Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,118

and Vera had gone to pick up Nate’s sister, Betsy, who would fly with him to Bogotá. Betsy planned to stay there until Nate arranged passage to Timoné. He was going back. It was where he belonged. She tried not to think about him going alone. She was grateful that Betsy would go with him as far as Bogotá.

They sat in silence for several minutes, and then each spoke the other’s name at the same time.

Nate laughed. “You go first.”

“I just want you to know how sorry I am, Nate. For everything. I’m so grateful to you for all you’ve done.”

He waved her words away. “Don’t, Daria.” He rose and went to stand at the edge of the terrace. “That’s all behind us now,” he said firmly.

She stood up and went to stand beside him. “Is it, Nate? Can you ever forgive me? Can you ever forgive me for leaving you there? For going on without you?” She started to cry.

He reached out and touched her arm. “Daria, there was no way you could have known what was happening to me. I know that now. Nothing you could have done would have brought me home a minute sooner.”

“Maybe not, Nate,” she sniffed, “but if I’d only listened to God, if I hadn’t run ahead of him, it would have saved us all this heartache.”

He only nodded.

At the front of the house they heard the blast of a car horn.

“They’re home,” he said.

Time was running out. As difficult as it was, she didn’t want them to part with anything unsettled between them. She couldn’t let him leave without making sure he knew. “I’m so very sorry. I hurt you so much, so much.” She struggled for control. “Can you forgive me, Nate?”

He turned to look at her and nodded slowly.

She kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to his cheek. He reached up and put his hand over hers.

“I have forgiven you, Daria. And I’ll always—” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he took her hand and gently pushed it away, letting his arm drop to his side. “I want to tell Natalie goodbye,” he said finally.

Her heart started to pound. O dear God…this hurts too much! Over the lump in her throat, she called out, “Nattie!”

Natalie came running through the garden gate.

“Nate has to leave now, Nattie. Can you”—she put her fist to her mouth, willed herself not to break down, forced a false cheerfulness into her voice—“can you tell him goodbye?”

Natalie wrapped her arms around Nate’s legs. “Bye,” she said matter-of-factly.

Nate stooped to pick her up. He kissed her cheek tenderly. “Bye, sweetie. I love you.”

“I love you too. Can we come see you in Lumpia?”

Through tears, Nate and Daria laughed at Natalie’s childish pronunciation of Colombia. “I don’t know, Nattie. It’s a long way away. Maybe…maybe when you’re older. But I’ll see you next time I come back here,” he promised.

He gave her one last squeeze and set her down. Then he reached out and put a warm hand on Daria’s cheek. “Goodbye, Daria. God be with you.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Through a curtain of tears, Daria watched him disappear around the side of the house. As Natalie ran back to the garden to play, Daria collapsed on the bench, sobbing as though her heart would break, yet overwhelmed with gratitude for the gift Nathan Camfield had given her.

Only one other gift in her life could compare to what this man had done for her and for Natalie. Only one sacrifice in all time and eternity had surpassed the sacrifice Nate had made for them. And as with that heavenly sacrifice, she could never—however many years she had left on earth—be worthy of Nate’s sacrifice.

But she would love him for it forever.

Thirty-Six

Daria checked the biscuits in the oven one last time and went to the refrigerator to get ice for the glasses. Nicole was in one corner of the kitchen, playing contentedly with a set of wooden building blocks. Across the room, Natalie sat in a toddler-sized chair, using the kitchen window seat as a makeshift drawing board. Daria smiled as her elder daughter labored over a colorful drawing, her little tongue echoing each tracing of the crayon. She was becoming quite an artist.

“Natalie, go out and tell Daddy it’s time for supper.”

“Not now, Mommy. I hafta finish coloring the horsey’s tail.”

“Natalie, you don’t talk to Mommy that way,” Daria said firmly. “You can finish your picture after supper.