She trembled, her alarm visible.
Kyle had wanted Sara to be cautious. Instead he’d alarmed her.
Her eyes lost their silver sheen and darkened. She looked petrified.
Way to go, Kyle.
“I’d offer to drive you back, but I don’t think I could drive, even if Dad’s old truck was running. He cracked it up just before—” He swallowed, forced himself to continue. “Anyway, I don’t have transport.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Sara didn’t look fine. She looked like someone who had dredged up her last ounce of courage to face the lion’s den.
“Yes, you will be,” Kyle agreed. “Now let’s go take a look at Mom’s greenhouse.” He rose, ignored the twinge of pain in his hip and followed her outside, embarrassed by his slow progress down the stairs and Sara’s obvious attempt to ignore it.
Kyle didn’t intend to be in Churchill long, but by the time he reached the bottom step he’d made up his mind to hire someone to build a ramp. Dragging himself up and down these stairs sucked the energy out of him, not to mention that it made him feel like some kind of spectacle.
“Okay?” Sara opened the gate to his backyard.
“Just dandy.” He chose his steps over the uneven ground carefully. What a fool he’d been to wear these soft leather slippers and risk injuring himself again.
“The structure looks good,” Sara said, her head tilted to one side like a curious bird as she peered at the glass roof. “Of course, I don’t really know anything about greenhouses.”
“A friend wrote that he’d check on things till I could get home. It looks like he’s made sure everything is still solid.” Kyle pressed against the metal frame. Nothing swayed. “I brought the key. Let me check inside.”
The door swung to with a loud creak. Inside, the glass was dingy with years of dust. Debris covered parts of the floor.
“Oh, my.” Sara stared like a deer caught in headlights.
“After Mom passed away, Dad and I never used this for anything much but storage. I should have cleaned it out.” Kyle pulled away the cobwebs. “It’s filthy.”
“It won’t take long to clean.” Obviously recovered, Sara pressed the toe of her shoe against a stack of plastic bins. “What are these?”
“I don’t know. Dad must have packed them.” Kyle turned a pail upside down and sat on it. Then he opened the top bin. A bundle of bubble wrap lay inside. He lifted it out and slowly unwrapped it. A notebook fell out.
Instantly Kyle was a kid again, rushing home from school to find his mom in here, scribbling in her gardening journal while Dad teased her about her addiction to roses. Kyle gasped at the overwhelming pain.
“Kyle, what’s wrong?” Sara hunkered down in front of him. Her hand covered his. “Are you in pain?” she asked ever so gently.
“Yes.” For once he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. His heart ached so deeply he felt as if life had drained out of his body. He fought to be free, but the ache blemished his spirit like a scab on a scar.
“Can I help?”
“I’m okay.” Kyle inhaled, forced away the sadness. “This is my mom’s journal. I didn’t realize we still had it.” He flipped through the pages, chuckling at the funny drawings his mom had made. “She was always trying to produce a new breed of rose.”
“Under these conditions?” Sara lifted one eyebrow in surprise.
“Yes. Look.” He held up the book to show the sketch. “This was going to be her Oliver rose—named in memory of her high school friend. But the Oliver rose couldn’t take Churchill’s harshness. He was too weak.”
He was suddenly aware of Sara, crouched behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“I can’t read her writing.”
“No one could.” He cleared his throat. “Listen. ‘My dear Oliver is a wuss. One chilly night without the heater and he’s lost all his leaves. Pfui! A weakling. And a reminder of what God expects of us, a stiff backbone that weathers life’s challenges. I want a rose that will use the negatives of life to get tough and still bloom. I’ll wait and try again next year. But I fear my Oliver rose is finished.’” Kyle smiled. “She always spoke of her roses as if they were people.”
“It sounds like she had a sense of humor,” Sara said.
“A wicked one. Listen to this.” Kyle read her another passage about a yellow rosebush a friend had sent them. His laughter joined Sara’s. “I remember that bush. Coral Bells. It lasted year after year, no matter what adversity it encountered. My mother put Oliver next to it to give him some gumption. But it didn’t help.” He closed the book, suddenly loath to continue revealing these precious memories. “I wonder what else is in this box.”
To hide his emotions, Kyle tugged out layers of old newspaper, aware that Sara still crouched beside him, neatly folding each piece of paper he tossed on the ground. Below the paper lay trophies from school sports, local awards he and his father had won for their business, a book filled with clippings and letters from past customers—he kept pulling them out until finally the box was empty.
“Garbage.” Kyle refused to be swamped by memories again while Sara watched. “I should chuck them.” He set aside the plastic box and began working on the second bin. But it, too, was filled with childhood mementos that only served to remind him of things he could no longer do.
At the very bottom lay a series of Sunday-school awards and a big ribbon with top place printed on it in silver letters, from the championship quiz team he’d once led.
“More garbage.” Bitterness surged that God hadn’t been there when Kyle had needed Him, despite his faith and despite the many pleas he’d sent heavenward. “No need to keep any of this.”
But Sara was already rewrapping each item and laying it carefully back into the container.
“Looks like this is the last one Dad got around to packing.” Kyle paused, needing breathing space so he could face whatever came next without revealing to Sara how affected he was. “My father the pack rat must have needed room in the house.”
“I think he wanted to keep your special things safe for you,” Sara said, her voice firm yet soft. “So you wouldn’t forget your history.”
“Maybe.” He yanked off the last lid and tossed away the flat sheet of plain brown paper lying on top.
And stared at the contents.
Sara’s fingers curved around his shoulder.
He felt stupid, awkward and juvenile. But he could do nothing to stop the tears. They rolled down his hot cheeks and landed on his wrinkled shirt in a trickle that quickly became a river.
Kyle lifted out the familiar wooden box, letting the satin smoothness of the wood soak through to his hands, waiting for it to thaw his heart.
“Kyle?”
