by Irene Hannon
“I saw Christopher in the hallway.” She drew up a chair beside the bed. “He told me you have slight temperature, but he didn’t seem overly concerned. As far as I know, you’re still on track to ditch this place sometime next week.”
He brushed his gnarled fingers over the sheet that covered him. “Maybe.”
“Henry Calhoun!” Marci gave him a look of mock indignation and took his hand in a firm grip. “After all the work I’ve done to put a whole army of resources at your disposal, you better plan on marching out this door next week. Meals-on-wheels, a personal shopper, rides to medical appointments, pharmacy deliveries…you name it. Besides, I’m missing your banana-nut bread.”
Her attempt at humor brought a fleeting smile to his lips. “I’m kind of missing that myself.” He patted her hand. “We’ll see, Marci. Let’s take it a day at a time.”
He was giving up. Marci could hear it his voice. See it in his resigned expression. Feel it in his consoling pat of her hand.
“Henry.” She leaned close, her posture intent. “You are going to get better. You can’t let Patricia win.”
He peered at her and pursed his lips. “That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
“You bet. You have a lot of good years left. At home, in your cottage. I finished the garden, by the way. I can’t wait for you to see it. In fact, why don’t we plan a picnic dinner out there your first night back?”
“I’d like that.”
She stood and leaned down to press a kiss to his too-warm forehead. “We have a date, then. And I don’t like being stood up. Can I count on you to be there?”
He smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. I’ll be back later tonight. How about I bring you some of those chocolate tarts you liked at tea?”
“They sure were tasty.”
“Done. I’ll raid Heather’s kitchen. Get some rest this afternoon, okay?”
“Not much else I can do. Take care, Marci.”
Exiting the room, she quickly retraced her steps down the hall. While the place was well-kept, and colorful Fourth of July decorations brightened the common rooms in anticipation of the coming holiday, she always felt an oppressive sense of gloom as she passed the residents hunched in wheelchairs or shuffling along behind walkers.
She couldn’t think of a more depressing place to live.
Christopher was right. Henry would wither and die here. They had to get him out as soon as possible.
And in the meantime, she had to think of some way to give him an incentive to keep fighting.
But where could she turn for inspiration?
God.
The word echoed in her mind, resonating powerfully enough to make her step falter for an instant.
Where in the world had that come from?
It had been years since she’d prayed. Or even thought about praying. But she had attended a service last Sunday and observed a lot people who put great stock in prayer.
She picked up her pace again. Maybe this might be one of the situations where prayer could make a difference. It had done the trick with Nathan last year, when she and J.C. had visited him in his darkest hour.
What did she have to lose?
Stepping out into the sunlight, Marci stopped, drew a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh Nantucket air and closed her eyes.
Lord, I have no idea if You’re listening. I kind of doubt it, since we haven’t exactly been on speaking terms. But if You are, could You help my friend, Henry? He’s a good man, Lord. And I don’t think he’s ready to check out yet. But he needs some encouragement. Please lift up his spirits. And help me think of something that will make him realize how much he’s loved and how much we want him to get better.
And Lord, if I’ve got Your ear, thank You for bringing such two special men into my world. Henry’s like the grandfather I never had, and Christopher…well, I don’t know where he fits in. But I do know he’s a remarkable man. And no matter what happens, meeting him has been one of the greatest gifts of my life.
Wow.
Christopher flipped over the last page of the plan Marci had put together and took a sip of his cooling coffee. She’d done a fabulous job weaving a bunch of random ideas into a coherent proposal. Her plan relied on contributions from area residents, businesses, churches and organizations, and she’d already lined up an impressive level of funding commitments and support. Plus, she’d compiled a comprehensive database of volunteers willing to assist with the effort or participate in the time bank. And the high-school administration had embraced the notion of youth involvement and promised to promote it.
The plan was also very professional—well-organized, well-thought-out and well-presented. The rationale was compelling, the payback to the community clearly outlined.
Rising from the kitchen table in his cottage, he rinsed his mug in the sink. There was only one thing he might change in Marci’s proposal. She’d suggested the organization be run by a volunteer committee. But based on the comprehensive nature and scale of the coordination required for it to function effectively, it needed a more formalized structure. And an office.
Months ago, when he’d mentioned the idea to a few people at the hospital, word had spread to top management. And a casual comment had been made by one of the executives about donating office space. He made a mental note to follow up on that first thing tomorrow.
As for structure—Marci’s program deserved a full-time, professional director. It needed to be run by someone with credentials in social service work and an affinity for the elderly.
In other words, someone like Marci.
Or better yet, Marci herself.
Would she be willing to stay? he wondered. More importantly, did he have the courage to ask her to stay?
As he mulled that over, he pushed through the back door into the deepening twilight. Ambling across the lawn, he surveyed Henry’s garden over the white picket fence. Order had been restored, and the plants and flowers were once more reaching for the sky, free to bloom now that they’d been liberated from the choking weeds.
Henry would be pleased.
And if he were standing here now, Christopher had a feeling his neighbor would be drawing an analogy. Reminding him that it was time he freed himself from the restraints of his past that kept love from taking root. That it was time to lift his face to the sun and let romance bloom again.
Although the older man had been on him about that for months, Christopher had always dismissed the suggestion. But lately he’d found himself more open to it. Thanks to Marci.
As if on cue, she appeared from around the far side of Henry’s cottage. Taken aback, Christopher watched as she headed for the coiled hose behind the house and turned on the water. Only when she swung around toward the garden, nozzle in hand, did she notice him on the other side of the fence and send him a guarded smile.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” His smile was warm and open. “I thought you were done here.”
“I was. But I inadvertently uprooted a few plants the other day when I was weeding the last patch, and I thought they might need a drink.”
“You drove all the way out here for that?”
She shrugged and moved toward the back of the garden, pulling the hose behind her. “After all my hard work, I don’t want any casualties.” She adjusted the nozzle to a soft spray and sprinkled a patch of slightly wilted flowers. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I just visited Henry again. You were right earlier today. He’s pretty down. Even the chocolate tarts I brought him didn’t help a whole lot.”
His smile faded. “Yeah, I know. I stopped in after office hours. I tried to convince him his fever is nothing more than a little detour, but I don’t think I got through. I’m not sure what to try next. A positive attitude would go a long way toward helping him recover.”
“I agree. And I had an idea I wanted to bounce off of you. It’s a little ambitious, though.”
“So was the elder-assistance plan, but you managed to p
ull that off. I just read it. You did a stellar job. And I love the name. Caring Connections.”
She lifted one shoulder, dismissing her efforts. “Thanks. But all it needed was some legwork to flesh it out.”
The slight flush on her cheeks told him the compliment pleased her, despite her offhanded response. Had praise always been in such short supply in her life?
“Nope. Don’t buy it. You took a bunch of stream-of-consciousness ideas and molded them into a cohesive, workable plan. And you went out and drummed up support for it. That required talent. And a massive amount of work. So I suspect whatever idea you’ve come up with to boost Henry’s spirits is manageable. Tell me about it.”
“Well, when we first met, Henry told me about the gazebo that used to be over there.” She gestured to the bare spot in the corner, rimmed by hydrangea bushes about to burst into bloom. “He said he’d built it for his wife years ago, but it had been destroyed in a storm. I got the impression it meant a lot to him.”
“It did. It was his wife’s favorite place. I was with him the night the storm ripped it apart. He told me that was the only spot where he could still feel her presence.”
“I sensed it might be something like that. So my idea is to rebuild it. I saw a picture of it in Henry’s kitchen, and the design doesn’t look too complicated. Chester’s really handy, and I bet I could get him to draw up some plans. I’m sure he’d also help with the construction. And I know I could convince J.C. to pitch in, too.”
She moved back to the faucet and turned off the water, recoiling the hose as she continued to speak. “With Henry scheduled to come home next week, we don’t have a lot of time, but I think we could pull this off. After all, they used to build barns in one day years ago. And we could start dropping hints to get him excited about the surprise.” She straightened up and regarded him across the yard. “What do you think?”
As Christopher envisioned the gazebo that could fill the empty space in the lawn—and in the older man’s heart—a slow smile tugged his lips up. “I think it’s brilliant. Henry will love it.”
She edged closer, until only a few feet separated them. Close enough for him to see the excitement and pleasure sparking in her eyes. Tempered, however, by a bit of doubt. “It won’t be cheap, though.”
“Don’t worry about the expense. I owe Henry for all the things he’s done for me since I arrived. Put me down for the building crew, too. I’m not the world’s best carpenter, but if someone points me to a nail I can drive it in.”
“Can you imagine his face when we bring him home and he sees it?”
Her enthusiasm was contagious. “It will be quite a moment. I have a key to Henry’s house. Do you want to take the picture with you so Chester can look it over?”
“Yes, thanks. That would be great.”
“Give me a sec.” He strode toward his cottage, retrieved the key and joined her at Henry’s back door. After unlocking the door, he removed the photo from the wall while she waited on Henry’s porch.
As he handed it over and relocked the door, she examined the image. “I would have liked to meet Marjorie.”
At her soft comment, Christopher pocketed the key and looked at the picture over her shoulder. “Me, too. But I know a lot about her from Henry. They shared an amazing love.”
“Yeah.” She held the picture reverently, her head bowed as she studied it. “That kind doesn’t come along very often.”
“I’ve seen examples of it. Every now and then.” His words came out husky, and when she gazed up at him, the look in her eyes drove the breath from his lungs.
His first impulse was to kiss her. But he knew she wasn’t ready for that.
Without breaking eye contact, he took her shoulders in a gentle grip, turned her toward him and pulled her close. But he didn’t claim her lips. He just held her in the shelter of his arms, the photo of Henry’s gazebo—a symbol of enduring love—captured between them.
He could feel her trembling, but she didn’t pull away as he’d feared she might. And as the seconds ticked by, the silence broken only by the distant crash of the surf, he slowly felt the tension melt from her body. Stroking her back, he nestled her closer, resting his cheek against her curls, marveling at how right she felt in his arms.
Christopher had no idea how long they stood there in the quiet of Henry’s garden. But at last she drew a shuddering breath and eased back. Although he missed her warmth at once, he let her go. For now.
Her eyes downcast, she fingered the photo and spoke in a tone that tried a little too hard to sound light and casual. “Henry’s picture seems to have cast quite a spell. Pretty soon it’ll have us believing in fairy tales.”
Putting a finger under her chin, Christopher tipped her head up and locked gazes with her. “The picture isn’t the only thing casting a spell. And not all romance is confined to fairy tales.”
Tears welled in her eyes—along with an emotion he could only classify as regret. “It is for me.”
Before he could process that comment, she backed down the porch steps. “I need t-to go. I’ll let you know what Chester says about the gazebo.”
With that, she took off at a half run around the side of the cottage.
“Marci, wait…” He started after her, but the panicked look she threw over her shoulder when he reached the arbor told him she needed space. Desperately.
So he remained under the cascade of roses, gripping the top of the gate while she slid into her car and sped away with a crunch of gravel.
He remained that way long after she’d disappeared, staring after her. But at last he pried his fingers off the gate, took a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. Retracing his steps, he paused to look at the spot that had once held the gazebo built with loving care by Henry for a woman whose love continued to enrich his life.
That was what he wanted, Christopher realized. The kind of love shared by Henry and Marjorie—and by his own parents. Yes, he’d made an error in judgment once, mistaking neediness for love. And a deep-seated wariness was a lasting souvenir of the tragic consequences of that relationship.
But Marci wasn’t Denise. He’d learned enough about her to feel confident of that.
Yet Marci had her own issues. Her comment tonight about fairy tales reinforced that. As did her hasty exit when things started to get romantic. And they might be just as scary as Denise’s. He needed to find out what they were—but unfortunately, he was running out of time. In a little more than two weeks, she would board a plane for Chicago.
And somehow he knew that if he let her walk away, the brightness she’d added to his days would fade away as quickly as clouds could snuff out the Nantucket sun.
Chapter Eleven
“I can’t believe how fast this came together.”
At Marci’s comment, Christopher took a long swig of lemonade and eyed the gazebo that had risen in Henry’s backyard in the course of one Sunday afternoon, a mere three days after she’d broached the idea. “Me, neither. Another half hour ought to wrap it up. We couldn’t have done it without Chester, though.”
They both looked toward the older man in overalls who was perched on a ladder securing a decorative piece of lattice while J.C. held it in place and Edith directed the process from ground level.
“When I gave him the photo, he rubbed his hands together, got this gleam in his eye and said, ‘I love projects.’ Edith warned me he tended to be slow—she said it took him more than two years to restore the cottage I’m staying in—but she must have lit a fire under him. He came out here Friday afternoon, drew the plans up that night and bought all the material yesterday. It’s amazing. And I think our little scheme is working. When I dropped a few hints to Henry about a surprise, I could tell his interest was piqued.”
Excitement had put a becoming flush on her cheeks, and her eyes were shining. She’d done a good job evading him since they’d exchanged the hug on Henry’s porch, and Christopher couldn’t believe how much he’d missed her.
“It
is. He’s been trying to finagle information out of me every time I visit.”
“More to the right, Chester,” Edith called. “The lattice is sticking out on the other side over the opening.”
“She’d make a good foreman.” Christopher grinned and walked a few feet away to pick up another piece of trim. “You want to help me put this up?”
“Sure.”
He set his disposable cup aside and moved back to the gazebo. Positioning a ladder beside the opening next to Chester, he took the lattice from Marci.
“I’m sorry to run out on you, but we have plans for tonight.” Edith steadied the adjacent ladder as her husband descended. “You and Marci can handle the last two pieces of trim, can’t you?”
“We don’t have to rush, Edith,” the older man protested.
“Chester.” She elbowed him. “We have to leave. Now.”
Squinting at her, he took off his baseball cap and scratched his head, leaving his unruly cowlick in disarray. “I guess we do.”
She gave a satisfied nod and turned to J.C., pinning him with a pointed stare. “J.C., didn’t Heather ask you to be back by seven? You could hitch a ride home with us and leave the car for Marci to use later.”
He looked from his neighbor to his sister, a grin twitching his lips. “Sounds good to me.”
Propping one shoulder against the gazebo, Christopher watched in amusement, admiring Edith’s masterful maneuvering.
But it was clear from Marci’s narrowed-eyed, mutinous expression that she didn’t share his reaction. “None of you said anything earlier about having to leave at a certain time.”
“I assumed we’d be done by now. But that’s what happens when you have an amateur crew.” Edith began to bustle about, collecting some of the scraps of wood while Chester and J.C. broke down the portable sawhorses and headed for Chester’s truck with various tools. “You want us to leave one of the ladders, Christopher?”
“If you don’t mind. I can use Henry’s, but it would help if Marci had one, too, so she can balance the trim in place while I attach it.”
