Chapter 15
So much for his taco fix.
Martin eased back on the accelerator as he approached Charley’s shuttered stand on the wharf. The tourist rush must have died down for the day, even if it was just past six. Or else Charley’s muse had called and he’d closed up shop to paint.
Whatever the reason he wasn’t cooking, there would be no tacos tonight.
Martin winced as the dull headache that had plagued him all day intensified.
The Myrtle was an option, but sitting alone at a table while everyone in town watched and whispered about the state of his marriage would only give him indigestion. Merely dropping in for a takeout would also encourage gossip.
A to-go pizza from Frank’s would have to suffice, though a high-carb entree didn’t hold much appeal. But it beat the frozen dinners he’d been subsisting on for the past week.
He executed a U-turn on Dockside Drive, retraced his route, and hung a left on Harbor Street. Took another left on Main, heading north toward the empty house that didn’t feel much like home these days.
As the steeple on St. Francis church came into view, however, he slowed.
Though he’d never set foot on the church’s property, word on the street was that Father Murphy had created an amazing, contemplative garden oasis that was open to anyone in need of refreshment or respite.
He could use both about now.
Would a few minutes in such a peaceful ambiance help him sort through the muddled mess he was in, point him toward an action plan?
Perhaps that was too much to hope for from an impromptu visit, but there was no harm in checking it out. The lot was empty, so he should have the place to himself. And it wasn’t as if anyone was waiting for him at home. He could linger as long as he liked.
Decision made, he swung in and pulled up near a rose-covered arbor with a sign on top that said “All Are Welcome.” Surveyed the parking area again.
There wasn’t a soul in sight.
Excellent.
Leaving the Audi behind, he pocketed his keys and entered the garden, the sweet scent of the roses following him in. Paused to take in the serene setting.
A meandering, circular stone path wound through the lush layout. Colorful flowers were tucked among the hydrangeas and rhododendrons and ferns, and the soft splash of a fountain from deeper inside the garden added to the peaceful vibe.
If there was a bench in the garden, this would be an ideal place to sit for a spell. Maybe ask for direction from the Almighty.
Although in light of his sporadic attendance at Grace Christian, that could be presumptuous.
Still, if nothing else, a few quiet minutes here might soothe his soul.
He started down the path, his rubber-soled loafers silent on the flagstones. As he rounded the first curve, a secluded wooden bench tucked into the greenery came into view.
Perfect.
He continued toward it and sat.
Here, the splash of the fountain was more pronounced, masking any street noise that dared try to invade the tranquil spot.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back and inhaled the fresh air. Exhaled long and slow.
The tension in his shoulders began to ease.
If he could clear his mind, like he did when thorny problems arose at work, it was possible a solution to his issues on the home front would—
“No worries. I appreciate your quick response. Thanks for stopping by.”
At the sound of Father Murphy’s voice, Martin jerked upright.
Who was the priest talking to? There hadn’t been anyone parked in the lot. And was his privacy about to be invaded, or was this only a momentary disturbance?
He waited, motionless.
A few seconds later, someone began whistling “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.” Likely Father Murphy. And instead of fading away, the tune grew louder.
His solo interlude was over almost before it had begun.
Quashing his disappointment, he stood and eyed the circular path.
If he went the other way, could he escape undetected?
It was worth a try.
He took off down the stone walkway in the opposite direction, dodging from bush to bush, staying in the shadows as much as possible.
All at once, the whistling stopped.
Martin froze.
Without the melody, it was impossible to know where the whistler was.
He’d just have to continue toward the exit and hope Father Murphy had chosen to sit on the bench he’d vacated, which would be hidden from view as he high-tailed it to his car.
But when he looped around the last curve on the path, he came face-to-face with the pastor, who’d stopped to examine the fronds of a large fern near the entrance.
For an instant, Father Murphy seemed taken aback by the presence of a visitor. But he recovered quickly, a smile of welcome lighting his face as he straightened up. “Martin! What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I was, uh, passing by and decided to take a walk through your garden. After hearing about it for years, I was curious.”
“I’m glad you stopped in. So what do you think of my little piece of paradise?” He swept a hand over his carefully tended domain.
“It lives up to its reputation. I imagine this takes a great deal of work.”
“Yes, it does. Like anything worth having. Yet a labor of love never feels like work. I expect you know that firsthand, running a business with a long family legacy. It must be such a blessing to walk in the footsteps of your predecessors. To carry on the tradition.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, stomach kinking. “To tell you the truth, there are days it feels more like a burden than a blessing.”
As the admission hovered in the air between them, Martin’s breath hitched.
While that thought had flitted through his mind on occasion since he’d taken over the reins of the company, he’d never once voiced it. Why now?
If Father Murphy was surprised by his confession, he gave no indication of it. “I hear you. Trying to live up to the people who came before us can be a heavy responsibility.”
“It’s not that. I’m confident in my ability to run the mill.
” It was important that everyone understand he was up to the task.
“But it’s a demanding job, and it . . . it can take a toll on a family.
” May as well acknowledge the elephant in the room.
Everyone in town knew about Lucas’s bad behavior during his teen years, and at this point most residents would have heard that Diane had walked out.
“Work can indeed be a hard taskmaster. One that sometimes seems to require tradeoffs.” The priest motioned to the path.
“Would you like to sit for a few minutes? A garden bench is a wonderful place for conversation. Or you’re welcome to stay and enjoy the flora and fauna on your own if you prefer. Whatever suits you is fine with me.”
Silence fell, broken only by the coo of a dove and the splash of water from the fountain.
Martin fisted his hands.
Should he talk to the padre?
Truth be told, he could use a sounding board. He was getting nowhere trying to figure out how to proceed on his own. And if you couldn’t trust a priest to keep secrets, who could you trust?
Martin exhaled, hedging as he weighed the pros and cons. “I hate to impose on your time.”
The priest waved that concern aside. “Don’t give it a second thought.
To be honest, the homily I’m working on is giving me fits.
I was almost glad a stopped-up sink distracted me this afternoon.
But Bob Howard from the hardware store has a gift for plumbing, and when I called him, he walked over to take a look.
Had the clog fixed in a jiffy. It’s such a blessing to live in a place where everyone looks out for everyone else. ”
Yes, it was—even if it had been a long while since he’d been the recipient of such kindness. Then again, he’d pretty much shut himself off from the town for more than a decade.
Despite his self-imposed aloofness, however, a friendly ear would be welcome. And perhaps Father Murphy had sensed he was in the presence of a floundering soul in need of guidance.
Martin took a deep breath.
It was possible he’d live to regret this. Sharing his doubts and concerns with anyone felt like a sign of weakness.
But his secrets would be safe with Father Murphy, and it was possible the man would offer a thought or two that would help him sort through his dilemma.
“If you’re certain you can spare a few minutes, I’d welcome the company.”
The pastor motioned down the path. “The best seat in the house awaits.”
Martin took the lead, reclaiming the bench he’d occupied earlier as the other man settled in beside him.
Silence fell between them as the dove continued cooing in the background. If there was a good place to jump in with his story, it was eluding him.
As if sensing his dilemma, Father Murphy spoke. “I saw Diane Tuesday night.”
That would do as an opening.
“Where?”
“At the Oklahoma rehearsal. You know about the show, I assume.”
“Yes. She told me she’d gotten involved, and I overheard a few people at work talking about it. Why were you there?”
“I’m in the cast too.”
Martin did a double take. “Can priests do that sort of thing?”
“There’s no rule against it, if that’s what you’re asking, although I expect it’s raised a few eyebrows.
” Father Murphy grinned. “But I like mingling with the people in town. I think some clerics feel they have to maintain a distance from their congregation, put themselves on a different level. But that can turn people off and lead to a lonely life, don’t you think? ”
“I suppose so.” Whether you were a priest or a mill owner.
“In any case, Diane seems to be having a grand time. And she’s quite the dancer, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes. She and I used to love dancing to big band music. We took lessons and were always on the lookout for dances to attend. Once we drove all the way to Eugene for a big band event. Made a weekend of it.” He sighed as that happy but distant memory surfaced. “I miss those days.”
Father Murphy angled toward him, his expression kind. Understanding. “Is it too late to recreate them?”