The Gathering Place

by Thomas Kinkade

  “It wasn’t a problem. I liked watching you work,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half smile.

  Sara didn’t know what to say. She looked down at the table and spread her napkin over her lap. “Speaking of my work, what did you think of the interview? Was it okay?”

  He hadn’t said a word about the interview, and she had wondered all day if something in the article upset him.

  “It was great. I clipped a copy and sent it to my mom.”

  “Did you really?” she asked, with a laugh.

  He nodded. “You almost overdid it on the hero angle,” he added, glancing at her with his eyes slightly narrowed. “But it could have been worse.”

  “Well . . . thanks, I think.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m really proud of you, Sara. You’re out there, writing, doing what you love to do. And you’re really good at it.”

  His praise made her feel suddenly shy. “It’s just a little job on a small-town paper. It’s not exactly the New York Times.”

  “There aren’t too many people around here who could do it, whether you think so or not. I couldn’t,” he countered.

  “Well, to hear my new boss tell it, he’s not so sure yet I can do it, either,” she replied.

  “Really? What do you mean?” Luke looked surprised.

  “He hated the first draft of my interview with you. He put so many marks on it, I could hardly see the text. Then today, the same thing. I had to rewrite an article—twice.” Her voice dropped as she confessed her worst thoughts. “I think Wyatt’s sorry Dan hired me but feels sort of stuck with me now.”

  “Maybe he’s just being tough on you because you’re new.”

  “That’s what Lindsay, his sister, said. It feels more like it’s because I’m a bad writer, though,” she admitted. “Reporting is different from the type of writing I did in college. I only took one journalism course,” she added miserably. “I just hope I get the hang of it before Wyatt fires me or something.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Luke soothed her. “You’ll pick it up. If he gives you too much trouble, just let me know. I’ll have a little talk with him,” he said in a joking “tough guy” tone.

  “Don’t be silly.” Sara felt herself finally smiling again. Luke was the protective type. When she first met him, it had unnerved her. She was used to being completely independent. But gradually, she came to appreciate knowing that if she needed help, Luke was there for her.

  Sara looked down at their hands joined together and thought back to the first time they met. Luke had come into the diner last spring, her first night on the job. He was so distant, she’d almost been afraid of him. Yet, something in his hesitant smile and offbeat sense of humor had touched her, even then. Maybe she had sensed that under his defenses, he was really just hurt and trying to heal. Trying to find his way, just like she was. Now she knew that she’d been right about him all along. He was a good person—a wonderful person. She was lucky to have him come into her life when he did.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She pressed her palm flat against his larger one. “You’ve got some impressive calluses here from all the construction work.”

  “Sam says we won’t be able to work outside much longer. It’s getting colder, and soon there will be too much snow.”

  “What will you do all winter?”

  “There’s indoor work—wiring, drywall, that kind of stuff. And those courses I told you about. I think I’m going to audit some classes at the community college, just to start.”

  “Sounds good,” Sara said, impressed at his commitment.

  Then she thought of Luke on a college campus, meeting so many new people—so many attractive, single women—and felt a prick of worry. What if he met someone else and forgot about her? But that was silly. Luke wouldn’t just disappear with the first attractive woman he met. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anything really serious between them, yet. He was free to see whomever he liked. And so was she.

  An image of Wyatt flashed in her mind, making her feel guilty and then confused. She didn’t even like the guy. He either treated her like furniture or insulted her writing—unless he wanted a special favor, and then he poured on the charm. Why am I even thinking about him? she wondered.

  A waitress took their orders, and Sara sat back, slowly letting go of Luke’s hand. The candlelight flickered over his strong features. He was good-looking, she thought, in a rough-around-the-edges way that she found extremely attractive. She didn’t need to give Wyatt a second glance. Not that way, anyway.

  They enjoyed the rest of their dinner. Sara told Luke more about her visit to Maryland, and Luke described his Thanksgiving meal at Lillian’s house.

  “ ‘Now I heard you were shot in the head? Is that true, Mr. McAllister?’ ” Luke quoted, doing a perfect imitation of Lillian’s imperious tone.

  “Oh, no! She didn’t really say that, did she?” Sara asked, flabbergasted. She laughed and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “That wasn’t even the worst of it. Ezra finally accused her of ‘incurable rudeness’ or something like that,” he replied. “I wasn’t sure if Emily was going to keel over in shock or cheer.”

  “Cheer, probably,” Sara guessed, still laughing.

  Finally, it was time to go. Sara hadn’t realized how late it was—past midnight. Luke walked her to her car, which was parked near the café. “I’ll follow you home,” he offered.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine,” she said. Cape Light was so crime-free, some people didn’t even lock their doors. She never worried about being out alone, even at this hour.

  “I’ll follow you home and walk you to your door. Just humor me, okay?” Luke said evenly.

  Reluctantly she agreed, thinking his past had made him overly protective. But when she parked on Clover Street and saw Luke’s SUV pull up behind her, she did feel watched over and cared for, as if she was important to him.

  Sara’s apartment was part of a large Victorian that had once been a single-family house. Her entrance was at a side door on the wraparound porch. Luke met her on the porch steps. The night had grown colder, and their breath mingled in frosty clouds that hung in the air.

  At her door she turned and looked up at him. “I had a great time. Thanks again for dinner—and for the tree lighting.”

  “You’re very welcome—for all of the above.” He smiled at her and reached out to touch her hair. Then with both his hands gently framing her face, his head moved toward her, and their lips met in a tender, lingering kiss.

  “Sara . . .” he whispered against her hair. After a moment, he pulled back, his arms looped loosely around her waist. “Can I see you this weekend? We can catch a movie or something.”

  “That would be great,” she said breathlessly.

  “I’ll call you. You’d better go inside. I don’t want to wake up your landlord.”

  “It is late,” she agreed. Still, it was hard to let him go. Finally, she turned and went inside.

  Sara locked her front door and stood there a moment in the dark. She felt herself smile, thinking about the way Luke had kissed her. They had kissed before, once or twice. But never like that. This time had been different somehow.

  Something mysterious and exciting was brewing between them. Sara turned away from the door and headed to her bedroom.

  If her relationship with Luke was a book, she could hardly wait to turn the page and see what happened next.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN REVEREND BEN ARRIVED AT THE BRAMBLE ANTIQUE Shop on Friday morning, the sign in the window read, “Closed. Please come again.” He knocked but didn’t hear a sound—not even Daisy, announcing his arrival. Still, he waited. After a few minutes Grace peered out from one of the windowpanes on the door.

  “Oh, Reverend, it’s you,” she said, as she opened the door. “There have been so many people coming by, visitors and a girl from the newspaper, I have to be careful abo
ut answering the door. My whole day would be taken up,” she explained, as he stepped inside.

  “Well, I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just dropped by to see your father. He’s home from the hospital, I understand.”

  “Brought him home yesterday, around noon.” Grace nodded, unsmiling. “Oh goodness, look at this mail, piling up out here. Will you excuse me a minute?” she asked. Without waiting for his reply, she emptied the large, old-fashioned letter box, then gathered up some parcels that were piled next to the door.

  “I haven’t been watching the shop much. Things are getting in a muddle,” she explained, carrying the mail to a glass counter near the register.

  “Understandably,” Ben said, watching as she quickly sorted through the pile of letters.

  She was her old self again, Ben noticed. She wore her blouse neatly pressed, her cardigan completely buttoned, and her chin-length hair—brown streaked with gray—carefully held back on the sides with bobby pins.

  There was no trace of the bereft, nearly hysterical woman he and Carolyn comforted on Thanksgiving night. He remembered how they prayed together, holding hands. Grace was reluctant at first, admitting that she hadn’t really prayed since she lost Julie. But with Ben and Carolyn beside her—and facing the horror of losing her father—she had been willing to try.

  Ben wondered now if Grace had talked with the heavenly Father since then. He had hoped to see her in service on Sunday, but he realized now that was expecting too much.

  “Look at this, more cards for Dad,” she said, holding up a handful of envelopes. “And another box, too.”

  “Is Digger able to have visitors? I can come back another time if it’s inconvenient.”

  Grace’s thin lips drew together, considering the question. “He’s resting. But I suppose it won’t hurt if you stop in a few minutes. Come on up,” she said, turning toward the stairway across from the entrance.

  Ben had never been upstairs to the two-story apartment above the shop where the Hegmans lived. At the top of the stairs, he glanced around curiously. The apartment consisted of several small, comfortably furnished rooms. He wasn’t surprised to see that the decor looked much like the shop below, filled with antiques as well as plain old furnishings. Pieces of china and figurines lined wooden shelves, and lace covered a pair of end tables. The floors were mostly bare polished wood, but in the living room, an area rug with a flowery pattern muffled their steps.

  “My, my,” he said, glancing around the room. “Looks like a gift shop in here.”

  “Yes, just about,” Grace agreed.

  The fireplace mantel and tabletops were covered with greeting cards, bouquets of flowers, and fruit baskets. There were even two “Get Well” helium balloons tethered to a rocking chair. The colorful array brightened up the somber décor, Ben thought.

  “I never knew Dad had so many friends,” she said. “I mean, I know everybody says hello to him. But I never expected people would care so much or take the time to send all this stuff.”

  Ben noted Grace’s sincere surprise and realized that at least some good had come from Digger’s close call. “People do care, Grace, more than you know.”

  “Yes, well, Dad is enjoying all the candy and tins of cookies, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Ben was suddenly glad he’d chosen a book as a gift. Everyone knew that Grace frowned on sweets of any kind, though Digger seemed to thrive on them.

  “Dad is upstairs, resting. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Thanks. I do want to speak to you in private for a moment first. I’ve been wondering about Digger’s health. What did the doctors find? Anything new?”

  Grace nodded and pulled at the edge of her sweater sleeve. “As a matter of fact, there has been some news. Seems he’s been having small strokes all this time. That’s why he’s gotten so forgetful lately,” she said sadly.

  “Oh . . . I see. That makes sense.” Ben shook his head. “Is there any treatment for it?”

  “He needs to take some medication to keep it from getting worse. But it won’t get any better,” she reported quietly. “He has to be watched, Reverend. He can’t leave the house alone anymore. I’m not even sure he should work. He certainly can’t go gallivanting about, like he’s used to. Next time he falls into another of those forgetful spells, they’ll find him frozen like a statue somewhere,” she predicted in a nervous tone.

  “Ah, that is worrisome. How did he take it?” Ben asked.

  “I haven’t told him yet. Not all of it, anyway.” She sighed and glanced down at the floor. “I know that doesn’t look right, but it’s been so difficult, Reverend. These have been some hard days for us. I just wanted to get him back home before I gave him the bad news.”

  “I understand,” Ben quietly assured her. After all these years, he knew he should be used to it, but it still made him uneasy when people viewed him as their moral prosecutor—judge and jury, rolled into one. Only the Lord above can judge any of us, he always felt like saying. Myself included.

  “Digger has to know, Grace,” he said gently. “You need to be honest with him about this. Keeping it from him . . . that’s not fair to him or you.”

  “I know what you’re saying, Reverend, but it will just break his heart.” She paused, and he could see her struggling to control her feelings. “You know how he is. Why, he’s up and out and walked around this whole town, even down to the shore and back, before most people have had their morning coffee.” She swallowed hard and shook her head. “I’m not sure I should tell him all of it. I’m honestly not sure that would be the best thing. I mean, what if he took it so to heart that he lost his will to keep going?”

  Ben was silent for a moment, then said, “That is the risk. But what choice do you have?”

  “Well, I have told him that he can’t just go wander without telling me his whereabouts. He knows that now, surely,” she said. “But he’s got to be able to leave the house once in a while, maybe even keep doing those odd jobs he picks up with Sam and Harry. He doesn’t have to feel so . . . degraded,” she added.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” Ben said thoughtfully. “Maybe you can get a few people to help you, Grace. They could stay with Digger for a few hours here and there. Or take him out in town. It’s a daunting task to manage all on your own.”

  “You mean like baby-sitters?” Grace stared at him.

  “Oh, not exactly. More like helpers,” Ben added.

  Grace seemed to consider the suggestion, then shook her head. “Dad would catch on. He wouldn’t sit still for it,” she said. “Besides I just couldn’t impose on people like that.”

  Ben could have predicted that reply. A loner by nature, Grace had cut herself off from the community after her daughter Julie’s death. While she knew everyone in town—most people had stopped in at the Bramble at one time or another—Ben wasn’t sure Grace had even one real friend aside from Harry Reilly. She was the type who would rather suffer in silence, even sink altogether, than ask for help.

  “But people want to help your father—and you,” Ben reminded her. “Just look at all these cards.”

  “Oh, cards and flowers is one thing. Asking someone to give up time is quite another,” Grace told him. “Harry will help us. And maybe Sam, a little, though he’s quite busy these days. Harry is looking into some sort of electronic gadget that Dad can hook on his belt, so if he gets lost again, we can figure out where he is.”

  Ben shook his head, his heart heavy with doubt. “Grace, I know Harry has the best intentions, but you can’t depend on some gadget to solve this problem. It’s too big for that.”

  Grace gave in to a rare moment of looking completely overwhelmed, and Ben continued in a quiet but firm tone. “Your father must be told how serious the situation has become. That’s the most important thing. Then you’ll be able to figure out a real plan for his safety.” He hoped she didn’t take offense, but he couldn’t avoid saying it. His conscience wouldn’t let him. “Digger’s not a child. He can handle it. Don’t
sell him short.”

  Ben stopped. He could see his advice and Grace’s own strong feelings warring in the expression on her face. Her thick dark brows were knit together in a frown, her mouth a thin line. For the first time, Ben realized that he wasn’t even sure he had the authority to advise her. After all, she was no longer a member of the church, though her father was.

  “I know what you’re saying, Reverend, but I—”

  They both turned, startled by a sound out in the hall. Digger appeared in the doorway. A smile flashed on his bearded face, as he caught sight of Ben.

  “I thought I heard someone chatting down here. This lazy old hound didn’t even bark,” Digger said, glancing at the dog at his side. Daisy followed him into the room, her tail wagging as she padded over and sniffed Ben’s hand.

  “Daisy hasn’t left Dad’s side since he got home. It’s like she’s baby-sitting him or something,” Grace remarked. When she met the Reverend’s gaze, he noticed two spots of color tinge her cheeks.

  Ben rose and shook Digger’s hand. “Good to see you home, Digger,” he said sincerely. “Here, take my chair.” While Digger looked much improved since Ben saw him over the weekend in the hospital, the old fisherman still didn’t look his usual hale and hearty self.

  “You’re the guest, Reverend. You get the fancy chair. I’ll sit over here,” he said, lowering himself into the nearby rocking chair. “This suits me fine.”

  “Well, you two have a nice chat. I’m going down to the shop to check on a few things,” Grace said, excusing herself.

  “Yes, Grace. Take your time. We’re fine,” Digger said. Ben couldn’t help noticing Digger looked relieved to see his daughter go. Probably feels he’s being watched every minute now, he thought.

  Digger reached into the pocket of his long sweater and took out his pipe. He put it in his mouth, unlit.

  “Can’t smoke this anymore. Except outside on the sly. But I like having it handy. Almost like fooling myself.”