“You were pretty angry sometimes, but I don’t think you ever would have quit.”
“I thought about it,” he confessed. “But I didn’t want you to think less of me.”
“Luke, if you decided to give up on the New Horizons Center because of all the opposition, I would have sympathized, not criticized,” she assured him. “I never would have thought less of you. But I’ve got to tell you—I think what you’ve done is pretty amazing.”
He smiled at her and didn’t say anything for a while. “I’ve done okay, I guess. It doesn’t seem real yet. It won’t until the kids get here and we’re officially open in the spring. I guess then it will all hit home with me.”
He didn’t have to say more. Sara knew what it had meant to Luke to start this project and see it through. After failing as a cop, he’d found a way to redeem himself, in his own eyes and in the eyes of the world.
A chilly breeze blew up from the harbor, and they nestled even closer. Sara stole a quick glance at Luke, his strong profile against the clear night sky. He had come to mean so much to her in such a short time. But she knew that one day she would leave Cape Light. She was here for her job and for a chance to get to know her birth mother better. But she had never thought of Cape Light as her true home, while Luke had made a commitment to stay. Yet, as he stopped walking and turned to face her, it hardly seemed the right moment to remind him.
Then Luke stared down at her, slipped his arms around her waist, and pulled her closer. She knew he was about to kiss her, and she felt a breathless excitement.
“I think we have a lot to look forward to, Sara,” he said softly. “A lot to look forward to together, I mean.”
His tone sounded serious to her. Almost too serious, she thought. Sara tipped her head back and closed her eyes. His kiss was warm and loving, and she felt herself melting into his embrace, her sudden apprehension melting, too, as she kissed him back with all the emotion that suddenly welled up in her heart.
Was Luke getting too serious too quickly for her? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t say what their future would bring. Nobody could. But she felt happy in his arms, and when they were close like this, it didn’t seem to matter.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS HE STARTED THE SERVICE ON SUNDAY MORNING, BEN WAS pleased to find Digger Hegman seated in his usual spot, second pew, pulpit side. Digger sat beside the newlyweds, Jessica and Sam Morgan, who were probably keeping an eye on him. Ben had hoped to see Grace sitting beside her father today, but she was nowhere in sight.
Grace’s appearance would have been the silver lining to Digger’s crisis, but that was too easy. The Lord doesn’t usually deliver such tidy bundles, Ben reminded himself. You ought to know that by now. Still, he felt her absence keenly, as though it were a lapse on his part.
The time for his sermon arrived, and he stepped up to the pulpit. He heard a restless shifting and muffled coughs, as the congregation waited for him to begin. He glanced at his notes. They were sketchy, not as well organized as usual. Still upset by his argument with Carolyn, he hadn’t been able to focus very well last night when he tried to polish it up. Maybe this was one of those days when he would do better to forget the sermon and just speak from the heart.
“I welcome you all here this morning,” he began. “I especially extend a welcome to Mr. Dennis Hegman, better known to most of us as Digger.” Ben paused, hearing some good-natured chuckles.
He was among the few in town who knew Digger’s Christian name, a perfect question if there were ever a Cape Light version of Jeopardy, he thought fancifully.
“We’re thankful for your safe return, Digger,” Ben said, meeting the old fisherman’s gaze. “And for the effort of so many in our town who left their families and holiday celebrations when they heard that a friend and neighbor was in trouble.
“It was a night we’ll all remember. One of the most frightening in our town’s recent history, I think, but also one of our finer hours. When the news went out, the good people of our town didn’t say, ‘That’s too bad, but I guess the police or whoever will handle it.’ They didn’t procrastinate. They didn’t make excuses. They just came.”
Ben paused, pushing up his glasses. He saw in the pews so many men and women who had come out to search. Folks like Sam Morgan and Harry Reilly, of course, good friends of the Hegmans. But also people like Warren Oakes, who barely knew Digger; Miriam Foster, a postal worker who also had a seat on the village council; and even Betty Bowman, a real-estate broker.
“This time of year is called the season of giving,” he went on. “Giving gifts to our family and friends and remembering those less fortunate. We give donations of money or clothing or even toys and food. We do it wholeheartedly or out of habit or maybe even guilt. Sometimes we simply find ourselves cornered into giving, our path in the mall blocked by a smiling volunteer ringing a bell.”
A few in the congregation smiled or nodded or even looked uncomfortable, recognizing themselves. Others stared at him with blank, unfocused expressions that made Ben wonder if they even heard him.
“It seems to me,” he continued in a stronger tone, “there are so many ways to express charity, to give of ourselves to our neighbors and friends. And this is the perfect time to ‘think out of the box’ about it, if you will—out of the alms box,” he added, drawing a few smiles.
“The outpouring of energy and concern I witnessed on Thanksgiving night was charity in action—people who selflessly put aside their own concerns, their own physical comfort, and even personal safety to aid someone in need. A dramatic gesture.
“But consider how many far more subtle ways there are for us to do the same thing—to come to the aid of someone in need—with our time, our sympathy, or maybe just a smile and a kind word. A small gesture of courtesy, like letting the other guy have the last parking space or letting someone ahead of you at the supermarket checkout. Giving makes us feel good about ourselves and about the world around us. It makes us feel more optimistic, more hopeful, more spiritual . . . and closer to God.
“In the First Epistle of St. Peter, Chapter 3, we find these words: ‘Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous.’
“Once you try to imagine how you can express charity in a nonmaterial way, the list is endless, isn’t it? Yes, let’s remember those less fortunate at this time of the year. That goes without saying. But let’s open our eyes to the opportunities in our lives every day. Maybe few will be as dramatic as what occurred in this town on Thanksgiving night, but they will be equally or even more rewarding for you, I promise,” he concluded.
Ben gazed around at the congregation. Had he reached them? he wondered. Had his ideas and words penetrated in any meaningful way? He couldn’t tell. It had seemed a good idea to depart from the sermon he’d prepared. Now as he left the pulpit to continue the service, he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t have that certain feeling he would sometimes get, a feeling of connection with his listeners. He was doubting what he had prepared and doubting what he had delivered off-the-cuff.
He saw Carolyn sitting a few rows from the front, beside Rachel and Jack. He tried to catch her eye, but she was looking down at her prayer book. Faulty connections despite the best intentions. It seemed an insidious pattern for him these days.
He turned and prepared to continue with the service. For the next forty minutes he forced himself to focus and ignore his wandering, negative thoughts.
Later, as Ben stood at the front doors to the church and greeted his parishioners, he felt as if he were only half-listening, as they spoke to him. But when Digger appeared, he suddenly felt less distracted.
“I enjoyed the service, Reverend,” Digger said, in his typical fashion. “It’s true what you said. The Lord was good to me and so were the good folks in this town. I won’t forget it. But I wish, by now, everyone else would.”
Ben winced inwardly, suddenly realizing how insensitive he had been. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,
Digger. I certainly didn’t mean to,” he said sincerely. “I was trying to praise the volunteers who came out to help, but I didn’t stop to consider that talking about it might embarrass you. That was thoughtless of me. I apologize.”
“No apology necessary, Reverend. If the story perked up your sermon, you were welcome to it. It’s just that I’m the shy type, you know,” Digger said, in a joking tone.
“Shy? Give me a break,” Sam Morgan protested from his place behind Digger in line. “The sermon was very good, Reverend. And worth thinking about,” he added quietly.
“Thank you, Sam.” If ever there was a man who practiced just what I’ve been preaching, it has to be Sam Morgan, Ben thought.
“By the way, Digger, I didn’t see your name on the volunteer list for the Christmas Fair this year,” Ben said, feeling a flash of inspiration. “You know we really could use more helpers who can handle tools and know how to put things together. Think you might have a few hours to spare for us?”
Digger’s eyes brightened. “Well, Grace has been keeping me pretty occupied in the shop these days. It’s the busy season, you know. But I suppose I could drop by and lend a hand. If you really need me . . .”
“We certainly do,” Ben assured him. “The next meeting is Wednesday night in the all-purpose room. Fran Tulley is our chairperson this year. I’ll have her call you.”
“Okay, I’ll be there. Maybe Grace will come along, too.”
Ben tried not to show his pleasure at the suggestion. “I’m sure she’d be very welcome,” he replied.
SINCE STARTING AT THE PAPER THE WEEK BEFORE, SARA HAD NOT ALLOWED herself to take a real lunch break. She noticed how everyone else ate at their desks, still typing with one hand. She didn’t want to look like a slacker, so she did the same.
But by Wednesday, she needed to get out of the office for a while. Wyatt had returned from the weekend tense and irritable. Their few hours of camaraderie the night of the snowstorm hadn’t carried over to the workweek. For the last few days, in Wyatt’s not-so-subtle opinion, Sara hadn’t done anything right. At precisely twelve, she left some copy on his desk, grabbed her coat, and headed outside.
As she rounded Main Street, she considered the Beanery on the opposite corner. But the familiar blue sign for the Clam Box up ahead caught her eye, and she kept walking toward it.
She glanced at the signs in the window as she entered: “Box Lunches to Go” and “Try Our Famous Clam Rolls.” For some reason, the faded cards made her smile. She left her job here only a month ago, but somehow it felt like years.
The Clam Box was always quite busy at the lunch hour. Sara stood behind a group of local businessmen waiting to be seated. The aromas of coffee, bacon, and home fries were heavy in the air, bringing her back instantly to her days waiting tables. She had liked working here at times. It had been a good way to get to know the people in town and get ideas for the short stories she liked to write. It also helped her to surreptitiously get to know Emily, who often stopped in.
Probably the best part of the job was making friends with Lucy. Sara glanced around but didn’t see her. She hoped Lucy was in today. She had already eaten enough Clam Box cuisine to last a lifetime.
A waitress flew past; no one Sara recognized. She must be my replacement, she realized. She spotted an empty seat at the counter and sat down. At the far end, she saw Charlie at the grill, his back turned to her. Just as well, Sara thought. She opened her menu and tried to decide what to order.
“Well, hello, stranger!” Sara turned and saw Lucy standing behind her, her pretty face brightened by a huge smile. Lucy leaned forward and gave her a quick hug. “I thought you went to Maryland, not Mars.”
“Sorry I didn’t come by sooner. I started at the paper last week, and it’s been really hectic.”
“I’m only teasing. How was your visit with your folks?”
“Great. They’re coming up here soon, around Christmastime. I hope you get to meet them.”
“I will if you bring them in here,” Lucy replied. “The meal will be on the house . . . but don’t tell Charlie,” she whispered.
“But don’t tell Charlie” was a regular footnote to Lucy’s conversations. It was clear to anyone who knew the couple that their marriage was tense and difficult, for Lucy especially. Sara knew more than most, especially about Lucy’s struggle to go back to college, which Charlie still opposed.
“How are your courses going?” Sara asked. “Getting ready for finals?”
“Finals and papers and class presentations. I don’t know how I’m going to get it all done. Right on top of Christmas, too,” Lucy said, waving her order book. “I know it’s a lot to ask with your new job and everything, but I hope you can help me out with some of my term papers. Just look them over?”
“Sure, no problem,” Sara replied lightly. It really wasn’t a problem. She liked helping Lucy and tried to encourage her.
“So how is the job going? I’ve read all your articles. They’re great,” Lucy said enthusiastically.
“It’s going okay. It’s harder than I thought, though,” Sara admitted. “Wyatt Forbes makes me rewrite everything two or three times before he’ll accept it. Then he ends up chopping it to bits or rewriting most of it himself. Makes me wonder why I bother.”
“Oh, dear. Well, you’re in the real world now, Sara. Sounds just like a boss to me. I’m sure he thinks you’re terrific,” Lucy consoled her. “It’s not the same around here without you, honestly. But when I pick up the newspaper every morning and I see your name in print, I just sit back and say, ‘Wow, that’s my friend. She’s a real reporter now.’ ”
Sara’s smile widened. Lucy’s lavish compliments made her almost feel embarrassed. But they did take the sting out of the rotten week she had been having at work.
The frantic ringing of the order bell distracted them both, and they looked down the counter to see Charlie, slamming his hand on the ringer again. “Order up, Lucy. Have you gone deaf on me or something?” he shouted at her.
“Just a minute. I’ll be right there,” Lucy called back.
Sara saw Charlie squinting down the counter, as if he didn’t recognize her. Then he walked toward them.
“Well, look who’s here,” Charlie remarked. “Nice of you to drop in, Sara. I thought since you found out you were a Warwick, you decided you were too good for this place.”
“Nice to see you, too, Charlie,” Sara replied dryly.
“So how’s it going at the Messenger? Convenient for your mother to have you working there, I guess. Now she doesn’t have to worry. She’s got the whole town in her pocket.”
Sara expected as much from Charlie. He was bitter about his defeat in the election and took any opportunity to criticize Emily. But his words still stung. She was sure a lot of people agreed with him, though they might not say as much to her face.
“Charlie, what a thing to say! I think you owe Sara an apology.”
Sara was shocked. She had rarely heard Lucy stand up to her husband that way.
Charlie scowled. “Sure, I’ll apologize. Next time it snows on the Fourth of July. You remind me, honey,” he said, turning his back to them.
“That’s okay. You have a right to your opinions, Charlie, even if they’re totally fallacious and misinformed.” Sara didn’t raise her voice, but she could tell from the way he rubbed the back of his neck that he heard her.
“Guess I’d better go.” Sara grabbed her coat and scarf off the back of her chair. Her stomach growled with dismay at the sudden change in plans. So much for lunch.
“Sorry, Sara.” Lucy reached out and touched her arm. “Can I fix you something quick to take out?”
Sara shook her head, then managed a small smile at her friend. “I really just stopped by to see you.” She leaned toward Lucy and gave her a hug. “Let’s get together sometime. Call me when you need help with your schoolwork.”
“I will,” Lucy promised. “So long now.”
“Miss, can I have more coffee, please?�
�� a man in a booth nearby called out. Both women turned to him at once, Sara feeling old reflexes kick in.
Then they looked at each other and laughed. “Go on and get out of here, before someone ties an apron on you,” Lucy warned her.
Sara picked up a sandwich at a deli in town, then went straight back to the newspaper office. The moment she walked in, Jane and Ed both stopped working and looked up at her. She could tell from the expression on Jane’s face that something had happened. Something bad.
“What’s going on?” she asked Jane quietly.
Jane glanced over her shoulder at Wyatt. He was at his desk, going over some papers with Lindsay. “Nothing good. Don’t panic, but you’re in trouble.”
“Me?” Sara heard her voice rise an octave at least. “What did I do?”
“It was that meeting this morning, the Zoning Board. You should have stayed until the end. Something happened. We missed the story—uh-oh, he wants you,” Jane whispered, turning her back on Wyatt, so he couldn’t see what she was saying.
“Sara, I need to talk to you. Back at my desk, please,” Wyatt said curtly.
Sara felt her stomach twist into a million knots. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t eaten anything. As she turned to face Wyatt, she felt Jane secretly squeeze her arm. “Hang in there,” Jane whispered.
Sara turned and slowly walked back toward Wyatt. Lindsay was now working at a different desk, consulting long sheets of numbers and tapping on a calculator. She looked up at Sara as she passed and gave her a gentle smile but didn’t say hello.
Sara’s mouth suddenly felt so dry, she could barely speak. “You want to see me about something?”
Wyatt nodded. “I sent you to cover the zoning meeting this morning, and all you come back with is this?” He got to his feet, picked up the article she had handed in, and read her headline aloud in a mocking tone, “ ‘Zoning Board Questions Golf-Course Development Budget.’ ”
The Gathering Place Page 13