Again Jon’s gaze traveled up from his journal and swept across the landscape. Above the river sat the eternal mountains, Jon’s own home among them. They steadied him somehow…kept the river in its place.
No, I’ll never be lost like that again—because I’ve found You, my Father. And in this above all I want to please You.
I pray for Sophie. Lord, she looks tired. She seems so broken. I don’t know what has brought her to this point, or even to this place, but You do. And only You can fix her. Bless her now, wherever she is and whatever she is doing. Let her draw near to You as a daughter. Let her see that You are working in her life and bringing about good. Give her the gift of a new beginning, a new life in You.
Jon put down his pen in the middle of the open journal pages and closed the book loosely. He got up, stretched, and walked to the end of the deck, peering over the railing at the edge of the cliff that plunged only a few steps in front of him. Down below he could see the treetops, and beyond them, the river. He was glad for the strong railing.
There were two oak trees enclosed by his deck—he had cut holes around them rather than chop them down—and squirrels had scattered a few acorns at his feet. Jon picked one up and threw it as far as he could. He watched it arc and then heard a faint rustling as it fell through the trees and, presumably, to the ground. He went back to his seat, picked up the journal again, and added:
I trust You to show me what part, if any, I am to have in that new life. Don’t let me take one step outside of Your will.
Jon didn’t write or even think the word “Amen.” Over the last few years he had found himself very naturally in the practice of praying continually. Unlike some of his friends, who had specific “quiet times” set aside each day for prayer and meditation—“like keeping an appointment with God,” one of his preacher friends had said—Jon just left the door open for whenever God chose to enter his thoughts. He figured the invitation went both ways. God was always there for him, and though he admired the discipline others seemed to have in their pursuit of holiness, that wasn’t his style.
He reached down and patted Aslan on the head. The dog responded by laying his great white head across Jon’s leg. When Jon stopped, he was mauled, gently, by Aslan’s huge paw, prodding him to show more affection. After a thorough rub of his dog’s head, back, and belly, and a subsequent lick on the face—Aslan’s seal of approval—Jon went back in the house and washed his hands. Then he sat back down at the computer. He was ready to start writing.
Chapter Nine
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Sophie was getting into the swing of things, as Tom called it, and feeling a lot more comfortable with her abilities to manage the business. An old schoolmate-turned-CPA named Becky had set her up with the necessary paperwork and tax information she needed to run payroll and keep up her books. Madeline, who was good with numbers, and Tom, who was good with computers, helped her put it all into a system and walked through the process with her a few times till she got the hang of it.
During the week after the café’s grand opening, she and Shannon established a good routine in the kitchen, working out the times it took for certain dishes and always finishing the set-up work before eleven o’clock. The servers were exceptionally good, and with Debbie as their natural leader, they managed the front quite wonderfully. After a rough start, Andy the dish washer had consistently shown up for work on time, and he worked hard. He was even growing on her. Now she was actually finding time to go out and visit with customers at their tables whenever a little lull came to her cooking duties in the kitchen.
It surprised Sophie to see who came in to eat each day. Other than the annoying encounter with Misti Clarkson, there had been very few difficulties or even less-than-pleasant experiences for her to face. Sometimes she could hardly believe there were so many residents of River Bend she’d never known. And the ones she did know were for the most part enthusiastic and very kind toward her, so much so that many of her initial inhibitions about coming home faded. She was actually enjoying herself.
In the past few days she’d seen her old second grade teacher, Eleanor Sigman, who had hugged Sophie and told the other ladies at her table how smart Sophie was and how much spice she had added to her elementary classroom. “Just like she’s adding to River Bend now!” Mrs. Sigman had chuckled.
Harvey Weinberg, from the print shop, had also come in a few times, always bringing someone different with him—usually an old friend she remembered from years past in her father’s church. It was fun to see them. “You are all grown up!” or “We’re so glad you’re home!” they would say.
Adelaide and Earl had come in for a late lunch twice, and Adelaide had complimented Sophie on her desserts both times, which she didn’t take lightly. The older woman even asked her to collaborate on holiday baking, and they had already taken orders for seven cheesecakes, four pumpkin pies, and eight pecan pies for Thanksgiving.
Sophie’s favorite new people so far were a couple of friends named Brandy and Paula, who met for lunch every day. They always had tea, one with lemon and one without, small grilled chicken salads, and loaded baked potatoes; no dessert.
Brandy Jones was a redhead in her midforties. From what Sophie could gather, she was one of those women who had never been just a girl, meaning when she was fourteen she looked—and acted—like a woman. She had a twenty-eight-year-old son who had never met his father and a fifth grader whose father had taken off with another woman while Brandy was in the hospital having a hysterectomy, leaving their son at a babysitter’s. Brandy worked alongside her daddy in his trucking business and was currently in the process of being divorced from her husband of five years, a police deputy twelve years her junior. When Brandy ordered, she always wanted a straw with her drink, and she had Sophie reserve a special—to go—every day for her daddy.
Brandy’s lunch partner was Paula Masters, who had big brown hair and ten piercings in each ear. The women had been friends ever since Paula began doing Brandy’s nails at Patsy’s Kut and Kurl a few years ago. Both women always had very colorful fingernails and toenails, and they were eager to show Sophie each time they changed to some new theme. Paula liked to get creative, and Brandy humored her. On the first day of fall, she was decked out in leaves—each nail a different color.
“Just wait till you see my snowmen,” Paula told Sophie in anticipation. “I’ll start doing those in January after all of my Christmas stuff.”
Sophie was a little surprised by how much she liked Brandy and Paula. There were probably not two women in River Bend who were more outwardly different from her; they both wore more makeup in a day than Sophie wore in a month. But something on the inside connected them. Perhaps they were determined to see Sophie make her restaurant a go. Perhaps they saw, as women, underneath the surface of Sophie’s skin to a heart that had been broken—and offered what they could do to fix it.
They came every day, rain or shine.
Sophie’s other favorite was an ancient priest from the Catholic community nearby, who loved Sophie even more than he loved her omelets.
Father Hillary came in quietly every day at eleven o’clock. He sat by the window in the front room, sipped coffee, and read. He was small, with a wrinkly face and white hair worn wavy and combed back like Billy Graham’s. Sophie met him when she went to his table to ask whether she could interest him in something more colorful than the plain omelets he’d been ordering every day for lunch. He’d told her that as long as she left out the meat, she could surprise him.
From that day on, Sophie had taken several liberties with the priest’s breakfast. She made him Italian omelets with cheese and fresh basil and tomatoes, omelets with Parmesan and artichoke hearts, spicy omelets with peppers, onions, and Monterey Jack cheese, even omelets with mozzarella, onions, and little bits of pineapple. He seemed to delight in every one.
If Sophie wasn’t too busy, she delivered the omelets herself in order to chat with Father Hillary for a few minutes. One day h
e surprised her by pointing out a movie advertisement in the paper he was reading.
“This is my favorite story,” he said. “Have you seen it?” Sophie looked over his shoulder to find an ad for Les Miserables.
“No, I haven’t seen the movie, but that is my all-time favorite musical. I saw it in London—the first real musical I’d ever seen. I was a student, and the only ticket I could afford was in the nosebleed section behind a pole.” She laughed at the memory, not mentioning that Stephen was with her. “I was captivated. I had those little binoculars, but I didn’t really even need to see to understand the story. The music was so powerful I was just blown away.” Stephen had fallen asleep halfway through it, jet-lagged, but she had hung on every word.
The priest smiled till his eyes disappeared.
“Me too,” he said. “I’ve seen it many, many times. I wonder what the movie will be like without the music. But, of course, the book is very good without the music.”
They both grinned.
A few days later, when she delivered Father Hillary’s omelet, he held out a little bag, motioning for her to open it.
“What is this?” Sophie asked.
The priest just nodded and ate a bite of his omelet.
She opened the bag to find a collector’s edition video recording of the musical Les Miserables. Sophie gasped and hugged him. “Thank you!” she exclaimed. She’d seen it for sale before and wanted to buy it but thought it was too expensive. “But I can’t…it’s too much.”
Father Hillary shook his head.
“Well, then your breakfast is on me for the next month!” Sophie declared.
“Oh no, I cannot do that. I would have to stop coming in, which would make me very sad.” He spoke honestly.
“You must let me do something—something to repay you,” Sophie was pleading.
“It’s a gift—just accept it, no strings attached.” The priest was gentle but firm.
No strings attached. As the days passed, Father Hillary’s words became a metaphor for what was happening emotionally with Sophie. The pain of her divorce—her shame and embarrassment—seemed to slowly slip away as she felt more accepted. The unconditional love of her people—her hometown people—was surprising to her. It helped her to heal.
And the more she healed, the more open she became to new possibilities, which somehow always led to thoughts of Jon.
Chapter Ten
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On Thursday morning, one week after his afternoon with Sophie at Harbor House Café, Jon sat at Adelaide’s only round table by the window. Harvey was seated at another table with Earl and Bob, and they chatted with Jon about the cooler weather.
The door dinged, and in came the preachers. That’s what everyone who ate breakfast at Adelaide’s called the threesome of Danny Durham, David Fisher, and Jim Matthews. They’d been eating breakfast with Adelaide since shortly after all three moved into town several years ago.
As if by some collective pastor purging one year, the flocks of First Baptist and First Methodist found themselves without shepherds. After months of interviews, Danny was recommended by the Baptist search committee, and Jim was transferred in by the Methodists’ bishop. David came that same year from a bigger place to start a nondenominational mission called The Bible Church—something that raised quite a stir among many of River Bend’s older citizens. But the church and David had since been somewhat assimilated into the culture. He was the one who first got the preachers together. They’d decided to include Jon after observing that he attended all of their churches.
The preachers shook hands with the three older men and settled into “their” table by the window with Jon.
“What’s happening, man?” David asked Jon.
Adelaide came with a pot of coffee and four cups. “Good morning, Brother Danny, Brother Jim, David, Jon. Good to see you all.” She set it all down and then went back to the kitchen. In a few minutes she reappeared with chocolate syrup for Jon and a small pitcher of cream. Sugar was on the table.
Jim poured for everyone and they fixed up their coffees. Danny, who drank his black, laughed as he watched Jon pour the syrup into his for a makeshift mocha.
“When are you going to quit mixing up that women’s stuff? You ought to try it black. Put a little hair on your chest.”
Jon was nonplussed as he stirred his coffee. “I’ll settle for having hair on my head,” he told his friend, who was bald at forty-five but fought it by combing over large amounts of fringe.
Jim laughed. As a middle-aged bachelor, his hair was thinning too. “Are you ready for your trip to the big city next week?”
“I guess so,” Jon answered. “It’s all right to visit.”
“Well, especially since you’re getting that big award,” David said. “That’s cool, man.”
“What award?” asked Danny.
Jon tried to stifle the blush creeping into his face. “Oh, it’s an award for my book. A magazine up there prints this list of fiction writers, and somehow I got on it.”
“It’s Time magazine, and they said he was ‘up-and-coming—a writer to watch,’” David quoted.
“That’s great,” Danny congratulated him. “Praise the Lord.”
Jon smiled. “Yeah. It’s a miracle.”
“We won’t see you for a while then,” Jim said. “Think of us here at Adelaide’s while you’re wining and dining in New York next week.”
“I’ll be wining and dining Aslan for you.” David laughed.
“Yeah, thanks for doing that. I’m glad it’s only a week.” Jon zeroed in on Danny and David. “Speaking of wining and dining, you all ought to take your wives to that new restaurant. Didn’t you think it was good last week?”
“It’s a nice place,” Jim offered.
“Yeah, my wife would love it.”
“I gotta know, though,” David said. “What was up with you ditching us after lunch—is it true you went back and washed dishes?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What’s the deal?”
“There’s not any deal. Dr. Harper’s daughter and I are old friends. Her dish washer didn’t show up, so I just decided to help her out. That’s all.” Jon averted his gaze into his coffee cup.
“Hmm. You didn’t say you knew her,” David pressed.
“Why would I?”
“Why would you not?” Danny joined in on the questioning.
“Lay off, guys,” Jim said, much to Jon’s relief. “It sounds to me like Jon was just performing his Christian duty—helping someone in need.”
“Someone who just happens to be female,” Danny teased.
“And cute.” David grinned. They were not ready to let the subject drop. Jon knew he was too good a target.
About that time, however, Adelaide descended on their table with breakfast. There were biscuits and gravy for Jon, a loaded omelet for David, and pancakes with maple syrup for the other preachers. The distribution of plates interrupted their thoughts enough that when she left, Jon was able to change the subject.
“What are you preaching about Sunday, Danny?” Jon asked, moving them into a conversation about their planned sermon topics, which led into a discussion of their varied preaching styles.
“Different strokes for different folks—different gifts for different needs,” David finally said.
“But the same Lord,” added Danny. “That’s why we make a good team.” He slapped Jim on the back as they started up to the register.
Adelaide met them there, rubbing her hands on her apron.
“Thanks, Ms. Adelaide.” David smiled at her as he plunked down his money. “That sure was good.”
“Yes, it was,” said Danny. “I always say nobody can make breakfast like Sister Adelaide. People down at the church still tell stories about her firin’ up her griddle for those community breakfasts. They say she could sure turn out the pancakes.”
Adelaide smiled in spite of herself and handed Danny his change.
Jon l
aughed inwardly, sharing a private joke with himself as he remembered the typo that would have cost him dearly had it not been for Sophie. He handed Adelaide his money and told her to keep the change.
“A little tip for the chocolate,” he said. “You take good care of us.”
“We need to do something like that again,” Jim suggested as he paid Adelaide. “Those breakfasts were a great outreach to the community. If we got it together, do you think you could help us, Adelaide?”
“Well, I suppose.” Jon guessed she’d have a hard time refusing a preacher. “But I’m not as young as I used to be.”
None of us are, thought Jon. And then it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, for Sophie and him, that could be a good thing.
Chapter Eleven
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The phone at Harbor House Café started ringing. Sophie was lying on the couch with her feet up, reading, Spot by her side, so she decided to let the machine get it. The café had been open for more than a week now; she had worked hard and was looking forward to a couple days of rest. The machine picked up.
“Sophie, hey. This is Jon—”
Spot’s ears pointed, and Sophie lunged for the phone. “Hello?” she said, thinking she probably sounded too eager.
“You’re there.” He sounded relieved.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just screening.”
Jon laughed. “I can certainly relate. Hey, can you spare an hour tonight?” he asked her.
Sophie’s heart flip-flopped. She had to remind herself that it was just Jon, her old friend. “Well, let’s see. I’ve got this big deadline coming up with a major publishing house, and I need to pack for my next exotic trip…no, wait, that’s you. The question is, can you spare an hour?” Sophie enjoyed teasing him. He was so refreshingly modest.
“Very funny. I’ll come get you about six. How does that sound?”
“Gosh, I’ll check my schedule. Let’s see…I’ve got to make two cheesecakes by six. Yep, that’s it, and after that I’m free.” Sophie was starting to enjoy the position of humility that at first had tasted bitter to her but that had, with each swallow of pride, become a little sweeter and made her feel more and more free. “Do you want me to pack us some sandwiches? I know this great little café—”
Love Finds You at Home for Christmas Page 18
