Sleeping in Eden (49 page)

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Lucas asked, leaning down to peer through the driver's-side door. He hoped Jenna would say yes.

“No, you go ahead,” she said, nudging him. “I'll join you in a few minutes.”

He nodded.

“You okay?”

Lucas studied his wife, loving the whisper of concern in her voice, the quiet understanding in her dark eyes. Loving all of it,
actually. The tint of her lipstick, the way she reached a hand to brush a stray hair from her cheek, the cream of her shirt collar against the curve of her neck. “I'm fine,” he told her. “No, better than that. I'm good. I'm going to be good.”

Jenna smiled, gifting Lucas with an expression that filled the space between them. That gave him strength.

It was enough.

He took the bouquet of yellow daisies she handed him and waved good-bye before starting up the hill through the dewy grass. His feet left a trail in the budding sea of bottle green, a path that marked his progress from the haven of his car to the small congregation of people that clustered around a center he couldn't quite see. There were maybe a dozen people gathered, not much more, and Lucas was struck by the intimacy of their circle. He felt for a moment that he didn't belong; that his presence was an intrusion, an unwanted interruption in the midst of their quiet counsel. He almost turned back.

But then a woman looked up and noticed his unhurried progress from the gravel parking lot. She was an older, more somber version of the young woman in the photograph he now kept on his desk—a gift that seemed extraordinarily poignant—and when she raised her hand to him in greeting, Lucas's reaction was physical.

It was a blow to see her. An unanticipated slap of grief and sympathy, and, surprisingly, some sudden and overwhelming sense of completion. A sense that this had to happen, and Lucas knew it when he saw her press her outstretched hand to her lips and close her eyes against the quick rush of tears.

They met at the crest of the hill, and though tears continued to spill in crooked trajectories down her cheeks, she smiled. “You must be Lucas Hudson,” she said.

“It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Painter.”

“Call me Linda.” She stretched out a hand in welcome, then thought better of it and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

“I didn't—”

Linda cut him off, squeezing his upper arms as she backed away from their embrace. “You brought her home. I will never be able to thank you enough for that.”

“I wish . . .” But Lucas didn't finish.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed goatee to match came up behind Linda and placed a protective hand at the small of her back. “Hello, Lucas,” he said. His eyes were sad and lined, but there was warmth there all the same.

“Gregory,” Lucas surmised. They shook hands like old friends, and Lucas's throat thickened with emotion at the earnest press of the older man's strong grip. There was much contained in the steady pressure of his fingers. “I'm sorry,” Lucas choked out, overwhelmed. It was excruciating to finally stand before Meg's parents with nothing to offer but belated condolences. “I'm so, so sorry . . .”

“No apologies,” Greg shook his head even as he fought tears. “Not today. We're here to celebrate Meg's life.”

“And we want to thank you for what you did,” Linda interjected. “For bringing her home to us.”

“But,” Lucas protested, anxious to deflect their gratitude, “but I didn't—”

“No apologies and no buts. It happened the way that it happened for a reason. And we're thankful for that. Besides, today isn't about why. It's about remembering.”

“Remembering,” Lucas echoed, though there was nothing for him to remember. And yet he was anxious all the same to meet her, to know the daughter, friend, and woman that had earned a corner in his heart. She deserved her own set of memories.

The ceremony was unofficial and sprinkled with a fine mixture of laughter and tears. They seemed to split the difference—laughing at a shared story one moment and crying the next. But there was no bitterness in it, and Lucas was happy that he had skipped the funeral and come instead for the private farewell, even if he felt like an outsider looking in.

“We're glad to have you,” Linda whispered to him on more than one occasion.

Lucas decided his discomfort was worth it for the sake of the pale but genuine smile that she regularly directed at him.

When it was all over, he stepped forward to the fresh grave and bent before the bare swatch of earth that split the new grass like a wound. “Grace and peace to you,” he murmured, hoping that Megan Painter could hear his greeting, his good-bye. He wasn't sure what he believed heaven to be, but if God in his graciousness granted small requests, he prayed that this wish would come true. He added his bouquet to the others, marveling at the sunburst of gold that somehow made her burial ground beautiful.

Near Meg's grave was a small table with a mosaic of framed photographs, and when Lucas lifted the one of a ponytailed toddler, Linda asked: “Do you have children?”

He couldn't help the hesitant smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. Running his thumb over the face of the grinning, gap-toothed Meg, he replaced the picture and turned toward the parking lot. She was halfway up the hill, eyes wide and hopeful as she came. Indicating Jenna as she approached, Lucas nodded at the child in his wife's arms with unabashed pride. “That's my wife,” he said. “And the little girl, that's Mia.”

“You have a beautiful family,” Linda told him. “How old is your daughter?”

Usually Lucas was cautious, quick to explain that Mia was their foster child, and that though they were fostering to adopt, nothing was ever certain until the final documents were signed. But he didn't want to bog Linda down with details, so he said, “Thank you. She just turned three.”

“A precious age.”

“Yes, it is.”

Linda hugged Jenna when she was close enough to touch and got an armful of Mia in the bargain. The little girl squirmed and reached for Lucas.

He lifted her from Jenna's arms. “Did you have a good nap in the car?” he asked, tucking her in close and laying his cheek against the soft sweep of her fine hair.

Mia didn't say anything, just nuzzled her head into the warm crook of his neck with a familiarity that took his breath away. If he hadn't already lost his heart to her a million times over, it would have melted yet again. A few more months, and she would bear his name in addition to his heart.

Jenna and Linda were talking, huddling within the hushed tones of friendship that women in grief speak fluently. It was hard to watch them, but healing, too, and Lucas wasn't surprised when Linda put her arms around their little trio in a gesture that seemed rich with motherly wisdom and support.

“Don't fall asleep,” Linda warned, her voice gentle but her eyes fierce.

Jenna's confusion was unmistakable in her even gaze.

“We were sleeping in Eden,” Linda explained. “But we didn't even know it until it was gone.” She sighed, her voice breaking. “Paradise lost.”

Lucas reached for his wife's hand and held it tight. “Is it?”

“Is what?” Linda smiled crookedly, tilting her head to match the bittersweet angle of her lips.

“Is it really lost? Forever?”

The older woman closed her eyes. Sighed. “It comes back. Little by little. A bit at a time. Like waking up after a long, deep sleep.”

“Good morning,” Lucas said, dipping his head in blessing.

Linda lifted her eyes, looked around. The sun was starting to burn off the remnants of morning mist, and as it hit the dew unfettered, the drops of water shone like diamonds in the grass. Behind her, people were laughing softly. A bird chirped overhead. “Yes,” she finally agreed. “It is a good morning.”

Though Mia had clung to Lucas during the introductions and quiet conversations, she wiggled to get out of his arms as they walked back to the car. He dropped a kiss on her forehead and complied, depositing her in the grass with such care she might have been a made of crystal. And maybe she was.

Mia was changing. Slowly. The first month had been hard. And the second. Neglect had made her quiet and insubstantial,
a mere shadow of a little girl. She was slight in every way, feather-thin and wispy, made of nothing more than lightness and air. And yet there was something heavy about her, too, grounded, and she seemed older than her scant three years. But Lucas now knew the sound of her laughter, and though it came hesitantly, it came. He smiled at her, chancing a fatherly touch by smoothing his fingers along the heart-shaped curve where her blond-brown hair met her forehead.

Mia looked up at Lucas, pulled her brows into a solemn line, and said, “Swing me.”

They did. Lucas held one tiny hand, Jenna held the other, and they descended the hill with Mia suspended carefully between them. Flung forward, she pointed her toes toward the sky. And when her feet kissed the ground, they lifted her again and again, sweeping her up and up, helping her to fly.

S
leeping in Eden
took me more than ten years to write. When I first put pen to paper and started the arduous process of trying to capture the stories of Lucas and Meg, I was a twenty-four-year-old high school English teacher who loved words. I didn't make it very far before life got in the way of my storytelling, and in the decade between, I quit teaching, became the mother of three gorgeous boys, moved to a different country, cofounded a nonprofit organization, and published several other novels. But
Sleeping in Eden
is where it all began—when Jim Sparks hung himself from a rafter in his condemned barn, when I wrote that very first sentence, something inside of me changed. I knew I wanted to be a novelist.

Over the years I wondered if this book would ever see the light of day. And I worried that if it did, I would never be able to remember and personally thank all the people who played a role in its unfolding. I find myself in that humbling situation today. I'm going to name names, I'm going to try, and if I've forgotten you in the telling, please know that your contribution is no less sweet. From the bottom of my heart, for your love and support and wisdom and encouragement, thank you.

Thank you to Todd Diakow, for being the first person to read the first sentence. And for telling me that someday, somehow, it would be published. You were right.

Thank you to Danielle Egan-Miller, Joanna MacKenzie, and Shelby Campbell, the incomparable ladies at Browne & Miller. You've read this book so many times you could probably quote entire passages in your sleep. You went above and beyond.

Thank you to my family and friends for reading so many different versions of this story, and for telling me time and again that it was your favorite. That it made you cry. That you couldn't stop thinking about it. I clung tightly to those words, especially when
Sleeping in Eden
felt beyond redemption.

Thank you to Rebekah Nesbitt, Beth Adams, and Amanda Demastus for fixing and polishing and tightening. You helped me see things I couldn't. This book is so much better because of you.

Thank you to Bruce Gore for designing such a gorgeous, evocative cover. After so many years of dreaming what it would look like, I'm thrilled with how you made it come alive.

And thank you to my boys, Aaron, Isaac, Judah, and Matthias. Always and forever. None of this matters without you.

Dr. Lucas Hudson is filling in for the town's vacationing coroner on a seemingly open-and-shut suicide case in Blackhawk, Iowa, when he unearths the skeletal remains of a young woman in a barn. Lucas is certain that they belong to a local girl, Angela Sparks, whom he and his wife, Jenna, had presumed had run away from her neglectful father years ago. Jenna has never recovered from Angela's disappearance, and Lucas becomes driven to solve the mystery of the victim's identity, both to bring Jenna some closure and to save his faltering marriage.