by Sarah Monzon
Feelings Summer had spent a lifetime suppressing swelled faster than a puffer fish on the defensive. Anger, loss, insecurity, pain—they all mingled and threatened to suffocate her. She struggled for breath, her shoulders shaking with dry sobs.
“Shh. There, there, sweet girl.” Anita soothed, alternating smoothing Summer’s hair and patting her back.
Spent, Summer took a shuddering breath and lifted her head. A wobbly smile tilted her lips, and she wiped at her cheeks. “That’s life, right?”
Anita clucked with sympathy. “Unfortunately, yes. But you know, you aren’t completely fatherless.”
Summer supposed not. The man was out there somewhere. But she’d never know where, and she’d never know him. Besides, if by some miracle she did happen upon him, the time she needed him the most had passed.
“You will always have your heavenly Father.” Anita patted Summer’s cheek.
There it was again. This reference to a heavenly Father. Was that some name George and Anita called God?
“I can see I’ve confused you.” Anita reached past Summer and turned off the water. “Come here. I want to show you something.” She took Summer’s hand and pulled her along into the living room, then pressed her into a brown leather sofa.
Anita leaned forward and picked up a worn book from the coffee table. The cracked leather binding bespoke of the times the tome had been opened and read. Pages crinkled as Anita flipped through the book. “Here it is.” Anita turned the book toward Summer, her eyes excited. “Read this.”
Summer glanced down and found it hard to focus. A rainbow had thrown up on Anita’s Bible. Every word had been highlighted in some color—yellow, orange, blue, green. They were all there. She narrowed her eyes and focused on the verse Anita was pointing to.
“See what love the Father has lavished on us, that we may be called the children of God.” Summer looked back up into Anita’s eager face.
“Don’t you see? Even though you may not know your earthly father, your heavenly Father has always been there, calling you His precious daughter. He’s waiting for you with open arms to have that relationship you’ve always longed for.”
Summer closed her eyes. Was God like a father? She didn’t know much about God, but she’d never heard Him called a father before. Images of what fathers and daughters did together formed in her mind. Being pushed on swings, riding tall on broad shoulders, father-daughter dances. Those things required flesh and blood, not some ghostlike deity. She opened her eyes.
“It may be a hard concept to wrap your head around now, but trust me—I know.” Anita took a wobbly breath. “I don’t talk about this very often, but I want to share my story with you because I think it will help you understand.
“That picture of a perfect father that you have in your head? It’s beautiful. George is that kind of father with our kids. But not every man is that way. My dad…” Anita’s eyes squeezed shut, and blotches dotted her face. She shook her head. “My dad was abusive. He used me and my sister in ways that no daughter should ever be used by their father.”
Summer’s heart twisted as Anita stared at her hands in her lap, her thumb rubbing hard, manic strokes across the inside of her wrist. Why was she putting herself through so much pain from the retelling? “You don’t have to tell me—”
Anita looked up and gave a sad smile. “I want you to know, Summer. You need to know.”
Why did she need to know? Why was this sweet woman swimming through years of hurt to divulge life stories to a stranger?
“I hated him, my father. Hated the word father. I was so filled with bitterness that it ate away at me. A friend of mine in college ‘got saved’”—she used air quotes—“and started telling me how God was a heavenly Father. Well, I thought, if God was a Father, then I wanted nothing to do with Him. I’d had enough fatherly experience to last me a lifetime.”
Summer nodded. More than enough. Men like that shouldn’t just go to jail—they should be castrated.
Anita’s expression cleared. “But I was wrong. I needed a father more than girls whose dads doted on them, it seemed. All the places in my heart, the empty, scarred places, filled and healed when I accepted Jesus as my Savior and became a child of God. God is called many things, you know. Healer, Teacher, Lion, Lamb, but my favorite, the way I will always think of Him, is as my Father.”
Empty and scarred. Summer could relate. Longing wrung her out until her heart ached.
Could God fill the empty places? Was He the Father she’d been desiring all along?
Chapter Twenty-One
How had they gotten here? Fourth of July family picnics used to consist of legendary squirt gun wars and watermelon-seed spitting contests. Now they played at the trendy version of horseshoes. Corn hole. Trent snorted. They couldn’t have picked a more redneck name for the game.
Adam tossed his bag. If it made it into the hole one more time, Trent was toast. Who knew a defense attorney could have such a good arm? Of course, it really shouldn’t have surprised him. Adam had played baseball in high school. Then again, that was over a decade ago.
The bag landed, half in the hole, half on the platform. Beans shifted, and in slow motion the bag disappeared.
Adam turned, his face split in a triumphant grin. “Your turn.”
Trent looked at his watch. Sure was taking Mom and Summer a long time to grab that pie. He chucked his remaining bag at Adam’s chest. “I’m going to investigate what’s taking so long with dessert.”
“You forfeit the game, so I win.” Adam’s words hit his back.
He called over his shoulder, “No one wins until the game is finished.”
“Then get back here so I can whoop—” Trent closed the glass-paneled door, cutting off his brother’s trash talk.
An empty kitchen, half-full dishes still littered the counter. Where had they gone? Murmurings drifted from the other side of the wall that partitioned the living room from the kitchen and dining combo. Trent popped his head around the corner, then stepped into the room.
Summer’s long red hair contrasted brightly beside Mom’s dark-gray bob. He’d hoped the two would hit it off, but he never thought they’d get this close…literally. Bodies angled toward each other, knees touching, hands clasped together. Growing up in a religious family, he was more than familiar with this posture. They were praying. And if there were any doubt, the open Bible lying on the coffee table wiped it away.
Surprise punched him in the gut. She was a Jesus freak too? You don’t believe in Jesus? Her question rang in his ear, and he tried to recall her tone. There hadn’t been any accusation or shock or sadness. She hadn’t recoiled or started to evangelize him. There hadn’t been any signs that she was of the Bible thumper variety. Usually he could spot them a mile away…enough time to run in the opposite direction.
Summer sniffed and wiped at her eyes.
She’d been crying? His lips twitched. He was horrible, the way his heart lifted at the revelation. Maybe she wasn’t brainwashed like the rest of his family. More than likely Mom had cornered her and Summer had felt obligated to pray out of politeness.
“Everything okay?”
Summer turned toward him, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, her lips tilted up in a wobbly smile, but her face…it radiated.
“Your mom is a gem—I hope you know that.”
What in the world had happened while he’d been out playing corn hole with Adam? He looked at his mom. Her eyes shone, and she sent him an unspoken message as she nodded her head toward Summer and then himself, her mouth parting in a toothy smile. She didn’t need to say anything—he heard it loud and clear. I like her. Be a good boy and treat her right.
He raised his brows, silently communicating back. What’s going on?
Mom’s smile only widened, and she nodded in Summer’s direction again.
Trent lowered himself onto the couch beside Summer and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Why the tears, beautiful?”
She shook her head and roll
ed her eyes. “Just being silly.”
“Silly makes people laugh, not cry.”
Mom stood and poked a thumb behind her. “I’m going to go so you two can talk.”
Thank you, he mouthed as she walked past.
He looked back to Summer. Her chin trembled, but she didn’t look sad. Opposite of sad, really. Had Mom welcomed her to the family? That would make him happy, but he wasn’t too sure about Summer.
The open Bible glared at him from the coffee table. Hmmm…maybe it wasn’t the Carrington family Mom had welcomed her into.
He took a closer look at Summer. Was it too late? The concrete of propaganda had been poured, but maybe it hadn’t set yet. Maybe he could set her straight on how his parents’ God really worked.
Standing, he extended his hand. “Walk with me?”
Her small hand fit snugly in his, and he resisted the urge to tug her closer, to feel the rest of her meld to his body so perfectly.
Patience. He needed to prove that what he wanted with her was more than stolen moments of pleasure. If that meant keeping his hands to himself, so be it. It was torture being near her but not touching her soft skin, but it was also pure contentment.
They walked out the front door and down the drive without a word spoken between them. He didn’t want his family overhearing this particular conversation. He might not agree with them or their religion, but he loved them and knew his prodigal status upset them. Besides, Mom might intervene if she heard him un-evangelizing her new convert.
“Your parents live on a really pretty street.” Summer’s words brought his attention back around.
The canopy of trees arched over the two-lane road, Spanish moss dangling down like nature’s version of summer icicle lights. Wild ferns grew along the base of the trees as well as some small purple flowers. It was quite nice, possibly even romantic. Another time he’d make it romantic, but right now damage control had him in tunnel vision.
How to broach the subject? “So…uh…what were you and my mom doing when I interrupted?” He cringed. Not exactly suave, and a bit accusatory sounding. Great start.
Summer stopped walking and looked up at him with her nose wrinkled. “You’ve been acting strange on and off all day. Is something wrong?”
What was wrong was that she didn’t trust him. That she kept him at arm’s length. That she’d been talking with his mom and a Bible had been involved. “Yes. I mean, no. I mean—”
Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you mean?”
This wasn’t going right at all. “Were you guys praying or not?”
Her hands fell to her sides. “That’s what this is about? What’s the big deal? Your mom prayed with me…for me. It was nice.”
He pulled a hand across the back of his neck and squeezed his eyes shut. Deep breath. This wasn’t going to go away with a simple warning. If Mom had led her in a prayer to accept Jesus as her Savior, then she was likely experiencing the warm fuzzies new faith brought. He’d seen it a million times. Until the harsh reality of the world threw a bucket of ice water on your head that left you gasping for air.
Time for some harsh reality. Maybe he could break it to her easy, shield her from some of the pain. He started walking again, and she followed beside him. “Do you remember when we were in the Bahamas and you asked me if I believed in Jesus?”
“I remember.” He felt her eyes on his profile, and she whispered, “You don’t, do you.”
He glanced down at her. “Actually, I do.”
“Then…”
“Then why my extreme reaction to my parents’ religious behavior?” One side of his mouth tipped up, and he shook his head. “I believe there is a God, but I don’t think He is the loving Father my parents claim Him to be.”
She stopped walking, and he took another step before turning back to her.
“Why?”
He knew it was coming. Knew that if he wanted to save her from future disillusionment, he’d have to allow her to see the emptiness that the loving father had left him. His fists curled at his side.
“Because God, the one my parents claim, is supposed to make you whole, to fill all the empty spaces. He’s not supposed to rip people out of your life and leave you feeling lost and broken, only half of who you were supposed to be.”
Had he really said all that? Sure, he’d thought it, felt it every second of every day, but he’d never admitted it out loud before. The confession left him breathless. Like he’d been punched in the gut, doubled over, gasping but not able to draw a breath.
She reached out and encircled his wrist with her fingers, drawing it up close to her middle. Small strokes of her thumb across the back of his hand loosened the tension. He stared at the top of her bent head.
“Who was it?” Her soft voice held compassion, and he was glad she hadn’t looked at him.
He turned his arm a little until the underside of his forearm was in full view, and he tapped on the ink there. “You see this tattoo? It’s the Celtic knot that symbolizes brotherhood. I got it as a memorial for my twin brother.”
She did look up then, the strokes to his hand stopping but the pressure of her grip increasing. “You had a twin?”
He nodded. “Trevor. We were identical.”
“Were you close?”
How could he explain the bond of twins? It sounded crazy to say that a connection occurred before birth, even if it was the truth. He raked his hand through his hair and tried to cut off the ache. A phantom pain, like when an amputee complained that his leg hurt, but he didn’t have the leg anymore. Of course, he hadn’t known why he felt something missing until he was older…
He shook his head. “My brother died of SIDS when he was three months old. Mom didn’t even tell me I’d had a twin brother until I was eight. I guess she saw me struggling and thought knowing might help. I did some research and learned about twin bonding. It explained why I always felt something was missing.” His jaw ticked. “It didn’t explain how the loving God my parents always clung to could take a child for no reason and leave the other to flounder though.”
Loving. Gracious. Merciful. Just. Supposed character traits of the Almighty. He suppressed his lips to keep them from curling in a sneer. Was it loving or just to allow an innocent baby to die before he even had a chance to live? Had God shown grace or mercy to Mom and Dad, who mourned the loss of their child? Or to him? No. Thief would be a better title. Like a burglar, He came and stole the most precious and valuable things, except the things God stole could never be replaced.
Summer brought his hand up to her cheek. “I'm so sorry.”
Lifting his other hand, he framed her face. He had to make her see, to save her from a heart full of hurt. “It’s all a fairy tale, Summer. Whatever it is my mom told you, it's not real. My family lives in a dream world.”
She bit her lip and looked to the side. “I don’t know, Trent.” She looked back and searched his eyes. “What your mom said, what I felt as we prayed, it was real. And the whole feeling you said people are supposed to get after they accept Jesus in their life? I feel it. I've lived my entire life with something missing too. I thought what was missing was my dad, maybe like you feel what's missing is your brother, but after I prayed with your mom…I don't know…that missing piece isn't there anymore.”
Trent leaned his head down until his forehead rested against hers. It hadn’t been enough. He’d shared with her something he’d never discussed with anyone, all to enlighten her on how loving God really was, and it hadn't been enough. She’d cling to the fairy tale because she thought she needed a father and didn’t know who her dad was.
What if he found her dad for her? Then she wouldn’t have to accept a false reality when she had flesh and blood right in front of her. He’d never been able to find anything to fill his own emptiness, but he’d use all his skills to find her dad and fill hers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Atlantic Ocean, 1689
Isabella licked her lips. With w
hich truth should she start? How she happened upon this ship, or the danger that currently threatened them all? Sudden weariness swept through her until she feared her knees would buckle.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Do not feign a gentle constitution with me, señorita. You have not been on a leisure cruise these past months. The sailor I knew as Benito…” He shook his head. “No. I suppose that is not your name after all.”
His eyebrows rose as he pierced her with a gaze of steel. The silence spoke what his words had not. He wanted her name.
She lifted her chin. “I am Isabella Castellano.”
Not a flicker in his countenance as he continued to stare at her.
She stared back. The captain’s cabin shrank as the rising tension corded between them. The desk in the center of the room, the bed alongside the wall, the trunk in the corner all faded as their eyes continued to lock in a silent battle.
Nostrils flaring, he jutted his chin to the rumpled pile on the floor. “And the clothes?”
Her lips curled. “A gift from my stepfather.”
If she hadn’t been looking, she would’ve missed the slight jerk of his head. “Your stepfather gave you clothes to impersonate a boy?”
“No.” Fingers bit into her palms. “But it was small repayment for all he took from me.”
Gazes held fast a second longer, and then the captain turned and strode to the large window on the far side of the cabin. He pushed back the heavy drapes, one long finger tapping his thigh.
No longer under scrutiny, Isabella withered like a plucked flower. How much longer could she meet his accusing scowl?
He turned, and she straightened her spine. No good could come from a weak display. A lesson learned well, thanks to her stepfather.
Three steps and he towered over her with a face of thunder. Black eyes flashed as his breath fanned her face. What real courage she possessed retreated. Now not only must she convince him that he did not intimidate her, but she must also convince herself. Pushing her shoulders back, she returned his glare measure for measure.