Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  He lifted his arm and twisted his wrist. “Seven-thirty.”

  She frowned up at him. “How can that be? I didn’t call 911 until close to nine.”

  “Seven-thirty a.m.”

  She blinked. “I’ve been here all night?”

  “Yeah. The ER had a busy evening. A car accident on 101 in the fog, with multiple injuries far more serious than yours. You got bumped down in the queue once they evaluated your damage. But they kept your IV loaded with pain meds until they could take care of the dislocation.”

  His explanation registered at some peripheral level, but she was too busy grappling with the implication to pay much attention.

  Michael had kept vigil in this hospital all night.

  For her.

  Her vision misted, and she groped for his hand. “You must be dead on your feet.”

  His tired smile as he gave her a gentle squeeze was more telling than his evasive response. “I’ve put in longer nights with my job on occasion. I can catch up on sleep once we get you home.”

  The door opened again, and a woman in a white coat swept in carrying a clipboard. “Mrs. Williams, I’m Dr. Stevens. How does the shoulder feel?”

  “Much better than last night.”

  “I’m not surprised. Dislocations can be very painful, but in general once we get the ball back into the socket, the severe pain diminishes almost at once. Not to get too technical, but you had what we call an anterior dislocation. It’s a common injury in falls—especially when you try to break the fall by stretching out your hand. Is that what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the good news is you don’t have any apparent soft tissue damage—the ligaments, tendons, and muscles all appear to be fine. As a result, you should see fairly rapid improvement.”

  “How rapid?”

  “I’d estimate three to four weeks in the sling.”

  “That long?” How was she supposed to drive and cook for her clergy clients and keep up the house and her animals one-handed?

  “You don’t want to rush back into full use too soon. If you do, you could injure the shoulder joint or even dislocate it again.”

  Anna bunched the sheet in her hand. “But I have obligations. And what about simple things, like cooking meals and getting dressed and . . .” Her voice trailed off as a wave of panic washed over her.

  “Is there anyone you can call on for short-term help?”

  “No.”

  The doctor flipped through the papers on the clipboard. “Then you may want to retain the services of a home health aide for the first couple of weeks. We can give you some information on providers.” She signed the top paper and handed the clipboard to the nurse behind her. “Any questions?”

  Anna’s mind was spinning too fast to form a coherent thought. “No.”

  “I’d suggest you see your primary care doctor in the next few days. He or she can recommend a physical therapist. Once the pain and any swelling diminish, shoulder exercises will help you regain muscle strength. In the meantime, over-the-counter pain meds should take care of any discomfort, but I’ve written a prescription for something stronger in case you need it. We’ll give you all that paperwork. I hope you have a speedy recovery.” She finished her rapid-fire download with a quick smile and whooshed out the door toward the next patient.

  “I have most of your paperwork right here.” The nurse moved in closer to the bed. “There are a few things for you to sign, then I’ll help you get dressed.”

  Michael had stayed in the background during the doctor’s briefing, but now he stepped forward. “I’ll wait outside while you finish up in here. Once you’re ready to leave, I’ll bring the car around to the door.”

  “We won’t be long.” The nurse was already elevating the head of the bed and preparing to remove the IV. “Stay close.”

  “I’ll do that.” He transferred his attention to her. “Hang in, Anna. You’ll get through this. It’s just a matter of logistics at the house. Nothing that can’t be handled with a few phone calls.”

  She locked gazes with him, this man who somehow seemed able to see into her heart and grasp her worry. Who was doing what a son should do in an emergency. What her son would have done if she hadn’t been so stubborn.

  But Michael was a fine substitute in her moment of need.

  Another blessing she didn’t deserve.

  She swiped a hand across her eyes and managed to choke out a thank-you.

  Michael winked and slipped out the door.

  Once he left, she signed paper after paper, trying to process everything the nurse was telling her. But her mind kept drifting to the logistics Michael had referenced. She supposed she’d have to consider some home health care—but strangers in her house? A shudder rippled through her. Perhaps there was some other solution.

  However, as the nurse began to help her dress and the difficulty of that simple task even with another pair of hands began to register, Anna faced the truth.

  Like it or not, she was going to need some assistance.

  And since John was lost to her and she had no real friends in town, her only option would be to pay a stranger to do tasks a friend or family member would have done out of love.

  Michael wiped a weary hand down his face, exited the ER, and drew in a cleansing lungful of the crisp morning air.

  Hospitals were the pits—and ERs were worse. They were suffocating, anxiety-ridden hellholes.

  With fingers that weren’t quite steady, he unscrewed the cap on the bottle of OJ the nurse in the intake area had offered him and took a swig. Coffee would be better, but the sweet juice did help chase away some of the bitter taste on his tongue.

  Too bad it couldn’t chase away the bitter memories as well.

  Recapping the bottle, he slowly exhaled.

  Leave the past in the past, Hunter. Focus on today. On the positives.

  Right.

  Today’s big positive was that Anna’s injuries weren’t serious, and once they healed she could resume her normal life.

  Until she reached that point, however, she would need help.

  He uncapped the bottle and took another drink, leaning back against the wall of the building as the evaporating mist began to offer glimpses of clear blue sky. His resolution to get back on course with his own quest might have to be put on hold for a day or two while he helped Anna line up a service that would . . .

  He froze.

  Wait.

  Might there be another option?

  Slowly the seed of an idea took root in his mind. Grew. Blossomed.

  It was an ideal solution.

  Except he doubted Anna would agree.

  Still, it was preferable to hiring some stranger who would invade her home and rob her of the privacy she cherished—though convincing her of that might take every ounce of his persuasive powers.

  If the option was even available at this point.

  But that was easy enough to check.

  He finished off his juice in three long gulps, tossed the empty container into the trash bin near the ER entrance, and pulled out his cell.

  It was too early for phone calls.

  Bleary-eyed, Tracy peered at her bedside clock. Almost eight?

  Maybe it wasn’t too early . . . unless you’d been up until two in the morning working on a Helping Hands crisis, finishing the payroll for a client, and trying to round up a used tractor to replace old Bessie.

  Another few minutes of sleep would have been nice before she cycled out to the farm for a full day of manual labor.

  Sighing, she grabbed her phone off the nightstand and croaked out a greeting.

  “Tracy?”

  At the familiar baritone voice, the fog vanished from her mind. “Michael?”

  “Yes. You sound a little hoarse.” He paused. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Um . . . I was getting up anyway. I had kind of a late night.” She swung her feet to the floor and stood. He probably thought she was a lazy slug, still in bed on a wo
rkday at this hour. Not an impression she wanted to leave—for reasons she didn’t care to analyze. “On top of the Helping Hands crisis and that payroll project I mentioned, I was scouring the net for a used tractor. Ours died this week. Since I succeeded on two of the three, the late hours paid off. What’s up with you?”

  “Two out of three . . . does that mean you haven’t found anyone to take the teen yet?”

  “No, but I only managed to connect with six of the ten candidates I culled off the master volunteer list.” She wandered into the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. Grimaced. She needed a caffeine infusion—bad. “I’ll try the others this morning. I’d take her in myself except her parents are adamant she have supervision, and my long days at the farm wouldn’t allow me to monitor her activities.” She padded down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Well, I think I may have a candidate for you.”

  She jerked to a stop at the counter, her big toe connecting with the kick plate underneath. “Ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She balanced on one foot and inspected the injury. “I stubbed my toe. What did you just say?”

  “I think I found someone to take the girl. Anna Williams.”

  She lowered her foot to the floor. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Let me tell you the story.”

  She listened as he recounted the events of the previous evening and his all-night vigil.

  “Are you still at the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  And she thought she’d had a tough evening.

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “I’ll catch up on sleep later. Here’s the thing—the girl needs a place to stay with supervision from a responsible adult. Anna certainly qualifies . . . and she’s going to need some help with daily chores for the next two weeks. However, she isn’t keen about some stranger from a home health service invading her space.”

  Tracy lifted her foot again and massaged her throbbing toe. “She doesn’t know this girl, either—or her parents.”

  “But the girl wouldn’t be paid help. They’d be doing each other a favor. I think that would sit better with Anna.”

  “Have you mentioned it to her yet?”

  “No. I wanted to make sure the job hadn’t been filled.”

  “It hasn’t—but I need to find someone fast or throw in the towel so the family can seek help elsewhere.”

  “I’ll talk to Anna on the drive back and call you within the hour. We’re about to leave the hospital. Can you wait that long?”

  “Yes—but I’m not holding my breath.” Tracy lowered her foot to the floor and dumped some coffee into a filter . . . though she hardly needed the caffeine infusion now. Her brain was percolating at full strength. “Home health care people come and go; they don’t live at your house. Anna doesn’t even invite anyone over for coffee, let alone an overnight stay.”

  “It can’t hurt to give it a shot.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Do you know any details about this girl’s situation? I expect Anna will ask.”

  “Yes.” She shoved the filter into the coffeemaker and poured water in the top while she talked. “Reverend Baker got the whole story from the mother—or her perspective on it, anyway. They relocated to the area about six months ago from the Midwest. Job transfer. Grace—that’s the daughter—hated having to leave in the middle of high school, and she had difficulty breaking into the established cliques here.”

  “A lonely teen plus a bunch of unruly hormones. Not a great combination.”

  “That about sums up the problem. The parents’ names are Ellen and Ken Lewis, if Anna asks.”

  “Does the girl have any other issues? Drugs, alcohol, smoking?”

  “Not according to her parents.”

  “Got it. I’ll call you back within an hour.”

  “I’ll keep my phone handy.” The soothing aroma of coffee began to fill the cottage, and she inhaled a lungful. “And thank you for trying, no matter the outcome.”

  “Let’s hope it’s positive—for everyone. Talk to you soon.”

  Clapping her hand over a lingering yawn, Tracy set the phone on the counter and pulled out a box of cereal.

  Talk about a strange turn of events. Wouldn’t it be amazing if the town hermit agreed to end her self-imposed isolation?

  And Michael’s kindness to the unsociable woman who’d offered him lodging was just as extraordinary.

  Kindness, however, seemed to be part of his DNA. Making amends with cinnamon rolls, plying her with tacos, fixing Eleanor’s gutter, lending his expertise to Helping Hands, a sleepless night in the ER . . . and now stepping in to offer a potential solution to the current crisis with the teen and her family.

  The word remarkable hardly did him justice.

  But remarkable as he was, and persuasive as he might be, Tracy had a feeling that getting Anna to agree to house-sit a pregnant teen in exchange for assistance with daily chores was going to be one very tough sell.

  11

  “Absolutely not. I won’t have a girl like that in my house.” Anna narrowed her eyes at Michael as she juggled the remains of her fast-food meal in her lap. “Is that why you bought me breakfast? To butter me up?”

  Her chauffeur kept his attention on the road, his expression neutral, his tone mild. “No. We both needed to eat. I’m sure you were hungry, and I was starving.”

  She winced. Of course he was. The man had spent a sleepless night in the ER. She should have bought breakfast for him, not the other way around.

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem. I’d be out of sorts too if I’d spent a night hooked up to an IV. What did you mean by ‘a girl like that’?”

  Her hackles rose again, despite his conversational manner. “Isn’t it obvious? A good girl wouldn’t get herself pregnant at sixteen. She must be the loose type.”

  “From what I gathered, she was more lonely than loose.”

  Anna sent him a disapproving scowl. “Are you condoning her behavior?”

  “No. But I guess I’ve gotten more tolerant of mistakes as I’ve grown older and made plenty of my own. It seems to me it’s better to treat people in the midst of a crisis with compassion than censure or criticism. I try to leave judgment in God’s hands these days.”

  “Hmph.” She looked out the window, one shoulder stiff, the other aching as the sting of his words echoed in her heart. Not that they’d been directed at her past, of course. Michael didn’t know her history. No one in Hope Harbor did.

  Yet what he’d just said . . . it was the sort of comment George might have made if he’d been on hand when she and John reached their moment of crisis.

  And it was the sort of comment this family needed to hear.

  But Michael was a far better candidate to share such a message than she was.

  She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. Nothing but the lulling hum of tires on asphalt broke the silence as one mile passed. Two. Three.

  She peeked at him. Was he waiting for her to say more? To capitulate, perhaps?

  Well, let him wait. She wasn’t budging on this. The last thing she needed in her home was a pregnant teen with questionable morals. What if the girl tried to sneak her boyfriend into the house in the middle of the night? A stunt like that would put her smack in the middle of this mess, and she was through with messes. Had been for almost two decades. Walking a wide circle around trouble was a far safer route to follow.

  “Anna . . .” Michael’s gentle voice broke the silence at last. “This is an ideal solution. You need help for a couple of weeks, preferably of the live-in variety. If this girl is willing to abide by the rules you and her parents set, wouldn’t it be better to have her in your house than a variety of strangers who come and go every day?”

  He wasn’t giving up.

  Well, neither was she.

  “There’s no place for her to sleep.” She kept her focus on the road ahead, chin elevated, back ramrod straight. “George turned
the third bedroom into an office.”

  “What about the second bedroom?”

  “It’s John’s.”

  “Could she use it?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t press that point.

  Smart man.

  “Is there a sleeper sofa?”

  She fidgeted, the empty food wrapper in her lap crinkling in protest as she balled it in her fist. “Yes, but it’s not very comfortable—or private.”

  “I don’t think this girl cares. She just wants to be away from her parents until everyone’s emotions simmer down—and it would be better for her than living on the street as a runaway.”

  Anna frowned. Would the girl really run away—or was that an idle threat? The stories she’d read in the paper about runaways were chilling. If this Grace did happen to be basically a good girl who’d made one big mistake, she wouldn’t be sweet and innocent for long if she ended up on the street.

  But why was that her problem?

  She squeezed the crumpled wrapper tighter, until her fingers began to ache. “What does the baby’s father have to say about all this? He and his family should assume some responsibility for the girl. It takes two to tango, after all. No doubt there’s fault on both sides.”

  “She hasn’t identified him yet. She’s afraid her father might punch out the kid—or the kid’s dad.”

  Anna sniffed. “Hard to blame him if he did.”

  “Maybe not, but it wouldn’t solve anything. Don’t you think there are more productive solutions?”

  She cradled her arm against her body, trying to keep her shoulder as stationary as possible in the moving car. Like what? The teens were both underage, far too young for marriage. Nor were they old enough to raise a baby. They were practically children themselves.

  “I don’t know. I suppose they could discuss the situation with the boy’s parents. In fact, all six of them could talk this thing out and come up with a plan everyone can live with.”

  “A reasonable suggestion. Still, it doesn’t solve the problem at hand.”

  True.

  Another mile of silence passed while she stared out the window, blind to the scenery as she tried to find ways to punch more holes in Michael’s proposal.