Hummingbird Lake

EIGHT





At seven o’clock on the last Wednesday night in February, Sage hooked the tote bag holding her newly completed quilt squares over her shoulder and headed over to Nic Callahan’s house for the Patchwork Angels meeting. She didn’t want to go. She was running on fumes.

Despite her best efforts, she’d managed no more than four hours of sleep last night. She’d awakened about two from a return trip to the Zaraguina stronghold, and then she’d tossed and turned for an hour before giving up. She’d spent the rest of the night working on her quilt squares, which served her well for tonight’s meeting but didn’t exorcise her demons enough to allow her to get back to sleep.

She enjoyed the sewing. Making crazy-quilt squares from the fabric and embellishments of old wedding gowns appealed to her creativity. She loved working with the beads and laces, although piecing delicate silks and slippery satins tested her talent. Still, she’d always been good with a needle. After all, she’d been a darn good surgeon, which in many ways was just another type of artistry.

Sage waved to Larry Wilson, who was locking the door of the building supply center as she passed by. He called out, “Hey there, Sage. Sorry again for the delay in that special order of light fixtures for you. Glad they finally arrived. Bet you’re excited to have the remodel team finally get to work at your gallery.”

She tried to smile and agree with enthusiasm. After all, she’d hounded the poor man to death when the shipment was backordered at Thanksgiving. The major remodel of her gallery and studio originally had been scheduled to begin in October. One delay after another had moved the start date back, but shortly after noon today, she’d received a call from her contractor informing her that work would begin bright and early the following morning.

This was good news, since it meant the work would be done before what she hoped would be a busy tourist season. It was bad news because it meant that instead of spending her days in town working in the studio above Vistas, she’d be painting at the lake cottage. Although she’d planned to work at the lake during the remodel all along, now she wished the construction delay could have lasted another ten days or so—until after Colt Rafferty’s distracting presence was gone.

“I’ll simply need to be firm with him,” she told herself. Just because the man was pushy didn’t mean she couldn’t push back. Rafferty was way too self-confident. Way too good-looking. In her experience, the good-looking ones invariably turned out to be jerks, and she had no use for jerks in her life. She had boundaries, and he’d need to respect them.

Gabe Callahan’s dog, Clarence, met her at the front gate, wagging his crooked tail. She greeted him, scratched him behind the ears, then climbed the front porch steps and knocked on the door. Gabe answered holding one of his infant daughters like a football, and Sage was forced to concede that exceptions to her conclusions about jerks did exist. Callahan wasn’t a jerk and he was definitely hot.

“Welcome, stranger,” he said, grinning. “Nic will be glad to see you. Come on in.”

“Thanks, Gabe.” She smiled at the baby and said, “Hello, sweetheart.”

Unlike almost every other female who came within reaching distance of the babies, Sage didn’t stretch out her arms or ask to hold the child. Instead, she said, “Your little girls aren’t so little anymore, are they?”

He grinned. “The little porkers were both over fourteen pounds at their last checkup.”

“Is Cari over her ear infection?”

“Yes, thank goodness. Her pitiful crying made me feel helpless.” The baby batted at his mouth with her little fist and babbled. Gabe caught the hand, kissed it, then said, “Nic and the others are all set up in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Sage hung her coat on the hall tree, then followed the sound of laughter to Nic Callahan’s kitchen, where she found her hostess, Sarah Reese, Ali Timberlake, quilt shop owner LaNelle Harrison, and Celeste Blessing huddled over a cutting mat discussing the proposed arrangement of blocks. As Sage stepped into the room, Ali glanced up and said, “Hello.”

“Well, I don’t believe it.” Sarah reached into the back pocket of her jeans, withdrew a five-dollar bill, and handed it to Ali. “You win.”

Sage followed the exchange and scowled. “You bet on me?”

“Technically, I bet against you,” Sarah replied. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“That’s mean.” Sage folded her arms. “I said last week that I’d come tonight, and I always keep my word.”

“You said you’d come to the band concert at school last night and you didn’t.”

“No, I said I’d buy a ticket, and I did. I never said I’d attend.”

Celeste interrupted the exchange by saying, “What matters is that you’re here now. We need your artistic eye, Sage. Help us decide how best to arrange our squares.”

Sage glanced at LaNelle. “You’re not doing it this time?”

The master quilter smiled. “No, not this time.”

“She’s not reading the Patchwork Angels email newsletter, either,” Sarah observed.

Ali explained, “We decided to enter this particular project in the art show this summer. LaNelle is usually a judge, so she’s recused herself from all efforts with this quilt.”

“I’m only here to drop off the supplies,” LaNelle said.

“And because your curiosity about our project got the best of you,” Celeste suggested.

Amusement gleamed in LaNelle’s eyes. “Caught me. Now I’d better leave before I get into any more trouble. Since Sage is here to oversee things, I know you’ll do just fine with your design.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sarah said. “Glad to know you have so much confidence in the rest of us. Bye, LaNelle.”

As Nic escorted LaNelle from the house, Sage turned to Ali and said, “I’m surprised but happy to see you back in town so soon this time of year. Any reason in particular for the trip?”

Ali’s face brightened. “After reading the journals you guys uncovered written by my great-great-grandmother, I’ve caught the genealogy bug. I’m spending a few days here poring through the local history section of the library, and today I found something interesting. Shall I share?”

“Absolutely,” Nic said, returning to the room.

“Well, this goes back to the second generation of settlers in Eternity Springs. We know that Winifred Smith, who was Daniel Murphy’s fiancée—the woman who he called his angel—disappeared on their wedding day and ended up a skeleton dressed in a bridal gown in Celeste’s root cellar.”

“Did you learn who her killer was?” Sarah asked. “I’m going to be jealous if you did. I’ve been looking into that mystery some myself when I have extra time.”

“You don’t have any extra time,” Nic said.

“That’s why I haven’t discovered the killer.” Sarah repeated her question to Ali. “Did you?”

“Nope. I found out something about Daniel Murphy’s son Brendan and my great-great uncle Harry Cavanaugh Jr. They fought a duel over a woman. With rapiers.”

“A sword duel?” Nic asked. “In the late 1800s?”

“Actually, the early 1900s. The woman was Caroline Hart. Brendan won the duel and the woman, but made a lifelong enemy of Harry in the process.”

“Not good for Brendan Murphy,” Sarah said. “The Cavanaughs had money, but the Murphys didn’t. One of the best-known pieces of Eternity Springs history is that Daniel lost everything but his bad reputation.”

Celeste spoke up. “The poor man was heartsick. His first wife had died, leaving him with young Brendan to care for, then he lost his angel, and the people in town turned on him. He had such a big, tender Irish heart, and it broke.”

The women all looked at Celeste in surprise. She hastened to say, “I’ve been researching, too. Sorry to interrupt, Ali. Please go on.”

Ali said, “Well, piecing together the information I found in the library and what I learned in the journals you guys found, I’m almost certain that the trunk of family heirlooms my dad inherited is really Murphy family heirlooms. I thought maybe …” She looked at Sarah. “Maybe Lori should have them.”

Sarah sat up straight. Sarah’s deepest, darkest secret, known only to a very few, was that Lori’s father was not a summer tourist, as Sarah had claimed, but the infamous Cameron Murphy. “I don’t think—”

Ali held up her hand, palm out. “Let me finish. Cam’s mother was a Cavanaugh. Lori has as much claim to the box as my children. Sarah, there are a few coins in the trunk. My father believes they could be quite valuable.”

“College tuition,” Sage pointed out, knowing how her friend worried about paying for Lori’s education.

“This is cool, Sarah.” Nic folded her arms and looked pleased. “At last, child support from Cam.”

“I don’t know,” Sarah replied, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip. A cry sounded from upstairs, and as Nic left to check on her girls, Sarah said to Ali, “The trunk came to you. Well, to your dad.”

“Fine. Then it’s ours to give away. We want to give it to Lori. End of discussion.”

“But—”

“Argue later, Sarah dear,” Celeste said. “Let’s get on to quilt business, shall we?”

Nic returned carrying a sleepy-eyed, whimpering twin rooting at her breast. As she settled down to nurse her little Cari, Sage followed Celeste’s lead and studied the arrangement of blocks on the worktable. “I like the balance here. You all have done a good job with the design. And I think my own little contribution will fit in quite nicely.”

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out her stack of finished squares. She placed the twelve-by-twelve-inch squares where her artist’s eye said they fit best with the overall design. Upon seeing them, Ali said, “Oh, Sage.”

Sarah looked and said, “Wow. These are gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”

In her blocks, Sage had used bits of lace, beading, and bows to create bouquets of flowers. Each of the five squares was different; all were intricately detailed. After studying them a moment, Sarah added, “You are so talented, Sage. Now I’m really stressed out.”

“Why?”

“Because the pressure is on. I said I’d do the piecing on this one, since it’s my turn. And now that I’ve seen your squares, I think we possibly could win. But I’m gonna have to sew a straight line. Arrgh!” Sarah grimaced and covered her face with her hands.

Her friends laughed, and Ali reached out to pat her hand. “It’ll be okay, Sarah. The contest entry is just for fun.”

“Don’t speak so fast, Alison,” Celeste said. “If we’re entering the art show, we darn well want a blue ribbon!”

“Here, here,” Sage added. “I second that.”

Nic looked up from her nursing child. “I knew Sage was competitive, but you, Celeste?”

“I am a proponent of always doing one’s best,” Celeste replied, primly lacing her fingers.

The others all laughed, and then the conversation shifted to plans for the next project. Sage did enjoy the comradery, but she was simply too tired to participate in the conversations with much enthusiasm. Subtly she watched the clock. Staying an hour should be long enough to fulfill her obligation, shouldn’t it?

She was demonstrating her beading technique to Nic and paying minimal attention when Ali steered the conversation toward some charity work she did in Denver. It wasn’t until she heard her own name that she truly tuned in. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I’m finalizing activities for the kids’ cancer camp at Angel’s Rest in June. I need to submit the detailed plan to the insurance company for underwriting, and I’d like to add a second art program. Can I count on you to teach two art classes, Sage?”

“Art classes?” Sage repeated.

“Yes.” Ali’s smile dimmed a bit. “Remember, we talked about it right before Christmas?”

Sage went cold. “I didn’t say I’d teach a class.”

Obviously confused, Ali frowned. “Um, we did discuss it. You didn’t tell me no.”

Art classes to children? Teaching children? Sick children? Pediatric cancer patients? Everything inside Sage rebelled at the thought, and she snapped. “I certainly didn’t tell you yes!”

That shut the conversation off abruptly. Nic, Sarah, and Ali appeared shocked and disapproving. Celeste’s brow wrinkled in worry. Their reactions only annoyed Sage further. Couldn’t they simply be her friends and leave her be?

With her defenses weakened by exhaustion, old fears and frustrations roared forth, and Sage lost her temper. “Excuse me, but I never committed to anything where your cancer camp program is concerned, and it’s wrong of you to assume I’ll go blithely along with the idea. You are my friend—not my mother, my doctor, my employer, or my priest. You don’t get to tell me how I spend my time.”

Ali drew back as if Sage had hit her. Sarah said, “Now, wait a minute—”

“No! You wait a minute.” Sage surged to her feet. Her friends had crossed the line. Anger sharpened her tone, and she could feel her face flush. “All of you wait a minute. I went along with your little intervention because I recognized that in your own buttinsky minds, you thought you were doing a good thing. Not that anyone cared about how I felt. But this goes too far. These are children! Sick children!”

“Yes, they are,” Ali said, obviously confused. “They’re sick children and you’re a doctor.”

“A children’s doctor,” Nic interjected.

“And an artist. I’m not asking you to treat them,” Ali explained. “I’m asking you to teach them to paint.”

Sarah folded her arms. “What’s your problem, Sage?”

Sage closed her eyes. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. That didn’t stop them from judging her, though.

Sarah wasn’t finished. “You know, Sage, we’ve been trying to help you, but you won’t let us. It’s obvious that you have secrets—Nic and I figured that out when you moved here—and it’s plain as day that you don’t want to share them. Okay, fine. I understand about keeping secrets. My big secret is going off to college in the fall. So keep your secrets. But you can’t expect us not to care. We’re your friends. Look at yourself! I’ll bet you’ve lost ten pounds since Thanksgiving, and believe me, it doesn’t look good on you. You’re falling to pieces!”

Sage’s chin came up and she prepared to defend herself, only Sarah wasn’t through. “You even blew off the twins’ christening celebration. And you’re one of their godmothers! What’s wrong with you?”

Familiar guilt rolled through Sage at that. Her only defense for that sin was that Cari and Meg had plenty of other godmothers—Ali, Celeste, Sarah, and Gabe’s three brothers’ wives. However, that was a pitiful, weak excuse, and Sage wasn’t going to float it. Nor was she going to explain that she couldn’t overcome her aversion, that her only option was to stay away. These women didn’t know what it was like. They couldn’t know. And for their sakes, thank God for that.

“Now, Sarah,” Celeste began.

“No.” Sarah lifted her chin. “I’m sorry, Celeste. I know you said to let it be, but I don’t see that letting it be solves anything. Ali needs Sage’s help, and Sage should give it. Those children need her.”

A flash of memory hovered at the edge of Sage’s mind: white diapers and bright red—

“No.” She shook her head hard, flinging the picture away. “No. I don’t do children. Ever. For God’s sake, have you not noticed? Do I volunteer at the school? Do I help coach the girls’ basketball team?”

“You helped at the Valentine’s daddy-daughter dance last year,” Sarah said.

Well, she’d been different then. Stronger. But she couldn’t explain, and while she searched for an acceptable comeback, Nic argued her case by quietly stating, “You won’t hold my girls. You won’t even touch them. You ask how they are, you give me medical advice, but you keep it all clinical. You’ve even distanced yourself from me since they were born.”

Sage’s breathing quickened. Pressure built in her chest and she closed her eyes. Nic’s accusation was true. She had pulled away from Nic since she’d had her babies.

A lump rose in Sage’s throat. She hadn’t realized it—okay, admitted it—until this very second. She’d been trying to tell herself that this current state of emotional turmoil had occurred because of the trouble in December. Now, faced with Nic’s accusation, she recognized that she’d been lying to herself. Her PTSD recovery had hit a wall last September when Nic had her babies, when Sage had delivered those two sweet, precious girls, then fled the house and fallen apart.

“It’s hurt me, Sage,” Nic added, driving the nail even deeper.

Sage wanted to disappear. To melt away into a puddle of nothing. Someone throw water on me. I’m the Wicked Witch of the West. The Wicked Witch of Eternity Springs.

But she couldn’t melt into a puddle, and she couldn’t show weakness, because if she did, these women would pounce. They’d make demands. They’d press her for information. Without knowing what they were doing, they’d send her back to Africa. Make her relive the horror.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t deal with pouncing, so she wouldn’t show them weakness. Instead, she hardened her voice and said, “Well, sorry about that, but you’re just gonna have to deal.”

Turning to Ali, she added, “And you’re gonna have to find someone other than me to teach your art classes.” Her hands were shaking as she grabbed up her tote bag and said, “Sarah, you need to find someone else to pound on, because my emotional punching bag has been beaten to death. I’m going home. Please, do us all a favor and don’t come calling. I cooperated during your little intervention, but that is over. I need my privacy now.”

With that, she rushed from the kitchen, but not before she heard Sarah say, “Wow. She really let loose her inner bitch, didn’t she?”

Sage was breathing as if she’d run a mile as she paused at the front door to pull on her coat. Her chest hurt. Her throat was tight. Pressure built behind her dry eyes.

“Sage?” Celeste Blessing came into the hallway outside the kitchen.

“No, Celeste. Please. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Celeste linked her fingers in front of her. “It’s okay, dear. You’ll be okay. I’m praying for you.”

Oh, God. Sage rushed out into the cold, zipping her coat and yanking on her hat and gloves as she hurried up the street. She went straight to her Jeep, thankful that before leaving the gallery she’d packed it with the art supplies she’d need during the remodel. She shoved the key into the ignition, started the engine, and put the car into gear before allowing it to properly warm up.

She kept her eyes straight ahead as she drove faster than was truly safe. Her breaths continued to come in shallow pants. The pressure behind her eyes built and built and built.

Shame swirled inside her. Shame and hate. She hated herself. Hated her actions. Her cowardice. She wanted to lie down and die. She should have died. It all came back to that. She should be dead.

Like everyone else.

She reached the turn onto the point in under five minutes. As she pulled onto the road that led to her cottage, she realized she was whimpering aloud. She arrived at the gate. Her cottage was dark, empty, and cold, while next door lights blazed and smoke rose from the chimney. Without conscious thought, she turned into the neighbor’s drive, parked behind Colt Rafferty’s rental, and literally ran toward his front porch.

He opened the door as she approached. “Sage? Honey? What happened? What’s wrong?”

She simply stood there. Silent and aching and desperate. Beseeching. Searching for sanctuary. Looking for a soft place to fall.

“Oh, baby.” He scooped her up into his arms and carried her over toward the fireplace and an old wooden rocker. He sat with her on his lap, cuddled her close, and rocked her as he murmured against her ear. “It’s okay, Cinnamon. I have you. You’re safe. Let it go, honey. You can let it all go.”

So she did.