Starfish Pier, page 29
Reverend Baker slid a slim folder across the table toward him.
“Give me a minute.” He flipped it open.
The salary was front and center on the first sheet. No, it wasn’t a fortune—but it would provide a comfortable living.
He skimmed the rest of the material. The benefits were more than adequate.
Plus—barring an emergency—he’d never have to get up in the wee hours of the morning again to take out a fishing boat in rainy, cold weather. A huge positive at this stage of his life.
The only hitch was the charter trip he’d donated to the pro-life dinner auction—but he’d make that a sales contingency on his business . . . or pilot the trip himself if the boat and business hadn’t sold by then.
He closed the folder. “There’s no reason to reconvene from my end. I’m happy to accept the terms and the job.”
“Wonderful!” Father Murphy beamed at him. “I’m glad we were able to find someone here in town to take over from Michael. I wasn’t relishing the involvement of a recruiting firm.”
“You and I can work out a start date that’s reasonable, and I’ll stay on board for the first couple of weeks to brief you on the routine and the inner workings,” Michael said. “But in light of your military experience, I expect you’re a fast learner. Given the dicey situations you dealt with, I doubt any of the crises we encounter will throw you. And I’ll be a phone call away indefinitely if you have questions.”
“Thank you. And thank you all for trusting me with the helm of such a worthy organization.”
“We’re the lucky ones.” Reverend Baker checked his watch and stood. “I hate to break this up, but I have a sick call to make.”
“And I have a homily to polish.” The priest stood too.
Steven followed their lead.
“Let the news sink in, and call me in a few days to talk about timing. I expect with a charter business there are reservations to consider—and we’re flexible if you have to juggle both jobs for a while to fulfill your obligations. We don’t want any disappointed fishermen.” Michael smiled.
“I do have quite a few bookings over the next two weeks, but the majority of my customers are last-minute. I should be able to get rolling without much delay.”
He shook hands all around again, and three minutes later he was walking toward his car in the parking lot adjacent to Grace Christian with a new job in hand.
Literally.
Tightening his grip on the slim folder that held his future, he lifted his face to the warmth of the afternoon sun.
So many pieces had fallen into place over the past few weeks.
Patrick was on the road to sobriety.
The perfect job had dropped into his lap.
He was more at peace with his past than he’d ever been.
There was only one shadow on the future he looked forward to in this little seaside community that had become home.
He’d fallen for the wrong woman.
No, that wasn’t true.
He’d fallen for the right woman—but she’d decided he was the wrong guy for her.
What other explanation could there be for her silence?
She’d said she’d call—and he had no doubt she would . . . once she figured out how to phrase her rejection in the least hurtful way. That had to be why she hadn’t made contact. If she’d decided to take a chance on him, there’d be no reason to wait.
He opened the door to his jeep and slid behind the wheel, setting the folder on the seat beside him as he perused the steeple on the small church.
There was one other piece of unfinished business on his plate.
Perhaps it was time to do what the clerics had suggested and ask God’s forgiveness. Begin his new life with a clean slate.
And what better place to commune with the Almighty—and seek forgiveness—than out on Pelican Point, beside the soaring lighthouse once tended by his great-great-great-grandfather that had guided countless lost souls home?
He twisted the key, backed out of the parking spot, and aimed the jeep toward the headland north of town.
Prayer had been too long absent from his life, as his return to church had reminded him—and according to Scripture, it wielded immense power.
It could even salvage lost causes.
So while he was out at the lighthouse, why not throw in one extra prayer about Holly?
She might not be in God’s plan for him—but it couldn’t hurt to ask for guidance.
For both of them.
25
Why had he let Father Murphy talk him into this?
Pete set the brake on the car in the parking lot at St. Francis church, heaved a sigh, and read the sign beside the rose-covered arbor that marked the entrance to the meditation garden.
All are welcome.
Nice sentiment—except he didn’t want to be here.
He should never have let his guard down during the golf game last week with the two clerics and told them about Sal. And the cancer. And his career as a landscape architect.
But they’d been easy to talk to. Had seemed interested in his story, and truly distressed to learn he was ill.
As kind as they’d been, how could he refuse Father Murphy’s invitation to stop by and see the meditation garden Reverend Baker had said his Catholic colleague lavished with TLC?
He was under no obligation to stay long, though. Ten minutes ought to do it, tops.
Leaving the car behind, he approached the arbor where the priest had suggested they meet.
Father Murphy was nowhere in sight.
Not a problem.
This would give him a chance to look over the garden first and formulate some polite, complimentary remarks about the man’s efforts.
Shifting into landscape architect mode, he stepped through the archway and set off along the stone, circular path that meandered through the tucked-away bower.
A variety of annuals and perennials, along with bushes of different heights, gave the space visual interest. The hydrangeas would provide vivid bursts of color later in the season, and the buds on the large rhododendrons were beginning to show a hint of pink. A fountain stood in the center, the soft splash of water enhancing the aura of peace and tranquility that pervaded the space. Two inviting wooden benches spaced along the path provided a view of the bird feeder dangling from the branch of a tall Sitka spruce, where a yellow-rumped warbler was enjoying a midafternoon snack.
Pete settled onto the bench beside a small statue of Francis of Assisi and breathed in the evergreen-scented air, his tension melting away.
No need to conjure up compliments. The priest had done an excellent job converting the space into a sheltered, private haven conducive to contemplation and reflection. Any praise he offered for this labor of love would be sincere.
“There you are!” The jolly cleric barreled through the arbor, dressed in work clothes, a bucket and trowel in one hand, a nursery container holding a sword fern in the other, a wide-brimmed hat shading his face. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. As I was on my way out the rectory door, the phone rang. One of our more garrulous parishioners wanted to discuss the potluck supper we’re planning in a couple of weeks. I got off the phone as fast as I could after debating the merits of mustard-based potato salad versus mayo-based.” He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t worry about it.” Pete stood. “I enjoyed spending a few minutes here. You’ve created a lovely spot. Did you do all the work yourself?”
The priest joined him and set the bucket, trowel, and nursery container on the path. “Most of it. When I was assigned here, this was nothing but a patch of spotty grass, except for the spruce and a few bushes. I could see it had potential, though.”
“Which you’ve realized.”
“High praise, coming from a man with your background. Or are you just being kind?” The priest grinned.
“I’m being honest. You’ve done a fine job selecting plants, and the layout is very restful.”
“Thank you. I like to think of this as a little piece of heaven on earth. But it remains a work in progress—as we all are.”
“Is that a new addition?” Pete motioned toward the fern at the man’s feet.
The priest’s eyes lit up. “Yes. I’ve been meaning to add a sword fern over there for months.” He indicated a shady spot in the back of the garden. “While I was out and about earlier, I passed by the native-plant nursery down near Sixes and decided this was the day. I’m going to plant this baby, then pull weeds for a while—a never-ending job.”
“I hear you.” Pete surveyed the garden again. There was no reason to delay his departure . . . yet it was such a serene spot. “I don’t want to detain you, but to tell the truth, I hate to leave.”
“Music to a gardener’s ears—and don’t feel like you have to rush off. The garden is available to everyone anytime, as the sign says.” He indicated the welcome placard at the entrance. “Pick a bench and relax.”
“I can’t sit and watch you work.”
“Wouldn’t bother me in the least. I get great pleasure out of seeing people enjoy the garden.”
“Maybe I could pull a few weeds.” That hadn’t been in his plans . . . but why not? He had nothing else to do at home on this Friday afternoon, and the padre was companionable.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’d enjoy it.”
“In that case—I accept. I never refuse a sincere offer of help. And it usually benefits the helper as much as it does me and the garden. Working with plants has remarkable restorative and calming properties.” The priest picked up the fern. “The area next to where I’m going to plant this could use weeding, if you want to tackle that section. I’ll join you as soon as I get the fern in the ground. You sure you’re up to this?” The priest laid a hand on his shoulder, a shadow of concern momentarily dimming his joviality.
“Yes. Today’s a good day—and I enjoy being in a well-kept garden.”
“Then have at it.”
The priest continued toward the spot designated for the fern while Pete toted the bucket to the section requiring attention, eased onto his knees, and began to pluck weeds.
True to his word, ten minutes later the priest joined him and they worked in comfortable silence broken only by an occasional comment or the trill of a bird.
An hour passed before Pete thought to check his watch—the most relaxing sixty minutes he’d spent in years.
“What time is it?” Father Murphy swiped the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his forehead.
“Four-thirty.”
The priest made a face. “I’m going to have to call it a day out here and dive back into reality. I’ve got a wedding rehearsal in an hour.” He plunked the last weed in the bucket, stood, and extended a hand.
Pete took it. Getting down had been a breeze. Getting up would be more of a challenge.
But with an assist from the priest, he was on his feet with less trouble than he’d expected. “Thanks. These old knees aren’t what they used to be.”
“I’m beginning to notice that myself. As my father says, if you live long enough, all the parts start to wear out. He has a titanium knee, a cobalt-chromium hip, a pig valve in his heart, and a pacemaker—but he keeps plugging along.”
“How old is he?”
“Eighty-five in July.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I agree. After my mom died five years ago, we were afraid he’d give up—and for a while he did. He lost weight, cut out his daily walks, stopped taking his medicine . . . not that he took much. Vitamins and a baby aspirin. He said the Lord was finished with him, and he was ready to check out. Nothing my brother, sister, or I said convinced him otherwise.”
“What changed his mind?”
“A note he received from a young woman who worked at the library he frequented. He’d spotted her one day at a nearby coffee shop, sitting in a corner, crying. Dad could never turn a blind eye to anyone who was suffering, so he went over to ask if there was anything he could do. She told him her husband had just left her. Dad spent more than an hour listening to her story, offering a few sage words here and there, I expect. He got the note from her months after Mom died.”
“What did it say?”
“That the day he’d stopped to talk to her, she’d been on the verge of a breakdown . . . or worse. His simple act of kindness and caring had boosted her spirits, encouraged her to pick herself up and go on with her life.” The priest shook his head. “It goes to show how one small gesture of compassion can have a life-changing impact.”
Kind of like Holly’s kindnesses had impacted him. Her umbrella and soup offer that first day . . . homemade cookies . . . taco-sharing . . . introducing him to Patrick. Nothing earth-shattering—yet they’d all had a positive effect on his life.
Pete shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s quite a story.”
“I agree—because the turning point went both directions . . . as it often does. As Dad told me a few months later while I was home on vacation, and I quote, ‘After that, I stopped playing God, Kevin. The good Lord gave me this life, and he entrusted me with this body to take care of during the journey. He also gave me a purpose. I may not always know what that is, but he does. And until he calls me home, I have to keep on keeping on. That’s my job—and my responsibility. The rest I’ll leave up to him.’” Father Murphy pushed his hat farther back on his head and grinned. “And I’m supposed to be the theologian in the family.”
Pete called up an answering smile. “I’m glad it ended well for your father.”
“We all were.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for stopping by today—and for helping weed.”
“My pleasure.”
“Come anytime . . . not just to weed, but to enjoy God’s creation.” The priest gave a jaunty wave and set off at a jog toward the arbor, bucket of weeds in one hand, the empty nursery container with the trowel inside in the other.
Pete followed more slowly. No one was waiting for him. There was nothing major on his to-do list. Nor was there much purpose to his days.
That he knew of.
But as Father Murphy’s story had reminded him, God could have a purpose for him.
Was it wrong to circumvent that by ending the life he’d been given, even if his body was failing?
Could there be a reason he’d been brought to Hope Harbor beyond random chance?
Were there people here whose lives would benefit from his presence?
“You already have had a positive impact, Pete. On your neighbor Holly. On Patrick and his family. On the minister and priest. Perhaps on the clerk at the grocery store. That kind word you said to her on your last visit, when she seemed down, could have gotten her over a hump. We’re all like stones tossed in the water, creating a ripple effect with outer limits too far away for us to see. But God sees them.”
As Sal’s voice echoed in his mind, Pete stopped beneath the rose arbor, where the first buds of summer were beginning to form. In another month, they’d burst into bloom, fulfilling their promise.
Unless someone plucked them off before they had a chance to blossom. To realize their potential.
Was that what he’d be doing if he followed the plan he’d come here determined to implement?
Letting nature take its course might be okay—but was it wrong to intervene in God’s plan for him? Wrest control from the creator who’d given him life?
“You know the answer to that, Pete.”
Sal again, in her gentle voice.
He sighed.
Yeah.
He knew.
He’d always known.
But until he’d come here and his life had begun intertwining with the lives of people who appeared to genuinely care about him, it had been easy to keep the doubts about his decision at bay.
He fingered a bud, frowning.
Maybe he ought to stick it out. Suck every drop of goodness from whatever time he had left. Seek to make a positive impact on the people he’d met and the community he’d adopted.
The garden club could use his help—and Father Murphy would welcome another pair of hands to keep the weeds under control in the meditation garden. It wouldn’t hurt Patrick to have a father figure in his life. Jonah and Beatrice could benefit from a stand-in grandpa, as Jonah had already implied. Holly might appreciate a set of impartial ears to listen to her concerns about that fella she liked.
And who knew if there were others in town who could use a friend—or if there was a task where he could lend a helping hand . . . perhaps through the organization with that very name?
Pete turned back to the garden for one last look.
Father Murphy had called it a little piece of heaven, and that was an apt description. It offered a glimpse of the peace and tranquility the Lord had promised. There was a sense of timelessness about it. Of eternity.
Maybe, instead of trading in the earthly realm before God was ready for him, he could come here, to this tiny slice of paradise, if he needed refreshment and encouragement . . . and let the Almighty decide when it was time for him to transition to eternal paradise.
It was worth thinking about.
And it might not be a bad idea to take Holly up on her suggestion about attending church either.
After all, what more fitting place could there be than a house of God to find the guidance he was seeking?
26
What in the world?
As she traversed the main aisle of Grace Christian a few minutes before the early Sunday service was scheduled to begin, Holly jolted to a stop.
Pete was sitting in one of the last pews on the far side, head down, reading the bulletin.
Had he had a change of heart? Was he rethinking his plans? Had God planted fruitful seeds during his golf outing with the clerics? Had the support she and Patrick’s family offered had an impact?
Whatever the reason for his church attendance today, it had to be a positive sign.
That was one piece of happy news this morning, anyway.
She continued down the aisle and slid into a pew, smothering a yawn. Getting up early on Sunday after rising at the crack of dawn all week for school was the pits—but coming to the first service virtually guaranteed she wouldn’t run into Steven.
