise his heart might stop beating from the sadness. The truth was, now that he’d found real faith, now that he understood his part in what had happened, he wouldn’t mind if his heart stopped.

But he had work to do first.

Slowly, gradually, as naturally as one breath followed another, the answers came. God had already forgiven him, already set him free. If he lived in a prison of broken relationships and silent suffocating guilt, it was his own fault. The cell door was unlocked. He opened his eyes and stared at the pictures again. He would figure it out, find a way. Pray about what to do first and how to make a move toward his broken family.

The thought filled his heart. It swelled through his being until he felt wetness on his fingers. A dampness spreading across the envelope in his hand. What was this? His cheeks were wet, too. He breathed in deep and sniffed a few times. The sensation gave him a hope he hadn’t felt since he left Savannah. Because for the first time since that day, he was doing the one thing he had never done before.

He was crying.

Chapter
Twelve

I
t was the calendar, of course.

The reason Nolan couldn’t stop thinking about Ellie, the reason she was on his mind every minute. The answer was as close and real as the date. Each time he looked at his phone, the numbers practically screamed at him. As he warmed up on the Hawks home court for the first game in the second round of the play-offs, he didn’t need a countdown clock to know how many days there were until June 1, 2013.

Twenty-five. The shrinking number hit him first thing every morning, and stayed with him all day.

In a little more than three weeks, it would be eleven years to the day since the last time he saw Ellie Tucker. He hated that so much time had gone by. Back then, eleven years had sounded like a lifetime. Neither of them believed for a minute it would be that long before they saw each other.

The tackle box, the letters, burying them beneath the big old oak tree. All of it had been one big “just in case.” Just in case they couldn’t find each other . . . in case they lost touch. Just in case one year became three and three years became five
and that turned into eight years, and then ten, without talking to each other.

Just in case all of that happened, they’d still have a chance.

“Cook, you with us?” Coach shouted from the bench. He didn’t look worried, just intent. He clapped a few times and pointed to the clock. Four minutes till game time. He flashed a thumbs-up at Nolan. “You good?”

Nolan clenched his jaw. He had to focus. Had to be solid. Needed to find the zone. Never mind the calendar, this was
his
season, the one he’d prayed about since he was fifteen. Everything lined up, as if God had handed him the perfect scenario. A few trades in the off-season, and the Hawks had acquired him. With the talent already on the team, everyone believed they were set. This was the year they could win it all.

Nolan loved the Hawks. Some of the guys studied the Bible and barbecued together, and on their off days, they texted each other. They were like a band of brothers, and Nolan was the leader. At six-four he was hardly the tallest guard in the league. When reporters asked him to explain his success, he always said the same thing. A combination of God-given talent and extreme obsession.

The one caused by the losses of his sixteenth year.

He caught the ball, drove in for a layup, and ran to the back of the line. Dexter Davis was in front of him, Dexter who had been his best friend since freshman year at North Carolina. They inched forward in the rotation of the warm-up drill, and Dexter looked back. “You’re thinking about her.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not really.”

“You’re lying.” Dexter wiped the sweat off his brow. “Look, man. She’s not here.” He glanced at the arena. “Isn’t that Kari girl coming to the game tonight?”

“Yeah. So?”

Dexter turned, caught the ball, shot a pretty jumper, and ran to the back of the line. Nolan did the same, hitting the shot. The moment he was behind Dexter again, his friend looked at him. “So . . . quit it.” Dexter didn’t have to spell it out. He knew everything about Ellie, how Nolan had tried to find her and how the eleven-year mark was almost here. “Quit thinking about her.”

“Kari?” Nolan grinned.

“Don’t mess with me, Cook.”

“Who?” Nolan felt his intensity building. They moved closer to the front of the line. “That’s my girl right there.” He pointed to the ball.

Dexter flashed him a look. “Better be.” He turned more fully toward Nolan and slapped his shoulders soundly with both hands. “Let’s do this. Come on, Cook. Let’s win it.”

Two more minutes of drills, and the buzzer sounded. Through team introductions and the National Anthem, with every passing second, Nolan felt his mind clear, felt himself pushing back from reality, falling into the zone, the place where he’d spent most of the last eleven years. Where there was only God and the round leather ball.