From Ashes to Honor (16 page)

He wished Mercy
could
be a permanent part of his life. But how could he build a future and a family with a woman who'd turned her back on God?

Maybe she'd change her mind.

Something to pray about, for sure, and Austin intended to start on that, tonight.

W
hen she called Austin yesterday to finalize a convenient time for dinner, he'd agreed that a mid-afternoon meal would be best for Flora, given her weakened condition and the pain meds that made her perpetually drowsy. He'd arrive at two, Austin said, in the Callahans' low-to-the-ground sedan, to spare Flora an uncomfortable ride in his ancient pickup. It allowed plenty of time to chat and munch appetizers, too, without taxing the poor woman's cancer-abused body.

Mercy had just given the turkey another butter bath when the phone rang at eleven-thirty. It startled her so badly that she burned the back of her hand on the upper rack. But the pain was blotted out by fear and dread, because she could think of just one reason he'd call at the last minute: Flora's condition had taken a turn for the worse.

"Please tell me she's all right," she blurted.

"Flora? She's tired, but that's par for the course these days."

"Oh, thank God!"

"Interesting thing for an atheist to say, but I agree."

Running her hand under cold water, she ignored his snide remark. Why
had he
called, if not to deliver bad news?

"So, the reason I'm calling. Would it be a problem if I invited a friend to dinner? He lost his wife two years ago, and I hate to think of him, alone on a major holiday."

Mercy pictured the inside of her refrigerator, where bowls of stuffing, sweet potatoes, baked beans, and gravy awaited their turn in the oven. "The more the merrier," she said. "And if your friend wants to bring a friend, that's fine with me. There's plenty of food!"

"Thanks. From him
and
me."

When the doorbell rang two hours later, she'd just grabbed a spoon to stir the gravy. "I'm Austin's pal, Griff," said the longhaired man on her porch. "Sorry I'm early, and thanks for the invite," he said, grinning as he held up a pink-ribboned pastry box.

"I told him you didn't need to bring anything, but thanks," she said, taking it. "It's good to meet you. And I'm Mercy, by the way."

He gave her hand a light shake. "Oh, I know who you are.Austin doesn't talk about much else these days."

"
That
must make for scintillating conversation," she joked, closing the door. "Do you mind joining me in the kitchen? I know they say watched pots never boil, but experience has taught me otherwise."

Mercy noticed the angry scar on his face, despite the attempt he'd made to hide it behind all that wild and wooly hair. She also noticed the slight hitch in his step and wondered where Austin had met this rumpled, wrinkled fellow. In a soup kitchen, from the looks of him, she thought. And not on the serving side of the counter, either. How like Austin to befriend a man obviously down on his luck. "Pull up a stool," she said. "Can I get you some lemonade? Iced tea?"

"Either's fine. But I don't want to just sit here like a wart on a frog. What can I do to help?"

Since she'd spent most Thanksgiving dinners as a guest in other people's homes, Mercy remembered how much more at home she felt when her hosts gave her something productive to do. Trouble was, except for the tossed salad, she'd taken care of today's preparations. "Are you any good at chopping vegetables?"

"Are you kiddin'?" He went straight to the sink to scrub his hands. "I spent years on KP duty before I became a drill sergeant. Hand me a knife and a cutting board, and watch the peelings fly."

Laughing, Mercy lined up what he'd need to make the salad, then slid a big wooden bowl in front of him and went back to stirring pots.

"Austin said you were a knock-out, but he's said that about his women before, and in my opinion, he exaggerated, bigtime."Griff grinned. "I gotta say, this time, he earned The Understatement of the Year award."

She'd never been very good at accepting compliments, mostly, because every response felt . . .
wrong:
"Oh, no, my hair is a mess!" or "But I have a zit on my chin" made it seem she was fishing for affirmation, while a simple "Thank you" came across as vain and self-centered. "So how long have you known Austin?"

"Oh, we go way back," Griff said, peeling a green onion."I was a firefighter in New York, see, when he worked for the police department. Our stationhouses were practically side by side. He's a hard guy
not
to like, and after 9/11—"

Griff's voice faded as he focused on something beyond her left shoulder. "He's a hard guy not to like."

He's a hard guy not to
love.

"9/11," he continued, "that's when I got this limp. And the zipper that splits my face in two."

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it.

"Don't be. I got off easy." He slid the chopped onions into the bowl and carved seeds from the heart of a green pepper."There are guys who can't work 'cause they inhaled so much ash, and some who'll never walk again. I know a Port Authority cop who was blinded by flames, and everybody who survived that day attended way too many funerals. But the memorial services for first responders who were never found—those were toughest."

Mercy didn't know how to respond except to say, "Still, I'm sorry."

"Easy to see why Austin's nuts about you."

She waited, hoping he'd explain the comment, because nothing on earth could make her
ask
him to.

"You're easy to talk to." Chuckling, he added, "Guess that's why you got into the shrink business, eh?"

Had Austin told Griff how—and why—they'd met? As she grabbed a big spoon from the magnetized utensil rack above the stove, he said, "Not everybody has what it takes to counsel teenagers." Then, "What happened to your hand?"

"Got distracted basting the turkey and burned myself on the oven rack."

"Bummer. 'Cause that's gonna hurt when it's time to do the dishes."

Returning his grin, she said, "Isn't it strange that all three of us made our way from New York to Baltimore after 9/11?"

"I can name another dozen or so who moved here after things settled down. As for me?" Finished with the green pepper, he moved on to the tomato. "Austin is the sole reason I'm here."

"Oh?"

"Every time we talked, all he did was rave about the place.The food, the people, the sights. Made me miss my home town, so when my wife died," he said with a shrug, "I figured, why not leave all those ugly memories behind and start over in the place where I grew up?"

If he wanted to deliver more information about his wife's death, Griff would do it, unprompted. Mercy lifted the lid of a pot and got ready to stir the baked beans as the doorbell rang, and it wasn't until Austin eased Flora onto the sofa that she noticed the spoon, still in her hand.

"Your house is lovely, just lovely, Mercy," Flora said after a flurry of hello hugs in the foyer. "So big and bright and airy.Oh, how I wish I could maneuver the stairs, so I could see the whole space!"

"That's easy enough to arrange," Austin announced, and folded up her wheelchair. He disappeared long enough to bring it to the second floor, then returned for Flora. Bending at the waist, he scooped her into his arms. "Guess I just don't rate with the mistress of the manor."

Griff, Bud and Mercy followed like obedient pups as he carried her up the stairs. "What
are
you going on about?" Flora asked, laughing.

"Well," Austin explained, gently depositing her onto its seat, "I've been here half a dozen times, and
I
never got the nickel tour."

The instant he fixed his gorgeous blue eyes on her, Mercy's heart began battering her ribcage. Hard as it was to break the connection, she stepped in front of them and used the spoon as a microphone. "This, lady and gents, is the guest room," she said, aping Leo's accent. "It has its own walk-in closet and a full bath, complete with a whirlpool tub." A little farther down the hall, she stopped again. "And this is my office. Notice the book-lined shelves—evidence of my brilliance and my well-readedness."

" 'Readedness,' " Bud said. "Is that even a
word?"

Flora giggled. "'Course not, silly man. You're not the only one who gets a kick out of teasing folks, you know."

How good it was to see the smile on her pallid face. Judging by the way her clothes hung from her bony frame, Mercy guessed that Flora had lost twenty pounds in the past month alone. At this rate, she'd waste away by Christmas.

She forced the depressing thought from her mind and continued the tour. "Here," she said, walking backward, "is the master bedroom, with a different view of Charm City."

"Isn't she just
adorable,"
Flora gushed, squeezing Austin's hand.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "She's adorable, all right. A regular Vanna White. Only shorter, without blond hair. And with an English accent."

He'd grinned to say it, but the smile never quite made it to his eyes. Was it all in her head, or had he actually grown cool and distant in the weeks? So much for Lady Luck granting her wish that he'd forgiven her for her tirade.

Bud's blustery voice interrupted her worried thoughts. "I'd probably get lost," he said, "end up wandering around for hours up here if I tried to use the head in the middle of the night." He peered into the master bedroom and said "Wait! I know! You have one of those handy map gizmos, don't you, and it's programmed to help you find your way around this huge place."

Laughing, they made their way back to the living room, where Mercy had set out an array of hors d'oeuvres and soft drinks. An Eagles tune thumped quietly from the stereo system.If Austin recognized it as the same song he'd played the night she had dinner on his boat, he gave no sign of it. Another layer of evidence that he had constructed a wall between them, brick by brick, or proof, instead, that her imagination was working overtime?

"I'll just be a few minutes," she said, starting for the hall."Some fine-tuning of a couple things, and dinner, as they said in those quaint old black and white movies, will be served."

It was a bold-faced lie. She'd prepared everything, right down to matches to light the centerpiece candles, before Austin arrived with the Callahans. He'd never led her to believe they were more than friends. So why had his behavior unsettled her?

Memory of that last kiss hovered in her mind. Eyes closed, she put a spin on the old Don't Drink and Drive commercial, "Friends don't kiss friends that way," she whispered.

"What's that?"

Mercy lurched, nearly overturning the gravy boat on its saucer. "Good grief," she blurted, "You scared me half to death! I'll bet you shaved ten years off the end of my life."

"Sorry. But if it's any consolation, those last ten are the worst years, anyway."

"In that case, thanks. I think."

Austin chuckled. "Need a hand with anything?"

"Actually, yes. Soon as I get all the side dishes into bowls and onto the table, will you slice the turkey?"

It was a simple question, and shouldn't have made him look so out-and-out uncomfortable. Then she remembered Thanksgiving at a sorority sister's house, when the dad handed the carving knife to his oldest son. Mercy didn't remember every word of the little speech, but the essence remained: Turkey carving was seen by some as an honor, a family tradition not to be taken lightly. Maybe Austin saw it that way, too, and her invitation felt more like a shove toward commitment.

"I've never done it before, so no doubt I'd just make mincemeat of it," she said, laughing to hide her embarrassment.

"This is the Callahans' last Thanksgiving together, and I'll do anything I can to make it a happy memory for them. So sure, I'll carve the bird."

It broke her heart to hear the chill in his once-warm voice.What had she done to rile him so?

And then she remembered the night, right here at this counter, when she'd explained why she couldn't put her faith in the being he called God. Her dad warned her that some Christians' devotion to their Lord could never be shaken by dissenting opinions, while others refused to associate with those whose beliefs differed from their own. If Austin shared allegiance with the second group, it was best for both of them to acknowledge the differences now, before she got in any deeper, before her heart was—

"What happened to your hand?"

"Burned it basting the turkey," she said, leaving out the part about how his phone call had been what startled her. "I'm out of regular bandages, and had to resort to gauze and white tape.It looks a lot worse than it is."

"Did you put antibiotic ointment on it?" She nodded.

"Good. Keep that dressing on it, and the blister won't pop."

"Yes, doctor."

One brow quirked as he studied her face. Looking for signs of sarcasm? she wondered. If so, who could blame him?

"Why don't you show me which bowls to fill, and I'll help you get 'em on the table."

There . . . a glimmer of the warmth she'd come to treasure.Mercy wanted to applaud! Instead, she quickly explained where each side dish should go. Moments later, as she arranged the platters and bowls and lit the centerpiece tapers, Austin rolled

Flora's wheelchair up to the square dining table, still grinning.And this time, the smile reached his eyes.

Clearly, she'd jumped to conclusions. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. As a therapist, she could blame abandonment issues for her tendency to search out the weaknesses in every relationship. And because she'd spent so many years analyzing the behavior of others, she knew full well it was a flimsy excuse, at best. Because it had been decades since her mother had left, then died. Instead of jumping to the conclusion that every cross look or sharp word had some grim connection to her tantrum, why not focus on the possibility that Austin had already begun grieving over the loss of his dear friend? Kindness and understanding as Flora's condition deteriorated would go a lot farther toward closing the gap between them than whiny self-pity!

"Oh, Mercy, the table is pretty enough to be featured on the cover of a magazine. Isn't it just lovely, honey?"

"Yeah, it looks right nice," Bud said, sitting to her right.

Austin stood to her left, poised to slice into the golden bird.

"Wait!" she said, hands raised as if she were the victim of a holdup. "You can't start yet!"