The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  She held up her hand. “Fine. I get it. I have brothers. I should have guessed. Who put you up to this? Please don’t say you had another run-in with Seth.”

  “Darek.”

  “What? I thought he liked Seth.”

  “I think he doesn’t like how Seth believes you belong to him.”

  That must not’ve been the right thing to say because she cocked her head, raised an eyebrow. “Trust me. I can handle Seth.”

  “Quite right, sorry.”

  She considered him. “So. Are you any good?”

  “Darek seems to think I have a chance. At least for the hot saw and the standing chop. He’s going to be my partner for the double buck, so if I can keep up with him . . . But it’s the logrolling that’s got me in a knot. I’ll likely go into the drink first round out but—”

  “Now I’m really mad.”

  Oh.

  “Darek should have told me. Because while he holds the local title for the hot saw and can probably teach you how to throw an ax, you’re looking at the Deep Haven two-time junior birling champion.” She grinned. “Suit up, 007. You’re officially in training.”

  THE COUPLE MARRIED on the beach, just the families witnessing the ceremony as the sun crested over the bay, and Amelia caught the glorious sunrise, the rose gold lighting the sky behind them.

  Such a simple, beautiful wedding, sacred vows before the heavens. It caught Amelia up in the mystery even as she stood back and snapped the moments with her camera.

  “Okay, I need Esther standing on the steps, and Mark, you stand just below her, holding her hand.” Thank you, Ree, for the referral. And good thing they’d chosen a Saturday morning for their pictures because she planned on spending the afternoon at Evergreen Lake. Teaching Roark how to logroll.

  It had taken a week to find space in the training schedule Darek had Roark on—apparently her brother expected him to simply forfeit the birling.

  Not on her watch. She’d talked Darek into hauling out her old training log, dug out Casper’s wet suit from the basement, and found an old pair of shoes for Roark to wear.

  She felt a little deceitful, siding with Roark, but the truth was, she loved an underdog.

  Loved . . .

  Did she love him? Maybe it hadn’t been a fling, but what they had in Prague didn’t compare to the well of feelings he stirred in her with his story of his own failures.

  He could break her heart with his belief that he was cursed, with the brutality of his past. Put against hers, she’d lived such a sheltered, perfect life.

  No wonder she’d stumbled in Prague. Thankfully, right into Roark’s arms.

  For me, you are the reason to stop running.

  With those words, something had unlatched inside her. That dark band of fear, maybe, that she would choose poorly.

  Seth had waited for her. Roark had chased her here, needing her in his life.

  The reason to stop running.

  Oh, she just needed a clear answer. She’d take anything—writing on a wall, a talking donkey, angels from heaven, even the voice of God in the middle of the night—just to give her some direction as to which of the two amazing men God wanted for her.

  She owed Seth an apology, maybe, for the way she’d nearly leaped into Roark’s arms, kissing him with too much of herself.

  And Roark, with his You stay; I stay declaration, had made the decision that much muddier.

  The fact was, she could see herself building a life with either man. Seth, with his beautiful home on the lake. Roark, running a hotel, treading the path of her parents.

  Living happily ever after. With one of them.

  She snapped a picture as Esther posed on the steps up from the beach to the roadway, holding out her hand to her groom. She wore a simple, ankle-length white gown, Mark in a gray vest, dark trousers. The families stood behind them, watching as Amelia asked Esther to bend down and kiss her groom.

  Amelia framed another shot, snapped it, and then the couple laughed, and she caught that too.

  “Are we done?” Esther said again, her eyes shining as she glanced at her groom.

  “We just need the family shots.” Amelia scrolled through the photos of the day as Mark helped Esther down the steps.

  Barb, her mother, wearing a bright-blue dress and sandals, trekked over to Amelia. “Thank you so much for helping us at such short notice. They wanted to get married before we left for the field again, and only got engaged a month ago.”

  “It turned out beautifully,” Amelia said. “I’ve never seen a dawn wedding, but look at the pictures.” She held up her camera to Barbara.

  The first shot silhouetted the couple against a backdrop of brilliant orange, the sun’s rays a halo of golden light.

  The next number caught the ceremony, the simplicity of the bride walking down the beach to her groom, holding a bouquet of daffodils wrapped in twine, her hair loose, no makeup.

  A lone guitarist sang a version of the song Amelia couldn’t seem to escape these days.

  “You are my vision, O King of my heart. Nothing else satisfies, only You, Lord.”

  “You are a very talented photographer,” Barb said as she finished scrolling to the last, the pictures on the stairs.

  “Oh, I had nothing to do with these epic shots. I simply showed up. God did the rest.”

  “That’s the way it is when we step back and let God put the picture together.” Barb cast a glance at Esther and Mark, sharing a private moment on the beach, away from the family. “I never thought I’d survive losing Caleb. The loss felt overwhelming. It paralyzed me. I thought I could never go back to Uganda. Then I realized that I didn’t have to be brave. I simply had to look to Jesus.”

  A seagull landed nearby as more soared overhead. The wind drew the waves onshore, the smell of summer in the fresh-cut grass of the nearby park. Esther was walking along the beach, holding hands with her groom.

  “It wasn’t until I said yes, not knowing how I might find the strength, that I recognized Jesus holding me in the middle of the storm.” Barb sighed, smiled. “And days like today, He’s still holding me.”

  “I’m so sorry about the loss of your son.”

  “Thank you. But he’s not lost. He’s just watching from a different place.” She winked at Amelia. “But we did bring a picture to add to our family photos.”

  Amelia gestured the family over, and they assembled with their backs to the harbor. The sun had crested the horizon, the sky edged in gold and lavender. She took shots of each family, then both together.

  Then, finally, Esther and Mark, wrapped in a spontaneous intimate moment.

  “Perfect,” Amelia said, almost under her breath. She walked back up the beach, following the families, Barb and her husband holding hands, their youngest son throwing rocks in the lake, his dress pants wet to the ankles.

  She took shots of the family, silhouetted by the horizon, as she pondered Barb’s words. Jesus holding her in the midst of the storm.

  How long had it been really since Amelia had felt that kind of peace? Before Prague, maybe. Or maybe that day she and Roark strolled through Paris, took shots of Notre-Dame. When they’d ventured inside to the ethereal hush of the cathedral. For a moment, she’d stared at the icons of Christ, and something moved inside her. A longing. A restlessness.

  “You’re my soul’s shelter and You’re my high tower. Come raise me heavenward, O power of my power.”

  She sat on a boulder and drew in a breath, watched the rising sun caress the waves. Oh, God, I want You to be my vision. My shelter. Heart of my own heart, whatever befall.

  The thought wove through her like the song, nurturing.

  Footsteps spilled on the beach behind her. She turned and smiled as Barb approached, holding something in a napkin. “I brought you a piece of wedding coffee cake.”

  Amelia took it, suddenly ravenous. “Thank you.”

  Barb leaned on the rock next to her. Drew in a breath. “It smells fresh here. Rich.”

  Amelia nodde
d.

  “Uganda smells of grasses and wide-open sky. . . . I’m not sure why, but I feel I’m supposed to tell you that if you ever want to come to Africa, we’d love to have you. Even for a visit or a short-term trip.” She got up. “Bring the camera. You never know what epic shots are waiting.”

  Amelia watched her trek up the shore to where the families waited in their cars to depart to the brunch reception at nearby Naniboujou Lodge. Barb caught her daughter around her waist, gave her a hug. Kissed her son-in-law.

  Amelia lifted her camera and snapped a picture.

  Four hours later, Amelia wished she still had the camera around her neck as she watched Roark wriggle into Casper’s old wet suit, pulling it over his wide chest. “Are you sure I need this?” he said, his face in a knot as he tugged the skintight neoprene over his body.

  She tried not to look at his sculpted shoulders, the ridges on his stomach. Whereas she’d grown up seeing Seth shirtless after a workout or swimming, this might be the first time she’d truly seen Roark’s chiseled form.

  Yeah, okay, she didn’t look away. And didn’t mind how the suit outlined his body, a glove over his thin hips, strong back, biceps.

  “The water’s about sixty degrees at best,” she said. “So yes.”

  The benefits of living on a lake: they could do their training off the dock at the resort. The sun had burned off the clouds, offering a glorious, seventy-degree day, the lake so ridiculously blue that it seemed impossible not to dive in, despite the early summer chill.

  The wet suits muted the cold, and she wore her old rolling shoes as she pulled the log to the dock, tied it up.

  Roark finally secured the wet suit and sat beside her to put on his dock shoes—or rather, Casper’s. The wind caught his dark hair, held back from his face with a red bandanna.

  “Okay, some basic instruction first.” She stood and put her hands on his shoulders. Then she pushed.

  “What—?”

  “You stepped back with your right leg. That’s your dominant leg.”

  “You’re tricky,” he said.

  “Just getting started. Now let’s imagine one of these slats is the log. You’re going to want to stand with your dominant leg to the outside.”

  He lined up, his right leg back.

  “Good. When we get on the log and start rolling, you have one rule.”

  “Don’t fall in?”

  “You wish. No. Don’t look at your feet.”

  “How will I stay on the log?”

  “By instinct. You need to concentrate on the other end, where your opponent is standing. If you look down, your center of balance will be thrown off. It’s also instinctual to look down, so you’ll have to fight it. But you’ll get used to it. Focusing on your opponent helps you anticipate his strategy because you can watch his feet. And you’ll be able to see the log and his body movements in your peripheral vision.”

  “I think the only thing I’m going to see is water in my eyes as I go under.”

  “Not after I get done with you.”

  “I’m depending on you, coach.”

  His eyes, so impossibly warm, stole the words from her. Far from the man who’d been her lifeline in Prague . . . yes, this man needed her. Imagine.

  Heat rushed through her at the thought of his kiss, only a week ago—the kind of kiss that kept her awake and deepened her guilt.

  She should feel guilty for the way, suddenly, she wanted Roark to win this competition.

  “The most important thing in logrolling is to keep your feet moving—fast. If you don’t, you’re doomed. Moving your feet, lightly, in small steps, helps you keep your balance. You want to bend your knees—yeah, like that—and hold your outside arm slightly forward in front of your body. Your inside arm should be back. The arms are important, but more important is your core.”

  He affected the stance, and oh, she wanted a picture.

  “Your main job today is to keep your body centered and stay on top, using small, fast steps. Micro steps, either forward or backward. Once you learn how to stay on the log—”

  “Sometime next year.”

  “Today. Then I’ll teach you the three main skills of birling—the front and back steps and the transition.”

  He sighed, put his arms down. “I don’t know about this. I’m just going to be a fool out there.”

  She went to him, took his hands. “A heroic fool. I love that you are doing this. I’m not sure why, but the fact that you’re willing to go so far out of your depth makes me believe you—that yes, we weren’t a fling. That . . . that—”

  “That I just might be the best thing that ever happened to you and you must marry me immediately?”

  She grinned. And with a push, sent him off the end of the dock into the water.

  Roark sputtered to the surface, pulling the soaked bandanna off his head and shaking out his hair.

  She shrieked at the spray of water, laughed. Then leaned over. “Maybe.”

  He grinned and, before she could react, reached up and yanked her into the lake.

  The water sucked her under, a blanket of bracing chill. But she felt Roark’s hand on her arm, lifting her.

  She burst to the surface. Wiped the water from her eyes.

  Roark floated beside her, looking so sweetly mischievous she couldn’t help but splash him. Then she took off, and he came after her, swimming hard.

  He grabbed her foot and dragged her close. She splashed him again, laughing. “Roark, this is no way to treat your coach!”

  Snaking an arm around her waist, he drew her against himself, his eyes suddenly serious, desire pooling in them.

  “Quite right. Perhaps this is better.” He kissed her, diving in without the tentative exploration of his previous kiss, his touch resolute, filled with longing.

  Everything dropped away. The turmoil of choosing between Seth and Roark, the guilt of loving two men, the ragged indecision that tied her in knots. Just Roark and the sunshine and the water in an embrace around them as her arms encircled his shoulders and she let him deepen their kiss.

  It brought her back to Prague, and walking hand in hand in Paris, but so much more—his heroism with the Boy Scouts and his broken heart, and the fact that while he’d been a mystery in Europe, she knew this man. Knew his fears, his heart.

  In fact, she loved this man, who would be a fool for her in front of her entire town to prove he could stop running, would make his life fit hers.

  He tasted of freedom and their tomorrows and the kind of person she’d longed to be when she’d flung herself into her Prague adventure.

  Brave. Strong.

  Loved.

  She leaned back, captured his wet face in her hands. Droplets had gathered on his long eyelashes, and the sun twinkled in his eyes. “I love you, Roark.”

  His breath caught, and he swallowed, his expression becoming impossibly tender. “That’s the first time you’ve said that.”

  She touched her forehead to his, then kissed him again. He softened his ardor this time, capturing her head in his hands, his touch gentle, lingering. Igniting a sweet swirl of desire through her.

  He leaned back, breathing a little hard. “Maybe we should commence with the lesson.”

  “Quite right,” she said, quoting him. “What lesson?”

  He laughed and let her go, leaving her just a little shaky in the water.

  His long, fluid strokes brought him to the log, tethered three feet from the dock, in thigh-deep water. He climbed over one end, straddled it, then levered himself to a standing position like he might on a surfboard.

  “Move your feet, tiny steps,” she said, swimming over. She stood in the water, holding the log steady, her heart still afire in her chest. The answer seemed so utterly clear to her.

  Roark could be the one. She could almost see herself staying here, running their own resort, finding herself every morning waking up to this amazing man.

  Almost.

  Something, however, still seemed out of focus.

/>   “Let go of the log. I think I can keep it stable.”

  Amelia let go, and he began to move it, first forward, then slowing and moving it backward.

  “Roark, you’re a natural.”

  “YouTube,” he said, looking down at her, winking.

  And that’s when he lost it, falling off the log backward, splashing into the water.

  “You have to keep your peripheral vision on the log, like I said. Don’t lose focus.”

  He got up, held out his hand to her as she steadied the log. “I can do this. But this might be a great shot for your photo contest. Life in the north shore.”

  “Really? You don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Good, because I made the top 100 list—and I’m in the second round!”

  She’d tried not to obsess about the stats since uploading her photos Saturday morning, but, well . . . “I need five more pictures by Friday.”

  He straddled the log. “I think an Englishman making a fool out of himself as he goes into the drink just might be a keeper.”

  A swell of tenderness filled her throat. “I’ll be right back.”

  She climbed out of the water, grabbed her towel, and ran up the path to the lodge. Standing in the entrance, she slipped off her soggy shoes, then, still wet and ensconced in the towel, headed upstairs for her camera.

  She was standing in the alcove beside her bed, making room for more shots on her memory card, when she heard a vehicle pull into the gravel drive. She glanced out the window, expecting a guest.

  Instead, she recognized the Turnquist Lumber logo printed on the car’s door.

  She froze as she watched Seth park, then get out of the car. He walked up to the house, the bell dinging.

  Amelia couldn’t move as she heard her mother answer the door.

  “Hello, Mrs. C. Is Amelia here? I need to talk to her.”

  And of course, since her mother hadn’t seen Amelia dash inside, she sent the lumberjack right on down to the dock.

  Amelia loved him.

  Her words settled deep inside Roark, nourished him, and the moment she said them, her arms locked around his neck, her perfect body molded against him, her beautiful eyes in his, something unlocked inside him.