Christmas Blessings
Page 30
Chapter Eighteen
Darrell and his father had decided that Friday, January fifth, would be his last day of work for Morgan Construction. He would leave for school on the weekend.
His father still couldn’t drive but physical therapy sessions had helped him be more mobile. Bart Begossian had agreed to pick his father up every day and help oversee the jobsites until Sam was up to speed. Now his dad could drive poor Bart crazy, Darrell thought.
Darrell’s classes didn’t start until the eighteenth, more than a week away. But he needed time to get organized for the spring semester. He was moving into an apartment off campus with some buddies and looked forward to that change. He was taking a full course load but still wanted to have some fun before he graduated.
It was hard not think about the cannery proposal, as much as he had tried to focus on other things—buying books for his new classes and applying for graduate school. All that made him feel as if he was moving backward now.
Since it was his last day, the guys on the work crew took him out for lunch—to their favorite spot in Essex, famous for huge grinders. It hadn’t always been easy taking his father’s place, but for the most part, managing the crew had been a good experience and one that he knew would help him later on, at other jobs. It was one positive takeaway from his time at home. There were others, too, Darrell knew. If he looked for them.
When he got home that evening, he saw his aunt Emily’s Jeep in the driveway, but he didn’t see her in the kitchen with his mom, where he expected them to be. He didn’t see anybody, and called out from the hallway, “I’m home. Anyone around?”
“Back here,” his father called from his office. “Aunt Emily wants to talk to you.”
Darrell walked back, expecting his aunt to say good-bye and wish him a good semester at school.
When he walked into the office, they all stared at him—his father, his mother, and Aunt Emily. They were smiling and he thought for a moment he looked weird in some way. Was his shirt on backward or his hair sticking up in a funny way?
“What’s going on? Why are you all looking at me that way?”
“We have some news for you,” Sam said. “Good news. Your aunt has been calling around all week, working her ex-mayor magic. She found out that the decision on the cannery project can be reviewed again—and hopefully, reversed.”
Darrell didn’t believe it. First, he couldn’t believe his father would be happy about such news. And second, he knew the whole thing was impossible. He took a breath, not wanting to disrespect his aunt.
“I don’t know who you talked to, Aunt Emily, but I asked around a lot and got a lot of negative answers.”
His father grinned. “Your aunt knows the right people to ask. Or the right questions. But she won’t reveal her secrets.”
Emily smiled and shrugged. “It’s true. The decision can be reviewed again, Darrell. The process will take several months, and you’ll have to pay for your own study. But I’ve spoken to a lawyer, and he seems hopeful.”
Darryl stood stunned, but his thoughts were already racing, envisioning the finished project.
“If you want to pursue it,” his father added.
“Of course I do.” Darrell’s temporary flare of hope dimmed as reality suddenly set in. “But who’s going to pay for lawyers? You know I can’t afford that. I can’t even apply for grants until all the permits are signed off on.”
“I’ll pay for everything. The study and the legal help,” his father said. “By the time this process is complete, you’ll be done with school and hopefully you can come home and get to work on that cannery again.”
“You’d do that for me? You’d even hire a lawyer to fight it?” Darrell couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re not just doing this because you feel bad for me, are you? I hope it’s because you think the project is worthwhile.”
“Worthwhile?” Sam echoed. “It’s brilliant, Darrell, and beautifully designed. You set your sights high, coming right out of the box. I know I seemed cool about it at times—only because I didn’t want to encourage you to leave school. But I’ve been thinking about things, and I think it’s time I set my sights higher, too.” His father stood up and leaned forward, holding on to his crutch. Then he stretched out his good hand. “Your first construction project is a good investment for me. And one I’d be proud to partner on with you.”
Darrell shook his father’s hand then felt himself pulled into a bear hug. He didn’t know how to thank his dad. Words didn’t seem enough. “Thank you, Dad,” he finally managed. “For the help, and the vote of confidence.”
“No thanks necessary. You’ve already shown what you can do. As for grad school, I decided I’m not going to drive you crazy about that either. That step is up to you. Maybe you want to take some time off before you start. Or go part-time while you work on the cannery. I know what I’d like you to do, but I can’t make the decision for you.
“Whatever you decide, we know you’ll make your mark in the world and do great things.” His mother hadn’t said a word so far, but when he met her glance, she was beaming. He knew she must be pleased that he and his dad had not only patched things up after their argument, but were going to work on the cannery together.
He leaned forward and hugged his mother and then his aunt Emily. “Thanks, guys . . . this is the absolute best day,” he said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
“I’m just happy to see you smile again, buddy,” his dad said.
A few minutes later, Darrell headed up to his room and Sam looked over at Jessica and Emily. “That turned out well,” he said with a deep laugh. “Thanks to you, Emily.”
“I was happy to do what I could. And lucky, too.”
Sam agreed, though he knew it was more than just luck. If someone had told him a few weeks ago that the cannery situation would work out so well, he wouldn’t have believed them. But someone did tell him that, he recalled. Reverend Ben, in the hospital, told him to give his cares over to God and He’d take care of all of his needs. If Sam would let Him. Sam knew in his heart that heaven had stepped in here, because nothing was impossible for God.
• • •
Cynthia had donated a sum of money and two paintings to the church. Their attorney was going to send the donation from the estate account, but Jean called Reverend Ben and arranged to drop off the artwork on Saturday.
She found him in his office, working on his sermon. He jumped up and greeted her, taking a painting from each of her hands. He held one of the watercolors so they could both look at them.
The first showed the village green and the church, nestled in a deep blanket of snow. The icy, gray blue harbor in the background, in sharp contrast to a clear, blue sky.
Reverend Ben stared down at the picture thoughtfully. “She must have stood out in the snow to capture that moment. And perfectly, too. She was very dedicated to her work.”
“She was,” Jean agreed. She could imagine her mother standing in the cold, her easel stuck in the snow, the watercolor paints and supplies probably freezing over a bit.
Then they looked at the other painting together. The last painting her mother had worked on, the curved stretch of beach and the lighthouse in the distance.
“She wanted you to have that one, especially. She told my brother. I knew she’d gone back to work on it, but I didn’t know she’d finished it,” Jean admitted. “All that time I thought she was working on ornaments for the fair, she must have been painting.”
Reverend Ben looked at it more closely. “It’s beautiful. I remember the day she showed it to me unfinished. But it captures that stretch of the beach even more now. I feel as if I’m standing right there.”
Her mother had only been able to finish the painting so well with the help of Grant’s photographs, Jean thought.
“It does capture that spot,” she agreed. “It’s one of her very best, I think.”
“Going well, all things considered. Kevin and I are still sorting things out. I was surprised to hear that I’ve inherited half ownership of the house and other assets.”
She could tell the news was not a surprise to Reverend Ben. “When your mother and I spoke the last time, she told me she had changed her will. I’m glad she was at least able to do that for you. Will you stay in Cape Light now?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I’m leaning in that direction. I could do freelance work from here, and I’ve been working on a book project.”
His blue eyes lit up behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “That sounds like a good plan. I hope you stay,” he added. He paused and seemed to be gathering his thoughts.
Jean had a feeling he was thinking about something else her mother had told him the last time they spoke. Something more important than her will. But he was being discreet and wouldn’t bring the subject up unless she did.
“I had a good talk with my mother before she passed away. A very honest and even shocking talk. Shocking to me.” She could tell from Reverend Ben’s expression, he knew what she was going to say.
“My mother had a secret. She told me that I was not her real daughter. I hope that she told you, too, Reverend. To unburden herself. She seemed so distressed when she told me. I didn’t want her to die believing she wouldn’t be forgiven.”
“She did tell me, Jean. And that’s very generous of you. I believe that God is generous with His forgiveness, if we’re truly sorry for the wrongs we’ve done to others. I know that she was remorseful about what she’d done.”
“Yes, she was. I have no doubt about that.”
“Still, it must have been a great shock. I can hardly imagine hearing such a thing.”
“I was stunned when I heard it. I didn’t know what to think. She was brave to tell me the truth, even though she was at the end. She didn’t have to. I probably would have never known. Since then, I’ve had so many feelings—anger, confusion, loss. Even relief. I have to admit, I haven’t forgiven her yet . . . I’m not sure if I can.” She shook her head, baffled. “Maybe I don’t know how.”
“That’s totally understandable,” the reverend assured her. “This revelation is so fresh. It will take a long time to process it. Forgiveness isn’t usually a straight, smooth path, Jean. Though we’d like to think of it that way. Did you ever see a labyrinth walk? We have one in the church garden. It’s a meditative walking path in the shape of spiral.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with that term, though I didn’t know there was one here.”
“Congregation members built it a few years ago. It’s covered with snow right now, but I like to walk on it when I can. What I’m trying to say is that the path to forgiveness is more of a winding, curling journey that sometimes circles in on itself and can even make you feel as though you’re moving backward. But if you keep at it, you are progressing, slowly but surely. And finally, if you make a sincere effort, you can reach the mark.”
Jean liked his analogy. “I’ll have to remember that, especially when I feel like I’m moving backward. But how will I know when I’ve truly forgiven her?”
“You’ll know it in your heart,” he said, lightly tapping his chest. “You’ll feel like a stone that’s sunk to the bottom of a riverbed and settled there. Peacefully. You’ll just know,” he promised.
His words gave her comfort and hope. “Thank you, Reverend. I’m going to try that labyrinth, once the snow is gone.”
“Please do. And don’t hesitate to call me, Jean, or stop by anytime to talk more.”
“I will,” Jean said, not just to be polite. She knew she would return to talk to Reverend Ben again.
After Jean left the church, she headed across the green. She wasn’t ready to go home yet and thought she’d walk around the village and stop in some shops.
Her spirits had been lifted by her talk with the minister. The sun was high in a brilliant blue sky, reflecting on the harbor’s dark waters and the small whitecaps tossed by the wind. The harbor was empty, with only the hardiest fishing boats moored there this time of year. But the water wasn’t frozen, and most of the snow had melted from the green. She walked up the path that bordered the hill and remembered the wild rides down she had taken with Grant on the borrowed sled.
They had exchanged a few text messages the last few days, but she had been too busy with her brother since the funeral to see him.
Then, as if her thoughts had conjured him, she saw a man walking down the hill toward her. She recognized Grant instantly.
He smiled and waved, picking up his pace to meet her halfway.
“I was just visiting with Reverend Ben,” she explained. “My mother wanted the church to have two of her paintings. The one of the lighthouse, especially. The one you helped her with.”
“She finished it? I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t either. I think she wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I can’t wait to see it. I was just on my way to Reverend Ben’s office. He agreed to let me take a few photos. I’m starting a new project, Faces of Cape Light . . . That’s just a working title.”
She smiled. “It gets the point across. There are a lot of interesting faces in this town, that’s for sure.”
“I can think of one. The portrait that inspired my idea.”
“The photos you took of my mother in church, on Christmas Eve?”
He shook his head. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “The shots I took of you, out on the jetty.”
“Oh . . . those. I wondered about that. You never showed them to me. I thought they didn’t come out well.”
“They came out beautifully. You look . . . well, beautiful. I meant to give you prints as a Christmas gift. But now I guess they’ll be a going-away present. If you’re still moving to Boston?”
He seemed concerned about that question, and Jean felt a spark of hope flare up in her heart. “But if I move to Boston, I won’t be a Cape Light personality,” she pointed out.
“You’ll always be, to me. The subtle, unforgettable essence of the place.”
Men had called her pretty, even beautiful. But Jean couldn’t recall anyone giving her such a compliment. Not in a very long time.
“Things have changed. I don’t think I’m moving to Boston.” She told him about the will and how she had inherited half of everything. “I’ll be a village personality after all. I’m going to look for freelance work, maybe run the shop and work on a new children’s book. Can you drop off the portfolio with my illustrations some time?”
“I have them in my truck to give back to you. But I have to confess something first, Jean. I made copies of your paintings and sent them to a friend who’s a children’s book editor . . . Are you very mad at me? Please say you’re not.”
Jean hesitated. She felt angry, but she but didn’t want to be. She knew his intentions were good. “You shouldn’t have done that without asking,” she told him.
“I know. But I thought you never would, and the book is too good to sit in a box somewhere. It can bring a lot of pleasure to a lot of children. And adults.”
Jean had never thought of it that way. “What’s done is done, I guess. How long do you think it will take to hear back?” Maybe his friend would give her some helpful comments on how to improve her work.
“She got in touch with me this morning,” he replied, his smile growing wider. “I was going to drop by your house today and give you the news. She loved the book and wants to see the other paintings right away. If you’re willing to do a few revisions, she’s interested in offering you a contract to publish it.”
Jean was speechless. The only way she could answer was to step forward and give him a huge hug.
“I guess not,” Jean replied, still locked in their embrace. “But ask the next time, will you?”
“I hope there is a next time,” he said quietly. “If you’re staying here, I am, too.”
She felt her heart skip a beat at his words. “For how long?” she whispered.
“As long as you’ll let me be close to you. As long as it takes to get you to marry me.” He stepped back, still holding her, and stared into her eyes. “I know I let you down, Jean. And I lost your trust. But I’ve tried hard to show you the last few weeks that won’t happen again. I hope you can believe me.”
“You mean when you went to Cape Cod and didn’t get in touch for a few days?”
“That’s right. I was distracted with my friend. But it was something more. It’s . . . this thing I do when people get too close, when I’m feeling too much about somebody. A knee-jerk reaction to push them away. The thing is, I realized, with you, that trick wouldn’t work. I couldn’t get over you. I couldn’t act as if I didn’t care. I came back knowing I had messed up and willing to do anything to win you back. I want you to know my wandering days are over. I just want to be with you.”
“I want to believe you,” she admitted. “But what if you get bored one day and decide to take off for someplace new? Like Prince Edward Island or Nova Scotia? Or Timbuktu?” she tossed in.
“Then we’ll go together. You might get some good ideas for your books in Timbuktu. But I think we’ll always come back to this place. I have a feeling we can be very happy here.”