She’d asked questions—earnest, curious inquiries from a girl who was genuinely trying to understand something new. She’d asked where to start reading the Bible, and he’d steered her toward the Gospels. Matthew first, then John.
A strong student who often reminded him of his own daughter, Emma had wanted to start at the beginning and read straight-through. He knew that rarely worked. Nothing killed a new reader’s momentum like Leviticus.
He’d told her if she wanted to try the Old Testament, she might enjoy the Book of Ruth. He promised her he’d explain why this random story of a Moabite with a goodhearted and meddling mother-in-law mattered enough to make the pages of the Bible.
He was actually really looking forward to that conversation—it would help Emma in so many ways—but he hadn’t even told Kate he planned to have it.
So maybe this “distance” he felt went both ways. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.
He threw back the covers, pulled on a T-shirt, and grabbed his Bible from the nightstand. If he was going to recommend Ruth, he should reread it himself to help better explain it to Emma.
The kitchen was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows, the Gulf a black mirror beyond the dunes.He filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and leaned against the counter while it heated, his Bible on the island.
The house was silent but for the tick of the hallway clock Vivien had hung and the distant hum of Atlas’s white-noise machine bleeding faintly from the ground floor. Sounds that meant everyone he loved was here, under this roof he’d built, and yet he felt alone in a way that unsettled him.
He brewed the tea, sat at the island, and opened to Ruth, already anticipating some of his favorite scripture, which he couldn’t quite quote from memory, but he knew the essence.
I’ll go where you go. Your people will be my people. Your God will be my God.
Wasn’t that the order of the Lord? Why couldn’t Kate…go where he went, with shared people, and shared faith?
He opened the Bible, but closed his eyes in thought.
Was he asking too much? Even Naomi had backed off and encouraged Ruth not to follow her, but follow she did. And look how that turned out.
He’d told Kate he’d never ask her to convert, and he’d meant it. It wasn’t his job to bring her to Christ—all he could do was throw a few seeds, show her what a life with Him could look like, and let God do the rest.
He looked up from the page he still wasn’t reading when he heard footsteps on the stairs, leaning back to see who was coming down from the top floor.
Kate appeared at the bottom of the steps, barefoot in an oversized Cornell T-shirt and striped sleep pants, her glasses on and her hair tangled from a pillow, as sleepless as he was.
“Hey.” He pushed off the counter stool to greet her by holding out his hand. “You okay?”
“Can’t sleep.” She looked at the kettle. “Is the water still hot?”
“Should be.” He guided her toward the stool next to his. “Let me make you a cup of that lemon-ginger you like.”
Under his hands, her shoulders loosened. “Thanks. That should do the trick.”
He made her tea in silence, feeling the distance between them like a physical thing, three feet of kitchen island that might as well have been a canyon.
When he brought the steaming mug to her, she wrapped both hands around it.
“Can I sit with you?” he asked.
She gave a sleepy smile. “I’m the one who crashed your party.” Her gaze slipped to the Bible. “Or…reading time.”
Her voice hitched a little on the last two words, making them sound like a question.
Without answering, he walked around and sat next to her, sliding the Bible to his left so it wasn’t between them—at least physically.
“Kate.”
She looked up.
“I can tell something’s wrong.”
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, that he’d been so direct. “No, no, I’m just…” She let out a half-groan, half-sigh. “Yeah. You’re right.”
