Heaven's Touch

She dumped her stuff on the office counter, slipped out of her comfy T-shirt and stowed her things in a private locker in the back.

The quiet slosh of the water against the tile sides and the echo of it in the rafters drew her, as it always did. No matter where life had taken her or the hardships she’d been privileged to face, this place was her home, and she didn’t know what she’d do without her swimming.

Thank You, Father, she prayed as she touched the humble gold cross at her throat, for this passion in my life. Without her swimming and the sanctuary of places like this, where would she be? Living a desperate life like her sister? Abusing drugs and alcohol like her brother?

Her future might not have turned out as rosy as she’d planned, but she was grateful for this morning and for this path she was walking.

The somber black hands on the big clock above the office stretched toward five-thirty. Yikes. She had a few minutes to get the lights on and the ropes up. The regulars would forgive her for being a few minutes late, but she wouldn’t.

Moving fast, she stepped out of her nylon shorts and, without needing to think about it, raised her arms and cut into the cool water. Ah, a piece of heaven on earth, she thought as the wonderful glide of the water slicked her swimsuit to her skin and she sliced to the surface.

Scissor kicking, she let the water sluice down her face as she reached out and grabbed the rope by feel. As she did every morning, she uncoiled it, let the bobbins laze on the water. Swimming all out, she worked fast to uncoil the next rope, took each hook firmly in her hands and leaned back, letting the water carry her.

A few powerful kicks and she was floating in the middle of the Olympic-sized pool. A few more and she was nearly across, working to keep the ropes tangle free and straightening out. At the far end of the pool she latched them up, working quickly as the clock stroked to 5:27.

At the front door there was a rattle that ricocheted like a bullet through the high rafters—and it kept coming.

Who was that impatient? Her regulars knew one knock would bring her running if she were a little behind, like this morning. But someone was very persistent. Okay, so she was now a minute later. She set up the last two lane ropes, climbed out of the pool and, dripping wet, yanked open the front door.

There, illuminated by the bold strokes of the rising sun, stood a solid six feet of man. Right away, she noticed the military short black hair and linebacker’s shoulders. This impatient morning swimmer leaned on a pair of crutches and his handsome, rugged features twisted from impatience to what could only be described as dismay as he recognized her.

Ben? Her heart gave a sudden jump and took off racing. What was he doing here? For some inexplicable reason her tongue had stopped working and she could only stare at him, the way he was staring at her. She couldn’t focus on anything or anyone else, even though she was vaguely aware the benches along the walkway were occupied.

The early-morning regulars began to move closer. She distantly recognized the two gray-haired men who were faithful lap swimmers—per orders from their doctors. Fit and quick, they were the next to reach the double doors.

“Morning, Cadence. We started to worry, since it’s not like you to be more than a few minutes late, on the rare occasions that you are.” Arnold Mays was the first to the door. “Is everything all right?”

“Y-yes, thank you.” She had more problems with her sister, but that was nothing to trouble these fine people with. As for Ben…

Chester Harrison halted beside Arnold, his best friend for over sixty years, and nodded once in the direction of Ben McKaslin. “He’s an eager one. Son, you’re doing pretty good with those crutches.”

“I try not to let anything get in my way.” Ben stood straight and strong despite his injuries.

The men moved inside, talking about sports as they went.

In the clear light of day he seemed very different from the boy she remembered. He looked like an entirely different man, someone made of unbowed steel. He shrugged away his injuries as if they were nothing.

Her gaze slid to his cast; it was a lightweight removable one. His leg was injured, but it must be healing, she figured, remembering how he’d managed to walk on it. Of course, he’d come to swim—one of the best rehabilitation methods for injured limbs.

He was a customer, no more. This wasn’t personal. She held the door wide and tried to avoid his gaze. “C’mon in.”

Ben remained where he stood, off to the side of the doorway, the wind ruffling his short dark hair like freshly mown grass. This morning he wore cutoffs and an old wash-worn tank top that bore some fading military insignia.

A small duffel hung from his shoulder, barely visible, since he’d shoved it behind him so he could use his crutches. His big feet were hidden in a pair of ratty sneakers. Ben was never one for putting much stock in appearance, and after all this time she finally understood.

It was the man and not the clothes she wondered about while she greeted Harriet Oleson, who sprinted along the walkway from the parking lot. Spry at ninety-three, the ever-young Mrs. Oleson praised the beautiful morning as she dashed by, eager to start her laps.

Alone with Ben. The breeze carried with it the faint scent of smoke—either from the fields burning off or the wildfire in the nearby national forest that had started during the night somewhere south of town.

Cadence waited while a muscle ticked along Ben’s iron jaw. “Are you coming in or not? I’ve got to be on deck.”

“This is the lap swim, right? Open to anyone?”

“Well, theoretically. I suppose that includes you. Or maybe it’s the lifeguard you have a problem with.”

“No.” He hooked his crutches more firmly beneath his arms and strode through the door, moving with the determination of a marathon runner sighting the finish line. He left her holding the door, watching his back.

He was so…calm. That was a change from the boy she remembered. He walked straight and strong, as if nothing could diminish him.

“‘Mornin’, Cadence.” Jessie, another regular and a young mom in a hurry, had news of the approaching wildfire. They spoke for a few seconds as Ben disappeared. Jessie soon raced off to get changed, and Cadence was needed poolside.

The office wasn’t empty as she passed through, stopping to grab her cup of tea. She greeted the assistant guard, a college girl named Melody, who must have come in the back door. She looked exhausted from what had to be another late night of studying. Melody resumed counting out change in the cash register’s till.

As she did every morning, Cadence unlocked the locker-room doors, the gentlemen first because she knew Chester and Arnold would be showered down and waiting. And they were, pushing out the door and hurrying to pick their lane. Their bare feet slapped along the deck to the shallow end.

Ben was still on her mind as she paced the length of the pool to unlock the women’s rooms. She exchanged words with Harriet, who was good to go as she slipped on her swimming cap and made her way to her favorite lane.

This was the rhythm to Cadence’s morning routine, a comforting sameness that seemed to start a day out right. Above the splashes and quiet talk of the swimmers, she slipped her shorts over her wet suit, climbed up on her chair and let the warm spicy tea soothe her.

There had been times in her past when she’d never believed she could be this content. The little girl with big dreams and ambition hadn’t grown up to live an important life in sports broadcasting. That little girl she’d been had nearly lost every dream.

But Ben McKaslin? What about the rebellious renegade boy with long hair and a mile-wide self-destructive bent? What had become of his dreams?

There he was, coming from the locker rooms on his crutches, his skin bronzed as if he’d spent most of the year in the sun. He appeared so well muscled she thought that he must put in serious workout time every day.

Wearing long navy blue trunks that looked like military issue, he leaned his crutches against the wall, out of the way. He limped to one of the nearby benches and sat, then ripped off the Velcro tabs of the cast as if there was nothing wrong with his leg whatsoever. Intent on his task, he didn’t look her way.

He’s the past, she reminded herself, and continued to scan the diligent swimmers. They were already hard at work, with their heads down and skimming through the water. Ben slipped into the pool, choosing an empty lane, reached out with his strong arms and took off, favoring his injured leg as he swam a perfect, fast, efficient crawl stroke.

She couldn’t watch him and not remember the too-fierce, too-energetic and larger-than-life McKaslin boy who had made chaos out of nothing.

Trouble still followed him like a shadow, if last night was a clue. He seemed so remote. He seemed so bitter. She hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind through the night, making sleep nearly impossible. And now here he was in her pool, more distant and silent than he’d been at the gas station.

Why does seeing him make me hurt, Lord? It was as if she saw her past when she looked at him. Not just the sweet way she’d loved him, in the most idealistic sense, but more. Seeing him made her assess her life and the years gone by.

She was no longer the girl who believed in gold medals and honorable people and that if she worked hard, lived faithfully and did the right thing, then only good things would come her way.

For a long while she’d been disillusioned. She’d felt as if God had betrayed her by letting her chase dreams that would only bring her sorrow. But then she saw it was simply part of growing up. Of putting away childish things, and a child’s dreamy view of the world. Of a world that was not fair, not kind and not safe, and learning to do right in that world.

I’m no longer in love with you, Ben McKaslin. When she should have felt relieved, she felt only more jumbled inside. More confused—and how could that be possible? Because the old Ben, the young boy, was gone, too.

He’d always had a noble spirit, and as a young idealistic girl she’d seen the best in him—when he had been trying to find the worst in himself. Had he succeeded in that sad endeavor? Or, instead, had he found the best?

She took another sip of tea and put away the questions. Ben McKaslin’s life wasn’t her business, and maybe that was for the best.

She closed the door to the past and concentrated on the moment. On the contented splish and rush of the swimmers in the water, of the gurgle of the pump sucking water through the filter, and of the bobbins on the rope slapping against the tile on the far end of the pool.

This moment. This is what mattered. She purposely kept herself from noticing how he soared through the water like a dolphin.