A Time to Surrender by Sally John Page B

relief at actually finding the phone got lost in a press of other emotions.
    There was the strain of fabricating a grocery need in order to borrow a car for a quick run to town. Claire always graciously offered hers, but driving the sleek foreign model with its fancy gadgets on the curvy hills did a number on Skylar. GPS doohickey aside, navigating around an unfamiliar area was a pain. And there was still that lingering homesick ache she’d felt while watching the horses.
    Which explained why she stood there staring at dirty cracked linoleum, battling a nervous breakdown.
    The ringing stopped. “Rockwell residence.”
    Skylar shut her eyes. “Mom. Hi. It’s me.”
    “Laurie!” The low-pitched voice conveyed surprise layered heavily with wariness. “Are you all right?”
    “Yeah. I’m good. I have a job, as a cook. And I met Wally Cleaver.”
    “Who?”
    “From TV. Not really. He just reminds me of—how are you?”
    “Fine.”
    “How’s Dad?”
    “Just fine too. He’s at the hardware store.”
    “Any news?”
    A slight hesitation. “No.”
    “Okay. Well, I just wanted to check in.”
    “Okay, thank you.”
    “Sure.”
    “Take care.”
    “You too. Bye.”
    “Bye.”
    Skylar hung up the phone, shuffled to a nearby bench, and sank onto it.
    Replaying that voice, she heard the usual relief in the “Take care.” If she listened hard, really hard, she could almost make out regret in the “Bye.” Almost.
    Most likely, though, it was simply her imagination filling in gaps with what she’d never, ever in her life heard in that voice.

Eighteen
    H ow did you do it?” Jenna gazed at Beth Russell. She’d been watching her all afternoon. She could not look away from such an enigma.
    They sat alone outdoors, in wicker chairs tucked between a low boulder and a young sycamore tree at one end of the courtyard. A black streak marred half the trunk from the ground up, but wide leaves rustled and their odd scent wafted in the afternoon breeze.
    “How did I do it?” Beth’s smile eclipsed the fact that they had met only a few hours ago. The heart connection between the two women was ages old. “You mean, how did I get out of bed every day while the love of my life lived in a war zone the other side of the world?”
    “And not lose your mind?”
    Beth reached over and placed a hand on her arm. “Oh, dear heart.”
    On any other day, Jenna would not be conversing with the likes of a woman who said “dear heart” and reeked of such utter compassion—most especially one her grandmother practically demanded she meet because of one of her visceral conclusions.
    But today was not any other day. Today was the day she’d awoken from a vivid, explicit dream of lovemaking with Cade Edmunds.
    Jenna said, “I’ve heard the pat spiritual answers.”
    “Indio.”
    “Yes. They don’t seem . . . available to me.”
    “Your grandmother lives in the mystery.” Again the gentle smile, the eyes so sparkly they were of no particular color. “God is real, Jenna. He is our only hope for sanity.”
    “But how?”
    “Talk to Him. I talked to Him nonstop after BJ left. I determined to expect Him to show up in the everyday.”
    “But what did that look like in the everyday?”
    Beth giggled. “You are your father’s daughter, and I mean that as a compliment. Max was always pushing for answers. He kept me and BJ on our toes.” She paused. “It looked like friends offering to be with me. It looked like opportunities to grow in my studies and work. It looked like camaraderie with other military girlfriends and wives.”
    Jenna thought of Amber and her invitations to dinner and movies and gatherings with other Pendleton wives. She thought of the list of names tucked in a drawer, names of local women whose husbands were in Kevin’s squad.
    Beth said, “I remember I stopped watching the news and reading the paper. I still cried at least once a day, but the images of war grew less immediate. I stopped saying ‘God, keep him