Love and the Silver Lining (State of Grace)

© 2021 by Tammy L. Gray

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4934-3151-9

Scripture quotations are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Susan Zucker

Author is represented by Jessica Kirkland, Kirkland Media Management.

To my remarkable son, Christian

You are a treasure to me, and the only person I know who loves dogs nearly as much as Darcy does.

This one’s for you.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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19

20

21

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24

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29

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38

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Ads

Back Cover

one

MIDLOTHIAN, TEXAS

I’m supposed to be on an airplane, flying to Central America to teach children to speak English. Instead, I’m sitting on the couch and nursing my third pint of Rocky Road ice cream, watching a Telemundo soap opera in Spanish.

As if the woman on-screen understands my devastation, she cries out and slaps her now ex-boyfriend, who’s cheated twice in the last six episodes. I wish my own heartbreak could be resolved with a hand slap. But I don’t get the luxury of blaming a person. Only rotten circumstances.

You tell him, girl! I say as ice cream dribbles down my chin onto my wrinkled T-shirt. I grab for a towel, but I must have dropped it somewhere between my third trip to the freezer and my pity party on the couch. I check under the coffee table and spot it five feet away, right on the threshold where my living room carpet meets the kitchen tile.

Piper. My three-year-old Maltipoo pops her nose in the air from the spot beside me, her ears keen to hear my next command. From that angle, she could be mistaken for a teddy bear, which is why her breed has been lauded one of the cutest in the world. And my gal is especially beautiful with her soft array of caramel-and-white fur, a little button nose, and a forever puppy face to match her 8.2 pounds. Piper, fetch.

She jumps off the couch, her head swiveling to look for our usual play toy—a stuffed mouse she fell in love with at the pet store.

Fetch the towel. I point to the crumpled blue cloth and give her the hand signal to retrieve it. She’s a smart gal, so it only takes two round trips to the kitchen to find what I’m pointing at. Good girl!

She hops back on the couch and drops the dangling cloth on my lap. I reward her with lots of neck scratches and a few tasty chin licks before I wipe away the rest with the towel she brought me. If only people were as predictable as dogs. In fact, I would venture to bet that if the nonprofit mission organization I chose to partner with were run by animals, they would have told me months ago that the Guatemalan school was in financial crisis and not to spend every free moment I’ve had for the past year desperately raising money to fund my teaching salary.

"Ugh . . . Why?" I scream at the ceiling nearly as loudly as the woman did on my TV. It’s not the first time I’ve yelled at God since getting the heartbreaking news three days ago that my one-year mission trip was canceled, and I doubt it will be the last time. That is unless I quit speaking to Him altogether, which is not off the list of possibilities.

I slam my head into one of my throw pillows, replaying the phone conversation again and again.

I’m so sorry, Darcy, she had said. If there was anything we could do, we would have. They raised our taxes again, and it crippled us.

Rest assured all your money will be refunded.

We’re heartbroken, too, but when God closes one door, He usually has another opportunity just waiting for you.

Then she cried. My sponsor—the woman who walked me through every application, background check, and financial deposit—sobbed on the phone with me for five minutes while I sat there numb and unmoving.

Even now, days later, it still doesn’t feel real to me.

After two years of preparation, one year of brow-beating savings and fundraising, quitting my job, ending the lease on my apartment, and giving half of my worldly possessions to charity, I have nothing except humiliation and a Facebook post with 143 comments. If I see another prayer emoji, I may just smash my computer against the wall.

Piper snuggles under the pillow covering my face and licks at my neck until I sit back up. She knows I’m upset, has sensed it since the moment I ended the worst call of my life, and she hasn’t left my side since. I guess I should be grateful, especially considering I’ve had my phone on do not disturb for forty-eight hours now, so contact with the outside world has been nonexistent.

The screen flashes to a commercial, and I take the opportunity to stretch and use the bathroom. A mistake, considering the reflection in the mirror is as scary outside as the turmoil inside. My hair is matted, and my eyes are dark and puffy from too much TV and not enough sleep. I attempt to make some positive progress and gargle mouthwash. Yeah, it’s no toothbrush, but it’s all I have the energy for.

I flip off the light switch and shuffle back to my couch, now also my bed since I put my mattress in storage a week ago. That day was a celebration, every box a step closer to achieving my goal. We ate pizza, toasted with Dr Pepper and cinnamon cookies. I thought packing day was the first real movement toward the incredible journey God had planned. Who knew it would be the beginning, middle, and final leap off the cliff of disappointment?

The last commercial fades away and my favorite character is back in her living room, tears flowing down her face. She screams she will have vengeance and I believe her, especially when they zoom in close and show the determination in her gorgeous dark-chocolate eyes. I pick up my soupy ice cream container and spoon melting heap after melting heap of sugar into my mouth until my doorbell dings three times with persistence.

Ugh. I should have put that contraption on do not disturb, as well.

Go away! I yell, though it’s likely muffled, since I’m trying to keep the ice cream from running down my chin again. Only one person would show up at my apartment unannounced, and I don’t want to see him right now. Cameron Lee has been my best friend for nearly thirty years, and I have no doubt he will be there for the next thirty. But he’s a lousy liar, and I know he’s secretly thrilled I’m no longer moving away. I told you I needed time.

Well, your time is officially up, he yells back through the door.

I ignore him. It’s rude, I know, but one has that luxury after getting the most devasting news of her life. The way I figure it, I can’t be held responsible for any decisions made for at least four more days.

Darcy. He pounds again.

I ignore him again.

Then it gets quiet, and right when I’m about to sink back into my misery, the lock clicks and my front door swings open.

Crap. I forgot I gave him a spare key.

Cameron strides through my front door like a Spanish soap star, complete with the superhero determination and charming good looks, which he is fully aware of and uses to his advantage as needed. Luckily, I’ve never been swayed much by his sparkling blue eyes or rich brown hair that lies perfectly angled over his forehead.

Holy cow. He waves a hand in front of his nose. Your apartment smells like depression and stale milk.

And then there’s that. The honesty that comes when you’ve known someone since sharing a crib and having your diapers changed at the same time. What exactly does depression smell like?

Something rank. He shuts the door and flips on the ceiling fan. It’s a million degrees in here. Why isn’t your A/C on?

I’ve been practicing getting used to the heat, since the school I was going to only had swamp coolers. I shrug, apathy and resentment rolling through each word. I guess I succeeded.

He pauses halfway through the living room, the tough love, bang-on-the-door guy morphing into a soft mush of pity. Ah, Darc, I’m . . .

I shake my head, not wanting to hear the word sorry ever again. It’s too insignificant for what I’m feeling.

Cameron continues past me toward the hallway, where the thermostat’s located. A click and then cold air rushes through my ceiling vent and down the wall behind me. Piper feels it, too, and snuggles underneath one of my throw pillows to stay warm. Not sure her choice of shelter is the best decision. That pillow has more snot and tears in it than stuffing at this point.

My best friend appears in front of me and squats down so we’re eye to eye. You can’t stay like this, Darcy. It’s not healthy. When I turn away, he pushes aside my trash collection on the coffee table and sits so he’s not having to maintain his balance. Listen. It’s time to pick yourself up, brush off this turn of circumstances, and return to the real world. He picks blanket fuzz from my unwashed hair and attempts to smile. Who knows, maybe all of this will be for the best. Did I mention the dimples? He has two of them, deep and prominent on each side of his winning rock-star smile.

Yeah, even those don’t work.

You think me living out my worst-case scenario is for the best? I cross my arms and sink deeper into the cushions. Gee, thanks. Love the support. Really.

I’m just saying that maybe you’re missing the bigger picture here. He shifts closer. Sometimes it takes having your perfectly planned life detonate right in front of you to discover what you really want. Trust me, I’ve been there.

I press my lips together because I don’t want to admit he may have a point. Along with fundraising until I bled green, I’ve spent the last four months trying to support my friend through the hardest decision he’s ever had to make—leaving the steady yet stagnant praise-team band he’s been a part of for six years to join a secular rock band on the cusp of fame and fortune.

Before I decided to leave it all and go on tour with Black Carousel, do you remember what you said to me?

Not really. I said a lot of things, most of which you didn’t listen to.

He ignores my sarcasm. You said that sometimes the answer to prayer is NO. And like it or not, we have to accept that answer. He spreads his arms. This is your NO. And I’m sorry it happened, and I’m sorry you’re so wrecked by it, but it’s not going to change, no matter how many pints of ice cream you consume.

I look at the ceiling to keep the tears in my eyes from spilling over. I’m not typically a crier, and yet I feel like that’s all I’ve done this past year. First with my parents’ divorce, and now with the annihilation of my dream. You don’t understand.

That’s just it, Darcy. I do understand. I understand more than any person in your life right now. He cups my neck and pulls me forward until I have no choice but to use his T-shirt as a tissue. Sobs come fast and hard, but Cameron doesn’t release me or pull away.

I guess there’s one positive result of my chaos: at least I get to remain in the same country as my best friend. I’d call Cameron the brother I never had, except I do have a brother, and honestly, it hasn’t been all that pleasant. If not burping, farting, or poking fun at my greatest insecurities, Dexter was tormenting me with his body odor and loud music. Cameron, on the other hand, has had my back since we toddled around at our church’s Mother’s Day Out program.

I finally come up for air, and Cam offers me my crusted blue towel. I wipe my eyes and nose before tossing it in my lap. I think I ruined your shirt, I say, pointing at the massive wet circle in the middle of his chest.

He shrugs one shoulder. No biggie. I have a drawer full.

But that’s your favorite, I insist, and finally he catches the joke.

Relief works through his eyes and relaxes his brow. You can’t claim a shirt is my favorite simply because you bought it for me.

I can too, especially if I scrimped and saved for two weeks to afford it.

It was twenty dollars at Target.

Which is a lot of money for a broke teenager. I smile through the mist in my eyes, and he squeezes my hand. And look, it’s lasted you twelve years. How can it not be your favorite?

He nods. You’re right. It is my favorite.

I turn toward my little dog snuggled in the corner of the couch. See, Piper. Give a guy some tears and they always cave.

Cameron snorts and stands, taking my pile of trash with him. So, not to turn on the waterworks again, but have you made any headway with the landlord? He disappears into the kitchen.

I groan and fall back into my new favorite slumped position. Nope. It’s like the old saying: ‘I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.’ And my new apartment isn’t available until September. Thank goodness for online applications or I wouldn’t even have that.

I hear the snap of the trash lid, the refrigerator open and close, and then Cameron returns with two bottles of water.

He hands me one. Does that mean you’re definitely moving in with your mom?

Are you trying to make me cry again?

He chuckles and joins me on the couch this time instead of the hard wooden coffee table. Probably a good thing, since it’s older than I am. Actually, I have been trying to come up with viable options to get you out of it, and I think I may have one.

I feel a spark of energy. Do tell.

Move in with us. I already cleared it with the guys.

The spark fizzles right away. I thought you said ‘viable options.’ Living in that tiny three-bedroom apartment, tripping over you, Brian, and Darrel is ludicrous. Where would I even sleep?

I’ll get a mattress to put on my floor, and you can have the bathroom. Brian’s gone most of the time anyway, so I can use his.

The fact that I’m actually considering this idea instead of staying with my mom is proof that I’ve somersaulted into the Valley of Humiliation. Any minute now, Apollyon will begin slinging his arrows at me.

Just promise you’ll consider it. He falls back and mirrors my defeated position. I need an ally in that apartment.

The tension between y’all is that bad, huh?

It’s been unbearable since I got back into town. Cameron’s roommates are part of the praise-team band he quit to join Black Carousel in February. The tour they went on was only a small stateside three-month trip, but by the time he came home, resentment had ruined seven years of friendship. And hey, it would only be until September. Then I could move in with you and we’d be roommates just like we envisioned as kids.

Oh, to have the luxury of being a kid again. When dreams and hopes and wishes don’t die through the line of an 1,800-mile-away phone call.

I guess we did have some epic sleepovers. Water-balloon fights, bike riding until dusk, Star Wars marathons. And then I turned eleven and my dad said no more. That was when Cam and I made a pact that when we became adults, we’d get our own place and stay up all night playing video games and eating junk food.

We turn our heads to face each other, and Cameron takes my hand. I’ll only say I’m sorry once for feeling this way, because truthfully I’m not sorry, which probably makes me the worst friend on the planet. But I’m relieved you didn’t go. I need you here.

As young as I can remember, it’s always been Cameron and Darcy, Darcy and Cameron. I suppose in a world riddled with failure and disappointment, that one security is worth its weight in gold.

two

I remember a time when I enjoyed going home. When my mom was my best friend and my dad was still my hero and the standard for all the men in my life. Now it’s something I dread. Not just because there’s been nonstop drama since the day my parents said the word divorce, but also because they’ve transformed into people I don’t recognize.

We were a family that went to church on Sundays and prayed around the dinner table. We’d share our highs and lows for the day, listen to my dad as he’d give some funny anecdote from work while my mom would smile and shake her head because he likely said something inappropriate. My dad has always been the social one: handsome, funny, hardworking. A dreamer, some would say, mostly because he was always hatching some entrepreneurial plan to skyrocket his net worth. We’d be driving and he’d point to a house three times bigger than ours and say, One day we’re going to own a home like this on the lake, and your mom and I will spend our evenings fishing until dusk. He did eventually strike it rich, but instead of buying a lake house, he bought two new suits, a convertible, and an apartment in Dallas. But I’m pretty sure Mom got the fishing poles in the divorce, so there’s that.

I trudge up the front steps of my childhood home and try to forget that my dad’s car will never again be parked in the garage. Mom’s called me four times in the last two days, and I’m not really in the mood for a guilt trip. One hour to fulfill my daughterly duty and then I can get back to my own depression.

Mom, I call out as I open the front door. The house is clean, impeccably so. I shouldn’t be surprised. My dad was the slob in the family.

In the back, hun.

Her voice is coming from the master bedroom. The same room that once held a king-size bed my brother and I would jump on to snuggle with them on Saturday mornings. I can barely look at the smaller, more feminine bed frame that’s there now.

I continue my path, down the hall, past my old room that was long ago turned into an office, and into the bedroom suite my parents added on when they first bought the property.

Mom’s in front of the mirror applying eyeliner in just a bra and tight jeans. There was a time she wouldn’t dare be so exposed, but the married weight was another thing that went away with my dad. She’s now thinner than I am.

Perfect timing. I need your opinion on my outfit. She drops the stick and blinks to dry her makeup. Then she’s back in her closet pulling a silky tank top from a hanger. She slides it on, fluffs her blond hair, which is two inches past her shoulders, and does a pirouette. Well, how do I look?

Sad. Broken. But that’s not the answer I’m allowed to give. Beautiful, Mom. What’s the occasion?

I have a date tonight. She smiles wide like it’s a new thing. It’s not. Mom’s been actively dating since Dad carted his last suitcase to the car. I think it’s her payback for my dad’s infidelity. A way to show him she’s still desirable.

I lean against the doorframe and try not to show my disapproval. Is this another one you met online?

No, actually. A friend from work set us up. He’s recently divorced, too, and is supposed to be tall and handsome.

Great. Divorced—check. Attractive—check. Whatever happened to all those lectures I got growing up about wise dating and finding a guy who loves the Lord first and me second? It’s like all the rules and values changed simply because she is no longer married. How is that right?

Anyway, I’m nervous for some reason. She presses her palms to her cheeks and sighs. I think this could really be something.

I can’t hold in my snort. How? You haven’t even met him yet.

Trust me, dear. When you get to be my age, a man who has a steady job and isn’t addicted to smut on his computer is a rare find.

Ah . . . another qualification. Not a loser—check.

If I’d held to the same standards, I’d be married with children already.

Well, have a good time. There’s not a whole lot of feeling in my voice, but that’s not new either. This scenario is just one more thing I’m stuck with now that I’m not moving. My brother gets to live hours away in Oklahoma City with his wife. He’s had exactly four interactions with our mom and dad since they broke the news, whereas I’ve had to be parent, girlfriend, and shopping buddy. And let me tell you, there isn’t much worse than going to Victoria’s Secret with my mom, knowing the items she’s buying are not for my dad.

Mom flips off the bathroom lights and settles into one of the chairs by the French doors to slip on her heels. And how are you doing? Any more thoughts about my offer to live here?

I’d rather camp in a tent in the Amazon rain forest . . . and I loathe spiders. I have. There’s another option I’m considering, as well.

Really? What’s that?

Possibly living with some friends.

Oh. Yeah, I guess that would be nice. Her voice holds a hint of hurt, but thankfully she doesn’t say so. Anyone I know?

I’m not eager to share, but then again, Mom’s recent choices pretty much guarantee I won’t get a lecture on propriety. Yes, actually. It’s Cameron.

Instead of a warning on all the dangers of living with a guy, I get a smug smile. Well, that’s quite a turn of events. I was beginning to think the two of you would never take that leap.

And we still haven’t. Cam and I are strictly platonic.

For now, she says in a singsong, overly romantic voice. But you two aren’t kids anymore. Moving in together is not the same as a Friday night sleepover.

I bite my lip because she just summed up the pressing worry that’s been haunting me since Cameron threw his offer in the ring: could we take this risk and still remain friends?

The two of us are such different people that I’ve often wondered if we would be close friends if we’d met as adults. I’m a realist, the first to call a spade a spade. Cameron will turn a spade into a heart and then try to convince me it’s always been that way. It’s irritating but it’s also him, so I don’t stay mad for very long. In twenty-nine years, there’s been only one fight that’s threatened to sever our bond, and I still blame our parents for it.

When we turned sixteen, our parents began to see our friendship as more, so much so that every time we hung out, they’d start to talk about weddings and how cute our kids would be. Cameron, being the dreamer that he is, bought into the madness and went so far as to ask me out our senior year of high school. We’re perfect for each other, he’d said. It’s so easy with us, and isn’t friendship the foundation of every good relationship?

But I didn’t want just an easy friendship. I wanted passion and flutters in my stomach. I wanted the challenge of learning something new about the person I was going to marry. I wanted more than I knew I’d ever get with Cameron. I told him as much, and he didn’t speak to me for a month. Then one day he called, and we never discussed the issue again.

Truth is, even back then I wanted what I thought my parents had, and now I wonder if maybe I’ve been the one to confuse reality with fantasy because I still want what I remember being so perfect. And deep down, I know he does, too.

Nothing is set in stone, I say, indecision being my new best friend. I still have eight days until I have to move out, and who knows what may come up between now and then.

Okay, well, just know you always have a place here. You’ve taken the news of this trip so hard, I’ve been worried about you.

Despite her tone of concern, I doubt it’s true. Mom hasn’t been a mom in months. Seven to be exact. Sometimes I don’t know who I resent more for it. Her or my dad for making all this happen. Well, no need to worry. I’m fine. Other opportunities will come.

Or maybe this is God’s way of telling you it’s not your future.

I grit my teeth to keep from rolling my eyes. The last thing I want to hear from my mom is a sermon about patience and trust. She’s shown neither.

Darcy, like it or not, it’s a mess out there, and you’re going to be thirty soon. If not Cameron, then find someone else. I worry that if you continue to wait, there won’t be any good guys left.

Yeah, because getting married at twenty-two worked out so well for you. The harsh words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately wish I’d shown more self-control the minute my mom recoils. She’s vulnerable, and I hit the tenderest nerve. I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not technically her fault my parents split up; Dad’s the one who bailed, but deep down I’m still mad at her for giving up. Or maybe for moving on, I don’t know, but it’s there between us every time we interact.

She takes a deep breath and looks up at me. I got thirty-five wonderful years and two beautiful children out of my marriage. You can’t judge the journey simply by how it ends.

My throat burns because it’s the nicest thing she’s said about my father in months. And even though I’ve been too angry to speak to him since the divorce, her words make me miss him so much my chest aches.

She gets to her feet and walks toward me. I know this has been hard for you, Darcy.

I swallow because it’s all I can do to keep from crying. I know I’m an adult and shouldn’t care as much as I do about the split, but I want my family back. Not this broken version of a mom and dad.

Her hands cup my cheeks, and she lightly kisses my forehead. The worst of it is over. And in time, you’ll see how all these disappointments work out.

I wish I shared her optimism, but I don’t. I had it all figured out. Saved every penny for a year, beat the pavement to get support. Studied Spanish until I went cross-eyed. It’s just not fair, I say, more to myself than to her.

No, it’s not. My mom smiles the way only moms can when they’ve lived so much more life than we have. But life rarely is. She clears her throat and drops her hands. Anyway, I better get going. Michael is meeting me at the restaurant in fifteen minutes.

Ugh. I now hate the name Michael.

She grabs her purse from the bed and blows me a kiss. Lock up when you leave, okay?

I will.

After one more check in the dresser mirror, she rushes out in a flurry of perfume and determination. I plop down on the chair she just vacated and close my eyes. Glimpses of the woman I’ve known my whole life are all I get now. Moments of authenticity before pain and bitterness bring her back to reality. I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to spend the next year being angry at God for allowing this to happen. I just want some kind of clarity as to why He gave me a path and then jerked it away before I could even step onto it.

What was the point?

As usual, I hear no grand answer. Just silence. I’m almost getting used to it.

I pull my phone from my pocket and text the one person I know will understand.

Me

What are you up to tonight?

Cam

Nothing really. You?

Me

Giving fashion advice to my mom before her 100th first date.

Cam

Yuck. Wanna come over?

Me

Be there in 5 minutes.

I stand, slip my phone back in my pocket, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Rarely do I see my mom when I look back. She’s tall, while I’m fairly short. She keeps steady highlights in her hair, while mine is the same maple-brown it’s been since birth. And my eyes are my dad’s—a blue-green mix that have always been my favorite feature. Today, though, I see her in my eyes. The sadness, the defeat, the utter lack of any kind of positive future.

I’ve asked why too many times to ask again, so I simply walk away and count today as one more day I’ve managed to survive.

three

My refund check comes on Monday for every penny I sent in—six months’ worth of salary. I should be relieved, especially since my bank account is quickly approaching zero, but mostly it’s just the final confirmation that my trip was canceled. Cameron’s right. No amount of ice cream is going to change that very real fact.

Only about a third of the money was my personal savings. The rest represented hours of PowerPoint slides and pitches to mission teams in churches all over Ellis County. The same teams that will eventually get all their money returned. Just not today.

Today I’m going to pretend that my life isn’t completely spiraling out of control.

I park my truck along the curb and make sure to lock the doors before heading up the sidewalk. Bryson’s one-bedroom rental is in what most would consider a