Heartache and Hope (2 page)

“I'll grab a broom,” Vera offered, without missing a beat. “We'll get it.”

“Don't bother.” Daylin shimmied into her wool coat as her cheeks flamed. She snatched her book from the scratched Formica table. “I'd like my check, please.” She turned from the windows and scurried toward the register at a double-time clip.

“Are you sure?” Vera's eyebrows disappeared beneath a scraggly spill of bangs while her gaze followed the trail of the lost button. “Won't take but a minute to retrieve that button. You might be needin' it. That's nothin' a needle and a bit of thread can't fix.”

“No, thank you.” Daylin adjusted her sweater to cover the hem of her slacks. It would take more than a needle and thread to fix her ample girth—and the sense of loneliness that fell over her like a veil. “Just the check.”

“Coffee's fresh. I just brewed it myself. Extra strong, too, and no calories—if that's what's worryin' you.” Vera tucked a pencil over one ear. “Not that there's anything wrong with a little meat on the bones. Women today…they all want to look like pillows without the stuffing. It's blame disconcerting, if you ask me.”

“I…no more to drink, thanks.” Daylin nodded firmly to add clarity to the statement. That was just what she needed, a rush of caffeine thrown in with the sugar she'd consumed at this late hour to keep her tossing and turning straight into the New Year. “Just the check.”

“Suit yourself.” Vera chomped chewing gum with a snappy rhythm as she moved to join Daylin at the check-out counter. She placed the coffee carafe onto its industrial warmer and delved into her apron pocket for the signature-green ticket. A quick flourish of scribble and she tore the slip from the pad and handed it to Daylin. “That'll be eight forty-two.”

“Thank you.” Daylin paid the bill, adding a generous tip for Vera's service, and then turned in pursuit of a hasty exit.

“Hang on a minute. You might be needin' these.”

Daylin turned back to find her car keys in Vera's outstretched hand. “Oh my, thanks.” She reached for the keys, but paused in her tracks as a gloss of paper tucked into a brochure holder on the counter beside the register caught her eye. “What's this?”

Vera took one of the flyers and opened it. “Patrick Litton brought them by last week, asked us to display them for him and the boss gave him the go-ahead.”

“Patrick Litton?' The name rang a bell…a very
big
bell. Could he be one and the same? Daylin turned over the flyer and saw his photograph. Her breath caught as she found her answer. He was older, more polished than she remembered, sporting short-cropped black hair. The shaggy bangs were gone, as was the mischievous grin. But there was no way such alluring gray-blue eyes could be mistaken. Back in high school her nickname for him had been Wolf because of the way his gaze captured and mesmerized. Her pulse slipped into a two-step as Vera continued.

“Yes. He's a good man, suffered some hardships here lately but keeps paddling the boat, just the same.”

“Hardships?” Immediately, concern flooded Daylin. “What type of hardships?”

“Oh, that's for him to share when the time is right. I won't go gossipin' about a brother's woes.”

“A brother?” The cryptic remark left Daylin confused.

“My brother in Christ. We attend church together over at Community Christian. His mom and I share a cup of java from time to time.”

“Frannie?”

“Sure, that's right.” Vera's eyebrows knit together. “You know her?”

“I used to. She was kind to me when I was younger and a student at Lake Meade High…drove me home from school a few times.”

“Yes, that's Frannie. Kind to the core, she is. Always findin' her way to a good deed or two.”

“Patrick…I knew him. We went to school together.”

“That so?”

“Yes. We lost touch after we graduated. I had no idea he lives here.”

“Funny thing, isn't it, the way the Man Upstairs works His way around things. It just so happens Patrick's the head of that organization mentioned in the flyer. I think it's called…” She snapped her fingers, her brow furrowing with concentration as she searched for the name. “Race for the Dream. No, I mean
Dash
for the Dream. That's it. Yes!” She slapped her left hip, the scowl flashing to a toothy smile. “Word around here is, they plan to run the Knoxville Marathon this coming April to raise funds for research.”

“What kind of research?”

“CF—Cystic Fibrosis.” Vera did a slow sweep of Daylin, head-to-toe, scrutinizing her abundance of curves. “Are you a runner?”

“I'm…not sure. I used to pound the pavement a bit, but it's been years…” Daylin snatched one of the brochures from the holder and flipped it over to scan the back print. The cloudburst of warmth that zinged through her deepened, shooting straight from her forehead to the tips of her toes. A thought squeezed through the simmer. She was suddenly clad in running shoes, her feet slapping along the high school track as she sprinted around a final curve and toward the finish line. The breeze kissed her cheeks as her hair fanned out in a veil behind her, ushering in a sense of freedom so pure it made her heart soar. On the air, she heard Frannie's voice as the woman cheered her on, along with Patrick who usually could be found a stride or two ahead, from the stands. Frannie must have sensed that sprinting was an escape—a way to leave the heartache behind—however briefly.

Daylin clutched the edge of the counter with her free hand to right herself as she found her voice once again. “I used to run cross-country in high school—the five-K and road races—but that was years ago. I haven't laced a pair of sneakers since then.”

“Why in the world not?” Vera's gaze was heavy with questions.

“Life got in the way, I suppose.” High school days had given way to a plateful of responsibilities. Daylin's job as senior editor with
Home Spice Magazine
meant long days seated at a desk. At home, in the evenings, she managed to squeeze in a bit of freelance editing for whomever needed her services so that one day, God willing, she might manage to afford the new car she needed before her current battle-scarred Honda finally bit the dust. The euphoria gained from her days of running was replaced by something quick, easy, and satisfying—at least in the short term.

Sweets.

Lack of exercise and extra calories brought on a bout of perpetual lethargy and pounds that crept up like unwelcome visitors in the night. All too easily it became a habit to collapse on the couch following a long day at work, prop open a pint of Extreme Moose Tracks along with the latest quick-mart paperback and spend an hour or two engrossed in the goings-on of some far-off magical place.

But she
could
try running again. Why not? It sure looked like Patrick had kept up the pace, despite his hardships—whatever they might be. She glanced at his photo once more as she drew her lower lip between her teeth and bit down. Judging from the headshot, he hadn't added so much as an ounce to his frame.

“Well, I'll admit life has a way of sidetracking the best of us.” Vera's voice broke into Daylin's thoughts, drawing her back. “But there's no better time to find out what's left in the tank. You're much too young—and pretty—to let life derail you.”

“Maybe so, but for now I should be heading home.”

“Time enough for that. Looky there.” Vera pointed to the clock whose hands rose toward the ceiling in near-perfect unison, like a couple lost in a slow, sweeping dance. “It's spot-on midnight. Happy New Year, honey.”

Honey…there was that word again. It was a term of endearment she'd rarely heard. Daylin's gaze watered as her eyes filled with tears. “Happy New Year, Vera.”

“I'll bet you've got yourself a list of those fancy whatta-ya-call-ums…” Vera snapped her fingers, struggling to conjure the elusive word. “…resolutions?”

“No…not really.” But she should think about getting herself moving again, get her heart rate elevated and shake off the dust. Maybe it was time. Could the brochure be some sort of sign? “I really need to be going now. Take care.”

“Maybe you'll drop by again soon, honey? It's always nice to see a familiar face, and we make the coffee fresh all day.”

“Maybe I will.” Daylin swallowed a nip of sadness as she tucked the brochure and paperback into her purse. Back in the corner, the young couple leaned into one another, lost in a sweet, celebratory kiss as the aroma of cinnamon swirled with coffee.

Daylin bit back a wave of melancholy and turned away, affording the happy young pair all the privacy a public diner might provide. She slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder and tugged on a pair of wool mittens. Outside, snow drifted along the boulevard, burying the length of curb and cracks along the sidewalk. As she shoved open the door to the street, she shivered against the cold. The rumble of an engine in the distance signaled a snow plow had begun its journey.

What type of hardships had Patrick Litton faced? And how had he ended up in Knoxville when they'd attended high school together in Crossville? The thought niggled at Daylin as snowflakes stung her cheeks. Was he alone tonight and wishing he had someone with whom to share the holiday?

It was a crazy thought. So was the idea of running the marathon—especially in this weather. But there was the option of a half-marathon, as well. She could manage that if she tried hard enough. Couldn't she?

Vera had mentioned fundraising for Cystic Fibrosis research. Daylin had heard of the disease, but knew little about it except that it was serious.

Life-altering. She brushed snow from the car's side-view mirror and caught her reflection beneath a streetlamp.

“You're much too young—and pretty—to let life derail you.”

Vera's voice seemed to echo from snowcapped Smoky Mountains that flanked a crisp, moonlit horizon. Daylin swung toward the rounded peaks, searching for her newfound friend.

You can do it, Daylin.

Daylin turned back toward the diner. Through the glass she saw Vera weaving her way through the tables, pausing here and there to refill coffee mugs and share a smile.

Trust me.

A chill coursed through Daylin as she made quick work of unearthing the car from its film of snow before slipping into the driver's seat to crank the engine.

Grrr…rrrr…

Gears howled and shrieked as the engine struggled to catch. Daylin's belly clenched with dread.

“Come on, baby, please.” She patted the ice-cold dash. “You have to start.”

Another crank of the ignition and, like a stubborn child who finally acquiesced, the engine turned over.

“Thank God.” Daylin lowered her head, sighing as frigid air swooshed into the cab. She felt like a traitor. She hadn't spoken to God—really communed with Him—since her high school days, wasn't even sure she believed in Him anymore. She removed her mittens to blow on numb fingertips. Shivering as the heater labored toward warm, she took the brochure from her purse and switched on the overhead light.

Dash for the Dream,
read the title in bold, black letters. The small print inside mentioned an informational meeting at Dusty's Diner in two days. An email address to confirm interest was included.

Daylin gnawed her lower lip as the car's heater made quick work of the fogged windshield, unveiling a boulevard that shimmered crisply beneath new-fallen snow. The scenery, devoid of footprints and gloppy-gray slush, appeared so fresh and clean that it nearly stole her breath. For a moment, she felt as if she'd been captured within a snow globe to watch the world dance by while she stood on the sidelines.

A pain shot through her heart, causing her to cry out. She'd spoken to God once already tonight. Why not again? What would it hurt?

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and then ran her tongue over skin the cold had begun to chap. Her throat tightened, making it difficult to form words. “Please, God, help me find a purpose again. I'm tired of feeling so alone, so lost. I want to do this race. I want to serve others, serve
You
.”

The prayer of her heart, raw with painful emotion, came as a complete shock. Daylin cringed as the words reverberated inside the snow-crusted cab. If it was possible for lightning to strike in the dead of winter, surely she'd fry right there in the driver's seat. Through all her heartache, she'd become convinced there was no God.

And, even if God did exist, why shouldn't He turn His back on her pleas?

Sobbing now, Daylin fished her cellphone from the pocket of her purse with trembling fingers. Without time to second-guess her actions, she typed a quick, shaky message to the inbox noted in the brochure and hit
Send
.

There…done. There was no backing out now. Daylin swiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket and tossed the phone back into her purse. She tightened the scarf at her neck like a noose and gritted her teeth against the desire to cave to the darkness.

No more…no more. Help me, God!

Tears dripped onto the steering wheel and splattered into Daylin's lap as the sobs racked her body. Could God still care for her? Could he still hear her pleas?

Heat fogged the windows as a peace cocooned her. Without a doubt, she knew what she must do. She'd attend the Dash for the Dream meeting, listen to the information Patrick Litton-who-had-suffered-some-hardships presented, and decide where to go from there. She could manage that much, couldn't she?

Sorrow parted and a tiny trill of excitement buzzed through Daylin, chasing away a chill of loneliness. She switched on the wipers, brushing away the last remnants of slush, and shifted into drive. The engine grunted as tires slogged over coated pavement. It would be good to see Patrick again. It had been so long and this chance encounter was a pleasant surprise. Would he remember her?

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