Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,22

his taste buds tingling.

As he pulled away from the wharf, he glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror.

Molly remained focused on the taco stand.

Understandable.

With his magic tricks and animal friends, Charley was an intriguing personality.

He was also informative.

Logan hung a left.

In a handful of minutes, he’d learned more about his neighbor than he had during his two encounters with her.

But the new information had only generated other questions.

Like . . . why had she moved here—alone?

Why had she tackled such a huge project—alone?

Where had she come from—and who had she left behind?

What did she do in the meager free time she had—and why did she prefer to have so little of it?

He swung onto Highway 101.

Perhaps, in the weeks ahead, he’d discover some of those answers.

And when he did, might those answers lead to one of the unexpected blessings the taco man had said were standard fare in Hope Harbor?

Logan gave a soft snort as he accelerated toward home.

Entertaining such a fanciful notion was as foolish as the idea that drawing a picture could conjure up a friend.

Yet . . . somehow both had seemed plausible while they’d been speaking with Charley.

And for whatever reason, the tiny spark of hope that had ignited in his heart during their visit with the taco man refused to be extinguished.

Many thanks to all who contributed to and attended the welcome party for the Shabo family last night. If you know of anyone who has experience teaching English, please contact Reverend Baker ASAP. The graduate student who had volunteered to instruct the Shabos had an unexpected offer of a summer internship in Europe and won’t be able to assist.

Jeannette set down her mug of tea and reread the short notice in the church bulletin she’d brought home from services this morning.

The Syrian family had no one to teach them English?

This was a disaster.

Without language skills, they’d have huge difficulty functioning on their own and assimilating. That, in turn, would lead to a feeling of isolation.

A demoralizing situation for anyone, but far worse for a family already reeling from loss and trying to adjust to the shock of living in a place that was a world away—in every sense—from the home they’d left behind.

Jeannette pulled the tea bag out of the hot water before the brew got too strong and took a sip.

Chamomile was always comforting.

But less than usual today, with the faces of the family she’d met at last night’s party strobing through her mind.

Based on her short encounter with them, they all appeared to have an extremely limited grasp of the language—and they couldn’t hire a translator to shadow them day and night.

You could tutor them, Jeannette.

At the silent prod, her heart skipped a beat.

Yes, she could.

Who better to step forward than a former teacher who’d once volunteered to coach immigrants on language skills?

She picked up her mug. Wrapped her fingers around the warmth that had seeped through the ceramic. Read the inscription on this remnant from her old life, a gift from her parents on her twenty-first birthday.

The Best Is Yet To Come.

Pressure built in her throat.

That was how Mom and Dad had lived life, with optimism and hope and eager anticipation.

It was how they’d hoped she’d live her life too.

And she had—until the day her world changed forever.

Jeannette ran her finger around the once-smooth rim that was now marred by a couple of chips. Eyed the faint stains inside that refused to come off no matter how hard she scrubbed. Reread the sentiment that had faded a bit—on the mug, and in her heart.

Skimming the notice in the bulletin again, she took another sip of tea.

“Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong.”

As Charley’s comment replayed in her mind, guilt tugged at her conscience.

But that was silly. The man had been talking about tacos.

Hadn’t he?

She sighed.

Hard to tell with the philosophizing artist.

Whatever his intent, though, the statement fit this situation.

The truth was, she could spare a few hours a week to help the Shabo family learn English.

And it wasn’t as if she had to make a personal investment. If she guarded her heart, a bit of tutoring shouldn’t be a problem.

Still . . . there was a risk. As experience had taught her, she had a tendency to get too involved in the lives of her students.

Cradling the mug in her hand, she leaned back in her chair.

Maybe she should mull over the idea rather than dismiss it outright. That way, if she decided not to follow through after careful consideration,