HC01 - Before the Dawn, page 1
part #1 of Home to Heather Creek Series
Home to Heather Creek
Before the Dawn Sweet September Circle of Grace Homespun Harvest A Patchwork Christmas An Abundance of Blessings Every Sunrise
The Promise of Spring April's Hope Seeds of Faith
On the Right Path Sunflower Serenade Second Chances
Prayers and Promises Giving Thanks
Holiday Homecoming Family Matters
All Things Hidden To Love and Cherish A Time to Grow
Sentimental Journey Helping Hands
Growing Pains
In God's Hands
Home to Heather Creek is a trademark of Guideposts.
Copyright © 2008 by Guideposts. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to the Rights & Permissions Department, Guideposts, 110 William Street, New York, NY 10038.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
I feel humbled and honored to be the first author in this new series for Guideposts. To that end I want to thank my agent Karen Solem for her hard work on my behalf, and my editor Beth Adams for her positive cheerleading and gentle guidance in bringing this book from concept to print. Thanks to the rest of the Home to Heather Creek authors for sharing ideas and expertise and for carrying on the story of Charlotte, Bob, and the Slater children.
—Carolyne Aarsen
Chapter One
So this is where we’re living?” Sam eased his lanky body out of the backseat of the truck as he stared at the farmhouse, silhouetted against the blue Nebraska sky. As he tugged the earpieces of his music player out of his ears, his face, partially hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt, showed his bewilderment.
Charlotte tried not to let the tone of her grandson’s voice disappoint her. She knew that his attitude was part grief, part separation anxiety, and part sixteen-year-old boy.
“This is Heather Creek Farm. Named after the creek we crossed over a ways back. This is where your grandfather grew up.”
Charlotte kept her voice upbeat and her lips formed a smile as she tucked her short hair back behind her ear. Your mother too, she silently added. Toby stood beside her, staring up as if wondering where Charlotte had been. The dog’s tail wagged slowly, a brown and black plume, as she licked Charlotte’s hand.
“This looks like a set from an old TV show,” Emily, her fourteen-year-old granddaughter, said. Her long hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail that hung askew from sleeping in the car. Her eyes blinked as they adjusted to the light.
“Are we finally there?” Christopher’s sleepy voice drifted out from the back of the truck.
Still clinging to the Spider-Man backpack that had been his constant companion for the past week, the boy clambered out of the vehicle and reached for his sister’s hand. His close-cropped hair glinted in the afternoon sun as he yawned. He looked as bewildered as his siblings sounded.
Emily sighed. “If you want to call being out in the boonies, there, then yes.” Emily’s voice was quiet, but her words carried.
“Hey. They have a dog.” Christopher crouched down and reached out to Toby, but Toby ignored him, her brown eyes still fixed on Charlotte.
Charlotte patted the dog absently, glancing over at her husband. Though she wasn’t that conversant in teen-speak, she was fluent in reading Bob’s body language. The way he was yanking the suitcases out of the back of the vehicle clearly showed how unhappy he was with his grandchildren’s reactions.
Charlotte wanted to explain, to defend. The children had just endured a long flight from the West Coast to America’s heartland, then a tiring drive through the country to get to a farm they had never visited in their lives. Bob hadn’t spent a week with the children like she had. He’d had to return to the farm after the funeral in San Diego, while Charlotte had stayed to deal with the aftermath of their daughter’s death. On top of dealing with guardianship issues, Denise’s will, the insurance, and all the legalities that sidelined her own sorrow, Charlotte also had witnessed, firsthand, the children’s grief in a way that Bob, during his brief visit for the funeral, hadn’t. Denise’s children barely knew their own grandparents or their family here in Bedford. Of course they would be confused, bewildered, and disoriented.
Charlotte turned away from the emotions of the people behind her and let her eyes drink in the familiar sight of the farmhouse. The white clapboard building had been Bob’s home all his life and her home for the past forty-five years.
It stood solid, as it had for almost a century, edged by poplar trees. The pale green of newly budded leaves misted their branches under the achingly blue sky. A few geese honked overhead, the neat arrow of their formation pointing to a new season and a new cycle of life.
During the draining, hectic week she spent with her grandchildren in San Diego, Charlotte had longed for a quiet moment when she could allow her heavy grief some space to be released. She knew this would only come to her here, at Heather Creek Farm.
She had so hoped that the farm would be a place of healing and hope for her grandchildren too.
A light breeze teased at her hair again, and as she tucked the errant strand back behind her ears, she sent up a frantic prayer.
Please, Lord, help these children to find a space here. Help them to get over Denise’s death.
She turned back to the children, a forced smile in place as she added another prayer.
Help me to get over Denise’s death.
“So, here we are,” she said.
“I’m hungry,” Christopher said, his voice still hoarse with sleep.
Emily took Christopher’s hand and gave him a tender look that encouraged Charlotte. The children truly cared for each other.
“I’m sure we can find something to feed you.” Charlotte gave him an encouraging smile and was rewarded with a shy smile in return. “What would you all like to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.” Emily’s languid stare slid over her new surroundings as she toyed with a blonde strand of hair, just as her mother used to do.
Oh, Lord, how could you do this to us? To those children? How could you take away their mother? Our daughter?
Even as the questions resonated through her mind, Charlotte struggled to silence them. She had no right to question God. The only things she could do now were pray for strength, bring these children into her life, and deal with the reality of this cobbled-together family.
“But it’s been such a long drive from the airport,” Charlotte said, trying to catch her granddaughter’s eye.
Emily was looking in the direction of the barn. “You got horses too?”
“They’re your Uncle Pete’s.”
She tried not to let her anger with her youngest son spill into her voice. He had said he would be home when she and Bob came from the airport with his niece and nephews, but neither he nor his truck were to be seen. Because he’d had to stay home and take care of the farm, Pete hadn’t been able to come for the funeral, so she had assumed he would be waiting when they arrived.
“Some of them are trained for riding. I’m sure he can take you out if you want.” Charlotte latched onto the faint note of interest in Emily’s voice, remembering the worn books she had on her bookshelf back in their apartment in San Diego.
“Emily just reads about horses. She doesn’t know squat about riding.” Sam offered this information in the same cynical voice he’d been using all week. “None of us know anything about horseback riding. Or farming.” His words faded into the open air, lost in the space that separated grandson from grandparents.
A new silence surrounded them, heavy with questions and sorrow.
Charlotte knew he spoke from his own pain. She wished she knew the right words to ease it away, or the right way to usher these children from one life into another. But she could barely cope with her own emotions.
Dear Lord, please help me to forget my own sorrow, Charlotte prayed, squeezing her hands tight as if trying to contain the pain that had been her constant companion since the phone call.
“Your daughter … fatal accident … car totaled …” The words that had shattered her world would jump into her mind whenever she let her guard down.
She took a quick breath and started walking toward the house. They needed to keep moving, stay active.
“Let’s get the suitcases and boxes inside,” she said over her shoulder. “Emily, Sam, Christopher, can you help your grandfather bring your things into the house, please?”
The only sounds she heard behind her were a shuffling of feet and the muffled rumble of suitcase wheels bumping up the cracked and broken walkway. Toby jogged alongside Charlotte until they got to the house, dropped onto the porch, and lay down, watching as everyone filed past her.
“This, of course, is the kitchen.” Charlotte looked around, trying to see the familiar lines of this room through their eyes.
Wooden cupboards, painted a buttery yellow, had been new fifty years ago, but now Charlotte could see how old-fashioned the wooden knobs were. Until now, she had never noticed all the places on the Formica where countless knives had cut countless loaves of bread.
To her right, the heavy oak table, its top scarred from years of use, dominated the center of the dining area.
Charlotte guessed the stack of envelopes on the table were mostly sympathy cards, sent by people in the community. She bit her lip against a fresh wave of grief. For the sake of the children, she had to stay on top of her own emotions.
She could see dishes piled in the aged porcelain sink and on the worn counter. She guessed Bob and Pete hadn’t spent much time cleaning up after themselves while she was gone.
Though she itched to tidy up and restore order to her house, she had to ignore the mess for now.
“Would you like some milk and cookies?” Charlotte whisked open the faded green curtains above the sink as she walked toward the large cookie jar squatting at one end of the counter.
Christopher’s eyes lit up, then he glanced upward at his sister, who shook her head. “No. I’m not hungry anymore.”
Charlotte lifted the lid and looked inside. Just as well that Christopher had changed his mind. Only a few cookie crumbs resided on the bottom of the jar. Pete had been indulging.
“Well, let me show you your rooms.” She replaced the lid and kept her voice brisk, businesslike. “I’m sure you’re tired.”
She picked up one of the suitcases that Bob had brought into the kitchen and led the way past the pantry and down the hallway to the stairs.
While she was in San Diego, she had given precise and detailed instructions to Bob and Pete on which quilts she wanted on which beds and which furniture to take out of storage for each room. On the flight home, and then on the drive, she had imagined the children in each of the rooms.
But now, as the worn carpeting on the stairs muffled the children’s footsteps behind her, Charlotte wasn’t so sure. Now that they were actually here, all she could think about was that these children were hers and Bob’s. All theirs.
The thought created a rush of anticipation. New adventures with these precious children awaited them, new experiences. For the first time since Denise’s funeral, she felt a fragment of hope, slivering through the pain.
“This is your room, Emily.” She hesitated for a fraction of a moment, memories of Denise crowding her mind, then she twisted the knob and pushed open the door.
She stepped into the room, her eyes taking quick inventory. Was the patchwork quilt, with its shades of blue and yellow, too childish? Were the pillows she’d insisted Bob put on the bed too fussy?
Charlotte had replaced the posters Denise had plastered on the wall with some old-fashioned prints she had picked up at a garage sale, but other than the matched set of Victorian girls playing with kittens, nothing else broke the expanse of blue wall.
The dresser scarf that Denise had made as a young girl hung askew on the large wooden cupboard, and Charlotte straightened it, then turned to face Emily.
“This used to be your mother’s room.” Charlotte spoke the words without a hitch in her voice, but her heart thundered in her chest as time wheeled backward.
Hovering in the doorway, the light from the windows silvering her hair, Emily looked exactly like Denise.
The only reply Charlotte received was a curt nod. Emily’s eyes flitted around the room as she stepped inside, the wheels of her suitcase sounding hollow on the wooden floor.
Charlotte bit back a reprimand. The kids would need time.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Charlotte said as she left the room.
Christopher’s room was directly across from Emily’s. On the single bed, Bob had put a rust-and-brown patchwork quilt—an old one that was too large and hung onto the floor. It would have to do for now.
Ghostly imprints of long-gone pictures Bill had hung up years ago dotted the empty brown walls, and Charlotte made a note to find time to paint the room a brighter color.
“This used to be your Uncle Bill’s room,” Charlotte said as Christopher wandered in, still carrying his backpack. “Do you remember him from the funeral?”
Christopher shook his head. Charlotte wasn’t surprised. That day had been a blank for her as well, but she had been thankful Bill had taken the time to come out.
Christopher went directly to the window above the wooden bed and looked out.
“I can see a long way,” he said.
Had she imagined the plaintive note in his voice?
“Emily is right across the hall, and Sam will be around the corner,” Charlotte said, glancing at Sam, who was standing behind her.
“You gonna be okay, buddy?” Sam asked his little brother, spinning the earpieces of his music player around his finger.
Christopher gave them a quick nod, then sat on the bed, looking around, clasping his backpack like a shield.
“I’ll get rid of my gear and be right back,” Sam said.
As Charlotte and Sam left, they met Bob coming up the stairs, boxes stacked in his arms.
“Where do these go?” he asked. His breath came in gasps as he set them on the floor.
“Just tell me where I’ll be sleeping,” Sam said, ignoring Bob’s question. “You don’t have to take me.”
Charlotte glanced from Bob to Sam, then nodded. “Like I told Christopher, your room is to the left, at the end of the hall.”
Sam tossed his backpack over one shoulder, picked up one of the boxes, and without a backward glance, walked into the room and shut the door.
Charlotte looked at Bob and was about to go to Christopher when the door to Emily’s room opened. She glanced at the boxes on the floor, picked up one for Christopher, then slipped into his room, shutting the door behind her.
Chapter Two
Come, let us return to the Lord. He has torn us to pieces but he will heal us; he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds.”
Charlotte let the words linger in the predawn quiet of the farmhouse, wishing they would take root in her parched and weary soul. She closed the Bible, letting her hand rest on its worn cover as she so often did when she had finished her morning devotions.
This morning, when she dropped into her faded green chair in her corner of the family room, she had been tempted to skip her regular reading. She was in Hosea, and she wasn’t sure she could find any comfort in the story.
Yet, somehow, these words offered a tantalizing glimpse of comfort and hope.
“I need your help, Lord,” she prayed, covering her face with her hands, stifling the sorrow that so quickly rose up since Denise’s funeral. “I need you to bind up my wounds, to revive and restore me and Bob. These children too.”
She believed the promise offered, but she knew the wounds would take time to heal. She wouldn’t stop grieving the loss of Denise overnight. None of them would.
She walked to the window overlooking the yard. The sun broke over the horizon, casting long shadows over the ground. Pete stepped out of the barn and strode toward the house, swinging the milk pail.
She knew Pete found solace in the rhythmic swish-swish of milk squirting into the pail. Charlotte did too, but she wouldn’t be milking the cow or gathering eggs for a while. The ordinary, soothing routine of her previous life would have to be foregone for the sake of the children still sleeping upstairs.
Charlotte smoothed her hands over her hair, took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for the day, then turned and walked out of the family room. She heard the comforting drone of the washing machine and the whine of the dryer. Normally she would be hanging the clothes up on the line strung out from the back porch, but she didn’t have time today.
She counted the place settings once more. The table seemed too full. But no, six plates and bowls, six cups, six sets of silverware lay in a precise circle around the table, waiting for the family to gather for breakfast.
She felt a sense of anticipation. Her grandchildren were here. Under their roof. For good.
“So, where’s the grublets?” Pete’s voice boomed through the silence, breaking into her thoughts.
Charlotte’s youngest son sauntered into the kitchen, one hand shoved into the back pocket of faded blue jeans hanging on his lanky frame, the other carrying a pail half filled with milk. His brown hair stuck out in a ragged fringe below a stained and dusty ball-cap bearing the logo of a local feed dealership.
