The Healing Quilt Read online

  OTHER NOVELS BY LAURAINE SNELLING

  RED RIVER OF THE NORTH

  An Untamed Land

  A New Day Rising

  A Land to Call Home

  The Reaper's Song

  Tender Mercies Blessing in Disguise

  RETURN TO RED RIVER

  A Dream to Follow

  SECRET REFUGE SERIES

  Daughter of Twin Oaks

  Sisters of the Confederacy

  The Long Way Home

  Hawaiian Sunrise

  Race for the Roses

  Storyteller's Collection 1

  Storyteller's Collection 2

  Dakota

  To my daughter Marie,

  who is already experiencing the wonders of heaven

  and is waiting for us to join her.

  To God be the glory.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book comes into being by itself, and this one more than most is the product of feedback from multiple sources. This odyssey of an idea started with Lisa Tawn Bergren asking me whether someday I would write my daughters story when I'd healed enough from the grief. Others had mentioned it earlier, but hey, she was an editor. I said I would when God made it clear the time was right.

  Years passed, and she'd ask whenever she saw me. When God said “now,” we began the process, and what a lengthy one this turned out to be. Thanks to Lisa at WaterBrook Press, David Horton at Bethany, and other editorial readers, the ideas began to take shape. I have wonderful friends who brainstormed with me, including members of the Round Robins. A writing week with Chelley Kitzmiller and Woodeene Koenig-Bricker saw me through three revisions of the first chapter. Kathleen Wright read the manuscript and offered comments. My agent, Deidre Knight, went back and forth persistently with the two publishing companies.

  After the contract was signed, there were more readers and more suggestions. Lisa left WaterBook, and Erin Healy took over. I threw my hands up and wrote an entirely new first chapter, my seventh version. I wrote the complete rough draft with more brainstorming from many of the friends I just mentioned, turned it in, and Erin, who had a far better overview of this book than I did, made ten pages of suggestions.

  I make jokes about this being a patchwork book by a blind seamstress. Quilting books helped me. Sue and Claudia, who teach quilting, gave advice. I have no idea how many people prayed, but I know there were many and I thank every one of you.

  This patchwork is stitched together with prayer and lots of love and tears. My assistant, Cecile, has cheered and encouraged and spent extra hours typing in changes and keeping my timeline straight, not easy with four strong characters, each wanting to take over the story. Husband Wayne has learned more about cooking and is always a patient sounding board, knowing that even vacation trips, like to Hawaii, are working time for his wife (who got behind again). While in Hawaii, I met Lailani and Charlotte, who introduced me to Bosom Buddies and Healing Touch, organizations that offer help to those with breast cancer. The Internet, too, has many resources for those seeking help.

  So, The Healing Quilt, far different than its beginning, is finished. May it bring glory to God, hope and help to those who need it, and my prayer always that readers will laugh a little or a lot, cry some, and be sad when the book is finished.

  ONE

  The calendar never lies.

  Kit Cooper stared at the hummingbird forever sipping from a pink and purple fuchsia blossom that topped the black-bound, numbered squares on the calendar. As it always did, her gaze slipped to the middle week of June.

  The worst week of her life, the worst day, the fifteenth.

  Two years ago today Amber died. Kit sucked in a deep breath and turned back to the silent kitchen. Surely she'd grieved enough, cried enough. Some said today should be a day for rejoicing. After all, that's what Amber was doing. At least that's what the Bible said people did in heaven, spent their time praising God and singing heavenly songs.

  Kit blinked hard and rolled her eyes to stare at the ceiling, a trick she'd learned that helped ward off the tears. I will not cry again. In bad enough I woke up with a soaked pilhw, thought I was past that. Her gaze caught an errant cobweb, so she went to the closet to fetch a broom. Opening the pantry door, she saw that the bag filled with plastic grocery sacks had fallen down, so she reached to hang that back up and discovered that the hook had fallen out of the wall. Bending over to search for the hook, she bumped the broom and clawed her way up the handle.

  Heavy air smothered her, air that held tears, shed and unshed, air so thick and black it clogged her throat, burned her eyes, and set her ears to ringing. She raked long fingers through shoulder-length hair, now pepper sprinkled with salt, pulling it back away from her face and fumbling in her jeans pocket for a rubber band that wasn't there.

  “Dear God, not again. I cannot do this anymore.” She leaned against the wall, between the mop and the vacuum, her tears gushing forth like a newly broken fire hydrant. “1… I thought I was beyond this.” She hiccuped and coughed. “God, I'm so alone.”

  She stepped out of the closet, snagged a dishtowel off the oven handle to mop her face, then pulled a tissue out of the box and blew her nose. While she so often felt the tears would never stop, at least she'd learned one thing.

  They did. But they left her feeling ravaged and raw, as if she'd been mauled by a pit bull or a cougar. While she lived, so did the pain.

  Missy, Amber's basset hound, whined at Kit's feet, then lifted her muzzle in a tenor howl, her sad brown eyes a reflection of Kit's, sadder than any hound's eyes should ever be.

  Kit crossed long legs and sank down beside the dog, wrapping her arms around the warm neck and resting her wet cheek on the boney head. “Ah, Missy, do you still miss her, or have you forgotten how much she loved you?” Kit stroked the dog's long, soft, black-and-tan ears.

  Back when she was fighting the cancer and the pain was terrible enough to make her cry, Amber used to say that Missy's ears were the perfect tear mop. Amber had not only a high pain threshold but a will strong enough to conquer most of life's hard knocks. Except for cancer.

  Amber hated crying.

  “She wouldn't want us sitting here, all maudlin and tear-soaked either, would she, girl?” Missy twisted and planted her two front paws in Kit's lap. She stared into Kit's eyes as if either seeking or giving reassurance, then whined, a tiny sound, more whimper, more comforting.

  Kit pushed herself to her feet, returned to the pantry for a puppy treat, as Amber had called the dog biscuits, and arched one through the air toward Missy, whose tail now wagged, as she jumped and neatly caught it.

  “Ah, dog, if only all of life could be cured by a rock-hard, bone-shaped cracker.”

  The ringing of the doorbell made Kit wipe her eyes, give Missy one more pat, and, dog at her knee, make her sniffing way to the front door.

  “Yes?”

  The boy looking up at her wore his Mariners baseball cap with the bill to one side, sported freckles across nose and cheeks, and a grin made all the more charming by one missing front tooth.

  “You got any kids to play with?” He stuck his hands in the front pockets of hand-me-down jeans, the hems frayed to strings.

  “No, I'm sorry, my children are all grown.”

  “Oh.” The sparkle in his blue eyes dimmed. He started to turn away, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “You got any grandkids?”

  Do I look that old? Kit shook her head, wishing she had something to offer him. “I have a dog that needs someone to throw the ball.” She motioned toward Missy, whose tail had upped the wagging speed to tattoo.

  “What's his name?”

  “Her name is Missy.”

  “She's kinda funny lookin’, ain't she?”


  “Not really, she's a basset hound.”

  He peered in the doorway. “Can she run? Shortest legs I ever seen.”

  “Would your parents mind if you came in our backyard?”

  “Nah, Dad's at work.”

  “Who's taking care of you?” Surely this boy isn't a htchkey kid, not as young as he looks.

  He shrugged. “My sister. She's bossy.” He reached a tentative hand to pat Missy and received a drooly kiss for his effort.

  “She likes you.” Whats the best way to handle this?

  The boy knelt and Missy made quick work of cleaning his face. He giggled, laid his cheek against her ear, both arms around the dog's neck.

  “What's your name?”

  “Thomas.” Missy wriggled from nose to tail, her nails clicking on the tile of the entryway.

  “Where do you live, Thomas?”

  “Over there.” He pointed to a house three doors down on the opposite side of the street.

  She'd seen a U-Haul rental truck in the drive a few days earlier and meant to bake something and take it over but just hadn't gotten around to it yet. Like she hadn't gotten around to lots of things lately.

  “How about if Missy and I walk you home and ask your sister if it is all right for you to play in our backyard.”

  “She won't care none.”

  “Just the same, I'll get Missy's leash.” She reached inside the coat closet and lifted the blue nylon leash from the hook. Once she'd snapped it to Missy's collar, she closed the door behind her and smiled at Thomas. “How old are you?” beven.

  “Second grade?”

  “When school starts. You think I could hold the leash?”

  “Watch how I do it and then you may.” She folded most of the leash in her right hand and, as Missy took her place at Kit's left knee, held the leash in her left hand at a heel position. “Missy knows to walk on the left side like this.”

  “Did you teach her that?”

  “Ah, no, my daughter Amber did. Missy was her dog.” Together they stepped off the porch and down the three wide wood steps to the brick walk, which led to the maple-lined street named after the trees.

  “So how come Amber let Missy live with you?” He looked up, questions in his blue eyes.

  Oh, Lord, how do I answer all these questions? I dont do questions anymore. “How do you like your new house?”

  “Okay” Thomas hung back a trifle as they started up the three concrete steps to his yard. Overgrown junipers formed a spiky green mat on either side of the steps. Missy's nose twitched, and she turned her head to catch a whiff of whatever lived in the evergreens.

  “Do you have a dog?”

  Thomas shook his head, his chin drawing closer to his chest. All Kit could see was the button on the top of his blue hat. Why doesnt he want to go home? Whan going on here? When she started toward the front door, he motioned her to take the concrete walk around to the back.

  “You wait here, okay?” His eyes beseeched her to agree.

  “Of course.” Kit sat on one of the green plastic lawn chairs, Missy plopping down at her feet.

  Thomas crossed the silvered redwood deck and opened the sliding glass door.

  Kit leaned back in the chair, letting the slanting sun bathe her face in golden warmth. Strange how comforting the sun felt, not like the gloom in her house that felt cold and…

  Trying to prevent the intense introspection that always brought on tears, she opened her eyes to study the backyard. Like many of the others in Jefferson City, Washington, situated halfway between Tacoma and Mount Rainier, or “out in the boonies” as her son Ryan used to say, the permanently white-crowned mountain sat like a sentinel on the southeastern horizon. Towering Douglas fir trees flanked the peak, looking like deep green, near-to-black velvet from this distance.

  June in Jefferson City held the sparkle of the finest diamond.

  Except for the fifteenth.

  It's only another day, she reminded herself. The same twenty-four hours as any other day. Even if you cry all day, which you arerit doing, it will still turn into the sixteenth at midnight and the worst will be over

  “Please, God, let it be over.”

  Missy raised her head from the ground and bumped against Kit's knee.

  “Yes, I know, you'd rather walk than lie here. Let's give the kid a minute, and then perhaps he'll play ball with you.” At the word “ball,” the dog's ears rose and her tail brushed the grass. Her head swiveled to see the deck as a teenage girl followed Thomas outside. Straight hair, badly in need of a trim, swung from a center part, partially obscuring her thin face. She tucked one side behind her ear.

  “Thomas said you live a couple of houses up on the other side of the street. If you don't mind him playing with your dog, he can go.”

  Kit stood. “Is that all? Don't you even want to know my name?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess.” Fingers hooked the hair back again. “He better be home in an hour or so.”

  “No, I don't.” Thomas stopped his forward motion toward the dog.

  She glared down at him. “Yes, you do.” Each word came out clipped and hissed. “Or you can stay home.”

  “Aw'right.”

  “I'm Kit Cooper and I'll make sure he comes home on time. He'll be doing me a favor, besides Missy. If she doesn't get more exercise, she'll get fat.” Why are you talking so muchi You can see she's already tuned you out, just as if she's turned on a radio to blast other sound to infinity.

  “Can I hold the leash?” Thomas looked up, his blue eyes pleading.

  “Sure you can.” Kit handed him the loop and watched as he carefully mimicked what she had done, then turned and walked down back around the house. Missy waited until Kit said, “Heel,” then, tail in the air, picked up her broad feet and skipped in rhythm alongside the boy. Kit shot another look to the deck and saw that the sister had disappeared inside. Kit shrugged and followed her new friend back out to the street.

  “Now, you walk good, Missy, you hear?” Thomas ordered. “Don't you go chasing no cats or nothing.”

  Kit let them into the backyard, showed Thomas Missy's box of toys, and went on in the house, only to stop and watch out the window. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was Ryan out there with Skip, the basset they'd had before Missy. Ryan throwing the ball, Ryan tumbling in the grass with a dog, him laughing, the dog barking in the bass tones of a hound. Amber coming around the corner to join the fun. Amber and Ryan playing keep-away from the short-legged dog that could still jump to catch the ball and then, ears flying, keep it away from them. The phones ringing broke into her reverie.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Speak of the angels, I was just thinking about you. I have a little boy playing out in the yard with Missy.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He showed up at my door asking if I had kids. His family moved into the Snyder place. So how are you?”

  “Not good, how about you?” His voice clogged for part of a moment.

  “Cried some earlier. Thomas's coming by helped.”

  “Mom, sometimes I miss her so much I…”

  Want to hit something? Scream? Curse? “I know.” Oh, how I know. Ryan, two years younger than Amber, thought his big sister could do no wrong. She had been the person he loved most to tease in this world, one who gave as good as she got. Now Ryan was in college at Washington State University in Pullman, the last one to leave the nest. His sigh matched her own.

  “What's Dad doing?”

  “I…ah, he hasn't called yet today, still on that last consulting job.”

  “When's he comin home?”

  Oh, please stop asking questions I can't answer. “Not sure.” Than right. Not sure, not even sure where he is.

  “So nobody's with you?” His voice went up a couple of notes on the last word.

  “No, I have Missy and now Thomas.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She could hear music in the background. Ryan always needed music on when he studied. Amb
er liked everything quiet. That used to be one of their bones of contention.

  “I thought Jennifer would come home, or Dad.”

  Me, too, but no such luck.

  “Jennifer didn't dare ask for time off right after starting a new job like that.” Jennifer had graduated from college in mid-May and started her new accounting position the first of June. “So how is everything else?”

  “Cool. Thanks for letting me stay on for summer school. You rattling around that big house?”

  If you only knew. Kit could feel tears burning at the back of her nose and eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I'll take in boarders.” She listened. “Hang on, someone's at the door.” Laying the receiver down, she headed for the front door and found a young woman hiding behind an arrangement of mixed flowers in vivid pinks, reds, and whites with yellow mums in a milk glass bowl.

  “Flowers for Kit Cooper.”

  “Thank you.” Kit reached for the vase and inhaled the spicy aroma of carnations.

  “Make sure you add water.”

  “Thanks, I will.” She closed the door with her foot and crossed to set the arrangement on the coffee table. Taking the card from the pronged plastic holder, she headed back to the phone, opening the card as she went.

  “Jennifer sent me flowers,” she told Ryan. “And in a milk glass bowl. You know how much I love milk glass.”

  “Good old Jen. What kind?”

  “Carnations, mums, and some others.” Kit read the card aloud. “Dear Mom and Dad, just to tell you how much I love you and how I wish I could make this day easier for you.” Kits voice broke halfway through, and she had to gulp to finish. “All my love, Jennifer.”

  “That's Jen. You think she likes Dallas?”

  Kit finished wiping her eyes with a tissue. She'd learned to keep boxes of tissues handy at all times, including a pull-out packet in her pocket.