Piece by Piece

By Erin Michael

Megan Oliver has had a rough year, to say the least. Needing a new beginning, she returns to her hometown of Cedar Springs, Idaho where she purchases an old fixer-upper in the hopes the project will keep her occupied. She returns to find the dynamics of family and her group of close friends is an emotional journey she wasn't quite prepared for. Reed Sullivan is one of those friends and has known her for years. With the recent turn of events which affected them all, he wants to help her in any way he can. Besides, he made a promise and he intends to keep it. The trouble is, can their friendship survive the road ahead without history repeating itself? Can Reed prove to Megan that God is walking with her through it all? And so is he.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664276253

Erin Michael

Erin Michael has been writing all her life, completing several novels over the past twenty years. She lives on the Canadian Prairies with her husband of over twenty three years and their four children. Apart from writing, she loves having tea with friends, reading a fantastic book, and enjoying the world God created.

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PIECE

BY

PIECE

ERIN MICHAEL

Copyright © 2022 Erin Michael.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system

without the written permission of the author except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®.

Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission

of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The

NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in

the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7624-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7625-3 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/19/2022

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     Megan

Chapter 2     Reed

Chapter 3     Megan

Chapter 4     Reed

Chapter 5     Megan

Chapter 6     Reed

Chapter 7     Megan

Chapter 8     Reed

Chapter 9     Reed

Chapter 10   Reed

Chapter 11   Megan

Chapter 12   Reed

Chapter 13   Megan

Chapter 14   Reed

Chapter 15   Megan

Chapter 16   Megan

Chapter 17   Reed

Chapter 18   Megan

Chapter 19   Reed

Chapter 20   Megan

Chapter 21   Reed

Chapter 22   Megan

Chapter 23   Reed

Chapter 24   Megan

Chapter 25   Reed

Chapter 26   Megan

About The Author

Every word of God is flawless; he is a shield

to those who take refuge in him.

—Proverbs 30:5

Chapter 1

MEGAN

This is a bad day. I knew it would be. Despite all my best efforts to the contrary, today has left me feeling hollow and emotional, the tears ready and waiting for any opportunity to let loose. I’m not holding out high hopes for improvement either, as the day is barely half over. When I woke up this morning, I felt as if the familiar dark haze that threatens to sweep me up almost daily was closer than it had been in months. It is my nemesis. But it is more powerful than I am, so there’s nothing I can do when it wants to make me miserable. Usually I am a happy, fun-loving, jovial person. Just ask anyone who knows me. But that’s not me anymore. How I miss those days. Honestly, I am tired of being sad. But as much as I hate the way life has turned me inside out, there seems to be nothing I can do to get myself turned right side out again. There is an old saying: time heals all wounds. So far, I have no evidence this is true. In fact, some of the initial numbness I felt has slowly abated, allowing pain and a sadness I can’t shake to seep deeply in its place. There is a heaviness in my heart today, a familiar, dull ache as memories I don’t want to remember play over and over in my mind.

I feel a cold, sticky, wet sensation on my fingers. My attention is turned from my wandering thoughts to the soft-pink paint that has dripped down the paint roller handle across the knuckles of my right hand. I have no idea how long I have been standing there staring at nothing at all with the roller left stagnant in midair. I can’t seem to stay focused. I wipe the errant paint onto my faded blue jeans and place the roller on the wall of my bedroom with a heavy sigh. I thought keeping myself busy all day would keep my mind and my emotions from running away on me. So far, the results have been lacklustre. I have to say despite that, my room is coming along nicely. I love pink, so I thought it was a fitting choice for my master bedroom. I realise it’s not normally a colour a grown woman would choose. A little girl? Sure. But I thought to myself, Why not? It was my room after all. Mine and mine alone.

My smartphone rings on the nightstand behind me. I watch my footing as I walk across the threadbare old sheet that is protecting my recently varnished hickory floor. Tripping and spilling pink paint everywhere is not on my to-do list today. I put down the roller in its pan and gingerly pick up the phone, careful to not spread paint onto the screen. I hesitate for a moment before saying hello when I see the name written across the front.

Megan. I hear my mother’s soft voice on the other end. Are you sure you don’t want to come to dinner tonight?

I roll my eyes only because I know she can’t see me do it. It’s about the tenth time she’s asked in three days. Mom, I’m fine. I try my best to sound chipper.

Honey, I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to sit in that dumpy old house all by yourself today. You should be around people who love you.

I sigh heavily. Mom, please. I just need to be alone today. I’ve tried explaining this to her before, to no avail.

We’re just worried about you, is all.

I know you are, and thank you for that, but I promise I’ll be OK, I say, sounding far surer than I feel.

Are you sure there’s nothing I can say to convince you?

Nope, nothing, I assure her.

OK then. Just come on over if you change your mind. I hear her sigh in resignation.

Love you, Mom, I say.

Love you too, she says tenderly. I can hear the sadness in her voice. The sympathy. Which is precisely why I can’t spend the day with my family. They would all be staring at me from the moment I walked into my parents’ home until the moment I left. Their sad eyes, sympathetic looks, and gentle pats to my hand or shoulder at random times would all be in a hopeless attempt to provide comfort. I would rather wallow in solitude than try to act normal and as if nothing bad ever happened. And I definitely don’t need a concerned audience to witness my bad acting skills. It’s completely unappealing.

Maybe buying a house ten minutes from my parents wasn’t the smartest decision I have made to date. But at the same time, it seemed to make the most sense. My best friend, Cammie, who happens to be a real estate agent, found this place for me after suggesting a fresh start. She was right, as best friends generally are. I needed it. The project part, however, was my idea. I felt that if I could keep myself busy, I could move forward. And in a lot of ways, it has helped. I sleep far better; that’s for sure. The time I spend renovating this old house gives me both a sense of purpose and exhausts me to the point that sleep comes easily. The condo Dean and I shared held too many memories. Some good, some bad, but memories nonetheless.

I am almost done with the second coat of paint, and I am loving the colour. I take a step back for a moment to admire my work. Dean would have hated it. He was well put together, responsible. He liked clean, simple lines—nothing messy. I am the exact opposite. Not to say I’m irresponsible; I’m not. I have a job. Well, had a job. I left it of my own choosing. But I have been known to leave dishes in the sink overnight every now and then in lieu of a great movie or a night out with a friend. I even have a nasty habit of leaving the cap off the toothpaste. And being the rebellious person I am, not only do I have one junk drawer, but I have two. One holds the usual junk drawer items such as pens, elastic bands, and paperclips, and the other holds a random stash of junk food, mostly Junior Mints and gummy bears for my skip-the-dishes movie nights on the couch.

As I am finishing up the last corner, my phone rings again. It’s probably my mother again, or possibly my older brother, Matthias, as Mom’s been known to call in reinforcements when deemed necessary. I don’t even bother checking the screen.

Hello? I answer, squinting as I eye a spot I may have missed on the wall. I bend down to grab my paintbrush when a friendly male voice answers me.

Meg? Is that you?

I freeze. I would know this voice anywhere. He is not who I was expecting. A smile immediately escapes me. Reed?

His voice is warm and familiar in response. Hey, how are you? He seems to immediately regret what he said because he quickly follows it up with, I mean, I could guess how you are. I just mean …

My heart breaks a little for him. He’s always been so tender-hearted. It’s OK, Reed. I’m all right.

Good, I just … He trails off for a moment. I’ve been thinking about you today. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch the last few months. I didn’t mean to be. It’s just … He trails off again. I know what he means to say, and I can hear the regret in his voice. He clears his throat. I, uh, I ran into your mom at the grocery store a few days ago.

My mother. Of course. She asked you to call me?

No. Well, not really. She just said I should call you sometime because she was sure you would like to hear from me.

Well, she was right. A pleasant surprise. I can almost see his bright blue eyes smile at my comment.

That’s good too. I was just wondering if maybe, possibly, you could use some company tonight? He pauses for a moment and then adds sombrely, I know I could.

The thought of spending an evening with my late husband’s best friend was not at all unpleasant. Uh, are you sure my mother didn’t put you up to this? I ask suspiciously. And yes, she is that conniving—or concerned, as she would put it—when she wants to be.

No. Promise. I seriously was just thinking about you, and I knew today was going to be tough for you. It’s tough for me, and I thought maybe some Chinese takeout and a friend might help.

I wasn’t at all surprised that Reed would think to call me. It will be great to see you. You might be the only person whom I would be up to seeing today, I admit.

I figured you’d be by yourself. Sean told me you’ve holed yourself up in your new place pretty good. He was complaining that they have hardly seen you at all since you’ve been back.

I swallow hard against the guilt. I have been holed up, but I have my reasons. Sean texted me this morning to let me know he’s been thinking of me. He never left Cedar Ridge and married his exact opposite, an uptight dentist, a couple of years ago. He manages the printing company in town and has since graduation. Faye sent me a text this morning too. She moved to the West Coast after she married the love of her life and now has three small kids living in suburbia complete with the dog and the white picket fence. It’s true. Both the fence and the dog were decorated with red bows and twinkling lights on last year’s Christmas card. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen her in a couple of years, but we do stay in touch with an odd phone call or text. Cammie tried to convince me to hang out with her today too, but I declined as graciously as I could. I know she means well, but she is far too upbeat and chipper to be compatible with my sombre mood. And then there was Reed. He had been my rock in the weeks after my world fell apart. I couldn’t have made it through those first weeks without him. I shake my head at the memory. There’s just no way it was possible. I would be hard-pressed to find a more caring or more eclectic group of friends than the ones I’ve got.

After a long silence, I finally say, I’ve been busy. It’s not a complete lie. More of a half-truth.

Sean mentioned your new place is on Harpers Road?

Yeah, number twenty-three. It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but it’s been a good distraction.

I’m glad you are back in town. An hour OK?

Yeah, sure. I’m not going anywhere.

We say our goodbyes, and then I quickly touch up the spot I had seen earlier and set about putting all the painting tools and paraphernalia away. I have pink paint up my forearms, and I can only assume it is likely in my hair and on my face too. I strip out of my pink splatted clothes and step into the shower in an attempt to scrub all the paint off before Reed’s arrival. Once I am dressed, I quickly throw my long auburn hair up into a messy bun to keep the wet hair out of my way as I do a quick tidy of the kitchen and living room. Not that there was much amiss. It was only me here in the house to make a mess. But I straighten the sea blue throw pillows on the couch and make sure I don’t have anything weird lying around, like a stray coffee cup or bra. I have also been known to throw off my bra at the first opportunity, especially during a skip-the-dishes, get-comfy-on-the-couch movie night. With no offending underwear or dishes to be seen, I hear a vehicle pull up onto the gravel driveway. A strange surge of both excitement and dread course through me at the prospect of seeing Reed. He knew what I was going through, or at least was the closest to it. I had lost my husband of four years. He had lost his best friend of twelve.

He taps lightly on the old wooden screen door, the white paint chipped and peeling in many places. The momentum makes the bottom of the door rattle against the jamb, amplifying the knock. Another thing on the long list of items I will need to eventually fix. I open the creaky door with a smile. It is the first genuine smile I have mustered all day. Well, second, I guess. I remember smiling when I first heard his voice on the phone. Hey, Meg, he says tentatively with a shy slow smile. His dignified blond beard, always neatly trimmed, frames his otherwise boyish face, making his charming smile and kind blue eyes all the more appealing.

Hey yourself. It’s so good to see you, I say as I motion for him to come in. He takes a couple of steps over the threshold before he bends toward me for a familiar hug. He still smells the same—kind of like Irish Spring, but completely Reed. His embrace is soft and also a bit tentative, like he wasn’t sure I wanted a hug but took the chance anyway.

He takes a step back and smiles at me. You look great, he says. But you’ve lost weight.

Sometimes that’s a good thing, I retort with a smirk.

Yeah, well, not in your case, he says as he shakes his head disapprovingly with a tsk, tsk for emphasis. I remember specifically telling you to take care of yourself before I left you at your condo to fend for yourself. There is kindness and teasing in his eyes despite the critiquing words. He moves past me and towards the kitchen, which is clearly visible to the right from the front entrance, and places a brown paper bag full of delicious-smelling Chinese food on the countertop.

And I have. I do, I say almost defensively as I follow him to the kitchen.

He starts emptying the bag by placing various take out containers on the ugly green tiled countertop that’s cracked in more places than I care to count. Also another thing to replace on my list.

Plates? he asks as he folds up the now empty bag. I move around him in the tiny galley kitchen, where there is barely enough space for two people between the two countertops. Although the countertops are long with plenty of workspace, it is too narrow to be really useful. Also something I will need to remedy in future. However, I remind myself sombrely, normally it is only me. I grab two plates from the cupboard and place them on the counter beside the food.

When I open the first container, a squeal of delight escapes me unhindered. You remembered! I blink up at Reed, who is smiling beside me.

Lemon chicken and moo goo gai pan, he says proudly. All right, I brought the food, so I get to pick the movie.

I suppose that’s fair, I say as I pop a mushroom from the moo goo gai pan into my mouth.

Glad we are in agreement, he says.

We load up our plates and then settle ourselves into the living room. It is still plenty bright outside as its only after four in the afternoon. I get up to close the blinds on the large picture window that overlooks the expansive valley behind the house. I have Netflix. Just don’t pick anything sad. No drama, no romance, I say as I hand him the remote.

He looks at me with a familiar mischievous glint in his eyes as he takes the remote. All right. Action or horror it is. I scrunch my nose at him. He knows I won’t watch horror films. He laughs at me and winks. I can’t help another soft smile. All these months apart, and it’s like we haven’t skipped a beat, reverting back to our easy nature and a comfort level only found between good old friends. How about a little of everything? he asks with a sly grin, and I know immediately what he’s thinking by the gleam in his deep blue eyes the colour of fresh denim. I excitedly plop myself on one end of couch as he is on the other.

I curl my feet under me, and over the course of the next nine hours, we completely immerse ourselves in old Star Trek reruns. As we watch Captain Janeway solve problems of galactic proportions with all the poise and intellect befitting a futuristic starship captain, we talk intermittently, catching up a little, but mostly our focus is on the show, and I am thankful for it. I just needed to get through today.

I guess I should get going, he says as he stretches his arms above his head as the end credits roll after the twelfth episode. I sit up straight as he looks over at me, his sandy blond hair slightly dishevelled.

I get up and take our long discarded dinner plates to the sink and rinse them off. He disposes of the empty containers. We somehow managed to eat everything over the course of the evening. I turn to face him in the small space of the kitchen. Reed? He turns to face me. He looks tired. Weary, almost. Must be exactly how I look and feel, and yet for such an emotionally charged day, it ended up being not quite as bad as it could have been. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me and waits. Thank you. It really is so good to see you again, I say a little raggedly. Today was OK. You made it OK. I pause as I feel a lump in my throat forming. And thank you for taking my mind off everything for a while. It was a much-needed reprieve. The dread leading up to today was almost as exhausting as actually going through it.

He lifts a hand and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I needed it too. His voice is a little gravelly, a little on the emotional side, and I see him fighting against glassy eyes. I have to look away or my own eyes will start. So I walk him to the door. Neither of us says anything else because there is nothing else to say. We both understand. I give him a weak smile and lean into him for a hug. He wraps his strong sturdy arms around me, making me feel safe and making me feel that everything will be OK, even if only for this moment. It’s almost as if his arms are full of some sort of superhuman power, made specifically for offering comfort. I had forgotten how much I missed them. They got me through many a long night. Or a long day. Tears prick at my eyes despite my best efforts to keep my emotions under wraps. Good night, he says quietly into my hair as he rubs a hand on my back in a soothing way. He pulls away, and with his warmth gone, I instantly feel cold and alone again. I wrap my arms around my middle, hoping to stave it off a little. He opens the creaky screen door and steps outside onto the wrap around deck. You know, I could fix this for you, he says as he points to the offending door.

Oh, it’s OK, I say casually, swallowing hard against my emotions that are simmering. I’ll get to it eventually. He opens his mouth as if to protest but then gives me a weak smile and a nod before turning away and heading to his truck.

I hold up a hand in a wave before crossing my arms back across my chest against the chill in the spring night air. I watch as he backs out of the driveway and his tail lights disappear. Another wave of emotion washes over me, but I can’t even tell what caused it. Maybe it was because the weary, tired look he wore was reminiscent of the last time I saw him. Not even close to the same degree, but there nonetheless.

I close and lock the door and get myself ready for bed. I slip under the covers in my spare room. Because the master bedroom is under construction, I temporarily moved into the second bedroom, where I thankfully have a spare queen-size bed. It’s not nearly as comfy as my own, but it does the trick for the time being. As I try to get comfortable on the foreign mattress, I huff out a breath and blink in the darkness. Reed pops back into my mind. How many nights has he spent on this very bed? I honestly can’t guess. But it was weeks—several weeks. He had a business to run back here, but he was so worried about me that he decided it would be best for him to stay with me for a while until I could get a grip on myself again. I was in no position to argue. In fact, most of that period of time is a blur. But I do remember how careful he was to make sure that I was eating, that I paid the bills and remembered appointments I needed to keep with lawyers, insurance agents, bankers, and such. He helped me sort through our finances and made sure that the insurance money Dean left me was safe and would last. And I do remember when I had to tell him he needed to leave. He didn’t want to, but the commute from Boise back to Cedar Ridge was almost an hour and a half one way. Between the stress of losing his best friend, making sure I wasn’t about to implode, running his construction business, and commuting back and forth every day, he was run ragged. He had to stop. I had been so