03_The Unexpected Gift (6 page)

Taking a deep breath, Grant turned toward his brother-in-law. Bill took that as a signal to move forward, and he made his way down the aisle to slide into the pew beside Grant.

“I don’t know what to do,” Grant said, his face haggard, his eyes anguished.

“It’s not an easy decision,” Bill acknowledged.

“I know it sounds selfish, but if I let her go, that part of my life is over forever.” His voice broke on the last word.

Bill’s eyes filled with compassion. “I think it’s over anyway, Grant,” he said, his voice gentle.

Grant closed his eyes, and a spasm of pain contorted his face. “I know,” he whispered, looking up at the cross over the altar. When he spoke again, his voice was pensive. “It’s odd, really. I guess you could say, in a way, that this is the answer to my prayers.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the past few months, I’ve been asking the Lord to either take Christine home or give her back to me. But I didn’t think He was going to leave the final decision in my hands.” Grant turned to Bill. “I want to do the right thing. I want to abide by God’s will. But I don’t know the rules of this game. What am I
supposed
to do?”

“God has great respect for life, Grant. But in every way except for her physical body, Christine is gone. Only artificial means can keep her alive. In a case like this, I think God would want us to release her so that she can go home. To Him.”

Grant knew that Bill was right. In his heart, he’d known it all along. The decision was straightforward. But that didn’t mean it was easier to make. He bowed his head, fighting back tears. After a few seconds, he felt Bill’s hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to decide today, Grant.”

“It’s not…” His voice broke once more, and he tried again. “It’s not going to get any easier.” He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “There’s no reason to wait. It will just prolong the agony for everyone. I—I’ll let the doctor know.”

“Would you like to take a moment to pray first?” At Grant’s nod, Bill bowed his head and placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Lord, we ask You for Your sustaining strength in the days ahead as we prepare to make this difficult, final journey, and to say goodbye. We commend Christine now to Your loving care as we release her from the constraints of this earthly life, confident in Your promise that eye has not seen, ear has not heard, what God has prepared for those who love Him. We know Christine was Your loving and faithful daughter. Welcome her home now, to her eternal reward. And give comfort and strength to those of us left behind, so that we can continue to live Your word as we prepare for the day when we, too, will be called home to join those we love in the joy of Your presence.”

For a long moment the two men sat in silence, but at last Grant stood. “Let’s find the doctor.”

They spoke with the physician first, then returned to the waiting room. One look at their grim expressions was all it took for those gathered to discern Grant’s decision. Stella’s face crumpled and she groped for Marshall’s hand, Andrew stood and embraced his son, Pete pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose, and Kit let the tears stream, unchecked, down her face.

They all took turns paying a final visit to Christine. Grant went last, and as he stood on the threshold of her room, the full impact of his decision began to register. For two-and-a-half years, he’d planned his life around his visits to his wife. Now that life was coming to an end. This was his last visit.

Grant moved into the room and made his way to the side of the bed. Christine’s face was partially obscured by the respirator, her chest rising and falling to its mechanical rhythm. With distaste, he scanned the complicated machinery and equipment that surrounded her, keeping her body alive. He knew this wasn’t what she would have wanted. The woman he married had had sparkle and vibrancy and enthusiasm. She had been more alive than anyone he’d ever met, embracing each day with joy and anticipation. Trapping her in a useless body when everything else that defined her was already gone would be wrong. And despite his grief, a sudden peace settled over him.

He reached for her cool hand, then sat on the bed beside her. “I’ve come to say goodbye, Christine,” he said, his voice ragged. “I hope somehow you know what’s in my heart, even if you can’t hear me. Because the love I feel for you has never dimmed. And it never will. When you leave, you’ll take a part of me with you. The part that is yours for always.” He searched her face, and the anguish in his eyes was as searing as a white-hot poker laid against bare skin. When he spoke again, his voice was raw with pain. “Dear God, I wish things could have been different! I wish you had recovered, and we could have lived the life we looked forward to with such joy. I wish we could have raised the children we wanted, and grown old together to enjoy our grandchildren. But that wasn’t in God’s plan for us. I don’t understand why this happened. I never will. But I’ve tried very hard to accept it, and to be grateful for the brief time we had together. It was a blessing I’ll cherish all of my life.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then reached up with trembling fingers to brush the hair back from her face. “Goodbye, my love,” he whispered. “Rest in peace now. And never forget how much I love you.”

Grant stood, grasping a piece of equipment for support when his legs threatened to buckle. For a full minute, he stared down at Christine’s face, the image blurring as tears ran down his face. Finally he forced himself to walk toward the door.

As he reached for the handle he turned, allowing himself one last moment alone with his wife. One last moment to recall the joy he’d known with this special woman. Then calling up every ounce of his courage, he opened the doors and motioned to the waiting nurse.

Concern furrowing her brow, Morgan glanced again at the clock. Eight-thirty. Though she had only known him a short time, Grant didn’t strike her as the type to be late for a meeting. Not without calling to explain.

Pulling out her Blackberry, she searched for his home number, then punched it in. But after three rings, his answering machine kicked in. She called his work number next, surprised to discover it was a cabinet shop. Kincaid Woodworks. There’d been little talk of business on Christmas, but she did recall Grant’s father mentioning something about a shipment of lumber. It hadn’t registered until now. So Kincaid Woodworks must be a family business. And Grant must be a carpenter. Interesting. She’d just assumed he had some sort of office job.

But that didn’t matter now, she reminded herself. If Grant wasn’t going to show, she needed to get back to Boston.

Maybe Kit would know where he was, she speculated, retrieving the tiny Seaside phone book she’d noticed in the kitchen. But again, she got an answering machine. This time, though, she left a message.

As she hung up, Morgan decided to give Grant until nine. Then she was out of here.

In the end, she gave him until nine-thirty. Finally, her patience exhausted, she packed up her car and headed back to Boston.

Half an hour later, as she pulled onto the highway for the long drive south, she tried to concentrate on the ad campaign that had interrupted her holiday meal. She needed to have some ideas ready to present to the client by Wednesday.

But though she gave it a mighty effort, she couldn’t focus.

Because something back in Seaside just didn’t feel right

“Morgan? It’s Kit Adams.”

A tingle of alarm raced along Morgan’s spine, and she tightened her grip on the receiver. She remembered Kit’s voice as lilting and upbeat, but the woman on the other end of the line sounded shaky and tearful.

“Is something wrong?”

“I got your message. And Grant sends his apologies for missing your meeting. But we…we’ve had a death in the family.” Her voice was so choked she had trouble speaking.

“I’m so sorry,” Morgan said, thinking of Grant’s father and uncle. But they’d both seemed in good health. “Was it someone…close?”

“Very. Grant’s wife, Christine, suffered a massive stroke on Sunday night. It left her…brain dead…and unable to breathe on her own…so Grant made the decision to…to discontinue life support.” Kit’s voice caught on a sob.

Morgan stared at the bleak, gray Boston sky outside her window, her face a mask of shock as she tried to assimilate Kit’s news. “I’m so sorry. I…I didn’t even know Grant was married.”

Kit sniffled. “For six years. Two and a half years ago, while they were on a hiking vacation, Christine fell and suffered a head injury. She’s been in a coma ever since.”

Morgan closed her eyes. “I had no idea,” she whispered.

“Most of us gave up hope of her recovery a long time ago,” Kit said, her voice still unsteady. “But Grant never did. He visited her every day. I think he always believed that one day he’d walk in and find her awake, waiting for him. But it…it never happened. And now the Lord has called her home. Even though most of us expected it to happen at some point, it’s still such a shock.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Morgan asked, feeling helpless.

“Just pray for him,” Kit said tearfully. “Because as hard as the past two and a half years have been for him, saying goodbye will be even worse.”

M
organ turned up the collar of her coat as a gust of icy wind lashed at her body, making the struggle across the uneven ground at the cemetery more difficult. She supposed she could have remained at the church, as many had, while the family and close friends concluded the funeral rite with the final commendation to the grave. After all, she didn’t fall into either of those categories. And maybe she shouldn’t even have come. Maybe she was infringing on what was intended to be a very private service.

But she’d wanted to be here, for the whole thing—even if it did mean taking a day off work. Though she and Grant might be very different, connected only by chance through an unexpected gift from Aunt Jo, she wanted to let him know, by her presence, that she cared. And that she grieved for his loss.

Morgan’s thin gloves didn’t offer much protection from the biting wind, so she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. While she waited for the final, brief service to begin, her thoughts turned to the woman Grant had loved. After speaking with family and friends last night at the visitation, and listening to the eulogies today, it was clear that Christine had been a very special woman. Intelligent. Talented. Loving. With a deep faith that had been the guiding force in her life.

But the accolades hadn’t been only for Christine. She’d learned a lot about Grant, too, as family and friends had praised his steadfast loyalty, his faithfulness and his unwavering devotion. Morgan couldn’t even begin to comprehend the overwhelming sense of loss he must be feeling. She only hoped that the tremendous outpouring of love and support he’d received over the past couple of days, and the overflowing crowd at the church, had offered him some comfort.

Bill took his place beside the casket, and motioned everyone to move closer. Morgan complied, but still remained somewhat in the background. Grant and Kit sat in front, their hands entwined. Andrew was on the other side of Grant, his hand resting on his son’s knee. Pete was up front, too, of course, as were Kit’s twins. So were Christine’s parents, whom she’d met the night before.

And Grant’s mother was there, as well. She’d arrived last night, too late to visit the funeral home, so Morgan hadn’t met her. But she’d overheard someone at church point her out to a friend. From various conversations, she’d discovered that Grant’s parents were separated, that his mother had a prestigious job in Boston with a big-name financial firm, and that she was somewhat estranged from the family.

As everyone settled into place and Bill began the brief graveside service, Morgan sent Grant’s mother a curious glance. Her fashionable clothing was elegant rather than trendy, and her hair and makeup were perfect. She sat at the far end of the front row, and Morgan noted that she glanced at her watch several times while Bill spoke.

As the service ended, Morgan’s gaze shifted back to Grant. He stood, shook Bill’s hand, then turned to greet those who moved forward to speak with him. Again, Morgan felt out of place and moved a few steps farther away. She’d given him her condolences last night; she didn’t need to intrude on this final, private moment.

Slowly, people began to drift back toward their cars, leaving just the immediate family around the casket. As Morgan turned to go, as well, she caught sight of Grant’s mother, standing off to one side. She watched as the woman checked her pager, then turned her back on the group gathered at the grave site and withdrew her cell phone from her purse. After punching in a number, she put the phone to her ear.

With a jolt, Morgan recognized herself. She’d done something very similar at Aunt Jo’s funeral. It was obvious that, like Morgan, Grant’s mother was a workaholic. While her son was saying his final goodbye to his wife, she was on her cell phone taking care of business instead of comforting him.

Morgan suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

She turned away sharply, almost as if she’d been slapped, and stumbled toward her car, pausing just once to glance back. Bill and Grant were the only ones left at the grave site now, and the minister had his arm around Grant’s shoulders. Grant’s head was bowed, and his hand rested on the coffin. He nodded at something Bill said, then the minister turned away, leaving Grant alone with his pain.

Morgan’s heart contracted, and she felt an unexpected, overpowering urge to go to him, to touch him, to ease his sense of loss, to let him know he wasn’t alone. But that wasn’t within her power. Nor was it her place.

So she turned away, leaving him to his final, private moment of wrenching grief. And as she got into her car, it occurred to her how very lucky Christine had been to be loved by a man like Grant. Maybe he wasn’t successful in the worldly sense. Maybe he didn’t have a high-powered job and make an executive’s salary. But as she’d learned in the past few days, he had other compensations in his life. Like love. And family. And faith.

And she’d learned something else, as well. Grant Kincaid was a kind, decent, faithful man who had deeply loved his wife and lived the vows he’d taken on his wedding day long after most would have collapsed under the burden and relinquished their responsibilities.

As strange as it seemed, Morgan found herself envying a dead woman. Because even though Christine’s life with Grant had been brief, it was clear that it had been full and happy, based on a profound, abiding love that transcended even death.

The kind of love Morgan had never known.

And all at once her eyes flooded with tears.

For Grant’s loss.

And for her own.

“Morgan, there’s a Grant Kincaid out front for you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he’s a hottie! I figured I’d check with you before I told him to get lost.”

Startled, Morgan looked up at the receptionist, the ad layouts strewn on her desk forgotten. After the funeral, Morgan hadn’t expected to see Grant again until the Good Shepherd board meeting in Portland in January. What had brought him to Boston? And, more specifically, to her office?

“Go ahead and send him back, Lauren,” Morgan said.

“Sure thing. Let me know if you need me to take notes or anything,” she said with a wink.

When Grant appeared in her office door a couple of minutes later, Morgan had to agree with Lauren. Despite the weariness in his face, and the sadness that lurked in the depths of his eyes, Grant Kincaid was a man who could make women’s heads turn.

He was dressed in a sheepskin-lined jacket and worn jeans that hugged his lean hips. His hair was a bit wind-blown and his eyes were an intense blue in the midday sun that streamed in her large office window, which offered a panoramic view of the Boston skyline. Her gaze dropped to the hands that had mesmerized her on Christmas before she forced it back to his face.

She stood and held out her hand. “Good morning, Grant. Come in.”

He returned her greeting, his grip sure and firm. “Sorry for the unexpected visit, but I had to come to Boston to take some measurements for a new commission and I thought I’d drop off some additional Good Shepherd material. I planned to give it to you when we met after Christmas, but…” A shaft of pain ricocheted through his eyes, and he cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was in the neighborhood, and with the board meeting coming up, I figured I’d just deliver it in person.” He held out a large manila envelope.

“I’ll be sure to review it before the meeting,” she promised, setting it on her credenza. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want to keep you from your work.” He surveyed her cluttered desk.

“It’ll wait. Have a seat.” She punched the button for the intercom. “Lauren, could you bring my visitor a cup of coffee?” She settled into her chair and turned her attention back to Grant. “So, how are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess. I’m just trying to take it a day at a time right now. Thank you again for coming for the funeral. I didn’t expect that. I know it’s a long trip.”

“I wanted to be there. For myself. And maybe to represent Aunt Jo. You and she must have been great friends.”

“Yes, we were. I met her at church when I was eleven, right after my parents separated, and she became sort of a mother figure to me. So I knew her for more than a quarter of a century. For the past fifteen years, I’ve handled all of the maintenance and upkeep at Serenity Point.”

Lauren interrupted then with the coffee, lingering as long as possible. When she finally left, Morgan spoke again.

“I noticed how well cared for the place is. And the furnishings in the cottage are beautiful. There’s a lot of original art, and some of the wood furniture is gorgeous.”

“Jo believed in supporting local artists and craftspeople, and my family benefited from that philosophy. My father made the bookcase by the window in the living room, and my uncle made the rocking chair.”

“I’m impressed. What about the secretary?” She’d noticed that piece in particular, with its intricate carving and mullioned glass doors.

“That’s one of mine.”

“Now I’m even more impressed. It’s beautiful.” She reached for a pen and played with it, her face thoughtful.

“You know, I had no idea what your profession was until I called your shop the day of our meeting. I was…surprised…when I found out you were a carpenter.”

Grant stiffened. He knew what that look on her face meant.
Can’t you do better?
He’d seen it before, on occasion, and it used to make him feel compelled to defend his choice of profession. But not anymore. He was fine with his life’s work, and if others weren’t, that was their problem. So he gave his standard answer to her reaction. “Yes. Just like the greatest man that ever lived,” he said with quiet conviction.

His withdrawal was palpable, and Morgan knew that she had offended him. Which had in no way been her intent. But she supposed her response could have been interpreted as snobbish. In her circle, people who worked with their hands were somehow held in lower esteem than the people who carried cell phones and pagers and had power lunches every day. After all, the “white-shirt” crowd was doing important things. Things that mattered.

Like creating fleeting ad campaigns for toothpaste, she thought, sparing the layout in front of her a quick glance.

By contrast, the beautiful secretary created by Grant was a work of art, destined to be a treasured heirloom that would be passed from generation to generation.

Suddenly she felt ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Grant,” she said, her voice contrite. “That didn’t come out quite right. My own father worked with his hands. In a different way, though. He was a simple farmer who loved the land. A good man, who worked too hard and died too young.”

A wave of melancholy washed over her, and her eyes grew sad. Her dad had been a good father. But she’d seen what heartache—and hardship—and an unstable profession that depended on the vagaries of the weather could do to a person. She’d wanted a more forgiving career for herself, one that offered security and steady income, as well as the luxuries that she’d never known growing up. She had those now. Yet something still seemed to be missing. Something she hadn’t yet defined—on purpose—because somehow she sensed that it represented a threat to the life she’d constructed with such care and singular focus. And that scared her.

Realizing that the silence had lengthened, she continued. “Anyway, I had the greatest respect for him and his choice of career. We all have to march to the beat of our own drummer.”

There had been an appealing softness in Morgan’s eyes when she’d spoken about her father, Grant realized. And for just an instant he’d glimpsed in her what his father had commented on once—a sense of yearning, or perhaps searching. As if the life she had chosen was perhaps not the one that best suited her—and she knew it. Not on a conscious level, perhaps. But somewhere deep inside.

“No offense taken,” he assured her.

She gave him a grateful smile. “Good. Then tell me more about Good Shepherd Camp. And how Aunt Jo got involved.”

“I can take the credit—or the blame—for that.”

“How so? When I talked to Mary, she said Aunt Jo had been involved for many years. Long before you were an adult.”

“That’s right. As I said, when I first met Jo, my parents had just separated. I was pretty angry at the world, and I’d started to get into some minor trouble at school. Jo not only took me under her wing, but found Good Shepherd for me. If you’ve read the material I sent earlier, you know it’s a Christian camp for troubled children. She thought it would be a good environment for me and, as usual, she was right. It gave me a new perspective and helped me establish a solid foundation for my faith. I went every summer until I was sixteen, and then worked for a number of years while I was in school as a counselor. I still volunteer as a counselor one week each summer.”

“But now there are problems with the camp?”

“Yes. Our operating costs are continuing to climb and donations no longer cover our expenses. So the camp is facing a severe financial crisis that could put us out of business. Yet the need for the camp is as critical now as ever. Maybe more so. I told you my story, but we have kids today who come from far worse situations than I did, who are in desperate need of guidance and a loving hand. Society has already written off some of them. But we give them another chance. For a lot of the kids, it’s their last hope of a turnaround. We don’t reach everybody, of course. But a significant number do respond. So we want to do everything we can to keep Good Shepherd running.”

Morgan was impressed by Grant’s passion for the camp, and by his determination to keep it solvent. Most of the people of her acquaintance only got excited about things that offered some sort of pay-off. The old what’s-in-it-for-me routine. But Grant really cared about this cause. Even though he’d paid off his own debt to the camp long ago, he was still committed to supporting it because it might help other people. It reminded her of the way her sister, A.J., operated. She was always more concerned with helping others than helping herself, an attitude that had cost her—in more ways than one. And Morgan was sure it had cost Grant in ways he hadn’t articulated.