The Trouble with Angels (Angels Everywhere #2)(79)

"Blythe, my dear, what is it?”

"He’s in love with Joy.”

"Yes, I know, but Ted’s committed to you.”

"You don’t understand.”

"What is it?” Catherine asked softly. "Tell me.” Gently she took the younger woman in her arms. Blythe buried her face in her shoulder and broke into huge sobs.

"Whatever it is will take care of itself,” Catherine whispered soothingly. "Now, now, it can’t be so bad.”

"But it is,” Blythe insisted, rubbing the moisture from her face. "I can’t take the cameo. I can’t give it to this baby.”

"Of course you can.”

"No,” she cried with such strength, she startled Catherine. "I can’t.” She stiffened as if she expected to be struck or attacked. "Ted isn’t the baby’s father. He’s married, you see, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Paul drove directly from the campground to the hospital. On the two-hour drive back into the city, he tried to compose his thoughts, decide what he could possibly say that would help the Bartelli family deal with Madge’s impending death.

Paul knew Bernard and the Bartelli children were emotionally prepared. As emotionally prepared as one could expect.

By the time Barbara had reached the point of death, Paul was of two minds. He’d wanted more than anything that her suffering end. Yet at the same time, he’d mentally clung to her, unwilling and unable to release her from life. He hadn’t thought he could go on without her. In retrospect, his fears had been well founded.

Paul had forever changed the day Barbara died. He’d nursed the pain of that wound for so long, he didn’t remember what it was like to feel anything other than a pressing sadness.

He didn’t want the Bartelli family to make the same mistakes he had, so he mulled over what he could say, what he might do, that would make a difference.

As he reviewed his own response to death, Paul recognized how angry he’d been. Still was. For two long years he’d submerged the anger, unaware of what it was doing to him. Only recently, when he’d stood in the middle of the church and screamed out at the unfairness of death, had he touched upon his fury. Only when he’d cried out in frustration and from a deep well of pain had Paul become aware of how outrage had subtly impacted both his life and his ministry.

He’d tried to deal with his anger intellectually, reason it out. He’d tried to convince himself that as a man of the cloth he wasn’t like everyone else. Why he should feel exempt from the most crushing of life’s disappointments, he didn’t know.

What he’d failed to do was deal with Barbara’s loss in his heart. In his gut.

His faith should have been strong enough to carry his doubts, strong enough to answer the unanswerable. He was a man of God. He was a man who’d dedicated his life to the ministry. A man who eased others’ pain, but not his own.

The conflict came when his mind declared war on his emotions. Faith merged with doubt, and, like water and oil, the two refused to blend, and soon Paul couldn’t tell the difference between hope and despair. Both felt the same to him.

Once, a long time before, someone had told Paul that the greatest beauty was watered by tears. He’d shed his tears, mourned the loss of his wife, and had yet to find any beauty in her death.

The hospital parking lot was full. If Paul had been looking for a reason to turn away, one was presented to him on a tarnished platter.

"I’m sorry, Bernard, I would have been there in your hour of need, but there wasn’t a parking space available.” How ludicrous that sounded.

Paul circled the lot once more and mumbled under his breath when he didn’t see a single available spot. Not even someone walking through, someone he could follow in order to claim their spot.

Paul eased his eyes heavenward. "If you want me here, you’ll provide the space.”

The words had barely escaped his lips when a car unexpectedly jerked out of a parking space directly in front of him. Paul’s mouth fell open.

"All right, all right,” he muttered, "so you want me here.”

Once he parked, Paul walked into the hospital and took the elevator to the appropriate floor. He stepped onto the floor and walked toward the waiting area. There he found two of the three Bartelli children. He knew them from years past, but they stared at him as though he were a stranger.

"Hello,” he said, walking into the waiting area. He introduced himself.

"I’m Rod,” said the older of the Bartelli sons, exchanging handshakes with Paul.

"Luke.” The middle son shook his hand next.

"Anna and my dad are in with Mom,” Rod explained. He lowered his voice. "I don’t think it will be much longer. She held on until we could all get here. She seems to be waiting for you.”

Paul swallowed uncomfortably with that bit of information. "How’s your father holding up?” He directed the question to the older of the two men.

Rod looked him directly in the eye. "Not good. His heart isn’t good. I don’t know how much more of this he can take.”

"I’ll see what I can do,” Paul promised, although he feared it wouldn’t be nearly enough.

He found Bernard and Anna sitting at Madge’s bedside. Madge was as pale as the sheets. Her eyes were closed, and Paul wondered if she’d slipped into a coma. It would be merciful if she had.