A House Full of Hope. Missy Tippens

The overgrown front walk led to a house, once a cheery yellow, which now sat sallow and peeling. The roof needed replacing. When he stepped onto the porch, he found a shutter tilted at an angle, and a screen door that didn’t sit flush. The pair of old rocking chairs, the one place his parents used to seem happy, were mildewed and caked with bird droppings. Why had the old man let the house go? Finances? Lack of interest after Mark’s mother had died?

       He blocked the pain that thoughts of his mom dredged up, took a deep, fortifying breath and knocked.

       A few seconds later, footsteps approached from the yard. He turned and stood face-to-face with his father. He hadn’t seen the man in fifteen years, and every one of those years was now etched in his craggy face.

       Stooped and rail-thin, the man who once intimidated Mark looked far older than his sixty-five years. But the hard golden eyes that perfectly matched Mark’s hadn’t changed a bit. They revealed his anger even while registering shock.

       The hope Mark had cautiously nurtured over the past few weeks as he’d prayed and prepared for this moment died a quick death, shoving his stomach to his knees.

       His father opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it into a tightly drawn frown, shutting off the words.

       The first move would be Mark’s. “Hi, Dad.”

       A flash of emotion flickered in the man’s eyes, but then vanished as if snuffed out. “What are you doing here?”

       If Mark said he’d found the Lord and had felt led to come, his dad would probably laugh him out of town, or worse, accuse him of sacrilege. “Can I come in for a minute?”

       Redd’s eyes flickered to the front door. “I don’t see why you’d show up here in your highfalutin clothes and suddenly need to set foot inside a house you abandoned years ago.” He turned to walk away.

       “Dad, please…”

       The man Mark remembered as hard and unfeeling paused, his shoulders hunched. Almost as if turning Mark away was difficult.

       Mark knew he had to act fast. “I’d like to apologize. For so many things. To—” The words lodged in his throat. Words that were difficult. How could he explain his fierce independence, that he’d stayed away from everyone he cared about, determined to achieve success, to make them proud before he returned? “I need to ask your forgiveness for all the trouble I caused. And for leaving like I did.”

       Redd’s gaze locked onto Mark’s and narrowed. “Why now?” The question oozed suspicion as much as venom.

      Okay, Lord. Here’s my opportunity. “Because I’ve changed. God has forgiven me, and I’m trying to live a new life.”

       For the first time, his dad drew up to his full height and squared his shoulders. “How dare you? Your mother was the finest Christian woman that ever lived. And now you come back here and dishonor her memory, spouting religious mumbo jumbo? What do you really want?”

       Though Redd’s reaction was no more than Mark deserved, hurt seeped into his bones, weighing down his limbs. Why had he bothered? “Nothing. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

       His dad avoided eye contact and looked somewhere over Mark’s shoulder. “I don’t want no apologies from you. I’m ashamed of you. There’s no fixin’ that.”

       The words sliced through him. Though he’d expected this visit to be tough, he hadn’t expected total rejection. “I won’t keep you, then.”

       Once his dad stomped away and disappeared into the garage, his escape hampered by a pronounced limp, grief Mark hadn’t anticipated seized him by the throat. He’d caused so much pain. Apologies couldn’t repair the damage.

       The old feeling of hopelessness reared its ugly head. A feeling he’d thought he’d put behind him years ago when he’d pulled himself out of the pit of drunkenness and despair. Or rather, when God had used the New Hope Mission to pull him out of the pit—well before Mark had acknowledged the turnaround of his life as God’s work. He’d taken years to grow up to the point he was ready to turn back to God, to invite Him back into his life.

       And then it had taken many months before Mark had felt God’s leading to come home and face his past.

       But as his dad said, there was “no fixin’” to be done here in Corinthia. Lord, I tried.

       He trudged to his rental car and cranked up the air conditioner, wishing he’d formed a backup plan. He’d come all the way from Seattle; he shouldn’t give up after one try. If he stayed around for the weekend, he could find out why the house was in such bad shape.

       But he also had to try one more time to talk with his dad. Maybe if he did, he would at least find a measure of peace—if not redemption.

       Hannah Hughes loved the new office that came with her recent promotion to bank branch manager. A large wooden desk faced the door, and she’d hung her children’s original artwork on the walls surrounding her. A nice, cozy work space. And though the job demanded more of her time and energy, she appreciated the pay raise that had enabled her to rent a bigger house for her kids. She’d be up to speed on her new duties soon enough.

       She turned to her computer, hoping to knock out some of the time-sensitive reports so she’d get off early enough to cook a decent dinner for her kids.

       A man’s voice carried across the lobby and in through her open door. His cultured, soothing tone made Hannah relax in her chair as she tried to decipher what he was saying to Amy, their new part-time teller. But something in Amy’s voice put Hannah’s senses on alert.

       As she rolled her chair back, a man in sunglasses holding a briefcase stopped in her doorway while Amy, wide-eyed and wringing her hands, peeked around from behind him. “Um, this gentleman is looking for Mr. Jay. I thought maybe you could help him.”

       Poor Amy. She was new enough that she must’ve thought the man was a threat.

       “Thank you, Amy.” The teller walked away, and Hannah said, “Mr. Jay retired last month. Is there something I can do for you?”

       As the man looked around, she cataloged him: six feet tall, wavy dark blond hair, expensive navy sports coat…and maybe a niggling of something familiar?

       “Possibly,” he said. “Do you have a moment?”

       Hannah calmly stood. “I’m sorry, sir, but could you please remove your sunglasses?”

       He slowly reached for them, as if he didn’t realize he had them on. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He tucked them in the pocket of his finely made jacket and looked up.

       Those eyes. Such a unique light golden color…cat eyes—the Ryker eyes. Ryker eyes?

       She sucked in a breath. Mark.

       “May I speak with you privately for a moment—” he glanced at her nameplate “—Ms. Hughes?”

       Could this really be the town’s infamous bad boy? He hadn’t been around since he dropped out of high school and ran off—leaving a swath of devastation in his wake. She clenched her fists and forced a pleasant, neutral expression. “Have a seat, Mr. Ryker.”

       The unusual yellow eyes narrowed. “You know my name?”

       “I recognized the family resemblance.” She motioned toward a chair opposite her desk and sat.

       “You’re correct. My name is Mark Ryker. I’m originally from Corinthia but left Georgia years ago. You must know my father, Redd.”

       Yes, she did. She’d looked at those same golden eyes nearly every day. The eyes of her landlord.

       Hannah tried to maintain her professional face. Not easy when this man, who’d thrown her childhood into chaos, was sitting across the desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ryker?”

       “Jason Jay is an old family friend. I had hoped to talk with him about my father’s account.