Stranger's Gift (32 page)

He wandered between what had been a grove of orange trees—several dozen of them that he had salvaged from the grove Tucker had originally planted. There had also been a grove of lemon and key lime trees that he had planted and nursed as if they were his children. They weren't his children, but they had been his future—the source of income he would need if he hoped to keep this place running. That ship had sailed, as his aunt Liz was fond of saying. The soil was completely ruined by the salt water. Even if he could afford to replant, there was no way anything would grow.

He considered the ruined beds of celery, tomatoes, beans, and other vegetables he had planted. In spite of the fact that the salvaged cypress beams he'd used as borders had been ripped free and scattered across the property during the hurricane, Zeke had worked for days gathering them and putting them back into place. The problem was that the rich, fertile soil that had filled them, along with the plants themselves, had washed away. It would take several truckloads of soil to refill them, and that would cost a lot of money. On the positive side, the toolshed and chicken coop were restored and ready for use. The problem was use for what?

Depressed and defeated, John walked back to the house. The sun had set, and the last rays of light were waning. Wearily he climbed the porch steps, picked up his and Margery's glasses, and went inside. He lit the battery-powered lantern and pulled a chair up to the kitchen table that was littered with drawings he had created when he first bought the Tucker place and kept stored in a metal box. Dreams he had allowed himself to entertain as if they were fact.

He swept them off the table with his forearm, in the process uncovering the two books he'd managed to salvage after the hurricane.
Walden
lay next to his Bible. He picked up the paperback volume and paged through it; then he tossed it onto the pile of papers littering the floor. He had walked with Thoreau for two long years, and where had it gotten him?

He pulled his Bible closer, cradling it with his folded arms as he rested his forehead on its crackled leather cover and prayed. From this night forward, he would walk with God, listening for His still, small voice and opening himself to the kinds of messages delivered by couriers like Margery and Zeke—and perhaps even Hester. No, not Hester. He thought of how he had left her sitting there in the restaurant earlier that morning. He had told her the truth that his mother's death had been his fault. And then true to form, he had run away, hopped a city bus without explaining the details. He had assumed that she would judge him, as others had and as he had judged himself. And who would blame her?

And yet he missed her, missed talking to her, missed her no-nonsense ways, her wisdom. He realized that for most of the day he'd been watching for her, listening for the crunch of her bicycle or Arlen's car tires coming up his lane. But she hadn't come.

“She's to marry Samuel,” he reminded himself. Samuel was a good man, a far better man than he was—and besides, the carpenter could offer Hester a secure future. What did he have to offer her? He was broke and living in a half-finished house on land that would not yield even so much as a kitchen garden for some time to come. Perhaps once she and Samuel had married, the three of them could be friends.

“Perhaps you ought to stop daydreaming and face reality,” he growled. He had few choices. He could stubbornly refuse to change and end up like some of the people whom Zeke had introduced him to at the bay front. Or he could face facts, sell the property, and use the money to start over once more. He thought about the farm he'd sold in Indiana, the land where his father had worked such long hours. The place where for so many years he and his mother had lived. The place he had planned to bring his bride and raise his family. Could he go back there and start again, asking forgiveness, admitting the error of his prideful ways to the congregation in which he'd been raised?

He closed his eyes and silently prayed for guidance. When he opened them minutes later, he knew that he had made his plan. Tomorrow he would go to Arlen and ask for help getting the rest of this place restored, and then he would put it up for sale.

Hester stayed at the hospital longer than she'd meant to. But when she'd seen Liz Carter-Thompson handing Amy and Grady a huge gift basket that was filled to overflowing with items for baby and mother, she had seen her opportunity to find out once and for all how John had been involved in his mother's death. It took close to half an hour for the new parents to properly exclaim over each item and hold it up for Hester as well as Harley's two sets of grandparents to admire. But Hester was determined to stay, hoping that she and Liz might take their leave at the same time and that she could perhaps suggest they share a cup of coffee before the congresswoman hurried off to pack for her flight home.

After the grand finale of the gift basket was unveiled, a cashmere shawl for Amy to wrap herself in while she nursed, Hester waited for Grady to place all the items back in the basket and set it on a side table already filled with vases of flowers. Then she handed him her package.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Oh, Hester, you made this yourself, didn't you?” Amy exclaimed as Grady spread the crib quilt over Amy's bed. “It's lovely. His room is blue and it will be just perfect. Thank you.”

Hester fought against a swell of pride. “You're welcome. Nelly helped with the actual quilting,” she added.

“Hester's grandmother,” Amy explained to the others as she lifted a corner of the quilt to show her mother the tiny stitches.

Hester saw that Liz was watching her closely as if trying to figure her out. “You are a most remarkable young woman,” Liz said with such genuine admiration that Hester felt herself blush. “The reports about the work you and your community have been doing in helping others to get back to normal are impressive.”

“My father and the Mennonite Disaster Relief teams have done most of the work,” Hester said.

“You know, ever since I joined the Homeland Security committee, I've been hearing more and more about the work people from the Mennonite community do whenever there's a natural disaster. You certainly don't get the credit you deserve, and I think it might be high time we did something about that. Why, you and your volunteers are every bit as much of a national treasure as any federal or state agency. They just have better marketing.”

Hester glanced pleadingly at Grady, hoping that he would intervene. To her relief, he nodded.

“The Mennonites don't really believe in blowing their own horn,” he said. “They prefer to perform their good deeds without fanfare.”

“I'm not suggesting they hire a public relations firm,” Liz said. “But …”

“Our reward comes in having served others,” Hester said quietly. She could see that this was in many ways a foreign concept to the congresswoman, as it was to others in the outside world, where award ceremonies were common and highly anticipated.

“You remind me a great deal of my sister,” Liz said. “Rachel was always doing things for others, and never once did she receive the recognition she deserved.”

“Your sister lived in an Amish community. It was not their way to offer or accept praise either.”

“Tell me about it,” Liz said, and then she smiled. “I'm afraid my big sister struggled mightily with our family's lack of understanding when it came to the lifestyle she chose. And yet,” she said almost wistfully, “I don't think I have ever known a person more at peace with herself and her life.”

“Then she had her reward,” Hester said, fairly itching to pursue the topic of John's mother now that Liz had brought it up. But this was neither the time nor the place.

“Oh my, if you're not careful, I'll sit here babbling on all afternoon—occupational habit.” Liz gathered her oversized leather purse and swung it onto her shoulder, then glanced at her watch. “I have a flight to catch in two hours. Can I give you a lift back to Pinecraft, Hester?”

“I have my bike, but I'll walk out with you.”

They said their good-byes, cooed over the sleeping baby, and tiptoed from the room.

“Ah, babies,” Liz sighed as soon as the door closed behind them. “If ever I need a refresher on why I put up with all the political mumbo-jumbo it takes to get anything done in this job, I go visit a hospital nursery and right there is my answer. Harley's generation will someday inherit the work I do now. Makes a person think.”

“You have no children of your own?” Hester asked as they stepped onto the elevator together.

“Nope. My sister, Rachel, was the earth mother in our family. She should have had a dozen kids.”

“But John has no siblings.”

“Unfortunately, no. Maybe if Rachel had remarried…She certainly had offers.”

The elevator doors slid open, and Hester found that her heart was hammering. It seemed as if God might be giving her the opening she needed to find out what John had meant in saying he had killed his mother.

“I'm over here in the parking structure,” Liz said as they exited the building.

“The bike rack is there as well,” Hester replied, and the two women continued walking together. “John told me his mother died shortly before he moved here. Was she ill?”

“Not a day in her life,” Liz said. “One January evening at dusk, she'd set out in the buggy for some church meeting. Something spooked the horse and it took off. Rachel was a fighter, and she was not about to let that horse have the upper hand, but she didn't count on a patch of black ice. The horse slid, and she was thrown from the buggy, hit her head on a field rock, and died before the ambulance could get there.”

Okay, so now she had the circumstances, but for the life of her, Hester could not find anything in any of it that would even hint that John had had anything to do with his mother's unfortunate accident.

Liz looked both ways and jaywalked across the street as Hester hurried to keep up with her. “Was John with her?”

Liz paused by the bike rack. “He found her, and that's part of his grief. I don't think he's ever forgiven himself for not being the one driving that night.” She got the kind of faraway look a person had when lost in memories. Then she shook it off and offered Hester a handshake. “It's been a real pleasure to meet you, Hester. I know you and your people don't take to compliments, but know that on behalf of a government that is deeply overextended, you have our deepest gratitude.”

“You're welcome,” Hester replied, still trying to reconcile what Liz had just told her with the conversation she'd had with John. John had lost his mother just a short time before her own mother had finally succumbed to her illness. In her case she had known death was coming. John had had no such warning.

“Be patient with that nephew of mine, Hester. Rachel's death hit him pretty hard.”

“I can understand that. My mother died of Lou Gehrig's disease a couple of years ago.”

Liz pressed Hester's hand. “Then you know all too well. I'm so sorry for your loss. Still, it's a blessing that John has landed here, where he can hopefully find the kind of peace and contentment Rachel would have wanted for him. Rachel would say it was no mistake, his being here. It's God's will.” Impulsively she bent and kissed Hester's cheek. “Have to run. Stay in touch,” she added as she waved and headed off past a row of cars, her stiletto heels clicking on the pavement long after she was out of sight.

Hester unlocked her bike. She thought about going to Tucker's Point. It wasn't that much farther, but then, it was also close to suppertime, and her father would be wondering where she was. Besides, she had agreed not to seek John out. Mentally she checked the contents of the refrigerator and decided on a cold supper of chicken salad, fresh fruit, and whole grain bread. After all, it might be late September and the humidity had noticeably lessened, but it was still Florida, and it was still hot.

She pedaled fast, enjoying the wind cooling her face and whipping at the hem of her dress. The hurricane and its aftermath seemed light-years away, and yet each day they faced more work to be done. At the center they were still seeing a steady stream of people in need of clothing, bedding, and household goods. Food goods were still pouring in, although not nearly as strongly as they had right after the storm hit.

She thought about Rainbow House. Grady had told her that there was no way the agency would be able to start over. They'd need a building, a couple of them. Before the hurricane, the agency had offered shelter for the homeless, a food and clothing bank, and an educational center. There, people with no other options could come to learn job skills and hopefully find their way out of the ranks of the nameless, faceless men and women who gathered outside the library or along the bay front. Bundled all together, Rainbow House had offered hope to the hopeless. Without those services, where would these men and women—more and more of them in these hard times—go?