Free A Promise of Forever by Marilyn Pappano Page B

wondered if he realized he’d referred to Patricia as Mom. It was the first time she’d heard it. “Is that why you bought the loft near the baseball field?”
    He grinned as they drove past the last house on the right and the road took a sharp curve through a stand of trees. “It’s a great place—tall ceilings, hardwood floors, nice views, convenient to work.”
    “And the baseball field.”
    “Okay, yeah, the fact that I can walk to the games in two minutes might have influenced me a bit.”
    His grin was boyish and charming and made her feel younger and prettier and freer.
    “I don’t like baseball,” she said, “but I could be persuaded to attend a game with a hot dog, a cold beer, and something fun to do afterward.”
    His smile was sly. “I’ll check the schedule and let you know.” After taking a long drink of limeade, he gestured to the farmland they were passing, broken up by occasional slashes of woods. “Did your grandparents raise their own stock for the nursery?”
    “Don’t I wish. I could have been driving a tractor by the time I was ten. They bought from some small producers, but most of their suppliers were big commercial farms. Nope, this is where we’re headed.” Flipping on the blinker, she slowed and turned into a dusty long driveway that led between two pastures to a clearing a quarter-mile back.
    Though it was barely eleven thirty, Avi was surprised to see that the gravel parking lot was empty. She parked a few yards from the church sign that had stood for decades between two metal poles. Though the glass that had protected the letters lay shattered on the ground, their message was still visible: Jordan Bible Church. Sun School 9:30. Church 10:15. Sun Night: 6. Wed night: 7. Rev. Tom Brady.
    Climbing out of the car, she closed the door with a thud that sounded extra hollow. “It never occurred to me that the church had closed,” she murmured. “The people who came here were so dedicated.”
    Her gaze swept across what had once been neatly manicured yard. Now the entire area had been claimed by Johnson grass, six feet tall with stems thicker than her index finger. Popi had considered Johnson grass a scourge, but once it got its roots in, he’d said, There’s no going back. The war has begun.
    Her heart hurt as she looked at the church itself. The white paint that had once gleamed was faded and dirty. The screens over the windows were rusted, a few hanging crookedly, and only the hardiest of perennials survived in the old flower beds.
    Avi walked toward the church, kicking up dust in the gravel lot with every step. When Ben joined her, she gestured toward the small, sad building. “GrandMir and Popi brought me here every Wednesday night and twice on Sundays. They opened the windows and handed out little paper fans to help keep the air stirring, and they sang and prayed like nobody’s business.”
    They were at the sidewalk before the path became visible, four feet wide and winding through weeds tall enough to hide them both. Stumps of mowed-down stems poked through the soles of her shoes as they walked to the cemetery.
    “Little country cemeteries are the best,” Ben remarked quietly, his hand resting on the curved metal arch that topped the gate. “My grandparents and my father are buried in one north of Sand Springs.” He swung the gate open, its squeaks sounding like feeble birds in the shady copse.
    She walked through. The old brick path was mostly buried beneath leaves and dirt, but the headstones were in good shape. Someone was taking care of the fifty or so graves, even if the church had fallen into disrepair. It was harder to leave a person behind, even just his memory, than a building.
    Though she hadn’t been there in years, Avi found her grandparents’ graves easily. Their marker was black marble, engraved with their names and birth and death dates, along with GrandMir’s favorite Bible verse: Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you. 1 Peter 5:7 A