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The following week
Jess studied the woman who sat facing her. Ruth McCoy was dressed in an outdated polyester pantsuit, her light brown hair teased and curled at the ends. Her makeup had been carefully applied, but no amount of concealer and foundation could hide the swollen, discolored bruise that marred the left side of her face from cheekbone to chin. Years ago, she might have been a beauty. But tragedy, hardship, and abuse had taken their toll on her. She was fragile, broken in so many ways and so many places that, as it appeared to Jess, only the will to survive and her love for her children held the pieces together.
“So how is my boy doing?” she asked. “Is he behaving? Is he getting his work done?”
“Skip is doing all right,” Jess said. “I have his file right here, with the updated reports from each class. His grades are passing, and there’s no mention of his making trouble.”
Ruth sighed. “Skip’s a good boy—like his real father. But I worry about him. He’s got a lot of anger inside because of the way Ed treats me. I’m afraid that one of these times it’s going to explode.”
“Ruth, there’s no law that says you have to put up with abuse. The next time your husband hurts you—and he will—you could press charges against him. And while he serves time in jail, you could get a lawyer, clear his things out of your house, and move on with your life.”
“You mean . . . divorce him?” Ruth’s eyes widened in shock. “But divorce is a sin. Besides, I don’t know how we’d live without the money Ed’s construction job brings in. And what about my little girls? They need their father.”
“Do your girls need to see him beating you, Ruth? What’s that teaching them—that a husband has the right to treat his wife any way he wants, and she has to put up with it?”
A tear trickled down Ruth’s cheek, leaving a thin trail of mascara. “I try so hard,” she said. “I keep thinking that if I do everything just right . . .” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Do you have family or anyone who could take you in if you need shelter?”
“I’ve got a sister in Cottonwood Springs. We haven’t spoken since I married Ed, but if I needed help, she wouldn’t turn away her blood kin—especially the girls.”
Jess shuffled through the Rolodex on her desk and found two business cards. “Take these. One’s for a counselor in Cottonwood Springs. The other’s for a divorce attorney. Neither of them will charge you for a first-time consultation. And if you need more help, it can be arranged.” She pushed the cards into Ruth’s hand. “I’m not saying you should use these. But they’re a resource if you need them.”
Ruth tucked the cards into her purse and rose from her chair. “Thank you.” Her voice quivered as if she were holding back more tears. “I’ll think on what you’ve said. But no promises. My children have to come first—and I need a man to help me take care of them.”
She walked out of the room, leaving Jess to wonder whether she’d done the right thing, or just made more trouble for the poor woman.
After all, Jess asked herself, what business did she have advising someone whose path she’d never walked? She’d never given her trust to a man, let alone married one. And she’d never nurtured a child, let alone given birth to one. As for love, she barely knew the meaning of the word.
And here she was, telling another woman how to live her very difficult life.
After putting her files away, she slipped on her coat, gathered up her purse and keys, and headed out to her car. Tonight she’d promised to help Cooper, Trevor, and Maggie trim the Christmas tree. The stand and ornaments were in the trunk of her car. She’d also volunteered to pick up the two extra-large pizzas Cooper had ordered by phone from Buckaroo’s, and to swing by Grace and Sam’s to get Maggie. Sam and Grace had been invited, too, but they’d declined in favor of some private time together. After all, they’d barely been married six months. They were still newlyweds.
Jess was exhausted after a long day at work. But tonight was for the children, and she didn’t want to spoil the holiday mood. She hoped that Cooper would feel the same way. If she saw any sign of his Scrooge face, she would take him aside and give him a piece of her mind.
Taking a longer route to Main Street, she drove to her house. She usually avoided the depressing sight, but she wanted to check on the progress of the repairs, which were going much too slowly to suit her. It was the insurance company who’d taken estimates and chosen the contractor—probably by low bid. And in this slow season they were taking their sweet time.
The cottonwood tree was long gone. The crushed roof of the house was covered in layers of plastic to protect the frame until the new roof could be added in the spring. A battered pickup with a shell on the back was parked in the driveway. As she pulled up behind it and opened the door of her Taurus, she could hear the sound of hammering. At least something was getting done.
She hadn’t planned to go inside, but as long as someone was here, it might be a good time to check on what had been done since her last visit.
The front door was ajar. She stepped inside without knocking. The living room no longer looked like home. The furniture and anything personal had been hauled off to storage. The carpet was rolled up against one wall, the windows bare. Fading sunlight poured through the plate glass pane in front, which was cracked from corner to corner and would have to be replaced.
Why hadn’t she just taken a wrecking ball to the place and started over? It would’ve made more sense.
A cardboard six-pack of beer sat on the kitchen counter. Half the bottles were empty. Not a good sign, but this was no time to complain.
The hammer blows were coming from down the hallway, probably from her bedroom, which had suffered the most damage.
Jess followed the sound to the open doorway. Standing there, she saw a hulk of a man in a sweat-stained gray tee hammering a slab of sheetrock onto a wall of exposed beams.
Jess cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”
He stopped hammering and turned to face her. Below the bill of his paint-stained baseball cap, his pale eyes were bloodshot, his heavy jaw darkened with stubble.
“Is there something I can do for you, missy?” His voice was gravelly, his slow smile giving her a glimpse of tobacco-stained teeth. Something about the man, and the awareness that they were likely alone here, made her uneasy. But that was silly. He was a workman doing his job—that was all.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m the owner of this house. I just stopped by to see how the repairs were going.”
