The Returning Read online

  The Returning

  Copyright © 2009

  Ann Tatlock

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox

  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—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  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 2012

  eISBN 978-1-4412-6063-5

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

  PRAISE

  FOR

  THE RETURNING

  “I was delighted to become acquainted with Billy in The Returning. He is a thoughtful, ambitious, and warm young man. Tatlock has successfully described the essence of a person with Down syndrome. Great story!”

  —Chris Burke, actor, singer, and star of the hit television series

  Life Goes On (ABC, 1989–1993)

  “Once again Ann Tatlock proves she is a master storyteller and weaver. Every chapter peels back another layer of the story, another level to the characters, compelling the reader toward the end, where little is perfect, but with God it is well.”

  —Eva Marie Everson, author of THE POTLUCK CLUB novels

  “Ann Tatlock’s characters are, as always, richly developed and sympathetic. With The Returning, Ann delves into new territory—the occult, adultery—with a very real sense of foreboding that draws the reader. And, as always, Ann delivers a message of hope and truth. Her writing bears witness without preaching.”

  —Susan Andrews, Exalt Ministry, Christian recording artist

  For Viola Blake, a kindred spirit

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Back Ads

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I’m indebted to numerous folks who gave generously of their time and expertise to assist me in the research of this novel.

  I’d like first of all to thank Chris Burke, who provided the inspiration for the character of Billy Sheldon. I’ve admired Chris since 1989, when millions came to know and love him as Corky Thacher on the hit ABC television series Life Goes On. Today he stays busy traveling with his band and serving as a spokesperson for the National Down Syndrome Society. Chris and his mother, Marian Burke, graciously agreed to read my manuscript and offer their feedback. Chris and Marian, for your help and for your kindness, I’m more grateful than I can say. God bless you.

  A huge thank-you also to:

  Roxann Colwell, for reading the manuscript and making numerous valuable suggestions. Roxann is program coordinator of the Family Support Network of WNC and Resource Center, and in that capacity she works collaboratively with the Western North Carolina Down Syndrome Alliance. She is the mother of a grown daughter with Down syndrome.

  Carole Hawkinson, who sat with me on her front porch and talked about life with her son Jamie, a delightful young man with Down syndrome who was adopted from Korea.

  Nancy Gossett, whose son D.J. participates in the Progressive Education Program at one of our local high schools. He has a great sense of humor and enjoys playing the PlayStation, watching SpongeBob, and listening to music. But it was the fact that he loves to swim and participates in the Special Olympics that gave me an “Aha!” moment. Because D.J. is a fish in the water, so is Billy Sheldon.

  I’m also grateful to a number of people in Virginia who answered my questions about drug and alcohol abuse, the workings of the legal system, and the ins and outs of prison life, probation, and parole:

  Martha J. Shurts, Norfolk Drug Court Counselor (as well as best sister imaginable), Commonwealth of Virginia

  Julie Chavez, Senior Probation Officer, Norfolk Drug Court, Commonwealth of Virginia

  Matthew Hahne, Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, Commonwealth of Virginia

  Timothy Mattson, Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, Commonwealth of Virginia

  Dawn Obliskey, Norfolk Drug Court Administrator, Commonwealth of Virginia

  Marla Newby, Forensic Services Program Coordinator, Commonwealth of Virginia

  And finally, a thousand thanks also to:

  Julianne Presnell, daughter of fellow writer and friend Deborah Presnell, who read my manuscript with the eye of a sixteen-year-old to make sure Rebekah Sheldon was believable. Thank you for taking time out of your busy summer schedule to do that, Julianne!

  Dimitrios (Jimmy) and Constantine (Dino) Zourzoukis, my neighbors and the owners of Three Brothers Restaurant in Asheville, North Carolina. Thanks for sitting down with me and giving me the inside scoop on running a restaurant. By the way, your spanakopita is the best.

  Alice Denneville, town historian, Conesus Lake, New York, who took a telephone call from a stranger and yet kindly and patiently answered my questions about life at the lake today.

  Sharon Asmus, my editor for more than a decade now. Sharon, you have unfailingly made every story better, and for that I’ll always be grateful.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He would be here soon. The waiting was over. She’d had five long years of it, had felt every minute of it ticking by. At first his coming back had seemed impossibly far off, something that would never really happen. But here it was, the day she’d been waiting for, and now it was almost too much to believe.

  Andrea glanced at her watch, then gazed back out over the lake. Another long winter had passed, and spring had thawed the water�
�s thick covering of ice. Now, on the sixth of June, the surface of the lake was busy with motorboats, rowboats, and jet skis. A light breeze carried the sound of laughter over the water. Andrea breathed deeply and found herself smiling. The timing was right. Even nature, in turning again to life, seemed attuned to her hope.

  This had been a good place to wait, this little cottage on the edge of Conesus Lake. While it was almost too small for the four of them, it was still as good a place as any, she supposed. Certainly better than that awful house they’d owned in Virginia Beach, with its beat-up aluminum siding and decades-old wall-to-wall carpeting. She’d always felt dirty there, as if she were living in a deserted strip mall. But worse than that was the fact that Virginia wasn’t home. New York was. At least she’d had the comfort of being home these past five years.

  She checked her watch again, as she had done a dozen times already in the last half hour. How was it that the minute hand had scarcely moved since she’d last glanced at the time? She clenched her hands together tightly at her waist, squeezing until her fingers ached. Maybe there was such a thing as second chances. She didn’t generally ask for much from life anymore, but a second chance would be nice. Heaven knew, she had waited long enough for this one.

  “Mama?”

  Phoebe’s voice reached her from somewhere inside. Andrea sighed, smoothed her skirt, then turned away from what she thought of as her widow’s walk. Not that the water out there was an ocean, and not that he would be coming back from a distant place on a sailing ship. No, it was a Greyhound bus that had made the trek up from Virginia. By now, Owen should have met him at the station, and they should be nearly home. Unless he got off at an earlier stop and disappeared. Would he do that? Maybe he didn’t want to come back. Maybe—

  “Mama!”

  Andrea opened the screen door and stepped into the front room of the cottage. Phoebe sat cross-legged in the bay window, her coloring book and crayons and her game of Chinese checkers spread out in front of her. In one hand she loosely held a kaleidoscope. The child spent hours on that window seat, quietly entertaining herself. Of Andrea’s three children, Phoebe was the shyest, the most withdrawn. Andrea would be glad when she started first grade and began socializing with other children.

  “What’s the matter, Phoebe?” Andrea asked.

  “What time is Billy getting home?”

  “You’re in luck. He’ll be home early today.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll see.”

  Phoebe smiled, though tentatively, as if she didn’t quite understand her mother’s words. “You look pretty, Mama,” she said.

  Andrea was surprised. “Do I?” She touched her hair, her fingers floating over the dark curls. She’d had Selene style and perm it and, for the first time, wash out the gray. She had wanted it to be just right.

  The child nodded. “Are we having a party?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why are you wearing lipstick?”

  “Well, I . . .” How to explain? “I don’t know, Phoebe. I just thought I would for a change. Is it too much?”

  A small line formed between Phoebe’s brows. “Too much what?”

  “Too much lipstick.”

  “I don’t know.” The child shrugged. “I guess not.”

  Andrea looked at her daughter. Of course she wouldn’t know if it was too much lipstick. She was six years old.

  “Do you want a snack to tide you over until dinner, honey?”

  “No, I’m not hungry.” She lifted the kaleidoscope to her eye and pointed it toward the window. “When Billy gets home can he play Chinese checkers with me?”

  “Sure, I guess so. Maybe after supper.”

  Phoebe didn’t respond. She was busy slowly turning the end of the kaleidoscope, making pictures of beads and glass and sunlight.

  As she gazed at her child, Andrea felt something twine itself around her heart and squeeze. Everything was about to change. Their whole day-to-day life was about to shift in a way inconceivable to a six-year-old, and Andrea wondered what it would do to her youngest child. What it would do to all of them. Andrea wanted them all to be happy, and she hoped that somehow there would be something like happiness in their future. But she sensed—though she couldn’t see it yet—she sensed the wave of disappointment beginning far off, past the horizon of the present moment, a wave that would swell and grow and crash over them sooner or later. That was how it always was, it seemed. Happiness thwarted in a thousand ways.

  But maybe not this time, she thought. Maybe this time it’ll be different.

  One was allowed to dream, after all. And hope.

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind,” she said to Phoebe. “You can have some peanut butter and crackers if you want.”

  From the bay window came the small disinterested reply. “Okay.”

  Andrea went to the kitchen where she had a pork roast in the oven. It would soon be time to peel the potatoes. She reached for the apron that hung on a hook by the fridge and tied it around her waist. Even as her fingers worked, twenty years fell away, and she was a teenager again, nervous and breathless as she waited to be picked up by her date. Not that she had dated much—a couple of movies, a few school dances, and then, suddenly, marriage. The circumstances weren’t the best, but that was all right; she’d married the man she wanted to marry. She had been in love, after all.

  She opened a drawer and fished for the potato peeler, but before she could find it, a car pulled off the road and came to rest in the gravel drive. There they were, Owen behind the wheel, John in the passenger seat. Andrea quickly untied the apron and hung it back up on the hook.

  So this was it. He was home now.

  She watched from the window as the car doors opened in tandem and the men stepped out. One door slammed, then the other. Owen stretched, rising up on his toes and reaching for the sky. John stood still, a black garbage bag clutched in his right hand. He seemed to be waiting for a cue from Owen, something to tell him it was time to walk on stage and get this show going.

  Andrea raised a fist to her mouth and pressed it hard against her lips, if only to stop the tears that were threatening to rise. She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t embarrass herself by crying. He wouldn’t like it.

  For one agonizing moment she felt the old rage rise up in her. She wanted to pound her fists against his chest and curse him for what he’d done. She hated him—hated him for his weaknesses and his lies, for the shame and hardship he’d brought on his family.

  And yet, in spite of all reason, she couldn’t deny the affection, the feelings of longing that washed over her even now. How would she ever untangle the knotted skein of emotions that wrapped itself around every corner of her heart?

  The two men climbed up the slanted wooden walkway to the kitchen door. Owen knocked briefly. And then they were in the kitchen, all three of them occupying that cramped space, staring wordlessly, wondering what on earth this moment called for.

  She would have to speak first, she knew. “Hello, John,” she said.

  His eyes, anxious and unsettled, came to rest on her face. “Hello, Andrea,” he said quietly.

  She thought she should kiss him, hug him at least, but the moment passed. “I’m glad you made it all right.”

  “Sorry we’re late,” Owen offered. “The traffic coming down from Rochester was heavier than I expected.”

  “That’s all right,” Andrea said, relieved to turn her attention to her brother. “Thank you for picking up John.”

  Owen nodded slightly. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the restaurant.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost time for the dinner rush.”

  “Of course. You go ahead.”

  “Owen.” John held out his hand. “Thanks for the lift.” Owen looked at John’s hand, his face, his hand. He shook the proffered fingers briefly. “No problem.”

  Then he was gone, and Andrea and John were alone. Andrea pressed her sweaty palms against her thighs. The moment was too
big and too small at the same time. Here was the hour she had walked toward these past five years. Now that she had reached it, she could see that it was smaller than it appeared from a distance. John was still John, after all, the man whose love seemed always beyond her reach.

  She pointed at the bag. “Are those your things?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I guess they were out of Samsonites.”

  She tried to smile. “Well, why don’t you just drop it on a chair for now. Later you can unpack upstairs. But first . . .” Her voice trailed off. She moved from the kitchen to the front room, hoping he’d follow. He did.

  Phoebe still sat at the window, her face turned toward the glass, her knees drawn up to her chin. Andrea knew the child didn’t like to meet strangers, was trying to make herself small enough to be overlooked.

  “Phoebe?”

  No response.

  “Phoebe, can you turn your attention this way for a minute?”

  The child turned her head slowly. She chewed shyly on her lower lip.

  Andrea lifted a hand toward John. “This is someone I’ve wanted you to know for a long time,” she said. “Phoebe, this is your father.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  John flinched as the screen door banged shut, then watched in surprise as his daughter’s blond curls disappeared down the steep bank by the lake. He hadn’t even managed a good look at her face. He felt a burning in his cheeks, as though he had just been slapped.

  After an awkward moment he heard Andrea say, “I haven’t gotten around to fixing the spring on that door.”

  “No.” John cleared his throat. “I can see that.”

  A few more seconds passed before she said, “I’m sorry, John.”

  He thought she was talking about the door. “It’s all right, Andrea. I’ll take care of it later.”

  “No. I mean, I’m sorry about Phoebe. She’s so shy, it’s hard for her to meet people. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Maybe I should have allowed you to bring her when you visited. That way, she’d know who I am. It wouldn’t be such a shock to meet me now.”

  “No.” Andrea shook her head. “It was best not to take her into the prison. She was too young, not like Rebekah and Billy. Heaven knows, it was hard enough on them.”