Status Updates From Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor,...

“Thomma seems happier too, since he got that job at the high-end kennel in Coos Bay. Between that and the private dog-training clientele he’s developed, they’ve both found their niche.” “A happy ending all around.” He tugged her into the circle of his arms.
(Hawaiian honeymoon then 4 days n Disneyland w/Molly)

Molly and Elisa ran away.

“Jeannette! I wondered who was enjoying my tiny slice of paradise.” He beamed at her. “That’s an apt description for it.” She dug her keys out of her purse. “I hope I wasn’t trespassing.” “Not at all.” He closed the trunk and slung his bag over his shoulder. “As the sign says, all are welcome. The beauty of nature is nonsectarian.”

A bird feeder hung from the sheltering bough of a towering Sitka spruce, and two wooden benches were placed along the path. She ambled toward the one beside the small statue of Francis of Assisi and sank down, letting the peace envelop her.

Jeannette slowed as she drove past St. Francis church. From the street, a tiny sliver of the meditation garden in back that Father Murphy lavished with care was visible. .. A stone path followed a circular route through the well-tended space, where colorful flowers shared space with restful greenery. water from a fountain in the center provided a soothing background refrain that enhanced the harmony of the setting.

Could that be his problem? All along, he’d been holding fast to the hope he could fix everything himself if he muscled through, instead of putting his troubles in the hands of the Almighty.

She was too young to carry such a heavy load. To be perennially glum. A girl her age should be skipping and chatting and laughing. Yet in all the months she’d been with him, he’d never once heard a little-girl giggle. That wasn’t normal. -Logan

God and Loss of loved ones as Charley talks w/ Jeannette.

No one who lives in a world like this”—he swept a hand around the placid setting—“could possibly understand what I’ve gone through.” “I’m not certain that is true, Thomma. Each circumstance is unique, but loss is loss. And while we may be different than the other people who live in this town, hearts know no geographic or ethnic boundaries. Neither does the experience of grief.

M-T. “I have hoped, like you, that time would heal—but I am beginning to wonder if more is needed.” “You mean . . . like counseling?” “That is one idea. Or there is a grief group at St. Francis. People who’ve endured losses of many kinds meet once a week to share their experiences and feelings.” His pulse stuttered as he scowled at her. “You have talked to the priest about this?” “No.

He took another gander at Charley as they strolled back to their car. Funny. He’d been on the verge of giving up on Jeannette until he’d talked with the man. But maybe he’d hang in for a while after all. Because if he succeeded in breaking through her barriers, the dividends Charley had referenced might be well worth the effort—for both of them.

“However . . .” Charley flipped the fish, continuing as if there’d been no gap in the conversation. “I expect it’s a very sad story. No one cuts off other people unless they’ve been badly hurt. Trouble is, those kinds of people are the ones who most need friends.” “It’s hard to get close to someone who isn’t receptive.”

As the girl began to stroke him, the kitten emitted a soft purr. “He’s talking to me!” “Yes, he is.” Jeannette sat beside her, and Logan claimed an adjacent chair. “I wonder what he’s saying?” “Charley would know.” Molly continued to pet the cat. “He talks to animals—like Floyd and Gladys.

She turned on the spigot again as Charley’s comment from weeks ago echoed in her mind—and gave her the answer. He may have offered that sentiment as a philosophical musing, but the truth was, that’s how she was wired. She hadn’t been born a recluse—and she’d been raised to help those facing hardship.

For three years, she’d kept to herself—and she had no regrets. The quiet life she’d created suited her perfectly. She hadn’t wanted a handsome new neighbor or appealing little girls or shell-shocked refugees or abandoned kittens complicating her world. So how had she gotten herself into this mess, anyway? “Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong.”

The boiling water splashed, burning her hand, and she jerked the teapot back as she flipped off the spigot. An omen for what might happen if she continued to get involved in other people’s lives, perhaps? No.

She stuck another china teapot under the spigot on the hot water dispenser, flipped the switch . . . and took a deep breath.

“There was an electrical fire in an adjacent unit. Both units will have to be vacated for repairs.” As a paramedic with contacts in the emergency community, Luis would know the details of the fire—but was he privy to information about the Shabos’ status? “Where are they staying?” Eleanor rejoined the conversation. “Anna Williams is giving them her annex for a week.

“House fires are always frightening, but in an apartment building the danger is much higher. At least only two units were damaged. It is a shame, though, that our Syrian family has suffered yet another challenge after all they have been through.” There’d been a fire in the Shabos’ apartment?

“I’m looking forward to the first blooms, Jeannette.” Eleanor scanned the garden from her seat beside the window. “It’s so beautiful to see that carpet of lavender stretching into the distance.”

Many of the customers’ faces were familiar from town or church, and some were regulars—including Eleanor Cooper and Luis Dominguez. With his usual solicitude, the Cuban refugee guided the ninety-one-year-old Hope Harbor native who’d taken him into her home to their usual table. (Jeannette’s tearoom)

Without his mother, he and Elisa wouldn’t have survived in that camp.
Nor would they be here. She was the one who’d latched on to the invitation that had come out of the blue. She was the one who’d worked with the person from the humanitarian aid organization to complete all the necessary paperwork.

M-T
She set the egg in front of him and added a basket of pita bread to the plates of cheese, hummus, yogurt, stewed fava beans, and pickled eggplant in olive oil arrayed on the table—all breakfast favorites from their homeland. This was a feast compared to the meager, basic rations in the refugee camp.
(Syrian Christians)

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Marci grinned and flapped a hand toward the truck that was a permanent fixture on the wharf. “Better than good—and that’s my next stop.” “I’m in the mood for tacos myself, but I have a standing Thursday lunch date with Ben that’s sacrosanct. Sort of like our local clerics’ Thursday golf game.”

She needed to get over there before the taco-making artist’s muse beckoned and he closed up shop to hurry back to his studio north of town. ..