Page 644 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Sydney was crestfallen. “Tomorrow then?”

“That will be fine.”

Sydney scrambled in her purse to find a pen and scrap of paper to write down the address.

It was nearingthe end of church. Sydney let her gaze wander to the families who were sitting on the pews. The children weregetting restless, and a few of the adults had dozed off. Julie Parkinson and her brood were sitting on the next-to-the-front row. Julie’s husband had his arm draped around her, and she was leaning her head into the curve of his shoulder. Families. What must it be like to be a part of a real family? It had been so long for her that she barely remembered. These people—they all belonged. They had a place, people to love. Her stomach knotted. This was one of the reasons she avoided church. It was so hard to see this much love and know that she could never have it.

The notes to the closing song filled the room. She recognized it instantly,God Be With You Till We Meet Again. It was a song of parting and had a sense of finality. Even though she’d joined the church after her parent’s death, it was this song that reminded her most of them. The lyrics hit her full force. God be with you till we meet again ... when life’s perils thick confound you … put his arms unfailing round you …

Her mind stopped at that line. She ran it over and over again in her mind. Where was God when her parents died? Where was God when she was lying in the hospital? Where was He now? She tried to remember the advice that Stella had given her, but it was no use.Put his arms unfailing round you. She didn’t feel God’s arms around her. She didn’t feel anything. She was utterly and completely alone, and no one, not even God, cared. Tears started gushing like a river down her face. When the closing prayer was over, she fled out of the room and to her jeep before anyone could see.

Sydney roundedthe bend to Mrs. Phillips’ house and had the impression that she’d left the twenty-first century andgone back in time about fifty years to the television showThe Walton’s. A picket fence across the front yard was the only thing missing to make the picture complete. She pulled into the driveway and heard the gravel crunch like crushed ice under her tires.

She knocked and then waited. A couple of seconds later Mrs. Phillips opened the door. Sydney pasted a polite smile on her face and hoped that Mrs. Phillips would remember her. Her fears vanished when she saw recognition in the elderly woman’s features.

“Come in.”

“Thank you.” When Sydney stepped inside, a musty smell swept over her, and she had the feeling she’d opened an old trunk hidden away in an attic. It was as if the aged house had absorbed all of the woman’s treasured memories in its gnarly walls.

“Please have a seat.”

Sydney chose the plastic-covered couch. The material underneath was olive green with an intricate gold pattern swirled into it. She could feel it crinkle under her jeans as she sat down.

“Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

“No, thank you.” How many people still offered lemonade to their guests?

“Water then?”

“Sure.”

Mrs. Phillips returned with the water and a big platter of shortbread cookies. She handed Sydney her glass and then sat down in a recliner directly across from Sydney. She juggled her glass of lemonade in one hand and reached for a cookie with the other. “My doctor gets onto me all the time for eating too much sugar.” She chuckled. “I told ’im that he done stopped doctoringand started meddling. It’s patients like me that keeps him in bid’ness. Anyways, I reckon we all die of something sometime.”

The hint of a smile crept across Sydney’s face. She took a sip of her water and set it on the small round table next to the couch. A creamy lace coverlet caught her eye. She touched it. “This is beautiful. Did you make it?”

“Yes, it’s called tatting.”

“I know.” Sydney rushed on. “My grandmother does it. She says it’s a lost art.”

“Do I know her?”

“Who?”

“Your grandmother.”Sydney’s heart accelerated. She’d let her guard down. One slip of the tongue could ruin everything. “No, she lives in Texas.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re not from around here.”

Sydney nodded. Mrs. Phillips’ short hair wasn’t silver like her grandmother’s, it was slate gray. Mrs. Phillips caught her eyes and held them until Sydney broke away from the woman’s probing gaze. There was a strength, no a light, in those weathered eyes that radiated like a beacon. Even the octagon-shaped glasses that Mrs. Phillips wore couldn’t cover it up. It felt oddly familiar. Where had she seen it before? Ginger! The answer warmed into her consciousness like a ray of sunshine on a cold day. She’d felt that same light in Ginger. It was as if Ginger wore an invisible armor that made her impervious to all the suffering that came from living in this wretched world. Mrs. Phillips had it too.

“So your husband worked at the sawmill before he died?”

“Yes, the sawmill. It always comes back to that.”

The meaning in Mrs. Phillips’ odd words eluded Sydney.

“Buford worked as a log puller. They said he got too close to the saw and a section of log hit him.”

“Yes, I’ve read the report.” Sydney said and then wondered if she was giving away too much information. Thankfully, Mrs. Phillips’ expression didn’t change. Sydney struggled to keep her voice neutral. “The accident report was filled out by Avery McClain. Did you know him?”

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