by Irene Hannon
But now they were only a memory.
His mom was gone.
His brother was gone.
His father had died long ago.
All he had was a little girl who didn’t particularly like him and a dog he wasn’t that fond of—although the beagle was growing on him.
Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, he perused the tall hedge on the left of his property.
His nuclear family might be gone, but as far as he could tell, he had more companionship in his life than the woman next door. Jeannette appeared to be totally alone.
The question was why.
He took a speculative sip of coffee, squinting at the faint glow of light visible above the hedge where her house stood.
If Molly had opened up to his neighbor today, could Jeannette have told his niece a few bits and pieces about her background too? More than had been in the Hope Harbor Herald article she’d mentioned, which he’d accessed in the paper’s online archives?
Unfortunately, her interview with the local paper hadn’t offered much new information. All Marci Weber had been able to wheedle out of Jeannette was her hometown and college. The lavender lady must have managed to keep their conversation centered on her new life and business here in Hope Harbor.
It couldn’t hurt to put out a few feelers with Molly tomorrow in case his niece had learned anything of interest.
Because unless Jeannette had a change of heart about offering him a peek into her past, that could be his best chance of unearthing a few clues about what made his appealing neighbor tick.
18
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
As the piercing alarm jolted Mariam awake, she bolted upright in bed, trying to clear her sleep-fogged brain.
What in heaven’s name was making that sound?
Elisa shrieked, threw off the covers, scurried across the room, and burrowed in beside her with a whimper.
Seconds later, the door to their room flew open and Thomma flipped on the light, hair disheveled, face white. “Are you both all right?”
“Yes.” Mariam swung her legs to the floor and grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed, pulse racing. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But be prepared to leave fast. I’ll check the hall.”
He disappeared again, and Mariam stood, balancing herself for a moment on the headboard. After five days, her ankle was feeling better, but it was still tender and she didn’t yet trust it to support her.
“Put on your shoes, Elisa.” She did the same as she spoke.
Moving on autopilot, she pulled a suitcase out of their closet and threw some clothes into it.
How many times over the past few years had she been through this drill after the blaring air-raid sirens had awakened them in the middle of the night?
Too many to count.
But those days had prepared her for whatever emergency they faced tonight.
She hurried to Thomma’s room, Elisa clinging to the hem of her robe and clutching her doll, and added a few items to the bag for him too.
He was back in less than five minutes. “I can’t understand most of what the other residents are saying, but I think there’s a fire. We have to evacuate.”
“We’re ready.” She zipped up the bag.
He grasped it with one hand, swept Elisa up into his other arm, and crooked his elbow. “Hold on. I don’t want you to fall.”
“I can manage. Take care of Elisa.”
“I can help you both. Hurry.”
No sense wasting time arguing.
She took his arm.
In the hall, they merged with other sleepy residents who were filing out of the building, some of them grumbling. As if this was a huge inconvenience rather than a possible life-threatening situation.
At home in Syria, they’d always taken warning sirens seriously.
Yet here, they were the only ones carrying a suitcase.
Perhaps they’d overreacted.
But as they hurried down the hall, Mariam caught the faint scent of smoke.
Perhaps not.
They joined the group assembled outside as the first blush of Saturday morning tinted the eastern sky. Two police cars arrived, sirens screeching. A few minutes later, a fire truck roared up, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
It was impossible to follow all that was being said. The three of them were learning English faster than she’d expected, but no more than a few words registered here and there amid the shouts and barked commands.
“Thomma—we should call Susan. Ask her to talk with someone in charge and find out what’s going on.”
“It’s too early to call anyone.”
“This is an emergency.”
He hesitated . . . but at last he set Elisa on the ground and pulled out his phone. “I’m going over there, where it’s less noisy.” He motioned to the sidewalk across the street.
Mariam put her arm around Elisa, and her granddaughter huddled against her, silent as she watched the goings-on with big eyes. She was too young to remember much about her life in Syria, but there could be some subconscious memory of terror in the night after sirens had gone off.
Who’d have thought they’d be reminded of it here, though?
Mariam sighed.
Would life ever smooth out?
She murmured soothing reassurances to Elisa, keeping an eye on Thomma. He gave the crowd a sweep as he talked on the phone, homing in on the woman police chief who’d been at their welcome party at the church. Lexie something or other. He wove toward her through the clusters of people, motioned to the cell, and held it out.
The woman took it, and after a short conversation, handed it back to Thomma. He put it to his ear, listening as he returned to them and ending the call before he arrived.
“What’s the story?” Mariam stroked Elisa’s quivering shoulder.
“The noise we heard was the fire alarm. They’re trying to determine if it’s real or if there was a malfunction.”
“I smelled smoke as we left.”
“I did too. The police chief said they won’t be letting people back in for hours if it’s real. Maybe not even then, depending on the amount of damage.”
“What are we going to do?”
He squinted at his watch in the dawn light. “Susan is calling Father Murphy to see what he thinks. In the meantime, I have to go to work. Roark is counting on me. He has a full boat of charter customers today.”
“I packed your work clothes.” Mariam indicated the suitcase.
Relief chased some of the tension from his features. “Thank you. I can change in the restroom at the Myrtle Café.” He dropped to the balls of his feet and rummaged through the suitcase. “I’ll leave my cellphone with you. Roark’s number is on speed dial. I’ll tell him you’ll be calling me with updates.” He stood and handed it to her. “Will you be all right by yourself?”
“I have lived through much worse alone. But some of us haven’t.” She dipped her chin toward Elisa.
Thomma frowned . . . exhaled . . . and lowered himself to her level. “Be good for Teta, okay?”
She nodded.
Mariam nudged him with her knee. The child needed a hug from her father, not instructions.
Thomma ignored her message. He stood and fussed with the clothing he’d draped over his arm, not meeting her gaze. “Call Roark as soon as you know anything. I’ll see you both later.”
He turned and fled.
Mariam pulled Elisa close again, stroking her hair as she watched her son disappear.
If he didn’t come around soon, he was going to lose his daughter forever.
But what could she do except pray God would see fit to show him the error of his ways before it was too late?
“Come on, kitty. Eat. Please. Don’t pick today to be difficult.” Jeannette pushed her hair back and massaged the bridge of her nose. After four days, the sleep-disrupting every-five-hour feedings were catching up with her—and she had a full house for her Saturday tea. She had to finish the last-m
inute preparations and be ready to greet her guests in one hour.
She nudged the kitten’s mouth with the nipple, and he finally started to suck.
Thank you, God.
If he’d continued to balk, she would have been forced to enlist Logan’s aid. The cat couldn’t wait another four hours for a feeding, and she’d be too busy during the tea to attend to it.
But nothing short of desperation would compel her to initiate more contact with her charming neighbor and his loveable niece. Being around them planted dangerous notions in her head.
She sat with the kitten in her lap until he finished the bottle, burped him, and nestled him back in the folds of the soft blanket in the box. Now she could focus on the tearoom. He’d probably sleep almost until it was time for another feeding.
After cleaning the bottle, she shifted into high gear and was ready to greet her first guests with all of five minutes to spare.
Many of the customers’ faces were familiar from town or church, and some were regulars—including Eleanor Cooper and Luis Dominguez. With his usual solicitude, the Cuban refugee guided the ninety-one-year-old Hope Harbor native who’d taken him into her home to their usual table.
“I’m looking forward to the first blooms, Jeannette.” Eleanor scanned the garden from her seat beside the window. “It’s so beautiful to see that carpet of lavender stretching into the distance.”
“I agree.” Luis took his seat. “And it is always a pleasure to enjoy your wonderful food too.”
“Thank you.” Jeannette offered them each a menu with the selection of teas.
Eleanor waved it off. “Surprise me, my dear. But pick one that’s soothing. After all the excitement in town this morning, I could use a nice, peaceful afternoon sipping a fine cup of tea.”
“What sort of excitement?” Jeannette smoothed out a crease in the linen tablecloth, mentally organizing her to-do list for tomorrow’s tea—including a quick run to Coos Bay after the early service at Grace Christian to buy more sugar cubes. Somehow her supply had run low. And she also—
“. . . had a fire. Thank goodness no one was hurt.”
She tuned back in to the end of Eleanor’s reply.
There’d been a fire in town?
Where?
But how could she ask without it being obvious she’d zoned out for most of Eleanor’s explanation?
As if sensing her dilemma, Luis stepped in. “House fires are always frightening, but in an apartment building the danger is much higher. At least only two units were damaged. It is a shame, though, that our Syrian family has suffered yet another challenge after all they have been through.”
There’d been a fire in the Shabos’ apartment?
A jolt of shock ricocheted through her.
“What happened?”
“There was an electrical fire in an adjacent unit. Both units will have to be vacated for repairs.”
As a paramedic with contacts in the emergency community, Luis would know the details of the fire—but was he privy to information about the Shabos’ status?
“Where are they staying?”
Eleanor rejoined the conversation. “Anna Williams is giving them her annex for a week. It’s booked after that, but hopefully they’ll be back in their apartment by then. You know Anna, don’t you, my dear?”
An image of an older woman materialized in her mind. “I think we’ve met. She’s involved with the Harbor Point cranberry nut cake business, isn’t she?”
“She’s more than involved. She runs it. I don’t know what Tracy would do without her. The farm is more than enough to keep that young woman busy.” Eleanor touched her arm. “I understand you’ve taken on the task of teaching our adopted family English. God bless you, my dear.”
“I will second that.” Luis laid his napkin in his lap. “It is hard to be in a new country and not know the language.”
“I was happy to do my part. So many people had already pitched in to help.”
“And now Anna is filling the latest need. What a blessing it is to live in a town where people care about each other.”
“Amen to that.” Luis lifted his empty china teacup.
Eleanor hoisted her cup too. “Let’s just hope the apartment is ready for the Shabos before Anna’s paying guests arrive. Otherwise, our wonderful clerics will be scrambling to find them new accommodations.”
“I’m sure it will all work out.” Jeannette forced up the corners of her mouth. “Now let me get your tea brewing.”
She retreated to the prep area and went about filling the tea orders—but the rote task left her mind free to mull over the conversation with Eleanor and Luis.
At this point, the Shabos must be feeling like Job had in the midst of his trials.
She could relate—although the breadth of their losses was even more immense than hers had been.
And they didn’t need any more challenges or disruptions in their life—or their living quarters.
You could offer them a place to stay if they end up homeless again, Jeannette.
Her stomach knotted.
Yes, she could. There was a futon in her otherwise empty spare bedroom, and her couch had a hide-a-bed. Her home wasn’t set up to welcome visitors—but she could accommodate two adults and a child in an emergency.
Except she didn’t want anyone invading her house—or her heart.
She stuck another china teapot under the spigot on the hot water dispenser, flipped the switch . . . and took a deep breath.
There was no reason to get anxious about this situation yet. The Shabos’ unit might be ready for occupancy sooner than anyone expected.
So why not put this dilemma on the back burner, see what happened over the next week? This whole thing could blow over.
And if it didn’t?
She’d deal with it then.
The boiling water splashed, burning her hand, and she jerked the teapot back as she flipped off the spigot.
An omen for what might happen if she continued to get involved in other people’s lives, perhaps?
No.
Those kinds of superstitions were foolish.
Yet the warning did seem providential.
These past few weeks had thrown her a series of curves. Disrupted her placid existence. Awakened longings she thought she’d long ago put to rest.
And she didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
She set the pot down and picked up another one to fill.
For three years, she’d kept to herself—and she had no regrets. The quiet life she’d created suited her perfectly. She hadn’t wanted a handsome new neighbor or appealing little girls or shell-shocked refugees or abandoned kittens complicating her world.
So how had she gotten herself into this mess, anyway?
“Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong.”
She turned on the spigot again as Charley’s comment from weeks ago echoed in her mind—and gave her the answer. He may have offered that sentiment as a philosophical musing, but the truth was, that’s how she was wired. She hadn’t been born a recluse—and she’d been raised to help those facing hardship.
That was why she was getting tangled up in a bunch of people’s lives.
And unless she wanted to walk away from everything she believed, she was stuck for now. She’d have to pitch in. Do what had to be done.
But after all this was over—and it would be soon—she was going to return to a life centered on her farm, where her days were quiet and safe and predictable . . . and there was no more danger of losing anyone she loved.
She turned off the water and removed the pot from under the spigot, careful this go-round to pay attention and avoid any more splashes.
Getting burned was the pits.
And while she’d always liked Tennyson’s poetry, she no longer believed in his most famous sentiment.
It wasn’t better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
19
“Why are we going to church so early?”
As Molly posed the question for the third time in the past hour, Logan unbuckled her harness and helped her out of the car.
She must not be buying his explanation.
But he couldn’t tell her the truth.
Admitting he’d risen early to see Jeannette at church might not be smart, given his niece’s constant chatter about ’Nette since they’d spent last Tuesday together.
Molly could get the wrong idea.
Or the right one.
And he didn’t want to encourage any matchmaking from a five-year-old.
However . . . he hadn’t caught sight of Jeannette once since the night she’d taken the abandoned cat home, and while she’d sent a few text messages and photos, she hadn’t issued an invitation for them to visit . . . or answered her phone when he’d called to ask if they could drop by . . . or offered to bring the cat over to his house.
Bottom line, he wanted to see her.
Molly might even be able to charm her into suggesting a get-together.
Yet another reason for their early church attendance—and another admission he didn’t intend to make.
“I told you, sweetie—I have a long list today and I want to get an early start.”
“What do you have to do?”
She would ask that.
“I have to cut the grass and clean up the house and . . . uh . . . a bunch of other stuff. We could take Toby for a walk on the beach later too, if you’d like.”
“Can ’Nette come?”
“You could ask her if we see her.”
“Is she here?”
He was counting on it.
“She may be.”
Molly stretched her neck to search the crowd as they wound through the vestibule and down the aisle to find a seat.
“I don’t see her.”
Neither did he.
But Charley had mentioned once that he’d run into her after the early service, suggesting she was a regular churchgoer. And with her afternoon tea schedule, this timing would better suit her.
He chose a seat that gave him a line of sight to the door, and five minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, she entered.
“She’s here!” Molly tugged on his arm, her stage whisper drawing a few glances from those seated around them.
