From This Day Forward

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is he willing?”

“Who knows? Guilt, maybe?” In truth, Liz thought it was more than that. But she wasn’t about to share that intuition with Cara. Her friend would turn tail and run in the opposite direction if she suspected Sam had other—more personal—reasons for extending the invitation. “What does it matter? Just consider it a safe place to stay for a few weeks.”

Safe, Cara reflected. That depended on your definition of the word. In a physical sense, Liz might be right. But given her precarious emotional state, and the too-prominent role Sam had played in her wayward musings this past month, Cara wasn’t at all sure about the security of her heart. She’d have to constantly remind herself that she and Sam could never recapture the closeness they’d once shared. That there had been too many hurts, too much betrayal. If she went, she couldn’t harbor any illusions. Sam’s home would be a place to recuperate. Nothing more.

If she went.

A shock wave rippled through Cara. When had she started to even consider the trip an option? She groped for the counter and eased back onto the stool, suddenly shaky.

“Cara?” An uncertain note crept into Liz’s voice. “Hey, I had your best interest at heart. I’m sorry if I made a mistake. You know how much our friendship means to me, and I was aware of the risk when I called Sam. But I couldn’t figure out any other way to help you. Please don’t hate me, okay?”

For fifteen years—since the day they’d met at a contemporary art exhibit both had been dragged to by their respective dates, only to find themselves laughing together in the ladies’ room at the abstract, over-the-top junk that was being passed off as fine art—Liz had been like a second sister to Cara. Their friendship had been cemented long before either had married. How could she hold Liz’s actions against her when she knew that her friend had been motivated by love?

“It’s okay, Liz.” Cara closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath as she struggled to sort through her emotions. “This whole thing is just bizarre. Kind of like my life of late. I have to admit that I’m starting to feel a little like Job. But I’ve lost so much…I don’t want to lose you, too. You saved my life this past month.”

“Then you’ll at least think about my idea?”

Propping her elbow on the counter, Cara pushed her hair back from her face and cupped her chin in her palm. She blinked, her eyes gritty with fatigue, as a shaft of bright morning light slanted through the window. Maybe a good night’s sleep was reason enough to visit Sam.

“I’ll pray about it, Liz.”

“Sounds like a plan. And the sooner the better. I’ll do the same.”

As they hung up, Cara hoped Liz would honor her parting promise. Because this decision wouldn’t be easy. And she was going to need all the guidance she could get.

Sam hit redial and checked his watch. He’d been at this phone game for three hours now, and Cara still wasn’t answering. According to Liz, she rarely left her apartment, so he figured she was there—unless she’d gone to church. A good possibility, he realized, since regular worship was part of her routine. He could count on one hand the number of Sunday services she’d missed during their marriage.

The call went through, and Sam counted the rings. One. If she had gone to church, she should be home by now. Two. That meant she was ignoring him. Three. It looked like he might have to implement Plan B—get on a plane to Philadelphia and show up on her doorstep. Four.

Expecting the answering machine to kick in, he started to take a breath to leave a message when a live greeting came over the line. “Hello?”

The air whooshed out of his lungs.

“Hello?” Cara repeated when the silence lengthened.

He gulped in some oxygen. “Cara? It’s Sam.”

“I figured it might be.” Her voice was as taut as a rubber band about to snap.

“Sorry about all the messages. It finally dawned on me that you must be at church.”

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. “You never miss.”

“I’ve skipped the past few Sundays.”

He didn’t have to ask why. But if Cara was too nervous to go out even for services, Liz hadn’t exaggerated his wife’s trauma—or her need for help. Convincing her to let him provide it, however, was going to be a formidable challenge. He tried to think of some way to lead up to the purpose of his call, but in the end decided to plunge in. Why pretend that this was a normal conversation when they both knew it wasn’t?

“I talked to Liz,” he said without preamble.

“I know. She called me this morning.”

Unsure whether that was good or bad, Sam tested the waters. “She told you about our conversation?”

“Yes.”

When silence followed her single-word response, Sam realized that she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through, Cara.”

Soft and caring, his comment took her off guard. It reminded her of the way he’d talked to her early in their marriage. Perhaps he’d learned a thing or two about empathy since their parting, Cara mused. She hoped so. For his sake.

“I survived.” Her response came out a bit more curt than she intended, but maybe that was good. She didn’t want Sam to think her feelings toward him had softened one iota during the months they’d been apart. Nor did she want to prolong this painful conversation.

He got the message. And got to the point. “Based on what Liz told me about your experience, I think her plan has merit. A change of scene, and a move to a safe environment, could speed the emotional healing process. I have a three-bedroom house, and one of the bedrooms is empty. You’re welcome to use it for as long as you like.”

Since her conversation with Liz, Cara had forced herself to consider the situation from a practical standpoint. And she’d done some intense praying. When she’d answered the phone, she’d been prepared to accept his offer.

But now that the moment had arrived, she hesitated. It had been one thing to decide on a course of action in the abstract, and another altogether to follow through when his warm, caring voice was already wreaking havoc with her unsettled emotions. If she reacted this way talking to him by phone, how in the world would she manage when she was living in his house?

Still, he’d be gone a great deal—working all day and well into the evening, if old patterns held. Their paths didn’t have to cross that much. She had plenty of books she’d been wanting to read, and that could occupy her at night until he returned and she could go to sleep. It should be fine. Just because their marriage had fallen apart didn’t mean they couldn’t be adult enough to treat each other with civility for a few weeks.

“Okay.”

Prepared to argue his case, Sam was taken aback by her easy acquiescence. “You’re coming?” he clarified.

“Yes.”

A surge of elation washed over him, but he did his best to maintain a steady tone as he responded. “Good. When?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll make the arrangements and let you know.”

“Will you be okay making the trip alone?”

“I’ll manage.”

Her reassurance didn’t assuage his worry. He knew how debilitating panic attacks could be—as could the other symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. But he also knew that if he got too protective, she might back off. Even cancel her trip. And he couldn’t risk that.

“Okay. I’ll look forward to seeing you, Cara.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep a touch of warmth from creeping into his voice. And her warning note when she responded told him she hadn’t missed it.

“I’m only looking for a place to stay, Sam. Nothing more.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Without waiting for him to reply, Cara hung up.

As she picked up a now-tepid cup of tea, it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t thanked him for his invitation. Perhaps because she wasn’t sure he was doing her any favors, she speculated. While her visit might be precisely what she needed to start her on the road to recovery, it could also turn out to be a disaster. Time would tell, she supposed. Until then, she’d just have to put the outcome in God’s hands.

And pray she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life.

Chapter Three

Wiping his hands on a damp rag, Sam reached for the can of soda balanced on the rungs of the ladder. As he took a long swallow, he gave the finished bedroom a satisfied survey. In the four days since Cara had agreed to come, he’d transformed the bland, beige room into an oasis. The walls were the exact shade of aquamarine his wife favored, and he’d given the dark woodwork three coats of semigloss white enamel to brighten up the space. Once he moved in the furniture, the bedroom would be a welcoming haven.

And he wanted his wife to feel welcome…even if he couldn’t say the words.

A headache began to throb in his temples, and he moved to the window to raise the sash higher, hoping to lessen the smell of paint fumes. As he took in a deep breath of fresh air scented with new-mown grass, he recalled a conversation he’d had with Cara on their second date, after she’d teased him about his quietness.

“I was a home-schooled only child,” he’d explained as they strolled to his car after attending a concert. He’d been tempted to take her hand, but fear that she’d reject his overture had held him back. Instead, he’d stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was a very solitary upbringing. Mom was great at teaching me math and English and science, but I never had much opportunity to learn social skills.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she’d responded, her deep green eyes sparking with mischief as she tucked her hand through his arm with a natural ease he could only envy. “You may not be the smoothest talker I’ve ever met, but you managed to get me to go out with you.”

“That was pure luck. Just like our meeting. If you hadn’t given me a megawatt smile when you came over to our table that night at the request of my date, I don’t think I would have had the guts to ask you out.”

“It took a lot more dinners before you did. How many nights in a row did you eat at the restaurant? Six?”

“Ten. And I have the credit card bill to prove it.”

“I’m sure your date rues the day she sent her compliments to the kitchen and insisted on meeting the chef.” Cara had grinned at him.

“It was just a blind date, anyway.”

“Are you serious?”

He’d felt her curious gaze and responded with a diffident shrug, hoping the lights from the shops they were passing weren’t strong enough to illuminate his face. “Yes. A well-meaning coworker was determined to beef up my lackluster social life.”

“You don’t date much?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?” He’d been at a total loss about how to interpret her response. And in truth he hadn’t been sure he wanted to. But her next words had reassured him.

“It means I’m honored you asked me out. I like you, Sam Martin. And as for the communication thing, we can work on that together, don’t you think?”

He’d agreed, Sam recalled, as he downed the last of his soda and tapped the lid of the paint can back into place. He’d have agreed to almost anything Cara asked in those days, when the heady euphoria of new love had warmed his heart and added a dazzling brightness to his days.

But with thirteen years hindsight, he knew he hadn’t held up his end of the bargain. When things had gotten tough, he’d reverted to old habits and shut down, destroying the marriage that had been the best thing in his life.

Gathering up the drop cloth and painting supplies, Sam gave the empty room one more swift scan. Soon it would be occupied by the woman he loved. Soon she would eat in his kitchen, walk through his garden, watch his television. Soon she would be back in his life.

And he intended to do everything in his power to convince her that that was where she belonged.

For always.

Flicking a glance in the rearview mirror, Cara edged into the exit lane on I-44 at Cuba, Missouri. So far, the drive had gone without a hitch. Not that she was surprised, given the brief but precise directions Sam had e-mailed her shortly after their phone conversation seven days ago. He had always been a stickler for accuracy, an attribute that had served him well as a surgeon, Cara reflected. His spare communication style, on the other hand, hadn’t mattered a great deal in his medical specialty, given the limited interaction surgeons had with patients. But it wasn’t good for establishing—or maintaining—relationships.

Recognizing that, Sam had made a concerted effort to be more communicative in the early days of their marriage, sharing both the events of his day and his feelings with her, even though that had been difficult for him. But later, as they’d grown apart, he’d gone back to his old ways, withdrawing into himself and sharing little of his life…and less of his emotions.

Once, Cara had believed she held the key to unlock his heart, that she could help him release the deeper feelings she knew were trapped inside. She’d tapped into them often enough to nourish her soul, to remind her that this often silent, solitary man loved her with an intensity that could take her breath away. Had their lives followed a different path, she felt sure they could have laid the groundwork for a solid marriage that would have endured.

But long before that foundation was established, life had intervened. Careers, commitments and demands had left neither of them with enough spare time or energy for the task. In the months preceding Sam’s tragedy, they’d become less like loving spouses and more like strangers who lived under the same roof.

Fighting back a wave of melancholy, Cara forced herself to focus on the rural Missouri landscape around her on this mid-June Sunday. Rolling hills, green fields and forested knolls created a restful ambience that was a world removed from the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia—and from the stresses of her trip, which had been magnified a hundredfold by her unsettled emotions.

Oak Hill, and its quiet Main Street, offered yet another contrast to big-city life. A mere two blocks long, it reminded her of a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with soda fountain, feed store, single-screen movie theater and a homespun-looking café called Gus’s.

She slowed as she approached the cross street at the end of the compact business district. Glancing to the left, she noted an elementary school, church, city hall and a few businesses tucked among residential properties. Swiveling her head the other way, she spotted a police station, newspaper office, more houses, a tiny library—and Sam’s office.

This was it. He’d told her to turn here, pass his office, continue for another quarter mile, then make a left onto his street.

A sudden, familiar anxiety swept over her as she swung the wheel to the right, escalating with a rapidity that always frightened her. Since the robbery, she’d had these panic attacks far too often. In most cases, they struck for no reason. Today, however, she could pinpoint the cause: coming face-to-face with the man who had stolen her heart—and broken it.

Yet identifying the source of her alarm did nothing to stop her hands from shaking or to dispel the dizziness that swept over her. Gripping the wheel, she eased back on the gas pedal, willing herself to focus on the road as she traversed the short distance to Sam’s street.

When she made the final turn and the house he’d described came into view, however, the shaking became so severe that she was forced to pull to the side of the road or risk losing control. She sensed danger here as surely as she’d sensed it that night at the restaurant parking lot, when a prickle at the base of her spine had alerted her to trouble—seconds too late.

Well, it wasn’t too late now. She could still turn around. Go back to Philly.

But that would put her no closer to a solution to her problem than she’d been before, she acknowledged. Short of seeking professional counseling, this was the only option that seemed to offer even a remote chance of jump-starting her recovery. If things didn’t work out, she could always try therapy. But she’d disappoint both herself and Liz if she didn’t give this a chance.

As she struggled to get her breathing under control, Cara studied the modest bungalow that Sam now called home. In contrast to the condo they’d shared in the fashionable Society Hill area of Philadelphia, the house was simple and unpretentious. Constructed of redbrick and stone, with a generous front porch, it looked to date from the forties or fifties. Stately oak trees in the large yard sheltered the dwelling, and a climbing rosebush covered with profuse pink blossoms cascaded over a white lattice arbor on the side.

It looked homey, Cara reflected. The kind of place that would welcome you back after a long day. And it looked safe, just as Sam had promised. More than anything, that appealed to Cara. If she could feel secure here, maybe this would be the answer to her prayers after all.

Putting her trust in the Lord, Cara shifted the car back into gear and moved forward.

Not until the car started to roll again did Sam exhale.

He’d been standing at the edge of the large picture window in his living room for the past fifteen minutes, watching for Cara. Her plane had landed on schedule—he’d checked. He’d calculated the approximate time it would take her to claim luggage and pick up her rental car. He knew the precise duration of the drive from the airport to Oak Hill. She was right on schedule.

When the unfamiliar car had stopped at the end of his street, however, he’d panicked. Assuming it was Cara, he’d been prepared to bolt from the house and run after her if she got cold feet and turned around.

Much to his relief, that hadn’t happened.

Yet.

But it still could, he conceded. And if it did, he’d deal with it. In the meantime, he had other problems to worry about, the most pressing one being the worst case of nerves he’d had since the night he’d proposed.

Sam knew this was his last chance to repair the damage he’d inflicted on their marriage. He also knew he had to be prudent and careful in his approach. If Cara discovered his hidden agenda, she’d disappear as quickly as the deer he sometimes startled on the rural roads he often traversed. The operative words were patience, consideration and—most important of all, he reminded himself—communication. His weakness. He’d never been very good at expressing his feelings, but he was even willing to ask the Almighty for help in overcoming that impediment if that’s what it took to win back his wife.

The car slowed to a stop in front of his house, and he watched as Cara opened the door and exited, as eager for his first glimpse of her as a sea-weary sailor is for the sight of land.

She stood beside the car for a few seconds, giving Sam a chance to savor her shoulder-length, springy red curls. Burnished by the late-afternoon sun, the color was as glorious and full of life as he remembered. Then she reached for her handbag, slung it over her shoulder and moved around the front of the car.

When she started up the curving stone walkway toward his front door, Sam shifted back a bit into the shadows and continued to scrutinize her. Black slacks hugged her trim hips, and her soft, black-and-white-striped knit top hinted at her curves. A smile whispered at the corners of his mouth as he recalled the way he used to tease her about being a slender chef, suggesting that a slim figure wasn’t a good advertisement for her culinary skills. She’d always countered by saying that it demonstrated her remarkable discipline, yet never failed to lament that she could afford to lose a few pounds.

Well, she couldn’t afford to anymore, he realized, his smile fading as the setting sun backlit her, emphasizing her too-willowy five-foot-six silhouette. She’d lost more than a few pounds since he’d last seen her. Too many, in fact. And as she drew closer, he saw other indications of the toll the stress had taken on her. Her face, though a bit pale, was as beautiful as always, the smooth forehead, pert nose, soft, full lips, and strong, determined chin just as he remembered. And her startling green eyes were still fringed by those amazing long lashes. But the shadows beneath them, along with the tense line of her jaw and her taut lips, provided clear evidence of the lingering effects of her recent trauma.

Thanks to Oak Hill’s sheriff, Dale Lewis, Sam now had a better handle on the incident that had triggered Cara’s visit. After years on the police force in L.A., Dale had law enforcement contacts all over the country—including Philly. At Sam’s request, he’d been able to get a police report on the incident and recap it for Sam.

According to the investigating officer’s write-up, Cara and her coworker, Tony, had been the last to leave the restaurant that night. As they crossed the parking lot, a masked gunman had accosted them, demanding their money. While Cara had handed over her purse at once, Tony had balked. As a result, the perpetrator had grabbed Cara, put the gun to her head and told Tony to toss his wallet on the ground or she’d be history. Tony had complied, but as the robber pushed Cara aside and reached for the wallet, Tony had lunged at him. The man had shot Tony, then run off.

A passerby heard the gunfire and called the police, but by the time they arrived Tony was dead. No suspects had yet been arrested. Cara had been questioned but could remember few details of the shooting, and the assailant’s mask prevented her from making an ID. However, with her purse in hand, he could identify her.

Dale’s summary had left Sam with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the gunman had been high, or desperate for a fix, or worried about witnesses despite his mask, he could have shot Cara, too. Killed her. The very possibility caused Sam’s blood to run cold. And strengthened his resolve to do whatever it took to let her know how much he cherished her, and how sorry he was for the mess he’d made of things.

As Cara stepped up to the door, Sam rubbed his hands down his jeans. Even before the highest-stake surgeries, he’d never gotten sweaty palms. He’d been sure of his ability to save lives. But he wasn’t anywhere near as confident in his relationship skills as he was wielding a scalpel. Especially when his future was on the line.

Moving to the door, Sam took a steadying breath and pulled it wide, forcing his stiff lips to curve into the semblance of a smile. “Hello, Cara. Welcome.”

Her finger poised to ring the bell, Cara froze.

When the silence lengthened, Sam spoke again. “I’m glad you made it safe and sound. Come in.” He stepped aside.

“I left my things in the car, and I didn’t lock it.” She cast an uncertain look over her shoulder.

“They’ll be fine. You’re not in Philly anymore. I’ll get them in a few minutes.” Though she appeared unconvinced, she stepped over the threshold. “Did you have any problem finding your way?”

“No. You were always good at giving directions.”

But not other things. Sam almost voiced that thought, then restrained the impulse. It was too soon to get so personal. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No. I’d prefer to get settled in and unpack.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long day.” He’d worried how she would cope with the stresses of the trip, but aside from her slight pallor, she seemed okay. “Let me show you around, then I’ll get your things.”

He gave her a quick tour of the house—the sunny kitchen with attached breakfast room that overlooked a private backyard; the back porch, inviting but bare; an empty dining room; an underfurnished living room featuring a lone couch in front of the fireplace with a table, lamp and straight chair beside it; his uncluttered office. He identified a closed door as his bedroom when they passed, but didn’t pause until they reached the last room at the end of the hall. Stepping aside, he ushered her in. “I hope this will be okay.”

Based on the sparse furnishings in the rest of the house, Cara wasn’t expecting much. Certainly nothing like the exquisite room waiting for her when she stepped over the threshold.