by Hope Ramsay
* * *
Noah reached for the suture needle and thread. At the veterinary referral center, this part of the procedure was often handled by a vet tech, but even if Lia DiPalma wasn’t squeamish about blood, she wasn’t a vet tech.
She probably could become one if she wanted to. He liked the way she asked questions. He liked the fact that she was steady and calm. She might be tiny, but she had a steel backbone when it came to blood.
“So you’ve known Micah St. Pierre for a long time then?” he asked.
“I was his RPS on his first aircraft carrier deployment. So, yeah, probably close to fourteen years or so.”
“RPS?”
“Religious Programs Specialists. It’s a military rating. I was part of the navy that supports the mission of the chaplains.”
“Oh. How do you do that?”
“We are like librarians, secretaries, PR specialists, counselors, and bodyguards. We keep the ship library going, print up the order-of-service handouts, and provide a liaison between the sailors and the officers. If there’s a morale problem, we probably hear about it first and have an obligation to report it up the chain of command.”
“And the bodyguard part?”
“We carry weapons. The chaplains don’t.”
“I see.” But he didn’t really. She was too tiny to be anyone’s bodyguard.
“I came here to see if I could talk my way into a job working for Reverend St. Pierre. I knew he needed a secretary, and I thought…” She shrugged.
“You thought what?”
“That he could just hire me on the spot. But I guess he’s got a board of directors and he’s got to run it up the flagpole. To be honest, I don’t really know all that much about churches.”
Noah laughed. “That’s funny.”
“Not really. RPSs don’t have to be religious to serve the military chaplains. I mean, we serve all the chaplains regardless of creed.”
She looked up at him with those sad puppy-dog eyes. She didn’t look like some kick-ass ex-navy vet. She looked like a stray in need of rescue. And clearly in need of a place to stay. “So you weren’t kidding yesterday when you told us you were homeless.”
“No. But things will work out.”
How could she be so sure of that? Damn. She needed a forever home as badly as Prince did. And for some reason, he hated the fact that Micah St. Pierre had refused to let her stay on his couch. Why would the preacher do that?
Unless he had a thing for her and didn’t trust himself.
Or he was worried about their reputations.
“Don’t worry,” she said into his silence. “I’ve been homeless before. I can deal.”
“You’ve been homeless?”
“Yeah. As a kid. Every time we moved, we ended up living in the car for a while before we settled.”
Noah suddenly wished Momma’s POS rental had a spare bedroom. But unfortunately, he was occupying it right at the moment. But that gave him an idea. “Look, maybe I can work a deal with you. I’m going to be leaving soon, taking my mother and sister back to the mainland. You could take over my mother’s lease. It’s not the best house on the island, but—”
“That would solve a lot of problems.” She gave him a smile.
Damn. He should have held his tongue. The house was in terrible condition. “Um, well, don’t thank me yet. I told you it’s kind of run-down.”
“I assume that will make it more affordable. I mean, I’m sure the church secretary position doesn’t pay all that well. So…”
“It’s pretty inexpensive, considering the ridiculous rents around here. But it’s got three bedrooms so you could find roommates and reduce the costs.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said.
“Yeah, well, if this works out, you won’t have any excuses about adopting the dog either.” He gave her a pointed stare.
She stared right back at him. “I’m really sorry but I don’t think I deserve Prince.”
“Deserve? What does that mean?”
She shrugged. “Okay, maybe I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment. But I’ll find him a home. I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise,” he said, then lapsed into silence as he finished sewing up the dog’s incision.
Why did he feel this compulsion to help her out? Maybe it was all about the dog in the end. He didn’t want to see Prince—damn, even he was starting to think about this patient with that name—end up in some animal shelter. Black dogs had a hard time finding homes. A black dog with hip issues would have an even harder time.
He needed to find her a home so she could take the dog. It was as simple as that.
“That should do it,” he said when the last suture was in place. We’ll keep him on pain meds for a while, but he should recover well. He’s young. It’s really amazing how puppies heal.”
They carried the dog back to the kennel area. When Prince was settled, Lia turned toward Noah with a little spark deep in her eyes. “Thank you for saving his leg. That was truly impressive. I’m happy to stay and keep watch over him while I organize the storeroom.”
“You’re going to organize the storeroom? Why?”
She shrugged again. Oh, that body language suggested her insecurities.
“I’m kind of a neat freak,” she said. “And I hated the way we left the boxes yesterday. So I’m happy to get everything unpacked and put away. If you would just leave me some instructions about how you’d like things done, I’ll get to it.”
“I told you, I don’t run this clinic. And I’m leaving at the end of the week.” He managed a smile. “And it’s in your interest to have me leave. I’ll be taking Momma and Abby with me, leaving the house for you and Prince.”
She blinked up at him, a little frown forming in the middle of her forehead. “That’s true, but you’re the only vet I know, and I’m sure I’ll have lots of questions. Besides, I figure, if I get the place organized, maybe your grandmother might have an easier time finding someone to replace you.”
Replace him?
Wow, why did that word bother him so much? Of course he’d be replaced, because he wasn’t staying. And he wasn’t going to let himself commit to this clinic. It was as simple as that. But he could give her a few instructions on how to organize a veterinary practice. There was no harm in doing that.
Chapter Five
Lia got to work converting the chaos in the storeroom into order. But even with Dr. Cuthbert’s written instructions to guide her, she still had questions about many of the obscure items she found packed in the boxes. The internet was a huge help, but still, she would need to consult him about a lot of things.
But he’d left the clinic almost as soon as they settled Prince in his kennel, and he hadn’t told her when he planned to be back. Which created a dilemma for her when twelve-thirty rolled around. She had a lunch date with Chaplain St. Pierre that she couldn’t afford to miss.
She hated leaving Prince alone. But she had no other choice. She checked on the puppy before she left. He was awake and was able to do his business outside with a little help. His IV bag was empty, but she didn’t know what to do about that. So she made sure he had some water and left him in his kennel. She slipped the keys under a rock in the flower box below the front window, taped her cell number to the front door, and headed off to Rafferty’s.
It was a cloudless June day, warm but with a cool on-shore breeze. She decided to walk to Rafferty’s, six blocks down Magnolia Drive to the intersection with Harbor Drive, where the restaurant stood on the public pier in the heart of the downtown district.
She ducked around to the back of the restaurant where an open-air deck provided a spectacular view of Moonlight Bay, dotted with sailboats, their colorful spinnakers billowing in the breeze.
Micah had made a reservation. Good thing, because the place was packed with tourists. He hadn’t yet arrived, but the hostess guided her to a seat in the shade of a striped umbrella where she sat back to enjoy the briny ta
ng on the sea breeze. It brought back memories, although people would be surprised to learn how little of the ocean, much less the sky, sailors got to see on deployments. A carrier was like an ocean-going city. If you didn’t have duty on the flight deck, you mostly stayed below decks—for months at a time.
She didn’t have to wait long for Chaplain St. Pierre. He came bounding up the steps and made a beeline for her table.
“Hey,” he said with a smile. “I thought you might enjoy a table outside.”
“Trying to read my mind, sir?” she asked, standing up, feeling a little awkward when she remembered that she didn’t need to salute.
He didn’t seem to feel awkward at all when he gave her a friendly pat on the back before they both sat down. “So did you find a place to stay last night?”
“Yes. It’s temporary but I was comfortable.” She refrained from saying more, but just then Abby Cuthbert, wearing a blue-and-white striped boat shirt and blue Bermuda shorts, came over to their table and asked them what they wanted from the menu. Lia prayed fervently that Noah Cuthbert’s sister wouldn’t say one word about where she’d spent last night. Micah would probably not be happy to learn that she’d crashed on the clinic’s floor.
Luckily Abby was all business. Chaplain St. Pierre ordered an Everything Burger and a Coke. Lia asked about the shrimp, determined they were locally caught, and got the fried shrimp plate.
When Abby left them, Lia asked, “So? Have you talked to your board?”
“I have. And it’s not as easy as I thought. Everyone agrees that the church is growing and needs a secretary but there’s a debate as to whether we need one full-time or part-time.”
“Oh.” She let her disappointment show.
“But don’t worry, I’m fighting for a full-time position. In any case, the issue won’t be resolved until the next board meeting on July eighth.”
Oh crap. That was a week and a half away. What the hell was she going to do for the next ten days? And where was she going to stay?
“I know that’s a bit disappointing,” Micah said. “And even if you do get a job with the church, it’s not likely to pay a great deal.”
“I don’t need a lot, sir.”
“Radar, I’m Micah, remember?”
“Okay, and I’m Lia.” She smiled.
His mouth twitched. “I’ll do my best to remember that. But here’s the thing: you might need a higher salary than you think. Magnolia Harbor can be an expensive place to live, especially in the summertime.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got a line on a sublease,” she said, hoping she could actually afford the house Dr. Cuthbert had talked about during Prince’s surgery.
The priest chuckled. “Why am I not surprised that you found a sublease within hours of arriving in town? If I ever needed anything, you always found it for me. Even when it seemed impossible or required a mountain of red tape. You do realize that it’s almost impossible to find a sublease this time of year?”
She shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.” Was that a lie? She wasn’t lucky, and the sublease wasn’t a sure thing yet either, although Dr. Cuthbert seemed determined to leave town as soon as possible.
But she wasn’t about to let Chaplain St. Pierre—she found it difficult to think of him as Micah—know that she had exaggerated the situation. Or that she was homeless at the moment. She wanted a job from him, not charity or sympathy or empathy. She’d had enough of that crap from her last commanding officer. The one who had suggested it was time to separate from the navy or run the risk of losing her honorable discharge.
Abby returned with their Cokes, saving Lia from having to say more about her living situation. When the waitress left, Chaplain St. Pierre leaned forward, a probing look on his face. “So, are you ready to tell me the real reason you left the navy?”
She took a sip of her Coke. “No, not really.”
“Why don’t you try? If you’re going to be working with me again, I’d like to know the reason.”
“Is this like a job interview?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. I just…” His voice trailed off.
“Just what?”
“Look, Lia, I know you. Never in a million years did I expect you to leave the navy. It was your home. You were happy there. What happened?”
She looked away from him, casting her gaze over the bay where the sailboats were tacking back and forth, putting on a show for everyone. This harbor was such a beautiful, carefree zone.
“I choked,” she said.
“What?”
“Under fire. Last January. I was escorting an Orthodox Christian chaplain on a whirlwind Christmas tour. The crap hit the fan in the middle of his two-hour visit to Camp Shorab in Afghanistan. One of the Afghan special forces turned his gun on us as we were heading back to the helo.”
“Was he hurt?”
Lia shook her head as her throat closed up. She clutched her soda as the horrible memories tumbled through her. Memories filled with violence and blood. Memories that hounded her in the wee hours of the night. Was this PTSD? Maybe. But she had avoided the counseling. She’d toughed it out.
“Chaplain Stephanidis wasn’t hurt. But the marine standing right next to him was hit in the head. Thank God the round only grazed his helmet. He was okay, just a concussion. But it all happened so fast. I mean the shot was fired, and the marine went down, and then five guys standing next to me turned and opened fire on the Afghan.
“Not me, though. I freaked. I didn’t act to get Chaplain Stephanidis under cover; one of the other marines did that. And I didn’t render aid to the guy who was shot. I just stood there. Like a dweeb. A terrified dweeb.”
She took a shaky breath. “I failed.”
Micah reached out and took her hand away from her soda glass. His palm was warm against her icy skin. He gave it a heartfelt squeeze.
“Did you talk to someone? You, of all people, know how important it is to talk these things out. I can remember you handing out lists of psychologists and support groups to sailors and marines whenever they looked like they needed a helping hand.”
She nodded. Another lie. She had not talked this out. She’d been too afraid that being diagnosed with PTSD would end her career with a medical discharge.
“You know, I loved my job. But that was the first time I ever came under enemy fire. And it underscored something I had been blind to. I don’t want to shoot my weapon. At anyone.”
“Well, I can’t blame you for that,” Micah said, giving her hand another squeeze, right before their food arrived.
Thank God. She was able to turn the conversation away from herself, which always made her more comfortable. She enjoyed the rest of the meal as he gave her a history lesson about the island, and she learned, for the first time, that Chaplain St. Pierre was descended from a pirate.
“And you never thought to tell me that before?”
“Well, for a long time, I was kind of ashamed of my background. And besides, I didn’t think being descended from a buccaneer was consistent with my image as a chaplain. But here on Jonquil Island everyone knows it. Henri St. Pierre is a historic figure whose contributions to the history of this island are just now being recognized. He was the sole survivor of a shipwreck that occurred in the inlet more than two hundred years ago, and he helped Rose Howland plant the daffodils that gave the island its name. Just wanted you to hear it from me, because you’ll hear it from everyone else.”
“Okay, good to know.”
“So, it’s getting late. Is there anything I can help you with while we wait for the board to meet?” Micah asked.
Here was her moment. “Actually there is, sir.”
“What’s that?” he asked as he took a credit card from his wallet and placed it on the check Abby had just delivered to the table.
“I was wondering if you might be interested in adopting an adorable black lab-mix puppy.”
He gave her a probing stare. “And where did you acquire a puppy?”
“He was in the m
iddle of the road into town. I had to swerve not to hit him. I picked him up and brought him to the clinic.”
“The clinic? I thought it wasn’t open.”
“It’s not. But Noah Cuthbert is here on vacation and he did surgery on the dog this morning. Now all Prince needs is a home.”
“Prince? You’ve named this dog?”
“Not me. Maybe the doctor named him. Or maybe his grandmother.”
“Jeez, Radar, you’re in town for less than twenty-four hours and you’ve already made friends with a bunch of Methodists.”
“Well, I’m not sure we’re friends, exactly.” She shrugged.
“Why aren’t you adopting him?” Micah asked.
Oops. She would have to confess her homeless state to him. Or maybe just tell him the truth.
“I’m not good with pets,” she said.
“No? Have you ever had a pet?”
“Yeah. A long, long time ago when I was twelve. It went badly. And I don’t ever want to be responsible again. Besides, you need a dog.”
“I do? Why?”
“Doesn’t every parish priest need a dog? You know, like the Rev. Sidney Chambers in the PBS show Grantchester? And Prince is black, you know, just like the dog in the show. It would make you more approachable.”
“I think that might depend on the dog, don’t you?”
“Yeah. But Prince is great. He’s sweet. And he needs a lot of therapy, you know, so he won’t have a limp. I can’t give him that.”
Chaplain St. Pierre’s gaze froze her. Those probing black eyes of his made her want to squirm in her chair. “I’m going to pass on the dog,” he finally said.
“Why?”
“Because I get this feeling that, if I let you give me the dog, you’ll be gone before the sun rises tomorrow.”
“No. I came for a job.”
“I know. But you’ve told me enough about your past to make me wonder if you’re capable of settling in one place. I think it isn’t me or the promise of a job that’s keeping you here. I think it’s the dog.”
* * *
“So you think something is going on there?” Kate Joyner asked, nodding toward Rafferty’s patio where Rev. St. Pierre was holding Lia DiPalma’s hand.