02_Groom of Her Own (20 page)

The nurses, talking in low voices over the background noise of a child crying in pain somewhere else in the emergency room. “She has internal injuries. We can’t save the baby.”

The doctor, standing by her bed. “I’m sorry. We did everything we could, but there’s a good chance you may never be able to conceive again.”

And finally Randy, with his warped attempt at humor. “Well, you could have found an easier way to take care of the problem. But at least it’s over.”

Sam drew a shaky breath and reached for a tissue on her nightstand, focusing once more on the Monet painting. No, she thought in despair, it was never over. Not the next day. Not the next month. Not even seventeen years later. She lived with the oppressive guilt every day of her life.

It wasn’t that anyone had blamed her. Witnesses said the collision was unavoidable. But Sam knew differently. If she hadn’t taken those pills, she wouldn’t have felt the need for fresh air and gone for a drive with less-than-sharp reflexes. And she wouldn’t have taken the pills if she hadn’t felt so alone and in such deep despair. If only there had been someone to turn to, to talk with, she thought futilely. She had been so young and so desperate—and so very wrong. The bottom line was that because of her irresponsibility two innocent lives had ended that night. Those were the cold, hard facts. And they were irrefutable.

Sam knew she couldn’t restore to those children the gift of life she had snatched away. All she could do was try to help other young girls who found themselves in her situation, let them know they weren’t alone, that someone cared, that there were other options available that didn’t include destroying a life. It was heartbreaking work, and she didn’t always succeed. Like tonight. But sometimes she did, and in those successes she found consolation. She felt that in some small way it helped her to make reparation for her own wrong. Quite simply, the counseling center work appeased her conscience enough to allow her to go on living.

The dull, pounding ache in her head that was the typical aftermath of her nightmare intensified, and Sam rose and went to the kitchen in search of aspirin. As she filled a glass with water, her glance fell on the answering machine, and she noted that she had one message. She’d been so tired and upset when she arrived home that she hadn’t even checked, an unusual lapse for her. Failing to return messages promptly was a no-no in the real estate game.

But it wasn’t a business-related message after all, she realized, as soon as she punched the play button.

“Hi, Sam.” The warmth of Brad’s voice washed over her like a soothing balm. “I know you’re not home, but I’m leaving for Dad’s early in the morning and I was afraid I’d wake you if I called then. I just wanted you to know that I’m counting the days till Friday.” He paused, as if debating his next words, then continued. “And I wanted to tell you that I miss you. See you soon.”

The line went dead, and Sam leaned against the counter, overcome by an almost painful yearning. She missed him, too. On a night like this, it would have been so nice to turn to his strong, steady arms for comfort. But she doubted whether he would offer those arms if he knew the reason she needed them.

As she headed back to bed, Sam suddenly thought about her last Bible class, where the topic had been forgiveness. She’d been especially attentive that night. It had even given her a brief moment of hope. Until she realized that the concept, noble though it was, seemed too lofty for the human condition. In a perfect world, people might be able to practice that principle. But the world was far from perfect, and people were judgmental. It was a fact of life. Maybe the Lord could forgive her. Maybe. People were another story. Certainly not that child’s mother. Even Brad, who was not only a minister but the finest, most decent man she had ever had the privilege of knowing, would have a very hard time dealing with what she’d done. If
she
couldn’t accept it, find a way to forgive
herself
how on earth could she expect anyone else to? No, it would be too much to hope for. Besides, even if the Lord could forgive her, as they taught in Bible class, she still didn’t feel that she deserved a happy ending, let alone someone like Brad.

Wearily Sam climbed back into bed, the light still burning. After one of her nightmare episodes she could never bear to be alone in the dark. Brad had said he was counting the days till Friday, she recalled sadly. So was she. But while he looked forward to it with eager anticipation, she felt only dread. Because that was the last time she would see him. Calling off their relationship was the right thing to do, for both of them, she told herself resolutely. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

Chapter Eight

S
am had hoped to have some time Friday before Brad arrived to mentally prepare for their discussion and to very carefully formulate her wording about why their relationship had to end. Breaking things off was going to be difficult, no matter what she said, but the right words might help.

However, things didn’t work out quite the way she planned. In fact, it was a day of disasters, beginning with a flat tire, followed by a difficult client who insisted on seeing a house at precisely one o’clock and then arrived half an hour late, ending with a quicker-than-expected contract response requiring an unscheduled stop at the office to redo some paperwork.

By the time Sam arrived home, frazzled and exhausted, it was nearly four o’clock. The good news, she told herself consolingly, was that she still had time to prepare dinner. The bad news was that she didn’t have time for anything else. As she hastily pulled on a pair of jeans and headed for the kitchen, she decided that she’d just have to wing her discussion with Brad and hope that the right words came when she needed them. Because right now dinner was going to require her undivided attention.

A few minutes later, after poring over the complicated instructions in the cookbook she’d dug out of the closet earlier in the week, Sam quickly came to the conclusion that she should have made time to familiarize herself with the recipes—beyond shopping for the ingredients—before Friday at four o’clock. Maybe, just maybe, she’d been a little too ambitious with the menu, she acknowledged reluctantly. Chicken
Cordon Bleu,
twice-baked potatoes and green beans
almondine,
not to mention homemade biscuits, would be something Laura could whip up in an hour. After reading the instructions, Sam wasn’t sure she could do it in half a day, let alone the allotted two hours. She eyed the preparation times on the recipes skeptically, quickly concluding that they were for people who knew what they were doing, not novices. And she was
definitely
a novice.

A wave of panic washed over her, and she accelerated her pace, reaching into the refrigerator for the cheese. Thank goodness dessert was finished, she thought with relief, her glance falling on the English trifle she’d made the night before. However, because it had been deceptively easy to put together, it had given her a false sense of confidence about today’s foray into the culinary arts. But that confidence was rapidly deteriorating.

Sam stared at the chicken recipe, her brow knit in concentration. It said to flatten the breasts, but how in the world did you do that? She tried pressing on them with the heel of her hand, but that had little effect. Would a hammer work? she wondered in sudden inspiration, rummaging around in her tool drawer. Yes, she thought triumphantly a moment later after giving one a whack.

The next step—layering the breasts with ham and cheese and then rolling them up—wasn’t so easy. Maybe the breasts were still too thick, she thought with a frown, finally managing to get one of the uncooperative bundles into a semicylindrical shape. Why didn’t these books have step-by-step pictures? she wondered in frustration. She brushed her hair back from her face with one hand and clutched the rolled-up packet of chicken, cheese and ham in the other as she checked the recipe. It said to dust the breasts in flour, dip in a beaten egg, roll in bread crumbs, then secure with a toothpick. Sam’s frown deepened. If she tried to do any of those things they would fall apart. Maybe she could just sprinkle them with crumbs after they were in the pan, she thought hopefully. Sure. That ought to work, she decided, impaling the meat with a generous number of toothpicks. Besides, she’d already devoted way too much time to this recipe.

Sam moved on to the potatoes. She’d put them in the oven earlier, but when she removed them and tried to slice off a long end so she could scoop out the interior, the skin was too hard. She frowned and checked the recipe. Bake for one hour and fifteen minutes at four hundred degrees. That’s what she’d done, wasn’t it? She glanced at the temperature gauge on the oven. Apparently not. It read five hundred, not four hundred, she realized with dismay.

She looked at her watch and her panic intensified. It was already five-thirty, and Brad was coming at six. And she hadn’t even started on the vegetable or salad yet She put the chicken in the oven, then ruthlessly she crossed the homemade biscuits off the menu, concluding that English muffins would have to do instead.

Sam tackled the potatoes with renewed vigor. She finally managed to cut through the crusty skin, but in the process much of the shell shattered. Resolutely she forged on, scooping out the shriveled insides and adding the other ingredients before placing the mixture in what was left of the skins.

Finally she turned her attention to the green beans. The sauce sounded easy enough—just onion and slivered almonds sautéed in butter. She chopped the onion as rapidly as possible, dumped everything into a small frying pan, and set the heat on low. Maybe she could change clothes while the sauce cooked, she thought, distractedly running her fingers through her hair. Then she could throw the salad together at the last minute.

Sam headed for the bedroom, shedding her T-shirt as she went What a day! And the most difficult part was still to come. At least now she had a minute to think about how she was going to break the news to Brad. She reached for the deep purple silk blouse she’d chosen, pulling it on rapidly, debating her approach. It might be best if she—

The harsh buzzing of a smoke detector made her jump, and she dashed toward the kitchen, her heart pounding. She paused for a brief second on the threshold, her eyes riveted to the smoke seeping out of the oven, then moved toward it and yanked open the door, only to be engulfed in a billowing gray cloud. Coughing, she tried to wave the smoke away as she peered inside, but it was difficult to see with her eyes watering so badly. As nearly as she could determine, it appeared that the cheese had leaked out of the chicken breasts and was now burning. In rapid order, she grabbed the pan and removed it, turned on the exhaust fan, opened a window and began waving a towel at the smoke detector to clear the air.

When the piercing alarm finally fell silent, Sam leaned back against the counter, her heart pounding. She surveyed the sad-looking chicken, desperately trying to figure out a way to salvage the unappetizing mess. Maybe if she scooped the cheese back in and—

Suddenly she sniffed and glanced suspiciously toward the stove. The almonds and onions in her butter sauce were turning black, and she flew across the room to remove the pan from the heat before the smoke alarm went off again. As she stood there holding it, her glance fell on the potatoes waiting to go into the oven. They looked pathetic, too. The skins had pretty much disintegrated, and the filling was already spilling out.

Sam thought she had felt panic before. Now she realized that had been mere concern.
This
was panic. She opened her refrigerator and looked inside in desperation, hoping that by some miracle a solution to her dilemma would appear. But no such luck. She had dessert, and she had salad, she thought, her eyes visually ticking off the ingredients—lettuce, tomatoes, mushrooms, parmesan cheese, red onion, Italian dress—Sam frowned. Where was the dressing? It had been on her list. She remembered that clearly. But as she frantically rummaged through the refrigerator, it became equally clear that it hadn’t made the transition from list to reality. She must have forgotten it!

Sam stood numbly before the refrigerator, forced to admit the obvious—her dinner was a disaster. And Brad was expecting a home-cooked meal! The kind that Rachel used to make. Instead he was getting a culinary catastrophe. How was she ever going to face him? And what was she going to do about dinner? She didn’t even have any microwave stuff left in the freezer! Maybe she could still call the gourmet shop and—

The ringing of the doorbell startled Sam, and she froze, her stomach sinking to her toes. With sickening certainty, she slowly checked her watch. Six o’clock. As usual, Brad was punctual. She looked longingly at the back door, and for the briefest moment she actually considered sneaking out and just disappearing. But of course she couldn’t do that. Could she?

The bell rang again, and distractedly she pushed her hair back. She had to face him. There was no way out. Her heart pounding in her chest, she forced her legs to carry her toward the door. She hovered there, her hand on the knob, until a third ring forced her to respond. Taking a deep breath, she pulled it open.

Peripherally, she realized that Brad looked great. He was dressed in tan slacks and a blue-striped open-necked shirt, and his navy blue blazer sat well on his broad shoulders. He was also carrying a bottle of wine, which Sam figured they were both going to need before this so-called dinner was over.

Brad’s smile of welcome slowly faded to a frown, then changed to a look of concern as he took in Sam’s appearance. Her normally well-groomed hair hadn’t even been combed, and there was a trail of bread crumbs across her face. Her silk blouse was attractive—but she was wearing it, untucked, over scruffy jeans. She was also barefoot. As Brad completed his quick but thorough scrutiny, alarm bells began ringing in his mind.

“Sam? Are you all right?”

She managed a shaky laugh. “Oh, sure. Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, it’s just a little dinner for two, right? Anyone should be able to handle that. Laura could. And I’m sure Rachel would have managed with no problem.”