The Heart of Grace

“What did you think of church?”

Larissa asked, expectantly.

“I thought you were the most beautiful woman there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

They drove along in silence for a while. She thought Drew was asleep behind his sunglasses until out of the blue, he said, “I liked your church.”

Her mouth curved in a smile. “Does that mean you’ll go again some time?”

“Larissa.”

And just like that the sun went behind a cloud.

“I’ve always wanted you beside me at church. I loved having you there.”

She sounded pitiful, begging him.

Drew removed the sunglasses. “If it’s that important to you.”

Hope bloomed, sweet and lovely. God was at work. She had to keep believing.

LINDA GOODNIGHT

A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her belief that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.

A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at [e-mail], or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

The Heart of Grace

Linda Goodnight

Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up.

—Psalms 71:20

To Gene, with all my love.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

Drew Grace jerked away from the office door and whirled, poised to run. A social worker was in there. He knew what that meant. It meant trouble.

Heart pounding, he pushed at the teacher blocking his way. A pair of strong hands, those of the school counselor, Mr. James, caught his shoulders and forced him inside the long narrow office.

Fury ripped through Drew, hot and powerful. He doubled up his fist. He might be only seven but he was tough and he could fight. He wasn’t ever scared to fight no matter how big the other guy. Anybody that didn’t believe that could ask Timothy Wilson. Timothy was in fourth grade but Drew bloodied his nose and made him cry yesterday on the playground. Stupid idiot said Drew stunk. So maybe he did. Big deal. It wasn’t none of Timothy’s business anyway.

“Sit down, Drew,” Mr. James said. “We need to talk to you boys about something.”

Talk. Yeah, sure. Drew knew better. They weren’t going to talk. They were going to drag him and his brothers off to foster care again.

He wasn’t going. Foster parents never liked him. They were mean. They said he was a troublemaker.

Well, he didn’t like them either. If grown-ups would just leave them alone, they’d be okay. Or if Mama would come home. When she was in the chips she brought them presents. That’s what she said, in the chips.

His heart hurt a little to think of Mama. And that just made him madder. He slammed the clenched fist into the social worker’s gut and pushed past her. Mr. James grabbed him around the waist. Kicking, flailing with all his might, Drew growled like a mad dog as the counselor pushed him into a chair.

Drew gazed frantically around the room looking for escape. He had to get out of here.

His big brother Collin stood beside the counselor’s desk, face as cold and hard as ice, arms tight at his sides. Drew knew that look. Collin was mad and probably scared, too, though he always said he wasn’t.

His baby brother Ian sat in a chair at the end of the room. Silent tears made dirty streaks on his face. Poor little kid. He was always nice to everybody. He was still in pre-K so what did he know. Ian didn’t yet understand all the things that Drew and Collin did. Sometimes you couldn’t be nice.

Drew tried to take care of Ian ’cause he was so little. Well, Drew and Collin together. Collin always knew the best places to find food and stuff.

They had a hiding place, a good one. If he could just get out of here, he’d head there. Maybe the teachers would chase him and give Collin and Ian a chance to escape, too. He was fast. He could outrun them. Then he’d be the hero, and his brothers would give him the biggest share of food. They’d make a fire and build a fort. Just him and his brothers against the world. They could do it.

Sometimes Collin got them out of trouble. But not always. Drew knew he couldn’t count on anything when adults were involved. He and Ian and Collin could make it okay by themselves. They always had.

Drew knew how to make a fire. He liked fire. He liked to watch the flames lick up the side of paper and turn it bright orange. He liked the smell of matches.

Just then some nosy teacher walked by and stuck her fat head inside the office. Behind glasses, her eyes bugged out.

“Poor little things,” he heard her whisper right before the social worker shut the door in her face. “Living in that old burned-out trailer, that trashy mother gone half the time. No wonder they’re filthy.”

Drew exploded out of the chair and started toward the door. He’d make her pay for saying that.

But once again, Mr. James caught him. This time he wasn’t too gentle. He pushed Drew down into the plastic chair and held him there. Most times Drew liked Mr. James okay, but not today.

“Collin,” the social worker said to his big brother. She had a hand on her belly where Drew had punched her. He didn’t care. She shouldn’t be sticking her nose into his business. That’s what Mama said. If welfare would just keep their nose out of her business, everything would be fine. “You’ve been through this before. You know it’s for the best. Why don’t you help us get your brothers in the car?”

Collin ignored her. Drew figured his brother was thinking the same thing he was. They had to get out of here.

Ian started sniveling, making hiccuping sounds like he was trying to keep from crying. Drew wanted to go to him and say everything would be okay. But he’d be lying. He didn’t want to lie to his brother. Besides, Mr. James was holding him down like a wrestler and wouldn’t let him up.

Collin must have noticed Ian, too, because he walked right past that social worker like he didn’t even see her and laid a hand on Ian’s head. Ian looked up at Collin with wet blue eyes and stopped crying. He kind of shivered like a cold kitten, and Drew got mad all over again. A little kid like that shouldn’t have to be scared all the time.

The social worker must have noticed Ian crying, too, because she knelt in front of his chair and told some big lie about taking them to a nice house and buying them all new shoes. Poor kid believed every word. Drew wished it was true, but it wasn’t.

Mr. James, who smelled like spearmint gum, loosened his hold the slightest bit and slid to his knees in front of Drew’s chair. Drew hoped this was his chance. Mr. James, who coached baseball and was stronger than some of the high school football players, wasn’t a dummy. He kept one big hand on Drew’s arm and another on his knee.

“Boys,” he said, looking around at all three of them. “Sometimes life throws us a curveball. Things happen that we don’t expect. But I want you to know one thing.” He stared over at the social worker. She was still on her knees in front of Ian. “No matter where you go from here or what happens, you have a friend who will never leave you. His name is Jesus. If you let Him, He’ll take care of you.”

Something inside Drew quieted. He knew who Jesus was though he’d never been to church. He didn’t know how he knew but he did. And even if it was a lie, he liked thinking that there was somebody somewhere that wouldn’t leave him and his brothers alone.

“Collin?” Mr. James said and twisted around, holding his hand out. When Collin ignored him, the counselor laid the hand on Collin’s worn-out shoe and bowed his head. He started whispering something and Drew knew Mr. James was praying. Praying for Collin and Ian and him.

Drew got a funny lump in his chest, like he might cry. He squeezed his eyes shut. Mr. James loosened his hold, but Drew didn’t try to run. He wasn’t mad at Mr. James, not really. He wanted Mr. James to take him home with him and teach him how to play baseball.

When the prayer was over, Drew opened his eyes, curious. The room was real quiet. Even Ian had stopped whimpering.

Mr. James reached into his pocket and pulled out some little key chains and handed them each one. Drew gazed at his, curious about the silver metal fish with words on the back.

He was in second grade. He could read. But not that good.

“I want you to have one of these,” the counselor said. He stared at the social worker again in a way Drew didn’t understand, like he was daring her to say anything. She looked down and fiddled with the floppy sole of Ian’s shoe. “It’s a reminder of what I said, that God will watch over you no matter where you go or what you do.”

“Where we going this time?” Collin asked, voice hard and mad.

“I have placements for Drew and Ian.”

“Together?”

Drew’s head jerked up. They always stayed together. They had to stay together.

“Not this time. All the placements are separate.”

Blood pounded in Drew’s head. He clenched the key chain until the metal bit into his skin.

“Ian gets scared,” Collin said, his voice shaky. “He stays with me.”

Collin was right. Ian needed his big brothers. They needed each other. All for one, one for all. Like the Three Musketeers movie they saw at a friend’s house.

Drew’s blood started to heat up again. Separate placements. Places for bad boys. For troublemakers.

He looked frantically at Collin. Why didn’t Collin say something? Why didn’t he tell her that they couldn’t be separated? They’d die if they weren’t together.

He opened his mouth to say so, but only a growl came out.

“I’m sorry, boys. This will work out for the best. You’ll see.” The social worker tried to sound jolly, but Drew was no fool.

They would be separated. Him and Collin and Ian. He would never see his brothers again.

He said a cussword and bolted toward the door. Too late, too late. Mr. James picked him up and carried him out the door, kicking and screaming.

Chapter One

Twenty-three years later, Iraq

Life as he knew it was about to end.

Drew Michaels had made a mistake and now he had to pay the price. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how badly he wanted to hang on, he had to let go of the most important thing in his life—his marriage.

He just hoped he could survive the aftermath.

“Mr. Michaels, take a shot of that.”

Camera ever ready, Drew followed the direction of his driver’s pointed finger but didn’t press the shutter. He was on assignment somewhere outside Baghdad, and if he’d seen one herd of goats he’d seen them all. He wasn’t in much of a mood today to take useless photos. Or any kind of photos, come to think of it. The memory of yesterday’s telephone conversation with Larissa was too fresh and painful.

He’d finally told her the truth.

Well, not the real truth, but the truth she needed to hear. Their marriage had been a mistake, and he wanted a divorce.

Remembering her reaction made him want to shoot something all right, but not with his camera.

Larissa had cried. He hated himself for that, just as he hated himself for ever thinking he could make a woman like her happy. Any woman, for that matter. Drew Michaels didn’t have what it took to settle down and be a husband and father. He wanted to. He just couldn’t.

He and Amil, the amiable Iraqi driver, were bumping through another nameless village with the usual string of squat, sand-colored buildings and local citizens going about the normal business of living. Women in long, flowing abayahs, children herding goats with a stick, soldiers poised with automatic rifles.

Drew had spent so much time in the Middle East that the military presence had actually started to look normal to him.

Next week he was off to Indonesia. A volcano was on the howl, and disasters were his specialty. Earthquakes, volcanoes, famine, war. You name it, he shot it. Not the usual stuff though. That was boring. He either went for that elusive moment of ambient light or for the people, the human side, the kids. He was good and he knew it. In fact, photography was the only thing he’d ever been good at. If he’d stuck to his work, he wouldn’t be in this mess now.

Sand swirled up in front of the jeep and Drew shaded his face. Sunglasses weren’t adequate protection against Middle Eastern sand and a photographer couldn’t be too careful of his eyes.

Photographic art buffs said he had great artistic vision, an eye for the perfect detail. Able to capture an image that spoke to the consciousness.

He didn’t know about all that, but he didn’t argue. If they wanted to pay exorbitant prices for his photos, he’d take their money.

The memory of one particular photo exhibition shimmied to the surface. Tulsa. Three years ago.

He’d felt as phony as his last name. All those society types swarming around a display of his work, murmuring things like, “inspired,” or “provocative.”

He should have known then to cut and run. But he hadn’t.

And then Larissa had walked toward him, an artsy diamond choker around her elegant neck, sparkling diamonds dangling from her ears. His eye for detail had served him well at that moment, though he’d wished for a camera to capture her. In a long white fitted gown of some satiny material, chestnut hair pulled up at the sides, one gleaming lock over a bare shoulder, she’d captivated him.

He’d never expected to love anybody, but he’d fallen in love with Larissa on the spot. It was stupid and foolish. Now he had to right the wrong he’d done to her.

“Another week and I’m out of here, Amil,” he said to the driver.

“Going home to your woman, huh?”

His woman. The words poked at him like a sticker. He should have known back then that Larissa was too wonderful for a street bum like him. He should have known he didn’t have what it took to be a husband.

Attention diverted by a soldier and an Iraqi toddler in a pink dress, Drew didn’t bother to answer. Some things hurt too much to discuss.

A G.I., gun slung behind him, had gone down on both knees to tie a little girl’s shoe. The contrast was stunning—an innocent toddler and a hardened marine gentled by a child’s trust.

Drew pressed the shutter. Now that was a picture.

In front of them, two other jeeps bounced along. Though he normally worked alone, he’d been lucky to tag along on this trek into the countryside. They had a meeting with one of the tribal chiefs, and a man never knew what might come of that.

His vest rattled with rolls of film and various lenses as he reached into his inner pocket and removed a photo of Larissa. He’d taken hundreds of the woman who was his wife. She was a photographer’s dream, all grace and class and innocence.

He clenched his teeth. His wife. The burning ache in his gut grew hotter. Must be getting an ulcer, a common malady for a disaster photographer.

Larissa was his love, his life, and his wife. But in three years he’d never been the man she needed. The phone call yesterday had been the hardest call he’d ever made. He hadn’t slept more than three hours all week, working up to that call.

Tulsa with Larissa was the only home he’d ever known, but now that was gone, too. He couldn’t go back and face her. If he did, he might chicken out. For her sake, he’d remain abroad. And selfish as always, he’d lose himself in the job and leave the dirty work to his lawyer.

His chest pinched tight as he thought of all the things she wanted that he couldn’t give her. Himself mostly, but lately she’d mentioned babies.

Even though the temperature outside hovered somewhere around a hundred and ten degrees, Drew shivered. Babies. The idea scared him more than walking through a minefield. Larissa didn’t know, didn’t understand the dark, secret reasons why he could never, ever father a child.

“She is very beautiful.”

“What?” Drew glanced over at Amil. “Oh, Larissa. My wife.” The words fell from his lips as if he needed to call her his as long as he could.

“You are a lucky man.”

“She wants a baby,” he blurted and then wondered why. It was a moot point now.

“So give her one. A fine son to carry on your name.”

Which name? he wondered grimly. Michaels? Grace? Another of the reasons he had to let her go. Larissa had no clue she’d married a man who didn’t exist. Wouldn’t that be a shocker to her rich, politician daddy?

He’d done all right as Drew Michaels, though, and had gained a bit of a reputation with his work. Even if he did feel like a fraud most of the time, he was fine as long as no one else discovered the truth. But he wouldn’t pass that legacy of lies on to an innocent child. He knew what happened to kids who came from bad bloodlines.

After making sure Amil’s attention had returned to the convoy in front of them, Drew touched the photo to his lips, then slid it back into his vest. Over his heart. She was his heart and always would be, long after the ink was dried on the divorce papers, and she was happily married to some nice man who could give her all the babies she wanted.

“You come to Amil’s house,” the driver was saying. “I will show you sons. Seven of them, I have. They will make you smile and you can—” He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and pretended to snap pictures.

Drew was readying a wisecrack when suddenly, the world exploded.

In a split second of horror, he comprehended the sound and knew what was happening.

Attack. A roadside bomb. God help them all.

The last thing his conscious mind registered was the smile fading from Amil’s face and the bizarre experience of flying backward out of the jeep, one hand frantically gripping his Nikon.

He screamed Larissa’s name.

Larissa Stone Michaels sat straight up in bed, heart thundering louder than an Oklahoma rainstorm.

Another bad dream. The third time this week she’d awakened from a terrible nightmare that she couldn’t remember. Any time Drew was in the Middle East, she suffered sleepless nights and bad dreams.

Then the memory of yesterday’s phone conversation flooded into her consciousness. No wonder she’d had another nightmare. Drew wanted a divorce.

A sob choked out, loud in the silent bedroom. The little Yorkie, Coco, lying at the foot of the bed, raised her tiny head. Larissa pressed a hand to quivering lips, holding back the sorrow that had ended only when she’d finally fallen asleep.

She glanced at the illuminated clock on the curio lamp stand. Four in the morning. Less than three hours since she’d last noted the time.

Many nights she awakened unable to sleep until she’d prayed for Drew’s safety. But this night was different. This night, she didn’t have that sweet promise that her husband loved her and would be coming home to her.

He was never coming home again.

Tossing back the duvet comforter, she swung both feet to the plush carpet. Her body trembled. The soft whoosh of the heating unit was the only sound in the quiet Southside villa. Weary and heartsick, she went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. After a moment of blindness she found a glass, ran it full of water and drank deeply. The reflection in the mirror looked wild, dark hair tangled around a pale face.

“Oh, Drew,” she whispered to the mirror. “What did I do? What happened?”

With grim determination, she swallowed hard against the ache in her throat, pushing back the tears. She couldn’t keep doing this. She had to get hold of her emotions long enough to think things through.

She’d had no idea anything was wrong until the phone call. She loved him. Six months ago when he was home, everything had been as good as ever. Before he left for Iraq, he’d held her such a long time and told her how much he loved and needed her.

And now this.

“Jesus. Dear Jesus.”

Hands braced on the sink, she squeezed her eyes tight and did the only thing she knew to do. She prayed. For Drew’s safety, first and always. For their bewilderingly troubled marriage. For her breaking heart.

But this time the usual sense of peace evaded her. Her emotions were too raw and confused.

She returned to the bedroom, certain she’d slept her last. As she slipped beneath the petal-soft sheets, the phone rang.

A frightful pounding in her temples started up. A call at this time of night could not be good news.

She picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”

And the nightmare began again. Only this time, she was awake.

Chapter Two

Drew hurt everywhere. His head, his leg, his back, his guts. Even his hair hurt.

He tried to open his eyes but they were too heavy. The drugs, he supposed. Drugs were good, but they didn’t eliminate the pain. They only made him stupid, too groggy to form an intelligent sentence, too relaxed to care.

The first time he’d awakened after the blast, he’d been in a helicopter. The whump, whump, whump had sent him into violent tremors. Shock, the docs in Germany said.

Well yes, he was shocked. Getting blown up wasn’t on his list of fun things to do.

He wondered where his cameras were.

“Mr. Michaels.” A male voice penetrated the haze. Someone lifted his wrist and felt his pulse. Hard, strong fingers. He wanted the voice to go away but figured he’d slept his allotted quota for the day.

Around this place fifteen minutes was tops before someone else came along to poke, prod or wheel him off to radiology. He’d been scanned and x-rayed so much he probably glowed in the dark. A radioactive photographer.

Funny. He had a brief image of using the glow from his body as available light to snap photos. All good photographers experimented with different light sources. And he was good. Really good. Everybody said so. Especially Larissa. She thought he was wonderful.

Larissa. The sharpest pain yet hit him.

Did she know how much he loved her? Did she know he was hurt? He hoped not. She’d be upset. He’d already caused her enough trouble.

The floaty feeling came back and he leaned into it, ready to go where it led. Thinking of Larissa hurt too much to remain conscious.

“Mr. Michaels.”

With an inner sigh, Drew resurfaced and managed to raise his eyelids. Squinting at the bright light and too-white room, he saw his tormenter. A doctor. But he wasn’t sure which one. That was one of the problems he’d been having. His memory wasn’t as good as it used to be. Things were a little fuzzy. His head hurt. A lot.

“I’ve never been in a hospital,” he grumbled.

“So you told me.”

He had?

Eyes wider now, he focused on the physician’s name badge. Dr. Pascal. Neurology. “When can I get out of here?”