Happily Ever After (26 page)

Joe closed the note and creased it. Tapped it against his leg. Ruby wanted him to forgive his dad. The initial step in coming
home. For the first time in his life, he had a good idea of what homecoming meant. Family. Something to hold on to, someone
to love, who loved the real you, not some fantastic phony.

What kind of liar was he? Mona didn’t have a clue about his identity. He had to admit, however, neither did he. The real Joe
Michaels lurked behind a persona he thought he needed. Perhaps, safe inside the Footstep of Heaven, the real Joe Michaels
had made his first appearance in years, wrapped inside a cloak of deception, but still there, aching to be freed. Aching to
be seen, to be confronted, to be loved, and to return that love.

Maybe confronting his dad, the man who’d run from his fears, could help Joe face himself, confront his own guilt, perhaps
even forgive. And if he could face himself . . . maybe the real Joe could find the backbone to face Mona and unravel his web
of lies, including introducing her to Gabe.

And just maybe she’d surprise him, like he hoped.

Yes, he’d found what he’d been searching for. Found it, turned, and ran for the hills. And he’d keep running until he discovered
a way to fight the demon on his tail. Until he could stand his ground . . . and forgive.

He’d learned that from Gabe. Forgiveness gave Gabe power. It didn’t stop the hurt, but it released him from revenge and allowed
him to reach out. Gave him room in his heart to love. Until this moment, Joe hadn’t realized how much space anger had occupied
in his heart.

Ruby had said that God would help him forgive. Do not fear. Joe reread Ruby’s script and knew she had nailed him—he wasn’t
calloused to his father; he was terrified of him. He’d crack open his heart in front of the old man, and out would pour a
decade of hurt. And he’d be left with a gaping hole in his chest.

But didn’t he already have that?

Fear had been his master for too long.

Fear had cost him a home.

Fear had cost him Mona.

There was only one way to face his fear. He had to track down Wayne Michaels and forgive him. Forgive him for abandoning his
family. Forgive him for ripping Joe’s world to pieces, forgive him for teaching his son that the only option to problems was
to punch the gas and leave a cloud of dust.

And maybe learning to forgive would give Joe the internal fortitude he needed to unlock his heart and risk letting God be
in charge of his relationships. To risk loving and finally find a place to call home. To finally have peace.

If Joe ever wanted to be free to embrace all God had for him, as Ruby suggested, he’d have to face his past like Mona faced
her home repairs—with dignity and the boldness of Joshua tackling the fortress of Jericho.

Joe sunk his head in his hands. He wasn’t Mona, and she had about ten times the courage he did. Ten times? She had more tenacity
in her little toe than he had in his entire body.

“Chip, no!”

Joe raised his head a second before a large Samoyed plowed him over. A teenager, dressed in a blue Windbreaker and wearing
a horrified expression, ran up to him and dove for the dog’s collar. “Sorry, mister,” he said, wrenching the dog away. The
Samoyed had his treasure, Joe’s stick, clamped firmly in his mouth.

The next few minutes blurred into a smear of pain. Somehow he recalled the sight of the Samoyed, drooling and perhaps even
laughing as he stared down at him like a king from his yard. Then Mrs. Allen had popped out of her house to inquire why her
paperboy sprawled bloody and crying on her driveway. Joe had limped home, climbed into bed without washing, and sobbed until
he slept.

The memory burned in his chest. The fear sent his heartbeat on turbo and felt as real today as it had twenty-five years ago.
Sweat even greased his palms. He’d let terror take control and send him running.

He obviously hadn’t changed much since then.

Joe wiped his hands on his pants and sucked a calming breath. Propping his arms on his knees, he clenched and unclenched his
fists as the memory continued.

His father had found him curled in his bed. He’d rubbed his back until Joe awoke and poured out the story in hiccupping sobs.
His father had listened, face etched with concern and determination. Then he’d tucked Joe in, kissed him on the forehead,
and said, “We’ll tackle it tomorrow.”

Warmth spread through Joe’s chest, recalling how his father had met him halfway through his paper route the next afternoon.
He must have been white-faced, for his father had clamped a hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and said, “Don’t be afraid, Son.”

They’d walked together to the Hopkinses’ house, and when Blizzard tore out of his pen, unchained and smelling fear, his father
tucked Joe behind his back and lunged at the dog, crying out a thunderous roar. The stunned animal skidded to a halt, and
at the second roar, retreated into the dark safety of his doghouse. Joe peeked around his father and spied the dog cowering,
blinking at him with sheepish eyes.

“Go ahead, Joe. Deliver that paper. The animal just needed to be met head-on.”

Joe’s mouth had felt as dry as the Sahara as he tiptoed toward the door, and he could still hear the roar of his pulse in
his ears as he jammed the paper into the box. But his father stood sentry behind him, and the dog only flicked a wary eye
in their direction.

Blizzard never bothered him again, and eventually, with the right number of dog biscuits, the Samoyed became his friend.

Joe threw his hands in the air. “All right already!”

Five days before opening day, an aura of anticipation drifted through the Footstep of Heaven as the lilac tree, then the jasmine
bush in the front yard, flowered, signaling the onset of the tourist season. Mona had planted an abundance of mums, asters,
and gladiolas in the bed along the front porch, and she sang to the peonies that flanked the newly paved side driveway, in
hopes they would bloom early. She packed wooden planters full of impatiens blossoming in every shade and arranged table centerpieces
with dried hydrangeas, eucalyptus, and day lilies.

Inside, the buffed and waxed floor glinted delicious amber in the afternoon sun, and the green-and-navy-plaid sofa was settled
regally in the lounge area, opposite the coffee bar. Mona’s intimate round tables had arrived in a shipment from Minneapolis,
along with a box of tablecloths and indigo-and-yellow napkins. Mona helped Liza display her current stock of earthenware bowls,
plates, mugs, and serving platters on two stripped and glazed oak dressers they had picked up from one of the locals. Out
of a rusty metal table Liza had unearthed in the shed, she created nouveau art with a wire brush and some navy and white appliance
paint.

The bookshelves, adorned with an assortment of colorful displays and freebies from publishers, beckoned every time Mona entered
the shop. She had to fight the urge to select a novel and plop onto the sofa. It was just the temptation she had hoped for.

Mona leaned on the porch rail, letting the fresh evening wind whisk away the worries of the day. She heard the porch door
squeal, then Liza’s light step. Mona turned, and her roommate handed her a cup of steaming cappuccino.

Liza’s dark eyes danced. “The Footstep is almost ready.”

Mona took the cup and gave her friend a grateful smile. Over the past week, Liza had successfully managed to avoid the topic
of their absent handyman, but it hovered like grief between them. Joe’s imprint embedded the Footstep of Heaven. His handiwork
was everywhere—from the lush green front lawn to the gleaming white front porch, from the new back siding and the sturdy garage
stairs to the hall chandelier.

But most of all, Joe’s imprint was etched in Mona’s heart. For she knew it was Joe who had nudged her toward believing in
God’s love for her, and believing He would help her build her dreams. Joe said she didn’t have to earn God’s love—it was packaged
with His forgiveness. If only she could get that truth to settle deep into her heart and truly embrace it. It seemed too wonderful
to be true, just like the Footstep.

Perhaps, if she could be successful at opening her bookstore, she would also be successful in believing that God could make
fantastic dreams come true. Dreams like bringing the only man she could ever love striding back into her life.

“When will you start baking?” Liza leaned against the rail of the porch, blending her gaze with Mona’s as they watched the
sparkling lake.

“I have twenty dozen frozen muffins for emergency, but I have a new recipe for berry muffins I want to try for the opening.”

“I heard about a place not far from here that sells strawberries. Maybe they’ll have an early crop.”

Mona sipped her coffee. The sharp taste of java soothed her worn body. Thankfully, it hadn’t been too difficult to add the
final touches to the Footstep without Joe. And each twilight, as her muscles screamed, she thanked the Lord that Joe hadn’t
abandoned her right after the fire. He had been a blessing to her, even if her heart writhed every time she thought of him.

She watched a fishing boat bob over waves on the horizon. Why had Joe left? The question plagued her at odd moments—when she
had hung Monet prints in the dining room or when she had painted the tiny downstairs bathroom. She even pondered the question
while mowing the grass. Was it something she had done?

“Where is this strawberry farm?” Mona asked, returning to Liza’s suggestion.

“I saw an advertisement around here a week or so ago. I’ll see if I can find it. I think it was called the Garden.”

Joe expected to find a greasy garage, an echo of his impressions from childhood. He was pleasantly surprised to see that the
auto shop was clean, well lit, and miraculously, not a hint of grease had snuck in from the back stalls to the reception area.
The pungent smell of oil and gas, however, confirmed he’d found the right place.

An elderly woman with graying hair and a saggy round face looked up at him, her thin penciled eyebrows pushed skyward. “What
do you want?” she barked.

“Um, I’m looking for Wayne Michaels,” he stammered.

“He’s out back. What do you want with him?”

“Did one of the boys do your car wrong or something, mister?”

Joe shook his head and received a deep frown in response.

“Spit it out!”

“He’s my father,” Joe croaked.

The woman recoiled and went ashen. “Is it really you?”

Joe nodded.

She jumped to her feet and hustled around the desk. “Please, sir, come this way.” She waddled down a narrow hall, turned a
corner, then flung open a set of double oak doors. “Please wait here. I’ll get him. Can I get you anything?”

Joe arched his eyebrows at her and shook his head.

“I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” she said, jutting out her hand. Joe reluctantly took it and hid his revulsion at her sweaty
grip.

When she closed the door behind her, Joe wiped his hands on his suit pants, straightened his tie, and scanned the office.
It was paneled in mahogany, and the carpet gleamed copper in pools of lamplight. The smell of leather emanated from two low
armchairs and the tall captain’s chair behind a glass-topped cherrywood desk. Joe whistled low. This was no grease monkey’s
office. Maybe he had the wrong Wayne Michaels.

Then he spotted his own face in a framed picture—eleven years old and holding a stringer of fish. A side table held a group
of photos—Gabe with his strawberries, a black-and-white of their mother in college, Joe’s senior class picture, and a shot
of him he’d had professionally taken. How had his father obtained these last two items? Anger rose like a flash flood. If
his father had cared all these years, why hadn’t he bothered to contact him? Joe was easy to find if someone wanted to take
the time to search.

Joe was simmering toward full boil when the door opened. In walked Wayne Michaels. Shock washed over Joe.

“Howdy, Joe.” The man before him was lean, strong, and dressed casually in blue dress pants and a short-sleeve, hunter green
polo shirt. His thin face, lined heavily, betrayed hard years, but his blue eyes danced.

Something inside Joe cracked open. In that moment, all the anger, fear, and accusations melted into one emotion—regret. He’d
missed his father. A fifteen-year old ache roared to life. He suddenly had trouble breathing.

Memory flashed through his mind in a tangle of joyous, heart-wrenching emotions: his father, grease-streaked and grinning
as he taught Joe how to overhaul a Ford; the sound of hearty laughter captured in a moment of playing catch in the backyard;
the smell of Old Spice and soap late at night; and the feeling of warmth as his dad tucked a little boy into bed.

“Hi,” Joe returned in a weak voice.

Wayne closed the door behind him. Then he turned and met Joe’s eyes. “I’m glad you came.” His voice faltered, matching Joe’s.
“I prayed we’d meet again.”

An endless list of questions shot into Joe’s mind. He asked the most important, slashing through the knot of crippling images
to find confidence in righteous anger. “Why, Dad? Why did you leave?”

Wayne swallowed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I made a terrible mistake.” His eyes glistened. “I was afraid. A handicapped
child seemed more than I could handle. I was just starting to enjoy being with you, and then we had Gabe. I panicked and ran.”

“And destroyed our family.” Joe’s anger, focused now, swelled.

Wayne closed his eyes and nodded.

Joe balled his fists, and once again he saw himself standing by the door, watching his father leave, listening to his mother
sob in the kitchen. The urge to flee this office nearly sent his legs into motion.

His father must have sensed his struggle, for his expression changed. He shrank the distance between them, and his voice grew
earnest. “I was a coward, Joe. I can’t change what I did to you and the family. I can’t change the awful things you went through
because of my fear. But I can change what happens from now on. Don’t go. You are a better, braver man than me, and I’m begging
you to give me a second chance. Please, forgive me.”

Joe’s prayer bolstered his courage. Forgiveness was something he’d have to learn daily—to both give and, Lord willing, accept.
And it had to start today.

“I forgive you!” The words erupted from Joe in a sob. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his watering eyes. He felt
raw, near to collapse. “I forgive you,” he repeated, his voice in shreds.

Then his father’s arms were around him, fighting to embrace him despite Joe’s reluctance. Joe froze, but his emotions crested
over him. He weakened and, with a childlike cry, buried his face in his father’s neck. He wept, unashamed at his tears, for
the anguish his father had bequeathed, for the years he’d been betrayal’s executor. “I forgive you,” Joe said again, this
time more to himself.

A wave of pain—sweet, cleansing pain—swept through him. It knocked his stronghold of unforgiveness to smithereens.

In its place swelled a soul-healing joy that could only be divine.

She slowed as she drove under a wooden sign dangling between two fence posts. The wind toyed with it slightly and shifted
the surrounding fir. The scent of pine filtered through the air, and Mona decided this place was definitely another entrance
to heaven. Driving up the dirt road, she spotted a number of neatly constructed outbuildings and a stunning white-pine lodge.

The screen door opened. “Can I help you?” A young man with tousled brown hair and dressed in coveralls smiled at her.

Mona was warmed by the twinkle in his almond-shaped eyes. “I’m looking for the Garden strawberry farm?”

“You found it.”

“Could you point me to the manager?”

The young man thumped his chest and grinned. “That’s me.”

Mona couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, but her brow wrinkled in confusion. Certainly an operation of this size wouldn’t
have . . .

“Can I help you?” The porch door creaked open, and a gray-haired woman dressed in jeans and a pink floral sweatshirt stepped
out.

“Yes, I’m looking for the manager of the Garden.”

“Oh, you’re in luck; he’s right here.” She gestured to the beaming young man.

Mona swallowed her perplexity and stumbled ahead.

“Okay. Well, I’m Mona Reynolds, and I’m interested in your strawberries.”

The man’s eyes widened. “We have lots!”

The woman patted his shoulder. “I’m Ruby Miller, director of the Garden, and this is Gabriel Michaels, this season’s manager.
Why don’t we show you our store, and you can tell me what you need.” She turned to the man. “Okay, Gabe?”