by Irene Hannon
Yet he was trying.
Hard.
While he’d played down his sacrifices in the article, it was clear he’d gone above and beyond to honor the promise he’d made to his brother, literally changing his life to do what he thought was best for his niece.
He’d even bought a dog that had become the bane of his existence.
The man was almost too good to be true.
Jeannette rose and wandered down one of the paths between the beds of lavender. The plants were flourishing under her tender loving care—an example of all that could be accomplished with singular devotion.
But she’d voluntarily given up her old life to relocate here and start over, making a choice she believed was in her own best interest.
Logan had upended his life for someone else’s best interest.
His unselfishness was humbling—and did nothing to assuage the guilt that had been plaguing her since she’d read the appeal in the church bulletin two days ago for an English teacher for the Shabos.
If Logan could change his entire life for one little girl, how could she not offer to spend a few hours a week helping a family who’d suffered unimaginable trauma?
Halting in the middle of the garden, she took a steadying breath and pulled out her cell.
Forty-eight hours had passed since she’d read the appeal in the bulletin for a tutor. If no one had yet stepped forward, she had to fill that role.
Reverend Baker answered on the second ring, and once they exchanged a few pleasantries, she made her offer, giving him a quick overview of her credentials.
After she finished, the line was silent.
“Reverend Baker?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here. I was just stunned for a moment. I had no idea someone with your background and experience was in our midst. I always think of you as the lavender lady.”
“That’s what I am now—and I had no plans to revisit my former life. But I understand the urgency of the situation. Unless you’ve already filled the job?”
“Not that I know of, but I haven’t spoken with Father Murphy since Sunday. Let me give him a call and one of us will get back to you ASAP.”
“No hurry on my end.”
“But a big one on ours. It must be dreadful to live in a place where you can’t communicate with the locals. Rectifying that situation is our top priority. Thank you, my dear, for your willingness to take this on. We’ll be back in touch—and God bless you.”
The line went dead, and Jeannette slid the cell back in her pocket as she headed for her workshop. She had plenty to do to get ready for the first farmer’s market on Friday, and sitting around thinking about her neighbor’s sacrifices or the Shabos’ plight wasn’t productive.
Several minutes later, as she set to work in the small structure that was imbued with the soothing scent of lavender, Father Murphy’s name popped up on the screen of her vibrating phone.
Reverend Baker had been serious about an ASAP response.
Either they’d already found someone, or the padre was anxious to sign her up before she changed her mind.
Based on the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, it was the latter.
His greeting confirmed that. “Jeannette! I just spoke with Reverend Baker. You are a godsend—and I mean that literally. I was beside myself trying to figure out where to find an English teacher when neither of our bulletins produced any volunteers. I was getting ready to widen the plea to neighboring parishes.”
“I’m glad I could help—but please understand, I haven’t done this sort of work in more than four years.”
“I’m confident your skills will come back once you dive in—like riding a bicycle. How soon can you begin?”
“Uh . . . later this week?” It would take her at least that long to organize a lesson plan—and psych herself up for the job.
“Wonderful! I’ll alert the Shabos. I know Susan will be happy to translate as you work out the details of a schedule. Let me give you her number, and I’ll pass yours on to her. Do you have a pen handy?”
“Yes.” She crossed to the counter, her pulse accelerating. This was happening much too fast. “Ready.” Or not.
He recited the number, and she jotted it down. “If you incur any expense, be sure to let us know. We have a fund for reimbursements.”
“There isn’t usually much cost involved with tutoring.”
“Well, your contribution of time and talent is sufficient. We don’t expect you to dip into your personal funds too.”
“If I incur any major expense, I’ll let you know.”
“Excellent. And I want you to know I’ll be saying a special prayer for you at all my Masses this week and asking God to bless your work.”
“I appreciate that.”
More than he’d ever know.
Because as they said their good-byes and the full impact of what she’d agreed to do sank in, a major case of the shakes assailed her.
For a woman who’d vowed to live a solitary life, this was a huge leap.
And a dangerous one.
Hard as she might try to keep the tutoring gig impersonal, the Shabos could end up infiltrating her heart—unless she stayed strong.
Straightening her spine, she fisted her hands.
She could manage this.
All she had to do was be pleasant and professional, help the family learn enough English to get by, and walk away once the job was over.
But in the meantime, she would take every single prayer Father Murphy was willing to say for her.
And add a few of her own.
Molly was crying.
Again.
Stomach twisting, Logan stared at the dark ceiling as her muffled sobs seeped through the wall between their bedrooms, then squinted at the digital clock on his nightstand.
Midnight.
He took a long, slow breath.
So much for the corner he’d thought they’d turned after the fiasco at the preschool yesterday. Even though she’d clammed up again on the ride home, she’d stuck close to him for the remainder of the day. She’d even let him hold her hand while he read her a bedtime story.
Today? Back to square one.
With him at least.
But the friendship she and Toby had forged continued to blossom.
Thanks to her admission yesterday at the preschool, however, he had a better grasp of why she was standoffish.
Fear could be a strong motivator.
And who wouldn’t be afraid after all the people you’d loved and trusted to take care of you disappeared? How could you have any confidence it wouldn’t happen again?
He totally got that.
Because the truth of the matter was, it could—not that he intended to leave the earthly realm behind anytime soon, but neither had his mom.
So how could he convince Molly it was okay to respond to his love and affection? To let herself love and trust again?
Another strangled sob ripped at his gut, and he swung his sweatpants-clad legs to the floor.
Enough.
He couldn’t lie here and listen to her misery without taking some action, even if she was unreceptive.
Pulling on the T-shirt he’d tossed onto his dresser last night, he padded into the hall.
Stopped.
What was he going to do once he entered her room? Nothing he’d tried so far to reach her had worked. Why should tonight be any different?
But if he didn’t break through soon, he was going to have to get serious about setting up some counseling for her.
Rubbing his damp palms together, he closed his eyes.
Lord, I know I haven’t been your most diligent disciple these past few years, and prayer hasn’t been high on my priority list, but if you could help me out here, I’d appreciate it. I can’t do this on my own. Please show me how to reach Molly, and give me words that will comfort her.
Flexing his fingers, he continued to her room and paused again.
Her sobs had stopped, but the dim light spilling i
n from the hall confirmed she hadn’t fallen asleep. Though her eyes were closed, the sheet was clenched in her fingers, her body was rigid, and her respiration was too rapid for slumber.
She’d sensed his presence and was trying to hold herself still, hoping he’d go away, as he had last night.
Not happening.
If neither of them were going to sleep, they might as well stay awake together.
He crossed to her bed and settled on the edge beside her. Smoothed back the hair from her damp cheeks. “It’s okay to be sad about Nana, sweetie.” He tried for a soothing, gentle tone. “And it’s okay to be scared about what could happen next. I’m sad and scared sometimes too.”
She didn’t speak, but a shuddering sigh quivered through her—and her eyelids flickered open.
He waited in silence, stroking her forehead, wrapping the fingers of his other hand around the tiny fist clamped on the bunched sheet.
Several minutes ticked by, the faint clatter of Toby’s paws on the kitchen tile the only sound in the house as the pup did one of his nocturnal circuits.
Slowly, in tiny increments, Molly’s body began to relax and her breathing evened out.
She was drifting off to sleep.
Logan waited a few minutes, then started to rise.
Instantly she groped for his hand, and her eyelids fluttered open. “Don’t go.”
Her request was sleep-garbled, more instinctive than intentional, but pressure built in his throat anyway.
All these months, he’d been waiting for her to say something—anything—to suggest she wanted him in her life.
This plea may have been subliminal—but he’d take it. The subconscious was often a truer barometer of emotions than conscious behavior.
From a practical standpoint, though, he couldn’t sit up all night.
He eyed the twin bed. It wasn’t designed to accommodate his large frame—but Molly took up only a small part of it, and he could cope with cramped quarters for what was left of this night.
“Can I lay next to you, sweetie? It’s kind of lonely in my room.”
“’Kay.” She scooted over.
Another step forward.
If she let him stay with her tonight, maybe she’d be willing to sit on his lap tomorrow—or initiate some sort of physical affection.
After the past four tense months, any signs of encouragement were welcome.
He released her hand, circled around to the other side of the bed, and climbed in next to her. After a few moments, she scooted a tad closer to him. Not touching, but near enough that he could feel the tiny dent she made in the bed.
Within ten minutes, she was sound asleep.
He wasn’t as lucky.
Half an hour later, he was still staring at the dark ceiling. Still trying to determine where to go from here.
Especially if their relationship reverted to the status quo once the sun rose on a new day.
What to do should that happen?
He was clueless.
All he knew with absolute certainty was that he was in over his head—and until he and Molly turned a definite corner, he wouldn’t be able to shake the fear that he was sinking fast.
9
He was a miner, not a fisherman.
But when you were brand new in a place that had no phosphate rock to excavate, you took whatever job was offered—at least until you had a chance to get the lay of the land and decide what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.
Such as it was.
Shoulders sagging, Thomma shoved his hands in his pockets as he trod down Dockside Drive. Fortunately, the wharf wasn’t far from their apartment, and he’d allowed plenty of time for the walk.
However, if all went well with the new tutor Father Murphy had lined up, he might soon be ready to take his driver’s test and put the car the town had given them to use.
The sweet smell of cinnamon tickled his nose, and Thomma slowed to peer into the window of a shop with a striped awning.
It didn’t take him long to spot the large tray of buns dripping with icing that was sitting on the counter.
This must be the bakery that had supplied those samples at the welcome party Saturday night.
Two customers were waiting in line as the clerk slid a spatula under one of the rolls and deposited it into a box.
His taste buds began to tingle.
If he had the money . . . and knew the language . . . and could spare a few minutes . . . he’d buy himself one of those. The small taste he’d had Saturday night had been delicious.
But the bread and hummus and cheese he’d had for breakfast was sufficient. Lingering here was a waste of . . .
“Good morning, my friend.”
He turned.
The guy with the gray ponytail who’d provided some of the food on Saturday smiled at him.
“Hello.” A recent addition to his vocabulary, courtesy of his mother.
“Tempting, isn’t it?” The man indicated the bakery.
Thomma furrowed his brow.
Strange.
The man was speaking English, but he got the gist of the question.
“Yes.” That about used up his repertoire of English words.
“Wait here.” The man held up one finger, pointed to the sidewalk, and joined the line inside.
The sounds were gibberish—but again, he understood the message.
A minute passed. Two. Thomma scanned the wharf across the street. He had to get going. Being late the first day on the job would make a bad impression—and it could take a while to connect with the man who owned the fishing boat that was now his place of employment.
“There’s always a line at Sweet Dreams in the morning.” The taco guy was back, holding out a white box. “Good luck—and enjoy that.” He crossed his fingers and motioned toward the wharf.
Again, Thomma got the gist of what the man had said.
Must be due to the body language his mother put such stock in.
“Thank you”—he struggled to remember the man’s name—“Charley.”
The guy tipped his duck-bedecked cap and continued toward the stand at the end of the wharf.
Box in hand, Thomma crossed the street and gave the waterfront a sweep. Susan had said Steven Roark would be watching for him—but they’d never met, and with all the activity down here at this hour of the morning, they could—
“Thomma?”
He swiveled around.
A tall, thirtysomething man with dark brown hair had come up behind him, silent as a ghost.
“Yes.”
The guy gave him a once-over, then stuck out his hand and confirmed his identity, his grip firm. “Aftark?” He tapped the box.
“No.” This wasn’t his breakfast. He pointed toward the taco truck and hoped this man would understand it had been a gift. “Charley.”
One side of his boss’s mouth rose a fraction as he glanced that direction before striding down the wharf. “Tueal maei.”
Following the broad-shouldered man’s instruction, Thomma fell in behind him. His boss didn’t seem like he’d be much of a talker, even if his Arabic was fluent rather than spotty—which was fine. Still, it was helpful he knew a few words.
But where had he picked them up?
Given the difficulty Susan said Father Murphy had encountered trying to find someone to translate for them, not many Americans knew his native language.
Could this man have spent time in the Middle East?
As a soldier, perhaps?
Thomma sized up Roark’s confident stride.
Possible.
He had a military bearing and demeanor—and he radiated assertiveness, confidence, and decisiveness. His eyes were sharp too. Intense and discerning.
Whatever his story, Thomma should be grateful he’d been willing to give an inexperienced stranger a job—as his mother had reminded him this morning. The sole required skill, according to Father Murphy, had been the ability to swim.
Roark stopped beside a slip wher
e a boat about twenty-five feet long was moored. With one lithe movement, he jumped aboard.
That was not a skill Thomma possessed.
As if sensing his hesitation, Roark turned back and held out his hand for the box.
Thomma passed it over. With two hands, he should be able to board without falling on his face.
He managed the maneuver, if not with grace, at least with competence. Once he was on deck, the man handed him the box, moved to the front of the boat, and picked up a large thermos.
Now what?
He stayed where he was, letting his equilibrium adjust to the gentle rocking motion of the craft. It would take some getting used to, but as far as he knew he didn’t have an issue with motion sickness—and the slight undulation wasn’t hurting his appetite.
Should he go ahead and eat the cinnamon roll that had jump-started his salivary glands, or wait until—
Roark pivoted around and closed the distance between them, a jacket thrown over his arm, a travel mug in each hand. He extended one.
As he took it, Thomma surveyed the dark brew. If this was anything like the weak coffee they’d served at the party Saturday night, he might not be able to stomach it.
Roark sipped from his mug, watching him.
There was only one polite response to the hospitable gesture.
Bracing, he took a tentative swallow.
Blinked.
Now this was coffee—thick, strong, and straight, with a hint of cardamom.
It was a taste of home.
This fisherman’s usual drink—or a special treat for his new employee?
Before he could try to pose that question in sign language, Roark handed him the lined, waterproof jacket that was draped over his arm.
The man thought he needed a heavier coat?
Why, on such a warm, sunny day?
But he took it.
“Thank you.”
The smell of cinnamon wafted up to him from the box, and he set down the coffee and coat. Balancing the treat in one hand, he made a motion of cutting it in half.
Roark hesitated—but after a moment he walked to the back of the boat again, flipped up the lid of a storage compartment, and returned with a knife and some paper napkins.
Thomma cut Charley’s gift in half and passed a portion to the man across from him.
Roark took it and lifted his mug. “Marhabaan bikum fi ’amrika.”
