by Irene Hannon
Again, Frank scrutinized the man. The remark appeared to be personal—but he’d never talked about his battle with loneliness. And he’d certainly never told anyone about his stomach-churning turmoil over the conflict between his devotion to Jo Ann and his interest in Stephanie.
“Easier for birds to do than humans, though. They don’t have to deal with logistics . . . or loyalties.” Frank sent a sidelong glance toward the attendant. Why on earth was it taking him so long to finish with the gas?
“Logistics can be worked out if the goal is worth the effort—and while loyalty is a fine trait in general, it can be a negative in the wrong context.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“How can loyalty ever be bad?”
“If someone holds on to it as an excuse not to open a new door, once the need for it is gone.” Charley motioned behind him. “I think you’re good to go.”
The attendant joined them and handed over his credit card and receipt. “All done.”
Finally.
This discussion had become too unsettling—and he was already spooked enough about going on his first date in more than four decades.
“Thanks.” He slid the card back into his wallet.
“What’ll it be, Charley?” The attendant adjusted his cap.
“Fill ’er up. Bessie purrs along best on a full tank—like we all do. It’s tough to run on fumes.” Charley pushed off from the hood and tipped his Ducks cap. “Enjoy the gardens, Frank—and give Stephanie my best.”
“I’ll do that.”
The two birds followed the man back to the other side of the pumps.
Frank retook his seat behind the wheel, twisted the key, and put the car in gear. As he pulled out onto 101, he looked in the rearview mirror.
Charley lifted a hand in farewell, as if he knew he was being watched.
But it would be impossible at that distance to detect someone peering at you through a rearview mirror.
Nevertheless, Frank waved out the window—and pressed on the accelerator.
That had been one weird conversation.
Yet as the station and Charley disappeared from view, as he picked up speed toward Zach’s house, where Stephanie was waiting for him, the man’s comments kept looping through his brain.
Nothing Charley said had been specific to his situation—yet it was all applicable.
Being intimidated by external trappings instead of paying attention to what was in people’s hearts.
A grieving seagull who’d found a new love.
The power of fear to hold a person back.
Loyalty as an excuse to maintain the status quo.
The difficulty of running on fumes—be it gas, or a love that existed only in memory.
Frank passed the town limits and increased his speed again.
How could Charley have communicated so much in those few minutes of casual conversation?
And how much of it was personal versus chitchat?
With Charley, who knew?
Yet whether the man had intentionally brought up those subjects—or the topics of their conversation were happenstance—what he’d said offered food for thought.
And if today’s outing with Stephanie was as enjoyable as he suspected it would be, he’d be putting his brain on overtime to figure out what he should do about the woman who’d come into his life out of the blue—and who could vanish just as suddenly if he didn’t give her some indication he was interested in more than a stroll among roses.
Did furniture designers make hospital chairs uncomfortable on purpose?
Zach stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, slouched down, and folded his hands over his stomach.
No improvement.
His back continued to protest, and his neck kinked. Again.
That’s what he got for trying to sleep last night in a similar chair in the cardiac ICU.
The nurse assigned to his dad had tried to convince him to go home, but he’d come here to stick close until—or unless—the elder Garrett told him to get lost.
So far, that hadn’t happened.
He transferred his attention to the bed, where his father had dozed off after the move from the ICU to a regular room. All the bustle of getting him settled had worn him out.
It had been a grueling day—for both of them.
He scanned the clock on the wall. Six o’clock here, three o’clock in Oregon.
Not quite the dinner hour at home—but in view of his erratic eating schedule over the past thirty-six hours, it was no wonder his stomach was growling.
Now, while his dad was sleeping, could be the best time to run down to the cafeteria and wolf down a plate of real food. His body was beginning to protest the diet of candy bars, chips, and peanuts he’d been ingesting from the vending machine in the visitor lounge.
He rose. Stretched. Rubbed a hand over his bristly chin. Grimaced.
The nurse entered and gave him a sympathetic appraisal. “Long day?”
“Long day . . . and night . . . and day.”
“I hear you. Why don’t you go home and catch a few z’s, freshen up? We’ll be watching your dad closely overnight—and you’ll feel more human after a few hours of shut-eye and a shower.”
That was true. Besides, they wouldn’t have released his father from the ICU if there was imminent danger or any cause for concern—and the staff appeared to be on the ball and responsive.
Nevertheless, leaving didn’t feel quite—
“Go.”
As his father spoke, he and the nurse moved toward the bed in unison, one on each side.
“You’re awake.” Zach called up a weary smile. Seeing his always-healthy dad flat on his back and attached to an array of monitors and IVs was unnerving, no matter how successful the surgeon had deemed the operation.
“Yes—and feeling more like myself.”
He sounded more like himself too. His voice was stronger, and a touch of his usual authoritative tone was back.
Hard to tell how much was show and how much was bravado, though.
“Glad to hear that.”
“Why are you still here?”
Uh-oh.
This could be the dismissal he’d feared.
“I didn’t want to leave until I knew you were out of danger.”
His father turned his head toward the nurse. “Am I in danger?”
“Not that I can see. All your vitals are excellent.”
His dad refocused on him. “See. Go back to the house and sleep. I bet you look worse than I do. Doesn’t he?” He directed that question to the nurse too.
“I’d definitely diagnose a case of fatigue. And I imagine he hasn’t had a decent meal in the past day or so.” She fiddled with the IV line and grinned at him across the bed.
“Two against one.” His dad waved a hand toward the door. “Go.”
Zach hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “I came to be with you.”
“You’ve been with me for forty-eight hours.”
“While you two work this out, I have another patient to check on. If you need me, press this button.” The nurse demonstrated the call button to his dad.
“Got it.” He tucked it beside him as she left and returned to their previous discussion. “When did you last eat?”
“I had a pack of cookies a couple of hours ago.”
“I mean a real meal.”
Back in Oregon, with Stephanie, in his kitchen.
That felt like a week ago.
“I’ll eat later.”
“Eat now. Away from the hospital. Stop at that deli you like.”
In other words, his father wanted him to leave.
Why?
Was he concerned—or did he want his son out of his life?
No sense dancing around that question. If his dad didn’t want him here, he may as well face that fact sooner rather than later.
“Are you sure you want me to leave?”
“Yes.”
The answer was de
finitive, and his spirits sank . . . until his dad added a caveat.
“But I’d like you to come back tomorrow.”
The coil of tension in his gut eased.
Those were the sweetest words he’d heard in two and a half long years.
Thank you, God.
“Count on it.” He managed to choke out the promise.
“We should talk—but let’s wait until we’re both more alert.” His father’s voice was gruff. Not mad gruff, but as if his emotions were getting the better of him.
“I’m on board with that plan.” He took his father’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Hang in until tomorrow.”
“I intend to hang in for much longer than that.” His father squeezed back, then gently tugged his fingers free. “Go home. Sleep.”
“I’ll give it a shot.”
But as Zach left the room and walked down the hospital corridor toward the exit, he had no doubt he’d snooze like a baby.
For while there were fences to mend and mines to defuse, the atmosphere between them had taken a quantum leap into positive territory.
Now, like the fresh, salty air in his adopted town thousands of miles away, it was filled with hope.
The sky was blue, the air was warm, the gardens were gorgeous.
All of which added up to a perfect day.
Except for one thing.
Frank was stressed out.
Stephanie peeked at her date as they strolled side by side through the rose garden. Faint creases dented his brow, his features were taut, and his lips had straight-lined.
He looked like a man in the throes of serious second thoughts.
Swallowing past her disappointment, she stopped walking.
Enough of this.
If he was sorry he’d asked her out, why prolong this outing?
He continued another two paces before he realized she’d halted.
Jolting to a stop, he swiveled toward her. “What’s wrong?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “You’re not having fun.”
A faint hint of pink crept across his cheeks. “Why do you think that?”
“Come on, Frank. Give me a little credit. A person would have to be totally oblivious to miss the tension radiating off you. I appreciate the invitation to come up here, but if you want to call it a day, I won’t hold it against you. We’re both adults. Sometimes reality falls short of expectations. I can accept that.”
“Are you having fun?”
She fingered the petal of a velvety red rose beside her. Inhaled the sweet scent wafting upward as she composed her answer. “Honestly? I had more fun anticipating today than I’ve had since you picked me up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s life. I’ll get over it.” A damaged petal dropped into her hand. She examined the curled edges . . . and let it fall to the ground. “It’s probably for the best anyway.”
“Why?”
How to respond?
Should she save face and say that since she’d be leaving soon, getting too chummy wouldn’t be smart—or tell him the truth?
Be straightforward, Stephanie. You’re too old to play games—and mature enough to handle rejection.
She wiped her fingers, damp from the dewy petal, on her slacks. “I was getting too interested—and trying to figure out how to fit a relationship with you into the future I have planned has been a challenge. If the feeling isn’t mutual, that solves my dilemma.”
In the silence that followed, he gave a slow blink—as if her frankness had surprised him.
At last he inhaled. Straightened his shoulders. “Could we sit for a few minutes?” He motioned toward a bench off to the side.
“We don’t have to talk about this, Frank—and you don’t owe me any explanations. I’m a big girl. I’ll survive.” She was not going to get emotional about the end of a potential romance she hadn’t been all that certain was wise to begin with. Lightening her tone, she swept a hand over the nearby Japanese garden. “Why don’t we finish up there and drive back?”
“Because the feeling is mutual.”
Her heart missed a beat, and she pressed a hand to her chest.
Oh. My.
It took her a second to find her voice. “I’ll say this for you, Frank Simmons. You know how to keep a woman guessing.”
“That’s not my intent. Shall we?” He motioned to the bench. “Please.”
It was impossible to refuse his heartfelt request—or his warm, earnest blue eyes.
He followed her over, and after they were seated, angled toward her. “As long as we’re being honest, I have to tell you that until the day you walked into The Perfect Blend, romance wasn’t on my radar screen. And I never expected to feel like a teenager again. This whole turn of events has thrown me for a loop.”
“Join the club.”
“I also have the same concerns about logistics and geography as you do—plus another issue.”
“We may be able to work out the distance hurdle.” Especially if she decided to pull the trigger on an idea that had begun bouncing around in her head after her chat with Charley outside church Sunday. “What’s the other issue?”
He rested an arm on the back of the bench, his fingers inches from her shoulder. “Jo Ann.”
Ah.
He was worried that falling in love with someone else would be a betrayal of his late wife.
“I can’t say I understand that feeling from personal experience, but I can understand you wanting to be faithful to the memory of your wife and the love you shared.” She studied him. “How do you think she would feel about us?”
“I don’t know. She was a one-man woman. I was the only boy she ever dated—and we vowed to love each other as long as we lived.”
“You kept that promise.”
“But I’m still alive—and I’ll never stop loving her.”
She fingered the edge of her sweater, where a piece of yarn was beginning to unravel, and composed her reply with care. If Frank wasn’t ready to move on, pushing him that direction would be a mistake. “I can accept that—but does it mean there’s no room in your heart for someone else? What about those kids who’ll be living in Hope House? The ones who could use a foster grandfather? Will you be able to love them?”
“That’s a different type of love.”
“But don’t we love everyone in our life differently? Parents who have more than one child love them all. A new arrival doesn’t take away from their love for the children they already have. Each child is unique and has his or her own special place in their hearts. Couldn’t the same principle be applied to romantic love?”
The question hung in the air between them as the seconds ticked by—and it was impossible to read the kaleidoscope of emotions on Frank’s face.
This much was clear, however.
While prayer had guided her to a solution for the logistics part of their dilemma, Jo Ann was an obstacle Frank would have to overcome on his own.
The question was, could he?
Frank drew in a long, slow breath and watched a hummingbird flit among the roses.
The woman beside him had made an excellent point—a testament to her ability to analyze a situation and cut to the chase, a skill she would have honed in the wheeling-dealing business world.
And it raised several questions.
Could he view his growing feelings for Stephanie as equal, but different, than the love he and Jo Ann had shared—as Charley’s seagull Floyd had done?
What was holding him back, really? Was it loyalty to a vow that no longer applied—or fear of taking a leap into the unknown?
Would falling for Stephanie be—
“Hey.” She touched his hand and offered a reassuring smile. “I can almost hear the gears grinding in your brain. You don’t have to answer that question today. I was just tossing it out for your consideration.”
“I don’t mind ans
wering. It’s not a question I’ve dwelt on, but I’m thinking the answer is yes. Every love is different. Loving one person doesn’t take away from the love you have for someone else. The trouble is, this unexpected—sizzle, if you will—between us is muddling my mind, making me doubt my judgment. I’ve also been around long enough to know it’s dangerous to play with electricity.”
“And I’ve been around long enough to know I can trust my instincts—and my heart.” A dimple appeared in her cheek. “That’s not to suggest I’m an impetuous woman, you understand. Far from it. I wouldn’t jump into anything on a whim. I do, however, believe in paying attention to the possibilities that drop into my lap—and feel right. You fall into both categories.”
He inched the hand he’d laid on the back of the bench toward her shoulder. Brushed his fingers against the fine, soft yarn. “Assuming we want to test the waters, continue to get to know each other, geography is against us.” He surveyed the sea, visible through the trees bordering the garden. “Believe me, I’ve thought about this long and hard, but I always come back to the same conclusion. I can’t imagine myself living in New York.”
“I can’t imagine it either. So I have a proposal about how to manage the geography—at least while we’re testing the waters, as you put it. I’ll rent a place here in Hope Harbor for a few months. My long tenure at my New York apartment means I can invoke the early exit clause in my contract if I choose. With three months’ notice, I can be out of there.”
Pressure built in his throat, and he dropped his hand to twine his fingers with hers. “You’d do that for me?”
“For us.”
He searched her face, seeking any sign of uncertainty or resentment at the sacrifice such an arrangement required. Saw none.
Still . . . Hope Harbor was about as far from the exciting, sophisticated world she’d occupied as a person could get.
“Do you really think you could be happy here, after all the glamorous places you’ve traveled? After calling New York home?”
“Living here for a few months will help me determine that. But I can tell you this. Glamor is overrated—and it doesn’t take the place of having someone to love. I wasn’t ready to admit that earlier in my life, nor trade in my career ambitions for small-town living and romance. Now, both have a definite appeal—and I’m beginning to suspect that’s why God brought us together at this stage of my life. He saved the best for last, if you will.”
