Starfish Pier, page 15
“For pity’s sake, Pete, offer it to her. It’s unkind to turn your back on those in need.”
As Sal’s voice echoed in his mind, he drew in a lungful of air. Her advice was sound—as always. Once upon a time, it wouldn’t have taken a prod from beyond for him to be solicitous.
“You can borrow mine.” He forced out the words. “It’s never been used.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“It won’t take more than a minute or two to dig it out.” He walked toward the door.
“I appreciate that.” She followed along behind him. “At home, my mom always had a fully stocked medicine cabinet. She said it paid to be prepared.”
“Smart woman.”
“Yes—but sometimes you can be overprepared . . . you know what I mean?”
No, he didn’t.
Nor did he want that comment explained to him.
“The tube’s in the bathroom. I’ll be back fast.” He stopped at the back door and turned.
Blood was seeping from the cut, and as he watched, a large drop plopped onto the concrete walk.
“Oops.” She flung her arm out over the grass. “Sorry about that. I’ll clean it up for you later.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. Listen . . . why don’t you come into the kitchen and rinse that off in the sink? You can cover it with paper towels until you get home.”
“Not a bad idea. Otherwise I’ll leave a trail of blood all the way to my house. Thanks, Mr. Wallace.”
“Call me Pete.” He pushed the door open and held it as she entered, motioning toward the sink. He might not want to be friends with her, but there was no reason for formalities. “Go ahead and clean it up while I get the ointment.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he trekked down the hall and rummaged around in the medicine cabinet. At least his neighbor didn’t appear to be squeamish. Unlike Sal, who used to get dizzy at the tiniest speck of blood. His wife would have been useless in this situation.
But that had been her biggest peccadillo, God rest her soul. In every other respect, she’d been the perfect partner.
Lord, how he missed that woman.
Throat tightening, he gripped the tube and retraced his steps, pausing at the living room doorway that framed the urn on the coffee table. It wasn’t like having her here with him, filling his life with love and laughter—but it was better than nothing.
Taking a fortifying breath, he continued down the hall. He wouldn’t let grief overwhelm him. That would be foolish. He and Sal would be together again in the—
He came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the kitchen as Holly raised wide eyes from the paperwork he’d left on the end of the counter, her complexion a few shades paler than it had been minutes ago.
Blast.
How could he have been so careless?
In his defense, though, he hadn’t been expecting any visitors.
Didn’t matter now, though. His secret was out.
But that didn’t mean he had to answer the questions hovering under the shock in Holly’s eyes.
“Here’s the ointment.” He crossed to her and held it out.
She took it, her gaze flicking from him to the paperwork and back again. “I, um . . . this should, uh, do the trick.”
Thank goodness she had enough tact not to ask any questions.
“No hurry to return it.” He pulled a couple of paper towels from the roller and offered them too. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread this around.” He tapped the papers.
“Sure. Of course.” She tucked the ointment in her pocket, wrapped the towels around the cut, and picked up her school papers. “But don’t you think there may be other—”
“You ought to go take care of that scratch.” He crossed to the door and pulled it open, cutting her off.
“Yes. Yes, I will.” She joined him on the threshold. “If you need anything at all . . . or want to talk to someone . . . don’t hesitate to call or come on over. I’m happy to help with . . . whatever.”
“I’m fine—but thank you for the offer.”
She hesitated . . . then slipped through the door.
Rather than stand there and watch her trek across the yard, he closed the door and moved to the counter.
The documents were arranged exactly as he’d left them, suggesting she hadn’t touched them. That meant she’d seen nothing but the top page.
But that sheet was sufficient to reveal more than he’d planned to tell anyone in this town.
There was no going back, though.
He could only hope his kindhearted neighbor would honor his wishes about confidentiality—and that she wouldn’t get it into her head to try and convince him to rethink a decision he’d made months ago after long and careful thought.
Because no matter what plan she might concoct, it wasn’t going to work.
She needed comfort food—again—and nothing beat Charley’s tacos for satisfying the stomach . . . or soothing the spirit.
As she pulled into a parking spot on Dockside Drive, Holly surveyed the colorful stand.
Drat.
The window was closed.
Meatloaf at the Myrtle would have to suffice . . . but as a pick-me-up, it was a distant second to Charley’s food—and the man’s encouraging conversation.
After leaving the parking place behind, she circled the block and found a spot a few storefronts down from the café.
The place was bustling as usual on Saturday night, but since she’d arrived early it didn’t take long to be shown to a booth.
She perused the offerings on the menu, but meatloaf remained her choice. Maybe she’d add a side salad, though. A Caesar would give the meal an extra—
“Evening, Holly. What can I get you tonight?”
She looked up from the menu at the waitress standing by the booth, pen poised.
It took her a moment to identify Cindy Roark in this out-of-context setting. While Jonah had mentioned that his mom worked at the café, their paths had only crossed at church and parent-teacher conferences.
“Hi, Cindy. I’m not used to seeing you here.”
“I usually work the lunch shift, but I’m taking on extra hours.” She hesitated. “It’s a small town, so if you haven’t heard already, you will soon. My husband got laid off from the mill.”
First the upsetting discovery at Pete’s house, now a job loss. Was there no end to the bad news on this Saturday?
On top of that, she still owed Marci an answer about the opinion piece on the cannon for the Herald.
“I’m so sorry.”
Cindy was too, given the concern tightening her features. Did her almost palpable worry suggest there wasn’t much of a nest egg to draw on during this crisis?
If that was the case, there were resources available. Surely Cindy, who’d been in town much longer than she, was aware of that. In case she wasn’t, though . . .
“Did you know Helping Hands has an emergency fund for people who need short-term assistance?”
“Yes—but Patrick won’t take charity.”
That probably meant he didn’t want to ask Steven for help either.
“Are there any other similar businesses in the area where he could get a job?” As far as she knew, Fisher Lumber was the sole such operation nearby, but she wasn’t yet familiar with the surrounding area.
Cindy transferred her weight from one foot to the other, as if the subject made her uncomfortable. “To tell you the truth . . . we think the layoff is temporary. Instead of searching for another full-time position, he’s trying to fill in the gap with handyman-type jobs. I’ve been spreading the word, and he’s already got a few grass-cutting and home maintenance gigs lined up.”
Grass-cutting. Yard work.
Getting rid of an unwanted gorse bush.
She may not have figured out how to deal with Pete’s issue yet, but she could help out the Roark family.
“Why don’t you have him call me? I could use a hand with those kinds of chores too. And my new neighbor might also be interested in hiring him.” If his struggle with the downed branch was any indication, Pete wasn’t up to much yard work either.
Understandable, after what she’d discovered earlier today.
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Cindy acknowledged another patron who was signaling her.
“Go ahead and take care of your other customer. I could use another minute anyway.”
Not to decide on her dinner order, but to come up with a plan to hook Steven’s brother up with her new neighbor. Pete shunned interaction with other people—for reasons that were now clearer. Yet if he got to know more people, began to put down roots and form friendships, he might have second thoughts about the course of action he intended to follow.
In fact, his isolation could be a big part of the problem. Without human connections, a person was more susceptible to loneliness. Depression even.
Especially this man.
And people who were down could make decisions they later regretted.
When Cindy hurried back over, she relayed her order—and extracted a promise that the woman would have her husband call in the next few days.
That ought to give her time to lay the necessary groundwork with Pete.
While the likelihood of her neighbor being receptive to the notion of hiring a handyman to help him with his yard was low, if she did manage to get the two of them together there could be benefits all around—companionship for Pete and a financial assist for Patrick.
It was a small gesture—but as the quote from Mother Teresa on the plaque in her parents’ home said, “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”
So she would do her small part to infuse a ray of light into the darkness next door—and in the Roark family.
As for Marci’s request . . . she’d do that too. Maybe some residents would disagree with her opinion, but Hope Harbor should live up to its name and uplift. Remind people that life was worth living, not put an implement of death in a prominent location.
Especially in their peaceful little pocket park on the wharf.
“This is amazing.”
As Patrick spoke from the bedroom, Cindy swiveled away from the bathroom sink.
Her husband was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his cell, a glass of Gatorade in hand.
“Was amajing?” The question came out garbled, thanks to the toothbrush stuck in her mouth.
“I heard from the state archaeologist again. Get this. He wants to know if he can pass my photos on to a magazine that’s doing a story about the find. They’re higher quality than the ones the park service took, despite the fact I was using my phone rather than my camera. Plus, this magazine is willing to pay me for them!”
“Thash great.” She rinsed and spat. “I’ll join you in a sec.”
After finishing her bedtime ritual at record speed, she padded into the bedroom, giving him a surreptitious once-over while she put away her clothes.
Five days into detox, he was holding his own, thank the Lord. Not only had he seen the therapist twice, he’d also visited their doctor on the counselor’s recommendation.
Nevertheless, it had been a stressful period—for both of them.
Though Patrick wasn’t experiencing any of the more severe withdrawal symptoms, he’d had most of the others. Anxiety. Nightmares. Headaches. Tremors. Sweating. Insomnia.
And those were just the ones she could detect.
She couldn’t begin to imagine the psychological ones—like the waves of craving he’d been warned to expect, and which he battled mightily.
But he’d been following all the instructions his counselor and doctor had given him—drinking fluids with electrolytes, taking cold showers if an urge to relapse hit, eating lots of fruit, staying away from his drinking buddies, emptying the house of alcohol, taking daily walks, staying busy.
He was doing everything by the book.
Yet prevailing in a few battles didn’t win the war—and this was a long-haul fight.
She sat beside him on the bed and took his hand. “Are you going to sell the pictures to the magazine?”
“Why not? We could use the money—and it would be a kick to see my photos in print.”
“Yeah, it would. And speaking of money . . . I may have found more work for you.”
As she told him about her conversation with Holly earlier in the evening, he nodded. “Another couple of jobs would help. I’ll talk to her Monday when I pick up Jonah from school.”
“That works. I agreed to a double shift, so I’ll be late. But I’ll leave dinner for all of you in the fridge. Will you be okay watching the kids alone for that long?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his assurance.
Still . . . it was hard to shake her apprehension.
Yet what choice did they have?
Except . . . maybe to enlist Steven’s help?
“Why don’t you see if Steven wants to keep you company?” She tried for a conversational tone. “You know he loves being around the kids. Watching him with Jonah and Beatrice last night, it’s obvious he’d make a great dad.”
Patrick set the phone on the bed and gave her his full attention. “Cindy . . . you can trust me to take care of our children. I would never, ever do anything that put either of them at risk. If a craving hits, I’ll take a cold shower—and bring them into the bathroom with me. That’ll let me keep tabs on them. Please trust me.”
She wanted to.
Desperately.
But all the reading she’d done had emphasized that it was far too easy for an alcoholic to slide back into old patterns if the thirst for booze hit with overwhelming force.
What if that happened while she wasn’t here? The children were too young to be left unsupervised—or to have to deal with a father who was drunk.
“Give me a chance, Cindy. I promise I’ll call you if I feel myself slipping.”
His heartfelt entreaty was hard to resist—and her husband had never lied to her . . . or broken a promise.
She had to trust him on this.
“Okay.” She rose. “Want to check on the kids with me before we call it a night?”
“Yeah.”
He took her hand as they walked down the hall and peeked through the door at Jonah, who was sprawled across his twin bed, the stuffed whale he always slept with tucked under his arm. In the nursery next door, Beatrice was sound asleep, her thumb stuck in her mouth.
Both were the picture of innocence—and the most priceless gift she’d ever received . . . apart from Patrick’s love.
As if he’d read her mind, he leaned close and spoke in her ear. “We may not live in a palace, but I’ve always felt as rich as a king when I survey our domain.”
Pressure built in her throat as she choked out a response. “Me too.”
“You know . . . I used to be jealous of Steven and the adventurous life he led, but the night I stopped by his place after I got laid off, he told me he envied me.”
At his speculative inflection, she angled toward him in the shadowy hallway. “Did you believe him?”
“Not at first. But he convinced me he was sincere. And the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that despite all the places he’s been and the experiences he’s had and the medals he’s won, I wouldn’t trade my life for his. What I have is worth more than any of those things—and I’m not going to throw it away, Cindy. I’ll stick with the plan—whatever it takes—as long as you stick with me.”
“I will—but it wouldn’t hurt to put God in the equation either.” Not much chance he’d latch on to that suggestion, considering how unreceptive he’d been to such notions in the past . . . but it couldn’t hurt to keep trying.
He led her back toward their bedroom, his face hidden from her view. “I agree. That’s one of the reasons I’ll be going to church with you every Sunday from now on.”
What?
She stopped abruptly at the threshold to their room, tightening her grip on his hand, forcing him to swing back toward her. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Why the sudden change of heart after all these months?”
“Are you complaining?”
“No.” But he was deflecting. Why? Her brain shifted into high gear. “You said putting God in the equation was one of the reasons you’re going back. What else happened?”
A faint flush stole over his cheeks. “Steven called my bluff.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
As he relayed his conversation with his brother, Cindy sent a silent thank-you heavenward. For not only had the Lord answered her prayer to bring her husband back into the fold, Steven would be coming to church too.
Hallelujah!
They were both fine men. Believers at their core, and morally solid based on everything she knew and had observed. That wasn’t the issue.
But weekly church attendance was important. A visible sign of faith that told the world you were proud of your beliefs—and a reminder to yourself to live the values every day that were preached from the pulpit on Sunday.
One more positive outcome of the layoff that had sent their world spinning out of orbit.
“I don’t really care how it came about, Patrick—I’m just grateful.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed him. “With God in your corner, you’ll get through this.”
“Not to mention a wife who loves me.” He tugged on her hand and winked. “Let’s go to bed.”
She knew that look—and her pulse picked up, as it always did when he flashed her his come-hither smile.
“Sleepy?” She let him tow her toward the bed, feigning innocence.
“Not yet. I have excess energy tonight. Want to help me get rid of it?”
She batted her eyelashes. “I think that could be arranged.”
And as he drew her close to express his love with the wordless eloquence that always made her heart sing, she prayed that the worry hovering over her like a menacing specter was unfounded—and that nothing was waiting in the shadows to send them tumbling back into turbulent water.
14
How dumb could she be?
As her ankle twisted on the uneven pavement, Holly expelled an exasperated breath.
