Beyond the Tides by Liz Johnson

Author:Liz Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Romance;Christian fiction;FIC042040;FIC027020
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2021-06-18T00:00:00+00:00

By the time they’d unloaded their catch with the shore buyer, cleaned the boat, and prepared for the next morning, Oliver could barely drag himself through the kitchen door. The smell of Mama Potts’s roast filled the entire house and made his stomach growl. But he was pretty sure he couldn’t raise a fork to his mouth, even for the tender meat.

“Hurry and wash up. Supper’s almost ready,” Mama Potts called from the kitchen before he’d even managed to toe off his boots. They clomped to the floor, and he was tempted to follow them, instead crashing a shoulder against the white shiplap wall.

“You trying to tear my house down?” she yelled.

“No.” It was the extent of his vocabulary and the length of his stamina. For the life of him, he didn’t know why. He’d worked hard every day of his life. He hadn’t gotten up any earlier than usual. And he’d eaten every single one of the snacks in his pockets.

The only thing that had changed was Meg. But it didn’t make sense that holding her while she drained every last tear onto his sweatshirt would leave him so depleted. He hadn’t minded the holding her part. And it was past time he was honest with himself. He actually rather liked holding her.

Sure, she was a little prickly sometimes. But now he could see it all for what it was. A shield. An empty attempt to protect herself from pain.

But the pain had gotten in anyway.

He felt it too. To a much lesser degree, he was certain. But that pinch in his chest every time he thought of Mrs. Whitaker hadn’t gone away. And every time he wondered what Whitaker would do without the love of his life, he had to swallow a lump in his throat.

“Ollie?”

He cringed, still sagging against the wall. His mom hadn’t called him that in twenty years, and he wished he could wipe it from her memory.

“I’ll be right there.” But he was stuck in the short hall, memories of Mrs. Whitaker splashing across his mind’s eye. At church holding Whitaker’s hand. Inviting him to join them for supper after a day on the boat. Delivering groceries and homemade bread to Mrs. Finnick’s basement, where he’d lived with his mom and Levi after the eviction. Mrs. Whitaker had patted his cheek, and he’d nearly jumped out of his skin, craving her kindness.

He’d destroyed her daughter’s dreams the next day.

Yeah, he knew a thing or two about shields and armor and how they didn’t work.

In her favorite gingham apron, his mom strolled around the corner, a giant two-pronged fork raised in one hand and a knife in the other.

He held up his hands in surrender.

“Hon, are you feeling all right?”

He nodded, but his swallow stuck in the back of his throat.

“Are you sure?”

“Just tired.” He pushed himself up, ignoring the way the room spun. But he couldn’t cover the stumble in his steps.

She rushed toward him, dropping the knife, which clattered to the floor. “Levi,” she yelled over her shoulder as she wedged herself under his arm.

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