Happily Ever After (3 page)

If that weren’t enough, Mona created a miniature. OldFaithful in her kitchen when she stripped the nut on the faucet in an
attempt to stop a leak. She managed to dam it up with some plumber’s putty, but the plug looked iffy at best.

Then Liza walked in with the zinger. “You got a parking ticket, my unlucky friend.” She tossed the offensive yellow slip at
Mona. It drifted toward Mona’s feet, and she stomped it to the planked floor.

That night, as the sun slid beyond a platinum lake, Mona sat on the porch and cradled her first decent cup of coffee. A half-eaten
elephant ear lay soggy and cold in a donut bag crumpled beside her. It wasn’t much of a supper. Liza had brought home a frozen
pizza from the Red Rooster and had already wrapped up like a mummy in her bag. Perhaps tomorrow their furniture would show
up, and they could sleep in their own rooms, off the pumpkin-colored carpet.

Mona set her empty mug next to the crumpled donut bag and sank her face into her hands.

Joe Michaels ran his hand over the dented hood of the Ford pickup. The paint job was even, except for a few rust spots over
the wheel wells, and the black vinyl dashboard gleamed like a piece of onyx.

“She’s a good runner,” commented a ponytailed salesman in an ill-fitting tweed blazer. He looked and smelled like he had spent
a few lifetimes under the hood of a hot rod, smoking something foul while he did it.

Joe grimaced. “Well, she’s not a beauty queen, but her engine seems clean, and she hums like a song. How much?”

“Three grand.”

“For this clunker?”

The salesman backed up, a hand out as if to push away the comment. “Okay, okay. Two and a half.”

Joe examined the dirt and kicked a stone with his dusty boots. Money wasn’t the issue—he just liked to run ’em around a bit.
He made a face. “How about two?”

The salesman reacted like he had been shot. “You’re killin’ me, man.” He paused for effect. Joe knew the salesman hoped he
would recant, but he held his ground. There were other used-car lots, and he didn’t need anything in particular. Just a change
of pace. “Oh, okay,” the salesman finally huffed. “I guess I gotta move her. Come inside; we’ll sign the papers.”

Joe bit back a grin. He loved winning.

They sealed the deal inside a ramshackle trailer. Joe peeled crisp one hundreds from a worn leather wallet and slapped them
on the faded desk.

The salesman handed him the keys. “Stay light on the gas; she’s got an itchy accelerator.”

Joe hiked out to the pickup. The sunlight glinted off her polished forest green hood, and she twinkled like a Christmas bulb.
Joe flung his army duffel in the back and climbed into the cab. He liked stick shifts, especially those on the early models
that groaned and wheezed as you wrestled them into gear. They seemed nostalgic, and he preferred them to the computerized
SUVs of today. Simplicity had its merits. No computer to bog down this engine. Just an old-fashioned carburetor he could take
apart on the side of the road and rebuild if he needed to.

Joe saluted the salesman and roared out of the lot. Where to next? North. To Deep Haven. He knew his destination as if it
had been whispered into his ear. It was time to visit Gabe.

He had been shirking the responsibility for over a decade, appeasing his brother with letters, presents, and the occasional
phone call. But he knew he couldn’t procrastinate a day longer. After fifteen years of avoiding the backwoods smudge on the
map, God was forcing him to return. Last week’s visit to his mother’s grassy grave site had revived her last words to him:

He owed it to his mother to visit, if not love, the son she had sacrificed so much for. After all, Joe was the only family
Gabe had left. God kept pointing that out until Joe surrendered. His goal: to stop in, say hi, make sure the kid was being
well taken care of, and ditch town before the dust settled beneath his feet. And, if God intervened, he might also figure
out how to untangle the mess he’d woven during his past eight months of fruitless roaming. A trek along the western seaboard
and through northern Canada had left him with nothing to show for his time, something his boss didn’t need to know—yet. It
wouldn’t take much for the wrong people to find him in Deep Haven, but he was one step ahead, and he still had weeks before
his promises came due.

Maybe, if he kept his eyes open, a brief stopover in a sleepy tourist town just might provide the opportunity he needed to
make good on his promises. At the least he might be able to scrape up a tidbit to throw to the wolves that ran his life.

Joe cracked open his window as he drove north up I-35. A road sign flew by. Duluth—thirty miles ahead He would never forget
his first trip north, the first time he had ever seen Lake Superior. He had been eleven, on a church camping trip heading
toward the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, and when he smelled the crisp lake air for the first time, he was intoxicated by it.
The smell of pine mingling with fresh water and a ripe amount of mossy undergrowth had so overwhelmed him, it had changed
the course of his life forever.

Eau Claire, Wisconsin, had suddenly seemed claustrophobic. He strained at its borders. His mother must have sensed it, for
on his eighteenth birthday, she let him go without a fight.

He had spent his first summer alone, hiking the Boundary Waters Border Trail, catching lake trout, eating wild berries, and
letting the love of nature embrace his soul.That summer he came to know God as his best friend, his Savior, his Creator, his
Lord. For fifteen years, he’d carried that summer with him all over the world.

As Joe topped the hill overlooking Duluth, caught the rich smell of pine, and beheld the vast Superior spread out like an
endless blue blanket, his heart swelled and quickened in his chest. For a moment he wondered if returning to the North Shore
might again change his life, pull him out of the dead-end rut he’d wallowed in for so long. Something had to change—and fast,
or his days of freedom were numbered.

Joe threaded the pickup through Duluth and stopped for lunch at the harbor park. Throwing the remnant of his chili dog to
the seagulls waddling over the grassy knoll in front of the museum, he watched an oceangoing iron-ore tanker skid under the
massive aerial bridge, headed out into Lake Superior and beyond. He waved to an assembly of sailors working the deck. A few
returned the gesture. He felt sorry for them. He knew too well the life and the loneliness of months at sea.

He was back on the road by midafternoon, his windows at half-mast, a violent wind skimming through his short-cropped tawny
brown hair. He stretched out an arm along the top of the bench seat and whistled an old tune, trying to ignore the squeeze
in his chest as he ate up miles toward Deep Haven. Would Gabe even know him? Joe wouldn’t blame his kid brother if he gave
Joe one look and tossed him out on his ear. The yearly cards, gifts, and the occasional phone call didn’t fill the gap left
by their mother’s death.

Gabe never gave any indication of offense, however. All his letters, carefully etched out, proclaimed a feeling of open arms,
inviting Joe to his home. At least Gabe had a home to invite him to. Joe hadn’t had a home since he packed his bags fifteen
years ago and left his mother’s two-bedroom ranch on Linner Lane.

Lost in the past, Joe nearly broadsided a dog. He glimpsed a brown blur dart into the road and, going sixty-five plus, only
had time to crunch his brakes and swerve madly. Thankfully, traffic was sparse on this sunny stretch of road. Joe angled the
truck into the ditch and buried his head into his forearms. His heart had rammed into his throat, and it took some seconds
for him to swallow it back into place.

Then dread roiled through him. Had he hit it? He jumped out of the cab. “Hey, pooch!” he hollered.

No sign of the mutt. The road behind him curled around the far-off jagged cliffs like a black ribbon. He scanned the other
stretch of highway. Again, empty. Joe put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. No blur of brown, no whining lump in the
ditch. Relief crested over him. The dog must have headed home.

Joe climbed back in the cab and had just shifted into drive when something banged against his passenger door. Joe glimpsed
two muddy paws smearing his not-so-clean-anyway window, and a long pink tongue dangled sideways out of a grinning canine mouth.

“Howdy, boy,” Joe said to the lop-eared dog as he leaned over and opened the door. A large, dark chocolate Labrador retriever
scrambled inside and stared at him with droopy, nut brown eyes. The dog panted in heavy gusts, and drool dripped from its
mouth.

“You’re messing up the truck,” Joe said with a mock frown. He reached out a tentative hand. The dog watched, clamped his snout
shut, and sniffed. Joe obviously passed inspection, for the mutt laid his muzzle into Joe’s palm. With his other hand, Joe
found the soft spot behind the dog’s ears and rubbed vigorously. The Lab groaned happily.

“Well, you’re not a stray,” Joe said. “You’re somebody’s pal. What’cha doin’ out here?”

The dog had hunger in those glassy, sad eyes.

“Stay put.” Joe climbed out of the cab. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled into the woods, “Anybody lose a dog?”
The wind devoured his words;the trees hissed in reply. Joe pushed a hand through his short hair. Well, he couldn’t just leave
the animal in the woods. He climbed back in the truck.

“It’s not much farther to Deep Haven. We’ll see if anybody there knows you.”

The dog settled down on the seat, laying his massive head on grimy paws. He sighed deeply.

“Feeling lost, bud?” Joe pulled out and gunned the truck to sixty-five, laying a hand on the dog’s matted fur. “Aren’t we
all?”

No way!” Mona’s sharp tone wiped the eager smile off Liza’s face, and even Chuck frowned, as if she’d used foul language.
She softened her voice. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want anybody here, meddling in our plans.”

“A handyman is hardly a meddler, Mona,” Chuck soothed. “You need help. You can’t possibly finish all these repairs by Memorial
Day, and as much as I would like to help, it’s over my head. You have to hire someone.”

Mona walked to the bay window. The sun dappled the buds of the jasmine bush in the front yard in sparkles of white, and a
spring breeze filtered through the cracked window, mingling with the pungent odor of the drying varnish on the oak stair rail.
Maybe they were right. She and Liza needed more than their four hands to get the place spruced up in less than six weeks.
Why hadn’t she quit work sooner and moved here in January?

Money. The answer burned in her chest. Because she needed every last penny to get the Footstep on its feet. Mona hung her
head. “Okay.”

“What was that?” A teasing edge accompanied Liza’s tone.

Mona peeked at Liza over her shoulder and sent her a half glare. “We’ll hire a handyman. But only temporarily, and he has
to be willing to work cheap.”

“We could offer him lodging. We have the apartment above the garage.”

Mona turned, rubbing her chin with the back of her hand. “That’s a good idea.” The one-room efficiency had a quaint round
window that peered over the front yard and a kitchen nook just big enough for the sink, stove, counter, and fridge. Equipped
with a pullout sofa and a table, it could be the perfect pad for a college student or a nanny. Or a handyman.

Liza beamed in victory and stuck a hand out to Chuck. He grabbed it and pumped, and Mona realized they had been in cahoots.

“You double-teamed me,” Mona growled.

Chuck clamped a wide, gentle hand on her shoulder.“It was the only way to win.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and her
anger couldn’t help but dissolve. Mona rolled her eyes.

Joe hung his head over the lumpy motel bed, stared at the mint green carpet, and conceded he was a coward.

He’d been in town for two agonizing days, pitching stones into the cold lake, and he had yet to muster the courage to knock
on his brother’s door. Who knew it would be so hard to face your own flesh and blood?Maybe if he had a job or something that
made his visit less . . . needy. Something to fill his time while he moseyed around, working up the guts to face the family
he’d abandoned.

No, not abandoned. He would never abandon.

Anyway, he had nowhere else to go. He’d run out of options and ideas. That thought had hit him more than a few times over
the past eight months. Nowhere to go, but certainly nowhere he could call home either. Even in this topographical castoff,
his days were numbered, and that deadline loomed like a guillotine with each passing day.

Joe blew out a long, pained breath, rolled onto his side, and propped his head on his hand. He studied the chocolate brown
Lab in the opposite bed. He’d smuggled the mutt in, feeling it was his civic duty to give the pooch a meal and a decent night’s
sleep. Besides, those pitiful eyes spoke to a lonely place in his heart.

The dog turned out to be a good guest, knowing to lie low and sleep late. He’d cleaned up well in the motel tub, his hide
turning glossy milk chocolate. Joe appreciated his lean strong lines, despite the row of ribs that rippled along his sides.
Although hungry, the animal hadn’t been maltreated. He was probably lost.

Since arriving in town, Joe had photographed the dog and distributed “lost dog” posters to a few local businesses. Unfortunately,
there had been no calls about his vagrant friend. Abandoning the search for the dog’s master wasn’t an entirely abhorrent
prospect, however. Joe rather enjoyed the silent, steadfast company of the Lab in the opposite double bed.

“I guess I should name you, huh?” In one smooth movement, Joe leaped off his bed and straddled the Lab. The dog’s ears perked.
Joe rubbed him ferociously down his long back. The dog groaned with pleasure, rolling over. Joe scratched his underbelly.

“I better find us something worthwhile to do while I figure this Gabe thing out.” He sat back, hands on his knees, scowling
at the seventies-era motel room. He’d be more comfortable in a tent, but a camping trip through northern Minnesota wouldn’t
bring him any closer to his younger brother. No, he had to find something in town to stretch his muscles while he figured
out how to be a brother. Nothing permanent, just a distraction to fill his thoughts with something more than memories. Maybe
a distraction that would lead to ideas, answers—and an escape plan. And, hopefully, he’d find someplace to stay that didn’t
smell like three-day-old laundry.

Joe gave the dog a last rubdown, then rose, heading to the television to click it off. He felt the rip before he heard it
as teeth latched onto his jeans pocket. Playing teeth, he hoped as he turned. The dog hung his head, looking sheepish with
a swatch of denim caught in his incisors.

“Not done wrestling, huh?” Joe patted him. “You just earned your name, Rip.”

Joe untangled the fabric from sharp white teeth and gave the dog a teasing glower. “No more pants for breakfast. Only dog
chow for you. It took me three long years and two mountains to get these to the shade and texture I like. Now I’m gonna have
to find a seamstress.” He craned his neck, looked behind him, and scowled. “Well, maybe the change will add character.”Joe
glared again, and Rip scuttled to a place by the door and ducked his eyes. Laughing, Joe kicked himself out of the pants,
dug into the duffel, and found another pair, equally well worn.

“On to breakfast,” he announced, pulling on a jean jacket. He’d spotted what could be a decent donut shop only a couple of
blocks away. Rip’s tail swished the floor.

Joe cracked open the door and squinted against the bright sun glinting off his truck and onto an empty, grass-lined, gravel
parking lot. The wind skimmed the pine scent from nearby trees, and he inhaled deeply. The smell of a forest was nearly as
effective as fresh-brewed coffee for an early morning jolt to the senses. He had to admit, Deep Haven wasn’t a terrible place
to hole up while he wrestled with his past . . . or his future.

Joe strode to his pickup, opened the door, and whistled. Rip shot toward him and leaped into the cab. Joe shut the door. “Stay
put,” he ordered, then grinned. It was hard to be stern to a pair of candy eyes. He headed to the motel office.

A thin clerk, with blond hair slowly giving over to white, greeted him. “Ya staying on?”

Joe plunked down a wad of bills. “Not sure yet. Book me, anyway.”

“You bet.”

“Yup.”

Joe fished into his pockets and produced three quarters. “That about right?”

The clerk eyed the change. “Yup.”

Joe swiped a copy. The top headline of the thin paper read “Seagulls Damage Lighthouse with Droppings.”Joe chuckled, folded
the big news, and tucked it under his arm.

“See you got an old Ford out there. Quite the beauty. Had her long?”

Joe raised his brows. It was the longest sentence he’d heard the clerk speak since his arrival. “No. About a week.”

“Well, I had me one of those a few years back. Couldn’t find a better runner than a Ford. Keeps on going in the dead of winter,
lives forever. I bought my first one back in sixty-eight, fresh off the line. She hummed like a baby for twenty-five years.
I felt like I buried my best girl when she finally gave in. . . .” The clerk was polishing the oak counter, and his voice
trailed off as he worked a shiny, dark spot. He continued to mumble, lost in a memory.

Joe shifted awkwardly for a moment, then slipped out, unsure if he was being rude or acting on cue. The clerk didn’t glance
up as the door swung shut.

Joe ambled to the truck and freed Rip. The dog licked him as if he’d been gone for days. As they sauntered to the donut shop,
he flipped through the paper. Maybe he’d find something of value in this forgotten town.

The antique walnut table had taken Mona’s breath away. From the minute she saw it, she knew it would shine like ebony if she
could only scrape off the lacquer. She counted her blessings to have been one of the first to discover it at a local estate
sale.

Mona was leaning over it, sweat beading on her forehead, grunting and digging into the black, sticky stain, when he showed
up.

“I know a special stain remover that’ll practically melt that stuff off.” The voice drawled the words out, smug and irritating.

Mona shot him a cool look. “You’re dripping mud in my dining room.”

The man examined his hiking boots, obviously shocked.

Mona straightened and wiped back a chunk of hair with her arm. She held her arms away from her and squinted at the man. He
had given his boots the once-over and obviously decided they were presentable because he stood there, all six feet of him,
and grinned at her like a long-lost brother.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” Mona asked.

A reddish grizzle layered his chin, an interesting contrast to his short, tawny brown hair. He wore a jean jacket over a blue
sweatshirt, the type her father used to wear in fall, and his faded Levi’s gapped with the comfort of wear. “I’m your new
handyman.”

Mona raised an eyebrow. “You think so?” She snapped off her rubber gloves. “We’ll see.” She crooked a finger at him. “Follow
me.” First stop was Hoover Dam, plugging the geyser in the kitchen sink.

“No problem,” he said, shrugging.

Mona narrowed her eyes. She showed him the rot under the refrigerator. He rubbed his chin, tipped the fridge back, and shrugged
again. “Yep. Can do.”

Mona’s irritation grew as she pointed out every broken hinge, splintered window, burnt socket, and cracked wall. He shrugged
and nodded easily at each earth-shattering problem, and she couldn’t help but feel foolish she’d even asked for help.

The tour ended at the black hole in the dining-room ceiling. The man inspected it, hands dug into his jeans pockets, swaying
from heel to toe to unheard music. “I hope y’all ducked when this came down.”

A muscle pinched in Mona’s neck. “Can you fix it?”

He turned and studied her, his deep blue eyes looking right through her. She couldn’t help but notice that they twinkled with
some unknown humor, and he had a kind smile that made her want to like him. Then his smile vanished, and in its place came
a look of sincerity that spoke to her heart. “I can fix it, ma’am.”

Mona scrutinized her potential handyman. He seemed eager, if a bit rumpled and way too smug. Was he a freeloader, hoping to
paint a wall in order to live rent-free?Mona chewed her lip. Still, he seemed genuine in his willingness to throw himself
into her repairs. And she’d had no other calls. . . . Maybe Edith could ask around for her, find out his origins. In the meantime
he could get started on the kitchen geyser.

Mona stuck out her hand. “Mona Reynolds.”

“Joe Michaels.” He shook her hand.

His hand was warm and somewhat calloused, perking her confidence in his handyman ability. “Great to meet you. The pay isn’t
great, and it isn’t a permanent position. We need some help getting on our feet, that’s all.”

“That’s why I’m here.” His warm grin went right to her bones.

“You do get a room, however,” she continued, tearing her gaze away and ignoring the tingle racing up her spine. “It’s nice.
Small but clean.”

“Swell.”

Perhaps he’d fit in just fine. Not too pushy, do what he’s told, leave when it’s done. No complications. No invasion of her
privacy. Just the little help she’d asked for from God.