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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Pat Simmons

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover image © Jeremy Samuelson/Getty Images; Nickilay Khoroshkov/ Shutterstock; Vibrant Image Studio/Shutterstock; YK/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Simmons, Pat, author.

  Title: Here for you / Pat Simmons.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020006230 (trade paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.I56125 H47 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020006230

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  Excerpt from Lean On Me

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  In loving memory of

  Tanishia Pearson-Jones

  “She walked by faith and not by sight.”

  Chapter 1

  Dying? Rachel Knicely refused to accept that. Only three weeks ago, her great-aunt Priscilla “Aunt Tweet” Brownlee was the life of the party at the wedding reception. Her eyes had sparkled, her dance moves impressive for an eighty-five-year-old, and her childish giggles made the evening more festive, sometimes stealing the spotlight from the bride and groom. How could she be dying? Nope, I won’t accept that. I need her in my life.

  Closing her eyes, Rachel rubbed her face and tried to make sense of her aunt’s rapid decline. The youngest of three daughters, Rachel had made an agreement with her two sisters to share Aunt Tweet’s caregiving responsibilities six months at a time, first with the oldest, Kym, in Baltimore, next with Tabitha in St. Louis. Now it was Rachel’s “tour of duty” to care for their beloved role model.

  Life was suddenly becoming too short. I’m not ready to lose my auntie yet. Rachel yawned and stretched on the chaise longue. She had put the piece of furniture by the bed in the makeshift guest bedroom in the loft of her Nashville condo. She forced one eye open briefly to check on her aunt.

  Rachel was drained and wasn’t sure how she could be so tired. It was only 2:00 a.m., on a Saturday morning in a city known for its nightlife. Before Aunt Tweet’s stay, Rachel would have been out on the town with her best friend, Jacqui Rice, at one of the many “must-attend” events around Music City after a long work week.

  She had tweaked her social calendar until June 1, when Kym would begin her second rotation as Aunt Tweet’s caregiver and would relocate their aunt to Baltimore again.

  Over the past months, Rachel had learned being a caregiver wasn’t a nine-to-five shift. She did what it took to make her aunt comfortable, and her late nights were now spent watching over her loved one, even more so since the dementia symptoms caused by Alzheimer’s had her aunt acting out of character.

  Rachel had had no concept of the term sundown until Aunt Tweet began to wake in the middle of the night and wander through her condo, trying to get out. Her loving aunt had been downright mean and combative toward Rachel for more than a month. Aunt Tweet’s behavior had crushed Rachel to the core.

  A trip to St. Louis last month for Tabitha and Marcus’s wedding had seemed to give her aunt a second wind, then after a few days back in Nashville, her aunt had slipped into another personality again.

  Aunt Tweet stopped eating for two days. Two days! Rachel had freaked out and called her sisters, who in turn had a conference call with the doctor—the third one since Aunt Tweet was initially diagnosed more than a year ago. After moving Aunt Tweet from her home in Philly, she had a specialist in Baltimore with Kym, one in St. Louis with Tabitha, and now Dr. Allison Watkins here in Nashville.

  “The kind of symptoms you’re describing become severe as the patient transitions into the last stages of Alzheimer’s,” Dr. Watkins had said, too casually in Rachel’s opinion, as her heart shattered. Was it fair that her designated time with Aunt Tweet was marred with worry that, at any time, her aunt would slip away?

  “Aunt Tweet’s doctor in Philly said a patient with dementia can live up to twenty years,” Rachel pointed out.

  “Yes,” the doctor confirmed, “with no other contributing factors, but the average life span is usually four to eight years after diagnosis. Changes in the brain begin before any signs manifest.”

  “That’s the preclinical period of Alzheimer’s,” Tabitha, the second oldest and a pharmaceutical rep, whispered.

  “Yes, also called the mild stage, which allows her to remain active socially. Stages can overlap, so I suspect Miss Brownlee might have moderate to advanced Alzheimer’s. It is usually the longest stage and can last for many years.”

&
nbsp; “Living longer is good news, but not with her condition worsening. My aunt is the sweetest person on earth.” All Rachel wanted was more bonding time with Aunt Tweet so she could tell her over and over again how much she loved her, admired her, and would live up to the expectations Aunt Tweet had for her three nieces.

  “Based on these new symptoms, let me see her in my office to determine if she has progressed to the next stage.”

  “Which is?” Kym, the oldest, asked, but Rachel wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “The late stage,” Dr. Watkins said matter-of-factly. “Unfortunately, the last stage of Alzheimer’s is the most severe. Without warning, she can lose the ability to respond to her surroundings, control movements, or she may stop walking, sitting, and eventually swallowing.”

  When the call ended, Rachel had been numb. The conversation had both depressed her and upset her stomach. Dr. Watkins’s speculation was one thing, but taking Aunt Tweet into the office to confirm the inevitable was disheartening. Had her aunt stopped eating because she couldn’t swallow?

  The next day, Aunt Tweet woke with a voracious appetite. Relieved, Rachel cried like a baby with a wet diaper. This was proof that Aunt Tweet had not progressed to another stage. She had bounced back. “Thank you, God,” she whispered and considered canceling the doctor appointment.

  Kym was the first one to veto the idea. “Go, Rach, or I’ll fly down there and take her myself,” she threatened.

  “All right!” Rachel reluctantly agreed.

  On second thought, Rachel wondered if all three of them going to the doctor with Aunt Tweet wasn’t such a bad idea. Depending on what the doctor had to say, they may need to hold each other’s hands.

  Unfortunately, one week later, Rachel was on her own as she escorted Aunt Tweet to the appointment. She didn’t care what it looked like to others in the waiting room, Rachel held her aunt’s hand as if she were a little lost girl, not a twenty-nine-year-old engineer who was at the top of her game.

  After the preliminaries, Dr. Watkins gave Rachel the heartbreaking news. “From my assessment and everything you shared on the phone, your aunt has indeed transitioned to the last stage.” She was quick to add, “Don’t give up hope yet. It’s not over. This stage can last from several weeks to several years. It’s not the quantity of time but the memories you have with her that will give you comfort.”

  Rachel nodded but didn’t feel any comfort in her words. It was the memories of Aunt Tweet’s laugh, unfiltered conversations about life, and her attention to a meticulous appearance that was fading too fast, being replaced by a shell of a woman whose independence had been stolen.

  “It’s important that you keep a sharp eye on her for signs of pain, since her level of communication may become more limited.”

  Oftentimes, that meant Rachel sitting at her bedside throughout the night, reminiscing about happy times as a child, unsure if Aunt Tweet remembered or understood, but it was therapy for Rachel.

  The influence Aunt Tweet had on the Knicely sisters—especially Rachel’s life—was astonishing. Their aunt was all about confidence and character building, plus detailed attention to a woman’s personal appearance.

  As the oldest sibling, Kym inherited Aunt Tweet’s wisdom. Tabitha’s features were almost identical to a younger Aunt Tweet, as if their parents, Thomas and Rita Knicely, had no say in their daughter’s DNA. As the baby girl, Rachel had a special bond with her great-aunt.

  Aunt Tweet seemed to infuse Rachel with more of her personality: a flair for fashion, which included showstopping hair, nails, and makeup at all times and a thirst to achieve a high level of intellect with education being the primary goal. Then there were the many life lessons, including on how to act like a lady, and the most important was philanthropy. There was nothing wrong with enjoying the finer things in life, but one had to remember others less fortunate and help them climb to success.

  Rachel sighed. There were so many life lessons learned courtesy of Aunt Tweet. The only topic her aunt didn’t bring up much was living happily ever after with the love of your life.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, Nicholas Adams was on his way home from his overnight shift when he received a call from his church. He was a project manager at the Nissan plant in Smyrna, about half an hour from downtown Nashville. However, he was never off duty as a minister for God. His pastor assigned him and several other ministers to visit church members who were sick, homebound, or hospitalized.

  “Hello, Minister Adams,” Mrs. Eloise Emerson greeted him when he answered. “I know it’s early, but we received a call over the weekend from a Tabitha Whittington with an urgent prayer request. She’s a member at one of our sister churches in St. Louis.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Emerson,” he reassured the elderly church secretary.

  “Good, I’ll send you the information,” she said in a quiet voice. “Miss Whittington would like someone to visit her great-aunt, Miss Priscilla Brownlee, who is staying here in Nashville. I’m sure she’d appreciate your visit—the sooner the better, the note says.”

  Nicholas nodded to himself. If someone needed healing or comfort, it was his job to pray with them. As soon as he said, “I’m on it,” Nicholas glanced in his rearview mirror and groaned. He had planned to get to the barber before heading home. His hair demanded a cut that was a week delayed.

  His phone chimed as he took off. At a stoplight, he stifled a yawn as he glanced at the address Mrs. Emerson had texted him for Miss Brownlee. It was in Midtown, not far from Vanderbilt University, but a good half-hour drive during morning rush hour. It was also a bit early for a house call. Going home wasn’t an option either. If he closed his eyes, Nicholas would be down for the count for a good seven hours. Not good in this case.

  He rubbed his hair again and made a decision: a pit stop at Hats Off Barbershop in Antioch, which was in the direction of downtown. Hopefully, he could get in and out.

  When he arrived at the place, he counted seven heads before him, or maybe his eyes had crossed. Nicholas resolved that he would have to wait longer than he had hoped. Making himself comfortable in an empty folding chair, he mumbled a prayer for Priscilla Brownlee before he dozed off. A few times, someone nudged him to pull him into a conversation about sports or to give his opinion about a world event from a “preacher’s viewpoint,” because his barber always addressed him as preacher.

  Two hours later, he walked out a tired man with a fade cut to his wavy hair, a trimmed mustache, and a five o’clock shadow outlining his jaw. At least he had gone into the restroom to rinse his face with cold water and pop a breath mint. He slipped on his shades after squinting at the sunlight that seemed to have brightened while he’d been inside. Now he felt presentable enough to perform his task.

  Once in his car, he confirmed the address again. It was after ten, so surely someone would be awake by now. He tapped the address to activate the navigation app and headed westbound on I-24.

  The West End Avenue area was a trendy part of Nashville that attracted grad students and young professionals drawn to the surrounding downtown nightlife, Lower Broadway, or East Nashville.

  Rumor had it that Midtown was so pricey the rent there was comparable to the mortgage of a custom-built house. Personally, Nicholas enjoyed being a homeowner in a quiet Smyrna neighborhood with a spacious ranch house that was close to his job. To him, that was preferable to living in the midst of a constant bustle of people.

  Since the traffic flowed, he arrived in less than half an hour and parked around the corner. He grabbed his Bible from the back seat and headed to the building’s grand entrance with a maroon awning and street-level retail shops lining the front windows. He strolled inside. Whoever lived in this place had money with a capital M.

  The interior resembled a hotel lobby with marble floors and expensive decor. Voices above him made him take notice of a mezzanine. Wow was the only way to describe
the Westchester. A middle-aged gentleman stood from behind a sleek desk in an office with see-through walls and strolled around to greet him.

  He asked for Nicholas’s ID, which he looked at carefully. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Miss Priscilla Brownlee who is staying with her niece Rachel Knicely in 1402.”

  “Of course.” He returned Nicholas’s license and pushed a button to open the elevator doors.

  Nicholas nodded his thanks and walked inside, where spotless mirrors, brass trim, and accent lighting surrounded him as the doors closed. He had never visited a residence with this type of security, but it was close to a busy area, so maybe that justified it.

  On the ride up to the fourteenth floor, soft music entertained Nicholas until the bell chimed and the doors opened. The decor screamed elegance from the floor to the overhead mini chandeliers that lit the path. Should he remove his shoes to walk on the plush carpet? He didn’t and continued to 1402, where an artistically carved wood front door rivaled the one at his house.

  After he pushed the doorbell, Nicholas dusted any stray hairs from his shoulders. When he made first-time house calls, he liked to portray an image of a respectable, serious, and clean-cut man.

  Respect, at times, was based on perception—what people thought a minister should look like and how elegantly he spoke. Nicholas didn’t think that should matter. His attire wasn’t dress slacks and a collared shirt. Instead, it was his Nissan polo work shirt and jeans.

  He was about to ring the bell again when a woman answered. They blinked at each other. It was a toss-up whether Nicholas had wakened her or she didn’t care about her appearance. Either way, her beauty wasn’t dimmed, even with messy hair, wrinkled clothes, and one missing big hoop earring. Nicholas had seen worse. He offered a smile.

  She looked at him as if she was in a daze. “Yes?”

  “I’m Minister Nicholas Adams, from Believers Temple Church. I’m here to see Miss Brownlee.”

  The woman’s eyes widened with fear, and she slammed the door in his face.

  What? I don’t have time for this. Nicholas was sleep deprived and hungry. Maybe his eyes were bloodshot and she thought he was drunk or high on drugs or something. Unfortunately, there were instances when he was met with hostility from families who weren’t Christians and resented his presence.