“I can’t see into the mind of God, Thomma.” The chronic knot in her stomach tightened. “But we cannot lose our faith along with everything else.”
“I left my faith in our bombed-out church in Syria.” Bitterness scored his defiant declaration.
Mariam’s heart sank. He’d never before admitted what she’d long suspected.
“Whatever your personal feelings about God, you owe your daughter a fresh start.”
“You can give her that as well as I can.”
“No, I can’t. No one can take the place of a father. You are grieving your wife, but she is grieving her mother—and she is also grieving you. If you noticed her, you would see how she watches you.” Mariam swallowed, struggling to control her emotions. “She doesn’t understand your distance. She yearns for your love and care, but you ignore her. It’s as if you are lost to her too.”
He stopped pacing and turned toward her, his face awash with anguish. “I have no love left to give. My heart is numb.”
“I too am numb—but for Elisa’s sake, we must try to carry on and create a home for her here.”
“This will never be home, ’Ami.” Weariness and dejection weighed down his words.
“Home isn’t a place. It’s people. And our family is here now.”
He gave her an uncomprehending stare. “How can you move on so easily after everything we’ve been through?”
An ember of anger sparked to life deep within her. “You think this is easy for me? Nothing about starting over in a new country is easy for anyone. But no matter how much we wish it, our homeland is not the place we once loved. Nor will it ever be again. And we cannot bring back the people we have lost.” Her voice broke, and tears blurred her vision.
“Ah, ’Ami.” Contrition softened his features as he crossed to her and grasped her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know how much you must miss our old life. And I appreciate all you’ve done to care for me and Elisa these past months. I wish I was as strong as you are.”
“Strength comes from faith—and from believing that tomorrow can be better than today.” She cupped his cheeks in her hands, as she’d done when he was a young boy in need of consoling. “We must take this day by day and be grateful we have a chance to create a new life. Most of the people we left behind in that camp will never have this opportunity.”
“I know.” His face crumpled, and he swallowed. “But I can’t help wishing everything was the way it used to be.”
“I share that wish. But dwelling on the past is futile. Our future is here—and we must make it the best it can be.” The doorbell chimed, and she swiped her fingers under her damp lashes. “That will be Susan. I don’t know what we would have done if Father Murphy hadn’t arranged for her to meet us at the airport yesterday. We would have been lost without someone who speaks Arabic.”
“Why is she back?”
“She promised to show us how everything in this apartment works and to answer our questions. You will come out and speak with her?”
After a moment, he nodded.
“We’ll start with the kitchen while you dress. I can explain whatever you miss later.”
Without waiting for a response, Mariam opened the door and stepped into the hall.
Elisa was hovering on the threshold of their bedroom. “The bell ringed.”
“Yes, I heard it. It’s the lady who met us at the airport yesterday. Your father will be out in a few minutes.”
Her granddaughter glanced at the bedroom door, trepidation etched on her features. “Is he mad?”
“No. Just sad. He misses our country.”
“I don’t.” Elisa clutched the Raggedy Ann doll that had been waiting on her new bed last night, her expression fierce. “It was scary. Here is better.” She hugged the doll tighter, and some of her defiance faded. “Papa won’t go back and leave us, will he?”
Mariam bent down and drew her into a comforting hug. “No. This is our home now.”
“For always?”
“Yes.”
Whether Thomma would come to accept that remained to be seen.
But for his sake as well as theirs, she prayed her son would soon recognize and embrace all the blessings Hope Harbor had to offer.
Logan double-checked the cooking temperature on the package of refrigerated cookie dough and set the oven to 350 degrees.
These weren’t going to be anywhere near as tasty as his mom’s homemade version that Molly had loved, but it was the best he could do for a special treat on this gloomy, gray Friday.
“You want to help me put these on the cookie sheet?” He opened the tube of dough and pulled a knife out of the drawer. “They’re chocolate chip.”
She cocked her head and studied the package as she tore the crust off the last bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “They don’t look like Nana’s.”
No kidding.
“We might like them, though.” He tried for an upbeat tone. “Want to help?”
She shrugged.
He took that for a yes as she finished her sandwich and pushed aside the plate with the crust remnants.
After skimming the directions, he began cutting the dough into slices. “Just lay these on the sheet and leave some space between them.”
“Nana used a bowl and a spoon.”
“This is faster. Here you go.” He passed over a medallion of the sticky dough.
They worked in silence until they’d filled the pristine sheet—a gift from his mom, along with his favorite cookie recipe, when he’d taken the job in San Francisco.
Like he’d ever had a spare minute to bake anything from scratch.
Toby watched the proceedings with interest, tail wagging as he bounced around, happy yips filling the kitchen.
A common reaction to the sight of food—or to anything that caught his attention, for that matter.
Logan heaved a sigh as he slid the pan in the oven. If he didn’t get the pup’s barking under control soon, he was going to lose his sanity.
Too bad he hadn’t read the fine print before choosing a breed. If the information he’d found the other night on Google was accurate, beagles were a wonderful family dog and good with children—but they tended to be very vocal.
He set the timer for twelve minutes and wiped down the table.
Maybe the one-year-old dog’s previous owner had gotten fed up with the barking too, and that was the reason he’d sold the pooch—not because his new apartment didn’t allow pets, as he’d claimed.
Didn’t matter.
Toby was his problem now.
Meaning he might have to invest in some obedience training—in addition to the electronic fence scheduled to be installed in the backyard next week that would keep the dog out of his neighbor’s garden.
He hoped.
“Do you want some more milk?” Logan picked up Molly’s empty glass.
Another shrug.
Dodging the prancing pooch, he walked toward the fridge and forced a cheery note into his tone. “Nothing goes better with chocolate chip cookies than a glass of ice cold—”
Ding-dong.
He halted halfway across the room.
This must be the week for callers.