Driftwood Bay Read online

  Their cookies might be toast—literally—but there was one positive outcome from their baking misadventure.

  These two seemed to have bonded.

  “Is there a fire?” Molly watched him, saucer-eyed.

  “No, but our cookies got burned.”

  “We could eat those.” She pointed to the cellophane bag Jeannette had given him, which he’d dropped on the hall table as he sprinted to the kitchen.

  “Excellent idea. Are you hungry?”

  She gave him her typical shrug.

  “Well, I am. Let’s get some milk and we’ll give them a try.”

  Try being the operative word.

  There wasn’t much chance lavender shortbread would offer any serious competition to chocolate chip cookies—but his neighbor’s gesture had been thoughtful.

  Molly followed him into the kitchen, Toby trotting beside her. She halted in the doorway and wrinkled her nose. “It stinks in here.”

  “That’s from the smoke. But it will smell better soon, now that the door is open.” He verified the screen was locked, set the cellophane package on the table, and poured them each a glass of milk.

  After taking a seat, he untied the purple ribbon and held it up. “Ms. Mason said you could use this in your ponytail. Want me to tie a bow back there for you?”

  Instead of responding, she swiveled her head to give him access.

  He sighed.

  The child his mother had often called Miss Chatterbox was definitely MIA.

  He secured the ribbon with a few deft twists. “Want to see?”

  She regarded him in silence for a few moments while she chewed her lower lip, then gave a slow nod.

  “Let’s look in the bathroom mirror.” He stood and reached for her hand, but she skirted around him and disappeared down the hall.

  Trying not to take her rejection personally, he followed her to the bathroom, pulled out a hand mirror, and demonstrated how to hold it so she could see the back of her head.

  It didn’t take her long to get the hang of it, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she examined her reflection. “Pretty.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I like ribbons.” She fingered the dangling satin strands.

  Of course she did. What young girl didn’t?

  He should have bought her some sooner.

  Another lapse as a father.

  Logan exhaled.

  Would he ever get the hang of this job?

  “Why don’t we buy you some more ribbons on our next trip to town? Would you like that?”

  She shrugged, set the mirror down, and traipsed back to the kitchen.

  He raked his fingers through his hair.

  If this kept up, he might have to enlist the aid of a child psychologist or counselor.

  Back in the kitchen, he pulled out a cookie for each of them and handed hers over. “Let’s see if we like these.”

  After giving his heart-shaped piece of shortbread a skeptical scan, he sniffed it.

  Not as pungent as he’d expected.

  In fact, the cookie’s faint, pleasing aroma didn’t smell anything like Gram’s cloying, old-fashioned perfume—his only previous contact with lavender.

  But could you bake palatable sweets from flowers?

  “It’s good.” Molly had dived into hers with no qualms and was several bites ahead of him.

  Question answered—and high praise, coming from a child who exemplified the term “picky eater.”

  He took a tentative nibble.

  Buttery richness dissolved on his tongue, leaving a faint hint of lemon and an undertone of mint.

  Whoa.

  The cookie was better than good.

  It was delicious.

  He finished it in three bites and pulled out a second one as Molly eyed the package. “Want another?”

  She nodded.

  They ate in silence for sixty seconds, until Molly spoke. “The cookie lady is nice.”

  “Yes, she is.” At the very least.

  “Could we go see her again?” Molly took a bite of her treat, watching him.

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Why?”

  Because Jeannette Mason was too much of a temptation for a man who needed to keep his priorities straight and get his life in order before diving into any new relationships.

  But he couldn’t tell that to a five-year-old.

  “I think she’s busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  Of all the topics that could have prompted his niece to start asking questions, why did it have to be this one?

  “Well, she grows flowers . . . and makes cookies . . . and runs her tearoom.” The “and tearoom” part of her Bayview Lavender Farm sign at the entrance had finally registered as they’d walked home.

  Molly’s brow puckered. “What’s a tearoom?”

  “A place where people go to drink tea and eat little sandwiches and fancy cakes.”

  At least he thought that’s what it was.

  “Like a tea party?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I guess so.”

  “Nana and me had tea parties.” Her face grew wistful. “They were fun.”

  His brain began clicking.

  If Molly liked tea parties, why not take her to one? See if that would help break down the wall she’d erected between them?

  But a whole afternoon of delicate china cups . . . froufrou bites of food . . . lace and lavender and clusters of ladies nibbling and chattering?

  He’d rather clean a toilet with a toothbrush.

  This isn’t about you, West. It’s about bonding and helping a little girl through her grief. Suck it up.

  Right.

  Shoring up his resolve, he took a swig of milk and bit the bullet. “You know, I’ve never been to a tea party or a tearoom. Do you think we should go to tea at Ms. Mason’s?”

  A tiny spark of animation lit up her eyes. “Will there be other little girls there?”

  “I don’t know. It may just be ladies.”

  She played with the crumbs on the napkin in front of her. “Do you think the cookie lady might have a little girl?”

  “I doubt it. I haven’t seen anyone else around her place—and I don’t think she’s married.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She isn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Did you look?”

  Was she kidding?

  Any normal single man would do a ring check on someone like Jeannette within two seconds of meeting her.

  However . . . the lack of a ring wasn’t conclusive. Some people didn’t wear rings these days—especially those who worked with their hands, as she did in the garden and kitchen.

  “I noticed.” Not a direct answer to the question—but not a falsehood, either.

  “I wish I had a friend next door, like I did at Nana’s.”

  “I do too—but you’ll meet lots of boys and girls at the preschool I found for you.”

  “Will they live by us?”

  Doubtful, since the program he’d enrolled her in was forty-five minutes away.

  Too bad Hope Harbor didn’t have anything like that for young children.

  “I don’t know—but we’ll try to find some friends for you here in town too.”

  “Where?”

  “Maybe at, uh, church.”

  She tilted her head. “Are we going to church?”

  “Yeah.” He may not have been the most diligent churchgoer these past few years, but now that Molly was a permanent part of his life, he ought to get back in the habit. Children should have a solid grounding in faith—and his mom had taken her every Sunday, as Molly had told him early on.

  Besides, it wouldn’t hurt him to reach out to the Almighty for assistance. He could use all the help he could get with this new life he was trying to create.

  “This Sunday?”

  “Yes.” No sense putting it off.

  Toby, who’d been blessedly quiet while they ate their cookies,
sidled up to his new friend, gave her a plaintive look, and began to whine.

  “Can he have a cookie?” Molly petted the dog.

  “No. They aren’t healthy for him. But you can give him a doggie treat if you want.” He fished one out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  She held it out to Toby, who nibbled it from her fingers instead of snatching it away with his usual snap. As if he didn’t want to scare away his new buddy.

  Nice to see some progress between his niece and his dog.

  Too bad the same wasn’t true about the two of them.

  Logan stood and began gathering up the remnants of their snack. “It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow. If it is, we could go to the beach again. How does that sound?”

  “Can we take Toby?”

  “Sure.” He psyched himself up for another game of tag with the playful pup.

  She licked her finger and pressed it against the cookie crumbs. “Could we ask the cookie lady to come?”

  Logan frowned.

  Why would Molly want a woman she’d seen only twice to join them?

  He tried not to take offense—but he’d been busting his behind for months trying to build some rapport with his niece. Why couldn’t she warm up to him like she had to his neighbor?

  Get a grip, West. Be glad she warmed up to someone.

  Prudent advice.

  He adjusted his perspective.

  “Like I said, she’s busy.” He picked up Molly’s empty milk glass.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

  Pretty didn’t come close to doing Jeannette justice.

  “Uh-huh.” And that was all he planned to say on the subject. “Do you want me to read you a story?”

  She stared at him. “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not bedtime.”

  “I think we should have a lunchtime story today. Go pick out a book while I finish cleaning up.”

  She slid off her chair, gave him a wary look, and disappeared down the hall, Toby on her heels.

  Saved—for now.

  But he had a feeling the subject wasn’t closed on his charming neighbor, who intrigued him as much as she intrigued the child who shared his home.

  He rinsed out their milk glasses and set them on the counter.

  Strange how little the woman had revealed about herself during their two encounters, though.

  Like nothing.

  He wasn’t the type to run off at the mouth, either, but compared to her he’d been almost garrulous.

  Was Jeannette merely reserved by nature—or was there more to her reticence than temperament?

  As he pondered that question, Molly returned to the kitchen and handed him a book about a fairy princess.

  Surprise, surprise.

  Not.

  He dried his hands on a dish towel and took it from her.

  “Let’s sit over there.” He motioned to the cushioned window seat in the breakfast nook that offered a view of the backyard.

  She climbed up beside him, keeping her distance, while Toby settled in at her heels and rested his chin on his paws.

  Psyching himself up for another tale of maidens in distress and handsome princes coming to the rescue, Logan opened the book.

  But as he began to read, his attention strayed for a moment to the tall hedge that separated his property from Jeannette’s—and the words of an old, classic poem played through his mind.

  Maybe good fences made good neighbors—but to paraphrase Robert Frost, what was Jeannette Mason walling in . . . or walling out?

  6

  “What do you mean, you aren’t going?” Mariam stopped brushing Elisa’s hair and gaped at her son from her seat on the twin bed.

  Jutting out his jaw, Thomma propped a shoulder against the door frame and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You heard me. I’m not going. You and Elisa can represent our family.”

  “The people of this town are throwing this welcome party for all of us. What will they think if you don’t come?”

  “I don’t care.”

  She resumed brushing Elisa’s hair, trying to control her anger as she untangled the silky strands and drew them into tiny twin ponytails. “I am ashamed of you, Thomma. I did not raise you to be rude—or ungrateful.”

  Heavy silence filled the space between them, but she made no attempt to break it.

  At last her son spoke, his tone a shade more conciliatory. “I don’t know their language anyway. You can speak for me.”

  Mariam finished off the ponytails with two ribbons. “You don’t know it because you haven’t tried to learn.” She glared at him, then managed to summon up a strained smile as she shifted her attention to her granddaughter. “Elisa, honey, why don’t you finish your glass of milk before we leave? It’s on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a minute.”

  After giving them both an uncertain perusal, the girl edged past her father and disappeared down the hall.

  “Come in and close the door.” Mariam stood.

  “I don’t want a lecture.”

  “You need one. Come in.”

  He remained where he was, every rigid angle of his body communicating defiance.

  Well, two could play that game.

  She planted her fists on her hips and lifted her chin—but what recourse would she have if he refused to talk with her? He wasn’t a small boy who could be forced to sit on the notorious blue chair both of her sons had come to hate after spending more time on it for various minor transgressions during their youth than either liked to remember.

  He hesitated, but after she summoned up her fiercest glower, he caved.

  Thank you, God!

  “I’m not a little boy anymore, ’Ami.” He entered and closed the door behind him.

  Her lungs kicked back in. “Then stop acting like one.” She had no more patience for diplomacy or kid-gloves treatment. “What will Father Murphy—and Reverend Baker—think if you don’t show up? And why would you want to hurt the feelings of the wonderful people from their churches who arranged for us to come to America and gave us all this?” She swept a hand around the room.

  “I’m not in the mood to be sociable.”

  “Neither am I. But we have an obligation to be thankful—and to show our appreciation.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “I don’t like taking charity.”

  “You would prefer to have remained in that camp?”

  Color suffused his cheeks. “Of course not.”

  “Then stop letting pride color your judgment. Take what has been generously offered and seek opportunities to repay the debt. Become part of this community. Contribute. Perhaps not with money in the beginning, but we can find other ways to give back. And one day we may be in a position to help someone else as we are being helped.”

  He expelled a breath. “It will be awkward. I won’t be able to communicate with anyone.”

  “Yes you will. Susan has promised to come and translate for us. Father Murphy told everyone we don’t speak English, so no one is expecting us to give a speech or have a long conversation. All we have to do is be there, greet people, and say thank you.”

  “I don’t even know how to do that.”

  “It’s easy.” She pronounced the words in English. “Try it.”

  He made an attempt.

  “See? It’s not hard. We can learn this language.”

  “Who will teach us, now that the woman who had agreed to help backed out?”

  “Father Murphy said he will find someone else. But I have Susan’s cell phone number, and she’s willing to translate until we learn enough to get by on our own.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this job they lined up for me if I can’t speak the language.”

  Ah.

  Another worry that was weighing on his mind.

  “You’ll be fine. Father Murphy said the man who owns the charter boat knows a few words of Arabic—and sign language ca
n be very effective. Now go put on a clean shirt and comb your hair.”

  “We’re going to stick together, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Three beats ticked by.

  “Fine. I’ll go—but I’ll be glad when it’s over.” He twisted the knob and crossed the hall to his room.

  As his door clicked shut behind him, Mariam sank back onto the bed.

  Her son wouldn’t be any more glad to have this over than she would be. Meeting a roomful of strangers—even kind ones—was daunting.

  What if they made a bad impression, and everyone was sorry they’d sponsored a refugee family?

  What if the support dried up before they became self-sufficient?

  What if no one liked them or wanted to be their friend?

  What if . . .

  Mariam cut off the litany of doubts.

  It was too late for second thoughts. They were here now, and she had to let go of her worries. Give them to God instead of letting them demoralize her. He had brought them here for a reason—and in time, he’d reveal it to them.

  Until then, it was up to her to be the anchor this family desperately needed.

  Even if the confidence she projected in their presence was more show than reality.

  Maybe she’d skip out after all.

  From the driver’s seat of her Civic, Jeannette tapped a finger against the wheel and surveyed the Grace Christian fellowship hall.

  She’d dropped off her contribution late yesterday—and she had had a full day at the tearoom. A long soak in a lavender-scented bath would be far preferable to attending this shindig.

  Except when Marci had called this morning to thank her for the shortbread, the woman had managed to coax a tenuous promise out of her to show up tonight.

  The Herald editor should have been a politician.

  Heaving a sigh, Jeannette picked up her purse.

  Honoring her promise didn’t have to take long. All she had to do was say hello to the guests of honor.

  Halfway up the walk to the hall, she slowed as the door opened.

  Charley emerged, laughter and music spilling out behind him.

  “Evening, Jeannette.” He waved at her.

  “Are you leaving?” Her spirits took an uptick. If he was cutting out already, her quick departure wouldn’t be such an anomaly.

  “No. I’m going over to the truck to whip up another batch of mini tacos. This is a hungry crowd—and no one’s rushing to leave.”