Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,17
at him, then managed to summon up a strained smile as she shifted her attention to her granddaughter. “Elisa, honey, why don’t you finish your glass of milk before we leave? It’s on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a minute.”
After giving them both an uncertain perusal, the girl edged past her father and disappeared down the hall.
“Come in and close the door.” Mariam stood.
“I don’t want a lecture.”
“You need one. Come in.”
He remained where he was, every rigid angle of his body communicating defiance.
Well, two could play that game.
She planted her fists on her hips and lifted her chin—but what recourse would she have if he refused to talk with her? He wasn’t a small boy who could be forced to sit on the notorious blue chair both of her sons had come to hate after spending more time on it for various minor transgressions during their youth than either liked to remember.
He hesitated, but after she summoned up her fiercest glower, he caved.
Thank you, God!
“I’m not a little boy anymore, ’Ami.” He entered and closed the door behind him.
Her lungs kicked back in. “Then stop acting like one.” She had no more patience for diplomacy or kid-gloves treatment. “What will Father Murphy—and Reverend Baker—think if you don’t show up? And why would you want to hurt the feelings of the wonderful people from their churches who arranged for us to come to America and gave us all this?” She swept a hand around the room.
“I’m not in the mood to be sociable.”
“Neither am I. But we have an obligation to be thankful—and to show our appreciation.”
His shoulders stiffened. “I don’t like taking charity.”
“You would prefer to have remained in that camp?”
Color suffused his cheeks. “Of course not.”
“Then stop letting pride color your judgment. Take what has been generously offered and seek opportunities to repay the debt. Become part of this community. Contribute. Perhaps not with money in the beginning, but we can find other ways to give back. And one day we may be in a position to help someone else as we are being helped.”
He expelled a breath. “It will be awkward. I won’t be able to communicate with anyone.”
“Yes you will. Susan has promised to come and translate for us. Father Murphy told everyone we don’t speak English, so no one is expecting us to give a speech or have a long conversation. All we have to do is be there, greet people, and say thank you.”
“I don’t even know how to do that.”
“It’s easy.” She pronounced the words in English. “Try it.”
He made an attempt.
“See? It’s not hard. We can learn this language.”
“Who will teach us, now that the woman who had agreed to help backed out?”
“Father Murphy said he will find someone else. But I have Susan’s cell phone number, and she’s willing to translate until we learn enough to get by on our own.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this job they lined up for me if I can’t speak the language.”
Ah.
Another worry that was weighing on his mind.
“You’ll be fine. Father Murphy said the man who owns the charter boat knows a few words of Arabic—and sign language can be very effective. Now go put on a clean shirt and comb your hair.”
“We’re going to stick together, right?”
“Yes.”
Three beats ticked by.
“Fine. I’ll go—but I’ll be glad when it’s over.” He twisted the knob and crossed the hall to his room.
As his door clicked shut behind him, Mariam sank back onto the bed.
Her son wouldn’t be any more glad to have this over than she would be. Meeting a roomful of strangers—even kind ones—was daunting.
What if they made a bad impression, and everyone was sorry they’d sponsored a refugee family?
What if the support dried up before they became self-sufficient?
What if no one liked them or wanted to be their friend?
What if . . .
Mariam cut off the litany of doubts.
It was too late for second thoughts. They were here now, and she had to let go of her worries. Give them to God instead of letting them demoralize her. He had brought them here for a reason—and in time, he’d reveal it to them.
Until then, it was up to her to be the anchor this family desperately needed.
Even if the confidence she projected in their presence was more show than reality.
Maybe she’d skip out after all.
From the driver’s seat of her Civic, Jeannette tapped a finger against