Scrapping Plans Read online

  Copyright © 2009 by Rebeca Seitz

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-0-8054-4692-0

  Published by B&H Publishing Group,

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: SISTERS—FICTION

  SCRAPBOOKING—FICTION

  INFERTILITY—FICTION

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty -Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty–Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  To my wonderful husband, Charlie, who makes my life a true fairy tale. I love raising a family with you.

  Acknowledgments

  As with every endeavor I undertake, this book would not have been possible without the support and patience of my precious husband, Charlie. His ability to overlook my craziness in talking to the characters rattling around my head— even arguing with them out loud!—is invaluable. He treats my writing as a serious activity that must be supported and encouraged. For that I am incredibly grateful.

  Joy’s story would have been nearly impossible for me to write without the help of Charlie’s sister, Sara Fawcett. Sara, you are one of the most gracious, elegant women I’ve had the pleasure of knowing in this lifetime. I admire your dedication to both family and career and am thrilled that you and Louis have realized your dream of parenthood through the adoption of Maddie. Thank you for sharing your story of traveling to China to get Maddie and for letting me share a portion of it with my readers.

  When Charlie and I moved to Kentucky to be closer to my family, I didn’t know how helpful that would be to my writing. My parents, Herman and Linda DeBoard, have astounded me with their support and praise (and probably sold more books than any bookstore in the country!). I know I wasn’t the easiest child in the world to raise, guys, but thanks for teaching me God’s ways and turning me to Him. I love being your daughter. I also have to thank my sister, Christie Ricketts, and her family—Randall, Alex, and Katie. I have no idea how many hours y’all have spent watching Andy so that I could write and Charlie could get things done outside. Thanks for making my life work!

  As always, I’m blessed to work with some truly outstanding people in the publishing industry. My fabulous editor, Karen Ball, kept me going when I wrote my way into a corner. Thank you, my friend, for the ideas and encouragement throughout the writing of this story. My “guru” agent, Steve Laube, steers me with unfailing wisdom and wit. Thanks, Steve, for representing my writing and for walking me through the sticky situations that inevitably arise in the process.

  Since releasing the first Sisters, Ink book, I’ve been so honored to receive tons of e-mail from you, the readers. I love hearing your feedback and I keep all of your e-mails! Thank you for taking the time to let me know what you think of these characters and stories as well as for sharing your personal struggles and triumphs with me. Keep those e-mails coming: [email protected].

  Finally, thank You, Lord, for giving me stories to write and for creating a path of publication for me. I love how You use this unworthy but willing woman and am so astounded to be a part of Your story. I know I don’t deserve any of the treasures of this life you’ve written and I thank You for granting me worth and value as Your daughter. As long as You give me breath and purpose it for me, I’ll praise You and write the stories You let me see. I love You.

  One

  I’ve tried to be happy. I try so very hard. Yet the frigid granite beneath my fingertips is a blazing desert compared to the barren iceberg of my womb. What woman could be happy with a monolith of ice blocking her very female essence?

  This kitchen is perfectly planned. If Martha Stewart visited, she’d be envious of my exquisite arrangement of pears and apricots, dusted with the slightest coating of glaze and balanced artfully in Momma’s old bowl. She would gasp at the coordination of stripe to check, plaid to French country print, that draws the eye around the room. Her Tod-slippered feet could sweep across my stone floor and arrive unspecked at their destination.

  And if the Great Martha were to stop there, I would measure up. My life would hold a semblance of value, of worthiness.

  Most stop there.

  Thank God.

  I don’t mean that irreverently. How can I be irreverent? I’m the grateful adoptee of an upright preacher man and his loving wife. I’m the epitome of “grateful recipient.” All of Stars Hill would tell you that.

  They don’t look past my kitchen.

  Thank God.

  But I don’t have much time to stand here, staring at a House Beautiful workspace. Scott will be home in two hours. And duck a l’orange is not an easy dish for even one so seasoned as I.

  Is it odd that I love French food yet Chinese blood runs through my veins? Hmm. Perhaps if I’d been raised on the soil my mother trod, I would know and appreciate more of the cuisine of the Asian world. I might even be privy to which province most suits me.

  I should visit China.

  Did I just think that?

  I can’t visit China. Daddy, that blessed preacher man, would be hurt if I went in search of a mother who was never Momma. Of a woman who took one look at me, then left me bawling on a doorstep in the dead of night.

  Then again, Daddy has Zelda these days.

  Now Zelda, there’s a woman who follows every fancy. What a strange little bird she is. Those fiery red spikes in her hair make me think of a surprised woodpecker—or the recipient of an errant lightning bolt. When she smiles, her whole face turns upward. I hear we have that in common. I wish I could remember seeing a smile on my face. But when I’m alone, with a mirror reflecting the mystery of me, it isn’t a smile that comes to bear. Besides, what kind of lady wears spurs on her cowboy boots? Honestly, spurs! Why, one of these days she’s going to rip a gash in Daddy’s ankle while they do do-si-dos around the Heartland dance floor.

  I assume that’s what happens inside that wretched place. How Kendra and Tandy can spend their Friday nights there is beyond me. To each her own, I suppose. Though my own will never involve cowboy boots and a twanging fiddle.

  Do fiddles twang?

  Maybe I meant guitar.

  No matter. I have a duck to prepare.

  * * *

  “DID YOU SEE HER?”

  Kendra tripped over the uneven sidewalk and grabbed Tandy’s arm. Cold gusts of wind beat at them, pelting them with snatches of icy rain.

  “Hey, watch it, sister!”

  “Sorry.” Kendra kept walking, shooting a murderous look back at the beguiling concrete. “We need to bri
ng up sidewalk maintenance at the next town meeting.”

  Tandy patted the coffee-colored hand still crooked in her elbow. “Now, Kendra, don’t be getting all drastic on me. Can you imagine what poor Tanner would do if we dared question the maintenance of our fair Stars Hill?”

  “Huh.” Kendra huffed and let go of Tandy to stuff her hands in her pockets. “Probably remind us of all he’s done to keep this town in antique replica streetlights and ten o’clock curfews.”

  “At least the curfews are gone.”

  They pulled their hoods up and stepped down from the sidewalk to cross College Street.

  “I wonder how many times Daddy would have had to bail us out if they had that curfew when we were in high school?”

  Tandy tucked a curl behind her ear and took long strides toward Clay’s Diner. “I seem to recall a certain sister needing to be bailed out anyway.”

  “There was no bail involved. Just a minor misunderstanding.”

  “That the whole town talked about for months.” Tandy grinned and pulled open the door of the diner. Heated air billowed out a welcome. “After you, con woman.”

  “Yeah, keep it up, sis. I can always bring up improper car racing at the next town meeting.” Kendra sailed through the entry, ignoring Tandy’s rejoinder of “You wouldn’t!” and hung her dripping coat on one of the hooks by the door.

  Tandy sloughed off her own navy pea coat and stamped her yellow rain boots. “Would you?”

  Kendra spun on a heel and walked off toward “their” booth in the back corner. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “There’s my darling wife!” Clay Kelner came around the counter toward them.

  Kendra rolled her eyes and snatched up a menu. “Oh, spare me. Shouldn’t the newlywed bliss have worn off by now?”

  “What are you upset about?” Clay allowed a quick glance for his sister-in-law, then bent and dropped a peck on Tandy’s upturned lips. “Are you and Darin fighting?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Tandy leveled a gaze at her sister. “Because Kendra is too busy spying on Joy to pay attention to her man and get their wedding planned.”

  “Joy? The perfect one? Mrs. Plan-Everything-to-Death?” Clay’s eyebrows rose. “Why are you spying on Joy?”

  “Because something’s wrong and I’m the only one in this family paying attention, that’s why.” Kendra slapped the menu on the table top. “And wedding plans are coming along just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Sure you’re not just being your usual dramatic self?” Clay fast-stepped back before Kendra could swat him. “Lovable dramatic self, I mean!”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.” Kendra pointed the menu at Clay, then Tandy. “You laugh now, but something’s up and we need to find out what before it gets so bad we can’t fix it.”

  “Well, can we at least get some food first?” Tandy snatched the menu and put it back in its holder. “I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

  “The usual?”

  Both girls nodded, and Clay turned back toward the kitchen.

  When he’d gone, Kendra studied her sister. “Tandy, I know you think I’m nuts. But didn’t you see her at Darnell’s? I mean, she stood over that display of oranges for at least a full minute, just staring into space!”

  “Yeah, I saw her, Ken.” Tandy sighed. “But you know Joy. She’s not going to appreciate us marching into her house and demanding to know what’s wrong.”

  “She wouldn’t care if Meg did it.” Kendra sniffed.

  “Yes, she would. And she’s closer to Meg because this is exactly the kind of thing Meg wouldn’t do.”

  Kendra huffed and turned away. Rain sluiced down the windows, making the streetlights outside sparkle. Inside every table was filled with Stars Hill town folk happily spooning up chili and vegetable soup. If we don’t figure this out soon, they will. And then Joy will be the talk of the town. She pulled out her cell phone and punched buttons.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Meg.” Her faux ruby ring glinted in the light when she held up a finger to stop Tandy’s objection. “Hey, Meg, it’s Kendra. Tandy and I are at the diner and wondered if you could drop by. Call me as soon as you get this.” She snapped the phone closed and dropped it back in her giant suede bag, now splashed with raindrops.

  “And what will that accomplish?”

  “We’re going to have Meg talk to Joy about this.”

  “Since when can we get Meg to do anything? Did you discover a magic wand I don’t know about?”

  Kendra pushed her mahogany-colored spirals back into the burgundy head wrap from which they had escaped. “She’s been wanting me to paint a mural on Hannah’s wall for a month. I think she’ll do just about anything to see it finished.”

  Tandy leaned back in the seat and whistled low. “Remind me never to underestimate you, sister.”

  Kendra stopped fixing her hair and leveled a stare at Tandy. “You better believe it.”

  Two

  Vivaldi. I love the lyrical playfulness of Vivaldi. Kendra can have her Otis Redding, and Tandy can listen to Martina McBride all day long. But give me a season set to Vivaldi and I am a happy woman.

  At least as happy as is possible these days. Scott is late getting home. That’s understandable. Why rush home when the only thing there to greet you is a frozen shrew of a woman? That’s what I’m becoming. I’ll bet anything that’s what he sees when he looks at me.

  Which isn’t often.

  I remember how his gaze landed on me in the early years of our marriage. Like I was a prize, a beautifully kept prize, just for him. I would catch him staring over the flickering candlelight on the dinner table and he’d smile, and I would know just what he wanted for dessert.

  He wanted me then.

  Before the wanting was replaced by the function of me.

  I wish I could remember exactly when that happened. When I decided to be a birthing vessel rather than his wife. If I had realized the two could be separated, that being unable to be one would give the other lordship over our marriage, perhaps I—

  No. I couldn’t. Haven’t I proven how unable I am? Despite following every step in every book. Months of testing, minute after minute ticking away as we waited for the extra pink line to appear. That expectant look on his face when I stepped out of the bathroom. The fallen features when I shook my head.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  My life’s irony cuts deep. My mother did not want to birth me. And all I want is to give birth.

  * * *

  “HAIL, HAIL, THE gang’s all here.” Clay’s voice boomed across the counter. “Meg, what can I get you?”

  Meg plopped into the booth beside Tandy and glanced at their dishes. “Chili and tea, Clay. Thanks.”

  Clay nodded and turned toward the kitchen.

  Meg focused a laser-sharp gaze on Kendra. “And you can tell me why I just left my house so fast my socks don’t match and my scarf is hanging in my hall closet.”

  Kendra sat up straight. “Who cares about your socks when Joy’s in trouble?”

  “What trouble? Joy doesn’t get into trouble unless there’s a six-step system for it.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.” Tandy twirled her straw.

  Kendra tapped the table with a long purple fingernail. “If Joy wasn’t in trouble, then why did she stand stock-still in the middle of Darnell’s staring at oranges like they held the secret to Jesus’ return?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Meg slumped in the booth. “She was probably checking them out for orange rot or whatever disease oranges get.”

  Tandy’s curls rustled as she shook her head. “No, she wasn’t. She stared, but not at the oranges. At, I don’t know, something else.”

  Meg looked back and forth between her sisters. “What are you two talking about?”

  “It’s like I tried to tell you on the phone. There’s something wrong with Joy.”

  “There’s nothing�
��”

  “And we think you should find out what.” Kendra dropped her gaze and became seriously interested in the fried green beans on her plate.

  “Whoa. What? You think I’m going to jump all up in Joy’s private business because you two saw her look at an orange funny? Maybe the orange rot is in your brains.”

  Kendra leaned across the table. “I’m serious, Meg. Something’s up and either you find out what, or I start shadowing her everywhere until I figure it out.”

  Meg sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Please tell me you have more to go on besides Joy investigating oranges.”

  “Oh yeah, lots more.” Kendra shifted in her seat. “She was working on my hair last Tuesday, and right there in the middle of cutting, she froze. Had my hair in between her fingers and scissors ready to go. I thought she must have seen something out the window, so I tried to turn and look. That pulled my hair out of her hand, which woke her up.”

  “Did you ask her what she saw?”

  “Of course I did. She acted like nothing had happened.”

  “What?” Meg looked to Tandy, who nodded confirmation.

  “And did you see her at church on Sunday? She didn’t take the first note of Daddy’s sermon.”

  “Are you sure?” Meg scrunched her nose. “Joy has been taking sermon notes since we were in junior high.”

  “Not one drop of ink touched the page. I watched the whole time.”

  “Maybe she was just distracted.”