Starfish Pier, page 24
“Several weeks.” A stretch at best.
“Why don’t you slow down, watch and wait, and pray about it? If God intends you two to have any kind of future together, he’ll let you know. Listen for his voice—and be patient.”
“Easier said than done.”
Her mother chuckled. “Don’t I know it. Even as a child, you never wanted to wait for anything. I remember the one Christmas you . . . whoops! Your dad is giving me the high sign. We’ve got a dinner reservation at six. I have to run.”
After they said their good-byes, Holly set the cell on the table, mulling over the conundrum her mom had referenced.
Accommodation or capitulation—which would be required with Steven?
On the surface, the sniper issue appeared to require capitulation. For a woman who believed in the sanctity of all life, it was hard to justify killing for any reason.
Yet the evil perpetrated by extremists took life too. Often innocent life. Killing in the name of preventing that kind of evil seemed defensible. Maybe she could never do what Steven had done—but he’d risked his life to eradicate evil, doing a job he himself suggested had taken a personal toll. And he’d gotten out when he recognized the negative effect it was having on him emotionally and psychologically.
After she wrapped her mind around the bombshell Patrick had dropped yesterday, did more thinking and praying and research on the topic, Steven’s military history might not be the stumbling block he thought it was.
But there was another piece of his background he continued to regret.
One that could be more daunting.
One he seemed to consider a deal breaker.
So what should she do?
Leaning back in her chair, she perused the far horizon, where a ship sailing for unknown ports was steadily chugging forward despite the chop in the waves.
Perhaps the best approach would be to lie low for the next few days. Give them both space to sort out their feelings.
Then, if she could make peace with his past as a military sniper, she could let him know that—and encourage him to share any other roadblocks he felt stood in their path.
After all, if she could manage to reconcile dating a former sniper with her pro-life position, wasn’t there a chance she could also accommodate his other secrets without having to compromise her values?
This was it.
Steven stopped outside Reverend Baker’s office and smoothed a hand down his dress shirt. He could have added a tie—but this wasn’t a job interview. It was an exploratory discussion that could go nowhere.
If they ever progressed to a real interview, he’d dig out the tie.
Tightening his grip on the slim folder in his hand, he knocked.
“Steven. Come in.” Reverend Baker smiled as he pulled the door open and ushered him into the compact office.
A man in a Roman collar stood and held out his hand. “Kevin Murphy. A pleasure to meet you.”
He returned the affable priest’s handshake and followed the minister to a small round conference table in the corner, declining the man’s offer of a beverage.
“I was just telling Kevin how you volunteered at our holiday food drive and signed on for the Helping Hands house project last weekend. Not to mention your generous donation to our dinner auction.” Reverend Baker indicated a chair and sat in the one next to it.
“Very commendable.” The priest retook his seat. “Our pro-life initiative is especially near and dear to my heart.”
Steven’s stomach twisted.
This might go south fast.
“I appreciate you both working me into your schedules.”
“Helping Hands is always a high priority with us. Besides, I could use a break from writing my homily. This one’s giving me fits.” The padre leaned back and linked his fingers over his stomach.
“If you need any Bible citations to support your theme, let me know.” The minister’s lips twitched.
Father Murphy sniffed. “I can manage to find my own, thank you very much.” The priest angled away from the reverend and focused on him. “So what would you like to discuss about Helping Hands?”
Steven opened the folder he’d set in front of him. “I saw the notice in yesterday’s bulletin that you were looking for a new director. I’m interested in the job.” He withdrew the two résumés he’d printed out. “I don’t have specific nonprofit experience, but my professional and academic background should qualify me to run an organization like that.” He handed each of them a résumé.
“I must say, this is an unexpected development.” Reverend Baker scanned the first page. “I was afraid we’d have to employ a search firm to find someone to replace Michael.”
“That may still be necessary. I’m not a perfect fit.”
“You have an impressive background.” Father Murphy flipped to the second page.
“Thank you—but there are a few pieces of information not on there that could be stumbling blocks from a moral standpoint.” The two clerics looked up in unison. “I asked for this meeting to both express my interest in the job and explain the possible impediments. Could this discussion be kept confidential?”
“Confidentiality goes with our job.” The priest laid the résumé on the table. “Right, Paul?”
“Yes. What’s said here will stay here.”
“Thank you.” Steven took a steadying breath. “Let me start with the easiest part—not that any of the things I’m going to share are easy. During my final years in the service, I was a member of Delta Force, the army’s special forces unit. My job was sniper—and I make no apologies for what I did. The enemy we fought was monstrous.”
He braced, waiting for censure.
It didn’t come.
“That must have been a very difficult assignment.” Reverend Baker’s demeanor reflected compassion, not condemnation.
Empathy radiated from the priest. “Killing is hard for any soldier, but being a sniper requires a dispassion that can eat at the soul.”
Steven took a few seconds to digest their reaction. “I have to admit, I didn’t—that wasn’t the response I expected from men of the cloth.”
“Of course neither of us condones killing—but protecting freedom and preserving the life of innocents can sometimes require extreme measures. I believe Kevin would agree.” Reverend Baker ceded the floor to his counterpart.
“Yes.” Father Murphy gave a vigorous nod. “I’m also certain that type of work exacts a price on people of honor and principle. That it leaves scars no one can see.”
“Yes, it does—and that’s one of the reasons I left.” Steven blanked out the disturbing images strobing through his mind—a luxury he didn’t have with the dreams that often disrupted his sleep. “My involvement in Delta Force and my role as a sniper are not a subject I’ll ever discuss in public. But it’s relevant to a job in a humanitarian organization like Helping Hands. What I did in the Middle East is at the other end of the spectrum from that sort of work.”
“Maybe not.” Father Murphy tipped his head and fingered a corner of the résumé. “We’re helping people in need. You were fighting people bent on destroying everything we believe in. Different day-to-day objectives, but the same ultimate goal of making the world a better place.”
“It’s a moral dilemma of the first magnitude, because at its core Christianity is a faith of peace.” Reverend Baker’s tone was sober. “But philosophy and practicality can sometimes collide. I believe every possible measure should be employed to solve differences before implementing the use of force, but based on everything I’ve heard and read, militants and terrorists can’t be stopped by anything else.”
“That’s true—and I can speak from firsthand experience.” Steven folded his hands on the empty folder. “What I’m hearing you say is that my military background may not be a disqualifier.”
“I believe that’s a fair assessment.” The priest glanced at Reverend Baker, who dipped his chin in assent.
“In that case . . . let me move on to the other potential stumbling block. This one relates to my personal life.”
Digging deep for courage, he stared at the black folder in front of him and shared his story with these two men of God.
When he finished, there was silence in the room.
As the seconds ticked by, he forced himself to look up.
Neither man appeared shocked—but both wore serious expressions.
Reverend Baker spoke first. “I can understand your angst over the decisions you made—and I’m picking up a sense of deep regret and repentance.”
“Not a day has gone by in the past four years that I haven’t wished for a second chance to make things right.” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat.
“Have you spoken with the Lord about this? Sought forgiveness?”
“No. It seems too much to ask. To be honest, I don’t feel worthy of forgiveness.”
“None of us are. God doesn’t forgive because we’re worthy, but because he loves us. And no sin is too great to be absolved—if contrition is sincere. It all begins with an earnest ‘I’m sorry.’ Wouldn’t you agree, Kevin?”
“Yes.” While the priest’s response was immediate, the furrows remained on his brow. “But I do see your concern about a possible conflict with Helping Hands, given the nature of some of the organization’s work. Do you feel you could fully support all of our efforts?”
“I do. I have a slight issue with the opposition to capital punishment, which I believe is legitimate under certain circumstances, but I agree there are alternate methods to deal with dangerous offenders and I would be happy to promote those through the organization. Everything else I’m behind 100 percent.”
“I agree with Reverend Baker that it would be wise to take your offenses and regret to God and ask forgiveness. Once you do that, the burden of guilt and remorse you’ve been carrying will lessen and you can go forward with a clean slate.”
Steven shifted in his seat. One more hurdle to lay on the table. “Since Helping Hands is a faith-based initiative, you should also know that God and I haven’t communicated much for a while—but I have returned to church.” Not for the most noble reason, but being back in the Lord’s house each Sunday was giving him an unexpected sense of homecoming and comfort.
“An excellent way to reconnect,” Reverend Baker said. “And Kevin and I are both available if you ever want to discuss spiritual matters. In the meantime, why don’t you give us a few days to review your résumé, think about your proposal, and discuss next steps?”
“That’s fair.” More than fair, in truth. They could have thrown him out on his ear.
The two clerics rose, and he shook their hands.
“We’ll get back to you on this soon.” Father Murphy indicated the résumé on the table in front of him.
“If you have any other questions, let me know. I realize there will have to be a formal interview process if you decide to proceed, but I didn’t want to initiate that without giving you both my background.”
“We appreciate that.” Reverend Baker walked him to the door, closing it behind him as he exited.
Back on the street, Steven let out a long, shaky breath.
The meeting had gone smoother than he’d expected—and the two clerics had been more than cordial—but who knew what they were now discussing behind the closed door of the minister’s office?
After careful consideration, they could both decide that a former sniper whose personal history was far from spotless wasn’t worthy for inclusion on the short list of candidates for the Helping Hands job.
He wouldn’t blame them.
So in the meantime, he needed to give serious consideration to other options for the rest of his life—and think about getting right with God.
Because until he did that, it wasn’t likely he would ever find the peace of mind—and heart—that would allow him to leave the past behind and forge a new future.
Surfacing from the depths of a deep sleep, Cindy forced open her heavy eyelids. The drugged-like stupor she’d fallen into the instant her head had hit the pillow last night after her double shift at the café was hard to shake off.
So what had awakened her at—she squinted at the bedside clock—one thirty on this Tuesday morning?
She rolled toward Patrick’s side of the bed.
Empty.
Her pulse lost its rhythm.
Lord, please let this not be a repeat of the evening Steven came to dinner, after Patrick swore off alcohol for the weekend! Please!
Swinging her legs to the floor, she tried to contain the panic threatening to shut down her lungs.
Fingers clenched at her sides, she padded down the hall toward the kitchen. Stopped in the doorway.
Patrick was standing at the dark window, his back to her—and there was a bottle on the table.
But it contained water, not scotch.
Thank you, God!
“Honey?” She spoke softly.
He swung around. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No.” She moved toward him, assessing his condition. Most of the withdrawal symptoms had subsided, but insomnia and headaches continued to plague him. “Bad night.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
She touched his arm. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You were exhausted.”
“Patrick.” She cupped his face with her hands. “We’re in this together, remember? If you want me to hold you at night, tell me. Don’t try to get through the bad stuff alone.”
“You need your sleep.”
“I need you—healthy and alcohol-free—more.”
“I’ve been too much of a burden as it is.”
“Don’t say that.” She gave him her fiercest look. “Helping someone you love is never a burden—and I have as much to gain from this as you do.”
He leaned a shoulder against the window frame, fine lines of fatigue radiating from the corners of his eyes. “I ought to be able to handle this on my own.”
“You are handling it—but there’s nothing wrong with leaning on people who care about you. It can make all the difference. How come you can see the importance of that for Pete, but not for yourself?”
“Our situations are night and day. He doesn’t think he has anything to live for, or anyone in his corner. I know I’ve got the best support system around, plus a future to look forward to. That’s what gets me through the days. I just don’t want to cause you any more worry than I already have.”
“Oh, honey.” She slid her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest. “Worry goes with the territory if you love someone. I worry more when you don’t tell me what’s going on.” She leaned back to look up at him. “Finding you gone from our bed—and with a bottle in the kitchen—took ten years off my life.”
“It’s water.”
“I realized that fast. But I wish you’d told me you were having a bad night. You don’t have to face temptation alone. It’s easier to resist if someone’s got your back.”
He pulled her close again and rested his chin on top of her head. “I’m not going to give in to the cravings, Cindy. I have too much to lose. I will not be my dad. I want to grow old with you and watch our kids marry and give us grandchildren.” He tightened his grip. “I know it took a crisis for me to admit I have a problem with alcohol, but now that I have, booze isn’t going to win. I’ll beat this. I promise.”
Her vision misted at the conviction in his voice. “I know you will. You’ve got the strength and fortitude to see this through—but even if you don’t need me for pep talks or prodding, I can always hold your hand.”
“At the very least.” He gave her a weary wink and wove his fingers through hers. “Let’s go to bed. You have to get some sleep.”
“You’ll stay this time?”
“Yeah.”
She let him lead her back to their room, then cuddled up behind him in bed, holding tight to the man who’d won her heart long ago.
Life hadn’t turned out to be quite the fairy tale she’d hoped—yet Patrick was a good man who loved her and tried his best. Yes, he had flaws. And yes, there would be struggles ahead.
But they’d tackle them together, plucking the weeds along the path of life like in the story Holly had related from Pete—and in the end they’d find their happy ending.
She wasn’t settling for anything less.
Neither was Patrick, given what he’d said tonight.
And with prayer and love and commitment to sustain them, how could they fail?
21
He had to have another one of those tacos.
As Pete pulled into a parking space on the wharf, locked his car, and set off for the white truck near the park where the town was thinking about putting Patrick’s cannon, the enticing aroma wafting toward him activated his salivary glands.
The Latino man behind the counter lifted a hand in greeting as he approached. “Morning, Pete.”
His step faltered.
How did this guy know his name?
As if he could read minds, the man grinned and motioned him over. “Small towns have active grapevines that bear much fruit.”
Oh.
That could explain it.
He continued toward the serving counter. “I’d like an order of tacos.” He scanned the interior in search of a menu, but the sole printed sign bore just two words: cash only.
“Coming right up. I’m Charley, by the way.” He pointed up, where his name was spelled out in colorful letters on the side of the truck, above the serving counter, and extended a hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Pete spouted the standard line and returned his hearty grip.
“Likewise.” The man opened a cooler, pulled out fish fillets, and set them on a grill.
“Um . . . is there a menu?”
Charley displayed his white teeth. “Yes. A new one every day. Cook’s choice. Today I’m serving halibut with cilantro and my special seasoning and sauce. If you don’t like the result, I offer a money-back guarantee. So how are you enjoying our little piece of paradise?”
“It seems to be a pleasant town.”
