Sandpiper Cove

by Irene Hannon

  “It’s not fair, though.”

  “Lots of things aren’t.”

  “True.” She leaned back against the rock, her features hardening. “That’s one of my issues with God. I don’t understand how a kind and loving deity can let innocent people suffer.”

  “I didn’t either—until Reverend Baker pointed me to a passage in Isaiah that helped me deal with that disconnect. ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.’”

  “In other words, don’t try to figure it out?”

  “That about sums it up. We’re human; he’s God. To assume we can grasp his mind is actually a form of arrogance.”

  She continued to stroke Clyde, a slight frown creasing her brow. “I never thought of it quite that way.”

  “I hadn’t, either. In the end, it comes down to trust. We have to accept that God understands why things happen, even if we don’t—and try to learn and grow from our misfortunes. We also have to remember that he never promised us a perfect life on earth, only a perfect eternity—if we follow his teachings. Although it sounds like your childhood was close to perfect.”

  “It was. As my parents’ sole offspring, I was the apple of their eye—pardon the cliché.”

  “What happened to your dad?”

  She lifted a handful of sand. Let it drift through her fingers. “He died of a massive heart attack four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. I still miss him every day. But that loss did help me realize it was time to let go of a life that no longer held any allure. Not long after that, I came home.”

  “Home from where?”

  “San Francisco. I worked in a field office for the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. It was close enough to Hope Harbor I could get back here often.”

  “And you’ve never thought about going to church since you came home?”

  “No.” She slipped the glasses back on.

  Once again, he’d overstepped. And her abrupt no hadn’t given him a lot to work with in terms of trying to salvage the situation.

  He’d have to do the best with what he had . . . and tread carefully.

  “Well, church has been a blessing for me. Ever since Reverend Baker convinced me I wasn’t as alone and unloved as I’d always thought, I haven’t missed a week. Maybe my parents didn’t care about me, but God did—despite all the bad stuff I’d done. The whole concept that I didn’t have to earn his love, that he gave it freely, blew me away. But once I accepted that, I vowed to stay the course and rebuild my life after I got out of prison—whatever it took.”

  “Seems like you’re achieving that.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “I admire how you’ve turned your life around without any kind of family support.” She patted Clyde’s head, avoiding the injured area. “Did you ever have any contact with your parents after you left home?”

  “None that I initiated. My mother did track me down in prison and wrote to tell me my dad had died—and to apologize for not being a better mother and protecting me.”

  “Did you write back?”

  “Not for a while.” He watched an egg-shaped mole crab scurry along the wet sand at the edge of the water, then vanish beneath the surface in a flurry of digging. “Reverend Baker encouraged me to pray on it, and months later I did respond. But my letter came back as undeliverable.”

  “Maybe she moved.”

  “No. After I was released, I did some research and found out she’d died of a drug overdose.” He took a sip of his tepid coffee. “I’m glad I made the effort, but to be honest, I’m not sorry we didn’t connect. I doubt there would have been a happy ending.”

  “Yeah. Happy endings are hard to come by.” The muscles in her throat contracted, and when she continued, her tone was more businesslike. “You ready to talk about Brian?”

  “Yes.” More than. He’d already told Lexie almost as much about his background as he’d shared with Reverend Baker.

  “The counselor said he and his mother were receptive to the remedial steps he outlined. Those include making restitution for any material damage—like your vet bills for Clyde—and sixty hours of community service for Brian, beginning with the planter project. Given their financial situation, no fine was imposed for this first offense.”

  “Did he identify the other kid who was involved?”

  “Not yet—but the counselor will continue to press for that information in his meetings with the family.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “Brian’s mother will be expecting a call from you this week to discuss the planter project. You can work out the details by phone or in person. Here’s her number.” She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “She has rotating hours at her waitress job, so it may take a few tries for the two of you to connect. Have you tackled the project yet?”

  “No. It’s the main item on my weekend agenda, other than BJ and Eric’s wedding.”

  “Ah, yes. The social event of the year.” The breeze freed a few strands of Lexie’s hair, and she tucked them behind her ear. “I’ve been meaning to get up to the Seabird Inn for a tour, and the reception gives me the perfect excuse to poke around. I heard the remodel turned out great, thanks to BJ’s design and the hard work you all put into it.”

  “John was happy with it. And Eric told BJ it’s booked solid.” At room prices that boggled his mind. “Do you think there will be a lot of people at the wedding?”

  “I expect most of the town is invited. As a native, Eric knows almost everyone. BJ might be a recent transplant, but she’s endeared herself to the community. I’m glad they found each other.” She peered at her watch. “It’s getting late. Will you let me know once you touch base with the Huttons? The counselor is running the show now, but I’d like to keep tabs on how the arrangement is progressing.”

  “Sure.”

  She tipped her head back to finish her coffee, giving him a perfect view of the graceful arch of her neck.

  “Thanks for this.” She handed him her mug and ruffled Clyde’s ear, gently urging him off her lap. “I hate to disturb you, boy, but I have to go home.”

  With what sounded like a disappointed snuffle, the pup stood.

  Adam could relate. He was sorry to see her go too.

  In one lithe movement, she rose to her feet—leaving him no choice but to follow.

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “No need. Stay and enjoy the sunset. I have a feeling it’s going to be spectacular tonight, and I don’t want to mess up your evening routine. Talk to you soon.”

  He watched as she crossed the beach and entered the woods, catching occasional glimpses of her through the trees. As far as he could tell, she never looked back.

  Just as well.

  She might not appreciate being gawked at.

  Two minutes after she disappeared from view, he heard the faint hum of an engine. Slowly it faded away.

  She was gone.

  Leaning against the boulder where they’d propped their backs, he traced the faint outline of lipstick clinging to the rim of her mug . . . the only visible proof she’d briefly occupied this private part of his world.

  Maybe he wouldn’t wash it.

  As that absurd notion popped into his mind, he snorted.

  Clyde sent him a quizzical look, then grabbed the rubber ball and trotted over. As if he knew his friend needed distracting.

  “You’re a good buddy, you know that?” He set the lipstick-imprinted mug on the boulder and bent down to take the ball. “One last toss until the doc gives us the green light for more.”

  He sent the ball arcing through the air as Clyde raced ahead as fast as his bum leg allowed, anticipating the throw, his paws flinging sand in all directions.

  A loud belch echoed across the water, and Adam shaded his eyes. Casper had returned to his
perch on the rocky outcrop fifty yards offshore. As if he too sensed the man who lived in this isolated place needed company.

  He rolled his eyes. What a bunch of nonsense.

  Clyde just wanted to play, and the seal’s appearance was a fluke.

  But he had to admit, the animals did help ease the loneliness that had intensified since a certain police chief appeared on his doorstep a week ago.

  Odd how he’d been content to come home to this solitary cove for months with no one but Clyde to greet him, yet now he felt restless. Like some essential element was missing from his life.

  And after spending time with Lexie, he knew exactly what that element was.

  The companionship of a woman with whom he could share laughter and tears, joys and sorrows, sunsets on the beach, quiet dinners, late-night confidences, hugs and touches.

  But as the two of them had discussed less than fifteen minutes ago, happy endings were in short supply—especially the romantic kind. He could overcome a lot, start fresh in many ways, but he could never erase his prison record . . . and no woman who had any other options would settle for a man like him.

  God—and Clyde—might be able to offer him unconditional love, but humans weren’t as forgiving about unsavory baggage.

  And he was loaded down with it.

  Clyde ran back, compensating for his lameness with an odd but efficient lope that was all his own, and dropped the ball at his feet.

  “I think we’re done for tonight, fella. Try this instead.” He dug a treat out of his pocket and bent down.

  The pooch downed it in one gulp, licked his lips, and set off to nose around the water’s edge.

  In the distance, the sun was dipping lower . . . but it wouldn’t vanish beneath the horizon for at least an hour, hour and a half. He could finish the rocking chair and be back with another cup of coffee in time to see it. A sound plan, since he wanted to deliver the chairs to the reception site tomorrow rather than tote them over there the night of the wedding while wearing his fancy duds.

  Adam picked up Lexie’s mug from the rock and retrieved his from the sand. Hers was in much better shape than the nicked-up model he’d claimed for himself. Glaze pristine instead of chipped. Inside unblemished versus stained. Finish smooth rather than riddled with hairline cracks.

  Not a bad analogy for the differences between the two of them.

  Still . . . she’d stayed tonight. Given him a memory of a pleasant interlude on a beach with a beautiful woman.

  That was a gift to cherish.

  And as he whistled for Clyde and trekked back up the trail in the waning light of this ordinary Tuesday, the day no longer felt the least bit mundane or routine. Nor did the fading radiance of the sun dim the glow Lexie had generated in his heart.

  Perhaps, come morning, this feeling of . . . hope was the only way to describe it . . . would be gone.

  But for now, he was going to hold on tight to it—and thank God for an evening he would long remember.

  9

  “I thought we were done with all this.” Planting his fists on his hips, Officer Jim Gleason surveyed the broken statue and crushed plantings in the meditation garden Father Murphy had created behind St. Francis church. “Instead, they’re targeting God.”

  “Or St. Francis.” Lexie inspected the damaged statue of the monk. “More likely our vandal—or vandals—just picked a spot they knew wouldn’t be occupied on a Tuesday night after dark.”

  “You think the Hutton kid was in on this?”

  “My instincts say no. Both the juvenile counselor and I laid it on the line with him. He knows he’s getting off easy for a first offense, and that if he screws up, his case will escalate to a judge. I’m betting it’s the work of his partner in crime, acting alone or with a new accomplice.”

  “Too bad the Hutton boy didn’t identify him.”

  “That may be about to change.”

  “You going to pay him another visit?”

  “His case is in the counselor’s hands now, but this merits an in-person follow-up interview—and I intend to tag along.”

  A car swung into the parking lot . . . started toward the rectory . . . then changed direction mid-course and barreled toward them. Reverend Baker waved through the open window, screeched to a stop, and hopped out.

  “I just heard about this.” He called out the greeting while he hustled over, distress etched on his features as he scanned the damage. “My word. Who would commit such a senseless act? Kevin must be devastated. This little piece of heaven is his pride and joy.”

  “I only had a couple of minutes to speak with him before the six-thirty Mass, but yeah, he’s upset. That’s why I called the chief. I thought she might want to poke around while we waited for the padre to finish.” Jim’s radio crackled to life, and he retreated to listen in.

  “Such a waste.” Reverend Baker shook his head. “I was hoping we’d seen the end of our town’s little crime spree, now that you’ve identified one of the perpetrators, but it appears this isn’t over yet.”

  “It may be, if we can convince the guilty teen to reveal the name of his accomplice.”

  “I hope you succeed—but boys that age can have a warped sense of loyalty.”

  “Maybe his self-preservation instincts will kick in if we exert some pressure.”

  “I’ll pray for that outcome. We don’t need this kind of hooliganism in Hope Harbor. Kevin!” He lifted a hand in greeting as the priest exited the back door of the church and crossed the grass to join the group in the garden. “I’m so sorry about this.” Reverend Baker clasped the priest’s hand between both of his.

  The other man managed a smile. “Thank you. It was a shock—but spending the past half hour with the Lord helped restore my perspective. Flowers can be replanted and statues replaced. It’s like my grandmother used to say whenever we complained about our tribulations—no one died, it could be worse, and it can be fixed, so stop bellyaching.”

  “A sound philosophy.”

  “She was a smart woman.” Father Murphy did another sweep of the garden. “Still . . . I pray for the soul of whoever did this. It must be sorely troubled.”

  “I agree. But despite the mess, I think we can get this back into shape with a few hours of elbow grease, don’t you?”

  “We?”

  “Some extra physical activity beyond our Thursday golf games would be beneficial to my waistline.” The minister patted his stomach. “What’s on your agenda today?”

  “Sick calls and homily prep for Sunday.”

  “Do the sick calls this morning and I’ll help you with the homily prep while we work in the garden this afternoon. You might actually have some Bible citations in there for once.”

  “Hey . . . I quote the Bible.”

  “So you keep telling me. But at Grace Christian, we’ve taken to heart a very important passage from the Good Book: ‘All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness.’”

  “Catholics believe that too.”

  “So you’re familiar with the quote?”

  “I do have a passing acquaintance with the Bible.”

  “Including that quote?”

  Father Murphy huffed out a breath. “I’m not playing name that verse with you anymore.”

  “I can understand that. It’s hard to catch up when you’re so far behind.” The corners of the minister’s mouth twitched.

  “Fine. Second Timothy, chapter 3.”

  “Incomplete . . . but not bad. You neglected to mention the verse. For future reference, it’s seventeen.”

  “Sixteen.”

  Reverend Baker squinted at him. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look it up. You can apologize tomorrow during our golf game. As for reading the Bible, I’ll have you know we—”

  “Gentlemen . . .” Lexie tried to flatten the bow of her lips. The good-natured banter between the clerics was always a hoot. “Officer Gleason needs to get
a more complete statement. I’ll pay our known vandal another visit today—and try again to convince him to give us the other boy’s name.”

  “I’ll pray for that,” Revered Baker offered.

  “As will I.” Father Murphy made the sign of the cross.

  “All assistance—human and divine—is welcome.”

  “I’ll include a special prayer for a quick resolution to this unfortunate situation during Sunday services too. You could join us if you like.” Reverend Baker touched her arm. “Where two or three and all that.”

  “Or if you’d like a change of ecclesiastical scene, you’d be welcome at St. Francis. I’ll put a prayer in our petitions this weekend as well.” Father Murphy winked at her.

  “Trying to steal my congregants again, I see.” The Grace Christian pastor gave a mock huff.

  “Not at all. But we have taken a page from your playbook and are instituting a social after Mass once a month. With homemade doughnuts, not those store-bought belly bombers you serve.”

  “You manage to find excuses often enough to stop by after our services to sample those belly bombers.”

  “Pure coincidence. I never—”

  Lexie cleared her throat, and both clerics angled toward her. “I need to run. Jim, keep me in the loop. Nothing jumped out at me, but do another walk-through. If you spot anything useful, give me a call.”

  “Roger.”

  Leaving the officer to deal with the statement—and fighting a yawn—Lexie returned to her car. After going to bed at ten, she shouldn’t be this tired, despite the early wake-up call from Jim.

  On the other hand, she had spent half the night tossing while she relived her impromptu coffee date with Adam.

  The man was an enigma for sure, busting one ex-con stereotype after another . . . except for his biker appearance. Every single thing she’d learned about him in the past nine days had been positive. One facet at a time, he was emerging as a diamond instead of a piece of coal.

  And getting to know him better—off the job—was becoming more and more tempting.

  It would be dangerous to follow that inclination, however. What would the people in town think about their police chief fraternizing with an ex-con?