The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  “I can’t wait for you anymore, Red,” he’d said, sitting on the picnic table on the deck, holding an amber maple leaf between his fingers.

  “I know.” She also knew his words, solemn and sad, were spoken more for himself than for her. “And you shouldn’t. I’m not coming back to stay.” Or for as far ahead as she could see.

  He nodded, looked out over the lake. Ran the meat of his hand across his cheek. Then gave a small smile.

  His smiles had always had the power to sweep the common sense from her brain, lure her into his arms. But not today. She wrapped her arms around her waist, leaned against the railing, a good distance between them.

  “We had fun, didn’t we?” he said.

  She nodded, her throat just a little tight. “Too much fun.”

  That brought a chuckle from him, probably flipping through the memories. Then he got up, walked over, and kissed her forehead. “You’ll always be my girl.”

  “I know.”

  He caught her hand and squeezed. “Watch out for the snakes.” He left the key chain in her hand and walked away.

  Leaving her alone with the wind in the pines, the rustle of the autumn leaves, the loons calling over the water.

  She shot another glance at her father, then at the airport clock.

  “How long is your layover in Amsterdam?” Ingrid asked.

  “A couple hours. Not long enough to see the city, sadly.”

  To her great relief, her father hung up, headed over. But his expression silenced them.

  “That was Kyle Hueston,” John said, putting a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Amelia, the Deep Haven sheriff’s office has finally identified the body you found in the ravine.”

  She hadn’t exactly found it but—

  “It’s Monte Riggs. Monte’s grandfather reported him missing a few months ago, but they had to send the body down to Minneapolis, and it took them this long to confirm the remains.”

  The silence continued as Ingrid’s eyes widened, as Darek stared at his father.

  Monte . . . “Wait, wasn’t that the guy Raina was dating before she and Casper got back together? Didn’t he and Casper have a fistfight?” Amelia said.

  “Yeah,” John said. “And not just once; apparently they had words at the VFW right before he went missing. There are eyewitnesses who claim Casper threatened the guy, that they exchanged blows.”

  “He was a jerk,” Darek said.

  “Darek!”

  “Sorry, Mom, but it’s true. Whatever Casper said to him, he had it coming.”

  “What was the cause of death?” Grace said, glancing at Yulia, then at Tiger, who was walking in a circle, putting his feet exactly in the tile squares.

  “Not sure. Kyle says there is evidence of head trauma. But it could be exposure. There wasn’t much left of him.”

  “How’d he get in the ravine?” Darek asked.

  John blew out a breath. “Well, that’s the problem. The police seem to think Casper might have had something to do with it.”

  A beat; then, from Ingrid, “Are they saying . . . that Monte was murdered?”

  “And Casper is the prime suspect,” John said.

  “Oh, that’s ludicrous,” Grace said. “Casper wouldn’t hurt . . . anyone . . .”

  Except, landing in Amelia’s brain was the very vivid scene of Casper tackling Owen only a year ago at Jace and Eden’s wedding. And then the story of his brawl with Monte seven months later.

  She read the same memories on the faces of her family in the silence that followed.

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Ingrid said. “And when Casper gets back, he’ll clear it up.”

  John nodded, his mouth a grim line. “In the meantime, Amelia is off to Uganda.”

  Smiles, although forced. She hated to leave this way. “Maybe I shouldn’t go—”

  “Are you kidding me?” John stepped up, lifted her chin. “You can’t say no to this opportunity. The Gundersons are thrilled to have you come and help with the orphanage. It’s the perfect way to spend your prize money, and frankly, it’s time. I’m tired of you watching Doctor Who reruns.” He winked at her, then drew her into a hug. Kissed the top of her head. “As long as you don’t run off any ravines or get lost in any dark alleys.”

  Because, well, Roark wasn’t around to find her, was he? But she pushed that thought away. “I’ll leave the dark alleys to Vivie. She’s the one in New York.” Amelia had gifted her trip to New York to Vivie, a one-way ticket back to her dreams. “But I promise to be careful, Daddy,” Amelia said, kissing his leathery cheek.

  Her family waited until she passed through security and gave them one last wave on the other side.

  Uganda. The word held mystery and promise, a realization of the awakening she’d discovered that night in the ravine. Yes, it was only a three-month trip to start, but she’d had to leave while she still had a firm grip on her courage.

  She hunkered down in her seat, watched a movie on her iPad, then slept as the plane traveled over the ocean. When they touched down in Amsterdam, she unfolded herself from the seat, stretched.

  By the time she made it through passport control into the airport, she’d woken fully. She found a bathroom, freshened up, and gave herself a good once-over. Amelia Christiansen, world traveler. Missionary. Adventurer. Brave, or trying to be. Barely a scar remained from where she’d hit her head in the ravine, and her hair had grown out, almost to the middle of her back. She let it hang loose, tightened the belt on her black trench coat, and slung her backpack over her shoulder before heading into the concourse.

  She snapped a few pictures of the airport hustle, bought a latte, wishing Roark had made it for her, and found her gate as her section was boarding.

  Next stop, Entebbe International Airport.

  She had just pulled out her neck pillow, earbuds, and iPad when a flight attendant leaned over to her seat. “Ma’am, I’m sorry; there’s been a mistake.”

  What? No mistake—she was supposed to be here—

  “You’re in the wrong seat.”

  Amelia pulled out her boarding pass, checked it. “It says 23A.”

  The flight attendant nodded. “You’ve been moved.”

  Shoot. She’d wanted the window seat, had picked the exit row so she could stretch out. But she tucked her earbuds and iPad away, grabbed her carry-on and neck pillow, and eased out of the row. “Excuse me,” she said to her former row-mate.

  The flight attendant headed to the front of the section, then, surprisingly, into first class. She indicated a window seat.

  “Here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The woman smiled, her teeth bright against her dark face, nothing of guile in her expression.

  “All right.” Amelia slid into her spot.

  “Would you like a beverage?”

  “Uh, sure. Water.”

  The woman left, and Amelia tucked her bag under the seat, pulled out her accessories.

  A hand reached over, holding a bottled water, and she took it, looked up to thank—

  She stilled, her heart coming to a full stop in her chest as Roark St. John smiled down at her. He was dressed like a billionaire, in a crisp blue suit, white shirt, teal tie. A silver watch glinted on his wrist. Clean shaven, he’d also gotten a haircut, his curls shorter but still tempting.

  And his eyes. The richest blue, twinkling, a warmth in them that slid over her, through her. Those eyes she recognized. The mischief of her playboy from Europe, the strength of the lumberjack from Deep Haven.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t—”

  “It is now.” He slid in next to her, still smiling. And oh, he smelled good, a hint of cherrywood and spice. He motioned to the flight attendant.

  “Mr. St. John?”

  “A Coke, please?”

  “Right away.”

  “What are you doing here?” Amelia said.<
br />
  “Aren’t you glad to see me?” He turned to her, the full-wattage grin burning away her shock.

  Really, what could she say? “Over the moon.”

  “That’s my girl.” He leaned forward, caught her chin with his smooth fingers, and kissed her. Sweetly, just enough to restart her heart. “Wow, I missed you,” he said as he backed away. “I’m so sorry I haven’t written these past few weeks. I’ve been working nearly every moment getting Compassion Constantine up and running before I left.”

  “Your father’s project.”

  “My project now. And as it works out, we have a new hotel opening in Entebbe.”

  “So you’re . . . working on the hotel.” She couldn’t help the slightest deflation. She’d hoped . . . But no, she could do this without Roark.

  “Not exactly.” He loosened his tie as the flight attendant returned with his Coke. “We’re helping fund an orphanage there, and I’m going to lend a hand. I’m teaching some classes, adding a roof to a building. Might even play some football.”

  “Soccer.” But her heart tharrumphed. An orphanage?

  “Only to you Americans.” He pulled the tie off. Folded it and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Then he worked off his jacket, turned the lining to the outside, folded it, and handed it to the flight attendant. She tucked it in the overhead bin as he began to unbutton his shirt cuffs.

  “Roark, you’re killing me.”

  He laughed, and the sound of it could make her sing. “Maybe you’ve heard of it—Hope Children’s Village?”

  She couldn’t suppress a smile. “Really?”

  He rolled up one sleeve, then the other, over tanned, strong forearms. “Indeed.”

  Finally he turned to her, his expression soft. “Do you mind terribly that I’m following you across the world again? Because I can’t seem to stop. You have eclipsed my world with the wonder of you, and I can’t seem to break free.”

  The wonder of her. The warmth of his words ran through her. “It is becoming quite a habit,” she said, still trying to embrace the idea of Roark in Uganda with her. Roark, returning to surprise her, flesh and blood, sitting beside her. “You moved me to first class.”

  “Of course I did,” he said.

  “You should know I’m paying my own way. I have my own resources.”

  “I know,” he said. Then he reached out, took her hand. Opened it. “But you will indulge me sometimes, right? Perhaps a trinket here or there?” He pressed a black velvet bag into her hand.

  Her breath caught as she opened it. Then wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or not.

  A silver bracelet and on it, charms. The Eiffel Tower, Týn Church. A pine tree. A camera.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It has room for more,” he said. He picked it up, unlatched it, and she held out her wrist. “The question is, do you have room for me? Would you let me join you as we follow God wherever He takes us?”

  She looked up, and tenderness for this amazing, brave, gentle man swept over her at the vulnerability on his handsome face, the question in his eyes.

  “You do have a way of invading my world,” she said, her eyes filling. “Yes, Roark. Wherever. And together.” She lifted her face, and he slipped his hand around her neck. Kissed her, this time lingering, his touch hinting at every vista that awaited them.

  His eyes shone as he backed away. “Good. Then you should also have this.” He pulled a velvet box from his pants pocket. Opened it.

  Oh. My. A silver diamond solitaire, probably too large for her finger but . . .

  “Marry me? I don’t care where, but please, let it be soon because I can’t go another day fearing you will trundle off on some adventure without me.”

  She ran a finger over the diamond, then met his eyes. “I don’t think I could escape you.”

  He touched his forehead to hers. “Is that a yes?”

  “Quite right,” she said.

  He laughed. “Smashing.” He worked out the ring and put it on her finger. “The first of many souvenirs.”

  As the airplane doors closed, he took her hand and wove his fingers through hers, holding tight.

  As if he planned on never letting her go.

  NO ONE DIED TONIGHT, not if she could help it.

  Except Scotty McFlynn could feel tragedy in her bones, just like she could feel the shift in the wind. Instincts—like those that directed her to a crab-filled pot o’ gold on the bed of the Bering Sea. Or the kind that told her a storm hedged against the darkening horizon, the sky bruised and bloody as the sun surrendered to the gloomy, fractious night.

  Yes, she could taste the doom hovering on the sharp edge of the flurries that hammered the deck of the F/V Wilhelmina, now crashing through the rising swells. Freezing waves soaked the 108-foot vessel, glazing the deck into a rink of black ice.

  She couldn’t shake it, the fist in her gut that said tonight someone was going overboard.

  Sleet pinged off her face as the boat turned windward. She’d long ago lost the ability to close her fist under her rubberized gloves—the claw, fishermen called it—and her feet clunked along like granite in her boots. But they had four more pots to drag from the sea, empty, sort, and reset before she could grab a minute of shut-eye, then relieve her father at the helm for the evening watch.

  Old Red’s last run, and she intended to make it his best. Forty-eight hours until their delivery deadline, and for the first time since his heart attack, they just might meet their quota.

  “Where’s my bait, greenie?” deck boss Juke Hansen bellowed over the thunder of the waves breaking against the keel and the clanging of the crab pot against the hydraulic lift.

  The eighteen-year-old greenhorn hauling bait from the chopper—she’d forgotten his real name—dragged the herring bag and two fat cod on a line over to the open pot, climbed inside, and hooked the bait to the middle.

  Once he climbed out, two more deckhands—Carpie and Owen—closed the trap door, and the lift levered the pot up and over the edge, dropping it into the sea with an epic splash.

  Juke threw in the shot line, the rope uncoiling into the frothy darkness as the trap descended six hundred feet to the seabed.

  Carpie followed with a toss of the buoy, marking the pot set.

  They sank back, hiding against the wheelhouse, holding on as Red motored the boat into a trough and up the next wave, toward the next buoy along this seven-mile line of pots.

  Scotty shot a glance at Owen, the other greenie, although he’d run “opies,” opilio snow crab, with her father back in January, while she’d been stuck in Homer. He stood at the rail, ready to catch the next pot they reeled in, his bearded face hard against the brutal spray.

  If she had a say, she might have kicked him off the boat on day one, when he’d assumed Scotty was their cook.

  A crab boat’s no place for a girl.

  Yeah, she’d walked into that comment dropped by Mr. Eye Patch to Carpie, the ship’s engineer, while they repaired pots on the loading dock.

  “First mate, relief skipper, or ‘yes, sir,’ will do,” she’d snapped at him.

  She’d caught the tail end of Carpie’s explanation as she stalked toward the wheelhouse. Part owner. Captain’s daughter. Tough as nails.

  You betcha.

  But after three weeks working side by side, watching Owen clean the deck every morning, going at the accumulated ice with a sledge to clear the ropes, the frozen pots, the crusted railings, she decided maybe he could stick around.

  He worked like a man with something to prove.

  And prove himself he had. He looked every inch the crusty crabber with his thick beard, rich with russet highlights to match his curly golden locks that hung nearly to his shoulders, usually tamed by a hand-knit stocking cap.

  Despite the eye patch that earned him an occasional “aye, aye, matey,” she could admit he didn’t exactly send her running when he peeled off his cold-weather gear down to sweatpants, suspenders. And a T-shirt that did just fine outlining all
the hard work he put in hauling eight-hundred-pound pots.

  However, hiding behind his yes-sir attitude and that reserved sort of chuckle that held him a step back from the rest of the crew, she recognized a lingering darkness.

  She’d bet her badge that he had a story to tell. Something that included fast reflexes and the ability to think on his feet. He’d more than once saved the young greenie from getting a buoy in the face, and the eye patch surely hinted at something sinister.

  Maybe a guy on the lam.

  Which, of course, could set all Scotty’s detective instincts firing. But she had no desire to put on her badge again, at least not quite yet. She’d live and let live, as long as he didn’t stir up any trouble.

  Like the kind that ignited, deep inside, when she caught his gaze trailing her. Trouble, yes, because in all her years working the crab seasons with her father, never once had she found herself wishing she didn’t garb herself as one of the guys. Wearing orange bib overalls and a stained Homer PD gimme cap, no makeup, her dark hair pulled back and unwashed for days, she could pass for a wiry but tough teenage boy.

  Oh, how she longed for a decent shower, maybe even a soak in the bathtub of her one-bedroom cabin overlooking Kachemak Bay. Let the warmth urge her bones and muscles back to life.

  But she’d never been anything but a guy, one of the crew, and frankly, Red wouldn’t allow it any other way. Which meant that as one of the guys, she couldn’t in the least smile back at Owen, linger in the galley as he read one of her father’s worn novels, or even play a game of rummy as the boat pitched around them, weathering a gale.

  And in forty-eight hours, Owen would walk off the pier, thirty grand in his pocket, and out of her life.

  Not that Scotty cared.

  Caring only meant she’d eventually get hurt.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I’M NOT SURE what is harder to recover from: failing ourselves or failing God.

  When we fail God, we are brought back to verses like Lamentations 3:23, which says God’s mercies are new every morning. Or Romans 8:1: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Rich, almost-unbelievable truths that saturate our broken hearts and remind us we are loved.