“Anybody here?” Joe called, unwilling to walk into the lodge unannounced.
The screen door squealed. Ruby emerged, wearing a welcome smile, a pair of baggy jeans, and a floral-print flannel shirt rolled up past her elbows. She held a ledger and had tucked a pencil above one ear. “Hello, Joe. Gabe was hoping you’d stop by.”
“Hi, Ruby. Is he around?”
“Sure. He’s out back with the others. Go behind the lodge.”
Joe heard voices as he trudged around the building—someone shouting orders, other voices singing. Although they sounded like a busy bunch, he didn’t expect the sight that greeted him. The Garden occupants—some gripping hoes, others kneeling—were working the soil around hundreds of green plants. Gabe stood on the bed of a wheelbarrow and barked orders like an army sergeant. Amazement rooted Joe to the spot.
“Put the mulch on that section near the back!” Gabe gestured with a hand trowel to a portion of the garden. Gabe was an uncanny mirror of himself—clad in a pair of old army pants, a gray sweatshirt, and a red Bulls baseball cap. Joe had received it from a friend in Chicago, and seeing it on Gabe’s head warmed him inside.
“Hey, Gabe, doing a little gardening?” Joe tucked his hands in his pockets and sauntered up to his brother.
Gabe’s eyes registered delight. “Joe! Where have you been?”
Joe shrugged. “I got a job in town helping remodel a house.”
“A job?” Gabe hopped down from the wheelbarrow.“Why? You have a job.”
Dodging the question and the countless others that would follow, Joe motioned toward the endless beds of sprouts. “Wow, are all those strawberries?”
Gabe grinned, his oval eyes dancing. “Yep. The Garden’s fresh strawberries are famous. Don’t you remember?” He frowned. “I wrote you about it.”
Joe felt like a cad. When Gabe mentioned in his letters that he liked to grow strawberries, Joe had thought his brother had been inflating their success by his overactive imagination. But as Joe’s mouth hung open and he gazed at the garden, he estimated over two acres of strawberry field. “This is amazing.”
Gabe’s chest puffed out, and he wiggled the brim of his cap. “We won a prize too.”
“I’m impressed. I had no idea.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you what we do.” Gabe grabbed him by the arm and gave him a walking tour of the field.“These plants are about five years old. We’ll dig them up this year, but they’ll put out runners. We’ll replant them over there, in the bed Daniel and Melissa are digging up.”
Joe squinted, making out two workers turning over soil on the south end of the field. Gabe pulled him between rows of rich black dirt, and they walked on wooden planks between the beds.
“We replanted these last September. They won’t give much this year, but by next season their berries will be the best.” Gabe pointed to a large bed covered in chicken wire. “That’s a special berry we’re trying to produce. We want the Garden to have their own special type.” His words slowed as he struggled to explain their plans, but his eyes shone with delight.
Words deserted Joe. He never imagined Gabe to be involved in such a project. His brother was full of interesting surprises, to say the least. But then again, most people had something tucked into dark corners of their lives. Something that could surprise, even shatter, everything others believed about them.
Take Mona, for example. The spitfire had secrets hidden behind those luminous eyes. He saw them—and the fear—yesterday as she’d nearly leaped away from him while jacking up the porch. What had frightened her? He’d felt fear himself as a streak of warmth shuddered through him when they’d stood a mere breath apart. She smelled so . . . feminine. Some sort of lilac soap on her skin, fresh and clean and delicate.
He’d wondered later at his reaction, as the moonlight traced the grooves of his wooden apartment floor. Never had a woman wound herself into his heart so quickly.Never had he allowed it. Was it Mona’s need that softened all the rough places inside him? Or rather her determination, the way she bit into her projects with the persistence of a beaver? Something about Mona definitely made him ponder the ramifications of letting down his guard, crossing the invisible picket line, and sweeping her into his life.
And what good would that do him? Secrets. His own would ambush any hint of romance like a bandit.
Imagine Mona finding out about the Garden and the brother Joe had hidden away. It would take only one look at Gabe for her to wonder what a future with Joe might hold. A second look might turn her on her heel and send her striding out of his life, the slam of the door on his heart as crushing as the one his father had left in his memory. Joe didn’t even want to think of what his other mysteries might do to Mona’s planned-to-the-nth-degree life.
No, it was better to leave his secrets, and hers, carefully locked up where they couldn’t spring free and sabotage anyone’s future. And he better keep his eyes open and those warm moments beside her at a minimum if he wanted any kind of future at all.
“Hey, want a lemonade?” Gabe asked.
“Sure,” Joe said, aware suddenly that he’d been blindly gazing at the gardeners while the sun dribbled sweat down his face.
Gabe waved his arm to the others. “Let’s take a break!”
Joe watched twenty people drop their hoes, rakes, and trowels and run toward the house. “Quite a group you have here,” he remarked. “Does everybody help with the garden?”
“Of course. We’re a family. Everybody works.”
Joe put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “ But you don’t have to work. Everything is paid for.”
Gabe shot him a puzzled look. “Of course I have to work. Everybody has to do something. This is my job.”
Joe turned away. “I don’t get it.”
Gabe sprinted toward the house. Joe trudged after him.He’d have to corner Ruby and figure out what was going on. His monthly payments more than covered Gabe’s living costs. So if Gabe’s words were accurate, where was all the cash from their prizewinning strawberries? Was this just a dream cooked up by Ruby to keep the residents busy? Either way, she was obviously manipulating her easily fooled charges. Angry, Joe let the screen door slam behind him and stalked into the kitchen.
At the sink, Gabe washed dirt from his hands. Ruby sat at the table, a sweating glass of lemonade in her grip. She glanced at Joe and her smile vanished. “What’s the matter, Joe?”
“Can I speak to you privately?” He tried not to growl, but by the defensive scowl that appeared on Ruby’s face, he realized he hadn’t been successful.
“Sure,” she said, rising. She walked to her office, leaving an assembly of astonished, muted workers in her wake. Joe turned to follow, feeling stares on his back.
Ruby shut the door behind him, then crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s this all about?”
Joe walked stiffly to the window and kneaded the back of his neck with his hand. He swallowed and tried to keep his voice low. “I pay good money for Gabe to live here. I expect him to live a comfortable life without a care.” He turned around. “Can you tell me why he’s digging in the dirt? He seems to think he has to work to pay his way. But you and I both know that isn’t true.”
Ruby gave him a piercing look. “Sit down, Joe.” She gestured to an overstuffed denim love seat. Joe considered the request, then acquiesced. Sitting across from him at her gleaming oak desk, she folded her hands on a neat blotter and looked every inch the stern housemother. Joe braced himself.
“You don’t know much about Down syndrome, do you?” she asked.
The accusation hit him hard, and he clenched his jaw. Her stare nearly hurt.
“Let me help you out. Your brother and the others who live here are only one chromosome different from you. They think, have feelings, want to feel worth and the love of family. They may not think as fast on their feet as most folks, and they often struggle to reason things out. But they need to feel a part of God’s world as much as the next person.”
Joe looked away, unable to face her steely gaze.
Mercifully, her voice softened. “Gabe doesn’t work because he has to for money; he works because he has to for his spirit. This is his home. He and the others are family. They depend on each other, and they want to build a life. Part of that life is creating and running a business. With their money, they take trips, add onto the lodge, even help other group homes less fortunate than ours. This garden is a way for them to depend on each other. They take turns running it. This summer, Gabe is the foreman.”
Joe hung his head, feeling dressed down. “I’m sorry.I had no idea.”
Ruby stood, walked around her desk, and sat next to him on the sofa. Her presence felt motherly, and Joe’s anger dissipated. “Joe, Gabe is very proud of you and all you’ve done. He talks about you constantly. We know a lot about you.”
A muscle in his jaw pulled slightly at her words. If she took what she knew and accidentally ran into Mona with it, his little stopover in Deep Haven, his desperate escape plan, and the chance to help Mona build her dreams would crumble into sawdust.
“But you don’t know much about Gabe,” she continued. “I don’t know why you chose now to come to visit. But I think you should stick around and get to know your brother. He has much to teach if you are willing to learn.”
“I should have visited more often,” he murmured.
“Yes, you should have,” she agreed. It hurt him to hear the truth spoken out loud. “But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. Besides, I think Gabe understood your long absence and why all your travels took you everywhere but here.”
Joe frowned. “How’s that?”
She shrugged. “Your mother must have explained it to him.”
“Right.” That made sense.
“Either her or your father.”
Joe reeled, feeling like he’d been slugged. “My father?”
Ruby stood, seemingly unaware that she’d dropped news with the weight of an anvil on his chest. “Yes, he comes around a few times a year, writes regularly. Even calls.”
“My father?” Joe felt weak and dazed. “I haven’t heard from my father since he walked out on our family when Gabe was three years old.”
This information seemed to catch Ruby by surprise. Confusion crossed her face. “Wayne Michaels has been coming to see Gabe for nearly four years.”
Four years. Right about the time Mom passed away. Fury ripped through Joe, shredding his common sense. He pounced to his feet, breathing heavily. His expression must have scared Ruby, for she went ashen, gasped, and put a hand to her throat.
Throwing open her office door, Joe stormed through the house, barely hearing Gabe’s voice over the fury that boiled in his soul. He hopped into his truck, started it with a roar, and peeled away from the Garden as quickly as his pickup could take him.
8
Mona heard the engine of a vehicle slow and pull up to the curb but forced herself not to look up as she dug a hole in the soil. She was thankful no one could hear the way her disobedient heart slammed against her rib cage. Joe had been gone for four hours, and her rebellious emotions acted as if it were half a century. She gritted her teeth and refused to turn at the scrape of feet on the sidewalk. The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Drifter Michaels to see the flush in her cheeks.
“Would you like to go out for pizza?”
Mona’s pulse rate plummeted at the voice. She rocked back on her heels, wiped a hair from her face, and dredged up a smile. A well-dressed, slick-looking Brian Whitney marched across the grass, grinning. She tried not to compare him to the memory of a rumpled and dirt-streaked Joe. So the guy didn’t have a lopsided smile—at least Brian didn’t smell like hard work and sport a three-day growth of beard. She batted that delicious image away as well.
“You’re back!” she exclaimed, hoping he didn’t notice the enacted enthusiasm. She rose to greet him.
He shrugged. “It was just a quick trip for business.”
“The Deep Haven Zoning Commission doing some work in Duluth?”
His smile vanished. “Research.”
A breeze blew across the lake, raising gooseflesh on her arms. “Liza’s out back,” she said, filling the silence.
Brian nodded, then examined her garden. “What are you planting?”
“Peonies, dahlias, gladiolas. I’m putting in a hedge row of marigolds over there.” She gestured to a spot of furrowed land edging the fence.
“Hope they bloom in four weeks,” he commented wryly.
She frowned. “They will.”
“Sure. Well, I know I said I’d take you out someplace nice, but I thought we could pop over to Pierre’s Pizza for supper. I’ll do the fancy dinner next week.”
Mona tugged off her work gloves. “Pizza sounds great.” She gave him a stern look. “But we go dutch.”
“Right. We’ll see.”
Mona pointed a finger at him. “Dutch. I’ll get Liza.”She jogged around the house.
The sound of humming emanated from Liza’s pottery shed. Mona leaned against the doorjamb, watching her best friend stacking unbaked pottery on her newly constructed shelves. Liza had a shipment of her finished, painted, and baked pottery due to arrive any day from her workshop in Minneapolis. But Mona knew Liza was itching to dive into a chunk of clay. It was a stress reliever as well as an occupation.
“Brian Whitney is here. He wants us to go out for pizza with him.”
Liza turned, a teasing glint shimmering in her black eyes. “Are you sure he wants to take us both?” She had slicked her hair back into a bubblegum pink scrunchy and wore a fringed rhinestone-studded sweatshirt over black leggings.
“I’m sure—” Mona wrinkled her nose—“but we’re not going anywhere until you change into something a little less . . . conspicuous.”
Liza produced a mock-offended pose. “What, you don’t like my new bangles?” She tilted her head and leaned her ear toward Mona. Mona peered at the earrings, then bit her lip to suppress her laughter. Only Liza could pull off a pair of hoops with rainbow trout dangling from them.
“I’m just trying to blend with the locals.”
“By wearing fish?” Mona trembled with glee.
Liza beamed. “Listen, I’ll save you from a night alone with Brian Whitney, but only if I can wear the trout.”
Mona gave a start. “What do you mean, ‘save me’?
How do you know I don’t want to have Brian all to myself?”
Liza pushed her out of the shed, then locked the door. “Because I know he’s not your first choice of available men.”
Shock nearly sent Mona sprawling. “What?”
Liza turned, linked her arm with Mona’s, and led her toward the house. “You know exactly what I mean. You’d much rather build porches or swat roaches with our local handyman.”
Mona went numb. “That is not true. Joe is nothing more than a drifter, an intruder in my life. The sooner he fixes this place up and moseys on his way, the better.”
“You don’t know your dream man when you see him, honey.”
“My dream man is certainly not a know-it-all jack-of-all- trades. My dream man has aspirations, dreams. He’s intelligent, thoughtful, and well read. Have you seen one book in Joe’s possession?”
Liza shook her head, her eyes glinting. “I haven’t been in his apartment.”
“I haven’t either!”
“He might have an entire load of books in his duffel bag.”
Mona rolled her eyes.
“‘My dream man has to be patient, a hard worker, someone who considers others above himself and is a Christian,’ ” Liza quoted, her chin high.
“And be able to be vulnerable!” Mona spiked the air with a grimy finger. “Joe would rather tell a joke than be serious and reveal his true feelings. He’s all puff and chuckles, the life of the party, but he guards his privacy like a secret treasure. I would take Brian I-am-the-greatest- thing-to-ever-come-out-of-Deep Haven over Mr. Private Michaels any day. At least Brian told me abo
ut his life. Joe won’t even tell me where he’s from.”
Liza crooked an eyebrow. “I knew it,” she said smugly.
Mona fumed and marched into the house behind her.
She spotted Brian outside, inspecting her flowers. With his suit coat flung over his shoulder and groomed eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he appeared refined and stable, just the type of man who could fulfill her list of requirements. But as he squatted to survey the new cinder-block posts, the image of Joe hit her hard—his short-cropped, tawny hair, his gray T-shirt pulling over thick arms and a muscled chest, and his liquid blue eyes that somehow skinned calloused layers from her heart.
Mona scampered up the stairs, wishing Liza wasn’t always right.
Joe laced his fingers behind his neck and hung his head as he squatted on the beach. Every muscle tensed from the foolishness of not cooling down after his run. But he hadn’t been running for exercise. Memories chased him along the beach, and he fought to escape the pain that seemed as vivid now as it had been fifteen years earlier. Ruby had ripped open his scars with her revelation, and the wound throbbed, fresh and gaping.
He’d spent the afternoon driving up the Superior coastline, searching for comfort in the rugged beauty that had so ministered to his soul in years past. He’d finally surrendered to the fruitlessness and returned to the Footstep, hoping to bury himself in manual labor.
He’d arrived in time to see Mona climbing into Brian Whitney’s black-as-night Honda. He tried to ignore the stab of new pain as they drove off.
His chest heaved. Sweat ran in rivers down his back. Rage, like a separate being, roared about in his soul. Wayne Michaels—deserter, quitter, destroyer—back in Gabe’s life. Just when Joe thought he’d buried the memories so deep they’d never be unearthed.
Joe jammed his fists into his eyes. The past revived, and he heard every angry, abusive word his father said echoing in the waves slamming onto shore. In the cold foamy spray, he again felt his tears, and the screams of the seagulls voiced his broken heart. Most of all, he felt the nip of blame in the stinging wind. Joe shuddered, burying his head into his drawn-up knees.
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