A Morning Like This Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  © 2002 by Deborah Bedford

  Reading Group Guide Copyright © 2009 by Hachette Book Group

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations except those noted below are taken from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations on pages ix, 21, and 117 are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, © copyright 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

  Published in association with the literary agency Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street #200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920

  FaithWords

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: June 2009

  FaithWords is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The FaithWords name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55132-8

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Reading Group Guide

  Suggested Resources

  PRAISE FOR DEBORAH BEDFORD’S

  A MORNING LIKE THIS

  “I finished A MORNING LIKE THIS with tears in my eyes and hope in my heart. Deborah Bedford reminds us that nothing is too hard for God, no heartache is beyond the reach of His comforting, healing hand.”

  —Deborah Raney, author of Leaving November

  “Deborah Bedford once again shines light into hidden corners of the human heart and shows us how God wants to heal our hurts—even hurts caused by our own sin.”

  —Robin Lee Hatcher, author of Wagered Heart

  “Real problems… real faith… and a God who gives songs in the night. A MORNING LIKE THIS reminds us all that we can do more than just ‘grin and bear it.’ We can overwhelmingly conquer.”

  —Stephanie Grace Whitson, author of Unbridled Dreams

  “Gracefully written, compelling and thoughtful, A MORNING LIKE THIS is a true testimony to God’s grace and forgiveness. With compassion and insight, Bedford deals with sin and its consequences and gives us another glimpse of God’s love and mercy.”

  —Lisa Samson, author of Embrace Me

  A ROSE BY THE DOOR

  “A story of relinquishment, reconciliation, and grace… grabs the reader by the heart and doesn’t let go.”

  —Debbie Macomber, bestselling author of Knit Together

  “A compelling page-turner and a surefire winner from Deborah Bedford.”

  —Karen Kingsbury, bestselling author of This Side of Heaven

  “If you love having your heart touched and you delight in surprise, A Rose by the Door is for you.”

  —Gayle Roper, author of Fatal Deduction

  “A poignant novel that is impossible to put down.”

  —Carolyn Zane, author of The Coltons

  “Heartwarming… Bedford’s poignant tale will find a home in all collections.” —Library Journal

  “It takes a special kind of author who can pen words such as the ones found within A Rose by the Door…. You won’t be able to put this one down.”

  —Christian Retailing

  To all whose marriages have run aground,

  who search for treasure amidst the rubble.

  To those who search for safety and shelter

  but do not know it by name.

  Acknowledgments

  To Bill Bunting and Amy Bunting Storrie, my two cousins who shared bone marrow and the gift of life. I’m so sorry, Bill, that you are a boy and couldn’t be inducted into The Cousin Club. I love you dearly anyway.

  To Katharine Conover, Executive Director of the Community Safety Network in Jackson Hole, for all the time you’ve given, the questions you’ve been willing to answer, the stories you’ve been able to share, and your passion for sheltering women who have nowhere else to turn.

  To Sherrie Lord and to Barbara Campbell, whose days of fun and escape have become precious gifts from the Lord. This book would never be what it is without your thoughtful editorial comments, your laughter and, above all, your prayers. You have lifted me up as your sister in Christ, and have held me high. I can never repay what I owe you.

  To my family at Hachette Book Group, Rolf Zettersten, Jamie Raab, Leslie Peterson, Elizabeth Marshall, Andrea Davis, Preston Cannon, and Kathie Johnson, for your enthusiasm and your belief in me. Thank you for running the race beside me. I count it all joy! Together, we offer up this work of our hearts and our hands to the Lord.

  To Peter and Natalie Stewart, Megan and Eddie, for letting me borrow Brewster.

  To Margaruitte and Bob Cornell, for your fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, even though you did threaten to terrorize us on our wedding night.

  To Judy Basye, Director of Oncology at St. John’s Hospital, for your willing heart and for all the lives you’ve touched here in Jackson Hole. This book would not be what it is without your research, insight, and advice. This town would not be what it is without your healing touch.

  To my beloved family at the Jackson Hole Christian Center, to whom I am accountable and whom I love dearly, with sincere apologies to members of the presbytery committee, who work diligently.

  To Kathryn Helmers, Agent 007, who stands beside me and makes me brave. You are proof that good things, when relinquished into the hand of the Master, reappear as rich treasure in our lives. Thank you for helping me cross into safety.

  To Pam Micca, friend and counselor, for making me float Flat Creek with you, and for making me walk barefoot across the thistle pasture when my tube got sucked underwater.

  To Joyce Bunting, my aunt, who was willing to share her heart.

  To Lisa, who first made The Bunnery a wonderful place to write.

  Finally, to K. and S., for your unfailing, honest faith in the Father, for standing on truth when everything else wobbled around you. It is because of your lives, because I’ve seen the miracle, that I can write this story with great boldness.

  The LORD is a shelter for the oppressed,

  a refuge in times of trouble.

  Those who know your name trust in you,

  for you, O LORD, have never abandoned

  anyone who searches for you.

  Psalm 9:9-10

  We all agree th
at forgiveness

  is a beautiful idea until we have

  to practice it.

  —C. S. Lewis

  Chapter One

  They sat together at their favorite corner table, two of them alone, absorbed in the candlelight and in each other. He toyed with the dinner knife that lay beside his hand, his eyebrows raised, gazing at her face. She leaned toward him and smiled, her elbow on the table, her chin propped inside the chalice of her palm. Her dainty gold bracelet caught high on her wrist and dangled there.

  “I don’t know why they won’t let Braden pitch,” she said. “All he needs is a little confidence. If the coach would just be willing to work with him a little more.”

  David laughed.

  “What? Why are you laughing at me?”

  “Abby. Braden can hit, but he’s probably never going to be a pitcher. He throws about as straight as a jackrabbit runs.”

  “He could do it.”

  David Treasure reached across the table and laid his fingers across his wife’s wrist, giving her his habitual, half-amused grin. “I thought we agreed that tonight we wouldn’t talk about kids.”

  “I can’t help it, David. I’m his mother. What do you think? I see everything he ought to be able to do, and I don’t know why he’s not doing it.”

  “I think you’re beautiful when you’re all wrapped up in being a mother. That’s what I think.”

  She laughed at him then, and felt her earrings dancing like two tiny birdcages against her earlobes. She sighed and shook her arm and her bracelet toppled from her wrist to her forearm. “Okay. You’re right. We did promise each other, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’ll talk about something else. Anything else.” She paused. “Something.” She cast about to change the subject. “How about my new little black dress?”

  “I like your new little black dress just fine.” He shot her a learing look, raised his eyebrows at her. “I’d like you even better—”

  “David!”

  He grinned at her, the expression in his eyes as unguarded and as open as a schoolboy’s. “You wanted to know what I was thinking, didn’t you?”

  “Okay. You’re right. I left myself open for that one.”

  “You did.” He grinned and lifted his water glass, holding it high so the ice glistened in the candlelight. “Happy Anniversary. Just think what we were doing twelve years ago right now.”

  “Twelve years,” Abigail said. “It doesn’t seem possible. We were probably walking down the aisle right about now.”

  “Well, no.” He checked his watch. “It’s three hours past that. I was thinking what happens after the wedding.”

  “David!”

  He crossed his arms and laughed and leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes mischievous. “Well, you said you wanted tonight to be romantic.”

  “That isn’t romance. That’s… that’s…”

  “I’m a man, Abby. That’s romance.”

  “Don’t lean so far back in your chair. You’ll fall over and the waiter will have to pick you up.”

  He raised his eyebrows and righted his chair.

  “To twelve years as Mrs. David Treasure,” she said, lifting her glass. “Hear. Hear.”

  David raised his goblet, too, clicked it against hers, and set it down. He squared his shoulders and eyed her for a long moment, the sudden stretch of silence an uncommon thing between them. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he said, reaching across the table and, in a sure sign of possession, gripping both of her wrists. “I want you to know that.”

  After all these years, the shape of his hands could still stir her. His broad fingers. His powerful, square knuckles. The dusting of blond hair on his arm, showing between the cuff of his shirtsleeve and the band of his watch.

  She raised her eyes to his, touched her stomach where the warmth began… and blushed.

  He grinned and leaned back in his chair.

  Anyone watching could see by the relaxed way they chatted, by the way their laughter came in short, sharp bursts, that this wasn’t the celebration of new romance. They celebrated an old, strong love. Conviction and commitment had been tempered by the test of time.

  The waiter brought around a cake with “Happy Anniversary” scripted in pink-sugar icing. When Abigail cut David a piece and licked the knife, he inclined across the table and kissed her.

  “No fair. You always figure out ways to get more icing.”

  Only a few people recognized them as they rose to leave the restaurant; it was summertime and they’d reserved a late table at the Rendezvous Bistro to avoid the tourist crowd. But the friends who did see them here in the newest, classiest eatery in the valley didn’t let them pass without hailing them from across the room.

  “Heard about your anniversary on KSGT this morning. That radio morning calendar keeps me up to date on everybody in town.”

  “Hey, Treasures. Congratulations, you two.”

  “Heard Braden’s pitching’s getting better this summer. Great kid you’ve got there.”

  “Thank you.” “Hello.” “Good to see you,” Abigail and David repeated half a dozen times on their way out the door. David hurried down the front walk of the restaurant to bring around their Suburban while Abigail carried the white box with extra cake.

  “Are you tired?” Abigail asked when he yawned on the drive.

  “Yeah. Boring, huh? I’m an old married man these days, anxious to get home.”

  “Just as long as you’re going to the same home I’m going to, we don’t have anything to worry about.”

  When they parked in front of their own house twenty minutes later, lamps shone in every window except Braden’s. Abigail grabbed her purse from where it lay beside her on the seat.

  “I don’t know why she can’t turn some of the lights off after she gets him into bed.”

  “She’s young. Probably still afraid of the dark herself.”

  But everything seemed fine when the babysitter let them inside the front foyer. Brewster, their black Labrador, met them with delirious happiness in the hall.

  “Everything all right?” Abigail surveyed the living room, making sure all was right in the Treasure territory. “No problems or anything?”

  The teenaged sitter examined the scuffed toes of her clogs as if trying to decide whether or not to tell them the whole story. “Not any problems, really. Except Braden wouldn’t go to sleep when I told him to and he kept jumping on the bed. He said he was practicing pitching wind-ups.”

  “I’ll have a talk with that young man tomorrow.”

  “He threw the ball sideways and it hit the shelf and made his lamp fall off. It crunched a big hole in the lampshade. I’m really sorry.”

  David draped his arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “To think that only an hour ago his mother was saying she wanted him to get more practice.”

  The babysitter picked up her backpack before she turned back to tell them something else. “Oh, and some lady called and left a message on the machine. I didn’t answer it. I just listened to make sure it wasn’t you needing anything.”

  David handed her a twenty and a five—hefty pay for four hours of babysitting these days, but Abigail had encouraged it coming home in the car. Crystal was good and they both wanted to keep her. “You ready to? I’ll take you home.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Abigail waved them off and smiled to herself as she locked the door behind them.

  Well.

  Well.

  David had certainly been in a hurry to get rid of the babysitter.

  She padded into their bedroom, eased her sandal straps off of her ankles with her opposite feet, kicked her shoes halfway across the room, and wiggled her toes in the carpet. She assessed herself in the mirror for a moment before she peeled the spaghetti straps from her shoulders and laid the new dress over a chair. Once she’d slipped into her fancy nightgown and robe, she prowled, telling herself she ought to wander through the kitchen to
turn lights off. Which of course was only an excuse to snitch another bite of cake.

  In the kitchen, she licked icing off her fingers and stared at the blinking light on the phone machine.

  Hm-mmm. She should listen. She ought to check and see who’d called.

  But just then she heard the door, the click of her husband’s key in the lock. He’d scarcely made it inside before he drew Abigail against him and kissed her.

  “Let’s check on Braden,” she whispered against his chin. Before she gave herself to her husband, she wanted to make certain all was right within the circle of her heart and her home. She took his hand, leading him up the hallway to their son’s room with its fancy lodge-pole pine bed, Ralph Lauren curtains, and Elks baseball cap dangling from the chair. David crossed his arms over his chest and there they stood in the doorway, mother and father shoulder to shoulder, looking at the little blond head on the pillow. Each of them was thinking how this time together had been good for them. Sometimes being busy with children and jobs and everyday life could make a husband and wife forget how to complete a sentence when they were alone. Every time they went out they had the chance to start over.

  Braden had fallen asleep with his head cradled in his baseball glove. David released Abigail’s hand long enough to slip into the semidarkness and wriggle the battered leather from beneath his son’s cheek. “Hey, sport.”

  The movement roused Braden, who rolled over and squinted his eyes open.

  “Dad.” Nothing more. Just the name. Just the word that meant everything. Dad. Two arms shot out of the blankets and tangled around David’s neck, pulling him low against the pillow as Abigail watched with a weight of gratitude growing heavy in her chest. Her two boys, David and Braden. They meant the world to each other… and to her.

  Lord, when I trust You, I can trust everything around me. You’ve given me everything I ever wanted, right here.

  David readjusted the blankets beneath his son’s chin and kissed Braden on the forehead. “Love you, Brade.”