Jeannette cast a longing glance behind her.
The crowd had surged forward, closing up all of the gaps. Trying to backtrack now would draw too much attention.
She was stuck.
Resigned, she refocused on the elevated platform at the end of the room.
Reverend Baker took the mike first, offered a brief welcome, and handed the program over to Father Murphy.
In his usual effusive manner, the padre seconded the welcome, offered a prayer, and introduced the family.
As he talked, Jeannette studied the Shabos, matching up the bios she’d read in the church bulletin to the real people.
Mariam, the matriarch, was fifty-three . . . but with her gray-streaked hair, lined face, and slightly stooped posture, Jeannette would have put her closer to seventy.
Understandable, given all she’d been through. The horrors—and losses—she’d endured would exact a huge physical toll on anyone.
The strain was evident in her son Thomma too. Like his mother, he appeared to be older than his age. The twenty-nine-year-old was far too thin and had a somewhat shell-shocked appearance. He acknowledged his intro with a slight dip of his chin, but unlike his mother, didn’t offer a smile.
Again, understandable. There hadn’t been much happiness in his life in the past couple of years.
As she turned her attention to his daughter, Jeannette’s lips curved up. Holding tight to a Raggedy Ann doll and her grandmother’s hand, Elisa was taking everything in with wide eyes.
Jeannette squinted, scrutinizing the child as an odd sense of déjà vu swept over her.
She’d never seen the girl before, yet Elisa reminded her of someone . . .
Wait.
It was Molly.
The two children didn’t resemble each other in the least, but both had the same sad, somewhat lost demeanor.
A sudden burst of applause jolted Jeannette back to reality, and she joined in the hearty welcome the town was giving the family.
They huddled a bit closer to each other during the ovation, as if they were uncomfortable being in the spotlight. Father Murphy must have sensed that too, because he wrapped up the formalities quickly and let the family blend back into the crowd.
This was her opportunity to say hello and exit.
Jeannette worked her way through the crowd, returning greetings but maintaining a steady forward pace.
As it happened, her timing was ideal. When she broke through the throng, the family was alone except for a fortyish blonde woman she didn’t recognize and Father Murphy.
“Jeannette! Nice to see you.” The priest beamed at her and moved forward to clasp her hand between his. “Marci said you might come. I’ve already sampled your shortbread—twice—and our guests have had a taste too. Have you met them yet?”
“No. I was hoping to now.”
“Come, let me introduce you.” He drew her forward, mentioning that she’d baked the shortbread as he did the formalities. The blonde woman translated as he spoke.
“Happy to meet you.” Mariam spoke in heavily accented English. “Alkukiz . . .” She looked to the woman the priest had introduced as Susan and raised her eyebrows.
“The cookies.”
Mariam nodded. “The cookies good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Thomma extended his hand too. “Thank you.” The man struggled even with that simple phrase.
Reverend Baker’s warning to the congregation that the family’s English was rudimentary hadn’t been an exaggeration.
“My pleasure.” She dropped to one knee, smiled at the girl, and pointed to herself. “Jeannette.” Then she rested her hand on the child’s arm. “Elisa.”
Elisa’s mouth bowed slightly, and the girl leaned forward to touch her cheek. “Pretty.”
Warmth radiated through Jeannette. “Thank you.” She gave the child’s fingers a gentle squeeze and stood.
“There you are!” Marci materialized at her elbow, camera in hand. “I’ve been trying to get photos of everyone who contributed to the Taste of Hope Harbor table. Do you mind if I take a quick shot of you with the family?”
“No . . . I suppose not.” A photo shouldn’t delay her departure too much.
Marci took several and zipped off again.
“She’s a dynamo, isn’t she?” Father Murphy grinned as he watched the redhead plunge back into the crowd.
“That’s an understatement. Well . . .” Jeannette pulled out her keys. “I was sold out today, and I have another full house tomorrow. I’m ready to call it a night.”
“It was kind of you to stop by after working all day. And much appreciated. I know the large turnout will help the family feel welcome.”
“I hope so. After everything they’ve been through, they deserve all the support and compassion we can muster.”
“I agree. I’m glad God gave us the opportunity to serve him in this way.”
Reverend Baker beckoned the priest, and Jeannette said a fast good-bye.
After plowing through the crowd again, she made a beeline for the exit, stopping at the door to give the room one final sweep.
It was difficult to see much, but if she stood on tiptoes she could catch a glimpse of Thomma. No doubt Mariam and Elisa were close by. They’d stayed tight while she talked to them too, which wasn’t surprising. The three of them were the only survivors in their family—and after enduring a significant loss, it was normal to stick close to the people you had left.
If you had any left.
A pang echoed in her heart, and Jeannette pushed through the door, into the fresh air.
Mariam and Thomma and Elisa had faced many challenges—and would certainly face many more as they adjusted to their new life in Hope Harbor—but at least they had each other to lean on. They weren’t venturing into an unknown future alone.
That was a huge gift.
Her vision blurred, and Jeannette clenched her teeth, blinking away the film of moisture.
She would not get maudlin.
Tonight wasn’t about her. It was about a family in desperate need of some TLC. And she’d done her share.
Sort of.
It didn’t take much effort to bake a few dozen shortbread cookies and drop by to say hello.
But plenty of people had signed up to assist the family on an ongoing basis. They’d be well taken care of.
And now that she’d done her duty, she could slip back into her safe, quiet—solitary—life and the comforting routine that ordered her days. No further involvement with the immigrant family who now called Hope Harbor home . . . or a neighbor who seemed in over his head with a woebegone little girl and mischievous dog . . . was necessary.
From this moment on, she would retreat back into her solo world—and shore up the walls around her heart to keep any insidious emotions lurking around the edges from breaching her defenses.
7
What was that delicious scent?
As Logan drove down Dockside Drive after church on Sunday, the tantalizing aroma wafting through his window set off a rumble in his stomach.
He should have eaten a real breakfast, but getting Molly dressed, feeding her, and corralling Toby in the empty bedroom where he could do as little damage as possible during their absence had taken far longer than he’d expected.
And the untoasted bagel he’d grabbed as they left the house and scarfed down in the car was long gone.