He’s intelligent,
thoughtful, and well read. Have you seen one book in Joe’s possession?”
Liza shook her head, her eyes glinting. “I haven’t been in his apartment.”
“I haven’t either!”
“He might have an entire load of books in his duffel bag.”
Mona rolled her eyes.
“‘My dream man has to be patient, a hard worker, someone who considers others above himself and is a Christian,’ ” Liza quoted,
her chin high.
“And be able to be vulnerable!” Mona spiked the air with a grimy finger. “Joe would rather tell a joke than be serious and
reveal his true feelings. He’s all puff and chuckles, the life of the party, but he guards his privacy like a secret treasure.
I would take Brian I-am-the-greatest- thing-to-ever-come-out-of-Deep Haven over Mr. Private Michaels any day. At least Brian
told me about his life. Joe won’t even tell me where he’s from.”
Liza crooked an eyebrow. “I knew it,” she said smugly.
Mona fumed and marched into the house behind her.
She spotted Brian outside, inspecting her flowers. With his suit coat flung over his shoulder and groomed eyebrows furrowed
in concentration, he appeared refined and stable, just the type of man who could fulfill her list of requirements. But as
he squatted to survey the new cinder-block posts, the image of Joe hit her hard—his short-cropped, tawny hair, his gray T-shirt
pulling over thick arms and a muscled chest, and his liquid blue eyes that somehow skinned calloused layers from her heart.
Mona scampered up the stairs, wishing Liza wasn’t always right.
Joe laced his fingers behind his neck and hung his head as he squatted on the beach. Every muscle tensed from the foolishness
of not cooling down after his run. But he hadn’t been running for exercise. Memories chased him along the beach, and he fought
to escape the pain that seemed as vivid now as it had been fifteen years earlier. Ruby had ripped open his scars with her
revelation, and the wound throbbed, fresh and gaping.
He’d spent the afternoon driving up the Superior coastline, searching for comfort in the rugged beauty that had so ministered
to his soul in years past. He’d finally surrendered to the fruitlessness and returned to the Footstep, hoping to bury himself
in manual labor.
He’d arrived in time to see Mona climbing into Brian Whitney’s black-as-night Honda. He tried to ignore the stab of new pain
as they drove off.
His chest heaved. Sweat ran in rivers down his back. Rage, like a separate being, roared about in his soul. Wayne Michaels—deserter,
quitter, destroyer—back in Gabe’s life. Just when Joe thought he’d buried the memories so deep they’d never be unearthed.
Joe jammed his fists into his eyes. The past revived, and he heard every angry, abusive word his father said echoing in the
waves slamming onto shore. In the cold foamy spray, he again felt his tears, and the screams of the seagulls voiced his broken
heart. Most of all, he felt the nip of blame in the stinging wind. Joe shuddered, burying his head into his drawn-up knees.
He would never forget the sound of his father’s Mustang roaring away from the house or the image of his mother, crumpled in
tears in the kitchen, pain etched into her face. She’d been so fragile after his father left, always exhausted from working
late at the hospital while Joe cared for Gabe.
Gabe. The little brother he had always wanted. The paradox of both loving and hating his little brother had tied Joe in emotional
knots. He didn’t know where to pledge his allegiance. After his father left, he had felt tied to Gabe, forced to drag his
abnormal little brother everywhere and defend him against the bullies of the world. When Joe was eighteen, he had broken the
bonds and left. Just like his father. But, he always reasoned, he’d been better than the old man who’d given up on them. At
least he’d provided, looked back, stopped in to check on Gabe now
thoughtful, and well read. Have you seen one book in Joe’s possession?”
Liza shook her head, her eyes glinting. “I haven’t been in his apartment.”
“I haven’t either!”
“He might have an entire load of books in his duffel bag.”
Mona rolled her eyes.
“‘My dream man has to be patient, a hard worker, someone who considers others above himself and is a Christian,’ ” Liza quoted,
her chin high.
“And be able to be vulnerable!” Mona spiked the air with a grimy finger. “Joe would rather tell a joke than be serious and
reveal his true feelings. He’s all puff and chuckles, the life of the party, but he guards his privacy like a secret treasure.
I would take Brian I-am-the-greatest- thing-to-ever-come-out-of-Deep Haven over Mr. Private Michaels any day. At least Brian
told me about his life. Joe won’t even tell me where he’s from.”
Liza crooked an eyebrow. “I knew it,” she said smugly.
Mona fumed and marched into the house behind her.
She spotted Brian outside, inspecting her flowers. With his suit coat flung over his shoulder and groomed eyebrows furrowed
in concentration, he appeared refined and stable, just the type of man who could fulfill her list of requirements. But as
he squatted to survey the new cinder-block posts, the image of Joe hit her hard—his short-cropped, tawny hair, his gray T-shirt
pulling over thick arms and a muscled chest, and his liquid blue eyes that somehow skinned calloused layers from her heart.
Mona scampered up the stairs, wishing Liza wasn’t always right.
Joe laced his fingers behind his neck and hung his head as he squatted on the beach. Every muscle tensed from the foolishness
of not cooling down after his run. But he hadn’t been running for exercise. Memories chased him along the beach, and he fought
to escape the pain that seemed as vivid now as it had been fifteen years earlier. Ruby had ripped open his scars with her
revelation, and the wound throbbed, fresh and gaping.
He’d spent the afternoon driving up the Superior coastline, searching for comfort in the rugged beauty that had so ministered
to his soul in years past. He’d finally surrendered to the fruitlessness and returned to the Footstep, hoping to bury himself
in manual labor.
He’d arrived in time to see Mona climbing into Brian Whitney’s black-as-night Honda. He tried to ignore the stab of new pain
as they drove off.
His chest heaved. Sweat ran in rivers down his back. Rage, like a separate being, roared about in his soul. Wayne Michaels—deserter,
quitter, destroyer—back in Gabe’s life. Just when Joe thought he’d buried the memories so deep they’d never be unearthed.
Joe jammed his fists into his eyes. The past revived, and he heard every angry, abusive word his father said echoing in the
waves slamming onto shore. In the cold foamy spray, he again felt his tears, and the screams of the seagulls voiced his broken
heart. Most of all, he felt the nip of blame in the stinging wind. Joe shuddered, burying his head into his drawn-up knees.
He would never forget the sound of his father’s Mustang roaring away from the house or the image of his mother, crumpled in
tears in the kitchen, pain etched into her face. She’d been so fragile after his father left, always exhausted from working
late at the hospital while Joe cared for Gabe.
Gabe. The little brother he had always wanted. The paradox of both loving and hating his little brother had tied Joe in emotional
knots. He didn’t know where to pledge his allegiance. After his father left, he had felt tied to Gabe, forced to drag his
abnormal little brother everywhere and defend him against the bullies of the world. When Joe was eighteen, he had broken the
bonds and left. Just like his father. But, he always reasoned, he’d been better than the old man who’d given up on them. At
least he’d provided, looked back, stopped in to check on Gabe now
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