A quick glance at the parking lot and he found Katy’s car. She would be inside, going over a hundred last-minute details. He parked and rolled down the window. The air was much colder than it had been in September, but it smelled faintly of burning leaves and damp wood, the way home would always smell to him.
He thought about his last meeting with Katy at Lake Monroe, how confused and shortsighted he’d been. So much had changed since then. The peace he’d found in the storage unit had remained. He’d apologized to Kelly Parker, and the two had remained friends. She rebounded quickly, moving straight from his Malibu house to the one belonging to Hawk Daniels, just down the road. One day he hoped to tell Kelly a little more about the changes happening in him. But first he needed to understand them himself.
The people from the Kabbalah Center had stopped calling, and every day Dayne would open the Bible Katy had given him and find that God’s Word spoke to him.
Mitch Henry, the director, had noticed the difference. At first it worried him. “Don’t lose your edge on me, Matthews. I need you in top form through the whole film, through editing and retakes and all of it.”
But after a while, Mitch had come back to him, surprised. “Whatever’s happened to you, keep it up. You’re a different person on camera. Transparent and real. The audience is gonna love it.”
Dayne was glad about that, but it wasn’t what drove him. The peace, the forgiveness—that’s what kept him going back to the Bible as often as he had the chance. There were passages he didn’t grasp and changes that still needed to come. But he was a different person today than he had been the last time he was in Bloomington.
He only wished for a chance to tell Katy.
But he couldn’t, because he couldn’t stay long. He had to be back on the set at noon tomorrow, so he’d booked a red-eye back home tonight. His return flight to Los Angeles left in five hours. He would watch the show and be on his way. Because he was finished lying to people. And this was something he’d promised Katy.
He left his car and walked across the lot toward the theater. He wore his sweatshirt and baseball cap again, the disguise that best hid who he was. The plan was simple. He’d ask for a balcony seat, and since so few people ever sat in the balcony, he’d have a good chance of not being recognized. That and a good view of the stage.
The crowd was thick near the door. He kept his face down, occasionally glancing at the far wall where no one was standing. When it was his turn to pay, he pretended to be caught up in a search through his wallet.
“Just a minute.” He riffled through it, staring straight down. “Yes, here it is.” He handed the woman the exact change, then dropped a few dollars on the floor. He was picking them up while the woman handed him a balcony ticket. Without looking up, he took it and thanked her, still stuffing the loose bills into his wallet.
“You’re in luck. I gave you front row.” The woman had a smile in her voice. “You should have a good view from up there.”
He thanked her again, but he was already facing the stairs. On his way up he took a program from a basket, avoiding the ushers stationed at the door of the main-floor seating area. He found his seat and settled back, taking in the view around him. The woman was right. He could see the entire theater, the people filing in and trying to find their seats while the smell of popcorn drifted up.
All of it filled his senses and made him long for the chance to return again and again. At a time when he wouldn’t have to hide in the balcony. He looked at the stage and imagined what the sets and backdrop would look like. His sister Ashley Baxter Blake was supposed to be amazing, and now he could hardly stand waiting five more minutes until he could see her work.
The commotion was picking up, so he shifted enough to see the main-theater seating again. So far he hadn’t seen Katy, not that he expected to. She would be busy behind the scenes. He only hoped he could see her before he left, even from a distance. He spotted Ashley walking in through the far side entrance. Next to her was a tall man, and next to him was a blond boy, maybe seven years old. The boy was familiar, and Dayne realized why. He’d seen all of them as a group the evening when they left the hospital, the day that he’d seen Elizabeth.
Dayne leaned forward and studied them. His nephew bounced along, taking hold of the man’s hand and tugging on Ashley’s sleeve. Dayne squinted, trying to see the child’s expression. He looked happy and bubbly, like he’d be a kick to hang out with. Something else too. The boy resembled him, like pictures he’d seen of himself at that age.
Was this always how it would be? Clandestine moments and stolen glimpses, no relationship, no connection with the people who were his own flesh and blood, his family? Ashley led her husband and son to a row of seats near the middle of the theater. As they worked their way in, another brunette stood, then one with hair that was a little bit lighter. Dayne felt his breath catch in his throat.
These were his other sisters—he recognized them too. Then a man with two little girls came down the aisle. The littlest one used a walker, but her face was all lit up, probably excited about the show. Dayne marveled at the scene, took in every second of it, mesmerized by their faces and actions, the fact that they felt so familiar to him.
If he could only bound down the stairs and go to them, tell them the truth and not worry about the fallout. He sat back in his seat, his eyes riveted on them. He had nothing to worry about, but that wasn’t all that mattered. For the Baxters, they had everything to lose—a sense of privacy and decency that would be marred forever if they were ever pictured in the tabloids. And once they were there, they’d never have the same existence again.
He wouldn’t risk it—not now or ever.
Moments like this were all he would ever have, and they would have to be enough. Ashley was laughing about something, hugging the one he figured was Brooke. That’s when he noticed something else. Ashley was pregnant. The thought was bittersweet—happiness for her and her husband and little boy and bottomless sorrow because this child would be one more family member he’d never know.
The lights faded to dark then, and the orchestra began the overture.
Dayne glanced at his watch. He had just two hours before he had to leave.
Katy raced through the greenroom putting out last-minute fires.
“I don’t have my eyelash curler!” It was one of the orphans.
“Hold tight.” Katy zipped across the room and led one of the makeup moms to the girl. She made it another five feet toward the door when another orphan popped out from the group and held her hands up. Her tattered skirt was covered with dirt.
“I was putting on my dirt smudges, and the whole jar spilled.” Her face was pale, even through the stage makeup, terrified at what might happen now that she’d spilled on her dress minutes before the performance.
Katy bent down, brushed off the skirt as best she could, and smiled at the girl. “You’re an orphan. It works. Don’t worry about it, honey.”
Connor Flanigan waved at her from across the room. He held a mustache in his hand. “My spirit gum’s all dried up. I need a mustache for the third scene.”
“You’re right. Bert Healy has to have a mustache.” She made a frantic search of the dressing room table and found a bottle. Spirit gum was the safest glue for theater work. She dabbed some on Connor’s lip, pressed the mustache into place, and patted his head. “Go get ’em!”
Finally she made it to the stairs, raced up, and found her usual opening-night spot—in the box on the left side of the theater. From there she could see the wings and the stage and much of the audience reaction, all except the balcony. The way it was situated, she could see just the tops of the heads of people in that section.
She took her seat and exhaled, catching her breath. The theater was already dark, and the orchestra was playing. Everything was in order. Now it was up to the kids. She squinted at the first row near the stage and wondered if the Hanovers and the Strykers would come. But it was too hard to tell in the dark.
Not unt
il the overture ended and the lights came up did she see for herself what she’d been hoping for. The kids’ prayers had been answered. There in the front row was Alice Stryker, her husband, and their little boy, Joey. Next to them were Mr. and Mrs. Hanover and Brandy, her casted leg sticking straight forward.
Between them was an empty seat, the one where Ben would’ve sat.
Katy gripped the armrests. Her heart swelled within her, and she blinked back the wetness in her eyes. Thank You, God. Thanks for getting them here.
This was the point during the evening when Katy’s curtain warmers would come out, usually a few CKT kids in costume, ready with a cute skit about turning off cell phones and waiting until intermission to order popcorn. This time, Tim Reed walked out in front of the closed curtain, carrying a cordless microphone. He was dressed like Oliver Warbucks, but he didn’t have his bald cap on, and he didn’t attempt to stay in character.
He smiled at the audience and welcomed them. In a straightforward manner he gave them the theater rules and explained that there would be souvenirs and refreshments at intermission and after the show. Then he hesitated, and for a moment he looked at the Hanovers and Strykers in the front row.
His eyes lifted to the audience again. “Most of you know that we experienced a tragedy in CKT this session. We lost two kids, two of our friends, in a car accident. One of those was Sarah Jo Stryker, and the other was Ben Hanover.” He motioned to the front row. “We’re honored to have both their families here tonight.”
A hush fell over the crowd as Tim said that last part. Katy held her breath as she watched their faces, the sadness and shock as the audience reacted to the thought that the two families hit hardest by the tragedy were, in fact, in their midst this very night.
A few seconds passed, and then Bryan Smythe’s parents stood and began to clap. Not a wild cheering, but a sedate, slow clapping that expressed camaraderie and sympathy. The moment the clapping began, others joined in, and with Tim still standing in front waiting to finish, the entire theater wound up on its feet, showing their support for the Hanovers and the Strykers.
Katy could see both families. They huddled in their own groups, arms around each other, moved deeply by the outpouring from the crowd.
When the clapping finally died down, Tim took a step toward the audience and said, “And so we dedicate this show to the Hanovers and the Strykers.” He moved back, gesturing toward the curtain as it opened. “CKT proudly presents Annie.”
The night could’ve ended right there, and Katy couldn’t have felt more satisfied. But from the opening number, Kelsy Bouchey turned in a performance far beyond anything she’d done in rehearsals. Katy remembered their conversation, how the girl wanted to make her role as Annie something special for the Hanovers and the Strykers. Now she was doing just that.
Scene after scene, the performance was amazing, better than anything Katy had ever seen on an opening night. The dancing was sharp, music right on key, and the singing was powerful enough to move her to the edge of her seat. The show was everything they’d prayed it would be, a moving testimony to life and hope and especially to the memory of two very special kids.
When it was over and the kids came out for curtain call, it was to a standing ovation that lasted through all the bows. Many of the kids had tears on their cheeks, and several made a point of waving to the Strykers and the Hanovers. As Oliver Warbucks’s servants bowed, they each pulled Peter Pan hats from behind their backs and placed them on their heads. When Katy glanced at the Hanovers and the Strykers, they were smiling, their faces wet with tears.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Here goes.”
Normally she stayed in her box through curtain call, but the kids had something different planned tonight. She darted out of the box, down the stairs, through the greenroom, and up the stage stairs. All the kids were onstage, so she came through the middle with a dozen kids who’d worked crew for the show. Once the crew members had taken their bows, and with the applause still ringing, the group directed their hands toward the lighting and sound booth, then toward the orchestra, and finally up toward God, who had brought it all together in a way Katy had only dreamed about.
When they were finished, the orchestra would normally have played a finale version of “Tomorrow,” the main song from the play. But this time the music was different, something the kids had requested.
Katy reached out and took the hands of the kids on either side of her. As she did, the kids all across the stage held hands, and at the right time they started singing “How Great Thou Art.”
The audience seemed to realize that something special was happening, and every member stayed on his or her feet, singing along with the kids.
Katy scanned the audience, her heart overflowing, and finally she looked up to the balcony. Her mouth hung open for a moment, and she took a step forward so she could see him better. It was Dayne! He’d come, just like he said he would, and now his eyes held hers, speaking straight to her soul, reminding her of feelings that had never gone away. She wanted to go to him or shout out or wave, but she could do none of those. The moment was deep and beautiful, a showering of love and faith for all of them, but especially for the two families who needed it most.
She kept singing, the corners of her mouth raised in a smile despite her damp eyes. Do you hear me, Dayne? Do you see me telling you that I still care, that I haven’t forgotten you? She never looked away, and neither did he. As the song ended, she mouthed the words thank you.
He made a subtle nod in her direction, and his lips formed the words you’re fantastic.
They were singing a second song now, “I Love You, Lord.” Katy wanted to go to him, but even as she tried to think of how quickly she could get to the balcony, he looked at her. Then he gave her the slightest wave and turned to leave.
He couldn’t be going, could he? He wouldn’t have come so far only to leave without talking to her, right? She watched him exit the balcony, and after a minute she saw him leave through the back side entrance of the theater. He really was leaving. He’d come just for the show, and now he was gone.
Tears splashed onto Katy’s cheeks, and she wondered how long before the kids and she would find themselves in another season of laughter. The kids’ voices were building toward the last part of the song. “‘Take joy, my King, in what You hear: May it be a sweet, sweet sound in Your ear.’”
Katy’s tears came harder, but she smiled through them. She cried because she wished with everything inside her that Sarah Jo was on that stage singing with them and that Ben Hanover was in the seat between his mother and father. She cried for the painful loss they’d all suffered and for the lessons they’d learned regarding Jeremy Fisher. For the way all of CKT had come together since the accident.
But she also cried because of Dayne Matthews and feelings that maybe weren’t pretend after all. She had tried her hardest to put aside thoughts of him, but he was still there when she woke up and when she lay back down to sleep at night. She wondered how he was doing and whether he’d read the letter on the back of the photo of his birth mother and if he’d found the wisdom to walk away from Kabbalah. Twice a week she’d catch herself checking messages, looking for his phone number.
And so the tears were for that too. Because she couldn’t imagine closing the door on a guy who would fly across the country to see her students perform on opening night. Her feelings for him were real, same as his were for her. But that’s all they would ever share—distant, unfulfilled feelings. Her tears fell even after the song ended, because the truth was clear. With Dayne, real love had never really gotten a chance to bloom.
Whatever was between them, it had started in the dark shadows of the Bloomington Community Theater. And tonight, even though they would see each other again at the trial in Los Angeles, whatever they shared had ended the exact same way. He had gone back to his world, and she needed to let him leave. Her life was here, where she belonged.
Her role as director of CKT had always been the job s
he felt God alone had given her. But now as she watched the families in the audience come together, hugging and congratulating the cast and crew, showering the Hanovers and the Strykers with love, it became clear that working with these kids was so much more than a job.
It was a calling. And she would stay with it as many years as God allowed.
Author’s Note
There is mention in this novel of a religious group called Kabbalah, along with a place called the Kabbalah Learning Center in Los Angeles, where Dayne takes religious classes. Though Kabbalah is a real religion, there are two sects of Kabbalists—one rooted in Old Testament Judaism, and the other rooted in a combination of Old Testament Judaism and a set of unique teachings. Since the latter of these Kabbalah sects is currently drawing great interest from the Hollywood community, I chose to include it in the fictional story line of Dayne Matthews.
I did a great amount of research in order to keep my details factual. However—as with any organization—I could not use all my information. It is possible that some of the information given to me or found through research is not exactly represented in the way certain people might view it. In addition, I chose to portray this group through the lens of Christianity and biblical truth.
The Kabbalah Center in Forgiven is in no way intended to exactly duplicate any specific Kabbalah center. Certainly any similarity between my characters and real-life characters is entirely coincidental.
A Word from Karen Kingsbury
Dear Reader Friends,
Thanks for traveling with me through the second book in the Firstborn series. From the beginning when I imagined five books about Dayne Matthews and Katy Hart, I knew forgiveness would be one of the issues I’d have to deal with. The reason? Forgiveness is such an integral part of living the Christian life. Without Christ’s forgiveness, all of us would be doomed to eternal death. By accepting it, we can experience eternal life.