out. You’ll see.”
They were the same words Bethany used yesterday. Only Robin didn’t know if she believed them anymore.
ELEVEN
Robin drummed her fingers against the steering wheel and pressed harder on the gas pedal. Her impulsive visit to Arton’s made her fifteen minutes late and desperate to hug her son—his little body a tangible reminder that God could bring sweetness in the midst of pain.
She unbuckled her seat belt and pulled over to the curb. The smell of baked apples and the sound of Caleb’s singing greeted her as soon as she stepped inside Linda’s front door. So did her son’s Crocs, neatly set atop a brightly colored and otherwise empty welcome mat. Evidence that the other two children had been picked up on time.
Mommy fail.
She slipped off her shoes and climbed the stairs into the living room where Linda hung finger-painted pictures over the television and hummed backup to a bare-chested Caleb’s enthusiastic yet off-key rendition of “The Farmer in the Dell.” He sat on the sofa sans shirt, bouncing his legs and bobbing his head to the beat. As soon as she peeked over the banister, his face lit with a grin. It was the best kind of greeting.
Linda turned from her task.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Robin said.
“No big deal.” Linda switched off the music player. “I put a bib on Caleb before he painted, but he managed to get a little on his shirt collar. And a bit on his cast. I washed his shirt, but he didn’t want to put it back on again. He said it would make him melt.”
Caleb held up his injured wrist, displaying a bright orange stain on the electric blue cast. “I painted a mommy tiger and a Caleb tiger.”
Robin looked at the pictures proudly displayed on the wall. Caleb’s wasin the middle—two orange blobs with long tails—one larger than the other, no daddy tiger in sight. “I have a budding artist on my hands.” She kissed the top of his head and shuffled him down the stairs. “I’m really sorry about being late.”
Linda waved her hand. “It’s okay, Robin. You have a lot on your plate.”
Single motherhood. A ministry to save. A struggling café. And a businessman all too eager to knock it down. Robin wanted to ask what Linda thought about Ian. She saw the two talking at the meet and greet yesterday. But she was afraid to broach the subject. Linda’s opinion mattered and Robin wasn’t sure she could handle it if she shared the same sentiment as Cecile. Caleb plopped onto the bottom step and stuffed his feet into his Crocs—always and forever the wrong way.
“Jed Johnson came to the café this morning,” Robin said.
Linda handed over Caleb’s John Deere T-shirt, neatly folded and still warm from the dryer. “That’s great news.”
“I think he’s going to join us for our next meeting. He wanted me to tell you how much he enjoyed the casserole you made him.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
Robin knew exactly how the woman felt. It was precisely why Robin had started the grief group two years ago. Caleb ran up the stairs and hugged Linda’s legs just as Robin’s cell phone vibrated. She waved good-bye and led her son into the sunshine. He skipped to the car while she dug inside her purse and pulled the buzzing phone from the rubble. Her spirits lifted at the name on her screen. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetie, how’s it going?”
Caleb climbed onto his booster seat and buckled himself in. Robin slid behind the wheel and listened for the click. “It’s been better.”
“Uh-oh. Things not going well at the café?”
“Not exactly.” She stuck the keys into the ignition. “A developer wants to buy Willow Tree so he can build condominiums along the riverfront.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And he’s incredibly irritating. I tell him I’m not going to sell and he looks at me like he knows better.” The heaviness weighting her limbsever since leaving Arton’s gathered and wound into a tightly spun ball right behind her
They were the same words Bethany used yesterday. Only Robin didn’t know if she believed them anymore.
ELEVEN
Robin drummed her fingers against the steering wheel and pressed harder on the gas pedal. Her impulsive visit to Arton’s made her fifteen minutes late and desperate to hug her son—his little body a tangible reminder that God could bring sweetness in the midst of pain.
She unbuckled her seat belt and pulled over to the curb. The smell of baked apples and the sound of Caleb’s singing greeted her as soon as she stepped inside Linda’s front door. So did her son’s Crocs, neatly set atop a brightly colored and otherwise empty welcome mat. Evidence that the other two children had been picked up on time.
Mommy fail.
She slipped off her shoes and climbed the stairs into the living room where Linda hung finger-painted pictures over the television and hummed backup to a bare-chested Caleb’s enthusiastic yet off-key rendition of “The Farmer in the Dell.” He sat on the sofa sans shirt, bouncing his legs and bobbing his head to the beat. As soon as she peeked over the banister, his face lit with a grin. It was the best kind of greeting.
Linda turned from her task.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Robin said.
“No big deal.” Linda switched off the music player. “I put a bib on Caleb before he painted, but he managed to get a little on his shirt collar. And a bit on his cast. I washed his shirt, but he didn’t want to put it back on again. He said it would make him melt.”
Caleb held up his injured wrist, displaying a bright orange stain on the electric blue cast. “I painted a mommy tiger and a Caleb tiger.”
Robin looked at the pictures proudly displayed on the wall. Caleb’s wasin the middle—two orange blobs with long tails—one larger than the other, no daddy tiger in sight. “I have a budding artist on my hands.” She kissed the top of his head and shuffled him down the stairs. “I’m really sorry about being late.”
Linda waved her hand. “It’s okay, Robin. You have a lot on your plate.”
Single motherhood. A ministry to save. A struggling café. And a businessman all too eager to knock it down. Robin wanted to ask what Linda thought about Ian. She saw the two talking at the meet and greet yesterday. But she was afraid to broach the subject. Linda’s opinion mattered and Robin wasn’t sure she could handle it if she shared the same sentiment as Cecile. Caleb plopped onto the bottom step and stuffed his feet into his Crocs—always and forever the wrong way.
“Jed Johnson came to the café this morning,” Robin said.
Linda handed over Caleb’s John Deere T-shirt, neatly folded and still warm from the dryer. “That’s great news.”
“I think he’s going to join us for our next meeting. He wanted me to tell you how much he enjoyed the casserole you made him.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
Robin knew exactly how the woman felt. It was precisely why Robin had started the grief group two years ago. Caleb ran up the stairs and hugged Linda’s legs just as Robin’s cell phone vibrated. She waved good-bye and led her son into the sunshine. He skipped to the car while she dug inside her purse and pulled the buzzing phone from the rubble. Her spirits lifted at the name on her screen. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetie, how’s it going?”
Caleb climbed onto his booster seat and buckled himself in. Robin slid behind the wheel and listened for the click. “It’s been better.”
“Uh-oh. Things not going well at the café?”
“Not exactly.” She stuck the keys into the ignition. “A developer wants to buy Willow Tree so he can build condominiums along the riverfront.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And he’s incredibly irritating. I tell him I’m not going to sell and he looks at me like he knows better.” The heaviness weighting her limbsever since leaving Arton’s gathered and wound into a tightly spun ball right behind her
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