by Irene Hannon
He didn’t wait for her to respond as he freed Toby from the umbrella and led Molly down the path among the lavender beds, toward the rear of the property and the beach access.
Molly looked back once to wave.
Logan didn’t—surprising after his earlier comment about her making his day . . . and that brush of fingers under her lashes.
The man was sending mixed signals.
And who could blame him?
She was sending mixed signals.
One day she asks him in, the next she avoids him like the plague.
That sort of inconsistent behavior would confuse anyone.
Yet one thing was clear.
The man was interested in her—and with a smidgen of encouragement, he’d ask her out.
A date with Logan.
Now that had intriguing possibilities.
From the shadows where she watched them disappear into the dunes, her mouth bowed of its own accord.
Not good.
She forced it back into a straight line at once.
There would be no dates in her future.
Nor motherhood.
That had been her decision three years ago, and she saw no reason to rethink it.
Well . . . that wasn’t quite true.
Two reasons had spent the past few minutes in her kitchen.
However . . . she had to be strong about this. She’d survived the last loss—barely. But she might not be as fortunate the next time . . . if there was a next time.
And the only way to guarantee she was never put to that test was to avoid all relationships—a rule that hadn’t been difficult to follow until a handsome doctor learning how to be a single dad had moved in next door and resurrected feelings best left buried.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the counter and pulled out the box of formula for Button.
She’d just have to rebury them.
Except there was one little problem with that plan.
She gripped the counter and admitted the truth.
The kinds of feelings Logan was rekindling were about as easy to contain as Toby’s bark—and just as disruptive.
Unfortunately, while Thomma’s magic touch was taming the unruly beagle, as far as she knew, there were no romance-whisperers.
Meaning she was on her own to come up with a plan to deal with her sudden amorous leanings—and the loneliness they were leaving in their wake.
20
“Well, if it isn’t our newest doctor and the latest artist in my gallery.” Charley swept a hand over the back wall of the stand, where Molly’s drawing was front and center. “You must be in the mood for tacos on this fine Tuesday evening.”
Logan returned Charley’s grin as they approached. “We’re always in the mood for your tacos—as is everyone else in this town, from what I can gather. I’m surprised we didn’t have to wait in line.”
“Your timing was perfect. I just opened. Two orders or three?”
“Two. Why would I want three?”
“I thought you might have another beach picnic in mind.”
“Not tonight.” Geez. The man had a memory like an elephant. He should never have mentioned his thank-you plans for Jeannette the day of Mariam’s accident, when he’d picked up tacos for their impromptu picnic.
“How are you doing, Molly?” Charley pulled an avocado from the cooler and began slicing it.
“Fine.”
“How goes the search for a friend?”
“I finded one. Her name’s Elisa, and her mommy and grandpa and brother and uncle all went to heaven in a war.”
“That’s very sad.” Charley paused and shook his head. “I’m glad she has you for a friend.”
“Me too.”
“Speaking of friends . . .” He set some fish fillets on the grill. “Here come two of mine.” He waved a hand toward a pair of seagulls that swooped in and landed several yards away.
“Is that Floyd and Gladys?” Molly studied them.
“None other. You want to go say hello?”
“Will they fly away?”
“Not if you take it slow and easy so they don’t get scared. You may have to practice a little, but if you stick with it, they’ll let you get close. That okay with you, Logan? You can keep an eye on her while I finish up your order.”
“Sure. Have at it, Molly.”
Despite Charley’s assurance that the birds would stay put, the interlude wasn’t likely to last long if Molly invaded their comfort zone. But she’d get a kick out of trying to get up close and personal with them until they flew off.
“On the subject of friends, how goes it with Jeannette?” Charley began dicing some peppers.
Better set the record straight on that, in case the taco-making artist had any ideas about future beach picnics.
“To be honest, I don’t know that I’d call us friends.”
“No? How come?”
Not for lack of trying—but he left that unsaid.
“She’s very protective of her privacy and her space.”
“That’s a fact.” Charley tossed the peppers on the griddle. “I expect there’s a reason for that.”
“I do too—but she’s not talking . . . to me anyway. Do you know why she’s such a loner?” A long shot—but worth a try.
“She’s never told me her story.”
So much for his last potential source. If Charley and Marci didn’t know any of the details of Jeannette’s background, there wasn’t much chance anyone in town did.
It was a shame she kept to herself, though. He could use her advice with Molly again, since last Sunday’s walk on the beach hadn’t led to the kind of heart-to-heart talk he’d hoped it would. His niece had sidestepped all of his attempts to reintroduce the subject of loss and feelings.
“However . . .” Charley flipped the fish, continuing as if there’d been no gap in the conversation. “I expect it’s a very sad story. No one cuts off other people unless they’ve been badly hurt. Trouble is, those kinds of people are the ones who most need friends.”
“It’s hard to get close to someone who isn’t receptive.”
“That’s true.” He pulled out some corn tortillas. “But sometimes it’s a matter of persistence. Just hanging around or showing up can make a difference. You have the perfect excuse with Button.”
Logan blinked. “How did you know about him?”
“Your neighbor happens to be one of my regular customers.”
“Jeannette told you about the cat?” Strange she’d bring that up, since she’d taken it in under duress and intended to get rid of it as soon as possible.
“People tell me all kinds of things.”
That didn’t surprise him. Charley had an uncanny ability to engender confidences.
“I agree the cat sounds like a perfect excuse—but she made it clear she doesn’t want us to drop in to see him.”
“There are other ways to initiate contact. She does run a tearoom, you know. You could take Molly.”
“I did that once—but Jeannette’s busy at those teas. She wouldn’t have any time to chat with us.” He checked on his niece.
She was hunkered down not two feet from the seagulls, who didn’t appear to be in the least perturbed by her touching-distance proximity.
It seemed Charley was right again.
“You could always drop by her booth at the farmer’s market some Friday.”
Neither of Charley’s suggestions were bad. Molly would enjoy both—and at the rate they were going, that sort of contrived meeting could be his only chance to see his neighbor.
“I’ll have to think about that—though it’s not like I’m in the market for another challenge. I’m plenty busy with Molly and the new job.”
“Some challenges are worth tackling . . . and they often pay dividends far beyond what we can imagine.” Charley finished assembling the tacos, wrapped them in white paper, and slid them into a bag. “Two orders, all set to go.”
Logan handed over some bills and to
ok the bag. “These won’t last long.”
“Music to a taco-maker’s ears. You two enjoy your evening. Bye, Molly.” He waved at the girl and turned to the next customer in the line that had formed.
“Bye.” She called the farewell over her shoulder but remained by the birds.
“Come on, sweetie. These will get cold if we don’t eat them fast.”
After lingering a few more seconds, she rose and walked over to him. “Did you see how close I got to Floyd and Gladys?”
“Yes. They must like you.”
“I just did what Charley said and went real slow and careful so I wouldn’t scare them. He knows a bunch about birds.”
Yeah, he did.
Also about people.
And his advice about the seagulls might also be appropriate for Jeannette.
His neighbor did need a friend, whether she realized it or not—and slow and easy could be the key with her . . . as well as with his niece. Perhaps his progress with both of them was meant to be marked in tiny increments rather than great leaps.
Not his usual dive-in-and-get-it-done style, but he could live with small steps forward—as long as they advanced.
He took another gander at Charley as they strolled back to their car.
Funny.
He’d been on the verge of giving up on Jeannette until he’d talked with the man.
But maybe he’d hang in for a while after all.
Because if he succeeded in breaking through her barriers, the dividends Charley had referenced might be well worth the effort—for both of them.
“Papa?”
At Elisa’s tentative question, Thomma shifted around in his seat at the table on Anna Williams’s patio.
His pajama-clad daughter stood ten feet away, clutching her Raggedy Ann doll in one hand, a book in the other, her demeanor somber.
“Yes?”
“Would you read me a story?”
He gritted his teeth and bit back a word Raca had asked him never to use in front of their children.
His mother had put Elisa up to this.
And he was in no mood for stories—or reminders of his dead wife—after a long day on the boat. It was hard enough to cope with all of them living together in one large room, where there was no door to close to escape from his memories.
“Ask Teta.”
“She’s baking. She said to ask you.”
“Maybe later. I’m busy now.”
Not true. Now that their English lesson with Jeannette was over, he was doing nothing on this Wednesday except staring into the dusky distance and trying to figure out how he was going to get through the rest of his life.
Even Elisa recognized the lie.
Her eyes filled with tears and she backed up a few steps. “I told Teta you would say no.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
The sharp prod from his conscience didn’t improve his humor. “I didn’t say no. I said maybe later.”
“I’m going to bed soon.”
“Another night then.”
After lingering a moment, she trudged back to their temporary quarters.
Thomma let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.
He didn’t want to hurt Elisa—but he couldn’t change how he felt.
Too bad God hadn’t taken him in the bombing along with the rest of his family. An absent father would be better than a cold one.
He had no idea how long he sat there, deep in his own misery, but at some point he heard someone settle into the chair beside him.
His mother, of course.
No doubt come to berate him again for his many failings as a father.
He kept his eyelids firmly shut. If he ignored her, she might get the message and retreat to the annex.
But as the minutes ticked by, she gave no indication she intended to leave.
He was going to have to deal with her.
Bracing, he opened his eyes.
She was looking into the distance, her expression placid rather than angry.
Not what he’d expected.
As if sensing his gaze, she turned her head. “Susan called on your cell phone. Father Murphy asked her to let us know we can move back into our apartment on Friday. He said if anything has to be replaced, we should make a list. The insurance will cover some of it, and the church will help with the rest.”
“Now that we are both working, we can replace whatever is not insured ourselves.”
“I told her that.” She took a drink from the glass of water she’d brought out with her. “I put Elisa to bed.”
Here it came.
“Thank you.”
When she remained silent, he sent her a sidelong glance. Why didn’t she plunge in and bring up the subject she wanted to discuss? She’d never been reticent about broaching it in the past.
After another five minutes ticked by, he sighed.
Fine.
If she wanted him to initiate the discussion, he would. He was tired of her censure and her meddling. They needed to talk this out.
“You sent Elisa out here on purpose.”
“I was busy in the kitchen, and she likes a bedtime story.”
“You know I’m not in the mood for that sort of thing these days.”
“Yes. I know.” She set the water on the small patio table. “I’m worried about you, Thomma.” There was no reproach in her inflection. No criticism. Only concern.
That was harder to take than her disapproval.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Will you?”
He had no idea.
“I hope so . . . in time.”
“Time has passed.”
“Not that much.”
“Enough to see some improvement.” Her tone remained gentle.
He clasped his hands tight in his lap. “I don’t know if I will ever get over all of the losses, ’Ami.” His voice choked.
She reached over and laid her hand on his white knuckles. “It is a heavy load for a young man to endure. Perhaps too much.”
He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I have hoped, like you, that time would heal—but I am beginning to wonder if more is needed.”
“You mean . . . like counseling?”
“That is one idea. Or there is a grief group at St. Francis. People who’ve endured losses of many kinds meet once a week to share their experiences and feelings.”
His pulse stuttered as he scowled at her. “You have talked to the priest about this?”
“No. I ask Susan to read me the bulletin every week. The meeting notice is in there.”
“I don’t want to spill my guts to a bunch of strangers.” The mere thought of it turned his stomach.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You could go and listen in the beginning. You might hear some stories that will help you cope with your own situation.”
“I don’t see how. No one who lives in a world like this”—he swept a hand around the placid setting—“could possibly understand what I’ve gone through.”
“I’m not certain that is true, Thomma. Each circumstance is unique, but loss is loss. And while we may be different than the other people who live in this town, hearts know no geographic or ethnic boundaries. Neither does the experience of grief. Will you think about it?”
His mother’s request was reasonable—and he couldn’t argue with her logic or her assessment of his mental state.
He did need help.
But a grief group?
“I can’t make any promises, ’Ami. I don’t think I would be comfortable in such a situation.”
His mother scrutinized him for a moment, rose, and picked up her water. “I know you’d rather deal with this on your own, Thomma. Your father was the same. A very private person who never wanted to admit he needed help. But if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Elisa. I am grateful she found a friend in Molly, and that is helping her . . . but a friend does not replace a father. If this rejection by you continues, it will have long-
lasting effects on her life. I know neither of us want that for her—nor would Raca.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder, then returned to the house, a slight limp the only visible reminder of her sprained ankle.
Exhaling, Thomma twisted his hands together in his lap.
His mother was right.
She’d been right from the beginning
Elisa did deserve better.
And Raca would be disappointed in him.
But a grief group?
He grimaced.
All that touchy-feely nonsense was for wimps.
Or for people who are in over their heads—and sinking fast.
Hard as he tried to smother the nagging voice inside of him, it refused to be silenced.
So . . . why not consider her suggestion—down the road. Say, in thirty days? If he still felt as mired in grief a month from now, he could check out this group at the church. At least give it a chance.
If that didn’t work?
He could try to find a counselor and hope he or she would be able to bring some clarity and logic to his muddled thinking.
And if none of that helped him?
He might have to put himself in God’s hands and pray he’d have the kind of dramatic, attitude-changing encounter Saul had experienced on the road to Damascus.
But scarce as evidence of God’s presence in his life had been of late, it was hard to dredge up much hope that the Almighty would grace his life with a miracle anytime in the near future.
21
“That was fantastic, as usual, Jeannette.” Marci laid her napkin beside her plate in the Bayview Lavender Farm tearoom.
“I agree. Every bite was delicious—even if I’ll have to supplement it later with a burger.” Her husband grinned and took the bill off the silver tray Jeannette set on the table.
“Ben!” Marci sent him a horrified look.
Jeannette smiled. “Trust me—I hear that from most of the male customers.”
“Do you get many men in here?” Ben nabbed a rogue raspberry on his plate.
“No. Luis comes with Eleanor on occasion, and my neighbor brought his niece.”
“Logan came to tea?” Marci gaped at her.
“Yes.” Now why had she shared that? Better add a caveat or the Herald editor might get the wrong idea. “It was a treat for Molly. Little girls like tea parties.”
