Tying the Knot (8 page)

“Anne, are you okay?” Sandra smiled as Anne rolled down the window. “I saw you sitting here and was worried. Something about the way you leaned your forehead into your steering wheel told me you might need a friend.”

Anne made a face. “I’m that transparent, huh?”

Sandra shrugged. “You haven’t been in town long. Today was a doozy, right?” She tucked her purse, a woven Indian-patterned bag, over her shoulder. “I’m headed to the Footstep of Heaven for some coffee and book browsing. Wanna tag along? I’ll introduce you to the locals.”

With a swell of warmth, Anne nodded.

“Leave your SUV here. I’ll drive you back later.”

Sandra owned a very old, very intriguing, red, restored ’67 International Scout. “I guess seat belts weren’t invented yet?” Anne asked as she slid in.

“I had them installed.” Sandra dug in between the seat and found Anne’s strap. “Haven’t had guests for a while.” Laugh lines crinkled around her blue eyes, inviting Anne’s friendship.

Anne fought the urge to blurt out a stream of frustration and instead measured her thoughts. Wisdom dictated that she determine what team Sandra played on before she started bemoaning Dr. Simpson’s managerial practices. For all Anne knew, Sandra was in cahoots with the doctor and Mr. Grizzly. The woman looked the type to have a soft spot for kids.

Sandra drove out of the hospital parking lot. Along Main Street, seagulls waddled like regal old men, and the smell of fish tinted the cold breeze. The sun had begun to gather the day on the horizon, preparing for departure. Along the shoreline, the lake had piled up driftwood, foam, and debris.

“A storm is brewing,” Sandra commented. The stiff breeze tangled her braids out behind her.

Anne nodded, not adding that her life felt as if the storm had already hit shore. “I noticed that lighthouse in a picture in Dr. Simpson’s office.” She gestured to the white lighthouse on the point. “It’s pretty old.”

“Only about one hundred years. It’s been restored more times than I can count. It’s still in use, you know. She’s guided many a ship home by her light.” Sandra found a parking spot along the street behind a white Lincoln Navigator. Her pickup looked like the wreck of the
Hesperus
next to it, but somehow it fit better with the rugged scenery.

“The lighthouse has had only one real hiccup,” Sandra continued as she wrestled the stick shift into first. “There’s a wreck offshore, about a century old. The story goes that the lighthouse drew the ship in, giving her hope in the middle of an October gale, and then suddenly,
poof!
The light vanished. The schooner sank just yards from the harbor.”

Bitterness filled Anne’s chest again. Wasn’t that how life worked? When she thought she was safe in the middle of God’s hand, He dropped her. Her warm knitted world unraveled, the guiding light snuffed. “That’s a terrible story.”

Sandra pointed at a white bungalow beside the lighthouse. “Yes, but that’s not the end. The lighthouse keeper saw the light blow out and knew the ship was in trouble. He took his own whaler out in the middle of the gale, risking his life. Moments after the
Elgin
went down, he rescued the survivors. Not a soul perished.” Sandra touched Anne’s hand. “In the darkest moment, God’s always there.”

Anne glanced at her. “You sound like my mother.”

“I talked to your aunt in church yesterday.” Sandra offered an apologetic smile. “You can’t keep many secrets in a small town. I’m sorry to hear about your trauma last year.” She squeezed Anne’s hand. “I’m glad you moved here.”

The kindness of the gesture pushed tears into Anne’s eyes. “Thank you.” Her gaze tracked back to the lighthouse, imagining the light that it would broadcast when the sky blackened. She saw a man picking his way along the rocky base of the structure, a bag banging against his hips. Propped up some twenty feet away, a photographer’s tripod explained his puzzling movements. Evidently she wasn’t the only one affected by the mystique of the lighthouse.

Sandra didn’t say another word as they climbed out and strolled toward a two-story Victorian. Peonies in bloom edged the stone walk, up to a railed front porch. “I saw this bookstore on my way into town.”

“It’s also a pottery shop. Liza Beaumont is our resident potter, and Mona Michaels runs the bookstore. You’ll like them, Anne. They know all about moving to Deep Haven to build a new life.”

Anne’s mouth slacked open. “How much did my aunt tell you?”

Sandra shrugged, but her eyes twinkled. “Let me just say that you’re not the first person to find refuge here. You have a sort of . . . edginess. As if you are waiting for the bomb to explode.”

Anne laughed. “Oh no, I left all my bombs behind. Deep Haven may have lobbed a few grenades at me, but I’m smarter and wiser now. Besides, I seriously doubt there are ticking bombs in my backyard.”

Sandra raised her eyebrows. “Deep Haven isn’t a war-free zone.” She tucked her arm through Anne’s. “Just ask Mona. One of our locals once tried to burn this place down.”

Anne climbed the porch stairs and took in the row of round tables dressed in bright yellow tablecloths fluttering in the breeze. Planters overflowing with red, white, and pink impatiens hung between the porch columns. A lush lilac tree perfumed the yard with serenity. “Looks like Mona came out on top. She must be a hard worker.”

“Well, yes. And God is a giver of good things. She has a wonderful faith-building story if you ever have time to listen. He not only put this shop on the map, but He also brought her husband, an author, right to her doorstep. She calls Joe her ‘flesh-and-blood hero, right off the pages,’ whatever that means.”

Sandra called out Mona’s name as they swung open the screen door. Anne stood a few paces behind, mesmerized by the entryway, the luminous shine of the oak railing spiraling upstairs, the wrought-iron light fixture sending a warm glow along the floor. The smell of something baking coaxed her inside, toward the bookstore on her right.

Sandra made a trail toward a young blonde seated at a gleaming walnut table. The woman looked up and greeted her, a warm smile on her pretty face. Anne wondered at Sandra’s words:
God, giver of good things
. She had to admit, that hadn’t been her experience of late. In fact, although she knew God had given her the grit to climb back to her feet and finish her degree, He certainly hadn’t made it easy. And where was He that hot summer day when she’d been blindsided by a gangbanger? More than that, why did God keep plunking her right in the middle of her worst nightmares? Why couldn’t He, just once, arrange for her a safe, easy life?

Anne sighed, wishing she could escape the residue of Noah’s words tugging at her heart.
I just assumed you’d want to help.
She
did
want to help. She simply wanted to have a choice. It would be easier to write Noah off as a gorilla if he hadn’t looked so genuinely sorry when she’d left, staring at her until she churned up a good cloud of dust, his hands in his pockets, his heart bleeding on his sleeve.

But the man was dangerous. Everything about him screamed “warning!”—from the grimy work attire, to his waiting-for-someone-to-pounce posture, to the secrets prowling behind those intense brown eyes. He reminded her of what she’d left behind, and the last thing she wanted to do was return to the life she’d escaped from. So Mr. Bear had a sort of rough-hewn appeal, an attractiveness that could paralyze an unsuspecting woman. But she wasn’t that woman. Even if his soft tenor, as if spoken over velvet, did do painful, confusing things to her pulse rate. She would belt him and run for the hills before giving in to his humble words.

“Mona, I’d like you to meet Anne.” Sandra grabbed Anne’s elbow. “She’s new in town. A nurse. She’s working for Dr. Simpson.”

Mona’s green eyes sparkled with sincere warmth when she shook Anne’s hand. “Glad to meet you. We transplants need to stick together or the locals will gang up on us.” She winked at Sandra, who rolled her eyes. “Will you be here long?”

Noah surfaced into the twilight-soaked air and hoisted himself from the lake onto the dock. The crisp June breeze turned his skin to gooseflesh but soothed the frustration threatening to boil him alive. He’d felt ill watching his hopes flee with Anne’s desperate escape three hours earlier. Instead, he’d stood there, fists bunched at his sides, listening to a thousand voices tell him he’d failed . . . again.

What was a guy with his past trying to achieve by this do-gooder impersonation, anyway? Didn’t he know he couldn’t escape the generational tug into a life of misery and sin? Noah sat down, squeezed out his wet hair, and scrubbed a towel over his face. He didn’t mind the chill seeping into his bones. Maybe it would snap him into reality, out of the dream he’d been living for too long. Maybe it hadn’t been a godly vision he’d seen three years ago but desperation.

It had obviously been sheer desperation that made him believe that Anne Lundstrom would join his team. From her expression when she’d peeled away, only whips and chains could drag her back to Wilderness Challenge.

He didn’t blame her; he didn’t feel one ounce of reproach toward her. Noah dug his hands into his hair and hung his head. No, he alone owned all indictment. Her accusation had ripped a hole right through his chest:
A man who wanted to use me to get money.

He let out a groan that echoed across the lake.
Oh, God, I’m sorry
. His throat burned. Guilty. He had been thinking only of his camp, his wants. He hadn’t given a solitary consideration to how Anne wanted to spend her summer, nor had he given her a chance to choose. So his intentions were honorable, even righteous. But he’d trampled over her feelings with the sensitivity of a stock horse. The realization made him sick.

If only Anne could see the despair in the kids he’d left in Minneapolis. If only she could watch what drugs and prostitution did to their innocence, count the times he’d buried teens next to their brothers and sisters. If only she could peek inside his own life and see the scars buried in his past. Then maybe . . .

He cupped his hand over his left arm, hiding beneath his grip a gray blue, tiny five-point star. He still battled the urge to have it removed, wanting to erase all remnants of that former life. But something inside him—he couldn’t pinpoint what—kept him from obliterating the last piece of concrete evidence. His fingers dug into his flesh, remembering the day he’d been branded, body and heart, for life.

Rock Man, they’d called him. He figured it had something to do with his bullheadedness when they’d tried to beat him senseless the night of initiation. His jaw hadn’t closed right for a month, but he’d stayed standing and earned the right to be a Vice Lord. He’d belonged. Forever.

His fingers formed the three-finger homeboy salute and gang lingo flooded his memory. To this day, every time he heard
all is
well,
“the People’s” typical expression, he bristled.

All was never well when he’d run with the Lords. He should have figured that out the last night of initiation. Noah shuddered and lowered his forehead onto his knees. What an idiot he’d been—over a bag of tortilla chips.

Shorty Mac had shoved a 9mm Glock into his hand as they crouched in the shadows. Cold and heavy, the weapon sent a thrill of fear through him as they watched the Tom Thumb Convenience Store, waiting for L’il Lee’s sister to emerge. “She’s unlocking the back door,” Shorty Mac said, a devious glint in his eye.

Noah hadn’t seen the deceit, even then. Shorty Mac, childhood friend turned homeboy, had learned well in a month’s time how to lie with the best. But Noah had believed him and inched toward the back door, the October wind whistling under his Chicago Bulls jacket. He counted it a triumph when he’d five-finger discounted it from a local mall, despite the fact that he’d yet to wear it home. Mother Peters would have skinned him alive if she suspected gang colors in her foster home. Noah’s heart panged, thinking of the Native American woman who’d given him over a decade of 110 percent mothering, complete with anguished prayer and tough love.

The night had been black, only a few streetlights pushing back the darkness. Noah hooked his hands in his belt loops, then bumped his Bulls cap to the left. He knew that more than Mac’s eyes trailed him, keeping tabs on his progress. But tonight he’d be in. He’d have family. Sisters and brothers and someplace to belong. No matter where the CPS—Child Protective Services—threw him, he’d still have home turf.

He scuttled behind a Dumpster. Security lit up the place like high noon, but he didn’t care, believing foolishly that the other VLs would be on his six to bail him out. He flashed his sign, then ran for the back door.

Locked. Noah’s blood froze in his veins. He tried again. Kicked the door, then shot a look at Mac. The kid was doubled over, clutching his gut, laughing.

He remembered the fury. It exploded like a living thing, took possession of him. Even today the power of it still shook Noah. His brothers had set him up. He reacted poorly, flashing Mac sign language, making sure the entire unseen audience in the street saw it.

Rock Man.
Right then, he’d put skin on his name. Rock Man—someone who had the stone-cold guts to get the job done. He saw himself tugging out the pistol, stepping back, aiming just above the knob, and pulling the trigger.