Rainbow's End (5 page)

Doubt clouded Keith's eyes. “He's pretty little. I don't think his odds are too great.”

Once more Jill looked up, and he didn't miss the stubborn tilt of her chin. “I don't plan to give up without a fight. And I bet this little guy won't, either. My record with baby birds is pretty good.”

Without waiting for him to respond, she set off across the field. As Keith fell into step beside her, a sudden chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

At the unexpected sound she came to an abrupt stop and stared at him. “What's so funny?”

A wry grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “The woman at the shop in Eastsound told me that you liked to take in strays, and I had this image in my mind of an eccentric spinster lady with dozens of cats roaming all over her house. Not a young woman who rescues baby birds. I guess that shows how wrong preconceptions can be.”

For several moments she continued to look at him, her expression solemn. “You were wrong about the cats, anyway.” She struck off again toward the house.

His grin faded. He'd meant the comment as a compliment; instead, he'd upset her. Again. In half a dozen long strides he caught up to her.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.” She didn't slow her pace. Nor did she respond. “Look, the reason I came over was to say thank you for all the work you did at the cottage. It doesn't even look like the same place. And the soup was a bonus. It brought back a lot of happy memories. My mom used to make chicken soup, and back when times were simpler, it was the solution to a lot of life's problems. One bowl, and everything was right with the world again.”

Her pace slowed a bit, and she looked down to stroke the baby bird's head. “I wish it were that easy.” Her voice was so soft he had to lean close to catch her comment.

They'd reached the back porch and he stopped at the bottom of the steps as she ascended. There was a world of meaning in her simple remark. A profound sadness that touched his soul. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. When his husky tone brought a startled look to her face, he cleared his throat and gestured toward the bird. “I could build you a little box to keep it in.”

Dipping her head, she shielded her eyes from his view. “That's okay. I've got one in the kitchen that will do. But thank you.”

With that she retreated to the house and closed the door.

Long after she'd disappeared inside, Keith remained at the bottom of the steps, his expression pensive. The woman in the store had been right. His landlady did take in strays. She'd
adopted an abandoned baby bird, determined to nurse it back to health. She wanted to help the ragtag little boy. She'd given him shelter when he had nowhere else to go. But while she tended to those in need, who tended to her?

Shoving his fists into his pockets, Keith turned and set out across the meadow. His distraction blinded him to the flowers all around him, which were struggling upright again after the storm, and to the spruce trees that were shaking the weight of the rain off their boughs and once more lifting them to the heavens.

Nor did he see the woman peering from behind a curtain in the upper window, who watched him go.

F
or the first few days, Keith didn't stray far from Rainbow's End. He hiked a little in Moran State Park, spent hours watching the sea from a nearby rocky beach, took long naps and prepared simple meals from the provisions he'd bought at the general store a few miles down the road. For the most part, he was content to let the peace and quiet of the place seep into his soul.

He saw no further evidence of the mysterious little boy who stayed on the fringes of the property. Nor did he see much of his landlady. Once he happened to catch a glimpse of her when she ventured out to the toolshed. Another time he saw a light burning in an upstairs window late into the night. Beyond that, there was no sign of life at the house.

Only when his supplies began to dwindle did Keith decide it was time for another trip into town. Besides, he owed his father a call, and his cell phone didn't work here. He'd left a message on his father's machine the day after the storm, when he'd gone into town for groceries, but it had been cryptic. He owed his dad more than that, after all the support and love he'd provided when Keith's world had collapsed.

As he headed out the door, his camera caught his eye, and on impulse he reached for the case. He hadn't had much interest in taking photos in quite a while, but this island was special in a way he couldn't quite define. He might see something that would pique his interest enough to motivate him to get the camera out of the case.

Two hours later, after exploring a bit in Eastsound and stocking up on provisions, he found a pay phone and placed a call to his dad's cell number. When his father picked up, Keith could hear the sound of a saw in the background. He pictured the older man, solid and hearty, dressed in his typical work attire of worn jeans and a cotton shirt, his bristly white hair standing at attention in the crew cut style he'd always favored, a stubby pencil stuck behind his ear.

“Dad, it's Keith. Is this a good time?”

“It's always a good time to hear from you, son.” The warmth in the older man's voice soothed Keith like a healing balm. “I got your message the other night, but it was scratchy. Did you say you were in San Juan? I thought you were heading west, not south.”

A smile lifted the corners of Keith's mouth. “I'm in the San Juan Islands, Dad. Off the coast of Washington State. A beautiful little spot called Orcas Island.”

There was a moment of silence as Bob Michaels tried to recall when his son had last noticed beauty. He couldn't even remember. Perhaps this, finally, was the turning point he'd been praying for since Keith had walked away from the traumatic memories that had distorted and darkened his vision of the world.
Thank you, Lord,
he whispered in the silence of his heart.

“And what's so special about Orcas Island?” Bob asked, after swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“It's quiet here. And peaceful. Not like anywhere I've ever been. I don't know quite how to describe it, except that it feels like a place apart from the world, where you can regroup and make a fresh start.” Keith didn't mention that his unique landlady added to the specialness of the place.

“Sounds mighty fine. Where are you staying?”

“A little cottage. There are very few people for miles around. It's just the forest and the mountains and the sea.”

“Staying there for a spell might do you good. How are you fixed for cash?”

Leave it to his dad to home right in on a looming problem. “I'm okay for now. I might try to pick up some carpentry work if I decide to hang around for a while.”

“You need a few dollars to tide you over, son?”

“No. I'm okay. But thanks for asking. How are you doing?”

“Can't complain.”

That was his father's standard response. Keith couldn't remember one occasion when Bob Michaels had grumbled or griped about anything, even though he'd had his share of sorrow. His first son stillborn. A wife who died far too young, when Keith was only twelve, of a congenital heart defect. All the challenges of single parenthood. Watching a beloved father who suffered from the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's slowly slip away. Yet he'd never become disheartened. Nor had his faith ever wavered. Keith wished he'd inherited his dad's ability to stand firm through the storms of life.

“I'll call again soon,” Keith promised. “My cell doesn't work here, so I have to go into town and use a public phone. I don't know the phone number of the woman who owns the cottage, but I'll get it and give it to you next time I call in case you need to reach me.”

“That would be great. In the meantime, I'm going to look up those San Juan Islands in my Rand McNally. Sounds like a spot I might want to visit one of these days.”

“You'd like it here, dad. Lots of good fishing, I bet.”

“My kind of place for sure, then. You take care now, son. And God be with you.”

That was how his father always ended their conversations, Keith mused as he replaced the receiver. Asking God to walk with his son. Funny. In his old life, he'd always been the one to invoke that blessing on his father, who would respond in kind. Now the roles were reversed. Except Keith never returned the sentiment. Why bother, when God and he weren't on the same wavelength anymore? Still, it gave Keith some sense of comfort to hear the words from his father. And who knew? Maybe God would listen to him.

 

Jill didn't know any young child who could resist homemade chocolate chip cookies, still warm from the oven and washed down with a tall glass of cold milk. She'd whipped up a batch of dough three days ago, and it had been sitting in the refrigerator waiting for the little boy to appear at the edge of the woods. But her young friend didn't seem inclined to make his presence known when Keith was around.

However, she'd heard the crunch of gravel on her driveway a couple of hours ago, meaning Keith had gone out. She'd been watching the woods ever since from the window of her spare-bedroom-turned-studio. So far, though, she'd seen no sign of her young caller. If he didn't come soon, she'd have to bake the cookies and either eat them or send them over to Keith.

At the thought of her paying guest, Jill combed her fingers through her hair and tried to still the nervous flutter in her
stomach. Although he seemed nice enough, she felt edgy and tense in his presence. A feeling prompted, she suspected, by the deliberate way he'd looked at her scar that first day, then commented about it instead of ignoring it. She wasn't used to that kind of blatant, almost matter-of-fact perusal. And she wasn't sure she wanted to
get
used to it. For reasons she wasn't inclined to consider.

As she daubed bright color on the canvas in front of her, she wondered what the island people thought of her reclusive life. She supposed most would attribute it to vanity, but she knew better. Any vanity she might once have had had been expunged long ago. No, she'd withdrawn from the world for other reasons. Weariness, for one. She'd grown tired of dealing with the questioning looks, the averted glances, the expressions of pity. Tired and sad. It grieved her that no one could see past her scars to the woman she'd once been. Or was even willing to try.

Then Keith Michaels had walked into her life, and for the first time a stranger had looked at her as a person. Yes, he'd been shocked initially. As Deb would say, that was just human nature. The scars were horrendous. But once he'd recovered, he'd looked at her in a way no one, except her family, had since the accident. Like he could accept her disfigurement, could see past it to the tender heart that still beat within her. In his eyes she'd detected compassion and kindness and acceptance. It had been the kind of look that could engender friendship.

But if she opened the door to friendship, she'd have to talk about what had happened. And she wasn't ready to do that yet. Maybe she never would be. The hurt went too deep, the loss was too grievous. Burying those emotions had been her best
coping mechanism, and she was afraid to upset the delicate balance she'd created in her life. Talking about them would be as painful as ripping the crust off a newly formed scab.

That's why she'd kept herself scarce over the past few days. She didn't want to run into her tenant again. Besides, she had plenty of work to do in the studio—even if she was starting to go stir-crazy. Her pattern had been to spend part of every day outside, walking to the shore, working in her garden, painting in the early-morning and late-afternoon light. Being cooped up didn't suit her for extended periods. She'd spent way too much time in sterile environments, confined to antiseptic-smelling hospitals, sequestered in darkened rooms. She needed fresh air and sunlight like she needed water and food.

As a result, she wasn't sorry to hear Keith drive off that morning. Nor was she surprised when she spotted the young boy at the edge of the field half an hour later.

Moving into high gear, she cleaned her brushes. Then she headed for the kitchen to scoop out dough for the first tray of cookies, her foot tapping out an impatient rhythm as they baked. How could ten minutes seem like forever?
Please, Lord, let the boy stay around long enough for me to make contact,
she prayed.

When at last the cookies were done, she put eight on a plate and poured a tall glass of milk. Tucking a copy of
Tom Sawyer
—retrieved from a long-packed box of books—under her arm, she pulled on her hat and headed out, forcing herself to walk at a slow pace that wouldn't frighten him away.

As she approached, he ducked behind a boulder, peeking out as she deposited the plate and milk on a rock. He remained motionless as she moved off a bit to sit in the shade of an old apple tree gone wild, her back against the trunk as she munched on a cookie.

“I brought some cookies and milk for you, too, in case you're hungry,” she called out. “And I thought you might like to know how our little bird is faring. He's eating, and he's starting to get a few feathers. I named him Homer.” She kept up a steady stream of banter, and as she talked the young boy eased closer, casting furtive looks into the woods over his shoulder. When he reached the treat she'd set out, he gobbled up the cookies, downed the milk in one long gulp, then retreated to his place behind the boulders.

Reaching for the book, Jill opened it to the first page. “I found one of my favorite books the other day. It's a story about a young boy who has some great adventures. I thought I'd read it again.” Pitching her voice to a volume he could hear, she began to speak the words she recalled from her childhood.

For a long time, only the sound of her voice broke the stillness in the meadow. She noticed that her young friend settled into a more comfortable position beside the rocks instead of crouching, poised to flee, as was his typical stance. A good sign, she concluded. He seemed to be more relaxed around her today.

Or at least he was until the scrunch of tires on the gravel announced her tenant's return.

One thing Jill didn't have to worry about was her young visitor's hearing. The second the sound registered he was on his feet. When a quick glance confirmed that a car was coming up the drive, he took off at a run, disappearing into the woods in a flash.

Sighing, Jill rose and gathered up the remnants of his snack. Not a crumb remained on the plate, causing her to wonder yet again if he got enough to eat at home—wherever that might be. She'd also noticed that he'd been wearing the same clothes today as on other occasions, suggesting a life of either extreme
poverty or neglect. Like the baby bird she was tending, her young visitor looked like he could use some TLC.

As she started back toward the house, she was surprised to see Keith's car slowing by her front porch. She supposed he might be stopping by to tell her that he was moving on. A sudden pang in the pit of her stomach caught her unaware, and she frowned. She'd known that he was only planning to stay a few days. And she'd seen very little of him during his visit. In fact, she'd gone to great lengths to avoid him. In light of that, why should the thought of his departure produce such an empty feeling deep inside?

Before she could analyze her reaction, Keith got out of the car and headed her way, balancing a large pizza box in his hands. When he drew close the savory aroma wafted her way, setting off a rumble in her stomach that reminded her she hadn't yet had lunch.

A furrow creased his brow when he saw the empty plate and glass in her hand, and his step faltered. “Did you eat lunch already? I was hoping you'd join me. I picked this up in town and it's way too much for one person. Besides, I owe you a meal after that great soup you left for me.”

Surprised by the unexpected invitation, Jill eyed the box as she searched for her voice. She hadn't had pizza in ages. Once, in a long-ago life, it had been a menu staple for her family on Friday night as they celebrated the end of the workweek by indulging in their favorite take-out food. Since the accident, however, pizza had held little appeal. But all at once she was ravenous. Still, Keith didn't owe her a thing. And spending time in his company didn't seem like a good idea.

Shaking her head, she made a move to continue toward the house. “Thanks, but there's no obligation.”

Instead of stepping aside to let her pass, as she expected, Keith remained in place. Tipping back her head, she sent him a puzzled look from under the rim of her wide-brimmed hat.

“I can't eat all this myself.” He grinned at her and waved the box under her nose. “There's plenty for two.”

“Unlike pancakes, pizza is good left over. You can finish it tomorrow.”

“Ah, tomorrow. That's a topic I want to discuss with you. We could talk over lunch.”

The man wasn't giving up, Jill realized. And the pizza did smell good. What harm could it do to share a meal with him? He'd be gone soon, anyway. In fact, that could be what he wanted to talk about. No sense putting off the inevitable.