Grant caught Audrey’s eye. “You called it, babe.”
She laughed, looking happier—and younger—than Grant could remember in a while.
They hadn’t told the other kids yet, but Audrey had predicted they’d all be a little shocked about the plans. And yet, he and Audrey were practically giddy at the thought, despite how skeptical Audrey had been when he’d first presented the possibility to her.
“So . . . what?” Link’s brow knit. “You’ll rent out your master suite instead of the cottage?”
“Yes,” Grant said. “And except for the fact it’s on the third story and not handicap accessible, we can get nearly as much for the suite as we could the cottage. But the real game-changer is that we can have our Tuesday dinners at the cottage and rent all the rooms out nightly, so we’ll generate significantly more income.”
“I think that’s great, but—”
“It’s beyond great,” Audrey said. “It’s on the verge of brilliant.” She looked up at Grant with something close to adoration. He patted her hand before letting go.
“Your mom was feeling a little stressed, and we—”
“More than a little.” She rolled her eyes. “But this will give me a place to retreat to, yet I still can walk to work.”
Link still looked a little dazed by the news. “It’s really great. But I don’t get what this has to do with me.”
“Well, our original plan was to see if you might want to move back to the inn. Live in your old room in the basement. I know you’re not crazy about your apartment in Cape, and this way you’d save the rent.”
“And it wouldn’t be like living with your parents,” Audrey added quickly, “because we won’t be here.”
“But you would be here in case a guest needed anything. Or was checking in really late.”
“Or checking out really early.”
“Wow. Sounds like you’ve really thought this through.” Link looked around the house, and Grant could almost read his mind. He was thinking of all the memories this old house held. The entire substance of Link’s childhood memories were in this house. And if it was hard for their son to think of them not living here anymore—even though they’d still be on the property—Grant knew it would be that much harder for their sentimental daughters.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he said. “We’ve got time.”
“When were you planning to move?”
Audrey winked at him. “Tomorrow, if your dad would let me.”
Grant went around behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Not tomorrow. But soon. Hopefully by the first of May. There won’t be that much to move.”
Audrey looked up at him over her shoulder. “And I might even get some new furniture out of the deal.”
“But you’re welcome to move back in any time. Even before we move out, if you can stand living with us for a few weeks.”
“Dad, my lease is up next month.” Link’s jaw went slack. “And they were going to raise the rent on me. This is huge. I could save so much money. And I’m going to need money.”
Grant looked at Audrey again, and she was grinning from ear to ear. “Well, speaking of that, there’s something else we want to run by you.”
Link cocked his head, and it struck Grant that they were all possibly watching God’s provision—for all of them—unfurl before their eyes in ways that left little room to doubt the Almighty was caring for them.
***
“I think this is the last of mine.” With a heavy apple box hoisted on one shoulder, Link stood at the top of the stairs looking down at his mom. Now that Mom and Dad were preparing to move to the cottage, his mother had declared that the Whitman kids had until tax day, April 15, to remove their remaining possessions from the inn. He thought he’d be exempt since he’d moved back to his old bedroom in the basement, but Mom had other ideas, and cleaning out the storage room was at the top of her itinerary.
Link didn’t mind. Since he’d been able to go back to working only one shift, he felt like he had a life again. He lived for the weekends, but he didn’t mind his job so much now that it was only nine to five, Monday through Friday. It didn’t hurt that he was watching his savings account grow now that he was earning his rent by helping out at the inn.
His mom’s voice floated up the stairs. “Did you check those white storage boxes in the northwest corner of the basement storage room? I’m sure some of those are yours.”
Link sighed. “I seriously doubt there’s anything in there I’d want, Mom.” If he hadn’t used it for a dozen years, he probably wasn’t going to miss it.
But he humored his mother and ran down two flights of stairs and flipped on the light to the storage room. He lifted the lids of half a dozen boxes, not recognizing any of the contents as his. But the next box he opened made him smile.
He pulled it down from the shelf and sat cross-legged on the floor. Mostly old school papers and cheap sports trophies. Probably nothing he wanted to keep, but he’d leaf through things for old times’ sake before he took them to the burn pile.
For a few minutes, he went through each paper and folder one by one, but when they all started looking the same—and making him feel a little too nostalgic—he picked up a stack and riffled through them. Lifting an old high school yearbook out, a sloppily folded sheet of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor.
He knew what it was before he’d even finished unfolding it. That old list they’d made at youth group that night. What had he been? sixteen years old? maybe seventeen? Strange he still remembered that after all these years. He smoothed out the now-brittle paper and read down the list.
He read the list, chuckling. He must have run out of steam at the end. Or maybe out of time.
He folded the paper and stuck it in his shirt pocket. Shayla would get a kick out of it. She would think it—
He took out the list again and unfolded it. He read it once more, this time with a particular woman in mind. Shayla Michaels fulfilled every single attribute on his list, except for one: #4. Her eyes were not blue and her hair wasn’t blonde.
He smiled. He thought that was negotiable.
And maybe those last two, maybe the years had filled those blanks in for him too.
He took out a pen and started writing.
32
Grant pulled up to the curb in front of the bakery, relieved to see the lights were still on inside. He strode to the door, but it was locked for the day. He checked his phone. Almost six-thirty.
He knocked on the glass and resisted the urge to cup his hands and peer in the window, knowing the Michaels family lived here. He looked away when he detected movement inside.
The door opened and a smile lit Shayla’s face when she recognized him. “Grant.” She opened the door wider. “Come in. How are you?”
“I’m good, how about yourself?”
“Good. But”—she grimaced—“I hope you’re not looking for a doughnut. Daddy already took the extras to the shelter.” Her gaze went briefly to the floor, and Grant recognized that some fear must still linger there. Billy Waverton hadn’t yet been sentenced, but he was in jail. In St. Louis, according to the sheriff. They’d all breathe easier when he’d been put away for a good long while.
“A doughnut is the last thing I need, Shay. Actually, I was hoping to talk to your dad, but if he’s gone, I’ll catch him another time.”
“Oh, no. He’s already back from Cape. He’s just out in the garage. Let me go get him.”
“I’ll just go talk to him out there, if that’s okay.” This would be perfect. He would be out of earshot of Shay and Portia.
“Sure. Here . . .” She motioned for him to follow her through the bakery to the back door.
The place was tidy as ever, floors freshly mopped and countertops shining. There were little vases of flowers in the center of each table. He didn’t remember that from before, but the effect was warm and homey. Grant was pretty sure that was Shayla’s touch.
The door to the gar
age across the back alley was open, and when they rounded the corner, Mike Michaels looked up from under the hood of a van—a new vehicle that had replaced the totaled one, Grant assumed.
Shayla gave a little wave, said good-bye, and went back inside the bakery.
“Well, good evening, Mr. Whitman.” Michaels came to greet him, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “What brings you here this fine evening?”
Grant put out a hand. “Call me Grant, please.”
“I will if you’ll call me Mike.” They shook hands.
“That’s a nice vehicle.” Grant gestured toward the van. “Bigger than the last one, isn’t it?”
“It is. Don’t know that it runs any better though.” He shook his head, looking disgusted.
Grant laughed and took a step back. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m worthless when it comes to being a mechanic.”
“Apparently that makes two of us.” Mike went back to the van, closed the hood, and wiped his hands again. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No. Thank you though. I won’t stay long. And I may be in big trouble after tonight.” He was only halfway kidding. He swallowed hard and shot up a prayer that this didn’t backfire. “Mike, I’ll get right to the point. I’m here as one father to another. My son does not know I’ve come—and he probably wouldn’t be too happy with me if he knew.”
Mike frowned. “How so?”
“You probably won’t be surprised to know that Link is going to be coming to see you one of these days. Soon. He’s going to ask—beg—for your blessing to ask Shayla to marry him. And your blessing on his being a part of your granddaughter’s life. I’ve watched these kids together, Mike. They’ve overcome what so many can’t seem to. They’ve managed to love each other, and all of us”—he gestured between them—“despite all the barriers, despite the world’s hate. I just . . . I want to put in a good word for my boy. Believe me, I know from experience there’s never a man on this earth who’s good enough when it comes to our precious daughters. But I’m begging you as Link’s father, Mike to just at least consider his request. Give him a chance. I promise you won’t find any man—of any color—on this earth who will love your daughter the way my son will. The way he does. And Portia too.”
Michaels had stood, listening, seeming intent the whole time Grant poured out his spiel, but now he looked at Grant with a hard-set jaw. “You finished?”
He nodded. “I suppose I’d better be. And forgive me if I overstepped my bounds. I just see that—” He swallowed the lump of nerves that had made its way into his throat. “I think our kids are better at this—all this racial stuff—than our generation was. Better than our parents’ generation, for sure. I just hope we can give them a chance to show the world that we can love each other, despite our differences, despite our humanness. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a legacy I’d be prouder of.” He blew out a breath, harder than he intended. But he’d said his piece, and he believed every word he’d uttered. That was all he could do. The rest was in God’s hands.
“Now you finished?”
Grant nodded, unable to read the look on the man’s face.
Mike shook his head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from having to go through that. You kind of got to ramblin’ there, and there wasn’t any place I could jump in.”
“Sorry. I just wanted to get it all said before—”
Mike held up a hand. “Before you stick your foot in any further”—he gave a low chuckle—“I’m sorry to say, your son beat you to the punch. He pretty much gave me the same flowery speech two days ago.”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
“I would not kid a man about something like that.”
“Son of a gun.” Grant threw back his head and roared, and Michaels did the same. Then he clasped Grant’s shoulder and shook his hand again.
***
The flowering dogwood and redbud trees all along Chicory Lane were in full bloom, and it was only the first week in April. Link thought God had chosen a good year to send them an early spring.
He patted Shayla’s knee in the passenger seat beside him, then caught Portia’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Are you warm enough back there, kiddo?”
“I’m hot!” She tugged at the turtleneck of her little pink sweater.
“Okay, okay. Cool air coming your way.” He turned up the fan and adjusted the vent.
“Portia. Be nice.” Shay peered out the windshield, shading her eyes from the fast-setting sun. “It is so gorgeous out there.”
“It’s pretty gorgeous in here too.” He reached across the console to stroke her face with the back of his hand, meaning every word. Even now, with her torn jeans and mud-splattered T-shirt, she grew more beautiful in his eyes every time he looked at her.
She shook her head, dismissing his compliment, but the grin she wore said she didn’t mind.
They’d spent the day out at the inn helping his parents get the flower beds ready for planting. He’d told her he wanted to talk to her alone, and he knew she’d been dying of curiosity all day. And no doubt suspecting what was coming.
But he’d refused to give her even a hint. He’d been keeping a secret for weeks now—a couple of them, actually—and it was about killing him. But tonight the cats would be out of the bag.
When they got into Langhorne, he drove around behind the bakery and waited outside while Shayla took her niece in through the back door. Ever since Link had gone to talk to Mike, “Big Daddy” had become more willing to watch Portia while he and Shay spent time together. He wondered if Shay had noticed.
A few minutes later, she came out. She’d changed into a clean shirt, and was zipping up a hoodie over it.
“You still want to go for a walk?”
She shrugged. “Sure, if you do. It’s such a pretty night.”
Ever since the weather had turned nice, they’d taken to walking the quaint streets of Langhorne, talking and dreaming, and learning to know each other almost as well as they knew themselves.
Link had planned their routes carefully, steering her by CeeCee’s house each time they walked, telling Shay stories about his childhood growing up there. But his goal had been to make her fall in love with the place. It had worked. She’d lamented the Realtor’s sign in the yard and wished aloud that she could afford to buy the house herself. “Doesn’t it make you sad to see your grandmother’s house for sale?”
“I guess it would if CeeCee had died or something. But she’s happier at the center than I’ve seen her in a long time.”
He’d all but promised Shay a tour of the house some day before it sold, but the renters hadn’t moved out yet the last time they’d walked by.
CeeCee’s house was only a few blocks from the bakery but Link steered Shayla the long way around. They were deep in conversation when they crossed the street to the block where the house sat, but Shay stopped talking immediately and pointed. “Link. Look. The sign’s gone.”
“Sign?” His heart was beating a mile a minute.
“The Realtor’s sign. It’s gone. Did the house sell?”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t tell you?”
“No! It was here just the other night. It sold already?” She sounded near tears.
“Yeah, it did.”
She frowned. “I never got to see it.”
“You want to see it now?” He fished in his pocket and brought out a key on a plastic keychain.
“What? You have the keys? But if it sold, that would be trespassing.”
“I don’t think they’ll care.” He started confidently up the sidewalk to the front porch.
“Link.” Shay lagged behind then jogged to catch up with him. “You can’t just go in somebody’s house without permission.”
He stopped and looked at her, his heart about to explode. “What if I told you I have permission?”
“You do? You know who bought it?”
“I do.” He put the key in the door and turned it. The door swung op
en. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
33
Shayla stepped inside the front room of CeeCee’s old house, excitement rising in her. She didn’t know what it was about looking at houses, but she loved it. Maybe it was because she’d never really had a house. They’d gone from the apartment in Cape when she was young to living over the bakery.
“Wow! This looks really good. I was kind of expecting it to be run down, since it’s been a rental for a while.”
“It does look good, doesn’t it?”
She inhaled. “Smell that? I think they’ve painted it.”
“It does look like it has fresh paint.”
“I love this color.” The living room walls were her favorite barely-there shade of aqua. “This is exactly the color I would have painted it.”
“It looks nice.”
She turned back to Link. “Are you sure we should be here? Who was it that bought the house? How do you know them?”
A strange smile came to Link’s face.
“What?” Something was up. He was acting weird.
“We have permission, Shay.” Link drew her into his arms, tipped her chin up and kissed her. Sweetly, but insistently, too. “We have permission. I promise.”
She wriggled free. What was wrong with him? “Well, I bet we don’t have permission to be making out in their house. Link! That better not be why you brought me here!”
She trusted the man completely, and it was important to both of them to wait for marriage. But she knew Link was frustrated they so rarely had time alone together. It seemed like either Portia or one of their parents were always around. Which was probably a good thing, because on the rare occasions they could steal a moment alone, Link was all about kissing.
This—here in this house, alone—was pushing it though. Especially . . . She felt her face heat. She wasn’t sure Link realized what it did to her when he kissed her like that. She headed for what looked like the kitchen. “Aren’t you going to show me the house?”
She heard him behind her and hurried ahead before he could grab her again. Oh, Lord. How long will you make me wait for this man?
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