by Irene Hannon
“I don’t care whose birthday it is. I’ve had a lousy day, and I’m hungry. I’m also the breadwinner in this family—and since I pay for the food, we’ll eat what I want. Get rid of the stew and give me a real meal.”
“I have some pork chops in the freezer. I’ll fry those for you, okay?”
“Do it fast.” He pulled a beer from the fridge and glared at the table. “What’s that?”
“Adam’s birthday cake.”
His face got red. “You paid money to a bakery for this? What’s wrong with Betty Crocker?”
“I just thought . . . he’s never had a real cake. It didn’t cost a lot.”
His father twisted toward him, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “You’ve never been anything but trouble from the day you were born, boy. And you cost me way too much money. You know what I think about wasting hard-earned cash on a fancy birthday cake?” He swung back to the table and punched his fist through the middle of it.
Tears welled up in Adam’s eyes as he surveyed the ruined cake, and he choked out a strangled sob.
“A sissy too. I’m raising a sissy.” His father strode toward him, fists raised. “You need to toughen up, boy.”
He cowered down, heart banging, waiting for the hurt.
It didn’t come.
Instead, his mother moved in front of him, blocking his dad. “Leave the boy alone.”
“What?” His father looked real surprised, like a character in one of those Saturday-morning cartoons.
“I said, leave him alone.”
“Well, aren’t you the sassy one tonight. I’ll deal with you in a minute. First I’ll take care of the boy.” He tried to shove her aside.
She didn’t budge.
“Go outside, Adam.” She kept watching his dad.
“But I—”
“Go. Now. Play with your friends—and don’t come back until it gets dark.” She gave him a push toward the door, staying between him and his dad while he fumbled for the knob and slipped outside.
He ran through the yard as fast as he could, toward the place he always went whenever it got scary at home—the overgrown arbor in Mrs. McMahon’s backyard. Winter or summer, under the arching branches on the old woman’s property, he felt safe.
Safer than he ever felt at home.
He stayed there until long past dark. Shaking . . . crying . . . worrying.
When he finally went home, the house was silent. His father was asleep on the sofa in the living room, a bunch of empty beer cans on the floor next to him. His mother was in bed.
Even though his stomach growled real loud, he crept to his own bed and pulled the covers over his head. The house stayed quiet—yet it took him a long time to go to sleep.
When he woke up the next day, his dad was gone to work. His mom was in the kitchen—but it didn’t look like Mom. Her face was bruised and puffy, one eye was black, and she was walking funny. Limping, and kind of bent over.
The bottle she kept under the counter was on the sink. It was almost empty.
She didn’t tell him what had happened while he was in his safe place—but she never tried to protect him again.
“Adam?”
Pulse pounding, he yanked himself back to the present. “I’m sorry, I . . . I lost the thread of our conversation.”
“You were far away . . . in a place that wasn’t happy. Bad memories of your mother?” Brenda’s features were soft with empathy.
“More of my father.” He drained his cup and stood. “I need to get going. My dog will be hungry.”
“Of course. I’ll walk you to the door.” If she was surprised by his abrupt departure, she gave no hint of it.
On the threshold he paused. “Thank you again for the great meal.”
“The thanks are all mine. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Enjoy?
Not much chance of that after his unscheduled journey to the past.
Instead of replying, he lifted his hand in farewell and escaped to his car.
Once he pulled onto 101, he pressed on the accelerator. Hard. As if speed could help him outrun the memories.
But no matter how fast he went, they kept pace, refusing to be relegated to the shadowy recesses of his mind.
Adam clenched the wheel. Why, after all these years, had he remembered his mother coming to his defense that night?
And if she’d done it once . . . had she done it before? Were there similar occasions from earlier in his life—before she began to drink herself into oblivion while his father took out his frustrations on their child—buried deep in his subconscious?
That wasn’t a question he wanted to consider tonight—or ever. The day he’d walked out of prison he’d vowed to leave the past behind, along with all of its hurts and hates and horrors.
Now that one memory had been jarred loose, however, a handful of other less-dramatic interventions niggled at the edges of his consciousness.
But so what if she’d made a few feeble, tentative attempts to protect him? Most of his life, she’d failed him.
“A terrible marriage is devastating. If there’s abuse, it’s worse. It can destroy a person.”
Brenda’s comment from earlier in the evening echoed in his mind.
Adam’s hands began to tremble, and he pulled off onto one of the scenic overlooks that lined 101. From this high point, he should be able to catch a glimpse of the twinkling lights of Hope Harbor in the distance, perhaps even spot the top of the lighthouse on Pelican Point that had once guided lost souls to safety in stormy weather.
His mother had never talked much about her past, but he’d picked up enough to know her younger years had been as difficult as his, her family life also plagued with abuse. What kind, she’d never said. But it had been sufficient to drive her to the streets at a tender age too—where she’d hooked up with the loser who’d made their son’s life a living hell.
She might have come to his defense a few times early on, but in the end, she’d saved herself instead.
Yet . . . could guilt over that choice have driven her to drink more . . . and ultimately to take the drugs that ended her life?
He wiped a hand down his face.
Maybe instead of hating her, he should feel sorry for her. After all, he’d escaped. She never had.
Maybe he needed to let go once and for all of the resentment buried deep inside and leave judgment to God.
Adam rolled up his window against the chilly evening air and took one last look at Hope Harbor.
It reminded him of the mythical village of Brigadoon from that musical the high school had put on not long after he moved to town. The hamlet that appeared for only one day every hundred years.
A tiny, unsettling shiver raced up his spine as he skimmed the peaceful scene below. The kind he used to get before some petty crime went bad and the walls closed in on him.
Weird.
He hadn’t felt like this since the day he arrived in town, filled with uncertainties, trepidation, and doubts about what the future might hold.
Those bad feelings had proven to be groundless, however. Everything had turned out fine.
But as he swung back onto the road and Hope Harbor disappeared from view, he couldn’t shake the disquieting fear that he might wake up tomorrow and discover everything he thought was real and good in his new life had vanished into the mist—like Brigadoon.
21
“Yo, turd face.”
As the familiar voice spoke behind him, Brian’s heart stuttered. He’d been expecting this confrontation ever since the police chief and juvenile counselor visited the Fisher family last Thursday. Who knew why the high school hotshot had waited until Tuesday afternoon to approach him?
But he did know why the kid had picked this time and place.
At five o’clock, the soda machine alcove near the high school cafeteria was deserted. Most of the students were long gone. Like he would have been if he hadn’t had to hang around to use the high-speed net at school for term paper research inste
ad of the prehistoric—but free—dial-up at home.
He hefted his daypack onto his back, slowly pivoted to face Lucas, and held on tight to the sweaty soda can. “What do you want?”
“I thought we should have a little talk.” Lucas strolled over. His posture was casual, but anger smoldered in his eyes. “You broke our pact.”
“You broke it first. You stole my flash drive and left it by that car for the police to find.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“I didn’t start this conversation.” He tried to brush past the tall, broad-shouldered kid who outweighed him by at least forty pounds.
Lucas pushed him against the wall. Hard. “I’m not done talking to you.”
“Well, I’m done talking to you.” His chest heaved, but he didn’t move.
“You better be done talking to the cops too.”
He didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” Lucas loomed over him, inches away.
Brian began to sweat. He was still hurting from the last thrashing—and even on his best days he was no match for the muscled football player.
This could get bad.
Real bad.
“Yeah. I hear you.” He squeezed the reply past his stiff lips.
“Good.” Lucas pressed one palm against the wall and leaned into his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re like a leper around here now.”
Yeah, he’d noticed. As of Friday, he was back to sitting alone at the lunch table.
But that was better than winding up in front of a judge.
“This school isn’t the center of the universe.” His comeback sounded braver—and more defiant—than he felt. “There are other places to find friends.”
“Like doing manual labor with that ex-con who lied about where you were last Wednesday night?”
“He didn’t lie—and you know it.”
“Who’s going to believe a lowlife like him?”
“He’s not a lowlife!” Brian glared at the boy across from him. “He’s a great guy. Better than you’ll ever be.”
“Right.” Lucas smirked. “Here’s the truth, kid. You can hang around all you want with a felon in your free time, but this school will be the center of your universe for the next two years. And until I graduate, I can make your life miserable.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I can.” Lucas folded his arms. “And because you’re a loser.”
Brian stared at him. Why had he ever wanted to be friends with someone like this? “You know what? I feel sorry for you.”
Lucas blinked. “Huh?”
“I said, I feel sorry for you. And I’m glad we’re not friends anymore.” He ducked under his arm.
Lucas grabbed his shoulder. Yanked him around.
He staggered. His backpack flew off and slid across the tile floor, and he dropped his can of soda.
“You better believe we’re not friends.” Lucas’s complexion reddened. “In fact, let me show you how unfriendly I can be.” He drew his arm back and—
“Hey!” Tiffany Edwards jolted to a stop as she came around the corner.
Lucas dropped his arm. “Hi, gorgeous.” He gave the sophomore cheerleader a stiff smile.
She didn’t return it. “What’s going on?”
“Brian and I were talking.”
“That’s not what it looked like.” She picked up the can of soda that had rolled toward her and walked over, ignoring Lucas. “Is this yours?” She held it out.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Brian took it.
“You okay?”
He scooped up his backpack and hefted it into position. “Yeah.”
Saved by a girl.
Lucas would never let him live this down.
“What are you doing hanging around so late?” Lucas inserted himself between the two of them, blocking his view of Tiffany.
“I had to take a makeup history test.”
“Bummer. You deserve a reward after that. Want to swing by Sweet Dreams for a snack? I’ve got my new Mustang today. We could take a drive too.”
“No, thanks. I have my mom’s car—and I need to get home and study.” She walked around Lucas until Brian could see her. “You take the bus, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“You missed it. Want a ride?”
He gawked at her. Why would Tiffany Edwards, one of the prettiest and most popular girls in school, offer him a lift home?
She flashed white teeth and a dimple. “It’s a simple question.”
At her teasing tone, he flushed. A ride would save him a long walk . . . but what would a girl like her think if she saw the trailer park he called home?
“Um . . . I appreciate it, but it’s probably out of your way.”
“Our house is only a couple of miles from Ocean Breezes.”
She already knew where he lived?
“Hey . . .” Lucas joined in, annoyed now rather than flirtatious. “You might want to avoid this guy. Like we all talked about at lunch the other day.”
“You talked about it. We listened. And I make my own decisions.” Her chin rose. “I also choose my own friends—and I don’t like bullies who issue orders and ultimatums and treat other people like dirt. Neither do some of the other kids.” She turned her back on Lucas. “I’m sorry we haven’t been friendlier, Brian. I’d like to try and make up for that. Let me give you a ride, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He walked past Lucas, Tiffany beside him.
All the way to the exit, he kept expecting a shove between his shoulder blades—but they made it outside with no further incident.
“I’m parked over there.” Tiffany motioned toward a Toyota.
He followed her in silence and slid into the passenger seat.
She didn’t speak again until after she backed out of the spot and was tooling through town, toward 101.
“Just so you know, a bunch of us talked about the stuff that’s been going on with Lucas for the past few months. He was always bossy, but he’s gotten a lot worse. We’re tired of it—and tired of how he treats people who don’t dance to his music. If you want some company at lunch from now on, we’d like to sit with you. Will you give us a second chance?”
“Sure.” He smiled at her. “I’m all about second chances.”
And as they chatted and laughed during the short ride home, Brian’s spirits soared.
This was a miracle.
A bona fide miracle.
Maybe not as dramatic as the one Reverend Baker had mentioned last Sunday about that Lazarus guy being raised from the dead—but getting a new chance at life at Hope Harbor High was a close second.
“Greetings, my friend. Tacos on a Tuesday—what’s the special occasion?”
“Why do you think it’s a special occasion?” Adam stopped in front of the serving window as Charley grinned at him over the counter and adjusted his Ducks cap.
“Your smile couldn’t get any bigger.”
Oh yeah. That would be a dead giveaway.
“I had an interesting—encounter—this afternoon.” He was dying to tell someone about his meeting with Rebecca Oliver . . . but Lexie was top on his list to hear it. Too bad she had a presentation at some Chamber of Commerce meeting in Coos Bay tonight. His news would have to wait until after work tomorrow.
“Encounter is an intriguing term. You want tacos, I presume?”
“Yes.”
Charley didn’t ask anything else. That wasn’t his way. He was always happy to listen, but he didn’t probe. Yet people often ended up telling him more than they’d planned.
Like he was about to do.
“It was a business meeting.”
“Ah. BJ’s business is certainly growing.”
“This wasn’t about BJ’s business. I took off a few hours early to investigate . . . an opportunity. But I’m not quitting the construction company or anything.” Better be clear about that. He had no plans to give up his steady work. “BJ took a chance on m
e, and I’ll never forget that. I owe her a lot.”
Charley arranged some fish on the grill and began chopping green onions. “I’m sure she’d understand if a person wanted to follow a passion—as she’s doing with her design and construction company.”
“I’m planning to do both—for a while, anyway.” The price tag on the small, initial commissions he and Rebecca had discussed wouldn’t provide a living—but the dining room table she’d mentioned as a possibility if all went well with these first jobs? That was a big-ticket item. He’d have to find a larger workspace if he took that project on, of course . . . but no sense getting ahead of himself. He could worry about that if it came to pass.
“Testing the waters is always a smart plan.” Charley sprinkled some kind of seasoning over the sizzling filling for the tacos. “By the way, I saw the rocking chairs you made for BJ and Eric. You have great talent.”
Adam squinted at the taco-making artist. Was that his subtle way of saying he knew what this coded conversation was about?
Maybe.
The man had uncanny insights.
But even if Charley had somehow figured out what was going on, he wouldn’t say a word to anyone. The man was nothing if not discreet. Everyone in town knew that, and . . .
“. . . sounds great, Paul. But if you ask me, your game would benefit more from practice and prayer than a new putter. It’s cheaper too.” Father Murphy waved at them as the two clergymen hustled toward the stand. “Greetings, fellow Hope Harborans. Two more orders, Charley.”
“Hope Harborans?” Reverend Baker’s eyebrows peaked. “That’s a new one. Why not Hope Harborites? It has a more biblical sound . . . you know, as in Levites?”
“I’m well aware of the many references to the Levites in the Old Testament . . . and the one reference in the New Testament.” Father Murphy straightened his Roman collar. “And let’s not forget the Kohathites and Merarites.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve been studying.”
“Very funny.” The priest sent his fellow cleric a disgruntled look, then turned with a broad smile. “Hello, Adam. I see you’re indulging your Charley’s craving too.”
“It’s the best-kept secret on the Oregon coast.”
“I’ll second that.”
“Make it three,” Reverend Baker said.