Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,37

offend them.”

Not the answer she wanted to hear—but at least he was going.

And perhaps, if he continued to spend an hour a week with the Lord, he would find his way back to God in time.

“Good.”

“It is nothing like St. Peter’s, though.”

No, it wasn’t. The Mass here was much more informal, with fewer rituals and none of the chanting that were the hallmarks of the Chaldean rite she’d attended for more than half a century.

But everyone had been welcoming—and they’d been able to worship openly, without fear of bombs or other violence.

That was a huge blessing.

“We will adjust.”

Thomma snorted. “You say that about everything.”

“Because it is true.” She touched his arm. “You haven’t talked much about your job. It is okay?”

“For now.”

“Your boss—he is fair?”

“Yes.”

“And the work is not too hard?”

“No.”

“Then all is well.”

He glared at her. “How can you say that after everything we have lost?”

Without giving her a chance to respond, he slipped into his room and shut the door with a sharp click.

Just as well.

She wasn’t up to a debate tonight.

Shoulders drooping, she flipped off the hall light and quietly let herself into the room where Elisa was sound asleep.

After changing in silence, she crossed to her granddaughter, kissed her forehead, and tucked in the blanket. The child’s slumber was peaceful, her countenance untroubled. Already she’d acclimated to this new home of theirs.

If only she and Thomma could do the same.

She climbed into the twin bed, settled into the warmth and softness, and turned on her side, toward the wall.

Only then did she let the tears come, muffling her sobs with the pillow.

Thomma might think she was strong. Optimistic. Confident about their new life in America.

But she was as scared and unsure as he was.

She missed Yesoph with an intensity that left a constant, gnawing ache in her midsection. Even now, she yearned to reach out to him, to feel his strong arms pull her close in the night and hold her . . . protect her . . . love her.

And oh, how she missed her youngest son, with his sparkling eyes and zest for life . . . and Thomma’s wife, who had been like the daughter she’d never had . . . and her grandson, Elisa’s brother, whose baby giggles had delighted her days.

Mariam choked back another sob.

No, this new life without so many of the family members she loved wasn’t easy for her.

Nor was it easy to remain upbeat and encouraging in the face of Thomma’s despair—and her doubts about her own future.

Thomma was young and smart and strong. If he gave this country a chance, he would do fine here. And Elisa’s whole life stretched before her. She would send down roots in America and soon have little need of her Teta.

Mariam gripped the covers and pulled them up to her neck, her stomach churning.

She was old by Syrian standards, with few skills beyond cooking and cleaning and loving her family. Those had been sufficient—and fulfilling—in the old country, but here? She had to do more to help her family . . . and herself.

Like Thomma, she had to find her place—and her purpose . . . if there was a place . . . and a purpose . . . for her once she shepherded the remains of her shattered family through this transition.

What would become of her when her son and granddaughter no longer needed her?

Balling the sheet in her fists, she fought back another wave of doubt—and despair. Father Karam would not approve of such dark thinking. Nor would Father Murphy.

She had to trust in God, as she’d been admonishing her son to do.

But sometimes it was hard.

So very hard.

She stared up at the dark wall. No sound of distant bombs disrupted the stillness. No angry shouts from the street tainted the night. No flashing lights strobed through the room as emergency vehicles raced by.

If nothing else, she could be grateful for this place of refuge that had welcomed them with kindness and compassion.

As for her future—she’d have to put that in God’s hands.

And pray for fortitude to endure as she struggled to find her own way in this new land that was so different from the home she had left behind.

12

Afternoon tea wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected.

Logan lifted the dainty cup and took another sip of his Assam brew—the highest octane offering on the menu, according to Jeannette—and watched Molly play with the sugar cubes.

His niece hadn’t said much, but as far as he could tell,