It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (39 page)

Or maybe it was time for him to face the truth. He hadn’t made the NFL, and arena ball only bandaged the wounds, didn’t heal them.

“Nathan is coming over later with some paperwork.” His mother put enough casseroles in the freezer to outfit them for a year. But that’s the kind of town he lived in
 
—no one starved in Deep Haven. “You know, he’s making a real name for himself in the real estate business now that his mother is over her cancer.”

Not a flicker of resentment from his mother that maybe, just maybe, God might have spared her husband, too.

“I still can’t believe he stuck around. He had that cross-country scholarship
 
—”

“Some people simply belong in Deep Haven, honey.” Eva patted him on the arm. “By the way, the sink is leaking. Could you take a look?”

He climbed under the sink, found the soggy wood from where the pipe leaked. “How long has it been like this?”

“A year or so.”

Of course. Judging by the state of the entire resort, his father had abandoned any repairs long ago. As if he’d already resigned them to the next owner.

Instead of asking his son for help.

Their last real father-to-son conversation had happened when he was eighteen, when he hadn’t the wisdom to listen. Now he longed for the old man’s quiet voice against the lap of the lake, telling him what to do with his life.

“I need tools.”

“Look in the garage.” Eva ducked into her bedroom to change out of her mourning dress.

He headed outside past the potholed basketball court to the garage.

Flicking on the light, John paused for a moment. The redolence of grease soaked into the dirt floor, a century of oil and gasoline embedded in the walls. The ancient twin-track snow machine sat dormant, hibernating. He headed toward the tools scattered along the far workbench and squeezed around a long, tarped object propped on sawhorses.

No. He paused for a moment before he flung off the tarp.

The canoe. He stared at it, wordless. Last he saw it, the boulder had gashed a hole in it larger than his fist. He’d told his father to turn it to firewood. He ran his hand over the keel, expecting to rut against the gash. Instead, smooth, fresh wood met his touch.

“He spent all last spring on it. His last project.” His mother stood in the door, her eyes glistening. “Take it out.”

Take it out.
Maybe one last time.

John hoisted the canoe up by the portage pads and carried it out to the lake. A summer wind skimmed the surface as he flipped it, lowered it onto the water. It parted the surface without a sound.

Paddles lodged in the gunwales, and he climbed in the back, retrieved one.

The canoe slipped like a prayer through the pristine waters.

And then he saw it. His name, etched in the crossbar next to his father’s. The sun warmed it, and he couldn’t help but reach out, run his fingers into the grooves. His eyes burned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A loon answered, a mourning across the water. He paddled the length of the lake, the sun hot on his shoulders, the scent of the pine in the air.

You’ll have to find someone else to run this place. Because it’s not what I want.

In the quiet of the hour, his voice echoed back.

But maybe he did want it. The thought gathered beneath him, sluiced adrenaline through his chest.

How long had he been dodging it? This truth? He belonged here on Evergreen Lake, in Deep Haven. This life, this faith, this legacy. Sure, he’d made a name for himself in the Cities but . . . but maybe not the name he wanted.

Not the life he wanted.

He leaned forward, closed his eyes. The sobs came from deep in his chest, soft until they rushed over him. He put both hands over his head and let them take him, consume him. Wring him out.

He wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

I have no doubt you’ll be a success at whatever you do.

He’d thought he’d had to leave to become someone, a man. A success.

Maybe he didn’t have to. The thought trickled into his grief, parted it.

In fact, maybe that was why Dad fixed the canoe
 
—and nothing else. Maybe he knew.

John leaned back, listening to the lap of the water against the canoe. So much beauty here. Pine trees, shaggy and full amid the white paper birch. The blue of the lake against the aqua sky. He heard the song deep inside and let himself hum it.
“O Lord my God! When I in awesome wonder consider all the worlds Thy hands have made . . .”

Yes. Maybe his father hadn’t called him back because he’d wanted John to discover the beauty on his own. He wiped his eyes.

I’m sorry, Lord. I’m sorry that I despised the legacy my father gave me. The legacy You gave me. It’s time for me to come home. Please, help me.

He didn’t have to leave. Nathan could help him figure this out, help him withdraw the sale.

Yes, he could stay. Build his own legacy. Raise his own family . . .

Then, as if still drifting across the barren, gray lake, he heard the past, something his father said too long ago.
Isn’t it interesting that, against the darkness, God provided light for us to find our way home?

Light. Like Ingrid’s smile, cutting through the darkness of his anger, his stubbornness, his frustration.

He sat up, pressed a hand to his chest.

Wow, he missed her. So much that the ache felt like something he’d never escape. He still remembered the sickness that spread through him as he saw her standing on the sidelines a moment before Andrea landed in his arms.

It irked him the rest of the season, enough that he asked his parents about her last summer when he’d called, just to see if she was there. Enough that he discovered she hadn’t married Phil.

Which meant that day in the stands, he’d hurt her as much as she’d wounded him.

Probably she was better off in Africa. But maybe one day she’d come back. On their Saturday night. Maybe he’d even write to her and invite her.

Tell her how he’d really love to see her. How he so desperately missed her smile.

He’d build a home for her and wait.

The waves had nudged the canoe toward shore, so he picked up his paddle and headed in, the sun low in the trees, the golden rays turning the lake to butter.

As he drew near, he saw a woman standing on the dock, a white sundress fluttering in the wind. He put his hand over his eyes to shade his view, and his breath stopped in his chest.

Ingrid raised her hand and smiled.

Even from here, she could undo him, her blonde hair long and straight, pulled back in a hair clip. She was tan and thin, probably from her work in Africa.

He pulled up to the dock, his heart large in his chest. “What are you doing here?” Oh, he didn’t mean it like that. He wanted to leap out, to crush her to himself, to touch her hair, run his hands down her arms. But . . .

But what if she returned only to say good-bye?

She reached down for the canoe, wrapping the rope around the dock pegs. “I . . . I was worried.”

He climbed out, grabbing the paddle. “Worried?”

She straightened, her eyes just as beautiful as he remembered. “How are you?”

He must be wearing his grief on his face. Still, he shrugged. “I’m okay. I guess. It’s hard. He didn’t tell anyone and . . . I thought you were in Africa. Um, you didn’t fly home for . . . Well, I mean . . .” Oh, boy, he was as eloquent now as he was at seventeen.

“Don’t you want me here?” She wrapped her arms around her waist, and he couldn’t bear it.

He dropped the paddle. “No. Of course I want you here. I . . .” Shoot, he was tired of holding back, of denying the layer of truth that simmered deep inside. “I missed you, Ingrid. Wow, it hurts how much I missed you, and the fact is, I’m staying. And not because you want me to, but because . . . it’s where I belong. I know that. And I also know you have this other life now, but
 
—”

“I didn’t go to Africa.”

She gave him a smile then, and the power of it rushed over him. Nearly took him out at the knees.

“You didn’t?” He no longer cared that he sounded desperate, foolish.

She shook her head. “Your father asked me to wait. He told me that you’d be back and that this time, you’d stay.”

“How could he know that?”

“John, really? He was your father. He knew you.”

He did, didn’t he? The thought washed over him, through him. His dad had done this
 
—given him a home, a future. Ingrid. “I can’t believe you . . . you waited for me . . .”

“I’ve been waiting for you since I was thirteen years old. I don’t know how
not
to wait for you, John.”

She lifted an envelope from her pocket. Took his hand and pressed it into the palm.

He stared at it. “Your letter.”

“You don’t ever have to open it. But it says that I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you. And that it will never happen again.”

He looked up at her, at her incredible blue eyes, glistening in his, at the way the wind teased her hair, at the way she smiled at him, nothing of guile in it.

The way she’d always smiled at him, as if he were her whole world.

“I love you, Ingrid.”

“I know.” She stepped up and caught his face in her hands. “You’ve always loved me. It just took you a while to realize it.”

Then she drew his head down and kissed him. He couldn’t move
 
—not at first. But he wrapped his arms around her and caught up, drawing her into his embrace, his world.

The world they called home.

1987

Sometimes, she still stood at the edge of the curb, her breath caught, hoping he’d see her across the crowded street. She wore a pretty white dress tonight, her arms and legs tan from the summer working outside, tending the garden, caring for guests. John had rebuilt the basketball court, added a swing set to the yard for the guests’ children. His latest project was attaching a rope to the old oak over the lake, at the far end, by the Gibsons’ place.

She spotted him through the crowd, talking to Nathan, but didn’t raise her hand, didn’t try for his attention.

Just stayed there, listening to the band belt out Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now,” her hands over her secret, the one still hers alone.

Overhead, seagulls cried out, and the smell of hot dogs sizzling on a nearby grill lingered in the cool summer air. Earlier, the blue-skied day, heavy with marshmallow cumulus clouds had suggested the perfect summer evening. The kind of evening where she and John would sit on the shore, throwing rocks into the lake.

But not tonight.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, swaying, watching. He needed a cut, but she couldn’t bear to cut the curls from his dark-blond hair. And those blue eyes
 
—they had the power to hold her captive.

She couldn’t take her eyes from him.

Then, as if he heard her, he turned. His smile could steal her breath from her chest. She lifted her hand to wave but didn’t have to because he ran toward her, through the crowd.

“Mama!”

She scooped him up, holding his tiny toddler body to her, breathing in the sweet smell of his skin.

“He missed you,” John said from behind her. His hand dropped to her waist, and he landed a kiss to her neck.

“I saw you two standing there, and I thought you’d never notice me.”

“I always notice you.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, wiping ice cream from baby Darek’s chin. “Contraband.”

“I can’t help it. He has special powers. You gave birth to a charmer.”

“I know.” She tousled Darek’s hair. “Have you been getting into trouble?”

“He’s going to be a regular lumberjack. I caught him trying to make off with one of the chain saws.”

“Right. And he’s also Superman.”

“I’m just saying, we have our hands full.”

“His father’s son.” She laughed.

He curled his arm over her shoulder. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight. Are you feeling better?”

“Must have been something I ate.” She kissed the little boy and handed him back to John. He propped Darek on his hip.

“You missed the fish-throwing contest.”

“Oh, for sad.”

He laughed. Then his voice turned low, husky, the sound of missing her in his tenor. “Will you dance with me?”

She pressed her hand to his whiskered cheek. He smelled of sawdust, the benefits of maintaining his reign as the Deep Haven chain saw champion.

The band strummed an oldie, an England Dan and John Ford Coley song that stirred memories of that first summer, of hope and young love, the promise of so many tomorrows.

“I thought you’d never ask.”