Isle of Hope

by Julie Lessman

  She stalled long enough for him to peer up in a half-lidded smile, back-circling his hand to prompt her on. “And those would be …”

  That netted him a sassy flash of teeth before the smile tempered to her serious mode, the look that always held him captive against his will. “One, that you’re a sinner desperate for a Savior, Ben Carmichael, and two …” Love shone like the sun in her sky-blue eyes. “You’re greatly loved by a God Who’s desperate for you.” She cupped a gentle hand to his grizzled face. “As well as a daughter who desperately longs to be part of your life.”

  He averted his gaze. “I wish I could believe that, Tess.” Pushing off the stool, he gathered their cups and rinsed them off in the sink, another wave of guilt causing his shoulders to slump. His hands braced on the edge, arms as rigid as the stainless steel beneath his palms. “Oh, I believe I’m a sinner all right, and I might even swallow that bit about God loving me.” He turned to lean against the counter, arms in a fold as his eyes drilled into hers. “But only because of you, Tess, because of your faith and the gift you are in my life.” He shook his head. “Nope, faith is one thing, but family?” He kneaded both temples with forefinger and thumb, his headache returning over the very notion of getting close enough to be hurt all over again. “I’m afraid I do better without.”

  She rose from her stool so quickly, it screeched against the black slate floor, closing the distance between them with four purposeful strides. “Did you know people without strong relationships are fifty percent more likely to die earlier than those with healthy ones?”

  He couldn’t help it—he smiled, giving a gentle tug on one of her silky curls. “As a matter of fact I did, Nurse O’Bryen, so I guess it’s a good thing I let you barge into my life, huh?”

  A wedge of impatience creased above her nose, trumping the ghost of a smile he saw on her face. She slapped his hand away. “I’ll have you know we are hardwired for relationships, Ben Carmichael, by the very God Who exists in a relationship Himself—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” She stepped in to poke a finger in his chest. “A ‘family’ of three Persons in One, mister, which means, you bullheaded baboon, since God is the bedrock of our existence, our need for relationship is rooted in Him whether you like it or not.”

  Battling a smile, he gripped her finger, covering her hand with his own to press her palm to his chest. “Calm down, Tess, I finally concur, on both faith and relationship.” He lifted her hand to press a kiss to the tips of her fingers, eyes fused to hers. “But with you—not Lacey.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” she snapped, yanking her hand from his. “It’s so simple, Ben. Forgive Lacey and forgive yourself so you can move on and become the man God wants you to be.” Her voice lowered to a whisper as she took a step back. “And the man I need you to be too.”

  He stared, wishing more than anything he could be that man for her, but the fear crawling in his gut told him he couldn’t. His voice bore the weight of guilt he’d carried most of his life. “You don’t understand, Tess, I can’t.”

  She stomped her foot, an action that would have brought a smile to his face if she wasn’t singeing him with her eyes. Her volume rose. “For all that is holy, why not? Please—explain it to me, Ben, because I really don’t get it.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered, “you wouldn’t understand.”

  Her temper sparked like he’d lit it with a blowtorch. “Oh, I understand all right,” she said, arms barricaded to her chest. “You’re a coward, Ben Carmichael.” She mocked him with a snide voice. “Can’t forgive yourself, can’t forgive Lacey—”

  “I have forgiven Lacey,” he shouted, her temper finally tripping his. “It’s Lacey who won’t forgive me if she finds out, Tess, and I won’t go there again.”

  “Finds out what?” Her voice lost some of its heat.

  He slashed trembling fingers through his hair, so acutely frustrated he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. “That it was me who killed that baby, because I wouldn’t come.”

  Her brows dipped low. “She doesn’t know?”

  His lids lumbered closed as he shook his head, arms braced to the counter so hard, he thought they might snap. “No, she doesn’t. Karen didn’t want to add further strain to an already broken relationship, so she told Lacey she couldn’t get a hold of me. Told her she’d left a message that I didn’t get till too late.”

  Tess was silent for several seconds. “Lacey will understand, then, and she’ll forgive you, I promise.”

  “No, she won’t,” he said, his voice a volatile hiss as his blood pulsed in his brain. He turned to sag over the sink once again, his words slinking into a whisper. “She’ll end up hating me just like before.” His voice trailed off, reality slicing through him like a cold blade of steel. “And so will you, Tess. Eventually.”

  She moved to his side, hand on his arm. “You’re wrong, Ben. Lacey and I are both living for God now, and with His help, anyone can forgive anything.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” he whispered.

  “You can!” she said loudly, jerking him to face her with a hard shake of his arms. “I have with Adam and Lacey has with you, so give me one good reason, Ben Carmichael, why you can’t do the same.”

  He stared, memorizing every freckle on her beautiful face, every silky strand of blonde hair while he wrestled with her plea to become the man she—and God—wanted him to be. Lifting his hand, he skimmed the curve of her face, wishing with all of his heart things could be different. “Because,” he whispered, hoping against hope that the truth would actually set him free. “The child I turned my back on that day, Tess, was not only my granddaughter …” The silence thundered as loud as the violent beats of his heart. “She was yours too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jaw dangling, Lacey slowly slid into a black leather chair at her father’s stainless kitchen table. The black granite top was adorned with two black place settings and a tall silver vase with white calla lilies. She expelled a shaky exhale, barely aware she’d been holding her breath. The idea of her father serving a meal to her—at a formal table, no less, instead of his recliner—was as foreign as the sushi and mango fusion chicken he’d ordered from Asian River. “Goodness,” she said with a jittery laugh, her fingers all thumbs as she placed a black cloth napkin over her lap, “I would have dressed appropriately if I’d known we were going gourmet.”

  He glanced over the shoulder of his navy polo, the half smile on his lips the most humor she’d seen in her weekly visits yet. “It’s take-out, Lacey, not fine dining,” he said with the barest touch of tease, so faint she might have imagined it. Turning back to the counter, he finished dumping cartons of spring rolls and wontons on a plate before carrying them to the table, the barest of twinkles in his eyes more noticeable close up. “Besides, my tux is at the cleaners.”

  She tempered a grin with a shy chew of her lip, not used to tease and banter, much less dinner without a TV. “This is nice, Daddy,” she said softly, snitching a wonton as he retrieved bowls of mango fusion chicken and rice from the oven and a plate of sushi from the fridge.

  “Yeah, it is.” Setting everything on the table, he exhaled and propped hands low on his hips, his smile tight despite a casual stance. “And long overdue after all the meals you’ve prepared for me, kiddo.” He nodded at her utensils. “I have chopsticks if you want them.”

  “Heavens, no,” she said with a nervous giggle. “I prefer food in my mouth instead of on my lap, thank you very much.”

  His answering smile was as polite as hers as he strode to the cabinet, tossing a glance over his shoulder at the black lab sprawled at her feet. “I don’t, but I’ll bet Beau does.” Retrieving a wine glass, he promptly filled it with white wine, then grabbed a beer and returned to the table.

  Eyeing the wine glass he’d placed before her, Lacey nibbled the edge of her lip. “Uh, Daddy, I don’t drink anymore …”

  He twisted the cap off his beer and took a quick swig, eyes sparkling over the rim of his bot
tle. “Neither do I.” With a nod at her wine glass, he lifted his beer for a toast. “O’Doul’s—the finest nonalcoholic beer known to man and sparkling grape juice—your favorite, no?”

  She did everything in her power to fight the instant sting of tears at the back of her lids, but her father’s image blurred all the same. Not only had he remembered her favorite holiday drink as a child, but he had quit alcohol himself. The silent surgeon who preferred a nightly highball with the TV to a cup of cocoa with his wife and daughter. Blinking hard to clear the wetness away, she raised her glass and clinked to his, the idea of dining with her dad making her mood sparkle more than the grape juice in her glass.

  Wired for sound, she chattered nonstop like always about everything she could, only this time she bolted through food and conversation like she hadn’t eaten or spoken in a week, terrified a lull would burst this glorious bubble. But despite the kamikaze butterflies dive-bombing her stomach, she sensed that this dinner might be different. Maybe it was the hint of a smile on her dad’s face as he quietly listened, almost as if he really cared. Or maybe it was the familiarity of the kitchen where, despite her father’s radical remodel, was the same room in which they’d shared a lifetime of meals. Whatever it was, Lacey felt a kinship with him for the very first time, as if she were actually in his life instead of just in the room, and as bubbly as the fizz of carbonation that tickled her tongue. Giddy. Excited.

  Hopeful.

  And hope does not disappoint, she reminded herself, right? She took a breather from her monologue to gulp the rest of her juice. Oh, please make it so …

  With a clunk of her empty glass on the table, she jumped up to gather dirty dishes, startling Beau. But not as much as her Dad startled her when he halted her with a gentle touch. “No. This is your night off, kiddo. Put your feet up on the sofa and relax while I get dessert.”

  “No, Daddy, I insist—” They played tug of war with her plate.

  “Go—sit,” he ordered, the stern jag of his brow so déjà vu, her stomach actually jumped, only this time his command was tempered by the barest of smiles.

  She let go of her plate with a duck of her throat. “Okay.” Feeling awkward, she slowly moved toward the door, not sure what to say, but anxious to fill the space. “So, what’s for dessert?” She paused while he turned at the sink.

  “Homemade chocolate chip pie,” he said

  She blinked, unable to stop the sag of her mouth. Homemade chocolate chip pie? The special dessert her mom always made because it was her favorite? She averted her gaze to the family room when emotion filled her throat as quickly as tears filled her eyes. “How did you get it?” she whispered, head bowed while she braced a hand to the wall.

  “How do you think?” he said with a tinge of tease. “I Googled it.”

  She looked back then, completely undone by the gentleness in his eyes. Her voice came out cracked and hoarse, one breath away from a telltale sob. “You … b-baked it yourself?”

  He scrubbed at the back of his neck, a totally foreign blush creeping up before he blocked her view by opening the freezer door. “No guarantees, mind you, but I do have Coldstone French Vanilla to go along, so maybe that’ll save the day.”

  I will not cry, she promised herself, a promise that bit the dust the moment the freezer door shut with a thump, allowing her father’s gaze to meet hers.

  He gave a gruff clear of his throat and refocused his attention on cutting the pie on the counter. “You might want to save those tears, Lace, in case it tastes really bad, you know?” He shot her a quick glance. “Two scoops and a thirty-sec zap, plus coffee with cream?”

  All she could afford was a weepy nod.

  “Got it,” he said, busying himself with cutting the pie. “Now go curl up on the couch.”

  So she did, although “collapse” might be a better word given the buckle of her knees, along with Beau who jumped up to lie beside her. In all the time she’d been bringing her dad dinner, he’d barely taken his eyes off the TV to thank her, much less help with the dishes. Yet here he was, not only waiting on her, but refusing to let her help. Her eyelids drifted closed to savor the moment, startling open again at the slam of the freezer door. She wiped the tears away as she peered up at the ceiling with a scrunch of her nose, humor lacing her whisper. “Don’t know what You did, but I’m outta here before midnight in case he changes back.”

  “Come again?” Her dad strode into the family room with her coffee and pie, his curiosity unleashing enough heat in her cheeks to melt the ice cream.

  “Uh, just saying a prayer,” she blurted, her face flaming even more.

  Issuing a grunt, he set coffee and pie on the teak coffee table before her with a crook of a smile. “Because you’re thankful or because you hope you live through it?” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with his own pie and coffee, shocking her when he settled in on the other side of Beau instead of his easy chair.

  “Uh, maybe a little bit of both?” She giggled to deflect the fact that her face was on fire before diving into her pie. Tucking one leg beneath her, she shimmied back into the sofa and took another bite, emitting a moan while she scratched Beau’s flank with the tip of her toe. “Mmm … this is really good, Daddy. Gosh, who knew you were so talented in the kitchen?”

  He grunted again, stabbing his pie. “Well, not me, that’s for sure, unless Lean Cuisine and SpaghettiOs count.”

  Eyes closed, she rolled the next piece around on her tongue, the ice cream and pie melding into one perfect mix of hot and cold, vanilla and chocolate, combining a blend of two that was so much better together than alone. Like father and daughter, she thought, lifting a silent prayer. “Thanks for going to all this trouble,” she whispered, suddenly feeling shy. “The dinner, the pie—you have no idea how much it all means to me.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” he said quietly, finishing off his piece in record time before placing his empty plate on the table. He shifted to face her, pose stiff despite an arm casually resting on the back of the sofa. “After all, I know how much it means when you bring me dinner each week, even though I’m just bullheaded enough to not say a word.”

  She paused mid-bite, muscles dipping in her throat like she’d gulped spoon and all.

  “So actually, Lacey,” he continued with an awkward clear of this throat, “I wanted to thank you, yes, but also …” He avoided her eyes while he reached to scratch his sleeping dog behind the ear, like he needed something to do with his hands. “I was hoping to … you know, talk. And maybe …” His voice cracked as he focused on massaging Beau’s head. “Clear the air.”

  She bit back a smile at his use of the same phrase she’d said to him upon her return to Isle of Hope. “I’d like that, Daddy. That’s what I’ve hoped for all along.”

  Launching up from the sofa, he rubbed his palms against his trousers as if his hands were sticky and he wanted to get them clean. “Yes, well, you might want to reserve judgment on that until you hear what I have to say.” He started to pace the length of the family room, kneading the back of his neck as he avoided her gaze. She could almost see the thoughts roiling around in his head as awkward seconds stretched into endless unease before he finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “There’s so many things I need to apologize for, Lacey—how I treated your mother, how I treated you—but there’s no way I can change the damage I’ve done.”

  “Daddy—it’s not the past I’m concerned about anymore, it’s the future.”

  He stopped to stare, ridges of regret lining his face, aging him ten years. “I know, but the past is tied to our future, sweetheart, and as a very wise neighbor once told me …” He paused to offer a twitch of a smile. “And a very pushy one, I might add—forgiveness is the bridge that spans between the two.”

  “But I’ve already forgiven you, Daddy,” she said softly, “because my need for you is far greater than any hurt I may have had.” Scooting toward the table, she laid her empty dish down, then perched on the edge of the sofa, knees togethe
r and hands clasped on top. “And I hope you can forgive me, too, for all the trouble I caused.”

  His ribcage expanded with a heavy inhale before he loudly expelled it again, shoulders slumping as if he’d spent all the air and energy he had. “I’m working on it, sweetheart, but there are things—truths—that need to be revealed before we can forgive and forge ahead.”

  “Yep, you’ve definitely been talking to Tess,” she said with a smile.

  The edge of his mouth zagged up. “More like she’s been talking to me—or maybe ‘badgering’ is a better word.”

  She grinned, heart flooding with gratitude for the woman who’d become not only a second mother, but a dear mentor and friend. “She’s a pretty amazing lady.”

  He hesitated, staring at her through a sudden sheen of tears that snatched the air from her lungs. “So was your mother,” he whispered, and the raw grief she saw twisted her heart in two. “I was just too stupid and bitter to know it. Too angry to realize the gift she’d given me in you.”

  There was no way to stop the moisture that brimmed in her eyes. “We can’t change the past, Daddy, but we can change the future.” She swiped at the tears on her face, wanting more than anything to feel the crush of his arms.

  He took to pacing again, and her stomach cramped when he refused to look her way. “Unless the past won’t let us,” he said quietly, ceasing his stride with a bow of his head, the back of his shoulders sagging along with his voice. He finally turned to face her, his body as worn as she’d ever seen. “We need to talk about the baby, Lacey.”

  Her heart went to stone at a flashback of her father’s rage the night he’d found the empty pregnancy kit …

  “I won’t have the whore of some holy hypocrite living in my house. If he knocks you up, he can quit that fancy seminary and take care of you.”

  “I’m not pregnant,” she’d screamed, the lie spewing from her lips as naturally as the obscenities that spewed from her tongue. “But if I was, I would never stay here.”