The Parting Gift(7)

Mara had helped him work through his mourning. He had never truly mourned the loss of his wife, but blamed God for taking her. Nor had he ever dealt with the grief of losing a son soon afterwards. He had been walking in a thick fog of depression for years, until Mara.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued to watch the dust particles float through the air. Soon, it would be Christmas, and he would have a mere three months left. Three months to fix what happened so long ago. Odd how time restraints had a way of making one think about time wasted. Every breath, every day, every moment was precious now. He smiled, even a bite of pie was enough to make him grin for weeks. He had taken life for granted for so long, and now he wanted to make up for it.

If Blaine would let him – but it all depended on Blaine receiving his telegram. Would Blaine even respond? Or care to visit? The hours spent praying over that very thing sometimes kept David awake at night.

It was an old man’s dying wish. To see his son one last time. To ask for forgiveness—to save him from a similar fate.

Bitterness and anger have a way of destroying a man’s soul. Man was not meant to walk around with burdens only almighty God can take away. As the Good Book said, “The battle belongs to the Lord.” David just hoped Blaine wasn’t spending his days fighting his own inner battles. Did he even know about the saving grace of God? Was he aware of Christ’s forgiveness and love? Did he remember what his mama had taught him so long ago about the love of God?

Regretfully, David knew the boy hadn’t heard any of it from him.

Closing his eyes, David sent up a quick prayer for God’s provision. “Bring him home, Lord. Bring him home.”





Chapter Three





“Is something bothering you, Captain Graham?” Miss Bell inquired politely. The date was more miserable than he had anticipated. She was clearly disappointed that Blaine was even less talkative than he had been after the flight earlier that morning. And it was a true assessment.

The news about his estranged father had knocked him even deeper into silent self-reflection, and he wasn’t very good company even on the best of days.

“You’ve hardly said two words to me the whole evening.” Her dark brown eyes scoured his face for signs of life. “I mean, I knew you weren’t much of a talker, but I thought maybe, in a different setting…”

“I’m sorry, Miss Bell. I know I’m not a lively escort.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “I… I…” he stammered. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her about the telegram, about his father, his life story even, but he couldn’t. She was a perfect stranger, and one who seemed to have never experienced true grief at that. She would never understand his unique brand of tragedy.

Miss Bell touched his arm reassuringly. “It’s all right. I’m still tired from last night’s flight anyway. Perhaps you should just take me home, and we can do this another time.”

A rush of relief mixed with regret surged through him. Blaine let out a large sigh and nodded. “Certainly. I’ll get your coat.”

Since his “date” was a bust, Blaine decided to visit the corner pub for a stiff drink. The usual crowd was already there. Ordinarily, he would have joined a few of the boys he knew over at the corner booth, but tonight he had too much on his mind.

So, his father was dying. Why should he care? What could the old man possibly want from him now after all these years?

It had been ten years, but after all the living he had done, it seemed more like a lifetime ago. That last fight replayed in his mind; all the old feelings were still there, firmly intact with the memory. Maybe it wasn’t a lifetime ago, after all. The anger bubbled again below the surface as Blaine sat down at the bar.

“Whiskey.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. He knew Blaine well enough to notice the strangeness of the order. The hard stuff wasn’t his usual. When he seemed about to question the order, Blaine cut him off, “Never mind the mommy lecture, Duke. Whiskey. Now.”

Duke shrugged and slid the shot glass across the counter to his customer. Slapping a bill on the counter, Blaine added, “And keep ‘em coming.” The bartender hesitated a moment, scrutinizing the man before him, and then with resignation, he set the bottle next to Blaine’s hand and turned away.

An ironic smirk played at Blaine’s lips as he regarded the glass in his hand. The encroaching rage threatened to take over his mind. The whiskey probably wouldn’t help, but he was willing to try it. It had been awhile since he’d been good and drunk.

Cocking his head back, he drained the shot in one gulp, then reached for the bottle and turned to survey the pub. Leaning back on the bar, he poured another glass and downed that one just as quickly. He repeated the sequence two more times. The warmth of the liquor spread through him like fire.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a table of his friends, so he sauntered toward them with his half-empty bottle in tow. “Hey, fellas,” he greeted them with an easy grin.

“Cool Hand! We were wonderin’ when you’d show up!” A red-headed dock worker stood and slapped him on the back.

“Yeah, where were ya been? Haven’t seen you in ages,” chimed in the man’s dark-skinned companion.

“Flying. Had a week’s trip. Just got back this morning.”