Someday

  Anxiety quickened her heart rate, and she directed her attention to the photo on her nightstand, the one of Cody and her the day before he left. She kept it close so she’d remember to pray for him. And maybe because it helped her remember how right it felt with his arm around her shoulders.

  God, keep him safe. He needs You every minute out there.

  She looked back at the letter.

  I’ll be home before too long, so save me a place at your house. You never know, I could be home sooner. Either way, pray for me. I need it. And, hey . . . I miss you. In case I haven’t already told you.

  Waiting for your next letter,

  Cody

  Bailey considered the meaning of his words. He could be home sooner if the war ended, if the president ordered the troops to pull out. That must be what he meant. But reading his words sent a strange feeling through her, almost like a premonition. He would also come home sooner if he was injured, or if . . .

  She folded the letter and held it for a long moment. Cody would be fine because she was praying for him and God was with him. He wouldn’t come home sooner unless everyone around him came home early too. She’d been holding her breath, and now she exhaled, hunching over her knees. By then she would’ve made up her mind about where to attend college. She might even be already gone, depending on her choice.

  Whatever happened, Cody would come home at the right time, back home safe in Bloomington. He would help out with her dad’s football team and take classes at Indiana University. Someday. She slid off the edge of her mattress, returned the letter to the box, and moved it back beneath her bed.

  A yawn came over her. She crossed her bedroom floor to the adjoining bathroom and ran the hot water. For a few seconds she stared at herself and wondered how other people saw her. Was she Coach Flanigan’s daughter? a drama girl who liked to sing and dance? a Christian? There had been no guys in her life since last spring, unless she counted Cody. And he was really more of a good friend, even if they’d both had feelings for each other before he left.

  Tim Reed had called her last night while she was finishing her calculus homework in her room. He was in his first year at Indiana University, taking a full load of classes and missing CKT as much as she was. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he told her. His voice held a depth she hadn’t heard from him in a long time, not since the days when they used to text each other. “I should be teaching a class for Katy, helping with the fall show, you know?”

  They talked about Katy and Dayne, how tough it would be to live under that sort of public scrutiny, and about the CKT kids who were struggling without the theater group. The twins weren’t the only ones getting into trouble. People were talking about a few of the kids who’d had lead parts in CKT shows but who were getting into drugs and partying.

  “Let’s face it. We need CKT.” Bailey tried to keep the sadness from her voice. She didn’t want every conversation with Tim to be about the loss of CKT. “Maybe you’re supposed to get it going again.”

  “Hmmm. Someday.” Tim laughed, but it sounded thoughtful, as if the idea wasn’t out of the question. Before they hung up, he paused, almost as if he wasn’t sure how to say whatever was coming next. “I miss you, Bailey. More than I say.”

  His comment touched her heart and took her by surprise. Last she’d heard, Tim was leading worship at his church a few miles away from the one Bailey and her family attended, and he was dating a girl who played keyboard Sunday mornings. He said nothing about the girl, and Bailey didn’t ask. “Wow . . . I figured you’d kinda moved on.”

  “I couldn’t really move on from someone like you.” He kept his tone light. “I mean, come on. We wore tights together in Robin Hood. How many people have that in common?”

  He’d ended the call by saying they should get together sometime. Maybe have dinner or catch a movie. Bailey agreed, but after she hung up, she realized they hadn’t actually made a plan or picked a date. Typical of the Tim Reed she’d always known. Just interested enough to be mysterious, to leave her wondering about whether he might even be the guy God had planned for her.

  But how did Tim really see her? She pulled a washcloth from the drawer and drenched it in the hot water. If he was interested, he’d set a date to get together. It was that simple. She pressed the steaming cloth to her face and held it there. Tim wasn’t the one—not for now, anyway. Her daddy had always told her she’d know when the right guy came along because he would recognize her as the one-in-a-million girl she really was.

  She wiped the washcloth over her face and rinsed it. A one-in-a-million guy—that’s who she was holding out for. Whenever he came along, it would be worth the wait. In the meantime, without CKT, life would feel lonely. The girls at school were worse than ever—backbiting and gossiping about each other, stealing each other’s boyfriends, and going to parties without telling Bailey. Even lonely was better than that.

  When her teeth were brushed and flossed, she returned to her bed and slipped under the covers. It was after midnight already, but it felt later. Before she turned out the light, she pressed the Play button on her stereo and started up her favorite CD of the moment, the debut album by Mandisa. Something about the singer’s soulful lyrics and deep emotion had a way of making Bailey feel closer to God. She turned down the volume and hit the light switch.

  Her mom had taught her a long time ago that whenever she felt lonely, she could do something that would make her future love seem less far away. She could pray for that guy, whoever he was, wherever he was. “Because you know, Bailey, he’s out there somewhere. He’s already busy becoming the young man he’ll need to be when the time’s right for the two of you to meet.”

  The idea had helped Bailey more times than she could count. So as she closed her eyes, she felt a sense of hope ease the concerns in her soul. You know all things, God, and if I’m supposed to get married someday, You know who the guy is and where he is. You know what he’s doing and You’re working to make him ready for his future . . . same as You’re working to get me ready for mine.

  In the far reaches of the house, she heard the credits to Star Wars. The boys’ movie was over later than usual.

  Bailey rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up close to her chin. Whoever he is, wherever he is, Lord, I pray that You’ll protect him. Help him become the man of God You want him to be and keep him safe from the world. Thank You, Lord. . . . Thank You for letting me dream. In Jesus’ name, amen.

  The call came just as Cody Coleman’s division was headed out for a trek across Baghdad: Get to the office quick. Captain needed to speak to him.

  “Oh, man! Come on, Coleman. You gotta be kidding.” José, his bunkmate, rolled his eyes as he grabbed his gear. “No way you’re getting out of this mission.”

  Cody frowned and checked his watch—8:15 in the morning. He did the conversion in his head, the way he always did when he looked at the time. Just after midnight in Bloomington. He gave his bunkmate a mock look of helplessness. “Is it my fault I’m wanted just at the right—?”

  “Coleman! Get moving!” The order came from outside the tent. His platoon leader. “Captain needs you in the office. Now!”

  “Figures.” José pointed at Cody, his eyes full of laughter. “You clean the bathrooms this week. You gotta make it up somehow.” He saluted Cody. “The other guys are already in the Humvee. Later.”

  “Later.” Cody chuckled and picked up his pace, darting out into the daylight and jogging the fifty yards or so to his superiors’ tent. This had happened last week too. One of the guys had an order to talk to a lieutenant, and in the process he’d missed a trip into the city.

  But here, now, something seemed almost strange about the timing. Ten more seconds and he would’ve already been on the road to Baghdad, laughing it up with the other guys from his platoon, talking big and keeping the peace, trying to pretend they weren’t all scared to death.

  He pushed open the door, breathless from the run, and his eyes met those of Captain Ray Rogers.
Cody stopped in the doorway and saluted. “Sir. You sent for me, sir.”

  “At ease.” The captain was a young guy, not quite thirty. He leaned forward and nodded at the chair across from him. “Sit down. Apparently you gained access to a building on the east side of the city yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cody gulped. He still wasn’t sure if he’d done something wrong. “I made it farther in than the other men.”

  “That’s why you’re here. Word just hit this morning that terrorists are using the building. We should’ve had that information before you went in. . . .” Captain Rogers pursed his lips. “But since you’re alive to talk about it, we need everything, Coleman. Every detail you saw.”

  Cody exhaled. He wasn’t in trouble. The army needed his information, and he was glad to give it. Whatever way he could help the United States finish off the terrorist cells in the city, he’d do it.

  Twenty minutes later Cody was still talking to the captain, searching his mind for any possible details, when the phone rang on the captain’s desk.

  “Rogers here.”

  The call gave Cody a chance to think once more about the building, what he’d seen and what might be helpful to the army now that they knew terrorists were using the place. But as he racked his brain, he watched the captain bring one hand to his face and heard him groan.

  “You’re sure? It was our guys?”

  Cody’s pulse pounded at his temples. Had something happened to some of their men? The captain probably had a couple hundred soldiers under him, and odds were Cody had eaten meals with just about all of them.

  Captain Rogers muttered a few more words, then hung up the phone. He lowered his hand, and Cody could see that the man’s complexion was ashen. His eyes were dry, but they were haunted by the worst kind of pain. “Somebody must’ve been praying for you, Coleman.” His words were heavy with shock, slow and barely loud enough to hear. “They’re all gone.”

  Cody’s mouth was dry, and he shook his head, afraid to voice the most awful possibility. “Sir?”

  “Your guys . . . they barely reached the city streets.” He stood and turned, his back to Cody. “Roadside bomb. Blew the vehicle to bits.” He turned again, an expression of horror written on his face. “They’re gone. All of them.” He breathed in sharp through his nose and stared at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Coleman. Get back to your bunk and wait for orders.”

  Cody could barely think, let alone move. José and the others were gone? blown to pieces just like that? Their faces filled his mind. Guys who’d been vibrantly alive half an hour earlier. The random brutality of the killing was more than he could bear.

  Cody staggered out of the office and back to his bunk. He flopped onto his cot and buried his head in the pillow. If not for the captain’s request to talk to him, he’d be dead now. One more casualty on the streets of Baghdad. He felt sick to his stomach, terrified and furious and filled with disbelief.

  Sobs welled in his chest, and finally—alone in his bunk—he let them come. Somewhere mothers were going about their day unaware that their sons were dead. Families, girlfriends, worlds shattered in an instant. God . . . how could it happen? And why me? Why was I spared?

  At first there was no answer, nothing but the hollow senselessness of the terrible loss. But then, slowly, the captain’s words came back to him. What he’d said had to be true because otherwise Cody wouldn’t be here. There was only one possible reason that he’d been spared this morning.

  Somewhere someone must’ve been praying.

  Ashley could barely keep Cole seated at the breakfast table Saturday morning, and several times Landon had laughed at their son’s enthusiasm.

  “A tree house, Mom!” Cole set his fork down and pushed his plate of eggs away. “I don’t think you understand how big a deal this is.” He traced his finger over the bare space in front of him. The sun was warm through the kitchen windows, and it cast a splash of light across Cole’s face. “Me and Dad have it all planned out. Two stories! With a hideout at the top for treasures and stuff!”

  Ashley couldn’t contain her smile, but she raised her eyebrows at the same time. “Eat your eggs.”

  “I know. . . . I will.” He pulled the plate back and flashed an exasperated look at Landon. “She doesn’t understand.”

  When they’d checked the soccer schedule and found that today was a bye, Landon suggested using the time to build a tree house. It was all Cole could talk about for the last week.

  “It’s not her fault.” Landon winked at her. “Most girls aren’t that into tree houses.”

  “But this’ll be the best tree house ever.”

  “Juice!” Devin was sitting in his high chair between Ashley and Landon. He held up his sippy cup, slathered with egg bits and toast crumbs. “Juice!”

  “Say please.” Ashley snatched a napkin from the center of the table and wiped her youngest son’s mouth.

  “Peeeese.” He gave her a cheesy smile. Then he shook his cup. “Juice, peeese!”

  She hesitated and made a mental picture of the way Devin looked, eggs matted to his blond hair and smeared across his forehead and cheeks. Streaks of toast and butter on his pajamas. Someday Ashley wanted to paint him in a pose just like this one. She laughed. “I must really need to get back to the easel.”

  “Seeing pictures, huh?” Landon’s look turned tender.

  “Everywhere.”

  “Then start painting.” Landon reached over the high chair and touched his fingers to her face. “But don’t stop seeing pictures in a moment like this. I love that about you, Ash.”

  She felt his compliment deep inside, where she was still aching from the loss of Sarah. In the weeks to come, God would use her gift of painting to help heal her; Ashley had no doubt. But until this moment, the pain had been so suffocating she wasn’t sure she even remembered how to paint. The fact that she was starting to see pictures in everyday life was a good sign.

  “Know what I love about Home Depot?” Cole was balanced on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide. He looked from Ashley to Landon, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “The superlong aisles and the stuff stacked to the ceiling, and every single piece is good for making things. Plus, it smells like a place for guys.” He raised his fork for emphasis. “Right, Dad?”

  Landon chuckled. “Exactly.” He nodded to Cole’s plate. “Hurry so we can get cleaned up and go.”

  Cole gave his brother a wary look. “You might want to start with him. He’s gonna need a lot more cleanup time than me.”

  Ashley wiped Devin’s cup with another napkin and filled it with juice. “This’ll be Devin’s first big building project.” She leaned in and kissed the child on the cheek. “Maybe he can help with the hammer.”

  “Probably not.” Cole sounded serious. “We might let him haul in a few pieces of wood from Dad’s truck.” He checked with Landon for approval. “Because a hammer’s too dangerous for him. He might smash in his face, right?”

  “Well . . .” Ashley could tell Landon was trying not to laugh. He wiped his mouth and paused, gaining control. “I might have to help him . . . so he doesn’t smash in his face. But he could maybe hit a few nails.”

  “Hmmm.” Cole twisted his mouth. He tapped his finger on the table a few times. “I guess we could see.” He leaned closer to Landon and whispered, “He’s awful small still.”

  The debate continued a little longer. When they were done eating, Cole ran off to his room to brush his teeth and change into “work clothes.”

  Landon moved toward Devin’s high chair, but Ashley stood and shook her head. “I’ll take care of him. You go get ready.” She put her hand around the back of her husband’s neck and brought him close enough so she could kiss him. “Cole can’t take much more waiting.” Her eyes held his, and again she made a picture of the moment. Everyday moments—warm toast and orange juice, light shining hope and new life across the morning. All that and the love of her life to share it with.

  “You’re doing it again.”


  “I know.” She lowered her chin and felt her smile turn flirty. “I might go to my dad’s today and pull out the paints.” She kissed him again. “Being with you makes me want to capture every minute.”

  He put his hand around her waist and held her at the small of her back. His kiss lasted longer this time. “Being with you makes me want to forget Home Depot.”

  Devin banged his high chair tray with both hands.

  “Our baby’s watching.” Ashley giggled at Landon. “Go get ready.”

  A soft, exaggerated groan came from his throat. “Okay . . . the tree house first.” He took a step back, but his eyes were still lost in hers. “We’ll make something else later.”

  She gave him a suggestive look. “I’ll hold you to it.” She laughed again as she unsnapped the high chair tray and eased their messy son from the seat. “Now I’ve got two things to look forward to.”

  It wasn’t until Landon had walked down the hall to their room and Ashley was alone that she realized something that filled her with hope. She carried Devin to the sink, took a clean, wet washcloth, and began wiping him down. Now that she was past the six-week mark, her doctor had said she could get pregnant again. And so, since losing Sarah, she and Landon had talked about their physical relationship almost as a necessary means to an end. A way to get pregnant once more and fill the void in their hearts.

  But here . . . in the middle of a happy, chaotic Saturday morning, she and Landon had found time to laugh and flirt and look forward to intimate moments later tonight, all for one reason.

  Because they loved each other.

  It was another sign that God was carrying them, helping them through.

  An hour later, after Landon and the boys were off to the hardware store, Ashley drove to the Baxter house and found her dad in the kitchen, kneeling on the floor, his head under the sink. At the sound of the door, he pulled back and straightened. “Hi, honey.” His face lit up in a full smile. “I thought it might be you.”