Always the Baker, Never the Bride (20 page)

“You can be straight with me.” Jackson felt the weight of the words close in on him a little. “What’s changed?”

He cleared his throat, then he leaned back against the cold metal scrollwork.

“I guess—” He paused and cleared his throat again. “Well. Losing Desi was quite a blow for me, Miguel.”

“I know it had to be.”

“I never thought I’d find someone like her. And nobody else thought I would either.” He chuckled. “I was all about business and more business.”

“I remember,” Miguel added softly.

“But she was the first and only woman I’ve ever loved in my life. Losing her was like cutting out a chunk of me.”

Miguel gave Jackson’s shoulder a couple of firm pats, then Jackson turned toward him and looked him squarely in the eye. “Having someone tell me that God had a plan in that kind of thing, Miguel … well, that was something I just couldn’t hear.”

Miguel nodded thoughtfully. “And now?”

“I still can’t hear it, even now. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to hear it.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Miguel stated. “Do you want to know why?”

Jackson sighed. “Sure.”

“Because the God that I was talking about lives inside you. He always has. And even though things happen that we can never understand, that we can’t reason out or make sense of, He is still there. Your mind is battling against your spirit right now, but deep inside I believe you know the truth.”

Jackson inched forward slightly to the edge of the slatted wooden bench.

“There’s a saying in Latin,” Miguel continued. “
Vocatus atque non vocatus dues aderit.
It means, ’Bidden or not bidden, God is present.’ “

Jackson sighed. This was what he had been avoiding all along: a sermon from the gospel according to Miguel.

“Whether you call upon Him, or whether you don’t, God knows the pain in your heart, Jackson. He understands that losing Desiree was worse than a knife cutting straight into you. When you cry, He cries with you, and He wants desperately to heal those wounds if you’ll just allow Him to do that.”

“Miguel,” he said, and it pained him as he prepared the words. “No one has what I need to heal my wounds. Desiree is not coming back, and as long as she’s gone, there is no healing balm strong enough, no words comforting enough, and no quotations relevant enough to fill this huge empty hole that was left in me when I was robbed of my wife. Does that make sense to you?”

As he leaned toward this young pastor and clenched his teeth tight, feeling the muscle along his jaw jumping, Jackson thought for a moment that he could see his own reflection in Miguel’s reaction.

“Yes,” he said softly. And then with an unexpected boldness, he continued. “I understand that this is the way you feel. But feeling a certain way doesn’t make it true. And there actually is a healing balm strong enough to heal you, Jackson.”

“Please just leave my spirit alone,” he snapped, then he inched forward again on the bench. “Move along.”

“I can do that,” Miguel replied. “And I will. If you’ll just do me one favor.”

Jackson looked into his eyes and saw what was coming before the words were uttered.

“Just let me pray with you one time.”

Jackson sighed, and Miguel quickly bowed his head and placed his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Lord Jesus, only You can fully know the pain and suffering Jackson has endured since the loss of his wife, and only You can comprehend the amount of grace that is needed to heal his heart.” Jackson felt something buckle inside of him. He hadn’t thought about Desiree’s unwavering and, truth be told, irritating faith in God for a very long time. Suddenly, it came barreling back to his memory with a powerful thud.

“Don’t turn your back on God,” she’d said to him from her hospital bed, so frail that he could hardly hear the words. “Let Jesus heal you, Jackson. Don’t harden your heart. He’ll bring you out of this toward someone new to love.”

Jackson shook the memory from his head. The soft
beep-beep-beep
of the monitors behind her bed lingered now, years later, and he rubbed his temple in an attempt to silence the horrible sound.

“I ask You now for a supernatural healing of Jackson’s heart and spirit, Lord Jesus. Point the way to a road of hope, and bring joy back into—”

“Enough,” Jackson muttered, bringing Miguel’s prayer to an immediate halt. “I’m sorry, Miguel,” he said, pushing to his feet. “But … enough.”

Jackson felt dazed as he plodded toward the French doors. That one step back into the house felt like a wall to climb, and he made his way through the dining room, down the hall, and into the parlor, where he folded into a chair by the window.

“Jackson?”

He heard Emma’s voice, but he couldn’t even raise his head. Rubbing his temples with both hands, he managed, “Not now, Emma.”

“Can I get you anyth—”

“Not now.”

He hadn’t meant to snap at her that way, but his filters were out of whack at the moment. Remorseful, he looked up with the intention of apologizing, but Emma was nowhere to be seen. Jackson was alone in the parlor; more alone than he’d have thought he knew how to be.

Emma found herself remembering a pillow fight she’d had at a slumber party in the 9th grade. One of the feathers from Jenny Jacoby’s pillow had floated right into Emma’s eye and, no matter how many times she tried to pull it out, she just couldn’t manage to get hold of the thing.

That’s how sleep was treating her now.

She’d flopped over onto one side, and then to the other, and again to her back. She’d tried propping her head with an extra pillow, and she’d even pushed all the pillows away and had lain out flat. Deep breathing. Counting puppies. Eyes closed, eyes open, fists balled, fists relaxed, arm at her side, arm over her head.

Nothing!

She finally gave up on sleep and surrendered to wide awake, padding through the dark into the living room and sinking into the easy chair. Just about the time that she decided a cup of chamomile tea might do the trick, Emma was distracted by the sudden memory of Jackson’s behavior earlier in the evening.

When he and Miguel had finished their talk, Jackson had stumbled into the house like a man under the influence. He was disheveled and pale and hadn’t looked a single person in the eye as he wandered past them into the living room, his expression pained and heartbreaking.

A blush of heat sparked on her neck as she remembered the way she’d stomped outside and demanded that Miguel tell her what he’d said to Jackson.

“He’ll be fine,” Miguel had stated with assurance, but he’d been wearing a similar pained expression. “He just needs some time to process.”

“Process what?” she’d asked. “Is there anything I can do for him?”

“Not tonight.”

Emma raked her fingers through her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, securing it with the cloth band on the table beside her. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face as she recalled the steady burn she’d seen in Jackson’s eyes, then she folded her arm on the chair and dropped her head on it, staring out the window.

For a moment, she tried to imagine what it must be like to love someone so completely, and then have them stolen from your life. Emma’s heart ached a little, and a thin glaze of tears rose in her eyes and just stood there, distorting the street lamp blazing from outside the window.

Emma hadn’t done much praying in recent years, or given much acknowledgement to God at all, for that matter. But just then, under the cover of darkness in her apartment, she suddenly felt a desire to pray.

She blinked, and the tears cascaded down her face in streams. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her knit pajama top, and then sniffed back another wave.

Help him, Jesus.

It was all she could manage, but it was heartfelt.

“Please help him, Jesus,” she said aloud. “He’s so lost.”

She recalled how raspy his voice had been when he’d snapped at her. “Not now, Emma.” She’d backed out of the living room as if she’d been confronted by a lion. And then the anger had risen up in her, an unjustified, inexplicable anger that she’d meant to take out on Miguel for upsetting him. Until she’d seen that Miguel was hurting as much as Jackson had been.

The anger was gone now, the pocket where it had been earlier now filled and overflowing with heartache instead.

“He’s hurting so badly,” she said, her eyes clamped shut and her face buried in her hands. “He needs to be comforted and encouraged. Please don’t let him hurt like this. I can’t bear to see that kind of pain in him. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a good man, Lord.”

Emma stopped herself, opened her eyes and sat there frozen.

She hadn’t acknowledged His
Lordship
in her life for a very long time. Or had she ever? But in that moment, as she cried out to God on Jackson’s behalf, she’d instinctively called Him “Lord.” And it stunned her.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered. “Forgive me.”

In the hour that followed those few simple words, Emma had cried so hard that her ribs ached. She wasn’t clear whether she was crying for Jackson or for herself, or maybe for the both of them, but when she blew her nose and plodded off to bed, she was completely spent. Once she climbed under the covers and rested her head on the pillow, sleep overtook her.

Jackson had taken to enjoying his mid-morning coffee at one particular table. He liked it there in the empty restaurant, the sun streaming through the window and filtered by the chiffon curtain, just the distant hum of conversation or laughter between Emma and Fee in their nearby kitchen.

This particular morning, he’d brought along the full pot from his office and settled at his favorite table while they were whipping up some cake samples in Emma’s kitchen. He remembered hearing about two afternoon meetings with potential wedding bookings. The aroma of apples and cinnamon floated its way up his nostrils, and he hoped a sample of the finished product would find its way to his office as often happened. He’d gained at least five pounds since Emma Rae Travis had come into his life, but his taste buds blocked all paths toward caring.

He didn’t hear the lobby door open, but the click of heels that followed alerted him to an arrival. Disappointment pinched at him. He’d hoped to have a little more peace and quiet; just a few more minutes, anyway.

Just as Jackson downed the last of his coffee, he was startled to find an older woman standing regally in the doorway, decked out in a mint green evening gown, long white gloves,
and a tiara.

“May I help you?”

“What is your name?” the woman asked him, planted in her spot.

Jackson got up from his chair and replied, “Jackson Drake. I own The Tanglewood. Can I help you find someone?”

She didn’t reply. The woman simply tilted her head slightly, allowing an overhead sunbeam to ignite her gray hair until it looked like a shiny silver helmet beneath a dazzling crown of fire.

“Are you here to book a wedding?”

The woman chuckled at that, and her eyes sparkled. “My, no. Unless you’re asking.”

It was Jackson’s turn to laugh.

“Are you meeting someone?”

“Yes. I’m meeting someone,” she said as she looked around her. “But I think I’m early. Can I wait with you?”

“Of course,” he replied, and he walked toward her and offered his arm. “I’m having coffee. Would you like some?”