12
The day of Gordon’s funeral was Dalton’s first public appearance in Cleveland in over a year. The Armani suit he wore, soft black, impeccably cut, felt like a strait jacket. Shorn of his thick, unruly waves, he felt like an imposter in his own life, like a fraud on full display in the crowded church. What Gordon lacked in friends, he made up for in contacts and business associates. Dalton could feel their gazes, heavy on the back of his shoulders. The whispers that rippled through the cathedral were deafening.
Dalton’s home.
But they were wrong. He wasn’t at home here anymore and he never would be again.
It had been a long five days since he pulled into the driveway of his parents’ house on Sunday evening. As it turned out one more day would have been too late.
Constance had brought in the best palliative care money could buy, with a team of social workers, chaplains, and efficient nurses that transformed the pretentious brownstone into an upscale infirmary. She met him at the door with a stiff embrace, an ever-impassive face. “You came.”
“Is it too late?”
She regarded him for a long moment, the question standing between them like a brick wall. Stupid question. Of course it was too late. It had been for years, and they both knew it.
“The chaplain is with him,” she finally said. “Your father’s been waiting for you.”
The comment caught him off guard. “How did he know I was coming? Did Ben contact you?”
“No, he didn’t. You’ll be surprised to learn that your father has had a bit of a transformation in the last few weeks. It seems he’s been praying for a miracle.”
The confession surprised him. His strong, self-sufficient father had never relied on anyone except himself that Dalton knew of. Not even God. But he supposed standing on the edge of eternity had a way of humbling a man. “A miracle,” he said softly.
“Specifically, a miracle of healing.”
“Of course.”
“Not in the way you’d think. Not for his body, but for his relationships. Mainly with you.” She added stiffly, “I’m afraid he had more faith on that score than I did.”
Pulling in a breath, he followed his mother down the hallway to the great room. At the door, she laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Please don’t upset him.”
He held back the angry words that scalded his lips. Tentatively entering the room, he was struck by how small his father looked. The once indomitable Gordon Kingston was shrunken with illness, eyes closed, buried in an avalanche of pillows and blankets in the airless room. It was disconcerting, seeing his father like that. Unimaginable. The chaplain glanced at him questioningly.
“Dalton is here,” Constance said.
The other man’s face betrayed relief, almost disbelief. He leaned over the shell of the man in the bed. “Gordon, your son is here.”
Gordon’s eyes opened, sought Dalton in the softly lit room. “My son?”
“Hello, Dad.”
“Dalton. You’re here at last. Thank the Lord.” His eyes closed again. Long moments passed before he whispered, “Will you sit with me?”
The chaplain slipped from the room and Dalton stood for a long moment at the foot of the hospital bed before claiming the chaplain’s vacated seat. He’d imagined this day too many times to count, the day he’d once again come face to face with his father. But he’d never imagined it being like this. He sat in silence for what seemed an eternity while Gordon pushed out labored breaths.
“I’m sorry, son,” he finally wheezed. “For Tasha. For all of it.”
Dalton sighed.
“I didn’t do right by you. Didn’t do right by your mother, or even by myself. Always after more money, more power. There was so much more to life. You tried to tell me that once.”
He’d ached for these words, ached to see his father contrite and humbled, but now he found no satisfaction in the old man’s brokenness. “We were just coming from two different places, I guess,” he finally said.
“I wasted my life on things that don’t matter. I’ve asked God’s forgiveness for that. I can’t leave this world without asking for yours, Dalton.” His bony hand reached across the bed.
Dalton hesitated. Awash in a tidal wave of memories, he tried to remember a time when he’d felt loved or valued by his father. He couldn’t. What Gordon said was true. In many ways he’d failed as a father. But who was Dalton to withhold forgiveness when he himself was as much, if not more of a failure? The pastor’s words returned to him.
Bitterness and resentment can make us see people who have wronged us through glasses of hatred. But we need to remember that we have also done wrong, and God does not see us through those kinds of glasses…
As his father’s hand inched ever forward, Dalton reached for it and gripped it tightly. “I forgive you,” he said, his voice cracking. “For all of it.”
He sat beside the bed, holding his father’s hand, until somewhere in the quiet hours of morning, Gordon Kingston loosened his grip and slipped away into eternity.
~*~
A light, misting rain began to fall as the graveside service ended, discouraging people from lingering at the site, asking questions, and for that Dalton was grateful.
“Will you come to the club for the repast?” his mother asked.
“I’ll be there in a little while.”
She gave him a searching glance, then nodded stiffly and walked away.
He waited until the last handshake was given, the final word of condolence spoken. When the last of the cars had bumped away down the graveled cemetery road, he went to his car, retrieved the flowers he’d bought earlier that morning, and set off down the winding footpath.
The cremation garden sat at the edge of the cemetery, bordered by rose bushes and benches and flowering shrubs. Tasha had always said when her time came, she wanted to have her body cremated, her ashes returned to the earth, but when the time came, her mother, Jules, wanted a physical place where she could go to pay her daughter tribute. The garden had seemed a perfect solution. He’d paid for the space, the urn, the peace angel, and the grave marker Jules had picked out sight unseen, because his ravaged heart could not bear the pain of looking at such things. Even now, long moments passed before he could bring himself to look at the red granite, heart?shaped stone. The names engraved on its face caused a tremor to ripple through his body. When it passed, he blew out a breath.
“It’s been quite a year, Tash,” he said.
The sun peeked through the clouds and the stillness of the garden was broken by the soft chirps of birds and the wind whispering in the branches of the elm that shaded her resting place.
“I know I should have come before now. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face you. The fact that you’re here and I’m not when it was my job to protect you. I should have known, with his connections, I should have…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m so sorry. For so many things.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on your clues. I’m sorry I was all about me; my case, my career…and I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. I like to think it would have made a difference. I didn’t know. I didn’t know I had everything. And now I have nothing.”
Hot tears spilled down his face as deep, choking sobs shuddered through his body. This time he gave into them. After some time had passed, he wiped his face with his sleeve.
“I wanted to tell you…I met a woman, Tash. I think you’d like her. She’s beautiful and sweet and a lot stronger than she knows. She’s having a baby, but she’s all alone, just like me. I don’t know. It seems like another chance though I know I don’t deserve it, but…I guess what I’m asking for is permission to move on. I just…”
He liked to think that what happened next was a miracle. At least, as close to one as he’d ever experienced. In a flurry of red feathers, a cardinal darted to a low branch of the elm tree. The garden erupted in soft, insistent squawks as the male bird began feeding its young. His breath caught as her words echoed back to him through time.
Gramma liked to say that red birds carry whispers from God to the earth. When you see them, you know that your loved ones are safe in His everlasting arms. Do you believe that?
I don’t know, Tash. Do you?
Yeah. I do believe that.
As he lifted his gaze from the nest to the endless blue skies, a sense of stillness came over him and his tormented heart filled with peace. In quiet communion, God poured His love into the empty spaces of Dalton’s heart, unconditional, unswerving, unending. And at last, he understood.
“Thank you,” Dalton whispered. Swiping at the last of his tears with the heels of his hands, he laid the enormous bouquet of red roses at the peace angel’s feet, and beside it, a smaller bouquet of miniature pink roses. With a final caress of the headstone, he jammed his hands in his pockets and turned back up the path.
Tomorrow he was scheduled to meet with Ben Abrams and Tom Porter. At sixty-eight years of age, with his health going south, Tom was ready to retire and pursue his lifelong dream of traveling the world. Ben had been given an opportunity to join a prestigious New York firm. They had decided the best thing for all concerned would be to dissolve the partnership. His father’s dream, like his life, was over. All that was left was to sign the papers.
And Dalton was ready. The crazed, high-power life of a criminal defense attorney held no appeal for him anymore. He wanted simpler things, a quiet life. He’d start over, open a private practice. Maybe he’d try his hand at family law. Starting over would be a risk, but he’d taken risks before. He’d settle in Redford’s Crossing and put down roots, build a new life with Harper and her child. He knew it was much too soon to be thinking along these lines, but he now knew that when the heart spoke, a man had to listen. The heart knew no timetable when it came to love. And his heart loved Harper Blessings. There was no question about that. Later that evening, he drove to a quiet park on the edge of the city and called to tell her so.
His call went to voice mail.
~*~
Harper didn’t want it to be true. She would have given anything for it to be another one of Babe’s melodramatic, attention-grabbing schemes. But that night, after Babe left, she opened the laptop and pulled up the blog, Tea for Two, and her world crashed down around her. Tasha’s words were all there in black and white, complete with photos. Just as Babe had said.
The latest entry had been published just that morning, an article about the healing effects of basil on the immune system. The article linked to an online store where her basil essential oil could be purchased.
In a post the week before, she touted something called Echinacea that was supposed to heal wounds. Harper scrolled back through the pages. There were healing salves, sachets of chamomile for anxiety, teas containing ginger root to help with nausea, each of the products made with love at Tasha’s store in Cleveland.
She scrolled back to the very first entry, almost three years before. The photo stole her breath away. Tasha Hendricks-Kingston was one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen, exotic, with olive-toned skin, soft brown eyes, and glossy black curls. But it was her personality, warm and humorous and engaging, that made her spring from the screen, larger than life. Harper could not stop reading her words.
The daughter of hard-working Jamaican immigrants, Tasha had inherited a love for plants and flowers from her Aunt, “Tia.” She’d grown up at Tia’s elbow, growing herbs and learning their names and their healing properties. With Tia’s encouragement, she’d become a certified herbalist and started a cottage industry in which she grew the ingredients for the herbal teas and essential oils she sold in the Westside neighborhood.
In a later post, Tasha and Tia stood in front of a square, redbrick building on a busy street corner, wide smiles on their faces as they proudly held up a set of keys.
It might not look like much but it’s all ours! Look out, world, here we come!
Harper read of the renovation project, the additions of a greenhouse and a work room, and the creation of an online store where she and Tia were able to ship their products all over the world.
An entry made a few months later knocked the breath from her lungs. The article promoted a romance elixir and featured a photo of Tasha and Dalton sitting, heads together, at a sidewalk café, the caption: Trust me, ladies. It works!
A few months later, there were pictures of a radiant Tasha and a heartbreakingly handsome Dalton on their wedding day. Through tears, Harper read the anecdotes sprinkled throughout the following pages about Tasha and Dalton’s first year of marriage; their first fight, the beautiful home they bought together, the herbal teas she created for her workaholic and highly stressed new husband.
She read late into the night, unable to stop. She read about a celebration dinner with Dalton’s partners for a high-profile case he’d won. She’d bought a new dress for the occasion.
One that actually fits, lol.
The post resonated and she scrutinized the photo of Tasha in a loose-fitting gown, a colorful shawl draped over shoulders. There was a slight fullness to her face and a brightness in her eyes, the same brightness Harper now saw in her own. Feeling ill, she scrolled to an entry made a few days later. Bile rose up the back of her throat and she struggled to breathe as ferocious pain slashed at her insides. The entry promoted a savory sage and garlic rub, available exclusively in her brick-and-mortar store. Tasha was planning a second celebration that night, complete with Dalton’s favorite meal; slow roasted pork tenderloin and spicy tornado potatoes. The photo was torture: a room filled to the ceiling with pink and blue balloons, and Harper cried out in physical pain when she read the caption: My man is in for a far bigger surprise than he knows ;)
The blog was silent for six months before the posts resumed, but its tone was much less personal. The posts were clinical now, promotional, as if the very heart of the blog had been cut out.
At 2:00 AM she finally shut down the laptop, her head spinning with unanswered questions. What happened that night? Why did Tasha stop sharing her life with her readers? A horrifying thought occurred to her, followed by another. Had Dalton not wanted the baby? Was he feeling remorseful now, latching on to Harper’s baby out of a sense of guilt?
She supposed he had his reasons for running away from his wife and his child, but whatever those reasons were, they simply weren’t good enough. Not when she’d gambled everything on the hope that she and Dalton could build a life together.
Lying in bed, her mind raced with torturous thoughts. The new information did not match up with the Dalton she knew at all. Correction, the Dalton she barely knew. The one who shared no information about himself or his past and now it was pretty clear why.
I have some family business to take care of…
Finalizing the divorce, she wondered, or trying to reconcile with his wife? Either way, Harper’s relationship with him was over. Either way, he hadn’t told her the truth. Maybe Babe was right after all. Harper was drowning in a sea of pain and confusion and Dalton had looked like a lifeboat. And despite her better judgment, she’d jumped in. How could she have been such a fool?
When he called the next evening, she let it go to voicemail.
He called three times on Saturday. Four, before she could bring herself to talk to him.
“Hey, there you are, finally. I was getting worried.”
“Were you?”
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“I haven’t felt well.”
“I’m sorry. Is it the pregnancy?”
She squeezed her eyes tight against the pain. “Partly.”
“I won’t keep you long, then. I just wanted to hear your voice. To know you were still among the living.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond.
“Are you sure you’re OK? You don’t seem like yourself.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Is Clara?”
“Clara’s fine.”
“The cops didn’t try to question Nicky again, did they?”
“It’s nothing like that. Everyone is fine.”
“OK…You’re tired. I’ll let you go. I should be back there tomorrow by late afternoon. We can talk then. I have so many things to tell you.”
His intimate tone tugged at her heartstrings. She wanted to pretend she’d never seen the blog, never learned of Tasha’s existence. She wanted to pretend he wasn’t the latest in a long line of men who broke her heart.
“We can talk now.”
“OK.”
She summoned her resolve and pushed the words from her mouth. “The thing is, I’m not sure you should come back here.”
Silence, then, “What?”
“Nicky can finish the gazebo. And the nursery.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Things have changed.”
“What things? Harper, what’s going on?”
“I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think you should stay in Cleveland.”
“Why?”
Pain, ferocious pain. “I don’t think I want you in my life anymore.”
The outburst was met with dead silence.
“Goodbye, Dalton.”