Seaside Reunion

by Irene Hannon

  Nate blinked. Sucked in a ragged breath. “I watched the sand underneath him turn dark as the life seeped out of him. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t help any of them. All twelve of those soldiers died while I walked away with six stitches and a concussion. It didn’t make sense. I should have died, too. They were all better men than me. They deserved to live. Why was I the only one who survived?”

  His voice broke, and Lindsey caught the sheen in his eyes before he shifted away on the pretense of looking for the cap for the water bottle.

  That last, tortured question, torn from his very soul, told her at last why he was here. He’d come back to the one place where the world had treated him kindly, hoping to find answers that would help him once more make sense of his life and give it purpose.

  All at once, Lindsey saw her own trials in a new light. Yes, she’d suffered trauma. But she had mostly happy memories. Plus a healthy amount of self-esteem. The only pleasant memories the man beside her had were confined to a few months in Starfish Bay. And the one man who could have shored up his son’s self-esteem had instead left him with a legacy of guilt and shame.

  It was tragic.

  Yet despite the adversities he’d faced, despite any shortcomings he might see in himself, Nate Garrison had grown into a generous, caring man. One who deserved her affection and respect, if not more.

  Shoving the daypack between them out of the way, Lindsey scooted closer and angled toward him. Hesitated. Then followed her heart and reached out to him.

  He jerked as her fingers made contact with the slight stubble on his cheek. When he turned toward her, his lashes were spiky with moisture.

  “I’m so sorry.” She choked out the words, wishing she could offer more. Support. Sympathy. Solace. Something—anything—that would mitigate the pain this man had suffered. But she came up blank. “Even though I can’t answer your question, I can tell you this. I’m glad you survived. Otherwise, our paths would never have crossed again.”

  He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, loosening his grip as his eyes softened with gratitude…and another emotion she chose to ignore for the moment. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “It’s true. Our reunion has had a few rough edges, but on the whole I think it’s been a positive thing.” As she spoke, she eased her hand from his and tried to unobtrusively flex her fingers to get the blood flowing again.

  He homed in on her subtle gesture at once, twin creases denting his brow. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  She tried to tuck it behind her, but he reached around and tugged it back into view, staring at the white ridges as he cradled it with his long, lean fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me I was hurting you?”

  “Your story was too compelling to interrupt. And I’m fine.” She wiggled her fingers to demonstrate. Already they were beginning to take on a normal skin tone again. “See?”

  “There’s a faster way.”

  Before she could object, he began to massage her hand, his touch tender and caring.

  Her protest died in her throat.

  “Look what I found!”

  A small, grimy hand suddenly appeared in front of her face, a bright yellow banana slug resting in the palm.

  “That’s a big one.”

  Nate’s hoarse comment registered somewhere in her peripheral consciousness. As did the small creature in Jarrod’s palm. But front and center was the unexpected feeling of contentment that swept over her as Nate continued to massage her fingers—and her heart.

  “Hey, how come you guys are holding hands?”

  It took a second for Jarrod’s question to register. Once it did, she jerked her hand free.

  This time Nate let her go.

  As she scrambled to think of a way to explain the situation, Nate stepped in. “Because we’re friends.”

  “Yeah?” Jarrod gave them a once-over. “That’s cool.”

  “How about another cookie before we start back to the trailhead?” Lindsey snatched up the bag, hoping to distract him.

  “Okay. Let me put this little guy back where I found him. That’s what my dad always said to do.” His animation dimmed a notch. “We used to go to the redwoods sometimes, just him and me. For a little while today, it kind of felt like he was with me. Maybe I’ll ask my mom to bring me back again soon.”

  Without waiting for a response, he scurried back toward the edge of the clearing.

  “Touchstones.” Lindsey looked over at Nate.

  “Yeah. I had the same thought. Seems like we’re in sync. In a lot of ways.” He leaned closer and stroked his index finger down the back of her hand.

  Lindsey was saved from having to respond by Jarrod’s reappearance. But as she doled out the last of the cookies, she knew Nate was right. They were in sync.

  As for what the future held, she had no idea.

  But for the first time since Mark’s death, she was looking forward to finding out.

  Chapter Eleven

  “My word.” Genevieve stopped beside Nate’s table in the Orchid Café and refilled his lemonade. “You’ve created quite a stir with that article of yours.”

  Lost in the memory of Lindsey’s hand in his as they’d hiked back to the trailhead yesterday, Nate had to forcibly shift gears. It seemed everyone in town had read or heard about his piece since Lindsey had posted a copy—with his permission—at the Mercantile.

  “I hope it helps.”

  “It already is. I can feel the mood swinging in our favor. And we’re going to be getting even more publicity this week. A woman from one of the TV stations in San Francisco called early this morning. They’re sending a crew up to do a feature for tomorrow night’s program and needed two rooms for tonight. And a reporter from the San Francisco Examiner made a reservation, too.”

  Amazing. None of the battlefield stories he’d risked his life for had ever received this kind of attention, though they’d won a few writing awards. It had taken a subject that required him to risk his heart rather than his neck to truly touch people.

  The email full message on his computer this morning was further proof of that.

  Nate picked up his last French fry. “Any interest from the local media?”

  “You bet. There was a woman from the Crescent City paper nosing around yesterday. And see that guy over there?” She gestured with the pitcher toward the stool-lined counter, the lemonade sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “He’s with the Eureka Times-Standard. You want me to introduce you? You could give him an interview.”

  “No.” His response was swift. And adamant. “I’m more comfortable on the other side of the pen.”

  “I can see why. That piece of yours brought a tear to my eye.” She rested the pitcher on the edge of the table. “I have my own touchstone, you know. A special place back home in Georgia. I always stop by when Lillian and I head east for our annual visit.”

  Nate’s email was full of stories like that. But he was curious about Genevieve’s. “Tell me about it.”

  A wistful smile playing at her lips, she settled the pitcher on the table and stared into space. “It’s an abandoned peach orchard on the edge of town. Been there for as long as I can remember. Doesn’t mean a thing to anyone else. But every time I pass by, I think of the day my Sam proposed to me, with the wind rustling the leaves and the sky so blue and the smell of ripe peaches in the air. For that moment in time, everything was perfect.”

  Just like his months in Starfish Bay.

  She sniffed. Blinked. Gave him a wavery smile as she picked up the pitcher. “Sorry. The waterworks turn on whenever I think of that place. The smell of fresh peaches can do it to me, too. Anyone watching me bake a peach pie would think I’d lost a screw or two. You want anything else this morning?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve reached my limit.”

  “You put away a hearty lunch.” She examined his clean plate. “Must still be making up for all the calories you expended on your hike yesterday.”

  He should have known someone woul
d spot them in the redwoods and spread the word. “Don’t tell me the mayor saw us at the park, too?”

  “Not this time. Cindy and Jarrod stopped in for dinner last night. That boy was more talkative than he’s been since before his father died, God rest his soul. I heard all about your outing—the banana slug, the oatmeal cookies, the giant ferns…the hand-holding.” She gave him a knowing wink.

  His neck warmed. “I was massaging her fingers.”

  Genevieve hooted, drawing the attention of several nearby diners. “Now that’s a new one. I’ll have to pass it on to Lillian. She’ll get a kick out of it.”

  The reporter at the counter looked their way and narrowed his eyes. Like he was trying to figure out why he recognized Nate.

  His cue to exit. Before the man connected him to the combat photo that had run with his touchstones piece.

  He rose, keeping his back to the reporter. “Don’t get your hopes up, Genevieve. I’m only a temporary resident in Starfish Bay.”

  “It’s not my hopes that matter, young man. It’s yours. And I’m praying you’re smart enough to recognize a good thing when you see it.”

  With that, she bustled back toward the counter. Giving him no chance to respond.

  And what would he have said, anyway? She was right. He did recognize a good thing when he saw it.

  The question was, did Lindsey feel the same way? And if she did, how could they make this work? She’d left Starfish Bay once; he had a feeling she wasn’t inclined to do so again. Yet his life was elsewhere.

  Or it had been.

  But maybe there were options.

  Mulling that over, he pushed through the café door and looked toward The Point. That had always been a good place for thinking through problems. And talking to God. He’d done a lot of the latter once upon a time, under the guidance of Reverend Tobias.

  Maybe it was time to give it another shot.

  “What’s this I hear about hand-holding in the redwoods?”

  At her father’s question, Lindsey jerked toward him and promptly dropped the box of tuna she’d retrieved from the back room to restock the shelves. Cans rolled in every direction. But instead of being aggravated, she was grateful for the excuse to get down on her hands and knees and hide the telltale flush she knew was turning her cheeks bright pink.

  “That depends. What did you hear? And who did you hear it from?” She kept her face averted from the counter as she reached for one of the wayward cans.

  “I heard it from Jarrod. He and Cindy stopped in this morning. And according to your young guide, Nate told him it was because you were friends.”

  Great. How was she supposed to refute an eyewitness account?

  “Well, we are.”

  She braced for his response, but to her surprise he remained silent.

  Lindsey used the reprieve to gather up the rest of the cans and give her heightened color a chance to recede. By the time she stood, box of tuna in hand, she felt more composed.

  Until she saw her father’s speculative—and not altogether happy—expression.

  “What’s wrong?” She kept her distance, bracing the box against her chest.

  “Nothing.” He fiddled with the dome over the cookies, resettling it in the grooves around the edge of the plate. “Much.”

  At his tacked-on caveat, Lindsey tightened her grip on the box. “Okay, Dad. Let’s have it. What’s up?”

  He looked around the store. They were alone, as he well knew. So why was he stalling? That wasn’t Jack Callahan’s style.

  “I’ve been thinking about you and Nate.” He paused. “You know he’s leaving soon.”

  She tried to ignore the little pang in her heart. “So?”

  “So I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

  Too late for that. She already knew she was going to miss Nate after he left. A lot. Despite their disagreements, she’d felt more alive in the past three weeks than she had since before Mark died.

  She moved toward her father and slid the box on the counter between them. “The last time we talked about this, you said you were praying for a new man to come into my life. And you seemed to think Nate might be the answer to that prayer. Don’t you like him anymore?”

  “Of course I like him. I think he’s a fine, decent man with honor and principles. But aside from the fact he’s not going to be here long, I’m also getting the feeling he has some issues. You have enough of those yourself without taking on someone else’s.”

  Too late for that, too.

  She leaned on the counter. “He’d had a tough life. But he’s dealing with his baggage.”

  “Have you dealt with yours?”

  “You mean as far as Mark is concerned?” She pressed her finger against a stray cookie crumb that must have eluded her last night when she’d cleaned up for the day.

  “Among others.”

  “Not entirely. But I’m working on them.”

  He eased a hip onto the stool. “Chicago is a long way away, Lindy. You ready for a move like that?”

  She looked up. “No.”

  “Because of me?”

  “What?” She blinked at him.

  “You don’t have to hang around forever babysitting an old man, you know. I could handle the Mercantile on my own now, with a little part-time help.”

  She forced her lips into a smile. “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “You know better. But I don’t want to hold you back, either.”

  “You’re not what’s holding me back.”

  “Didn’t think so. Wanted to check, though. You making any progress with the man upstairs?”

  Sighing, she propped her elbow on the polished wood and dropped her chin in her palm. “Not enough. But I’ve started reading the Bible again.”

  “I noticed.” He reached under the counter, pulled out the small book with the familiar black cover, and set it next to the jumbled box of tuna. “I found this in the sunroom. Figured it was a positive sign.” He checked his watch. “Looks to me like it’s past time for lunch. Why don’t you grab a sandwich and take a walk out to The Point for an hour? Nice spot for reading.” He eased the book with the embossed gold cross closer to her fingers.

  Subtlety wasn’t her father’s strong suit.

  But his suggestion had merit. It was a beautiful day. And spending an hour with the Lord at The Point held a lot of appeal. Maybe it would help her sort through some of the issues her father had referenced.

  “Okay.” She hefted the box of tuna and set it on the floor at the end of an aisle. “I’ll finish this when I get back.”

  “No hurry. I’m not expecting a run on tuna fish.” He grinned at her.

  She grabbed a turkey sandwich and a soda from the deli case, tossed them in a bag, picked up her Bible and started toward the door.

  “Lindy…”

  At her father’s summons, she turned, hand on the knob.

  “Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. And you don’t have to solve every problem by yourself. He’s on your side.” He gestured toward the Bible in her hand. “You just have to put your trust in Him, especially when life’s hard to figure out.”

  Lindsey nodded and pushed through the door, the merry jingle of the bell following her as she struck off for the hidden trailhead. Her dad was right. But trust didn’t come easily for her anymore. That was why she carried the Beretta, tucked snug and secure in the concealed holster at her waist or kept close at hand behind the counter. Why she’d been wary when a grungy, road-weary Nate had shown up at the Mercantile that first day. Why she was fighting to save The Point from a developer who appeared to be ethical and honest, but who could end up destroying her cherished headland.

  And as she circled the dental office and began to follow the faint trail that led to Starfish Bay Chapel, she wondered if even the Lord could restore the trust that had been shattered on that deadly night three years ago in Sacramento.

  Tugging his phone off his belt, Nate plucked a dead blossom from the pot of f
lowers beside the stone bench and gazed out over the quiet sea off The Point, letting the peace and solitude of this place seep into his soul. He’d rather not take the call. But it was Clark again. And when a man who lived by email resorted to the phone, you answered.

  Especially if you were toying with a proposal that would require his approval.

  “Hi, Clark. What’s up?” He put the phone to his ear, sat on the bench and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  “Have you checked your email today?”

  “This morning. Why?”

  “What’s the tally now?”

  “More than five hundred.”

  “How are you answering the questions about donations?”

  He frowned. “What questions?”

  “Have you been reading the emails?”

  “Some of them. But I have limited access to the internet here. I’ve been skimming through a few here and there.”

  “Well, start reading them. If we’re getting questions about donations, you must be, too. People want to know where they can send money to help save The Point.”

  “Wow. I didn’t expect that.”

  “It’s quite a compliment. When people are willing to shell out cold hard cash to save a place they’ve never seen because of words you’ve written, you know you’ve hit a home run. So where are we supposed to direct these people?”

  “I have no idea. There is a Save the Point committee, but I don’t think it’s been formally organized or anything.”

  “Then tell them to get on the stick and set something up. If they want to take advantage of this outpouring of generosity, they need to strike while the iron is hot.”

  “I’ll pass that on.”

  “You working on your next piece?”

  “The research is finished.”

  “Excellent. Let me know how it’s going. And get back to me on the donation question.”

  As the line went dead and Nate slid the phone back on his belt, he caught a glimpse of a slim figure emerging from the woods.