The Giving Heart

by Toni Blake

  Even if the world feels a little more empty to me now.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY the snow stopped. But a fresh foot of it lay like a mantel across the island, the sky still white and overcast, and Kentucky felt a world away. And heading home would have indeed been a damn nice distraction from the women weighing on his mind. One who wouldn’t forgive him for the way he’d hurt her, and another whom he’d hurt by caring for the first. Love stinks.

  Beck didn’t know how to fix any of his own problems, but maybe he’d feel better if he could fix things for Cade somehow.

  He couldn’t get the kid home in time for Christmas, of course, any more than he could get himself there—but when he’d checked in with George this morning to make sure they’d survived the storm okay, he’d found out Cade remained inconsolable about this Santa situation.

  “I’ll try to figure out some way to make it better,” he’d promised his neighbor. But now he worried he was just going to let someone else down, too, since he hadn’t come up with any great ideas yet.

  Tired of TV—he’d watched a lot of it over the past couple days—he turned it off and walked to the dining room, to the Nativity box. And he read.

  For longer than on past occasions. Partly because he had time on his hands, and partly because he didn’t come across any more sermons that disparaged him. Without that element to get under his skin, he continued to find this unexpected window into his father’s soul enlightening and even comforting, when he’d least expected it.

  As the afternoon passed, he read more sermons about forgiveness, kindness, and gratitude, but in these he sensed his dad having mellowed over time. The sermons had been placed in the box in chronological order, and it made him happy to read his father’s softer take on the world as he’d aged. Turned out Pastor Kenneth Grainger hadn’t been such a hard-ass, after all. Though it also made Beck regret all the more having stayed away so much in those later years.

  When he reached the end of the stack of papers, the last thing remaining in the box appeared different than most. Each sermon had been a set of folded papers, some handwritten, some typed, some—toward the end—even printed out from a computer, and tossed into the mix had been an occasional letter to a friend or fellow minister that his father had seen fit to make a copy of before sending. But at the bottom of the velvet-lined Nativity box lay an envelope, facedown. And when Beck turned it over, it bore his name.

  Huh. He hadn’t seen that coming. And he had no idea what to expect. But he opened it, unfolded the sheets of paper inside, and read the letter written in the jagged scrawl of someone who no longer possessed steady hands.

  Dear Beck,

  I don’t know if you’ll ever read these words, but either way, it is my deepest wish that you lead a long and joyful life, finding fulfillment in whatever you undertake.

  That word has stayed with me lately. Fulfillment. I’ve led a fulfilling life. I’ve found fulfillment in my faith, in shepherding a congregation, in giving whatever I can to others. Something happens inside me, Beck, when I give. Maybe not everyone feels it—I can’t say. It’s a wellspring of rightness and wellbeing that nothing else has ever brought me.

  I am an old man, and perhaps stubborn. Maybe I’ve always been. So it’s hard for me to admit when I’ve been wrong. But in these waning days of my life on this earthly plane, the Lord has delivered to me a revelation. Every time I find myself thinking about you, Beck, and wishing we’d seen more eye to eye, the Lord has brought me a Bible verse. Three distinct times this happened and the verses are these:

  Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are differences of administrations, but the same Lord. 1 Corinthians 12:4-5.

  Let us not therefore judge one another any more: but judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother’s way. Romans 14:13.

  A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another. John 13:34.

  What I realize now, son, is that we are not all the same. I, as a man who has ministered to many, should, above all others, know that. But I suppose it can be a man’s weakness to wish for his children to want to emulate him, or at least view life in a similar way. When that didn’t happen with you, I pushed against it, tried to bend your heart to my will, and I judged you wrongly for approaching life in a different fashion than I did.

  I am proud of you, Beck. I’m proud of the man you’ve become. I’m proud that you make your way in the world boldly. I’m proud that you’ve found success. I’m proud that you’re generous with your family. I’m proud that you give to the world in your own ways, even if different than mine. That is something I’ve come to understand late in life—we are all born with different gifts, and we’re not all meant to be the same. It shames me, as a pastor, that it’s taken me this long to bestow that understanding on you.

  Perhaps I should have put this letter on the top of the box, not the bottom. But I am indeed a stubborn old man, and I suppose there is a part of me that just wants you to know my heart, for better or worse, whether in agreement or dissension. And my sermons are my heart, so if you have read them, son, I thank you.

  I love you, Beck, just as you are.

  With love and respect,

  Dad

  * * *

  BECK SAT AT his dining room table staring at the letter in his hand. He reread it a couple of times. To make sure he hadn’t somehow misinterpreted it.

  He’d made his dad proud, after all.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, old man?” he muttered. “Before you died.” It would have made for one hell of a happier ending to their story as father and son. But he supposed it had to do with pride. And that stubbornness his dad mentioned. He supposed he’d inherited a little of that himself.

  His first instinct? Like the last time he’d found a revelation in this box, he longed to tell Lila about it.

  But they’d already said their goodbyes. And even if they were both stranded here for Christmas, they remained at an impasse.

  So he picked up his phone and called his sister instead. “Hey, Em,” he said when she answered, “is this a good time?”

  “It is if you’re calling to tell me the ferry is running again.”

  He sighed. “No such luck. Calling for something else.”

  “Rats,” she said. “Well, I’m just about to head to the grocery—on the Saturday before Christmas, God help me. But I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

  Okay, so he wouldn’t beat around the bush. “I finished reading the stuff from Dad. And at the bottom, there was a letter—to me. And damnedest thing, Em—he told me he was proud of me.”

  “Of course he was proud of you,” she said, like he was a numbskull.

  He blinked. “Of course he was? You knew this? Because, I mean, if this is common knowledge, why didn’t someone tell me? Why on earth do you think I quit coming around?”

  “Because he was hard on you and tended to be critical. So I understood why you pulled back and didn’t even blame you—you two definitely knocked heads. But in spite of that, I always knew he was proud of you. In the big picture way.”

  Beck let out a heavy breath. “Well...hell. It’s news to me.”

  “I guess by virtue of not being around, maybe you never got to hear him say it. Or...who knows, maybe he wouldn’t have said it if you were there. But I knew. And Mom knew. I guess I just assumed you did, too. It would be hard not to be proud of you, Beck—you’ve accomplished a lot and you’re a good guy on top of it.”

  As Beck continued trying to wrap his head around this, he wondered out loud in frustration, “Why can’t people just say what they mean? It would make life a hell of a lot easier.” The remark left him glad he’d had a frank conversation with Suzanne, even if he’d felt like a jerk doing it, and made him appreciate even more that she’d made her position clear.

  Moving on with a
nother sigh, he said, “You guys ready for Christmas down there?”

  “It won’t be the same without you—or Dad—but yeah, pretty much. Though I dread seeing our electric bill next month. I was reminiscing, telling Mike and the kids how Dad used to go crazy putting lights up on the rectory when you and I were little. Remember that?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Though he hadn’t thought about it in years, that had been one of his father’s few trivial indulgences—he put a ton of lights on the house back when they were small and still believed in Santa Claus. “I remember him saying it was how Santa would find us.”

  On the other end, Em laughed. “That’s right, he did. Anyway, Mike took it upon himself to go buy a bunch of lights and put them up. And I do mean a bunch. We’re the talk of the neighborhood—for better or worse.”

  Beck chuckled. “Sounds fun. Sorry I won’t get to see them.”

  Emma sighed. “Me, too. We’ll send you a picture. But I’d better go—time to get moving. After the grocery, Mike’s taking the kids to a holiday parade so I can wrap gifts and hide them. Lots to do to get ready for the big day.”

  Hanging up, Beck again lamented that he’d not get to see his niece and nephew on Christmas. But he’d be seeing another little boy, who still thought he had a big problem. And...hmm, maybe his dad had unwittingly just given him an idea.

  Lights. He was gonna need a hellacious amount of lights.

  Phone still in his hand, he dialed George. “George, got any extra Christmas lights? Like...maybe a few thousand?”

  * * *

  FLAT GRAY CLOUDS blanketed the sky and hung heavy in the frigid air the following morning, but that didn’t stop Beck from putting on winter gear and setting out toward Harbor Street.

  His father had inspired him in more ways than one yesterday, even from the grave. Beck planned to stop by Koester’s Market, the only place on the island that would have dependable foot traffic over the next couple of days before Christmas, to put the word out and try to collect the things he needed to give Cade a Christmas miracle. And after that, he intended to take another stab at one for himself, too.

  Though his goals with Lila had changed dramatically since the last time he’d hoped for a miracle with her. And maybe that should discourage him—because in comparison, the miracle he sought now was much, much bigger than just getting her to be okay with the development behind the inn by taking her a Christmas tree.

  Descending Mill Street, he peered out on Lake Michigan, looking for a miracle there, too. But it teemed with thick, jagged, angry-looking chunks and plates of ice that told him that particular wish would have to be put on hold. And passing by Suzanne’s cottage made his heart hurt a little—for her, and for bad timing all around. He hoped she was all right.

  Harbor Street was only slightly more traveled with footprints than the others, but lights glowed inside the Skipper’s Wheel and the coffee shop. When he stepped into the corner market by Lakeview Park, he found the owner and one cashier on duty, along with Dahlia, who’d apparently stopped in to shop.

  “I need to ask for some help from the community,” he informed them, explaining about little Cade being stuck here for Christmas—then listed the things he needed. “Mini-lights—as many as anyone can spare. And stuff for a five-year-old boy—specifically a bike with training wheels, anything Pokémon-related, and any other toys or things good for a kid his age. Oh, and a stuffed dog of some sort would be great.” He couldn’t come up with a puppy, but even a facsimile would be welcome under the circumstances. “I hate to ask,” Beck concluded, “but my resources are pretty limited at the moment.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Dahlia was quick to say. “It’s darned sweet what you’re doing, and we year-rounders stick together when somebody needs a little help.”

  Indeed, they all promised to spread the word and seemed eager to help, and the owner even offered the store as a collection point. Before Beck knew it, the cashier was on the phone, starting to call various locals, and the owner began hatching a plan with Beck.

  “Thanks—I really appreciate it,” he told them all. He wasn’t sure if he could really pull this off in a convincing way, but he’d give it his best shot, and he left Koester’s feeling cautiously optimistic.

  From there, he headed west back down the street and through the snow, on a course for the Summerbrook Inn.

  His father had finally told Beck how he really felt—but too late for it to give them a better relationship. Suzanne had done the same thing with him, being honest and frank and clear—also too late. Beck had decided he didn’t want to be too late with Lila.

  Though as he walked up the steps and onto the porch, the big Victorian looming over him, his chest tightened. It made him admire Suzanne all the more because she’d probably felt yesterday the way he felt today—uneasy, uncertain, hoping like hell for the person on the other side of the door to see things the same way.

  He rang the bell, then shifted his weight from one work boot to another, waiting.

  When the door opened, Lila stood before him in an oversize sweater, leggings, and fuzzy socks, a skein of purple yarn in her hand. She looked surprised to see him—and maybe...something more. He just couldn’t read what that something more in her expression was.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I...come in? It’s cold.”

  She didn’t answer—just moved back to clear the path through the door. He stepped inside and shut it, vaguely aware of a fire crackling in the next room, then looked back at her. He didn’t have a plan. Maybe he should have. He pointed vaguely toward the yarn. “Knitting?”

  She nodded. “Trying to knit my troubles away. Some people drink—I knit.”

  He shrugged. “That’s healthier.”

  She shrugged in return. “Well, occasionally I drink. And not that some spiked hot chocolate isn’t tempting, mind you. But I guess spiked hot chocolate—” she dropped her gaze, appearing slightly forlorn “—has caused me enough problems since I got here.”

  Okay, so she considered sex with him a problem. Of course, he knew it was more complicated than that—but all in all, he decided that rather than give her the chance to cut any deeper into his confidence, he’d just forge ahead and speak from the heart.

  “Here’s the thing,” he told her. “I’m in love with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  LILA’S JAW DROPPED. Perhaps understandably. Just like Suzanne had thrown her affection at him when he’d not been ready for it, he was doing the exact same thing to Lila. He only hoped it would turn out better this time.

  As he waited for her to form a reply, he noticed her squeezing the yarn like a stress ball. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Maybe he should say more. “I thought you should know. That I love you. I never planned it. I never dreamed when I found you standing in front of that bulldozer in the snow that you’d turn out to be someone I can’t get off my mind, someone I want to be with all that time, someone I care for and admire and want to make happy however I can...but there it is. I love you.”

  She peered up at him, her hazel eyes fraught with emotion. “If you loved me, Beck,” she whispered, “you’d leave the trees alone.”

  He just blew out a heavy sigh. He’d hoped maybe love would be the thing that would trump the trees. No such luck.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I sound like a broken record. And I wish like hell I could get past it, because... I care for you, Beck. More than I want to. More than makes sense. In fact...okay, I’m pretty sure I love you, too. I think—perhaps ironically, given the tree situation—that you’re the best man I’ve ever been with. If I could somehow move past that and the Meg betrayal issue, things would be different between us.”

  “Different how?” he asked, pushing the issue.

  “Maybe... I’d find a reason to come back to the island sooner rather than later.
Maybe... I’d find a reason to stay.”

  Beck’s heart warmed as he took all that in. She loved him, too. She really loved him, too. Part of him had been sure she’d deny it—sure he’d end up slinking away heartbroken and defeated, same as Suzanne had less than twenty-four hours earlier. But her words buoyed him, making him feel like anything was possible. Hope burst wide-open in his chest.

  He only had to reason with her, make her understand. Maybe there was more he hadn’t been clear about. “I wish like hell I could make the tree situation go away, Lila—I’d do it in a heartbeat.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “But would it make a difference if I explained that I have investors, people who’ve entrusted their money to me, that it’s not just my own money on the table here? Would it make a difference if you knew that the land has been surveyed, plat maps have been drawn up by engineers, that home plans and permits and builders are all in place? And that literally hundreds of thousands of dollars are involved? It might seem as simple as not bulldozing the trees, but it’s a hell of a lot more complicated. And if I could go back in time and choose different property—believe me, I would. But I can’t. And who knows—maybe Meg will understand. Maybe Meg wouldn’t want you to give up a chance at happiness over this. You haven’t even talked to her about it, you know. So this is where we are. I’m in love with you, and I know we could be happy together—but no matter how much I want to, I can’t save the woods behind the inn.”

  He went quiet, having said all he could to convince her. Please let it be enough. Please don’t let a bunch of trees on a hillside come between us. Please find a way to look beyond that.

  He watched as she drew in a deep breath and blew it back out. She set the yarn aside on a table next to the door. Then took his hands in her much warmer ones. Looked down at them. “So cold,” she murmured. “And you never wear gloves. I would make you a pair, but that’s beyond my current skill level.”