A Gift Of Grace. Inglath Cooper

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      Caleb let the words settle, the knife of accusation stabbing through his chest.

      “If you had been the kind of husband she had wanted you to be, none of this would ever have happened. Do you know how many times she came home crying to me about the two of you never seeing each other? About work coming before everything else, including her?”

      The last few words rang out on the edge of hysteria.

      “Mary, stop now,” Emmitt Scott said, taking his wife’s arm.

      But she jerked away, crossed the floor in a couple of strides and slapped Caleb hard across the face.

      He sat, too numb to register more than a momentary flash of pain, and then gratitude flooded him for the realization that he could feel anything at all.

      Mary glanced at her hand, then back at him.

      “Mary!” Emmitt swung her up in his arms, his face taut. “I’m sorry, Caleb. We’ll come back when you’re done,” he said and carried her from the room.

      Caleb stared at the door long after it had closed. No matter how much Mary blamed him, it could never equal the blame he had leveled at himself. He dropped his head onto the icy bed rail, grief swallowing him, the sounds coming from deep inside nearly inhuman. No tears, though. He’d never shed one. Not since the police had found her broken body behind a Dumpster twenty miles from the mall where her car had been left with the driver’s door open, the contents of her purse spilled onto the pavement below.

      A thousand times he had asked himself why he hadn’t driven with her that night. One decision made under the carelessly arrogant assumption that they would have other nights, other opportunities. “Come on, Caleb, you can fix the tractor in the morning.” He heard her voice as clear as if it were yesterday. “We’ll just go buy Mama’s birthday present and then eat at that new Italian place I was telling you about. When was the last time we went out to dinner?”

      “I can’t, honey,” he’d said. “I need to get it going so I can get hay off the ground tomorrow. We’ll go this weekend, okay?”

      One small flicker of disappointment in her blue eyes, and then Laney had smiled, as she always had. Forgiven him, as she always had.

      She had gone on without him, kissing him on the mouth when she’d left, telling him he worked too hard. She’d be back soon.

      And he’d taken that for granted. Because of course she would be back. That was how life worked, wasn’t it? One day blending seamlessly into the next until a man never thought to question his right to it.

      He leaned forward, pressed his lips to the back of his wife’s wrist, stung by its increasing coolness. Despite all the words he’d heard countless times from doctors renowned for their expertise in brain-damaged patients, he had continued to hope that this moment would never actually happen, that she would wake up, come back to him. “Laney,” he whispered. “Oh, dear God, I’m so sorry.”

      Footsteps on the tile floor echoed, penetrating his consciousness far enough to prompt him to raise his head.

      Dr. Richards stood at the foot of the bed, his short dark hair disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Tucker.” The pause held a note of hopefulness. “Are you sure you don’t want to see the baby? It might make a difference.”

      Caleb stared at him, as if the man had spoken a language Caleb didn’t understand. “Call the agency,” he said.

      For a brief moment, the doctor’s composure slipped, and under a burdened sigh, he said, “If you’re sure then.”

      “I’m sure.”

      CHAPTER ONE

      Three years later

      SOPHIE OWENS PULLED the last clean plate from the dishwasher and placed it in the cabinet by the sink. The dinner dishes were done, the kitchen back in order for the next morning.

      Norah Jones drifted down from the speakers mounted in the ceiling of the house’s main living areas. For a long time after her divorce, Sophie’s need for music had been about cloaking her own loneliness in whatever flavor of song seemed most likely to lift and soothe. Now, it felt more like an old friend whose company she simply enjoyed.

      Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Sophie wandered into the living room, where her daughter sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by a ram-shackle collection of LEGO toys.

      This was the largest room in the house, with a stretch of wide windows on the front and a field-stone fireplace at one end. Two oversize Bernhardt chairs sat on either side of its opening, a leather sofa the color of cognac closer to the center of the room. An antique rug covered most of the floor, its primary role a playground for Grace.

      The house wasn’t huge, but comfortable in a way that made Sophie glad she had taken the plunge two years ago and bought it. To a girl from southwest Virginia, Charlottesville real estate was expensive. On an English professor’s salary, it had been an enormous debt, but so worth it with its fenced yard and proximity to the university.

      And, too, the neighborhood was the sort where Grace already had friends who lived close by, who would no doubt in years to come ride over on their bicycles, have pajama parties in the attic. Hard to imagine Grace being old enough to do such things, but she was almost three, and these first years had flown by.

      “Time for your bath, sweet pea,” Sophie said.

      Grace looked up, her wide blue eyes the focal point of a round, rosy-cheeked face so beautiful that people often stared at her. “And then you’ll read me my story?”

      “I will,” Sophie promised. She looked forward to their nightly bath-time ritual almost as much as Grace. Grace loved water, had taken to it as if it were as natural to her as air.

      A few minutes later, Grace sat in the tub, eyes lit with happiness. She slapped both palms against the bubble-filled water, sending a poof of suds up to land on Sophie’s chin. She squealed with laughter. “Mama has a beard!” she said.

      Sophie laughed, scooped up a dollop of soapy bubbles and gave Grace one, too, inciting another round of giggles.

      Finally, when they were both soaked, Sophie lifted Grace from the tub, wrapping her in a thick white towel and dressing her in the Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas that were her favorite.

      Sophie carried her into the bedroom. Stuffed animals covered a toddler-size sleigh bed. Grace couldn’t bring herself to banish any of them to the floor.

      In this room, Sophie could be accused of over-indulgence, the walls a color-washed pink and yellow she had done herself. Grace said it looked like the sunrise. An old school desk sat in one corner with a stack of coloring books and crayons. A hand-hooked rug with Curious George at its center covered the floor.

      “Where’s Blanky?” Grace asked as she snuggled up under the covers.

      “He had a bath today, too,” Sophie said. “I forgot to get him out of the drier. Be right back.”

      In the laundry room, Sophie retrieved the shabby but well-loved once-pink blanket. This was another subject she should probably tackle, but Grace’s СКАЧАТЬ