Free Isle of Hope by Julie Lessman Page A

as he hung his head to knead the bridge of his nose. Without a word, he opened the gate and walked away, obviously expecting her to follow as he rounded the corner of the house.
    “Okay, Dr. Doom,” she said to herself, almost giddy at the prospect of finally clearing the air. “It’s no gabfest, but it’s a start …” Closing the gate with a backward kick, she headed to his patio, barricading a silent grunt with a clamp of her smile. Clear the air? Ha! Only after bulldozing a mountain of garbage.
    “This is a mistake,” he said quietly, hunched on the edge of one of the British green Adirondack chairs they’d sat in around his stone fire pit so many years ago. Hands loosely clasped and head bowed, his mind seemed to wander somewhere faraway, his lifeless stare locked on the slate patio mortared with moss.
    “Why?” she asked, strolling over to the door to let a whining Beau back in the yard before she took the seat on the opposite side of the pit, placing both cookies and package on a side table. The perennial pup instantly darted past in pursuit of a rabbit at the far end of the yard, where a privacy fence was overrun by what had once been Karen’s prized climbing roses. Knees angled to the side, Tess settled in like old times with her feet tucked beneath her and palms flat on the arms of the chair. She strove for an air of calm, but inside her heart thundered against her ribcage, her desire for reconciliation a fragile dream hanging by a slender thread of hope.
    He glanced up beneath hooded eyes, moody and morose. “Why? Because I’m of no mind to dredge up the vile pain from the worst time of my life, that’s why.”
    “Maybe you need to,” she said softly, eyes in a squint. “You know, face it once and for all to find the peace and healing you need?” Her voice faded to a bare whisper as her eyes searched his. “And the forgiveness.”
    Vaulting to his feet, he bludgeoned a tight-fisted finger in her direction. “Look, Tess, if you came over here to peddle your sanctimonious mumbo-jumbo, I don’t want to hear it. I’m fine just the way I am.”
    She pinned him with a level gaze. “Sure you are, Ben. That’s why you’re known as the Terror of the fifth floor at Memorial, Dr. Snark to your nurses, and Dr. Doom to every kid on the street. The girl scouts won’t darken your door, you haven’t spoken to your neighbors on either side for almost eight years, and your daughter is a virtual stranger.” Her lips thinned into a tight smile as she arched her brows. “Other than that, sounds ‘fine’ to me.”
    He slammed his chair out of the way as he stalked to the back door. “Leave the package or not, I don’t care.”
    Tess’s body tensed in the chair, her voice firm. “Lacey’s back, Ben—for good. You care about that?”
    He froze on the threshold, fist knotted on the knob. Hard muscles flinched in a broad back as stiff as the frame of the door beneath his white-knuckled hand.
    Seconds ticked by like the lethal pulse of a bomb, every one echoing her own heartbeat as it thudded hollow in her chest. And then, the angry bluster seemed to slowly seep from his body like a balloon with a slow bleed of air, massive shoulders shrinking into surrender with the drop of his head. Her heart squeezed at how difficult this was for him. “Please talk to me, Ben,” she whispered, her voice a low ache. “Don’t close me out again.”
    Still framed in the door, he gouged his temples with forefinger and thumb, all fight appearing to leak out along with the air-conditioning from his house. With a cumbersome sigh that slumped his shoulders, he closed the slider and made his way back to his chair, sinking into the slatted seat with eyes closed as he rested his head against the back. “When?”
    “Over the weekend. She’s staying with Karen’s mother and her cousins.”
    Generous lips normally full in repose now pinched in a downward curve as he kneaded his temple with the ball of his hand. “How did