The Prodigal Comes Home (2 page)

At the end of the summer, the elders had asked if he would consider staying on. So far, Matt hadn’t regretted his decision. He’d fallen in the love with the area—and its close-knit community—almost immediately.

The entire congregation had gone out of their way to make him feel at home, especially Liz. The woman had become a combination cheerleader, surrogate grandmother and spiritual advisor, offering plates of homemade treats as often as she offered encouraging passages of scripture.

Matt welcomed the opportunity to take care of her for a change.

“Give Liz my love and remind her that tomorrow is pecan pie day. I’ll drop off a piece on my way home from work,” Kate said before turning her attention to a family settling into the next booth.

“Will do.” Matt shrugged his coat on as an image of the young woman by the road flashed through his mind again.

She hadn’t even been wearing a coat. Or boots, for that matter. Winter hadn’t released its grip on the north woods yet.

Locals knew not to pack away their cold-weather clothes until at least the middle of June.

Unsettled once again by the memory of that unexpected encounter, Matt’s gaze swept over the cars parked on Main Street.

Not a purple Jeep in sight.

But even though he couldn’t see her, Matt knew that God could.

Lord, I don’t know her story. I don’t know who she is or where she’s going, but you do. Please look out for her. If she doesn’t know you, put people into her path who do…

Z
oey’s hands began to tremble as she turned onto Carriage Street. At the end of the dead-end road stood a stately Victorian, tucked behind a screen of gnarled willow trees. Built in the mid-eighteen hundreds, the house remained a charming but faded monument to an era when local lumber barons lived and reigned like royalty.

Most people would have chosen to purchase a cute little log cabin on the lake, but not Jonathan and Elizabeth Decker. After her grandfather retired and Mirror Lake had become their permanent residence rather than a favorite vacation spot, he and Gran had purchased their “dream” home—an authentic “painted lady,” complete with sloping rooflines, gabled windows and a warren of rooms designed to hold company.

And rebellious teenage granddaughters.

Memories began to stir. Everything looked the way Zoey remembered it, as if she were looking at a photograph. The siding still wore a coat of pale orchid paint, staying true to its original color scheme. The front door remained a welcoming butter yellow; the gingerbread trim was a muted shade of sea foam green.

A flameless taper candle burned in every window, night and day.

Tears banked behind Zoey’s eyes as she noticed the ruffled curtains framing the windows in the second-floor turret that overlooked the flower garden. Not only because they still hung there—ten years later—but because she remembered her reaction the first time she’d seen them.

Her grandparents had gone out of their way to make Zoey feel at home when she’d arrived, but bitterness and anger had clouded her vision. She had declared that she was sixteen, not six. She hadn’t appreciated the bedroom, which her grandfather had painted a soft, seashell pink in her honor, nor their effort. She didn’t belong there, with them, any more than she belonged with her parents. Zoey had known it was only a matter of time before her grandparents figured it out, too.

And she’d be sent away again.

At the time, Zoey decided it might not hurt as much if she hastened the process. The fact that her grandparents had refused to cooperate had made her decision feel even worse.

Blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over, Zoey got out of the Jeep and picked her way up the brick walkway that led to the front door, skirting puddles of melting snow.

Maybe she should have called first. But when her mother had contacted her with the news that Gran had just spent a week in the hospital with complications caused by pneumonia, all Zoey could think about was being there for the woman who had once been there for her.

Even if she hadn’t appreciated it at the time.

Gathering up her courage, Zoey tapped her knuckles against the ornate wooden door. A few seconds later, she heard the thump of footsteps across the hardwood floor in the foyer. They were too heavy to be Gran’s, but her grandfather had been gone for several years now.

Guilt caused the knot in Zoey’s throat to swell. She hadn’t come back to Mirror Lake to attend Grandpa Jonathan’s funeral. It would have meant facing her parents—and her past—and Zoey hadn’t been ready. She’d sent a bouquet of flowers instead. And even though she hadn’t signed the card, she’d hoped her grandmother would know who they were from.

The door opened and Zoey could only stare in disbelief at the person on the other side.

It was
him.

The man from the road.

Matt, who had come to the door ready to intercept yet another tuna casserole or pan of lemon bars meant for Liz, felt his heart drop to his feet when he saw who was standing on the front stoop. A woman whose features had already become imprinted in his memory.

The heart-shaped face framed by glossy dark curls. Wary gray eyes that seemed to change like the surface of the lake. The intriguing constellation of chocolate-colored freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.

Matt blinked but she didn’t disappear. And she looked equally as stunned—and confused—to see him.

“I…I’m sorry.” She started to back away.

No matter what had brought her here, Matt wasn’t about to lose her again.

“Please, come in for a minute.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “This time of the year, it’s important to keep the hot separate from the cold.”

And he couldn’t help but notice that she still wasn’t wearing a coat.

She wavered for a moment and then slipped into the foyer. Matt closed the door.

“Now, how can I help you?” He instantly regretted the question when color bloomed in her cheeks, as if she were remembering this wasn’t the first time he’d offered his assistance.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m looking for Elizabeth Decker. Does she still…live here?”

In spite of Matt’s initial amazement that the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about was actually there—right in front of him—warning bells began to go off in his head. As long as he’d known Liz, Matt had never heard anyone refer to her as “Elizabeth.” And the fact that the woman from the road wasn’t even sure she had the right address didn’t exactly put his mind at ease, either.

Liz Decker’s reputation for compassion—and generosity—was widely known in the area. Matt wasn’t naive. For every person like Liz, there was always someone willing to take advantage of their kind-hearted nature.

He prayed the woman standing next to him wasn’t one of them, but given the fragile state of Liz’s health, he couldn’t take any chances.

“Yes, Mrs. Decker lives here, but she is resting at the moment. I’ll tell her you stopped by, Ms.…” Matt deliberately let his voice trail off, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

“Zoey.”

But it wasn’t the woman standing in front of him who supplied her name.

Matt spun around and saw Liz standing—no, teetering was more like it—in the arched doorway of the parlor, one hand pressed against her chest and the other groping for something to hold on to.

The change in her was alarming. Five minutes ago, they had been sharing a pot of coffee and a plate of cinnamon rolls while Liz, one of those rare people who could find the humor in any situation, entertained him with stories of what Matt guessed had been, in fact, an exhausting weeklong stay in the hospital.

He was at Liz’s side in a heartbeat, tucking her arm through his as she sagged against him.

“I think you better sit down,” he murmured. But his attempt to guide her gently back into the parlor was met with unexpected resistance.

“I’m fine,” Liz gasped, making a feeble attempt to shake him off.

“Gran…I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

Two thoughts collided in Matt’s mind. The woman—
Zoey
—had followed him down the hall. And she’d just called Liz “Gran.”

His gaze bounced back and forth between the two. Both women had the chalk-like pallor and dazed expressions of victims from an accident scene.

“Okay, I have another idea. Let’s
all
sit down.” To Matt’s surprise, the young woman took Liz’s other arm. Together they shepherded her toward the comfortable settee in front of the fireplace. Once Liz was settled against the cushions, Matt poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the coffee table and handed it to her.

“Thank you.”

To his relief, the cracks in Liz’s voice had mended and she sounded more like herself. Her color began to return, too, although she still wore the shell-shocked look of someone who had just received bad news.

And maybe she had.

Matt’s gaze flicked to Zoey, who had perched on the edge of a wingback chair, fingers knotted together in her lap. The mixture of regret and worry simmering in her eyes appeared genuine.

He tried to remember what Liz had told him about her family. He knew she had a son and daughter-in-law on the mission field in Africa, but to his recollection she hadn’t said anything about grandchildren. Or, more specifically, a grand
daughter.

He looked for a physical resemblance between the two but failed to find one. Not only was the color of their hair and eyes different, but Matt was also unable to whittle Liz’s soft, rounded features down to the spare, delicate brush strokes that made up Zoey’s face.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Liz said, fumbling with a pair of glasses suspended by two gold chains around her neck.

Zoey ducked her head when Liz put them on, as if she didn’t want to give her the opportunity to take a closer look. “I should have called first,” she murmured.

Liz dismissed the words instantly. “Don’t be silly. The door is always open to friends. And family.”

Zoey flinched but Liz didn’t seem to notice. She turned to Matt. “This is my granddaughter, Zoey Decker,” she said, a radiant smile beginning to bloom on her face now that the initial shock had begun to fade. “Zoey, this is Matthew Wilde. He is one of my very good friends and the pastor at Church of the Pines.”

Matt had gotten used to people’s initial surprise when they discovered he was a minister. He wasn’t sure if their reaction had something to do with the fact that was in his early thirties or because he preferred blue jeans and Tshirts to a suit and tie.

But Zoey Decker didn’t look surprised.

She looked horrified.

It was a good thing she was sitting down because Zoey’s knees turned to liquid. Again. Especially since she hadn’t completely recovered from the shock of seeing
him
open the front door.

“It’s nice to meet you, Zoey,” Matthew Wilde—
Pastor Wilde
—said quietly.

She managed a jerky nod, wondering if he would mention the fact that they already had met.

As humiliating as their brief encounter had been, Zoey hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. The man knew nothing about her and yet the genuine concern in his eyes when he’d offered to buy her breakfast had touched a chord deep inside of her.

Maybe that’s why he was concerned,
an inner voice mocked.
Because he doesn’t know you. If he did, he would have kept right on going…

At least Matthew Wilde’s erroneous assumption that she could use a free meal had motivated her to stop at the first gas station she saw to seek out a mirror. What she saw there had prompted her to take some time to wash up, finger comb her hair into some resemblance of order and dab on a layer of makeup to hide the circles under her eyes. Zoey had also driven around the lake and stopped to watch the rippling waters before gathering up the courage to return to the house on Carriage Street.

“You didn’t drive all night, did you?” Gran leaned forward, in full “hospitality mode” now. “Are you hungry?”

Zoey couldn’t look at Matthew Wilde, who probably could have guessed the answer to both questions. “No, I’m—”

The pastor neatly cut her off. “Even if you had breakfast, you can’t pass up one of these cinnamon rolls.” He transferred one to a plate and handed it to her.

Zoey couldn’t refuse without appearing rude. She balanced the plate on one knee, her throat so tight she knew she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite.

“There’s coffee left in the carafe…” Liz paused and shook her head. “Listen to me! Do you drink coffee, Zoey, or would you prefer something else?”

“Coffee is fine. Thank you.”

Before she could finish the sentence, the pastor had poured her a cup.

Silence swelled and filled in the empty spaces between them. Zoey picked at the edge of the cinnamon roll, if only to give her hands something to do. She could feel the weight of two pairs of eyes.

Suddenly, her grandmother chuckled. “Oh my goodness—that sweater you’re wearing! I can’t believe you kept it all these years. It was my first project after I joined Esther Redstone’s knitting group.”

“I love it.” Zoey looked down and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth down another one of the loops that had worked its way loose in the wash.

Over the years, the sweater had moved with her when she’d been forced to leave other things behind. It might have become a little misshapen and fuzzy, but Zoey hadn’t been able to part with it.

“Your grandpa teased me while I was making it. He said it would be more suited for a man named Joseph than a girl named Zoey. He was right, you know.” A smile deepened the creases fanning out from Liz’s brown eyes. “I must have used every color of yarn in the shop.”

At the mention of her grandfather, Zoey felt that familiar pinch of regret. “I remember.”

“How long has it been since you two have seen each other?” Matthew directed the question at Zoey.

She stiffened, searching for undercurrents of suspicion in the husky voice. Zoey tried to tell herself it only made sense that his concern would be centered on her grandmother now.

He
knew
Liz.

But he probably thought that
she
had shown up, circling like a vulture, to determine just how sick her grandmother was. He’d seen the condition of her Jeep. The clothing piled in the backseat. More than likely, he thought she was looking for someone to take care of her.

The idea turned Zoey’s stomach.

She wouldn’t try to explain that the reason she’d come back was to
give,
not take.

It wouldn’t make any difference. As soon as he left, the good pastor would no doubt ask around town—find at least a dozen people who would cheerfully supply all the gruesome details of her past—and he wouldn’t believe her anyway.

“Much too long.” Gran answered the question, reaching out and giving Zoey’s hand a comforting squeeze.

Zoey fought the urge to cling to her. When she’d made the impulsive decision to drive to Mirror Lake and see Gran, she hadn’t anticipated the avalanche of feelings her visit would trigger.

She hadn’t expected that a place she had lived for two short, unhappy years of her life would feel like coming home.

Like the outside of the house, the inside looked exactly the way she remembered it. Right down to the powder-blue velvet furniture and the collection of porcelain birds decorating the fireplace mantle.