of it organic, but much of it caused by human hands. She should be immune by now. She was not.
Despite the brave front she presented to her sisters, she had been a nurse for too long to be able to accept the doctors’ optimistic diagnosis for Andrea at face value. Sometimes doctors were wrong. Cancer was a disease far too unpredictable to label as curable.
She tightened her fingers as doubts shook her soul. What if Andrea’s cancer proved resistant to treatment or had already spread? What if she, Jenny, was next? What would happen to her daughters, Katy and Hannah, if cancer claimed their mother, too? What would Michael do? How could he keep his dream of becoming a writer alive if he had to raise their children alone?
When tears welled, she brushed them away and battled her doubts with her strongest weapon: her faith. She did not know where her family’s battle with cancer fit into the grand scheme of His plans for them, but she would not let doubt or fear destroy a lifetime of faith, even now. “But for Thy glory,” she whispered as her heart poured out a litany of prayers. For strength. For courage. For hope. And in gratitude for all the blessings He had showered upon them all.
She touched her tummy and smiled. Before Andrea was halfway through her treatments, Jenny and Michael would welcome their third child into this world and into this family. Sharing their news now did not seem fair, not when Andrea was facing such a challenge. Andrea’s health should come first and foremost, not Jenny’s pregnancy.
She looked out at the lake and prayed for guidance. He would know the right time to share the joy that a new baby could bring to the family. And He would help her contain her joy…for just a little longer.
Jane Huxbaugh lived alone in the last house on the dead end of East Mulberry Street, next to the elevated transit line, affectionately dubbed E.T. by local residents. After nearly thirty years, a thick stand of mulberry trees, wild vines and evergreens created a private border between Jane’s property and the right-of-way claimed by the D.V.R.T.A., the Delaware Valley Regional Transit Authority. At rush hour, trains sped by in both directions at seven-minute intervals, carrying residents back and forth from southern New Jersey to Philadelphia. The noise was so deafening, any attempts to have a conversation outside were useless, which certainly limited the use of Jane’s summer porch at suppertime, even if the drooping screens had been tacked back into place.
It was now five o’clock. Andrea had no other choice but to park her car on the street under several messy, fruit-laden mulberry trees. She sidestepped her way to the front door and wiped her feet on the mat to remove any remnants of the blackish fruit. Staining Jane’s carpet, even though it was threadbare, was definitely not a good way to open this meeting. Reaching for the tarnished brass knocker, she noticed it was hanging by a single screw and opted to knock with her knuckles instead.
A train whizzed by. Andrea waited several moments for the train to pass in the other direction and knocked again. She was wiping paint chips from her knuckles when Jane opened the door.
Scarcely five feet tall, Jane had to tilt her head back a little to meet Andrea’s gaze, but then, she had to do the same with most folks, which did little to refute the impression that Jane’s snooty attitude was deliberate. “You don’t call first?”
Andrea winced. “Usually I do. I apologize. If this is a bad time, we could meet tomorrow. Either here or at my office, whichever suits you.”
“What would suit me is a little courtesy and respect,” Jane snapped. “I left a message for you first thing this morning, before you even opened. I expected to hear from you the moment you got to the office.”
“I’m sorry. I had an appointment early this morning, and I had to tie up a few loose ends first.”
Jane sniffed. “If you’ve got the contract, then I suppose you can come in now, inconvenient as it is.”
Andrea drew in a long breath. “I have a contract in my briefcase for you to sign.” Not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, but Andrea was not going to give Jane a chance to slam the door in her face before explaining why the contract she had in hand was not the one Jane anticipated.
The older woman stepped back and motioned for Andrea to come inside, where the light was dim and the air was stifling, as well as heavy with the odor of cooked cabbage.
“Kitchen table’s set for supper. We’ll have to sit in here,” Jane grumbled. She removed several piles of clothing from the sofa and stacked them on the floor next to the coffee table, which was also piled high with newsprint, magazines and junk mail circulars. Jane plopped into her rocker, surrounded on both sides by bags and bags of yarn, and pointed to the sofa. “Sit.”
Andrea offered a quick prayer for patience and courage, sat down and quickly explained what had happened to the original buyer. Before Jane could pontificate on her displeasure, Andrea handed her the contract that the DiMayos had signed a few hours earlier. “Their check is certified. They’ve already prequalified for a mortgage, and we can go to settlement in ten days,” she said quickly. “That would be August third at ten o’clock in my office.”
With skepticism on her face, Jane studied the contract and snorted. “Selling price is lower. Knew there had to be a fly in that sweet-smelling ointment of yours.”
“But only by a few thousand,” Andrea countered. “With the earlier settlement date, you won’t be responsible for six weeks of taxes, and you won’t have to pay for the repairs to the sidewalk and driveway, either.” She held her breath and waited for Jane’s response. Andrea had called in every favor she was owed to guarantee such a fast settlement. Absorbing the cost of the concrete repair work was unusual, but she had done it once or twice before. It seemed a small price to pay for the peace and goodwill she might get in return.
“Stupid law. Thanks to our illustrious mayor and his band of kowtowing commissioners. If the borough wants new sidewalks, let them pay for it. Nobody thinks about seniors trying to live on a fixed income,” she replied, apparently none too happy about the new requirement that all concrete sidewalks and driveways in need of repair had to be fixed, normally by the seller, prior to any sale. She paused. “August third, you said?”
“At ten. Unless you’d like to make it later?”
Jane reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration beading on her forehead and above her lip. “If you intend to stay in business, you’d be well-advised to check out the folks you’re bringing to Welleswood. This is a family place. We’ve got no room for somebody like that Sanderson fellow. As a matter of fact…”
Andrea only half listened while Jane offered her usual blend of snide comments and unsolicited advice. She was Jane’s real estate agent. They had a business relationship, not a personal one, thank heavens. Andrea yearned for escape from the uncomfortable heat in the house and from Jane’s company, but she refused to let this woman’s diatribe drain her spirit. As the elderly woman whined on and on, Andrea pictured herself at Jenny’s with her two nieces. Katy and Hannah were still so innocent. So precious. So untouched by the world.
“A pen! Have you got a pen?”
Startled, Andrea blinked. “I’m sorry. Did you say—”
“I said I need a pen.” Jane lifted a craggy brow. “Not one of those common plastic throwaways, either. A fountain pen, if you please.”
Chapter Six
A ndrea could smell the ribs cooking the moment she turned the corner, a block away from the old Victorian
