by Irene Hannon
That was true about more than gardening, given the unexpected twist their lives had taken.
“I’m sure she’d welcome any advice you can offer.”
“That’s what she said.” Charley pulled a bottle of one of his homemade sauces out of the cooler, along with bags of shredded lettuce, red onion, and an avocado. “But that David Austen Munstead Wood rose I recommended should do well for her. It has a spicy old-rose fragrance, and it’s disease resistant.”
Was there no end to the taco-making artist’s knowledge?
“I didn’t know you were a rose expert.”
“I’m not—but I do love all of God’s flora and fauna.” He flipped the sizzling fish and pulled out some corn tortillas. “Right, Floyd?”
As he directed his comment to the pair of seagulls who seemed to have claimed squatter’s rights at the taco stand, the one on the left cooed and ruffled his feathers.
“You have a pet seagull?” Greg arched an eyebrow and scanned the bird.
“No. Floyd and his wife, Gladys, are friends of mine.”
Greg grinned. “They’re married, huh?”
“Sure. Seagulls mate for life—like humans are supposed to do.”
Greg’s lips flattened, and despite the savory aroma of the grilling fish, his appetite tanked. “That’s not always easy to do.”
“Never said it was. And not all marriages survive. But sometimes people give up too fast when a hard challenge comes along instead of making a course correction and continuing the journey. You should ask Floyd about that.”
Greg inspected the bird again, and the seagull stared back at him. “He’s not much of a talker.”
“He is if you learn how to listen. Most creatures are once you discover how to communicate with them. Floyd, for example, went through a rough spell a while back. He lost his first wife a few years ago and was down in the dumps until Gladys came along. Now he has a whole new outlook.”
“Cute story.” But a seagull’s woes had nothing to do with him—even if Charley appeared to be implying otherwise.
“Also inspiring—as many stories are.” Charley began assembling the tacos. “The Bible, for example, is packed with some beauties.”
The Bible?
Greg gaped at him.
In all the years he’d known Charley, the man had rarely made more than a passing reference to God or religion or faith.
“You read the Bible?”
Charley smiled over his shoulder. “That surprise you?”
“Yeah. I mean . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen you at church. Unless . . . do you go to St. Francis?”
“I’ve been to both of the churches in this town on many occasions.”
“But not every week, right?”
“If you’re asking me whether I worship regularly, the answer is yes—and not just on Sunday.”
Charley could be as slippery as a slime eel if he didn’t want to be pinned down.
“You don’t have to go to church every week to be a person of faith, though.” Hard as he tried to contain it, a trace of defensiveness crept into his voice.
“True.” Charley wrapped the two taco orders in white butcher paper. “But Rachel’s a regular, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” She must have mentioned it to Charley on one of the occasions she’d stopped at the stand for tacos.
How else would the man know his wife’s worship habits?
“Well, that old saying we’ve all heard may be trite, but it’s also true. ‘The family that prays together stays together.’” He slipped the tacos in a brown bag and slid the sack across the counter. “Two orders to go.”
Greg pulled out his wallet. “Are you ever going to take credit cards?”
“Nope.” He tapped the small cash-only sign taped to the serving window. “I like to keep life simple. You two enjoy those tacos.”
“That goes without saying.” He handed over the cash and picked up the bag.
“By the way—they’re having donuts at Grace Christian tomorrow after the services. I can recommend the chocolate custard.” Charley winked.
Greg froze.
Strange that the taco chef would happen to dangle his favorite variety as bait—although it was possible he’d mentioned his preference to the man years ago.
“How do you know what they’re serving tomorrow?”
“I have inside information.” He gestured toward Sweet Dreams Bakery on the other side of Dockside Drive.
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“You do that—and give Rachel my best. Tell her to drop by if she wants to talk gardens again. I don’t imagine she has many friends here yet.”
No, she didn’t—and that was his fault. Thanks to his hermit-like ways and gloomy mood, she’d felt compelled to stay close unless she was at work.
Not much of a life for a young bride.
Greg lifted his hand in farewell, skirted the seagulls again, and trudged toward the car.
If he wanted her to stick around, he needed to resolve his issues before she got fed up and followed through on her ultimatum.
No, scratch that if.
He definitely wanted her to stay.
The real questions were what did she want to do—and what was fair to her?
If she was only staying with him out of a sense of duty, he ought to cut her free . . . despite Charley’s commentary on marriage, and despite the knot that formed in his stomach whenever he thought about her leaving.
Transferring the bag of tacos to his other hand, he dug out his keys and pushed the auto-lock button.
Maybe it was time to unlock the truth at home too. Have the hard discussion he’d been dodging for months and find out where Rachel stood.
And hope that whatever the outcome, he could find the courage and strength to move past the trauma of these past few months and create a new future.
“Hi, honey. It’s been months since we talked, and your dad and I, we were . . . well, we wondered if it might be better to schedule a call instead of playing phone tag. Let us know what might work for you. We’re flexible. Take care, and we . . . we hope to hear from you soon.”
As her mother’s message finished playing, Rachel set her cell back on the patio table, wiped her grimy palms on her jeans, and sank into one of the molded plastic chairs.
Three calls from her mom in the past six weeks—and in every succeeding one, she’d sounded more distressed.
Rachel filled her lungs with the fresh salt air and rotated the kinks out of her neck.
She ought to respond with more than a one-sentence email.
But how did you put aside hurt that ran bone deep—especially when not once in their limited communication since the wedding had her mother apologized for the grief she and Dad had given her about rushing into marriage?
And they must still be miffed that she hadn’t followed their advice to defer the wedding for a few months. Otherwise her mom would have uttered the two magic words during one of her messages.
An I’m sorry would go a long way toward bridging the rift between them.
Rachel rubbed at a streak of dirt on the back of her hand and sighed.
The stubborn gene was strong on both sides of her lineage.
In fact, without the Hope Harbor address change she’d emailed—and her oblique reference to an injury that had resulted in an early discharge for Greg—her mother probably wouldn’t have started calling.
At some point, if her mom persisted, she’d have to share the news about Greg’s leg.
But she’d do that by email. A phone call would be too revealing. Her mom would pick up the undercurrent of strain and realize the marriage she and Dad had advised against was in serious trouble.
They might be right—but Rachel wasn’t ready to admit that.
Yet.
Not after the positive developments of the past few days.
“Tacos are here.”
At Greg’s announcement from the back door, she swiveled around. “I’ll be there in
a minute.”
“You want to eat outside? The mist is clearing. We should have sun soon.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get us some sodas.”
“I already put them on the counter. I can go back for them.”
“I need to wash up anyway. Why don’t you divvy up the tacos?” The savory aroma wafted toward her as they passed on the patio, and her stomach rumbled.
She should have eaten some lunch—but until their recent dinners of spaghetti and surprisingly tasty beer-can chicken, food had held little interest.
At least her appetite was improving, if not her relationship with her parents.
After scrubbing her hands, she scooped up the sodas and joined Greg on the patio.
He’d pushed her phone aside but tapped it as she sat. “Anyone call?”
“Yes.” She opened the first taco, peeling back the white paper. “My mom left a message.”
“I didn’t know you and your parents were communicating again, except for an occasional email.”
“We aren’t. The phone calls have all come from their end.”
“How many is ‘all’?”
“Three in the past six weeks.”
“Have you returned them?”
“By email.” She took a bite of her taco. Since talking about her relationship with her parents would only ruin her appetite, a change of topic was in order. “Are you still planning to go to the lighthouse committee meeting tomorrow?”
“Yes. I said I would . . . and it’s important to keep promises.”
A subtle nuance in his inflection put her on alert, and she stopped chewing as their gazes met—and locked.
Was he talking about the lighthouse commitment . . . or an even bigger promise?
“I agree.” She wadded the taco paper in her fingers, studying him.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I, uh, haven’t done the best job of that with the promises we made to each other.”
“No. You haven’t.” She was done coddling him. They either had to fix their problems or . . .
No.
She wasn’t going to think yet about following through on her ultimatum.
A muscle flexed in Greg’s cheek, and he played with a piece of red onion that had fallen out of his taco. Took a swig of soda.
She waited him out, forcing her lungs to keep inflating and deflating.
“We need to talk.” The hoarse statement scratched past his throat. “Decide how to go forward . . . or if we should.”
Her stomach bottomed out—but she forced herself to ask the hard question. “Do you want to call it quits?”
He looked past her, toward the rosebush their neighbor had planted in his stead. “What I want and what’s best for you might be two different things. I need to make the right choice.”
What?!
He was trying to call the shots in her life, just as her parents had?
Anger goosed her pulse.
She slammed her taco on the table. “You know what? I am sick to death of people deciding what’s best for me. First Mom and Dad, now you. When is everyone going to realize I’m an adult who is perfectly capable of making my own decisions?”
“Whoa!” He held up a hand, furrows creasing his forehead. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“No? Then how did you mean it?”
“Look, I’m trying to take the honorable course, okay?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “You deserve more than this.” He swept a hand over his leg.
“I didn’t marry you for your legs. I told you that days ago.”
“I know—but I also know you married a man who was capable of contributing to this partnership on an equal level. Instead, you’ve got a husband who can’t even plant a rosebush.” Disgust laced his words.
“You could if you worked harder at the physical therapy.”
“Even if I work my butt off, I won’t ever be a firefighter.”
It always came back to that.
“So because one career avenue is closed, your life is over?”
“The life I planned is.”
“I thought I was a big part of the life you planned?”
“You were. You are.”
“Well, I’m still here. That hasn’t changed. Why can’t we accept what’s happened and move on?”
“To what?”
“I don’t know—but we could figure it out together if you’d communicate more.”
He focused on the rosebush again, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me—let alone hang around—after these past few months.”
“For very simple reasons. I took the same vows you did—and I meant it when I said through better or worse, in sickness and health.” She gentled her tone. “And I fell in love with a handsome soldier who swept me off my feet with charm and wit and intelligence and strength and compassion and joie de vivre.”
“Most of those have been in short supply since the IED.”
“Yes, they have. I can’t remember the last time you laughed or joked or . . .” Her voice rasped . . . but the rest of the sentence echoed in her mind.
Or touched me.
A wave of yearning swept through her, so strong it stole the breath from her lungs.
What she wouldn’t give for a loving caress or gentle kiss or warm hug. Any of those simple gestures would chase away the soul-sapping loneliness that had plagued her these past months.
Especially at night.
Except they slept in different rooms, with far more than a few inches of wall separating them.
Her vision misted, and she gripped the arms of her chair.
Don’t you dare cry, Rachel. Tears haven’t helped in the past—and they’re not going to solve the problem now. Stay strong.
“I’m not sure the man you married exists anymore, Rachel.”
“I don’t believe that.” Somehow she managed to choke out the denial.
“I wish I had your confidence.” He slumped back in his chair, shoulders hunched. “My life’s been one giant train wreck for the past eight months. I don’t think anyone who’s been through what I’ve been through emerges unscathed.”
“Neither do the witnesses.” She spoke quietly, but every muscle in her body was taut. “Do you know how hard it is to see someone you love sink deeper and deeper into darkness? To sit here day after day while you shut me out, watching your pain and feeling helpless and useless and lonely? To wonder if life will ever be happy and normal again?” Her voice broke, and she gritted her teeth.
Don’t cry!
His features twisted, and pain shimmered in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Then don’t. Let me back into your life. Let’s make a course correction and continue the journey.”
He did an odd double take. “That’s . . . weird.”
“What?”
“Charley said the exact same thing to me less than an hour ago.”
He’d talked to Charley about their situation?
Her posture stiffened. “I thought we always agreed never to discuss our private business with anyone.”
“I didn’t. He was telling me about Floyd and Gladys.”
At the unfamiliar names, she shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve met them.”
“Probably not. They’re seagulls.”
“You mean . . . birds?”
“Yeah.” One side of Greg’s mouth twitched. “Charley has an eclectic group of friends. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a bit on the eccentric side.”
“True—but he’s also smart and intuitive and empathetic.”
“Not to mention a rose expert, from what I gathered.”
“Yes. A man of many talents.”
The rare touch of levity in Greg’s demeanor faded. “Lucky him.”
“You’re selling yourself short. You have lots of talents too.”
“Had—and most of them were physical. Football, wrestling, being a soldier.”
“You also have a fi
rst-class brain.”
“My grades were only marginal in school, Rachel.”
“If that’s true, it was due to indifference, not lack of brainpower. You have an organized and strategic mind. Look at all the ideas you came up with for the lighthouse campaign.”
“Those don’t pay the bills.”
“We have enough money coming in.”
“I don’t want to live off the government—or your salary—for the rest of my life. I need to contribute.”
“Then let’s work together to find a way for you to do that.” She held her breath . . . and took a chance. “It might not be a bad idea to pray for guidance. Maybe you could go to church with me again.”
He frowned. “Charley suggested that too.”
“Like I said—he’s a smart man.”
“I guess it might be worth a try. Nothing else is working.” He straightened up in his chair and motioned toward their food. “We better eat. Our tacos are getting cold.”
Yes, they were.
But as the last wisps of mist dissipated and the sun came out on their cooling dinner, her heart was warmer than it had been fifteen minutes ago.
Because she knew two things.
Greg didn’t want her to leave—and he was making an effort to communicate.
Those were big steps forward.
Nothing else might have been resolved, but the seeds of hope that had been planted the night he made spaghetti were sending down a few more tentative roots.
And perhaps if they both put a little more effort into prayer . . . if they kept the lines of communication between them open . . . those roots would burrow deep, just as the roots on the rosebush Charley had recommended for her garden were doing in the fertile earth of Hope Harbor.
13
Ben would be here in less than five minutes—assuming he was punctual.
And that was a safe assumption.
From all indications, the ex-army doctor had been born with the responsibility gene.
Marci gave her hair one more disgusted survey in the mirror, huffed out a breath, and tossed the brush onto the vanity. There would be no taming her redhead frizz today. She’d just have to live with flyaway locks.
Besides, what did it matter if her hair refused to cooperate? It wasn’t like this was a social visit—even if she had spent hours last night making her mom’s prize-winning chicken salad, experimented with the corn chowder recipe she’d found in Aunt Edith’s collection, and baked a batch of her scarf-worthy espresso brownies.
