03_The Unexpected Gift

by Irene Hannon

  Grant replaced the receiver and turned to find his father watching him.

  “I take it that was Jo’s great-niece?” Andrew Kincaid said.

  “None other.”

  “Sounded like an interesting conversation from this end.”

  “Were you eavesdropping?” Grant asked with a smile.

  “Of course. That’s what family is for,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling.

  Grant chuckled. He and his father didn’t have many secrets. Nor did anyone in his extended family. He’d always been close to his sister, Kit, and her husband, Bill, the pastor at their church. And he doted on his fifteen-year-old twin nieces. He also had a deep love and affection for his uncle, who worked with him and his dad in the cabinet shop. They were a small but close-knit bunch.

  Except for his mother, of course.

  Which brought him back to Morgan Williams.

  “Interesting is a good way to describe the conversation.” He shook his head. “She’s a piece of work.”

  “How so?”

  “When I suggested she come up to take a look at the cottage over Thanksgiving, she told me she’d be working.”

  “On Thanksgiving?”

  “My exact reaction. And she did not appreciate it.”

  “So when is she coming up?”

  “Who knows? But in the meantime, she asked me to get an appraisal on the property, because she plans to sell.”

  The older man pondered that. “How do you feel about letting the place go?”

  Grant shrugged, but his eyes were troubled. “There won’t be much choice if she wants to sell, unless we can find someone who’s willing to buy her half and take me on as co-owner.”

  “Maybe she’ll change her mind when she sees it.”

  As Grant replayed their conversation in his mind, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t place any bets on that. She’s one tough cookie. A hard-nosed businesswoman through and through. I can’t figure out why Jo left the place to her.”

  His father pulled on a pair of work gloves. “I imagine she had her reasons. Jo was a smart lady. I can’t remember her ever doing anything that didn’t make sense.”

  “Well, there’s always a first time.” Grant reached for his own gloves. “Now let’s go sort through that load of maple.”

  Morgan punched in the number for Good Shepherd Camp and drummed her fingers on the desk as she waited for someone to answer. At least this stipulation in her aunt’s will should be manageable. Serving as an advisory member of a charitable board for six months and offering a bit of advice on a fund-raising drive was a piece of cake compared to spending four weeks in a remote cottage on the coast of Maine.

  The phone continued to ring, and Morgan was just about to hang up when someone answered.

  “Good Shepherd Camp,” said a breathless female voice.

  “Good morning. This is Morgan Williams. May I speak with the person in charge?”

  Her crisp request was met with an amused chuckle. “You’ve got her. Mary Stanton. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here in the off-season. How can I help you?”

  “Actually, it’s more like how I can help you.” Morgan explained the provision in Aunt Jo’s will. “So I just need to see how you’d like me to get involved,” she finished.

  “I’d heard about your great-aunt’s death,” the woman said, her voice sympathetic. “She was a long-time supporter of the camp. Going back well before my time, in fact. I’m sorry for your loss. And ours.”

  “I’m sure my great-aunt will be missed by many people.” Morgan kept her reply innocuous.

  “I’m a bit surprised by the stipulation in her will, but we’re always happy to have more help. We run this operation on a shoestring. There are just a couple of full-time employees—me, in the office, and Joe Carroll at the camp, who does maintenance. He and his wife, Elizabeth, live there year-round. We beef up the paid staff a bit in the summer, but most of our counselors are volunteers. So we’re always looking for free help.” She paused as if considering the best next step. “I’ll tell you what. Let me have the president of the board give you a call to discuss your involvement. That’s really who you should talk to, since the board makes all the decisions, anyway. I’m just a worker bee,” the woman said with a laugh.

  “That would be great. Let me give you my number.” As she did so, Clark, her boss, appeared at her door and began making urgent motions. “Um, look, I need to go. It seems some sort of crisis has arisen here.”

  “Of course. We’ll be in touch. And thank you again. Good Shepherd Camp is a very worthwhile effort. Your time won’t be wasted.”

  Morgan wasn’t sure she agreed. No matter how much or how little time she spent on Aunt Jo’s pet project, it was still time away from her job. And since she had her sights set on a top spot in the firm in the not-too-distant future, she couldn’t afford to let her focus waver.

  But unfortunately, Aunt Jo had done her best to see that it did.

  As Grant stared at the message from Mary Stanton, then read it again, a slow smile spread over his face. Morgan Williams must just love this, he thought with perverse enjoyment. Not only had Jo put a residency requirement in her bequest, she’d ordered her niece to help out at Good Shepherd. Morgan Williams didn’t strike him as the type of woman who liked to take orders. Which Jo must have known. So what was the older woman up to?

  Grant didn’t have a clue. But it didn’t matter. Extra hands were always welcome at Good Shepherd, willing or not. As president of the board, he’d done his share of recruiting volunteers, and it wasn’t easy. People these days, even those who called themselves Christians, were too busy to take time out to help others. So he was glad Jo had recruited this “volunteer” for him. Morgan Williams might be reluctant, but they were in dire need of her expertise. The camp’s financial situation was precarious at best, and Grant was willing to do just about anything to shore up the coffers. Even conspiring with Jo’s workaholic niece.

  The bell over the front door of the cabinet shop jangled, and Grant looked up to find his uncle juggling a large white bag, a tray of drinks and a stack of mail.

  “I ran into Chuck at the sandwich shop and offered to take our mail off his hands,” Uncle Pete said, his usual ruddy face even redder, thanks to the biting wind.

  “December’s a bear for the postal service. Figured I’d save him three stops. Where’s Andrew?”

  “In the back.”

  The older man peered at the slip of paper in Grant’s hand. “I see you got your message.”

  “You could have let it roll to the answering machine.”

  “Never did trust those things. Come on back. Let’s eat.”

  Eying the bag, Grant shook his head, exasperation mingling with affection. “You don’t have to bring me lunch, Uncle Pete. I can take care of myself.”

  “So what’re you going to eat today?”

  “I’ll grab something on the way to Brunswick.”

  The older man gave a skeptical snort. “I’ve heard that before. What’d you eat yesterday?”

  Grant felt his neck grow warm. “I skipped lunch yesterday.”

  “That’s what I figured. Come on back and eat. No more arguments.”

  “How about a thank-you instead?”

  “Not necessary,” Uncle Pete said, his voice gruff.

  “Wish I could do more, in fact. You’ve had a tough time, still do, and if I want to help you out in little ways, let me. Come on back.”

  Before Grant could respond, Uncle Pete headed for the back room. Grant took his time following. Thank you, Lord, for this loving family, he prayed, as he had so many times in the past two-and-a-half years. I couldn’t make it without them.

  By the time Grant got to the worn pine table where the three men had shared so many lunches, his father had cleared off a spot and Uncle Pete was spreading out the food and sorting through the mail. He looked at the two men with affection as he moved a T-square and hand-drawn plans for a mahogany entertainment center off to
the side. His bachelor uncle and his father had lived together ever since Grant had gone off to college. It had been a good arrangement, providing both men with much-needed companionship. They’d invited Grant to join them a couple of years ago, but for now he wanted to remain in the tiny bungalow where he’d known so much joy. Leaving it would somehow seem to signal a loss of hope.

  Yet there were times when he was tempted to accept their offer. As much as he liked quiet, and as comfortable as he was with solitude, the loneliness…no, emptiness was a better word, he decided…sometimes got to him. Maybe someday he would move in with them, if… Grant cut off that thought. He wouldn’t let himself go there. He never did.

  “Looks like your mother remembered your birthday,” Uncle Pete remarked, handing Grant a blue envelope with the logo of a well-known greeting card company on the back.

  Grant took it without comment, laid it aside, and turned his attention to his turkey sandwich.

  “It’s nice that she remembered,” his father commented.

  “Yeah. Only a week late.” There was a bitter edge to Grant’s voice.

  His father reached over and laid a work-worn hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Let it go, son. It’s ancient history now.”

  “I can’t forget what she did, Dad. I don’t know how you can.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. But I made my peace with it a long time ago. It’s time you did, too.”

  Uncle Pete generally watched this exchange without a word. It had been replayed numerous times over the years—and always with the same result. But this time he spoke. “Andrew’s right, Grant. Give it to the Lord. Get on with your life.”

  “What she did was wrong, Uncle Pete.”

  “I’m not sayin’ it was right or wrong. Just that it’s over. Holdin’ on to anger don’t help nobody.”

  Grant crumpled the paper that had held his sandwich, then tossed it into the bag. “I wish I could. You two put me to shame.”

  “Hardly. What you’ve done these past two-and-a-half years would have finished me off,” his father said.

  “I doubt that. I come from strong stock. Besides, people do what they have to do.”

  “Not everybody,” Uncle Pete disagreed. “And you’ve never wavered all this time, either. You’re just as faithful now as you were at the beginning.”

  Uncomfortable with the praise, Grant glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me. I need to run. I’ll be back by about two-thirty.”

  “Take your time, son. And give her our best.”

  “I always do. See you guys later. Thanks for lunch, Uncle Pete.”

  “Glad to do it. Don’t forget to return that call.”

  That brought a smile to Grant’s face. “It’s right at the top of my list as soon as I get back.”

  As he walked down the quiet hallway, Grant raised his hand in greeting to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, Ruth. Any change?” He’d been asking the same question for more than two years. And getting the same answer.

  “No. She’s holding her own.”

  He continued down the hall, stopping outside the familiar room where he’d spent so many hours. He took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind him.

  After all this time, he still harbored a faint hope that one day he’d walk into the extended-care facility and find his wife waiting to greet him with her sweet smile. But he was always disappointed. Though less so now. Hope, once strong, had dimmed as days became weeks, and months became years.

  Grant moved beside the bed and stared down at the face of the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman to whom he had pledged his life six-and-a-half years ago—for better or worse—before God. And he’d meant every word of that vow. He just hadn’t expected the worst to happen so quickly, just four short years into their marriage. Now the woman around whom he’d planned his future, the woman with whom he’d hoped to raise a family, the woman with whom he’d wanted to grow old, lay suspended between life and death, her once-strong limbs wasted, her passionate, laughter-filled eyes shuttered.

  Closing his eyes, Grant took a steadying breath.

  Lord, give me strength to carry on, he prayed. I don’t know why you’ve given Christine and me this cross to bear, but I place my trust in you. Please continue to watch over us.

  He left his eyes closed for a long moment, drawing what solace he could from the prayer he uttered every day at his wife’s bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her cool forehead, reaching over to take her unresponsive hand in his. “Hi, Christine. It’s Grant. I brought a new novel I thought you’d enjoy. And the Bible, of course. But first I’ll give you all the family news.”

  He sat beside her, keeping her hand in his, and talked with her about his surprising bequest from Jo, filled her in on the latest commissions they’d received at the shop, and reminded her how much everyone missed her. It was a routine he’d begun soon after the accident, at the suggestion of her doctors, who had told him that comatose people could sometimes hear voices. They’d encouraged him to share his day with her, to read to her, saying that it might make a difference in her recovery. They didn’t push him to do that anymore. But he still continued the practice.

  At the end of an hour, he opened the Bible to Psalms and picked up where he’d left off the day before. He always ended his visits with the Good Book, and today the verse seemed especially appropriate.

  “‘Only in God be at rest, my soul, for from Him comes my hope,’” Grant read, his voice mellow and deep and steady. “‘He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be disturbed. With God is my safety and my glory, he is the rock of my strength; my refuge is in God. Trust in Him at all times, O my people! Pour out your hearts before Him; God is our refuge.’”

  As Grant closed the book, he let the words soothe his soul. Then he stood and once more leaned down to press his lips to Christine’s forehead.

  “Rest well, sweetheart. Never forget how much I love you,” he whispered.

  Grant moved to the door, taking one final look at Christine’s still form. As he stepped outside, Ruth was just passing by.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  Grant nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Chapter Two

  “Morgan Williams.”

  As her voice came over the wire, Grant’s lip tipped up into wry grin. He’d tried her office number first, somehow knowing she’d still be there at eight o’clock at night. And her tone captured her personality to perfection. Crisp. Pleasant. Efficient. Businesslike. Except the pleasant part might go out the window when she found out why he was calling.

  “Ms. Williams, it’s Grant Kincaid.”

  He could almost hear her frown over the phone, and when she spoke her voice held an edge of impatience.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I think the question is, what can you do for me?”

  Her sigh was audible. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t have time for riddles. Is there a problem with the cottage?”

  “First of all, since I expect we’ll be talking quite a bit for the next few months, can we dispense with the formality? Just call me Grant. Second, this isn’t about the cottage. It’s about Jo’s requirement that you assist with Good Shepherd Camp.”

  “How do you know about that?” She sounded surprised—and wary.

  “I’m president of the board.”

  He expected her to groan. But if she did, she hid it well.

  “I see,” she replied tersely.

  “I understand from Mary that you are to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd and attend board meetings as an advisory member for the next six months. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about the camp?”

  “No.”

  Nor did she want to, if her tone was any indication.

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I send you some literature? That will give you a lot of background. The board doesn’t meet in December, so you’re off th
e hook until January. But you’ll be a welcome addition. The camp is in pretty serious financial straits, and we need to come up with a way to generate significant income. Some sort of advertising or promotional campaign may be the answer. So we can use your expertise.”

  “I don’t have any experience in the non-profit area, Mr. Kincaid. So don’t get your hopes up.”

  “It’s Grant,” he reminded her. “And any help you can provide will be much appreciated. The camp is a very worthwhile cause, and we want to do everything possible to make sure it stays solvent. A lot of lives have been changed for the better because of Good Shepherd. All of the kids who go there have some kind of problem. They come from broken or abusive homes, or they’ve had run-ins with the law, or they have minor physical disabilities that have led to social or emotional problems. The camp experience has been a godsend for countless young people.”

  Even though Morgan had little personal interest in the project, she was struck by the passion and conviction in Grant’s voice. She may not like the man, but she admired his willingness to help those less fortunate.

  “I’ll look over whatever you want to send when I have a minute,” she promised.

  “Okay. On a different subject, any idea when you’ll be coming up to the cottage?”

  Good question. She’d gotten the appraisal, and Seth Mitchell had been right. The property was far too valuable to toss aside. So she had to give this her best shot. She glanced at her schedule, which was packed, as always. But Christmas was on a Saturday, she noted. Which meant the office would be closed Friday and Monday. So she could make a long weekend of it without missing any official work time.

  “Probably over the holiday. Would you be available to meet on Christmas Eve?”

  “Sorry, no. I have family activities planned for that day,” he said, making no attempt to hide his disapproval.

  “Could we make it Monday?”

  “How about Sunday?” she countered.

  “I usually reserve Sunday for God. And family.”

  Morgan expelled a frustrated breath. She’d hoped to leave on Sunday and put in a full day at the office on Monday, even though the firm was closed. But Grant didn’t sound as if he was going to bend. “Okay,” she relented. “As long as we can make it early.” At least she’d be able to get in half a day of work.