Stranger's Gift (19 page)

That night he had trouble sleeping. Usually at the end of the day he was so thoroughly exhausted that he had barely closed his Bible from his nightly reading before he was asleep. But on this night that wasn't the case. Long after the white noise of the traffic that ran along Highway 41 in the distance had subsided, John lay on his sleeping bag in the back of the camper, his eyes wide open as he stared up through the mosquito netting and listened to an owl calling to its mate.

Margery had said nothing about further damage to her place from the floods. He'd asked her how she was recovering after the storm, and she'd brushed him off as she always did.

“You just get yourself back in shape,” she'd barked. “I'll be just fine.”

And why would she confide in you?
he thought. She could hardly count on him to offer any real help or, for that matter, common sympathy for her plight. Margery knew very well that he cringed every time she showed up and that everything he said or did was with one intention—to get her to leave as soon as possible.

He hadn't always been like this. Back in Indiana he had been known as a man who could be counted on to help a neighbor, help a total stranger for that matter. But he had changed. Instead of his move to Florida being the start of a new life healing the wounds he'd suffered, it seemed those wounds had festered. His anger at the unfairness of life had infected his ability to trust. His ability to care.

True, back home, people he had thought he could count on had turned away from him. People who had expressed love for him had sided with those who accused him of becoming too prideful. John closed his eyes and allowed himself to think about Alice Yoder for the first time in two long years. Just as he had been banned by the church, he had banned the woman he'd been ready to marry from his thoughts, refusing to allow anything about her to color his mind. And in time he had succeeded. Once he'd gotten settled in Florida, the work to get the garden planted, the groves back to producing, and the house habitable had exhausted him to the point where at night it was all he could do to prepare a simple supper, read his Bible, and fall into bed.

Every morning seemed to bring with it some fresh challenge that had to be faced and dealt with, and in time, the image of Alice had faded. But it came to him now that in banning her from his thoughts, he had banned anyone who showed the slightest interest in him, regardless of their age or gender. He had trusted Alice because he'd had no reason not to believe that she would stand with him no matter what. But at the first sign of conflict she had chosen the safety of the community over him. That had been the final straw.

Then when he'd moved into the old farmhouse that had sat unoccupied and abandoned for over a decade, Margery had shown up offering him food and friendship, but he had sent her away. His distrust of others and their hidden motives had been too fresh, too painful, and he had quickly decided that what Thoreau had gotten right was the idea of depending solely on one's self. And over the two years that followed, he had thought the plan was working. He kept so busy that his need for human companionship became secondary to his need to prove himself.

But now he found himself wondering if he had ever intended that his self-imposed isolation would go on indefinitely. It had begun for him as it had for Thoreau, as an experiment. Nothing more. But with each passing day, each challenge met and conquered, the idea that it was possible to live a life of near-self-sufficiency had become the ultimate challenge.

The truth was that he had not allowed himself to think beyond getting through each day. Every victory was something he celebrated alone. No, not alone. With God. For when he'd seen the first vegetables thriving in the raised planter boxes or the blossoms on the trees in Tucker's abandoned grove, he had raised his eyes to the heavens, thanking God. He had needed nothing more than that as evidence that he had made the right choice in coming to Florida.

Back then he had told himself that his community had deserted him, resulting in the loss of his farm, his future wife, and the life they would share. But it was long past time for him to admit that he and he alone had made the decision to leave. He had come to Florida to prove a point. Now he had to wonder if he had really intended to stay forever.

He opened the door to the camper and stepped outside. Above him a full moon sat low in the western sky, casting a beam like a path straight onto the waters of the bay. It would be light soon. Tied up at the pier—one of the first things he and Zeke had restored on the property—was a small boat. Margery had towed it over one day, insisting she had no place for it until her pier could be repaired.

“You'd be doing me a favor keeping it here, Johnny. Not that you're inclined to handing out favors, but I'd appreciate it.”

“Fine,” he'd told her and gone back to working on clearing out the remains of the chicken coop.

“I'll leave the keys in the O
N
position–that way you just need to pull the cord to get her started. You know, in case you want to use it or have to move it or something.”

“Fine,” he'd repeated. He had waited for the sound of her boat fading before going down to the pier and having a look at the craft.

Now with his one good arm, he released the rope from the post and climbed in. Awkwardly he managed to get the boat started, back it away from his pier, and turn it toward the mouth of the creek. By the time he was on his way, he was drenched in sweat. The sky had started to lighten. He headed up Philippi Creek, and just ahead he could see what was left of Margery's marina.

Margery Barker had watched over him for two long years. She had never asked for or seemed to expect anything in return. Indeed, she had endured his barely concealed annoyance at her visits with humor and grace. And his bad temper had not deterred her from coming back again and again. How many times had he shown genuine interest in her business, her health, her happiness? What did he really know of her? That she was a widow and that she ran a fishing charter business. That was pretty much it.

Something his aunt Liz had said the last time they spoke by phone—a phone call that had ended with John hanging up on her—came back to him now.

“You were never a selfish man, John. In fact, you have always been one of the most giving people I have ever known. Rachel was always so proud of the way you turned out.”

His aunt had been taking a risk. She knew that any mention of his mother opened floodgates of remorse and guilt for John.

“Sorry,” Liz had murmured, realizing too late her mistake. “But really, John, I am worried about you. You've changed so much.”

“I'm fine,” he'd managed before hanging up the pay phone. And as he'd stood there in the middle of a nearly deserted bus station where he had gone to use the phone, he had felt a lump of grief fill the cavity of his chest like unset concrete until he'd been forced to sit down to catch his breath.

That conversation had taken place six months ago. Since then Liz had contacted him by mail as often as not delivered by Margery without comment.

His aunt was right. He had changed, and not for the better. He had allowed his bitterness to color everything he did, every interaction with others. He looked into every face these days with distrust, expecting the person to have some agenda other than simple kindness. Margery had proved him wrong, and she deserved more from him than the disdain he'd dished out for two years. For that matter, so did his aunt Liz, but one step at a time.

A
s the sun painted the sky in streaks of vermilion and orange, John idled the boat, taking stock of Margery Barker's marina. In spite of catastrophic damage to the bait shop and pier, John could see that a lot of work had already been done. Of course Margery would have gratefully accepted the help of neighbors and friends. She was well known and deeply respected, at least among those who lived and worked along the bay.

Margery's houseboat was tied up at one end of the pier, a pier that he was surprised to see had been fully rebuilt. To either side, small boats in various stages of repair bobbed in the calm water of the creek, the pulleys used to raise their sails clanking against metal poles as if someone were picking out a tune on a row of glass bottles. A tarp covered what had been the roof of the bait shop, but the place appeared deserted, abandoned even. The creek waters smelled faintly of dead fish and the fuel that had obviously leaked out of the damaged boats. In addition to the bait shop, Margery made her living running fishing trips and renting boats to tourists. From the looks of things, the bait shop was closed, and other than the small boat Margery used to get around, there wasn't a vessel worth chartering among the half dozen tied up at the pier.

He eased his craft closer to the houseboat. Margery had once told him that the day she buried her husband she had returned to the marina, boarded the houseboat, and stayed. After a year she had found the strength to return to the house they had shared and clear it out before putting it up for sale. All of this came back to him now as the boat she'd loaned him rocked gently and he tried to decide on his next move.

His heart was beating so hard it was as if he could hear each thud. It had been a very long time since he had reached out to anyone. It came back to him that Samuel had mentioned the fisherwoman was staying with Jeannie Messner. But there were definite sounds of occupancy coming from the houseboat.

“Margery?” He sniffed the air as he brought his boat closer to the side of the houseboat. Coffee. Bacon frying. If vandals had taken over the place, they were surely making themselves at home.

“Margery?” This time he shouted the name.

“What?” Margery barked, coming onto the deck, waving away an unseen bug with a spatula. Then she saw him, and her eyes widened, as did her smile. “Well, now, will you look at what the tide brought in! Praise God and pass the cranberry sauce—I never ever thought I would see this day.”

He threw her the rope. “You gonna help me tie this thing up and invite me in for breakfast or stand there yapping all morning?” he grumbled.

True to form, Margery made no further comment about his unexpected visit. Instead, she guided him the rest of the way into her pier and looped the rope over a post. Then she gave him a hand as he made the short leap from boat to pier and led the way into the galley kitchen, where she turned on the gas under the skillet and cracked four large eggs into the bacon grease.

“Moved back here four days ago,” she announced. “Jeannie's place was nice, too nice for the likes of me. Lots of pretties in that house, and you know me, clumsy as the day is long. I kept worrying I might break something. And with school starting they were all busy with that. Truth be told, I could not wait to get this old bucket in good enough shape so I could bunk here again.”

John attacked the food as soon as she set the plate in front of him. He'd been eating little other than prepackaged meals or canned goods for days now, and he couldn't remember the last time that he'd had a hot meal. “Good,” he muttered with his mouth full of scrambled eggs and biscuit. He glanced up when he realized Margery had stopped talking and was leaning against the sink, arms folded as she watched him eat.

“Didn't you forget something?”

John felt color rise to his cheeks and was grateful for the sun-scorched skin that he assumed hid his embarrassment. “Sorry,” he muttered and put down his fork. He leaned back and waited for Margery to fill her plate and join him.

“I'm touched,” she said as she set her plate down and took the chair across from him, “but I was talking about saying grace. I thought a good Amish man like you—”

“I …” John decided not to debate the point. Instead, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a moment he resumed eating.

“Arlen's sending me some help today,” Margery said.

“MDS team?”

“Not officially. Just neighbors helping neighbors, as Arlen likes to put it.”

He drank a full glass of orange juice before he found the nerve to make his next statement. “I have some time if you can use an extra hand.”

John was pretty sure it was his unsolicited offer to help that had struck Margery speechless for once. But when he glanced at her, he saw that she was fighting the urge to burst into laughter. “What?”

“An extra hand and maybe one good leg,” she managed, her laughter escaping as she pointed to his cast and wrapped ankle, “is about all you're in a position to offer.”

John couldn't help himself. The situation was so ridiculous that laughter seemed the only response. And once he got his own good humor rolling, it seemed as if he had unleashed a wellspring that had for far too long been capped.

Hester and Arlen exchanged curious glances as they walked the length of Margery's pier and heard her hearty laughter rolling out the open windows of the houseboat. Then they heard the unmistakable raspy growl of John Steiner's voice. “All right already,” he was saying, but he was laughing as well.