by Irene Hannon
“And the work is not too hard?”
“No.”
“Then all is well.”
He glared at her. “How can you say that after everything we have lost?”
Without giving her a chance to respond, he slipped into his room and shut the door with a sharp click.
Just as well.
She wasn’t up to a debate tonight.
Shoulders drooping, she flipped off the hall light and quietly let herself into the room where Elisa was sound asleep.
After changing in silence, she crossed to her granddaughter, kissed her forehead, and tucked in the blanket. The child’s slumber was peaceful, her countenance untroubled. Already she’d acclimated to this new home of theirs.
If only she and Thomma could do the same.
She climbed into the twin bed, settled into the warmth and softness, and turned on her side, toward the wall.
Only then did she let the tears come, muffling her sobs with the pillow.
Thomma might think she was strong. Optimistic. Confident about their new life in America.
But she was as scared and unsure as he was.
She missed Yesoph with an intensity that left a constant, gnawing ache in her midsection. Even now, she yearned to reach out to him, to feel his strong arms pull her close in the night and hold her . . . protect her . . . love her.
And oh, how she missed her youngest son, with his sparkling eyes and zest for life . . . and Thomma’s wife, who had been like the daughter she’d never had . . . and her grandson, Elisa’s brother, whose baby giggles had delighted her days.
Mariam choked back another sob.
No, this new life without so many of the family members she loved wasn’t easy for her.
Nor was it easy to remain upbeat and encouraging in the face of Thomma’s despair—and her doubts about her own future.
Thomma was young and smart and strong. If he gave this country a chance, he would do fine here. And Elisa’s whole life stretched before her. She would send down roots in America and soon have little need of her Teta.
Mariam gripped the covers and pulled them up to her neck, her stomach churning.
She was old by Syrian standards, with few skills beyond cooking and cleaning and loving her family. Those had been sufficient—and fulfilling—in the old country, but here? She had to do more to help her family . . . and herself.
Like Thomma, she had to find her place—and her purpose . . . if there was a place . . . and a purpose . . . for her once she shepherded the remains of her shattered family through this transition.
What would become of her when her son and granddaughter no longer needed her?
Balling the sheet in her fists, she fought back another wave of doubt—and despair. Father Karam would not approve of such dark thinking. Nor would Father Murphy.
She had to trust in God, as she’d been admonishing her son to do.
But sometimes it was hard.
So very hard.
She stared up at the dark wall. No sound of distant bombs disrupted the stillness. No angry shouts from the street tainted the night. No flashing lights strobed through the room as emergency vehicles raced by.
If nothing else, she could be grateful for this place of refuge that had welcomed them with kindness and compassion.
As for her future—she’d have to put that in God’s hands.
And pray for fortitude to endure as she struggled to find her own way in this new land that was so different from the home she had left behind.
12
Afternoon tea wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected.
Logan lifted the dainty cup and took another sip of his Assam brew—the highest octane offering on the menu, according to Jeannette—and watched Molly play with the sugar cubes.
His niece hadn’t said much, but as far as he could tell, she was enjoying herself. The bite-sized food was tasty—though he’d have to supplement it later with some serious protein. And watching their attractive hostess navigate among the tables, explaining the offerings on the three-tiered silver serving trays and the choices of tea, was enjoyable.
He could do without the scrutiny of the other patrons, however.
Every one of them was female, and from the minute he’d walked in the door holding Molly’s hand, they’d been aiming discreet—and not so discreet—glances his direction.
Despite Jeannette’s claim that a few men did venture here for tea, males must be a novelty at these types of genteel gatherings.
“What’s this?”
At Molly’s question, he studied the miniature pastry with a raspberry on top and tried to remember what Jeannette had told them about the items on the tray.
“It’s a double chocolate raspberry truffle tart.” She appeared beside them as if on cue. Leaning closer to the girl, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you like chocolate, you’ll like that one. Promise.”
“Chocolate is my bestest favorite.” She reached for the tart.
“Everything okay here?” Jeannette straightened up and directed the question to him.
“Fine.”
“Sorry no other men showed up today.”
“I’m surviving.”
Someone on the other side of the room motioned to her, then toward their teapot.
“A call for more hot water. Let me know if you need anything. Also . . . I’d like to talk with you before you leave, if you can spare a few minutes.”
“Sure.” All he had to do tonight was call the woman Reverend Baker had found to watch Molly and finalize the arrangements. No sense putting it off any longer. At this stage, he wasn’t likely to come up with anything else suitable by Monday.
Meanwhile, why not try to enjoy the relaxing ambiance and soothing classical music in the tearoom until Molly grew bored?
An hour passed before she began to swing her legs and fidget—longer than he’d expected, but not long enough.
He could sit here all afternoon watching his neighbor flit about in her slim black skirt and figure-enhancing lavender blouse that wrapped across the front.
But since none of the other patrons seemed in a hurry to leave, he might have to catch up with her later to hear whatever she wanted to tell him.
At least it couldn’t be a complaint about Toby. There’d been no more breakouts by his escape-artist dog.
“Ready to go, sweetie?” He laid his linen napkin on the white tablecloth.
She shrugged, picked up another sugar cube with silver tongs, and set it on her plate beside the other three she’d transferred. “Can I take these?”
“Sure. We’ll ask for one of those boxes.” He motioned toward Jeannette, who was beginning to distribute small white cartons to her patrons, many of whom hadn’t consumed all of their bite-sized goodies.
He shook his head. Hard to believe every single tray wasn’t bare. He’d polished off his food—and some of Molly’s—in the first twenty minutes.
Jeannette stopped beside their table and inspected their empty serving tiers. “You two did very well.”
“Molly has a few sugar cubes she’d like to take home, though.” Logan motioned toward her plate.
“Of course.” Jeannette set a box on the table and winked at the little girl. “I put an extra shortbread cookie in there for you and your uncle too.”
“Thank you.” Molly smiled up at her.
“I may have to touch base with you later if you want to talk. We’re getting a tad restless.” He indicated his niece.
“No problem. Everyone’s usually gone by four. If you’ll give me your cell number, I can call you as soon as I get a minute. Unless . . . did you come up with any other arrangement for Monday other than the one you mentioned?” She inclined her head toward Molly.
“No. Do you have an idea?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out a pen and found an old gasoline receipt in the pocket of his sport jacket. On the back, he jotted his number and handed it to her. “I’m open to any and all suggestion
s. And feel free to drop by if you’d rather talk in person.”
“Thanks.” She took the slip of paper. “Are you ready for your bill?”
“Yes.” He pulled out his credit card and handed it to her.
“Give me one sec.”
She wove back through the tables, toward a doorway that must lead to the kitchen.
Logan gave the space one last sweep. The back wall of the tearoom was almost all glass, offering a view over the lavender fields that would be stunning when the flowers were in bloom. A dozen tables of various sizes offered seating for about thirty people. Other than the lavender napkins, the place was classy without being froufrou.
And unless she had help hiding in the kitchen, Jeannette ran the whole operation by herself.
Amazing.
While she only served tea two days a week, the fancy offerings on the silver trays must take an enormous amount of time and effort to prepare.
Plus, she had to tend to the plants and make the products she sold at the farmer’s market.
Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t want any downtime, as Charley had suggested, but that she simply couldn’t carve any out. This place had to be a more-than-full-time job.
But why was she doing it alone?
As he pondered that question, Jeannette returned, stopping to drop other checks off at various tables while she wound through the room to them.
“We’ll be home the rest of the day, whenever you have a minute—and waiting with bated breath.” Logan signed the check.
“Don’t get too excited until you hear my idea.”
He picked up the small white box and rose. “I have a feeling that if you thought of it, I’m going to like it.”
A flash of surprise flared in her eyes . . . and an instant later they shuttered.
Oops.
He must have gotten a bit too personal.
“Well . . .” She backed off a step, confirming his conclusion. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Molly.”
Without waiting for a reply, she moved to a nearby table to deal with that check.
Curious.
His neighbor was gracious and considerate. The perfect hostess for a tearoom. But she got skittish if the conversation edged into personal territory.
Why?
And was she like that with everyone, or only him?
Could there be a failed romance in her background that had left her gun-shy of men?
Since he wasn’t likely to get answers to those questions today, Logan took Molly’s hand and led her out the door and around the long hedge between the properties.
As they approached their house, Toby’s muffled barks seeped through the walls.
The pup did not sound happy.
But the crate was a necessity for short absences. No way was he letting the dog wreak further destruction in the empty spare bedroom.
It was a short-term measure, though. Once Toby got the hang of the electric fence, he’d have the run of the yard.
Which reminded him.
As soon as he talked with Jeannette, he’d better corral the pup for a training session.
And hope Toby was as diligent a pupil as he was a digger.
“Thomma? Is that you?”
He closed the front door of the apartment and shucked his jacket. “Yes. Who else would it be?” Irritation scored his words—but so be it. He’d risen at the crack of dawn and spent most of his Saturday on a fishing boat, the cold rain had seeped down his neck despite the slicker Roark had given him, and he smelled like salmon.
He wanted solitude, a hot shower, and food. In that order.
However . . . based on his mother’s resolute expression when she appeared in the kitchen doorway, she had another agenda in mind for him.
Her first sentence confirmed that.
“After you take a shower, would you play a game of Candy Land with Elisa? She says her stomach hurts, and she’s sniffling. I told her to stay in bed for the rest of the day. I’d play with her myself, but I’m making baklava and that will keep me busy for another forty-five minutes.”
He glowered at her. “Why didn’t you wait until another day to bake such a complicated dessert?”
“You like baklava. I thought it would be a special treat to celebrate the end of your first week on the job.”
Her expression was guileless—but her explanation was a lie.
’Ami was worried he was neglecting Elisa, and this was a setup to force him to spend more time with his daughter.
Which was the last thing he wanted to do.
Thomma balled his hands into fists . . . sucked in a breath . . . let the air hiss out through his clenched teeth.
How was he supposed to entertain Elisa when every moment he spent with her reminded him of Raca?
His daughter’s dark auburn hair, big brown eyes, delicate chin—they were all inherited from the woman he’d loved and cherished with every fiber of his being.
The woman who’d added light and laughter and hope to his days.
The woman who’d filled his life with joy and given it new meaning.
His stomach twisted, as it did whenever he thought about his wife.
A huge part of him had died with her in that church.
The best part.
He drew another ragged breath . . . and admitted the ugly truth he’d been dodging for months.
Much as he loved Elisa, if he’d had to pick who would survive the bombing—his daughter or his wife—Raca would have been his choice.
Now, Elisa required more than he had to give . . . and his neglect of her was shameful. He didn’t need his mother to tell him that. The guilt that gnawed at his conscience day and night was a constant reminder of his failings.
“Thomma!”
At his mother’s sharp tone, he blinked and refocused. “What?”
“I asked you what is wrong.”
“I’m tired.” He tried to brush past her, but she stepped in front of him and pressed a hand to his chest.
“The job is too hard for you?”
“No.” Compared to the backbreaking work he’d done at the mine, dealing with charter fishing customers and taking care of a boat was easy. Steven Roark was also a much better boss than his old foreman.
“Then the tiredness is from within.” His mother’s gaze bored into his. “That is more difficult to cure. You should talk with Father Murphy.”
He snorted. “He’ll just tell me to trust in God and do my best with what I have left.”
“That is not bad advice.”
“It doesn’t bring Raca—or the others—back.” He shouldered past her. “I’m taking a shower and then I’m going to rest until dinner.”
She didn’t say another word or try to stop him.
But the sight of his solemn-eyed daughter propped up in bed, a picture book in her lap, her hair spread on the pillow behind her, brought him to a standstill.
Elisa didn’t speak. She just stared at him with big eyes filled with sadness and longing and bewilderment.
How different this greeting was from the old days, when she’d run to him, arms upraised for a twirl as he came through the door from work, then squeal with laughter as he swung her around and nuzzled her neck.
His vision misted.
So much had changed.
Forever.
And none of it was Elisa’s fault.
She didn’t deserve to be dumped into the care of her grandmother, much as she loved her Teta. She was his responsibility. It wasn’t her fault that every time he looked at her, he saw Raca—and a shaft of pain pierced his heart.
For the sake of compassion alone, he ought to make an effort to show some affection.
He took one step into the room. “Teta says you’re sick.”
She held up a tissue. “My nose runned.”
“Does your tummy hurt?”
“Yes.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it.
“You rest while I take a shower. Then we’ll have dinner. Do you need anything?�
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She hesitated for one second, then shook her head.
But that was a lie.
Of course she needed something.
A hug. A smile. A twirl in the air. A game of Candy Land with her papa.
Anything to reassure her that her father loved her.
Yet all he could manage was a slight flex of his lips before he escaped into the hall.
His mother was still standing at the far end, arms crossed, brow creased, her message clear.
She didn’t approve of his behavior.
And he couldn’t blame her.
He ought to be able to see past Elisa’s resemblance to his wife, to love his daughter for herself, be grateful he had her, and give her top priority in his affections.
His head knew that—but his heart refused to cooperate.
Turning his back on his mother, he swallowed past the tightness in his throat. Fled toward the bathroom. Slipped inside and flipped the lock.
There, away from ’Ami’s reproving gaze and Elisa’s haunted eyes, he leaned his forehead against the door, drew in a shaky breath, and did something he’d vowed never to do again.
He prayed.
She didn’t have to talk to Logan in person. A phone call would suffice.
So why was she circling around the hedge that led to his house and walking up his drive?
Jeannette halted.
This was crazy.
Paying an unnecessary visit to her neighbor broke every rule she’d imposed on herself when she’d left Cincinnati behind to start over here.
But she’d been breaking a bunch of them lately.
If she wanted to keep to herself, she shouldn’t have gone to a social event like the welcome party for the Shabos. She shouldn’t have offered to teach the family English. She shouldn’t be initiating a visit to her new neighbor with an idea that would enmesh her even more in other people’s lives.
What was going on? Why had she suddenly begun leaving her safe cocoon and connecting with the residents of this town more than her business required?
And where were those connections going to lead?
Somewhere scary.
Her pulse stuttered as the answer strobed across her mind, and she backed up a few steps.
Hesitated.
You’re being selfish, Jeannette. Your neighbor is in a bind, and your idea could solve his problem.