Chapter 14
Two weeks puttering around the King’s Inn grounds, getting ready for the summer season, and Doyle still couldn’t get Tia’s words out of his head.
“I can see when a man is searching for something.”
He sank his axe into the log, his body shuddering with the blow. The wood split in half, fell on each side of the block.
He picked up the pieces and parked them on the growing woodpile.
Maybe he shouldn’t be doing his brother Jack’s job, but he needed to sweat, to burn off the ache inside him.
Right. Wow, he missed Tia. As if he were missing a lung, every breath sharp. How she’d gotten so far inside so quickly, he didn’t know, but...
The early June air whisked off the deep blue lake, holding summer in its breath. Leaves on the poplar and birch trees rustled around him, and the scent of freshly mowed grass turned the inn’s grounds into a summer escape. Geraniums bloomed in pots seated on the steps of the main building, a vintage white-painted Victorian built in the early twentieth century, during America’s Gilded Age.
His brother Jack, now their maintenance guy, had applied a fresh coat of white paint to the Welcome to King’s Inn sign affixed to the main entrance, along with the pillars of the apron porch, now festooned with hanging floral baskets.
Frankly, it looked like the prodigal son was doing a better job at upkeep than Doyle had. Although, Jack seemed to be itching to leave, given the work he’d accomplished on his mint 1973 GMC forty-five-foot passenger-transit bus, turning it into a someday home for himself and future wife—hopefully—Harper Malone.
Who knew that the One for Jack had been next door all his life?
Doyle picked up another log. He could probably stop anytime, but the King’s Inn hosted a bonfire on the beach every Friday and Saturday night during the summer, so having an ample supply of firewood wouldn’t hurt.
He set it up, stood back. Sent the axe down. The crack split the morning air, reverberated in his soul, and raked up Tia’s words, again.
“Your future, your vision, your calling—it all died that night and left a hole inside you, and until you deal with that, you won’t have anything to give...”
He picked up the pieces, set them together on the rack. They still fit together, even after they’d been torn asunder.
“This place never looked better. I like having my sons around.”
Doyle turned and found his father carrying an old green thermos under his arm, a couple plastic cups, and two muffins wrapped in napkins. He set the thermos on the back wheel rim of a nearby four-wheeler and handed Doyle a muffin. “Your mother worries. Says you’re too skinny.”
Doyle laughed and opened the muffin. “Raspberry?”
“With white chocolate. She’s trying a new recipe. Don’t argue.”
Doyle sat on the chopping log. “Nope.” He bit into the muffin. “It’s good.”
“Leave some of this chopping for your old man; otherwise, I’m going to get fat.” He winked and sat on the seat of the four-wheeler. “So, you ready to talk about it?”
Doyle looked up, then at the lake.
“Stein told us a little. Said that it was the first time since your life imploded that he’d seen the old Doyle. Or maybe a new Doyle—you tell me.”
“I dunno, Dad.” He picked at the muffin. “I went to Mariposa because I thought it was time to get moving, find a fresh start.”
His dad was soft-spoken and wise, a man who listened, and always reminded Doyle a little of an older Russell Crowe—sturdy, salt-and-pepper hair. Now, he set down his muffin and poured Doyle a cup of coffee. Handed it over.
Doyle took it. “The problem is that...” He sighed. “I guess I always saw myself doing something... big for God. And now I’m just... chopping wood.”
“You and Juliet had a big future planned.”
“Yeah. By the way, how’d Conrad’s game go yesterday? The Blue Ox still in the playoffs?”
“Yep. And he scored a goal. Top of his game this year.” His father took a sip of coffee. “So—you didn’t find your big life in Mariposa?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stein mentioned a woman. Tia?”
Doyle’s mouth tightened, and he sighed.
“Oh, I see. Juliet get in the way?”
His expression must have betrayed him.
His father nodded. “She’ll always be a part of you, son. Your first love. Any good woman will understand that.”
“I think she does. But that’s not why...” Why she’d pushed him away. Sheesh, he should just accept that.
Tia didn’t want him. And of course her words raked through his head. “You have been more than I imagined. But maybe that’s all this was. A jumpstart—a reminder that there is more. Like you said, the fresh start. It just isn’t the happy ending.”
“Why... ?”
He looked at his father. “Right. So, she told me that I’d left a part of myself in that lake?—”
His father frowned.
“Not Juliet—but maybe my calling. My future.”
His father took another sip of coffee. “Death does that—it cuts off our vision. I remember when your grandmother died. Your grandfather was absolutely lost. I’d find him standing in his bathrobe on the front lawn, just staring out at the lake. It took a while for him to figure out who he was without her.” He finished off his muffin. “I don’t think he ever really did—although it helped when he realized he could pour himself into you kids.”
“I thought I could pour myself into Hope House. I just felt so... Well, I’m grateful for my time here, but I wanted to start moving forward again. And I thought...” He too finished off his muffin and picked up his coffee.
“You thought Hope House was the answer. Your big mission.”
No, he’d thought Tia was the answer. But he nodded. Took a sip of coffee. “Being a missionary felt so right with Juliet. It was direction and purpose and...”
“A big life.”
“Yeah.”
“So when she died, you thought the vision died too.”
He nodded.
“But I submit to you that you answered the call to Hope House because it’s not dead. You just can’t see it clearly.”
“That’s the thing. I wish God would tell me what to do. I feel like ever since Juliet died, He’s gone silent. I don’t know. Austen says God’s will for me is joy. And love...”
“It is. That’s the result of the salvation of your soul.”
“I met this guy who said that God’s will is just a state of being, not a direction.”
“I think it’s both. Consider what Proverbs says: ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.’ It’s relationship, trust, and then following.” He took a sip of coffee. “Consider Peter. Jesus said, ‘Follow me,’ and Peter obeyed. But he didn’t realize that he had to hold on to Jesus, keep looking at Jesus, to stay afloat. And then, in his deepest grief, Peter just went back to fishing. Jesus had to call him out again and send him on his way.”
“Are you saying that Jesus is calling me out again?”
“I don’t know, Doyle. I do know there is a time to grieve. But we’re not supposed to stay in that forever. Paul talks about pressing on, moving ahead into the abundance God has for you. That’s my paraphrase of Philippians 3:14, by the way.” He winked.
Abundance. Doyle’s own words stirred inside him: God is sufficient. “Sufficient strength, sufficient hope. Sufficient.”
No, more than sufficient. But abundant?
“I don’t know, Dad. I went to Mariposa hoping for some clarity on my future. All I got was... confusion.”
“That’s because you’re asking for the wrong thing, Doyle. What your heart needs isn’t clarity... It’s trust. That’s what was shattered when Juliet died. If we had clarity on God’s big plans, we might never follow. But He gives us direction for the next step and asks us to trust Him. That’s where you need to start.”
His dad drew in a breath, nodded, gave Doyle a tight-lipped smile. “God isn’t done with you yet, son. You’ll always miss Juliet. But your future didn’t have to die with her. Tia is right—pull yourself out of the lake, come to shore, and let the Savior continue His good work in you.”
He stood up. “I meant to tell you, Dave Birch asked that you stop by. He saw you in town and mentioned it at church on Sunday.”
“Great.”
“You saved his life. Don’t forget that.” He poured out the last of his coffee and picked up the thermos. “Oh, and bring some firewood to the bonfire pit. Your mother wants a cookout tonight. Con and Penny are coming over.”
Super. So he could be haunted by the ghost of Tia. “Thanks for the muffin.”
His father headed to the house as Doyle loaded up the wheelbarrow. He dumped the wood near the bonfire circle on the sandy shore of the resort beach, then headed into the house to change.
Abundance. The word felt almost cruel against his grief.
An hour later, he found himself pulling up to the Birches’ ranch house. The hosta had exploded around the front walk, and the big pine in the front yard towered above the house.
He spotted the wooden swing hanging from the oak on the side yard, and a memory tried to nudge in.
Nope. He took a breath, climbed out of the King’s Inn truck, and headed up to the house. Stood on the stoop?—
The door opened. Misty Birch stood in the frame, wearing a pair of shorts and a pink shirt, her glasses shoved up into her whitened hair. “Doyle? Oh, it’s been... too long.”
Then she stepped out and pulled him into a hug. She’d lost weight, for sure, but didn’t seem frail. When she let him go, she held on to his arms, smiled up at him.
Juliet’s eyes.
“Dave is out back.”
“I’ll go around the house.”
She let him go and he nearly—admittedly—made a dash for his truck. Instead, he forced himself around the end of the house—no glance at the swing—and spotted Dave holding a hose to a raised garden bed. Tiny sprouts pushed from the earth.
The man seemed thinner too, wore a baseball hat over his whitened hair and the scar underneath, a pair of shorts, and a T-shirt.
Doyle cleared his throat.
Dave turned, and for a second, his jaw dropped. Then, “Doyle.” He let go of the sprayer, left it in the garden, walked over with an outstretched hand. “Son.”
Son.
Doyle met his handshake. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know Misty—always a list to work through.”
Silence dropped between them.
“My father said?—”
“Yep. I have something I’ve been meaning to give you. Stay put.” He turned to go inside.
Misty stood at the door, holding an envelope. She handed it to her husband, then looked at Doyle, smiled.
Her eyes glistened.
Dave came back to him, holding the envelope. He tapped it on his leg, then looked up at Doyle. Wetness rimmed his eyes. “This belongs to you.”
He held out the envelope.
Doyle frowned, took it and eased it open. “Oh, no... No, sir—” He shoved it back to Dave.
“That ring belongs in your family, Doyle. I know it was your grandmother’s. We shouldn’t have hung on to it for so long, but... I had some trouble letting go.”
Yeah, he got that. Doyle pulled out the ring, his throat thickening. A vintage band with a small diamond in the center. “This should be with Juliet.”
“Juliet is with the Lord. She has everything she needs or wants.”
Yes, she did. He stared at the ring.
“How are you doing, Doyle?”
He looked up. Away. Until this moment, just fine... Well, not really, but?—
“I heard you went on another mission trip. Beacon of Compassion International? I know you’ve been involved in some relief efforts.”
Oh, right. “No. This was with an orphanage in the Caribbean.”
“Medical work?”
“Not... No. Just helping out.”
Dave put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s one thing Juliet loved about you—your heart for helping others. I remember the first time she told me that she was going to marry you. She was fourteen.”
“What?”
“It was right after that missions conference at church. Some guy from some crazy band, with long hair and dreadlocks, showed up and told our youth that they could make a difference.” He smiled when he said it, light shining in his eyes. “I watched Juliet go forward and make a commitment to God. And you, son, were right there. You went to the altar first. I very much believe that Juliet followed you up there.”
His entire body tingled with fire and... truth. Yes. “I remember that.”
“Whatever drove you to the altar is still inside you, son. You care—you cared about your parents’ inn after Juliet died—and don’t tell me that you didn’t stick around to keep an eye on Misty and me too.”
Doyle glanced at the door. Misty stood inside the screen, her arms around herself.
“And then you started volunteering for disaster teams. And cleaned up after tornadoes and hurricanes and floods... and finally, you left.” He looked at the ring in Doyle’s hand. “I want you to go, Doyle. With Juliet’s blessing. With our blessing. Into the future God has always planned for you.”
He put his hand on Doyle’s shoulder, then pulled him to himself, spoke softly in his ear. “And it’s okay to let yourself love again too.”
He released Doyle. Walked back to the hose, picked it up, and returned to his garden spraying. The mist rose, catching the light of heaven.
Doyle pocketed the ring and walked away.
But hours later, as he sat at the bonfire, the sparks popping into the darkness, the fire inside hadn’t died. “I want you to go.”
Conrad had driven out from the city, his hair long, a middle-of-the-playoffs beard on his chin. He was laughing at his girlfriend Penny’s second burnt marshmallow. “You need to give it time to cook.” He took the roasting stick from her and blew on the blackness, then shook the mess into the fire.
“I wasn’t born with the patience gene,” Penny said, grabbing a fresh marshmallow from the bag his mother passed to her.
Harper sat next to Jack, trying to harness the melting goo of her s’more. Jack had gotten up to stir the glowing embers. He seemed more content than Doyle had ever seen him, really, the prodigal erased from his countenance. It seemed that, even with the bus project, Jack might be sticking around. He wore a green shirt, jeans, a baseball cap backward on his head, and set the poker down, sitting next to Stein.
Stein stared into the flames. Two weeks of healing had him up and walking around, but his brooding reminded Doyle of the Stein that had arrived home three years ago, broken, angry and trying to figure out his life.
They’d been a pair.
But not today. “You guys remember when David Pierce came to our church and told us about his crazy rock band for Jesus and how he’d started a missionary school in Amsterdam?”
Stein shook his head.
“Sorry, no,” Jack said.
“I do,” his mother said. She wore a pair of jeans, an old flannel shirt, her hair back in a bandanna. She met his eyes. Smiled. “You came home and said you wanted to be a missionary.”
He smiled back. “I did.”
She nodded.
He drew in a breath. “I think... maybe my time in Mariposa wasn’t so much about starting something new... but a restart.”
“Are you going back to med school?” His father came over with a couple loaded pie irons for roasting and handed one to his mother. “Blueberry.”
“I’m not sure. I do know that it’s time I return to myself. Or to a better version of that guy. Hopefully wiser.”
Silence, and Jack looked over, smiling. Conrad ran a hand over his mouth, nodding.
Stein stared at him, hard. “A stronger version.”
“Even if you don’t exactly know where God is going to take you,” Harper said, glanced at Jack. He winked at her.
“And maybe that journey won’t be alone.” Penny pulled her marshmallow stick from the fire. The marshmallow had started a nice brown edge. She put it back over the coals. “Tia is back.”
He looked at her. “Really?”
“Yeah. Home, but not out of the game. She’s working on something new for Declan.”
“Declan is back too?” Stein asked, a sharpness in his voice.
“I don’t know. But I do know that Tia’s up to something. She’s been holed up in her home office ever since she came home about a week ago. You know her—she always has a plan.”
Doyle sat up.
And just like that, in the glow of the fire, he saw it.
Them, together, building something new. Where, he didn’t know, but... yes. The sense of it filled him up, settled into his soul.
Beyond the fire, in the darkness, waves washed the shore, and overhead, the summer night stirred the leaves.
Do you love me, Doyle?
He drew in a breath.
Across the bonfire, Penny’s marshmallow lit.
I do, Lord.
Then feed my sheep.
He was back on the soccer field with Jamal and Rohan and Kemar and Gabriella, laughing.
Feed my sheep.
He was on the beach, walking hand in hand with Tia, the wind in her hair, her green eyes on his, her smile lighting him up.
Feed my sheep.
He was sitting with Jamal, telling him he was loved, no matter what happened with the Jamesons.
Go, make disciples.
Doyle pressed a hand to his chest.
“You okay, son?” His father’s voice lifted from across the flames. Doyle looked up, met his gaze.
“Yes. Yes, sir, I am good.”
Overhead, sparks winked out into the night, the stars watching.
And for the first time since longer than he could remember... he was very, very good.
* * *