Seaside Blessings

by Irene Hannon

  Waves of shock ricocheted through Kristen as she tried to absorb the news. “Take her back?”

  “It’s a second chance, Kristen. I know how you agonized over the decision at the time, and how you’ve kept up with her ever since. Not many people get the opportunity to revisit a choice like that.”

  “W-where is she now?” Kristen massaged her forehead and stared at the blank wall across from her.

  “With a friend’s family. Her parents were taking a weekend trip for their twentieth anniversary. It was the first time they’d ever left her alone with anyone, but she can’t stay there long. That’s why I need an answer from you quickly.”

  “What happens if...if I don’t take her?”

  “She’ll be put into foster care. The adoptive parents only had distant cousins, and they have no interest in taking her. The attorney asked us to check with you and see if it was all right to release your contact information to him.”

  “Does Beatrice...know about me?”

  “She knows she’s adopted. That’s all. I talked with her friend’s mother today. The woman told me she’s very traumatized, as you might expect.” There was a moment of silence on the line. “I don’t mean to rush you, but the authorities will be moving on this fast. I’m not saying you couldn’t get her back later if you chose to, but it would minimize her distress to go straight to you and skip the foster-care step, if that’s your choice.”

  Kristen sucked in a deep breath, rested her elbow on the counter and propped her head in her hand. A child would completely disrupt her life. She hadn’t even settled into her new job or home yet. How would she deal with day-care arrangements? How would she console a grieving little girl? What did she know about raising a child? What would she tell people—especially her family—about this child she’d never acknowledged to anyone but God and the father, who’d been more than happy to sign away any parental rights?

  But those were some of the very excuses she’d used nine years ago to justify abdicating her responsibility.

  Her stomach twisted into a knot.

  “Kristen?”

  “Yes. I’m still here.”

  “I’m sorry to dump this on you. I know how much of a shock it must be.”

  No kidding.

  She stood and began to pace in the tiny galley kitchen. “Look, I’ve just put in a very long day. I’m exhausted and not thinking very clearly. I need to digest this overnight. Can I call you first thing tomorrow?”

  “Of course. As we discussed before the adoption, you need to be comfortable with whatever you decide. If you don’t want Beatrice, don’t take her. In the end, that could be more damaging than having her go to foster care. Children can sense if they’re not wanted—and it’s worse if they’re not wanted by a family member. Keep her best interests at heart now, as you did then.”

  Except she hadn’t kept Beatrice’s best interests at heart back then. She’d selfishly given her own interests top priority.

  “I’ll get back to you by eight o’clock your time. And thank you for calling, Connie.”

  As they rang off, Kristen pushed the end button and set the phone on the counter, sinking back onto the stool as numbness robbed the strength from her legs.

  What on earth was she supposed to do?

  Or maybe the real question was, what in heaven was she supposed to do? Because while she might have told Clint her faith had lapsed, that wasn’t quite accurate. She’d never stopped believing in God. She’d just stopped believing she was worthy of His love.

  But He was still there. Watching over her, she hoped, as she wrestled with this unexpected opportunity to not only find redemption, but to have the chance to be part of all those special moments she’d only participated in through the photos Beatrice’s adoptive parents had passed on to her through the agency.

  Rising again, she trudged toward the bathroom, ticking off her plan for the evening. First, take a long, hot shower. Second, look through the album of photos of her daughter that she’d collected through the years. Third, drink a lot of coffee. And finally, pray very hard.

  There would be no sleep this night. She’d need every minute until she called Connie back to wrestle with her decision.

  Because second chances were a rare gift.

  And she didn’t want to blow this one by making another mistake.

  * * *

  Something was wrong.

  Clint lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in his bedroom, listening to Kristen pace.

  She’d been at it since he’d gone to bed at eleven o’clock—two long hours.

  Had things gone awry on opening day?

  Or was the reason for her restlessness more serious than work-related problems?

  The pacing continued as the minutes ticked by. One-fifteen. One-thirty. One forty-five.

  When the digital clock on his nightstand rolled to two, he threw back the covers, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and shoved his feet into his shoes. Kristen would no doubt consider such a late-night call an intrusion, but how could he lie here and listen to her obvious agitation without offering to help? If she shut the door in his face, so be it. At least he could console himself that he’d tried.

  He exited through the front door, circled the house in the chilly night air and climbed the steps toward her apartment. As he approached the landing, he could see her pacing shadow on the drawn shades. When he reached the top, the motion detector activated the light above the door.

  The shadow froze.

  He moved closer to the door. “Kristen? It’s Clint.”

  The shadow remained motionless.

  Had his voice not carried through the thick wood? Or had she chosen to ignore him?

  As he debated his next move, the shadow melted away. A few seconds later, he heard her sliding the lock open. Then she cracked the door. Her face was too dim to read, but the distinct aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted out.

  “Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night, but I heard you walking around and wondered if everything was okay.”

  “Yes. Fine. I apologize if I kept you awake.”

  She was lying. Her words were shaky, and her grip on the edge of the door was cutting off the flow of blood to her knuckles, turning them white.

  He gentled his tone. “I wasn’t expressing a complaint, but a concern.”

  “I appreciate that.” The last word broke, and she cleared her throat. “But I’m fine.”

  Get out of here, Nolan. She doesn’t want you.

  “As long as I made the trip, would you mind sharing a cup of that coffee I smell? Since I’m awake anyway.” So much for walking away. The words were out before he could stop them.

  She hesitated for a heartbeat, then pulled the door open and gestured him in.

  Without giving her a chance for second thoughts, he crossed the threshold—and got his first clear look at her.

  Gone was the polished, sophisticated, in-control concierge.

  In her place was a distraught woman dressed in an old, faded sweatsuit, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, her eyes haunted.

  It took every ounce of his willpower not to follow his instincts and pull her close for a comforting hug.

  “Do you take cream or sugar?”

  Her question registered somewhere in the back of his mind as she rounded the counter. “Black is fine.”

  She picked up the pot—too soon. The coffee was still brewing. She let out a startled yelp and tried to shove the pot back into position, but some of the steaming liquid splattered onto the back of her hand.

  At her cry of pain, he was beside her in an instant. With one hand, he removed the pot from her fingers. With the other, he leaned over and turned on the cold-water tap.

  “Put your hand under there while I get some ice.”

  Af
ter repositioning the pot, he yanked open the freezer compartment, scooped up a handful of cubes and wrapped them in the dish towel lying on the sink. He twisted the ends and pressed it against the angry red mark already appearing on her hand.

  She regarded his makeshift ice pack dully, as if she was in shock—pale, trembling and out of it.

  Clint’s pulse ratcheted up. Whatever had put her in this catatonic state had to be bad.

  Very bad.

  “Why don’t you go sit in the living room for a minute and let the ice work on that burn?”

  He started to guide her around the counter, but she held back. When he looked at her, he saw a fat tear forming on the brim of one eye. In a moment it would spill over and trail down her cheek.

  Her quick swipe told him she knew it was there, too.

  “Pour yourself a cup of coffee while I...uh... I’ll be back in a minute.”

  With that, she fled out of the kitchen, across the living room and down the hall. He heard the sound of a door closing. A tap was turned on.

  But it couldn’t muffle the sound of choked sobs, as she’d obviously hoped it would.

  What in the world was going on?

  Clint combed his fingers through his hair. What could have happened to make a strong, survivor type like Kristen crumble? The answer eluded him. But he didn’t intend to leave until he got some clarity or she was a lot calmer. Preferably both.

  He filled a mug with coffee, then walked into the living room. An open photo album on the coffee table—the only personal item in the room—caught his eye, and he walked over to it.

  Huh.

  Every single shot featured the same blond-haired little girl, age four or five, smiling into the camera. In one photo, she was sitting behind a birthday cake, the lit candles illuminating her megawatt grin. In another, she was holding a worn, obviously well-loved Raggedy Ann doll. A third featured her dressed up as Cinderella. A Halloween shot, perhaps.

  He lifted the corners of a few other pages and checked them out. Same little girl in every picture, at different ages.

  Who was she?

  And why did Kristen have all these pictures of her?

  As he puzzled over that, a hand reached into his field of vision and closed the book.

  He hadn’t even heard his tenant return.

  Praying she wouldn’t throw him out for prying into material she clearly considered private, he shifted toward her. She still had the ice pressed to the back of her hand, but now her eyes were pink and puffy, too.

  “I appreciate you coming up to check on me, but I really am fine.”

  She sounded more in control. Somehow she’d managed to pick up the pieces and put herself together again, at least for the moment. No way was she going to admit she’d been crying—or tell him who the little girl was.

  Her message was clear: go home.

  Instead, he sat on the couch.

  Fingers clenched around the ice pack, she sent him a dismayed look. “I was thinking about going to bed.”

  He took a sip of coffee, buying himself a few seconds to plan his strategy. “You know, when problems seem overwhelming, sometimes it helps to bounce them off someone.”

  “I’m not overwhelmed.”

  “You could have fooled me.” He watched her, daring her to deny it.

  She caved faster than he’d expected. “Okay, I’m dealing with a...difficult situation. But I’ll figure it out.”

  “If you don’t want to talk to me, is there someone else you can call? Your mother, brother, a friend?”

  The echo of despair in her eyes was impossible to miss. “No. I’ll handle it on my own. But I appreciate that you cared enough to stop by.” Once more, tears welled in her eyes. Once more, she brushed them away—and tried without much success to adopt a teasing tone. “I didn’t realize you took your job as a landlord so seriously.”

  “I’m not here tonight as a landlord. Why don’t you put me in the friend category?”

  “No.” She gave a jerky shake of her head, a flicker of...panic?...tightening her features. “I don’t want to make any friends. It’s easier to move on if you don’t have any ties.”

  “It’s also lonelier.”

  “I’m used to it. My job fills in the gaps.”

  She wasn’t going to share anything with him. Not tonight. But at least he’d planted the seed for confidences, let her know he was available if she wanted to talk. That was the best he could do for now.

  Draining his cup, he rose and walked toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome. If I can help in any way, though, don’t hesitate to call.”

  She trailed after him. “There is one thing.”

  He rinsed his cup, set it in the sink and swiveled toward her. “Name it.”

  “I may be gone for a few days. If that happens, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep my mail for me.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her where she was going.

  He bit the question back.

  “Sure.”

  At the door, though, he stopped and turned back. “I know you said you’d left your faith behind, but it might not hurt to have a chat with the Lord. He’s a great listener.”

  Her lips lifted in a shaky smile that held no mirth. “Believe it or not, I’ve been bending His ear for the past five hours. But thanks for the advice.”

  With a nod, he exited and pulled the door shut behind him. A few seconds later, as he heard the lock slide back into place, he was still thinking about her last admission.

  Kristen was praying.

  Given her earlier comments about her faith, that fact alone told him she was in desperate need of help.

  And as he descended the stairs, he added his voice to hers.

  Because he had a feeling whatever problem she faced, she could use all the prayers she could get.

  Chapter Eight

  Clint tightened his grip on the ax. Lifted it. Swung. It landed with a satisfying thud in the base of a half-dead spruce tree smack in the middle of the spot planned for the last bench along the interpretive trail on The Point.

  He yanked it out, then dipped his head to wipe his brow on the sleeve of his T-shirt. There were a lot of less taxing ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. He could take a walk on Agate Beach. Read the latest thriller he’d bought on his last trip to Eureka. Stop in for coffee and conversation at the Orchid. After all, the contractor who was doing the bulk of the work on the trail that led through the woods and along the edge of the headland toward the chapel had offered to clear this final niche.

  But thanks to Kristen, he needed this physical labor.

  He took another swing, trying to expel the restless energy that had kept sleep at bay since their unsettling tête-à-tête in the wee hours of Saturday morning. It had taken him a long while to fall back asleep after he’d returned to his room, but at last he’d crashed. Only the engine of her car starting at eight-fifteen had roused him. He’d vaulted out of bed just in time to see her taillights disappear down his driveway. She’d still been gone when he’d gotten home later in the day after his shift at the park, but he’d heard her come in later.

  Early this morning, he’d again heard her car start. And the note she’d taped to the front door, confirming she’d left for a few days, had been woefully lacking in details. All he’d been able to conclude from the half gallon of milk she’d deposited beside his door and her request that he fill the bowl on her landing once a day was that she’d adopted the stray kitten he’d seen hanging around the place for the past week or two.

  But the biggest question of all had been left unanswered.

  Why would a dedicated employee walk away from the inn on opening weekend? A holiday weekend, to boot.

  Frustrated, he continued to whack at the tree trunk as needles r
ained down on him. Though he tried to shake them off, they stuck to his shirt, refusing to relinquish their hold.

  Sort of like thoughts of Kristen.

  As he lifted the ax again, his cell began to vibrate. He stopped midswing to grab it out of his pocket, his pulse accelerating. Maybe it was her. Maybe she’d decided to share a few more details about the crisis that had triggered her unexpected trip.

  A quick check of the LED display dashed those hopes, however. But it was a welcome call nonetheless.

  He pressed the talk button and put the phone to his ear, turning to gaze at the distant vista of the sea. It was calm and placid on this clear day, in direct contrast to his emotions.

  “Hi, Dad.” He rested the head of the ax on the ground and propped a shoulder against the tree trunk. “How are things?”

  “Can’t complain. Remember how I was afraid I’d be bored after I retired last year?” A snort came over the line. “What a laugh. Those grandkids keep me on the go. I spent the whole afternoon at the beach with them yesterday. Slept like a log last night.”

  Clint smiled as he pictured his sister’s children. Last time he’d seen them, six-year-old Jeremy had been into Spider-Man and eight-year-old Lauren had been captivated by fairy-tale princesses. Of course, the image in his mind was almost a year old, and kids changed fast at that age.

  “I’ll be glad to see you all when you come out in July.”

  “We’ll be glad to see you, too. The kids were disappointed you didn’t visit us for Christmas.”

  His dad had been, too. He’d heard it in the man’s voice when he’d called last December to send his regrets. But to his father’s credit, the older man had never criticized any of his choices.

  Even the bad ones.

  “I may come back this year.”

  “We’d all like that. And maybe it’s time.” A charged moment of silence put Clint on alert. “People move on, you know. Things change.”

  After thirty-four years, he’d learned to recognize the subtle shifts in his father’s inflection. His dad had news. “Anything in particular?”