by Irene Hannon
“However long you stayed, it would be a godsend—literally. Truly an answer to our prayers.” Reverend Baker rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, his demeanor growing more serious. “But we don’t want the job to impose a financial hardship, either. As Tracy reminded us, people do have to eat. Are you certain you can manage this?”
“Yes.” He might not be wealthy, but Julie’s insurance money would tide him over for a while—and far better to use it to support a worthwhile cause than for his own pleasure. Coupled with the reduced rent Anna had offered after he’d broached the subject of an extended stay, the stars were aligning to make this happen.
“Excellent. We’ll call a special board meeting for this week to run it by the members, but I think we can assume it’s a done deal. No one is going to turn down manna in the desert.” Father Kevin grinned.
Reverend Baker rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to use biblical metaphors, couldn’t you come up with one a bit more flattering? Like the marriage at Cana. Saving the best wine till last.”
“Manna is an excellent metaphor.” The priest sniffed. “However, I could have used the pearl of great price too.”
“No. Not a valid example. We’re getting our pearl free. You need to beef up your Bible study.”
Father Kevin harrumphed. “Don’t get me started on another Bible study debate. Catholics read as much Scripture as—”
“Gentlemen.” Michael tried to keep a straight face as he interrupted their exchange. The good-natured ribbing between the two clerics was a hoot. “Let me tie up a few loose ends before you schedule a board meeting. Now that I’ve confirmed your interest, I need to make certain there aren’t any issues that could delay things. But once we move forward publicly, let me know the date of the board meeting and I’ll wait outside while the members discuss this, in case there are any questions.”
The pastor and priest both turned toward him, but it was Father Kevin who spoke. “I can’t imagine anyone will have a single question.”
“More likely, they’ll want to kiss your feet.”
Grinning, Michael pushed back from the table and stood. “Doesn’t sound very sanitary. I’ll settle for a few handshakes.”
The two clerics rose too, and Father Kevin held out his hand. “I’ll lead the brigade. We’re very, very grateful.”
Michael returned his firm grip.
“I expect Tracy is pleased by this development too.” Reverend Baker’s eyes twinkled as he gave him an enthusiastic hand pump.
“I haven’t told her yet . . . but that’s coming up very soon on my agenda. I have a couple more pieces of business to tie up first. So I’d appreciate it if you’d both keep this to yourselves for a day or two.”
“I’ll treat this as confidentially as the secrets entrusted to me in the confessional,” Father Kevin promised.
“Confession may not be one of our traditions, but ministers know how to keep confidences too. I won’t say a word.” Reverend Baker smiled. “However, I have a feeling a certain cranberry grower is about to get some news that will make her very happy.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“One of my favorite sayings.” Father Kevin beamed at him.
“A Catholic priest favoring a Yiddish expression?” Reverend Baker hiked up an eyebrow.
“Hey, we’re very ecumenical.”
Michael stifled a chuckle. “On that note, I’ll say good-bye.”
But as he headed back to the annex to compose a lengthy email and polish up the preliminary business plan he’d developed for the cranberry nut cake business, he hoped Reverend Baker was right about Tracy—and not just in the short term.
Because the decision he’d made after the events of last evening at Charley’s—and after some heavy-duty mental debate and prayer that had gone on long past midnight—was going to change both their lives. Forever.
And while it felt right, there were no guarantees.
All he could do was go with his heart and trust that in the months to come, both he and Tracy would look back on this day with gratitude rather than regret.
“So are you ever going to open your mom’s card?”
At Kelsey’s question, John tightened his fingers on the wheel of the car. She might have given him a bye from this touchy subject on his birthday, but today it was fair game—as Denise had warned him it would be.
Especially now that his daughter had him alone in the car without her mother to run interference on his behalf.
“I don’t know. Did you bring the extra balls?”
She toed the gym bag at her feet, beside the tennis racket. “A whole tube. So what about the card?”
Tell her the story, John. She’s old enough to hear it.
Denise’s quiet counsel from last night, after she’d gathered him close in the dark as he’d stared wide awake at the ceiling in the early morning hours, replayed in his mind.
But talking about this had never been easy. Even with the woman he loved.
“It’s complicated, Kelsey.”
His daughter gave an unladylike snort. “That’s what you always say.”
“It’s true.”
She swiveled toward him on the seat. “I’m not a kid anymore, you know. I can understand complicated issues. And I’m not naïve. I know bad stuff happens in the world. It’s all over TV and the internet.” She folded her arms, and he could feel the intensity of her gaze. “You act like what happened between you and your mom is a state secret. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to Tweet it or text it or tell my friends. I know how to be discreet.”
He couldn’t argue with a thing she’d said.
So what was his reason for keeping the secret to himself at this point?
You know what it is, Williams. You don’t want to lose face with your daughter by admitting you’re less than perfect. This is more about your pride than her lack of maturity. Using her youth as an excuse doesn’t cut it anymore.
Denise was right.
It was time to tell Kelsey his story.
After flicking a glance at the clock on the dash, he pulled into the next parking lot—for a furniture refinishing shop with a sign in the window that guaranteed to restore damaged heirlooms to a like-new state.
How ironic.
“What are you doing?” Kelsey scanned the lot, brow furrowed.
He angled into a spot, shut off the engine, and shifted toward her. It would be easier to watch the passing traffic while he told his story—but also cowardly. “We have a few minutes to spare before tennis practice. Long enough for me to tell you what happened between your grandmother and me. And if we need more time to talk, we can go out for a frappuccino. Missing one practice won’t be the end of the world.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” He fumbled for the bottle of water he always kept in the car, took a long swig to lubricate his dry throat, then launched into the story.
Kelsey listened in silence instead of peppering him with questions in her usual style. Nor did she speak after he finished.
As the seconds ticked by, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Based on her expression, she was shocked . . . and disillusioned . . . and disappointed in him.
That hurt.
A lot.
But it was the reaction he’d expected—and the reason he’d held on to his secret for so long.
It was also what he deserved.
“Can I ask a question?” Kelsey played with a button on her sweater.
“Of course.” He braced for her third degree. She wouldn’t be satisfied with the halting, bare-bones confession that had skimmed over his sense of desolation and loneliness after his father died; his gratitude to the young woman who’d comforted him in his grief, and how that gratitude had led to inappropriate behavior; his panic when she’d shared the news about her pregnancy; her insistence on putting the baby up for adoption, and his ultimate capitulation; his confrontation with his unsympathetic mother; his decision to walk aw
ay from Hope Harbor and start a new life. Naturally Kelsey would want more details about . . . everything.
“Do I have a half sister or a half brother?”
“Brother.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. It was a closed adoption. That’s what my . . . his mother . . . wanted.”
“Is there any chance we could ever connect?” Her face grew wistful. “I always wished I had a brother or sister.”
“I doubt it.”
Silence fell, and he braced for more questions.
But her next query wasn’t what he expected.
“Why won’t you open your mom’s card?”
After everything he’d shared, she wanted to talk about the birthday card?
He frowned. “Don’t you want to know more about what happened?”
She lifted one shoulder. “You explained it pretty well. I got the picture. I mean, it’s kind of weird to find out I’m not your first kid . . . and I sort of wish there was a way to get in touch with my half brother . . . but most of the stuff you talked about happened way before I was born. The only bad thing left from those days is the split with your mom. Isn’t that what’s most important now?”
His daughter made it sound so simple.
And . . . maybe it was.
Maybe he needed to forget the past and focus on the present. Deal with today and go forward from here instead of looking back.
“I never thought of it like that—but yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“So if she sent you a card, she must feel bad about what happened too.” Kelsey leaned closer and touched the fingers he’d clenched around the wheel. “This could be your chance to fix things, Dad. I mean, you go to church every Sunday. Shouldn’t you follow what Pastor Bob always preaches about forgiveness and mercy and second chances and all that stuff? Like he said last week, you can’t just listen to God’s Word—you have to live it too.”
Pressure built behind his eyes. When had his little girl grown up?
“You sound a lot like your mother.”
“Does she think you should open the card too?”
“She hasn’t said it as directly as you, but I’m guessing she does.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Think very hard about it.”
Kelsey sighed. “Just do it, Dad. Don’t overthink. That’s what my coach always says about my serve—and you know what? It works.” She checked the clock on the dash. “And speaking of tennis . . . I think we need to go.”
“The offer of a frappuccino is still on the table if you want to talk some more.”
“Can I take a rain check? I hate to miss practice.”
“Sure.” He started the engine—but as he put the car in gear, she touched his hand again.
“Thanks for telling me all that stuff. And just so you know, I love you more than ever.”
John reached over and pulled her into a silent hug. No way could he manage to utter a single word.
They finished the drive to some tune Kelsey selected on the radio, but once he pulled into a parking spot next to the courts, she leaned over and gave him a quick peck. “Don’t forget, I’m spending the night with Caitlin. Her mom will bring me home tomorrow morning.”
“Got it.”
She retrieved her overnight bag from the backseat, then grabbed her tennis gear off the floor of the front seat. “Open the card, okay?”
“I’m leaning that direction.”
“Good.” With a wave, she closed the door and jogged toward the courts.
Once she joined the group of students, he headed home—the conversation he’d been dreading since the day of Kelsey’s birth at last behind him. And it hadn’t been nearly as difficult to get through as he’d expected.
Might the same be true of the card his mother had sent?
John tapped a finger against the wheel. The only way to find out was to open it. If he didn’t like what it said, he could toss it . . . or ignore it.
But as he rolled toward the house that was more home to him now than the small bungalow where he’d grown up, he had a feeling neither of those was going to be an option. That whatever the envelope contained was going to require some action on his part.
He could only pray that when the time came, he’d be up to the task.
23
Twenty-four hours with no Michael, and she was having withdrawal symptoms.
Expelling a breath, Tracy rose from her laptop, paced to the front of the cottage, and peered down the gravel drive, toward the dipping sun. As if wishing he’d appear at her door would make it happen.
How silly was that?
Combing her fingers through her hair, she returned to the table. She needed to finish this payroll report instead of wondering what was going on with a certain nonprofit executive from Chicago who’d left the farm unexpectedly yesterday afternoon and hadn’t appeared at all today.
Hunker down and get the job done, Tracy. When Michael is ready to talk to you, he will. He sent you an email saying he’d be tied up most of the day; live with it.
Through sheer force of will, she managed to refocus on the project at hand . . . until a knock sounded on her door thirty minutes later.
Her fingers skittered on the keys, erasing a couple of decimal points, and she forced herself to fix them before responding to the summons.
It had to be Michael.
Who else could it be?
Bracing, she walked to the door and pulled it open.
It was him, all right. Dressed in those faded jeans that fit like they were designed for his lean hips and long legs, hair ruffled from the wind . . . and looking oh-so-appealing.
“Hi.” His smile was warm.
A positive sign . . . right?
Or was he trying to soften the bad news he was about to deliver? Perhaps getting ready to tell her he’d made his decision and was going to return to Chicago.
“Hey.” He touched her shoulder, faint grooves denting his brow. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Liar, liar. “Come in.” She stepped back and ushered him through the door.
He strolled past her, glancing at her glowing laptop on the kitchen table. “Were you in the middle of something?”
Yes. Thinking about you.
But she shook her head. “Nothing that can’t wait. Just some number crunching.” She motioned toward the couch. “Do you want to sit?”
“Yes.” He grinned and grabbed her hand, tugging her along. “With you.”
She let him lead her to the sofa but kept a discreet space between them after they sat.
Squinting, he studied her. “What’s up?”
Go ahead and tell him what’s on your mind, Tracy—but lead in slowly and be tactful about it.
“Are you leaving?”
Oh for crying out loud!
Could she have phrased the question with any less tact?
“Sorry.” Warmth rose on her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to be that blunt.”
He lifted his hand and smoothed the furrows on her forehead with a gentle touch. “You’ve been worried.”
“Yeah.” No sense denying the obvious. “You seemed distracted at church yesterday, and you left the farm without much explanation. I had a feeling something big was up. That maybe you’d made your decision about whether to stay or go.”
“I have.”
Her breath hitched.
“I wanted to have all my ducks in a row before I said anything, but I see now I should have told you immediately. I’m staying.”
She took a moment to let his words sink in. To savor the news.
Michael was moving to Hope Harbor.
Thank you, God!
“That’s what I came to talk about tonight, in fact.” He lifted a small attaché case she hadn’t noticed till now, set it on the coffee table, and angled toward her. “It hasn’t been an easy decision, but after a lot of prayer and soul-searching—plus a very bizarre experience on Saturday night—I’ve decided Hope Harbor is where I
belong.”
She did her best to focus as he told her about his meeting with the local clerics; the email he’d written to the chairman of the board of St. Joseph Center and the phone calls they’d exchanged today; and the in-depth business plan he’d been working on for Harbor Point cranberry nut cake.
When he pulled the childish drawing out of his briefcase, she could only stare as he explained the history.
“That’s . . . mind-blowing.” She touched the edge of the yellowed paper. “Imagine Charley having this all these years.”
“I know. Very strange. But it was the final push I needed to make my decision. I do have to go back to Chicago for a few weeks to close things down on the personal side and run the show at St. Joseph until they can find a replacement, but after that I’ll be back here full time—working with Helping Hands and focusing on a special cranberry farm . . . and a very special cranberry farmer.”
The tenderness in his tone—and his eyes—sent her heart soaring. This was what she’d prayed for . . . yet he was giving up so much, making such a radical change. A niggle of worry dimmed her joy a few watts, and she forced herself to voice the concern she’d rather ignore.
“But what if things between us don’t pan out? If you leave Chicago, you’ll be shutting the door on a whole way of life.”
Based on his relaxed smile, he didn’t share her apprehension. “I’m also opening the door to a lot of new possibilities. No matter what happens with us, I’m ready to find a new path. But you know what? I have a feeling things are going to work out fine here in every way. Wait till you see the plans I’ve been drawing up for the cake business. I’ve already sent out some media ticklers . . . and you won’t believe all the places interested in hosting a tasting and carrying the product.”
“You have been busy.”
“Full speed ahead since yesterday afternoon. And things will get a lot busier. You and Anna and I need to meet this week and kick things into high gear. I’ll stay involved long distance, and we can set up regular conference calls, but I’d like to be certain we have all our ducks in a row before I head east—including this one.” He reached for her with a slow, intimate smile.