Page 114 of After We Fall

“Hang on a second. I spilled.” I kill the flame and grab a kitchen towel off the handle of the oven. As I wipe up the beans, I say, “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to tell you what I just figured out.”

Once the beans are cleaned up, I put the towel on the counter and turn. “I hope you had a good tr—”

Destroyed.

It’s the only word to describe the man in front of me. With what I guess is three days’ stubble across Luke’s cheeks, he locks his anguished eyes on me, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. His stillness is almost eerie.

“Luke?” I whisper.

“Robert Kitson died this morning.”

I barely hear his gravelly words. But I did hear them. And something deep in my bones aches at the news about his mentor.

Luke doesn’t move, so I take three steps to him, run my hands around his waist, pull him into me, and hold on. Tight. His body rigid, he doesn’t respond. But after two breaths, Luke wraps his arms around me and tucks his face into the crook of my neck.

And this beautiful man—this beautiful, strong, seemingly invincible man—lets go. His body bucks in my arms with ravaged sobs.

26

“Did you think more people were going to come today, Penelope?” Meredith asks, standing in the finished basement of Mountainside Baptist Church in southwest Colorado Springs. Her simple black dress matches the varying degrees of dark-clothed mourners who assemble for today’s memorial. Soft-toned conversations about the deceased fill in the crevices of grief around the room. “The service was nice. Short, but nice. I guess I just thought after all the years of Robert’s service to others, more people would be here. Is this what you were expecting?”

I dart my gaze around the room, taking in the twenty-some-odd people standing around two long folding tables that offer various homemade finger foods, desserts, and two kinds of coffee. The sweet smell of baked goods collides with the musty scent of sorrow. With the short ceremony and sparse reception, this funeral has a salt-of-the-earth feel. The few that knew him well gave testimony that this is what Robert would have wanted. To love and live well, then die unnoticed. Unadorned.

It’s hard to reconcile the scene in front of me with the tales of Robert Kitson. The stories speak of a man larger than life, a gregarious personality that charged into poverty-stricken areas around the world armed with vast amounts of courage and love.

But he was a man with very few strings attached to anything on this earth. Or anyone. A hot-air balloon with no place to land before pancreatic cancer ravaged his body.

Is this what I was expecting? No. Is anything in the last forty-eight hours what I was expecting? No.

“It’s not exactly how I thought this would all play out,” I say.

“Do you know those people huddled in the corner?”

I glance at the group of five, including an older couple with two young women in their twenties. But it’s the woman with the stunning, long silver hair pulled back into a braid who is full of intrigue. From the time of her arrival before the service up to this very minute, she has silently wiped tears away, the other four in her group taking turns consoling her. Robert has no family to speak of, so why is this woman so affected by his death?

The rest of the room is filled with those of us connected to Luke, staff members from Robert’s home church, and a few men, most of whom flew in for the service, who worked with Robert over the years on various humanitarian trips.

“I don’t know who they are,” I say. “Luke said that Robert hasn’t lived or served in Colorado Springs proper in years. He had an efficiency apartment and a post office box he would visit between trips. But he was very rarely here.”

“Did Luke plan the ceremony?”

“I don’t know, exactly. He wouldn’t—well, that is to say, he didn’t want me to . . . help.” That’s putting it mildly. I haven’t seen him since the night he told me about Robert’s death. When he got home, an urgent work situation ate up his time. He flat-out declined my help, almost refusing to talk to me altogether. I’ve had two short phone calls with him, and I sent three separate texts that he answered with one-word responses.

Meredith touches my arm. “Grief can be confusing, Penelope. It does really awful things to people.”

I sigh, staring at her. Meredith understands grief more than most. Has had to deal with grief more than most. I offer a small smile. “I appreciate you saying that, Meredith. I just . . . he said he didn’t want to talk about anything until he got through today.”

“Well, that’s not all bad.”

“But he added a warning—that things were going to change.”

“A warning?”

“Yes,” I whisper. I close my eyes, hearing his words from an earlier call. “Penelope, I’m giving you a heads-up. Things are going to change between us.” The anger in his voice was disconcerting.

“You’re scared,” Meredith says, squeezing my arm.

“Yes.” I open my eyes. “And so confused.”