by Irene Hannon
At last he spoke again, his tone measured and without a trace of censure. “It’s your decision . . . but this family needs help, Anna. If this thing gets out of control, it could cause fractures that will never heal.”
Like the ones in your own family.
He didn’t have to say the words for the parallel to come through loud and clear.
And whether or not he knew it, it was the most effective argument he could have used. It might be too late to salvage her relationship with her son, but this family hadn’t yet crossed the point of no return.
Hard as she tried to cling to her objections, they began to crumble.
Besides . . . there were practical reasons to think about the arrangement he’d suggested, as he’d noted—and in the end, the girl and her family might not go for it anyway.
She loosened her grip on the crumpled paper and let the wadded ball drop into her lap. “I would only consider your idea after meeting with the family. Could that be arranged?”
It was faint, but she picked up his soft exhale. “I’ll talk to Tracy. She’s coordinating this hot potato. I think your request is very reasonable.” He cast her a warm smile. “You won’t regret this, Anna.”
She didn’t respond.
But as the miles flew by and Hope Harbor grew closer, as doubt began to peck away at her decision, she hoped he was right.
“You’re kidding.” Tracy rested a hand on the half-filled fiberglass tub of fertilizer in the equipment shed. “How did you manage to convince her?”
“I could attribute it to charm—but I think practicality had a lot to do with her decision. However, she wants to meet the family before she commits.”
“I can set that up. When would be a convenient time?”
“The sooner the better, for both parties’ sakes. Fortunately, Anna’s right-handed, but it was apparent in the few minutes I spent with her in her house after we got back that she’s not going to be able to do a lot of everyday tasks by herself.”
“I’ll ask Reverend Baker to arrange a meeting. He’s done some additional checking on the family through the references they provided. They appear to be solid. He also knows Anna, so I’m confident he’ll give her a fine recommendation. I hope this works out.”
“I do too. I’ll let Anna know the reverend will be in touch—and then I’m going to crash.”
“Sounds like a plan. And Michael, thank you again for stepping in on this. I was worried we’d have to turn this family down. My last four prospects were iffy.”
“Glad to help.” A yawn came over the line. “Sorry.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll give you an update later.” She ended the call, started to dial Reverend Baker’s number—and discovered Uncle Bud watching her from the doorway.
“For a man and a woman who have no interest in each other, you two talk an awful lot.”
She pressed the end button again. Her call could wait a few minutes.
“Good morning to you too.” She shoved the phone in the pocket of her jeans and began filling the fertilizer tub on the spreader again, trying for nonchalance. “And for your information, that was a business call. A situation with Helping Hands.”
“Uh-huh.” He entered the shed and trudged over to the fungicide sprayer, resting a hand on the homemade machine he’d crafted a dozen years ago. “Sounded pretty friendly to me.” His voice rasped.
Tracy looked over her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yep.” He fiddled with the sprayer, angling away from her.
She went back to work, bracing for his next comment or question about Michael.
It never came.
Maintaining an air of busyness, she cast a surreptitious peek his way, watching as he went about the fungicide prep.
Hmm. Usually, Uncle Bud’s actions were quick and precise and efficient. Today he was slow and stiff, moving as if he hurt.
She squinted at him. Was he a bit flushed too? And where was the mischievous sparkle in his eyes that always accompanied his teasing comments?
He started to cough, the hacking sound coming from deep within his lungs.
And he kept coughing.
Stomach knotting, Tracy crossed to him.
Up close, he appeared even worse. His cheeks were sunken, and the hand she placed against his forehead came away hot.
Too hot.
“You’re sick.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Uncle Bud.” She grabbed his arm to keep him from walking away. “You have a fever.”
“A degree or two. It’ll pass.” Another fit of coughing slammed through him, and he sagged against the sprayer.
“Okay . . . enough of this I’ll-muscle-through stuff. You have a fever—of more than one or two degrees. You’re coughing. I’m guessing by your stiff movements that your whole body aches. What have I missed?”
He felt behind him for the seat on the sprayer and sank down. “Headache, sore throat, fatigue.”
“You have the flu.”
“Nobody gets the flu in June.”
“I guess you’re special. Does Nancy know?”
“No. I got up early and came outside. Can’t afford to be sick. There’s too much to do.”
“I’ll admit it’s not ideal timing, but let’s be glad it isn’t harvest season.” She tried to sound as upbeat as possible—but he was right. She might have found them a new tractor at a reasonable price, but that purchase would leave them zero budget for emergency help.
Meaning her long days had just gotten a whole lot longer for the next couple of weeks. The mowing, fungicide and fertilizer application, spot-spraying weeds, watering, a few fence repairs would all be on her shoulders—unless she could find a way to earn some extra cash pronto that would allow her to hire a high school kid for ten or fifteen hours a week. And somewhere in there she had to take care of her accounting clients too.
“I can hear those gears grinding at warp speed in your brain.” Uncle Bud pushed himself to his feet. “I might not be able to stand on the fertilizer spreader for hours, but I can sit on the sprayer and get the fungicide application done.”
“Forget it.” She put her arm around his shoulder and guided him to the door. “I’m walking you back to the house and turning you over to Nancy.”
“I can get there on my own.”
“Nope. I don’t trust you. You’ll sneak off to work on one of those fence breaks.” She kept walking.
His shoulders drooped. “You want the truth? That wouldn’t happen. I hardly have the energy to get back to the house.”
He plodded along beside her, none of the usual spring in his step. He stopped once to cough, the warmth of his skin singeing her fingers through the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Nancy came out on the porch to meet them as they drew close, twin creases embedded in her forehead. “I saw you two from the window. What’s wrong?”
“Our fearless leader has the flu.” Tracy gave her uncle’s arm a squeeze, then released him to Nancy as Shep and Ziggy raced up.
His new wife helped him up the steps, did the hand-on-the-forehead test, and shook her head. “Bud Sheldon, what were you thinking, going out in the fields in this condition?”
The dogs nuzzled his fingers, and he gave them each a pat. “I was thinking cranberries.”
“Well, you’re going to be thinking chicken soup for the next few days.” Nancy propelled him toward the door.
“Good luck keeping him in bed. He hates being sick even worse than he hates fireworms and bog rats.” Tracy rested one foot on the bottom step and pulled her baseball cap more firmly over her hair.
“Don’t you worry about that. I know how to deal with problem patients.” Nancy winked over her shoulder. “If you hold down the fort, I’ll hold down your uncle.”
“Deal.”
The two disappeared into the house, and Shep and Ziggy trotted over to her. After a quick pat, they raced off, leaving her alone.
Very alone.
Taking a deep breath, Tracy slowly retraced
her steps to the equipment shed, trying to psyche herself up for the marathon to come.
A cloud scurried over the sun, casting a shadow on the earth. Appropriate. This whole season had been filled with shadows. Bad news on the balance sheet. The loss of old Bessie. Uncle Bud being felled by the flu. And no rescue in sight for their longer-term financial problem.
She paused and looked up at the sky, now more gray than blue.
Are all these minor catastrophes a message, Lord? Are you telling us it’s time to let the farm go? To give up the place our family has loved and nurtured and worked for three generations? Are you trying to tell us we’re just postponing the inevitable?
She waited, watching the clouds. The bees continued to drone. The dogs continued to bark. The birds continued to chirp.
God remained silent.
No surprise there. Booming commands from above only happened in the Bible.
But how were you supposed to follow his guidance and discern his will if you couldn’t hear his voice?
Let’s do our best and leave the outcome to God.
Uncle Bud’s advice echoed in her mind—and it was sound.
Besides, what other choice did she have?
So she straightened her shoulders. Picked up her pace. And prepared to do her best.
The tension in the air was as thick as it had been the day John walked out the front door with two packed suitcases and never came back.
Anna surveyed the group assembled in her living room. Ellen and Ken Lewis were sitting on the sofa across from her, close to each other but not touching. The mother’s eyes were distraught and confused, her face etched with concern, her hands clenched in her lap. Beside her, the father’s dark irises smoldered, and his posture was taut as a rubber band about to snap. He sat on the edge of the seat, as if prepared to jump to his feet at the slightest provocation, chin set, shoulders rigid, fingers flexing. Like he was itching for a fight.
Grace had claimed a chair on the far side of the room—part of the group but sufficiently removed to make a statement. A bulging backpack rested at her feet, in case they all agreed she would stay. The teen’s long brownish hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the harsh style accentuating her narrow face. She had her mother’s soft lips and her father’s strong chin, but her eyes were all hers—hazel and filled with defiance . . . though fear lurked in their depths.
Reverend Baker, who’d collected and delivered the family to her doorstep, was in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, at her request. She wanted him nearby in case things got out of hand, but she was the one taking in a stranger. This was her show to run.
“Are you certain none of you would like a beverage? I know Reverend Baker would be happy to get you one.”
“No, thank you.” Ellen managed the hint of a smile. Her husband shook his head. Grace didn’t respond.
“Very well.” Anna shifted, cradling her arm as she tried to find a more comfortable position. “Reverend Baker has explained my situation to you. I’m told you’re all seeking a safe, neutral place for Grace to stay, which I may be able to provide.” She directed her next comment to the teen. “I need assistance with routine chores—dressing and other personal tasks, light cleaning, caring for my animals, some simple cooking. I would expect you to be available and willing to help during daytime hours. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The girl had some manners.
One positive in her column.
“Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
Anna refocused on the parents. “From my end, this arrangement would need to last for a minimum of two weeks. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
The parents spoke simultaneously.
Ellen touched her husband’s arm. “Ken, we talked about this before we came over.”
“I know we did.” He shot to his feet and began to pace. “But waiting isn’t going to change anything. We need to get the name of that boy and deal with this.” He stopped and planted his fists on his hips as he glowered at his daughter. “You know I can get that information from your cell log.”
Grace rose too, and faced off against him, the color leeching from her complexion. “That’s an invasion of privacy!”
“I pay the phone bill and you’re underage. Once you stop acting responsibly, you forfeit any right to privacy.”
“Ken.” The mother stood and rested her fingers on his arm. “We promised Grace we’d wait until we all calmed down before taking any action.”
“Yeah, well . . . I’m having some second thoughts.”
Grace picked up her bag. “Then I’m out of here.”
She sounded just like John had the day he’d stalked out without a backward glance.
“Honey . . . wait. Please.” Ellen took a step toward her daughter, her tone placating, one hand still resting on her husband’s arm. “Running away isn’t going to solve anything. We need to stay calm and think this through. Ken . . .” She turned back to her husband and nodded toward the couch. “We agreed this was the best plan. Let’s stick with it, okay?”
He hesitated, shoulders stiff, poised to say things Anna knew he might regret. So like her nearly twenty years ago.
But at his wife’s urging, he retook his seat.
So did Grace.
All thanks to Ellen’s intervention. The voice of reason . . . as George would have been on that long-ago day.
Perhaps with the mother’s peacekeeping efforts and some outside help, this family would survive.
And she could provide that help.
“I’m sorry.” Ellen sent her an apologetic look. “Emotions are running high all around, as you can see.”
“That’s understandable.” Anna cradled her injured arm to take some of the pressure from the sling off her neck. “It’s a difficult situation.”
“To put it mildly.” Anger flashed in Ken’s eyes.
“But we’ll figure out a way to deal with it, once we’re all thinking more clearly.” Ellen stroked his arm and spoke across the coffee table. “That’s why we thought a short separation might be beneficial. If you’re willing to take Grace.”
From the moment Michael had broached the idea until the family walked in her door, Anna had been nervous about the whole notion. Yet all at once a gentle calm infused her—and the choice seemed obvious.
“I’ll be happy to, as long as she promises to stick close and follow whatever rules you’ve set.”
“The rules are simple. No computer or cell phone, no talking to this boy while she’s here, and no running away.” Her father sent Grace a don’t-mess-with-me look.
She glared back. “I’ll follow those rules if you promise not to check my cell records and cause trouble.”
“I’m not the one causing trouble.”
“I think we can all agree to those rules.” Ellen glanced from her husband to her daughter.
“And I don’t want you guys calling here constantly, either.” Grace lowered her chin and picked at some peeling polish on her thumbnail. “I need some time to think too.”
Ken started to speak, but Anna intervened.
“I think that’s a wise suggestion. Distance can help restore perspective. However, I’ll be happy to call you every day to let you know how things are going.”
“That would be perfect.” Gratitude softened Ellen’s features.
“Then I guess there’s nothing else to discuss.” Anna spoke again to Grace. “Would you let Reverend Baker know we’re wrapping up in here?”
The girl rose without a word and disappeared down the hall.
“We can’t thank you enough for offering your hospitality, Mrs. Williams.” Ellen stood and came around the coffee table, hand extended. “Things have been so volatile . . . this is new territory for us. Grace has always been such a good girl.”
Ken pushed to his feet too. “That’s why I want to get my hands on the punk who did this to her—and loc
k her in her room until she’s eighteen.”
“And you wonder why I threatened to run away?” Grace stormed back into the room, the minister on her heels. “He didn’t do anything to me I didn’t fully cooperate with. Was it a mistake? Yes. Am I sorry about it? Yes. But it’s done—and if we can’t find a solution we can all live with, I’m outta here.”
“Grace, you’re only sixteen. Where would you go? Besides, we’re a family. We stick together.” Ellen moved toward her.
She backed away from her mother. “I just want to be left alone right now, okay? I’ll stay here. We’ll all think. Maybe we can work this out.” The last word caught on a sob.
Reverend Baker scanned the group. “Does that mean you’re taking Grace in, Anna?”
“Yes.”
“Splendid. A sound plan all around, I’d say. We’ll leave the two of you to work out your living arrangements.”
Daughter and parents faced each other across the room, Grace’s shoulders taut, Ellen’s eyes shimmering, and Ken’s jaw still chiseled in granite.
Finally he took his wife’s arm and they followed Reverend Baker out.
Once the door clicked shut behind them, Anna turned to her new houseguest. “Would you please lock the front door, Grace? There’s a flip lock and a bolt.”
The girl complied in silence, disappearing down the hall in the wake of her parents.
And as the click sounded in the quiet house with an ominous ring of finality, Anna hoped this limb she’d stepped out on wasn’t going to crack under the weight of conflict and send her tumbling into disaster.
12
Was that Tracy?
Michael stopped, adjusted his sunglasses against the brilliant glare of the late morning sun, and squinted into the distance. The woman sitting on the sand, leaning against a rock, looked like her—but he walked this beach every day, and they’d never run into each other.
He started forward again. It was probably some tourist. Maybe the wife of that guy at water’s edge who was searching for agates or petrified wood or other flotsam. Or she might be part of that picnicking family group a bit farther down.
