From Ashes to Honor (21 page)

She'd had it with feeling helpless, and with seeing Flora helpless. Even Bud had looked helpless, telling them all about "a typical day at the Callahans." She'd probably never see Woodrow again, and day after tomorrow, once the doctor gave her permission to go back to work for a few hours a day, she wouldn't see Austin until who knew when!

Despite it all, she felt
hopeful
for the first time in ages.Hopeful that Woodrow, wherever he was, had food and shelter and a warm lap to sit in. That Flora would slip into remission and stay there, despite the doctors' prognosis. And that Austin would remain a part of her life, indefinitely.

Her sour mood sweetened, and, feeling a little bit playful, said "Really?
Anything?"

This time when he aimed that grin her way, one brow rose on his forehead. He spun the radio dial, found a country station and proceeded to bob his head in time to the music. "Why not just throw it out there, and we'll see if it sticks."

Oh, he was one of a kind, all right! "I'd like a silver Ferrari, and a thatched cottage in Ireland, and a Piper Cub to get me 'across the pond.' "

He was grinning when he said "I don't know if a Piper Cub can
make
it all the way across the Atlantic Ocean."

"Oh, well, that's all right. Then I guess it'll just have to be a jet. Like the one they use on that TV show. You know, the one where FBI agents hunt down serial killers?"

"Oka-a-ay. . ."

She laughed, and it felt good. So good, in fact, that Mercy wished there was a way to guarantee the sensation lasted for a long, long time.

"What I really want," she told him on a sigh, "is for you to start thinking of something
I
can do for
you.
A favorite dinner, or I can clean your boat. Do your laundry, even press your shirts." She shrugged, then winced as her shoulder reminded her it hadn't healed all the way. "I want—no, I
need—
to do something for you, to show you how much I've appreciated all you've done for me."

"Mercy, really, I know already know that. You don't owe—"

"No-no-no! This isn't a payback. I don't want to do something for you because I feel as though I
owe
you. Just—" How would she explain that it was important to her that Austin experience, firsthand, a sliver of what he'd given her?

"Don't try to come up with something right now. Take a few days. A week. A month! Promise me you'll at least think about it, and that as soon as you come up with something you'll let me know. OK?"

He breathed in a big gulp of air, and let it out slowly. "All right," he said, nodding. "I promise to think on it."

"I guess I should've known that with a guy like you I need to be more specific. I should have said 'Promise you'll actually
come up with something.'"

The car engine idled and the turn signal tick-tick-ticked as they sat at the traffic light, waiting to make that last left before pulling into her garage. The blue-green numerals of the dashboard clock said one fifty-nine. Time was running out. She'd have him with her this afternoon, tonight, tomorrow night, then he'd drive her to her doctor's appointment and—

Mercy couldn't bear to finish the thought.

She focused, instead, on the test run she'd conducted day before yesterday, when he ran out to get a few groceries to prepare for the next snowstorm. It hadn't been easy, hobbling around on her crutches with just one normally functioning arm, but she'd made it upstairs and down again without taking a header. She shambled into the kitchen and munched a slice of Swiss cheese, then poured herself a paper cup of water.And because she'd promised to stay put while he was gone, Mercy buried the cup under a discarded paper plate in the trash bin.

The venture proved that she no longer
needed
him—at least, not as her round-the-clock helpmate.

"—that your favorite color is purple," he was saying, "and your birth sign is Taurus, but I have no idea what kind of music you prefer."

"I don't have a preference," she said, hoping to hide inattentiveness behind an exuberant tone. "I know, I know. Lots of people say that, but I really mean it. I like music. Any kind of music. Well, except for rap, because I'm too old to 'get' the beat and the melody. Though I have to admit, I
do
appreciate the poetry and the drama that goes into a lot of those songs."

He hit the button on the visor above him, starting the garage door on its upward roll. "Reason I ask if you like country is, I won tickets to see Marty Johnson, and I was wondering if you'd like to go to the concert with me."

"You won a contest? How exciting! I've never won anything.Unless you count the little glider plane my third grade teacher gave as the prize for getting the most hits with a Paddle Ball."

"Aw, I hated those things. Couldn't hit that ball twice without the rubber band getting all twisted around my hand. Or the paddle. Or the ball coming loose from the rubber band."He switched off the ignition. "How many hits?"

Mercy lifted her chin and assumed a snooty expression."Two hundred and seventy-three."

"Wow," he said, "impressive."

"That's what Sister Bertina said."

"Wow," he repeated. "I had no idea you went to Catholic school."

"It isn't something I brag about. Those weren't my favorite school years."

"Did you wear a pleated little skirt and a cross-over tie and saddle shoes with ruffly socks?"

"Blue plaid, unfortunately," she said with a groan, "and, yes, a snap-tie. And a matching vest, too."

"How many years?"

"
All twelve."

Austin climbed out of the car, walked around to her side and opened the passenger door. "Y'know," he said as she unbuckled the seatbelt, "I don't think I've ever met anyone who went to parochial school and liked it."

"Trust me. There's a reason for that."

He reached into the back seat for her crutches. "The little gilder plane is one of a handful of good memories," she said as he handed them to her. "I think maybe that's why I still have it."

"You do? No kidding!" She got to her feet. "It's in my keepsake box on the shelf in my closet."

"The rubber-band kind, with the wind-up propeller?"

"No." Mercy laughed. "It's as plain as plain can be."

"Ah-ha. The ones we used to call Amish flyers." A peaceful, happy smile crossed his face as he shoved open the door leading into her kitchen. "Bet I had a couple dozen of those when I was a kid. My grandfather brought one every time he visited.Said he and my dad sometimes spent hours flying them around the yard."

She pictured Austin as a boy, happy innocent face turned toward the sky as he followed the course of his plane. If they had a son together, would he have Austin's golden hair and blue eyes? And near-black lashes that touched his eyebrows when he looked up? She hoped so, because—

Good grief. Where did
that
come from!
Mercy clomped down the hall, stood on one foot and shrugged out of her coat. Even managed to hang it on the hall tree, all by herself. "So how'd you win the tickets?" she asked, thump-sliding her way to the sofa. "Wait. Don't tell me. You filled out one of those 'You Can Win' cards at the drug store, didn't you?"

"Nah. I get enough junk mail and annoying sales calls without giving those pests direct access to me." He smirked, then winked. "On the way to the station the other day, I dialed WPOC. Never did it before. Never expected to be their ninth caller, either, but I was, and I won."

"Congratulations," she said,

Had she answered too quickly?

Not if that smile on his face was any indicator.

Once she'd settled on the sofa bed, Austin said, "He'll be at the Convention Center in a few weeks, but the seats are in the nosebleed section. I'm thinking that's way too soon for you to climb all those stairs. It's a sure bet we didn't get aisle seats, which means more climbing to get past the lucky stiffs who
are
on the end. So—"

"I can manage. You'll be right there to lean on—if I need to, that is."

"True. But I found out I can swap these tickets for two more, in September, when he's in New York."

"New York
City?"

Austin laughed. "The way you said that reminds me of that old salsa commercial." The smile faded slightly when he added "
That
concert is part of the 9/11 tenth anniversary services.I thought—" He shrugged. "I thought since we'd both been away for so long, it might be a good time to reconnect, pay our respect to all the first responders who died, and the ones who were injured, and their families."

If anyone else had suggested such a thing, Mercy would have turned it down, flat. Too many negative emotions tied to that date. Too many painful memories. But hers paled by comparison to his. Had he invited her as a friend? Or as a former psychiatrist?

What did it matter? He'd never asked anything of her. And unless she wanted to look like a clown, offering to do something to show her gratitude—then refusing it even before he'd officially spelled it out—

"Yes," she said simply. "It'll be an honor to go with you."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"It's probably going to be a madhouse up there for an event like this."

"New York is always a madhouse. At least this time, there'll be a method to the madness."

Mercy nodded because he was right.

"Mother Nature's definitely in another snit," he said. "Looks really threatening out there. I have a feeling we're gonna get it big time this time."

"Well, you just restocked the fridge and pantry, so unless we lose electricity, we'll be fine until the plows dig us out."

"I've been freezing empty water bottles and milk jugs, so if the power goes out, we'll be OK for a few days. Plus, I noticed that big stack of firewood on your terrace. I'll build us a roaring fire."

"Gosh. I almost hope the lights
do
go out. Almost.""I'm gonna fix myself a snack, get something cold to drink.What can I bring you?"

"Whatever you're having." It's what she always said, because Austin always seemed to know just what she'd like.

He bent to kiss her forehead. "Back in a minute."

He wasn't gone thirty seconds before the emptiness set in, deep and gnawing.

Better get used to the feeling,
she told herself. Because day after tomorrow,
this is how you'll feel
all
of the time.

T
he east coast had been slammed by one ferocious blizzard after another, breaking all weather records. By early February, fifty-eight inches had accumulated in three separate events, inspiring the governor to declare a state of emergency.

The National Guard was dispatched, and they loaded into more than a hundred Humvees to make their way to motorists stranded when traffic came to a dead halt, thanks to three inches per hour that clogged every highway.

Baltimore-Washington International Airport called off all incoming and outgoing flights. Schools, malls, businesses, and church services were canceled. Those owning four wheel drive vehicles were asked to help deliver doctors and nurses to area hospitals.

Local TV stations put their news copters in the air to film parades of dump trucks that offloaded the frozen stuff into Baltimore's harbor, inciting heated debates between environmentalists about the potential hazards to marine life, once the salty snow made its way to the Chesapeake Bay.

Unlike the experts, ordinary citizens took full advantage of being snowed in, and turned the clearing of side streets into

block party events, while their kids climbed snow mountains higher than any they'd ever seen.

Normally, Austin would have hated being cooped up. But living on the water with three-sided views of the bay tamped down any symptoms of cabin fever. Mercy, on the other hand, had sounded at her wits' end when they talked night before last.

She'd recovered, but not enough to shovel show from her front porch, sidewalk, and driveway. He chuckled, remembering the way she'd grumbled about the neighborhood association."What are they doing with the hundreds of dollars they charge all of us?" she'd fumed.

Fortunately, she and her neighbors now had an escape route—though she wouldn't go so far as to credit the powers that be in the association office. It sounded to Austin as if Mercy needed the upcoming Super Bowl shindig more than anyone, so it would be a double disappointment if the weather forced the marina to cancel, especially since the managers had decided to celebrate in a bigger-than-usual way when they learned that Flora's cancer had gone into remission.

Plus, Bud had organized a silent auction to raise money for the Cancer Society, and knowing this, Austin had spent hours, fashioning a fancy bird feeder as his contribution to the charity.

And Mercy canceled her trip to London.

She'd wanted to back out of the party, too, when he offered to pick her up. "You live right there!" had been her objection."Why drive all the way to Fells Point and back again if you don't have to?"

She didn't know it, but Austin
did
have to. Since leaving her house, he'd thought of little else, and a pounding need to see her invaded every waking moment.

After what she'd just been through? Any other woman would have huddled inside, afraid for her life. When he rolled into Mercy's driveway, it surprised him to see her on the porch, alone, in a sassy black hat and matching mittens, and black leather boots that hugged her shapely calves. Make that 'calf,' he thought grinning at the sight of her exposed red-painted toenails. Oh, how he wanted to scoop her up and plant one right on those smiling, rosy red lips!

All in good time, he thought, steering to the far right of her drive. All in good time.

"Thought we'd take your car," he said, locking his truck, "since it's easier for you to get into and out of than this big—"

"But they're predicting more snow. What if they're right? Your pickup rides higher, and I don't have 4-wheel drive."

She made a good point, and, as he unlocked the passenger door, he admitted it.

"What's this?" he asked, taking the black plastic-wrapped package from her.

"My contribution for the silent auction."

"What is it?"

She wiggled her eyebrows, and opened her mouth to answer.Instead, she slipped on the only patch of ice to be found.

Austin one-handed the package and steadied her with his free hand.

"Whew," she said, backing into the passenger seat. "That was close."

"Yeah. That's all we need . . . you, back in the hospital so soon." Trembling with concern, he said, "Buckle up," then slid the parcel into the back. No other woman had stirred his protective instincts like Mercy, and something told him no other woman ever would.

She chattered the whole way back to the marina, about the banner the kids had hung across the school's entrance to welcome her back.

"And there were two phone calls," she said, "about possible Woodrow sightings."

"That's great news. Did either pan out?"

She heaved a disappointed sigh. "No. One was a gray tabby, and the other a solid black cat with enormous green eyes."

No doubt she was worried that the poor critter had frozen to death. And to be honest, that thought had crossed Austin's mind a time or two. "Don't give up hope just yet. You said yourself that he's resourceful, and as Flora pointed out, he might be holed up with another family."

"Oh, I hope so. The image of him buried under a mountain of snow—" She shivered. "Isn't it wonderful about Flora!"

"Yeah. Best news I've heard in a long time."

"I wonder if maybe they made a mistake, with the original diagnosis, I mean. Because how else can her doctors explain that one blood test teemed with cancer cells and the next three were one hundred percent normal."

"Eversly admitted he believes in the power of prayer."

Even if peripheral vision hadn't told him she'd turned to get a better look at him, Austin would have known because he could almost feel her gaze, boring into the side of his head.

"What does
Flora
think?"

"The members of her congregation held a special prayer vigil in her name, and she's grateful as all get-out to every man, woman and child who hit their knees on her behalf." Dare he add the rest, and risk setting off a chain reaction of denials and explanations and rationalizations for her doubt and skepticism? "When she got the good news, she called me over so she and Bud could tell me in person. Squeezed my hand so hard, I thought sure she'd dislocated a couple of knuckles, and thanked me for adding to all those prayers. She'd made her peace and got her affairs in order, but she's grateful that God saw fit to heal her."

He heard her snort of disgust, and couldn't ignore it. "I mean no offense, but I just have to ask: How can you stare a full-blown miracle in the face and still deny God's existence?"

"Coincidence."

That's it? That was her rationale for Flora's cure—
coincidence?

"So how's the leg?"

She sighed. "If you hadn't changed the subject, I would have. I don't want anything to spoil Flora's special day. And the leg's fine, thanks to—"

"Glad the worse of that ordeal is behind you." It didn't take a genius to figure out what she wanted to say, and he sent a silent thank heavenward that Mercy hadn't finished her sentence.

"Did you get the birdhouse finished?"

"Yep. It's on the back seat."

"I can't wait to see it. From your description, I've been picturing a miniature mansion."

"Well, it sorta
is."
Then, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, asked "What's in the big package back there?"

"A painting."

"Not a bad choice." If he had to guess, he would have said the marina's regular members could buy the place and three more just like it. A few owned sailboats bigger than most people's houses, and he couldn't name one who'd been affected by the recession. "Even if it's a print, it'll probably bring in big bucks."

"Oh, it isn't a print. It's an original."

"Better still," he said, parking in a handicap space near the clubhouse door, "especially if the bidders recognize the artist's na—"

"Hey, it's Tommy Winston and his family!" She pointed at a Cadillac SUV, then pointed again, this time at a Hummer."And the Healyes!"

Austin jogged around to her side of the pickup and opened the passenger door. "I'll get you inside, then move the truck."

"I can—"

"Probably, but you aren't going to." He called her attention to the stubborn patches of ice still clinging to the wooden walkway. Planting both palms on her slender waist, he lifted her from the seat . . .

. . . and for a moment, held her in mid-air.

Mercy, hands resting on his shoulders, looked down at him.If that wasn't love beaming from her dark, sparkling eyes, he'd settle for whatever it was.

"Austin," she said, grinning, "people are beginning to stare.""Let them." He brought her closer, pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then put her gently on her feet. "Here," he said, handing her the tickets, "save us a table. Not too close to the DJ's speakers."

"Anything you say."

Anything?
he wondered.
Even the promise that you'll at least
try
to give this whole God thing some serious thought?

"A guy can hope," he whispered, jogging back to his truck.

Inside, he saw that management had displayed the auction items on long, narrow tables that hugged the walls of the banquet hall. Austin inspected the donations, and it pleased him to see that fourteen people had scribbled their names on the lines beneath the description of his birdhouse. And pleased him more to read the last bid for $51.25.

A little farther down the table he saw Mercy's painting.Propped against the white beaded board wall, it caught the overhead lights and reflected the muted colors of a sunset.His heart nearly stopped when he recognized it as
his
sunset.Well, the view of it from his boat, anyway. Even more amazing —the tiny black signature in the lower right-hand corner that said Mercy S.

He caught her eye, and, with a nod, asked her to join him.Even stumping along on her half cast, she crossed the room in no time.

"What," she said, stepping up beside him.

Austin pointed at the painting, and at the form where two dozen people had tried to outbid one another, so that they could take it home. "That's what."

She glanced at it, then looked back at him. "What about it?"

"I didn't know you could paint."

One brow rose as she smirked. "There's a
lot
you don't know about me, Mr. Finley."

"When did you do it?"

"The weekend after you grilled me steaks on your boat."

"From memory?"

Mercy nodded. "Well, sure. How else?" And then she laughed.

"I thought maybe you'd snapped a picture. With your cell phone camera." He shrugged. "Or something like that."

"No, no," she said, her voice light and airy as the painting's brush strokes.

"You must have a photographic memory, then."

"You two sound like an old married couple . . . ."

Cora . . . and she didn't sound happy. Austin plastered a smile on his face and turned around. "Hey, kids," he said, standing between the boys. "I thought you'd never get here!"

"Is this the lady you were living with?" Ray asked.

"I wasn't
living
with her," he said, laughing. "I was—"

"He's right," Rick agreed. "She got beat up by a gang of bad dudes. He was only staying at her place so she wouldn't take a header down the stairs, or drown in the toilet, or—"

"Boys!" Cora said. "Where are your manners?"

Mercy held out a hand to Cora, and smiled, "It's so good to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."

"And you must be Mercy."

Cora's smile never quite reached her eyes. Not a good sign.Not a good sign at all. Bookended by the boys, he stood looking at the two most important women in his life, and thought he understood what a slice of lunchmeat felt like right before a lumberjack bit into it.

"So where are you guys sitting?" he asked.

Rick pointed. "Over there. Right next to—"

"Dr. Samara," Ray injected. "Her name is
Doctor
Samara."

"Oh. Right. So anyway, we're over there, right next to that painting she did from your boat."

"How do
you
know that's where she painted it?"

"Pul-eeze. It's, like, the
only
place in the world where a sycamore tree grows outta the water. And there's a sycamore in her painting." Rick looked at Mercy. "Isn't that right?"

Mercy licked her lips, then smiled. "Yes. That's true. But I wasn't on Austin's boat when I painted the scene. I just happened to see the sunset one evening when—"

"You know Austin," Cora interrupted. "He has a girl up there in that pilot house of his every day of the week, showing her" She drew quotation marks in the air and cleared her throat. "—the view."

Bud and Griff walked up them as a cheer rose up from the crowd. Mrs. Healye and Mrs. Winston joined them, too, as all eyes turned toward the wide-screen TV behind the bar. "Saints won the coin toss!" a deep voice shouted.

"Landed heads up!" bellowed another.

Austin's gaze was fused to the screen when he said, "Twentysecond time that's happened."

"What are you," Bud asked, "some kind of walking, talking encyclopedia?"

Griff laughed and clapped a hand onto Austin's shoulder."Our boy put his free time to good use, wouldn't you say?"

"What free time? I pretty much worked 24-7-365 until my recent babysitting job."

Thankfully, Mercy seemed too involved in her chat with Mrs. Healye and Mrs. Winston to have heard the crack. But he'd better watch his mouth from here on out, though, unless he wanted what her to think he'd been spewing baloney when told her how much he'd enjoyed taking care of her.

But Cora heard it. He knew by the width of her smirk.

During halftime, the DJ tapped his microphone and directed everyone's attention to a second widescreen on the wall opposite the game, where a mini-documentary filmed by his brother and sister-in-law to honor the victims and survivors of 9/11 and their families, would soon begin.

Austin and Griff exchanged a cynical glance. They'd already seen it all, in black and white and full color and in person. Did they really want to view yet another version of the tragedy?

Mercy grabbed Austin's wrists and looked up into his face, exactly as she had that day so many years ago in her office."Are you OK to do this?" she whispered. "Because if you aren't, we can leave. Just get in your truck and
go."