Isle of Hope

by Julie Lessman

  Razor-slit eyes blinked back before a hoarse voice cracked from his throat. “What?” he whispered, brows scrunched so low, wrinkle lines crisscrossed his forehead like a freakin’ game of tic-tac-toe.

  She cocked a hip, the sarcasm that dripped from her tone keeping up with the ice water. “Hate to break it to you, Ben, but somebody apparently broke into your house and drank half a decanter of your whiskey.”

  Dimples of confusion popped in his brow. “Huh?”

  “My, my, but we are articulate when we’re hammered, aren’t we?”

  He started to rise in the chair and halted midway with a moan so pitiful, she might have felt sorry for him if he didn’t reek like a pub on payday. Hand to his head, he peeked through shaky fingers that shielded his eyes, the tic-tac-toe grid on his forehead suddenly convex. “Tess? What are you doing here?” he rasped. Another pucker crinkled the bridge of his nose as his free hand haphazardly patted his clothes. “And why am I all wet?”

  “An appropriate term if ever there was,” she sniped on her way to the kitchen, returning with a dishtowel she balled and pelted right at his head. “Here—you might want to mop up that fancy leather chair before it becomes as sloppy as you.” She slapped two hands on her hips. “And why am I here? Oh, nothing—just letting your dog in from outside, watering him, feeding him, watering you …”

  Somehow awareness seemed to dawn through the fog in his brain, ushered in by a long, aching groan as he sagged back in his chair. “I … I don’t know what happened,” he whispered, bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead in a drunken stupor.

  “Really?” She shoved the cup of coffee closer to his chair, slopping more liquid into the saucer. “You know, for a heart surgeon, you can be pretty stupid, doc. Drink the coffee, Carmichael, all of it, now,” she ordered, standing watch while he slowly sipped at the cup, eyes closed and dark bristle shadowing his jaw.

  Still fuming, she stormed to his bathroom to rifle through his medicine chest, her fury mounting when she saw enough women’s toiletries to fill a shelf at Wal-Mart. She nabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and palmed two before slamming the medicine chest closed so hard, it rattled the mirror. With a one-handed yank of the spigot, she filled a glass marred with toothpaste residue and stalked back into the family room. Sympathy softened her approach when she found Ben slouched on the edge of his chair, head in his hands.

  Tapping him on the shoulder, she grinned outright at the look of horror on his face when he saw the glass of water she held. He actually jerked back in the chair, bloodshot gaze flaring wide for the first time, revealing whites of his eyes spidered with red. “You’re not gonna dump that on me, are you?”

  Her mouth crooked. “As tempting as that may be, Dr. Carmichael, no, this is for your ibuprofen, which I imagine will be only the first of many you’ll be gulping before you’re through. Here.” She handed him both water and pills, and he took them with a garbled thank you that came out as a rusty croak.

  Water glugged down his throat while his eyes locked with hers over the rim. “Thanks, Tess,” he whispered, his voice less gravelly as he placed the glass on the table. His frantic gaze darted to the sliding door before relief slackened his features when Beau nudged the side of his leg. “Hey, Big Guy, sorry ’bout that, but it looks like Tess has everything in hand.”

  “Including another glass of ice water if you don’t explain why you broke your promise to me, Ben Carmichael.”

  Pain flashed across his features she suspected had nothing to do with the booze in his body. He dropped back in his chair with a slow knead of his temple, eyes closed and face steeped in regret. “It’s a long story, Tess,” he whispered, “and not one to promote sweet dreams.”

  “Sweet dreams took a hike when I found my neighbor and dear friend comatose next to a bottle of Crown Royal, so you may as well spill it because I’m not leaving till you do.”

  His eyelids edged up halfway, a faint glimmer of humor swimming around in those red-rimmed eyes. “That might tempt me if I didn’t have this annoying jackhammer in my head.”

  Mouth agape, she plunked hands back on her hips, unwilling to let him off with a tease and a smile. “Really? You’re gonna hit on me with cutesy flirtations when you’re not even a man I can trust?” The humor in his eyes died a slow death along with her patience when she snapped up his cup, emptying the flooded saucer back in before spinning on her heel. Lips thin, she halted at the kitchen door. “You want something to eat with your next cup of coffee? You know, to soak up the alcohol?”

  “No, I’m fine. Go home, please.”

  Her hips shifted into a testy stance. “No, Ben, ‘fine’ is stone sober and not smelling like a still.” She cut loose with a loud a sigh, expelling some of her anger as well. “Look, how ’bout a couple cookies? I brought a plate over to thank you for what you did for Lacey today.”

  He peered up beneath hooded eyes. “What kind?”

  One edge of her lip jacked up. “Well, I’m sure you’d prefer rum balls, but sorry, doc, they’re only monster cookies.” She bit back a smile with a stern fold of arms. “Which given your behavior, seem oddly appropriate.”

  He stared for several moments while tenderness melted the strain in his face. “I love you, Tess,” he said quietly, the sheen of moisture in his eyes prompting the same in hers.

  “Get a shower, Ben,” she whispered, “and I’ll make you breakfast. We need to talk.”

  He nodded and rose, slowly making his way down the hall. And, given his declaration of love tonight, she thought with a wrench in her heart ...

  Out of her life as well.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  He should be happy.

  He saved a life today.

  Ben turned the spigot handles all the way to scalding, well aware saunas were not smart with a hangover, but he flat-out didn’t care. He deserved it, despite the praises of his daughter.

  “Daddy! You’re my hero,” she’d said the moment he’d come through the waiting room door, rushing to embrace him with undeserved love in her eyes.

  Steam from the shower billowed all around him, fogging his body as well as his mind.

  Because of him, a precious eight-year-old orphan would live to see another day. His eyelids groaned shut, the weight of a million regrets forcing them closed.

  And because of me, another lies in an early grave.

  He slumped against the shower wall, wishing the water was hot enough to scorch the shame from his mind, but he knew better. He could scrub his body raw, but his soul was stained forever, marking him unfit to be a father.

  “Daddy, I love you,” Lacey had whispered after the surgery, clutching him so tightly he could barely breathe. And what had he done? Stood there like a monument to failure, heart of stone and arms just as cold, useless appendages that refused to embrace her back. The memory flushed tears from his eyes as guilt and self-loathing rained down.

  First Karen. Then Lacey. Now Tess.

  Three hearts of flesh battered against one heart of stone.

  Dear God, what would it take to chip the guilt and grief away?

  “Ben?”

  He startled in the shower, Tess’s voice laced with concern on the other side of the door.

  “You’ve been in there for over forty-five minutes. Are you … okay?”

  No. “Yeah, sorry,” he called, the effort unleashing a sharp ache in his head. He turned off the water, body clean, but his mind still soiled from a past he wished he could wash away. “Just trying to detox. I’ll be right out.”

  Drying off, he was grateful for the haze of mist on the mirror. He didn’t want to face himself right now. It was bad enough he had to face Tess. Desperate for potassium and Vitamin B, he popped a multivitamin, then brushed his teeth blind, along with his hair. Feeling somewhat better after his shower, he slipped on his Gap blue-and-white plaid pajama bottoms and a clean T-shirt, finally padding down the hall in his bare feet. He paused at the kitchen door, a strange warmth flooding his soul as he watched Tess putter at th
e sink in his kitchen.

  Like she belongs here.

  His eyes roved the length of her, from the curve of a tiny waist to the gentle swell of hips in shorts that revealed killer legs free of the yoga pants she’d hidden behind last time. His mouth twitched. Which meant she’d had no intention of coming inside tonight. Half of him wished she hadn’t, while the other half was glad she did. The bad half, he realized, gaze glued to a perfect posterior while she bent over to put the frying pan away. He cleared his throat, the smell of bacon rumbling his stomach. “Smells good,” he said quietly, smiling when she spun to face him, dropping a dishtowel on the floor.

  “Well, that’s certainly an improvement.” Her eyes did a quick scan that dusted her cheeks with a pretty blush. Whirling around, she quickly retrieved the towel before pulling a plate of bacon and eggs from the oven. “Sit.”

  He did as he was told, still feeling a bit wobbly when he eased onto a stool. “You joining me, I hope?”

  She plopped the plate on the counter with a silent smile, along with two plates, paper-towel napkins, and utensils before pouring them both a fresh cup of coffee. When she slid onto the stool next to him, he automatically reached for her hand to pray like she always did at her house for dinner. For some reason he had this strange longing to thank her for her friendship and this meal by honoring her God. Bowing his head before she could pull away, he forged on with grace, invoking a God who was slowly calling him home via the woman beside him.

  At the end of the prayer, he closed his eyes and tightened his hold, exhaling a wavering breath. “I’d also like to say that I’m sorry, for blowing it big time tonight. Mostly because I hurt my neighbor and friend …” He hesitated, suddenly realizing Tess was so much more, making his next words come out husky and hoarse. “Well, the truth is, she’s not just a neighbor and friend anymore, but my best friend and a woman I’ve grown to love, so forgive me for hurting her, and help her to forgive me too.” His heart lifted at the gentle squeeze of her hand, giving him the courage to go on. “Especially when she hears what I have to say tonight,” he whispered, his mind made up to finally share the grief that he bore. A split-second decision he hadn’t intended to make, he continued, shocked to the core when a rare peace settled on his soul. “And thank you for bringing her back into my life. Amen.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” she said with a trace of a smirk, tone obviously flip to deflect the sheen of moisture in her eyes.

  He glanced up with a faint smile, placing the paper towel on his lap. “I figure the fact I survived the wrath of Tess O’Bryen is proof enough.”

  She dove into her eggs with gusto. “You might want to reserve judgment, Dr. Doom, just to make sure I didn’t tamper with your eggs.”

  He grinned, content to devour the meal while she chattered on about silly things like the mole she caught in her yard or the poor crop of tomatoes she’d had this year, well aware she was giving him time and space to enjoy his food. When he finally finished, he wove his fingers through hers, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Tess—that was wonderful.”

  She slipped from the stool to carry the plates to the sink, a noticeable flush creeping up the back of her neck. “Feel better, I hope?”

  “Much, although there’s a wicked bowling tournament going on in my head.”

  The lilt of her laugher worked better than any painkiller he could prescribe. She filled his sink with soap and water, apparently to let the dishes soak before lifting the coffee pot in the air. “I’m throwing caution to the wind and going for one last jolt of caffeine—you?”

  “Yeah, one more sounds good, thanks.”

  Strolling over, she refilled both cups, then emptied the pot and washed it out, turning the machine off before finally returning to her stool. She sat and faced him, smile fading into a somber gaze while her thumbs grazed the sides of her cup. “So, what happened tonight, Ben?” she whispered, ridges of concern letting him know she cared. “How can you go from saving a child’s life to the bottom of a bottle?”

  A fresh wave of guilt assailed him, worse than any hangover he could ever have. Elbows propped on the bar, he tunneled fingers through his wet hair before shielding his eyes, gaze boring into the hi-sheen black granite counter beneath. The one that mirrored the image of a man who turned his back on his own. “Yes, I saved a life today,” he said quietly, “but I’m afraid a hundred lives saved wouldn’t take away the guilt that I own.”

  Tess’s hand lighted upon his arm. “What do you mean?”

  He sagged against the back of his leather stool, fingers gouging the bridge of his nose. “I mean I said ‘no’ to saving a life when I should have said ‘yes.’ A little girl just like Debbie, who died of congenital heart failure because I wouldn’t intervene.”

  “But who? And why?” A trace of shock threaded her tone as she removed her hand, robbing him of the warmth of her touch.

  His gaze absently traced the silver veins in the black granite, avoiding her eyes. “The illegitimate daughter of a close friend of Lacey’s,” he said, his tone as dead as he suddenly felt inside. “You may not know this, but Lacey got involved with the wrong crowd senior year, a fast crowd, several of whom ended up pregnant.” Fresh fury arose at the very memory of that year, of the war zone it created in his own home. Shards of bitterness crept into his tone. “This was a girl who fooled around and got caught, so she couldn’t go home, which is one of the reasons Lacey and I fought the night she left town.” His jaw ached. “She wanted me to help her, to allow this girl to stay in our home,” he said slowly, feeling the rise of the same bitterness he’d had for Karen after she came up pregnant. “But I didn’t. So when her baby was born with heart problems …” He swallowed the bile that tainted his tongue. “I felt this girl should pay.”

  “I don’t understand, Ben, pay how?”

  “With pain over the possibility of losing her child,” he whispered, staring aimlessly ahead, Karen’s voice on the phone that night still haunting his soul. “Please, Ben, Lacey and I are begging you to come—the child needs surgery.” His gaze glazed into a blur as hot tears all but scalded the sockets of his eyes, jaws clenched so tight he felt the burn at the base of his skull. “Karen and I fought, and I was angry … so I …” He swallowed the regret clogging his throat. “Made her wait.” A tic flickered in the hollow of his cheek. “By the time I finally waltzed into the hospital, the baby was dead. A botched surgery at the hand of some hack surgeon, fresh out of residency.” His eyes shuttered closed, the guilt so fresh and raw, he had no control over the water that dampened his cheeks. “And all because I was too judgmental, too selfish, too blasted stubborn to consent to a simple request from my own wife and daughter.”

  “Oh, Ben …”

  Eyes trailing into a glassy stare, he shut out the tender compassion he heard in her tone because he knew he didn’t deserve it. His voice lowered to a soulless whisper. “Did you know congenital heart defects are the leading cause of infant deaths in the U.S.?” He turned to stare at her, his facial muscles rigid with pain. “I did, and yet I did nothing. Thousands of babies never reach their first birthday, and because of me, that child never even made it to her first week.”

  “Ben,” she said softly, “you’re no longer that man.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Every time I see Lacey, I’m reminded of the failure I am. As a husband, as a father …” His voice trailed off to almost nothing. “As a man. Toxic to my own flesh and blood.” He shook his head. “No, Tess, fatherhood’s not for me, not only because I’m no good at it, but because I don’t deserve it after what I’ve done. I’m not worthy.”

  She leaned in, capturing his gaze with the intensity in her own. “None of us are, remember? ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ Once, someone asked theologian and philosopher G. K. Chesterton what was wrong with the world, and you know what he said?”

  He glanced up. “No.”

  Her chin rose. “He said, ‘I am.’ Because the truth is until hu
man beings are cleansed by the Blood of Christ and cloaked in His righteousness instead of their own—filthy rags, all—one can never be truly ‘worthy.’” She rested her hand on his. “Or free.”

  He looked away, his voice a monotone. “So if the Son sets you free, you’re free indeed,” he said quietly, surprised he could remember any Scripture at all.

  “Exactly. Because no matter what happens, Ben, until you embrace the very One who knit you in your mother’s womb …” She paused, as if giving him time to really hear the words of her heart. “Your soul will ache.”

  He peered up. “I can do that, Tess, and God may forgive me, and others as well, but I’m not sure I can forgive myself.”

  Her smile bore all the hope and joy of an angel aglow before the throne of God. “Trust me, Dr. Doom, you can, because His grace makes it far easier than you can ever imagine, and I should know.” Melancholy suddenly shadowed the beautiful curve of her lips. “After what happened with Adam, I blamed myself for everything. For failing my family, for missing all the signs of a marriage in trouble, for being the type of wife to drive a minister to cheat …” Her lip curled the slightest bit. “For wanting to see him stretched out on a rack, swarming with fire ants.”

  He grinned. “Ouch. Remind me to never cross you again.”

  One perfect brow jagged high. “I rather hoped the ice water had accomplished that.” Expelling a wispy sigh, she lagged into a distant stare. “I spent the first few years of our divorce bitter and depressed, hating who I’d become.”

  It was his turn to hike a brow. “You?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a sheepish smile. “Several stages before I hit perky and prying.”

  He cocked his head, curiosity crimping his forehead. “So, how’d you do it?”

  Her nose scrunched in that adorable way he loved whenever she was concentrating especially hard. “Well, I didn’t do it, actually—God did—but first I had to acknowledge and embrace several important truths that I seriously hope you will too.”