Jon reached across the table and took her hand.
A tear slid down her cheek as she felt the tenderness in his gesture and heard the compassion in his voice.
“It’s not selfish to have dreams,” he said.
“But mine took me so far away from everything that really mattered. I see that now.” Sophie pulled her hand away and wiped her face with a napkin.
“Your best dreams—of home, family, love—have brought you back. You’re here now, and the Lord is doing a new thing.” Jon’s eyes were full of promise.
Sophie’s heart caught in her chest. Did he mean between the two of them? She looked long into his eyes, absorbing the hope she saw there. They stared at each other as though sealing a silent agreement, and then she smiled.
The grace of God, came the thought again. Sophie put down her napkin, and they left the table.
* * * * *
Their ride home was very subdued and quiet compared to their usual banter. Jon was lost in his thoughts as he drove, praying and considering where his relationship with Sophie was going. He had the sense that something had changed tonight in one magic moment, like the initial crack in a baby robin’s egg or the first hint of butterfly emerging from a cocoon. It frightened even as it exhilarated him.
He went back over everything they had said, laying it bare before himself and God. Had he spoken amiss? Assumed anything? Set up expectations? Rushed? He had prayed not to take one step outside of the divine will—but his emotions were getting harder and harder to control.
Sophie, in the seat next to him, seemed strangely at peace. In an odd way, he thought, the play itself did her good as it helped her confront some ugly truths. Leave it to Dickens. Their conversation—the working out of her conflicting feelings, and his bold suggestion—seemed to move her along toward resolution. He knew she couldn’t yet, but maybe someday she might actually be able to let go of the guilt and pain she held so tightly. Jon sensed that Sophie was loosening up—and perhaps the pain itself, and all of the regret, were loosening their grip on her.
There was no sound but the hum of the motor. As Jon looked over at Sophie beside him in the Jeep, he realized she was asleep. Her head was bent at an uncomfortable-looking angle, so he reached over with one hand still on the wheel and leaned her seat back just a notch. Then he gently touched her face, turning it slightly, setting the position of her neck at ease.
He exhaled and looked back at the road.
I love her, Lord.
And then the word came, silent, lucid: “I know. I do too. Trust Me.”
Chapter Fifteen
.................................
“Hey S and S!” Andy greeted Sophie and Shannon as he hurried in the back door of the Harbor House.
“Hey, kiddo,” Shannon replied.
“Hey A—although maybe I should call you B-minus today, since you’re late!” Sophie chided him, looking up from the dish of lasagna she’d just taken out of the oven for the special.
“I’m really sorry, Sophie,” he said as he threw on his apron and got right to work on the dishes. “I was trying to get away from Mrs. Ruston. We read this excerpt from that book Life Without Father today in her AP English class, and she was bragging about how the author had been her student. Then after class she pulled me aside to say how she thought I had potential like that guy, and she wanted me to make her proud.”
Sophie grinned while she listened to him. “Good old Mrs. Ruston. I didn’t know she was still teaching.”
“I mean she’s nice and all, but good grief.” Andy scrubbed at a mortar and pestle. “What did you make in here?”
“Pesto,” Sophie answered.
“What’s pesto?’
“It’s a green sauce you make with basil. It’s in the lasagna.” She pointed to the pasta, sticking a knife into the middle of it to discern whether it was done.
“I hope I get some of that,” Andy said, smelling the aroma.
“I’ll get you out a little bite, at least, when it’s done.”
When Sophie had finished all of her preparation, and before the orders started pouring in, she asked Andy to come to the back with her for a second. “I have something for you,” she told him, pulling a brown package out of her desk drawer.
Andy looked relieved—did the poor kid think he’d be in trouble?—and happily surprised. “Is this an early Christmas gift or something?”
“Go ahead and open it now.”
He untied the string around the package and found a dark brown leather book inside. It was a journal, and the ivory pages had gilded edges. Andy opened it and found the inscription on the inside cover:
To Andy Mabry. May writing be an outlet and a refuge for you as it is for me.
Jon Anthony
Romans 8:28
“That’s the Life Without Father guy! Cool!” Andy exclaimed, and then he looked perplexed. “But why’d he give this to me?”
Sophie smiled at him. “Well, he’s a friend of mine, and I told him about that awesome essay you wrote. The one you showed me, that Mrs. Ruston wants to put in the paper—”
“She did put it in the paper,” Andy interrupted her. “I got bonus points for letting her put it in there this week.”
“Great! That’s great. I wanted Jon to read it, so I’ll show it to him.” Sophie made a mental note to mention it. “Well, anyway, he just wanted to encourage you—you know, writer to writer. He thinks journaling is really important.”
“That is so awesome. Tell him I said thanks.”
“I will,” Sophie promised. “Now get back to work!”
* * * * *
Father Hillary was at his table by the window when Sophie took his omelet—a pesto creation—out to him.
“That looks delicious. And how are you this fine morning?” he asked, when she set his plate down.
“I am very well,” Sophie said, meaning it.
“You seem to have an extra spring in your step,” he observed. “Anything I should know?” His blue eyes sparkled like brand-new buttons on his wizened face.
“You should know that you make a difference—by your presence, your prayers, your practice of sharing God’s grace with others.”
His face burst into a smile. “Why, I wasn’t expecting that!” He stared in disbelief.
“It’s the truth,” declared Sophie, and she bent down to give him a hug. “And that omelet is on me today—no strings attached!”
She skipped off to the kitchen before he could say another word.
Later that afternoon, Sophie deposited yellow roses at both place settings on the same table. Just in case, she also made a little sign that said RESERVED.
Brandy Jones popped her head in the kitchen moments later, when Sophie was back at the stove, and asked, “Who stole our table?”
Sophie smiled at her, flipping a skillet of pasta and vegetables, and said, “It’s reserved for you.”
“Oh.” Brandy cocked her head to the side. “Okay.”
It was a little while before Sophie could make it out to their table, and when she did, they were finished eating.
“What’s all this about?” Paula inquired, twisting the stem of her rose. “
It’s about friendship,” Sophie answered simply. “Just to say thank you for being my friends.”
“Are you closing?” Brandy smelled her rose and eyed Sophie suspiciously.
“No! Heavens no!” Sophie laughed at them. “I just wanted to do something nice for you guys. To say I love you.”
“Well, we love you too, sweetheart.” Paula reached out to hug her.
“That’s so nice,” Brandy said.
The major was in fine form when Sophie stopped at his table for a visit a half hour later.
“Who made this sandwich?” he demanded, pointing to his halfempty plate.
“Shannon. Why—is something wrong?” Sophie had a sinking feeling.
“I knew it wasn’t you, since you didn’t bring it out here.” His voice was gruff.
; “Well, I’ve been really busy. But if there’s something wrong, we can fix it—”
“There’s nothing wrong,” he interrupted. “If anything it’s better. A little less mayonnaise than you’ve been putting on there. And she cuts it in half. Tell her to make it this way from now on.”
Sophie let out her breath. “Yes, sir!” She saluted.
“But you can keep bringing it out. If you have time.” And without breaking his face, the major smiled.
Chapter Sixteen
.................................
It had been a good week, but Jon was glad it had gone by fast, because he had a date with Sophie for Thanksgiving.
Margaret was helping Jim Matthews with the Methodist Community Dinner, and Jon had been planning to help out as well. However, as soon as Sophie told him she didn’t have plans, Jon changed his. He didn’t want to ask her to help him cook and serve food, since it was something she did every day, and Margaret and Jim both assured him it was okay. They had plenty of volunteers.
Jon and Sophie hadn’t seen each other since the play. He had texted her a few times, and she had written back, usually late at night. She’d been extremely busy. She and Adelaide Mabry had been working around the clock doing other people’s holiday baking.
Sophie wrote in one text that they enjoyed sharing stories about Andy, about how well he was doing in school. It seemed the journal writing had been cathartic for the boy. He’d even written a great story about his brother, Matt. In another text Sophie said they had created a new recipe for pumpkin cheesecake using her granny’s molasses cookies in the crust.
Even though the distance of the past week felt healthy and safe and mature, it also stunk. Jon missed Sophie. His heart skipped a beat when he pulled up and saw her; she was waiting on the stoop watching Spot.
“Hey,” she said, smiling, when he got out of the Jeep.
He walked toward her. “Hey.” It seemed neither one knew what else to say.
Sophie looked stunning to Jon. She also had on jeans and a soft pink sweater. He noticed her nails were painted the same pink. She wore very little makeup as usual, which he loved.
Her hair was the fanciest thing about her appearance. It was an explosion of springy, satiny curls all over her head. Jon wanted to reach out and play with it. Fantastic, he thought but didn’t say.
Their awkwardness at first was always so curious to him, but also wonderful somehow. There was mystery in this new place, even with all the depth of knowing they shared underneath it—especially with that depth.
* * * * *
Spot, ambling over to the Jeep, made a quick inspection of Jon’s tires, leaving his mark on all four.
Sophie was a little embarrassed but mostly amused. “I really don’t know why Spot does that, but I imagine it has something to do with alerting Aslan to his existence and exerting his own dominance.” Her bulldog was not near as short on ego as he was on size.
Jon laughed. “Well, it’s good he’s getting his bluff in early on Aslan. Although I don’t know if it would help him much if they ever conflicted over the tires. Aslan’s pretty tame, but he’s still the size of a lion.”
The thought of the dogs meeting was funny to Sophie, who imagined what her fourteen-pound dog might think if he ever faced Jon’s mammoth beast.
As they drove away, Sophie looked out the window and felt herself loosening up and relaxing. The late sunshine glimmered on the river as they crossed the bridge, coloring the water a soft amber hue. The sight of it, along with the fresh earthy smell of Jon’s Jeep and his hands on the steering wheel, warmed her, in spite of the fact that it was nearing wintertime. She put her head out the window and tasted the air. The breeze coming off the river tasted like a ride on her dad’s boat, cutting a clean line through the water and sending up mist in her face. It reminded her of carefree days—her family, picnics, and river catfish waiting to be caught.
Jon was relaxing too—she could feel the awkwardness leaving and the old familiar friendship taking its place. They had done stuff like this a million times. Driving through town and over the bridge and past the fields and houses and cows. It was in this place where everything started with them. It was home—a common ground. Sophie had the river in her blood, just like Jon did, and the mountains and the trees. No matter where their different roads had taken them, they’d both gone out from the same place, and now, it seemed, they were returning there together. But she still mustn’t assume anything.
When they pulled up to Jon’s house, Aslan bounded over to the Jeep to meet them. Sophie got out before Jon could get around to her door and was rewarded by a big bath of slobber on her jeans, compliments of Aslan, who was very happy to have her as company. He almost knocked the cheesecake out of her hands with his giant paw, but she petted him on his great white head.
Jon said, “Stay right there a minute,” and ran up the steps and into the house for something. He came back with a big wicker basket and a quilt. “Okay,” he said, “I think we’re all set.”
She raised a playful eyebrow, and he just smiled. Then he led her around the edge of his cabin and away from it just a little distance. They walked out to a point, where a huge rock jutted over the bluff. To the right was more bluff, and then the cabin and deck. To the left, downward from where they stood, was a rolling hill and woods.
“This is where the bluff begins,” Jon told her. “When I was deciding whether to buy this place, I came and sat on this rock and prayed. Looking out at the river I felt sure in my heart…. I felt like I was home.”
Sophie soaked in the beauty of the scene and the moment. She understood how Jon could sit there looking out and know it was where he belonged. It was perfect for a writer—a thinker—a spiritual man. It was perfect for Jon.
He spread out the quilt and invited her to sit with him.
The sun was just beginning to set, and it turned the water golden. The atmosphere was a mix of lavender, pink, and indigo, those colors all blending and converging toward a huge orange ball that didn’t want to give up the sky just yet—the sun.
It reminded Sophie of the Cinque Terre. She told Jon this, and he listened as she described how she’d hiked and picnicked along the trail called Via dell’Amore high in the cliffs above the Mediterranean.
“That sounds pretty romantic, Sophie,” he said. “Almost like it couldn’t be a real place.”
“Well, it is very romantic—or could be—although it wasn’t for me at the time I was there. I was alone, unless you count the little twins who scampered and played along it with me.”
Jon reached over casually and picked a wildflower, the very last of the season, handing it to Sophie. “Happy Thanksgiving, Sophie. I thank God for you.”
Sophie twirled the stem in her fingers, drinking in his words. “And I thank Him for you, Jon.”
Then he took two little candles out of the basket and lit them. Next he took out two stemmed glasses and a bottle of chilled wine.
“What else do you have in that basket?”
He unwrapped a loaf of homemade bread in foil and set out a dish of soft butter. Then he opened a little round crate of Camembert and set it on a plate. He drizzled something over the cheese that looked brown and gooey, like caramel, and sprinkled it with pecans. Then there were more cheeses, cubed, and some crackers in the shape of butterflies. A bowl of fruit completed their picnic.
“Bon appétit!” He smiled at her proudly.
It was certainly a nontraditional Thanksgiving dinner, but she loved it. After serving Thanksgiving specials all month, she was sick and tired of turkey and mashed potatoes. Had Jon known? At any rate, nontraditional hit the spot.
They sat side-by-side and feasted as the sun set and the moon rose. It was about a three-quarter size, and in the clear sky it shone like a white flame. Cedars, their eternal roots clinging to the rocks along the bluff, were suddenly illumined by the moonlight and cast stark but lovely shadows on the ground. In contrast, their neighbors, the great oaks with their finger-like
branches adorned with shapely leaves, formed delicate filigree patterns against the lighted sky. Sophie thought they looked like elegant old ladies in black lace dresses. They watched her, nodding here and there in the breeze, as she sampled Jon’s gourmet offering.
“When did you learn how to cook?” she asked him, spreading butter on the heel of the homemade bread.
“Oh, I don’t know—just along the way. I’ve picked up a lot of ideas working in restaurants.”
“Did you make this bread?” Sophie loved the sugary, tart taste and wondered what was in it.
“Yeah. Now that’s an original concoction. It’s a version of sourdough I made up after visiting San Francisco.”
She smiled. An open window into his life and who he had become. She liked peeking in those windows.
“Well, what about this?” Sophie spread some of the soft caramelized cheese on a cracker and popped it into her mouth. It tasted wonderful—creamy, sour, sweet, buttery—embellished with toasted pecans.
“I had it at a dinner party once. It’s easy, but nothing I’d have expected—or thought of myself. Do you like it?” Jon asked.
“Mm-hmm…” Sophie grinned between gooey bites. Her fingers were sticky with caramel and nuts, and she licked them, just a little, trying to keep from making a mess.
They laughed.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s a little bit intimidating cooking for a chef like yourself.” He was humble, tender.
“Phooey,” Sophie said, blushing. “This is a little bit out of the Harbor House Café range, I think.”
They were quiet. A comfortable quiet, as they listened to mourning doves cooing softly. Jon told her he rarely heard them in the evenings, and she loved their sound. One called on one side of the woods, and another answered across the way. It was a peaceful, soothing song. It spoke of no desperation or frantic searching, just the comfort of the other’s presence. As if one dove was assuring the other, “I am here.”
Love Finds You at Home for Christmas Page 22
