As the horizon behind Marci blurred, Ben somehow managed to choke out a response. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Her reply was soft, her face luminous.
“Do you think we could have that kiss now?”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rose up on tiptoe. “You’re on, Dr. Garrison.”
He dipped his head, and the two seagulls behind his bride fluttered into the air and glided away, leaving them alone in each other’s arms.
And as their lips melded . . . as he held her close beneath Pelican Point light . . . as the setting sun unfurled a gilded ribbon across the sea and turned the sky into an impressionistic canvas of gold and pink and purple . . . Ben telegraphed a silent message of thanks to the grandfather he’d loved.
For always knowing what he needed most.
For standing with him through life’s storms.
And for an unexpected legacy that had brought him home to Hope Harbor . . . and led him to a woman whose sweet love would enrich all his tomorrows.
A Monastery Near Al Hafar, Syria
Why was a light burning in the workshop at midnight?
Suppressing a shiver, Brother Michael Bennett peered at the sliver of illumination seeping under the bottom of the heavy wooden door at the end of the long, vaulted passageway.
There could be only one explanation.
The monk who’d closed up the shop for the day had forgotten to turn it off.
He wiped a hand down his face and leaned a shoulder against the rough stone wall. That wouldn’t have happened on his watch. Last chore before he left each night, he flipped the switch.
Eyeing the door, he gauged the distance. Could his legs handle the detour? Questionable. The bug that had felled him at noon had left his muscles wobbly as Jell-O. If his parched throat wasn’t screaming for some chipped ice, he wouldn’t be making this taxing trek to the kitchen.
Fuel for the workshop generator, however, was expensive.
And they had better uses for the funds entrusted to their care.
Shoring up his waning strength, he pushed off from the wall and trudged down the drafty passage, the February chill creeping into his Florida-born-and-bred bones . . . as it always did in winter.
Yet not once in the past ten years had he regretted his decision to join this simple religious community in the shadow of the Qalamoun Mountains. Christianity had flourished amid the harsh beauty of this high desert for centuries, and it was an honor and privilege to make a contribution to that tradition . . . no matter how small or insignificant.
Life might not be easy here—but it was good.
Tonight, however, he could have done with a few luxuries.
Like room service.
And heated hallways.
Another shiver rolled through him. It wasn’t as cold in here as it was outside, where the temperature was probably hovering near freezing—but it couldn’t be much above fifty.
Then again, no one was supposed to be wandering the halls at this hour.
He picked up his pace.
At the door to the workshop, he paused to catch his breath. All he had to do was flick off the lights, continue to the kitchen for his ice, and return to his warm bed.
The sooner the better.
He twisted the knob . . . pushed the door open . . . and froze.
A dark-haired man was hunched over a workbench against the far wall, a high-pitched whine abrading the midnight stillness. It was impossible to identify him from behind.
But whoever he was, he shouldn’t be here.
A prickle of unease skittered through him, and he gripped the edge of the door to steady himself. “Hello?”
His raspy greeting was no more than a hoarse whisper.
He raised his voice and tried again, wincing as the words scraped past his raw throat.
The whirring noise stopped abruptly, and the man spun around.
“Khalil?” Brother Michael stared at the refugee who’d arrived on their doorstep two years ago, one of the many desperate souls who’d lost everything in this war-ravaged land. He switched to Arabic. “What are you doing here?”
Beads of sweat broke out on the twenty-six-year-old’s forehead. “I’m working.”
“At midnight?”
“I wanted to finish a . . . task.”
God knew the small contingent of brothers needed all the help they could get to keep the place running, and Khalil was a hard worker. That was one of the reasons he’d been allowed to stay on as a volunteer in exchange for room and board.
But no one expected him to toil at the expense of sleep.
“You don’t have to put in nighttime hours. You more than earn your keep as it is.” Brother Michael leaned against the doorframe. Ever since he’d pled Khalil’s case with the abbot and other monks, he’d taken the refugee under his wing. “This can wait until tomorrow.”
“As you wish. I’ll just clean up before I leave.” The man gave a slight bow, his back brushing against the workbench.
A flutter of shavings drifted to the floor.
Too many, given the nature of the work they did here.
Odd.
And what had produced that whine he’d heard when he’d opened the door?
Certainly none of their usual equipment.
Brother Michael’s pulse quickened.
Something wasn’t right.
He needed to check that workbench.
“I’ll help you with the cleanup.” He forced himself to walk toward the bench, each step a supreme effort.
“No.” The sweat on the man’s forehead glistened in the overhead light. “You’re sick. I’ll take care of it.”
“I insist.” The workshop was his responsibility. Khalil was his responsibility. If the man was using the space for questionable purposes after hours, the issue needed to be addressed.
He continued toward the bench, stopping a few feet away, waiting for his protégé to give him access.
For several seconds
