Excerpt of Beyond the Shadows by Robin Lee Hatcher

PROLOGUE

March

The first time I saw him was at my husband’s funeral.

It was after Pastor Clyde said his last prayer, words
meant to comfort me, Andy’s widow. It was after friends
and people from our church and the community came and
whispered their condolences as they touched my hands that
I kept folded tightly in my lap. It was after Andy’s
father, his face stoic in grief, led his weeping wife
away. It was after my parents had kissed me and told me
they loved me. It was after I thought myself alone in that
row of gray folding chairs at the grave side, the cold
wind buffeting my back.

It was after all that when I saw him, a stranger, standing
under a leafless tree, staring at the casket before it was
lowered into the grave. The collar of his overcoat was
turned up, and he gripped the brim of his hat with one
hand, lest it be blown away. He wasn’t one of those soft-
spoken men from the funeral home, and he wasn’t dressed
like a groundskeeper. I knew he must have come because of
Andy.

Seeing that I’d noticed him, he removed his hat and
approached. “Mrs. Haskin.” He stopped before me. “I’m
sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, the words like sandpaper in my
throat. Meaningless words, really, in a mind gone numb
with pain and loss.

“Andy was a good man.”

“Yes.”

“The best I’ve ever known.”

Yes.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, anything you need,
anything at all...” His sentence drifted into silence.

I nodded, wanting him to go away, wanting to be left
alone. What I wanted even more was to die and go to heaven
with Andy.

It wasn’t right that I should be left behind. Andy and I
were supposed to grow old together. Andy was supposed to
build a bigger barn this summer, and I was supposed to
plant roses along the white picket fence that bordered our
backyard. Andy was supposed to have sons to help him on
our small farm, and I was supposed to have daughters who
would wear pretty ribbons in their hair and be spoiled by
their daddy.

But all of that’s gone now. All gone.

I stared down at my hands. Black gloves against a black
skirt. Black like my heart. Black and empty and bottomless.

Oh, Andy. Andy. Why did you have to die? What will I do
without you?

When I looked up again, the stranger was gone.

August

“Come home, Deborah,” my mother had said to me countless
times in the months since Andy died. “You’ve done your
best, but it’s time to be practical. It’s time you sell
that place and come home to live with us. Dad and I want
you here. You know we do. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“This is my home, Mother,” I’d always responded—words I
presumed I would need to repeat often before she would be
convinced I meant them.

How could I make her understand that I couldn’t leave the
farm? Not as long as I was able to meet the mortgage
payments. This place had been Andy’s dream, and letting go
of it would be like letting go of him all over again. This
land was all I had left of my husband, these forty acres
and the small house and aging outbuildings that sat on
them.

Strange, I suppose, that I wanted to stay, given it was
the farm that took Andy from me. Yet it was here, on this
farm, where I felt closest to him. He’d loved the land so.
He’d had the heart of a farmer beating in his chest,
despite being raised in the city, despite the years he’d
spent in the military, fighting wars and leading other
soldiers.

It was on a hot August day, as I pondered my most recent
telephone conversation with my mother, that the stranger
from the cemetery came to the farm.

“Mrs. Haskin,” he said from beyond the screen door, hat in
hand.

“Yes?”

“I’m Gideon Clermont. I spoke to you at...I met you last
March.”

“Oh.” I felt a sudden chill in my heart, as if the cold
wind from that day were still buffeting me. “Yes. I
remember you. We spoke at...at the graveside.”

“Andy and I served together in Korea.”

Korea. Fear had been my constant companion when Andy was
in Korea. But he’d survived the war. He’d survived and
come back to the States. He’d come back to me, his
fiancée. I’d thought God had kept him alive so we could
marry and have children and be a family. On our wedding
day, Andy had promised we would grow old together.

He’d promised me.

Fifteen months. That was all the time we’d had as man and
wife. Just fifteen months before he was taken away forever.

My legs suddenly gone weak, I placed my hand on the
doorjamb. That’s the way it always happened. One moment, I
was doing all right; the next, the brokenness of my life,
of my heart, stole my breath away.

“Andy saved my life,” Gideon said.

Mine, too. Oh Andy. Mine, too.

The world began to blur and slip away.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Haskin?” Gideon opened the screen
door and took hold of my arm. “Here, ma’am. Let me help
you inside.”

I hadn’t the strength to protest, so I allowed him to
assist me to the nearby kitchen table where I sank onto
one of the chrome-legged chairs.

“I’ll get you some water.” He opened a cupboard door,
closed it, then opened another, this time finding the
dishware. After filling the glass at the kitchen faucet,
he returned to where I sat. “You’d better drink this. You
look awfully pale.”

I sipped from the glass, although what I wanted most to do
was return to my bed, pull the covers over my head, and
wail. I wanted to scream and weep. I wanted to give up.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” Gideon asked.

I shook my head, sipped more water, then glanced at my
visitor again. He was about my age, I thought, and he had
thick, inky-black hair, a bit disheveled from his hat, and
a dark complexion. Or perhaps he’d spent a great deal of
time in the sun. I couldn’t be sure which. Wide-spaced
brown eyes beneath dark brows watched me with gentle
concern. He had a pleasant-looking mouth, and I imagined
when he smiled he must be quite handsome.

I was taken by surprise by that thought. I hadn’t noticed
another man’s looks since the day I met Andy back in 1950.

Andy...Oh, Andy. I miss you so much.

Gideon leaned forward on his chair. “Mrs. Haskin, I’d like
to help you if I can.”

“Help me?” I whispered around the lump in my throat.

“Andy was the best kind of friend. The best friend I’ve
ever had. He was like a brother to me. When I heard about
his death—” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, as if
his words hurt him as much as they hurt me.

It was my turn to look away. I chose to stare out the
window above the sink.

Beyond the glass I saw the barn—more of a large shed,
really—the once bright red paint now faded to a blotchy
gray. The roof sagged a little in the center.

As if reading my mind, Gideon said, “Andy wrote me last
winter and offered me a job, working with him on your
farm.”

“He did?” My gaze returned to the man seated across from
me. “He never mentioned it.”

“He said he could use my help with building and repairs
while he did the farming.” He turned his calloused hands
palms-up on the table. “I’m a carpenter by trade. I was
having trouble finding work down in California, so it
seemed a good idea for us both.”

I remembered something about Gideon Clermont then.
Something Andy had written in a letter from Korea:
Gideon’s got the hands of a carpenter, and now he’s come
to know the Carpenter. Maybe that’s the whole reason I was
sent here, Deborah, so I could share God’s love with men
who don’t know Him.

“Andy led you to Christ,” I said softly. “While you were
overseas.”

He smiled, a soft expression. “Yes, ma’am. He did.”

“His faith was strong.” I rose from my chair.

I wish mine were as strong. O God, why can’t my faith be
as strong as Andy’s was?

I walked to the sink and stared out the window at the
weathered barn.

You feel so far away, Lord. I need Your presence. Did You
leave me when Andy died? Is that why I can’t feel You
near? Is that why I can’t hear Your voice? Is that why I
feel so utterly lost and alone?

The sound of chair legs scraping against linoleum drew me
around. Gideon stood beside his chair, watching me, his
smile gone. “I’d like to lend you a hand, Mrs. Haskin. I
thought maybe I could come out here on weekends. You know,
to do some of the things you can’t do.”

The things Andy would’ve done if he were alive.

My heart ached. I felt as if my chest were being crushed
in a giant’s relentless hand. “I can’t afford to hire
anyone, Mr. Clermont. I’m sorry. I’ve leased the land to a
neighbor for this year, but—”

“I’m not asking you to hire me. I’ve got a job in Boise as
a Fuller Brush salesman. It’s not work I care for much,
but it’ll pay the rent.”

“But you said Andy offered you—”

“I just want to help out, Mrs. Haskin. As Andy’s friend.
Will you let me help you?”