The Bridge (9 page)

S
he told Ryan good-bye without tears, before she might’ve fallen apart. Between that and knowing with all certainty that she’d never see him again, Molly found a strength she hadn’t thought herself capable of. It allowed her to go home and face her parents—something she hadn’t been sure she could do.

The conversation with her father was short and to the point.

Her dad picked her up at the airport, and before they had her bags in the hired Town Car, he was telling her about meetings for the following day and the method of grooming and why it was important that she spend time watching him work so she’d know what was waiting for her ten years down the road.

Molly let him talk until they reached their gated home in Pacific Heights. When the driver let them out, she faced her father. “Stop.”

“. . . which is why we have two meetings tomorrow afternoon, the first with . . .” Her father blinked and seemed to register what she’d said. “Stop?”

“Yes.” Her heart raced, but there was no turning back. “Here’s how it will be. You need to know, because this is the last time I’m going to tell you.”

He was quiet for the first time since Molly could remember.

“Okay.” She smiled to cover up the fact that she was shaking. “I’m not ever going to be CEO of your corporation. But I have a deal for you.”

Her dad looked like he might yell or fly into a dissertation about how she wasn’t being rational. But again he remained silent.

“I’ll run the charitable branch of your business. We’ll help all kinds of people and make a difference in our community. But I will not now nor ever sit at the head of your board.”

“You’re saying . . . you want Preston to have the job?”

Molly knew what her dad was thinking. If she and Preston married, what difference did it make who was running the company? The business would still be in family hands. She made a hurried decision not to
drop that bombshell at the same time. “Okay, yes. That’s what I’m saying. I want Preston to run it.”

He made a face. “And you’ll run the charitable foundation?” He looked baffled, as if she might be certifiably insane to walk away from such an opportunity. “I don’t have a charitable foundation.”

She smiled at him again. “Exactly.” Before her father could say another word, she turned around and grabbed two of her bags. “I’ll meet you in the house.”

That was that. He tried again later that day and the next and three times a week from then out. Molly held her ground.

Her conversation with Preston Millington was equally brief.

They grabbed coffee on the waterfront the next day, and from the moment he picked her up, she could do nothing but compare him to Ryan. He wasn’t funny, and he didn’t make her heart beat faster when they were together. He smelled nice, but the whole drive, he asked only a couple of questions about her. Otherwise, he was content to talk about his education, the near completion of his MBA, and his dreams for her father’s corporation. He was fit and incredibly handsome, much more mature than
his twenty-four years. He wore business pants and a starched white button-down, probably what her father had worn at his age. Most of that day she felt like she was talking to a one-dimensional model, fresh off the pages of
GQ
magazine.

Very quickly, she laid out the situation. “I know we had plans at one point.” She took his hands in hers. “That was a long time ago. I’ve changed, Preston. I don’t see you that way.”

Preston opened his mouth as if he might refute her, but he hesitated for a long time. “Well.” He sounded dazed. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You’ll be okay, right?” Molly gave him a weak smile. “I mean, we’ve barely talked for two years. I sort of thought you’d probably moved on.”

“No.” It was the most thoughtful Preston had looked the whole time Molly had known him. “A guy could never just . . . move on from you, Molly.”

“Thanks.” She wanted to tell him he was wrong. Because Ryan was already moving on from her. He would marry his Southern belle and Molly would find her place in his past, a distant memory. This wasn’t the time. “We’ll be friends?”

Again he waited, but a broken smile tugged at his lips, and he shrugged. “I guess so.” He exhaled in a rush. “The truth is, I’m too busy to date.”

“Exactly.” Molly flipped her blond hair over her shoulder. “That’s what I mean. It just isn’t right. You know, between us.”

She convinced him with little effort, and six months later, Preston and her father helped unveil the Allen Foundation, a charity that initially brought music to orphaned children and eventually expanded to include the shelter for abandoned animals. From the first day of its existence, Molly threw herself into the foundation. The work had a healing effect on her soul. Somehow, when she was teaching a forgotten third-grader how to play the violin, she could keep from spending every waking hour wondering about her dream of the philharmonic and her thoughts about Ryan, the way she still longed for him. The way she hated him for rejecting her.

Every now and then she went to the Christian church down the street. She hoped the key to restoration lay somewhere between the altar and the doors. The pastor talked about hope and redemption and
God, the giver of second chances. Though she liked the peace she felt there, in the end she walked out of the service missing Ryan.

She believed the message. Only God could have given her a second chance with Ryan Kelly.

Three years later, with her father still harping on her to take the reins of the business, a heart attack caught up with him at a gaming table in Las Vegas. A year after they buried him, her mother died after a quick fight with cancer, and Molly couldn’t get out of San Francisco fast enough.

Preston took over her father’s business, and Molly moved the Allen Foundation to Portland. She began playing violin for a local theater company, and she forced her heart to move on from Nashville and Belmont and every memory of Ryan. It didn’t work, of course. Not after she got settled in the Northwest and not after she found new friends and new ways to spend her free time. The memories never died. But once every twelve months, on Black Friday, she gave herself permission to go back, to relive that happiest time when all the world stood still, and to find herself again in that late-spring starry night with Ryan

Black Friday and once in a while on a rainy jog
through Portland the day after. When she couldn’t quite return from the trip back to what once seemed so real. When she couldn’t convince herself he wasn’t waiting for her at The Bridge. When she missed him so much she could hardly breathe.

The way she felt now.

C HA P T E R  S I X

T
he hissing was getting louder.

Charlie felt like he had invisible demons on his shoulders, vicious, threatening, murderous demons, and in the last few days, their voices had gotten so loud he could barely concentrate, barely hold a conversation. He parked his ’98 Chevy on the curb outside The Bridge, gathered the mail from the front seat, and went inside. Donna was out getting milk and eggs when the carrier came, so he decided to bring it here to open. As if maybe that might help sway the contents to be a little more favorable. The snow from Thanksgiving weekend had melted, but last night another storm had dumped four inches across middle Tennessee. The ground was slippery as he made his way inside.

What’s the point, Charlie Barton?
He could almost
sense the evil laughter in the empty storefront, the sense of despair so great it nearly consumed him.
You already know what the mail’s going to say. More bad news. Just toss it in the trash and drive off a cliff. You’re worthless, a failure, just like your dad predicted
.

“No.” His response was audible, and it startled him.
That’s not true. I won’t believe that
. He gave a quick shake of his head, as if by doing so he could rid himself of the voices. Why was it so cold? He rubbed his hands together. Franklin hadn’t been this cold as far back as he could remember. More snow was expected in the next few hours.

The Bridge was freezing inside, the utilities long since turned off due to nonpayment. Not that it mattered. It was Tuesday, December 11, and he was no closer to buying books for his store. No closer to finding an answer to the debt weighing him down and pressing in around him.

Which was why he’d come here this afternoon with the mail. He had submitted a loan application to the banker who once spent his free time here at The Bridge with his wife. If anyone could approve a loan, it was this man. “I have a good feeling about this, God . . . I know how You are. How You like to come
through at the last minute.” He laughed, the sound lost on his chattering teeth. “That’s gonna happen here. I can feel it.”

Charlie, you’re crazy. No one would loan you money. You’re not worth anything. You’re a bookseller, Charlie. Banks loan money to people with a way to pay it back. Come on
.

“Stop!” This time he raised his voice. “Jesus . . . give me peace. Stop the voices. Please!”

And like that, they were quiet.

His hands trembled more than before. He laid the envelopes out on his front counter. Two pieces, all that he’d brought for this moment. The first from his banker friend. The second from the company that leased him the building. Suddenly, the stone countertop caught his attention.

As if he might find a way back to the days before the store died, Charlie spread his hands lightly over the counter. How many conversations had he shared over this piece of stone? And how many books had passed over the counter on their way to changing a life? Even saving a life? Books could do that. It was the reason Charlie believed in the bookstore.

It had saved his, after all. No other way he would
have survived the loss of their little girl, the loss of the dream of a family. His hope was found in books, and in novels of redemption and hope, purpose and true love. Through them God had given him a purpose. The purpose of putting books in the hands of other people like him.

Hurting people.

He straightened and took a deep breath. Waiting wouldn’t change the contents inside the envelopes. Since only the banker’s letter could contain the answer he needed, he started with the letter from the leasing company. A week ago he’d called the manager and asked for time. “The flood did me in,” he told the man. “Please give me another two months to start making money. Then I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

The man reluctantly agreed to take the case to his supervisor. Whatever their answer, it was contained in the piece of mail in front of him. He loosened the flap with his thumb and willed his hands to be still. If only it were warmer in here. He eased the letter from the envelope and opened it. His fingers shook so much, the sound of rattling paper filled the empty space.

Dear Mr. Barton
,

As per your request to extend grace in the payment of your lease, we have reached a decision. Ultimately, we would have agreed to your request. However, we have been contacted by the building’s owner, and he is no longer in a position to wait on your lease payments. He has decided to sell the building, and he would like to offer it to you first
.

Charlie’s breath came in short bursts, and as his eyes fell on the asking price for the small house, he felt his knees start to buckle. He couldn’t pay the gas bill, let alone buy the building. He skipped ahead to the next section, where the manager regretfully informed him that he had until January 1 to either leave the premises and turn in the key or make an offer on the property.

Less than three weeks.

Even with the loan, he wouldn’t be able to make things right now. Although maybe he could use the loan to catch up on his back payments and convince the owner not to sell. Not yet, anyway. He felt a gasping bit of hope, and without ceremony, he grabbed the
second envelope and tore it open. This one was longer and less formal.

Dear Charlie
,

I love your heart for the people of Franklin, and I love your desire to keep The Bridge open. I can remember a hundred times when my wife and I hung out at your store and shared books that stirred our souls
.

As a couple, there was a time when we grew busy. Life and kids and carpools and grocery shopping. We almost forgot how to love. But every time we came to The Bridge, we remembered. You and your books reminded us what was important, Charlie. I’ll never forget that
.

If anyone would want to loan you this money, it’s me. In fact, if I had it myself, I’d be down there handing it to you. I feel that strongly. But banks don’t make decisions based on emotions. I personally took your packet to our loan department, but no matter how many programs we looked at, they couldn’t make the numbers work. I’m sorry, Charlie. We have to decline your application
.

Please know that if anything comes up in the future or if your situation changes, we would . . 
.