Heart Echoes
Sally John
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Carol Stream, Illinois
Praise for the Side Roads series
“A thoughtful and engaging novel.”
Publishers Weekly
“John has penned an exciting, faith-based story.”
Booklist
“This inspirational [story] reminds readers that it’s never too late for second chances. And when our hope is in God, nothing is impossible.”
Romantic Times
“Sally John has penned another moving tale. Ransomed Dreams asks hard questions about faith and forgiveness . . . but it also offers hope. It’s worth reading to discover the answer.”
Crosswalk.com
“John’s story is surprisingly refreshing and completely upholds biblical truths of faithfulness in marriage.”
Christianbookpreviews.com
“Ransomed Dreams is another wonderful weave of compelling characters, poignant pacing, and the twin truths that forgiveness is costly but love can meet the expense head-on. Sally John is an insightful, inspiring storyteller.”
Susan Meissner
Author of Lady in Waiting
“A thought-provoking story about real life. Desert Gift offers three-dimensional characters, an entertaining plot, and some nice twists along the way.”
Faithfulreader.com
“An emotionally insightful novel about the detours that happen in our lives and marriages. . . . Desert Gift powerfully demonstrates that true success comes only in realizing our own sinfulness and brokenness and bringing it to the altar.”
Titletrakk.com
“A fascinating novel exploring the desert times in life and marriage.”
Romantic Times
“Sally John has penned another masterpiece. Desert Gift is truly a gift of inspiration—it will touch your heart.”
Freshfiction.com
“John’s keen insight into the complexities of marriage and personal identity make Desert Gift one of her finest works.”
Crosswalk.com
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TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Heart Echoes
Copyright © 2012 by Sally John. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of beach copyright © Bruce Heinemann/Photodisc/Getty Images. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © David De Lossy/Photodisc/Getty Images. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of rocks copyright © Paul Paladin/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Sally, date.
Heart echoes / Sally John.
p. cm. — (Side roads)
ISBN 978-1-4143-2787-7 (softcover)
I. Title.
PS3560.O323H43 2012
813'.54—dc23 2011034980
For my sister
Cindi Cox
and my sisters-in-law
Sandy Carlson, Patti John, and Patty John
He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds.
PSALM 147:3
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Acknowledgments
My heart echoes with gratitude for those who came alongside to help create this book.
Thanks to Christopher John, Tracy John, Elizabeth Johnson, Troy Johnson, Anna Younce, Tom Carlson, and Kelly Farmer for providing a myriad of details about trees, the Oregon coast, teenage vernacular and culture, and the military.
Thanks to Anna Rehder for the crash course in law and for so patiently and thoroughly answering my nonstop legal questions. Mistakes are mine.
Thanks to the Johnston, Iowa, high school students for the timely YouTube display of teenage enthusiasm and energy.
Thanks to Karlie Garcia for the blogging tutorial.
Thanks to Margaret Becker, Nicole Sponberg, and Rivertribe for the music support.
Thanks to my readers. You are a constant source of encouragement.
Thanks to my dream team: editors Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, and Kathy Olson, along with everyone at Tyndale House who markets, sells, designs, and makes sure the books get into readers’ hands.
As always, many thanks to my agent, Lee Hough, who has made all the difference in my work. Thanks also to the whole group at Alive Communications.
And thanks to Tim for thirty-eight years of being there.
Chapter 1
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
At precisely twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds past ten o’clock in the morning, Pacific Daylight Time, Teal Morgan-Adams’s world ceased to exist.
She knew the exact time because the NPR radio announcer Dave Somebody said it after his traffic update, which started with, “Slow going westbound on the 10, folks.”
Teal snorted. “‘Slow going.’ Ha. It’s a regular parking lot out here, Dave.”
She sat in the thick of it, second lane from the right, windows shut, air on high against the August heat, comfy in her white leather seat. She read e-mails on her smartphone and, in her imagination, dared a CHP officer to zoom up on his motorcycle and ticket her.
“As if moving four miles per hour on the freeway could technically be referred to as driving and thereby breaking the law.”
She l
aughed out loud. If her husband were there, he’d roll his eyes and question once again his sanity for marrying a lawyer. River swore Teal’s favorite pastime was looking for a fight. After three and a half years, though, his rolling eyes still sparkled whenever he said it.
The radio announcer wrapped up his report. “The time is now twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds past ten o’clock.”
And then the shaking began.
As always, the unexpected movement registered about half a point on Teal’s scale of awareness. One eye on her phone, one eye on the Iowa license plate on the minivan in front of her, she inched forward and braked. Her body trembled, as if she were on a train.
“What . . . ?”
And then her coffee mug jiggled and rattled in its holder. Static hissed from the radio.
“Nooo.” The mug bounced onto the floor. Yes.
“Oh, God!” It was all the prayer she could form at the moment.
Adrenaline surged through her. What to do? What to do?
Duck, cover, and hold on to a sturdy piece of furniture.
In the car? She was in the car!
Teal dropped the phone to her lap, shifted into Park, and grasped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. It shook. Her body quivered. The car vibrated. Her seat belt constricted. The glove box popped open. The world rumbled, a hurtling train on rickety tracks to nowhere.
Her pulse throbbed in her throat. Her thoughts raced in circles. What to do? What to do?
If you are driving, stop. Okay. Okay. Move out of traffic.
Out of traffic? Not a chance.
She caught sight of the driver to her right. He clutched his steering wheel, his sunglasses askew, his face scrunched up. Waiting. Holding his breath.
Teal had learned to deal with earthquakes. She and her daughter had lived in Southern California for fifteen years. Tremors came. Teal panicked. Maiya grinned. Tremors went. She walked off the adrenaline rush. Maiya laughed. They talked about what they should have done. Life got back to normal.
These tremors should have went by now.
People should be exhaling by now.
She should be out of the car by now, whewing with those Iowa tourists in front of her, exchanging nervous chuckles, talking about Disneyland.
Do not get out of the car.
Do not stop under an overpass.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”
She stared at the overpass. According to the huge green sign to her right, the next exits at the overpass lay a quarter of a mile ahead. Hers was one of them.
Cars and vans and pickups and semis and SUVs and RVs moved where there was no space for movement. Drivers jockeyed to get out from under the bridge. Horns blared. Metal crunched against metal.
And then the tremors went. The shaking stopped. It was over.
Or not.
In horror Teal watched the chain reactions of vehicles slamming and shoving and sliding into each other not far ahead of her. Straight lanes of traffic were now a massive logjam of cars facing every direction.
And then the unthinkable.
The overpass shifted. It happened in agonizingly slow motion.
The right-side concrete abutment twisted, a giant robot turning, losing his footing, falling, falling, falling. It splayed out over the freeway below. The bridge it had been holding aloft toppled across five lanes of logjam.
The air exploded with shrapnel. Crashing noises reverberated.
Teal burst into tears, released the seat belt, turned off the engine, and ducked. She squeezed herself under the dashboard, covered her head with her arms, and began shaking all over again.
The first aftershock hadn’t even hit yet.
River Adams gazed up at the rafters of the garage ceiling. If it had been The Big One, he would be buried under those beams instead of under a mountain of blue plastic storage tubs.
Teal. Where was she? “Please, Lord.”
A sharp pain shot through his right side. It had the familiar as-long-as-I-don’t-breathe-I’m-fine tug of a broken rib.
Many of the tubs were full of books. Or rather had been full of books before crashing on top of him. The entire set of Anne of Green Gables hardbacks lay scattered about. They belonged to Maiya, his fifteen-year-old stepdaughter, a childhood collection she could not bear to part with.
Oh, God. Teal’s panic would be sky high. Maiya would be laughing. Whoa, dude! Five point nine at least.
They would be . . . if they were okay.
River refused to follow that line of thinking. His girls had to be okay. In the five years since he had met them, they had become the center of his universe. Teal was the epitome of femininity with her big gray eyes, bouncy personality, and short black hair framing a heart-shaped face. Maiya called him Riv and seemed more his than Teal’s in some ways. Her easygoing attitude did not come from her mother, nor her goofy sense of humor.
And the most amazing part of all? They adored him.
He needed to reach his girls.
Taking shallow breaths, River pushed aside what he could from his upper body. The majority of the tubs pinned his legs against the concrete floor. From their weight, he suspected they contained Teal’s law books and files. She had put them here when he moved into her house, to make space for his teaching materials in the bedroom she used as an office.
He broke out in a cold sweat and lay still.
“I’d say we’re pushing a seven, Maiya. Epicenter . . . really close.”
It was the worst he’d experienced in his forty-two years, all lived in the Los Angeles area.
Just before the earthquake struck, he had carried a trash bag out to the garage and put it in the can at the far end. As he walked back toward the door that led into the house, the world started its belly dance. There was nothing in the attached single-car garage to duck under or hold on to. He covered his head with his arms and made a dash for the house.
The dash ended abruptly. The bins struck him, a cannonball shot at close range and full force. Whoosh, straight out from the wall where they were stacked. He went down, flat on his back.
Slowly, River pushed aside books and felt for the phone attached to his waistband.
It wasn’t there.
He scanned the floor and saw it.
Under the corner of a bin.
Crushed.
He struggled to break free of the trap, his side screaming for him to stop moving, to stop breathing.
They have to be okay! They have to! You owe me, God! You owe me this one!
Chapter 3
Crouched as far as possible under the dashboard, Teal sensed an unearthly stillness.
She had seen the bridge go down. The crushing of people and vehicles and concrete and signs and light poles was finished. The world paused for a moment of silence.
She shuddered and gulped for air. “Oh, God. Oh, God. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”
She tried not to do the math, but it nagged for attention. Under the bridge, five lanes eastbound, five lanes westbound. On the bridge, two lanes northbound, two lanes southbound. Traffic at a standstill beneath meant one vehicle per lane times the number that fit under the shadow of the bridge, plus the moving traffic atop it that had not stopped before it gave way. . . .
Inconceivable.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later and she would have been under it.
A cacophony erupted. Screams pierced the quiet. Doors opened and slammed. Sirens wailed. Voices rose and fell, a confusion of noise.
Teal struggled up from the floor and out from under the steering wheel, brushing grit from her shins and straightening her skirt. Where was her phone? It must have fallen.
She rummaged under the seat. “It has to be here. It has to be here! Oh, God, please let them be safe. Please let them be safe.” She chattered nonstop. Her heart still pounded; her body still trembled.
“Please oh please oh please.” She touched the phone, pulled it out, and sat up.
The scene
through the windshield came into focus and smacked her breath away.
Half of the overpass was gone.
Vehicles lay on top of it willy-nilly like toy cars abandoned in a playroom.
Underneath it . . .
Incomprehensible.
She could see people everywhere across the freeway, outside their cars, west- and eastbound lanes, on the shoulders, on the median between oleander bushes. They cried, shouted, hugged. Some raced toward the collapsed bridge. Others ran away from it. Some sat on the pavement, faces buried in their hands.
The hot summer sun beat down from a clear blue sky as if nothing had happened.
Teal turned from it all and hit speed dial for Maiya. Her fifteen-year-old always carried her cell phone. Answering it guaranteed she got to keep it.
There was no ring.
Teal stared at the phone. The No Service symbol stared back at her.
“Oh, God.”
Her arms ached to hold her baby. Her body ached to be held by River. A hollowness enveloped her. They have to be safe. They have to.
She looked at the scene before her.
They might not be. They truly might not be.
No. They were all right. River and Maiya could take care of themselves. He was probably still at home, in the solid 1925 bungalow she had bought ten years before at a rock-bottom price from a grateful client. The neighborhood was flat, not teetering on the edge of a bluff, not at the foot of some boulder-strewn hillside.
Maiya was at her best friend Amber Price’s. She had worked last night. Then Amber’s mom had picked her up and taken the girls to a late movie. Shauna and JT Price were as solid as Teal’s house. If Teal weren’t married to River, she’d write them into her will as Maiya’s guardians.
Teal yanked the hem of her powder-blue silk blouse from the skirt waistband and used it to wipe away streaked mascara. There was nothing she could do to reach her family. Absolutely nothing she could do to contact River, Maiya, friends, or coworkers.
But she wasn’t alone. No one on that freeway could reach their loved ones.
“Time to put on your big-girl pants, Morgan.” The phrase was her old mantra, a survival technique from her early days as single mom Teal Morgan working on a law degree, depending on strangers and mere acquaintances to help.