Isle of Hope (32 page)

She patted Lacey’s hand, the love in her eyes as warm as the gentle touch of her hand. “Which means, you are not doing this for your father on earth, Lacey, but for your Father in heaven, not expecting anything from Ben whatsoever, just from God. And trust me, darling—you can’t out-give God.”

“But what if I fail?” she whispered, fear nipping at her heels.

Mamaw’s chuckle was soft and low, as if failure were not even an option. “Oh, Lacey, don’t you know? God’s love
never
fails.”

In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed.

Head bent, her grandmother smiled. “So you see, sweetheart, you’re not alone in this—God’s unfailing love girds your heart with the strength to do what He’s called you to do, so failure is not an issue.” She reached to give Lacey a firm hug before rising to her feet with a hike of her brow. “The only issue here is—will you obey?”

Lacey’s eyelids fluttered closed, a sense of awe overwhelming her until tears burned hot. She used to be just like her dad—hard, cold, bitter, unwilling to give. But in the span of only months, God had opened her eyes to the depth of His love for her personally, giving her a freedom and a hope she had never experienced before. Peace suddenly purled through her body like warm oil, as if anointing her for the task ahead.

Will I?
Her silent consent came while liquid joy welled in her eyes. She glanced up, gracing her grandmother with a glorious smile. “Yes, Mamaw—I believe I will.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“Come on, Big Guy—don’t look at me like that. I’ve had a rough day and it’s too blasted hot for fishing.” Ben tried to ignore the pathetic look on Beau’s face as the little mongrel waited patiently by the front door, posture stiff while he sat on his haunches, still as a statue. How the animal knew it was Wednesday was beyond him, but he always did, as anxious to get out on the boat as Ben usually was.

Fanning fingers through his hair, Ben cocked a hip and vented with a noisy sigh. Except for tonight. Nope, tonight he was restless for some reason. The idea of fishing right now was about as appealing as one of those fancy soirees Cynthia always dragged him to. Making small talk as shallow as the sissy champagne flutes everybody carried around. Give him a highball or beer any day of the week over bubbles and chit-chat. God help him, he hated chit-chat!

God
help
him?

Ben grunted and turned on his heel. “Hounded” was more like it, badgering Ben at every turn to seek a god as phony as his best friend had been. “Pastor” Adam O’Bryen, friend, neighbor, and all-around good guy, had been the only person Ben had ever opened up to, ever let in. The progress had been slow, but after over twenty years as neighbors and friends, Adam had made inroads that nobody else ever had. A sour taste tainted Ben’s tongue.

Especially with my wife.

He lashed the fridge door open, desperate to wash the memories away with a cold beer. His lips twisted along with the cap of the O’Doul’s Tess had pestered him to buy after he’d slipped and admitted to a prior problem with alcohol in one of their patio chats.

“As a surgeon, you have no business drinking alcohol of any kind, Ben, especially with a history like that,” she’d insisted. She actually had the gall to leave a six-pack of O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer on his back step the next night with a big red bow. At the time he’d been ticked, quite sure God had never created a pushier woman, but in the end, he’d popped one open with a pizza, and it actually tasted pretty good. A smile itched on his lips, but he refused to give in. Because then it ticked him off that she’d been right. Nothing worse than a pushy woman who’s right. Especially one who’d blackmailed him with sweets to procure a promise.

“Yes, Mother, I promise to never drink alcohol again,” he’d finally pledged, just to get her off his back, figuring it couldn’t hurt to be accountable to someone who actually cared. He hadn’t imbibed since.

He took a deep draw of the O’Doul’s, actually wishing it were a hardcore brew, grunting over the irony that people devoted to God apparently drove him to drink. First his stepfather with his constant hounding about church and God over the years followed by Karen, and then a hypocrite ex-friend who stabbed him in the back. All followed up neatly by a pretty pest from next door who plied God along with her pizza and cookies. He tipped the bottle high, the non-beer going down cold and sharp, helping to take away the bad taste in his mouth from any thought of religion. He slammed the fridge door closed with too much force, the bottles inside rattling along with his nerves. And
now
he had his holy-roller daughter to contend with, who had some cock-eyed notion that Crockpot meals and his favorite desserts would crack the code.

Not a chance.

O’Doul’s in hand, Ben snatched a couple of Beggin’ Strips and peanuts from the pantry and strolled into his family room to turn on the TV. Setting the beer and peanuts down, he walked to the hall to wave the Beggin’ Strips in the air, waiting for Beau to take the bait. The dog only blinked, and Ben’s mouth cocked to the right. “Come on, buddy, I know it’s not Tess’s fried bacon, but have a heart.”

Stretching with an impatient squeal, the black lab only laid down at the front door, obviously as stubborn as Ben’s neighbor.

Not to mention my daughter.

Lacey.
Before he could squelch it, a smile crooked the edge of his lips, and shaking his head, he tossed the Beggin’ Strips onto the floor before settling back in his recliner. The kid was a chip off the old block, that was for dead sure. Karen had always been so easy to control and keep in line, it seemed, but not her daughter. Ben took another swig.
My daughter
, he reminded himself, a young woman as pigheaded as he. He stared as Jethro Gibbs slapped DiNozzo upside the head, thinking he should do the same to himself.

For opening the door even a crack.

For allowing Lacey to come over at all.

For secretly liking it when she did.

He pelted peanuts to the back of his mouth, hating to admit the kid was chipping away at his armor, earning his respect, making him smile. His molars ground the peanuts to dust.

Making me care against my will.

His eyes narrowed on the television screen, a million miles away from Ducky’s forensics lab where Gibbs’ stony demeanor kept people from getting too close, just like Ben was determined to do. As much as he was starting to look forward to Lacey’s visits, he could never let her know, never really let her in. He wasn’t going there again—allowing a woman to railroad his life. Mouth in a slant, he fired more peanuts, well aware it wouldn’t be easy. The kid was like Chinese water torture—sheer obstinacy cloaked in a smile, wearing him down with peach pie and perkiness that got on his nerves.

But only because it weakened his will to be alone, making him realize just how sterile and lonely his life really was.

He upended the beer, slamming it back till it was all gone.

Just like Tess.

The thought caught him off-guard, making him painfully aware he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Tess for over three weeks now, other than that cool look she’d given him at the fundraiser. And this from a perky pest who’d invaded his space as much as twice a week at times. He frowned, annoyed at how much he missed her. Between an overloaded docket of surgeries, weekly dinners with Lacey, and endless functions with Cynthia, he’d been too busy and spent to notice. But he was noticing now, and he didn’t like the empty feeling it left in his gut.

Clicking the remote, he silenced the TV like he wished he could silence the sudden yearning to hear Tess’s laughter again, to banter over pizza and monster cookies like before. To revel in that secret thrill of teasing her till a beautiful blush crept into her beautiful face.

Ben scowled, tossing the remote on the table.
Calm down, Carmichael, she’s only a neighbor.
He lumbered up from his chair, the sudden sprint of his pulse making a liar out of him. Snatching the Beggin’ Strips up from the floor, he strode to the sliding door and waited for Beau, well aware that the prospect of cornering a baby rabbit was far more enticing than any fake bacon. “I’ll be right back, buddy,” he called after Beau darted through, his own gaze flitting next door where Tess’s kitchen and patio light twinkled through the dense hedge. His lips quirked.
Not unlike my twinkle-toes neighbor.
With a quick inventory of his fridge and freezer, a smile eased across his face when he spotted a half-empty carton of Häagen-Dazs Tiramisu—the secret weapon Cynthia had left once and Tess had devoured. Good. Something to tempt her for a late-night chat on his patio. If she was even home. More than likely she’d be hounding him if she was. Shutting the fridge door, he checked out the hall mirror just in case, wondering why on earth he was worried about how he looked. This was Tess, for Pete’s sake, not Cynthia.

Then why are your hands sweating like a kid on a first date?

“Because it’s blasted hot outside,” he muttered, uncomfortable with the notion that it was anything more. Ducking out the front door, he rounded the hedge, grateful both Jack’s and the girls’ cars were nowhere to be found. Hands in his pockets, Ben ambled down the drive, stopping short at the sight of Tess sprawled on a chaise, eyes closed and an iPod in her ears. Hurt sliced through him so unexpectedly, he felt a flush rise in his cheeks.

She was home? By herself? And hadn’t bothered to come over?

Settle down, boy—you switched your schedule up, remember? She doesn’t even know you’re home.

Exhaling an unsteady breath, he berated himself for being so touchy over a friend and neighbor. His eyes roved the length of her and suddenly friendship was the furthest thing from his mind. Lush blonde hair usually pulled up in a ponytail spilled wild and free over bare shoulders bronzed by the sun, setting off a red crop top that put a lump in his throat. Sure, he’d always noticed Tess had a cute shape, but stretched out on the chaise in short shorts that revealed shapely legs and a taut stomach, flat-out made his mouth go dry. Swallowing hard, he attempted a casual stance with hands in his pockets and hip to the wall, striving for a calm he didn’t quite feel. “You know,” he began with a gruff clear of his throat, “anyone would think you’re avoiding me.”

The woman popped in the air like a firecracker, faintly patriotic with her red crop top, face bleached white, and blue eyes glazed with shock. She gasped with a hand to her chest, her breathing labored. “Holy freakin’ cow, Ben—are you trying to give me heart failure?”

He chuckled and strolled forward, pulling a chair from the table to sit down. He made himself comfortable with a stretch of his legs, the soles of his Sperrys casually propped on the edge of her chaise. “Nope, but if I did, then I guess I’m the guy you’d want around.”

She didn’t smile, inflicting an instant cramp in his gut. “No fishing?” she asked, avoiding his eyes while she attempted to tug her top down to cover her stomach, an action that only provided a deeper view of the cleft at her neckline.

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze from the swell of her breasts to her face, which now sported a pretty blush. Crossing his ankles on the chaise, he offered an off-handed shrug. “Nope, not in the mood. Too tired. Too hot. Too bored.”

Too lonely.

Her eyes finally connected with his, the coolness he saw chilling the sweat on his skin. “Really? I would think ‘bored’ would be just what the doctor ordered.”

He blinked, face screwed in a frown. “Are you … okay?”

“Sure,” she said, tone clipped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” His forehead wrinkled with a faint shake of his head. “You just don’t seem yourself tonight.”

“And what’s that, Ben?” she asked with a jag of a brow, “too pushy, too perky, too big a pain in the butt?” She swung her legs to the floor and stood. “Gotta go—I have things to do.”

“Wait.” He halted her with a hand to her wrist, eyes in a squint. “Are you … angry about something?”

She flicked his hand away, plunking hers to her hips. “Angry? Now why on earth would I be angry, Ben?” Her eyes sparked hot, as if he’d lit the fuse of that blasted firecracker.

He blinked, completely baffled by her behavior. Frustration swarmed as he countered, the slightest edge to his tone. “I don’t know, Tess, maybe you should tell me.”

Her arms snapped to her chest in a tight fold. “Oh, come on, Dr. Doom, surely someone bright enough to perform open-heart surgery can figure this out. Or wait,” she said, palm splayed to her chest in feigned innocence. Her blue eyes circled wide. “Maybe one doesn’t
need
a heart to operate on them.” She snatched her iPod up and turned toward the door.

“Hey—” He hooked her arm, grip firm, thoughts tumbling as fast as his heart. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Cynthia, does it, having her over?”

She jerked free, blood gorging her cheeks. “I don’t give a flip how many women you have over, Dr. Carmichael, as long as one of them is your daughter and you
don’t
gun her down with selfish and thoughtless words. Good night, Ben.”

She spun around and stalked to the door, the thought of her shutting him out strangling the words in his throat.
No!
His stomach spasmed as he shot to his feet, arm jolting the screen to a stop before it could slam in his face. “Don’t do this, Tess,” he rasped, heart battering the walls of his chest, “don’t shut me out when
you’re
the one who opened the door.”

Everything stilled when she did—his pulse, his air—emotions suspended in time while his mind did a free fall, spinning at a pace that left him breathless. Her back seemed to sag as her head bowed, and when she finally turned to face him with a glaze of tears in his eyes, all oxygen seized in his lungs.

God help me—I need her.

“Tess …” His voice was a croak as he reached for her hand, fumbling to twine his fingers through hers. “I’m no good at this, but talk to me, please.”

Her eyelids flickered closed as a reedy sigh shivered her body, and before he could stop himself, he gathered her close, tucking her head beneath his. He breathed in the scent of lemon in her hair, reminding him so much of the woman he held in his arms—fresh, clean, with just enough tart to tingle the senses. The faintest of smiles curved on his lips. “You’re right, you know. Surgically I can heal a heart better than most, but when it comes to my own, I’m totally clueless.”

An adorable grunt muffled against his chest. “Oh, so you actually have one?”

He grinned. “Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

She pulled away, the smile fading from her face. “You already have,” she whispered, “every time you turn Lacey away.”

A muscle convulsed in his throat as he nodded, gaze on the floor. “I know.”