Deep Haven [02] Tying the Knot Page 3

  Then he’d seen his drugged neighbor blow away an EMT. He’d personally led Anthony to Jesus a week before the attack. But the teen hadn’t been able to escape the street’s death clutch and see his potential. That potential now languished in adult lockup.

  Grief had crystallized Noah’s mission. A year later now, he was just shy of all the funding needed to take his former youth group out of the city for the summer and give them a fresh perspective through a wilderness challenge.

  The enormity of the task—and the need—made Noah sink to his knees on the beach. Oh, God, only You can pull this off. You put this vision in my heart. Please make it happen.

  He sat back onto the rocks and looked into the sky. A light wind played with a wispy scattering of cirrus clouds. On the waves, closer to the horizon, seagulls rode Superior like buoys. The air smelled wet, and the breeze washed through him like a cool breath. God embedded this place. Noah prayed that the kids could see Him. Give them Your vision. Your hope. Change their lives. And please help Deep Haven Chapel see You through this former gang member with ancestors who happen to be Ojibwa.

  Three hours later Noah paced the annex of the church building, trying to focus on his prayer and not the muffled voices spilling out from under the library door. His hiking boots clunked on the floor, and he winced at a black streak they left across the white linoleum. Why didn’t he think of buying a suit for the occasion? He’d thought he looked spiffy enough in black jeans, boots, and a brown suede jacket. He’d even unearthed an iron and pressed the white oxford he wore with a tie. Looking into his cracked bathroom mirror hanging in the dilapidated cabin he called home, he’d seemed suitable.

  He combed his fingers through his hair. The shortest he’d worn it in years and still the two women on the missions committee scrutinized him the entire meeting as if he’d crawled out from under a Dumpster. He blew out a heated breath and deliberately peered out the foyer windows at Main Street. Tourist season had bloomed. A number of pickups loaded with nets and tackle lumbered by. It made him think he ought to learn to fish. A couple of lovebirds meandered hand in hand along the beach, kicking up stones. A trail of white smoke spiraled from Mack’s Fish Stand.

  “Noah?”

  The friendly voice startled him. He turned and clasped Pastor Dan’s outstretched hand. The man always wore a kind smile, and he’d donated an entire day at the camp, helping Noah pitch army tents. If anyone in Deep Haven cheered for him, it was Pastor Dan Matthews.

  “So?” Noah studied Dan’s face and braced himself.

  Dan shook his head. “I’m sorry. The committee thinks it’s a liability. Kids inherently possess their own set of troubles, but these kids . . .”

  Noah clenched his jaw. “These kids need it more than any others.”

  “There’s no disputing that—”

  “I’ve got a great staff trained to work with these at-risk kids, plus junior counselors who know exactly the shenanigans they’re liable to pull. I’ve sent them all through hours upon hours of counselor training, besides training each of them as a first responder.” Noah shook his head. “Frankly, I think we’re more than ready for what these kids will throw at us.”

  “I’m sure you are, Noah. No one believes in you and what you’re trying to do more than I do. I’ve seen the hours you’ve put in, and I know you spent hours praying and handpicking your staff. But be honest, besides the everyday accidents that happen at camp, you want to take the kids backpacking and canoeing. What if you had a medical emergency while you’re out on the trail?” Dan’s tone turned grim. “What if somebody died?”

  Noah cupped a hand behind his head and sighed. “You’re my last bid, Dan. Without the church’s additional funding, I gotta tell those kids to fend for themselves this summer.” His throat burned. “I can’t do that.”

  “I know.” Dan clapped him on the shoulder. “And I couldn’t be sorrier. But it’s not my money. The church doesn’t want to invest in something that might blow up in their faces.”

  “What if I got a camp nurse or a paramedic to serve on staff?”

  Dan’s silence stretched out until disappointment tightened Noah’s heart. Noah looked away, unwilling to see the answer on his friend’s face.

  “That might work.”

  Noah gulped a spurt of hope.

  “No promises, but I can ask.” Dan crossed his arms. “This camp is a great idea, Noah. But I can only give a recommendation. It’s the committee you have to convince. Get a paramedic or a nurse. Someone with serious emergency training. Then we’ll talk.” His eyes glinted, matching his sly smile. “Meanwhile, I’ll go sand some grit off their tough hides.”

  “Thank you, Dan.” Noah scrubbed his hands down his face and turned back to the window. Where was he going to unearth a nurse?

  He walked outside and stood in the parking lot. The fragrant air bespoke hope and promise. Lake Superior glinted deep sapphire, and the setting sun ran a finger of gold along its choppy surface. A black Labrador barked from the back of a pickup truck, catching Noah’s attention as it traveled down the street. The truck turned into Mom and Pop’s and pulled up in front of a gas pump.

  He looked heavenward and smiled.

  2

  Anne leaned against the rail of the guest-cabin porch and let the wind skimming off Lake Superior dry her freshly washed hair. The sun bled purple over a gray horizon and lit a bronze path across the giant lake. A lone seagull called overhead, in harmony with the waves pounding the shoreline rocks.

  “Magnificent.” Anne cupped her hands around her teacup. “You’re right, Aunt Edith. I love the place.”

  “I knew you would, honey.” Aunt Edith’s voice came from inside the cabin, where she banged about in the galley kitchen. “I had you in mind when Bruce fixed up the cabin. I know it’s a bit small—”

  “It’s perfect.” The two-room cabin seemed palatial after her efficiency off-campus apartment. And if she caught cabin fever, with one step she could lose herself in the expanse of God’s forested world. Anne sipped her tea—Constant Comment, with a touch of orange and cinnamon and a dab of milk. “My mother would love it.”

  Edith appeared at the door. “If I could ever get my sister up here. But she won’t take time away from the mission.”

  “I know.” Anne gave a wry smile. “After Dad’s death, it’s become her entire life. I barely talked her into attending my graduation.” She swirled her tea. “It felt surreal, anyway, since I have another quarter of internship left.”

  Edith opened the screen door. It squealed, bristling the hair on Anne’s neck. She gazed at the sunset as Edith’s arm wrapped around her shoulders and enveloped her with the smells of cookies and cotton and something Anne could only describe as love. She leaned into the hug.

  “Your mother needs a break.”

  Anne harrumphed. “She can’t escape Dad’s ‘unfinished work.’” She shook her head. “How hard can it be to shut the door to the church basement, sell the house, and head south to Arizona? If she really cared about me and Ellen, she’d ditch the inner city and let us sleep a night in peace.”

  Aunt Edith stayed silent. Anne knew her own words sounded harsh. But after her father’s accidental death under the wheels of a drunk driver’s car, she and her sister thought MaryAnn Lundstrom would have the good sense to throw in the ministry towel, cash her life insurance check, and buy a home somewhere that didn’t host regular drive-by shootings. Maybe not Arizona, but perhaps in the Minneapolis suburbs or in Deep Haven near Aunt Edith.

  Aunt Edith represented the gentle voice of reason and had spent countless summers harboring Anne and Ellen in her home in Minnetonka, a Minneapolis suburb located a satisfactory distance from the homeless shelter the Lundstroms operated. Now ten years after Aunt Edith and Uncle Maynard had moved to Deep Haven, she’d come through to rescue Anne again.

  “When do you start at the hospital?”

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Simpson Monday morning. He’ll be supervising my internship. He didn’t menti
on payment, but I’m hoping a stipend comes with the job.” She didn’t add that she also had her sights on the job of community nurse. Aunt Edith, her sensitive thumb on the pulse of the community, had told her that Jenny someone, current job holder, had supposedly entertained plans to retire—a timely event in Anne’s opinion. Anne hoped that if she impressed the board with her internship skills, she could slide right into that position. It might not be the cutting-edge ministry her father had wished for her, but it felt close. One didn’t need to live in the thick of crime and violence to bless the lives of one’s fellowman.

  “I’m sure Dr. Simpson will figure out something. He’s a nice man. You’ll like him.”

  Anne didn’t doubt Aunt Edith’s opinion even though the doctor had sounded brusque on the phone. Aunt Edith had a decade of Deep Haven experience in her corner. Anne hummed agreement.

  “He attends our church,” Aunt Edith continued, “and has a raspberry patch half the size of Lake Superior. His wife, Naomi, puts up hundreds of jars of jam and sells them at that new bookstore in town.”

  “The Something of Heaven place I saw on the way in? With the flowers along the porch?”

  Edith smiled, the lines around her eyes wrinkling. “The Footstep of Heaven. You’d like the proprietor. She’s a lot like you. Feisty and determined.”

  Anne playfully jabbed her aunt.

  “Her name’s Mona, and her husband is a best-selling author.”

  “Really? What does he write, books on how to smoke fish?” Anne chortled at her own humor.

  “It’s Reese Clark.”

  “Oh.” Anne winced. “The Jonah series.” The series about a drifter named Jonah was one of her bedtime favorites. “He lives here?”

  Edith’s eyes twinkled. “Yep. But his name’s really Joe. And he has a brother who lives up the trail at a home for the mentally challenged. It’s a strawberry farm.”

  Anne quirked an eyebrow. “What other secrets are hidden in Deep Haven?”

  “I’ll never tell.” Edith patted her arm. “Why don’t you come to church with us Sunday? Mona and Joe Michaels attend, and you’ll get a chance to meet Dr. Simpson before your interview on Monday.”

  The wind rustled a nearby balsam. Anne shivered. She wasn’t quite ready to dive into the social life of Deep Haven, even if corporate worship did speak to a lonely place in her soul. For the near future, she’d worship on the Lake Superior shore, thanking God for a time of rest.

  Anne measured her aunt. Edith had aged so beautifully, with soft laugh lines around her eyes and mouth and a lush mane of gray. The elderly woman made a jade green leisure suit look like a fashion statement. Edith stared out toward the lake, a fresh breeze combing her hair from her face.

  “This is a beautiful place to retire.” Anne had to admire the house Aunt Edith and Uncle Maynard had built. The two-story, white-pine A-frame sat at the lot’s pinnacle. One could survey the lake through its floor-to-ceiling windows. Anne stored away the effect in her dream files for future use. It was the type of place she could easily hide herself in—and planned to someday.

  “After years of looking at the lake from this porch, it seemed time to build something bigger.” Aunt Edith’s smile faded. “Are you sure the cabin isn’t too rustic?”

  Anne settled into a folding lawn chair and pulled her legs up to her chest. “I love the guest cabin, and I love you, Aunt Edith.”

  Her aunt gave her a smile that made Anne blush. “I just hope you can find your footing and escape some of those demons.”

  Anne nodded. If she couldn’t do it here, she never would.

  The older woman waddled up the trail toward her home. Anne sipped her tea. The spicy liquid went straight to her bones. Oh, how she’d longed for just this moment. She’d clung to it like a bulldog during her three months in rehab, rebuilding her strength after the bullet had ripped out half her insides. She had one less kidney and a scar that meant she’d never wear a bikini. Skimpy swimwear had never been her attire of choice; nevertheless, it felt like one more thing the drugged-up punk had stolen from her. If it hadn’t been for that fateful afternoon, she would have graduated with her nursing class in December. Bitterness filled her throat and she swallowed it back down to her chest, where it simmered. Yes, perhaps here she could escape the inner city and its painful tentacles.

  I’m sorry to hear that. The words of a stranger came back to her like a cold splash. She narrowed her eyes. What would he know? Did he live with the scars of someone else’s sins on his body? Anne shook so violently, she sloshed tea onto the cuff of her sweatshirt.

  She put the cup on the rail of the porch and clenched her fists against the image of his piercing brown eyes. The look he gave her still made her tremble. She couldn’t shake the familiarity of those eyes . . . and his name, Something Running Bear, had rattled her. Certainly he couldn’t be the same man who’d sung a hymn of comfort to her as she descended into months of suffering?

  She hated to admit how much that hymn had meant to her. The memory of the man who’d held her hand tugged her mouth up in a soft smile. Now there was a real hero. A man who could replace Bertha without a second’s hesitation. A man brimming with faith, ready to risk his life for her. She felt a twist of sadness that she’d never been able to track him down. To thank him, of course.

  Obviously not all strangers were drug-crazed murderers. Take her newest stranger, for example. The hero-mechanic with the mysterious eyes who had helped get her car back on the road with nary a rude remark or advance on her turf.

  It had been ages since she’d lowered her guard with a man. She’d learned the hard way that men wanted one thing . . . something she wouldn’t offer. Her chest tightened, and she fought a horde of bad memories. Perhaps it was only certain men, from certain walks of life. She cast another look at the horizon, appreciating the deep crimson separating day from night. She’d sorely missed perfect sunsets—those unblemished by a choppy metal-and-concrete skyline, smog, and the noise of rush-hour traffic.

  Anne’s tea had turned cold, and she made a face as she swallowed. Easing herself off the chair, she returned to the small kitchen and lit the burner under the teakettle. She leaned against the counter and flipped on her CD player. Andrea Bocelli’s operatic tenor filled the cabin. She felt her pulse slow. Quiet moments with a cup of tea and serious music were what this move was all about. A new life, a new start with God. The chance to escape the specter of the past and finally make peace with the Almighty. She wouldn’t deny she’d felt abandoned over the past year. God had seemed painfully absent in her tragedy—a grief of her own making. She couldn’t get past the feeling of heavenly betrayal to turn into His embrace.

  She feared she never would.

  Obviously God wasn’t keeping score because He had intervened, offered this job and this place of refuge. Thanks, God. She folded her arms across her chest. I needed this, and You knew it. Tears edged her eyes and she flicked them away.

  If only she could hide inside this moment for eternity.

  Noah parked his Suzuki 350 next to a gleaming silver Lexus and secured his helmet to the seat. He still wasn’t accustomed to leaving the bike or the helmet unattended, but he’d been stretching his trust boundaries since arriving here. Moments like this reminded him that Deep Haven was worlds apart from the inner city of Minneapolis.

  He pocketed the keys and swiped both hands through his hair. Common sense demanded he wear a helmet, but he cringed at his rumpled hair reflected in the glass entry doors. He tried in vain to smooth it down, to match it with the suit and tie and mask his biker guise. He hoped Doc Simpson was a man of good humor. And compassion. And he prayed the man kept Saturday hours.

  The ER lobby hosted a kid in a baseball shirt clutching an ice pack to his eye and an elderly gentleman with a bloody towel wrapped around his thumb. Noah grimaced at a fishhook poking from the appendage.

  A redheaded duty nurse with curious blue eyes watched as he approached the desk. Noah tried a smile. “Hi. I’m looking for Dr. Simpson.
”

  “Just a moment, please.” Her gaze ran over him like a cop’s as she picked up the phone. “Hello, Dr. Simpson, there’s a . . .” She raised her eyebrows at Noah.

  “Noah Standing Bear,” he filled in.

  “Mr. Standing Bear here to see you.”

  Noah kept the smile on his face as she nodded, then clipped out directions. He felt her eyes on his back as he strode down the hall.

  The stew of antiseptic, cotton, and food baking in the cafeteria made his stomach clench. Something about hospitals always made him woozy. He nodded a greeting to a dark-haired man ambling toward the exit, toting a bulging duffel bag, as if leaving the hospital after a year. He guessed that feeling of freedom rivaled the one he’d experienced when he’d walked out of prison.

  Noah followed a worn trail down brown carpet, noting the few aerial photographs depicting the growth of Deep Haven on the walls. The lighthouse on the point had obviously been one of the town’s first buildings.

  Dr. Simpson waited outside his office door and stretched out his hand in greeting two paces before Noah clasped it. His long face curved into a wrinkled smile, and the warmth of his green eyes immediately slowed Noah’s pulse down a notch. “What brings you to Deep Haven Municipal Hospital, Noah?”

  “My camp, sir.” He followed Dr. Simpson into the office. The window was open and faced an empty, weedy field. An overhead fan mixed the office air with fragrant forest smells—pine, wildflowers, mossy dirt. Noah lowered himself into a wooden straight-back chair while Dr. Simpson settled into a creaky metal rolling chair from the sixties. Over the doctor’s head, a trophy rainbow trout sprang from a mount, and Noah could almost feel the breath from the moose head hanging high behind his chair. He noticed a rough-hewn statue of a bear in the corner and recognized the work of a local wood-carver, a man talented with a chain saw.