Driftwood Bay

by Irene Hannon

  She stared after him.

  Why had he mentioned the shortbread so close on the heels of Marci’s request that she provide her trademark tea pastry for the Taste of Hope Harbor table at the welcome party?

  “Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong.”

  Turning her back on his retreating figure, she continued toward her car.

  This was nuts.

  Yes, Charley was an insightful man.

  Yes, he’d earned his reputation as the town sage.

  Yes, his comments were always thought-provoking and spot-on.

  But to think his remarks had been veiled advice about the immigrant family was downright silly.

  Still . . . no matter Charley’s intent, as she pressed the autolock button and picked up her pace, her conscience began prickling again.

  Maybe baking some shortbread for the gathering wasn’t enough.

  Maybe she ought to be there in person.

  After all, if everyone in town dropped off their contributions and disappeared, there would be no one on hand to greet the new arrivals.

  So why not show up at the last minute? She could introduce herself to the family, welcome them, and slip out before anyone cornered her—as Marci had today—and tried to extend the hand of friendship.

  A very real possibility if she lingered, given the warmth of everyone she’d encountered in town.

  And therein lay the problem.

  She crossed Dockside Drive and slid behind the wheel.

  It would be easy to establish ties in Hope Harbor, make friends, get involved in other people’s lives.

  But that would require opening her heart and letting herself care.

  In other words, she’d have to take a risk.

  And she wasn’t anywhere close to making that leap yet.

  Nor might she ever be.

  After setting the bag of tacos on the passenger seat, she took one last look at the wharf as she started the engine.

  The scene was tranquil and unchanging, peaceful and predictable.

  A fair description of her life these days.

  And she intended to keep it that way as long as—

  A familiar yipping intruded on her thoughts, and she twisted her head toward the sidewalk.

  Her new neighbor was tying the leash for his dog to the bike stand in front of Sweet Dreams bakery a few doors down—and attempting to shush the animal, based on his body language. The little girl was there too, clutching the same tattered blanket.

  Finally the doctor gave up trying to silence the dog, took the child’s hand, and disappeared inside.

  The beagle began to yowl, ruining the usual wharfside serenity.

  She was out of here.

  Jeannette put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, jacking up the volume on the classical radio station to drown out the dog’s faint wails.

  At the corner, she checked her rearview mirror as she hung a right.

  The pup was straining at the leash—and loudly communicating his displeasure at being abandoned, based on his baying posture.

  Yet another disturbing note in her day.

  It was time to go home, close herself up in her workshop, and assemble some lavender sachets to supplement her stock for the opening day of the farmer’s market.

  And hope the relaxing scent and quiet ambiance of the farm would soothe her sudden, inexplicable apprehension that the quiet, solitary oasis she’d created in Hope Harbor was about to be disrupted.

  3

  This was a miracle.

  Mariam Shabo smoothed out the pristine comforter on the twin bed she’d just slept in. Fingered the edge of the crisp sheet. Stroked the soft pillow.

  She had a clean, safe place to live. There was a plentiful supply of food in the kitchen. They had a toilet. Running water. Electricity.

  Even their pastor, Father Karam—who’d always used the term miracle sparingly—would have to agree it was accurate in this case.

  Or he would have, if he was still alive.

  A wave of sadness engulfed her, knotting her stomach and sucking the air from her lungs.

  Despite all the months that had passed, it was hard to believe he and dozens of others had been buried beneath the rubble on that horrible Sunday morning at the church she’d attended for all of her fifty-three years.

  A church that was only a distant memory now, like the life she’d once known—when being a Christian in Syria had been tolerated.

  When she and Yesoph had shared laughter-filled dinners every night with their two young sons while the aroma of her grilled kufta kebabs, the lamb redolent with garlic, and her dawood basha, the meatballs tender in her secret tomato-herb sauce, whetted everyone’s appetite.

  When bombs hadn’t been a constant threat and they could attend church without fear.

  Now all that was gone.

  A sob rose in her throat, but she curled her fingers until her nails dug into her palms, choking back the tears.

  She must not cry.

  Despite all she’d lost, God had blessed her and Thomma and Elisa, plucking them from a place of despair and destruction and giving them a new life in a town with a name that held such promise.

  Hope Harbor.

  How strange—and providential—was that?

  “Teta?”

  At the soft summons from her granddaughter, she turned toward the four-and-a-half-year-old.

  Gone was the grimy waif in tattered clothing who’d shared the cramped living space at the refugee camp with her grandmother and father.

  Now, Elisa’s dark auburn hair was sectioned into two short ponytails on either side of her head, and her bangs were combed. The blue jeans she wore were brand new, as was the sweatshirt that featured two seagulls and the words “I ♥ Hope Harbor.” Clean socks and new shoes—the laces untied—completed her outfit.

  Mariam’s throat tightened again. Such a sweet, beautiful child—and her future had taken a dramatic turn for the better with their arrival in Hope Harbor yesterday.

  Yet her expression remained solemn.

  Perhaps it always would.

  The specifics of her trauma might fade as the years passed, but the effects would last a lifetime.

  A wave of fresh grief pummeled Mariam.

  There was nothing she could do to erase Elisa’s bad memories—except pray the blessing of this second chance in a safe place would heal all of them.

  She called up a smile for her granddaughter. “Do you need some help with your shoes?”

  “Ee.”

  “No. English.” They were in America now, and it was important to use the native language as much as possible—even if Thomma had yet to show any interest in learning the simple words and phrases she’d picked up in the refugee camp and taught her granddaughter.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Come.” She patted the other twin bed in the room they shared, the comforter on this one decorated with butterflies and fanciful flower fairies designed to appeal to a little girl.

  The kind people of Hope Harbor had gone out of their way to make her small family feel welcome.

  Another blessing.

  Elisa climbed up and traced the outline of a flower on the quilted fabric with her finger. “Jamila.”

  “Pretty.”

  The child repeated the word.

  “Yes. Is pretty.” She needed to learn more English herself, but until she did, the bulk of her communicating would have to be done in Arabic. She switched to her native language. “Where is your father?” She tied one of Elisa’s shoes.

  “In his room.”

  “Is he up?”

  “I don’t know. The door is shut.”

  Mariam frowned.

  Perhaps Thomma had had difficulty sleeping his first night in the apartment they now called home and was tired . . . or wasn’t feeling well, after their long journey through multiple time zones . . . or was writing in the journal he’d begun keeping after they’d left their home for the refugee camp.

  Or perhaps he was
in a bad humor, as usual, and was shutting them out. Again.

  She lifted her chin.

  That was no longer acceptable.

  All these months, she’d given him space to work through his grief. The losses he’d endured—especially a wife and young son—would bring any man to his knees, and her heart ached for him.

  But he wasn’t the only one grieving—and somehow, despite their sorrow, they had to accept their new reality and move on. God had spared the three of them and given them the gift of this new life, and they needed to lean on him . . . and each other.

  A lesson her son had yet to learn.

  Mariam finished tying Elisa’s shoes and stood. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get your father, then we’ll have breakfast.” She pulled a picture book off a shelf filled with toys and stuffed animals and handed it to her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She closed the door behind her as she exited, crossed the hall to the other bedroom, and knocked.

  No answer.

  “Thomma—are you up?”

  Silence.

  She twisted the knob and walked in.

  Her son was sitting on the side of the bed, still in his underwear, forearms on thighs, hands clasped, head bent.

  He didn’t look up as she entered.

  She shut the door behind her. “It’s morning. We have to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He never was.

  She scanned the thin frame of her once robust son, pressure building behind her eyes. The meager rations they’d subsisted on in the months following the bombing weren’t the main reason for his dramatic weight loss.

  Food didn’t interest him anymore.

  Nor did living.

  In fact, there were days she feared he’d . . .

  No!

  She crushed the insidious thought that kept her awake more nights than she could count.

  After all they’d survived, Thomma was not going to give up.

  She wouldn’t let him.

  God, help me console and encourage him. Show me how to reach him. Please help him find new meaning and hope.

  It was the same prayer she uttered every day.

  So far, it hadn’t had any effect—but perhaps here, in this small seaside town so far from everything they had known, her son’s heart would begin to heal.

  “You have to eat.” She walked over to him.

  “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

  “Your daughter is.” If she had to use Elisa to break through his shell of grief, she would.

  “The kitchen is stocked. You can feed her.”

  “You’re her father.”

  “You’re her grandmother.”

  “She needs you, Thomma.”

  “She has you. That is enough.”

  “No, it is not. A grandmother is not a father.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Letting out a slow breath, she lowered herself to the bed beside him. “We have all had more than our share of tragedy, my son. But Elisa has her whole life ahead of her. You and I must work together to give her the opportunity to be all that God wants her to be.”

  “God.” He nearly spat out the Almighty’s name, and a flash of fury kindled in his dull eyes. “Where was God when our church was bombed? Why did he take all the rest and leave us?”

  It was a question without an answer.

  “I don’t know—but we must trust there is a reason.”

  He shot to his feet and began to pace in the small space. “Trust? You want me to trust a God who would allow terrorists to kill my wife and son and brother and father? What kind of loving deity would permit such tragedy?”

  “I can’t see into the mind of God, Thomma.” The chronic knot in her stomach tightened. “But we cannot lose our faith along with everything else.”

  “I left my faith in our bombed-out church in Syria.” Bitterness scored his defiant declaration.

  Mariam’s heart sank. He’d never before admitted what she’d long suspected.

  “Whatever your personal feelings about God, you owe your daughter a fresh start.”

  “You can give her that as well as I can.”

  “No, I can’t. No one can take the place of a father. You are grieving your wife, but she is grieving her mother—and she is also grieving you. If you noticed her, you would see how she watches you.” Mariam swallowed, struggling to control her emotions. “She doesn’t understand your distance. She yearns for your love and care, but you ignore her. It’s as if you are lost to her too.”

  He stopped pacing and turned toward her, his face awash with anguish. “I have no love left to give. My heart is numb.”

  “I too am numb—but for Elisa’s sake, we must try to carry on and create a home for her here.”

  “This will never be home, ’Ami.” Weariness and dejection weighed down his words.

  “Home isn’t a place. It’s people. And our family is here now.”

  He gave her an uncomprehending stare. “How can you move on so easily after everything we’ve been through?”

  An ember of anger sparked to life deep within her. “You think this is easy for me? Nothing about starting over in a new country is easy for anyone. But no matter how much we wish it, our homeland is not the place we once loved. Nor will it ever be again. And we cannot bring back the people we have lost.” Her voice broke, and tears blurred her vision.

  “Ah, ’Ami.” Contrition softened his features as he crossed to her and grasped her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know how much you must miss our old life. And I appreciate all you’ve done to care for me and Elisa these past months. I wish I was as strong as you are.”

  “Strength comes from faith—and from believing that tomorrow can be better than today.” She cupped his cheeks in her hands, as she’d done when he was a young boy in need of consoling. “We must take this day by day and be grateful we have a chance to create a new life. Most of the people we left behind in that camp will never have this opportunity.”

  “I know.” His face crumpled, and he swallowed. “But I can’t help wishing everything was the way it used to be.”

  “I share that wish. But dwelling on the past is futile. Our future is here—and we must make it the best it can be.” The doorbell chimed, and she swiped her fingers under her damp lashes. “That will be Susan. I don’t know what we would have done if Father Murphy hadn’t arranged for her to meet us at the airport yesterday. We would have been lost without someone who speaks Arabic.”

  “Why is she back?”

  “She promised to show us how everything in this apartment works and to answer our questions. You will come out and speak with her?”

  After a moment, he nodded.

  “We’ll start with the kitchen while you dress. I can explain whatever you miss later.”

  Without waiting for a response, Mariam opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  Elisa was hovering on the threshold of their bedroom. “The bell ringed.”

  “Yes, I heard it. It’s the lady who met us at the airport yesterday. Your father will be out in a few minutes.”

  Her granddaughter glanced at the bedroom door, trepidation etched on her features. “Is he mad?”

  “No. Just sad. He misses our country.”

  “I don’t.” Elisa clutched the Raggedy Ann doll that had been waiting on her new bed last night, her expression fierce. “It was scary. Here is better.” She hugged the doll tighter, and some of her defiance faded. “Papa won’t go back and leave us, will he?”

  Mariam bent down and drew her into a comforting hug. “No. This is our home now.”

  “For always?”

  “Yes.”

  Whether Thomma would come to accept that remained to be seen.

  But for his sake as well as theirs, she prayed her son would soon recognize and embrace all the blessings Hope Harbor had to offer.

  Logan double-checked the cooking temperature on the package of refrigerated co
okie dough and set the oven to 350 degrees.

  These weren’t going to be anywhere near as tasty as his mom’s homemade version that Molly had loved, but it was the best he could do for a special treat on this gloomy, gray Friday.

  “You want to help me put these on the cookie sheet?” He opened the tube of dough and pulled a knife out of the drawer. “They’re chocolate chip.”

  She cocked her head and studied the package as she tore the crust off the last bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “They don’t look like Nana’s.”

  No kidding.

  “We might like them, though.” He tried for an upbeat tone. “Want to help?”

  She shrugged.

  He took that for a yes as she finished her sandwich and pushed aside the plate with the crust remnants.

  After skimming the directions, he began cutting the dough into slices. “Just lay these on the sheet and leave some space between them.”

  “Nana used a bowl and a spoon.”

  “This is faster. Here you go.” He passed over a medallion of the sticky dough.

  They worked in silence until they’d filled the pristine sheet—a gift from his mom, along with his favorite cookie recipe, when he’d taken the job in San Francisco.

  Like he’d ever had a spare minute to bake anything from scratch.

  Toby watched the proceedings with interest, tail wagging as he bounced around, happy yips filling the kitchen.

  A common reaction to the sight of food—or to anything that caught his attention, for that matter.

  Logan heaved a sigh as he slid the pan in the oven. If he didn’t get the pup’s barking under control soon, he was going to lose his sanity.

  Too bad he hadn’t read the fine print before choosing a breed. If the information he’d found the other night on Google was accurate, beagles were a wonderful family dog and good with children—but they tended to be very vocal.

  He set the timer for twelve minutes and wiped down the table.

  Maybe the one-year-old dog’s previous owner had gotten fed up with the barking too, and that was the reason he’d sold the pooch—not because his new apartment didn’t allow pets, as he’d claimed.

  Didn’t matter.