The Unexpected Gift
“You could have let it roll to the answering machine.”
“Never did trust those things. Come on back. Let’s eat.”
Eying the bag, Grant shook his head, exasperation mingling with affection. “You don’t have to bring me lunch, Uncle Pete. I can take care of myself.”
“So what’re you going to eat today?”
“I’ll grab something on the way to Brunswick.”
The older man gave a skeptical snort. “I’ve heard that before. What’d you eat yesterday?”
Grant felt his neck grow warm. “I skipped lunch yesterday.”
“That’s what I figured. Come on back and eat. No more arguments.”
“How about a thank-you instead?”
“Not necessary,” Uncle Pete said, his voice gruff.
“Wish I could do more, in fact. You’ve had a tough time, still do, and if I want to help you out in little ways, let me. Come on back.”
Before Grant could respond, Uncle Pete headed for the back room. Grant took his time following. Thank you, Lord, for this loving family, he prayed, as he had so many times in the past two-and-a-half years. I couldn’t make it without them.
By the time Grant got to the worn pine table where the three men had shared so many lunches, his father had cleared off a spot and Uncle Pete was spreading out the food and sorting through the mail. He looked at the two men with affection as he moved a T-square and hand-drawn plans for a mahogany entertainment center off to the side. His bachelor uncle and his father had lived together ever since Grant had gone off to college. It had been a good arrangement, providing both men with much-needed companionship. They’d invited Grant to join them a couple of years ago, but for now he wanted to remain in the tiny bungalow where he’d known so much joy. Leaving it would somehow seem to signal a loss of hope.
Yet there were times when he was tempted to accept their offer. As much as he liked quiet, and as comfortable as he was with solitude, the loneliness…no, emptiness was a better word, he decided…sometimes got to him. Maybe someday he would move in with them, if… Grant cut off that thought. He wouldn’t let himself go there. He never did.
“Looks like your mother remembered your birthday,” Uncle Pete remarked, handing Grant a blue envelope with the logo of a well-known greeting card company on the back.
Grant took it without comment, laid it aside, and turned his attention to his turkey sandwich.
“It’s nice that she remembered,” his father commented.
“Yeah. Only a week late.” There was a bitter edge to Grant’s voice.
His father reached over and laid a work-worn hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Let it go, son. It’s ancient history now.”
“I can’t forget what she did, Dad. I don’t know how you can.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But I made my peace with it a long time ago. It’s time you did, too.”
Uncle Pete generally watched this exchange without a word. It had been replayed numerous times over the years—and always with the same result. But this time he spoke. “Andrew’s right, Grant. Give it to the Lord. Get on with your life.”
“What she did was wrong, Uncle Pete.”
“I’m not sayin’ it was right or wrong. Just that it’s over. Holdin’ on to anger don’t help nobody.”
Grant crumpled the paper that had held his sandwich, then tossed it into the bag. “I wish I could. You two put me to shame.”
“Hardly. What you’ve done these past two-and-a-half years would have finished me off,” his father said.
“I doubt that. I come from strong stock. Besides, people do what they have to do.”
“Not everybody,” Uncle Pete disagreed. “And you’ve never wavered all this time, either. You’re just as faithful now as you were at the beginning.”
Uncomfortable with the praise, Grant glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me. I need to run. I’ll be back by about two-thirty.”
“Take your time, son. And give her our best.”
“I always do. See you guys later. Thanks for lunch, Uncle Pete.”
“Glad to do it. Don’t forget to return that call.”
That brought a smile to Grant’s face. “It’s right at the top of my list as soon as I get back.”
As he walked down the quiet hallway, Grant raised his hand in greeting to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, Ruth. Any change?” He’d been asking the same question for more than two years. And getting the same answer.
“No. She’s holding her own.”
He continued down the hall, stopping outside the familiar room where he’d spent so many hours. He took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind him.
After all this time, he still harbored a faint hope that one day he’d walk into the extended-care facility and find his wife waiting to greet him with her sweet smile. But he was always disappointed. Though less so now. Hope, once strong, had dimmed as days became weeks, and months became years.
Grant moved beside the bed and stared down at the face of the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman to whom he had pledged his life six-and-a-half years ago—for better or worse—before God. And he’d meant every word of that vow. He just hadn’t expected the worst to happen so quickly, just four short years into their marriage. Now the woman around whom he’d planned his future, the woman with whom he’d hoped to raise a family, the woman with whom he’d wanted to grow old, lay suspended between life and death, her once-strong limbs wasted, her passionate, laughter-filled eyes shuttered.
Closing his eyes, Grant took a steadying breath.
Lord, give me strength to carry on, he prayed. I don’t know why you’ve given Christine and me this cross to bear, but I place my trust in you. Please continue to watch over us.
He left his eyes closed for a long moment, drawing what solace he could from the prayer he uttered every day at his wife’s bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her cool forehead, reaching over to take her unresponsive hand in his. “Hi, Christine. It’s Grant. I brought a new novel I thought you’d enjoy. And the Bible, of course. But first I’ll give you all the family news.”
He sat beside her, keeping her hand in his, and talked with her about his surprising bequest from Jo, filled her in on the latest commissions they’d received at the shop, and reminded her how much everyone missed her. It was a routine he’d begun soon after the accident, at the suggestion of her doctors, who had told him that comatose people could sometimes hear voices. They’d encouraged him to share his day with her, to read to her, saying that it might make a difference in her recovery. They didn’t push him to do that anymore. But he still continued the practice.
At the end of an hour, he opened the Bible to Psalms and picked up where he’d left off the day before. He always ended his visits with the Good Book, and today the verse seemed especially appropriate.
“‘Only in God be at rest, my soul, for from Him comes my hope,’” Grant read, his voice mellow and deep and steady. “‘He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be disturbed. With God is my safety and my glory, he is the rock of my strength; my refuge is in God. Trust in Him at all times, O my people! Pour out your hearts before Him; God is our refuge.’”
As Grant closed the book, he let the words soothe his soul. Then he stood and once more leaned down to press his lips to Christine’s forehead.
“Rest well, sweetheart. Never forget how much I love you,” he whispered.
Grant moved to the door, taking one final look at Christine’s still form. As he stepped outside, Ruth was just passing by.
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
Grant nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter Two
“Morgan Williams.”
As her voice came over the wire, Grant’s lip tipped up into wry grin. He’d tried her office number first, somehow knowing she’d still be there at eight o’clock at night. And her tone captured her personality to perfection. Crisp. Pleasant. Efficient. Businesslike. Except the pleasant part might go out the window when she found out why he was calling.
“Ms. Williams, it’s Grant Kincaid.”
He could almost hear her frown over the phone, and when she spoke her voice held an edge of impatience.
“What can I do for you?”
“I think the question is, what can you do for me?”
Her sigh was audible. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t have time for riddles. Is there a problem with the cottage?”
“First of all, since I expect we’ll be talking quite a bit for the next few months, can we dispense with the formality? Just call me Grant. Second, this isn’t about the cottage. It’s about Jo’s requirement that you assist with Good Shepherd Camp.”
“How do you know about that?” She sounded surprised—and wary.
“I’m president of the board.”
He expected her to groan. But if she did, she hid it well.
“I see,” she replied tersely.
“I understand from Mary that you are to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd and attend board meetings as an advisory member for the next six months. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about the camp?”
“No.”
Nor did she want to, if her tone was any indication.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I send you some literature? That will give you a lot of background. The board doesn’t meet in December, so you’re off the hook until January. But you’ll be a welcome addition. The camp is in pretty serious financial straits, and we need to come up with a way to generate significant income. Some sort of advertising or promotional campaign may be the answer. So we can use your expertise.”
“I don’t have any experience in the non-profit area, Mr. Kincaid. So don’t get your hopes up.”
“It’s Grant,” he reminded her. “And any help you can provide will be much appreciated. The camp is a very worthwhile cause, and we want to do everything possible to make sure it stays solvent. A lot of lives have been changed for the better because of Good Shepherd. All of the kids who go there have some kind of problem. They come from broken or abusive homes, or they’ve had run-ins with the law, or they have minor physical disabilities that have led to social or emotional problems. The camp experience has been a godsend for countless young people.”
Even though Morgan had little personal interest in the project, she was struck by the passion and conviction in Grant’s voice. She may not like the man, but she admired his willingness to help those less fortunate.
“I’ll look over whatever you want to send when I have a minute,” she promised.
“Okay. On a different subject, any idea when you’ll be coming up to the cottage?”
Good question. She’d gotten the appraisal, and Seth Mitchell had been right. The property was far too valuable to toss aside. So she had to give this her best shot. She glanced at her schedule, which was packed, as always. But Christmas was on a Saturday, she noted. Which meant the office would be closed Friday and Monday. So she could make a long weekend of it without missing any official work time.
“Probably over the holiday. Would you be available to meet on Christmas Eve?”
“Sorry, no. I have family activities planned for that day,” he said, making no attempt to hide his disapproval.
“Could we make it Monday?”
“How about Sunday?” she countered.
“I usually reserve Sunday for God. And family.”
Morgan expelled a frustrated breath. She’d hoped to leave on Sunday and put in a full day at the office on Monday, even though the firm was closed. But Grant didn’t sound as if he was going to bend. “Okay,” she relented. “As long as we can make it early.” At least she’d be able to get in half a day of work.
“No problem. If you give me your number, I’ll fax you directions to the cottage.”
After complying, Morgan ended the call and tried to turn her attention back to the latest campaign she was developing for a new brand of soft drink. But it wasn’t easy.
Although, she’d more or less resigned herself to the fact that she’d have to be civil to Grant for the next few months, however much his obvious disapproval rankled her, she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that she really wouldn’t have to communicate much with him. However, if he was chairman of the board of Good Shepherd, there was very little chance she could avoid talking with him on a regular basis. Which was not a good thing, since they were about as compatible as the proverbial oil and water.
Plus, the clock had started ticking on Aunt Jo’s six-month window, and Morgan figured she’d be spending two, maybe three days at the cottage in December. Tops. It didn’t take a math genius to figure out that at this rate, there was no way she was going to meet the four-week residency requirement.
She had to come up with a better plan.
So much for a good night’s sleep. As the crash of the surf and the howling wind outside Aunt Jo’s cottage jarred her awake for the umpteenth time, Morgan peered bleary-eyed at the illuminated face of her travel alarm. Twelve-thirty.
Merry Christmas, she thought grumpily.
She scrunched her pillow under her head, pulled the blankets up to her ears, and tried by sheer force of will to ignore the unfamiliar sounds of the elements raging outside her window. But it was no use. It was too noisy and she was too tense.
Morgan had ended up working until midafternoon on Christmas Eve, and by the time she’d arrived in Maine and wandered for what seemed like hours on the back roads in search of Aunt Jo’s isolated cottage, she’d been forced to contend not only with the dark, but with sleet, snow and ferocious wind.
When she’d at last pulled to a stop in front of the weathered clapboard structure, she’d had to sit in her car for a full minute until her nerves stopped vibrating. She’d ruined her twenty-dollar manicure as she’d tried without success to pry open her frozen trunk. She’d slipped and slid toward the door in her high-fashion, expensive boots, which had not been designed for the backwoods of Maine. And she’d lost her Saks scarf in a tug-of-war with the gale-force winds.
It had not been an auspicious arrival.
Taking a deep breath, Morgan tried to force herself to relax, but sleep remained elusive. Finally, when the first light of dawn began to creep in under the window shades, she gave up. If she was the praying type, she’d send a desperate plea heavenward for a fortifying cup of coffee. As it was she just crossed her fingers and headed for the kitchen.
But a quick search of the pantry turned up only Spartan supplies—two cans of soup, some stale crackers, salt and pepper, a can of tuna and a couple of stray tea bags. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but at this point she’d settle for anything with caffeine.
As she filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave, she glanced around. The cottage might have appeared rustic on the outside, but Aunt Jo had created an impressive kitchen. Though compact, it was very functional, with state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances. And the adjacent eating area, tucked into a bay window that afforded a clear view of the churning waves in the gun-metal-gray water of early dawn, was inviting.
After making her tea, Morgan wandered into the living room. Despite their philosophical differences, she had to admit that Aunt Jo had good taste. The bright walls were hung with what looked like original paintings and watercolors, and plaid and chintz fabrics in cheerful colors covered the upholstered furniture. A small deck opened off the living room, again affording a panoramic vista of the ocean just seventy or eighty feet away.
As she stood at the window sipping her tea, dawn began to stain the sky an ethereal pink. She watched, transfixed, as the color deepened and spread, dispersing as the sun crept over the horizon. It seemed the storm had passed, for the sky was clear now and the wind had all but disappeared. As the sun rose higher, its rays reached out to touch the ice-encased trees and the snow-laden boughs of the fir trees, turning the scene into a magical, sparkling wonderland and filling the world with dazzling, brilliant light.
Which was a good thing. Because all at once the lights in the cottage flickered and went out.
With a look of dismay—and a sudden feeling of fore-boding—Morgan walked over to the phone and picked it up. Dead. Why wasn’t she surprised? So far, nothing about this trip had gone as planned. And with the electricity out, she could pretty much write off the possibility of getting much work done once her laptop battery gave out, she thought in disgust.
Setting her tea aside, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. She didn’t have much hope that it would function in this remote area, but it was worth a try. She’d promised to call Clare and A.J., who were spending Christmas together in North Carolina.
Much to her surprise, she got a signal, and a moment later Clare answered.
“Morgan! Did you get to Aunt Jo’s cottage okay? We heard on the news that there was a pretty bad storm in Maine, and we’ve been worried.”
“I’m here, safe and sound,” Morgan assured her.
“So how’s the cottage?”
“Remote. Isolated. And without electricity or phone right now. I’m on my cell.”
“Do you have heat?”
“I spotted a kerosene heater, so I should be okay. This must happen on a regular basis.”
“So what are you going to do today?”
Morgan dropped into a chintz-covered chair. “Well, I’d planned to work, but without electricity my laptop won’t last long.”
“Maybe you could think about going to church. After all, it is Christmas. Remember how we all used to go together early in the morning, then come home and open presents? And Mom always made a wonderful dinner. I can still taste her roast lamb and oven-browned potatoes.”
Morgan glanced at the cans of soup and tuna she’d taken out of the pantry, along with the stale crackers. It was a far cry from the holiday meals of her childhood, when she’d been surrounded by family in a house filled with love.
“Yeah, I remember,” she replied, her lips curving into a wistful smile. “Those were good years.”
“I wish you were here, Morgan. We miss you. And I hate for you to spend Christmas alone.”
“I miss you guys, too. But I’m used to being alone, so don’t worry about me. Can you put A.J. on?”
“Sure.”
After a few seconds of silence, her younger sister spoke. “So what’s this about working on Christmas?”
“Don’t start with me, A.J.,” Morgan warned.
“Hey, I only have your best interests at heart. Nobody should work on Christmas. It’s a day for God and family. So just chill out and relax for once. Maybe even go to church, like Clare suggested. It couldn’t hurt, you know.”
“I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.”
“What are you having for dinner?”
Again, Morgan glanced at her meager supplies. She’d planned to stop and pick up a few things during the drive yesterday, but she’d gotten a late start, and when the weather turned bad she’d just kept going. She’d tossed a couple of frozen microwave dinners in the car with her luggage, but even if she could get the trunk open, the dinners weren’t going to be of much use without electricity.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“We’re having roast chicken with garlic mashed potatoes, and Clare made a wonderful chocolate mousse for dessert.”
Morgan’s mouth started to water. “Think of me while you’re eating.”
“You know we will. Listen, Morgan, Clare was right. We miss you.”
“I miss you, too. How’s it going at the bookshop?”
“Okay, I guess.” A.J. said with a chuckle. “But I think I’m driving my partner, Mr. Conventional, nuts. He’s the Oxford-shirt-wearing, let’s-plan-everything-out-down-to-the-last-detail type.”
Morgan laughed. “And how’s Clare doing with her assignment from Aunt Jo?”
“She seems to be ensconced in the Wright household. But I’d say she has her work cut out for her with the good doctor and his problem child.”
“Well, tell her I wish her luck. And stay in touch, okay?”
“You, too. Merry Christmas.”
As the line went dead, Morgan felt oddly bereft. She’d told Clare that she was used to being alone, and that was true enough. She liked her independence, and she’d created the precise life she wanted. But as she recalled the happy Christmases of her youth, she wished now that she could have found a way to join her sisters for the holiday. All at once the notion of spending the entire day alone, with only her work for company, held no appeal. Maybe she’d drive into Seaside and try to scrounge up some food. And if she saw a church, maybe—just maybe—she’d stop. After all, as both A.J. and Clare had reminded her, it was Christmas.
The trunk of her car was more cooperative this morning, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, Morgan tackled the drive into Seaside. The snow-covered roads were far easier to negotiate in the daylight, and within fifteen minutes she was in the tiny town. Maybe she’d find a nice restaurant or café and have a decent Christmas dinner after all, she thought, her sprits rising as she turned onto the main street.
But there was one little problem.
The streets were deserted and everything was closed and locked up.
As Morgan sat in her car debating her next move, a tall white spire in the distance caught her eye. She wasn’t in the mood for church, but a twinge of guilt about her lapsed faith niggled at her conscience. And it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do. Including eat, she thought, with one more glum look around the shuttered town. Besides, it might be nice to attend services, for old time’s sake. If nothing else, it would break up what otherwise promised to be a long, empty day. At least she could check it out. If she happened upon a service, great. If not…well, then it wasn’t meant to be.
But as Morgan drove past the church, the steady in-flux of people made it clear that she was just in time for a ten o’clock service. A wry smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. Clare and A.J. would be pleased to find their wayward sister back in the fold—at least for one day.
Morgan found a parking spot down the street and made her way toward the tall spire that rose in splendor toward the cobalt-blue sky. As she slipped into the back of the spruce-and poinsettia-bedecked church, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, the choir was singing a pre-service program of familiar carols. And with sudden vividness and poignancy, memories of her childhood came rushing back—memories of the warm and loving family she had been blessed with, of a life that was simple but good, of the sense of security she’d always felt as she’d observed the steady, deep love between her parents.
Over the years, those happy, younger days had become just a distant recollection, but today the memories were startling in their intensity, perhaps because the setting reminded her of the Christmas services they’d all attended together in a church very similar to this one. It had been a holiday ritual.
But everything had changed forever the year her father died. Her sense of security had been shattered as her mother struggled to hang on to the farm her husband had loved. Clare had gone off to college. And life had never been the same again. She had left, when the time came, without a backward glance. Yet in this place, on this day, she wished she could recapture that sense of closeness, of family, that had once been such an integral part of her life. Her eyes grew misty, and she bowed her head, hoping no one would observe her uncharacteristic display of emotion.
But she wasn’t quick enough. Grant was making his way back down the aisle to retrieve his father’s glasses from the car when he noticed the striking woman with the dark copper-colored hair seated in a back corner, alone. In the instant before she bowed her head, he caught the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. His step faltered, but he quickly regained his stride. The woman was a stranger to him, and whatever her problem, it was none of his concern.
Still, he was curious. He knew most of the members of the congregation, even the ones who only attended services on special days. In fact, he knew most, if not all, of the year-round residents in town. And though Seaside was becoming a summertime mecca for those seeking peace and quiet, it had few visitors in the off season. The woman could be someone’s relative, visiting for the holiday, he supposed. But if that was the case, why was she here alone? Especially on a day that most people spent with those they loved?