The Giving Heart

by Toni Blake

  Though in the end, maybe all that sexual harmony didn’t matter. Since getting thrown out in the middle of the night kind of trumped any headway he’d made.

  He also considered putting on his weatherproof work boots and making the trek down into town for some lunch at Dahlia’s Café. But Dahlia was Meg’s good friend, and all things considered, he feared he might be persona non grata on Harbor Street by this point. When he’d bought the land and petitioned for a zoning change, he’d had no idea the can of social worms he was opening.

  But your job isn’t to be a social butterfly. You came here to develop and improve some land, and earn some money. He hadn’t headed north to make friends—in fact, by the time he’d moved to Summer Island, he’d been pretty fed up with people in general. Work, land, building—all things that were solid, straightforward, so much simpler than people. The fact that he’d found the people here pleasant and welcoming had come as an unexpected perk. But maybe he needed to get his priorities straight and quit caring about that.

  What he hadn’t factored into his move to a tiny island in northern Michigan was just how the hell he’d fill his hours during the quiet winters. At the time, isolation had sounded good, easier than dealing with difficult relationships—but days without work to sustain him were already starting to feel long.

  After eating some lunch, he looked to the wooden box still sitting on his dining room table, which he’d been ignoring since opening it up to discover sermons inside. If his father had thought Beck would suddenly want to sit around and read years’ worth of religious advice, it was only a testament to how much his dad had never understood or respected him.

  And yet, maybe he should be the bigger man here and honor his father’s memory enough to at least take a longer look. If his father had meant for him to have them...well, it was probably just a form of preaching from the grave, trying to get through to Beck in death what he’d failed to in life. If so, and if his dad was watching him through the bars of the Pearly Gates, the old man would be sorely disappointed. But boredom and curiosity were just enough to make Beck open the wooden lid once more and pull out a set of the folded papers.

  My son, Beck, and I could never see eye to eye. When he was a little boy, it was easier. Children, in their innocence, can have such loving, generous hearts, and Beck was no different. But children grow, sometimes away from us.

  I have long admired many practices of the group most commonly known as the Shakers, among those practices that of turning away from the world, by which I mean living separate and apart from the worldliness that can make us selfish or greedy, or confuse our priorities. For the world can indeed infest and confuse our minds, leading us from the ways that are pure and just. I often had the fanciful notions to wonder who my boy would have grown up to be if he hadn’t been influenced by the pursuit of the almighty dollar.

  But Beck, he loved things. Material possessions. He wanted the latest sports shoes, or video game. Later it was cars and a fancy house.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my son. And desiring material things doesn’t make anyone a bad person. But too much want, my friends, begets greed.

  And so today I want to talk to you about gifts and giving. The gift that is giving. The Book of Acts tells us that it is more blessed to give than to receive. And the further truth is—the more we give in life, the more we receive in return.

  * * *

  BECK SKIMMED A little more. More about giving, giving, giving. The man had been obsessed with the concept of giving. He’d literally given the clothes off his back to more than one person in need, and occasionally thrown in some of Beck’s and his sister’s in the bargain. He’d kept them poor. Almost intentionally, it had seemed.

  The upside? It had inspired in Beck a strong work ethic. Not that his father had ever noticed or valued that. He’d started mowing yards at the age of twelve. He’d worked after-school jobs and full-time ones in the summer. He’d gotten into building—hired on by a church member who ran a small construction outfit—during his sixteenth summer. And he’d saved his money to buy nice things—for himself and his family. Most parents would have been proud—but not Kenneth Grainger.

  The man had possessed the ability to lift a congregation so high they could almost touch the clouds. But when it came to fatherly love—well, the older Beck had gotten, the less there’d been. Until eventually there’d been none at all—other than attending Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners for the sake of his mother and sister, he’d been estranged from his dad for nearly ten years, right up until the old man had died last winter.

  The breaking point had come when Beck learned from his mom that his father was using him as a cautionary tale in sermons, casting him in the role of devil incarnate for making a good living. Truth was—he’d made such a good living that some people would call him rich. The big difference between him and his dad was: earning that much money made Beck proud—but it made his father ashamed.

  Well, he’d seen enough of what lay in the box. He didn’t need to read any more of his father’s sermons to find out what a disappointment he was to the man—he already knew. It only pissed him off that even on his deathbed it had been a top priority for his dad to make sure Beck didn’t forget it.

  It almost startled him when his cell phone rang—but after a flinch, he yanked it from his pocket and looked down to see George Walton calling.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Becker—this is Cade!”

  Beck couldn’t help but laugh—the funny kid was a welcome intrusion to his too-quiet afternoon. “Hey, Cade buddy, what’s up?”

  “I was calling to see if you want to build a snowman.”

  Hell—cold, snow, and a cute little kid. How could he resist? And it sounded like a lot better way to spend the day than getting insulted from six feet under. “Sure,” he said. “Sounds fun.”

  On the other end of the line, the little boy cheered. Then Beck heard a muted, “He said yes!”

  He couldn’t help thinking it was as if he’d been asked out on a date. And given the way things were going with the women on this island, it sounded like a pretty good offer. “I’ll bundle up and meet you outside with my best snowman-building equipment.”

  The boy sounded utterly awed as he said, “You have snowman-building equipment?”

  Beck had been mainly thinking of less-than-exotic tools like a bucket and shovel, but replied, “Sure do. We’ll build the best snowman Summer Island has ever seen.”

  “Cool!” Cade said.

  An hour later, a pretty majestic snowman was well underway in the Waltons’ front yard, and despite himself, “Becker” was having a good time with the little kid from across the street.

  “That’s going to be a nice one,” Marie Walton called as she came out onto the front porch with a shopping bag in hand. “I put some finishing touches in here for later—a carrot and a scarf and such. And when you’re done, there’s hot chocolate on the stove.”

  Soon enough, Cade was peeking in the bag and declaring gleefully, “Looks like Grammy has snowman-building stuff, too!”

  Beck lifted Cade up, instructing him where to poke the carrot nose deep into the big snowman’s head. They then pressed in some walnuts for eyes and a mouth, also courtesy of the little boy’s grandma. Cade watched as Beck tied an old blue scarf around the snowman’s neck, the tails draping down on one side, and they added more walnuts as buttons down the front of an imaginary coat.

  “Think he needs a broom? Lean it right up against him there,” Beck instructed his young friend.

  Cade placed the old broom Beck had brought along as carefully as if he were building a house of cards.

  After which Beck concluded, “All right—he’s done. Good work, buddy!” He held his hand out for a high five. As high as a kindergartner could give one, anyway.

  But rather than slapping Beck’s hand with his mitten, Cade appeared seriously trouble
d. “Wait. He’s not finished. He doesn’t have a hat.”

  Beck weighed various options. Tromp across the street and into his house and try to track down an old ball cap. Bother Marie for one—which meant make a nice old lady go digging through the closets for something that might end up blowing away. Explain to Cade that maybe the snowman didn’t need a hat. Or... “Here, he can have mine.” He reached up and took off his Indiana Jones hat, plopping it on the snowman’s head.

  Cade just looked at him. “Won’t you be cold?”

  He shrugged. “I’m fine.” Then he stood back to admire it. “Cool hat, though—right?”

  Cade hesitated and said, “I guess. I mean, in a funny sort of way.”

  Beck drew back slightly. He’d been sure the kid would see the coolness even if Lila Sloan hadn’t. “Funny? You don’t think it looks kinda like something Indiana Jones would wear?”

  “Who’s Indiana Jones?”

  “Never mind.” Beck sighed, then patted the kid’s head. “Ready to go get some hot chocolate from your grandma?”

  Cade nodded, then his little eyes lit up in a way Beck was becoming accustomed to. “I bet after that it’ll be almost time to take a bath and go to the tree-lighting party down in town.”

  “Oh, guess that is tonight, isn’t it?” Beck had known, but wasn’t particularly interested. Usually he made an appearance at town events—it was how he’d gotten to know people—but this one he planned to skip given all the drama of the past few days.

  “Yep! Are you going, too?” Cade asked.

  “Nope.”

  Cade’s expression darkened. You’d think Beck had just announced Santa had run out of toys. “Why not?”

  Um, let me count the reasons. It’s cold. Snowy. There’s a Kentucky basketball game on ESPN. Lila Sloan might start throwing ornaments at me. “I, uh, just thought I’d enjoy a nice, quiet evening at home.”

  “You have to go!” Cade insisted.

  “Why is that?” Beck inquired very reasonably.

  Cade gaped at him, like it was obvious, like he should know. “Christmas trees make your soul happy, remember?”

  Oh yeah, he remembered, all right. It had been that cockamamie notion that had led him to take Lila Sloan a tree. Which he still wasn’t sure if he regretted or not. It had been an event of extreme highs and lows, after all.

  “And your soul doesn’t seem very happy right now.”

  Beck took that in. It showed? Enough that a five-year-old could see it?

  “And I’ll be there!” Cade went on. “So you’ll get to see me again!”

  Beck couldn’t help but laugh. And then relent. “Well, when you put it that way, sounds like I’d be crazy to pass it up.”

  Cade’s whole countenance brightened. “So you’ll go?”

  Beck blew out a sigh. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go.”

  That kid had a way of finding his soft spot, making him do exactly what he wanted.

  And hell, maybe the tree-lighting would distract him from his troubles. Or maybe not—but the truth was, if trouble in the form of Lila Sloan showed up, he’d be glad, despite himself. She was a loose cannon for sure, but the idea of seeing her again made him feel like a teenager hoping to run into the girl he had a crush on. He’d just have to look out for flying ornaments.

  PART 2

  The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way.

  William Blake

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT WAS RARE that a cold, snow-covered winter night on Summer Island held such promise. But as Suzanne meandered up Harbor Street toward the tree-lighting ceremony, the crisp air veritably sang with it. Christmas was coming, lights twinkled in shop windows and stretched across awnings, and the whole island felt merry. Perhaps more so because of heavy snows having caused the event to be delayed—it was already December 10. And while this was only her third holiday season here, she’d quickly learned that until the big tree in front of Lakeview Park sparkled with thousands of tiny bulbs, it wasn’t truly yet Christmastime.

  That same fresh sense of promise fluttered in her heart, as well. Beck would probably make an appearance. And she was looking forward to seeing him. Maybe she’d always liked seeing him but could only just now admit it to herself. Terrible when one’s own mind keeps secrets—but a flurry of relief washed over her at having finally figured out her true feelings, and with her readiness to be brave.

  People were beginning to gather around the enormous spruce in the snow when she approached, and the Summer Island School choir stood in two lines singing carols. Trent Fordham, who operated the bicycle livery in summer, stood with Josh Callen, owner of the coffee shop, fiddling with massive cords near an electrical box nearby. And she spotted Zack Sheppard on a ladder near the tree, apparently taking a break from sulking tonight to bark orders over the choir at the two men on the ground. “Not the tan cord—the green one!”

  Despite herself, she was almost happy to see him—she didn’t hate him or anything, and she knew it would ease Dahlia’s mind if he was starting to get over Meg at least a little.

  Just down the street from the main event, The Cozy Tea and Coffee Shop was lit up and open for business. She ducked in from the cold to find the place buzzing as she bought a hot chocolate with a swirl of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on top.

  Pushing through the old-fashioned wooden screen door to leave, she nearly collided with a tall, silver-haired man in a tan wool coat and dark woolen flat cap like the ones worn by old-timey golfers and current day hipsters working too hard to earn that title. Unlike most golfers and hipsters, this man wore it well—or maybe he’d have worn any hat well by virtue of being strikingly handsome with high cheekbones and a cleft in his chin. “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” he said with perfect French pronunciation—and Suzanne nearly gasped. Mr. Desjardins, I presume.

  She simply smiled in response, then caught sight of Dahlia standing nearby as she stepped down off the porch into the snow-covered street. “My, my,” Suzanne said in sly greeting. “You were right—he’s the cat’s meow.”

  Dahlia laughed. “I suppose he is, at that.” And unlike during their conversation at the Knitting Nook, now Suzanne could see in her friend the girlish glow of romance. Maybe Dahlia cared about Mr. Desjardins more than she’d let on? Suzanne chose not to press it, however—at least not right now—though the thought made her happy.

  “Have you seen Beck? I’m hoping to run into him tonight,” she told Dahlia. Ready to be brave, brave, brave—no more holding back.

  “Not yet,” her friend said. “But I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve come to your senses about him. I mean, I wish this conflict over the land behind the inn wasn’t happening—but everything else about the man is tall, dark, and yummy.”

  Dahlia had just echoed her own sentiments. And among other reasons she’d shied away from his attention last summer was his being so handsome that he felt out of her league. His good looks had only added to the things about him that intimidated her. But if he found her attractive, who was she to question it?

  “Oh!” Dahlia said, latching onto the arm of Suzanne’s coat with a glove-covered hand. “Dreamy land mogul at nine o’clock and approaching swiftly.”

  Suzanne glanced up Harbor Street to see the object of her affections indeed striding briskly through the snow toward the center of town. Then wished she had a plan. Why hadn’t she thought of one? She wasn’t good enough at this stuff to wing it. “What do I do? What do I say?” she asked Dahlia.

  Dahlia dropped her gaze to the mug of cocoa between Suzanne’s mittens—then grabbed it away from her.

  “Hey!” Suzanne protested.

  “Ask him if he’d like to get some hot chocolate with you.”

  “Oh.” She began to nod, getting with the program. “Okay, that’s good. Got it.”

&n
bsp; And it was fortunate Dahlia thought fast, because Beck certainly walked fast at the moment—he was already about to pass by without having noticed them standing there. “Beck,” she called.

  He looked over. Smiled softly, lifted his hand in a quick wave. “Hey, Suzanne. Dahlia.” He’d slowed down, but hadn’t stopped moving.

  Still, she pressed forward, pointing toward the coffee shop—and only then realized that when wearing a mitten, it might look more like a traffic-directing motion. “Chilly night out. I was about to get some hot chocolate. Care to join?” Okay, traffic directions aside, it came out smooth, building her confidence.

  Until he paused only to point his own finger farther down the street and say, “Thanks, I would—but I need to talk to Lila.”

  Suzanne glanced ahead to see that indeed Meg’s sister stood by herself near the tree, peering up at it in the dusky air as night descended full and deep and cold over the island. “Did you make peace with her?” she asked on a lark.

  On the move again, he said, “Still working on it, but wish me luck.” He ended with a grin and was gone—and Suzanne and Dahlia stood looking silently after him as he headed toward Lila in the distance. She wasn’t sure if they’d gone quiet from shock—or if there was simply nothing else to say about him brushing off her invitation like it wasn’t the most courageous thing she’d done in...years, actually, when she thought about it. Her heart sank.

  She couldn’t make out Lila’s expression from such a distance—but she thought Beck looked...well, maybe like she wished he’d looked when she’d asked him to the coffee shop. Though maybe she was misconstruing the situation. It was getting dark and he stood far away now—so maybe she was seeing something that wasn’t there. “Am I reading this wrong,” she said to Dahlia, “or...does he suddenly seem more interested in talking to Lila than in talking to me?”