To Heal a Heart

“You’re finally ready for a wife and family,” Vernon announced.

“Let’s just say that I’m ready whenever God is,” Mitch clarified, then lifted an eyebrow at the dramatic flourish Vernon employed as he waved the pipe through the air.

“Well, it’s about time. Your mother’s not getting any younger, you know, and you’re her only hope of having a brood of rowdy rug rats scampering around here one of these days.”

Mitch laughed outright. His dad was an endless source of dry witticisms and pure delight for him. His mother, on the other hand, was patience and acceptance personified. They were wonderful parents, and they deserved to be grandparents. Perhaps they would be. Surely God was about to bring someone special into his life.

Their joy at the prospect humbled him. For so long he had rejected the very idea of marrying again. He wondered now if he hadn’t let his grief over Anne cheat his parents of a grandchild. Though he’d always been keenly aware that, as an only child, he was a major supplier of his parents’ happiness, Mitch had never felt pressured to fulfill some parent-defined role of the good son. Goodness, consideration and integrity were expected of him—yes, even presumed—but he had always felt free to be his own person, to live by his own rules and expectations. Now he wondered if he hadn’t been selfish—and he’d always thought of himself as such a loving son.

Oh, he had fought the usual adolescent battles, demanding more freedom than he was entitled to or able to handle, but eventually he had come to understand and appreciate what wonderful parents God had given him. They trusted the man he had become. They trusted his faith and abilities, and he trusted their judgment, wisdom and love implicitly, so he pretty much told them everything—had since reaching adulthood. That had helped him in unexpected ways after Anne.

Maybe he didn’t call his parents every day anymore, but he did try to get over for dinner once a week, and he never hesitated to pick up the phone and ask for advice if he needed it. For the first time, that didn’t seem enough. He owed them more than simple thoughtfulness.

They sat at the kitchen table for a while longer, talking over the day’s events. Mitch was as comfortable in this house as in his own home. He’d grown up here, after all. Yet this was his parents’ place, a part of him but not his. Oddly, he had never felt the distinction before. It was as if he now stood, quite unexpectedly, at a crossroads in his life, a vantage point from which he could clearly see much that had before been obscure.

When his dad began to yawn, Mitch rose to leave. As usual, his parents got up and the three of them walked through the house together.

“Glad you could come, son,” Vernon said, “and I’m glad that everything worked out as it should. Your client’s blessed, and I hope he knows it.”

“I think he will,” Mitch told him. “Before we part company, I intend to make sure that he realizes God’s had His hand on him.”

“I rather expect he’ll live his life a little differently from now on,” Marian said.

“No one walks away from the touch of God unchanged,” Mitch observed.

“And that includes you,” Vernon said, shaking his pipe at him. “I expect the right little gal will come waltzing into your arms any day now.”

Mitch chuckled, kissed his mother and hugged his dad. “From your lips to God’s ear,” he said, pulling away.

He went out the door and down the walk feeling happy and loved. It had been a good day after all. Perhaps knowing what God had in store for you or why life sometimes unfolded the way it did was impossible, but Mitchell had learned, at very dear cost, that God never did anything without the best interests of His children at heart.

Chapter Two

Mitch next remembered the folded sheet of paper on Thursday when he dropped off his suit at the cleaners and performed one last, hurried search of his pockets. He’d learned the hard way that laundering often rendered writing indecipherable. When he came up with the paper again, he thought about tossing it, but a quick glance at the words revealed the phrasing of a personal letter, not just a bunch of meaningless notes. He pocketed the thing again, instinctively protecting the privacy of the writer and the receiver of the letter.

Later, in his office high above the streets of downtown Dallas, he thought about shredding the sheet, but when he removed it from his pocket, he felt compelled to take another look. It was clearly one of several pages, for it began in the middle of a sentence. Mitch noticed for the first time that the ink was tear-stained. His heart wrenched as he began to read the eloquent, carefully penned words.

“…of him will surely never subside,” he read, “and will one day be, not a cross to bear, but a cherished joy. His memory will sustain us until that time, and that’s why it is so important that we not forget. The pain makes us want, in its depth and rawness, to do just that, but to forget our dear boy would be to rob us of all the delights he brought into our lives.

“Hold on to that, dear heart. Don’t let him go, for if you do, you also let me go, and how can I bear that? To lose you as well as him is more, surely, than God can allow, so I beg you, please don’t leave. I need you. We all need you. How he would hate it if he thought that his loss would tear this family apart!

“Whatever you do, please know that I love you. I don’t blame you in any way. You will always be my treasured…”

The page ended as it had begun, in the middle of a sentence. Mitch turned it over in his hand once more, as if the rest of it might miraculously appear. He stared for a long time at the blotches near the bottom of the page and felt the heartbreak of their loss.

It seemed to be a letter written from one spouse to another, lamenting the loss of their son and desperately trying to prevent the destruction of the union, but he couldn’t be sure of that. He couldn’t even tell if it had been written by a man or a woman. All he knew was that God had dropped this into his path for a purpose. Why else would he, an experienced grief counselor, have been the one to find it?

A sense of failure swamped him. Mitch smoothed out the letter on his desk blotter and bent his head over it, confessing his error. He should have looked at the paper the moment he was on the plane. Perhaps its owner could have been found then. Perhaps he could have said the right words to send that person home again to a desperate and loving family.

He thought of the pain of losing Anne so unexpectedly, of the anger, even hatred, that he’d felt for the drunk driver who had so unthinkingly snuffed out her life, and he prayed that God would bring these two back together. He prayed for abatement of their pain, for healing, because it was like having a limb ripped off or your heart torn apart when a loved one died. He prayed for the nourishment of new joy and the balm of sweet memories, for the assurance of salvation and the strength of faith. Finally he prayed—for his own peace of mind as well as that of this family in torment—that the recipient of this letter had been returning home and not running away from it.

Perhaps he would never know the facts, but by the time he lifted his head again, he knew that his involvement with the letter wasn’t over yet. Either God had a deeper purpose here than making him aware of his failure or he had not yet correctly divined the depth of it. One thing was for certain: the letter would not be destroyed.

Very carefully he folded the piece of paper, and this time slipped it into his shirt pocket. He would carry it there, over his heart, until he understood why it had fallen into his path. He wondered if he should share this with the group that met on Thursday nights and decided, sensitive as he was to the privacy rights of others, that he would seek the advice of his parents first.

Meanwhile, the business of the day was at hand. He heard voices in his secretary’s office and realized that his first appointment had arrived. The door opened, and he came to his feet, handshake at the ready, a weight on his heart. Part mystery, part failure, part ministry, part his own painful experience, it was a burden that he would embrace, welcome, bear with—until God Himself removed it.

Piper stepped down off the bus and turned to the right. In just the space of a single week the route had become familiar, and she was beginning to get a handle on her job as a case reviewer at a health insurance company. The amount of paperwork involved staggered the mind, but she preferred staying busy. If life felt a little flat this morning, well, that was only to be expected after her former frenetic pace. Activity in a big-city emergency room had always bordered on panic. She just needed time to adjust.

The apartment she had rented on Gaston Avenue still felt strange, and she couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a mistake selling everything before the move. Maybe if she had her old things around her, it would seem more like home. Then again, how could she start a new life if she surrounded herself with the past? No, it was better this way. The strangeness would wear off.

Besides, the new apartment was too small to accommodate all her old junk. She could manage with rented furnishings for a while. By the time she could buy new, she’d have a better idea what style she really wanted, and instead of the hodgepodge collected over her twenty-six years she’d have a well-coordinated home.

Someone jostled her on the busy downtown street. Murmuring a brief apology, Piper looked up to make eye contact, but the woman strode on ahead without so much as acknowledging her. Piper shrugged and let her gaze slide forward again, only to halt at the sight of a familiar face. The man owning it stopped, too, a smile stretching his mouth as pedestrians darted around him. Piper smiled back, searching for a name.

“Mitch…”

“Sayer,” he supplied, angling his broad shoulders as he crossed the busy sidewalk. “Hello, Piper. It’s great to see you again.”

The man from the airplane. She could hardly believe it.

“Don’t tell me your office is around here.”

“Right there.” He gestured toward the black marble front of a nearby high-rise. “What about you? What brings you downtown?”

“The Medical Specialist Insurance Company,” she answered, glancing down the street in that direction. “Went to work there the day after I hit town.”

His smile widened even further. “That’s wonderful! Good for you.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at the clock mounted atop a pole on the corner, then at her wristwatch, which was running four minutes ahead. Uncertain which was correct, she knew that she had to move along. “Listen, I’ve got to get to work. Wouldn’t do to be late just a week to the day after I started.”

“Right. Okay, but could I ask you something real quick? You boarded the airplane ahead of me. Did you see anyone drop a small, folded sheet of paper—just around that little curve in the ramp?”

She considered a moment, but she really hadn’t been watching anyone else that day. Shaking her head, she answered him, “No, sorry, I didn’t.”

He nodded, huffing with disappointment, and slid his hands into the pockets of his pants. “I see. You wouldn’t know the names of anyone else on that flight, would you? I’d like to ask around, see if I can return this paper to the one who lost it.”

Again Piper shook her head. “I didn’t know a soul on that flight and didn’t really meet anyone but you.”

He smiled again. “Well, at least there’s that, huh?”

“Yes.” She returned his smile and started off down the street, knowing that she had to get moving again. “I’ve really got to go.”

“Sure.” He pivoted on his heel, watching her move away from him. “Maybe we’ll bump into one another again sometime,” he called after her.

She shrugged, lifting a hand in farewell, turned her gaze resolutely forward and hurried on, thinking how odd it was that the one person in this city whose name she actually knew should work just a couple blocks down the street from her. She didn’t quite know whether she should be pleased or worried about that. After all, Mitch Sayer was just a guy she’d met on an airplane. What did she really know about him? He could turn out to be some kind of crazed stalker or something.

God, she thought, don’t let this be some sort of problem. Don’t let me… The prayer died in her mind.

She didn’t even know what to ask for, what to worry about. Every concern seemed trivial and useless now, and she’d had a lot of trouble talking to God lately. She wasn’t sure what that was about, but she realized that she really ought to be looking for a church soon. Surely that would rectify the situation. It was just a matter of time, then, time and adjustment.

Stifling a sigh, she lifted her chin and lengthened her stride, determined afresh to make this decision work, to build a new life for herself away from the pain of the past. As far as she could see, she really had no other option.

Mitch watched Piper Wynne’s compact form making its way down the busy sidewalk. Wearing serviceable pumps, a neat, navy blue skirt and short plaid jacket, she practically marched at double time toward her place of employment. Either she liked the job, was worried about her performance, or really wanted to get away from him. He hoped it wasn’t the latter, because he absolutely hoped to see her again, to get to know her a little better.

It had been so long since he’d pursued such a course that he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, but he figured he could probably muddle his way through, given the opportunity. He didn’t really expect much to come of it. They might not have anything in common, might not like each other at all if they got better acquainted, but it was time to move forward again in his life. He might as well start with the pretty little strawberry blonde who’d sparked his interest for the first time in a very long while.

He turned, finally, and moved toward his own building, thinking how pleased his parents would be when he told them that he’d seen her again. He’d been too busy to stop by their place lately, but he was going to drop in soon to show them the letter and get their take on it. On the other hand, they might read too much into what had actually been a very brief meeting. Maybe he should just wait and see what happened before he mentioned encountering Piper Wynne on the street.

He couldn’t help thinking, though, that it was some coincidence that in a city of this size they should wind up working right down the street from each other—not that he actually believed in coincidences. To his mind, it was no accident that he’d run into her again, just as it was no accident that he’d come across that letter that day. Accidents and coincidence were for those who didn’t know the Lord or trust in His ways.

Mitch wholeheartedly believed that God controlled the events of a life yielded to Him, so if he were meant to get to know Piper Wynne better, the opportunity to do so would come when the time was right. Likewise, if he were meant to find the owner of that letter, God would show him how to do it and why. Meanwhile, he had clients waiting.

He practically skipped into the building, ready to face the day.

Vernon Sayer laid aside the single, creased sheet of notepaper and reached for his pipe, removing it from his mouth in a prelude to speech. First, however, he cleared his throat. The poignancy of the letter had affected him as much as it had his wife.

“They’ve obviously lost someone dear to them, perhaps a son or even a father.”

“It’s so sad,” Marian added, shaking her head to emphasize the words.

“And you may be right that there is a higher purpose here,” Vernon went on, shifting his large, blocky body, “but I don’t think you can really blame yourself for not acting sooner, Mitch. What could you have done? Stood up in the middle of the flight and announced you’d found a letter suggesting that someone was running away from grief?” He shook his head sagely. “No, this has to play out another way or not at all.”

Mitch sat forward on the comfortable overstuffed couch that matched his father’s easy chair and clasped his hands, forearms braced upon his knees. He was well aware of the physical traits that he shared with his father. To Mitch, looking at Vernon was like looking at his own future face. He found comfort in the character that he saw there, the laugh lines that fanned out from the corners of his intelligent eyes and carved deep grooves of his dimples. Even the leathery, beard-coarsened cheeks spoke of masculine strength, a natural counterpart to his mother’s feminine softness, both physically and emotionally. With her comfortable roundness, the thick, gray coil of her hair and naturally enthusiastic concern, Marian was the epitome of everyone’s favorite teacher.

“What would you suggest?” he asked of them both. “Where is there to go from here?”

“We will certainly pray about it,” Marian put in, but Vernon always took the more pragmatic approach.

“Why don’t I run this by Craig Adler? He’s just been promoted to some sort of vice presidency at the airline. He might have some ideas.”

Mitch straightened in surprise. “Is Mr. Adler still working? I thought he retired some time ago.”

Vernon chuckled and stuck his pipe into the corner of his mouth, speaking around it. “They’ll have to blast old Craig out of his chair and take him straight from there to the morgue.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “Craig doesn’t have any reason to want to stay home and take it easy.”

Mitch ducked his head smiling at the not-so-subtle hint. Craig Adler’s wife had divorced him nearly twenty years ago, and the experience had so soured him on marriage that he’d remained single. Apparently he’d devoted his life to work ever since. The implication, of course, was that Mitch, too, was in danger of making that same mistake. Obviously he was right to keep mum about meeting Piper again, Mitch deduced. No telling what they’d make of that.

Mitch got his sudden smile under control, looked his dad in the eye and said, “Can’t hurt to run it by him, and meanwhile I’ll follow Mom’s advice.” Since she was sitting right next to him, he patted her on the knee.

“Your father didn’t mean anything by that last remark,” she assured him.

“Yes, I did,” Vernon instantly refuted. “Mitch works too much. If he’s really interested in finding someone to spend his life with, then he’s going to have to cut back on his hours. You said it yourself.”

“I also said we should keep our opinions to ourselves,” she scolded benignly, shaking a finger at him.

He gave her a droll look over the bowl of his pipe. ‘You’ve been married to me long enough to know better than that.”

She rolled her eyes, saw that Mitch was trying not to laugh and threw up her hands. “So I have, you meddling old mother hen.”

Vernon clamped the pipe stem between his teeth, looked at his son and quipped, “Ah, the joys of married life.”

Mitch laughed at them both. His father grinned unrepentantly while Marian folded her arms in a mock huff. “If it makes you feel any better,” he heard himself saying, “I saw her again.” So much for keeping quiet.

“Her?” Vernon echoed, forehead beetling.

Marian clasped her hands together. “The girl on the plane! The one with the pretty name.”

“Piper Wynne,” Mitch confirmed. “Turns out she works just down the street from me, but that’s all I know about her. And that’s all I have to say on the subject.”

“For now,” Vernon qualified with a flourish of his pipe. “Well, well,” he mused, inserting the stem between his lips again.

Well, well, indeed, Mitch thought, looking at his mother’s shining eyes. He couldn’t help wondering how long they had kept silent, waiting for him to be ready to love again. It was to be expected from his mother, but his father had shown great restraint and respect. Thinking of his garrulous, take-charge father biting his tongue for only God knew how long stunned Mitch.

He cleared his throat and softly asked, “Have I told you two lately how much I love you?”

Vernon removed the pipe from his mouth, smiled and looked down, brushing at imaginary lint on his thigh. Marian’s hand closed tenderly over Mitch’s forearm.

“It’s always good to hear,” she said softly.

Mitch sat back and lightened the moment by asking, “What’s for dinner?”

His mother hopped up and headed to the kitchen, answering him over her shoulder, “Your favorite, of course—chicken potpie.”

Vernon waited until she was out of earshot before confiding, “When I asked, she told me leftovers.” He stuck the pipe between his teeth and winked. “Glad you came over.”

Mitch just smiled.

Piper bit off a chunk of sandwich and momentarily turned her face up to the sun, eyes closed. The air felt like silk today, thanks to unusually mild temperatures and a steady breeze that blew the pollution southward. Chewing rapidly, she looked down at the folded newspaper in her lap, her gaze skimming an article on the so-called megachurches in the area. Suddenly a shadow fell across the newsprint. When it failed to move on, she glanced up.

Mitch Sayer stood in front of her, smiling, a hot dog cradled in a waxed wrapper in one hand, his suit coat draped through the crook of his other arm.

She lowered the newspaper to her lap. “Hello again.”

“Hello.” He lifted his eyebrows as if for permission to snoop. She nodded slightly, and he tilted his head to get a look at what she was reading. “Looking for a church?”

She thought of it more as preparing to look. “Starting to.”

“I’d be delighted if you’d try mine.”

She made no reply to that beyond a tight smile, but somehow she wasn’t surprised to find that he was a practicing Christian.

“May I sit?” He indicated the stone bench that she was occupying.

She pulled her nylon lunch bag a little closer. “Sure.”

Mitch tossed his coat over the end of the bench and sat, biting into the hot dog. She saw that he took it covered in chili, cheese and jalapeño peppers.

“You really do like the spicy stuff, don’t you?”

He looked over his meal and said, “This one’s mild. I forgo the onions when I have a meeting too soon after lunch.”

She grinned. “Considerate of you.”

“Even murderers and thugs can smell,” he quipped. Seeing her shock, he apologized. “Sorry. Little jailhouse humor. I forget it’s not always appropriate.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s all right. You said you were a lawyer. I just didn’t think…”

“Criminal law,” he supplied, and she nodded.

“I figured corporate something or other.”

“I’m a defense attorney,” he told her forthrightly. “Dirty job, but someone’s got to do it—someone who actually cares about justice, preferably.” He bit off a huge chunk of the chili dog.

“And that would be you,” she hazarded.

He nodded, chewing, and swallowed. “I do, actually.” He waved a hand. “I consider it more of a calling than a profession, which is not to say that I don’t find it exciting at times.”

“I can imagine.” The emergency room had often been an exciting place to work, too, until… She pushed that thought away. “So, do you have any high-profile clients at the moment?”

“A couple,” he answered matter-of-factly, shifting on the hard bench. “You heard about a case where a couple of kids took to playing practical jokes on one another and one of them went wrong, put out the eye of an eleven-year-old?”

She shook her head. “No, I live, er, lived in Houston until recently.”

“Well,” he said, “my client is the kid who rigged his buddy’s lunch box with a small explosion. It wasn’t a bomb—it was just supposed to make a popping sound. Unfortunately, his buddy’s little brother took the wrong lunch box to school that morning, and he happened to be holding a fork in his fist when he opened it. You can guess what happened.”

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“Sure is, and with school violence on everyone’s mind lately, my client found himself looking at an attempted murder charge. A Houston lady who just happened to be visiting her granddaughter for lunch that day saw the whole thing. If she hadn’t remembered seeing a name written on the box top in ink marker, my client would still be looking at an attempted murder charge. Seems he was not exactly a fan of his buddy’s little brother, and the D.A. was taking a hard line until my witness remembered seeing that. She’s the reason I was on that plane, by the way. How about you?”