A Fragile Hope - Cynthia Ruchti

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checked for messages from her. Nothing. He unmuted the phone from deadline mode, and punched in her number. No answer. Good. Probably on the road. Probably almost home. Doubt dialed the phone again. The Seedlings & Sentiments landline. Answering machine. He called Karin’s number and left a message this time, regretting his tone as soon as he ended the call. He was tired. She’d understand. She’d forgive him the small offense.

      If not, I can slip her chapter 7 of the book I just finished.

      The thought ricocheted through the empty house. “Don’t let the sun go down on your wrath” doesn’t apply if sunset was more than an hour ago, does it?

      Not wrath. Something between disappointment and anger. Closer to disappointment. She should be here to help him celebrate. Like always. Her absence took some of the joy out of meeting his deadline. Who else did he want to tell? Even if his dad were alive, news like this would elicit anything but what Josiah needed.

      “Couldn’t get a real job, boy?”

      “Dad, this is a real job. I graduated magna cum laude, for Pete’s sake.”

      “And what’s the level just above that? Oh, that’s right. Summa. Kind of like coming in second in a two-person race, isn’t it?”

      Never enough. Never ever enough for the man.

      Josiah set the goblets on the kitchen counter for the postponed celebration and dug into the refrigerator for leftovers. Not what he had in mind. Not at all.

      What just happened?

      Finished the book. Came downstairs to tell Karin. Yada yada, she’s gone.

      Not the ending he’d written into this night. He actually thought the evening would end with a delicious drifting off to sleep, her body curled into his.

      What an idiot.

      No. That was his dad’s voice. His dad’s curse. Josiah mentally walked over to the garbage disposal, tossed the condemnatory phrase through its black rubber flaps, and flipped the switch to pulverize the thought.

      Another round through the house to look for a note or something he might have overlooked. He’d overlooked too much lately. Time for a course correction.

      He set the pear juice on the entry table, sans coaster, and opened the front door again. The street stood empty. And slick with sleet. Now you have me worried, Karin.

      He called again. No answer. He tried Leah’s number, too, digging it out of his contacts list. Straight to voice mail. He hung up and found Wade’s contact info. Wade would know where Leah was. If Karin was with her business partner, Wade might know why and when Josiah could expect her home.

      How hard would it have been for Karin to have left him a note? Or called before she left work? Even though he’d gone dark for the deadline, he would have gotten the message eventually. At least he’d know what was going on. She didn’t have a meeting somewhere, did she? Had she talked about a meeting? The one thing he could count on is that she hadn’t left him.

      Working so intensely had side effects. The latest? His left eye twitched.

      He’d wait another fifteen minutes and then he’d—

      “Worry wrings all the fun out of a relationship.” Chapter 3, wasn’t it? A lot he knew. A shelf full of books—his books—and a nationally recognized reputation as the go-to guy for relationship maintenance and repair, and he couldn’t think of one good reason not to worry.

      A serpent of concern slithered through his abdomen. It bit into the base of his lungs and drained them of air. The closed door whistled a dirge. Ah, something else he’d ignored. The door needed its weather stripping replaced. The winter had been hard on it, too. How fitting that the wind was picking up.

      The pocket at his thigh vibrated. He reached for his cell phone and held it to his ear without moving the rest of his body. “Yeah?”

      “Josiah, my boy.”

      Morris. Not now.

      “You are going to flip over what I’m about to tell you.”

      “Morris, it’s not the best time.” And I’m already flipping out.

      “For this kind of news, it is. Marketing handed you an award-winning, certain best-seller title for that book of yours.”

      “The book.”

      “Yes, the one I expect to see in my inbox by Monday morning.”

      Josiah removed the phone from his ear. Morris Lynch kept talking, but in a thin, distant voice.

      “Are you ready for it? You’re going to do cartwheels, it’s so perfect.”

      Cartwheels? I can’t remember how to walk. “Morris, can I call you back?”

      “Are you sitting down, buddy? Picture this. Face out on the shelves wherever books are sold, as they say. Your book—Love Him or Leave Him.”

      “I don’t know what to do,” Josiah told Sandi, his hands digging deep into her thick butterscotch tresses. How dumb is that? Magna cum laude—and yes, Dad, that’s a real thing—and I’m not sure what to do.

      Sandi leaned into his touch. Silent comfort. Her warm breath exhaled in short puffs of sympathy.

      Foul breath. What had she been eating? Road kill?

      “Get away from me, dog!”

      Sandi scooted back a few feet, then dropped onto the rug in front of the cold fireplace. She’d get over the rejection. In minutes, maybe. A little harder for humans.

      Karin was wrong about one thing: watching ESPN with the sound muted was not “just as good.” But the sports commentator’s voices grated on his raw nerve endings. One voice could change that. Hers.

       I’m home. You wouldn’t believe the traffic!

      But traffic wasn’t an issue in Wisconsin’s version of Mayberry. And this far out of Paxton, the most pressing traffic issue this time of year was—

      Interesting timing. A salt truck barreled past, sending Sandi to the window—more nose prints—and rattling the house’s brittle bones. The sleet must have decided to stay. Karin, you should be home.

      The furnace kicked in, growling like a disturbed bear a month from the conclusion of its hibernation. Would this winter never end? He leaned over the side of his recliner to grab the chenille throw from her chair. It smelled like Karin. Her personal blend—warm and soft and fresh. Like the smell of a sun-dried pillowcase.

      Josiah rubbed his stubbled face and tamped the anger that fought for dominance against what had morphed from concern to worry to fear. Why wasn’t anybody answering the phone? Had he missed a church deal? What night was it? Saturday. He opened the church app and scanned for activities that might have involved Karin and the Frambolts. Nothing. Empty.

      Like the house.

      He surrendered to fear, let it have its say. When Karin finally came to her senses and realized she should have let him know she’d be late, they couldn’t afford a U-Haul of his anger trailing them into a healing future.

      That sounded like a line from his last book. It probably was. Josiah threw the chenille over his feet. Nothing like being nipped by your own words.

      Love Him or Leave Him. Better than the other five title ideas Josiah had presented. Catchy.

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