Greg’s lips flattened, and despite the savory aroma of the grilling fish, his appetite tanked. “That’s not always easy to do.”
“Never said it was. And not all marriages survive. But sometimes people give up too fast when a hard challenge comes along instead of making a course correction and continuing the journey. You should ask Floyd about that.”
Greg inspected the bird again, and the seagull stared back at him. “He’s not much of a talker.”
“He is if you learn how to listen. Most creatures are once you discover how to communicate with them. Floyd, for example, went through a rough spell a while back. He lost his first wife a few years ago and was down in the dumps until Gladys came along. Now he has a whole new outlook.”
“Cute story.” But a seagull’s woes had nothing to do with him—even if Charley appeared to be implying otherwise.
“Also inspiring—as many stories are.” Charley began assembling the tacos. “The Bible, for example, is packed with some beauties.”
The Bible?
Greg gaped at him.
In all the years he’d known Charley, the man had rarely made more than a passing reference to God or religion or faith.
“You read the Bible?”
Charley smiled over his shoulder. “That surprise you?”
“Yeah. I mean . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen you at church. Unless . . . do you go to St. Francis?”
“I’ve been to both of the churches in this town on many occasions.”
“But not every week, right?”
“If you’re asking me whether I worship regularly, the answer is yes—and not just on Sunday.”
Charley could be as slippery as a slime eel if he didn’t want to be pinned down.
“You don’t have to go to church every week to be a person of faith, though.” Hard as he tried to contain it, a trace of defensiveness crept into his voice.
“True.” Charley wrapped the two taco orders in white butcher paper. “But Rachel’s a regular, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” She must have mentioned it to Charley on one of the occasions she’d stopped at the stand for tacos.
How else would the man know his wife’s worship habits?
“Well, that old saying we’ve all heard may be trite, but it’s also true. ‘The family that prays together stays together.’” He slipped the tacos in a brown bag and slid the sack across the counter. “Two orders to go.”
Greg pulled out his wallet. “Are you ever going to take credit cards?”
“Nope.” He tapped the small cash-only sign taped to the serving window. “I like to keep life simple. You two enjoy those tacos.”
“That goes without saying.” He handed over the cash and picked up the bag.
“By the way—they’re having donuts at Grace Christian tomorrow after the services. I can recommend the chocolate custard.” Charley winked.
Greg froze.
Strange that the taco chef would happen to dangle his favorite variety as bait—although it was possible he’d mentioned his preference to the man years ago.
“How do you know what they’re serving tomorrow?”
“I have inside information.” He gestured toward Sweet Dreams Bakery on the other side of Dockside Drive.
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“You do that—and give Rachel my best. Tell her to drop by if she wants to talk gardens again. I don’t imagine she has many friends here yet.”
No, she didn’t—and that was his fault. Thanks to his hermit-like ways and gloomy mood, she’d felt compelled to stay close unless she was at work.
Not much of a life for a young bride.
Greg lifted his hand in farewell, skirted the seagulls again, and trudged toward the car.
If he wanted her to stick around, he needed to resolve his issues before she got fed up and followed through on her ultimatum.
No, scratch that if.
He definitely wanted her to stay.
The real questions were what did she want to do—and what was fair to her?
If she was only staying with him out of a sense of duty, he ought to cut her free . . . despite Charley’s commentary on marriage, and despite the knot that formed in his stomach whenever he thought about her leaving.
Transferring the bag of tacos to his other hand, he dug out his keys and pushed the auto-lock button.
Maybe it was time to unlock the truth at home too. Have the hard discussion he’d been dodging for months and find out where Rachel stood.
And hope that whatever the outcome, he could find the courage and strength to move past the trauma of these past few months and create a new future.
“Hi, honey. It’s been months since we talked, and your dad and I, we were . . . well, we wondered if it might be better to schedule a call instead of playing phone tag. Let us know what might work for you. We’re flexible. Take care, and we . . . we hope to hear from you soon.”
As her mother’s message finished playing, Rachel set her cell back on the patio table, wiped her grimy palms on her jeans, and sank into one of the molded plastic chairs.
Three calls from her mom in the past six weeks—and in every succeeding one, she’d sounded more distressed.
Rachel filled her lungs with the fresh salt air and rotated the kinks out of her neck.
She ought to respond with more than a one-sentence email.
But how did you put aside hurt that ran bone deep—especially when not once in their limited communication since the wedding had her mother apologized for the grief she and Dad had given her about rushing into marriage?
And they must still be miffed that she hadn’t followed their advice to defer the wedding for a few months. Otherwise her mom would have uttered the two magic words during one of her messages.
An I’m sorry would go a long way toward bridging the rift between them.
Rachel rubbed at a streak of dirt on the back of her hand and sighed.
The stubborn gene was strong on both sides of her lineage.
In fact, without the Hope Harbor address change she’d emailed—and her oblique reference to an injury that had resulted in an early discharge for Greg—her mother probably wouldn’t have started calling.
At some point, if her mom persisted,
