The Carpenter's Son E-Book

John Gray

• Herausgeber: Paraclete Press
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 327

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"If you've ever wished you could travel back in time to the days of Jesus and ask all of the most difficult questions, this is the novel for you. The Carpenter's Son brings Christ into our modern world and will fill the reader with love, hope and faith in, not just God, but a better world."—#1 New York Times bestselling author​ Richard Paul Evans Perfect for fans of The Shack and The Case for Christ, this inspirational novel is a reminder that, even in the darkest times, we are never alone. Award-winning journalist Brooklyn Sterling has built her career exposing frauds, corrupt politicians, and conmen in the pages of the Boston Globe. Hardened by personal tragedy and deeply skeptical of anything resembling faith, she's the last person to believe in miracles. So, when a series of so-called "divine acts" sweep through Boston—including lives inexplicably saved, a blind man suddenly seeing, and a child brought back to life—Brooklyn is determined to uncover the truth and expose the hoax. But Brooklyn's latest investigation takes an unexpected turn when she encounters a mysterious stranger who seems to appear at every miraculous event. As she digs deeper, the lines between skepticism and belief blur, and her carefully constructed worldview begins to crumble. When tragedy strikes close to home, Brooklyn is offered an opportunity no atheist could ever imagine: spend a day with Jesus Christ himself. In a journey filled with hard questions and unexpected answers, Brooklyn confronts the pain of her past, the world's deepest struggles, and the mystery of faith. From a family broken by loss to a carpenter's son who sees the heart of everyone he meets, Brooklyn is drawn into a story that will challenge everything she believes. The Carpenter's Son is a moving and thought-provoking novel that invites readers to walk alongside Jesus, laugh, cry, and see the world through his eyes. With unforgettable characters, profound insights, and a story of redemption and hope, this book will renew your faith in God, humanity, and the power of love.

Leseprobe

2025 First Printing

The Carpenter’s Son: A Novel

ISBN 978-1-64060-966-2

Copyright © 2025 by John Gray

The Paraclete Press name and logo (dove on cross) are trademarks of Paraclete Press, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Gray, John (John Joseph), 1962- author.

Title: The carpenter’s son : a novel / John Gray.

Description: Brewster, Massachusetts : Paraclete Press, 2025. | Summary: “This novel gives you a chance to walk with Christ and see the world through his eyes. Most importantly, it will renew your faith in God and each other”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2024044091 (print) | LCCN 2024044092 (ebook) | ISBN 9781640609662 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781640609679 (epub)

Subjects: LCGFT: Christian fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3607.R3948 C37 2025 (print) | LCC PS3607.R3948 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20241011

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024044091

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024044092

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All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in an electronic retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Published by Paraclete Press

Brewster, Massachusetts

www.paracletepress.com

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

To my parents for bringing God and faith into my life. Special thanks to the priests and nuns of St. Joseph’s Church and the Christian Brothers of LaSalle Institute in Troy, New York, for their religious instruction, patience, and guidance. And, as always, to my wife, Courtney, who is my northern star, forever leading me to be a better man.

CHAPTER 1

Cork in a Blender

“Get back in your car.”

The state trooper’s tone sounded more like a threat than a suggestion to Brooklyn Sterling’s ears. His deep voice cut through the sharp wind high atop the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. Locals referred to the mile-long span over the Hudson River as The Rip, and on this bitter March evening, traffic in both directions was at a standstill. Brooklyn shifted her eyes to the right, just beyond the trooper, to where a woman dressed in little more than a housecoat was standing on the outside of the railing in her bare feet, her hands white-knuckled as she gripped metal supports. As a breeze flipped the hair up on the woman’s shoulders, Brooklyn thought, My God, she’s barely hanging on.

“Have you tried talking to her?” she asked the trooper.

“Of course. She told me to back away or she’d jump.” Before Brooklyn could reply, he said, “And I told you to stay in your car.”

The officer, six foot four if he were even an inch, had the name MILLS sewn in purple thread on his jacket. He craned his neck right and left as if looking for someone.

“Is help coming?” Brooklyn asked.

“Not soon enough.”

As Brooklyn looked at the dozens of cars stopped in gridlock, the trooper added, “Supposed to be a crisis counselor from Columbia Memorial on the way, but I don’t know.”

“Trooper Mills,” she continued, “I know this is going to sound strange, but I was sent to this bridge tonight to help that woman.”

“Sent by whom?” he asked.

Brooklyn hesitated, uncertain how to answer.

‘“Well?” Mills asked again.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“The night I’m having, I’d believe anything,” Mills quipped.

“True enough,” Brooklyn said. “But …”

“What?” he asked. “Speak.”

“Alright, then. God sent me,” she said.

The trooper stifled a laugh. “God?”

“He’s a personal friend,” she answered. “Long story.”

Trooper Mills engaged the button on his handheld radio, asking when the crisis counselor would arrive.

“ETA, twenty minutes,” a voice replied.

Mills turned his head toward the woman hanging onto the bridge and muttered, “I don’t have that long.”

Brooklyn inched closer. “May I speak to her?”

“Why? You some kind of shrink?”

“No,” she answered. “A journalist and a woman who’s been on the ledge before.”

As the cop gave her an odd look, Brooklyn said, “Metaphorically.”

He took in a deep breath, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.

“Let me try. Please.”

The trooper looked at her for a hard ten seconds, sighed, and said, “I guess it can’t hurt.”

The last thing Brooklyn wanted to do was startle the woman, so she raised her hand, like a fourth grader waiting to be called on in class, and said, “Excuse me, can I speak to you?”

The woman looked and nodded, so Brooklyn moved closer.

As she got close, the woman revealed sad eyes that were wet with tears.

“Is that from crying or the wind?” Brooklyn asked.

“A bit of both,” she answered. Brooklyn then asked, “Can I get you a blanket? It’s freezing up here.”

The woman replied, “I don’t plan on being here long.”

When Trooper Mills turned his head sharply, Brooklyn raised both her hands. “It’s alright. We’re just talking. Nothing more. Right?” She turned her attention back to the woman. “You have a moment to talk, yes?”

The woman gave a slight nod.

“I’m Brooklyn, like the bridge.”

“I’m Sandy, like the beach.”

The comparison caused Brooklyn to smile.

As the woman turned her face to the river below, Brooklyn tried to pull her attention back.

“Why are you here, Sandy?”

She didn’t respond.

“I mean, I know why,” Brooklyn continued. “That’s obvious … what I’m asking is why?”

Sandy said, “Do you have a blender at home, the kind you make shakes with?”

“Yes.”

“Can you imagine if you were the size of a wine cork? Can you picture that?”

“I can.”

Sandy let out a mocking laugh. “Well, imagine you’re that cork and someone drops you into the blender and turns it on.”

Brooklyn conjured the image in her mind.

“And as the sharp blades are spinning,” Sandy said, “you’re jumping and ducking, trying not to get hit. Only it’s impossible not to get hit. It’s like every single blade is an accusation or judgment.”

Brooklyn said, “And that’s your life right now? You’re the cork in the blender?”

“Yeah. I am.”

Brooklyn took one step closer. “Would it surprise you to know, I’ve been in that blender myself?”

Sandy looked away from the dark abyss below and into Brooklyn’s eyes.

“And there is a way out, Sandy. I can show you the way out.”

Sandy shook her head. “There’s nothing you can say that will change the mess I’m in.”

“I’m here because of the mess you’re in,” Brooklyn said. “A friend sent me.”

“What friend?”

Brooklyn tilted her head. “I promise we’ll get to that.”

Sandy asked again, “Who sent you?”

Brooklyn took a deep breath. “Someone I never believed in, but now I do. People question my sanity because of the things I’ve seen and written, but I promise he’s as real as that freezing water down there.”

“I’m not moving until you answer my question,” Sandy said.

Brooklyn took one more deep breath. “God sent me, Sandy. Jesus himself.”

“Oh, so this is a faith thing?” Sandy shot back. “Let me stop you right there. Because I lost my faith a long time ago.”

“I understand,” Brooklyn said. “You’re talking to someone who had no use for God. Who didn’t believe.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Brooklyn replied, “Because of what happened to me last fall. Because of Edward.”

Sandy turned away again. “This is all nonsense. I came here to do this, and we’re wasting time.”

Trooper Mills moved closer. He was evidently ready to intervene, perhaps make a grab at her. That would be way too risky.

“Sandy, I don’t think it’s in your heart to hurt yourself this way. You’ve been up here awhile with plenty of chances to jump, and now you’re talking to me.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re right, Sandy, I don’t. But I’d like to.”

The woman on the edge looked back again at Brooklyn.

“Come sit with me a moment in my car to talk. Trooper Mills won’t mind—will you, sir?”

Mills answered, “If it gets her off that railing, I’m fine with it.”

Brooklyn inched closer to Sandy.

“Let me help get you home.”

“That’s just it,” Sandy said. “I can’t go home. I’ve hurt too many people.”

Brooklyn edged closer and slowly extended her open palm over the railing. “Take my hand and give me a chance to show you there is always forgiveness. There is always redemption. There is always a way home to him.”

Sandy’s face dropped as if she were lowering her weapon and surrendering. She gingerly released her grip on the metal railing of the bridge and locked fingers with Brooklyn.

“I’ve got you now,” Brooklyn whispered. “God has you now.”

Sandy slowly brought her leg over the railing and back to safety, never letting go of Brooklyn’s firm grip. As their eyes met, the woman who’d just been standing on the edge of the world asked one question. “Who is Edward?”

CHAPTER 2

Catch Evi

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

“We need a ladder,” Evi called out to her parents.

Brooklyn’s husband, Connor, wearing a red and black checkered flannel shirt and faded Wrangler jeans, was already ahead of their daughter, marching between a row of trees with a fifteen-foot ladder in tow. Even though they’d been together more than a decade, Connor still gave Brooklyn butterflies, especially when the sunlight caught his chiseled features and deep blue eyes. And when he doted on their daughter, displaying a father’s love, Brooklyn was reduced to a marshmallow on a stick over an open flame.

The two of them had met at an Irish bar in Boston called The Black Rose. He was sitting by himself, while his friend from college played bass guitar in a band entertaining the happy hour crowd.

Sitting at the bar with a few of her co-workers from the Boston Globe, Brooklyn was unable to take her eyes off him. She smiled when she realized he was mouthing the words to every song.

After downing something called a “lemon drop” shot, she pushed her hair back into a ponytail, popped up from the stool, and announced loudly, “Audaces fortuna juvat.”

“What did you say?” one of her friends asked.

Brooklyn replied, “Fortune favors the bold.”

As she made a beeline for her quarry, she overheard one of her friends say, “I guess we should have studied Latin at Bard like her.”

The closer she got, the better-looking this man appeared, wearing a black button-down shirt, dark slacks, and tassel loafers. His thick hair, somehow organized and messy at the same time, matched perfectly with the light stubble on his face.

Brooklyn hadn’t fussed getting ready that night but was happy with her choice of jeans and a white blouse with a red silk scarf looped neatly around her neck. Her green eyes danced in the candlelight illuminating the tables she weaved through to reach him.

“Can you teach me the words to an Irish song?” she asked, visibly startling him.

Recovering quickly, Connor pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. “How about Galway Shawl? It’s a love story.”

Brooklyn accepted his invitation to sit. “Just tell me, do they live happily ever after?”

Answering in a ridiculous Irish brogue he clearly didn’t possess, he replied, “It’s an Irish song, me love. Those never do.”

Her laugh echoed across the bar.

They sat and talked for the next three hours. When Connor asked Brooklyn to describe herself with one word, she answered tenacious. As he kissed her goodnight, she added, “Brave. I’m also brave.”

Today everyone at the apple orchard would have a front-row seat to Brooklyn’s bravery.

Their nine-year-old daughter, Evi, was standing on the top rung of the ladder, trying to reach a shiny red prize. Standing directly behind her on the ladder, Brooklyn spied a branch above and decided it was thick enough to hold her weight. She stepped carefully around Evi, using a smaller branch to take her up to the branch where she could grab a large, juicy apple.

“Can you reach it, Mommy?” Evi asked.

With one hand on the tree for safety, Brooklyn reached out with the other to grab the biggest apple in the orchard.

Even though it was eight inches around, Brooklyn’s weight, pressing down in one spot, produced a bloodcurdling crack, loud enough to turn every head within twenty feet of the tree.

“Jesus!” Connor called out. Evi was at the top of the ladder, and Brooklyn was a few feet higher still when the branch she was on snapped clean away. As she fell, she instinctively clutched the top of the ladder, causing it to shift and tip over. Now both of them were falling toward the ground.

Brooklyn wanted to scream, “CATCH EVI,” but there wasn’t time for the words to form.

Fortunately, Connor was way ahead of her, extending his arms as if carrying a stack of laundry, and positioning himself directly under their daughter. Evi was plunging straight down, feet first, when the cuff of her pants caught a small branch hanging from the tree. This was a stroke of luck because the branch yanked Evi’s leg, causing her body to shift and complete her fall horizontally.

With a thud, Connor caught her safely in his waiting arms. The only injury to either of them was a fat lip Connor received when Evi’s elbow clipped him in the face on the landing.

Brooklyn was another story altogether. Because of where she was positioned on the tree, she did not fall freely to the earth but banged off several branches on the way down, like a painful game of human pinball. Since it was late in the apple picking season, there were rotting and half-eaten apples in the soft grass beneath the tree, softening the blow at the bottom.

The worst came when her head snapped back against the ground. She was hit with a flash of white light, what many call seeing stars.

A crowd had gathered. As Brooklyn lay there, the only voice she could hear was her daughter’s.

“Mommy, are you okay? Mommy?”

Brooklyn blinked hard, trying to clear her head. “I’m okay, honey.”

Connor let out a huge sigh. “Oh, thank Christ.”

Brooklyn raised her hand to take Connor’s. As he slowly eased her up from the ground, she said, “You crack me up. You really do.”

Connor waved the crowd of onlookers away. “Me? What did I do that was funny?”

Brooklyn hugged her daughter and looked up at the broken branch. “You thank God that I’m okay from the fall but don’t blame him for the branch snapping.”

Connor enfolded both of them. “I’m not having this argument. Not today. You’re both safe. Let’s leave it there.”

A few people were still gathered around, gawking at the woman who had just fallen from the sky. Brooklyn was just now noticing them. Off on the edge of the crowd was a familiar face. For a moment they locked eyes, and then a man in a black and gold jacket nodded as if acknowledging a connection before disappearing into the crowd.

“I know him,” Brooklyn said.

“Who?” Connor asked.

She strained her eyes, scanning the onlookers. “He’s gone.”

Evi looked up. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mommy?”

Brooklyn gave her daughter another tight squeeze. “I’m fine, my sweet. I just hit my head.”

A man approached and introduced himself as Norm Sebastian, the owner of the orchard. “I called an ambulance,” he said. “I think you should sit down, miss.”

Brooklyn rubbed the back of her skull. “No one has called me ‘miss’ in a while,” she joked. “I’m fine, sir. Really. Cancel the ambulance.”

Connor put his hand on her cheek. “Why don’t we let the medics decide if you’re okay, hon.”

“What happened?” Norm asked.

“It’s my fault, I left the ladder putting all my weight on a branch.”

“Normally it would have held, but we had so much rain this summer, those old limbs are waterlogged and weak.”

Brooklyn started scanning the crowd again. “The face, the jacket. I’m telling you, I know that guy.”

“What’s she talking about?” Norm asked Connor.

“I don’t really know,” he replied. “Brooke, what are you going on about? Who do you know?”

She dusted her hands off on her jeans. “Oh, geez, I’m covered in smooshed apples.” She looked at her husband. “What did you ask me?”

Evi replied, “You said you saw someone.”

Brooklyn looked around again. “I did, but he’s gone. Something odd about it.”

“What do you mean, odd?” Norm asked.

Brooklyn patted the older gentleman on the shoulder. “Sorry, sir, just my Spidey Sense going off.”

The man looked confused. “Spidey?”

“She’s a journalist with the Boston Globe,” Connor explained. “Sometimes she gets hunches, for stories.”

“I see.”

Brooklyn touched her head, which was now throbbing. “It’s nothing, and I don’t need the ambulance. Probably just a couple of Advil, and I’ll be good.”

Just then, two EMTs arrived. At Norm’s urging, they looked Brooklyn over and checked her vitals. Besides a slight bump on her head, she appeared fine, and they cleared her to go.

Connor asked, “Are you sure you’re okay, sweetie?”

Brooklyn took a deep breath and picked up Evi. “Fit as a fiddle. Now, who wants Chick-fil-A on the way home?”

Evi called out, “ME.”

Brooklyn gave a soft kiss to Connor’s lips. “I’m okay. Let’s go.”

She gave one last look around the orchard, searching for that familiar face, but he was gone.

Exactly twenty-two miles away from the orchard in Danvers sat the upscale Boston neighborhood known as Beacon Hill. A white work van with a company logo—The Carpenter’s Son Woodwork—was parked in front of a pristine two-story brownstone.

One flight up, Gabriel Matthews stood in awe at the hand-carved angels his new worker had just completed on a piece of crown molding above the fireplace. Gabriel was in his sixties, but years of standing on ladders and crawling on floors had given the carpenter the posture of someone much older. Despite his infirmities, Gabriel still provided top-shelf custom woodwork.

Rich people bragged to their friends, and there was now a list of Boston’s upper crust waiting on The Carpenter’s Son to visit them. Having an assistant that could match his quality work would be a godsend. Gabriel stared at the perfect angels, now etched in the wood. “You weren’t kidding, Edward,” he said. “You really do know what you’re doing with a chisel and mallet.”

Edward turned to face him. He was of average height and build, early thirties, with brown shoulder-length hair, deep brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. “Glad you’re pleased.” He quietly returned his tools to a wooden box, then went to the window.

“Whatcha looking at?” Gabriel asked.

“The sunset,” he answered in a gentle tone.

“Is it a good one?”

“They’re all good in my book,” he replied.

“It occurs to me,” Gabriel said. “I don’t even know your last name.”

Edward continued looking out the window.

“I’ll need it to pay you. Your last name …”

Without turning around, Edward said, “It’s Manuel, but no payment is necessary, Gabriel. The room you’ve promised above your garage and food at your table is recompense enough.”

“Hogwash.” Gabriel looked again at the hand-carved angels Edward had just created. “I have to pay you something for this fine work.”

Still no reply.

Gabriel inched closer. “You okay?”

“The branch couldn’t hold her,” he whispered.

“What branch?”

“Too much rain,” Edward said. “It weakened the limb.”

Gabriel drew even closer. “What did you say?”

Edward turned, smiled, and placed both hands on Gabriel’s shoulders. “You’re a good man. Let’s go home.”

CHAPTER 3

The Wicked Borrow

Connor and Evi were sitting together on the couch, looking for something to watch together on television.

As Evi quickly skipped through the channels, her father said, “Wait. STOP. Go back.”

“Who Ha,” Connor called out. “The Scent of a Woman. Love this.”

“Is that the actor who always plays the gangsters? she asked.

“Al Pacino, yes.”

“So I can’t watch it then.”

“No, no, this one you can. He’s a grumpy old blind man who turns out to be a nice guy and helps a kid in trouble.”

Evi asked, “Is it good?”

“Oh yeah, wait until you see him do the tango.”

“The what oh?”

Her father laughed, “It’s a dance—let’s watch.”

In the kitchen, Brooklyn opened a bottle of water, so she could take the four extra-strength Tylenol in her hand. Her head had been thumping like a bass drum since she dropped like an apple out of that tree.

Connor called to the kitchen, “Did you see the package for you on the counter?”

Brooklyn didn’t answer. Instead, she was looking at the granite countertops, the stone backsplash, the open archway that revealed a beautiful dining room, thinking, I love this house.

The 1,800-square-foot colonial, in the small town of Wakefield just outside of Boston, caught their eye a year after Evi was born. Brooklyn and Connor were paying $2,800 a month for a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Brookline. It was convenient for work but money out the door for a couple with a newborn.

“Hon? Did you hear me?”

Brooklyn snapped out of her daydream and saw a brown bag with handles resting on the counter. “Got it.”

Inside was a small square box with the words “Massachusetts Publishers Association” stamped on the top. And in the box was an award with the words Columnist of the Year etched in glass. Between the apple picking, her fall from the tree, and twenty minutes in line at Chick-fil-A, Brooklyn had forgotten all about the awards ceremony she had skipped at the Marriott earlier that day in Boston. This was the third time in five years that she’d won this award for her weekly Gotcha column at the Globe, exposing crooked politicians and their ilk.

She read the etching and called to her husband and daughter, “I won.”

When there was no response, Brooklyn grabbed the statue and entered the living room, only to find the two of them engrossed in the movie.

When neither looked over from the large flat-screen TV, Brooklyn cleared her throat and posed with the award like a model holding a prize on a game show.

Still no response. “Really, you two. Really?”

Both looked away from the movie and saw the statue in her hands, prompting them to jump up and run to Brooklyn.

“You won, Mommy!”

“I did, sweetie. How do you like them apples?”

“Apples?” Evi asked.

“Just an expression, hon.”

Connor looked proudly at his wife. “Well done, young lady.”

Brooklyn glanced down at the statue. “I’ll bet there are a few politicians in Boston who’d like to throw it and me into the harbor.”

Evi said, “Like they did with the tea.”

Brooklyn gave her a confused look.

“The patriots in the harbor,” Evi added.

“The Boston Tea Party,” Connor said. “Very good.”

Brooklyn chuckled at her daughter’s comparison, then in her best pirate’s voice, said, “Arr, exactly, headfirst into the slimy deep, me matey.”

Evi laughed.

“I’m going to go make popcorn,” Connor said. “Come finish the movie with us. We’ll celebrate your victory with extra melted butter.”

Before Brooklyn could answer, Connor was already off to the kitchen. She sat down on the couch, Evi to her left side, the child’s feet now draped across her lap. As a car commercial blared from the television, she looked at Evi, then down at the statue. I should be happier, she thought. Why am I not happier?

Two towns away in Woburn, Massachusetts, Piper Matthews was setting the dishes out for supper. She and her father, Gabriel, normally only needed two place settings, since she’d lost her mother to cancer and her brother to a war in a place most people couldn’t find on a map.

Now in her early twenties, Piper would have been fine taking the plates into the living room to eat and watch TV on the couch, but her father wouldn’t hear of it.

“Dinner is the one meal a day to be treated with respect,” he’d insist.

That meant dining at a table together. No cell phones.

At first, Piper resisted this quiet time with her father, but after the death of her brother, Paul, in Afghanistan, she grew fond of it. Sometimes the only conversation between them was the clicking and clacking of the silverware or a smile one shared with the other in silence. A loving glance could say a lot, Piper always thought.

Tonight, however, she was setting the table for three because her dad had invited a stranger into their home. Just as she was folding napkins and placing them under the silverware, she heard a gentle tap at the back door.

“Come in,” Gabriel called out.

Piper said sharply, “Don’t you think you should ask who it is first?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Dad. ’Cause it could be a serial killer or something.”

Edward, her dad’s new worker, opened the door slightly and peeked around the corner. “I’m not a killer but I do like cereal.”

Gabriel laughed. “Never mind her, Edward, come in, please.”

As Edward rinsed his hands off in the kitchen sink, Piper grabbed three bottles of water from the refrigerator and placed them down on the counter a bit harder than required.

Gabriel looked at her. “Do we have a problem?”

Piper nodded her head toward the other room and walked off, Gabriel following closely behind. “Excuse us a moment, Edward.”

The second the door swung shut and the two were alone, Piper said, “Explain to me again who this guy is and why he’s living in our house.”

Gabriel glanced at the door, a look of anxiety on his face.

“He can’t hear us,” she said.

“First of all, keep your voice down, and while we’re at it, lose the tone.”

Piper adored her father and hated to see him even remotely upset with her. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand.”

Gabriel said, “You know I’ve had three men work as my assistant since your brother left us—”

“Died, Dad. He died. He didn’t leave us. Paul put on a uniform, served his country, and died.”

Gabriel matched her tone. “I know that, Piper. You don’t have to throw it at me like a rock every time we mention his name.”

Piper could see the pain in his eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Daddy. What were you saying about the men who worked for you?”

“I started to say that the last one, Barclay what’s his name, walked off in the middle of the job I’m doing right now.”

“I know. And?”

“And … Edward said he saw the work truck in front of the house on Beacon Hill and literally walked in, just as Barclay was walking out.”

Piper lowered her voice. “So you hire a stranger with no experience, on the spot.”

“I have experience,” a gentle voice said from the slightly opened doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I do have experience.”

Piper sized the man up, convinced she should not trust him. “Trade school? An apprenticeship?”

Edward pushed the long brown hair from his eyes. “No. I learned the old way.”

Piper furrowed her brows.

“My father was a Tekton,” he said. “That’s a carpenter of sorts.”

“Where? Not around here?” She heard the accusation in her tone.

“No,” Edward said with a disarming smile. “A long way from here.”

She scoffed. “So you just happened upon my father the moment his worker quit? That’s a bit convenient, don’t you think?”

Edward reached over and put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I saw the work van and the name, The Carpenter’s Son, and seeing I am a carpenter’s son, I wanted to meet the man who owned it.”

Gabriel jumped in. “And we got to talking, I had an opening, and here we are.”

“Wait,” Piper said, “not so fast. Your workers get paychecks and have homes. Why is it, I’m sorry, I forgot your name—”

“Edward.”

“Why is Edward living above the garage and sitting at our kitchen table?”

“Well …,” Gabriel began.

Edward intervened. “Because that is all I need. Food and a warm place to stay for a short time.”

Piper perked up. “So this isn’t permanent?”

“No,” Edward said. “Just a short visit.”

Gabriel rubbed his calloused hands together. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’re a good worker and good company.

Edward grinned. “And as I said earlier today, you’re a good man, Gabriel. The wicked borrow but don’t pay back, while the righteous give generously. You give generously.”

“Is that Tony Robbins?” Piper asked wryly. “I think I heard him say that on TikTok.”

Edward looked confused. “Tick tock? Like a clock?”

Piper glared at this stranger in her home. Is this guy for real?

After an awkward pause, Gabriel said, “Dinner is getting cold.”

Piper ignored her father’s comment. “So, this arrangement, you above the garage—”

“A short visit, I promise,” Edward said. “I’m just here to help.”

“Did I mention it’s meatloaf?” Gabriel said.

Edward turned toward him. “That sounds wonderful. Let’s eat.”

With that, the three of them convened in the dining room for supper. Piper had more questions for this stranger, but for now, they could wait.

A short drive away, it took three bags of microwave popcorn to fill the large bowl that Brooklyn, Connor, and Evi were dipping their hands into as they watched the end of the movie. Al Pacino was ready to rise from his chair and deliver his big over-the-top speech to save the day.

Just as Pacino banged his cane on the table at the school tribunal, Brooklyn stood up and said, “He’s blind.”

Evi giggled. “You’re just figuring that out?”

Before Brooklyn could answer, Connor said, “You’ve seen this movie before, hon.”

“I’m not talking about the movie.”

Now it was Connor who seemed confused. “Are you okay?”

The noise from the television was distracting. Brooklyn grabbed the remote and paused the DVR. “The guy at the apple orchard,” she said. “He’s blind.”

Connor looked at Evi, then back to Brooklyn. “What guy?”

Brooklyn paced back and forth, trying to work it out in her head, whispering under her breath as she tried to put all the pieces together.

“You’re scaring me, Brooke.”

She looked up, confronted by concerned looks on their faces. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to …” She sat back down on the couch. “After I fell from the tree, I saw a face in the crowd. The man looked right at me, and I could tell he knew me, and he knew that I knew him.”

Connor shrugged. “Okay. So?”

“So, he’s blind. The guy is blind.”

“I don’t understand, Mommy.”

Brooklyn grabbed Evi’s hand. “What I’m trying to say is I’ve seen that man many times outside of Faneuil Hall in Boston.”

She looked at Connor. “He’s blind and sells pencils for a dollar.”

“But you said he looked at you at the orchard like he knew you.”

“Exactly! He did.”

“I’m still confused,” Evi said.

“He’s not blind, hon, he’s pretending.”

“Why would he do that?” she asked.

“To trick people into giving him money, so they’d feel sorry for him.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” Evi said.

“No, sweetie, it’s not.” Brooklyn squeezed her daughter’s hand.

“Are you sure it’s the same guy?” Connor asked.

“Positive. He even had the same jacket on that he always wears when he’s selling pencils. Black with gold sleeves and a big gold P on the chest.”

Connor took out his phone and started typing something into the screen. Then he showed her an image. “Like this?”

“That’s it.”

“It’s a Pirates jacket.”

“He’s a pirate?” Evi asked, wide-eyed.

“No, sweetie,” Connor said with a smile. “It’s a baseball team. The Pittsburgh Pirates. He’s probably just a fan.”

Brooklyn hurried to the desk in the corner of the room, opened a drawer, and took out a notepad from work. “He’s not the only one scamming tourists outside Quincy Market.”

Connor joined her near the desk. “What do you mean?”

“Hang on.” She thumbed through the pages.

Anyone who knew Brooklyn had seen her like this before, many times. It’s the way she acted when her journalistic nose was sniffing out a great story.

She slapped a page on her notebook. “There it is. Father and daughter violin players.”

“What?” Connor asked.

“Someone told me months ago that I need to investigate this father and daughter team pretending to play music outside Quincy Market and taking donations.”

“They’re pretending?” Evi asked, wide-eyed again.

“Yes, pretending. I was told they have a machine playing the music while they put this whole act on, making it look like they can both play their violins perfectly.”

“Oh, so they’re fake too?” Evi asked.

“Yes, they are.”

Connor said, “Do you see a connection between these two things? The violin people and the guy from the orchard?”

“Not yet,” Brooklyn said. “But this could make a nice little series for the newspaper, exposing the frauds who bilk tourists of their hard-earned cash.”

Evi went over and picked up her mother’s glass award. “Uh oh, get ready for another trophy.”

Connor smiled. “You should pitch it at the paper tomorrow.”

Brooklyn returned to the couch, picked up the TV remote, and hit “play.” “I will, but first let’s watch your boy Pacino tear the roof off this school.”

Back in the home of Gabriel and Piper Matthews, dinner was done, and their new houseguest had retired to his room above the garage. It was a barren space, offering little more than a bed, a bathroom, and a single chair by the small solitary window that looked down on the driveway. There was no television or shelves full of books. Gabriel wondered what Edward did to occupy his time and mind before sleep. Come to think of it, Edward didn’t even carry a cell phone. No matter. He seemed as happy as a man could be, so Gabriel let it alone.

As he made his way down the hallway toward his bedroom, Gabriel noticed Piper’s door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light escaping into the hallway.

He took hold of the doorknob. “Did you want this closed all the way?”

Piper, sitting at a small desk to the side of her bed, did not respond.

“Piper?” Gabriel called, louder this time.

Piper jumped. “Oh, hey, Dad.”

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine, just thinking of something our new tenant said earlier.”

“What’s that?”

She rose from the chair and hugged her father. “It doesn’t matter. Good night, Dad.”

Gabriel held his daughter extra tight, his mind wandering to the heartache she’d felt when her only brother died in the war. He’d never forget the moment when Piper answered the door to find two uniformed men standing at attention on the front steps.

“Dad, there are Marines outside,” she’d called to him, not understanding the horrible significance attached to such a visit.

Gabriel had known the sad truth in that instant, having served in Vietnam and having heard too many stories of Marines and door knocks and terrible news that was always delivered in person.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Piper broke their embrace, concern etched on her brow.

Gabriel kissed her on the cheek. “I’m great. Sweet dreams.”

After Gabriel shut Piper’s bedroom door, she immediately went back to the seat at her desk and opened Google on the computer screen. She looked toward the ceiling, a habit she had when trying to remember something, and then her gaze fell back on the screen and the blinking cursor in the search box.

With little more than a whisper, Piper said as she typed, “The wicked borrow but don’t give back, while the righteous give …”

She paused, asking herself, “While the righteous give what? What did he say?”

Then it hit her, “Generously.”

She typed the missing word and read it one more time.

The wicked borrow but don’t give back, while the righteous give generously.

Piper hit the “enter” key and waited no more than a second before a dozen hits popped on her screen. They all offered various interpretations of the expression that came from Edward’s lips before they all sat down for dinner. The search responses also had one thing in common and it wasn’t Tony Robbins.

Piper was not a religious person by any means. She had gone to church at St. Anthony’s on Main Street in Woburn with her dad and brother back when she was young but lost her way completely after Paul’s death. In fact, Piper rarely went to church even when she went to church.

Gabriel insisted his two children go each Sunday, but Piper and Paul learned they could pop into St. Anthony’s five minutes before mass, grab a bulletin, then skip out and do something fun. That church bulletin was proof that they had gone.

Following the death of his beloved wife, attending church gave Gabriel a small measure of comfort. Sadly, her death had the opposite effect on his children, causing them, especially Piper, to question God and the fairness of it all, losing her mother so young. Piper treated God like a cactus full of thorns. She knew he existed but stayed clear of him.

Her eyes locked on the computer screen and the relevance of Edward’s quote.

Every article the search retrieved mentioned Psalm 37:21. The word Psalm sounded familiar, but she wasn’t certain of the context. Clicking through several of the passages, she soon realized Edward’s quote was from the Old Testament.

Piper stood and went to her bedroom window now, glancing up to the lone porthole that was lit up above the garage. As if on cue, the moment she noticed the light, it went out.

She whispered a question, impossible for him to hear. “Whatcha doing quoting the Bible, Edward?”

She wasn’t close to being finished with her inquisition of one Edward Manuel.

CHAPTER 4

Lexington It Is

Boston Globe editor Rex Ryerson had a firm policy at the newspaper: you were either early for a meeting or late. There was no such thing as on time, so the conference room at the Globe was filled by 8:53 for the 9:00 a.m. staff meeting.

Brooklyn came in with half a bagel hanging from her mouth, a venti coffee in one hand, and a Starbucks goodie bag in the other. One of her colleagues stood up and performed a slow clap in praise of her having won the publishing award the day before. Others joined in, giving a standing ovation that felt to Brooklyn like one part praise, two parts teasing.

She was about to give them a mock bow when Rex bolted into the room. “ENOUGH, ENOUGH, she didn’t even bother to show up for the darn thing.”

Her coworker Alice, who wrote for the business section, said, “You blew off the awards lunch?”

Brooklyn took a bite of her bagel. “We took Evi apple picking instead.”