Bridge to Haven (58 page)

He turned to her then. “It’s your life, Abra.” He took her hand and pressed it against his cheek before he turned and kissed her palm. “I wish you nothing but the best.” He let her go and opened the truck door.

Shaken, Abra got out quickly. She stood, arms crossed against the cold, looking at him from across the orange hood, confused by the sensations his kiss had wrought. He kept walking. “Will I see you
in the morning before you leave?” She stepped onto the walkway. Moths fluttered around the light.

Joshua unlocked his door and pushed it open. “Depends on what time you get up.” He went in without looking back. The door made a sharp click as it closed behind him.

Abra stood for a while, staring at that closed door, getting a taste of what life would be like if she never saw Joshua again.

After a few hours of tossing and turning, Joshua gave up trying to sleep. If he waited until morning and saw Abra again, he might end up driving her to Las Vegas. And then what? Stay? Keep tabs on her? Drive himself crazy? Better if he started the long drive home now, even if it was still an hour before dawn.

He’d refilled the tank and checked the oil before taking Abra out to see the movie town. He’d wanted her to understand the job was done and he was leaving. He’d hoped—prayed—she would change her mind and come home with him. If she had, he was ready to roll. Well, she hadn’t.

Let go, Joshua.
He’d done it before. He’d do it again, no matter how much it hurt. For however long it took.

Joshua showered, dressed, stuffed the last of his things into his duffel bag, and zipped it. He put his wallet in his pocket and picked up his keys. Dumping his duffel bag in the back, he yanked open the driver’s side door.

“Joshua?” Abra stood on the walkway, holding the handles of her tote bag with both hands. “Can I hitch a ride?”

“Depends. Where do you want to go?”

“Home.”

CHAPTER 18

So he returned home to his father.

And while he was still a long way off,

his father saw him coming.

THE STORY OF THE PRODIGAL SON

I
T
WAS
LATE
that night before they left the main highway and headed by country roads across rolling hills and ranchlands, past sloughs and into high hills, vineyards, and apple orchards. Abra closed her eyes. “It smells like home.” Cooling earth, growing crops, grass, and clean air.

They had driven all day and through the evening, with occasional stops for meals and coffee. They had been slowed by an accident around suppertime. Joshua was bone tired. Had he been alone, he would have pulled off the road to sleep for a couple of hours, but with Abra beside him, he kept going. Her fear increased hourly. It did no good to tell her she wouldn’t be led to a public scaffold.

They reached the turnoff to Haven in the wee hours of morning, the full moon reflecting off the river, the trusses of the bridge to Haven rising ahead.

“Stop,” Abra breathed, then louder in a tone of panic. “Stop!”

Adrenaline poured into his system and Joshua jammed on the brakes, skidding. “What?”

“He’s there.”

A man stood by the railing in the middle of the bridge.

Joshua relaxed. “It’s my dad. He must be on his morning prayer walk.” His father stepped off the walkway into the open beneath the canopy of trusses. He looked straight at them. Joshua lifted his foot off the brake and the truck rolled forward.

Abra drew in her breath. “Wait.”

“He’s seen us, Abra.”

“I know.” She pushed her door open and slowly got out of the truck.

Joshua got out and came around to take her hand. “It’s going to be all right. Trust me.” They hadn’t gone more than a few feet onto the bridge when Dad met them. Joshua let go of her.

“Abra.” Eyes glistening, Dad cupped Abra’s face. “You’re home.” He kissed her forehead before enfolding her in his arms. Joshua heard Dad’s muffled voice. All the tension went out of Abra and she wept.

Knowing they needed this time alone, Joshua headed back to the truck. He got into the driver’s seat and rested his forearms on the steering wheel, watching the two people he loved most in the world. Dad released Abra and the two stood close. Abra was talking fast, looking up at him, then down. Dad was leaning toward her so their foreheads almost touched. Dad made no attempt to stop the stream of words that came out of broken pride. When she stopped talking, he ran his hand over her hair and said something to her. Abra stepped forward and clung to him.

Joshua started the truck and pulled up alongside them. “It’s been a long night, Dad.”

Dad put his arm around Abra’s shoulders and kept her at his side. “Thanks for bringing her home, Son.” He looked twenty years younger.

Abra’s face was awash with tears and relief as she mouthed,
Thank you.

“Do you two want a ride back to the house?”

“We’re going to take a walk.”

Joshua knew where Dad would take her, and that he couldn’t interfere. “See you later, then.” He drove across the bridge, glancing in the rearview mirror before he turned right. Dad and Abra were walking hand in hand.

Abra felt weak with relief as she fell into step with Pastor Zeke. She’d poured out her confession and seen no condemnation in his eyes. When he ran his hand over her hair, she remembered how he’d done the same thing when she was a little girl. She felt overwhelmed with emotions, not the least of which was the question, if he’d loved her so much all this time, why couldn’t he have found a way to keep her? She was afraid to ask the real question that had tormented her since the day he left her in Peter and Priscilla’s care.

They walked in companionable silence, her hand engulfed in his, until she realized where he was taking her. Maple Avenue. She pulled away and stopped. “They won’t want to see me.”

“Oh, but they do.”

“It’s too early.” She meant too soon.

He was at the corner and could see down the street. “The light’s on in the kitchen.” He held out his hand.

Abra surrendered. Her heart knocked when they reached the white picket fence. Pastor Zeke opened the gate and waited for her to enter. Fighting tears of panic, she took a deep breath and followed his lead. He walked with her up the stairs, but let her ring the doorbell.

Priscilla, in bathrobe and slippers, opened the door. She looked from Pastor Zeke to her. “Abra?” she barely whispered, aghast. Then
her face flooded with relief. “Abra!” She was on the front porch in one step, reaching out, then withdrawing. Flustered, she burst into tears and ran back into the house. She stood at the bottom of the stairs and cried out, “Peter! Come quick!”

Abra heard the sound of hurried footsteps upstairs, and then Peter came down, wearing pajamas and a hastily thrown-on robe. He looked ten years older. The lines of worry smoothed and he uttered a choked “Thank God.”

“I’m sorry for the things I said and didn’t say. I . . .”

Peter marched forward and hugged her so hard she could hardly breathe, let alone speak. He pressed his chin onto the top of her head and withdrew, but didn’t let go. He held her firmly by the arms, his head down, his eyes capturing hers. “It’s about time.” Abra saw anger and pain, relief and love. He let go of her and held out his hand to Pastor Zeke. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Come on in. We can all talk in the living room.”

“I’d better get home.” Pastor Zeke stepped back, leaving her again. “I have a full workday ahead of me.” He lifted his hand, stepped out the front door, and closed it behind him.

Priscilla wiped away happy tears. “You look so tired, Abra.”

“We drove straight through.”

Priscilla lifted her hand to touch Abra’s cheek and then lowered it. Abra remembered all the times she’d withdrawn from Priscilla and the hurt she’d seen in her eyes. She stepped closer and took Priscilla’s hand and put it against her cheek, then closed her eyes.

Priscilla’s breath came in a soft catch, and she put her arms around Abra. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said hoarsely. Peter said something and Priscilla interrupted. “Later, Peter. She needs to rest.”

The upstairs bedroom looked exactly as she’d left it. Priscilla pulled the covers back. Sighing, Abra stretched out, half-asleep before her head touched the pillow. Priscilla tucked her in. “We’ve been
praying constantly since Pastor Zeke told us you were in Agua Dulce with Joshua.”

“Have you?”

With a faint frown, Priscilla smoothed Abra’s hair back from her forehead. “We’ve been praying since the night you left.” She fingered a clump of Abra’s hair.

“I know it looks awful. I cut it off with a razor blade.”

“A razor blade?”

“I’m so sorry for everything, Priscilla. Mom. I—”

Priscilla put trembling fingertips over Abra’s lips. “We love you, Abra. Get some sleep. We’ll talk later.” Priscilla leaned down and kissed her the way she’d always kissed Penny. “You’re home now. You’re safe.”

Exhausted, Abra relaxed. She didn’t even hear the door close behind Priscilla.

Birds sang outside the open window. Eyes still closed, Abra listened.
“Joys are flowing like a river since the Comforter has come . . .”
Stretching, she got up, feeling stiff and groggy. How long had she slept? The sun was well up. She went to the window and looked out at the backyard with pristine mowed lawn encircled by roses, delphiniums, and foxgloves, rising from beds of sweet white alyssum and lamb’s ears.

When she turned away from the window, she noticed presents stacked on her dresser—some in Christmas wrap and others in multiples of pastels—with a profusion of ribbons. Envelopes bearing her name were taped to each one. She opened a birthday card with a touching poem about a daughter and signed
Mom and Dad
. Tears blurred her vision as Abra touched the packages, one for every Christmas and birthday she’d missed.