I expect to see in my inbox by Monday morning.”
Josiah removed the phone from his ear. Morris Lynch kept talking, but in a thin, distant voice.
“Are you ready for it? You’re going to do cartwheels, it’s so perfect.”
Cartwheels? I can’t remember how to walk. “Morris, can I call you back?”
“Are you sitting down, buddy? Picture this. Face out on the shelves wherever books are sold, as they say. Your book—Love Him or Leave Him.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Josiah told Sandi, his hands digging deep into her thick butterscotch tresses. How dumb is that? Magna cum laude—and yes, Dad, that’s a real thing—and I’m not sure what to do.
Sandi leaned into his touch. Silent comfort. Her warm breath exhaled in short puffs of sympathy.
Foul breath. What had she been eating? Road kill?
“Get away from me, dog!”
Sandi scooted back a few feet, then dropped onto the rug in front of the cold fireplace. She’d get over the rejection. In minutes, maybe. A little harder for humans.
Karin was wrong about one thing: watching ESPN with the sound muted was not “just as good.” But the sports commentator’s voices grated on his raw nerve endings. One voice could change that. Hers.
I’m home. You wouldn’t believe the traffic!
But traffic wasn’t an issue in Wisconsin’s version of Mayberry. And this far out of Paxton, the most pressing traffic issue this time of year was—
Interesting timing. A salt truck barreled past, sending Sandi to the window—more nose prints—and rattling the house’s brittle bones. The sleet must have decided to stay. Karin, you should be home.
The furnace kicked in, growling like a disturbed bear a month from the conclusion of its hibernation. Would this winter never end? He leaned over the side of his recliner to grab the chenille throw from her chair. It smelled like Karin. Her personal blend—warm and soft and fresh. Like the smell of a sun-dried pillowcase.
Josiah rubbed his stubbled face and tamped the anger that fought for dominance against what had morphed from concern to worry to fear. Why wasn’t anybody answering the phone? Had he missed a church deal? What night was it? Saturday. He opened the church app and scanned for activities that might have involved Karin and the Frambolts. Nothing. Empty.
Like the house.
He surrendered to fear, let it have its say. When Karin finally came to her senses and realized she should have let him know she’d be late, they couldn’t afford a U-Haul of his anger trailing them into a healing future.
That sounded like a line from his last book. It probably was. Josiah threw the chenille over his feet. Nothing like being nipped by your own words.
Love Him or Leave Him. Better than the other five title ideas Josiah had presented. Catchy. Intriguing. But tonight it left an unpleasant aftertaste.
He called Karin’s cell three more times. Left messages in decreasing length and increasing intensity. The last one—Call me!—stung his own ears when it reverberated off the empty walls of his hollow house. Should he get in the car and go look for her? Wherever she’d gone, it couldn’t be good. The salt truck made a return trip.
He should call the police. Yeah. And admit the relationship counselor didn’t remember where his wife said she was going. He had a reputation to uphold.
If he found her sipping a cappuccino at an Internet café as if he didn’t exist, hadn’t been waiting for her to come home . . .
No. That wasn’t Karin. The closest she came to raising her voice at him was usually related to his not trusting her to be strong enough to take care of herself, make her own decisions, run her own business. She hadn’t raised her voice in a long time. She’d perfected the silent treatment, though. And—God help him—he’d ignored it, grateful he didn’t have to adjust his writing schedule so they could talk it out.
He yanked the remote off the end table at his elbow and clicked off the TV, righting his recliner as the dot of green light faded. Discarding the throw, he slid out of the chair and onto his knees. Not enough. Not low enough. He lay flat on the carpeting, arms spread eagle.
The carpet smelled a lot like Sandi, but he stayed there, groaning a semblance of prayer.
He’d paid to upload a worship song ringtone. Now when it broke the flow of his prayer, he considered volunteering an additional fee for the message of hope its welcome sound conveyed.
He rose to his knees and fumbled for the phone. His frenzied fingers dropped it, twice. It skated out of reach on its slick plastic back. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he dropped to all fours and reached under the couch where the music was coming from.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Is this the Chamberlain residence?”
“Yes, it is. Who is this?”
“Are you related in some way to Karin Chamberlain?”
“She’s my wife.” The simple words ripped through him. “Who is this?”
“I’m with the Timber County Sheriff’s Department. Your wife?”
“That’s right. What’s this about?”
“Well, sir, we’re sorting things out little by little. Your wife and another person were involved in a motor vehicle accident. The car is registered to your wife. We found this number on an unsent text. From the driver’s phone.”
Every muscle in him spasmed. “Is my wife all right?”
“Are you able to get yourself to Woodlands Regional Hospital?”
“Yes, of course.” He headed for the kitchen where his keys hung on a peg near the back door.
“We’d send a deputy to accompany you, but with the roads such a mess, we’re spread pretty thin on accident detail.”
“Accompany me?” That only happened when—“She’s gone?”
“No, sir. But it doesn’t look good. I’d advise you to make your way there as soon as you can, but take extra care. It’s nasty out there.”
Chapter 3
Grace outdistances you. It runs ahead to meet you at the intersection of your next need.
~ Seedlings & Sentiments
from the “Time of Need” collection
Quarter to eleven. It had taken him an hour and a half to make the thirty-five miles. All of it maneuvered hunched over the steering wheel, peering out at the slick night, fighting to keep the white line in sight. Woodlands? Why
