Appointment at Christmas Bay Read online

  Paul wasn’t sure how they went from art to tears, but her sorrow touched him. He resisted the urge to move closer. “If what you say is true, and I think it is, then what the Lord did for you is his story.”

  She fluttered her watery eyes. “What?”

  “Not you telling your story.”

  Juliette smiled. “Well, no one’s buying his story, then.”

  “Not the first time.” Paul chuckled and pushed away from the railing. “Okay, I better get going.”

  She joined him at the steps. “Weren’t you driving a different truck yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he replied softly. “An old work vehicle.”

  “Della Rae?”

  He flinched at the name of his father’s lobster boat and quickly realized she read the sign on the truck door. He gazed up at her on the porch.

  “Thanks again for bringing the phone,” she said. As if on cue, it rang from the wicker chair. “Guess I better get that.”

  Paul hurried to the pickup and inside noticed the water pump on the seat. Funny. He forgot all about it.

  ****

  Harry was calling.

  “Good, you got your phone back.” Traffic swooshed in the background like he was in the car.

  “Yes, just a few minutes ago.” Juliette watched Paul’s red pickup disappear down 19th Street toward the harbor.

  “The tow truck dropped the car off at a mechanic not far from the house. You should hear from them this afternoon. Let me know what he says.”

  “Okay, thanks for taking care of it all.”

  “What, babe? You’re cutting out.”

  I have a voice like a hornet in an oil jar… A spider web lies hidden in my one ear.

  “I will,” Juliette shouted. “How was the meeting?”

  “Productive, I guess.” His loud exhale tickled her ear.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Keith didn’t bring up Brad Barrington. I really thought he’d pass the baton today like he said. Maybe alcohol did the talking this weekend. Anyway, we’ll see.” He went on to discuss a colleague he might confide in regarding the client hopeful, Brad Barrington.

  At the right time, she wanted to discuss Christmas Bay and the idea God really existed. None of the books she searched had Michelangelo’s poem, but she understood. The artist poured out his life, even to the point of self-neglect with a spider in one ear and a cricket chirping in the other, all used up for his God.

  Would Harry understand something like that? More than anything else, she had to try.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday morning, Juliette waited in the mechanic’s shop with several other customers and flipped through an automotive magazine. The garage owner insisted there’d been no irreparable damage, but she couldn’t help dreaming of a new one.

  “Ms. Prescott,” a guy in a grease-stained uniform shirt called from the entrance.

  Juliette hopped up and walked through the door he held open. Parked in front, her car sparkled with no sign it’d practically sunk in a marsh. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  The young man held a clipboard at this side. “Yes, did Chuck go over everything with you?”

  “More or less.” This morning the owner answered most of her questions with mechanic lingo, but she got the impression they were thorough.

  He passed her the clipboard and a pen. “Those fluid changes were precautions. We didn’t see no problems with ‘em. Just need you to sign the credit card bill, and you’re good to go.”

  Her eye zoomed to the charge for upholstery cleaning. “Are you the one who did the interior detailing?” she asked, passing the clipboard back to him.

  “Austin did. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no. I just wondered.” Juliette peered through the driver’s window. What had the person thought who wiped the interior clean of her blood?

  Inside, the car smelled like a leather factory, apparently their idea of aromatherapy. She closed the door and rolled down the shiny window. Crash! The shock of her fingers trapped in the doorframe flashed in her mind. How was it that two days later she hardly recalled the pain?

  Exhaling loudly, Juliette maneuvered through the crowded lot and pulled onto Stuart Road. Being in the car reminded her of Paul Quinn’s visit.

  She poked behind a compact car and thought of him. She’d never suggest they meet alone, but possibly she and Harry could treat him and his girlfriend to dinner. Finding him shouldn’t be that hard.

  The phone interrupted the plans, and she sifted in her purse for it. Her mother was calling.

  “Hey, Ma. It looks like the car will live.”

  “Oh, good. Daddy wanted to know how things went. How about returning the rental car?”

  “No problems. Tell him thanks.” Juliette turned onto a side street and pulled to the curb. The last couple of days she struggled with routine tasks enough to feel shaky talking on the phone while driving. With the phone to her ear, she glanced at a large home where birds flitted around an oak tree in the unfenced backyard. Life went on, didn’t it?

  “We’re glad it worked out, darling. And they’re sure there’s no damage?”

  “That’s the consensus. It looks brand new. No blood-smeared windows. None on the seats or dash. Spic and span like nothing happened. That should make everyone happy.” A sinister laugh escaped her lips and echoed in the car. The dead quiet on the line melted her anger to guilt.

  “We’re glad you’re okay,” her mother finally said in tiny voice.

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.” Juliette covered the phone while she sighed in frustration. Even if an apology was owed, wasn’t it okay to expect more from the people she loved?

  “We’ll check on you later this week. We love you, Gwyneth.”

  Huh? Juliette coughed in surprise hearing the name of her deceased sister again. The timing of the mix-up stirred her irritation. “Do you realize you just called me Gwyneth?”

  “I think you misunderstood.” Her voice rang with confidence this time.

  “Ma, you did.” Juliette listened to her mother’s breath and a few stammers.

  “Oh, well…um. I love both my girls, Ju-li-ette. Okay, darling, drive home safely.”

  With the car still idling at the curb, Juliette dropped the phone in her purse and wished she were already home unpacking the boxes in the backseat and trunk before it got too hot.

  On the other side of the street, a small community church caught her eye. Plain, pink brick with a white cross in front and sweetly tucked among the widely varying homes, it looked like a place where peace dwelled.

  Surely through the years, she passed it dozens of times, that one and others, drove right on by and never even noticed. The bigger, historic churches everyone knew. Even so, her heart longed to visit such a place and meet with God. Other than weddings or architectural tours in Europe, she never attended church even as a child.

  She eased the car away from the shady spot and decided to cut through neighborhood streets to the house. There’d be less traffic than on Broadway, one drawback to the summer influx of tourists.

  On the way, the idea of attending church this weekend stayed on her mind. She remembered a place on Ferry Road, a mid-sized, plantation-styled building a few miles from the house. Several years ago when they were on the way to catch the ferry, her father mentioned one of their neighbors was the key contractor in its renovation.

  Excited at the prospect, she decided to find that church again. The beach traffic hadn’t clogged the back streets, and she arrived in fifteen minutes at Lighthouse Community Church. Quaint, like a whitewashed, country home, it was bigger than she remembered. The marquis read See You Sunday, Pastor Jason Taylor and listed the service times.

  Her spirits lifted with the idea of having a church to attend. She activated the odometer to check the mileage to the house and turned left onto Ferry Road thinking about Harry. He’d be in town this weekend, and with any luck, agree to the eleven o’clock service.

  Then again, he might not. They weren
’t even getting married in a church, a shocking notion all of a sudden even if it’d been her preference. Oh, well. This Sunday, she was attending one. And Harry?

  Juliette turned onto a neighborhood street that led home. After several long blocks, she braked for a stop sign, still unsure what to do. Her fingers gripped the wheel, and for an instant, she pictured the blood-splattered interior of the car, and she knew.

  Whether he went or not, she was going.

  ****

  The Della Rae belonged to him—tax, title, and fishing license. That didn’t count for much if the engine went out. Paul hoped Casey McAllister had some ideas.

  At the galley sink, his friend lathered his greasy hands with solvent. “Honestly, I don’t think it’ll make it through the summer without some serious repairs. Hate to be so blunt, but I’m glad to help.”

  At the dinette, Paul sipped his bottled water. Over the years, the boat built in 1985 costs a bundle to maintain. Thirty-four feet, she slept six comfortably, but no one stayed overnight except him. These days it glimmered with fresh paint inside and out.

  Forward in the cabin, the galley had all the appliances to make a meal, and near the stairs leading to the upper deck, the salon had a recently upholstered, L-shaped settee where some guys liked to watch TV. Meanwhile, the twin-engine and electrical system required constant attention and repair. Until now, he could keep up with those.

  “Like I said, Casey. It’s the finances.”

  Casey slid into the dinette seat across from him and popped open a Pepsi. He sighed. “Then I guess you’ll have to weigh your options. I’m not going to tell you what to do. Maybe it’s time to decide how much you like fishing. That and just keep praying.”

  Paul’s heart quickened. He half-thought about getting out of the sport fishing business. And then what? All his life, back to the days spent on his father’s lobster boat, he worked on the open seas. “I’ve been praying.”

  Casey gulped his drink and tapped the can. “If God wants you in this business, he’ll make a way.” He stood up and stretched. “I’ve got some billing to do this afternoon. Check in later if you want.” He wiped his forehead and put on his ball cap. “Getting kind of warm in here for me.”

  Paul choked back a moan about the air conditioner. It worked fine this morning. They walked up the steps to the aft deck where Casey stood staring across the canal. Paul followed his gaze to a nice Bayliner with two couples heading past the marina. No sense in making conversation about something so out of reach.

  “Okay, man, thanks for helping with that pump. At least the water pressure is back to normal.”

  “You bet.” Casey tipped his hat, climbed out, and headed back to his marina across the parking lot.

  Rather than return to more repairs below, Paul sank into a resin chair and propped his feet on another one. Tired and filthy, he reached a new low and didn’t like it. The rumble of a shaky engine caught his attention. Sunset Marina accommodated about thirty boats, his one of the largest. He knew the locals who docked there, but boaters also came and went. The two guys who pulled out in an older speedboat didn’t look familiar. Their laughter traveled on the wind, a reminder of the many excursions he led with clients full of anticipation.

  With twelve years invested in this business, he didn’t want to shirk responsibility and just bail out. His father overcame worse. Couldn’t he? The memories of those days didn’t pop up much. In fact, until he mentioned his father’s lobster boat to Juliette the other day, he hadn’t thought about Maine in a good while.

  It made Paul think his older brother might have some advice. He left their little town near Portland first after restrictions put a squeeze on the lobster industry. For awhile the two of them partnered in the excursion business. Love ended all that.

  His brother married, moved to Corpus Christi for a regular paycheck in an oil refinery, and now had his hands full with two kids.

  His cell phone rang. Paul hurried through the hatch and downstairs to the cabin. He didn’t recognize the number.

  “Paul Quinn, here.”

  “Paul, it’s Alex Hammond. Our meeting’s been cancelled down there. Sorry to say we won’t be coming in this weekend.”

  “I see. Did you want to reschedule?”

  “No, guy. I’m afraid not. In fact, if we have a meeting at all, it looks like the folks are coming up here to Dallas. Do we owe you a cancellation fee? None of the other guys could remember, and we’re good for it if that’s your policy.”

  “I appreciate it but no need.” He slid across the dinette seat and brushed the sweat dripping from his forehead.

  “Okay, we’ll miss going out. We were really looking forward to it.”

  “Sure, maybe another time.”

  Paul set the phone on the table. Another cancellation? He counted on these excursions to cover his slip payment and a few other bills, not to mention boat repairs. While installing the pump, they uncovered a few minor electrical problems, and Casey suggested costlier ones had to be addressed soon.

  His friend would gladly grant an extension for the marina fee, but if Paul wasn’t sure when he could repay him, it didn’t seem right to ask. Maybe things would work out. Several more bookings were on his calendar, and someone else could call. He’d worked so hard over the years cultivating relationships, primarily with guys in the oil industry. This was just one cancellation.

  The heat in the cabin took his breath away. Either he opened more windows for some cross ventilation or closed up shop and went home. Before Paul tucked his phone in his jeans pocket, he fished for the pump receipt. Among the bits of paper was one with Evelyn Prescott’s phone number and address. Daughter Juliette! he’d underscored below that.

  He pictured her again and imagined the lemony fragrance as they talked on the front porch. The paper crumpled in his fist. He closed the window over the dinette and headed outside.

  The financial circumstances left him with few choices. For now, he needed to get home and decide what to do with his life.

  ****

  Harry called Friday morning to say he had to work through the weekend. Juliette used the extra time to organize mounds of paperwork. Sunday morning before church, she prioritized the last of the journal articles, CDs, and other research data. Over the years, two computers crashed, one laptop got stolen, and an essential flashdrive corrupted. Since then, she maintained box loads of hardcopies.

  By some miracle, the scatter of papers accumulated since undergraduate school had to morph into a dissertation, the one-of-a-kind masterpiece to launch her from student status into the work world. She was past ready.

  So far, the dissertation committee blessed her ideas about textiles in the Italian Renaissance. Now, it seemed they applauded the drum roll before a performance. In actuality, she pushed the research out of mind while she slaved away as a teaching assistant at times, took classes, and sweated the comps last spring. Sleep deprived and anxious to get on with things, maybe she proposed ridiculous deadlines.

  By July 5, Dr. Cabot expected a Summary of the Problem with an original hypothesis and who knew what that would be. Late August, she’d present a formal proposal to the committee. In a year, she hoped to defend the dissertation.

  By then, she’d be Juliette Oppenheim.

  The stacks of material on the desk seem to bury her alive. She sighed loudly, and Skipper perked her ears from the library couch. “Mama’s in trouble, girl.”

  Anyway, she needed to be off. Church started in fifteen minutes. Earlier, Lexi sat glued to her computer in the dining room, and Connie hid out in her bedroom. She wondered about preparing lunch for them afterward and reconsidered. Her roommate guarded her independence and insisted she and daughter fend for themselves.

  Juliette got her purse and left through the backdoor, letting Skipper out. With the humidity thick, the air-conditioner barely cooled the car before she arrived at church soaked in sweat. In the middle of the street, a policeman waved traffic in and out. Finding a parking space took forever, and
she ended up at the outer reaches of the lot.

  She hurried through a side door where a maze of people crowded the hallway, kids and their parents and small groups. Were they coming or going? When she entered the narthex, the sanctuary doors were closed. At ten minutes past eleven, was it alright to go in? Two older women appeared, and she followed them inside.

  Music filled the air, and people stood on their feet. The ladies strolled ahead to seats someone was reserving for them, and Juliette remained at the door. Finally, she spied a sliver of a pew several rows down.

  “Sorry. Excuse me.” She squeezed past a young couple to the tiny portion of cushion. A tall couple blocked a view of the altar, but at least she could follow the lyrics on a screen. More or less settled, she drank in the surroundings and roar of the song as tears bubbled in her eyes.

  The pastor delivered a message on the names of God. With her arms scrunched to her sides, taking notes was impossible so she listened closely, loving every word. The time passed too quickly. Next Sunday, she’d get an earlier start.

  The idea of going home, especially to work, sounded loathsome. Instead, she headed to Walmart to stock up on frozen dinners, cereal, and sandwich fixings. The traffic on Seawall Boulevard slowed the drive, and at the store, another full parking lot required a long walk. On the way inside, she decided to check out their books.

  Would they have a Bible? She searched at home and hadn’t found one in the library. Seeing the Bibles in the pews made her want one. She browsed the Walmart selection awhile, and finally loaded up six books on prayer and women’s issues, several inspirational music CDs, and a Bible with a purple, leather-like cover. Groceries and the rest of what she needed could wait.

  She was at the checkout counter when her phone rang. It was Holly Benson, the wedding planner.

  “Hey, girl. How’s the bride-to-be?”

  “Good enough. I’m just leaving Walmart.”

  “You’re not shopping for the wedding, I hope.”

  “No, for books. A Bible, actually.” Juliette rolled down the windows and turned on the AC.