The Way Home (3 page)

But Paul had never loved her the way she loved him. Or maybe he started off believing he did, but all the success and attractive women vying for his attention had turned his head, and made him forget his commitment.

It was painful to think about those days, a mixture of happy and sad memories. Avery tried not to think about it at all.

She suddenly realized that Mike was staring at her curiously. “So how did you end up out here?”

Avery shrugged. “My partner and I had some differences. He was turning the place into a singles scene, and I wanted a real restaurant, a quiet spot with some culinary quality.”

That part was true, too, though it was not the entire story. But she had not spent years at a prestigious cooking school and two more in Europe, only to run a kitchen at a place where the food was just a footnote to Happy Hour and the martini of the day.

She spared Mike Rossi the details.

“I decided to go off on my own. It was all for the best,” she concluded, before he could ask more questions about that phase of her life. “I saw an article about Angel Island and how the waterfront near the ferry was being developed. So I came out and looked around. It seemed like a good opportunity, the right place to start something new.”

Mike nodded, looking impressed. “That it is. Are you always so decisive?”

Impulsive, some people might say. But she liked his interpretation better.

“I can be . . . at times.”
When I'm not flip-flopping, fretting, and driving myself crazy,
she added silently. “How long have you been here?”

“A long time. My dad opened the Tuna when I was a kid. I used to help him practically every summer when I was growing up. I took it over a few years ago, when he passed away.”

His restaurant had been in the family. Avery found that interesting. So she couldn't hold him accountable for the name, could she? Though she doubted he had any objection to it.

Something in his expression had softened when he spoke about his father. Avery sensed he had admired his father and missed him. She had lost her own father recently and missed him very much. She was sure that if Ned Bishop had lived to see her launch out on her own, he would have been her biggest fan and cheerleader.

Fortunately, her mother had been very supportive, even loaning Avery some of her retirement savings for start-up money when various bankers kept turning down her loan applications.

Because Paul had called her a partner in the Tulip Café, she had never asked for a formal agreement. She had trusted him with her heart and soul—and all the business arrangements. They were going to be married. Drawing up a business contract just didn't seem necessary. She never dreamed she would end up leaving
their
restaurant empty-handed. She was grateful that her father had not seen that episode of her life.

When all was said and done, she was left with a diamond engagement ring. Paul had insisted on buying her a large round stone in a flashy setting, though it wasn't really Avery's style. But the money she received from the sale did help her start again, so that was one thing he had done for her.

Mike's deep laugh broke into her wandering thoughts. “—sometimes I think I've been running the Tuna too long. But here I am, another summer on the boardwalk. Guess I'll quit when I'm either too old to stand in front of a stove, or it's not fun anymore.”

“That seems like a good approach,” Avery said, though it was far from her own. She loved food, loved cooking, and loved feeding people. She was excited about the idea of running her own restaurant. But Avery wasn't sure if she would really call it fun. She took cooking seriously. Maybe too seriously.

It sounded as if Mike also ran the kitchen and the front of the house at the Tuna. And though it would seem only natural for two cooks to talk about food, something warned her off venturing in that direction. She was fairly certain they did not speak the same language when it came to menus, and decided to avoid the subject all together.

Avery was about to ask some polite questions about the island and summer visitors when she noticed that the real electrician had arrived.

Saved by the circuit breakers,
she thought as a red truck that read
DONE-RIGHT
on the side pulled up in front of the café. No confusion about it this time.

A gray-haired man in jeans and a tan work shirt hopped out, opened the back of the truck, and took out at metal toolbox.

“Here's your electrical expert,” Mike said. “Hope he gets everything straightened out for you by the weekend.”

“I do, too. But rain or shine, lights on or off, we'll be open for business on Friday night.”

She glanced at him and realized that her voice had taken on a tone she hadn't really intended. As if she were tossing a gauntlet of some kind. She hadn't really meant to sound so . . . challenging.

Then again, maybe I did,
Avery realized. He had been perfectly friendly but they were still competitors, fishing in the same pool for their daily catch of customers. She couldn't let a few charming smiles and those warm, dark eyes make her forget it.

Mike smiled, looking amused and not at all offended. “That's the spirit. No guts, no glory, Avery,” he added, as if they were already old friends . . . or familiar adversaries. “Good luck this weekend. If you need anything, just holler.”

“Thanks.” She smiled and nodded, though she doubted she would be hollering for Mike Rossi anytime soon. Under all that niceness, she had also sensed a certain “men are better at this business” attitude she knew all too well. And he was too attractive. She didn't want or need that either right now.

As the electrician walked up the path, Mike wished her luck again and walked out. She felt relieved to see him go and hoped she didn't run into him too much. Though their restaurants were so close, he might be unavoidable.

Well, you don't have to be so chatty next time,
she chided herself. Mike Rossi was fun to talk with but . . . something about the Lazy Tuna guy just got under her skin.

Chapter Two

A
T
this time of year, it took a keen eye to distinguish between the green tufts of leaves that were supposed to be there and the weeds that were not. About two weeks ago, Claire had cleared and hoed the patch of land she used for her vegetable garden and laid neat rows of small plants and seeds—tomatoes, lettuce, squash, string beans, carrots, strawberries, even a few rows of corn.

But the various sprouts could only be distinguished by her small, hand-lettered signs stuck in the ground on wooden stakes. Everything looked about the same size and color, and weeding was a tricky business. Sometimes the persistent invaders weaseled their way right into the middle of a useful plant, hiding there, hoping to escape her knowing gaze and gloved but nimble fingers.

Claire knelt in the soil, wearing knee pads over her baggy tan garden pants and a large floppy hat to block the sun. Gardening was so much like life. It took patience and slow, persistent effort, weeding away the distractions in order for the fruit to grow and flourish. That was your reward in the long hot days of summer to come, juicy ripe strawberries, plump red tomatoes, cantaloupe as sweet as sugar . . .

But Claire was not a long-suffering gardener, toiling unhappily just for the end results. She was as happy working in the dirt as she was in her spotless kitchen. She loved the scent of the damp, dark earth, the digging and yanking, the clipping and shaping. It was not work to her at all.

Despite her light shirt and hat, she still felt the heat as the day wore on and the sun rose higher. Liza had left for town and would not be back anytime soon. Claire thought she would stay outside until she felt too hot and hungry. She had been working over an hour and was making good progress. If she could weed half the garden today, she would do the rest tomorrow.

Totally immersed in her task, she didn't hear the footsteps on the gravel drive that continued all the way across the lawn behind the inn. She didn't realize anyone was there until a long shadow stretched across the rows of green plants, and someone called her name.

“Claire? Is that you?”

Claire sat back and turned so fast that her hat slipped off her head and fell on the ground.

She stared up at a young man who took a step closer. The sun was in her eyes and she could barely see his face, though she did see—or maybe just sensed—that he was smiling. She shaded her eyes with her hand but still didn't recognize him.

Though something in his voice did sound familiar. And something in the way he stood—his head titled to one side—and his shy, wary smile struck a distant chord of recognition.

“Miss Claire? Don't you remember me?”

Miss Claire
 . . . only one person in the world had ever called her that. Then she realized who he was and his words stabbed her heart, a painful but amazing stab that sent her rocking back on her heels.

“It's me, Jamie. Jamie Carter,” he said quietly.

“Jamie? . . . Dear Lord in heaven . . . Is it really you?”

A silly question to ask, once she heard it out loud. She realized that when he just grinned and nodded in reply. She could never forget Jamie. Not to her dying day.

But she could hardly believe it was true, that Jamie Carter stood there on the lawn behind the inn. Claire wondered if she was imagining this. Maybe she had just been out in the sun too long.

She hurried to stand and stumbled a bit, her legs stiff and weak at the same time. He gently grabbed her arm, steadying her.

Claire tilted her head back and stared into his face, deep into his dark eyes. Heaven help her . . . it
was
Jamie. There was no mistaking it.

“It's really you. I can't believe it . . .”

Jamie didn't answer. He just laughed. An unmistakable sound that echoed like a bell in her heart and memories.

Claire smiled back then suddenly couldn't get a deep breath. She pressed her hand to her chest. Her knees felt weak as water, and the green surroundings began to blur.

“I'd better sit down . . . I'm a little dizzy,” she admitted.

Jamie took her arm and led her to a chair in the shade. “Geez, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that.
That was stupid,
”
he admonished himself in a heavy Boston accent.

He poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and handed it down to her. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

She was not scared. But she was shocked. Down to her bones. She remembered this boy every night in her prayers and had often asked God to reunite them someday. But she never expected her prayers would be answered today. Not in this way.

Claire alternated sips of water with glances at her unexpected visitor. He sat across from her, leaning forward in his seat, his hands on his knees. He looked anxious, waiting to see if she was all right.

“I can't believe it . . . after all these years,” she said finally. “I looked high and low for you . . . How did you find me?”

“I saw an article about this place in the newspaper a few weeks ago. They printed your name and your picture. And your recipe for clam chowder. You told me you'd never give that out to anyone.”

Claire laughed, though she was blinking back tears. “I did say that. But everything changes . . . Last time I saw you, you were a little boy. Now you're all grown up, a young man.”

Jamie nodded, looking self-conscious. “Yeah, I am. No denying it.”

There was no denying it. An image of Jamie as she had last seen him, a lanky, dark-haired ten-year-old, flashed before her eyes. He had changed a lot over the years, tall and lean, over six feet now, she would guess. But there was something in him that still seemed scared. And he still looked hungry.

She reached across the table and patted his forearm, just to make sure once more he wasn't a hallucination brought on by too much sun.

“May twenty-second,” she said, announcing his birthday. “I thought of you that day. You were twenty years old. But I couldn't picture you any differently than when I knew you at Crosby Street.”

Crosby Street Center was the soup kitchen and respite center where Claire had met Jamie. A visiting preacher had given a sermon at the church in Cape Light, where Claire had attended her whole life. Claire had been deeply moved by the minister's description of the neighborhood in Boston where he had organized volunteers to help those in need.

The huge, renovated warehouse was a haven for the neighborhood, offering food, clothing, and after-school care for children, or help finding work and navigating the city's support system for adults.

Claire had felt a call deep in her soul. She wanted to do what she could to help people less fortunate, to let God's love for the world work through her. Soon after hearing the Boston minister's talk, she'd left Angel Island to take a job at Crosby Street, putting her talents to good use in the big commercial kitchen. She had worked there for about two years, not a long time. But a phase of her life that was deep in meaning and memories.

“You remembered my birthday. That's nice.” Jamie's deep voice, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, broke into her thoughts.

“Of course I remember. I remember all about you. So much.” Claire's voice cracked with emotion. She pressed her hand against her mouth. She didn't want to cry. After all, he was the one who had been hurt.

She could barely look at him, remembering what she had done.

“I'm so sorry, Jamie. I know you never understood why I had to go. I tried to find you. I came back to Boston to look for you. I went to your old neighborhood, your old school. I just wanted to know what had happened to you. If you'd grown up all right and finished high school. If you had gotten a good start in life,” she added quietly.

If you had managed to avoid so many of the dark paths that surrounded you—trouble with the law, drugs and alcohol,
she really meant.

“I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry,” she confessed. “I know that I hurt you, that I disappointed you. I was brokenhearted to have to leave you. But I had a duty here. My father was so sick. He was all alone. There was no else to help him.”

She had explained it all to him, way back when, and even put it all in a letter. But she was never sure how much of it a ten-year-old boy could understand.

Claire was crying freely now. There was no hiding it. She took out a tissue and wiped her eyes. Jamie rose from his chair. He leaned down and put his arm around her, patting her back a little awkwardly.

“Don't cry, Claire . . . Hey, we don't have to talk about that. I just wanted to see you, say hello. No big deal. Okay?”

She looked up at him and forced a smile. “Okay. I'm so happy to see you. I'm so thankful. What a gift. What a gift from God.”

She stood up and Jamie hugged her. He was tall now. The top of her head just reached his shoulders. But his body was still rail thin. She could feel his bones under his loose T-shirt. The boy had always needed a good meal. Some things just didn't change.

Feeling composed again, she stepped back and looked up at him. “You must have had a long trip today. Can I fix you a bite to eat?”

Jamie laughed. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to ask me that. I was thinking, like, ten minutes.”

“What has it been?”

He checked his watch. “You beat me by three.”

“Good. I'm pleased to hear that, and I will take it to mean you would like some lunch. I haven't had any yet either. We'll have a bite out here and catch up.”

Jamie followed her into the kitchen and watched her make two large sandwiches with roast chicken, lettuce, and tomato on freshly baked bread. Claire brought out some homemade coleslaw and pickles, adding them to the tray that Jamie volunteered to carry.

“These are super-sour, but crisp. The kind you like.”

They were soon sitting outside again, enjoying their food and catching up on their time apart. Claire had so many questions to ask, she didn't know where to start. She did realize he might be sensitive about some of her inquiries. His early years had not been easy, and she had a feeling his life had not gotten much better after she left.

“Tell me about yourself. What are you doing these days?”

“Nothing special.” He shrugged, talking around a mouthful of sandwich. “I've had all kinds of jobs after school.”

“So you finished high school?”

He nodded and wiped his mouth. “Yeah, I made it. Last two years in an alternative school. Graduation was like . . . like getting out of prison,” he said with a laugh. “I started at a community college. But I had to quit and take a full-time job. It wasn't working out.”

Of course he would have to work. He didn't have anyone to support him. She wondered what had happened to his father, in and out of jail. And when he was out, prone to drinking and disappearing for weeks on end. Which was a good thing for Jamie, in a way. When his father was around, Jamie would bear the brunt of his angry, drunken moods.

The timing had been so unfair. When Claire had finally figured out just how dreadful Jamie's home life was, she began to investigate the processes of fostering and adoption. It wasn't even a week after that when she was called back to Angel Island to care for father. Once she left Boston, those plans had to be set aside. Was he ever taken out of that home?

Claire nodded, focusing on their conversation. “It's hard to juggle school and a job.”

At least he'd finished high school. That was something.

Jamie was quite intelligent. She had no doubt that he could get through college and find some career path—if he had the means, the motivation, and the self-esteem it took to even aspire to such a thing. If only she had been able to help him when he was younger . . . But she didn't want to dwell on that. The past was past. Perhaps there was some way she could still help him.

“You've got your high school diploma. That's a big achievement right there. You're very young. You have time to go further with your education if you want to. You have plenty of time.”

“Yeah, I want to go back. Someday. I needed to help my grandmother. She can't work anymore. She was just getting by. She was always there for me, you know?” He took another bite of his sandwich, his expression serious again.

Sally Carter, Jamie's grandmother, had been the only halfway stable influence in his life. Halfway, because she suffered health problems and could neither provide for Jamie nor control him. She shared the house with Jamie and his father. Claire hoped she had tried to protect her grandson.

“Do you still live with her?”

He shook his head. “I moved out a while ago. Now I share a place in South Boston with some guys. I'm sort of couch surfing 'til I can find a new job. It's not much, but it's a place to crash until I get my act together, find something better.”

Claire nodded. South Boston neighborhoods could be rough. She couldn't tell from his tone if the place was a disaster or just a typical twenty-something apartment. In either case, Jamie seemed fine with it.

“What sort of work are you looking for?”

He shrugged again. “Oh, just about anything with decent hours and half-decent pay. I've had all kinds of jobs, working in warehouses, food stores, factories. I did some work as a house painter and a janitor in an office building. I even drove a taxi. The money was good, but I didn't like sitting all day,” he said making a face. “I need to keep moving. It makes the day go faster.”

Claire smiled. Jamie had been an active, almost hyperactive, kid. Did he still have that restless energy?

“I might try waiting tables again,” he continued. “The tips can be good, especially in the summer if you work in some vacation place. Like, out on Cape Cod or up in Maine.”

“It's hard work but not a bad way to earn money. As a summer job,” she added, hoping that he also had some larger ambitions for himself. Then she caught herself. She hadn't seen him for what—more than ten years? Was she already judging his choices and plans? Was she about to start giving him advice on how to improve his life? There had been a time when she had earned the right to guide him, advise him, even correct him. But she had forfeited that right long ago. She had no business offering up any kind of advice now. All she could do now was sit and listen, get to know him again, as an adult. Accept who he was without judging but offering all the affection she had saved in her heart. Anything more would be worse than presumptuous—and might even chase him right out the door.