A House Full of Hope. Missy Tippens
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Redd’s dog, a sweet and endlessly patient black Labrador retriever, had been almost as big a draw as the house. “You sure can.”
As Becca zipped back outside with an echoing whoop of joy, worry crept over Hannah. What if Mark had come home to stake a claim? She looked around a room where Mark and his brother, Matt, would have eaten their meals with friends and family.
What if Mark suddenly had an interest in the family home?
Hannah knew she would do whatever she had to do to keep her kids happy.
Since Hannah had thwarted Mark’s plan to check into his dad’s financial state, on Saturday morning he decided to return to the house and do a closer inspection. To estimate the cost of needed repairs.
He’d assumed Redd would be at the hardware store, but an unfamiliar green minivan sat parked out front. The truck he’d seen the day before was gone. He should probably knock before walking the property. In case his dad was there. And if he was…
Well, Mark would try once again to apologize.
This time, he looked more closely as he inspected the dirty front porch that fronted three sides of the old home. When he reached the far corner, he caught himself grabbing for the cobweb-covered broom as if he were still ten years old. Sweeping the porch had been his and Matt’s job—a chore they’d deemed too girly.
He smiled at the memory, yet being on their old stomping grounds intensified the emptiness that never quite left him.
Matt, who’d suffered mild brain damage at their birth, hadn’t been as strong and healthy as Mark. Mark had always tried to include him, though. But one day when they were fifteen, and their dad shooed them from the hardware store, Mark talked Matt into going fishing on the lake. Into taking out their dad’s boat, knowing good and well they weren’t supposed to go alone…knowing Matt couldn’t swim.
As he turned away from the broom and faced the front door, he doubted his sanity. Only a glutton for punishment would return to this house again. We are more than conquerors through Him who loved us, he reminded himself, a Bible verse he had clung to for years.
He raised his fist to knock, but something tugged on his pant leg.
“Hi, Mister.” A little boy about five or six years old stared up at him with big brown eyes. “Are you looking for Mommy?”
After a glance around the porch and yard, he squatted down to the child’s level. “No. I’m looking for my, uh…” daddy? “…father.”
All business, the boy crossed his arms and seemed to ponder the situation. “You look kinda old to be lost.”
Trying to match the boy’s expression, Mark stifled a laugh. But then sobered when he realized how close to home the boy had hit. “Actually, this is my house. My dad lives here.”
The kid shook his head. “You really are lost. ’Cause this is my new house.”
Laughter sounded somewhere off to the side of the house. Then three children appeared around the corner, chattering. One by one, they stopped talking when they saw Mark.
Only the youngest girl approached and tromped up the steps. “Who are you?”
“He’s lost,” the first boy said, as if imparting the juiciest of secrets.
“Lost?” The oldest girl hurried up the steps and scrutinized Mark. “How exciting.” Large brown eyes that matched the youngest boy’s widened. She peered at him from behind pink, sparkly plastic-rimmed glasses. “I can help. I’m good at solving mysteries.”
A bush swished as the last child—a boy somewhere between the oldest and younger two in age—kicked around the overgrown shrubbery, ignoring the investigation on the porch.
Mark turned back to the others. “Actually, I’m looking for my dad, Redd Ryker. He lives here. And you are…?”
“My children.”
Mark turned and found Hannah Hughes behind the screen door. Inside his family home. She looked even less friendly than yesterday.
“See, I told you this was my house,” the youngest boy said.
Hannah stepped outside, and as the door swung open, Mark caught a glimpse of boxes in the entryway. As if someone was moving.
He pointed to the boxes. “What’s going on?”
“Kids, go wash up. There’s a snack on the table.”
Once they’d scampered into the house, Hannah turned back to him. “We’re renting from your father.”
Incredulous, he sputtered, “That can’t be. My dad would never rent this place. It belonged to his grandfather.” And was Mark’s home, even if he hadn’t set foot in it for years.
A sudden longing to be close to his mom again made it difficult to speak. He wanted to go inside, see what had become of his old bedroom. Of his spot at the kitchen table. Of his mother’s things.
Hannah looked away, almost guiltily. “Apparently, he’s decided he doesn’t need such a big house and prefers to live in the garage apartment.”
The garage? No matter how badly Mark had wronged this woman’s family, he couldn’t let her run all over his family. “Look at this place. It’s run-down. My guess is you took advantage of his financial difficulties.”
There it was again—a flash of guilt. “We simply responded to an ad in the newspaper.”
He took a step closer and stared into her eyes. They were a beautiful, pure green and couldn’t hide a thing. “Now I understand why you wouldn’t give me information about Dad’s finances at the bank yesterday.”
He had to give her credit. She didn’t back down. No, she actually leaned in closer. “I told you. I don’t have authorization to divulge information on your father’s accounts.”
“Accounts, plural? Maybe including a line of credit?”
Her face revealed a flicker of something he took as confirmation before she turned away. “I need to go check on the kids.”
“I see you’re not settled yet. I suggest you and your husband wait to unpack. Before I leave town, I’d like to know that all Dad’s finances are in order and he’s back in his home.”
“I have a signed contract that says we’re staying.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.” As he strode to the garage, he promised himself he’d get to the bottom of the situation. If his dad was in the bind he suspected, then Mark had to make sure he was financially secure. Redd might refuse to speak to him, but surely he wouldn’t refuse help. Mark would park himself in the garage if he had to, until his dad listened to reason.
He banged on the upstairs apartment door. But of course, there was no answer. Redd would be at the hardware store, probably all day.
He plopped down on the top of the steep outside stairs and leaned his forearms on his knees. He’d come home to apologize. That was it. To say he was sorry, have his dad pronounce forgiveness, and then head back to Seattle.
And now he’d found the man in a mess.
Well, Mark had nothing to do with the situation, so he could just run by the store and apologize one more time. Then be on his way.
But a nudge in his gut—the same one he’d trusted when he’d come here in the first place—told him he needed to see this through.
He opened his cell phone to two measly bars of service and managed a staticky call to his assistant. He informed her of his change of plans.
In several years, Redd would be facing retirement. He should be able to sell his store and live in comfort—not in some apartment over the garage.
It might take Mark two or three days, but he would not leave town until he knew