by Dana Mentink
“He wasn’t ever lost.”
“No, but I was. I still am, but you helped me reconnect. It’s a tenuous connection right now. I have to strengthen it, and strengthen myself.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I’m a patient man, Angela. I can wait.”
“Why would you want to?” she said, eyes filling. “I’m a mess, damaged goods. You could have someone else.”
He took a breath. “God taught me a lesson in Kandahar. You have to hold on to the blessings in life. Every moment is precious.”
“And you’ll always be precious to me,” she said through the sharp pain in her chest. “I’ll never forget you.”
“Ditto,” he said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
Her heart was still thumping in pain when there was a knock. Dan shot her a look of astonishment as he held open the door for Tank and his mother.
* * *
Dan was not sure if he should leave or stay, but he figured Angela might need him in some way. He could not have her in his life, but he could at least look out for her while she was in his hospital. A tingle of pride warmed his insides as he realized he thought of the hospital as his domain again. That part of his life was mercifully clear now. It eased the pain that came with knowing Angela would soon be walking away from him.
Mrs. Guzman sat in a wheelchair, brown hair shot with gray. He was surprised to note that she held Quinn in her arms. Lila walked in with them, using a cane for support. She looked tired but peaceful somehow.
Tank cleared his throat. “We’re sorry to intrude, but my mother wanted to come talk to you.”
The baby squirmed, and Mrs. Guzman soothed him expertly, face softening as she adjusted his blanket with her arthritic hands. “You served with my son,” she said, voice clipped, heavily accented.
Angela’s cheeks paled. “Yes, ma’am. Julio was a fine man and a fine soldier.”
Her lips thinned into a tight line. “They told me he died protecting you.”
He heard Angela swallow hard. “Yes, he did.”
“I was angry. I felt that you should not have lived when my son did not.”
Dan wanted to blurt out something, anything to ease the stricken look on Angela’s face, but he knew this was her moment to speak, a moment that might change the course of her healing and her life.
Angela sat up a little higher on the pillows, fingers clutched on the blanket. “I felt that way, too, for a long time, Mrs. Guzman, and sometimes I still do. I am so sorry.” Tears streamed down her face. “I can never express how sorry I am.”
Mrs. Guzman cocked her head slightly. “Julio wrote me letters. I have them in a box that belonged to his father. Julio said that you were over there risking yourself to take care of other people in your own way, like he was in his. What does that mean?”
“I was... I am a navy chaplain. I went to minister.”
I am... Dan thrilled at the words.
Mrs. Guzman shifted. “And George—”
Tank blushed at the use of his proper name. “Everyone calls me Tank, Mama.”
“That is no kind of a name,” she said, fixing him with a look before she again turned to Angela, fingers stroking the baby’s hand. “George told me you risked yourself for this baby, my grandson, and for Lila.” She glanced at Lila. “They were married, Lila and Julio. Secretly, when he was on leave. They did not tell me because they knew I would not approve.” Her eyes were filled with regret.
Angela stayed quiet.
“I didn’t know I had a grandson until Lila brought him to me a few days ago.” Her gaze dropped to the baby, and she stared at him in wonder. “I hated you. And Lila. I tried to keep Lila way from Julio because I thought she wasn’t good for him.” Her mouth quivered. “I have asked Lila to forgive me.” Dan noticed then the dog tags, Julio’s, hanging around Lila’s neck. Mrs. Guzman must have given them to her. There was no greater sign of reconciliation than that.
Dan’s spirit lifted. Quinn would know his grandmother, his uncle, his family. Thank You, Lord. But there was still more forgiveness that needed to happen.
Mrs. Guzman cleared her throat. “On his last visit home, my Julio wouldn’t stay with me because he knew I would speak ill about Lila. I lost those days with my son as a punishment for my hatred. I lost all these months with my grandson, too. My heart has been so hard, a sinner’s heart.” She blinked, moisture sparkling in her eyes.
“I know what it’s like to have regrets, Mrs. Guzman. Believe me,” Angela said softly. “You loved your son and he knew that. He told me often. He would be so happy to know that you and Lila have made amends.”
“We will be a family now, like Julio would have wanted.” Mrs. Guzman’s mouth quivered as she stared at Angela. “I am glad my son was serving next to you. And I am grateful that you saved my grandson and brought me a daughter to love.”
Lila reached out and touched Mrs. Guzman’s shoulder. Carefully, without disturbing the baby, Julio’s mother covered the young woman’s hand with hers.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Guzman said one final time, her faded eyes wet with moisture. She spoke to Tank in Spanish, and he wheeled her out of the room. Lila stopped to give Angela a kiss.
“Thank you for saving my son,” Lila said. She left, and the door closed behind them.
Dan looked at Angela, who sat stone still, staring at the door.
“Are you all right?” he said after a beat.
She gulped. “Not yet, but finally I think I’m going to be.”
He held her hand and pressed it to his cheek, silently thanking God for the amazing event he’d been privileged to witness.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said, “when they let me out of here.”
“Me, too,” he said.
Her eyes met his, and the words tumbled out, straight from his heart.
“I love you, Angela. It’s selfish to say that when you can’t return the feeling, I know. I’m sorry, but I have to say it before you leave me.”
“Dan—”
He stopped her, kissing her fingertips. “I’m not expecting you to say anything at all.” Anguish and love, triumph and torment rolled around together in his body. “I just want you to know that I will be praying for you, every day, unceasingly.”
He looked into those rich green eyes one more time, pressed a kiss to her cheek and walked away, forcing himself not to bow against the crushing pain sinking his soul to the depths.
Dr. Dan Blackwater, a man who had repaired countless human hearts, felt his own stutter painfully in his chest.
Goodbye, Angela.
I love you.
* * *
Dan watched a young couple giggling as they paddled the tandem kayak in the golden June sunshine, heading toward the slough. The young woman in back, with her ponytail bobbing, splashed water on her companion, who returned the favor, leaving them both laughing. Their easy companionship was evident as they moved lazily through the bay. Dan eased himself down on the bench. His feet hurt from an eight-hour surgery he’d completed earlier in the day. A success, thank the Lord.
He should be exhausted, and physically he was, but his mind would not slip into an easy rhythm. He’d changed into his exercise clothes, thinking maybe a bracing six-mile run might settle him down, but as he sat on the bench he could not shake the sadness at the piece gone missing from his life, a bright-eyed marvel of a woman who did not love him, not enough. He sent up a prayer for Angela, as he did any time she surfaced in his heart.
He lay down on his back on the bench, closing his eyes, letting the sun work its way into his bones. A shadow crept over his vision. He opened an eye.
Silhouetted in luminous splendor was Angela Gallagher, hair flying loose, wearing a denim jacket and khaki capris. He was dreaming, he thought, blinking.
Then she
held out a hot dog, slathered with mustard. Odd dream that included hot dogs. A warm drip of mustard plopped down, landing on his cheek. He sat up so fast his head spun.
“Sorry about that.” She laughed, wiping away the spot with the heel of her hand. “Good thing I didn’t load it with jalapeños.”
“Angela?”
“Are you going to take this hot dog or do I need to eat the poor bare thing? I’ll do it, even though it’s missing a half-dozen condiments.”
He took the dog, set it down on the bench and turned to face her. The dark circles were gone from under her eyes; her skin was tanned, body relaxed. His gut hitched tight with the joy of having her so near again. “I’m surprised to see you,” he managed. “What brings you to town?”
“I wanted to invite you to a little party my family is having.” She blushed. “I’m returning to my chaplain duties, so I guess it’s a congratulations party. You were instrumental in that process, so I wanted to invite you personally.”
His chest tightened. Gratitude was not the emotion he wanted from her. Why had he let himself hope for more, even for a second? “I’d be honored to come. I’ll even put on long pants.”
She smiled.
“But you could have sent me a text,” he said. “You didn’t have to make the drive to Monterey to invite me to a party.”
“I wanted to personally invite Lila, Jeb, Tank, Cora and Mrs. Guzman, too.”
“Quite a bash you’re planning.”
“I’ve been working hard, getting help from a doctor and other chaplains.” She offered another smile. “Jeb would be happy to hear I’ve even been matched with a service puppy.”
“That’s incredible,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
Her cheeks pinked to match the rosy tint of sunset. “And you? Your practice keeping you busy?”
“Yes, in a good way. It’s where God means for me to be right now, I think.”
For a moment they fell silent, and he sensed she had more to say.
She pulled at the zipper on her jacket. “Healing from PTSD has made me realize a couple of things that I was too foggy to acknowledge before.”
“What’s that?”
“First off, you really do have pretty awesome hot dogs here in Monterey. I’ve been having a craving.”
He laughed. “All right. One hot dog dinner coming up before you head back home. On me.”
“Big spender,” she teased.
“Only for you.” His tone was light, but his heart infused the words with a deep longing. Oh, what I would do for you, Angela... Only for you.
“But mostly I came to Cobalt Cove because I’ve realized that I’m ready now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For us.”
He stood stock still. “What did you say?”
She reached out slowly and took his hand. “I said, for us.”
Dumbfounded, he listened to her talk, all the while thinking he must be still in the grip of some sort of dream. She toyed with his fingers.
“Dr. Blackwater, you are an incredible man. A tad on the arrogant side, and you have an irrational fear of rats—”
“It’s not irrational—”
She cut him off. “But you are a man of faith, compassion, gentleness, courage and—” she swallowed “—the man that I believe God designed to be my partner in this life... At least, if you want to be.”
The pulse pounded in his throat, ringing in his ears. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he whispered.
She stepped close and held his shoulders. He relished the strength in her fingers, the passion in her eyes. His heart could not understand what his ears were hearing.
“I love you, Dan,” she said, voice soft and tender. “I am not fully healed yet, and maybe I never will be, but I can tell you that I’ve done a lot of praying on the subject and you have never left my heart even for a moment. I...I would like to try to build a life with you, if you still love me, that is.” She looked into his face. “Do you still love me, Dan?”
He could stand it no longer. Bending, he kissed her deeply, releasing that stubborn bit of hope that he’d carried, joy fanned to life by the warmth of her kiss and the fresh ocean breeze.
“Angela, I love you so much,” he said. “From the moment I saw you in Kandahar, I knew we were meant to be together.”
“Sherlock to your Watson?” she whispered, breathless and beaming.
“Mrs. to my Mr.,” he said, soul overflowing.
“A chaplain and a doctor,” she said, giggling. “Could there be a better pair than that?”
“No way,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from PLAIN PROTECTOR by Alison Stone.
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Dear Reader,
This series is near and dear to my heart because the stories take place along my beloved California coast. Here in Northern California we are people who love our outdoors, and folks here are perpetually walking, biking, running, kayaking and swimming. The ocean air is said to be a balm to the soul, but in this story, it takes more than the lovely scenery to heal Angela Gallagher. She struggles with her public persona as a chaplain and her very private battle with PTSD. I hope this story might be of some comfort to those who suffer with the aftermath of trauma in their lives. It is my prayer that you will find a listening ear, a helping hand, and find comfort knowing that God loves you deeply, unconditionally and permanently.
It is always a joy to hear from my readers. If you would like to contact me, feel free to do so via my website at www.danamentink.com. If you prefer to correspond by mail, you can reach me at PO Box 3168, San Ramon, CA, 94583.
God bless.
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Plain Protector
by Alison Stone
ONE
Sarah Gardner never thought a master’s degree in social work would mean she’d be sweeping the floor of the basement meeting room of the Apple Creek Community Church on a Sunday evening. No, she had thought she’d have her own office in a hospital or a private clinic, a family and maybe even a child by now.
But when Sarah was a promising young college student, she couldn’t imagine the things her life would be lacking at the ripe old age of thirty. No decent job, no car
, no close friends. All in an effort to maintain a low profile for fear her ex-boyfriend would find her.
Yes, her life was a mess because she’d chosen the wrong guy to date. She swept a little more vigorously than necessary, sending a cloud of dust into the air, making her cough.
A loud slam made Sarah jump. She spun around to find Mary Ruth Beiler with her hand on the closet door and an apologetic look on her face. Sometimes Sarah envied the young Amish girl who seemed to have her entire life mapped out for her in the insular Amish community of Apple Creek, New York. Mary Ruth’s options had been pruned to the point that she didn’t have much room to make bad choices.
But not having choices didn’t mean freedom.
Sarah knew as much.
“Sarah,” Mary Ruth said in a soft voice, “I put the folding chairs in the closet. Is there anything else you need help with before I go?”
“I think we’re set.” Sarah wanted to make a few notes from the group meeting tonight before her thoughts slipped away, much like the wisps of dreams from her childhood that vanished when she opened her eyes after a fitful night’s sleep.
Sarah had set up a group meeting for primarily Amish youth, whose parents would rather they be attending the Sunday evening singings. But holding the meeting the same night as the bimonthly Sunday singings gave the teens an excuse to leave home without explaining where they were heading. They came to discuss the dangers of drinking and drugs—for some a reality, for others merely a temptation—and other worldly concerns. Sarah suspected some of their parents knew where their sons and daughters were really going and only pretended their offspring were enjoying the singings with hopes that soon they would be back within the fold. Other parents flat out forbade their children from associating with this Englischer who was surely giving them worldly ideas.
But if these same Amish parents knew the trouble their precious children were flirting with, they might remember Sarah in their prayers instead of regarding the outsider with a sideways glance and a cold shoulder.