by Irene Hannon
His boss wasn’t the first person to welcome him to America.
But for some reason, hearing the words from this man who’d given a stranger a job . . . holding the gift of a warm cinnamon roll in his hands . . . picturing Elisa sleeping safely in her bed, thanks to the generous people from the two churches in this town . . . brought him a measure of peace that had long been absent from his life.
And as he drank his coffee under the brilliant blue sky on this May morning . . . as he inhaled the salt-laced air . . . a tiny flicker ignited in his heart.
It felt a lot like hope.
Which was dangerous.
After everything they’d been through, it was too soon to lower his guard. To allow himself to believe their troubles were over. Healing would be a long process—and there would surely be many struggles ahead.
Yet the tiny flame continued to burn, despite his efforts to extinguish it.
He focused on the horizon, where the pink glow of morning sky met the indigo hue of the sea, and took a long, slow breath.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . his mother was right.
Perhaps in time the hurt would diminish and he would appreciate the second chance the three of them had been given.
Right now, that seemed like a remote possibility—and he wasn’t going to count on it. His grief was too raw, his loss too fresh.
But if he was meant to thrive in this new country of his, where better for that to happen than in a town whose first name was hope?
This was going to be a challenge.
Jeannette studied her three pupils seated around the kitchen table in the Shabos’ apartment.
Mariam was leaning forward, face animated, hands clasped on the polished oak in front of her.
Thomma was slouched in his chair, eyes hooded, shoulders hunched forward.
Elisa was biting her lower lip and holding tight to a Raggedy Ann doll.
The age difference among her students was significant—as was their interest level.
In hindsight, she should have asked Susan to linger at this first lesson instead of assuring the translator she’d be fine. With just forty-eight hours of preparation, she felt as uncertain as she had during her early days of student teaching.
What if Father Murphy was wrong?
What if this wasn’t like riding a bicycle?
But she was here, and she had to give it her best shot.
Propping up the corners of her mouth, she began with the little girl. “Elisa.” She touched the child’s arm, then pointed to herself. “Jeannette.” She repeated her name and motioned for Elisa to say it.
The girl dipped her chin.
Mariam spoke in Arabic. Elisa peeked at her grandmother as the woman repeated Jeannette’s name before reverting to their native language.
Gaze downcast, Elisa played with the ruffle on Raggedy Ann’s white apron. “Jeannette.”
“Good.” Jeannette touched the girl’s hand and clapped. “Thomma?”
He sighed and said her name.
Not the most promising start—but even if she only managed to teach them some basic language skills, they’d be better off than they were now.
She pulled out her old laptop. Thank heaven the apartment had Wi-Fi.
After booting it up, she opened the document she’d prepared for them containing links to photos and audio clips with the pronunciation of some common words and phrases that would help them cope with their new life.
Their first session ran for an hour. Elisa lasted longer than she’d expected, but halfway through the youngster’s eyes began to glaze. Mariam remained fully engaged until the end, and Thomma appeared to be paying attention despite his reserve.
As she began to wrap up, Jeannette was as exhausted as if she’d spent an entire day on her feet teaching a roomful of rambunctious ten-year-olds.
To signal the end of the session, she closed the lid of the laptop halfway.
Mariam smiled and touched her arm. “Thank you. Good Thursday.”
So the woman had retained part of today’s lesson from the calendar she’d gone over with them.
Jeannette nodded her approval and motioned for Mariam and Thomma to observe how to shut down the laptop. She repeated the start-up and shutdown, and signaled for Thomma to try.
For the first time, he appeared to be completely engaged.
It didn’t take him long to master the procedure—suggesting he’d had some exposure to computers.
Jeannette showed him how to open the document she’d prepared with the links to photos and pronunciation clips. “Ealayk mumarasa.”
Surprise registered on their faces—as if they hadn’t expected her to make the effort to learn a phrase in their language.
Truth be told, she wasn’t certain she’d mastered the pronunciation, but they seemed to understand her request that they practice.
“Okay.” Mariam rested her fingers on the computer. “Monday? English?”
“Yes.”
She would, indeed, be back on Monday. The three one-hour sessions a week she’d committed to was the bare minimum for a family who could benefit from much more intensive language training.
Digging deeper in her satchel, she pulled out the information she’d gotten from the license bureau. Thankfully, an Arabic version of the written test for a driver’s license was available in Oregon, along with some basic study aids. The sooner Thomma could get a license, the sooner the family could stop relying on others for transport.
She handed them to Elisa’s father.
He skimmed the heading, flipped through the pages, and gave her a small smile. His first since she’d arrived. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She rose, tucked her purse under her arm, and walked toward the door.
Mariam followed her and pulled it open. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” She gave the woman’s arm a quick, encouraging squeeze and exited.
Clouds had rolled in during their session, and she picked up her pace as she walked toward her car. The smell of rain was in the air, and she’d rather be safely tucked back in at the farm than inching home through a downpour.
But as she drove past Charley’s and the smell of his tacos drifted into the car, she eased back on the gas pedal.
Why not grab an order instead of cooking dinner? Tired as she was from her first session with the Shabos, she ought to treat herself.
Without further deliberation, she swung into an open parking spot and jogged toward the stand. For once there was no line.
“Hi, Jeannette. I was about to close. I think we’re in for some weather.”
“I agree. Is it too late to place an order?”
“Never. If you catch me with the window up, I’m cooking.” He set about preparing the tacos in his usual unhurried but efficient manner. “How’s everything?”
“Okay, I guess.”
He regarded her over his shoulder. “That sounds a mite tentative.”
“I feel a mite tentative.”
“How so?”
She frowned. Why had she admitted that? She never talked to anyone about personal subjects.
“Um . . . my routine’s been a bit disrupted.” True—and generic enough not to offer any real insights about the reasons for her unsettled mental state.
“Change can be unnerving, no question about it.” He pulled an avocado out of the cooler and began slicing it. “On the flip side, it can also be invigorating.”
“And uncomfortable.” She clamped her lips together the instant the admission slipped past them.
Where had that come from?
If she wanted to keep her private business to herself, she should shut up.
“I hear you. Reminds me of how I felt many years ago, when I decided to leave my small village in Mexico and my grandmother, who’d raised me. She was all I had.”
“If you had reservations, why didn’t you stay?”
“Because of what she said one night while we were sitting outside, looking at the stars.”
<
br /> When he didn’t elaborate, Jeannette edged closer to the window. “Are you going to tell me the rest of that story?”
“Sure.” He grinned, flipped the fish, and laid out the tortillas. “She’d been encouraging me to spread my wings for months, and she brought up the subject again that night. I finally told her how I felt. She took my hand and said, ‘Life is a risk, mi cielo. Don’t let fear stop you from being everything God intended you to be. Go. Learn. Live. Love. What you and I share won’t change with geography. It will always shine as bright as these stars—even after I’m gone.’”
Pressure built in Jeannette’s throat, and she struggled to find her voice. “That’s a beautiful thought.”
“Also true. My abuela was a wise woman.”
“So you left and launched a new life.”
“Yes—and it’s been an incredible journey filled with remarkable people who’ve touched my heart.” He began assembling the tacos. “I’m sure you understand. You traveled far from your home and began a new life too.”
But for very different reasons.
Charley had left his happy home in Mexico reluctantly, in search of his destiny.
She’d run away from the memories of a life that was gone, seeking to distance herself from people—not establish new relationships.
Her vision misted and she dipped her head to search in her purse for her wallet—and hide her emotions. “I do enjoy the lavender farm.”
“As you should. It’s a lovely, peaceful spot, and you’ve done a remarkable job with the tearoom. Creating a place of beauty and refreshment, along with products that feed the soul as well as the body, is a worthy occupation.” He finished wrapping the tacos in paper and slid them into a bag. “Speaking of the farm—have you had a chance to get to know your new neighbors yet?”
Another subject she didn’t care to discuss.
“Yes—thanks to their dog.”
“Ah.” Charley chuckled. “Toby can be a rascal.”
“You know about Toby?” Was there anything Charley didn’t know?
“Logan and Molly stopped by for tacos on Sunday and we had a long chat. Nice family—in need of a friend, I’d wager. Both of them.”
“Once Logan starts his job and Molly’s in preschool, finding friends won’t be a problem.”
“It’s always better to have friends closer to home, though.”
She scrutinized him as she handed over her money.
Was he suggesting she should be their friend?
Hard to tell with Charley. His manner was as pleasant and easygoing as always. That comment could have just been one of the generic platitudes he tended to toss out.
“I expect they’ll both have plenty of friends soon.” She picked up her bag.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Molly is a loveable child, and Logan—” He winked. “I imagine he’ll be quite popular with the ladies in town. I believe he’s what you women would call a good catch. Is that the correct term?”
“Yes.” And for whatever reason, the notion of Hope Harbor’s eligible female population descending on her neighbor wasn’t sitting well.
Charley leaned out to check the sky. “I better close before those clouds open up and douse us. You have a wonderful day, Jeannette.”
With that, he rolled down the window on the truck.
As if on cue, a raindrop plopped on her nose, prompting her to hurry toward her car.
But once behind the wheel, she sat and stared at the gray horizon.
Begrudging Logan West some female companionship would be uncharitable. And Molly deserved a mother. No doubt her neighbor would be open to friendly overtures.
Maybe even hers.
Except she wasn’t in the market for a relationship.
Jamming the key in the ignition, she scowled at the shuttered taco stand.
This was all Charley’s fault. She hadn’t had any romantic fancies about her neighbor until he’d planted the seed.
Well . . . not many, anyway.
And certainly no conscious ones. It wasn’t as if she could control the content of her dreams, after all.
Besides, so what if a certain handsome doctor had made more than a few appearances in her slumbering fantasies? It had to be some subliminal, instinctive female reaction. She might not be interested in a relationship with him, but no woman would be immune to the man’s charisma. A few dreams didn’t mean a thing.
She pulled out onto Dockside Drive, aimed the car toward home, and did her best to erase any thoughts of the doctor and his niece from her mind. She’d already stepped way outside her comfort zone with the tutoring gig, and she didn’t need another disruption in her life.
Especially one that was Hollywood handsome.
Not to mention available.
10
“I appreciate your efforts, Reverend Baker. Let me think about your suggestion.” Logan shifted the cell against his ear and massaged his forehead.
After spending countless hours trolling the net for a childcare setup in the area that fit his parameters—with nothing to show for his efforts—the minister had been his last hope.
So much for getting good news on this Friday afternoon.
“I know it’s not ideal.” The cleric’s tone was commiserating. “But I’m afraid that’s the best I’ve been able to come up with after polling the most likely members of the congregation.”
“Understood. I’ll give you a call later today.” As he thanked him again and hung up, Toby began to bark.
The headache he’d been fighting all morning pounded harder in his temples.
What a mess.
The older woman in the Grace Christian congregation who’d offered to watch Molly until he found other arrangements might have to be an interim step—but he’d rather find a permanent solution. If his niece hit it off with her, then was yanked out in a few weeks, they could be right back where they were now—or worse.
At a slight scuffling noise behind him, he twisted in his chair at the kitchen table and looked toward the hall.
Molly was hovering on the threshold of the room, Toby at her side, one finger stuck in her mouth. Again.
Not a positive sign.
Logan relaxed his features. His niece had a remarkable ability to pick up nonverbal clues, and there was no reason for both of them to worry about the fast-approaching deadline for a childcare decision.
He picked up his car keys from the table and jingled them. “Would you like to take a ride into town? If Charley’s cooking today, we could have tacos for dinner.”
Instead of responding, she disappeared down the hall.
So much for that idea.
Except he had a sudden craving for tacos—and he wasn’t in the mood to cook.
They were going to town.
Logan stood, snagged Toby’s leash, and snapped it on. No more leaving the pup in the spare bedroom.
How the dog could have done that much damage in an empty room while they were at church was beyond him—but it wasn’t happening again.
Now that the electric fence had been installed, training the dog to stay within its boundaries was his top priority. Filling holes in the yard would be much easier than repairing gouges in the drywall.
All he had to do was squeeze three fifteen-minute training sessions a day into his schedule for the next two weeks—on top of working out the daycare issue and starting a new job.
Logan leaned back against the counter, shoulders slumping.
If God was trying to test his mettle, he was doing a superb job of it.
Molly reappeared, a sheet of paper in one hand, her jacket in the other.
Huh.
She must want to go after all.
Would he ever learn to read this child who shared some of his DNA?
“What’s that?” He straightened up and motioned toward the paper.
After hesitating a moment, she set her crayon drawing on the table.
Logan gave it his full attention.
The picture featured two figu
res, both with ponytails, holding hands and wearing dresses. There was a table and two chairs off to one side, two cups on top along with a plate of heart-shaped . . . cookies? The colors of the girls’ clothing and the table were bright, and she’d drawn a sun in the sky, but the background she’d filled in was dark.
Hmm.
Too bad he wasn’t a psychologist. There was probably a deep meaning here that someone like Laura Wilson could ferret out.
He’d have to rely on his niece’s input for clues.
“That’s a pretty picture.” He smiled at Molly. “Will you tell me about it?”
She considered him, then sidled closer to the drawing. “This is me.” She indicated the figure on the left with the reddish-yellow ponytail. “And this is my friend.” She touched the other girl, who had darker hair. “We’re having a tea party.” She traced the table with her finger. “Those are cookies.”
“I like this.” Except for that dark sky. Keeping his inflection casual, he pointed to the background. “Is it nighttime?”
Her brow puckered. “No. The sun is out. See?” She showed him.
“Now I do.”
He wasn’t going to get an answer about the sky.
But maybe he didn’t need to.
Maybe he just needed to keep loving her until it turned blue.
“Can we go?” She picked up her drawing.
“Yep. I’m all set. Let me help you with your jacket.” While yesterday’s rain had passed, coolness lingered in the late-afternoon air.
Eight minutes later, as they approached Hope Harbor, the traffic on 101 picked up—and it got heavier after he exited the highway.
Surely there wasn’t an end-of-week rush hour in a town this size.
Yet something was going on.
They joined the line of bumper-to-bumper cars crawling toward the wharf—and once he reached Dockside Drive he discovered the reason for the jam.
One block of the two-block-long frontage road had been closed to traffic, and booths had been set up.
Must be some sort of festival.
He squinted at the banner in the distance.
No. Not a festival. A farmer’s market.
And it was opening day for the season.
No wonder the place was packed.
