at the grand opening of the museum. No one was watching one old lady walking down the stairs, so how could anyone know for sure what happened? Anyone but me, that is.” Sarah’s gaze speared into Jazz’s, flecks of gold and green standing out against the dark blue. John’s eyes looking into Jazz’s, accusing, pleading.
She lowered her gaze, fiddling with a napkin, searching for just the right words, but knowing she wouldn’t find them. Words used to come easily. Not anymore. She struggled and searched and still came up wanting. “I believe you.”
Simple. Direct. Not quite the truth.
Wanting to believe didn’t mean a person actually did believe.
She’d learned that the hard way over the past years as she’d fought to hold onto what little faith she’d had.
“No. You don’t, but it’s all right. I love you anyway. I’m going to rest for a while. Tell me before you go out, okay?”
“Okay.”
The house fell silent as Sarah shuffled away, leaning on her walker—bent, older than her years, faded in some indefinable way.
That was what grief did—it aged the body, stole from the mind, made every hour into a hundred, every day into an eternity.
Jasmine grabbed the empty toast plate and the still-full coffee mug from the table, forcing somber thoughts away. She’d come here to help. Her sadness could only make things worse, her doubts feeding rather than assuaging Sarah’s paranoia.
If it was paranoia.
The doctors seemed to think so. Jazz was…undecided. Exactly the way she was about everything in her life.
She lifted Sarah’s book from the table, the cover’s pastel colors highlighting a man, a woman and a little girl who danced between them. Jazz’s life had been like that once—sunlight and shadows, laughter and tears, balanced out by love, affection, companionship.
Now it was different.
Not bad.
Not particularly good.
Just different.
Many of her friends thought she should get back into the dating game, start seeing people. Others suggested she adopt, bring children into her home, let laughter chase away the sorrow.
Jazz knew she could do both, but she couldn’t replace what was lost and had no desire to try. Instead, she lived life on her own terms, ignoring her friends’ suggestions. Even though that meant facing her life alone.
The business line rang, and she grabbed it, thankful for the distraction. “Lakeview Retreat, can I help you?”
“May I speak to Mrs. Jasmine Hart?”
“This is she.”
“My name is Keith Sherman. I’ve heard that your mother-in-law is having some financial difficulties.”
“Heard from whom?”
“Friend of a friend. I’m a real-estate investor, and I’d be very interested in purchasing her property. I’m sure you can see what a good idea that would be. Medical expenses for the elderly can be quite high.”
“Sarah isn’t elderly, and she’s not interested in selling.”
“Whether she’s interested in it or not isn’t the point. She’s probably got an emotional attachment to the place, but I’m sure you could help her see past that.”
“I’m not going to talk her into something she doesn’t want, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“So, you’d rather see her lose the property to the bank?”
“She’s not going to lose the property to the bank.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
“It is now. Thanks for your query, Mr. Sherman.” She hung up before he could say more, her heart hammering a quick, hard beat.
Lose the property to the bank?
Were things really that bad?
Jazz had looked through the past year’s books when she’d arrived, had realized how little revenue had come in, but she hadn’t bothered opening the mail piled up on Sarah’s desk, or checking her mother-in-law’s bank statements. Sarah was a private person. She didn’t believe in sharing burdens or responsibilities, and would never allow others to look into her finances. She had a strict code of ethics. Honesty, hard work, repaying debts; those were principles Sarah lived by. Jasmine couldn’t believe that had changed.
She hurried into the office, sat down at the desk, grabbing the pile of mail and sorting through it. Bills were piled to her left, correspondences to the right, junk mail in the trash can. It took three hours, but she finally finished, her heart sinking as she reread the letter threatening foreclosure.
The caller had been right. Sarah was about to lose her property. Jazz reached for the phone, hesitated, knowing her mother-in-law wouldn’t be happy with what she was about to do. If John were alive, he’d have prayed, approached his mother with a plan of action, then followed through in whatever way he felt led while Jazz watched in awe, wishing her own prayers could be answered as quickly and decisively. She’d thought that once she matured as a Christian they would be, that she’d hear God’s voice more clearly, understand more easily the direction she was supposed to take.
Somehow, though, spiritual growth had never happened. While John’s faith had flourished, hers had stayed in infancy. Even as she’d prayed with Megan and Maddie, rejoiced as they’d taken their own fledgling steps of faith, she’d wondered and doubted and worried and questioned and asked herself if what lived in her soul was less real than what lived in John’s and her daughters’.
At the time of their deaths, she still hadn’t found an answer. Now, she didn’t care to try. Being part of their faith experience wasn’t necessary anymore. What was necessary was action. She’d let Sarah down too many times in the past few years. That was obvious. Whether her mother-in-law would thank her or not, Jazz intended to make up for that in the only way she could. She lifted the phone and dialed the number of the bank.
THREE
Nighttime was the worst for Jasmine. The empty space beside her in bed. The silence. The hollowness of the house. The best thing, Jazz found, was to keep busy until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, then fall into a restless, dream-filled sleep. Often John and the girls would be waiting for her there, their laughter following her from dreams into daylight. That was when she understood how deep and true love was, how impossible it was to measure or to confine. It reached beyond time, beyond death, filling the heart even when arms were empty.
Tonight, with Sarah settled into her room and the tap of icy rain hitting windows and roof, Jazz still felt the aloneness of the night, the emptiness that yawned beside her in bed. At a little after midnight, she was still awake, sketching illustrations for an alphabet book. A tiger. Friendly-looking to go with the cute little rhyme that would be on the page. The only problem was Jazz’s tiger looked more ferocious than friendly, his snarling face and jagged stripes enough to scare even the bravest toddler away.
“Focus, Jazz. This thing is due in ten days.” She muttered the words as she ripped the drawing from the pad, tossed it into the trash can and tapped her pencil against the bed. This should be easy, so why was she struggling with it?
Maybe because being bombarded with photos of John and the girls that sat on every table and shelf in Sarah’s house had stolen her ability to concentrate. Maybe because she was still worried about the financial help she’d given Sarah and what Sarah’s response to that would be. Maybe because she was still thinking about the guest in Meadow Lark cabin—his rifle case, his warm smile, his hard eyes.
Maybe all of the above.
And maybe she should just forget all those things and finish the tiger, the umbrella bird, the vixen, the walrus,