Lord, please let Jonathan know how sorry I am, and that I’m proud of him. Forgive my mistakes. And show me how to reach Beth, convince her I’ve recognized my faults and that my contrition is real. Help her forgive me—even if I don’t deserve it. I need her, Lord. Now more than ever.

It was the same prayer he’d been uttering for months, but it had brought little comfort—or results.

Shoulders drooping, he slid behind the wheel. God was listening. Of that he was certain. But the loneliness was oppressive. Without Jonathan and Beth, the house the three of them had shared was silent as a tomb—and as empty of life.

He put the car in drive and pulled away from the school, casting one last look in the rearview mirror as he drove away.

Funny.

For a few brief minutes during his impromptu visit with Noah, the loneliness and grief had receded. Maybe because for the first time in months, he’d given someone else’s pain more attention than his own.

Had God put Noah in his path for that very purpose? To show him that the way forward wasn’t to dwell on past mistakes, but perhaps to make a difference now—today—in someone’s life?

Could that someone be Noah?

But it was hard to see how he could be there for a little boy he’d met only today when he’d failed to be there for the people he’d known—and loved—for longer than Noah had been alive.

Now she had two jobs. Three, if she counted her caretaking duties—such as they were—at Sea Glass Cottage.

Christi exited the sports bar and restaurant in Coos Bay modeled after a popular chain that catered to a largely male clientele. She had the experience for the server gig, and the tips were excellent, according to the stylist who’d shaped up her tresses. Information the woman had imparted after Christi mentioned she was in the market for an evening job. The woman moonlighted here and had been happy to give her the name of the manager.

But the uniform was off-putting.

Short shorts and a figure-hugging tank top weren’t part of her regular wardrobe.

The stylist had said the place was aboveboard, though—and what else did she have to do with her evenings? Besides, any extra money she could squirrel away for her Tasha fund would be welcome.

As if on cue, her cell began to vibrate and Tasha’s name flashed in caller ID. Christi stopped beside her car in the parking lot and put the phone to her ear. “Are you reading my mind? I was just thinking about you.”

“Were you wondering if I got your place packed up?”

“No. I told you I don’t expect you to do that. The movers can take care of it tomorrow.”