Tomorrow's Dream by Janette Oke, Davis Bunn

a little walking,” Harry suggested, his tone tinged by shared sorrow. “See if I can’t help you share this load.”
    Joel felt something rise from his chest, closing his throat and burning his eyes. He stood there and remembered those other times, when bitterness and unspoken rage turned the atmosphere in his childhood home acrid and smoky. Now Joel stood and watched his father give Kenneth a one-armed hug, and he felt the Lord reach out through the man. “Yes, I have forgiven him,” Joel whispered to the Lord. “And I thank you that you can now love Kenneth through my father.”
    Joel heard Kenneth murmur, “There’s no need to burden you with this, Harry.”
    â€œI’ve got a lifetime’s experience dealing with impossible situations and impossible people, especially myself.” Harry drew him close a second time. “Give me a call, why don’t you? We’ll wear out some shoe leather and have ourselves a good talk.” When Kenneth did not reply, Harry asked, “Do you have anyone else to talk with?”
    That brought out a smile. “You won’t believe this, but Abigail and I have had a couple of amazing chats.”
    Martha descended the stairs to stand beside Joel and say, “Abigail Rothmore?”
    â€œDoesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Harry said. “Beneath that frosty exterior the Lord is thawing out a frozen heart.”
    â€œAbigail doesn’t think she really knows God,” Kenneth replied slowly.
    Harry gave the morning’s first genuine smile. “That may be so—at present. But believe me, God knows Abigail.”
    Martha moved up and took her husband’s free hand, and shook her head. “You should hear yourself talk,” she said, her voice warm.
    â€œIf the Lord can make a change in me,” Harry replied, “He can do it in anyone.”
    Harry looked up at the silent house, then turned back to Kenneth and said softly, “You just remember that.”

12 
    Kyle was barely aware of the table in front of her. She merely knew that she and Kenneth were going through the motions of sharing another meal together in their cherry-paneled dining room.
    There was stirring about her as dishes were placed on the table. Kenneth thanked the maid and told her she was free to go. He made polite conversation with Kyle, mentioning something about a new movie that had opened downtown called Dr. Zhivago . He asked if she would like to go. Kyle’s headshake was so small it might have been mistaken for a shiver.
    She was not the least bit hungry. She didn’t care that today was the maid’s last day with them, that tomorrow the young woman was scheduled to return to Abigail’s. She had heard Kenneth offer the maid his sincere thanks for all her help during their difficult days, but Kyle could not think of anything to add.
    As had become a tradition in their home, Kenneth reached for her hand, and she bowed her head for the saying of grace. The words were little more than a rustle on her inner emptiness. She heard the familiar “Amen” and lifted her head, ready to spread her napkin over her knees.
    But Kenneth did not let go. “Your hand is cold.”
    She gave a little shrug and tried to draw away. His grip tightened slightly.
    â€œI think it would be a good idea for you to see Dr. Pearce,” her husband said.
    That comment did register. She had no plans to see the doctor ever again. Nor any other doctor, for that matter. The whole medical profession had miserably failed her baby. She gave Kenneth a direct look, then her eyes slid away. “I’m fine.” The words had been repeated so often over the past weeks and months that they came and went without conscious thought.
    â€œYou look pale.”
    â€œI tell you, I’m fine.”
    â€œI’m worried, honey. You’re not sleeping well.”
    Kyle wished she had the energy to respond. She had