Yet both trips had been worthwhile. Christi’s festival idea was mobilizing the merchants, and the impromptu lunch on the wharf had been a solid first step toward a reconciliation with Steve.

A Jeep pulled into a parking spot farther up in the apartment complex, catching her attention. Seconds later, Jack and his daughter emerged. He didn’t notice her in her tucked-away spot as he reached into the back seat and withdrew a pizza box—and that was fine. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

At least not with a neighbor.

Steve?

Different story.

She eyed the cell she’d set on the railing—within easy reaching distance. Where it had been ever since their meeting in the park yesterday, when he’d asked if he could call and she’d said yes.

“. . . Christi eat with us?”

The young girl’s voice floated toward her on the breeze, and she looked back toward Jack’s unit again.

His response was inaudible.

But one thing was clear.

The mistake Christi had come to Hope Harbor to address was somehow connected to Jack. She hadn’t mentioned him by name—but he had to be the person she’d claimed to have hurt very badly. How else would she have known him well enough after her brief tenure to step in and help with his daughter’s unraveling sweater? Why else would her glance have strayed his direction so often at the meeting today? What other explanation could there be for her obvious disappointment when he’d hurried out the door afterward, leaving her to talk with Jeannette?

Those two had a history, no question about it.

And Christi claimed the problems in their past had been her fault. That she hadn’t been a nice person.

Hard to believe, in view of the woman she was now.

Yet if what she alleged was true, she’d undergone a dramatic transformation. While Jack may not yet be convinced of that, it was obvious to anyone without his judgment-clouding history that she was a fine person.

Proving people could change.

As Steve had, from all appearances.

Beth watched the man and girl ascend the steps and disappear inside with their pizza—sans Christi, despite his daughter’s entreaties. Meaning the rift between them hadn’t been repaired. He was holding on to his grudge.

She could relate.

Hurts that ran deep were hard to heal.

But if people changed . . . if remorse was real . . . didn’t withholding forgiveness end up hurting the victim as much as the offender?

The answer was obvious.

Yes.

Resentment and rancor could also turn rancid, leading to a lens of bitterness that distorted a person’s view of the world—as she’d discovered during these past months of solitary living.

That wasn’t how she wanted to spend the rest of her life.