Then without warning Seth’s flawless world had shattered on a rain-slick street when his wife’s car had slid out of control and she’d slammed into a telephone pole. Her death, Seth had been told, had been instantaneous. The children, tucked securely in their car seats, didn’t receive so much as a scratch. But in those tragic seconds, his wife was gone. His wife and his very heart. His life was as ruined as the twisted metal that had once been her vehicle.
In retrospect it might have been easier to deal with Pamela’s death had there been someone to blame. A drunk driver. A speeder. Anyone to focus his anger and frustration upon. But there had been no one. In the beginning, he’d sought to blame God. He’d longed to shake his fist at the sky and damn Him for stealing away his very heart.
For a time anger had consumed Seth’s soul. Shortly after her funeral, he had sold the piano. Now, four years later, it seemed a bit dramatic to have given up his music, but he’d simply lost the desire for it. Music was something he’d shared with Pamela. His world had felt devoid of all that had once brought joy, and in his pain he’d destroyed everything that had connected him with his dead wife. It was his way of telling God to “take that.”
Seth’s gaze fell across the room to a row of bookcases. The hardbound version of C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe captured his attention. The well-read, much-loved book had been Pamela’s favorite, one she’d treasured since childhood. From the moment they’d learned she was pregnant, she’d talked of one day sitting with her children at her side and reading them the story she loved so much.
Seth ran a hand down his face and closed his eyes as he dealt with a fresh wave of pain. Not for the first time he wondered if it’d ever get better. If he’d always feel this raw-edged anguish when he remembered Pamela. The years hadn’t eased it. Having the children with him hadn’t lessened his sense of loss. If anything, their arrival increased his awareness of what he would never have. He carried his grief with him the way some men toted around a briefcase. How different his life would be if Pamela had lived. In many ways it would have been kinder if they’d buried him along with his wife.
He walked over to the oak bookcase and slowly removed the book by C. S. Lewis. The edge of the spine was tattered by love and time. Carefully he laid open the novel in his palm. Inside, a six-year-old Pamela had carefully printed her name in large square letters. The twins were six.
The sharp pain clenched Seth’s heart. He’d done such an effective job of burying his grief that when it bubbled to the surface it almost always caught him unaware.
Instead of replacing the book back inside the oak bookcase, Seth carried it to the desk and set it carefully in a bottom drawer. He couldn’t explain why. He didn’t want to be sucker-punched a second time by glancing across the room and finding Pamela’s favorite childhood book in his face. He had enough to deal with.
Unsure how to handle the situation with Mrs. Hampston, Seth walked into the kitchen. “You wanted to talk to me.” He struck a casual pose and leaned against the counter.
Mrs. Hampston didn’t possess an ounce of fat. Everything about her was severe, right down to the polish on her black, spit-shined shoes. Disapproval radiated from her the way fire warmed a room.
“As you might have guessed,” she announced primly, “I find my services to be neither appreciated nor—”
“That isn’t so. The kids and I think you’re wonderful,” Seth countered quickly, hoping God would forgive him the lie. “I couldn’t be more grateful for your help, and—”
“I beg to differ, Mr. Webster.”
No amount of coaxing had persuaded her to call Seth by his first name. But then, he’d never been able to think of her as “Bertha,” either.
“It seems apparent to me, if to no one else,” she continued stiffly, “that I can no longer stay.”
“But you’re wrong, we’d—”
“Please, don’t attempt to sway me. My mind is made up.”
“I’d be willing to offer you a substantial raise,” Seth said, attempting to sound contrite and appreciative and failing, he feared, on both counts.
Mrs. Hampston hesitated, then cocked her chin and gave him a look of mild disgust, as if she’d been deeply insulted by the mere suggestion that she could be seduced with money.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stay until after the holidays,” he added, growing more desperate.