The Tuesday Morning Collection

  “What?” Clay took a step closer and squinted at the paper.

  “Wanda thought she might want to volunteer here. She filled out an application, but decided it was too soon. We kept the information on file, in case she changed her mind.” Jamie scanned the sheet. “It has everything. Her name's Wanda Johnston, and she lives in Queens. Her phone, her cell phone, it's all here.”

  Clay couldn't speak. The day was already so full of miracles, he couldn't find the words to sum it up. Finally he managed a question. “What should we do?”

  Jamie shrugged. “I'll call and ask her. I can't give the information out unless she agrees.”

  “Okay.” Clay nodded. God … be with Wanda, let her want this meeting. For Joe's sake.

  The phone on the desk was an older model, with a short cord. Jamie sat down, picked up the receiver and began to dial. After a minute she hung up and looked at the application again. “I'll try her cell.”

  Please, God … An answer this soon would ignite Reynolds's faith and bring him the healing he needed.

  Jamie dialed again and waited. Her eyes lit up after a few seconds. “Wanda? Hi, this is Jamie Bryan over at St. Paul's. How are you?” Silence. “Well, you won't believe this. Remember how we prayed when you were here, that you would find your first husband so you could make peace with him?” She grinned at Clay, her eyes dancing. “Well, he and a friend just walked into the chapel this morning.” Pause. “No, I'm serious. Joe wants your phone number; I told his friend I'd call you to see if it was okay to give it out. Sure. We'll work it out.” Jamie hesitated, then laughed out loud. “I know. We serve a mighty God.” She gave Clay a pointed look. “That seems to be the message of the day.”

  The conversation ended, and Jamie held the application in the air. “Yes!” She scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper and ripped it from the pad. “She wants to see him!”

  It was the second time in as many hours that Clay wanted to hug her, but he resisted. They walked back downstairs, Clay reminding himself with every step to keep calm. The mood in the chapel was as hushed and somber as before. Reynolds was at the right side of the back wall, still lost in the items on display.

  Clay led the way. When he reached his friend, he tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Huh?” Joe turned around. His eyes were watery. “Oh, sorry.” He looked at his watch. “Guess I got a little carried away. Like you always say, it's late and getting later.”

  “I'm not worried about the time.” The sense of awe still had a grip on Clay. He gave a single shake of his head. “C'mere, buddy. You won't believe this.” He took Joe's arm and led him back to the center pew. Jamie followed along, and she and Clay sat with Joe in the middle.

  “Joe, listen.” Clay gave Jamie a quick look and couldn't keep from grinning. “I told Jamie your story.” He hesitated, studying his friend. “She knows Wanda; she had a volunteer application on file.”

  “What?” Joe's mouth hung open as he looked at Jamie. His chin quivered and he swallowed hard. “You what? ”

  “I know her, Joe. I called her a few minutes ago.” Jamie smiled. “She wants to see you.” She handed him the piece of paper with Wanda's numbers on it. “I told her you'd be calling.”

  Joe took the piece of paper and stared at it, as if it might disappear if he looked away. He clenched his jaw, stood, and looked first at Jamie, then at Clay. “If you'll excuse me.” His voice was raspy, filled with a decade of fear, regret, and grief—but layered with a joy that rang out. He smiled despite the wetness in his eyes. “I have a phone call to make.”

  They watched him go, and Jamie looked to the front of the chapel, at the towering white cross. She took in a long, slow breath and turned to Clay. “What a day, huh?”

  He leaned back against the hard wood. It was his turn to walk the perimeter, to look at the remembrances and pay homage to the people who had lost their lives in the attacks. But he couldn't pull away, couldn't cut the conversation with this woman short. So she was married. No harm in talking to her, especially after what they'd been through that morning.

  “What's your story, Clay?” She had an easy way about her, gentle words and eyes that hit him at his deepest level. “Married? Kids?”

  The question wasn't suggestive, just curious. Clay rested his elbow on the back of the pew. “Never married. I've got a brother not far from me in California, so I spend time with his family.” He gave a light-hearted laugh. “Lots of girlfriends, but never the right one.”

  “Hmmm.” She smiled, teasing. “A California playboy, huh?”

  “Hardly.” Clay chuckled. “Work keeps me busy; I don't get out much. When the time's right, I want to get married, have a family. I guess God'll let me know.” He crossed his arms. “What about you? What's your husband do?”

  The humor faded from her eyes. A stricken look froze her features, and she looked at her hands for a long while.

  Clay studied her, wanting to help. What had he said? Was her marriage in trouble? He hadn't meant to hit a nerve. “Jamie? I'm sorry.”

  She looked up. “It's okay.”

  “It's just that—” he looked at her left hand—“you're wearing a ring, and I thought …”

  “Don't be sorry. I haven't taken it off.” Her eyes were dry, but somewhere inside it was clear that she was weeping. “Jake was a firefighter. He … he died in the attacks.”

  Of course. Clay hung his head against his forearm and exhaled hard. Why hadn't he figured that out? She was alone on the ferry, trekking in from Staten Island to volunteer at what was basically a memorial site for the Twin Towers. He pulled his head up slowly and looked at her. “I'm sorry, Jamie.”

  “The department lost more than four hundred men that day. Dozens more from the NYPD.” She sniffed and a smile tried to break through the clouds in her eyes. “I'm hardly alone in my loss.”

  It was a line she must've repeated over and over a hundred times a month, but Clay was struck with how hard it was for her to say it, even after three years. He wanted to know more, but the timing didn't feel right. “Do you have children?”

  “A daughter. Sierra.” At the mention of the girl, Jamie's eyes came back to life. She sniffed. “The two of us are very close. She's seven now, in second grade.”

  Reynolds came through the front door, a grin on his face that warmed the whole chapel. As he got closer, he held his cell phone up in the air and beamed at them. “I'm meeting her for lunch.”

  “Really?” Clay sat straighter. “You ready for that?” The reunion was bound to be emotional, especially if Joe told her all the things he planned to say.

  A sober look flashed in his face. “I was ready years ago.” He sat down next to Clay. “Talk to the Big Man for me, will you? It's been awhile.” He checked his watch again. “It's noon. I told her I'd take a cab to the restaurant.” He looked at Clay. “I'll meet you at orientation.”

  “Oh, sure.” Clay grinned at him. “Ditch me in downtown Manhattan our first day.”

  “I'm off at 12:30.” Jamie looked at Clay. “I'll buy lunch.” Jamie stood and ran her fingers through her dark hair.

  “You don't have to do that.” Clay's heart still ached for her. They hadn't gotten to finish their conversation. “I can find something to do.”

  “Clay—” The sorrow faded a little more from her eyes. “You rescued me. I think I can cough up lunch.”

  Before Clay could reply, Joe chuckled. “Yeah, that's right. Try to look upset that I'm ditching you, man.” Joe winked at him and raised an eyebrow at Jamie. “I think the two of y'all will be just fine without me.”

  THIRTEEN

  Rain was falling hard again, gusting in torrents and pounding on the roof as Joe left St. Paul's.

  Jamie looked up at the old ornate ceiling. “Hope it isn't hailing.”

  “Could be; it's in the forecast.” Clay met her eyes. “He's gonna get soaked.”

  “Somehow—” Jamie smiled—“I don't think he'll mind.” Jamie spotted an older man come through the entrance. She
stood up. “Well, back to work.”

  “I'll look around.” He pulled his legs beneath the bench so she could get by. Then he stood and headed toward the closest display, the one near the exit. “Maybe I'll start at the end and go against the crowd.”

  “Suit yourself.” She met his eyes once more before she turned around. It wasn't until she was a few steps away that she felt a sense of relief. By starting at the opposite side, he'd miss seeing Jake, and that was just as well. She wasn't ready to talk about him with Clay, not when her heart was whirling around inside her.

  A draft whistled through the old building, but Jamie didn't feel the cold. Not with her mind racing out of control. In three years she'd never met anyone like Clay. What was it about him? His strength, or the way he'd so easily protected her on the ferry? Or was it his eyes? The way she felt she'd known him all her life?

  Whatever it was, he made her feel something she hadn't felt since Jake.

  And that's why her head was spinning. How dare she allow herself to compare a stranger with the man she'd loved since she was twelve years old? She clenched her hands and chided herself. Get a grip, Jamie …

  She could shout it at herself, but there was no denying what was happening inside her. She felt wonderful.

  The man looked up as she approached him. He was well dressed, with the air of an executive at one of the financial firms in lower Manhattan. He was still standing near the entrance—not far from Jake's picture and Sierra's letter. His blank expression told her he wanted assistance.

  “Hello.” She held out her hand, and he took it. “I'm Jamie Bryan, a volunteer here. Can I help you with anything?”

  The man took his hat off and tucked it beneath his arm. “I'm Wilbur George.” He stared at the collection along the first wall. “My son worked for Cantor-Fitzgerald.”

  That was all he needed to say.

  Cantor-Fitzgerald had been located near the top of the South Tower; the death toll for that firm was the largest for any company hurt by the terrorist attacks. Jamie lowered her voice. “He didn't make it out?”

  “No.” His mouth made a straight line. “He … he had a wife and two children. A boy and a girl. The wife … she's getting married again in March.”

  The idea of people remarrying was coming up more often lately. Not that all of those widowed by the attacks waited this long. Some would wait much longer. But three years seemed a benchmark, of sorts. Jamie let the man set the pace of the conversation.

  “I've met the young man; he's very nice. Our daughter-in-law will be happy with him, and so will the kids.” He stared at his shoes for a minute and gave a sad shake of his head. When he looked back up, his stoic veneer was cracked down the middle. “I'm here because of my wife.” He blinked three times fast. “She's not handling it well.”

  “I'm sorry.” Jamie motioned to the nearest pew. “Can you sit and talk for a minute?”

  The man nodded and followed her. He took his overcoat off and laid it across the pew's wooden back. His hat remained clutched in his hands. “We aren't really praying people, you see.” His sad laugh floated around her. “My son was. Good Christian boy, his wife too. But my wife and I never really … we never believed much in God.”

  “I see.” Jamie studied the man. Lord, let this be the day he changes his mind.

  The man worked his fingers into the rim of his gray flannel hat. “Lately I've started wondering.” He glanced around the chapel. “Look at all the good that's come from people since that terrible day. Look at the beauty of life itself.” He looked at her. “One of my partners at work lost a niece in the Twin Towers. His family pulled together and prayed that her death wouldn't be in vain.”

  Jamie listened, praying.

  “That man's a new person today.” Wilbur George worked his mouth sideways, the way men sometimes did when they didn't want to cry. “All he talks about is God this and God that, and whether the Lord would be happy with his dealings at work and how he can live some way that would please his Creator.” He hesitated. “At first I thought he was wacky. But now …”

  “It's starting to make sense?”

  “Yes.” His eyes widened at Jamie's answer. “That's it exactly.” His shoulders drooped a notch. “At least for me. For my wife, she says if there was a God, He'd be her enemy after what happened to our boy.”

  A heaviness weighed on Jamie. It was the same story again and again and again. Different faces, different names, different floors of the Twin Towers, but so often when the walking wounded found their way here it was with one question. How could God let it happen?

  “I guess the question, Mr. George, is whether you believe.” She studied him. Father, open his heart. Please. “Do you believe in God and His Son, Jesus?”

  “I do.” His eyes shone for the first time since he'd walked into the chapel. “I really do.”

  She wanted to tread lightly, but if she didn't get to the crux of faith she was wasting her time. The real hope was found in the rest of the story. “Do you want Jesus as your Savior?”

  The man frowned. “That's where I'm a little confused. I thought …” He looked around the chapel. “I thought someone here might be able to help me. That way I could help my wife.”

  He looked at the wall of artifacts and letters again. “I've done some reading, talked to a few people including my partner at work. All good things are from God—” his eyes found hers again—“right?”

  For the next ten minutes Jamie talked with the man about the basics of faith in Christ. All the things she'd learned from Jake's Bible and his journal, from a hundred or so church services since the terrorist attacks and from her training at St. Paul's. At the end of their conversation, the man was nodding, practically desperate to have Jesus as his Savior.

  They prayed together, and when they were finished, Jamie gave him ideas that might help his wife find faith in God. When they were done talking, he looked like a mountain had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “Thank you, Jamie. I want to take a look around.” He patted her hand. “I haven't been here before.” He stood and slipped his coat on. Then he stopped and looked at her. “All good things are from God, right?”

  “Right. That's what the Bible says.”

  “Then God didn't make those towers fall. Something evil did, because evil exists in our world.”

  Jamie gave him a sad smile. “Yes, Mr. George. That's right.”

  As he walked away, she looked at her watch. Her shift was over; she and Clay could head out for lunch. She stood, grateful for her time with the man. Without that, she would have been consumed by one thought.

  Counting down the minutes until she could go someplace and talk to Clay without interrupting the grieving going on all around her.

  She found him not quite finished with the exit wall. “Clay?”

  He stepped back, his focus still on a child's letter posted near a photo of a police officer. “It's so sad, Jamie. The pictures and letters, even from people who weren't touched by the attacks, at least not personally.” He looked at her, his eyes glistening. “The loss was so enormous.”

  “I know.” She resisted the urge to glance across the room at the first display table, the one where Jake's picture was. “Even after working here all this time, it's bigger than I can really grasp.”

  “I didn't get halfway through.” He drew back from the wall and came up alongside her. “Maybe I can finish it another day.”

  Jamie thought about Jake. “You could.” She cast him a sad smile. “It's really just more of the same.”

  “I guess.” He drew in a sharp breath and peered through the closest stained-glass window. “You have an umbrella?”

  “You mean you don't?” She was teasing him and it felt better than she could've dreamed. “What, it doesn't rain in California?”

  He tossed her a sheepish look. “Not much.”

  “Don't worry.” She held up her finger. “Wait here, I'll get my coat and be right back. And yes—” she started up the stairs toward the
break room—“I have an umbrella.”

  They caught a cab and found a quiet café fifteen blocks north on Broadway. It was busy, but Clay spotted a table near the front window, overlooking the bustling sidewalk. “Good?”

  Jamie nodded. “I like people watching.”

  “Me too.” He stared at the parade passing by, businesspeople mostly, some obvious tourists, a random group of kids decked out in black T-shirts and dog collars. Together they carried enough umbrellas to form an overhang along the sidewalk. Clay rested his forearms on the table. “Doesn't it ever slow down?”

  “Not much.” She smiled. “I can only take Manhattan in small doses.”

  He looked at the crowds outside. “I can see why.” His heart was racing, even faster than it had that morning on the ferry. What was he doing here? He'd been in town a few hours and he was having lunch with a beautiful widow? Clay Michaels, the guy who didn't rush anything?

  The whole scene couldn't have been more out of character for him than if he spiked his hair and dyed it pink. At his soft laugh, Jamie looked at him.

  “What's so funny?” She lowered her chin.

  “Me.” He drew invisible circles on the table with his finger. “Joe told me New York would be exciting, but I wasn't sure.”

  “And then I enter the picture.” She eased off her coat and slid it over the back of the chair.

  “That's for sure.” He laughed out loud this time, a laugh that was brief and full of amazement. “I had no idea anyplace, not even New York, could be that exciting.”

  The waiter brought them ice water and took their order, chicken sandwiches with tea for her and black coffee for him. When he was gone, Jamie put her elbows on the table, linked her fingers, and rested her chin. “Do you think he would've shot me?”

  Clay wanted to drown in her eyes. She was making his head spin and he barely knew her. “I've asked myself that a dozen times today. Usually punky kids like that won't shoot someone in broad daylight. A move like that could wind them up on death row.” He brought his knuckles together and took a drink of his water. “But you believed them, otherwise you would've screamed.”