Comfort And Joy

Comfort And Joy
Amy Frazier

Two years after Hurricane Katrina destroyed everything Gabriel Brant and his twin sons had, it seems as if he's still struggling to move on. Coming home to his dad's for Christmas–to stay–is not what he had in mind for his life.This is it: no more charity. Especially not from small-town do-gooder Olivia Marshall, who wants to heal him. The last thing he needs right now is the interference of his boys' softhearted teacher. Or her pity. Love…? That's a whole other story.

Comfort and Joy

Amy Frazier

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

JUST AS THE RISING SUN was clearing her windowsill, eight-year-old Olivia Marshall slipped out of bed. She didn’t intend to waste a minute of the last day of summer vacation. The last day before the start of third grade. For her. Gabriel would be starting fifth grade. And as much fun as they’d had this vacation—thrown together by accident, or luck—Olivia knew fifth-grade boys didn’t even acknowledge the existence of, let alone play with, third-grade girls. Tomorrow she was going to lose her best friend.

The birds were singing loudly as she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. She didn’t bother with shoes. Her stomach grumbled loudly, but she resisted the call of food. She needed to think of a goodbye present for Gabriel. Trailing her fingers over her bookshelves and desk, she tried to decide which of her treasures she could bear to part with.

The potato that looked like Mr. Hitchens from the dry cleaner’s? No. Over the past couple of months the potato had shriveled and sprouted, and although it had once made the two of them hold their sides with laughter, now it didn’t resemble anyone they knew. Olivia didn’t throw it away, though. You never knew who or what it might begin to look like in the future.

How about her copy of King Arthur’s adventures? She and Gabriel had spent hours sitting in the branches of the big old maple in her backyard, reading chapters and then acting them out. They both agreed knights and jousts and dragons and quests for the grail were as exciting as any of their favorite TV shows or comics. But the book was big, and Olivia couldn’t see Gabriel carrying it around. His school friends might think he was a dork.

No, she wanted to give him something that he could keep in his pocket. Kind of like a secret. To remember this summer. To remember her. Because she was going to miss him so much.

He was the kind of person you wanted watching your back. As brave as the whole A-Team put together. As adventurous as Sally Ride. As loyal as a Yankees fan. As funny as The Jeffersons. And as cute—yeah, she had to admit he was cute—as Michael J. Fox.

Her gaze fell on the Indian Head penny that was her prize possession. She’d found it digging in the backyard B.G.—Before Gabriel—and the strong Indian profile was her idea of a real hero. She picked up the coin. It wouldn’t be easy giving it up.

But it wasn’t going to be easy giving up Gabriel’s friendship, either.

This would be her gift. Dropping it into her pocket, she picked up a marker to cross off today’s date on her calendar, as she did every morning. September 6, 1983. Then she raced downstairs to grab the granola she’d put in plastic bags the night before.

She and Gabriel were going to Shem Creek to build a dam and catch bullfrogs.

CHAPTER ONE

HOW MUCH PRIDE DID a man have to swallow to ensure his kids’ well-being?

Gabriel Brant figured he was about to find out.

As he drove past a sign that read, Welcome to Hennings, Best Little City in New York State, he glanced in his rearview mirror to check on the twins. Justin’s eyes—far too old for a five-year-old’s—met his.

“Daddy, Jared’s hungry.” Ever since Hurricane Katrina had destroyed their home and Gabriel’s restaurant a little over two years ago, Jared hadn’t spoken. With the uncanny sensitivity of a twin, Justin spoke for him.

“We’re almost at your grandfather’s.” The thought worked Gabriel’s stomach into knots. “He said he’d have lunch ready.” Something out of a can, more than likely. The old man would do it deliberately. To emphasize that a talent for cooking was no big deal.

A third of the way down Main Street, Gabriel turned right onto Chestnut, where the storefronts gave way to residences. Two days before Thanksgiving and still not a snowflake in sight, yet some of the houses were already decorated for Christmas.

“Daddy, we see Santa!” Justin exclaimed, pointing to a large plastic figure next to one front door. “Does he come to Grampa’s, too?”

The twins could remember the motel, and then the cramped mobile home “city,” in which they’d spent the past two Christmases. Where charities had provided a holiday chow line and a few presents for the kids.

Outsiders simply did not understand or want to understand how this particular storm had not gone away. Its devastating effects still lingered months and months and months afterward. The enormity of rebuilding and the inescapable red tape involved with the process kept countless lives in a state of perpetual uncertainty. Gabriel was sick and tired of waiting. Wanting a real roof over his boys’ heads this holiday season was one of several compelling reasons he’d finally given in to Walter Brant’s appeal to come home. Trouble was, Hennings hadn’t felt like home to Gabriel for seventeen years.

“Does Santa come here, too?” Justin pressed.

“I believe he does.” Gabriel would make sure he did, even though the money situation was stickier than gum on a New Orleans sidewalk.

He pulled into his father’s driveway. Backed by lowering clouds, the squat brick Craftsman-style house with the broad front porch seemed to scowl at him. After the past two years, Gabriel had inured himself to feeling on the outs. Almost.

The return to Hennings galled him, sure, but his sons needed to be in a place that didn’t automatically mistrust them, didn’t patronize them because of their plight or refer to them as “refugees.” As if their misfortune had been their fault.