The Best Next Thing

But he still seemed so weak.

She shook herself and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist.

None of your business, Charity, she reminded herself. Absolutely none of your concern if the damned fool man wants to kill himself!

Still, she kept lifting her eyes and taking peeks out of the back window. Hoping to see him plod his way up the back garden path toward the kitchen door.

Instead, all she saw was Amos who caught her eye and waved at her with a happy grin. He had popped in earlier with a few cut proteas for decorating the house. She waved back, her thoughts still on her boss. She barely noticed when Amos drifted out of sight again.

She still had no real clue what was wrong with him, and she wondered what manner of illness could have laid her previously infallible-seeming boss so very low.

She once again reminded herself that it was none of her business, but it was hard not to speculate. Part of her wanted to ask, reasoning that it would be better if she knew, in case of relapse. The other part didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to care or be concerned over what could possibly happen to him out here in the wild with no medical assistance close by.

Her phone chimed, and she wiped her hands on a tea towel and reached into her apron pocket. She didn’t often receive messages. Over the last six years, all but the most stubborn of her friends and family had given up on her. With good reason…she had retreated, kept them at bay. Been uncommunicative and emotionally, mentally and physically distant.

Only her sister, parents, and best friend had remained in contact. They were her tether to the “real world”, as she had started to think of it. This wasn’t her life. It was temporary. Yet temporary had somehow gone from “just a few months” to three years, and she still wasn’t sure how that had happened.

Life here was so…uncomplicated.

She checked her message. It was from her sister, Faith.

Cherry, we need to talk. I know you hate unannounced calls, so fair warning. I’m calling in 5, 4, 3…

Her phone rang.

Charity swallowed past the lump in her throat as she stared at the device. She hadn’t spoken with her sister in months.

“Hello?”

“Cherry, you okay? You sound sick?” Charity fought back both a smile at the sound of her sister’s voice and a swell of revulsion at the nickname.

He had used it often. Sweetly at first, then more and more mockingly until—by the end—she had cringed every time he said it in that sickeningly tender, taunting way of his.

Cherry baby, you’re mine. All mine. My cherry little Cherry.

“Uh…I’m fine,” Charity said, beating back the memory of that voice. Of how he would call her…playfully stretching the nickname out over several syllables while he hunted for her. He had taken a sweet—somewhat silly—nickname, bestowed upon her by her loving family and he had weaponized it. Turned it into something ugly and repulsive.

“Look, Gracie’s birthday is coming up, and I want you here.”

Charity was well aware that her niece was turning six next month but had hoped she could get away with sending a gift and making a phone call.

“Faith, things are crazy here. My boss showed up unannounced and…”

“We’re having a party,” Faith interjected. “And she’s asked if you’ll be here.”

“The timing is—”

“I told her you would be here,” her sister interrupted again.

“My boss has been ill. I can’t simply up and leave without warning.”

“Charity, it’s been three years.” Her sister’s voice—gentle and laden with empathy—undid her. So much sympathy, love, and understanding.

But Faith didn’t understand, not really. None of them did.

“I won’t pretend to know why you’ve felt the need to uproot and move to the middle of nowhere. I thought after Blaine…you’d want to pick up where you left off with your career. Instead you put your life on hold to become a frikken housekeeper. I recognize that you needed the space, and we thought we were doing the right thing in giving it to you. But we shouldn’t have done that. You need us. You need your family. We should never have allowed you to grieve alone. Because you haven’t healed at all, have you? You can’t move past this. We all miss Blaine, Cherry. We all loved him as much as you did, and we’re all grieving his loss. But when you left, it felt like we lost you too.”

They thought that she grieved for him. Missed him, loved him…that man. Her husband, Blaine Thomas Davenport. The man who had beaten her, kicked her, raped her, abused her almost every day of their three-year marriage. The man who had tried to kill on her that last horrific night.

Her family thought he had been a good man, and they mourned his loss.