© Copyright 2006 by Karen O'Leary

She sat on the mansion’s custom made sofa, rocking back and forth, clutching an open pill bottle. The word Restoril meant nothing to her. The doctor said it would help her sleep. What would he say if she never woke up?

She could see the headlines now. “Bridget Landin, head of Magma Oil and America’s richest woman, dies of an overdose.” A haunting laugh escaped her lips as if Satan himself erupted from her soul. She shuttered, dropping the medication. The capsules scattered on the imported Oriental rug, mocking her.

“Great!” Her disgusted voice echoed. “Now, I’m turning into a klutz.”

Perfection was her trait, from tailored suits to manicured nails. Her black flowing mane and trim figure still turned the heads of both men and women despite her forty-five years.

“Always know what you’re up against,” Ms. Landin had warned her handpicked company executives. Bridget snatched up the bottle and scanned the label for the number of escapes. Twelve challenged her from the lower right corner. Shrugging off her exhaustion, she squared her shoulders, determined to find every one.

The corporate executive got down on her knees in her designer pants ensemble. A half-hour later, one defiant capsule evaded her.

Frustrated, she grabbed an envelope from the stack of mail on her coffee table. Bridget examined her husband’s free flowing script. Though she hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, he continued to honor his promise to keep her informed about their offspring. The quarterly updates read much like stock reports, providing the facts without unnecessary detail or emotion. She couldn’t remember the last time she answered one of his missives.

Her hand trembled as she unfolded the single page of standard computer paper. Usually she scanned and filed, giving them little thought. So why the apprehension?

Dear Bri,
Congratulations on making the cover of “Newsweek.” You are looking good as usual.
Forgive me for being brief, but we’ve been busy. Ryan finally got his chance to go to South America on a medical mission. He is leaving with three doctors, four other nurses, and support personnel as soon as their supplies arrive. He took a year leave of absence from work at the hospital. They have assured him that his emergency department position will be waiting when he returns.
Amy is looking forward to finishing up her social work degree. Eventually, she’d like to go back for her masters. Her biggest dream is to accompany her big brother on his next mission. She still plays flute in the college’s orchestra. Ryan and I went to their spring concert.
I keep busy with the farm and church, though I have to admit it gets a bit lonely without the kids or my folks. Yet, I am blessed.
Your husband,
Jason

The personal references surprised Bridget. She turned the dainty gold band on her left ring finger, wondering why he never filed for a divorce. Ms. Landin thrived on being independent and had no intention of remarrying. Flashing her ring warded off many unwanted advances, so she just let her marriage fade into the background.

She scanned the letter again. The word “lonely” leapt from the page, branding her guilty. He had left messages for her at home and at the office on only two occasions, at the death of each of his parents. The rising company star hadn’t even bothered to return his calls. “At least, I had the secretary send flowers,” she muttered to herself.

“No good,” her conscience snapped back. “Bridget Landin, you’re a taker and a user. He needed you and you turned your back on him.”

The slap of reality startled the woman noted for being in control. A soft moan escaped her lips as she slumped back onto the sofa. First the nightmares, now this.

“Guilty, guilty, guilty,” the inner voice blared. She covered her ears with her hands.

* * *

Father Patrick O’Donnel eased his weary frame onto the worn beige couch in his study. His nerves were strung tight after assisting the police in breaking up a turf battle between two gangs. Armed with his bible, he stepped between the warring factions.

Though he endured a barrage of profanity, neither side stepped forward to lay a hand on the man of the cloth. The police surrounded the mob, forcing them to lay down their weapons and dissipate. The sidewalk was littered with knives, guns, pipes, and chains.

He jumped at the sound of the phone. His hand shook as he grabbed the receiver. “Father Pat, this is Eileen at the crisis center. I know you’ve been out on three calls today, but your replacement is dealing with a domestic. I tried a few of the other volunteers but no one can cover.”

The priest collapsed in his office chair. It would be at least two or three minutes before the chatty widow would get to the point.

“…and she sounded desperate. I hate to ask but can you run over and check on her?”

Father O’Donnel rubbed his throbbing head. “Can you give me the name and address?” he asked, struggling to keep his irritation from his voice. He jotted the information on a scrap of paper. “That’s up on ‘Millionaire Hill’ isn’t it?”

“I think so,” Eileen responded. “I guess rich people have their problems too.”

Hanging up, the priest stared at the phone. God was certainly offering him some challenges. Uneasy around the wealthy, he had jumped at the chance to serve his present intercity mission parish fourteen years ago. Maybe he had become too comfortable ministering to the poor, shutting himself off from others in need.

Clad in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, Father Pat mounted the stairs to his bedroom. Having accepted this mission, he wasn’t about to have the door slammed in his face for looking like a vagrant. Quickly, he changed into black slacks and shirt, adding a Roman collar to complete his attire.

A rush of adrenaline shot through his body as he revved up the engine of his ten-year-old Escort. He rehearsed his opening lines, glancing at the note at his side. “Bridget Landin,” rolled off his lips. Where had he heard that name before?

The knots in his stomach grew to epic proportions as he neared the corner lot on Meadowbrook Lane. A huge rod iron gate opened, admitting him to the foreign realm. “No backing out now O’Donnel.” His eyes widened as he approached the expansive, gabled mansion. He couldn’t imagine calling the regal structure “home”.

“Lord, I’m over my head. Please show me how to comfort this woman.” Father Pat took a deep breath and knocked on the intricately carved front door. A ravishing beauty in expensive attire greeted him. He felt as if the wind were being sucked from his lungs.

A hint of a smile crossed Bridget’s face as she watched him recover.

Feeling like a tongue-tied fool, he lowered his eyes. “The crisis center sent me. I’m Father Patrick O’Donnel.” Thrusting out his hand, he forced himself to meet her gaze.

“You’re a priest!”

“Guilty as charged.” After an exaggerated bow, he continued with a slight smirk. “I may not be what ye had in mind, but me own mother dubbed me a good listener.”

Bridget felt her shoulders relax. “If you can deal with a slacking Lutheran, come in.” She led him to a show room, complete with vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows. The pristine white décor was accented with brass and glass. The priest swallowed, wishing he would have left his shoes at the door.

Bridget forged ahead, “Have a seat. I made some coffee. There’s a letter on the table that will help you understand my dilemma. I’ll be back shortly.”

The priest inched his way into the room, picked up the single sheet of paper, then sat stiffly on the edge of one of the side chairs. He smiled as he read about Ryan and Amy. While many criticized today’s youth, he saw in them hope for a more understanding world. The closing caught him off guard. “So, you’re a Mrs.,” Father Pat whispered as he rubbed his chin. He had to admit the woman was clever, using the letter to introduce the subject of her marriage. He studied it more carefully, preparing himself for her return.

Bridget paced in the kitchen, regretting her call to the crisis center. She sought merely to talk through her feelings and relieve her guilt. Her keen insight detected integrity in the priest that would delve into the very heart of her soul, seeking the truth.

Her hand shook as she reached for two large mugs. The cook kept a container of with a variety additives, stirring sticks, and napkins beside the coffee on the shelf. She plopped it on a tray. She filled the mugs and poured the rest of the coffee into a thermos.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the door. “Sorry it took me so long.” She handed him a mug. “Cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine with me.” He stared at her, hardly believing the transformation. Gone was the confident business executive and in her wake remained a frightened child.

Father O’Donnel held out her husband’s letter. “It sounds like you’ve got a couple of great kids.”

“No thanks to me. I traded my family in for all this.” Bridget swept her hand in front of her. “I haven’t seen them in fifteen years.” She hung her head. “Go ahead, chastise me.”

“It seems like you’ve already done that.”

The gentleness of the priest’s voice wrapped the troubled woman in warmth. She dropped her weary body on the sofa. “Where do I go from here?”

“You search your heart.” Father O’Donnel paused, folding his hands.

“But what about my family?”

“Look to the Heavenly Father for guidance. He’ll show you the way.” He picked up the letter. “Your husband confided that he is lonely. Maybe he is opening the door for you.”

“It’s been too long.”

“The road back isn’t easy. Even if it doesn’t work out with your family, God has His arms stretched out. If you let Him in, He will bring you peace.”

“I don’t think peace is possible in my world. Someone’s always nipping at my heels, trying to take over my position.

“Are you sure it’s worth it?”

She bristled. People never asked men about their career sacrifices. Fire shot from her eyes. Seeing concern on the priest’s face, she clamped her mouth shut, letting the sharp retort die in her throat.

“I’m sorry.” Father O’Donnel leaned slightly forward. “I didn’t mean to anger you. It’s just that it’s so easy to get caught up in this fast paced world that we can lose ourselves in the process.”

Bridget nodded, giving him the courage to continue. “We all need a quiet place where we can renew and reflect—a place where we can get in touch with God and ask him for direction in our lives.”

She feared condemnation would flood her brain, sucking her down the sink of insanity. “It won’t work for me.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“May I ask why not?”

Bridget ran her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit she thought she had long outgrown. “I can’t go back… I can’t change the past.”

“You’re right, but you can face it and move on.” Father O’Donnel sipped his coffee. “With God’s help, you can build a better future.”

“I’ll go crazy if I think too much,” she blurted out. Her trembling right hand shot up, covering her mouth.

The priest remained silent.

The dam broke, spilling tears down Bridget’s face. “I just can’t go on like this.”

She sobbed, releasing the pressure that she had been holding back far too long.

* * *

Two months later, Bridget drove a rental car down I-94, heading for Osakis, Minnesota. Under Father O’Donnel’s gentle guidance, she had journeyed from the icy business Madonna and began tearing down the façade she had erected.

The priest had challenged her to venture into the inner city and meet his staff. His jaw dropped when she stepped through the mission’s door, clad in jeans and a T-shirt pulled off a discount rack. She smiled. It was a refreshing change from the hours selecting fabrics, considering design options, and standing for countless fittings only to insure her wardrobe fit the image.

The mission staff welcomed Bridget like a prodigal daughter, wrapping her in enthusiasm. Before she realized it, she was spending Saturdays assisting with the noon meal at the shelter. Immersed in humanity, she felt connected, no longer a lone island in a big ocean.

The beep of a horn snapped her from her reverie. She jerked the wheel just in time to avoid running into the ditch. Her heart hammered in her chest. She took some slow deep breaths, trying to still her shaking limbs.

Five minutes later, the car hummed down the interstate. Bridget spotted a sign revealing ten miles to her destination. Her muscles tensed. “Get it together,” she ordered, frustrated by the queasiness invading her stomach.

As Bridget drove into the small town, she felt transported back in time--to her own Mid-western roots. She passed a quaint little bed and breakfast, resembling her grandmother’s cottage home. Several small buildings nestled it, along with flowerbeds in full bloom. The sign bearing “crafts” beckoned her to explore the handmade creations. “Not today,” she muttered.

Bridget parked in front of a bait shop and pulled out the directions for the last three miles of her journey. “I guess this is it.” Stomach churning, she eased the sedan back onto the road.

Before she was ready, the car slid up to a vaguely familiar farmhouse. The man sitting on the porch straightened his six-foot frame from a wicker chair. His curly, auburn hair danced playfully in the breeze. “Jason,” she whispered, her throat feeling full.

He started toward her, his stride smooth and confident-looking. Bridget freed her sweaty palms from the steering wheel and wiped them on the legs of her jeans. “You’re acting like a school girl,” she chided herself in disgust.

Ms. Landin flung open the door. Jaw set, the businesswoman steeled herself, determined to gain the upper hand. She took three steps before realizing the transformation. She shuddered.

Jason had a playful grin on his face, reminding her he was not the enemy aching to snatch up all that she had worked for. She plastered on a smile. “The place looks wonderful.”

“So do you,” he remarked, his blue eyes shining with admiration. “I prayed so long for this day. I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Bridget felt the color drain from her face.

“I’m sorry,” the rich baritone voice expressed with warmth. “I promised I wouldn’t pressure you.” He tipped his head to the side, his lower lip protruding. “Can you forgive me?”

She laughed. “I never could resist that puppy-dog face.”

“Good.” His eyes danced mischievously. “I’ve got a pot of coffee on. How about a cup?”

“Sounds good to me.” The two sauntered side by side toward the house, their conversation light and impersonal.

As they approached the front door, Bridget asked, “Do you mind if I sit out here and enjoy the view?” She wasn’t ready to face the memories lurking within.

“No problem.” Jason grabbed the doorknob, then turned back. “Do you still like a dab of cream and a pinch of sugar?”

She smiled, warmed that he remembered. “Just black.”

“Coming up.” He slid into the house.

Bridget drank in the wide expanse. Rose bushes in vibrant hues peeked over a white picket fence. Ferns swayed gently along the north end of the porch. The mixture of shapes and colors selected for the multiple beds created a stunning panorama. The plants flowed free and natural, unlike the manicured globes adorning her property. She absorbed the peaceful harmony.

“Sorry it took so long, but the phone rang.” Jason held out a ceramic mug.

She grasped it with both hands, letting its warmth infuse through her skin. “Who’s the landscaper? Your gardens are magnificent.”

“Mom started it. The kids and I just expanded a bit.” He looked down at his feet.

“You could start a new business.” Bridget teased. When he failed to look up, she added, “I see you’re still not good at taking compliments.”

“Not when they come from a beautiful woman.” Jason smiled sheepishly.

Bridget felt her face heat up. He laughed. “You’re as red as the geraniums. I guess we both need a little work on accepting praise.”

She grinned, holding up her right hand. “Truce.” He nodded. “Could you fill me in on the kids?”

“Be glad to.” His eyes danced as he talked, like a little boy sharing a big event.

Bridget sipped her coffee. What had it been like for this man to give up his university teaching position and move back to this small town? He didn’t want his children growing up in a house where she frequently entertained business clients, alcohol flowing freely. He demanded that she find another location for her parties. She refused.

When the call came that Jason’s father was ill, he packed up Ryan and Amy, vowing to keep her updated. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Working sixty hours a week, the rising business star convinced herself that the separation was better for everyone. She was wrong.

“Are you all right?” Jason’s voice pierced her thoughts.

“Can you ever forgive me? I should have been here for you and the kids.”

“I already have. I hope you can forgive me too. You put your career on hold to have Ryan and Amy. I can’t blame you for wanting your chance. I took you as my wife and vowed to be with you through the good and bad. At the first big rift between us, I took the kids and ran. I should have stayed and worked things out.”

“But you sacrificed everything to be a good father. I got so wrapped up in making a name for myself that I sight of everything else.”

Jason leaned forward. “We could go on blaming ourselves forever but what good would it do?” He caressed her free hand between his. “I’ve missed you Bri. I didn’t realize how much until today.”

A lump formed in her throat. “It’s been fifteen years. A lot of things have changed.”

“I know.” He looked up, longing in his eyes. “I hope we can work things out.”

Bridget sucked in a breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.

“What’s wrong?”

“Things are moving too fast.”

“You’re right.” Jason released her hand. “I think that’s part of what went wrong the first time. We reacted instead of taking time to think things through.” He picked up his coffee mug, then rested back in his chair. “Where do we go from here?”

“I’m not sure.” Bridget ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ve spent so long being a cool, controlled businesswoman. I’m working at becoming human again.”

She got up and grabbed the porch rail, staring ahead but seeing nothing. Once her shaking subsided, she turned around, meeting Jason’s puzzled gaze. “I came close to killing myself a couple of months ago.”

He was beside her in one fluid motion, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to run out on you this time.”

A single tear trickled down her left cheek. She dashed it away.

“Bri, let me help you.” Jason ran his finger along her jaw line.

It would be easy to fall into his arms and bask in their comfort. She steadied herself. “I’ve got a lot to work through. I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes.”

He backed up a step, looking like he had been slapped in the face. “You won’t even give us a chance.”

Bridget grasped his arm, longing for their earlier connection. “Please Jason, I thought we agreed to take things slow.”

“I suppose you want me to wait another fifteen years.” He pulled away from her.

“If you’re interested, I’ll be in Minneapolis mid-month.” She pulled a note pad from her purse and began writing. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. My cell phone number and e-mail address are here if you decide to come.” Bridget laid the slip on the nearest chair. Halfway down the steps, a grip on her shoulder halted her escape.

Jason gently turned her around. “You’re serious?”

“At my age, I don’t have time for games.” Tears streamed down her face.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” He handed her a handkerchief, then accompanied her to her car.

“Don’t look so glum.” Bridget smiled.

His boyish grin made her heart flutter, giving her hope for the future. Maybe there would be a way back.


HEY! and don't forget to e-mail Karen O'Leary if you have a comment!


gksm@cableone.net

Author's Note: Karen O'Leary is a Christian wife, mother, nurse, and freelance writer. She has published articles, short stories, and poetry in "Parables", "The Journal of Christian Nursing", "Smile", "Storyteller", "Art With Words" as well as others. She hopes her words will have a positive influence on others.





Return to the Short Stories Room!

Cybergrace Banner Exchange 2000