by Irene Hannon
As the minister concluded his sermon, Anna picked up her hymnal and assessed Grace out of the corner of her eye. The girl might have balked at coming to Sunday services, but she’d stuck to her promise to help with every chore—including driving her hostess to church. Not that Anna had intended to come . . . but the theme of the service, proclaimed on the church’s front-lawn announcement board, had seemed tailor-made for Grace when Anna had spotted it on Tuesday.
It was hard to tell if the man’s words had had any impact on the teen, though. Her expression was neutral, her crossed-arm posture less than receptive. Not a positive sign.
Yet strangely enough, Reverend Baker’s words had managed to touch her heart.
She fingered the hymnal, the weight of it in her hands familiar, if long absent. After hearing and reading the prodigal son tale on dozens of occasions, she could recite it in her sleep. And she’d heard plenty of preaching on the topic too.
Reverend Baker’s sermon, however, had offered a different twist—the notion of reaching out instead of waiting for a black sheep to come home. That wasn’t in the passage. The father in the Scripture story hadn’t searched for his son. Perhaps, like her, he’d allowed anger to harden his heart . . . had let time pass . . . and given up any hope of a reconciliation. Yet the ending had been happy.
Her grip on the hymnal tightened.
John hadn’t come back, like the prodigal son—but was there a chance her own story could end the same if she followed Reverend Baker’s suggestion and took the initiative?
“Mrs. Williams, the service is over.”
Anna blinked as Grace whispered in her ear. The last hymn had ended and the congregation was filing out.
“So it is.” She replaced her unopened hymnal in the slot on the pew in front of her and stepped into the aisle, linking her arm with Grace’s.
It was slow going, and as they shuffled along with the exiting throng, she could feel the surreptitious looks being aimed her way. There were a lot of new faces since she’d last occupied a pew here, but many were familiar. Yet no one spoke to her.
And why should they? She’d been rude and indifferent to everyone for years, lavishing her affection on critters who couldn’t talk back—or talk behind her back. One by one her former friends had gotten the message and written her off as a bitter old woman, leaving her to the solitary, unencumbered, private life she preferred.
Or had preferred until Michael came along and flipped her quiet, peaceful, predictable world upside down. These days, every dawn seemed to bring a new challenge.
Yet truth be told, she was less lonely now. Being around people again might be more complicated, but it also made life more vibrant and interesting.
She searched the congregation. Her temporary tenant was here somewhere with the Sheldon girl. He’d told her yesterday he was coming. They must have slipped through a side door to escape the crush of people.
Not a bad plan.
On the opposite side of the aisle, Joyce Alexander exited a pew, studiously directing her gaze toward the back. Away from her old friend.
Spirits drooping, Anna absorbed the rebuff. They’d been close once, when their children were young. Same age, both with one son, active at church—and a host of other commonalities that had cemented their friendship.
But friends shared joys and hurts . . . and talking about John had been far too painful. It had been easier to build walls than open doors.
She watched Joyce squeeze through the crowd, the woman trying to get away as fast as possible. Who could blame her? In all these years, the only contact she’d initiated had been a sympathy note after Joyce’s career-Army son had been killed in Iraq a decade ago. Her old friend hadn’t responded—nor had Anna wanted her to. Renewing their friendship hadn’t been her intent, and the message had been crafted to subtly communicate that.
But a lot of time had passed. Wounds healed and hearts could soften—couldn’t they? Might the woman be receptive to an overture of friendship?
Before her courage failed, Anna pulled Grace through the crowd, leading with her uninjured shoulder until she was behind her old friend.
“Hello, Joyce.” The greeting quavered, and she took a shaky breath.
Joyce angled slightly toward her, her manner wary as she bobbed her head. “Anna.”
At least she hadn’t ignored the greeting.
“Good sermon.”
“Yes.” The woman gave her a wary once-over. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I have a houseguest, and I wanted her to attend.” She jockeyed the girl forward. “This is Grace Lewis. Grace, this is Joyce Alexander, a . . . friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you.” Grace mumbled the perfunctory sentiment.
Joyce returned it, but her focus wasn’t on the young girl. “Are you . . . will you be coming back to church again?”
Anna continued to shuffle toward the door with the crowd. “I might.”
“We have donuts afterward next Sunday.” Joyce opened the top button of her sweater. Tugged down the hem. “They always . . . they still have the chocolate kind you used to like.”
For some reason, Anna’s eyes began to sting. She pulled her arm free from Grace’s and groped in her pocket for a tissue. Must be the humidity.
You know what it is, Anna. You’re touched because despite your snubs, Joyce is responding to your olive branch.
She sniffed and dabbed at her nose. “Damp day.”
“I expect we may get some rain.” The woman surveyed the gray sky as she stepped through the door and greeted the minister.
When it was her turn to do the same, the man gave her a big smile. “I thought I spotted you in the congregation today. I’m glad these aging eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. And Grace . . . how nice to see you here.” He shook hands with both of them. “How’s your shoulder feeling?”
“Much better—and I have a great helper here.” She gestured to the teen.
“Excellent. I must admit, from a selfish standpoint I hope you have a swift recovery. I’m missing your meat loaf. Thank the Lord Charley’s is close by. Father Kevin and I have been wearing a path to his window—yet we both agreed during our golf game on Thursday that while we love his fish tacos, you can get too much of a good thing. But please don’t tell Charley I said that.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Discretion is a great virtue . . . and speaking of virtues, I hope we’ll see you here again soon.”
“I might be back next week. I hear there will be donuts.”
“I’ll guarantee it if you promise to come.”
She hesitated. “A week is a long way off.”
“Well, you pray about it—and I’ll do the same.”
The crowd was backing up behind them, so with a quick good-bye to the minister, Anna took Grace’s arm again and led her down the steps.
“What did you think of the service?” She handed over the keys as they walked toward the car.
“It was okay, I guess.”
“Reverend Baker preached an outstanding sermon.”
“I guess.” Grace moved ahead and opened the door for her.
Cradling her arm, she slid into the passenger seat. “I can deal with the seat belt. I’m learning to cope with this one-handed business.”
Grace closed the door without responding.
Apparently the minister’s sermon hadn’t transformed the girl’s thinking. But perhaps it had softened the ground for the seed she wanted to plant.
As Grace took her place behind the wheel and started the engine, Anna shifted toward her. “Let’s take a drive to the bluff. I’m not up to climbing down the steps for a walk on the beach yet, but with this sky it will be stunning from above too.”
Grace followed her directions, and in five minutes they were pulling into a parking space that offered a panoramic view of the sea stacks, cobalt blue ocean, and wide expanse of beach. A few people were on the sand, including . . . She peered down at the waterline. Was that Mic
hael and Tracy? Walking hand in hand?
Hmm.
No wonder they’d wanted to make a fast escape from church.
“Mom and Dad and I brought a picnic lunch here once.”
At Grace’s wistful comment, Anna gave the girl her full attention. “That’s the very subject I wanted to talk to you about.”
Grace watched her, expression guarded, but remained silent.
“The two weeks we agreed you would stay with me are up on Friday.”
“I know, but . . . I could stay longer if you need me. I wouldn’t mind. There are a lot of things I could help you with until—”
“Grace.” She gentled her tone. “You and your parents have to deal with this sooner or later. Putting it off isn’t going to make it any easier. I’ve been talking to your mom every day, keeping her informed as I promised I would, and I think your parents are ready to have a calm, reasonable discussion.”
The girl pulled a piece of lint off her sweater. “Is Dad over being mad?”
“Your mother said he’s accepted the news.” A hedge, but if she was lucky, Grace would let it pass.
“He hasn’t checked my cell call record, has he?”
“He said he wouldn’t. Has your father ever lied to you?”
Her lower lip quivered. “No.”
“Then I think you can assume he’s honored his word. So here’s what I propose. Let’s drive over to your house and talk this through.”
“Now?” Panic flared in her eyes.
“Why not?”
“But . . . I don’t even know if Mom and Dad are home.”
“They are. I told them last night we might stop by—but I didn’t make any promises. I wanted to leave the decision to you.” For today. If this dragged on too long, though? Different story. Someone had to step in and take charge of this situation eventually. Talk some sense into these people.
Grace picked off the last vestiges of her iridescent purple nail polish.
Anna waited in silence.
At last the teen sighed. “I guess we can see what they have to say. Maybe things will turn out like that story the minister talked about today.”
So she had been listening to the sermon.
“I have great confidence God will work hard to bring that about—as long as we do our part too.”
And should the meeting begin to deteriorate . . . she had a secret weapon in her arsenal.
If she could dredge up the courage to use it.
“This is so beautiful. I never get tired of the view.” The wind lifted Tracy’s hair, free for once from the constraints of her usual ponytail.
Michael stroked his thumb over the back of her hand as he watched her enjoy the gulls soaring like kites against the deep blue sky, the foamy surf crashing against the sea stacks, and the distant horizon that seemed to beckon with a promise of adventure.
“Me neither.”
She transferred her attention to him. Smiled. “I’m talking about God’s creation.”
“So am I.” He squeezed her hand as they strolled down the sand, his focus still on her.
Her shoulders drooped. “This particular piece of creation is very flawed.”
“Not flawed. Just a work in progress—like every other human.”
“That’s a better spin, anyway.”
“Truth, not spin.”
A gull lifted his head from the mussel shell he was picking at as they approached, and Tracy paused. “Well. Look who’s here.”
Michael glanced at the bird. “A friend of yours?”
“It’s Floyd.”
He gave the gull a dubious perusal. “How can you tell? They all look alike.”
“Not close up. They have distinctive features, like humans. Floyd has a nick on the right side of his beak, and there’s a black spot on the top of his head.”
“If you say so.” The bird still looked the same to him as all the others.
“Trust me, he and I have often gotten up close and personal when he comes banging on my back door. Which is almost every night. I think he’s seeking companionship as much as food.”
“Does he keep you awake?”
“No. He’s always roosting before I go to . . .” She slid her hand into the pocket of her slacks and pulled out her cell. Frowned. “It’s Uncle Bud. He rarely bothers me on Sunday mornings. Do you mind?” She held up the phone.
“Not at all. I’ll commune with Floyd.”
He released her hand and walked a few paces away—but the wind carried the conversation his direction.
“When did she start feeling bad? . . . Sounds like it. How can I help? . . . Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what you need . . . No, of course not. You need to stay there . . . Let me pull out a pen and paper.”
While Tracy rummaged through her shoulder purse, Michael stifled his disappointment. The drive he’d been about to propose to Shore Acres State Park would have to wait.
“Got it. I’ll be out within the hour.” She ended the call, exhaled, and shoved the phone into her purse. “I’m going to have to cut our walk short. Nancy’s got the flu.”
“So I gathered.”
She linked her fingers with his again. “Is it selfish to say I’d rather spend the day on the beach with you than deal with another crisis?”
“If it is, I’m guilty of the same sin. Maybe we can make up for it next Sunday.” He turned them around, back toward the stairs leading to the bluff. “I’ll walk you home.”
She didn’t talk much on the return trip, her mind no doubt busy itemizing the new chores that had suddenly landed on her plate.
Did this woman ever get a break?
Once they arrived at the drive that led back to the cottage, she wiggled her fingers free. “You don’t need to come all the way to the door.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“You know better.” She rose on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss—but backed off when he reached for her. “I need to get moving. Give me a rain check?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them out of trouble. “You don’t need a rain check. That item will always be in stock.”
“Nice to know.” She flashed him a quick smile.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. No sense both of us being exposed to germs—but thank you for offering.” Lifting her hand in farewell, she hurried toward the cottage.
He waited until she disappeared through the door, then struck out for the annex. Maybe he’d use the empty hours stretching ahead to finish the mystery novel that had been languishing on his kitchen counter.
But first, he owed his dad a Father’s Day call.
Twenty minutes later, after changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, he plugged in the coffeemaker, opened the plastic wrap containing the last piece of Nancy’s cranberry nut cake, and pulled out his phone. Dad and Mom should be home from church by now.
He tapped in their speed dial number as the comforting aroma of coffee began to fill the annex.
His dad answered halfway through the first ring—as if he’d been hovering over the phone. “Michael? I’ve been looking forward to talking to you. How are you, son?”
At the anxious note shading his father’s words, Michael’s throat tightened. The frequent email exchanges with his family kept everyone up to date, but there was nothing like hearing the voice of someone you loved—and knowing they cared.
“I’m better, Dad. Really. Much more relaxed. How are you and Mom doing?”
“Fine. I was a little worried about this whole early retirement thing and moving out here to New Mexico, but I have to say it agrees with us. My golf game has improved too—and I’ll be putting that gift certificate you sent to good use at the pro shop. But we miss seeing you and your sister and the grandkids.”
“Beth sounds busy in her emails.” He broke off a piece of the cranberry nut cake and took a bite. If anything, it tasted better now than when he’d opened the package on Tuesday.
“With three kids under t
he age of eight, I’d say that’s a fair bet.”
“Did you hear from her today?”
“Yes. She called earlier. I told her I’d already scarfed down half the fruitcake she sent.”
“Fruitcake in June?”
“Fruitcake any month of the year suits me fine.”
Michael shook his head. His dad was the only person he knew who actually relished fruitcake.
“I have a cake here I bet you’d like even better.” He broke off another piece.
“I don’t know. The fruitcake those monks bake is amazing. If you ask me, they’re missing out on a great sales opportunity. They could sell those suckers year-round if they developed a marketing campaign to convince people it’s not only for Christmas—though I understand they can hardly keep up with the holiday demand. They sell thousands of cakes all over the country . . . and at a pretty penny too. I think they’re over thirty dollars a pop now.”
Thousands of cakes?
Thirty dollars a pop?
Michael stopped chewing.
He might not agree with his dad about the year-round appeal of fruitcake—but why should the monks have the corner on a high-end holiday treat when cranberries were the real star of the season?
“Michael? You still there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” The coffeemaker began to sputter, and he rose to pour himself a cup. “You just planted the seed of an idea.”
“See? A payoff for calling your old man. Maybe you’ll do it more often now—hint, hint.”
Michael retook his seat, eyeing what was left of his cake. “The only payoff I need is hearing that you and Mom are doing well—but I’ll try to get back into the habit of weekly calls. Things have just been . . . out of kilter for a while.”
“I know. You’ve had a rough go of it. We understand. You finding what you need up there on the coast?”
“I think so. It’s not turning out how I expected, but it’s been . . . interesting.”
“Well, we’re a phone call away whenever you want to hear a friendly voice—though I hope you’re hearing a few of those where you are too.”
“I’ve met a lot of nice people.”