when the kids get there.”
Beatrice tsked, as if the thought of her grandchildren mixed with this news was too much. Cameron stepped from the car and then helped Beatrice from the back seat. For the second time that day, she saw the weight of her burden on one of her parents’ shoulders. And it pained her once again that she’d caused them this grief.
“This is not your fault, sweetheart,” her father said into the window as if he’d read her mind.
She nodded because she knew he expected her to.
“Call us?”
She pressed her lips into a smile. “I will. Tonight.” And then she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she looked at her parents standing shoulder to shoulder, watching and waving as their daughter and her tragedy drove away. Sheridan knew if they had their way, they’d go home with her and care for her until this pain passed.
But she was a long way from the days when hugs, chicken soup, and vanilla ice cream solved all that ailed her. With what she faced now, the only way her parents could help was if they had a direct line to the Lord. And with the way she’d been raised, she was pretty sure they did.
It was his hands that Sheridan remembered the most.
With tenderness, he caressed her. With compassion, he punctuated his speech with gestures. With grace, his fingers molded around the pen as he wrote those extraordinary words for Hart to Heart.
Sheridan glanced at the clock. She needed to take her thoughts away—away from the agony of the past five days. But how was she supposed to move on when her life had been about her husband and children?
Thank God for the children, she thought. Sheridan picked up her pad. The 2006 catalogue for Hart to Heart was already due. To keep her business going, she had to come up with new cards. New words that would help some man somewhere profess his undying love for some woman in his life.
She stared at the blank page in front of her and wondered if men who loved men gave their lovers cards. Would Quentin ever give a card to Jett? Would Jett ever bring flowers home to Quentin?
She grabbed the telephone and quickly dialed.
“Sis!” her brother exclaimed the moment he answered the phone. “What’s up in your world?”
The familiarity of his voice draped itself around her, and she wished she’d made this call before.
“How are you, my dear brother?” Sheridan asked, not wanting to answer his question.
“It’s all good. I’m wrapping things up here in the office so that I can get home.”
“Big plans for the weekend?” She amazed herself. With all of this, she was able to breathe, walk, speak as if life was the same as before.
He said, “Naw. We were out all last weekend, so Rosemary and I are just going to kick it. The most I’ll do is maybe take a bike ride along these mean streets of San Francisco. And then, of course, on Sunday there’s football. Go, Raiders!”
Sheridan chuckled. “Tell Rosemary I said hello.”
“Will do, but I know you didn’t call me to ask what Rosemary and I are up to. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this chat with my big sis?”
She took a deep breath. It was time to tell. She opened her mouth, but a lump lifted from her stomach, into her throat, stopping the words she planned to say. “Can’t a girl just call her little brother?”
“First of all, little is hardly the adjective you can use to describe me,” her six-foot-five, ex-college-linebacker brother chuckled. “And secondly, when was the last time Sheridan Hart called me to say hello?”
“I’m hurt.”
“Ah, I’m just kidding,” he said, although they both knew he wasn’t. He was right. She didn’t speak to her twenty-months-younger brother as often as she wanted. Life just got in the way. After all, she didn’t have a lot of free time. She had children. And a husband.
Sheridan took another breath, sucked in some spunk, and said, “I do have something to tell you.” She paused. “Quentin’s gone.”
“Where’d he
Beatrice tsked, as if the thought of her grandchildren mixed with this news was too much. Cameron stepped from the car and then helped Beatrice from the back seat. For the second time that day, she saw the weight of her burden on one of her parents’ shoulders. And it pained her once again that she’d caused them this grief.
“This is not your fault, sweetheart,” her father said into the window as if he’d read her mind.
She nodded because she knew he expected her to.
“Call us?”
She pressed her lips into a smile. “I will. Tonight.” And then she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she looked at her parents standing shoulder to shoulder, watching and waving as their daughter and her tragedy drove away. Sheridan knew if they had their way, they’d go home with her and care for her until this pain passed.
But she was a long way from the days when hugs, chicken soup, and vanilla ice cream solved all that ailed her. With what she faced now, the only way her parents could help was if they had a direct line to the Lord. And with the way she’d been raised, she was pretty sure they did.
It was his hands that Sheridan remembered the most.
With tenderness, he caressed her. With compassion, he punctuated his speech with gestures. With grace, his fingers molded around the pen as he wrote those extraordinary words for Hart to Heart.
Sheridan glanced at the clock. She needed to take her thoughts away—away from the agony of the past five days. But how was she supposed to move on when her life had been about her husband and children?
Thank God for the children, she thought. Sheridan picked up her pad. The 2006 catalogue for Hart to Heart was already due. To keep her business going, she had to come up with new cards. New words that would help some man somewhere profess his undying love for some woman in his life.
She stared at the blank page in front of her and wondered if men who loved men gave their lovers cards. Would Quentin ever give a card to Jett? Would Jett ever bring flowers home to Quentin?
She grabbed the telephone and quickly dialed.
“Sis!” her brother exclaimed the moment he answered the phone. “What’s up in your world?”
The familiarity of his voice draped itself around her, and she wished she’d made this call before.
“How are you, my dear brother?” Sheridan asked, not wanting to answer his question.
“It’s all good. I’m wrapping things up here in the office so that I can get home.”
“Big plans for the weekend?” She amazed herself. With all of this, she was able to breathe, walk, speak as if life was the same as before.
He said, “Naw. We were out all last weekend, so Rosemary and I are just going to kick it. The most I’ll do is maybe take a bike ride along these mean streets of San Francisco. And then, of course, on Sunday there’s football. Go, Raiders!”
Sheridan chuckled. “Tell Rosemary I said hello.”
“Will do, but I know you didn’t call me to ask what Rosemary and I are up to. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this chat with my big sis?”
She took a deep breath. It was time to tell. She opened her mouth, but a lump lifted from her stomach, into her throat, stopping the words she planned to say. “Can’t a girl just call her little brother?”
“First of all, little is hardly the adjective you can use to describe me,” her six-foot-five, ex-college-linebacker brother chuckled. “And secondly, when was the last time Sheridan Hart called me to say hello?”
“I’m hurt.”
“Ah, I’m just kidding,” he said, although they both knew he wasn’t. He was right. She didn’t speak to her twenty-months-younger brother as often as she wanted. Life just got in the way. After all, she didn’t have a lot of free time. She had children. And a husband.
Sheridan took another breath, sucked in some spunk, and said, “I do have something to tell you.” She paused. “Quentin’s gone.”
“Where’d he
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