Refuge of the Heart Read online

  Refuge of the Heart

  Ruth Logan Herne

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers

  Author Bio

  Also by Ruth Logan Herne

  Scripture passages have been taken from New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright ©1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A., and used by permission. All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Refuge of the Heart

  Copyright ©2015, Ruth M. Blodgett.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design Beth Jamison, Jamison Editing, 2018

  Photo Credit: Jon Florbrant on Unsplash

  Interior Format The Killion Group, Inc.

  To the Sisters of St. Joseph in Rochester, New York, for their tireless ministries. Your faith and devotion offered me the inspiration to believe anything could happen with faith and fortitude. This beautiful story, and all of its published friends are the written proof of your belief in me. With a special remembrance to Sr. Mariel (deceased) from Nazareth Academy in Rochester who saw the talent within a girl and believed it would come to fruition one day. God surely blessed me when he set me in your classroom, Sister. I am ever in your debt.

  * * *

  And a special thank you to my beloved literary agent Natasha Kern and free-lance editor Ericka McIntyre for their hard work. You have blessed me and this book with your efforts. Special thanks also to Beth Jamison of Jamison Editing who oversaw this latest edition. I have been blessed that our combined efforts have produced an award-winning novel that shows not only the plight but the promise of refugees.

  Chapter One

  “Oh, Lena.” Five-year-old Anna Serida breathed the words like a whispered prayer. “Do you see the sparkly lights? And do you hear the music playing?” The precious child’s bright blue eyes rounded as Magdalena Serida pushed the almost empty grocery cart past the well-stocked seasonal display in the center of the wholesale club. “I would love to go see them. May we?”

  They couldn’t, no. How much harder would it be to see the lack in her little sister’s eyes if such excess was dangled before her? When God had already given them so much, Lena didn’t want dissatisfaction to darken their days. “Not this time, little one. Another time, perhaps?”

  Anna’s face clouded, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she swept the store a wistful look and wondered in a still-soft voice, “Are we that busy?”

  They weren’t, of course. But when money was almost non-existent, what good came from ogling the unattainable? Having Anna wish for what could not be wasn’t a good thing. And being here, in America, free to pursue their faith, their dreams?

  So much more than they’d had in Chechnya. Lena leaned in, kissed the girl’s soft cheek, and said, “We will feast on good books and peanut butter bread when we get home. We can pretend we are lost in a great forest and tiny animals come along to help us find our way home.”

  “Will they sing?” The prospect of singing birds and mice hiked Anna’s excitement.

  “They will,” Lena promised. “I know many of their songs, little one.”

  She didn’t know the real songs. They’d seen a few fun movies since coming to America, always by the grace of others, and in each one, tiny creatures sang and danced across animated screens. So while she might not know the true musical versions, Lena could make up funny songs to entertain her sister. Anna was an unexpected blessing; small, sweet, and blonde like their mother, the only other survivor of their small Catholic enclave in Grozny. They had each other, and that might be all they’d have for a long while, but for now? Coupled with safety, freedom, and opportunity?

  It was enough.

  Lena took their meager purchases to the check-out lane, finished the transaction, then bent to tie Anna’s raspberry-toned hat more snug beneath her chin.

  “When it’s too tight, I am not happy,” the girl announced. She directed a pointed look to her older sister.

  “And when the wind blows this free, it is important for children to mind grown-ups and follow directions.”

  Anna sighed, frowned, then shrugged, knowing better than to argue. “Yes, Lena.”

  Lena moved toward the exit, conflicted.

  Anna longed to run free, to play outdoors with others.

  Lena didn’t dare allow such a thing.

  Anna hungered to run and skip and jump constantly.

  Lena feared drawing attention.

  Anna wished for the American life she saw whenever they attended the Catholic church in Ridgedale that sponsored the sisters’ immigration. A home. A yard. A swing-set, all her own.

  Their home was an upper floor apartment in an unsafe area. Their yard was non-existent. And the nearest playground was a garbage-strewn gathering spot for unmentionable acts and illegal transactions.

  But Anna’s school was well-regarded, and the small playground there would do for now. Once Lena’s nursing degree was complete next spring, life would change for the better. And knowing what had been, Lena drew strength from planning what could be. Step by step.

  She crossed the outer threshold, pushing the cart against the gusting wind. Driven snow clogged the parking lot, an early storm, not wholly unexpected, but not exactly welcome.

  Despite her bravado in the warm store, Anna ducked her chin more deeply into her collar. The freshly tied hat stayed firmly in place, unlike Lena’s over-sized coat.

  Wind whistled through the too-wide sleeve openings. It swept around and under the worn hem, a cold, Arctic blast of reality. But at least she had a coat. And a place of warmth. And money enough to buy milk, bread, eggs, and peanut butter. That in itself was God’s blessing.

  She fought the wind and the Friday night traffic clogging the strip mall lot. She’d had to park at the far end, and the uncooperative cart resisted the growing snow-pack. One wheel insisted on twisting sideways, plowing the snow.

  “It is cold, Lena!”

  “It truly is.” Lena smiled down at Anna as the girl’s eyes misted from the biting wind. “How much better will our warm home be, coming in from the storm?”

  “So much better!”

  Anna’s optimism made everything worthwhile. The darkness, the cold, the long days of hiding—

  Anna’s smiles added value to sacrifices made, giving Lena strength to carry on, to believe. “For you have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.” The heartfelt psalm spoke truth and life, brilliance for a broken-road passage. But it was life, and therefore Lena welcomed it, come what may.

  Swerving into the exit lane of the packed parking lot, Mitch Sanderson eyed the flat tire on the aged Sunfire parked to his left with a grimace of recognition.

  Somebody’s day was about
to go downhill. He hoped they had Triple-A. Or maybe the old car belonged to a big, burly guy who didn’t mind kneeling in the slush and snow of an upstate New York storm to put a new tire on a rust-bucket car. Considering, Mitch glanced into the rearview mirror as he waited his turn. Once the fourth quarter hit, retail parking lots were jammed on weekends. The storm prediction added punch to the normal Friday night shopping frenzy. Everyone wanted to stock up on supplies, just in case the storm outstayed its welcome or brought down power grids.

  A small woman pushed a cart through the thick slush alongside his Land Rover. He watched as she played with the child in the cart’s seat, the woman’s expression cheerful despite the rugged job of maneuvering the contrary rig. He couldn’t see the youngster’s face, only a tumble of golden ringlets popping out of a bright pink winter hat, but her shoulders shook with laughter.

  Mitch almost groaned as the dark-haired young woman stopped directly between the Sunfire and a sport-edition Neon. Be the Neon, he thought, eyeing the tire and his watch. Please, be the Neon.

  No such luck. Still smiling and laughing, the young woman lifted the child from the cart. Then, with a job she could have handled in short seconds alone, she handed objects to the little girl, nodding appreciation as tiny fingers piled supplies into the backseat of the dull-toned auto. Once done, the woman swung the child up, making her shout with glee, then deposited her into the state-regulated car seat. She stayed bent long seconds, maneuvering closures, before she eased back, out of the car. For just a moment she turned his way, her thick, dark hair fanning the shoulders of a coat several sizes too big.

  Her look gave him pause. A mix of strain and concern, she closed her eyes briefly and leaned one hip against the car. Her lashes, dotted with snowflakes, lay deep against warm olive skin. Brows, black and rich, framed the upper ridge of her eyes.

  A Christmas Madonna.

  Dark and thin, the weight of the world on her shoulders, yet carrying her burden quietly. That’s what Mary had done, right? Silently bearing the weight of great truths.

  The young woman’s heart-shaped face was delicately framed. The fingers gripping the cart were small and slim. No warm gloves cradled her hands, and the sting of cold, wet, windswept metal couldn’t be pleasant.

  Her eyes snapped open. Her shoulders straightened. Turning the cart with difficulty, she steered it down the row of waiting cars toward a snow-clogged corral.

  Her actions determined Mitch’s choice. Almost everyone left their carts abandoned in the snow, a hazard to shoppers and drivers alike.

  But not this woman in the too-big coat with a patched-together car. As Mitch cranked the wheel hard left in preparation for a U-turn, she trudged through the snow, glancing back to the car repeatedly. The child sat calmly, waiting as the woman plunked her basket through the metal arch.

  The cart jammed. Mitch watched her tug it back as he maneuvered the SUV. She gave it a push of greater intensity. Still it wouldn’t budge, blocked by something in the cage.

  Anybody else would have walked away. He inched his car forward, creeping into the entrance lane with difficulty. An incoming driver cast him a baleful glance and another shook her fist as he angled into their track. He responded with a polite wave, hoping they didn’t recognize him, or at least wouldn’t hold it against him at next year’s election. Fighting crime in a city that had faced more than its share of bad luck for two decades kept his district attorney’s court calendar packed. Once he found an adequate parking space for his SUV, he flicked a glance to the Sunfire. The child sat serene, turning the pages of a small book in the encroaching darkness. Good kid.

  When his attention went back to the young woman, he saw her step into the corral to readjust the tangle. She lifted the child seat on a cart with more than a little trouble, releasing the deadlock, then slid the nearby baskets well forward. With another quick look to the Sunfire, she stepped back and gave her cart a firm shove, nestling the farther carts into the ones she’d disengaged. Only then did she start back to the car where she was about to discover her situation. Moving her way, Mitch cleared his throat, not wanting to startle her as she rounded the back of the aged car.

  “Oh, no.” A warm voice, heavily accented, reached him through the deepening twilight. “Little one, we have trouble afoot.”

  Mitch smiled at the words and the inflection, certain the accent was the best he’d ever heard. Musical. Bright. Vivacious.

  Again he cleared his throat. She turned. Her eyes flew to his, wary and watchful, and he noted the depth of color. Rich, dark pools of brown with not an amber fleck to be seen. The eyes, the hair and the rugged brows gave her an exotic quality, quite removed from the blue-eyed, blond-haired child eyeing him with interest from the back seat.

  “Can I help you?” With his hand he motioned to the flat tire near the driver’s door.

  “I am not sure.” Looking doubtful, she eyed him with caution then wonder, her gaze scanning his cashmere coat and the carefully pleated suit pants showing beneath its hem.

  Reading the look, he grinned. “I’m washable.” Then he glanced down and amended, “Well, dry cleanable, anyway. Do you have a spare?”

  Her expression flattened, assessing his question. “A... spare?”

  “Yes. A spare tire. An extra one, in the trunk.” He tapped the trunk for effect and offered her an expectant look, hoping she understood.

  Her change of expression said she did. “Ah, yes. A spare. I know this word!” She turned toward the trunk. “I think that I do have one, though I have never seen this thing.”

  Plying an uncooperative key, she eventually opened a packed-full trunk with a flourish. “It is in here, yes?”

  Mitch’s heart sank. He didn’t have to glance at his watch to know he was going to be late for the dinner party he was due at in less than thirty minutes. And Deidre, his old friend? Not exactly what you’d call the patient sort. Eyeing the stuffed trunk, he moved away, withdrew his phone and hit his speed dial.

  “Dee?” He ignored the groan she emitted at his use of the nickname. Since achieving professional status, Deidre preferred her full name at all costs, preferably stretching it to three syllables when possible. For that reason alone, Mitch liked to cut her name short. It reminded the cool and classy lawyer that he’d known her when she was just good old Dee Emory, head cheerleader.

  “Mitchell, where are you? It’s nearly five-thirty and we’re supposed to arrive at the club in just a few minutes. Tell me you’re pulling up outside my door this instant, and I might forgive you. Anything less and I’m not responsible for my actions. I’ll claim undue duress and diminished capacity.” Her voice was teasing but clipped, definitely stressed over her initial appearance at a formal corporate bash.

  “Go on without me,” Mitch instructed. “I’m stuck in a parking lot with a flat tire. It’s going to be a bear to fix and then I’ll have to go home and clean up. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Mitch, you promised.” The teasing turned to a whine.

  “Only after you begged, cajoled, and threatened to harm my dog.” Mitch didn’t try to hide the smile in his tone.

  “You don’t have a dog.”

  “Exactly.” Avoiding slushy spray from passing tires, Mitch stepped away from the driving lane. “You’ll be fine on your own, Dee. This is nothing you can’t handle. You know it. I know it. Go to your party, dazzle them with your beauty and brains. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be some wonderful, eligible guy there who fits your elongated list of criteria.”

  “Six-figure income, gentle yet strong, kind but rugged, and reasonably good-looking so my children won’t resemble toads?”

  Mitch envisioned her expression. Smart. Sassy. More than a little pouty. “No doubt the place will be swarming with them. Toss in church-going to top things off.”

  “Your requirement, Mitchell. Not mine. And if he’s not politically inclined, what difference does it make?”

  Did it make a difference, or was church attendance something to look good for the
surrounding electorate? Mitch wasn’t sure, and rarely questioned his motives that deeply, but Dee’s cryptic tone said artifice was all right with the proper political motivation. Perhaps it was simply the ends justifying the means, a question every politician faced.

  “Are you sure you can’t get here?” She softened her voice to play the guilt card more effectively. “I was counting on you.”

  He shook his head, watching as the diminutive woman carefully emptied the hodge-podge of her trunk onto the snow-caked parking lot. “No, you weren’t Dee. You were hiding behind me. This way you’ll let your own light shine.”

  There was a moment of silence before she caved. “All right. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Do that. I’ll be at my place all day tomorrow. I’m working, so I won’t venture far from the computer.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  “Bless you, Deidre.”

  “Whatever.” Her sigh of exasperation came through as he disconnected the call.

  Narrowing his gaze, he eyed the growing pile of boxes on the ground with some wonder, then bent to finger a delicate crocheted blanket done in shades of blue and white. A thought struck. “Are these boxes and bags all filled with this kind of thing?”

  The young woman nodded. “They are, yes.”

  “But you’re putting them on the ground.”

  She looked at him, confused, then glanced around. “And you would have me put them...?”

  He jerked his head and hoisted two of the boxes. “In my SUV. Over here. You don’t want to ruin these.”

  “No.” Shrugging compliance, she followed him, carrying two more boxes. Handing them off, she watched as he stacked the boxes between the seats. Pointing, she said, “Careful. That one is damp along the bottom.”

  He nodded and kept the moist cardboard bottom away from the other boxes. Together they toted the rest of the odd-shaped containers, filling the middle of the SUV. As they re-approached her car, Mitch turned and winged a brow. “How did you get all of that into this trunk?”