Sometime later, the crunch of tires on gravel forced Darren into a sitting position. Logan had arrived, and with him, Darren knew his reprieve from answering questions had ended.
He sighed as he stood, straightened his hat, and started for the stairs. He almost wanted to get everything out in the open so his family could help him come to terms with things. He reached the top of the stairs at the same time Logan tried to knock him down them again.
“Darren.” Logan’s eyes sparkled, and the hole in Darren’s life that his brother had always been able to fill disappeared.
“Hey, bro.” Darren grabbed onto Logan and hugged him. “You look tanner than I remember.” They clapped each other loudly on the back.
“The California sun is amazing.” Logan laughed. “You really should come out at Christmas. It doesn’t snow or anything.”
Darren loved Vermont in the winter, but he just smiled and said, “I really should come at Christmas.”
After all, anything would be better than hanging his single stocking by the fireplace and buying himself a gift to put under the tree. When he’d bought the Bybee’s farm, he’d imagined it filled with family, with friends, with faith.
And with Farrah.
But the only thing there was him.
“So, let’s talk about Farrah.” Logan cast a glance over his shoulder. “Layla’s been dyin’ to solve your problems. I think she wants you to be happy more than I do.”
Darren smiled. Layla had a good air about her, and she’d always helped people in Island Park. How his brother had managed to marry her boggled Darren’s mind.
“I’m happy,” Darren said, which only elicited a laugh from Logan.
“Oh, bro. I can take one look at you and know you’re not happy. I’ve been there, remember?” He started through the kitchen, where Ben was elbow-deep in pretzel dough. The smell of yeast and salt mixed with the pine tree-scented candle burning atop the piano. Darren wrinkled his nose at the odd combination.
“Here he is, Lay.” Logan announced Darren’s presence as if Layla had been looking all over for him for hours.
She sprang from the couch—surprisingly agile with the baby in her arms—and engulfed Darren in a hug. He held her for a moment, chuckling at her exuberance.
“How are you?” She held onto his biceps as she stepped back, examining his face. “Oh, he’s bad.”
“I’m fine,” Darren said, casting a glance at Bonnie. She too wore pity in her eyes, and Darren didn’t need that. “Honestly, you guys. I’m okay.”
“So what happened?” Layla asked, and that was the question that launched the next two hours of conversation. By the end of it, Darren was no closer to a solution, but he also didn’t feel like someone had clawed their way into his chest and ripped out his heart.
So, progress.
He went to bed before everyone else after volunteering to help Sam with the early morning chores the next day. In the new and unused bedroom, Darren fell to his knees and prayed.Prayed to express his gratitude for his family. For his safety. For his health.
At the very end, after thanking God for all he’d been given, Darren finally allowed himself to utter, “Please help Farrah.”
It was all he’d been asking for since they’d broken up. He didn’t know exactly what she needed, but the Lord did. He didn’t know how far she’d come, or how far she still had to go. But the Lord did.
And Darren could do this one thing for her. He hadn’t missed a night of pleading for her in almost two months. Satisfied with his offering, he climbed into bed and turned out the light. Farrah lingered in his mind, swirling around as he moved from conscious to unconscious, and he fell asleep with a smile slipping across his lips.
Darren camein from the early morning chores on Thanksgiving Day, his face frozen from the cold. The strong scent of pumpkin pie spice hit him in the gut and he glanced to where Bonnie and Layla stood at the stove, at least five pots and pans covering the burners.
“Oh, there he is.” Bonnie turned and wiped her hands on her apron. “Sam said you would make the table decorations.” She picked up a package of striped shortbread cookies and looked at him expectantly.
Darren had once put together a pilgrim hat from the cookies, miniature peanut butter cups, and frosting. He’d been ten, and his mother had asked him to do it every year until the year she died. That year, Sam had done it, but Darren had picked up the habit again the next year.
His throat tightened at Sam’s thoughtfulness. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Bonnie beamed at him and bent to pick up Jackie’s pacifier. She stopped the swing where the baby rocked and stuck it back in the fussy infant’s mouth. “And Sam said you have to pick the Christmas tree for the farmhouse.”
Darren froze. “No, I don’t want to do that.”
Her face fell as she finished tending to Jackie and faced him again. “Why not?”
