Nightingale Way: An Eternity Springs Novel

February
Alexandria, Virginia

Catherine Ann Blackburn heard the grandfather clock on the landing chime twice and knew she’d delayed the moment long enough. She had a special visit to pay this afternoon. She’d better get moving. She saved her work, blew out the cinnamon-scented candle burning on her desk, and rose to leave her home office. The phone rang, but she allowed the answering machine to pick up. She crossed the hall to her bedroom, where she stripped out of her jeans and George Washington University hoodie. Inside her walk-in closet, she stared at the racks of clothing and debated which of her cemetery dresses to wear. She had four from which to choose. Cat spent way too much time in cemeteries.

A year and a half ago she’d joined Arlington Ladies, an organization of volunteers who attended military services at Arlington National Cemetery in order to make sure that no soldier was buried alone. When she paid her respects to the fallen, Cat represented the thanks of a nation for the soldier’s service and sacrifice, and she was proud to do so. No one should be laid to rest without someone there to note the passing of a life. Not a soldier, not an old man or woman.

Not a baby.

Grief washed over Cat and she shut her eyes, accepting it. Today was a day for remembering, the one day of the year when she allowed herself to wallow in her heartache. Today she wasn’t going to Arlington, but to Rose Hill Cemetery in Hagerstown, Maryland.

She scanned her closet’s contents again, but nothing felt right until she spied the red cashmere sweater. Forget the black dresses. Today, she’d wear red—the color of love.

She donned the sweater and a pair of gray wool slacks. She had just slipped into her shoes when she heard her doorbell ring. Immediately she tensed. Surely this wasn’t her dad, not after the lecture she’d given him last year. You’d think that after five years, George Blackburn would get the fact that she needed to do this by herself.

Her bedroom window overlooked the front yard, so she glanced outside. The only car in her driveway was her white Mercedes convertible, a recent gift to herself for having won the Goldsmith Prize for Investigative Reporting for her series on fraudulent charities. Nor did she see her father’s eight-year-old Volvo station wagon at the curb. When the doorbell rang again, followed by three raps against the wood, a pause, then two additional raps, she relaxed. That was her next-door neighbor’s usual knock.

Marsha Wells, the bubbly stay-at-home mother of a second-grader and a toddler, stood on the stoop. She began speaking the moment Cat answered the door. “You won’t believe this. It’s the most horrible thing.”

Concerned, Cat waved her inside. “What happened? Are your kids okay?”

“They’re fine. This isn’t about us. I spoke to Janie from Paw Pals a few minutes ago. Boy, was she furious.”

Janie Pemberton was the director of Paw Pals, the canine
rescue organization that was another of Cat’s volunteer causes. “Something to do with Paw Pals?”

“Indirectly. She says she’s stumbled upon a dogfighting ring operating here in town. Some prominent people might be involved.”

“With dogfighting?” Cat shook her head. Prominent people in this part of the world meant politicians. Politicians and prostitution she’d believe. Drugs wouldn’t surprise her. But dogfighting? Other than child porn or murder, she couldn’t think of anything that would derail a politician’s career faster than being involved in dogfighting. “I don’t believe it.”

“She’s convinced. And Janie is no fool. You know that.”

Cat nodded. Janie was a dynamo of energy with a quick, intelligent mind.

Marsha continued. “I think you should call and talk to her about it, Cat. This could be right up your alley.”

The old, familiar buzz that she experienced whenever a new story came her way shot through Cat, but she immediately dismissed it. Such things could wait. This was not the time. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll call her this evening.”

“Excellent.” Her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, Marsha shifted the topic of conversation by giving Cat’s outfit a once-over. “You’re all dressed up. Looking gorgeous as always, I might add. How is it that you can wear red so well when you’re a redhead? If I didn’t like you so much I’d hate you.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“I thought you had an Arlington Ladies commitment today.”

Cat frowned. She wouldn’t have booked anything for today. “Why did you think that?”

“When I handed you my grocery shopping list last
night, I’d have sworn I saw ‘cemetery flowers’ written on yours.”

Oh. Cat didn’t know how to respond to that. She didn’t like to lie, but Marsha didn’t know anything about her past. Hardly anyone did. Luckily, she didn’t need to respond because Marsha continued to talk.

“Thanks again for coming to my rescue. We were down to our last diaper, and I would never have heard the end of it if Aiden didn’t have a banana for his breakfast this morning, but the thought of loading him into the car seat one more time …” Marsha shuddered dramatically.

“I was glad to help.” And she was thrilled to avoid talk about cemetery flowers. “Speaking of rescue, how are things going at your house with your new foster? Is he settling in okay?”

“So far so good. He has an appointment at the vet tomorrow for heartworm treatment. How about you? Are you ready for your next baby?”

Inwardly, Cat winced. Today of all days, she didn’t want to think of the dogs she fostered as babies. “Actually, I’m taking a break from fostering for a little while. I told Janie I’d help with the website and shelter visits and even do some sitting when our volunteers need help, but I’m trying to schedule some major remodeling so it’s probably best I don’t have dogs here full time.”

“I know that Janie is thrilled to have you do anything you want to help out,” Marsha said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Cat, but I’m so glad the newspaper laid you off.”

“I’m not complaining. I like the freelance life more than I ever imagined. And the dogs who come to your house are lucky, too.”

“I don’t know about that.” Exasperation wrinkled Marsha’s brow. “Aiden keeps stealing their food. Fosters
at your house don’t have to compete for their supper with an eleven-month-old kibble thief.”

Cat worked to keep her smile on her face as she finished up the conversation. Once she’d shut the door safely behind Marsha, her smile faded. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. “It’s okay,” she lectured herself aloud. “It’s natural that the mention of Aiden breaks your heart today. Perfectly normal. Don’t sweat it.”

She pulled her coat from the closet, locked the front door, then went to the refrigerator where she removed a bouquet of yellow roses wrapped in green tissue. Five minutes later, she was on her way.

A cold, blustery wind buffeted the car and patches of snow clung to the shady spots beside the road. Cat cranked up the heater in her car. She listened to a classic rock station on the radio during the first half of her trip, but as she drew nearer to her destination, she switched off the noise and allowed silence to settle over her.

Had someone asked Cat what she thought about as she drove, she couldn’t have said. She spent the trip clearing her mind and preparing her heart, and by the time she turned in to the entrance to the cemetery, she was as ready as she ever would be. Though she hadn’t been to Rose Hill since this same day last year, she knew exactly where to go—the Angel Land section. She walked the rows of flat markers, knelt beside the grave she’d come to visit, then opened her mind to dreams she ordinarily kept locked away.

She imagined a toddler with dark curls playing with a fluffy white puppy. She pictured a preschooler with finger paint on her hands standing in front of a child-size easel. Next, it was a second-grader sitting in her lap and learning to read, then a fourth-grader coming up to bat at softball practice.