Straightening her back, Tiff put on a smile. She didn’t want Mom to worry. And after all, what had happened? Darren made a clumsy pass at her, and Mac stopped him. No need to make a big deal about it.
But her parents were so protective of her, still treating her like the baby of the family.
Mom of course, did exactly that. “Oh my poor baby, what a terrible thing to happen. Praise the Lord for Mac.”
Tiff’s heart sank at the speculative gleam in Mom’s eyes as she looked across the room to where Mac talked to Simon.
She needed to kill that idea stone dead before her chronic matchmaker of a Mom ran with it. Any time she wasn’t dating anyone, Mom tried to set her up with every single guy in their church, and her friends’ churches too.
Hauling in a deep breath, she prayed her voice didn’t shake.
“Mom, it wasn’t a dangerous situation. One of the residents got the wrong idea and tried to kiss me, that’s all. I’m sure I could have handled it. But Mac came in and stopped it instead.”
It didn’t help. Mom’s smile widened. “He seems like such a nice guy.”
Tiff just stared. Was Mom talking about the same Mac?
“You know, your Dad and I only really got to know each other volunteering at our church’s outreach sessions. Before that, I’d seen him in Bible class, but we’d never talked.”
Next thing she knew, Mom would be manufacturing excuses to get her and Mac together.
Tiff shook her head. “Mom, Mac’s Scottish, he’s a serious photographer, and as soon as he can, he’s going back to the Middle East.”
Even for Mom that should be enough, without needing to add the silent truth. He might make her feel things she’d never felt before, but anything between the two of them couldn’t possibly be part of God’s plan for either of their lives.
It certainly wasn’t part of her plan.
Her words only intensified Mom’s measuring gaze. Married at twenty-three, she was beginning to act as if Tiff and Zoe at twenty four were already old maids, who should grab at any opportunity they got.
Mac was definitely not grabbable, despite her response to him.
And her heart wasn’t beating faster, either, as she watched him walk toward them with Simon.
The centre manager immediately burst into concerned apologies. “I’m so sorry this happened, Tiffany. Darren has packed his things and gone. If he comes back, we’ll need strong evidence it won’t happen again before we permit him to stay.” He scrubbed a hand through his thick sandy hair. “We have a responsibility to make sure staff and other residents are safe.”
Tiff raised her head and smiled reassurance. “It’s not your fault. But if he’s here, he shouldn’t be left alone with female volunteers or residents. And you might consider installing plexiglass in the kitchen door, so whatever happens in there can be seen out here. Maybe a panic button, too.” The calm in her voice and the practicality of her suggestions surprised her.
Mac’s raised eyebrows suggested she’d surprised him, too.
Good. She wanted to surprise everyone who thought she was pretty and fluffy and would never do anything worthwhile.
A noisy clatter at the entrance heralded the arrival of the afternoon volunteers, stamping cold feet and chattering loudly. Dad, Zoe, Nick, and Cara left the group of residents and walked to where she sat. Dad gave her a long assessing look, clearly checking his little girl was okay.
She smiled up at him. Better to keep her gaze on her family than on Mac. She’d already focused on him far too much.
Simon glanced toward the new arrivals, then turned back. “I’ll need to do the afternoon handover.” His smile took in the whole family. “I want to say how grateful I am to all of you for giving up your own Christmas to help today. Thank you. I hope this hasn’t turned you away from coming in for another session.”
Nick grinned. “You know I’ve agreed to volunteer full-time once I’m back from sorting out my old job in L.A. This doesn’t change that.” He looked toward her, a question in his eyes. “But I’ll let the others decide for themselves this time rather than railroad them into volunteering again.”
Tiff took a deep breath. She hadn’t intended to come back. But maybe God had given her the perfect opportunity to show she was more than fluffy.
Getting a fashion designer to give her an internship, the start she needed, was still her #1 goal. She’d be doing the rounds of all the London fashion designers who might have an opening, as soon as the holidays were over.
But she could help out here in the meantime. Mac and everyone else would see what she could do. She wouldn’t run away like a scared little girl.
“I’d be happy to do another session.” Deliberately, she avoided looking at Mac to check his response. Maybe she needed to prove something to herself, as well as him.
“I can too,” he replied. “Up until I go home and have my fitness medical, anyway.”
Her gaze jumped to his impassive face. It gave no hint of whether she had anything to do with his decision.
Ridiculous for her to hope it did.
Nothing could happen between them.
But telling herself that didn’t stop her hoping.
Chapter 6
Apart from the hours spent choosing, editing, and printing the photos he’d taken at the shelter, Mac had spent most of his time since Christmas working in the gym to strengthen his leg muscles.
He was working it harder than his doctors would like, but he’d decided to let pain set the limits, not what other people told him. He could always take more painkillers if he wanted to push a bit harder.
The incident at the shelter made him uncomfortably aware of his limitations. If Darren hadn’t backed down, he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to protect Tiffany, and that bothered him.
He didn’t like failing. Too near a reminder of past failures. Of not being able to save that kid, in the bomb blast that had shattered his leg, along with the remnants his faith.
The thing that bugged him most was that he didn’t know the name of the boy who’d died. It bothered him that the child seemed to count for so little, except to fuel sensationalised media stories.
When he finally made it back to the Middle East, he’d discover who the boy was, and find his parents.
If he made it back there.
He had to get through the fitness medical first.
In the meantime, he’d train hard to make sure he passed, and make sure he volunteered for the same sessions at the shelter as Tiff did. He hadn’t been able to protect the boy, but he’d make sure he did all he could to look after her.
As he pushed the door to the shelter open for the Sunday evening session, he suppressed a ripple of anticipation at the knowledge he’d see her today.
When he signed into the visitors’ book, her name was already there. Something jumped in his chest at the sight of her feminine writing, and even the silly way she dotted her i.
Yes, he was acting like a teen. He wanted to see that sweet smile of hers, the tiny dimple appearing at the corner of her mouth. He wanted to see those wide blue eyes gaze up into his, with that warm glow in them. He wanted to be the one to protect her and keep her safe.
All things he shouldn’t want.
Once his leg was fully recovered, he’d be back to Syria or Iraq or Afghanistan, or wherever else the Royal Army unit he was embedded with went. Tiffany was twenty-four to his thirty, way too big an age gap. She was young and sweet and naive, and he’d seen way too much violence to maintain any hint of naivety.
No doubt she had her own life back in the States, and her own hopes and dreams. Ones that didn’t involve a bitter and damaged cynic like him.
Knowing that didn’t stop him scanning the room for her as soon as he strolled in, pretending his leg wasn’t bothering him from the hard session in the gym earlier.
There she was, sitting on a lounge, deep in conversation with a brown haired girl around her age. A new resident, by the worn-down, wary look on her face. He
leaned against the wall to rest his leg, but was honest enough to admit he’d stopped where he had so he could also watch Tiffany.
Her face expressed extremes of emotion. She was animated and mobile as she spoke, waving her hands in front of her. Then her expression stilled, becoming quiet and grave and compassionate as she listened.
Tiffany patted the other girl’s hand, stood, and hurried out to the kitchen.
He scanned the room more thoroughly. No sign of Darren, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Pushing himself away from the wall, he followed her. Something in her face suggested she was upset.
He found her in the tiny volunteers’ sitting room, off the kitchen, sitting with her face in her hands. She looked up as he entered, tears shining in her eyes and such sorrow on her face his heart twisted for her.
“Darren hasn’t bothered you again, has he?” Anger heated him at the thought.
He made sure he stayed in the doorway, and didn’t give in to the temptation to sit next to her. If he did, he’d want to take her in his arms again and comfort her, like he had on Christmas Day.
That wouldn’t be wise at all.
She shook her head, gaze dropping to her lap. “He hasn’t been back, according to Simon.” She drew in a deep breath, let it go, and jumped up, walking around the tiny room, as if a restless energy in her needed to move.
He forced his tight fingers to uncurl, nodded, and said nothing. Tiffany looked like she needed to talk.
“I was praying for that girl I was talking to, Josie. I’ve been with her since I got here. Simon asked me to spend some time with her. Would you believe we share the same birthday? June 24. She’s younger than me, but her life has been so tough.”
He leaned against the doorframe and watched her walk, wishing he cared more for the other girl’s situation, and less for the swing of Tiffany’s golden hair as she turned, the gentle sway of her body as she moved.
She glanced up at him again, with a watery smile. “I’ve never realised just how blessed I am, growing up the way I did. Josie’s Mom is a drinker, with mental health problems. Her grandmother took her in when she was ten, but then her Nan died, and she went into care and had a rough time there, got passed around between homes. She had to leave school at fifteen. She’s never had a job, and she wants to work, to be able to take care of herself. But no one has ever given her a chance.”
Sounded to him like a sob story to get sympathy. He’d heard them all his life growing up, from people wanting help from the church. He’d heard them in the Army. He’d heard them in the Middle East. People would lie about anything if they thought there was something in it for them.
Not that he’d say it quite like that to Tiffany. Her innocent trust was sweetly refreshing, even though his sceptical mind rebelled against being so naive. He’d have a quiet word to Simon, or maybe her dad, to make sure she didn’t get conned.
As if she’d read his mind, she raised her head, met his gaze, and replied to the words he hadn’t spoken.
“If I saw Josie’s story on the TV, or read it in a book, I’d think it had to be made up. But Simon told me, not her. He knows her background, checked it with Social Services. It’s for real. All she said was that she missed her Nan, and how much she wished she could get a job. I wish I could help her.”
He racked his brain to think what his father would say. The words that came to mind were trite, but he said them anyway. “My Dad always says that simply listening helps. People need to be heard.” Emotion roughened his throat as he realised something about what he did that he’d never fully understood before. “They need to be seen, too. That’s why I take photos.”
The photos he’d taken of her on Christmas Day flashed into his mind. They showed a maturity and depth, so different to what he’d initially seen in her. He’d wondered if it was a trick of the light. Now, he knew, the camera saw her more truly than he had.
Tiff nodded and smiled. “Yes, that’s true about the pictures. And listening. My Dad says that, too.” Her brows pulled together. “I’m sure it does help, but there must be something more I can do for her.”
“You’re helping here,” he offered.
His first impression of Tiff had been so wrong. She wasn’t just high heels and a pretty face. She cared.
“Yes, but it’s not enough. I’ll talk to Simon and see what he suggests. Maybe he can come up with something. And I’ll pray about it.” She lifted her hands and pressed them together in front of her chest.
His own chest tightened uncomfortably. Lucky her, to still have such faith in the power of prayer. What was left of his faith had died with that little Arab boy.
Tiff was silent for a moment, then her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I’ve had some disappointments since arriving in London, about not being able to get the job I wanted. I’ll admit, I’ve thrown a pity party for myself. But talking to her has put it all in perspective. Made me realise how little my worries are.”
He smiled back. “You want to talk about it?”
His words were half joking. Somehow, he knew she’d refuse.
She raised her hands in surrender and jumped to her feet. “Nah. Just one of those things. The pity party is officially over.” That sweet smile warmed her face and the dimple that intrigued him far more than it should flashed. “But thanks for offering. I’m off to the kitchen. I’m sure there are potatoes to peel or some other fun jobs to be done.”
Mac wasn’t sure if he felt relieved at her rebuff, or disappointed. Her attitude of caring, of trust, and of hope, challenged his cynicism in a way that disturbed him. She made him want to believe again.
But believing hurt.
He stood back to let her through the door, and followed her into the kitchen.
Tonight, all the residents helped with making the meal and setting the tables, unlike Christmas Day. As he sat at a table to scrape carrots and parsnips, Mac looked around.
The lively kitchen buzzed, full of life and activity as people worked together, with joking and laughter and a few sly digs at each other. Despite their troubled pasts, most guests here were positive, looking forward to the chance to make changes in their lives. The shelter encouraged hope, something in short supply in the war zone.
Did his work there really make a difference, the way this place seemed to?
He hadn’t helped that kid. Something compelled him to go back, somehow find a way to make amends. His photographs documented the innocent victims’ broken lives. They showed the truth.
A truth he’d once passionately believed God wanted him to show, had believed was God’s purpose for his life.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Either about God, or his purpose. A little of Tiff’s sweet certainty would be nice.
KP duty done, he pushed back from the table, and took the bowl of peeled and cut up vegetables to Nick, playing head chef.
He’d brought his Christmas Day photos with him to give to the staff and guests. Time to sort those, work out who was here tonight, so he could hand them over after dinner.
Photos, at least, he understood. An image, a pattern of light and dark on a page. Three colours, plus black and white.
Simple, understandable, easy to manage and to change.
But the patterns of life, the light and dark and colours of human nature, it seemed he could neither understand, or change.
Chapter 7
While the residents were eating, Tiffany leafed through the photos Mac left on the side table. Something real and intense jumped out from the flat page. It felt as if she was seeing right into the heart of each person he’d photographed.
Even this one of Darren.
Instead of shuffling it quickly to one side, she stared at it. The desperation and hopelessness she saw there opened her heart to forgive him.
All Mac’s photos had that quality.
She’d spent most of Christmas evening searching his name and scrolling through pages of powerful images. Even among the wreckage of bombed out buildings, people were always
the focus.
One news journal had archived an interview taken shortly before his injury. He’d spoken of how he tried to photograph the good and the beauty he saw, even in war. The camaraderie. The kids being saved. The soldiers playing football with the local youth. The strength of ordinary people trying to survive.
His words reminded her of a Bible verse from Philippians she’d always loved and tried hard to live by. “Fix your thoughts on what is true and good and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely, and dwell on the fine, good things in others. Think about all you can praise God for and be glad about.”
The next story about him told how he’d gone into a building after a child, just before a bomb blew up. How despite his injured leg, he’d crawled out with the dying child in his arms. The thought of it ached in her chest. Not much to be glad about there, except that Mac had survived.
There was only one published interview after that. No mention of beauty. It was as if he’d lost his faith.
Hearing steps behind her, over the chatter at the table and the clank of cutlery on dinner plates, she turned. She knew it was Mac before she saw him. The slight unevenness his limp caused was unmistakable.
She knew now why his face so often set in hard lines, why his forehead creased, with vertical lines between his brows, lips tight. Not surprising. After what he’d survived, the pain would be more than physical. Compassion welled in her.
She was no stranger to charity, but working at the shelter and reading Mac’s story made her realise how broken people could be. How blessed she was. Over the last few weeks she’d been so focused on herself that she’d forgotten how good it felt to serve, and to pray for people.
But her compassion for Mac was tinged with something more, something warmer.
Her heart stuttered and her breath caught at the sight of him. She straightened her back, and made sure her face wore a polite smile. But she couldn’t stop her cheeks heating at his nearness.
Help him Lord, please. And help me too, because I’m feeling far more for him than I should.
Mac was a hero. After reading what had happened, she understood his abruptness and his cynicism a little more. That didn’t mean she wanted to feel like this for him. He’d been kind earlier, when she’d spoken about Josie, but had kept his distance in the doorway, making it clear the feelings were not mutual.
Love In Store Books 1-3: Collection of three sweet and clean Christian romances with a London setting: The Wedding List, Believe in Me, & A Model Bride Page 38
