Isle of Hope

by Julie Lessman

  “Oh, good heavens, Mamaw, what on earth did he say?” Lacey’s mouth hung open at the idea of no-nonsense, blue-collar Grandpa Phillips confronting a society physician like Grandfather Carmichael, God rest his soul.

  “And more importantly,” Nicki said with a grin, “did he have a shotgun when he said it?”

  Mamaw laughed. “No shotgun, but a very clear message that informed Dr. Carmichael that his stepson was nothing but—and I quote, ‘a playboy with a pedigree’—who would never amount to anything in life if he didn’t take responsibility for his actions.”

  Jaw gaping, Lacey put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, Mamaw—I had no idea!”

  A soft chuckle rolled from Mamaw’s lips. “Neither did your father until Randall pulled the plug on his stepson’s wild ways, claiming no grandchild of his would ever come into this world illegitimately.” Mamaw shielded a hand to her mouth, voice low as if imparting a secret. “Apparently he bore the scourge of illegitimacy himself, which was far more shocking back in the day. So that, along with being at his wit’s end with a rebellious stepson who frittered away his time and education on less savory pursuits, your Grandfather Carmichael lowered the boom.”

  “How?” Lacey was now sitting on the edge of her chaise, rapt with attention.

  Mamaw’s jaw jutted up. “Clipped his wings, that’s how. Told your father in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t quit his wild ways and settle down—which meant doing right by Karen and focusing more on his studies—not only would he yank his dreams of med school, but he’d boot him out of the house and the will as well, freezing all funds till he grew up and became a man.”

  Lacey exchanged a look with Nicki, their open-mouth smiles a stunned reflection of the other. All at once, they both started laughing so loud, the kids in the yard turned to stare. “Poor Daddy,” Lacey said between ragged heaves, the tears in her eyes now from laughter, “a player who gets his due.” She swiped at the excess moisture and shimmied back into her chaise, studying her grandmother with a curious look. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

  Mamaw gave a small shrug. “You had enough grief over your father, darling—I didn’t want to add to it.”

  Shaking her head, Lacey plopped back against the chaise once again, still amazed that the strict, upstanding father who’d berated her on morality had actually been a wild child himself. Another grin slid across her face. “And to think of all the grief he gave me over Jack …”

  Sympathy shone in Mamaw’s eyes. “Which is probably one of the reasons, sweetheart. Your father didn’t know a lot about trust since he wasn’t very trustworthy himself back then.”

  “Well, I wasn’t an angel by any stretch of the imagination, but to ride me every chance he got, always accusing me of playing around—with a minister’s son, no less—was downright hypocritical. Especially when all along he was no better than me.”

  “Worse, actually,” Mamaw admitted. “After your mom and he were married, she received several angry letters from girls he’d strung along while he and Karen were dating.”

  “Oh, that dirty dog!” Nicki chuckled. “Who would have thought a bad boy lurked beneath Uncle Ben’s straitlaced and professional demeanor?” She shot Lacey a wink. “I certainly hope you intend to use this valuable information if you two ever get on good terms again.”

  “Count on it!” Lacey said with a throaty laugh.

  “Speaking of being on good terms again,” Mamaw began, pausing when a sopping wet Spence darted over to drip on her shoes.

  “Can we go inside now, Mamaw?” he asked, feet dancing on the hot pavement. “Debbie’s hungry.”

  “Figures.” Chuckling, Lacey started to rise.

  “No, sit,” Nicki said, bouncing up from her chaise. “I’ll clean and feed these little grub worms—I need more iced tea anyway.” She paused. “Anybody want a refill?”

  “No, darling, but thank you.” Mamaw offered a grateful smile.

  “Yeah, thanks, Nick—you’re a sweetheart, no matter what Matt says,” Lacey called, earning an answering jest from Nicki when she stuck out her tongue.

  “So …” Mamaw picked up her knitting again, peering over her spectacles with a tender smile. “How are the dinners with your father coming? Any progress?”

  Lacey scrunched her nose. “Some, I guess, but we’ve only had two so far, so it’s hard to say. At least he opens the door when I ring the bell now, so that’s definite progress. And if grunts count, he even occasionally responds to my questions—but only during commercials, of course.” Her smile canted. “We eat in the family room with the TV, naturally.”

  “Oh, God bless him …” Mamaw shook her head, her smile still intact, a clear indication that despite all the trouble Ben Carmichael caused for her daughter and granddaughter, she bore no grudge. Or dealt with it long, long ago.

  Lacey grunted in the grand fashion of her father. “Yes, well, it’s going to take a boatload of blessings to get through to him, I suspect. The man’s door may be open now, but his heart’s closed tighter than those silly plantation shutters he uses to shut everybody out.” She sighed, wondering if she and her father would ever be close.

  “He’s softening, darling, make no mistake.” Mamaw’s knitting needles flew faster than mud-slick kids down a Slip ‘N Slide.

  “I don’t know, Mamaw. I thought so when he came to the fundraiser, especially when he almost cracked a smile, but he makes no eye contact, grunts the minimal amount of words, and goes stiffer than those stupid shutters when I even attempt to give him a hug.”

  “You mark my words, sweetheart, there isn’t a person alive who can’t be softened by the love of God.”

  Guilt wrenched a weak groan from Lacey’s mouth. “But that’s just it, Mamaw, it’s not the love of God here—just the frail love of a daughter who’s been rejected so much, her heart is battered and scarred.” Exhaling a noisy sigh, Lacey looked up, meeting her grandmother’s gaze with a misty one of her own. “Whenever I leave, I always hug him and tell him I love him, but he just stands there like a granite boulder, arms limp at his sides and mouth sealed, never saying a word.” She blinked to ward off the moisture that welled, her voice trembling for the very first time. “And I gotta tell you, Mamaw, every single time, a little piece of me dies all over again.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Placing her knitting on the table, Mamaw rose to perch on the edge of Lacey’s chaise. She cupped her granddaughter’s hand between her own fragile ones, the tenderness of her manner easing the ache in Lacey’s soul. “But in a way, that’s a good thing, Lacey, because your broken heart is not capable of loving your father the way he needs to be loved. The Bible says ‘the human heart is the most deceitful of all things, and desperately wicked,’ which means you can’t rely on it or yourself to heal your father’s heart. Only God’s unconditional love is capable of that.”

  Lacey’s gaze wandered into the backyard with a zombie stare, her whisper threaded with pain. “Well, God needs to show me how to do that, then, because I’m not sure how many times I can bear Daddy’s rejection before my heart becomes as hard as his.”

  A gnarled hand slowly caressed her cheek, drawing her attention to the beautiful face of her grandmother, delicately etched with both wisdom and love. “Ah, but that’s the trick, darling—seventy times seven,” she whispered, her countenance aglow with a faith so strong, the power of it melted into Lacey’s soul. “God’s love is unconditional because if it wasn’t, all of us would be lost. So you see, Lacey, it’s that same unconditional love that saved you, changed you, ushered you from the dark into His glorious light—that will do the same for your father. Only this time, darling girl, it will be through you. Through your unconditional love that brings dinners weekly without expecting anything in return but God’s joy and approval. Because when one is loved so desperately and so unconditionally as we are loved by God, our hearts long to respond. To love Him back in a way that will not only glorify Him, but bless us as well.”

  She patted Lacey
’s hand, the love in her eyes as warm as the gentle touch of her hand. “Which means, you are not doing this for your father on earth, Lacey, but for your Father in heaven, not expecting anything from Ben whatsoever, just from God. And trust me, darling—you can’t out-give God.”

  “But what if I fail?” she whispered, fear nipping at her heels.

  Mamaw’s chuckle was soft and low, as if failure were not even an option. “Oh, Lacey, don’t you know? God’s love never fails.”

  In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed.

  Head bent, her grandmother smiled. “So you see, sweetheart, you’re not alone in this—God’s unfailing love girds your heart with the strength to do what He’s called you to do, so failure is not an issue.” She reached to give Lacey a firm hug before rising to her feet with a hike of her brow. “The only issue here is—will you obey?”

  Lacey’s eyelids fluttered closed, a sense of awe overwhelming her until tears burned hot. She used to be just like her dad—hard, cold, bitter, unwilling to give. But in the span of only months, God had opened her eyes to the depth of His love for her personally, giving her a freedom and a hope she had never experienced before. Peace suddenly purled through her body like warm oil, as if anointing her for the task ahead.

  Will I? Her silent consent came while liquid joy welled in her eyes. She glanced up, gracing her grandmother with a glorious smile. “Yes, Mamaw—I believe I will.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Come on, Big Guy—don’t look at me like that. I’ve had a rough day and it’s too blasted hot for fishing.” Ben tried to ignore the pathetic look on Beau’s face as the little mongrel waited patiently by the front door, posture stiff while he sat on his haunches, still as a statue. How the animal knew it was Wednesday was beyond him, but he always did, as anxious to get out on the boat as Ben usually was.

  Fanning fingers through his hair, Ben cocked a hip and vented with a noisy sigh. Except for tonight. Nope, tonight he was restless for some reason. The idea of fishing right now was about as appealing as one of those fancy soirees Cynthia always dragged him to. Making small talk as shallow as the sissy champagne flutes everybody carried around. Give him a highball or beer any day of the week over bubbles and chit-chat. God help him, he hated chit-chat!

  God help him?

  Ben grunted and turned on his heel. “Hounded” was more like it, badgering Ben at every turn to seek a god as phony as his best friend had been. “Pastor” Adam O’Bryen, friend, neighbor, and all-around good guy, had been the only person Ben had ever opened up to, ever let in. The progress had been slow, but after over twenty years as neighbors and friends, Adam had made inroads that nobody else ever had. A sour taste tainted Ben’s tongue.

  Especially with my wife.

  He lashed the fridge door open, desperate to wash the memories away with a cold beer. His lips twisted along with the cap of the O’Doul’s Tess had pestered him to buy after he’d slipped and admitted to a prior problem with alcohol in one of their patio chats.

  “As a surgeon, you have no business drinking alcohol of any kind, Ben, especially with a history like that,” she’d insisted. She actually had the gall to leave a six-pack of O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer on his back step the next night with a big red bow. At the time he’d been ticked, quite sure God had never created a pushier woman, but in the end, he’d popped one open with a pizza, and it actually tasted pretty good. A smile itched on his lips, but he refused to give in. Because then it ticked him off that she’d been right. Nothing worse than a pushy woman who’s right. Especially one who’d blackmailed him with sweets to procure a promise.

  “Yes, Mother, I promise to never drink alcohol again,” he’d finally pledged, just to get her off his back, figuring it couldn’t hurt to be accountable to someone who actually cared. He hadn’t imbibed since.

  He took a deep draw of the O’Doul’s, actually wishing it were a hardcore brew, grunting over the irony that people devoted to God apparently drove him to drink. First his stepfather with his constant hounding about church and God over the years followed by Karen, and then a hypocrite ex-friend who stabbed him in the back. All followed up neatly by a pretty pest from next door who plied God along with her pizza and cookies. He tipped the bottle high, the non-beer going down cold and sharp, helping to take away the bad taste in his mouth from any thought of religion. He slammed the fridge door closed with too much force, the bottles inside rattling along with his nerves. And now he had his holy-roller daughter to contend with, who had some cock-eyed notion that Crockpot meals and his favorite desserts would crack the code.

  Not a chance.

  O’Doul’s in hand, Ben snatched a couple of Beggin’ Strips and peanuts from the pantry and strolled into his family room to turn on the TV. Setting the beer and peanuts down, he walked to the hall to wave the Beggin’ Strips in the air, waiting for Beau to take the bait. The dog only blinked, and Ben’s mouth cocked to the right. “Come on, buddy, I know it’s not Tess’s fried bacon, but have a heart.”

  Stretching with an impatient squeal, the black lab only laid down at the front door, obviously as stubborn as Ben’s neighbor.

  Not to mention my daughter.

  Lacey. Before he could squelch it, a smile crooked the edge of his lips, and shaking his head, he tossed the Beggin’ Strips onto the floor before settling back in his recliner. The kid was a chip off the old block, that was for dead sure. Karen had always been so easy to control and keep in line, it seemed, but not her daughter. Ben took another swig. My daughter, he reminded himself, a young woman as pigheaded as he. He stared as Jethro Gibbs slapped DiNozzo upside the head, thinking he should do the same to himself.

  For opening the door even a crack.

  For allowing Lacey to come over at all.

  For secretly liking it when she did.

  He pelted peanuts to the back of his mouth, hating to admit the kid was chipping away at his armor, earning his respect, making him smile. His molars ground the peanuts to dust.

  Making me care against my will.

  His eyes narrowed on the television screen, a million miles away from Ducky’s forensics lab where Gibbs’ stony demeanor kept people from getting too close, just like Ben was determined to do. As much as he was starting to look forward to Lacey’s visits, he could never let her know, never really let her in. He wasn’t going there again—allowing a woman to railroad his life. Mouth in a slant, he fired more peanuts, well aware it wouldn’t be easy. The kid was like Chinese water torture—sheer obstinacy cloaked in a smile, wearing him down with peach pie and perkiness that got on his nerves.

  But only because it weakened his will to be alone, making him realize just how sterile and lonely his life really was.

  He upended the beer, slamming it back till it was all gone.

  Just like Tess.

  The thought caught him off-guard, making him painfully aware he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Tess for over three weeks now, other than that cool look she’d given him at the fundraiser. And this from a perky pest who’d invaded his space as much as twice a week at times. He frowned, annoyed at how much he missed her. Between an overloaded docket of surgeries, weekly dinners with Lacey, and endless functions with Cynthia, he’d been too busy and spent to notice. But he was noticing now, and he didn’t like the empty feeling it left in his gut.

  Clicking the remote, he silenced the TV like he wished he could silence the sudden yearning to hear Tess’s laughter again, to banter over pizza and monster cookies like before. To revel in that secret thrill of teasing her till a beautiful blush crept into her beautiful face.

  Ben scowled, tossing the remote on the table. Calm down, Carmichael, she’s only a neighbor. He lumbered up from his chair, the sudden sprint of his pulse making a liar out of him. Snatching the Beggin’ Strips up from the floor, he strode to the sliding door and waited for Beau, well aware that the prospect of cornering a baby rabbit was far more enticing than any fake bacon. “I’ll be right back, buddy,” he
called after Beau darted through, his own gaze flitting next door where Tess’s kitchen and patio light twinkled through the dense hedge. His lips quirked. Not unlike my twinkle-toes neighbor. With a quick inventory of his fridge and freezer, a smile eased across his face when he spotted a half-empty carton of Häagen-Dazs Tiramisu—the secret weapon Cynthia had left once and Tess had devoured. Good. Something to tempt her for a late-night chat on his patio. If she was even home. More than likely she’d be hounding him if she was. Shutting the fridge door, he checked out the hall mirror just in case, wondering why on earth he was worried about how he looked. This was Tess, for Pete’s sake, not Cynthia.

  Then why are your hands sweating like a kid on a first date?

  “Because it’s blasted hot outside,” he muttered, uncomfortable with the notion that it was anything more. Ducking out the front door, he rounded the hedge, grateful both Jack’s and the girls’ cars were nowhere to be found. Hands in his pockets, Ben ambled down the drive, stopping short at the sight of Tess sprawled on a chaise, eyes closed and an iPod in her ears. Hurt sliced through him so unexpectedly, he felt a flush rise in his cheeks.