Happily Ever After

by Susan May Warren

  Inside, the buffed and waxed floor glinted delicious amber in the afternoon sun, and the green-and-navy-plaid sofa was settled regally in the lounge area, opposite the coffee bar. Mona’s intimate round tables had arrived in a shipment from Minneapolis, along with a box of tablecloths and indigo-and-yellow napkins. Mona helped Liza display her current stock of earthenware bowls, plates, mugs, and serving platters on two stripped and glazed oak dressers they had picked up from one of the locals. Out of a rusty metal table Liza had unearthed in the shed, she created nouveau art with a wire brush and some navy and white appliance paint.

  The bookshelves, adorned with an assortment of colorful displays and freebies from publishers, beckoned every time Mona entered the shop. She had to fight the urge to select a novel and plop onto the sofa. It was just the temptation she had hoped for.

  Mona leaned on the porch rail, letting the fresh evening wind whisk away the worries of the day. She heard the porch door squeal, then Liza’s light step. Mona turned, and her roommate handed her a cup of steaming cappuccino.

  Liza’s dark eyes danced. “The Footstep is almost ready.”

  Mona took the cup and gave her friend a grateful smile. Over the past week, Liza had successfully managed to avoid the topic of their absent handyman, but it hovered like grief between them. Joe’s imprint embedded the Footstep of Heaven. His handiwork was everywhere—from the lush green front lawn to the gleaming white front porch, from the new back siding and the sturdy garage stairs to the hall chandelier.

  But most of all, Joe’s imprint was etched in Mona’s heart. For she knew it was Joe who had nudged her toward believing in God’s love for her, and believing He would help her build her dreams. Joe said she didn’t have to earn God’s love—it was packaged with His forgiveness. If only she could get that truth to settle deep into her heart and truly embrace it. It seemed too wonderful to be true, just like the Footstep.

  Perhaps, if she could be successful at opening her bookstore, she would also be successful in believing that God could make fantastic dreams come true. Dreams like bringing the only man she could ever love striding back into her life.

  “When will you start baking?” Liza leaned against the rail of the porch, blending her gaze with Mona’s as they watched the sparkling lake.

  “I have twenty dozen frozen muffins for emergency, but I have a new recipe for berry muffins I want to try for the opening.”

  “I heard about a place not far from here that sells strawberries. Maybe they’ll have an early crop.”

  Mona sipped her coffee. The sharp taste of java soothed her worn body. Thankfully, it hadn’t been too difficult to add the final touches to the Footstep without Joe. And each twilight, as her muscles screamed, she thanked the Lord that Joe hadn’t abandoned her right after the fire. He had been a blessing to her, even if her heart writhed every time she thought of him.

  She watched a fishing boat bob over waves on the horizon. Why had Joe left? The question plagued her at odd moments—when she had hung Monet prints in the dining room or when she had painted the tiny downstairs bathroom. She even pondered the question while mowing the grass. Was it something she had done?

  “Where is this strawberry farm?” Mona asked, returning to Liza’s suggestion.

  “I saw an advertisement around here a week or so ago. I’ll see if I can find it. I think it was called the Garden.”

  Joe expected to find a greasy garage, an echo of his impressions from childhood. He was pleasantly surprised to see that the auto shop was clean, well lit, and miraculously, not a hint of grease had snuck in from the back stalls to the reception area. The pungent smell of oil and gas, however, confirmed he’d found the right place.

  An elderly woman with graying hair and a saggy round face looked up at him, her thin penciled eyebrows pushed skyward. “What do you want?” she barked.

  “Um, I’m looking for Wayne Michaels,” he stammered.

  “He’s out back. What do you want with him?”

  Joe’s mouth suddenly parched. Words escaped him. What was he doing here? “Be strong and courageous.” He was instantly glad he’d committed that verse to memory on the drive over.

  “Did one of the boys do your car wrong or something, mister?”

  Joe shook his head and received a deep frown in response.

  “Spit it out!”

  “He’s my father,” Joe croaked.

  The woman recoiled and went ashen. “Is it really you?”

  Joe nodded.

  She jumped to her feet and hustled around the desk. “Please, sir, come this way.” She waddled down a narrow hall, turned a corner, then flung open a set of double oak doors. “Please wait here. I’ll get him. Can I get you anything?”

  Joe arched his eyebrows at her and shook his head.

  “I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” she said, jutting out her hand. Joe reluctantly took it and hid his revulsion at her sweaty grip.

  When she closed the door behind her, Joe wiped his hands on his suit pants, straightened his tie, and scanned the office. It was paneled in mahogany, and the carpet gleamed copper in pools of lamplight. The smell of leather emanated from two low armchairs and the tall captain’s chair behind a glass-topped cherrywood desk. Joe whistled low. This was no grease monkey’s office. Maybe he had the wrong Wayne Michaels.

  Then he spotted his own face in a framed picture—eleven years old and holding a stringer of fish. A side table held a group of photos—Gabe with his strawberries, a black-and-white of their mother in college, Joe’s senior class picture, and a shot of him he’d had professionally taken. How had his father obtained these last two items? Anger rose like a flash flood. If his father had cared all these years, why hadn’t he bothered to contact him? Joe was easy to find if someone wanted to take the time to search.

  Joe was simmering toward full boil when the door opened. In walked Wayne Michaels. Shock washed over Joe.

  “Howdy, Joe.” The man before him was lean, strong, and dressed casually in blue dress pants and a short-sleeve, hunter green polo shirt. His thin face, lined heavily, betrayed hard years, but his blue eyes danced.

  Something inside Joe cracked open. In that moment, all the anger, fear, and accusations melted into one emotion—regret. He’d missed his father. A fifteen-year old ache roared to life. He suddenly had trouble breathing.

  Memory flashed through his mind in a tangle of joyous, heart-wrenching emotions: his father, grease-streaked and grinning as he taught Joe how to overhaul a Ford; the sound of hearty laughter captured in a moment of playing catch in the backyard; the smell of Old Spice and soap late at night; and the feeling of warmth as his dad tucked a little boy into bed.

  “Hi,” Joe returned in a weak voice.

  Wayne closed the door behind him. Then he turned and met Joe’s eyes. “I’m glad you came.” His voice faltered, matching Joe’s. “I prayed we’d meet again.”

  An endless list of questions shot into Joe’s mind. He asked the most important, slashing through the knot of crippling images to find confidence in righteous anger. “Why, Dad? Why did you leave?”

  Wayne swallowed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I made a terrible mistake.” His eyes glistened. “I was afraid. A handicapped child seemed more than I could handle. I was just starting to enjoy being with you, and then we had Gabe. I panicked and ran.”

  “And destroyed our family.” Joe’s anger, focused now, swelled.

  Wayne closed his eyes and nodded.

  Joe balled his fists, and once again he saw himself standing by the door, watching his father leave, listening to his mother sob in the kitchen. The urge to flee this office nearly sent his legs into motion.

  His father must have sensed his struggle, for his expression changed. He shrank the distance between them, and his voice grew earnest. “I was a coward, Joe. I can’t change what I did to you and the family. I can’t change the awful things you went through because of my fear. But I can change what happens from now on. Don’t go. You are a better, bra
ver man than me, and I’m begging you to give me a second chance. Please, forgive me.”

  Wayne reached out to his shoulder, but Joe jerked away. He teetered on the thin line between hatred and love, willing himself to land on the side that had a future. How had he ever thought he could do this, face this man, this anguish? Lord, help me!

  Joe’s prayer bolstered his courage. Forgiveness was something he’d have to learn daily—to both give and, Lord willing, accept. And it had to start today.

  “I forgive you!” The words erupted from Joe in a sob. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his watering eyes. He felt raw, near to collapse. “I forgive you,” he repeated, his voice in shreds.

  Then his father’s arms were around him, fighting to embrace him despite Joe’s reluctance. Joe froze, but his emotions crested over him. He weakened and, with a childlike cry, buried his face in his father’s neck. He wept, unashamed at his tears, for the anguish his father had bequeathed, for the years he’d been betrayal’s executor. “I forgive you,” Joe said again, this time more to himself.

  A wave of pain—sweet, cleansing pain—swept through him. It knocked his stronghold of unforgiveness to smithereens.

  In its place swelled a soul-healing joy that could only be divine.

  Mona followed the map printed on the back of the brochure. The pamphlet read Best Strawberries in the North and pictured a luscious red berry on the cover. Inside, it explained the Garden’s varieties, shipping policies, prices, and services. The Garden even made its own jam. Mona itched to talk with the owners and place a hefty order for the Footstep.

  She slowed as she drove under a wooden sign dangling between two fence posts. The wind toyed with it slightly and shifted the surrounding fir. The scent of pine filtered through the air, and Mona decided this place was definitely another entrance to heaven. Driving up the dirt road, she spotted a number of neatly constructed outbuildings and a stunning white-pine lodge.

  A large wide porch ran the length of the lodge. It certainly is a homey place for such a large operation, Mona mused as she pulled up. She climbed out of her Chevette and mounted the porch stairs, searching for the proprietor.

  The screen door opened. “Can I help you?” A young man with tousled brown hair and dressed in coveralls smiled at her.

  Mona was warmed by the twinkle in his almond-shaped eyes. “I’m looking for the Garden strawberry farm?”

  “You found it.”

  “Could you point me to the manager?”

  The young man thumped his chest and grinned. “That’s me.”

  Mona couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, but her brow wrinkled in confusion. Certainly an operation of this size wouldn’t have . . .

  “Can I help you?” The porch door creaked open, and a gray-haired woman dressed in jeans and a pink floral sweatshirt stepped out.

  “Yes, I’m looking for the manager of the Garden.”

  “Oh, you’re in luck; he’s right here.” She gestured to the beaming young man.

  Mona swallowed her perplexity and stumbled ahead.

  “Okay. Well, I’m Mona Reynolds, and I’m interested in your strawberries.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “We have lots!”

  The woman patted his shoulder. “I’m Ruby Miller, director of the Garden, and this is Gabriel Michaels, this season’s manager. Why don’t we show you our store, and you can tell me what you need.” She turned to the man. “Okay, Gabe?”

  Shock hit Mona with a gale force. “Gabriel Michaels?”

  The man nodded, brow pinched.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be any relation to a man named Joe Michaels? He worked as a handyman here in town.”

  Ruby looked stunned. “You’re Joe’s Mona?”

  Mona felt the blood drain from her body. As if to confirm brutal reality, a large brown dog bounded onto the porch and layered her with a kiss.

  “Rip!” she sputtered, wiping her face. The need to sit down—and fast—swept over her.

  Ruby must have seen her dazed expression, for the woman put a hand on her arm. “Come with me, Mona. I think Joe had a few secrets he didn’t share with you.”

  Mona felt numb. Ruby led her through a comfortable-looking living room and a large kitchen to a back office, where she gently settled Mona into a leather sofa. “Can I get you a lemonade?”

  Mona nodded.

  Ruby disappeared, and Mona was left to stare at the puzzled young man rubbing his hands together and shifting from one foot to the other. He’d turned the color of his strawberries, and an arrow of pity shot through her.

  So this was Joe’s secret. Why had he hidden his greatest treasure—his family—from her? Was he ashamed of Gabe? Or was he afraid of her reaction? In the room, alone with Joe’s brother, the deceit glared at them, and she felt just as sorry for Gabriel as she did for herself. The poor man obviously had no idea she knew Joe.

  She stood up and walked over to him. “Your brother is a wonderful man. He helped me rebuild my bookstore, and because of him, it’s opening in a few days. ”She tried a smile.

  Gabriel glanced at her with suspicion in his eyes and nodded.

  “I’m sorry we never met,” she said softly. “Would you like to come to my bookstore sometime?”

  He nodded again. “I like books. Joe sends them to me.”

  “Really? What kind do you like?”

  “His books.”

  “Oh.” He must send him his castoffs, Mona thought, wondering if Gabriel liked Louis L’Amour.

  “Here’s your lemonade, dear.” Ruby returned and handed her an icy drink. “Now, I’m not going to reveal all of Joe’s secrets, but I’ll let you in on this one. Gabriel is Joe’s younger brother. He’s lived here for about five years. Joe’s visit was only the second time he’s been here.”

  “So that’s why he was in town,” Mona murmured.

  “Do you have any idea why he left?”

  “He said it was time,” Gabriel answered.

  Silence thickened like paste, gluing the questions Mona had to her clenching chest. What wasn’t Ruby telling her? “So, this is a group home?” She forced through her agony, shifting the topic from the obvious . . . Joe’s secrets.

  Ruby nodded. “And a strawberry farm. Are you still interested in our strawberries? We have an early blooming variety in the greenhouse, and you’re just in time for the pick of the crop.”

  Mona smiled.

  Ruby wove a hand around Mona’s arm. “C’mon. Let’s see if the Garden has what you’re looking for.”

  Stealing a glance at Joe’s brother, Mona wondered if she’d already found it.

  “I ordered a fresh supply for every week until the end of the season.” Mona plunked down a box of strawberries and grinned at Liza. Her friend looked impressed.

  “And I found Joe’s brother.” It delighted Mona to see Liza’s jaw sag open. “Yup. He lives at the Garden, which is a group home for mentally challenged adults, as well as a strawberry farm.”

  “So, you think that’s why he left? He feared you’d find out?”

  Mona shrugged, but she couldn’t hide the disgust in her voice. “As if that would matter to me. Gabe is nothing short of charming. In fact he is overseeing their entire strawberry crop this year. Joe is a fool if he thinks I wouldn’t fall in love with his brother immediately.”

  As Mona headed out to her car to retrieve the last strawberry crate, she said, “If you ask me, Gabe has twice the sense of our mystery handyman.”

  Liza hummed in agreement.

  Mona slammed down the telephone receiver. The unit shuddered.

  “Any luck?” Liza treaded in with another load of freshly painted pottery. Her side of the house glittered with color. Mona buried her head in her arms on the walnut table and groaned.

  Only three days before opening day. The plumbing had stopped up, Mona found a wandering roach under her sink, and just after her first cup of coffee a publicist called and dropped the bomb. Mona’s star attraction, an author from Minneapolis who
had agreed to read an excerpt from her book Life in the Boundary Waters, a Journey of Discovery had developed a case of laryngitis.

  “I’ve been on the phone for two hours,” Mona mumbled from the hiding place inside her arms. “The last call I made, I actually begged the publicist for a cameo, not even a reading, from any author. I don’t care who they are. I think I might have even offered to send the publicist a dozen muffins.” She looked up at her friend and grimaced.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” Liza slid behind the coffee bar, where an espresso machine, cappuccino maker, and two industrial-sized coffeepots waited for opening day. The oak gleamed under the polish of the midafternoon sun.

  “Make it a double,” Mona groaned.

  Liza added two scoops of mocha and a generous dollop of whipped cream on top. “Nobody, eh?” She set down the coffee mug on a yellow crocheted coaster.

  Mona shook her head. “No one is available, as beautiful as the North Shore of Minnesota is, to make the trek on a two-day notice.” She wrapped both hands around the mug, seeking something solid to hang on to. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Liza looked heavenward. “Right about now, as my mama would say, we need a little grace.”

  “Who was that?” Reese Clark drummed his fingers on the linen-covered tablecloth, annoyance churning through him. A five-star, art-deco café was the last place he wanted to be on a gorgeous, blue-skied Friday. The wind was pushing a regatta of shiny white sailboats across Lake Calhoun, and he thought he’d spotted a youngster attached to a high-flying kite on the way over. He could easily kill an afternoon watching the kid war with trees, light poles, and dogs.

  He narrowed his eyes at Jacqueline as she snapped her cell phone shut and dropped it into her black leather satchel. Exasperation padded her answer. “A desperate woman.”