The Unexpected Gift

The older man gave a skeptical snort. “I’ve heard that before. What’d you eat yesterday?”

Grant felt his neck grow warm. “I skipped lunch yesterday.”

“That’s what I figured. Come on back and eat. No more arguments.”

“How about a thank-you instead?”

“Not necessary,” Uncle Pete said, his voice gruff.

“Wish I could do more, in fact. You’ve had a tough time, still do, and if I want to help you out in little ways, let me. Come on back.”

Before Grant could respond, Uncle Pete headed for the back room. Grant took his time following. Thank you, Lord, for this loving family, he prayed, as he had so many times in the past two-and-a-half years. I couldn’t make it without them.

By the time Grant got to the worn pine table where the three men had shared so many lunches, his father had cleared off a spot and Uncle Pete was spreading out the food and sorting through the mail. He looked at the two men with affection as he moved a T-square and hand-drawn plans for a mahogany entertainment center off to the side. His bachelor uncle and his father had lived together ever since Grant had gone off to college. It had been a good arrangement, providing both men with much-needed companionship. They’d invited Grant to join them a couple of years ago, but for now he wanted to remain in the tiny bungalow where he’d known so much joy. Leaving it would somehow seem to signal a loss of hope.

Yet there were times when he was tempted to accept their offer. As much as he liked quiet, and as comfortable as he was with solitude, the loneliness…no, emptiness was a better word, he decided…sometimes got to him. Maybe someday he would move in with them, if… Grant cut off that thought. He wouldn’t let himself go there. He never did.

“Looks like your mother remembered your birthday,” Uncle Pete remarked, handing Grant a blue envelope with the logo of a well-known greeting card company on the back.

Grant took it without comment, laid it aside, and turned his attention to his turkey sandwich.

“It’s nice that she remembered,” his father commented.

“Yeah. Only a week late.” There was a bitter edge to Grant’s voice.

His father reached over and laid a work-worn hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Let it go, son. It’s ancient history now.”

“I can’t forget what she did, Dad. I don’t know how you can.”

“I haven’t forgotten. But I made my peace with it a long time ago. It’s time you did, too.”

Uncle Pete generally watched this exchange without a word. It had been replayed numerous times over the years—and always with the same result. But this time he spoke. “Andrew’s right, Grant. Give it to the Lord. Get on with your life.”

“What she did was wrong, Uncle Pete.”

“I’m not sayin’ it was right or wrong. Just that it’s over. Holdin’ on to anger don’t help nobody.”

Grant crumpled the paper that had held his sandwich, then tossed it into the bag. “I wish I could. You two put me to shame.”

“Hardly. What you’ve done these past two-and-a-half years would have finished me off,” his father said.

“I doubt that. I come from strong stock. Besides, people do what they have to do.”

“Not everybody,” Uncle Pete disagreed. “And you’ve never wavered all this time, either. You’re just as faithful now as you were at the beginning.”

Uncomfortable with the praise, Grant glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me. I need to run. I’ll be back by about two-thirty.”

“Take your time, son. And give her our best.”

“I always do. See you guys later. Thanks for lunch, Uncle Pete.”

“Glad to do it. Don’t forget to return that call.”

That brought a smile to Grant’s face. “It’s right at the top of my list as soon as I get back.”

As he walked down the quiet hallway, Grant raised his hand in greeting to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, Ruth. Any change?” He’d been asking the same question for more than two years. And getting the same answer.

“No. She’s holding her own.”

He continued down the hall, stopping outside the familiar room where he’d spent so many hours. He took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind him.

After all this time, he still harbored a faint hope that one day he’d walk into the extended-care facility and find his wife waiting to greet him with her sweet smile. But he was always disappointed. Though less so now. Hope, once strong, had dimmed as days became weeks, and months became years.

Grant moved beside the bed and stared down at the face of the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman to whom he had pledged his life six-and-a-half years ago—for better or worse—before God. And he’d meant every word of that vow. He just hadn’t expected the worst to happen so quickly, just four short years into their marriage. Now the woman around whom he’d planned his future, the woman with whom he’d hoped to raise a family, the woman with whom he’d wanted to grow old, lay suspended between life and death, her once-strong limbs wasted, her passionate, laughter-filled eyes shuttered.

Closing his eyes, Grant took a steadying breath.

Lord, give me strength to carry on, he prayed. I don’t know why you’ve given Christine and me this cross to bear, but I place my trust in you. Please continue to watch over us.

He left his eyes closed for a long moment, drawing what solace he could from the prayer he uttered every day at his wife’s bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her cool forehead, reaching over to take her unresponsive hand in his. “Hi, Christine. It’s Grant. I brought a new novel I thought you’d enjoy. And the Bible, of course. But first I’ll give you all the family news.”

He sat beside her, keeping her hand in his, and talked with her about his surprising bequest from Jo, filled her in on the latest commissions they’d received at the shop, and reminded her how much everyone missed her. It was a routine he’d begun soon after the accident, at the suggestion of her doctors, who had told him that comatose people could sometimes hear voices. They’d encouraged him to share his day with her, to read to her, saying that it might make a difference in her recovery. They didn’t push him to do that anymore. But he still continued the practice.

At the end of an hour, he opened the Bible to Psalms and picked up where he’d left off the day before. He always ended his visits with the Good Book, and today the verse seemed especially appropriate.

“‘Only in God be at rest, my soul, for from Him comes my hope,’” Grant read, his voice mellow and deep and steady. “‘He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be disturbed. With God is my safety and my glory, he is the rock of my strength; my refuge is in God. Trust in Him at all times, O my people! Pour out your hearts before Him; God is our refuge.’”

As Grant closed the book, he let the words soothe his soul. Then he stood and once more leaned down to press his lips to Christine’s forehead.

“Rest well, sweetheart. Never forget how much I love you,” he whispered.

Grant moved to the door, taking one final look at Christine’s still form. As he stepped outside, Ruth was just passing by.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

Grant nodded. “I’ll be here.”

Chapter Two

“Morgan Williams.”

As her voice came over the wire, Grant’s lip tipped up into wry grin. He’d tried her office number first, somehow knowing she’d still be there at eight o’clock at night. And her tone captured her personality to perfection. Crisp. Pleasant. Efficient. Businesslike. Except the pleasant part might go out the window when she found out why he was calling.

“Ms. Williams, it’s Grant Kincaid.”

He could almost hear her frown over the phone, and when she spoke her voice held an edge of impatience.

“What can I do for you?”