Slow Moon Rising (33 page)

I didn't answer, except for a noise that sounded something like “Hmm . . .”

“Will you do me a favor?” Her voice was now whisper-soft.

“What's that?”

“Will you promise me that, when this is over, you'll at least come back to Seaside Pointe for a visit? Jon said you refused to discuss moving back, but . . . please come for a visit? Stay with Derrick and me at the inn?”

How strange life is, I thought. How it turns on itself. Not so long ago, my husband had gone to the inn in search of respite after losing his beloved Joan. Soon, it would be my turn to seek solace among the peaceful places God had so lovingly designed for his children. “Yes,” I told her. “I will come.”

Several days later, a large box marked “fragile” arrived in the mail. It was from Lisa. I took it into our bedroom so Ross could watch me open it. His eyes danced with delight as, one at a time, I removed bubble wrap from Lisa's heirloom tea set, the one Derrick's mother had given to her on her wedding day, lovely with its yellow daffodils and green ivy.

“There's a card,” Ross noted.

I popped the envelope's back flap with a fingernail in need of attention and pulled the note card from within.

“What does it say?” he asked. “Read it to me.”

“Friends are flowers in the garden of life,” I read from the front of the card, then turned it toward him.

“Is that all?”

I opened the card and shook my head. “No. She signed it:
Don't forget to take care of Anise
.”

“Hear, hear.”

I held the teapot and pressed it between my breasts. “Dr. Claybourne, could I interest you in a cup of hot tea?” I asked.

“I would love that,” he answered. “Especially if I get to drink it with you.”

There came the day when Ross was in an unusually talkative mood, as though he'd rallied back to the living. He'd asked me to read to him from the Cedar Key
Beacon
, and I did. We discussed all the fine points of the articles and talked about the Community Calendar of events we'd have to miss this year, as though next year we'd be sure to attend each and every one. Both of us, together.

“I wish,” Ross said, “that I could go to at least one more chili cook-off at the Eagle Lodge.” A brow cocked teasingly.

“That's just what you need, Ross Claybourne,” I said from the chair placed flush against his bed and facing the headboard. “Chili.”

He chuckled. “You've been a good wife, Anise, but I sure do wish you'd not been so bent on your ‘no red meat' way of life. Think of all the steaks I've missed.”

I wanted to give a snappy comeback to remind him that he may have missed a certain number of steaks, but look at all the days I'd added to his life with the diet I brought to it. I didn't, of course. In the end—whether we are vegetarian or meat lover—our days are numbered by God. With all the healthy eating at our dining room table, death still hovered outside the door. The proverbial truck that
could
hit you, no matter a healthy lifestyle.

“You've been a good husband,” I finally said. “The best. Without fault. And I want you to know that I don't regret a single minute of knowing you, loving you, and being your wife.”

“You sure can get sappy when a man's about to breathe his last,” he teased me.

“Ross . . .”

His hand, so pale against the bedsheets, rose and found its way to my cheek. I slipped mine into it and rested my head against all the strength he had to offer. “I don't know what I did to deserve you, Anise, but it must have been something pretty fine.”

“Everything you have done, Ross, has been good.”

“Well, no. That's not true. Let's at least be honest.”

“But look at what God has done, my love.” I straightened, gathering his hand in both of mine. “Remember when we all sat around the family room, just days before Christmas, talking about the redeeming grace and mercy of Christ?”

“Wasn't that something,” he said, his voice growing weak.

“It was. It surely was.”

He closed his eyes. I could tell by his breathing that he was becoming less energetic; his burst of vitality gone too soon. I thought he'd fallen asleep, and I was willing—perfectly willing—to sit and watch him for the duration. But then he said, “I am remembering something else.” His eyes fluttered open.

“What's that?”

“That we also talked that day about you and your relationship with your father.”

I glanced away from his watered-down eyes to the bedside table, where a collection of framed photographs of Ross and his children and his grandchildren caught the light from the opened window. They were there, every single one of them, Rosa and her sons included. “I wish,” he said softly, “that I'd reached out to Rosa sooner. But I thought . . . I thought I'd
be rejected. And I thought I'd have to admit my wrongdoings and
that
would be more painful than not being in her life.” He shook his head ever so slightly. “I was wrong, Anise.”

I leaned in close. “What are you telling me, Ross?”

“That just as you got a second chance at redemption after your relationship with Garrett and I got a second chance after my one night with Eliana . . . maybe what your father needs is just that. A second chance.”

“I gave him so many more chances than that, Ross,” I said. “After I reached adulthood, he never really bothered to contact me except for those birthday cards I'm sure my stepmother made him sign.”

“You don't know that for sure, do you? Did you ever call to thank him?”

“No.”

“Well then.”

I shook my head. “Ross. He sent flowers to Mom's funeral but didn't bother to call or even to send a handwritten card.”

“How would you have felt if he had?”

I had no answer for that. I had never bothered to think in that direction. “I gave him a second chance,” I said, as though that settled the issue.

“Did you really, Anise? Did you really give him a chance?”

I thought I had. I truly thought I had.

“Maybe there is more to your father's story than you know. Just like there was more to mine. To my daughter's.” He winked at me. “Just promise me you'll think about it, okay?”

I squared my shoulders. “Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise. I'll think about it.”

“That's my good girl,” he whispered. “Now then. I think I'll nap if that's all right with you.”

I laid my head next to his bony hip. “That's perfectly fine with me. And when you wake, we'll have our tea.”

When it was over, when we had whispered our last good-byes and cried through our “I love yous,” when I had held my breath as Ross took his final one . . . and when we had taken his body back to Orlando for the funeral and then brought it again to Cedar Key for the burial, I thought about that conversation a lot.

Just as you got a second chance at redemption after your relationship with Garrett
, he'd said,
and I got a second chance after my one night with Eliana . . . maybe what your father needs is just that. A second chance
.

Days later, when I'd convinced my family and friends I would be okay my first night in the house alone, I sat out on the deck of our home, pondering it all. The sun had risen earlier on the day of Ross's funeral, and before it set we had buried the love of my life. People had come by in droves. I thought I'd never seen so many gathered in one place to honor the life of one man. But why wouldn't they? He was everything and more than what the pastor relayed in his sermon. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Pediatrician loved by thousands over the course of his career. Friend who would be missed by many. Son of the late Dr. Paul and Mrs. Frances Claybourne. Child of God. At seventy-four years of age, gone too soon.

I would never see his face or hear his voice again. Not in this lifetime. Already I missed them both. I missed them so
terribly and felt lonelier than I'd ever felt, even as a child wanting nothing more than her father's attention.

Before long, a full moon hung over the marshes and the black rush. In its light I could make out the silhouettes of large birds flying home for the evening and, through the palm fronds, hear the sweet breeze of nightfall.

A strange sense of knowing came over me, as if something in my life had been left undone and now—now of all the moments of my life—it was time to bring it to completion. To honor my husband's wish for me. I didn't necessarily
want
to finish it, but knew—instinctively—that in order to continue on, to be able to breathe even, I had to.

I stood. Walked into the living room. Past Ross's reclining chair. I allowed my fingertips to trail along the headrest as I moved slowly by. I made a steady path down the hallway and into the master bedroom where, that night, I would sleep alone.

I found my purse where I always kept it, in one of the shoe compartments of my closet. Now, I opened it, dug around until I found my cell phone, and sank slowly to the floor.

I leaned my back against the mattresses. Pushed the power button until the face lit. Dialed a three-digit number.

“Verizon 411,” the automated voice said. “What city and state?”

“Albany.” I swallowed. “New York.”

A pause was followed by a man's voice, which said, “Albany, New York information. What listing, please?”

I closed my eyes and drew my knees to my chest. “I'm looking for a residential number. First name is Chris. Or maybe Christopher.”

“Last name?”

“Kelly,” I said, my voice choking on the knot formed in my throat.

“I have a Christopher Kelly on Whitehall Lane.”

Whitehall Lane . . . yes. Across the pages of time I heard my father say to my brother and me, “Welcome to Whitehall Lane. This is now your
other
home. Isn't it something?”

I opened my eyes. “Yes, that's it. Whitehall Lane.”

“Thank you for using Verizon. Hold, please.”

The phone rang only once before I heard the oddly familiar—though aging—voice. “Chris Kelly,” he answered, just the way he always had.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the breath caught and held in my chest.

“Hello?” he said, the
o
sung in a melody.

A voice in the background asked, “Who is it, Dad?”

I sucked in a breath. “Hello,” I said quickly, though hardly audible. I squeezed my eyes shut again and felt the stinging there.

“Who is this, please?”

I could hang up, I thought. Hang up and pretend this never happened. That it didn't matter and that, really, it never would. That he could go on with his life and I could go on with mine here in Cedar Key as though our earlier lives hadn't happened. One painful door kept closed.

But it
did
matter; it mattered because of everything I'd lost in one man and gained in another. It mattered because of what Christ had asked of me.

Maybe what your father needs is just that. A second chance.

Forgive . . . seventy times seven.

Truth was, just as Rosa and Ami hadn't known their father's side of the story, I didn't know my father's. Maybe there was more . . . and maybe it was worth the try to find out. Another second chance.

“Hi, Daddy,” I said, eyes wide open. “It's me. Anise.”

I am sad the Cedar Key novels have come to an end. I feel as though, for the past three years, I have lived with these people. I know them as well as I know my own family. As with others of my characters and stories, it will be a while before they leave my heart and mind.

There are so many folks to thank, and I just know I'm going to forget a few of them. First, thank you to all my friends in Cedar Key, Florida! (Kona Joe, I gave you a speaking role this time!) I want to bask in your sunrises, sunsets, and slow moons . . . always! Why can't every day be a day in Cedar Key?

Thank you to my friend Dawn from Maine, who I asked about all sorts of details when it comes to living in such a beautiful state. I miss you guys!

Larry Leech, thank you for the things you shared with me about Bar Harbor, Maine (my Seaside Pointe). The fact that you and Wendy have visited there and I have not . . . well, I'm not bitter. Not really.

Beverly Goode (Edna from Cedar Key), who provided the name “Seaside Pointe.”

To Laura Menfree, who shared a piece of her story with me.

Mark Hancock, without your knowledge of how life's bumps change our behaviors, shape and mold us, I would not have understood Ami's story at all. I'd have written it completely wrong.

Dr. J. Shan Young, thank you, thank you! I know oncology is not your specialty, but being a doctor and a friend is. Your help was remarkable.

Robi Lipscomb, sweet friend, thank you for the place to crash by the beach so I could write without interruption. Unless, of course, you count my walks on the shores of Ormond Beach as interruption.

Deb Haggerty, for reading behind me as I wrote and for giving me the pointers to fix problem areas. Also, thank you for your final read-through. I trust and value your opinion more than you can know.

Donna Postell (my old backyard friend), who provided Rosa's son's name.

Shellie Arnold, I bow at your feet. Having you as my crit partner makes me a better writer than I could have ever thought to be on my own.

Mr. Jonathan Clements, agent to end all agents . . .
todah raba
!

As always, to my Baker/Revell team. Every one of you . . . Vicki, Kristin, Michele, Deonne . . . the list goes on and on.

To my huggy hubby, who puts up with my moods while I write. “Don't talk to me, I just wrote an emotional scene.” Or, “Let's go do something fun; I just wrote a happy scene!”

And to my Y'shua, for all the second chances . . .
ani ohevet otkha
(I love you).

Eva Marie Everson