Kathryn Springer - The Prodigal Comes Home

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 granddaughter.

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 T-shirts 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.