The Isaac Project
Authors: Sarah Monzon
© Sarah Monzon. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Radiant Publications
Moses Lake, Washington
This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events is strictly coincidental.
Cover photography by Adrienne Scott
Manuscript edited by Dori Harrell
http://doriharrell.wix.com/breakoutediting
For my wonderful husband.
We have a love to last the ages.
1
1
Rebekah
IN THE FOURTH grade we made little rockets out of old film canisters, baking soda, and vinegar. Put in the ingredients, snap on the lid, shake it up, and watch out. The pressure built and—
pew—
that small black cylinder shot to the sky. I felt like that outdated film container. My excitement was building by the second, and any moment I was going to explode and gush all over everyone around me.
I glanced at my watch. Four hours until Poppy’s surprise birthday party, but about twenty minutes too early to head to Frostings and pick up the cake. Barb had specifically told me it wouldn’t be ready until ten.
No matter. This would give me time to pick up my surprise at Hank’s shop. I had spent hours figuring out the perfect birthday present for Poppy. I mean, what did one give to the greatest man in the world? A mug with those words might have worked if I were six, but I needed something more. I needed something that told Poppy just how much he meant to me.
He was, in my humble opinion, the finest man to walk the earth. My parents died in a car accident when I was an infant. Poppy took me in and raised me even though he was already retired and was supposed to be relaxing and enjoying the good life, not changing diapers and waking up for midnight bottle feedings. Growing up, people had always asked me if I felt like something was missing since I never knew my parents. I know it must sound strange, but I never did. Poppy was everything a girl ever needed, and more. I never felt jilted. I only felt loved.
As I walked along Main Street, a chickadee with its telltale black head and bib and white-streaked cheeks crossed my path, hopping across three of the red bricks laid in a herringbone pattern before taking flight and landing on a nearby streetlight. She lifted her tiny beak and sang out—
ti-ti-ti.
I took a deep breath, relishing the soft breeze that teased my hair and the warm sun that kissed my skin. Yes. Today was going to be a wonderful day.
Ducking under the green-and-white striped awning of Hank’s store downtown, I stepped through the entrance. The bell above the door jingled its welcome.
“I’ll be right with you.” A male voice floated from a back room.
Hands behind my back, I scanned the wares on display behind the glass display at the register. A music box with a posed ballerina stared back at me. I bent down for a better look, drawn to it like I was to anything with tutus and pointed dance shoes.
Men’s legs filled my peripheral vision, and I straightened. Hank smiled down at me.
“Would you like me to take it out of the case for you?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.” My fingers itched to turn the key. What music would it play? Would the dancer twirl in a pirouette?
Focus. That’s not why you’re here.
“I’m here to pick up Poppy’s present.”
Hank snapped his fingers. “Right. I have it waiting for you.” He slid his lanky frame behind the counter and bent to retrieve a folded quilt.
My face smiled back at me, hair in long braided pigtails, my adolescent arms wrapped around Poppy’s middle-aged neck. Beside it was another picture—Poppy tall and strong grasping the lead rope of a dapple grey mare, my miniature self sitting proudly on her back. The quilt was filled with pictures of us. Some of my happiest memories he could wrap himself up in.
Emotion clogged my throat as I traced the stitches between the pictures. “Thank you, Hank.”
Color brightened the man’s cheeks as he looked away. “Aw, it was nothin’. Doris did the stitchin’. I just printed them pictures you gave me.”
“It’s beautiful. My thanks to you and to Doris.” I paid Hank for the work he and his wife had done on the quilt and then pushed open the heavy glass doors, the bell jingling at my exit.
The brightness of the midmorning sun caused me to squint, its intensity quickly warming my face and arms.
Barb should be done with the cake by now. Better drop the quilt off at the truck before heading over to Frostings.
I’d left my old black Dodge parked along the street across from the city park. It took a couple of yanks before the door finally opened. Too bad I didn’t have a can of WD-40 lying around on the floorboard. I’d have to scrounge one up before the thing stuck for good.
The blanket found a temporary home in the passenger’s seat before I slammed the door shut again. I rubbed my hands together and licked my lips. Now for Frostings. Maybe Barb would let me sample one of her freshly made pastries.
Giggling drifted from across the street. Curious, I looked over. A couple sat close together on a park bench. The man’s head was bent to the woman’s ear…or was that her neck? She giggled again.
Normally I would have rolled my eyes, but instead I smiled. I knew that feeling. The one you get when you’re so in love you can’t stop grinning or humming for no reason at all. James made me feel that way.
A deep, contented sigh escaped my lips. James Anthony—the kind of guy every girl dreamed about. Pure man, from the top of his Stetson to the bottom of his leather Ariat cowboy boots. Some might consider his somewhat crooked nose a flaw, but considering he’d held on for more than eight seconds on a raging bull, it only added to his dangerous charm.
Speaking of James, he never did get back to me on if he’d be able to make it to Poppy’s party. I pulled out my cell from my pocket and sent him a text. Hopefully he’d respond soon, and we could drive to Grandview together.
The smell of fresh brewed coffee and confectioners’ sugar hit me as I stepped in to Frostings. Barb’s back was turned toward me, her wiry white hair somehow making it past the black hairnet on her head.
“I don’t know how you stay so thin making all these delicious treats all day, Barb. I think I’ve gained five pounds just breathing in here.”
Barb whirled around, her eyes alight. She plopped her hands onto ample hips. “Don’t try to butter me up. I already set aside a cherry turnover for you.”
“You’re an angel.”
A napkin was placed on the counter in front of me, quickly followed by a triangle pastry with red gooey filling. The sugar crystals on top glistened in the bakery’s fluorescent lighting. I sunk my teeth in, my eyes immediately rolling into the back of my head. Heaven. Tart cherry, puff pastry, sugary heaven.
“Poppy’s cake finished?” I asked around a bite of turnover.
She placed a large sheet cake on the counter next to me. Happy birthday in red frosting decorated the top.
Perfect.
“Are you sure I can’t change your mind about the candles?” Barb worried her lip, her hands spinning in a wringing motion. “I have an eight and a zero candle you can have.”
Eighty tiny flames seemed to worry the woman. But what sort of impact would two measly little candles have? None. I pictured the surprise on Poppy’s face when I walked out with eighty lit candles on his cake. That was the look I was going for.
I shook my head. “I’ll stick with what I’d originally planned.”
“Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you if you end up burning that sweet little nursing home down.”
Laughter bubbled inside me. “I’ll be sure to have a fire extinguisher with me.”
Barb rang up the price of the cake and candles on the register, and I pulled out my phone just enough to check if I’d missed a text. Nope. James still hadn’t gotten a hold of me. I’d give him a little while longer, but then I’d have to call him. If he wanted to go to the party together, we’d need to leave early so I could decorate the dining hall.
“See you later, Barb,” I said as I used my backside to push open the door. No point in risking accidently dropping the cake by balancing it in one hand.
I glanced through the large storefront windows as I walked along Main Street back to my truck. The flash of a familiar blue denim jacket had me slowing my steps. James. A smile blossomed in my heart and then bloomed on my lips. His back faced me on the other side of a revolving seed rack. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see me? I balanced the cake in one hand and raised the other to tap on the glass but stopped as his head dipped and angled. Ten perfectly manicured fingers snaked around his waist.
No!
This couldn’t be happening. I shook my head, desperate to make sense of the scene before me and dislodge its searing image.
Maybe it wasn’t James. Maybe it was only someone who had the exact same jacket. I mean, surely the manufacturer made more than just one, right? It was possible the man was someone else. Someone completely not James. Someone with the exact same shade of brown hair and the exact same casual air about him. The same muscular build. The same…
But even as I tried to conjure up different scenarios, my stomach churned itself into a tornado, squeezing bile into my throat.
I couldn’t move.
I wanted nothing more than to be transported to another place, any place. Too bad my brain stopped sending signals to my feet. I was forced to watch in horror as the man I desperately hoped was not James held another woman in his arms, kissing her with a passion we’d never shared.
Violent spasms gripped my muscles. How much longer would my shaky legs hold me? Before I had a chance to find out, the man disentangled his lips from the woman’s. He turned. Our gazes locked. Chocolate-brown eyes peered into mine.
If a heart could literally fall apart into a thousand tiny pieces, mine did at that moment. Shards—that was all that was left.
The tightness in my chest loosened. My lungs expanded as I drew in a breath. I spun on my heel and ran as tears welled in my eyes and blurred my vision. I angrily wiped them away, Poppy’s cake clutched to my chest.
“Open. Open. Open.”
Stupid truck. Stupid, uncooperative truck. The sticking push button and rusty hinges refused to allow me the haven of the cab. I slammed my open palm on the window, the sting a welcome change to the ache in my heart. Finally the lock disengaged, and the door creaked open.