by Liz Johnson
He tried for a soothing smile. “I just meant . . .” Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but as he looked closer at her, he wondered if she’d slept at all. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which were rimmed in red. The tip of her nose was pink, though that could be from the cold weather. And a perpetual frown tugged at the corners of her mouth.
He reached to touch her arm, but she jerked away from him. “Meg? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just here to do my job and then go home.”
Apparently they were right back in the past.
Oliver scrubbed his hands down his face, clawing at his eyes. They’d been making progress. “So you’re mad at me again?”
“You know that I am.” She didn’t even look up as she splashed water on his boot.
“I know that you were mad at me, but . . .” He stepped away from the wild arch of her mop. “I thought maybe, after everything that’s happened, I thought maybe we were . . .”
She looked up then, just long enough for him to see the flare in her eyes that suggested her mind had wandered to someplace beyond his intent.
“Friends,” he rushed to clarify. “I thought we were becoming friends.”
Not that he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to kiss her. But only once. Maybe twice.
She began to shake her head—her long braid flopping over her shoulder, loose strands whipping across her face—but stopped midway through the motion. Her brows narrowed, her whole face scrunching up. She turned her face toward the dock light, and only then did he notice that her eyes weren’t just rimmed with red.
“Meg?”
“What?” Her word snapped sharper than a lobster claw, but the immediate jerk of her shoulders confessed that she wished she hadn’t been quite so harsh.
He was tempted to return to the dock and wait for Kyle to arrive, but he couldn’t ignore the tiniest crack in her shell. Sliding to her side, he towered over her but didn’t touch her. “Meg?”
She sighed this time before responding. “What?”
“Why are you mad at me?”
“You know why.” Her gaze never wavered from the deck beneath his feet.
“Why are you still mad at me?” Clearly something had come up to remind her of that awful day, the moment he’d lashed out with all of his own anger.
She poked the center of his chest. “It’s none. Of. Your. Business.” Then she crumbled like her bones were giving up. Her face twisted, and she squeezed her eyes against something he couldn’t see.
The wind picked at her hair, taking first one strand and then a second, playing with them, brushing them against her cheek. Oliver had the strangest urge to tuck them behind her ear, to brush his thumb against the smooth line of her cheek and move them into their place. Maybe it was all he could set to rights in her life. But it was something.
She beat him to it, shoving her fingers through her hair, sliding stray pieces into her messy braid. She might have known he was about to touch her. Or perhaps she just needed something to break the tension between them.
There was always tension, but this was different. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. Maybe it was because for the first time, he wanted to fix whatever was wrong for her sake.
Before—when they’d first started working together—he’d just been trying to quash the animosity, to make the situation manageable. To make sure Whitaker knew he was the best man for the job. Oliver still wanted that with every fiber of his being. And he wanted Meg to never hate him again. If it wasn’t too much to ask, maybe he even wanted her to like him.
But since he didn’t have a time machine and she probably wouldn’t be going to Yale on some science scholarship anytime soon, he’d have to settle for getting her to accept his apology.
Risking her wrath, he stepped so close he could hear her harsh breaths and see her fists trembling around the mop handle. She stiffened immediately.
“I’m really sorry that I ruined your robot.”
“It wasn’t just a robot.” Her gaze fixed past his shoulder, somewhere near where the sun would soon crest the horizon, splitting the fog and heralding the morning.
His gut twisted. “I’m sorry I ruined your life. Can you . . .” It was stupid to ask, but he had to try. “Could you ever forgive me?”
Her eyes swung back toward his face, meeting his gaze. The fire was gone, replaced by something deep and volatile, thick black clouds hanging heavy. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
She didn’t pause before spitting out her answer. “My mom is dying. I have to be mad at someone.”
thirteen
Meg couldn’t believe the words that had flown out of her mouth—or how brutally honest they’d been. Her knees gave out, and the mop fell from her grip, clattering to the deck. She was sure she would follow it all the way down. Until big arms scooped her up and pulled her against a wall of soft knit.
She wanted to push him away, to never let him see her pain. But the moment her hands reached his chest, she collapsed into him, her face buried in the center of his sweatshirt.
His arms snaked around her back, holding her close. Holding her upright. The only thing stable in the whole crazy-awful day.
Or two days?
Time ran together, lines on the calendar blurring. There was only the time before—when she had hope—and the after. Her dad’s words repeated in her mind. “It’s going to get worse.”
The tears started afresh, washing down her cheeks and soaking into his sweatshirt. She hiccupped a sob that was muffled against him. Still he held her. He didn’t move, save for one thumb that made a slow circle across the middle of her back. He smelled of laundry detergent and mountain spring soap. And he felt like an unmoving rock even on a moving boat.
He didn’t tell her to stop or to quiet down. He didn’t twitch with an eagerness to let her go. He only held her.
Which made her cry even harder. When she tucked her hands beneath her chin and curled into him, the wind couldn’t get her. But the storm was inside.
“I’m so-orry.” Her voice broke, but it was so muffled against his sweatshirt that maybe he hadn’t heard.
His hand spread wide across her back, his fingers long and strong and digging in just enough to tell her he didn’t mind holding her as she fell apart.
“I didn’t mean . . .” To snap at him? To lash out at him? To hold her grudge for so many years? Yes, all of that. But how could she explain when she couldn’t breathe without the air catching in her throat? When every word physically hurt?
Slowly he unwound his arms, and she clung to his sweatshirt. If he pushed her away, he’d see her face streaked with tears, red and splotchy. Eyes squinted with pain and lips pinched in grief. He’d see the very worst version of her.
But maybe that wasn’t really the worst. The harsh words and stinging vitriol weren’t who she wanted to be. The version of her that clung to old resentments was so much worse.
Even so, she didn’t want him to see her like this just now. But when he raised his hands, he didn’t push her away. Instead, he cupped her cheeks and smoothed back her hair, whispering softly, “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
It wasn’t a pardon for her sins but a reprieve for an aching heart.
Oliver rested his cheek on top of her head, his thumbs trailing back and forth across her cheeks, wiping away the evidence of her meltdown and making something inside her chest unwind until she could take a deep, unstilted breath.
She risked a step away, and he dropped his hands to his sides, a gentle flex to his fingers before they relaxed. But that was as far as her gaze would go. She couldn’t meet his. Not yet.
“Um . . .” He shuffled his feet, and she knew what he wanted to ask.
She also knew her own limits, so she said only, “Mom and Dad are coming home.”
“All right. Are you up for going out today? Kyle and I can—”
Her gaze flashed up to meet his then, his blue eyes warm and knowing. “I
want to.”
“All right.” He nodded quickly. No argument. She had the sudden urge to hug him.
Boots stomped on the end of the dock, and they both blinked, their solitude broken. “Thank you,” she whispered as slamming car doors and boat engines filled the morning.
He merely nodded before picking up her mop and bucket and preparing for the day ahead.
Meg had never been inside the church when it was quiet. Every Sunday morning the sanctuary nearly vibrated with voices that reached to the top of the white steeple. Children’s laughter and shushing mothers. Toes tapping and hymns ringing.
As she snuck into the old building, she heard none of that. There was only the evening light shining through the western windows, illuminating dust motes in beams that fell across worn wooden pews. A rough-hewn cross hung at the front, over a simple podium made of the same boards as the rest of the floor. Not ornate. Not modern. But her sanctuary nonetheless.
She made a move to sit in the last pew, but her feet wouldn’t let her. They knew the way they’d walked every Sunday for most of her life. So she tiptoed down the aisle and slipped into the seat she’d always known. Oliver wasn’t behind her. Not that she’d mind it if he was.
He’d been by her side the entire day. Not hovering, just . . . there. Steady. Solid. He’d held her and let her soak through his sweatshirt. And he’d said absolutely nothing to Kyle, who had squeezed her arm, asked if she was all right, and taken her at her word that she was.
Oliver knew the truth. She was far from all right.
Hanging her head, she stared at her hands folded in her lap. They were tan and rough, and she ran a thumb over the calluses at the base of her fingers. They had changed too. Why shouldn’t the rest of her world tilt on its axis?
“Meg? Is that you?”
She jerked up, straightening her shoulders and turning toward the familiar voice. Pastor Dell’s words were always gentle but filled with conviction.
“I didn’t expect to see you here this evening. I was just about to go home.” Despite his words, he strolled from the back of the room toward where she sat, his dark brown gaze taking a quick survey of her.
What he saw couldn’t be impressive. She hadn’t showered or changed, and she ran her hands quickly over her windblown hair. There was nothing to be done about it. Or about the baggy sweatshirt stained with sea and sweat and what she’d termed lobster juice. Oh, she so did not belong there.
Pushing herself up faster than her aching muscles liked, she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll go.”
He’d reached her by then and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was too much weight to bear, and she fell back into her seat, into the grooves she’d worn into this very spot.
“Not at all. Stay as long as you like.”
He sat in the row in front of her, propping his knee on the seat beside him and his arm on the back of the bench. He didn’t ask if he could sit with her, he just did.
“I like to sit in here when it’s quiet too,” he said. “It gives my mind space to think.” He stared up at the open beams of the ceiling, a soft smile in place. He looked like he belonged in this place, with his glasses perched high on his nose and a knit cardigan sweater covering his sloping shoulders. He was soft and kind, but she couldn’t ever remember talking to him alone before. That didn’t stop her.
“My mom is sick.”
His smile flickered and went out. “Your dad called and told me they were going to be out of town for a few weeks. That he was taking her to Toronto for testing. Have you heard from them?”
She nodded, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a near sob. Her lower lip quivered, and she couldn’t make the sounds she wanted. Her mind played on repeat the conversation with her dad.
Had it only been the night before? Had she only been carrying this weight for less than a day? It felt like a steel plate had been welded to her chest, permanently impeding every breath, making every step more difficult.
Suddenly her eyes flooded, and she dipped her head, pressing the heels of her palms against the deluge. “I’m sorry,” she managed. She felt her entire body tense, knowing he was going to pat her shoulder and say, “There, there” or something equally ineffective.
But he didn’t. He didn’t reach for her or move in any way. His breathing continued softly, and he didn’t seem put off by her tears.
“Grief is such a strange thing. It ebbs and flows like the tide, lying in wait only to roll in when we least expect it. I suspect that’s how it’ll be with you and your mom for a while.” He paused. “A long while. And while it’s fresh, the tide won’t go out. It’ll sit and stir on the beach, always there. Always evident.”
When she peeked up, he was looking at his folded hands, so she stared at him through watery eyes. “But I have to get it under control.”
“I’m not sure that’s up to you at the moment.”
“I have to be strong.”
His gaze swung to her then. “Well, who said that?”
“I mean, I need to be there for my dad. I have to help care for my mom. I can’t be . . . I can’t be another drain on them. Not when Mom is . . . Well, this disease is just going to steal more of her every day.”
Pastor Dell’s eyes narrowed, intense and focused. She brushed some imaginary lint off her sleeve to have anything else to look at.
“Whatever made you think that grieving with them would be a drain?”
Without an answer, she shrugged. It had always been the truth. She could give up her education. She could move and care for them. She could even carry on the business for them. But she couldn’t let them see her tears. She couldn’t add one more hurt to their already heavy loads.
“You know, people come to tell me their heartaches. A lot. Broken marriages. Addictions. Prodigal kids.” He sighed as though recalling the worst of the stories he’d heard. “I do my best to point them to the encouragement found in God’s Word. I spent years memorizing Scriptures for just those moments. I’ve got hope and encouragement ready for every situation.” He rapped his fist twice against the back of the pew. “But sometimes in the midst of the worst pain, it’s hard to hear the truth. Sometimes when the pain is too loud, all we can hear is the person crying with us. And that sounds a lot like love.”
By the time they’d unloaded their catch with the shore buyer, cleaned the boat, and prepared for the next morning, Oliver could barely drag himself through the kitchen door. The smell of Mama Potts’s roast filled the entire house and made his stomach growl. But he was pretty sure he couldn’t raise a fork to his mouth, even for the tender meat.
“Hurry and wash up. Supper’s almost ready,” Mama Potts called from the kitchen before he’d even managed to toe off his boots. They clomped to the floor, and he was tempted to follow them, instead crashing a shoulder against the white shiplap wall.
“You trying to tear my house down?” she yelled.
“No.” It was the extent of his vocabulary and the length of his stamina. For the life of him, he didn’t know why. He’d worked hard every day of his life. He hadn’t gotten up any earlier than usual. And he’d eaten every single one of the snacks in his pockets.
The only thing that had changed was Meg. But it didn’t make sense that holding her while she drained every last tear onto his sweatshirt would leave him so depleted. He hadn’t minded the holding her part. And it was past time he was honest with himself. He actually rather liked holding her.
Sure, she was a little prickly sometimes. But now he could see it all for what it was. A shield. An empty attempt to protect herself from pain.
But the pain had gotten in anyway.
He felt it too. To a much lesser degree, he was certain. But that pinch in his chest every time he thought of Mrs. Whitaker hadn’t gone away. And every time he wondered what Whitaker would do without the love of his life, he had to swallow a lump in his throat.
“Ollie?”
He cringed, still sagging against the wall. His mom
hadn’t called him that in twenty years, and he wished he could wipe it from her memory.
“I’ll be right there.” But he was stuck in the short hall, memories of Mrs. Whitaker splashing across his mind’s eye. At church holding Whitaker’s hand. Inviting him to join them for supper after a day on the boat. Delivering groceries and homemade bread to Mrs. Finnick’s basement, where he’d lived with his mom and Levi after the eviction. Mrs. Whitaker had patted his cheek, and he’d nearly jumped out of his skin, craving her kindness.
He’d destroyed her daughter’s dreams the next day.
Yeah, he knew a thing or two about shields and armor and how they didn’t work.
In her favorite gingham apron, his mom strolled around the corner, a giant two-pronged fork raised in one hand and a knife in the other.
He held up his hands in surrender.
“Hon, are you feeling all right?”
He nodded, but his swallow stuck in the back of his throat.
“Are you sure?”
“Just tired.” He pushed himself up, ignoring the way the room spun. But he couldn’t cover the stumble in his steps.
She rushed toward him, dropping the knife, which clattered to the floor. “Levi,” she yelled over her shoulder as she wedged herself under his arm. He had almost a foot on her, but her arms squeezed him like he was still a child.
“I’m fine, Mom. Just tired.” His stomach sloshed back and forth, bile rising in the back of his throat. Maybe he wasn’t just tired.
His brother arrived as silently as he lived. Without a word Levi wedged himself under Oliver’s other arm and basically carried him toward the living room. Oliver shuffled his feet along and let them propel him right onto the sofa. His head fell to the thin pink pillow against the armrest, and his stockinged feet hung off the other end. He closed his eyes for half a second before his mom pressed her palm to his forehead.
“You have a fever.”
